Lovibond received this message while sitting at breakfast, and he caught the idea of it in an instant. Since the supper of the night before he had been pestered by many misgivings, and troubled by some remorse. Capt’n Davy was bent on going away. Overwhelmed by a sense of what he took to be his dastardly conduct he was in that worst position of the man who can forgive neither himself nor the person he has injured. So much had Lovibond done for him by the fine scheme that had brought matters to such a pass. But having gone so far, Lovibond had found himself at a stand. His next step he could not see. Capt’n Davy must not be allowed to leave the island, but how to keep him from going away was a bewildering difficulty. To tell him the truth was impossible, and to concoct a further fable was beyond Lovibond’s invention. And so it was that when Lovi-bond received the letter from Jenny Crow, he rose to the cue it offered like a drowning man to a life-buoy.

“Jealousy—the very thing!” he thought; and not until he was already in the thick of his enterprise as wizard of that passion did he realize that if it was an effectual instrument to his end it was also a cruel one.

He found Capt’n Davy in the midst of the final preparations for their journey. These consisted of the packing of clothes into trunks, bags, sacks, and hampers. On the floor of the sitting-room lay a various assortment of coats, waistcoats, trowsers, great-coats, billycock hats and sou’-westers, together with countless shirts and collars, scarfs and handkerchiefs. At Davy’s order Willie Quarrie had gathered up the garments in armsful out of drawers and wardrobes, and heaped them at his feet for inspection. This process they were undergoing with a view to the selection of such as were suitable to the climate in which it was intended that they should be worn. The hour was 8.30 a.m., the “Snaefell” was announced to sail for Liverpool at nine.

But, as Lovibond entered the room, a scene of yet more primitive interest was actively proceeding. A waiter of the hotel was strutting across the floor and sputtering out protests against this unseemly use of the sitting-room. The person was the same who the night before had haunted Davy’s elbow with his obsequious “Yes, sirs,” “No, sirs,” and “Beg pardon, sirs”; but the morning had brought him knowledge of Davy’s penury, and with that wisdom had come impudence if not dignity.

“The ideal!” he cried. “Turnin’ a ‘otel drawrin’-room into a charwoman’s laundry!”

“Make it a rag shop at once,” said Davy, as he went on quietly with his work.

“A rag shop it is, and I’ll ‘ave no more of it,” said the waiter loftily. “Who ever ‘eard of such a thing?”

“No?” said Davy. “Well, well, now! Who’d have thought it? You never did? A rael Liverpool gentleman, eh? A reg’lar aristocrack out of Sawney Pope-street!”

“No, sir, but it’s easy to see where you came from,” said the waiter, with withering scorn.

“You say true, boy,” said Davy, “but it’s aisier still to see where you are going to. Ever seen the black man on the beach at all? No? Him with the performing birds? You know—jacks and ravens and owls and such like. Well, he’s been wanting something like you this long time. Wouldn’t trust, but he’d give twopence-halfpenny for you—and drinks all round. You’d make his fortune as a cockatoo.”

The waiter in fury called downstairs for assistance, and when two of his fellow servants had arrived in the room they made some poor show of working their will by force. Then Davy paused from his work, scratched the under part of his chin with the nail of his forefinger, and said, “Friends, some of us four is interrupting the play, and they’re wanting us at the pay box to give us back the fare. I’m thinking it’s you’s fellows—what do you say? They’re longing for you downstairs—won’t you go? No? you’ll not though? Then where d’ye keep the slack of your trowsis?”

Saying this Davy rose to his feet, hitched his left hand into the collar of the first waiter, and his right into the depths under his coat tails, and ran him out of the room. Returning for the other two waiters he did 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.