<p><SPAN name="link2H_4_0114" id="link2H_4_0114"></SPAN></p>
<h2> IV. </h2>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Towards Philip he showed no malice. It was not merely as the author of his
shame that Philip had disappointed him.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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 bastardy, who had
been a fool and gone through his fortune.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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—</p>
<p>"Come, Bridget, Saint Bridget, come in at my door,<br/>
The crock's on the bink, and the rush is on the floor."<br/></p>
<p>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."</p>
<p>"Now, stop, you great omathaun, stop," said Nancy. "It isn't good for the
lil one—'deed it isn't."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>Philip entered with a sick yearning and sat down in the chair facing
Nancy.</p>
<p>"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 God.' That's me, sir, truth enough, and since the lil one has
been mending I've never been so happy in my life."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Pete drew up the third chair, and then all interest was centred on the
child. "She's growing," said Philip huskily.</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"Moo-o," said the little one.</p>
<p>"Look at that now!" said Pete rapturously.</p>
<p>"She knows what the dog says too," said Nancy. "What does Dempster say,
bogh?"</p>
<p>"Bow-wow," said the child.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"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 God help it when we're getting so
clever there's no child left in us at all."</p>
<p>"Time for young women to be in bed, though," said Nancy, getting up to
give the baby her bath.</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"Poor sport for you, sir, watching a foolish ould father playing games
with his lil one," said Pete.</p>
<p>Philip's answer was broken and confused. His eyes had begun to fill, and
to hide them he turned his head aside. Thinking he was looking at the
empty places about the walls, Pete began to enlarge on his prosperity, and
to talk as if he were driving all the trade of the island before him.</p>
<p>"Wonderful fishing now, Phil. I'm exporting a power of cod. Gretting
postal orders and stamps, and I don't know what. Seven-and-sixpence in a
single post from Liverpool—that's nothing, sir, nothing at all."</p>
<p>Nancy brought back the child, whose silvery curls were now damp.</p>
<p>"What! a young lady coming in her night-dress!" cried Pete.</p>
<p>"Work enough! had to get it over her head, too," said Nancy. "She
wouldn't, no, she wouldn't. Here, take and dry her hair by the fire while
I warm up her supper."</p>
<p>Pete rolled the sleeves of his jersey above his elbows, took the child on
his knee, and rubbed her hair between his hands, singing—</p>
<p>"Come, Bridget, Saint Bridget, come in at my door."<br/></p>
<p>Nancy clattered about in her clogs, filled a saucepan with bread and milk,
and brought it to the fire.</p>
<p>"Give it to me, Nancy," said Philip, and he leaned over and held the
saucepan above the bar. The child watched him intently.</p>
<p>"Well, did you ever?" said Pete. "The strange she's making of you, Philip?
Don't you know the gentleman, darling? Aw, but he's knowing you, though."</p>
<p>The saucepan boiled, and Philip handed it back to Nancy.</p>
<p>"Go to him then—away with you," said Pete. "Gro to your godfather.
He'd have been your name-father too if it had been a boy you'd been. Off
you go!" and he stretched out his hairy arms until the child touched the
floor.</p>
<p>Philip stooped to take the little one, who first pranced and beat the
rushes with its feet as with two drumsticks, then trod on its own legs,
swirled about to Pete's arms, dropped its lower lip, and set up a
terrified outcry.</p>
<p>"Ah! she knows her own father, bless her," cried Pete, plucking the child
back to his breast.</p>
<p>Philip dropped his head and laughed. A sort of creeping fear had taken
possession of him, as if he felt remotely that the child was to be the
channel of his retribution.</p>
<p>"Will you feed her yourself, Pete?" said Nancy. She was coming up with a
saucer, of which she was tasting the contents. "He's that handy with a
child, sir, you wouldn't think 'Deed you wouldn't." Then, stooping to the
baby as it ate its supper, "But I'm saying, young woman, is there no sleep
in your eyes to-night?"</p>
<p>"No, but nodding away here like a wood-thrush in a tree," said Pete. He
was ladling the pobs into the child's mouth, and scooping the overflow
from her chin. "Sleep's a terrible enemy of this one, sir. She's having a
battle with it every night of life, anyway. God help her, she'll have luck
better than some of us, or she'll be fighting it the other way about one
of these days."</p>
<p>"She's us'ally going off with the spoon in her mouth, sir, for all the
world like a lil cherub," said Nancy.</p>
<p>"Too busy looking at her godfather to-night, though," said Pete. "Well,
look at him. You owe him your life, you lil sandpiper. And, my sakes, the
straight like him you are, too!"</p>
<p>"Isn't she?" said Nancy. "If I wasn't thinking the same myself! Couldn't
look straighter like him if she'd been his born child; now, could she? And
the curls, too, and the eyes! Well, well!"</p>
<p>"If she'd been a boy, now——" began Pete.</p>
<p>But Philip had risen to return to the Court-house, and Pete said in
another tone, "Hould hard a minute, sir—I've something to show you.
Here, take the lil one, Nancy."</p>
<p>Pete lit a candle and led the way into the parlour. The room was empty of
furniture; but at one end there was a stool, a stone mason's mallet, a few
chisels, and a large stone.</p>
<p>The stone was a gravestone.</p>
<p>Pete approached it solemnly, held up the candle in front of it, and said
in a low voice, "It's for her. I've been doing it myself, sir, and it's
lasted me all winter, dark nights and bad days. I'll be finishing it
to-night, though, God willing, and to-morrow, maybe, I'll be taking it to
Douglas."</p>
<p>"Is it——" began Philip, but he could not finish.</p>
<p>The stone was a plain slab, rounded at the top, bevelled about the edge,
smoothed on the face, and chiselled over the back; but there was no sign
or symbol on it, and no lettering or inscription.</p>
<p>"Is there to be no name?" asked Philip at last.</p>
<p>"No," said Pete.</p>
<p>"No?"</p>
<p>"Tell you the truth, sir, I've been reading what it's saying in the ould
Book about the Recording Angel calling the dead out of their graves."</p>
<p>"Yes?"</p>
<p>"And I've been thinking the way he'll be doing it will be going to the
graveyards and seeing the names on the gravestones, and calling them out
loud to rise up to judgment; some, as it's saying, to life eternal, and
some to everlasting punishment."</p>
<p>"Well?"</p>
<p>"Well, sir, I've been thinking if he comes to this one and sees no name on
it"—Pete's voice sank to a whisper—"maybe he'll pass it by and
let the poor sinner sleep on."</p>
<p>Stumbling back to the Court-house through the dark lane Philip thought,
"It was a lie <i>then</i>, but it's true <i>now</i>. It <i>must</i> be
true. She must be dead." There was a sort of relief in this certainty. It
was an end, at all events; a pitiful end, a cowardly end, a kind of
sneaking out of Fate's fingers; it was not what he had looked for and
intended, but he struggled to reconcile himself to it.</p>
<p>Then he remembered the child and thought, "Why should I disturb it? Why
should I disturb Pete? I will watch over it all its life. I will protect
it and find a way to provide for it. I will do my duty by it. The child
shall never want."</p>
<p>He was offering the key to the lock of the prisoners' yard when some one
passed him in the lane, peered into his face, then turned about and spoke.</p>
<p>"Oh, it's you, Deemster Christian?"</p>
<p>"Yes, doctor. Good-night!"</p>
<p>"Have you heard the news from Ballawhaine? The old gentleman had another
stroke this morning."</p>
<p>"No, I had not heard it. Another? Dear me, dear me!"</p>
<p>Back in his room, Philip resumed his wig and gown and returned to the
Court-house. The place was now lit up by candlelight and densely crowded.
Everybody rose to his feet as the Deemster stepped to the dais.</p>
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