Complete works of hall c.., p.243
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 243
But she was like one who traversed a desert under the sea — a vast submerged Sahara. Over her head was all her life, with all her love and all her happiness, and the things around her were only the ghostly shadows cast by them.
IX.
The more Kate realised that she was in the position of a bad woman, the more she struggled to be a good one. She flew to religion as a refuge. There was no belief in her religion, no faith, no creed, no mystical transports, but only fear, and shame, and contrition. It was fervent enough, nevertheless. On Sunday morning she went to The Christians, on Sunday afternoon to church, on Sunday evening to the Wesleyan chapel, and on Wednesday night to the mission-house of the Primitives. Her catholicity did not please her father. He looked into her quivering face, and asked if she had broken any commandment in secret. She turned pale, and answered “No.”
Pete followed her wherever she went, and, seeing this, some of the baser sort among the religious people began to follow him. They abused each other badly in their efforts to lay hold of his money-bags. “You’ll never go over to yonder lot,” said one. “They’re holding to election — a soul-destroying doctrine.” “A respectable man can’t join himself to Cowley’s gang,” said another. “They’re denying original sin, and aren’t a ha’p’orth better than infidels.”
Pete took the measure of them all, down to the watch-pockets of their waistcoats.
“You remind me,” said he, “when you’re a-gate on your doctrines, of the Kaffirs out at Kimberley. If one of them found an ould hat in the compound that some white man had thrown away, they’d light a camp-fire after dark, and hould a reg’lar Tynwald Coort on it. There they’d be squatting round on their haunches, with nothing to be seen of them but their eyes and their teeth, and there’d be as many questions as the Catechism. ‘Who found it!’ says one. ‘Where did he find it?’ says another. ‘If he hadn’t found it, who else would have found it?’ That’s how they’d be going till two in the morning, and the fire dead out, and the lot of them squealing away same as monkeys in the dark. And all about an ould hat with a hole in it, not worth a ha’penny piece.”
“Blasphemy,” they cried. “But still and for all, you give to the widow and lend to the Lord — you practise the religion you don’t believe in, Cap’n Quilliam.”
“There’s a pair of us, then.” said Pete, “for you believe in the religion you don’t practise.”
But Cæsar got Pete at last, in spite of his scepticism. The time came for the annual camp-meeting. Kate went off to it, and Pete followed like a big dog at her heels. The company assembled at Sulby Bridge, and marched through the village to a revival chorus. They stopped at a field of Cæsar’s in the glen — it was last year’s Melliah field — and Cæsar mounted a cart which had been left there to serve as a pulpit. Then they sang again, and, breaking up into many companies, went off into little circles that were like gorse rings on the mountains. After that they reassembled to the strains of another chorus, and gathered afresh about the cart for Cæsar’s sermon.
It dealt with the duty of sinless perfection. There were evil men and happy sinners in the island these days, who were telling them it was not good to be faultless in this life, because virtue begot pride, and pride was a deadly sin. There were others who were saying that because a man must repent in order to be saved, to repent he had to sin. Doctrines of the devil — don’t listen to them. Could a man in the household of faith live one second without committing sin? Of course he could. One minute? Certainly. One hour? No doubt of it. Then, if a man could live one hour without sin, he could live one day, one week, one month, one year — nay, a whole lifetime.
In getting thus far, Cæsar had worked himself into a perspiration, and he took off his coat, hung it over the cartwheel, and went on in his shirt-sleeves. Let them make no excuses for backsliders. It was a trick of the devil to deal with you, and forget to pay strap (the price). It was an old rule and a good one that, if any were guilty of the sins of the flesh, they should be openly punished in this world, that their sins might not be counted against them in the day of the Lord.
Cæsar threw off his waistcoat and finished with a passionate exhortation, calling upon his hearers to deliver themselves of secret sins. If oratory is to be judged of by its effects, Cæsar’s sermon was a great oration. It began amid the silence of his own followers, and the tschts and pshaws of a little group of his enemies, who lounged on the outside of the crowd to cast ridicule on the “swaddler” and the “publican preacher.” But it ended amid loud exclamations of praise and supplications from all his hearers, sighing and groaning, and the bodily clutching of one another by the arm in paroxysms of fear and rapture.
When Cæsar’s voice died down like a wave of the sea, somebody leapt up from the grass to pray. And before the first prayer had ended, a second was begun. Meantime the penitents had begun to move inward through the throng, and they fell weeping and moaning on their knees about the cart. Kate was among them, and, when she took her place, Pete still held by her side A strong shuddering passed over her shoulders, and her wet eyes were on the grass. Pete took her hand, and feeling how it trembled, his own eyes also filled. Above their heads Cæsar was towering with fiery eyes and face aflame. In a momentary pause between two prayers, he tossed his voice up in a hymn. The people joined him at the second bar, and then the wailing of the penitents was drowned in a general shout of the revival tune —
“If some poor wandering child of Thine
Have spurned to-day the voice divine,
Now, Lord, the gracious work begin,
Let him no more lie down in sin.”
Kate sobbed aloud — poor vessel of human passions tossed about, tormented by the fire that was consuming her.
As the penitents grew calmer, they rose one by one to give their experience of Satan and salvation. At length Cæsar seized his opportunity and said, “And now Brother Quilliam will give us his experience.”
Pete rose from Kate’s side with tearful eyes amid a babel of jubilation, most of it facetious. “Be of good cheer, Peter, be not afraid.”
“I’ve not much to tell,” said Pete— “only a story of backsliding. Before I earned enough to carry me up country, I worked a month at Cape Town with the boats. My master was a pious old Dutchman getting the name of Jan. One Saturday night a big ship lost her anchor outside, and on Sunday morning forty pounds was offered for finding it. All the boatmen went out except Jan. ‘Six days shalt thou labour,’ says he, ‘but the seventh is the Sabbath.’”
Pete’s address was here punctuated by loud cries of thanksgiving.
“All day long he was seeing the boats beating up the bay, so, to keep out of temptation, he was going up to the bedroom and pulling the blind and getting down on his knees and wrastling like mad. And something out of heaven was saying to him, ‘It’s the Lord’s day, Jannie; they’ll not get a ha’p’orth.’ Neither did they; but when Jan’s watch said twelve o’clock midnight the pair of us were going off like rockets. Well, we hadn’t been ten minutes on the water before our grapplings had hould of that anchor.”
There were loud cries of “Glory!”
“Jan was shouting, ‘The Lord has put us atop of it as straight as the lid of a taypot!’”
Great cries of “Hallelujah!”
“But when we came ashore we found Jan’s watch was twenty minutes fast, and that was the end of the ould man’s religion.”
That day the word went round that both Pete and Kate had been converted. Their names were entered in Class, and they received their quarterly tickets.
X.
Next morning Kate set out to church for her churching. Her household duties had lost their interest by this time, and she left Nancy to cook the dinner. Pete had volunteered to take charge of the child. This he began to do by establishing himself with his pipe in an armchair by the cradle, and looking steadfastly down into it until the little one awoke. Then he rocked it, rummaged his memory for a nursery song to quiet it, and smoked and sang together.
“A frog he would a-wooing go,
Kitty alone, Kitty alone,
(Puff, puff.)
A wonderful likely sort of a beau,
Kitty alone and I!”
(Puff, puff, puff.)
The sun was shining in at the doorway, and a man’s shadow fell across the cradle-head. It was Philip. Pete put his mouth out into the form of an unspoken “Hush,” and Philip sat down in silence, while Pete went on with his smoke and his song.
“But when her husband rat came home,
Kitty alone, Kitty alone,
Pray who’s been here since I’ve been gone?
Kitty alone and I!” (Puff, Puff)
Pete had got to the middle of the verse about “the worthy gentleman,” when the low whine in the cradle lengthened to a long breath and stopped.
“Gone off at last, God bless it,” said Pete. “And how’s yourself, Philip? And how goes the petition?”
With his head on his hand, Philip was gazing absently into the fire, and he did not hear.
“How goes the petition?” said Pete.
“It was that I came to speak of,” said Philip. “Sorry to say it has had no effect but a bad one. It has only drawn attention to the fact that Manx fishermen pay no harbour dues.”
“And right too,” said Pete. “The harbours are our fathers’ harbours, and were freed to us forty years ago.”
“Nevertheless,” said Philip, “the dues are to be demanded. The Governor has issued an order.”
“Then we’ll rise against it — every fisherman in the island,” said Pete. “And when they’re making you Dempster, you’ll back us up in the Tynwald Coort.”
“Take care, Pete, take care,” said Philip.
Then Kate came in from church, and Pete welcomed her with a shout. Philip rose and bowed in silence. The marks of the prayers of the week were on her face, but they had brought her no comfort. She had been constantly promising herself consolation from religion, but every fresh exercise of devotion had seemed to tear open the wound from which she bled to death.
She removed her cloak and stepped to the cradle. The child was sleeping peacefully, but she convinced herself that it must be unwell. Her own hands were cold and moist, and when she touched the child she thought its skin was clammy. Presently her hands became hot and dry, and when she touched the child again she thought its forehead was feverish.
“I’m sure she’s ill,” she said.
“Chut! love,” said Pete; “no more ill than I am.”
But, to calm her fears, he went off for the doctor. The doctor was away in the country, and was not likely to be back for hours. Kate’s fears increased. Every time she looked at the child she applied to it the symptoms of her own condition.
“My child is dying — I’m sure it is,” she cried.
“Nonsense, darling,” said Pete. “Only an hour ago it was looking up as imperent as a tomtit.”
At last a new terror seized her, and she cried, “My child is dying unbaptized.”
“Well, we’ll soon mend that, love,” said Pete. “I’ll be going off for the parson.” And he caught up his hat and went out.
He called on Parson Quiggin, who promised to follow immediately. Then he went on to Sulby to fetch Cæsar and Grannie and some others, having no fear for the child’s life, but some hope of banishing Kate’s melancholy by the merriment of a christening feast.
Meanwhile, Philip and Kate were alone with the little one, save in the intervals of Nancy’s coming and going between the hall and the kitchen. She was restless, and full of expectation, starting at every sound and every step. He could see that she had gone whole nights without sleep, and was passing through an existence that was burning itself away.
Do what he would to explain her sufferings as the common results of childbirth, he could not help resolving them in the old flattering solution. She was paying the penalty of having married the wrong man. And she was to blame. Whatever the compulsion put upon her, she ought to have withstood it. There was no situation in life from which it was not possible to escape. Had he not found a way out of a situation essentially the same? Thus a certain high pride in his own conduct took possession of him even in the presence of Kate’s pain.
But his tenderness fought with his self-righteousness. He looked at her piteous face and his strength almost ebbed away. She looked up into his eyes and affectionate pity almost overwhelmed him. Once or twice she seemed about to say something, but she did not speak, and he said little. Yet it wanted all his resolution not to take her in his arms and comfort her, not to mingle his tears with hers, not to tell her of six months spent in vain in the effort to wipe her out of his heart, not to whisper of cheerless days and of nights made desolate with the repetition of her name. But no, he would be stronger than that. It was not yet too late to walk the path of honour. He would stand no longer between husband and wife.
Pete came back, bringing Grannie and Cæsar. The parson arrived soon after them. Kate was sitting with the child in her lap, and brooding over it like a bird above its nest. The child was still sleeping the sleep of health and innocence, but the mother’s eyes were wild.
“Bogh, bogh!” said Grannie, and she kissed her daughter. Kate made no response. Nancy Joe grew red about the eyelids and began to blow her nose.
“Here’s the prazon, darling,” whispered Pete, and Kate rose to her feet. The company rose with her, and stood in a half-circle before the fire. It was now between daylight and dark, and the firelight flashed in their faces.
“Are the godfather and godmothers present?” the parson asked.
“Mr. Christian will stand godfather, parzon; and Nancy and Grannie will be godmothers.”
Nancy took the child out of Kate’s arms, and the service for private baptism began with the tremendous words, “Dearly beloved, forasmuch as all men are conceived and born in si — —”
The parson stopped. Kate had staggered and almost fallen. Pete put his arm around her to keep her up, and then the service went on.
Presently the parson turned to Philip with a softening voice and an inclination of the head.
“Dost thou, in the name of this child, renounce the devil and all his works, the vain pomp and glory of the world, with all covetous desires of ‘the same, and the carnal desires of the flesh, so that thou wilt not follow nor be led by them?”
And Philip answered, in a firm, low voice, “I renounce them all.”
The parson took the child from Nancy. “Name this child.”
Nancy looked at Kate, but Kate, who was breathing violently, gave no sign.
“Kate,” whispered Pete; “Kate, of coorse.”
“Katherine,” said Nancy, and in that name the child was baptized.
Dr. Mylechreest came in as the service ended. Grannie held little Katherine up to him, and he controlled his face and looked at her.
“There’s not much amiss with the child,” he said.
“I knew it,” shouted Pete.
“But perhaps the mother is a little weak and nervous,” he added quietly.
“Coorse she is, the bogh,” cried Pete.
“Let her see more company,” said the doctor.
“She shall,” said Pete.
“If that doesn’t do, send her away for awhile.”
“I will.”
“Fresh scenes, fresh society; out of the island, by preference.”
“I’m willing.”
“She’ll come back another woman.”
“I’ll put up with the same one,” said Pete; and, while the company laughed, he flung open the door, and cried “Come in!” and half a dozen men who had been waiting outside trooped into the hall. They entered with shy looks because of the presence of great people.
“Now for a pull of jough, Nancy,” cried Pete.
“Not too much excitement either,” said the doctor, and with that warning he departed. The parson went with him. Philip had slipped out first, unawares to anybody. Grannie carried little Katherine to the kitchen, and bathed her before the fire. Kate was propped up with pillows in the armchair in the corner. Then Nancy brought the ale, and Pete welcomed it with a shout. Cæsar looked alarmed and rose to go.
“The drink’s your own, sir,” said Pete; “stop and taste it.”
But Cæsar couldn’t stay; it would scarcely be proper.
“You don’t christen your first granddaughter every day,” said Pete. “Enjoy yourself while you’re alive, sir; you’ll be a long time dead.”
Cæsar disappeared, but the rest of the company took Pete’s counsel, and began to make themselves comfortable.
“The last christening I was at was yesterday,” said John the Clerk. “It was Christian Killip’s little one, before she was married, and it took the water same as any other child.”
“The last christening I was at was my own,” said Black Tom, “when I was made an in inheriter, but I’ve never inherited yet.”
“That’s truth enough,” said an asthmatic voice from the backstairs.
“Well, the last christening I was at was at Kimberley,” said Pete, “and I was the parzon myself that day. Yes, though, Parzon Pete. And godfather and godmother as well, and the baby was Peter Quilliam, too. Aw, it was no laughing matter at all. There’s always a truck of women about a compound, hanging on to the boys like burrs. Dirty little trousses of a rule, but human creatures for all. One of them had a child by somebody, and then she came to die, and couldn’t take rest because it hadn’t been christened. There wasn’t a pazon for fifty miles, anywhere, and it was night-time, too, and the woman was stretched by the camp-fire and sinking. ‘What’s to be done?’ says the men. I’ll do it,’ says I, and I did. One of the fellows got a breakfast can of water out of the river, and I dipped my hand in it. ‘What’s the name,’ says I; but the poor soul was too far gone for spaking. So I gave the child my own name, though I didn’t know the mother from Noah’s aunt, and the big chaps standing round bareheaded began to blubber like babies. ‘I baptize thee, Peter Quilliam, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, Amen.’ Then the girl died happy and aisy, and what for shouldn’t she? The words were the same, and the water was the same, and if the hand wasn’t as clane as usual, maybe Him that’s above wouldn’t bother about the diff’rance.”
