By an involuntary impulse the Ballawhaine turned his eyes upward to the ceiling while she spoke, as if he had expected to see the ghosts of his father and his brother threatening him.

"Is the woman mad at all?" he cried; and the timid old lady, lifted out of herself by the flame of her anger, blazed at him again with a tongue of fire.

"You have done wrong, Peter Christian, much wrong; you've done wrong all your days, and whatever your motive, G.o.d will find it out, and on that secret place he will bring your punishment. If it was only greed, you've got your wages; but no good will they bring to you, for another will spend them, and you will see them wasted like water from the ragged rock. And if it was hate as well, you will live till it comes back on your own head like burning coal. I know it, I feel it," she cried, sweeping into the hall, "and sorry I am to say it before your own son, who ought to honour and respect his father, but can't; no, he can't and never will, or else he has a heart to match your own in wickedness, and no bowels of compa.s.sion at him either."

"Come, Auntie, come," said Philip, putting his arm about the old lady's waist. But she swerved round again to where the Ballawhaine came slinking behind him.

"Turn me out of the house, will you?" she cried. "The place where I lived fifteen years, and as mistress, too, until your evil deeds made you master. Many a good cry I've had that it's only a woman I am, and can do nothing on my own head. But I would rather be a woman that hasn't a roof to cover her than a man that can't warm to his own flesh and blood. Don't think I begrudge you your house, Peter Christian, though it was my old home, and I love it, for all I'm shown no respect in it I would have you to know, sir, that it isn't our houses we live in after all, but our hearts--our hearts, Peter Christian--do you hear me?--our hearts, and yours is full of darkness and dirt--and always will be, always will be."

"Come, come, Auntie, come," cried Philip again, and the sweet old thing, too gentle to hurt a fly, turned on him also with the fury of a wild-cat.

"Go along yourself with your 'come' and 'come' and 'come.' Say less and do more."

With that final outburst she swept down the steps and along the path, leaving Philip three paces behind, and the Ballawhaine with a terrified look under the stuffed cormorant in the fanlight above the open door.

The fiery mood lasted her half way home, and then broke down in a torrent of tears.

"Oh dear! oh dear!" she cried. "I've been too hasty. After all, he is your only relative. What shall I do now? Oh, what shall I do now?"

Philip was walking steadily half a step behind, and he had never once spoken since they left Ballawhaine.

"Pack my bag to-night, Auntie," said he with the voice of a man; "I shall start for Douglas by the coach to-morrow morning."

He sought out the best known of the Manx advocates, a college friend of his father's, and said to him, "I've sixty pounds a year, sir, from my mother's father, and my aunt has enough of her own to live on. Can I afford to pay your premium?"

The lawyer looked at him attentively for a moment, and answered, "No, you can't," and Philip's face began to fall.

"But I'll take you the five years for nothing, Mr. Christian," the wise man added, "and if you suit me, I'll give you wages after two."

II.

Philip did not forget the task wherewith Pete had charged him. It is a familiar duty in the Isle of Man, and he who discharges it is known by a familiar name. They call him the _Dooiney Molla_--literally, the "man-praiser;" and his primary function is that of an informal, unmercenary, purely friendly and philanthropic matchmaker, introduced by the young man to persuade the parents of the young woman that he is a splendid fellow, with substantial possessions or magnificent prospects, and entirely fit to marry her. But he has a secondary function, less frequent, though scarcely less familiar; and it is that of lover by proxy, or intended husband by deputy, with duties of moral guardianship over the girl while the man himself is off "at the herrings," or away "at the mackerel," or abroad on wider voyages.

This second task, having gone through the first with dubious success, Philip discharged with conscientious zeal. The effects were peculiar.

Their earliest manifestations were, as was most proper, on Philip and Kate themselves. Philip grew to be grave and wondrous solemn, for a.s.suming the tone of guardian lifted his manners above all levity. Kate became suddenly very quiet and meek, very watchful and modest, soft of voice and most apt to blush. The girl who had hectored it over Pete and played little mistress over everybody else, grew to be like a dove under the eye of Philip. A kind of awe fell on her whenever he was near. She found it sweet to listen to his words of wisdom when he discoursed, and sweeter still to obey his will when he gave commands. The little wistful head was always turning in his direction; his voice was like joy-bells in her ears; his parting how under his lifted hat remained with her as a dream until the following day. She hardly knew what great change had been wrought in her, and her people at home were puzzled.

"Is it not very well you are, Kirry, woman?" said Grannie.

"Well enough, mother; why not?" said Kate.

"Is it the toothache that's plaguing you?"

"No."

"Then maybe it's the new hat in the window at Miss Clu-cas's?"

"Hould your tongue, woman," whispered Caesar behind the back of his hand.

"It's the Spirit that's working on the girl. Give it lave, mother; give it lave."

"Give it fiddlesticks," said Nancy Joe. "Give it brimstone and treacle and a cupful of wormwood and camomile."

When Philip and Kate were together, their talk was all of Pete. It was "Pete likes this," and "Pete hates that," and "Pete always says so and so." That was their way of keeping up the recollection of Pete's existence; and the uses they put poor Pete to were many and peculiar.

One night "The Manx Fairy" was merry and noisy with a "Scaltha," a Christmas supper given by the captain of a fishing-boat to the crew that he meant to engage for the season. Wives, sweethearts, and friends were there, and the customs and superst.i.tions of the hour were honoured.

"Isn't it the funniest thing in the world, Philip?" giggled Kate from the back of the door, and a moment afterwards she was standing alone with him in the lobby, looking demurely down at his boots.

"I suppose I ought to apologise."

"Why so?"

"For calling you that."

"Pete calls me Philip. Why shouldn't you?"

The furtive eyes rose to the b.u.t.tons of his waistcoat. "Well, no; there can't be much harm in calling you what Pete calls you, can there? But then--"

"Well?"

"He calls me Kate."

"Do you think he would like me to do so?"

"I'm sure he would."

"Shall we, then?"

"I wonder!"

"Just for Pete's sake?"

"Just."

"Kate!"

"Philip!"

They didn't know what they felt. It was something exquisite, something delicious; so sweet, so tender, they could only laugh as if some one had tickled them.

"Of course, we need not do it except when we are quite by ourselves,"

said Kate.

"Oh no, of course not, only when we are quite alone," said Philip.

Thus they threw dust into each other's eyes, and walked hand in hand on the edge of a precipice.