With a look of wondrous wisdom, and a knowing wink at Kate across Philip's back, Pete went out. Then there was much talking in low tones in the hall, and on the paths outside the house.
Philip understood what it meant. He glanced back at the door, leaned over to Kate, and said in a whisper, without looking into her eyes—
“The carriage shall come at half-past seven. It will stand for a moment in the Parsonage Lane, and then drive back to Douglas by way of Laxey.”
His face was broken and ugly with shame and humiliation. As she saw this she thought of her confession, and it seemed odious to her now; but there was an immense relief in the feeling that the crisis was over.
Pete was shouting at the porch, “Good-night, all! Goodnight!”
“Good-night!” came back in many voices.
Grannie came in muffled up to the throat. “However am I to get back to Sulby, and your father gone these two hours?” she said.
“Not him,” said Pete, coming behind with one eye screwed up and a finger to his nose. “The ould man's been on the back-stairs all night, listening and watching wonderful. His bark's tremenjous, but his bite isn't worth mentioning.”
And then a plaintive voice came from the hall, saying, “Are you never coming home, mother? I'm worn out waiting for you.”
A little patch of youth had blossomed in Grannie since the baby came.