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Manxman, The

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<h2> IV. </h2> Pete was back in his ship's cabin in the garden the same evening with a heart the heavier because for one short hour it had forgotten its trouble. The flowers were opening, the roses were creeping over the porch, the blackbird was singing at the top of the tree; but his own flower of flowers, his rose of roses, his bird of birds—where was she? Summer was coming, coming, coming—coming with its light, coming with its music, coming with its sweetness—but she came not. The clock struck seven inside the house, and Pete, pipe in hand, swung over to the gate. No need to-night to watch for the postman's peak, no need to trace his toes. "A letter for you, Mr. Quilliam." Hearing these words, Pete, his eyes half shut as if dosing in the sunset, wakened himself with a look of astonishment. "What? For me, is it? A letter, you say? Aw, I see," taking it and turning it in his hand, "just'a line from the mistress, it's like. Well, well! A letter for me, if you plaze," and he laughed like a man much tickled. He was in no hurry. He rammed his dead pipe with his finger, lit it again, sucked it, made it quack, drew a long breath, and then said quietly, "Let's see what's her news at all." He opened the letter leisurely, and read bits of it aloud, as if reading to himself, but holding the postman while he did so in idle talk on the other side of the gate. "And how are you living to-day, Mr. Kelly? Aw, h'm—getting that much better it's extraordinary—Yes, a nice everin', very, Mr. Kelly, nice, nice—that happy and comfortable and Uncle Joe is that good—heavy bag at you to-night, you say? Aw, heavy, yes, heavy—love to Grannie and all inquiring friends—nothing, Mr. Kelly, nothing—just a scribe of a line, thinking a man might be getting unaisy. She needn't, though—she needn't. But chut! It's nothing. Writing a letter is nothing to her at all. Why, she'd be knocking that off, bless you," holding out a half sheet of paper, "in less than an hour and a half. Truth enough, sir." Then, looking at the letter again, "What's this, though? PN. They're always putting a P.N. at the bottom of a letter, Mr. Kelly. P.N.—I was expecting to be home before, but I wouldn't get away for Uncle Joe taking me to the theaytres. Ha, ha, ha! A mighty boy is Uncle Joe. But, Mr. Kelly, Mr. Kelly," with a solemn look, "not a word of this to C�sar?" The postman had been watching Pete out of the corners of his ferret eyes. "Do you know, Capt'n, what Black Tom is saying?" "What's that?" said Pete, with a sudden change of tone. "He's saying there is no Uncle Joe." "No Uncle Joe?" cried Pete, lifting voice and eyebrows together. The postman signified assent with a nod of his peak. "Well, that's rich," said Pete, in a low breath, raising his face as if to invoke the astonishment of the sky itself. "No Uncle Joe?" he repeated, in a tone of blank incredulity. "Ask the man if it's in bed he is. Why," and Pete's eyes opened and closed like a doll's, "he'll be saying there's no Auntie Joney next." The postman looked up inquiringly. "Never heard of Auntie Joney—Uncle Joe's wife? No? Well, really, really—is it sleeping I am? Not Auntie Joney, the Primitive? Aw, a good ould woman as ever lived. A saint, if ever the like was in, and died a triumphant death, too. No theaytres for her, though. She won't bemane herself. No, but she's going to chapel reg'lar, and getting up in the middle of every night of life to say her prayers. 'Deed she is. So Black Tom says there is no Uncle Joe?" Pete gave a long whistle, then stopped it sudden with his mouth agape, and said from his throat, "I see." He put his mouth close to the postman's ear and whispered, "Ever hear Black Tom talk of the fortune he's expecting through the Coort of Chancery?" The postman's peak bobbed downwards. "You have? Tom's thinking to grab it all for himself. Ha, ha! That's it! Ha, ha!" The postman went off blinking and giggling, and Pete reeled up the path, biting his lip, and muttering, "Keep it up, Pete, keep it up—it's ploughing a hard furrow, though." Then aloud, "A letter from the mistress, Nancy." Nancy met him in the porch, clearing her fingers, thick with dough. "There you are," said Pete, flapping the letter on one hand. "Good sakes alive!" said Nancy. "Did it come by the post, though, Pete?" "Look at the stamp, woman, and see for yourself," said Pete. "My goodness me! From Kirry, you say?" "Let me in, then, and I'll be reading you bits." Nancy went back to her kneading with looks of bewilderment, and Pete followed her, opening the letter. "She's well enough, Nancy—no need to read that part at all. But see," running his forefinger along the writing "'Kisses for the baby, and love to Nancy, and tell Grannie not to be fretting? et setterer, et setterer. See?" Nancy looked up at her thumping and thunging, and said, "Did Mr. Kelly give it you?" "He did that," said Pete, "this minute at the gate. It's his time, isn't it?" Nancy glanced at the clock. "I suppose it must be right," she said. "Take it in your hand, woman," said Pete. Nancy cleaned her hands and took the letter, turned it over and felt it in her fingers as if it had been linen. "And this is from Kirry, is it? It's nice, too. I haven't much schooling, Pete, but I'm asking no better than a letter myself. It's like a peppermint in your frock on Sunday—if you're low you're always knowing it's there, anyway." She looked at it again, and then she said, like one who says a strange thing, "I once had a letter myself—'deed I had, Pete. It was from father. He went down in the Black Sloop, trading oranges with the blacks in their own island somewhere. They put into the port of London one day when they were having a funeral there. What's this one they were calling after the big boots—Wellingtons, that's the man. They were writing home all about it—the people, and the chariots, and the fighting horses, and the music in the streets and the Cateedrals—and we were never hearing another word from them again—never. 'To Miss Annie Cain—your affecshunet father, Joe Cain.' I knew it all off—every word—and I kept it ten years in my box under the lavender." Philip came later. He was looking haggard and tired; his face was pallid and drawn; his eyes were red, quick, and wandering; his hair was neglected and ragged; his step was wavering and uncertain. "Gough alive, man," cried Pete, "didn't you take oath to do justice between man and man?" Philip looked up with alarm. "Well?" he said. "Well," cried Pete, with a frown and a clenched fist, "there's one man you're not doing justice to." "Who's that?" said Philip with eyes down. "Yourself," said Pete, and Philip drew a long breath. Pete laughed, protested that Philip must not work so hard, and then plunged into an account of the morning's meeting. "Tremenjous! Talk of enthusiasm! Man veen, man veen! Didn't I say we'd rise as one man? We will, too. We're going up to Tynwald Coort on Tynwald day, two thousand strong. Tynwald Coort? Yes, and why not? Drum and fife bands, bless you—two of them. Not much music, maybe, but there'll be noise enough. It's all settled. Southside fishermen are coming up Foxal way; north-side men going down by Peel. Meeting under Harry Delany's tree, and going up to the hill on mass (en masse). No bawling, though—no singing out—no disturbing the Coort at all." "Well, well! What then?" said Philip. "Then we're wanting you to spake for us, Dempster. Aw, nothing much—nothing to rag you at all. Just tell them flat we won't—that'll do." "It's a serious matter, Pete. I must think it over." "Aw, think and think enough, Dempster—but mind you do it, though. The boys are counting on you. 'He's our anchor and he'll hould,' they're saying; But, bother the harbours, anyway," reaching his hand for something on the mantelpiece. "What do you think?" "Nay," said Philip, with a long breath of weariness and relief. "Guess, then," said Pete, putting his hand behind him. Philip shook his head and smiled feebly. Then, with the expression of a boy on his birthday, Pete leaned over Philip, and said in a half-whisper across the top of his head, "I've heard from Kate." Philip turned ghastly, his lip trembled, and he stammered, "You've—you've—heard from Kate, have you?" "Look at that," cried Pete, and round came the letter with a triumphant sweep. Philip's respiration grew difficult and noisy. Slowly, very slowly, he reached out his hand, took the letter, and looked at its superscription. "Read it—read it," said Pete; "no secrets at all." With head down and eyebrows hiding his eyes, with trembling hands that tore the envelope, Philip took out the letter and read it in passages—broken, blurred, smudged, as by the smoke of a fo'c'stle lamp. "Deerest peat i am gettin that much better... i am that happy and comforbel... sometimes i am longing for a sight of the lil ones swate face... no more at present... ure own trew wife." "Come to the P. N. yet, Philip?" said Pete. He was on his knees before the fire, lighting his pipe with a red coal. "axpectin to be home sune but... give my luv and bess respects to the Dempster when you see him he was so good to me when "were forren the half was never towl you" "She's not laving a man unaisy, you see," said Pete. Philip could not speak. His throat was choking; his tongue filled his mouth; his eyes were swimming in tears that scorched them. Nancy, who had been up to Sulby with news of the letter, came in at the moment, and Philip raised his head. "I told my aunt not to expect me to-night, Nancy. Is my room upstairs ready?" "Aw, yes, always ready, your honour," said Nancy, with a curtsey. He got up, with head aside, took a candle from Nancy's hand, excused himself to Pete—he was tired, sleepy, had a heavy day to-morrow—said "Good-night," and went upstairs—stumbling and floundering—tore open his bedroom door, and clashed it back like a man flying from an enemy. Pete thought he had succeeded to admiration, but he looked after Philip, and was not at ease. He had no misgivings. Writing was writing to him, and it was nothing more. But in the deep midnight, Philip, who had not slept, heard a thick voice that was like a sob coming from somewhere downstairs. He opened his door, crept out on to the stairhead, and listened. The house was dark. In some unseen place the voice was saying— "Lord, forgive me for deceaving Philip. I couldn't help it, though; Thou knows, Thyself, I couldn't. A lie's a dirty thing, Lord. It's like chewing dough—it sticks in your throat and chokes you. But I had to do it to save my poor lost lamb, and if I didn't I should go mad myself—Thou knows I should. So forgive me, Lord, for Kirry's sake. Amen." The thick voice stopped, the house lay still, then the child awoke in a room beyond, and its thin cry came through the darkness. Philip crept back in terror. "This is what she had to go through! O God! My God!" <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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