Jenny’s opportunity was a week in coming, and various events of some consequence in this history occurred in the mean time. The first of these was that Capt’n Davy’s fortune changed hands.

Davy’s savings had been invested in two securities—the Liverpool Dock Trust and Dumbell’s Manx Bank. His property in the former he made over by help of the advocates, and with vast show of secrecy, to the name of Jenny Crow; and she, on her part, by help of other advocates, and with yet more real secrecy, transferred it to the name of Mrs. Quiggin.

The remains of his possessions in the latter he lost to Lovibond, who gambled with him constantly, beginning with a sovereign, which Mrs. Quiggin had lent him for the purpose, and going on by a process of doubling until the stakes were prodigious. Every night he discharged his debt by check on Dumbell’s, and every morning Lovibond repaid it into the same bank to the account of his wife. Thus, within a week, unknown to either of the two persons chiefly concerned, the money which had been the immediate cause of strife between them passed from the offender to the offended, from the strong to the weak.

That was the more material of the changes that had come to pass, and the more spiritual were of still greater consequence.

Lovibond and Jenny met constantly. They made various excursions through the island—to the Tynwald Hill, to Peel Castle, to Castle Rushen, the Chasms, and the Calf. Of course they persuaded each other that these trips were taken solely in the interests of their friends. It was necessary to meet; it was desirable to do so where they would be unobserved; what else was left to them but to steal away together on these little jaunts and journeys?

Then their talk was of love and estrangement and reconciliation, and how easy to quarrel, and how hard to come together again. Capt’n Davy and Mrs. Quiggin provided all their illustrations to these interesting themes, for naturally they never spoke of themselves.

“It’s astonishing what geese some people can be,” said Jenny.

“Astonishing,” echoed Lovibond.

“Just for sake of a poor little word of confession to hold off like this,” said Jenny.

“Just a poor little word,” said Lovibond.

“He has only to say ‘My dear, I behaved like a brute,’ but——”

“Only that,” said Lovibond. “And she has merely to say, ‘My love, I behaved like a cat,’ but——”

“That’s all,” said Jenny. “But he doesn’t—men never do.”

“Never,” said Lovibond. “And she won’t—women never will.”

Then there would be innocent glances on both sides, and sly hints cast out as grappling hooks for jealousy.

“Ah, well, he’s the dearest, simplest, manliest fellow in the world, and there are women who would give their two ears for him,” said Jenny.

“And she’s the sweetest, tenderest, loveliest woman alive, and there are men who would give their two eyes for her,” said Lovibond.

“Pity they don’t,” said Jenny, “for all the use they make of them.”

Amid such bouts of thrust and counter-thrust, the affair of Capt’n Davy and Mrs. Quiggin nevertheless made due progress.

“She’s half in love with my Manx sailor on the Head,” said Jenny.

“And he’s more than half in love with my lady in the church,” said Lovibond.

“And now that we’ve made each of them fond of each other in disguise, we have just to make both of them ashamed of themselves in reality,” said Jenny.

“Just that,” said Lovibond.

“Ah me,” said Jenny. “It isn’t every pair of geese that have friends like us to prevent them from going astray.”

“It isn’t,” said Lovibond. “We’re the good old ganders that keep the geese together.”

“Speak for yourself, sir,” said Jenny.

Then came Jenny’s opportunity. She had been out on one of her jaunts with Lovibond, leaving Mrs. Quiggin alone in her room at Castle Mona. Mrs. Quiggin was still in her room, and still alone. Since the separation a fortnight before that had been the constant condition of her existence. Never going out, never even going down for her meals, rarely speaking of her husband, always thinking of him, and eating out her heart with pride and vexation, and anger and self-reproach.

It was the hour when the life of the island rises to the fever point; the hour of the arrival of the steamers from England. All day long the town had droned and dosed under a drowsy heat. The boatmen and carmen, with both hands in their breeches’ pocket, had been burning the daylight on the esplanade; the band on the pier had been blowing music out of lungs that snored between every other blast; and the visitors had been lolling on the seats of the parade and watching the sea gulls disporting on the bay with eyes that were drawing straws. But the first trail of smoke had been seen across the sea by the point of the lighthouse, and all the slugs and marmots were wide awake: promenade deserted, streets quiet and pothouses empty; but every front window of every front house occupied, and the pier crowded with people looking seaward. “She’s the Snaefell?” “No, but the Ben-my-Chree—see, she has four funnels.” Then, the steaming up, the firing of the gun, the landing of the passengers, the mails and newspapers, the shouting of the touts, the bawling of the porters, the salutations, the welcomes, the passings of the time of day, the rattling of the oars, the tinkling of the trams, and the cries of the newsboys: “This way for Castle Mona!” “Falcon Cliff this way!” “Echo!” “Evening Express!” “Good passage, John?” “Good.” “Five hours?” “And ten minutes.” “What news over the water?” “They’ve caught him.” “Never.” “Express!” “Fort Anne here—here for Villiers.” “Comfortable lodgings, sir.” “Take a card, ma’am.” “What verdict d’ye say?” “She’s got ten years.” “Had fine weather in the island?” “Fine.” “Echo! Evening Echo!” “Fort Anne this way!” “Gladstone in Liverpool?” “Yes, spoke at Hengler’s last night—fearful crush.” “Castle Mona!” “Evening News!” “Peveril!” “This way Falcon Cliff!” “Ex-press!”

Thus, leaving the pier and the steamers behind them, through the streets and into the hotels, the houses, the cars, and the trains go, the new comers, and the newspapers, and the letters from England, all hot and active, bringing word of the main land, with its hub-bub and hurly-burly, to the island that has been four-and-twenty hours cut off from it—like the throbbing and bounding globules of fresh blood fetching life from the fountain-head to some half-severed limb. It is an hour of tremendous vitality, coming once a day, when the little island pulsates like a living thing. But that evening, as always since the time of the separation, Mrs. Quiggin was unmoved by it. With a book in her hand she was sitting by the open window fingering the pages, but looking listlessly over the tops of them to the line of the sea and sky, and asking herself if she should not go home to her father’s house on the morrow. She had reached that point of her reverie at which something told her that she should, and something else told her that she should not, when down came Jenny Crow upon her troubled quiet, like the rush of an evening breeze.

“Such news!” cried Jenny. “I’ve seen him again.”

Mrs. Quiggin’s book dropped suddenly to her lap. “Seen him?” she said with bated breath.

“You remember—the Manx sailor on the Head,” said Jenny.

“Oh!” said Mrs. Quiggin, languidly, and her book went back to before her face.

“Been to Laxey to look at the big wheel,” said Jenny; “and found the Manxman coming back in the same coach. We were the only passengers, and so I heard everything. Didn’t I tell you that he must be in trouble?”

“And is he?” said Mrs. Quiggin, monotonously.

“My dear,” said Jenny, “he’s married.”

“I’m very sorry,” said Mrs. Quiggin, with a listless look toward the sea. “I mean,” she added more briskly, “that I thought you liked him yourself.”

“Liked him!” cried Jenny. “I loved him. He’s splendid, he’s glorious, he’s the simplest, manliest, tenderest, most natural creature in the world. But it’s just my luck—another woman has got him. And such a woman, too! A nagger, a shrew, a cat, a piece of human flint, a thankless wretch, whose whole selfish body isn’t worth the tip of his little finger.”

“Is she so bad as that?” said Mrs. Quiggin, smiling feebly above the top edge of her book, which covered her face up to the mouth.

“My dear,” said Jenny, solemnly, “she has turned him out of the house.”

“Good gracious!” said Mrs. Quiggin; and away went the book on to the sofa.

Then Jenny told a woeful tale, her eyes flashing, her lips quivering, and her voice ringing with indignation. And, anxious to hit hard, she hovered so closely over the truth as sometimes to run the risk of uncovering it. The poor fellow had made long voyages abroad and saved some money. He had loved his wife passionately—that was the only blot on his character. He always dreamt of coming home, and settling down in comfort for the rest of his life. He had come at last, and a fine welcome had awaited him. His wife was as proud as Lucifer—the daughter of some green-grocer, of course. She had been ashamed of her husband, apparently, and settling down hadn’t suited her. So she had nagged the poor fellow out of all peace of mind and body, taken his money, and turned him adrift.

Jenny’s audacity carried her through, and Mrs. Quiggin, who was now wide awake, listened eagerly. “Can it be possible that there are women like that?” she said, in a hushed whisper.

“Indeed, yes,” said Jenny; “and men are simple enough to prefer them to better people.”

“But, Jenny,” said Mrs. Quiggin, with a far-away look, “we have only heard one story, you know. If we were inside the Manxman’s house—if we knew all—might we not find that there are two sides to its troubles?”

“There are two sides to its street-door,” said Jenny, “and the husband is on the outside of it.”

“She took his money, you say, Jenny?”

“Indeed she did, Nelly, and is living on it now.”

“And then turned him out of doors?”

“Well, so to speak, she made it impossible for him to live with her.”

“What a cat she must be!” said Mrs. Quiggin.

“She must,” said Jenny. “And, would you believe it, though she has treated him so shamefully yet he loves her still.”

“Why do you think so, Jenny,” said Mrs. Quiggin.

“Because,” said Jenny, “though he is always sober when I see him I suspect that he is drinking himself to death. He said as much.”

“Poor fellow!” said Mrs. Quiggin. “But men should not take these things so much to heart. Such women are not worth it.”

“No, are they?” said Jenny.

“They have hardly a right to live,” said Mrs. Quiggin.

“No, have they?” said Jenny.

“There should be a law to put down nagging wives the same as biting dogs,” said Mrs. Quiggin.

“Yes, shouldn’t there?” said Jenny.

“Once on a time men took their wives like their horses on trial for a year and a day, and really with some women there would be something to say for the old custom.”

“Yes, wouldn’t there?” said Jenny.

“The woman who is nothing of herself apart from her husband, and has no claim to his consideration, except on the score of his love, and yet uses him only to abuse him, and takes his very ‘money, having none of her own, and still——”

“Did I say she took his money, Nelly?” said Jenny. “Well of course—not to be unfair—some men are such generous fools, you know—he may have given it to her.”

“No matter; taken or given, she has got it, I suppose, and is living on it now.”

“Oh, yes, certainly, that’s very sure,” said Jenny; “but then she’s his wife, you see, and naturally her maintenance——”

“Maintenance!” cried Mrs. Quig-gin. “How many children has she got?”

“None,” said Jenny. “At least I haven’t heard of any.”

“Then she ought to be ashamed of herself for thinking of such a thing.”

“I quite agree with you, Nelly,” said Jenny.

“If I were a man,” said Mrs. Quiggin, “and my wife turned me out of doors——”

“Did I say that, Nelly? Well not exactly that—no, not turned him out of doors exactly, Nelly.”

“It’s all one, Jenny. If a woman behaves so that her husband can not live with her what is she doing but turning him out of doors?”

“But, Nelly!” cried Jenny, rising suddenly. “What about Captain Davy?”

Then there was a blank silence. Mrs. Quiggin had been borne along on the torrent of her indignation, brooking no objection, and sweeping down every obstacle, until brought up sharply by Jenny’s question—like a river that flows fastest and makes most noise where the bowlders in its course are biggest, but breaks itself at last against the brant sides of some impassable rock. She drew her breath in one silent spasm, turned from feverish red to deadly pale, quivered about the mouth, twitched about the eyelids, rose stiffly on her half-rigid limbs, and then fell on Jenny with loud and hot reproaches.

“How dare you, Jenny Crow?” she cried.

“Dare what, my dear?” said Jenny.

“Say that I’ve turned my husband out of doors, and that I’ve taken his money, and that I am a cat and shrew, and a nagger, and that there ought to be a law to put me down.”

“My dear Nelly,” said Jenny, “it was yourself that said so. I was speaking of the wife of the Manx sailor.”

“Yes, but you were thinking of me,” said Mrs. Quiggin.

“I was thinking of her,” said Jenny.

“You were thinking of me as well,” said Mrs. Quiggin.

“I tell you that I was only thinking of her,” said Jenny.

“You were thinking of me, Jenny Crow—you know you were; and you meant that I was as bad as she was. But circumstances alter cases, and my case is different. My husband is turning me out of doors: and, as for his money, I didn’t ask for it and I don’t want it. I’ll go back home to-morrow morning. I will—indeed, I will. I’ll bear this torment no longer.”

So saying, with many gasps and gulps, breaking at last into a burst of weeping, she covered her face with both hands and flounced out of the room. Jenny watched her go, then listened to the sobs that came from the other side of the door, and said beneath her breath, “Let her cry, poor girl. The crying has to be done by somebody, and it might as well be she. Crying is good for a woman sometimes, but when a man cries it hurts so much.”

Half an hour later, as Jenny was leaving the room for dinner, she heard Mrs. Quiggin telling Peggy Quine to ask at the office for her bill, and to order a carriage to be ready at the door for her at eleven o’clock in the morning.

When the first burst of her vexation was spent Mrs. Quiggin made a secret and startling discovery. The man whom Jenny Crow had stumbled upon, first on the Head and afterward on the Laxey coach, could be no one in the world but her own husband. A certain shadowy suspicion of this had floated hazily before her mind at the beginning, but she had dismissed the idea and forgotten it. Now she felt so sure of it that it was beyond contempt of question. So the Manx sailor in whom Jenny had found so much to admire—the simple, brave, manly, generous, natural soul, all fresh air and by rights all sunshine—was no other than Capt’n Davy Quiggin! That thought brought the hot blood tingling to Mrs. Quiggin’s cheeks with sensations of exquisite delight, and never before had her husband seemed so fine in her own eyes as now, when she saw him so noble in the eyes of another. But close behind this delicious reflection, like the green blight at the back of the apple blossom, lay a withering and cankering thought. The Manx sailor’s wife—she who had so behaved that it was impossible for him to live with her—she who was a cat, a shrew, a nagger, a thankless wretch, a piece of human flint, a creature that should be put down by the law as it puts down biting dogs—she whose whole selfish body was not worth the tip of his little finger—was no one else than herself!

Then came another burst of weeping, but this time the tears were of shame, not of vexation, and they washed away every remaining evil humor and left the vision clear. She had been in the wrong, she was judged out of her own mouth; but she had no intention of fitting on the cap of the unknown woman. Why should she? Jenny did not know who the woman was—that was as plain as a pickle. Then where was the good of confessing?