much the same by each of them, and then came back with a look of awe,
and said--

“My gough! they must have been Manxmen after all--they rowled downstairs
as if they’d been all legs together.”

Lovibond looked grave. “That’s going too far, Capt’n,” he said. “For
your own sake it’s risking too much.”

“Risking too much?” said Davy. “There’s only three of them.”

The first bell rang on the steamer; it was quarter to nine o’clock.
Willie Quarrie looked out at the window. The “Snaefell” was lying by the
red pier in the harbor, getting up steam, and sending clouds of smoke
over the old “Imperial.” Cars were rattling up the quay, passengers
were making for the gangways, and already the decks, fore and aft, were
thronged with people.

“Come along, my lad; look slippy,” cried Davy, “only two bells more,
and three hampers still to pack. Tumble them in--here goes.”

“Capt’n!” said Willie, still looking out.

“What?” said Davy.

“Don’t cross by the ferry, Capt’n.”

“Why not?”

“They’re all waiting for you,” said Willie, “every dirt of them all is
waiting by the steps--there’s Tommy Tubman, and Billy Balla-Slieau, and
that wastrel of a churchwarden--yes, and there’s ould Kennish--they’re
all there. Deng my buttons, all of them. They’re thinking to crow over
us, Capt’n. Don’t cross by the ferry. Let me run for a car. Then we’ll
slip up by the bridge yonder, and down the quay like a mill race, and up
to the gangway like smook, and abooard in a jiffy. That’s it--yes, I’ll
be off immadient, and we’ll bate the blackguards anyway.”

Willie was seizing his cap to carry out his intention of going for a
cab in order that his master might be spared the humiliation of passing
through the line of false friends who had gathered at the ferry steps to
see the last of him; but Davy shouted “Stop,” and pointed to the hampers
still unpacked.

“I’m broke,” said he, “and what matter who knows it? Reminds me, sir,”
 said Davy to Lovibond, “of Parson Cowan. The ould man lived up Andreas
way, and after sarvice he’d be saying, ‘Boys let’s put a sight on the
Methodees,’ and they’d be taking a slieu round to the chapel door.
Then as the people came out he’d be offering his snuff-boxes all about.
‘William, how do? have a pinch?’ ‘Ah, Robbie, fine evening; take a
sneeze?’ ‘Is that you, Tommy? I haven’t another box in my clothes,
but if you’ll put your finger and thumb into my waistcoat pocket here,
you’ll find some dust.’ Aw, yes, a reglar up-and-a-down-er, Parson
Cowan, as aisy, as aisy, and no pride at all. But he had his wakeness
same as a common man, and it was the Plow Inn at Ramsey. One day he was
going out of it middling full--not fit to walk the crank anyway--when
who should be coming up the street from the court-house but the Bishop!
It was Bishop--Bishop--chut, his name’s gone at me--but no matter,
glum as a gur-goyle anyway, and straight as a lamppost--a reglar
steeple-up-your-back sort of a chap. Ould Mrs. Beatty saw him, and she
lays a hould of Parson Cowan and starts awkisking him back into the
house, and through into the parlor where the chiney cups is. ‘You
mustn’t go out yet,’ the ould woman was whispering. ‘It’s the Bishop.
And him that sevare--it’s shocking! He’ll surspend you! And think what
they’ll be saying! A parson, too! Hush, sir hush! Don’t spake! You’ll be
waiting till it’s dark, and then going home with John in the bottom of
the cart, and nice clane straw to lie on, and nobody knowing nothing.’
But the ould man wouldn’t listen. He drew hisself up on the ould woman
tremenjous, and studdied hisself agen the door, and ‘No,’ says he; ‘I’m
drunk,’ says he, ‘God knows it,’ says he, ‘and for what man knows I
don’t care a damn--_I’ll walk!_’ Then away he went down the street past
the Bishop, with his hat a-one side, and his hair all through-others,
tacking a bit with romps in the fetlock joints, but driving on like
mad.”--

The second bell rang on the steamer. It was seven minutes to nine, and
the last of the luggage was packed. On the floor there still lay a pile
of clothing, which was to be left as oil for the wounded joints of the
gentlemen who had been flung down stairs. Willie Quarrie bustled about
to get the trunks and hampers to the ferry steps. Davy, who had been in
his shirt-sleeves, drew on his coat, and Lovibond, who had been waiting
twenty torturing minutes for some opportunity to begin, plunged into the
business of his visit at last.

“So you’re determined to go, Capt’n?” he said.

“I am,” said Davy.

“No message for Mrs. Quiggin? Dare say I could find her at Castle Mona.”

“No! Wait--yes--tell her--say I’m--if ever I--Chut! what’s the odds? No,
no message.”

“Not even good-by, Capt’n?”

“She sent none to me--no.”

“Not a word?”

“Not a word.”

Davy was pawing up the carpet with the toe of his boot, and filling his
pipe from his pouch.

“Going back to Callao, Capt’n?” said Lovibond.

“God knows, mate,” said Davy. “I’m like the seeding grass, blown here
and there, and the Lord knows where; but maybe I’ll find land at last.”

“Capt’n, about the money?--dy’e owe me any grudge about that?” said
Lovibond.

“Lord-a-massy! Grudge, is it?” said Davy. “Aw, no, man, no. The money
was my mischief. It’s gone, and good luck to it.”

“But if I could show you a way to get it all back again, Capt’n----”

“Chut! I wouldn’t have it, and I wouldn’t stay. But, matey, if you could
show me how to get back... the money isn’t the loss I’m... if I was as
poor as ould Chalse-a-killey, and had to work my flesh.... I’d stay if I
could get back....”

The whistle sounded from the funnel of the “Snaefell,” and the loud
throbs of escaping steam echoed from the Head. Willie Quarrie ran in to
say that the luggage was down at the ferry steps, and the ferryboat was
coming over the harbor.

“Capt’n,” said Lovibond, “she must have injured you badly----”

“Injured _me?_” said Davy. “Wish she had! I wouldn’t go off to the
world’s end if that was all betwixt us.”

“If she hasn’t, Capt’n,” said Lovi-bond, “you’re putting her in the way
of it.”

“What?”

Davy was about to light his pipe, but he flung away the match.

“Have you never thought of it?” said Lovibond, “That when a husband
deserts his wife like this he throws her in the way of--”

“Not Nelly, no,” said Davy, promptly. “I’ll lave _that_ with her,
anyway. Any other woman perhaps, but Nelly--never! She’s as pure as new
milk, and no beast milk neither. Nelly going wrong, eh? Well, well! I’d
like to see the man that would... I may have treated her bad... but I’d
like to see the man, I say...”

Then there was another shrieking whistle from the steamer. Willie
Quarrie called up at the window and gesticulated wildly from the lawn
outside.

“Coming, boy, coming,” Davy shouted back, and looking at his watch, he
said, “Four minutes and a half--time enough yet.”

Then they left the hotel and moved toward the ferry steps. As they
walked Davy begun to laugh. “Well, well!” he said, and he laughed again.
“Aw, to think, to think!” he said, and he laughed once more. But
with every fresh outbreak of his laughter the note of his voice lost
freshness.

Lovibond saw his opportunity, and yet could not lay hold of it, so cruel
at that moment seemed the only weapon that would be effectual. But Davy
himself thrust in between him and his timid spirit. With another hollow
laugh, as if half ashamed of keeping up the deception to the last, yet
convinced that he alone could see through it, he said, “No news of the
girl in the church, mate, eh? Gone home, I suppose?”

“Not yet,” said Lovibond.

“No?” said Davy.

“The fact is--but you’ll be secret?”

“Coorse.”

“It isn’t a thing I’d tell everybody--”

“What?”

“You see, if her husband has treated her like a brute, she’s his wife,
after all.”

Davy drew up on the path. “What is it?” he said.

“I’m to meet her to-night, alone,” said Lovibond.

“No!”

“Yes; in the grounds of Castle Mona, by the waterfall, after dark--at
eight o’clock, in fact.

“Castle Mona--by the waterfall--eight o’clock--that’s a--now, that must
be a--”

Davy had lifted his pipe hand to give emphasis to the protest on his
lips, when he stopped and laughed, and said, “Amazing thick, eh?”

“Why not,” said Lovibond? “Who wouldn’t be with a sweet woman like that?
If the fool that’s left her doesn’t know her worth, so much the better
for somebody else.”

“Then you’re for making it up there?” said Davy, clearing his throat.

“It’ll not be my fault if I don’t,” said Lovibond. “I’m not one of the
wise asses that talk big about God’s law and man’s law; and if I were,
man’s law has tied this sweet little woman to a brute, and God’s law
draws her to me--that’s all.”

“And she’s willing, eh?” said Davy.

“Give her time, Capt’n,” said Lovibond.

“But didn’t you say she was loving this--this brute of a husband?” said
Davy.

“Time, Capt’n, time,” said Lovibond. “That will mend with time.”

“And, manewhile, she’s tellin’ you all her secrets.”

“I leave you to judge, Capt’n.”

“After dark, you say--that’s middling tidy to begin with, eh, mate--eh?”

Lovibond laughed: Capt’n Davy laughed. They laughed together.

Willie Quarrie, standing by the boat at the bottom of the steps, with
the luggage piled up at the bow, shouted that there was not a minute to
spare. The throbbing of the steam in the funnel had ceased, one of the
two gangways had been run ashore, and the captain was on the bridge.

“Now, then, Capt’n,” cried Willie.

But Davy did not hear. He was watching Lovibond’s face with eyes of
suspicion. Was the man fooling him? Did he know the secret?

“Good-by Capt’n,” said Lovibond, taking Davy by the hand.

“Good-by, mate,” said Davy, absently.

“Good luck to you and a second fortune,” said Lovibond.

“Damn the fortune,” said Davy, under his breath.

Then there was another whistle from the “Snaefell.”

“Capt’n Davy! Capt’n Davy!” cried Willie Quarrie.

“Coming,” answered Davy. But still he stood at the top of the ferry
steps, holding Lovibond’s hand, and looking into his face.

Then there came a loud voice from the bridge of the steamer--“Steam up!”

“Capt’n! Capt’n!” cried Willie from the bottom of the steps.

Davy dropped Lovibond’s hand and turned to look across the harbor. “Too
late,” he said quietly.

“Not if you’ll come quick, Capt’n. See, the last gangway is up yet,”
 cried Willie.

“Too late,” repeated Davy, more loudly.

“Just time to do it by the skin of your teeth, Capt’n,” shouted the
ferryman.

“Too late, I tell you,” thundered Davy, sternly.

Meanwhile there was a great commotion on the other side of the harbor.

“Out of the way there!” “All ashore!” “Ready?” “Ready!” “Steam
up--slow!” The last bell rang. The first stroke of nine was struck by
the clock of the tower; one echoing blast came from the steam whistle,
and the “Snaefell” began to move slowly from the quay. Then there were
shouts from the deck and adieus from the shore. “Good-by!” “Good-by!”
 “Farewell, little Mona!” “Good-by, dear Elian Vannin!” Handkerchiefs
waving on the steamer; handkerchiefs waving on the quay; seagulls
wheeling over the stern; white churning water in the wake; flag down;
and harbor empty.

“She’s gone!”

Lovibond smiled behind a handkerchief, with which he pretended to wipe
his big mustache. Willie Quarrie looked helplessly up the ferry steps.
Davy gnashed his teeth at the top of them.

After a moment Davy said, “No matter; we can take the Irish packet at
nine, and catch the Pacific boat at Belfast. Willie,” he shouted, “put
the luggage in the shed for the Belfast steamer. We’ll sail to-night
instead.”

Then the three parted company, each with his own reflections.

“The Capt’n done that a-purpose,” thought Willie.

“He’ll keep my engagement for me at eight o’clock,” thought Lovibond.

“I wouldn’t have believed it of her if the Dempster himself had swore to
it,” thought Davy.

CHAPTER IX.

At half-past seven that night the iron pier was a varied and animated
scene. A band was playing a waltz on the circle at the end; young people
were dancing, other young people of both sexes were promenading, lines
of yet younger people, chiefly girls in short frocks, but with the
wagging heads and sparkling eyes of one type of budding maidenhood,
were skipping along arm-in-arm, singing snatches of the words set to
the waltz, and beating a half-dancing time with an alternate scrape and
stroke of the soles of their shoes upon the wood floor on which they
walked. The odor of the brine came up from below and mingled with the
whiffs of Mona Bouquet that swept after the young girls as they passed,
and with the puffs of tobacco smoke that enveloped the young men as
they dawdled on. Sometimes the revolving light of the lightship in the
channel could be seen above the flash and flare of the pier lamps, and
sometimes the dark water under foot gleamed and glinted between the open
timbers of the pier pavement, and sometimes the deep rumble of the sea
could be heard over the clash and clang of the pier band.

Lovibond was there, walking to and fro, feeling himself for the first
time to be an old fellow among so many younger folks, watching the
clock, counting the minutes, and scanning every female form that
came alone with the crink-crank-crick through the round stile of the
pay-gate.

Not until five minutes to eight did the right one appear, but she made
up for the tardiness of her coming by the animation of her spirits.

“I couldn’t get away sooner,” whispered Jenny. “She watched me like a
cat. She’ll be out in the grounds by this time. It’s delicious! But is
he coming!”

“Trust him,” said Lovibond.

“O, dear, what a meeting it will be!” said Jenny.

“I’d love to be there,” said Lovibond.

“Umph! Would you? Two’s company, three’s none--you’re just as well where
you are,” said Jenny.

“Better,” said Lovibond.

The clock struck eight in the tower.

“Eight o’clock,” said Lovibond, “They’ll be flying at each other’s eyes
by this time.”

“Eight o’clock, twenty seconds!” said Jenny. “And they’ll be lying in
each other’s arms by now.”

“Did she suspect?” said Lovibond.

“Of course she did!” said Jenny. “Did he?”

“Certainly!” said Lovibond.

“O dear, O dear!” said Jenny. “It’s wonderful how far you can fool
people when it’s to their interest to be fooled.”

“Wonderful!” said Lovibond.

They had walked to the end of the pier; the band was playing--

     “Ben-my-chree!
     Sweet Ben-my-chree,
     I love but thee, sweet Mona.”

“So our little drama is over, eh?” said. Jenny.

“Yes; it’s over,” said Lovibond.

Jenny sighed; Lovibond sighed; they looked at each other and sighed
together.

“And these good people have no further use for us,” said Jenny.

“None,” said Lovibond.

“Then I suppose we’ve no further use for each other?” moaned Jenny.

“Eh?” said Lovibond.

“Tut!” said Jenny, and she swung aside.

     “Mona, sweet Mona,
     I love but thee, sweet Mona.’

“There’s only one thing I regret,” said Lovibond, inclining his head
toward Jenny’s averted face.

“And pray, what’s that?” said Jenny, without turning about.

“Didn’t I tell you that Capt’n Davy had taken two berths in the Pacific
steamer to the west coast?” said Lovibond.

“Well?” said Jenny.

“That’s ninety pounds wasted,” said Lovibond.

“_What_ a pity!” sighed Jenny.

“Isn’t it?” said Lovibond--his left hand was fumbling for her right.

“If she were any other woman, she might be glad to go still,” said
Jenny.

“And if he were any other man he would be proud to take her,” said
Lovibond.

“Some woman without kith or kin to miss her--” began Jenny.

“Yes, or some man without anybody in the world--” began Lovibond.

“Now, if it had been _my_ case--” said Jenny, wearily.

“Or mine,” said Lovibond, sadly.

Each drew a long breath.

“Do you know, if I disappeared tonight, there’s not a soul--” said
Jenny, sorrowfully.

“That’s just my case, too,” interrupted Lovibond.

“Ah!” they said together.

They looked into each other’s eyes with a mournful expression, and
sighed again. Also their hands touched as their arms hung by their
sides.

“Ninety pounds! Did you say ninety? Two berths?” said Jenny. “What a
shocking waste! Couldn’t somebody else use them?”

“Just what I was thinking,” said Lovibond; and he linked the lady’s arm
through his own.

“Hadn’t you better get the tickets from Capt’n Davy, and--and give them
to somebody before it is too late?” said Jenny.

“I’ve got them already--his boy Quarrie was keeping them,” said
Lovibond.

“How thoughtful of you, Jona--I mean, Mr. Lovi--”

“Je--Jen--”

“Ben-my-chree! Sweet Ben-my-chree, I love but thee--”

“O, Jonathan!” whispered Jenny.

“O, Jenny!” gasped Jonathan.

They were on the dark side of the round house; the band was playing
behind them, the sea was rumbling in front; there was a shuffle of feet,
a sudden rustle of a dress; the lady glanced to the right, the gentleman
looked to the left, and then for a fraction of an instant they were
locked in each other’s arms.

“Will you go back with me, Jenny?”

“Well,” whispered Jenny. “Just to keep the tickets from wasting--”

“Just that,” whispered Lovibond.

Three quarters of an hour later they were sailing out of Douglas harbor
on board the Irish packet that was to overtake the Pacific steamship
next morning at Belfast. The lights of Castle Mona lay low on the
water’s edge, and from the iron pier as they passed came the faint sound
of the music of the band:

     “Mona, sweet Mona,
        Fairest isle beneath the sky,
     Mona, sweet Mona,
        We bid thee now good-by.”

CHAPTER X.

The life that Davy had led that day-was infernal At the first shaft of
Lovi-bond’s insinuation against Mrs. Quiggin’s fidelity he had turned
sick at heart. “When he said it,” Davy had thought, “the blood went from
me like the tide out of the Ragged Mouth, where the ships lie wrecked
and rotten.”

He had baffled with his bemuddled brain, to recall the conversation he
had held with his wife since his return home to marry her, and every
innocent word she had uttered in jest had seemed guilty and foul.
“You’ve been nothing but a fool, Davy,” he told himself. “You’ve been
tooken in.”

Then he had reproached himself for his hasty judgment. “Hould hard, boy,
hould hard; aisy for all, though, aisy, aisy!” He had remembered how
modest his wife had been in the old days--how simple and how natural.
“She was as pure as the mountain turf,” he had thought, “and quiet
extraordinary.” Yet there was the ugly fact that she had appointed to
meet a strange man in the gardens of Castle Mona, that night, alone.
“Some charm is put on her--some charm or the like,” he had thought
again.

That had been the utmost and best he could make of it, and he had
suffered the torments of the damned. During the earlier part of the day
he had rambled through the town, drinking freely, and his face had been
a piteous sight to see. Toward nightfall he had drifted past Castle
Mona toward Onchan Head, and stretched himself on the beach before Derby
Castle. There he had reviewed the case afresh, and asked himself what he
ought to do.

“It’s not for me to go sneaking after her,” he had thought. “She’s true,
I’ll swear to it. The man’s lying... Very well, then, Davy, boy, don’t
you take rest till you’re proving it.”

The autumn day had begun to close in, and the first stars to come out.
“Other women are like yonder,” he had thought; “just common stars in the
sky, where there’s millions and millions of them. But Nelly is like the
moon--the moon, bless her--”

At that thought Davy had leaped to his feet, in disgust of his own
simplicity. “I’m a fool,” he had muttered, “a reg’lar ould bleating
billygoat; talking pieces of poethry to myself, like a stupid, gawky
Tommy Big Eyes.”

He had looked at his watch. It was a quarter to eight o’clock.
Unconsciously he had begun to walk toward Castle Mona. “I’m not for
misdoubting my wife, not me; but then a man may be over certain. I’ll
find out for myself; and if it’s true, if she’s there, if she meets
him.... Well, well, be aisy for all, Davy; be aisy, boy, be aisy! If the
worst comes to the worst, and you’ve got to cut your stick, you’ll be
doing it without a heart-ache anyway. She’ll not be worth it, and you’ll
be selling yourself to the Divil with a clane conscience. So it’s all
serene either way, Davy, my man, and here goes for it.”

Meanwhile Mrs. Quiggin had been going through similar torments. “I don’t
blame _him_,” she had thought. “It’s that mischief-making huzzy. Why did
I ask her? I wonder what in the world I ever saw in her. If I were not
going away myself she should pack out of the house in the morning. The
sly thing! How clever she thinks herself, too! But she’ll be surprised
when I come down on her. I’ll watch her; she sha’n’t escape me. And as
for _him_--well, we’ll see, Mr. David, we’ll see!”

As the clock in the hall in Castle Mona was striking eight these
good souls in these wise humors were making their several ways to the
waterfall under the cliff, in the darkest part of the hotel grounds.

Davy got there first, going in by the gate at the Onchan end. It struck
him with astonishment that Lovibond was not there already. “The man
bragged of coming, but I don’t see him,” he thought. He felt half
inclined to be wroth with Lovibond for daring to run the risk of being
late. “I know someone who would have been early enough if he had been
coming to meet with somebody,” he thought.

Presently he saw a female form approaching from the thick darkness at
the Douglas end of the house. It was a tall figure in a long cloak, with
the hood drawn over the head. Through the opening of the cloak in front
a light dress beneath gleamed and glinted in the brightening starlight.
“It’s herself,” Davy muttered, under his breath. “She’s like the silvery
fir tree with her little dark head agen the sky. Trust me for knowing
her! I’d be doing that if I was blind. Yes, would I though, if I was
only the grass under her feet, and she walked on me. She’s coming! My
God, then, it’s true! It’s true, Davy! Hould hard, boy! She’s a woman
for all! She’s here! She sees me! She thinks I’m the man?”

In the strange mood of the moment he was half sorry to take her by
surprise.

Davy was right that Mrs. Quiggin saw him. While still in the shadow
of the house she recognized his dark figure among the trees. “But he’s
alone,” she thought. “Then the huzzy must have gone back to her room
when I thought she slipped out at the porch. He’s waiting for her.
Should I wait, too? No! That he is there is enough. He sees me. He is
coming. He thinks I am she. Umph! Now to astonish him!”

Thus thinking, and both trembling with rage and indignation, and both
quivering with love and fear, the two came face to face.

But neither betrayed the least surprise.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, if I’m not the man------” faltered Davy.

“It’s a pity, sir, if I’m not the woman------” stammered Nelly.

“Hope I don’t interrupt any terterta-tie,” continued Davy.

“I trust you won’t allow _me_----” began Nelly.

And then, having launched these shafts of impotent irony in vain, they
came to a stand with an uneasy feeling that something unlooked for was
amiss.

“What d’ye mane, ma’am?” said Davy.

“What do _you_ mean, sir?” said Nelly.

“I mane, that you’re here to meet with a man,” said Davy.

“I!” cried Nelly. “I? Did you say that I was here to meet----”

“Don’t go to deny it, ma’am,” said Davy.

“I do deny it,” said Nelly. “And what’s more, sir, I know why you are
here. You are here to meet with a woman.”

“Me! To meet with a woman! Me?” cried Davy.

“Oh, _you_ needn’t deny it, sir,” said Nelly. “Your presence here is
proof enough against you.”

“And _your_ presence here is proof enough agen you,” said Davy.

“You had to meet her at eight,” said Nelly.

“That’s a reg’lar bluff, ma’am,” said Davy, “for it was at eight you had
to meet with _him_?

“How dare you say so?” cried Nelly.

“I had it from the man himself,” said Davy.

“It’s false, sir, for there _is_ no man; but I had it from the woman,”
 said Nelly.

“And did you believe her?” said Davy.

“Did _you_ believe _him?_” said Nelly. “Were you simple enough to trust
a man who told you that he was going to meet your own wife?”

“He wasn’t for knowing it was my own wife,” said Davy. “But were _you_
simple enough to trust the woman who was telling you she was going to
meet your own husband?”

“She didn’t know it was my own husband,” said Nelly. “But that wasn’t
the only thing she told me.”

“And it wasn’t the only thing _he_ tould _me_.” said Davy. “He tould me
all your secrets--that your husband had deserted you because he was a
brute and a blackguard.”

“I have never said so,” cried Nelly. “Who dares to say I have? I
have never opened my lips to any living man against you. But you are
measuring me by your own yard, sir; for you led _her_ to believe that I
was a cat and a shrew and a nagger, and a thankless wretch who ought to
be put down by the law just as it puts down biting dogs.”

“Now, begging you pardon, ma’am,” said Davy; “but that’s a damned lie,
whoever made it.”

After this burst there was a pause and a hush, and then Nelly said,
“It’s easy to say that when she isn’t here to contradict you; but wait,
sir, only wait.”

“And it’s aisy for you to say yonder,” said Davy, “when he isn’t come to
deny it--but take your time, ma’am, take your time.”

“Who is it?” said Nelly.

“No matter,” said Davy.

“Who is the man,” demanded Nelly.

“My friend Lovibond,” answered Davy.

“Lovibond!” cried Nelly.

“The same,” groaned Davy.

“Mr. Lovibond!” cried Nelly again.

“Aw--keep it up, ma’am; keep it up!” said Davy. “And, manewhile, if you
plaze, who is the woman?”

“My friend Jenny Crow,” said Nelly.

Then there was another pause.

“And did she tell you that I had agreed to meet her?” said Davy.

“She did,” said Nelly. “And did _he_ tell _you_ that I had appointed to
meet _him?_”

“Yes, did he,” said Davy. “At eight o’clock, did she say?”

“Yes, eight o’clock,” said Nelly. “Did _he_ say eight?”

“He did,” said Davy.

The loud voices of a moment before had suddenly dropped to broken
whispers. Davy made a prolonged whistle.

“Stop,” said he; “haven’t you been in the habit of meeting him?”

“I have never seen him but once,” said Nelly. “But haven’t _you_ been in
the habit of meeting _her?_”

“Never set eyes on the little skute but twice altogether,” said Davy.
“But didn’t he see you first in St. Thomas’s, and didn’t you speak with
him on the shore--”

“I’ve never been in St. Thomas’s in my life!” said Nelly. “But didn’t
you meet her first on the Head above Port Soderick, and to go to Laxey,
and come home with her in the coach?”

“Not I,” said Davy.

“Then the stories she told me of the Manx sailor were all imagination,
were they?” said Nelly.

“And the yarns _he_ tould _me_ of the girl in the church were all
make-ups, eh?” said Davy.

“Dear me, what a pair of deceitful people!” said Nelly.

“My gough! what a couple of cuffers!” said Davy.

There was another pause, and then Davy began to laugh. First came a
low gurgle like that of suppressed bubbles in a fountain, then a sharp,
crackling breaker of sound, and then a long, deep roar of liberated
mirth that seemed to shake and heave the whole man, and to convulse the
very air around him.

Davy’s laughter was contagious. As the truth began to dawn on her Mrs.
Quiggin first chuckled, then tittered, then laughed outright; and
at last her voice rose behind her husband’s in clear trills of
uncontrollable merriment.

Laughter was the good genie that drew their assundered hearts together.
It broke down the barrier that divided them; it melted the frozen places
where love might not pass. They could not resist it. Their anger fled
before it like evil creatures of the night.

At the first sound of Davy’s laughter something in Nelly’s bosom seemed
to whisper “He loves me still;” and at the first note of Nelly’s,
something clamored in Davy’s breast, “She’s mine, she’s mine!” They
turned toward each other in the darkness with a yearning cry.

“Nelly!” cried Davy, and he opened his arms to her.

“Davy!” cried Nelly, and she leaped to his embrace.

And so ended in laughter and kisses their little foolish comedy of love.

As soon as Davy had recovered his breath he said, with what gravity he
could command, “Seems to me, Nelly Vauch, begging your pardon, darling,
that we’ve been a couple of fools.”

“Whoever could have believed it?” said Nelly.

“What does it mane at all, said Davy.

“It means,” said Nelly, “that our good friends knew each other, and that
he told her, and she told him, and that to bring us together again they
played a trick on our jealousy.”

“Then we _were_ jealous?” said Davy.

“Why else are we here?” said Nelly.

“So you _did_ come to see a man, after all?” said Davy.

“And _you_ came to see a woman,” said Nelly.

They had began to laugh again, and to walk to and fro about the lawn,
arm-inarm and waist-to-waist, vowing that they would never part--no,
never, never, never--and that nothing on earth should separate them,
when they heard a step on the grass behind.

“Who’s there?” said Davy.

And a voice from the darkness answered, “It’s Willie Quarrie, Capt’n.”

Davy caught his breath. “Lord-a-massy me!” said he. “I’d clane
forgotten.”

“So had I,” said Nelly, with alarm.

“I was to have started back for Cajlao by the Belfast packet.”

“And I was to have gone home by carriage.”

“If you plaze, Capt’n,” said Willie Quarrie, coming up. “I’ve been
looking for you high and low--the pacquet’s gone.”

Davy drew a long breath of relief. “Good luck to her,” said he, with a
shout.

“And, if you plaze,” said Willie, “Mr. Lovibond is gone with her.”

“Good luck to _him_,” said Davy.

“And Miss Crows has gone, too,” said Willie.

“Good luck to her as well,” said Davy; and Nelly whispered at his side,
“There--what did I tell you?”

“And if you plaze, Capt’n,” said Willie Quarrie, stammering nervously,
“Mr. Lovibond, sir, he has borrowed our--our tickets and--and taken them
away with him.”

“He’s welcome, boy, he’s welcome,” cried Davy, promptly. “We’re going
home instead. Home!” he said again--this time to Nelly, and in a tone
of delight, as if the word rolled on his tongue like a lozenge--“that
sounds better, doesn’t it? Middling tidy, isn’t it. Not so dusty, eh?”

“We’ll never leave it again,” said Nelly.

“Never!” said Davy. “Not for a Dempster’s palace. Just a piece of a
croft and a bit of a thatch cottage on the lea of ould Orrisdale, and
we’ll lie ashore and take the sun like the goats.”

“That reminds me of something,” whispered Nelly. “Listen! I’ve had a
letter from father. It made me cry this morning, but it’s all right
now--Ballamooar is to let!”

“Ballamooar!” repeated Davy, but in another voice. “Aw, no, woman, no!
And that reminds _me_ of something.”

“What is it,” said Nelly.

“I should have been telling you first,” said Davy, with downcast head,
and in a tone of humiliation.

“Then what?” whispered Nelly.

“There’s never no money at a dirty ould swiper that drinks and gambles
everything. I’m on the ebby tide, Nelly, and my boat is on the rocks
like a taypot. I’m broke, woman, I’m broke.”

Nelly laughed lightly. “Do you say so?” she said with mock solemnity.

“It’s only an ould shirt I’m bringing you to patch, Nelly,” said Davy;
“but here I am, what’s left of me, to take me or lave me, and not much
choice either ways.”

“Then I take you, sir,” said Nelly. “And as for the money,” she
whispered in a meaning voice, “I’ll take Ballamooar myself and give you
trust.”

With a cry of joy Davy caught her to his breast and held her there as
in a vice. “Then kiss me on it again and swear to it,” he cried, “Again!
Again! Don’t be in a hurry woman! Aw, kissing is mortal hasty work! Take
your time, girl! Once more! Shocking, is it? It’s like the bags of the
bees that we were stealing when we were boys! Another! Then half a one,
and I’m done!”

Since they had spoken to Willie Quarrie they had given no further
thought to him, when he stepped forward and said out of the darkness:
“If you plaze, capt’n, Mr. Lovibond was telling me to give you this
lether and this other thing,” giving a letter and a book to Davy.

“Hould hard, though; what’s doing now?” said Davy, turning them over in
his hand.

“Let us go into the house and look,” said Nelly.

But Davy had brought out his matchbox, and was striking a light. “Hould
up my billycock, boy,” said he; and in another moment Willie Quarrie was
holding Davy’s hat on end to shield from the breeze the burning match
which Nelly held inside of it. Then Davy, bareheaded, proceeded to
examine what Lovibond had sent him.

“A book tied up in a red tape, eh?” said Davy. “Must be the one he
was writing in constant, morning and evening, telling hisself and God
A’mighty what he was doing and wasn’t doing, and where he was going to
and when he was going to go. Aw, yes, he always kep’ a diarrhea.”

“A diary, Davy,” said Nelly.

“Have it as you like, _Vauch_, and don’t burn your little fingers,”
 said Davy; and then he opened the letter, and with many interjections
proceeded to read it.

“‘Dear Captain. How can I ask you to forgive me for the trick I have
played upon you? ‘(Forgive, is it?)’ I have never had an appointment
with the Manx lady; I have never had an intention of carrying her off
from her husband; I have never seen her in church, and the story I have
told you has been a lie from beginning to end.’”

Davy lifted his head and laughed.

“Another match, Willie,” he cried. And while the boy was striking a
fresh one Davy stamped out the burning end that Nelly dropped on to
the grass, and said: “A lie! Well, it was an’ it wasn’t. A sort of a
scriptural parable, eh?”

“Go on, Davy,” said Nelly, impatiently, and Davy began again:

“‘You know the object of that trick by this time’ (Wouldn’t trust), ‘but
you have been the victim of another’ (Holy sailor!), ‘to which I must
also confess. In the gambling by which I won a large part of your money’
(True for you!) ‘I was not playing for my own hand. It was for one who
wished to save you from yourself.’ (Lord a massy!) ‘That person was your
wife’ (Goodness me!), ‘and all my earnings belong to her.’ (Good thing,
too!) ‘They are deposited at Dumbell’s in her name’ (Right!), ‘and---’”

“There--that will do,” said Nelly, nervously.

“‘And I send you the bank-book, together with the dock bonds,... which
you transferred for Mrs. Quiggin’s benefit... to the name... of her
friend...’”

Davy’s lusty voice died off to a whisper.

“What is that?” said Nelly, eagerly.

“Nothin’,” said Davy, very thick about the throat; and he rammed the
letter into his breeches’ pocket and grabbed at his hat. As he did so,
a paper slipped to the ground. Nelly caught it up and held it on the
breezy side of the flickering match.

It was a note from Jenny Crow: “‘You dear old goosy; your jealous little
heart found out who the Manx sailor was, but your wise little poll never
once suspected that Mr. Lovibond could be anything to anybody, although
I must have told you twenty times in the old days of the sweetheart from
whom I parted. Good thing, too. Glad you were so stupid, my dear, for
by helping you to make up your quarrel we have contrived to patch up our
own. Good-by! What lovely stories I told you! And how you liked them!
We have borrowed your husband’s berths for the Pacific steamer, and are
going to have an Irish marriage tomorrow morning at Belfast--’”

“So they’re a Co. consarn already,” said Davy.

“‘Good-by! Give your Manx sailor one kiss for me--’”

“Do it!” cried Davy. “Do it! What you’ve got to do only once you ought
to do it well.”

Then they became conscious that a smaller and dumpier figure was
standing in the darkness by the side of Willie. It was Peggy Quine.

“Are you longing, Peggy?” Willie was saying in a voice of melancholy
sympathy.

And Peggy was answering in a doleful tone, “Aw, yes, though--longing
mortal.”

Becoming conscious that the eyes of her mistress were on her, Peggy
stepped out and said, “If you plaze, ma’am, the carriage is waiting this
half-hour.”

“Then send it away again,” said Davy.

“But the boxes is packed, sir----”

“Send it away,” repeated Davy.

“No, no,” said Nelly; “we must go home to-night.”

“To-morrow morning,” shouted Davy, with a stamp of his foot and a laugh.

“But I have paid the bill,” said Nelly, “and everything is arranged, and
we are all ready.”

“To-morrow morning,” thundered Davy, with another stamp of the foot and
a peal of laughter.

And Davy had his way.

                       THE END.