Complete works of hall c.., p.235
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 235
Kate pretended to be ill. Three days longer she lay, like a hunted wolf in its hole, keeping her bed from sheer dread of the consequences of leaving it. The fourth day was Sunday. It was morning, and the church bells were ringing. Cæsar had shouted from his bedroom for some one to tie his bow, then for some one to button his black gloves. He had gone off at length with the footsteps of the people stepping round to chapel. The first hymn had been started, and its doleful notes were trailing through the mill walls. Kate was propped up in bed, and the window of her room was open. Over the droning of the hymn she caught the sound of a horse’s hoofs on the road. They stopped at a little distance, and then came on again, with the same two voices as before.
Pete was talking with great eagerness. “Plenty of house, aw plenty, plenty,” he was saying. “Elm Cottage they’re calling it — the slate one with the ould fir-tree behind the Coort House and by the lane to Claughbane. Dry as a bone and clane as a gull’s wing. You could lie with your back to the wall and ate off the floor. Taps inside and water as white as gin. I’ve been buying the cabin of the ‘Mona’s Isle’ for a summer-house in the garden. Got a figurehead for the porch too, and I’ll have an anchor for the gate before I’m done. Aw, I’m bound to have everything nice for her.”
There was a short silence, in which nothing was heard but the step of the horse, and then Philip said in a faltering voice, “But isn’t this being rather in a hurry, Pete?”
“Short coorting’s the best coorting, and ours has been long enough anyway,” said Pete. They had drawn up at the porch, and Pete’s laugh came in at the window.
“But think how weak she is,” said Philip. “She hasn’t even-left her bed yet, has she?”
“Well, yes, of coorse, sartenly,” said Pete, in a steadier voice, “if the girl isn’t fit — —”
“It’s so sudden, you see,” said Philip. “Has she — has she — consented?”
“Not to say consented — —” began Pete; and Philip took him up and said quickly, eagerly, hotly —
“She can’t — I’m sure she can’t.”
There was silence again, broken only by the horse’s impatient pawing, and then Philip said more calmly, “Let Dr. Mylechreest see her first, at all events.”
“I’m not a man for skinning the meadow to the sod, no — —” said Pete, in a doleful tone; but Kate heard no more.
She was trembling with a new thought. It was only a shadowy suggestion as yet, and at first she tried to beat it back. But it came again, it forced itself upon her, it mastered her, she could not resist it.
The way to break the fate that was pursuing her was to make Philip speak out! The way to stop the marriage with Pete was to compel Philip to marry her! He thought she would never consent to marry Pete — what if he were given to understand that she had consented. That was the way to gain the victory over Philip, the way to punish him!
He would not blame her — he would lay the blame at the door of chance, of fate, of her people. He would think they were forcing this marriage upon her — the mother out of love of Pete, the father out of love of Pete’s money, and Nancy out of fear of Ross Christian. He would know that she could not struggle because she could not speak. He would believe she was yielding against her will, in spite of her love, in the teeth of their intention. He would think of her as a victim, as a martyr, as a sacrifice.
It was a deceit — a small deceit; it looked so harmless, too — so innocent, almost humorous, half ridiculous; and she was a woman, and she could not put it away. Love, love, love! It would be her excuse and her forgiveness. She had appealed to Philip himself and in vain. Now she would pretend to go on with her old relations. It was so little to do, and the effects were so certain. In jealousy and in terror Philip would step out of himself and claim her.
She had craft — all hungry things have craft. She had inklings of ambition, a certain love of luxury, and desire to be a lady. To get Philip was to get everything. Love would be satisfied, ambition fulfilled, the aims of refinement reached. Why not risk the great stake?
Nancy came to tidy the room, and Kate said, “Where’s Pete all this time, I wonder?”
“Sitting in the fire-seat this half-hour,” said Nancy. “I don’t know in the world what’s come over the man. He’s rocking and moaning there like a cow licking a dead calf.”
“Would he like to come up, think you?”
“Don’t ask the man twice if you want him to say no,” said Nancy.
Blushing and stammering, and trying to straighten his black curls, Pete came at Nancy’s call.
Kate had few qualms. The wound she had received from Philip had left her conscienceless towards Pete. Yet she turned her head a little sideways as she welcomed him.
“Are you better, then, Kirry?” said Pete timidly.
“I’m nearly as well as ever,” she answered.
“You are, though?” said Pete. “Then you’ll be down soon, it’s like, eh?”
“I hope so, Pete — quite soon.”
“And fit for anything, now — yes?”
“Oh, yes, fit for anything.”
Pete laughed from his heart like a boy. “I’ll take a slieu round to Ballure and tell Philip immadiently.”
“Philip?” said Kate, with a look of inquiry.
“He was saying this morning you wouldn’t be equal to it, Kirry.”
“Equal to what, Pete?”
“Getting — going — having — that’s to say — well, you know, putting a sight on the parson himself one of these days, that’s the fact.” And, to cover his confusion, Pete laughed till the scraas of the roof began to snip.
There was a moment’s pause, and then Kate said, with a cough and a stammer and her head aside, “Is that so very tiring, Pete?”
Pete leapt from his chair and laughed again like a man demented. “D’ye say so, Kitty? The word then, darling — the word in my ear — as soft as soft — —”
He was leaning over the bed, but Kate drew away from him, and Nancy pulled him back, saying, “Get off with you, you goosey gander! What for should you bother a poor girl to know if sugar’s sweet, and if she’s willing to change a sweetheart for a husband?”
It was done. One act — nay, half an act; a word — nay, no word at all, but only silence. The daring venture was afoot.
Grannie came up with Kate’s dinner that day, kissed her on both cheeks, felt them hot, wagged her head wisely, and whispered, “I know — you needn’t tell me!”
XIV.
The last hymn was sung, Cæsar came home from chapel, changed back from his best to his work-day clothes, and then there was talking and laughing in the kitchen amid the jingling of plates and the vigorous rattling of knives and forks.
“Phil must be my best man,” said Pete. “He’ll be back to Douglas now, but I’ll get you to write me a line, Cæsar, and ask him.”
“Do you hold with long engagements, Pete?” said Grannie.
“A week,” said Pete, with the air of a judge; “not much less anyway — not of a rule, you know.”
“You goose,” cried Nancy, “it must be three Sundays for the banns.”
“Then John the Clerk shall get them going this evening,” said Pete. “Nancy had the pull of me there, Grannie. Not being in the habit of getting married, I clane forgot about the banns.”
John the Clerk came in the afternoon, and there was some lusty disputation.
“We must have bridesmaids and wedding-cakes, Pete — it’s only proper,” said Nancy.
“Aw, yes, and tobacco and rum, and everything respectable,” said Pete.
“And the parson — mind it’s the parson now,” said Grannie; “none of their nasty high-bailiffs. I don’t know in the world how a dacent woman can rest in her bed — —”
“Aw, the parson, of coorse — and the parson’s wife, maybe,” said Pete.
“I think I can manage it for you for to-morrow fortnight,” said John the Clerk impressively, and there was some clapping of hands, quickly suppressed by Cæsar, with mutterings of —
“Popery! clane Popery, sir! Can’t a person commit matrimony without a parson bothering a man?”
Then Cæsar squared his elbows across the table and wrote the letter to Philip. Pete never stood sponsor for anything so pious.
“Respected and Honoured Sir, — I write first to thee that it hath been borne in on my mind (strong to believe the Lord hath spoken) to marry on Katherine Cregeen, only beloved daughter of Cæsar Cregeen, a respectable man and a local preacher, in whose house I tarry, being free to use all his means of grace. Wedding to-morrow fortnight at Kirk Christ, Lezayre, eleven o’clock forenoon, and the Lord make it profitable to my soul. — With love and-reverence, thy servant, and I trust the Lord’s, Peter Quilliam.”
Having written this, Cæsar read it aloud with proper elevation of pitch. Grannie wiped her eyes, and Pete said, “Indited beautiful, sir — only you haven’t asked him.”
“My pen’s getting crosslegs,” said Cæsar, “but that’ll do for an N.B.”
“N. B. — Will you come for my best man?”
Then there was more talk and more laughter. “You’re a lucky fellow, Pete,” said Pete himself. “My sailor, you are, though. She’s as sweet as clover with the bumbees humming over it, and as warm as a gorse bush when the summer’s gone.”
And then, affection being infectious beyond all maladies known to mortals, Nancy Joe was heard to say, “I believe in my heart I must be having a man myself before long, or I’ll be losing the notion.”
“D’ye hear that, boys?” shouted Pete. “Don’t all spake at once.”
“Too late — I’ve lost it,” said Nancy, and there was yet more laughter.
To put an end to this frivolity, Cæsar raised a hymn, and they sang it together with cheerful voices. Then Cæsar prayed appropriately, John the Clerk improvised responses, and Pete went out and sat on the bottom step in the lobby and smoked up the stairs, so that Kate in the bedroom should not feel too lonely.
XV.
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.
XVI.
Fate scored one. Kate had been telling herself that Philip was tired of her, that he did not love her any longer, that having taken all he could take he desired to be done with her, that he was trying to forget her, and that she was a drag upon him, when suddenly she remembered the tholthan, and bethought herself for the first time of a possible contingency. Why had she not thought of it before? Why had he never thought of it? If it should come to pass! The prospect did not appal her; it did not overwhelm her with confusion or oppress her with shame; it did not threaten to fall like a thunderbolt; the thought of it came down like an angel’s whisper.
She was not afraid. It was only an idea, only a possibility, only a dream of consequences, but at one bound it brought her so much nearer to Philip. It gave her a right to him. How dare he make her suffer so? She would not permit him to leave her. He was her husband, and he must cling to her, come what would. Across the void that had divided them a mysterious power drew them together. She was he, and he was she, and they were one, for — who knows? — who could say? — perhaps Nature herself had willed it.
Thus the first effect of the new thought upon Kate was frenzied exultation. She had only one thing to do now. She had only to go to Philip as Bathsheba went to David. True, she could not say what Bathsheba said. She had no certainty, but her case was no less strong. “Have you never thought of what may possibly occur?” This is what she would say now to Philip. And Philip would say to her, “Dearest, I have never thought of that. Where was my head that I never reflected?” Then, in spite of his plans, in spite of his pledge to Pete, in spite of the world, in spite of himself — yea, in spite of his own soul if it stood between them — he would cling to her; she was sure of it — she could swear to it — he could not resist.
“He will believe whatever I tell him,” she thought, and she would say, “Come to me, Philip; I am frightened.” In the torture of her palpitating heart she would have rejoiced at that moment if she could have been sure that she was in the position of what the world calls a shameful woman. With that for her claim she could see herself going to Philip and telling him, her head on his breast, whispering sweetly the great secret — the wondrous news. And then the joy, the rapture, the long kiss of love! “Mine, mine, mine! he is mine at last!”
That could not be quite so; she was not so happy as Bathsheba; she was not sure, but her right was the same for all that. Oh, it was joyful, it was delicious!
