The Manxman Part 103

"Is she worse?"

"It's life or death now. We must try something that I saw when I was away."

"Good Lord, and I've been sleeping! Save her, Philip! You're great; your clever----"

"Be quiet, for G.o.d's sake, my good fellow! Quick, a kettle of boiling water--a blanket--some hot towels."

"Oh, you're a friend, you'll save her. The doctors don't know nothing."

Ten minutes afterwards the child made a feeble cry, coughed loosely, threw up phlegm, and came out of the drowsy land which it had inhabited for a week. In ten minutes more it was wrapped in the hot towels and sitting on Pete's knee before a brisk are, opening its little eyes and pursing its little mouth, and making some inarticulate communication.

Then Grannie awoke with a start, and reproached herself for sleeping.

"But dear heart alive," she cried, with both hands up, "the bogh villish is mended wonderful."

Nancy came back in her stockings, blinking and yawning. She clapped and crowed at sight of the child's altered face. The clock in the kitchen was striking twelve by this time, the bells had begun to ring again, the carol singers were coming out of the church, there was a sound on the light snow of the street like the running of a shallow river, and the waits were being sung for the dawn of another Christmas.

The doctor looked in on his way home, and congratulated himself on the improved condition. The crisis was pa.s.sed, the child was safe.

"Ah! better, better," he said cheerily. "I thought we might manage it this time."

"It was the Dempster that done it," cried Pete. He was cooing and blowing at little Katherine over the fringe of her towels. "He couldn't have done more for the lil one if she'd been his own flesh and blood."

Philip dared not speak. He hurried away in a storm of emotion. "Not yet," he thought, "not yet." The time of his discovery was not yet. It was like Death, though--it waited for him somewhere. Somewhere and at some time--some day in the year, some place on the earth. Perhaps his eyes knew the date in the calendar, perhaps his feet knew the spot on the land, yet he knew neither. Somewhere and at some time--G.o.d knew where--G.o.d knew when--He kept his own secrets.

That night Philip slept at the "Mitre," and next morning he went up to Ballure.

IV.

The Governor could not forget Tynwald. Exaggerating the humiliation of that day, he thought his influence in the island was gone. He sold his horses and carriages, and otherwise behaved like a man who expected to be recalled.

Towards Philip he showed no malice. It was not merely as the author of his shame that Philip had disappointed him.

He had half cherished a hope that Philip would become his son-in-law.

But when the rod in his hand had failed him, when it proved too big for a staff and too rough for a crutch, he did not attempt to break it.

Either from the instinct of a gentleman, or the pride of a strong man, he continued to shower his favours upon Philip. Going to London with his wife and daughter at the beginning of the new year, he appointed Philip to act as his deputy.

Philip did not abuse his powers. As grandson of the one great Manxman of his century, and himself a man of talents, he was readily accepted by the island. His only drawback was his settled melancholy. This added to his interest if it took from his popularity. The ladies began to whisper that he had fallen in love, and that his heart was "buried in the grave." He did not forget old comrades. It was remembered, in his favour, that one of his friends was a fisherman, a cousin across the bar of b.a.s.t.a.r.dy, who had been a fool and gone through his fortune.

On St. Bridget's Day Philip held Deemster's Court in Ramsey. The snow had gone and the earth had the smell of violets. It was almost as if the violets themselves lay close beneath the soil, and their odour had been too long kept under. The sun, which had not been seen for weeks, had burst out that day; the air was warm, and the sky was blue. Inside the Court-house the upper arcs of the windows had been let down; the sun shone on the Deemster as he sat on the dais, and the spring breeze played with his silvery wig. Some^ times, in the pauses of rasping voices, the birds were heard to sing from the trees on the lawn outside.

The trial was a tedious and protracted one. It was the trial of Black Tom. During the epidemic that had visited the island he had developed the character of a witch doctor. His first appearance in Court had been before the High Bailiff, who had committed him to prison. He had been bailed out by Pete, and had forfeited his bail in an attempt at flight.

The witnesses were now many, and some came from a long distance. It was desirable to conclude the same day. At five in the evening the Deemster rose and said, "The Court will adjourn for an hour, gentlemen."

Philip took his own refreshments in the Deemster's room--Jem-y-Lord was with him--then put off his wig and gown, and slipped through the prisoners' yard at the back and round the corner to Elm Cottage.

It was now quite dark. The house was lit by the firelight only, which flashed like Will-o'-the-wisp on the hall window. Philip was surprised by unusual sounds. There was laughter within, then singing, and then laughter again. He bad reached the porch and his approach had not been heard. The door stood open and he looked in and listened.

The room was barer than he had ever seen it--a table, three chairs, a cradle, a dresser, and a corner cupboard. Nancy sat by the fire with the child on her lap. Pete was squatting on the floor, which was strewn with rushes, and singing--

"Come, Bridget, Saint Bridget, come in at my door, The crock's on the bink, and the rush is on the floor."

Then getting on to all fours like a great boy, and bobbing his head up and down and making deep growls to imitate the terrors of a wild beast, he made little runs and plunges at the child, who jumped and crowed in Nancy's lap and laughed and squealed till she "kinked."

"Now, stop, you great omathaun, stop," said Nancy. "It isn't good for the lil one--'deed it isn't."

But Pete was too greedy of the child's joy to deny himself the delight of it. Making a great low sweep of the room, he came back hopping on his haunches and barking like a dog. Then the child laughed till the laughter rolled like a marble in her little throat.

Philip's own throat rose at the sight, and his breast began to ache. He felt the same thrill as before--the same, yet different, more painful, more full of jealous longing. This was no place for him. He thought he would go away. But turning on his heel, he was seen by Pete, who was now on his back on the floor, rocking the child up and down like the bellows of an accordion, and to and fro like the sleigh of a loom.

"My faith, the Dempster! Come in, sir, come in," cried Pete, looking over his forehead. Then, giving the child back to Nancy, he leapt to his feet.

Philip entered with a sick yearning and sat down in the chair facing Nancy.

"You're wondering at me, Dempster, I know you are, sir," Said Pete, "'Deed, but I'm wondering at myself as well. I thought I was never going to see a glad day again, and if the sky would ever be blue I would be breaking my heart. But what is the Manx poet saying, sir? 'I have no will but Thine, O G.o.d.' That's me, sir, truth enough, and since the lil one has been mending I've never been so happy in my life."

Philip muttered some commonplace, and put his thumb into the baby's hand. It was sucked in by the little fingers as by the soft feelers of the sea-anemone.

Pete drew up the third chair, and then all interest was centred on the child. "She's growing," said Philip huskily.

"And getting wise ter'ble," said Pete. "You wouldn't be-lave it, sir, but that child's got the head of an almanac. She has, though. Listen here, sir--what does the cow say, darling?"

"Moo-o," said the little one.

"Look at that now!" said Pete rapturously.

"She knows what the dog says too," said Nancy. "What does Dempster say, bogh?"

"Bow-wow," said the child.

"Bless me soul!" said Pete, turning to Philip with amazement at the child's supernatural wisdom. "And there's Tom Hommy's boy--and a fine lil fellow enough for all--but six weeks older than this one, and not a word out of him yet."

Hearing himself talked of, the dog had come from under the table. The child gurgled down at it, then made purring noises at its own feet, and wriggled in Nancy's lap.

"Dear heart alive, if it's not like nursing an eel," said Nancy. "Be quiet, will you?" and the little one was shaken back to her seat.

"Aisy all, woman," said Pete. "She's just wanting her lil shoes and stockings off, that's it." Then talking to the child.

"Um--am-im--lum--la--loo? Just so! I don't know what that means myself, but she does, you see. Aw, the child is taiching me heaps, sir.

Listening to the lil one I'm remembering things. Well, we're only big children, the best of us. That's the way the world's keeping young, and G.o.d help it when we're getting so clever there's no child left in us at all."

"Time for young women to be in bed, though," said Nancy, getting up to give the baby her bath.

"Let me have a hould of the rogue first," said Pete, and as Nancy took the child out of the room, he dragged at it and smothered its open mouth with kisses.

"Poor sport for you, sir, watching a foolish ould father playing games with his lil one," said Pete.