The Manxman Part 96

"Dear heart alive!" cried Nancy, clattering her clogs, "it's a wonder in the world the man isn't thinking shame to blacken his own daughter before the Almighty Himself."

"Be merciful, O Lord," continued Caesar, "to all rank unbelievers, and such as live in heathen darkness in a Christian land, and don't know Sat.u.r.day from Sunday, and are imper-ent uncommon and bad with the tongue----"

"Stop that now." cried Nancy, "that's meant for me."

Pete had stood through this in silence, but with an angry, miserable face.

"Beg pardon all," he said. "I'm not going for denying to what you say.

I'm like the fish at the heel of the trawl-boat--the net's closing in on me and I'm caught. The game's up. I did deceave you. I _did_ write those letters myself. I've no Uncle Joe, nor no Auntie Joney neither. My wife's left me. I'm not knowing where she is, or what's becoming of her.

I'm done, and I'm for throwing up the sponge."

There were grunts of satisfaction. "But don't you feel the need of pardon, brother," said Caesar.

"I don't," said Pete. "What I was doing I was doing for the best, and, if I was doing wrong, the Almighty will have to forgive me--that's about all."

Caesar shot out his lip. Pete raised himself to his full height and looked from face to face, until his eyes settled on the postman.

"But it takes a thief to catch a thief," he said. "Which of you was the thief that catcht me? Maybe I've been only a blundering blockhead, and perhaps you've been clever, and smart uncommon, but I'm thinking there's some of you hasn't been rocked enough for all that."

He held out the yellow envelope. "This letter was sealed when you gave it to me, Mr. Cregeen--how did you know what was inside of it? 'On Her Majesty's Sarvice,' you say. But it isn't dead letters only that's coming with words same as that."

The postman was meddling with his front hair.

"The Lord has His own wayses of doing His work, has He, Caesar? I never heard tell, though, that opening other people's letters was one of them."

Mr. Kelly's ferret eyes were nearly twinkling themselves out.

Pete threw letter and envelope into the fire. "You've come to tell me you're going to turn my wife out of cla.s.s. All right! You can turn me out, too, and if the money I gave you is anywhere handy, you can turn that out at the same time and make a clane job."

Black Tom was doubling with suppressed laughter at the corner of the dresser, and Caesar was writhing under his searching glances.

"You're knowing a dale about the ould Book and I'm not knowing much,"

said Pete, "but isn't it saying somewhere, 'Let him that's without sin amongst you chuck the first stone?' I'm not worth mentioning for a saint myself, so I lave it with you."

His voice began to break. "You're thinking a dale about the broken law seemingly, but I'm thinking more about the broken heart. There's the like in somewhere, you go bail. The woman that's gone may have done wrong--I'm not saying she didn't, poor thing; but if she comes home again, you may turn her out, but I'll take her back, whatever she is and whatever she's done--so help me G.o.d I will--and I'll not wait for the Day of Judgment to ask the Almighty if I'm doing right."

Then he sat down with his back to them on a chair before the fire.

"Now you can go home to nurse," said Nancy, wiping her eyes, "and lave me to sweeten the kitchen--it's wanting water enough after dirts like you."

Caesar also was wiping his eye--the one nearest to Black Tom. "Come," he said with plaintive resignation, "our errand was useless. The Ethiopian cannot change his skin, nor the leopard his spots."

"No, but he can get a topcoat to cover them, though," said Nancy. "Oh, that flea sticks, does it, Caesar? Don't blame the looking-gla.s.s if your face is ugly."

Caesar pretended not to hear her. "Well," he said, with a sigh discharged at Pete's back, "we'll pray, spite of appearances, that we may all go to heaven together some day."

"No, thank you, not me," said Nancy. "I wouldn't be-mane myself going anywhere with the like of you."

The Job in Caesar could bear up no longer. "Vain and ungrateful woman,"

he cried, "who hath eaten of my bread and drunken of my cup----"

"Cursing me, are you?" said Nancy. "Sakes! you must have been found in the bulrushes at Pharaoh's daughter and made a prophet of."

"No use bandying words, sir, wid a single woman dat lives alone wid a single man," said Mr. Niplightly.

Nancy flopped the child from her right arm to her left, and with the back of her hand she slapped the constable across the face. "Take that for the cure of a bad heart," she said, "and tell the Dempster I gave it you."

Then she turned on the postman and Black Tom. "Out of it, you lil thief, your mouth's only a dirty town-well and your tongue's the pump in it. Go home and die, you big black spider--you're ould enough for it and wicked enough, too. Out of it, the lot of you!" she cried, and clashed the door at their backs, and then opened it again for a parting shot. "And if it's true you're on your way to heaven together, just let me know, and I'll see if I can't put up with the other place myself."

XIX.

That evening Pete was sitting with one foot on the cradle rocker, one arm on the table, and the other hand trifling tenderly with the ring and the earrings which he had found in the drawer of the dressing-table, when there was a hurried knock on the door. It had the hollow reverberation of a knock on the lid of a coffin.

"Come in," called Pete.

It was Philip, but it was almost as if Death had entered, so thin and bony were his cheeks, so wild his eyes, so cold his hands.

Pete was prepared for anything. "You've found me out, too, I see you have," he said defiantly. "You needn't tell _me_--it's chasing caught fish."

"Be brave, Pete," said Philip. "It will be a great shock to you."

Pete looked up and his manner changed. "Speak it out, sir. It's a poor man that can't stand----"

"I've come on the saddest errand," said Philip, taking a seat as far away as possible.

"You've found her--you've seen her, sir. Where is she?"

"She is----" began Philip, and then he stopped.

"Go on, mate; I've known trouble before to-day," said Pete.

"Can you bear it?" said Philip. "She is----" and he stopped again.

"She is--where?" said Pete.

"She is dead," said Philip at last.

Pete rose to his feet. Philip rose also, and now poured out his message with the headlong rush of a cataract.

"In fact, it all happened some time ago, Pete, but I couldn't bring myself to tell you before. I tried, but I couldn't. It was in Douglas--of a fever--in a lodging--alone--unattended----"

"Hould hard, sir! Give me time," said Pete. "I'd a gunshot wound at Kimberley, and since then I've a st.i.tch in my side at whiles and sometimes a bit of a catch in my breathing."

He staggered to the porch door and threw it open, then came back panting--"Dead! dead! Kate is dead!"