Complete works of hall c.., p.219
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 219
“Come, come, Auntie, come,” cried Philip again, and the sweet old thing, too gentle to hurt a fly, turned on him also with the fury of a wild-cat.
“Go along yourself with your ‘come’ and ‘come’ and ‘come.’ Say less and do more.”
With that final outburst she swept down the steps and along the path, leaving Philip three paces behind, and the Ballawhaine with a terrified look under the stuffed cormorant in the fanlight above the open door.
The fiery mood lasted her half way home, and then broke down in a torrent of tears.
“Oh dear! oh dear!” she cried. “I’ve been too hasty. After all, he is your only relative. What shall I do now? Oh, what shall I do now?”
Philip was walking steadily half a step behind, and he had never once spoken since they left Ballawhaine.
“Pack my bag to-night, Auntie,” said he with the voice of a man; “I shall start for Douglas by the coach to-morrow morning.”
He sought out the best known of the Manx advocates, a college friend of his father’s, and said to him, “I’ve sixty pounds a year, sir, from my mother’s father, and my aunt has enough of her own to live on. Can I afford to pay your premium?”
The lawyer looked at him attentively for a moment, and answered, “No, you can’t,” and Philip’s face began to fall.
“But I’ll take you the five years for nothing, Mr. Christian,” the wise man added, “and if you suit me, I’ll give you wages after two.”
II.
Philip did not forget the task wherewith Pete had charged him. It is a familiar duty in the Isle of Man, and he who discharges it is known by a familiar name. They call him the Dooiney Molla — literally, the “man-praiser;” and his primary function is that of an informal, unmercenary, purely friendly and philanthropic matchmaker, introduced by the young man to persuade the parents of the young woman that he is a splendid fellow, with substantial possessions or magnificent prospects, and entirely fit to marry her. But he has a secondary function, less frequent, though scarcely less familiar; and it is that of lover by proxy, or intended husband by deputy, with duties of moral guardianship over the girl while the man himself is off “at the herrings,” or away “at the mackerel,” or abroad on wider voyages.
This second task, having gone through the first with dubious success, Philip discharged with conscientious zeal. The effects were peculiar. Their earliest manifestations were, as was most proper, on Philip and Kate themselves. Philip grew to be grave and wondrous solemn, for assuming the tone of guardian lifted his manners above all levity. Kate became suddenly very quiet and meek, very watchful and modest, soft of voice and most apt to blush. The girl who had hectored it over Pete and played little mistress over everybody else, grew to be like a dove under the eye of Philip. A kind of awe fell on her whenever he was near. She found it sweet to listen to his words of wisdom when he discoursed, and sweeter still to obey his will when he gave commands. The little wistful head was always turning in his direction; his voice was like joy-bells in her ears; his parting how under his lifted hat remained with her as a dream until the following day. She hardly knew what great change had been wrought in her, and her people at home were puzzled.
“Is it not very well you are, Kirry, woman?” said Grannie.
“Well enough, mother; why not?” said Kate.
“Is it the toothache that’s plaguing you?”
“No.”
“Then maybe it’s the new hat in the window at Miss Clu-cas’s?”
“Hould your tongue, woman,” whispered Cæsar behind the back of his hand. “It’s the Spirit that’s working on the girl. Give it lave, mother; give it lave.”
“Give it fiddlesticks,” said Nancy Joe. “Give it brimstone and treacle and a cupful of wormwood and camomile.”
When Philip and Kate were together, their talk was all of Pete. It was “Pete likes this,” and “Pete hates that,” and “Pete always says so and so.” That was their way of keeping up the recollection of Pete’s existence; and the uses they put poor Pete to were many and peculiar.
One night “The Manx Fairy” was merry and noisy with a “Scaltha,” a Christmas supper given by the captain of a fishing-boat to the crew that he meant to engage for the season. Wives, sweethearts, and friends were there, and the customs and superstitions of the hour were honoured.
“Isn’t it the funniest thing in the world, Philip?” giggled Kate from the back of the door, and a moment afterwards she was standing alone with him in the lobby, looking demurely down at his boots.
“I suppose I ought to apologise.”
“Why so?”
“For calling you that.”
“Pete calls me Philip. Why shouldn’t you?”
The furtive eyes rose to the buttons of his waistcoat. “Well, no; there can’t be much harm in calling you what Pete calls you, can there? But then—”
“Well?”
“He calls me Kate.”
“Do you think he would like me to do so?”
“I’m sure he would.”
“Shall we, then?”
“I wonder!”
“Just for Pete’s sake?”
“Just.”
“Kate!”
“Philip!”
They didn’t know what they felt. It was something exquisite, something delicious; so sweet, so tender, they could only laugh as if some one had tickled them.
“Of course, we need not do it except when we are quite by ourselves,” said Kate.
“Oh no, of course not, only when we are quite alone,” said Philip.
Thus they threw dust into each other’s eyes, and walked hand in hand on the edge of a precipice.
The last day of the old year after Pete’s departure found Philip attending to his duty.
“Are you going to put the new year in anywhere, Philip?” said Kate, from the door of the porch.
“I should be the first-foot here, only I’m no use as a qualtagh,” said Philip.
“Why not?”
“I’m a fair man, and would bring you no luck, you know.”
“Ah!”
There was silence for a moment, and then Kate cried “I know.”
“Yes?”
“Come for Pete — he’s dark enough, anyway.”
Philip was much impressed. “That’s a good idea,” he said gravely. “Being qualtagh for Pete is a good idea. His first New Year from home, too, poor fellow!”
“Exactly,” said Kate.
“Shall I, then?”
“I’ll expect you at the very stroke of twelve.”
Philip was going off. “And, Philip!”
“Yes?”
Then a low voice, so soft, so sweet, so merry, came from the doorway into the dark, “I’ll be standing at the door of the dairy.”
Philip began to feel alarm, and resolved to take for the future a lighter view of his duties. He would visit “The Manx Fairy” less frequently. As soon as the Christmas holidays were over he would devote himself to his studies, and come back to Sulby no more for half a year. But the Manx Christmas is long. It begins on the 24th of December, and only ends for good on the 6th of January. In the country places, which still preserve the old traditions, the culminating day is Twelfth Day. It is then that they “cut off the fiddler’s head,” and play valentines, which they call the “Goggans.” The girls set a row of mugs on the hearth in front of the fire, put something into each of them as a symbol of a trade, and troop out to the stairs. Then the boys change the order of the mugs, and the girls come back blindfold, one by one, to select their goggans. According to the goggans they lay hands on, so will be the trades of their husbands.
At this game, played at “The Manx Fairy” on the last night of Philip’s holiday, Csesar being abroad on an evangelising errand, Kate was expected to draw water, but she drew a quill.
“A pen! A pen!” cried the boys. “Who says the girl is to marry a sailor? The ship isn’t built that’s to drown her husband.”
“Good-night all,” said Philip.
“Good-night, Mr. Christian, good-night, sir,” said the boys.
Kate slipped after him to the door. “Going so early, Philip?”
“I’ve to be back at Douglas to-morrow morning,” said Philip.
“I suppose we shan’t see you very soon?”
“No, I must set to work in earnest now.”
“A fortnight — a month may be?”
“Yes, and six months — I intend to do nothing else for half a year.”
“That’s a long time, isn’t it, Philip?”
“Not so long as I’ve wasted.”
“Wasted? So you call it wasted? Of course, it’s nothing to me — but there’s your aunt — —”
“A man can’t always be dangling about women,” said Philip.
Kate began to laugh.
“What are you laughing at?”
“I’m so glad I’m a girl,” said Kate.
“Well, so am I,” said Philip.
“Are you?”
It came at his face like a flash of lightning, and Philip stammered, “I mean — that is — you know — what about Pete?”
“Oh, is that all? Well, good-night, if you must go. Shall I bring you the lantern? No need? Starlight, is it? You can see your way to the gate quite plainly? Very well, if you don’t want showing. Good-night!”
The last words, in an injured tone, were half lost behind the closing door.
But the heart of a girl is a dark forest, and Kate had determined that, work or no work, so long a spell as six months Philip should not be away.
III.
One morning in the late spring there came to Douglas a startling and most appalling piece of news — Ross Christian was constantly seen at “The Manx Fairy.” On the evening of that day Philip reappeared at Sulby. He had come down in high wrath, inventing righteous speeches by the way on plighted troths and broken pledges. Ross was there in lacquered boots, light kid gloves, frock coat, and pepper and salt trousers, leaning with elbow on the counter, that he might talk to Kate, who was serving. Philip had never before seen her at that task, and his indignation was extreme. He was more than ever sure that Grannie was a simpleton and Cæsar a brazen hypocrite.
Kate nodded gaily to him as he entered, and then continued her conversation with Ross. There was a look in her eyes that was new to him, and it caused him to change his purpose. He would not be indignant, he would be cynical, he would be nasty, he would wait his opportunity and put in with some cutting remark. So, at Cæsar’s invitation and Grannie’s welcome, he pushed through the bar-room to the kitchen, exchanged salutations, and then sat down to watch and to listen.
The conversation beyond the glass partition was eager and enthusiastic. Ross was fluent and Kate was vivacious.
“My friend Monty?”
“Yes; who is Monty?”
“He’s the centre of the Fancy.”
“The Fancy!”
“Ornaments of the Ring, you know. Come now, surely you know the Ring, my dear. His rooms in St. James’s Street are full of them every night. All sorts, you know — featherweights, and heavy-weights, and greyhounds. And the faces! My goodness, you should see them. Such worn-out old images. Knowledge boxes all awry, mouths crooked, and noses that have had the upper-cut. But good men all; good to take their gruel, you know. Monty will have nothing else about him. He was Tom Spring’s packer. Never heard of Tom Spring? Tom of Bedford, the incorruptible, you know, only he fought cross that day. Monty lost a thousand, and Tom keeps a public in Holborn now with pictures of the Fancy round the walls.”
Then Kate, with a laugh, said something which Philip did not catch, because Cæsar was rustling the newspaper he was reading.
“Ladies come?” said Ross. “Girls at Monty’s suppers? Rather! what should you think? Cleopatra — but you ought to be there. I must be getting off myself very soon. There’s a supper coming off next week at Handsome Honey’s. Who’s Honey? Proprietor of a night-house in the Haymarket. Night-house? You come and see, my dear.”
Cæsar dropped the newspaper and looked across at Philip. The gaze was long and embarrassing, and, for want of better conversation, Philip asked Cæsar if he was thinking.
“Aw, thinking, thinking, and thinking again, sir,” said Cæsar. Then, drawing his chair nearer to Philip’s, he added, in a half whisper, “I’m getting a bit of a skute into something, though. See yonder? They’re calling his father a miser. The man’s racking his tenants and starving his land. But I believe enough the young brass lagh (a weed) is choking the ould grain.”
Cæsar, as he spoke, tipped his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Ross, and, seeing this, Ross interrupted his conversation with Kate to address himself to her father.
“So you’ve been reading the paper, Mr. Cregeen?”
“Aw, reading and reading,” said Cæsar grumpily. Then in another tone, “You’re home again from London, sir? Great doings yonder, they’re telling me. Battles, sir, great battles.”
Ross elevated his eyebrows. “Have you heard of them then?” he asked.
“Aw, heard enough,” said Cæsar, “meetings, and conferences, and conventions, and I don’t know what.”
“Oh, oh, I see,” said Ross, with a look at Kate.
“They’re doing without hell in England now-a-days — that’s a quare thing, sir. Conditional immorality they’re calling it — the singlerest thing I know. Taking hell away drops the tailboard out of a man’s religion, eh?”
The time for closing came, and Philip had waited in vain. Only one cut had come his way, and that had not been his own. As he rose to go, Kate had said, “We didn’t expect to see you again for six months, Mr. Christian.”
“So it seems,” said Philip, and Kate laughed a little, and that was all the work of his evening, and the whole result of his errand.
Cæsar was waiting for him in the porch. His face was white, and it twitched visibly. It was plain to see that the natural man was fighting in Cæsar. “Mr. Christian, sir,” said he, “are you the gentleman that came here to speak to me for Peter Quilliam?”
“I am,” said Philip.
“Then do you remember the ould Manx saying, ‘Perhaps the last dog may be catching the hare?’”
“Leave it to me, Mr. Cregeen,” said Philip through his teeth.
Half a minute afterwards he was swinging down the dark road homewards, by the side of Ross, who was drawling along with his cold voice.
“So you’ve started on your light-weight handicap, Philip. Father was monstrous unreasonable that day. Seemed to think I was coming back here to put my shoulder out for your high bailiffships and bum-bailiffships and heaven knows what. You’re welcome to the lot for me, Philip. That girl’s wonderful, though. It’s positively miraculous, too; she’s the living picture of a girl of my friend Montague’s. Eyes, hair, that nervous movement of the mouth — everything. Old man looked glum enough, though. Poor little woman. I suppose she’s past praying for. The old hypocrite will hold her like a dove in the claws of a buzzard hawk till she throws herself away on some Manx omathaun. It’s the way with half these pretty creatures — they’re wasted.”
Philip’s blood was boiling. “Do you call it being wasted when a good girl is married to an honest man?” he asked.
“I do; because a girl like this can never marry the right man. The man who is worthy of her cannot marry her, and the man who marries her isn’t worthy of her. It’s like this, Philip. She’s young, she’s pretty, perhaps beautiful, has manners and taste, and some refinement. The man of her own class is clumsy and ignorant, and stupid and poor. She doesn’t want him, and the man she does want the man she’s fit for — daren’t marry her; it would be social suicide.”
“And so,” said Philip bitterly, “to save the man above from social suicide, the girl beneath must choose moral death — is that it?”
Ross laughed. “Do you know I thought old Jeremiah was at you in the corner there, Philip. But look at it straight. Here’s a girl like that. Two things are open to her — two only. Say she marries your Manx fellow, what follows? A thatched cottage three fields back from the mountain road, two rooms, a cowhouse, a crock, a dresser, a press, a form, a three-legged stool, an armchair, and a clock with a dirty face, hanging on a nail in the wall. Milking, weeding, digging, ninepence a day, and a can of buttermilk, with a lump of butter thrown in. Potatoes, herrings, and barley bonnag. Year one, a baby, a boy; year two, another baby, a girl; year three, twins; year four, barefooted children squalling, dirty house, man grumbling, woman distracted, measles, hooping-cough; a journey at the tail of a cart to the bottom of the valley, and the awful words ‘I am the — —’”
“Hush man!” said Philip. They were passing Lezayre churchyard. When they had left it behind, he added, with a grim curl of the lip, which was lost in the darkness, “Well, that’s one side. What’s the other?”
“Life,” said Ross. “Short and sweet, perhaps. Everything she wants, everything she can wish for — five years, four years, three years — what matter?”
“And then?”
“Every one for himself and God for us all, my boy. She’s as happy as the day while it lasts, lifts her head like a rosebud in the sun — —”
“Then drops it, I suppose, like a rose-leaf in the mud.” Ross laughed again. “Yes, it’s a fact, old Jeremiah has been at you, Philip. Poor little Kitty — —”
“Keep the girl’s name out of it, if you please.”
Ross gave a long whistle. “I was only saying the poor little woman — —”
