“Where is Pete?” asked Philip, his face to the wall.
“Oiling the hinges of the door, dearest. He was laying carpets on the stairs all day yesterday. But never the sound of a hammer. The man's wonderful. He must have hands like iron. His heart's soft enough, though. But then everybody is so kind—everybody, everybody! The doctor, and the vicar, and the newspapers—oh, it's beautiful! It's just as Pete was saying.”
“What was Pete saying, Auntie?”
“He was saying the angels must think there's somebody sick in every house in the island.”
A sound of singing came through the open window, above the whisper of young leaves and the twitter of birds. It was the psalm that was being sung in church—
“Blessed is the man that considereth the poor and needy;
The Lord shall deliver him in time of trouble.”
“Listen, Philip. That must be a special psalm. I'm sure they're singing it for you. How sweet of them! But we are talking too much, dear. The doctor will scold. I must leave you now, Philip. Only for a little, though, while I go back to Bal lure, and I'll send up Cottier.”
“Yes, send up Cottier,” said Philip.
“My darling,” said the old soul, looking down as she tied her bonnet strings. “You'll lie quiet now? You're sure you'll lie quiet? Well, good bye! good-bye!”
As Philip lay alone the soar and swell of the psalm filled the room. Oh, the irony of it all! The frantic, hideous, awful irony! He was lying there, he, the guilty one, with the whole island watching at his bedside, pitying him, sorrowing for him, holding its breath until he should breathe, and she, his partner, his victim, his innocent victim, was in jail, in disgrace, in a degradation more deep than death. Still the psalm soared and swelled. He tried to bury his head in the pillows that he might not hear.