Complete works of hall c.., p.241
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 241
“Give him a merry touch to keep up his pecker,” said Pete. “Tell him the Romans are ter’ble jealous chaps, and, if he gets into a public house for a cup of tay, he’s to mind and not take the girls on his knee — the Romans don’t like it.”
The last time they heard from Philip he was in London. His old pain had given way; he thought he was nearly well again, but he had come through a sharp fire. The Governor had been very good — kept open the Deemstership by some means — also surrounded him with London friends — he was out every night. Nevertheless, an unseen force was drawing him home — they might see him soon, or it might be later he had been six months away, but he felt that it had not been all waste and interruption — he would return with a new sustaining power.
This letter could not be answered, for it bore no address. It came by the night-mail with the same day’s steamer from England. Two hours later Mrs. Gorry ran in from an errand to the town saying —
“I believe in my heart I saw Mr. Philip Christian going by on the road.”
“When?” said Pete.
“This minute,” she answered.
“Chut! woman,” said Pete; “the man’s in London. Look, here’s his letter” — running his forefinger along the headline—’”London, January 21st — that’s yesterday. See!”
Mrs. Gorry was perplexed. But the next night she was out at the same hour on the same errand, and came flying into the house with a scared look, making the same announcement.
“See for yourself, then,” she cried, “he’s going up the lane by the garden.”
“Nonsense! it’s browning you’re ateing with your barley,” said Pete; and then to Kate, behind his hand, he whispered, “Whisht! It’s sights she’s seeing, poor thing — and no wonder, with her husband laving her so lately.”
But the third night also Mrs. Gorry returned from a similar errand, at the same hour, with the same statement.
“I’m sure of it,” she panted. She was now in terror. An idea of the supernatural had taken hold of her.
“The woman manes it,” said Pete, and he began to cross-question her. How was Mr. Christian dressed? She hadn’t noticed that night, but the first night he had worn a coat like an old Manx cape. Which way was he going? She couldn’t be certain which way to-night but the night before he had gone up the lane between the chapel and the garden. Had she seen his face at all? The first time she had seen it, and it was very thin and pale.
“Oh, I wouldn’t deceave you, sir,” said Mrs. Gorry, and she fell to crying.
“Gough bless me, but this is mortal strange, though,” said Pete.
“What time was it exactly, Jane?” asked Kate.
“On the minute of ten every night,” answered Mrs. Gorry.
“Is there any difference in time, now,” said Pete, “between the Isle of Man and London, Kitty?”
“Nothing to speak of,” said Kate.
Pete scratched his head. “I must be putting a sight up on Black Tom. A dirty old trouss, God forgive me, if he is my grandfather, but he knows the Manx yarns about right. If it had been Midsummer day now, and Philip had been in bed somewhere, it might have been his spirit coming home while he was sleeping to where his heart is — they’re telling of the like, anyway.”
Kate read the mystery after her own manner, and on the following night, at the approach of ten o’clock, she went into the parlour of the hall, whence a window looked out on to the road. The day had been dull and the night was misty. A heavy white hand seemed to have come down on to the face of sea and land. Everything lay still and dead and ghostly. Kate was in the dark room, trembling, but not with fear. Presently a form that was like a shadow passed under a lamp that glimmered opposite. She could see only the outlines of a Spanish cape. But she listened for the footsteps, and she knew them. They came on and paused, came up and paused again, and then they went past and deadened off and died in the dense night-air.
Kate’s eyes were red and swollen when she came back to supper. She had promised herself enjoyment of Philip’s sufferings. There was no enjoyment, but only a cry of yearning from the deep place where love calls to love. She tried afresh to make the thought of Philip sink to the lowest depth of her being. It was hard — it was impossible; Pete was for ever strengthening the recollection of him — of his ways, his look, his voice, his laugh. What he said was only the echo of her own thoughts; but it was pain and torment, nevertheless. She felt like crying, “Let me alone — let me alone!”
People in the town began to talk of Mrs. Gorry’s mysterious stories.
“Philip will be forced to come now,” thought Kate; and he came. Kate was alone. It was afternoon; dinner was over, the hearth was swept, the fire was heaped up, and the rug was down. He entered the porch quietly, tapped lightly at the door, and stepped into the house. He hoped she was well. She answered mechanically. He asked after Pete. She replied vacantly that he had been gone since morning on some fishing business to Peel. It was a commonplace conversation — brief, cold, almost trivial. He spoke softly, and stood in the middle of the floor, swinging his soft hat against his leg. She was standing by the fire, with one hand on the mantelpiece and her head half aside, looking sideways towards his feet; but she noticed that his eyes looked larger than before, and that his voice, though so soft, had a deeper tone. At first she did not remember to ask him to sit, and when she thought of it she could not do so. The poor little words would have been a formal recognition of all that had happened so terribly — that she was mistress in that house, and the wife of Pete.
IV.
They were standing so, in a silence hard to break, harder still to keep up, when Pete himself came back, like a rush of wind, and welcomed Philip with both hands.
“Sit, boy, sit,” he cried; “not that one — this aisy one. Mine? Well, if it’s mine, it’s yours. Not had dinner, have you? Neither have I. Any cold mate left, Kitty? No? Fry us a chop, then, darling.”
Kate had recovered herself by this time, and she went out on this errand. While she was away, Pete rattled on like a mill-race — asked about the travels, laughed about the girls, and roared about Mrs. Gorry and her ghost of Philip.
“Been buying a Nickey at Peel to-day, Phil,” he said; “good little boat — a reg’lar clipper. Aw, I’m going to start on the herrings myself next sayson sir, and what for shouldn’t I? Too many of the Manx ones are giving the fishing the goby. There’s life in the ould dog yet, though. Would be, anyway, if them rusty Kays would be doing anything for the industry. They’re building piers enough for the trippers, but never a breakwater the size of a tooth-brush for the fishermen. That’s reminding me, Phil — the boys are at me to get you to petition the Tynwald Court for better harbours. They’re losing many a pound by not getting out all weathers. But if the child doesn’t cry, the mother will be giving it no breast. So we mane to squall till they think in Douglas we’ve got spavined wind or population of the heart, or something. The men are looking to you, Phil. ‘That’s the boy for us,’ says they. ‘He’s stood our friend before, and he’ll do it again,’ they’re saying.”
Philip promised to draw up the petition, and then Mrs. Gorry came in and laid the cloth.
Kate, meanwhile, had been telling herself that she had not done well. Where was the satisfaction she had promised herself on the night of her wedding-day, when she had seen Philip from the height of a great revenge, if she allowed him to think that she also was suffering? She must be bright, she must be gay, she must seem to be happy and in love with her husband.
She returned to the hall-parlour with a smoking dish, and a face all sunshine.
“I’m afraid they’re not very good, dear,” she said.
“Chut!” said Pete; “we’re not particular. Phil and I have roughed it before to-day.”
She laughed merrily, and, under pretext of giving orders, disappeared again. But she had not belied the food she had set on the table. The mutton was badly fed, badly killed, badly cut, and, above all, badly cooked. To eat it was an ordeal. Philip tried hard not to let Pete see how he struggled. Pete fought valiantly to conceal his own efforts. The perspiration began to break out on their foreheads. Pete stopped in the midst of some wild talk to glance up at Philip. Philip tore away with knife and fork and answered vaguely. Then Pete looked searchingly around, rose on tiptoe, went stealthily to the kitchen door, came back, caught up a piece of yellow paper from the sideboard, whipped the chops into it from his own plate and then from Philip’s, and crammed them into his jacket pocket.
“No good hurting anybody’s feelings,” said he; and then Kate reappeared smiling.
“Finished already?” she said with an elevation of pitch.
“Ha! ha!” laughed Pete. “Two hungry men, Kate! You’d rather keep us a week than a fortnight, eh?”
Kate stood over the empty dish with a look of surprise. Pete winked furiously at Philip. Philip’s eyes wandered about the tablecloth.
“She isn’t knowing much about a hungry man’s appetite, is she, Phil?”
“But,” said Kate— “but,” she stammered— “what’s become of the bones?”
Pete scratched his chin through his beard. “The bones? Oh, the bones? Aw, no, we’re not ateing the bones, at all.” Then with a rush, as his eyes kindled, “But the dog, you see — coorse we always give the bones to the dog — Dempster’s dead on bones.”
Dempster was lying at the moment full length under the table, snoring audibly. Mrs. Gorry cleared the cloth, and Kate took up her sewing and turned towards the sideboard.
“Has any one seen my pattern?” she asked.
“Pattern?” said Pete, diving into his jacket-pocket. “D’ye say pattern,” he muttered, rummaging at his side. “Is this it?” and out came the yellow paper, crumpled and greasy, which had gone in with the chops. “Bless me, the stupid a man is now — I took it for a pipe-light.”
Kate’s smile vanished, and she fled out to hide her face. Then Pete whispered to Philip, “Let’s take a slieu round to the ‘Plough.’”
They were leaving the house on that errand when Kate came back to the hall. “Just taking a lil walk, Kirry,” said Pete. “They’re telling me it’s good wonderful after dinner for a wake digestion of the chest,” and he coughed repeatedly and smote his resounding breast.
“Wait a moment and I’ll go with you,” said Kate.
There was no help for it. Kate’s shopping took them in the direction of the “Plough.” Old Mrs. Beatty, the innkeeper, was at the door as they passed, and when she saw Pete approaching on the inside of the three, she said aloud — meaning no mischief— “Your bread and cheese and porter are ready, as usual, Capt’n.”
V.
The man was killing her. To be his spoiled and adored wife, knowing she was unworthy of his love and tenderness, was not happiness — it was grinding misery, bringing death into her soul. If he had blamed her for her incompetence; if he had scolded her for making his home cheerless; nay, if he had beaten her, she could have borne with life, and taken her outward sufferings for her inward punishment.
She fell into fits of hysteria, sat whole hours listless, with her feet on the fender. Pete’s conduct exasperated her. As time went on and developed the sweetness of Pete, the man grew more and more distasteful to her, and she broke into fits of shrewishness. Pete hung his head and reproached himself. She wasn’t to mind if he said things — he was only a rough fellow. Then she burst into tears and asked him to forgive her, and he was all cock-a-hoop in a moment, like a dog that is coaxed after it has been beaten.
Her sufferings reached a climax — she became conscious that she was about to become a mother. This affected her with terrible fears. She went back to that thought of a possible contingency which had torn her with conflicting feelings on the eve of her marriage. It was impossible to be sure. The idea might be no more than a morbid fancy, born of her un-happiness, of her secret love for Philip, of her secret repugnance for Pete (the inadequate, the uncouth, the uncongenial) but nevertheless it possessed her with the force of an overpowering conviction, it grew upon her day by day, it sat on her heart like a nightmare — the child that was to be born to her was not the child of her husband.
VI.
In spite of Pete’s invitations, Philip came rarely. He was full of excuses — work — fresh studies — the Governor — his aunt. Pete said “Coorse,” and “Sartenly,” and “Wouldn’t trust,” until Philip began to be ashamed, and one evening he came, looking stronger than usual, with a more sustaining cheerfulness, and plumped into the house with the words, “I’ve come at last!”
“To stay the night?” said Pete.
“Well, yes,” said Philip.
“That’s lucky and unlucky too, for I’m this minute for Peel with two of the boys to fetch round my Nickey by the night-tide. But youll stay and keep the wife company, and I’ll be back first tide in the morning. You’ll be obliged to him, won’t you, Kate?” he cried, pitching his voice over his shoulder; and then, in a whisper, “She’s a bit down at whiles, and what wonder, and her so near — but you’ll see, you’ll see,” and he winked and nodded knowingly.
There was no harking back, no sheering off on the score of modesty before Pete’s large faith. Kate looked as if she would cry “Mercy, mercy!” but when she saw the same appeal on Philip’s face she was stung.
Pete went off, and then Kate and Philip sat down to tea. While tea lasted it was not hard to fill the silences with commonplaces. After it was over she brought him a pipe, and they lapsed into difficult pauses. Philip puffed vigorously and tried to look happy. Kate struggled not to let Philip see that she was ill at ease. Every moment their imagination took a new turn. He began to read a book, and while they sat without speaking she thought it was hardly nice of him to treat her with indifference. When he spoke she thought he was behaving with less politeness than before. He went over to the piano and they sang a part song, “Oh, who will o’er the downs so free?” Their voices went well enough together, but they broke down. The more they tried to forget the past the more they remembered it. He twiddled the backs of his fingertips over the keyboard; she swung on one foot and held to the candle-bracket while they talked of Pete. That name seemed to fortify them against the scouts of passion. Pete was their bulwark. It was the old theme, but played as a tragedy, not as a comedy, now.
“It is delightful to see you settled in this beautiful home,” he said.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” she answered.
“You ought to be very happy.”
“Why should I not be happy?” with a little laugh.
“Why, indeed? A home like a nest and a husband that worships you — —”
She laughed again because she could not speak. Speech was thin gauze, laughter was rolling smoke; so she laughed and laughed.
“What a fine hearty creature he is!” said Philip.
“Isn’t he?” said Kate.
“Education and intellect don’t always go together.”
“Any wife might love such a husband,” said Kate.
“So simple, so natural, so unsuspicious — —”
But that was coming to quarters too close, so they fell back on silence. The silence was awful; the power of it was pitiless. If they could have spoken the poorest commonplaces, the spell might have dissolved. Philip thought he would rise, but he could not do so. Kate tried to turn away, but felt herself rooted to the spot. With faces aside, they remained some moments where they were, as if a spirit had passed between them.
Mrs. Gorry came in to lay the supper, and then Kate recovered herself. She got back her power of laughter, and laughed at everything. He was not deceived. “She loves me still,” said the voice of his heart. He hated himself for the thought, but it haunted him with a merciless persistence. He remembered the evening of the wedding-day, and the imploring look she gave him on going away with Pete; and he returned to the idea that she had been married under the compulsion of her father, Cæsar, the avaricious hypocrite. He told himself it would be easy to kindle a new fire on the warm hearth. As she laughed and he looked into her beautiful eyes and caught the nervous twitch of her mouth, he felt something of the old thrill, the old passion, the old unconditioned love of her who loved him in spite of all, and merely because she must. But no! Had he spent six months abroad for nothing? He would be strong; he would be loyal. If need be he would save this woman from herself.
At last Kate lit a candle and said, “I must show you to your room.”
She talked cheerily going upstairs. On the landing she opened the door of the room above the hall, and went into it, and drew down the blind. She was still full of good spirits, said perhaps he had no night-shirt, so she had left out one of Pete’s, hoped he would find it big enough, and laughed again. He took the candle from her at the threshold, and kissed the hand that had held it. She stood a moment quivering like a colt, then she bounded away; there was the clash of a door somewhere beyond, and Kate was in her own room, kneeling before the bed with her face buried in the counterpane to stifle the sobs that might break through the walls.
Under all her lightness, in spite of all her laughter, the old tormenting thought had been with her still. Should she tell him? Could he understand? Would he believe? If he realised the gravity of the awful position in which she was soon to be placed, would he make an effort to extricate her? And if he did not, would not, could not, should not she hate him for ever after? Then the old simple love, the pure passion, came hack upon her at the sight of his face, at the touch of his hand, at the sound of his voice? Oh, for what might have been — what might have been!
Pete’s Nickey came into harbour with the morning tide, and the three breakfasted together. As Kate moved heavily in front of the fire, Pete crowed, cooed, and scattered wise winks round the table.
