Part 19 (1/2)

”I was, and don't demane yourself like that again,” said Caesar.

”Like what?” said Ross.

”Paying coort to a girl that isn't fit for you.”

Ross lifted his hat, ”Do you mean this young lady?”

”No young lady at all, sir, but the daughter of a plain, respectable man that isn't going to see her fooled. Your hat to your head, sir. You'll be wanting it for the road.”

”Father!” cried Kate, in a voice of fear.

Caesar turned his rough shoulder and said, ”Go to your room, ma'am, and keep it for a week.”

”You may go,” said Ross. ”I'll spare the old simpleton for your sake, Kate.”

”You'll spare me, sir?” cried Caesar. ”I've seen the day--but thank the Lord for restraining grace! Spare me? If you had said as much five-and-twenty years ago, sir, your head would have gone ringing against the wall.”

”I'll spare you no more, then,” said Ross. ”Take that--and that.”

Amid screams from the women, two sounding blows fell on Caesar's face. At the next instant Philip was standing between the two men.

”Come this way,” he said, addressing Ross.

”If I like,” Ross answered.

”This way, I tell you,” said Philip.

Ross snapped his fingers. ”As you please,” he said, and then followed Philip out of the house.

Kate had run upstairs in terror, but five minutes afterwards she was on the road, with a face full of distress, and a shawl over head and shoulders. At the bridge she met Kelly, the postman.

”Which way have they gone,” she panted, ”the young Ballawhaine and Philip Christian?”

”I saw them heading down to the Curragh,” said Kelly, and Kate in the shawl, flew like a bird over the ground in that direction.

V.

The two young men went on without a word. Philip walked with long strides three paces in front, with head thrown back, pallid face and contracted features, mouth firmly shut, arms stiff by his side, and difficult and audible breathing. Ross slouched behind with an air of elaborate carelessness, his horse beside him, the reins over its head and round his arm, the riding-whip under his other arm-pit, and both his hands deep in the breeches pockets. There was no road the way they went, but only a cart track, interrupted here and there by a gate, and bordered by square turf pits half full of water.

The days were long and the light was not yet failing. Beyond the gorse, the willows, the reeds, the rushes and the sally bushes of the flat land, the sun was setting over a streak of gold on the sea. They had left behind them the smell of burning turf, of crackling sticks, of fish, and of the cowhouse, and were come into the atmosphere of flowering gorse and damp scraa soil and brine.

”Far enough, aren't we?” shouted Ross, but Philip pushed on. He drew up at last in an open s.p.a.ce, where the gorse had been burnt away and its black remains desolated the surface and killed the odours of life. There was not a house near, not a landmark in sight, except a windmill on the sea's verge, and the ugly tower of a church, like the funnel of a steams.h.i.+p between sea and sky.

”We're alone at last,” he said hoa.r.s.ely.

”We are,” said Ross, interrupting the whistling of a tune, ”and now that you've got me here, perhaps you'll be good enough to tell me what we've come for.”

Philip made no more answer than to strip himself of his coat and waistcoat.