Part 99 (2/2)

”And how's the young housekeeper, Deemster?”

Philip shuddered visibly, and made some inarticulate reply--

”Good-looking young woman, they're telling me. Jem-y-Lord's got taste, seemingly. But take care, your Honour; take care! 'Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's wife, nor his ox, nor his a.s.s'----”

Philip laughed noisily. The miserable man was writhing in his seat.

”Take an old fiddler's advice, Deemster--have nothing to do with the women. When they're young they're kittens to play with you, but when they're old they're cats to scratch you.”

Pete twisted his body until the whole breadth of his back blocked the parson from Philip's face.

”A fortnight ago, you were saying, sir?”

”A fortnight,” muttered Philip.

”There'll be daisies growing on her grave by this time,” said Pete softly.

The parson had put up his nose-gla.s.ses. ”Who's this fellow, Crow?

Captain--what? His honour's cousin? _Cousin?_ Oh, of course--yes--I remember--Tynwald--ah--h'm!”

The coach set down its pa.s.sengers in the market-place. Pete inquired the hour of its return journey, and was told that it started back at six. He helped the girl to alight, and directed her to the pier, where a crowd of people' were awaiting the arrival of the steamer. Then he rejoined Philip, who led the way through the town.

The Deemster was observed by everybody. As he pa.s.sed along the streets there was much whispering and nudging, and some bowing and lifting of hats. He responded to none of it He recognised no one. He, who was famous for courtesy, renowned for gracious manners, beloved for a smile like suns.h.i.+ne--the brighter and more winsome when it broke as from a cloud--returned no man's salutation that day, and replied to no woman's greeting. His face was set hard like a marble mask. It pa.s.sed along without appearing to see.

Pete walked one step behind. They did not speak as they went through the town. Not a word or a sign pa.s.sed between them. Philip turned into a side street, and drew up at an iron gate which opened on to a churchyard. They were at the churchyard of St. George's.

”This is the place,” said Philip huskily.

Pete took off his hat.

The gate was partly open. It was Sat.u.r.day, and the organist was alone in the church practising hymns for Sunday's services. They pa.s.sed through.

The churchyard was an oblong enclosure within high walls, overlooked on its long sides by rows of houses. One of these rows was Athol Street, and one of the houses was the Deemster's.

It was late afternoon by this time. Long shadows were cast eastward from the tombstones; the horizontal sunlight was making the leaves very light.

Philip walked noisily, jerkily, irregularly, like a man conscious of weakness and determined to conquer it. Pete walked behind, so softly that his foot on the gravel was hardly to be heard. The organist was playing Cowper's familiar hymn--

”G.o.d moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform.”

There was a broad avenue, bordered by railed tombs, leading to the church-door. Philip turned out of this into a narrow path which went through a bare green s.p.a.ce, that was dotted with pegs of wood and little unhewn slabs of slate, like an abandoned quoit ground. At the farthest corner of this s.p.a.ce he stopped before a mound near to the wall. It was the new-made grave. The scars of the turf were still unhealed, and the glist of the spade was on the gra.s.s.

Philip hesitated a moment, and looked round at Pete, as if even then, even there, he would confess. But he saw no escape from the mesh of his own lies, and with a deep, breath of submission he pointed down, turned his head over his shoulder, and said in a strange voice--

”There.”

The silence was long and awful. At length Pete said in a broken whisper--

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