The conversation took a turn. Auntie Nan fell to talking of the other Peter, uncle Peter Christian of Ballawhaine. This was the day of the big man's humiliation. The son he had doted on was disgraced. She tried, but could not help it; she struggled, but could not resist the impulse--in her secret heart the tender little soul rejoiced.

"Such a pity," she sighed. "So touching when a father--no matter how selfish--is wrecked by love of a thankless son. I'm sorry, indeed I am.

But I warned him six years ago. Didn't I, now?"

Philip was far away. He was seeing visions of Pete going home, the deserted house, the empty cradle, the desolate man alone and heart-broken.

They rose from the table and went into the little parlour, Auntie Nan on Philip's arm, proud and happy. She fluttered down to the piano and sang, to cheer him up a little, an old song in a quavering old voice.

"Of the wandering falcon The cuckoo complains, He has torn her warm nest, He has scattered her young."

Suddenly Philip got up stiffly, and said in a husky whisper, "Isn't that his voice?"

"Who's, dear?"

"Pete's."

"Where, dearest?"

"In the hall."

"I hear n.o.body. Let me look. No, Pete's not here. But how pale you are, Philip. What's amiss?"

"Nothing," said Philip. "I only thought----"

"Take some wine, dear, or some brandy. You've overtired yourself to-day, and no wonder. You must have a long, long rest to-night."

"Yes I'll go to bed at once."

"So soon! Well, perhaps it's best. You want sleep: your eyes show that.

Martha! Is everything ready in the Deemster's room? All but the lamp?

Take it up, Martha. Philip, you'll drink a little brandy and water first? I'll carry it to your room then; you might need it in the night.

Go before me, dear. Yes, yes, you must. Do you think I want you to see how old I am when I'm going upstairs? Ah! I hadn't to climb by the banisters this way when I came first to Bal-lure."

On reaching the landing, Philip was turning to his old room, the bedroom he had occupied from his boyhood up, the bedroom of his mother's father, old Capt'n Billy.

"Not that way to-night, Philip. This way--_there!_ What do you say to _that?_"

She pushed open the door of the room opposite, and the glow of the fire within rushed out on them.

"My father's room," said Philip, and he stepped back.

"Oh, I've aired it, and it's not a bit the worse for being so long shut up. See, it's like toast Oo--oo--oo! Not the least sign of my breath.

Come!"

"No, Auntie, no."

"Are you afraid of ghosts? There's only one ghost lives here, Philip, the memory of your dear father, and that will never harm you."

"But this place is too sacred. No one has slept here since----"

"That's why, dearest. But now you have justified your father's hopes, and it must be your room for the future. Ah! if he could only see you himself, how proud he would be! Poor father! Perhaps he does. Who knows--perhaps--kiss me, Philip. See what an old silly I am, after all.

So happy that I have to cry. But mind now, you've got to sleep in this room every time you come to hold court in Ramsey. I refuse to share you with Elm Cottage any longer. Talk about jealousy! If Pete isn't jealous, I know somebody who is--or soon will be. But Philip--Philip Christian----"

"Yes?"

The sweet old face grew solemn. "The greatest man has his cares and doubts and divisions. That's only natural--out in the open field of life. But don't be ashamed to come here whenever you are in trouble.

It's what home is for, Philip. Just a place of peace and shelter from the rough world, when it wounds and hurts you. A quiet spot, dear, with memories of father and mother and innocent childhood--and with an old goose of an auntie, maybe, who thinks of you all day and every day, and is so vain and foolish--and--and who loves you. Philip, better than anybody in the World."

Philip's arms were about the old soul, but he had not heard her. With a terrified glance towards the window, he was saying in a low quick voice, "Isn't that a footstep on the gravel?"

"N--o, no! You're nervous to-night, Philip. Lie and rest. When you're asleep, I'll creep back and look at you."

She left him, and he looked around. Not in all the world could Philip have found a spot so full of terrors. It was like a sepulchre of dead things--his dead father, his dead mother, his dead youth, his dead innocence, his slaughtered friendship, and his outraged conscience.

Over the fireplace hung a portrait of his mother. It was the picture of a comely girl, young and soft, with full ripe lips and bright brown eyes. Philip shuddered as he looked at it. The portrait was like the ghost of himself looking through the veil of a woman's face.

Facing this, and hanging over the side of the bed, was a portrait of his father. The eyes were full of light, the lines of the cheek were round; the mouth seemed to quiver with a tender smile. But Philip could not see it as it was. He saw it with straggling hair, damp and long as reeds, the cheeks pallid and drawn, the eyes like lamps in a mist, the throat bare of the shirt, and the lips kept apart by laboured breathing.

Near the window stood the cot where he had once slept with Pete, and leaped up in the morning and laughed. On every hand, wherever his eye could rest, there rose a phantom of his lost and buried life. And Auntie Nannie's love and pride had brought him to this chamber of torture!

The night was calm enough outside; but it seemed to lie dead within that room, so quiet was it and so still. There was a clock, but it did not go; and there was a cage for a bird, but no bird pecked in it, Philip thought he heard a knocking at the door of the house. n.o.body answered it, so he rang for the maid. She came upstairs with a smile.

"Didn't you hear a knock at the front door, Martha?"

"No, sir," said the girl.

"Strange! Very strange! I could have sworn it was the knock of Mr.

Quilliam."

"Perhaps it was, sir. Ill go and look."

"No matter. I've a singing in my ears to-night. It must be that."

The girl left him. He threw off his boots and began to creep about the room as if he were doing something in which he feared detection. Every time his eyes fell on the portrait of his father he dropped his head and turned aside. Presently he heard voices in the room below. This time the sound in his ears was no dreaming. He opened the door noiselessly and listened. It was Pete. Martha was answering him. Auntie Nan was calling from the dining-room, and Pete was saying "No, no," in a light way and moving off. The gate of the garden clicked and the front door was closed quietly. Then Philip shut the door of his own room without a sound.

A moment later Auntie Nan re-opened it. She was carrying a lighted candle.

"Such an extraordinary thing, Philip. Martha says you thought you heard Peter knocking, and, do you know, he must have been coming up the hill at that very moment. He was so strange, too, and looked so wild. Asked if anybody had been here inquiring for him; as if anybody should.

Wouldn't have me call to you, and went off laughing about nothing.

Really, if I hadn't known him for a sober man----"

Philip felt sick-and chill, and-he began to shiver. An irresistible impulse took hold of him. It was like the half-smothered fear which makes guilty men go to sit at the inquests on their murdered victims.

"Something wrong," he said. "Where are my boots?"

"Going to Elm Cottage, Philip? Pity the coachman drove back to Douglas.

Hadn't you better send Martha? Besides, it may be only my fancy. Why worry in any case? You're too tender-hearted--indeed you are."