'“I'm keeping a warm nest for you here, love. There'll be a
welcome from everybody, and nobody saying anything but the
good and the kind. So come home soon, my true lil wife,
before the foolish ould heart of your husband is losing
him'——”
Pete coughed violently, and stretched his neck and mouth awry. “This cough I've got in my neck is fit to tear me in pieces,” he said. “A spoonful of cold pinjane, Nancy—it's ter'ble good to soften the neck.”
Nancy was nodding over the cradle—she had fallen asleep.
Philip had turned white and giddy and sick. For one moment an awful impulse seized him. He wanted to fall on Pete; to lay hold of him, to choke him. The consciousness of his own inferiority, his own duplicity, made him hate Pete. The very sweetness of the man sickened him. He could not help it—the last spark of his self-pride was fighting for its life. Then in shame, in remorse, in horror of himself and dread of everything, he threw down the pen, caught up his hat, shouted “Good night” in a voice like the growl of a beast in terror, and ran out of the house.
Nancy started up from a doze. “Goodness grazhers!” she cried, and the cradle rocked violently under her foot.
“He's that tender-hearted and sympathising,” whispered Pete as he closed the door. (Cough, cough)... “The letter's finished, though—and here's the envelope.”
VIII.
The following evening the Deemster was in his rooms in Athol Street. His hat was on, his cloak was over his arm, he was resting his elbow on the sash of the window and looking vacantly into the churchyard. Jem was behind him, answering at his back. Their voices were low; they scarcely moved.
“All well upstairs?” said Philip.