The Manxman Part 12

"I can't reach--what is it?"

"Your hand, then; I'll tell it to your hand."

She hesitated a moment, and then dropped her hand over the window-sill, and he clutched at it and kissed it, and pushed back the white sleeve and ran up the arm with his lips as far as he could climb.

"Another, my girl; take your time, one more--half a one, then."

She drew her arm back until her hand got up to his hand, and then she said, "What's this? The mole on your finger still, Pete? You called me a witch--now see me charm it away. Listen!--'Ping, ping, prash, Cur yn cadley-jiargan a.s.s my cha.s.s.'"

She was uttering the Manx charm in a mock-solemn ululation when a bough snapped in the orchard, and she cried, "What's that?"

"It's Philip. He's waiting under the apple-tree," said Pete.

"My goodness me!" said Kate, and down went the window-sash.

A moment later it rose again, and there was the beautiful young face in its frame as before, but with the rosy light of the dawn on it.

"Has he been there all the while?" she whispered.

"What matter? It's only Phil."

"Good-bye! Good luck!" and then the window went down for good.

"Time to go," said Philip, still in his tall silk hat and his knickerbockers. He had been standing alone among the dead brown fern, the withering gorse, and the hanging brambles, gripping the apple-tree and swallowing the cry that was bubbling up to his throat, but forcing himself to look upon Pete's happiness, which was his own calamity, though it was tearing his heart out, and he could hardly bear it.

The birds were singing by this time, and Pete, going back, sang and whistled with the best of them.

X.

In the mists of morning, Grannie had awakened in her bed with the turfy scraas of the thatch just visible above her, and the window-blind like a hazy moon floating on the wall at her side. And, fixing her nightcap, she had sighed and said, "I can't close my eyes for dreaming that the poor lad has come to his end untimeously."

Caesar yawned, and asked, "What lad?"

"Young Pete, of course," said Grannie.

Caesar _umpht_ and grunted.

"We were poor ourselves when we began, father."

Grannie felt the glare of the old man's eye on her in the darkness.

"'Deed, we were; but people forget things. We had to borrow to buy our big overshot wheel; we had, though. And when ould Parson Harrison sent us the first boll of oats, we couldn't grind it for want of----"

Caesar tugged at the counterpane and said, "Will you lie quiet, woman, and let a hard-working man sleep?"

"Then don't be the young man's destruction, Caesar."

Caesar made a contemptuous snort, and pulled the bedclothes about his head.

"Aw, 'deed, father, but the girl might do worse. A fine, strapping lad.

And, dear heart, the cheerful face _at_ him! It's taking joy to look at--like drawing water from a well! And the laugh _at_ the boy, too--that joyful, it's as good to hear in the morning as six pigs at a lit----"

"Then marry the lad yourself, woman, and have done with it," cried Caesar, and, so saying, he kicked out his leg, turned over to the wall, and began to snore with great vigour.

XI.

The tide was up in Ramsey Harbour, and rolling heavily on the sh.o.r.e before a fresh sea-breeze with a cold taste of the salt in it. A steamer lying by the quay was getting up steam; trucks were running on her gangways, the clanking crane over her hold was working, and there was much shouting of name, and ordering and protesting, and general tumult.

On the after-deck stood the emigrants for Kimberley, the Quarks from Glen Rushen, and some of the young Gills from Castletown--stalwart lads, bearing themselves bravely in the midst of a circle of their friends, who talked and laughed to make them forget they were on the point of going.

Pete and Phil came up the quay, and were received by a shout of incredulity from Quayle, the harbour-master. "What, are you going, too, Mr. Philip?" Philip answered him "No," and pa.s.sed on to the ship.

Pete was still in his stocking cap and Wellington boots, but he had a monkey-jacket over his blue guernsey. Except for a parcel in a red print handkerchief, this was all his kit and luggage. He felt a little lost amid all the bustle, and looked helpless and unhappy. The busy preparations on land and shipboard had another effect on Philip. He sniffed the breeze off the bay and laughed, and said, "The sea's calling me, Pete; I've half a mind to go with you."

Pete answered with a watery smile. His high spirits were failing him at last. Five years were a long time to be away, if one built all one's hopes on coming back. So many things might happen, so many chances might befall. Pete had no heart for laughter.

Philip had small mind for it, either, after the first rush of the salt in his blood was over. He felt at some moments as if h.e.l.l itself were inside of him. What troubled him most was that he could not, for the life of him, be sorry that Pete was leaving the island. Once or twice since they left Sulby he had been startled by the thought that he hated Pete. He knew that his lip curled down hard at sight of Pete's solemn face. But Pete never suspected this, and the innocent tenderness of the rough fellow was every moment beating it down with blows that cut like ice and burnt like fire.

They were standing by the forecastle head, and talking above the loud throbbing of the funnel.

"Good-bye, Phil; you've been wonderful good to me--better nor anybody in the world. I've not been much of a chum for the like of you, either--you that's college bred and ought to be the first gentry in the island if everybody had his own. But you shan't be ashamed for me, neither--no you shan't, so help me G.o.d! I won't be long away, Phil--maybe five years, maybe less, and when I come back you'll be the first Manxman living.

No? But you will, though; you will, I'm telling you. No nonsense at all, man. Lave it to me to know."

Philip's frosty blue eyes began to melt.

"And if I come back rich, I'll be your ould friend again as much as a common man may; and if I come back poor and disappointed and done for, I'll not claim you to disgrace you; and if I never come back at all, I'll be saying to myself in my dark hour somewhere, 'He'll spake up for you at home, boy; _he'll_ not forget you.'"

Philip could hear no more for the puffing of the steam and the clanking of the chains.

"Chut! the talk a man will put out when he's thinking of ould times gone by!"

The first bell rang on the bridge, and the harbour-master shouted, "All ash.o.r.e, there!"

"Phil, there's one turn more I'll ask of you, and, if it's the last, it's the biggest."

"What is it?"

"There's Kate, you know. Keep an eye on the girl while I'm away. Take a slieu round now and then, and put a sight on her. She'll not give a skute at the heirs the ould man's telling of; but them young drapers and druggists, they'll plague the life out of the girl. Bate them off, Phil.

They're not worth a fudge with their fists. But don't use no violence.

Just duck the dandy-divils in the harbour--that'll do."

"No harm shall come to her while you are away."

"Swear to it, Phil. Your word's your bond, I know that; but give me your hand and swear to it--it'll be more surer."