Meanwhile Kate, overwhelmed with shame, humiliation, self-reproach, horror of herself, and dread of everything, lay with cheeks ablaze and her head buried in the bedclothes. She had no longer any need to pretend to be sick; she was now sick in reality. Fate had threatened her. She had challenged it. They were gambling together. The stake was her love, her life, her doom.

By the next day she had worked herself into a nervous fever. Dr. Mylechreest came to see her, unbidden of the family. He was one of those tall, bashful men who, in their eagerness to be gone, seem always to have urgent business somewhere else. After a single glance at her and a few muttered syllables, he went off hurriedly, as if some one were waiting for him round the corner. But on going downstairs he met CÆsar, who asked him how he found her.

“Feverish, very; keep her in bed,” he answered. “As for this marriage, it must be put off. She's exciting herself, and I won't answer for the consequences. The thing has fallen too suddenly. To tell you the truth—this way, Mr. Cregeen—I am afraid of a malady of the brain.”

“Tut, tut, doctor,” said CÆsar.

“Very well, if you know better. Good-day! But let the wedding wait. Traa dy liooar—time enough, Mr. Cregeen. A right good Manx maxim for once. Put it off—put it off!”

“It's not my putting off, doctor. What can you do with a man that's wanting to be married? You can't bridle a horse with pincers.”

But when the doctor was gone, CÆsar said to Grannie, “Cut out the bridesmaids and the wedding-cakes and the fiddles and the foolery, and let the girl be married immadiently.”

“Dear heart alive, father, what's all the hurry?” said Grannie.

“And Lord bless my soul, what's all the fuss?” said CÆsar. “First one objecting this, then another objecting that, as if everybody was intarmined to stop the thing. It's going on, I'm telling you; d'ye hear me? There's many a slip—but no matter. What's written with the pen can't be cut out with the axe, so lave it alone, the lot of you.”

Kate was in an ecstasy of exultation. The doctor had been sent by Philip. It was Philip who was trying to stop the marriage. He would never be able to bear it; he would claim her soon. It might be to-day, it might be to-morrow, it might be the next day. The odds were with her. Fate was being worsted. Thus she clung to her blind faith that Philip would intervene.

That was Monday, and on Tuesday morning Philip came again. He was very quiet, but the heart has ears, and Kate heard him. Pete's letter had reached him, and she could see his white face. After a few words of commonplace conversation, he drew Pete out of the house. What had he got to say? Was he thinking that Pete must be stopped at all hazards? Was he about to make a clean breast of it? Was he going to tell all? Impossible! He could not; he dared not; it was her secret.

Pete came back to the house alone, looking serious and even sad. Kate heard him exchange a few words with her father as they passed through the lobby to the kitchen. CÆsar was saying—

“Stand on your own head, sir, that's my advice to you.”

In the intensity of her torment she could not rest. She sent for Pete.

“What about Philip?” she said. “Is he coming? What has he been telling you?”

“Bad news, Kate—very bad,” said Pete.

There was a fearful silence for a moment. It was like the awful hush at the instant when the tide turns, and you feel as if something has happened to the world. Then Kate hardened her face and said, “What is it?”

“He's ill, and wants to go away in a week. He can't come to the wedding,'' said Pete.

“Is that all?” said Kate. Her heart leapt for joy. She could not help it—she laughed. She saw through Philip's excuse. It was only his subterfuge—he thought Pete would not marry without him.

“Aw, but you never seen the like, though, Kirry,” said Pete; “he was that white and wake and narvous. Work and worry, that's the size of it. There's nothing done in this world without paying the price of it, and that's as true as gospel. 'The sea's calling me, Pete,' says he, and then he laughed, but it was the same as if a ghost itself was grinning.”

In the selfishness of her enfeebled spirit, Kate still rejoiced. Philip was suffering. It was another assurance that he would come to her relief.

“When does he go?” she asked.

“On Tuesday,” answered Pete.

“Isn't there a way of getting a Bishop's license to marry in a week?” said Kate.

“But will you, though?” said Pete, with a shout of joy.

“Ask Philip first. No use changing if Philip can't come.”

“He shall—he must. I won't take No.”

“You may kiss me now,” said Kate, and Pete plucked her up into his arms and kissed her.

She was heart-dead to him yet, from the wound that Philip had dealt her, but at the touch of his lips a feeling of horror seemed to cramp all her limbs. With a shudder she crept down in the bed and hid her face, hating herself, loathing herself, wishing herself dead.

He stood a moment by her side, crying like a big boy in his great happiness. “I don't know in the world what she sees in me to be so fond of me, but that's the way with the women always, God bless them!”

She did not lift her face, and he stepped quietly to the door. Half-way through he turned about and raised one arm over his head. “God's rest and God's peace be with you, and may the man that gets you keep a clane heart and a clane hand, and be fit for the good woman he's won for his wife.”

At the next minute he went tearing down the stairs, and the kitchen rang with his laughter.