“You'll be calling me for twelve, then, Grannie—now, mind, you'll be calling me.”
“Poor Pete! He's not so far wrong, though. What's it saying? 'Suffer lil childers'——”
“But Cæsar's right enough this time, Grannie. The bogh is took for death as sure as sure. I saw the crow that was at the wedding going crossing the child's head the very last time she was out of doors.” Pete was listening intently. Philip was gazing passively into the fire.
“I couldn't help it, sir—I couldn't really,” whispered Pete across the hearth. “When a man's got a child that's ill, they may talk about saving souls, but what's the constilation in that? It's not the soul he's wanting saving at all, it's the child—now, isn't it, now?”
Philip made some confused response.
“Coorse, I can't expect you to understand that, Philip. You're a grand man, and a clever man, and a feeling man, but I can't expect you to understand that—now, is it likely? The greenest gall's egg of a father that isn't half wise has the pull of you there, Phil. 'Deed he has, though. When a man has a child of his own he's knowing what it manes, the Lord help him. Something calls to him—it's like blood calling to blood—it's like... I don't know that I'm understanding it myself, neither—not to say understand exactly.”
Every word that Pete spoke was like a sword turning both ways. Philip drew his breath heavily.
“You can feel for another, Phil—the Lord forbid you should ever feel for yourself. Books are your children, and they're best off that's never having no better. But the lil ones—God help them—to see them fail, and suffer, and sink—and you not able to do nothing—and themselves calling to you—calling still—calling reg'lar—calling out of mercy—the way I am telling of, any way—O God! O God!”
Philip's throat rose. He felt as if he must betray himself the next instant.
“Perhaps the doctor was right for all. Maybe the child isn't willing to stay with us now the mother is gone; maybe it's wanting away, poor thing. And who knows? Wouldn't trust but the mother is waiting for the lil bogh yonder—waiting and waiting on the shore there, and 'ticing and 'ticing—-I've heard of the like, anyway.”