“Who is the man at all?”—“Why, Capt'n Quilliam from Kimberley.”—“'Deed, man! Him that married with some of the Cæsar Glenmooar's ones?”—“She's left him, though, and gone off with a wastrel.”—“You don't say?”—“Well, I saw the young woman myself——”
“At Quiggin's Hall
There's enough for all,
Good beer, and all things proper.”
“Hould,boys!”
Pete had drawn up suddenly, and stopped his musicians with a sweep of the arm.
“Were you spaking, Mr. Corteen?”
“Nothing, Capt'n. No need to stare at all. I was only saying I was at the camp-meeting at Sulby, and I saw——”
“Go on, Jackie.”
“A pleasant place,
With beds of aise,
When we are done our supper.”
The unhappy man was deceiving himself at least as much as anybody else. After looking for the light of intelligence in every face, waiting for a word, watching for a glance, expecting every moment that some one from south or north, or east or west, would say, “I've seen her;” yet, covering up the burning coal of his anxiety with the ashes of mock merriment, he tried to persuade himself that Kate was not on the island if nobody at Tynwald had seen her; that he had told the truth unwittingly, and that he was as happy as the day was long.