"'Glad to get your welcome letter, darling, and the bonnet for the baby'-----"

"'Go on," said Philip, in an impa.s.sive voice.

"Got that down, Philip? Aw, you're smart wonderful with the pen, though....

'When she's got it on her lil head you'd laugh tremenjous.

She's straight like a lil John the Baptist in the church window'--"

Pete paused; Philip lifted his pen and waited.

"Done already? Man veen, there's no houlding you....

'Glad to hear you're so happy and comfortable with Uncle Joe and Auntie Joney. Give the pair of them my fond love and best respects. We're getting on beautiful, and I'm as happy as a sandboy. Sometimes Grannie gets a bit down with longing, and so does Nancy, but I tell them you'll be home for their funeral sarmon, anyway, and then they're comforted wonderful.'"

"Don't be writing his rubbage and lies, your Honour," said Nancy.

"Chut! woman; where's the harm at all? A merry touch to keep a person's spirits up when she's away from home--eh, Philip?" and Pete appealed to him with a nudge at his writing elbow.

Philip gave no sign. With a look of stupor he was staring down at the paper as he wrote. Pete puffed and went on--

"'Caesar's at it still, going through the Bible same as a trawl-boat, fishing up the little texes. The Dempster's putting a sight on us reg'lar, and you're not forgot at him neither. 'Deed no, but thinking of you constant, and trusting you're the better for laving home-----'

... Going too fast, am I? So I'm bating you at last, eh?"

A cold perspiration had broken out on Philip's forehead, and he was looking up with the eyes of a hunted dog.

"Am I to--must I write that?" he said in a helpless way.

"Coorse--go ahead," said Pete, puffing clouds of smoke, and laughing.

Philip wrote it. His hand was now stiff. It sprawled and splashed over the paper.

"'As for myself, I'm a sort of a gra.s.s-widow, and if you keep me without a wife much longer they'll be taxing me for a bachelor.'"

Pete put his pipe on the mantelpiece, cleared his throat repeatedly, and began to be afflicted with a cough.

"'Glad to hear you're coming home soon, darling (_cough_).

Dearest Kirry, I'm missing you mortal (_cough_), worse nor at Kimberley (_cough_). When I'm going to bed, 'Where is she to-night?' I'm saying. And when I'm getting up, 'Where is she now?' I'm thinking. And in the dark midnight I'm asking myself, 'Is she asleep, I wonder?' (_Cough, cough_.) Come home quick, bogh; but not before you're well at all.'

... Never do to fetch her too soon, you know," he said in a whisper over Philip's shoulder, with another nudge at his elbow.

Philip answered incoherently, and shrank under Pete's touch as if he had been burnt. The coughing continued; the dictating began again.

'"I'm keeping a warm nest for you here, love. There'll be a welcome from everybody, and n.o.body saying anything but the good and the kind. So come home soon, my true lil wife, before the foolish ould heart of your husband is losing him'----"

Pete coughed violently, and stretched his neck and mouth awry. "This cough I've got in my neck is fit to tear me in pieces," he said. "A spoonful of cold pinjane, Nancy--it's ter'ble good to soften the neck."

Nancy was nodding over the cradle--she had fallen asleep.

Philip had turned white and giddy and sick. For one moment an awful impulse seized him. He wanted to fall on Pete; to lay hold of him, to choke him. The consciousness of his own inferiority, his own duplicity, made him hate Pete. The very sweetness of the man sickened him. He could not help it--the last spark of his self-pride was fighting for its life.

Then in shame, in remorse, in horror of himself and dread of everything, he threw down the pen, caught up his hat, shouted "Good night" in a voice like the growl of a beast in terror, and ran out of the house.

Nancy started up from a doze. "Goodness grazhers!" she cried, and the cradle rocked violently under her foot.

"He's that tender-hearted and sympathising," whispered Pete as he closed the door. (_Cough, cough_)... "The letter's finished, though--and here's the envelope."

VIII.

The following evening the Deemster was in his rooms in Athol Street. His hat was on, his cloak was over his arm, he was resting his elbow on the sash of the window and looking vacantly into the churchyard. Jem was behind him, answering at his back. Their voices were low; they scarcely moved.

"All well upstairs?" said Philip.

"Pretty well, your Honour."

"More cheerful and content?"

"Much more, except when your Honour is from home. 'The Deemster's back,'

she'll say, and her poor face will be like sunshine on a rainy day."

Philip remained silent for a moment, and then said in a scarcely audible voice--

"Not fretting so much about the child, Jemmy?"

"Just as anxious to hear of it, though. 'Has he been to Ramsey to-day?

Did he see her? Is she well?' That's the word constant, sir."

The Deemster was silent again, and Jem was withdrawing with a deep bow.

"Jemmy, I'm going to Government House, and may be late. Don't wait up for me."

Jem answered in a half whisper, "Some one waits up for your Honour whether I do or not 'He's at home now,' she'll say, and then creep away to bed."

Philip muttered, thickly and huskily, "The decanter is empty--leave out another bottle." Then he turned to go from the room, keeping his eyes from his servant's face.

He found the Governor as violent as before, and eager to fall on him before he had time to speak.

"They tell me. Deemster, that the leader of this rising is a sort of left-hand relative of yours. Surely you can stop the man."

"I've tried to, your Excellency, and failed," said Philip.

The Governor tossed up his chin. "I'm told the fellow can't even write his own name," he said.

"It's true," said Philip.

"An illiterate and utterly uneducated person."

"All the same, he's the wisest and strongest man on this island," said Philip decisively.