With head down and eyebrows hiding his eyes, with trembling hands that tore the envelope, Philip took out the letter and read it in passages—broken, blurred, smudged, as by the smoke of a fo'c'stle lamp.
“Deerest peat i am gettin that much better... i am that
happy and comforbel... sometimes i am longing for a sight of
the lil ones swate face... no more at present... ure own
trew wife.”
“Come to the P. N. yet, Philip?” said Pete. He was on his knees before the fire, lighting his pipe with a red coal.
“axpectin to be home sune but... give my luv and bess
respects to the Dempster when you see him he was so good to me
when “were forren the half was never towl you”
“She's not laving a man unaisy, you see,” said Pete.
Philip could not speak. His throat was choking; his tongue filled his mouth; his eyes were swimming in tears that scorched them. Nancy, who had been up to Sulby with news of the letter, came in at the moment, and Philip raised his head.
“I told my aunt not to expect me to-night, Nancy. Is my room upstairs ready?”
“Aw, yes, always ready, your honour,” said Nancy, with a curtsey.
He got up, with head aside, took a candle from Nancy's hand, excused himself to Pete—he was tired, sleepy, had a heavy day to-morrow—said “Good-night,” and went upstairs—stumbling and floundering—tore open his bedroom door, and clashed it back like a man flying from an enemy.
Pete thought he had succeeded to admiration, but he looked after Philip, and was not at ease. He had no misgivings. Writing was writing to him, and it was nothing more. But in the deep midnight, Philip, who had not slept, heard a thick voice that was like a sob coming from somewhere downstairs. He opened his door, crept out on to the stairhead, and listened. The house was dark. In some unseen place the voice was saying—