"No, by gough!" said Pete. "The child is eighteen carat goold for the mother's sake, but the mother is di'monds for sake of the child. If I lost that little one, Kitty, it would be like losing the half of you."

"Losing, indeed!" said Nancy. "Who's talking about losing? Does she look like it, bless her lil heart!"

"Take her into the kitchen, Nancy," said Kate.

"Going to have a rare do to-day," said Pete, over a mouthful. "I'm off for Douglas, to see Philip made Dempster. Coming home with himself by way of St. John's. It's all arranged, woman. Boys to meet the carriage by Kirk Christ Lezayre at seven o'clock smart. Then out I'm getting, laying hould of the drum, the band is striking up, and we're bringing him into Ramsey triumphant. Oh, we'll be doing it grand," said Pete, blowing over the rim of his saucer. "John the Clerk is tremenjous on the trombones, and there's no bating Jonaique with the clar'net--the man is music to his little backbone. The town will be coming out too, and the fishermen shouting like one man. We're bound to let the Governor see we mane it. A friend's a friend, say I, and we're for bucking up for the man that's bucking up for us. And when he goes to the Tynwald Coort there, it'll be lockjaw and the measles with some of them. If the ould Governor's got a tongue like a file, Philip's got a tongue like a scythe--he'll mow them down. 'No harbour-dues,' says he, 'till we've a raisonable hope of harbour improvements. Build your embankments for your trippers in Douglas if you like, but don't ask the fisher-, men to pay for them.'"

Pete wiped his mouth and charged his pipe. "It'll be a rare ould dust, but we're not thinking of ourselves only, though. Aw, no, no. If there wasn't nothing doing we would be giving him a little tune for all, coming home Dempster."

Pete lit up. "My sailor! It'll be a proud man I'll be this day, Kitty.

Didn't I always say it? 'He'll be the first Manxman living,' says I times and times, and he's not going to de-ceave me neither."

Kate was in fear lest Pete should look up into her face. Catching sight of a rent in the cloth of his coat, she whipped out her needle and began to st.i.tch it up, bending closely over it.

"What an eye a woman's got now," said Pete. "That was the steel of the drum ragging me sideways when I was a bit excited. Bless me, Kitty, there won't be a rag left at me when I get through this everin'. They're ter'ble on clothes is drums."

He was puffing the smoke through her hair as she knelt below him. "Well, he deserves it all. My sakes, the years I've known him! Him and me have been same as brothers. Yes, have we, ever since I was a slip of a boy in jackets, and we went nesting on Maughold Head together. And getting married hasn't been making no difference. When a man marries he shortens sail usually, and pitches out some ballast, but not me at all. You're taking a chill, Kitty. No? Shuddering any way. Chut! This dress is like paper; you should be having warmer things under it. Don't be going out to-day, darling, but to-night, about twenty-five minutes better than seven, just open the door and listen. We'll be agate of it then like mad, and when you're hearing the drum booming you'll be saying to yourself, 'Pete's there, and going it for all he knows.'"

"Oh, Pete, Pete!" cried Kate, and she dropped back at his feet

"Why, what's this at all?" said Pete.

"You've been very, very good to me, Pete, and if I never see you again you'll think the best of me, will you not?"

She had an impulse to tell all--she could hardly resist it.

He smoothed the black ripples of her hair back from her forehead, and said, tenderly, "She's not so well to-day, that's it. Her eyes are bubbling like the laver." Then aloud, with a laugh, "Never see me again, eh? I'm not willing to share you with heaven yet, though. But I'll have to be doing as the doctor was saying--sending you to England aver. I will now, I will," he said, lifting his big finger threateningly.

She slid backwards to the ground, but at the next moment was landed on Pete's breast. "My poor lil Kirry! Not willing to stay with me, eh? Tut, tut! She'll be as smart as ever, soon."

She drew away from him with shame and self-reproach, mingled with that old feeling of personal repulsion which she could not conquer.

Then the gate of the garden clicked, and Ross Christian came up the path. "He's sticking to me as tight as a limpet," said Pete.

"Mr. Quilliam," said Ross, "I come from my father this time."

"'Deed, man," said Pete.

"He is a little pressed for money."

"And Mr. Peter Christian sends to me?"

"He thought you might like to lend on mortgage."

"On Ballawhaine?"

Ross stammered and stuttered, "Well, yes, certainly, as you say, on Balla----"

"To think, to think," muttered Pete. He gazed vacantly before him for a moment, and then said, sharply, "I've no time to talk of it now, sir.

I'm off to Douglas, but if you like to stop awhile and talk of it with Mrs. Quilliam, I'll be hearing everything when I come back. Good-day, Kate. Take care of my wife. Good-day, Nancy; look after my two girls while I'm away. And Kitty, bogh" (whispering), "mind you send to Robbie Clucas, the draper, for some nice warm underclothing. Good-bye! Another!

Just one more" (then aloud) "Good-day to you, sir, good-day."

XIII.

"... He, the Spirit Himself, may come When all the nerve of sense is numb."

Philip had not slept at Ballure. The house was in darkness as he pa.s.sed.

He was riding to Douglas. It is sixteen miles between town and town, six of them over the steep headland of Kirk Maughold. Before he reached the top of the ascent he had been an hour on the road, and the night was near to morning. He had seen no one after leaving Ramsey, except a drunken miner with his bundle on his stick, marching home to a tipsy travesty of some brave song.

His self-righteousness was overthrown; his pride was in the dust. Since he returned home, he had struggled to feel strong and easy in the sense of being an honourable man; but now he was thrown violently out of the path in which he had meant to walk rightly. What he was about to do was necessary, was inevitable, yet in his relation to Kate he was in the position of an immoral man, a betrayer, an adulterer, with a vulgar secret, which he must support by lying and share with servants. And what was the outlook? What would be the end? Here was a situation from which there was no escape. Let there be no false glamour, no disguise, no self-deception. On the eve of his promotion to the dignities and responsibilities of a Judge, he was taking the first step down on the course of the criminal!

The moon was shining at the full. It was low down in the sky, on his right, and casting his shadow on to the road. He walked his horse up the long hill. The even pace, the quiet of the night, the drowsy sounds of unseen stream and far-off murmuring sea overcame him in spite of himself, and he dozed in the saddle. As he reached the hilltop the level step of the horse awoke him, and he knew that he was pa.s.sing that desolate spot on the border of parish and parish which is known as Tom Alone's.

Opening his eyes, without realising that he had slept, he thought he became aware of another horse and another rider walking by his side.

They were on the left of him, going pace for pace, stepping along with him like his shadow. "It _is_ my shadow," he thought, and he forced up his head to look. Nothing was there but a whitewashed wall that fenced a sheepfold. The moon had gone under the mountains on the right, and the night would have been dark but for the stars. With an astonishment near to terror, Philip gripped the saddle with his quaking knees, and broke his horse into a trot.

When the hard ride had brought warmth to his blood and a glow to his cheeks, he told himself he had been the victim of fancy. It was nothing; it was a delusion of the sight; a mere shadow cast off by his distempered brain. He was pa.s.sing at a walking pace through Laxey by this time, and as the horse's feet beat up the echoes of the sleeping town, his heart grew brave.

Next day, at noon, he was talking with his servant, Jem-y-Lord, in his rooms in Athol Street. He had lately become tenant of the entire house.

They were in his old chambers on the first floor, looking on to the churchyard.

"I may rely on you, Jemmy?"

"You may, Deemster."

His voice was low and husky, his eyes were down, he was fumbling the papers on the table. "Get the carriage, a landau, from Shimmin's, but drive it yourself. Be at Government offices at four--we'll go by St.

John's. If there is any attempt at Ramsey to take the horse out of the carriage, resist it. I will alight at the head of the town. Then drive on to the lane between the chapel and Elm Cottage. The moment the lady joins you, start away. Return to Laxey--are the rooms upstairs ready?"

"They will be."

"The two in front of your own, and the little parlour behind this. We shall need no other servants--the lady will be housekeeper."

"I quite understand, Deemster."

Philip turned his face aside and spoke thickly, "And you know what name----"

"I know what name, Deemster."

"You have no objection?"

"None whatever, Deemster."

Phillip drew a long breath. "I am not Deemster yet, Jemmy. Perhaps it might have been... but G.o.d knows. You are a good fellow--I shall not forget it."

He made a motion as if to dismiss the man, but Jemmy did not go.