Complete works of hall c.., p.253
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 253
“Then we’ve made the ould boy see that we mane it,” said Pete.
“‘If you know any one of the ringleaders, Deemster,’ he said, with a look into my face — somebody had been with him — there are tell-tales everywhere — —”
“It’s the way of the world still,” said Pete.
“‘Tell him,’ said he, ‘that I don’t want to take the life of any man — I don’t want to send any one to penal servitude.’” It was useless to protest. The man was mad, but he was in earnest. His plan was folly — frantic folly — but it was based on a sort of legal right. “So, for the Lord’s sake, Pete, stop this thing. Stop it at once, and finally. It’s life or death. If ever you thought my word worth anything, you’ll do as I bid you, now. God knows where I should be myself if the Governor were to do what he threatens. Stop it, stop it; I haven’t slept for thinking of it.”
Pete had been sitting at the table, chewing the tip of the pen, and now he lifted to the paleness and wildness of Philip’s face a cool, bold smile.
“It’s good of you, Phil.... We’ve a right to be there, though, haven’t we?”
“You’ve a right, certainly, but — —”
“Then, by gough, we’ll go,” said Pete, dropping the pen, and bringing his fist down on the table.
“The penalty will be yours, Pete — yours. You are the man who will suffer — you first — you alone.”
Pete smiled again. “No use — I’m incorrible. I’m like Dan-ny-Clae, the sheep-stealer, when he came to die. ‘I’m going to eternal judgment — what’ll I do?’ says Dan. ‘Give back all you’ve stolen,’ says the parzon. ‘I’ll chance it first,’ says the ould rascal. It’s the other fellow that’s for stealing this time; but I’ll chance it, Philip. Death it may be, and judgment too, but I’ll chance it, boy.”
Philip’s eyes wandered over the floor. “Then you’ll not change your plan for anything I’ve told you?”
“I will, though,” said Pete, “for one thing, anyway. You shan’t be getting into trouble — I’ll be spokesman for the fishermen myself. Oh, I’ll spake enough if they get my dander up. I’ll just square my arms acrost my chest and I’ll say, ‘Your Excellency,’ I’ll say, ‘you can’t do it, and you shan’t do it — because it isn’t right.’ But chut! botheration to all such bobbery! Look here — man alive, look here! She’s not forgetting the lil one, you see,” and, making a proud sweep of the hand, Pete pointed to the scarlet hood. It had been put to sit across the back of a china dog on the mantelpiece, with Pete’s half sheet of paper pinned to the strings.
Philip recognised it. The hood was the present he had made as godfather. His eyes blinked, his mouth twitched, the cords of his forehead moved.
“So she — she sent that,” he stammered.
“Listen here,” said Pete, and he unpinned the paper and read the message aloud, with flourishes of voice and gesture— “For lil Katherine from her loving mother... papa not to worry... love to all inquiring friends... best respects to the Dempster if Im not forgot at him.” Then in an off-hand way he tossed the paper into the fire. “Aw, what’s a bit of a letter,” he said largely, as it took flame and burned.
Philip’s bloodshot eyes seemed to be starting from his head.
“Nancy’s right — a man would never have thought of the like of that — now, would he?” said Pete, looking proudly from Philip to the hood, and from the hood back to Philip.
Philip did not answer. Something seemed to be throttling him.
“But when a woman goes away she leaves her eyes behind her, as you might say. ‘What’ll I be getting for them that’s at home?’ she’s thinking, and up comes a nice warm lil thing for the baby. Aw, the women’s good, Philip. They’re what they make the sovereigns of, God bless them!”
Philip felt as if he must rush out of the house shrieking. One moment he stood up before Pete, as though he meant to say something, and then he turned to go.
“Not sleeping to-night, no? Have to get back to Douglas? Then maybe you’ll write me a letter first?”
Philip nodded his head and returned, his mouth tightly closed, sat down at the table, and took up the pen.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Am I to give you the words, Phil? Yes? Well, if you won’t be thinking mane — —”
Pete charged His pipe out of his waistcoat pocket, and began to dictate:
“Dear wife.’”
At that Philip gave an involuntary cry.
“Aw, best to begin proper, you know. ‘Dear wife,’” said Pete again.
Philip made a call on his resolution, and put the words down. His hand felt cold; his heart felt frozen to the core. Pete lit up, and walked to and fro as he dictated his letter. Nancy sat knitting by the cradle, with one foot on the rocker.
“‘Glad to get your welcome letter, darling, and the bonnet
for the baby’ — —”
“‘Go on,” said Philip, in an impassive voice.
“Got that down, Philip? Aw, you’re smart wonderful with the pen, though....
‘When she’s got it on her lil head you’d laugh tremenjous.
She’s straight like a lil John the Baptist in the church
window’—”
Pete paused; Philip lifted his pen and waited.
“Done already? Man veen, there’s no houlding you....
‘Glad to hear you’re so happy and comfortable with Uncle Joe
and Auntie Joney. Give the pair of them my fond love and
best respects. We’re getting on beautiful, and I’m as happy
as a sandboy. Sometimes Grannie gets a bit down with
longing, and so does Nancy, but I tell them you’ll be home
for their funeral sarmon, anyway, and then they’re comforted
wonderful.’”
“Don’t be writing his rubbage and lies, your Honour,” said Nancy.
“Chut! woman; where’s the harm at all? A merry touch to keep a person’s spirits up when she’s away from home — eh, Philip?” and Pete appealed to him with a nudge at his writing elbow.
Philip gave no sign. With a look of stupor he was staring down at the paper as he wrote. Pete puffed and went on —
“‘Cæsar’s at it still, going through the Bible same as a
trawl-boat, fishing up the little texes. The Dempster’s
putting a sight on us reg’lar, and you’re not forgot at him
neither. ‘Deed no, but thinking of you constant, and
trusting you’re the better for laving home — —’
... Going too fast, am I? So I’m bating you at last, eh?”
A cold perspiration had broken out on Philip’s forehead, and he was looking up with the eyes of a hunted dog.
“Am I to — must I write that?” he said in a helpless way.
“Coorse — go ahead,” said Pete, puffing clouds of smoke, and laughing.
Philip wrote it. His hand was now stiff. It sprawled and splashed over the paper.
“‘As for myself, I’m a sort of a grass-widow, and if you
keep me without a wife much longer they’ll be taxing me for
a bachelor.’”
Pete put his pipe on the mantelpiece, cleared his throat repeatedly, and began to be afflicted with a cough.
“‘Glad to hear you’re coming home soon, darling (cough).
Dearest Kirry, I’m missing you mortal (cough), worse nor
at Kimberley (cough). When I’m going to bed, ‘Where is she
to-night?’ I’m saying. And when I’m getting up, ‘Where is
she now?’ I’m thinking. And in the dark midnight I’m asking
myself, ‘Is she asleep, I wonder?’ (Cough, cough.) Come
home quick, bogh; but not before you’re well at all.’
... Never do to fetch her too soon, you know,” he said in a whisper over Philip’s shoulder, with another nudge at his elbow.
Philip answered incoherently, and shrank under Pete’s touch as if he had been burnt. The coughing continued; the dictating began again.
‘“I’m keeping a warm nest for you here, love. There’ll be a
welcome from everybody, and nobody saying anything but the
good and the kind. So come home soon, my true lil wife,
before the foolish ould heart of your husband is losing
him’ — —”
Pete coughed violently, and stretched his neck and mouth awry. “This cough I’ve got in my neck is fit to tear me in pieces,” he said. “A spoonful of cold pinjane, Nancy — it’s ter’ble good to soften the neck.”
Nancy was nodding over the cradle — she had fallen asleep.
Philip had turned white and giddy and sick. For one moment an awful impulse seized him. He wanted to fall on Pete; to lay hold of him, to choke him. The consciousness of his own inferiority, his own duplicity, made him hate Pete. The very sweetness of the man sickened him. He could not help it — the last spark of his self-pride was fighting for its life. Then in shame, in remorse, in horror of himself and dread of everything, he threw down the pen, caught up his hat, shouted “Good night” in a voice like the growl of a beast in terror, and ran out of the house.
Nancy started up from a doze. “Goodness grazhers!” she cried, and the cradle rocked violently under her foot.
“He’s that tender-hearted and sympathising,” whispered Pete as he closed the door. (Cough, cough)... “The letter’s finished, though — and here’s the envelope.”
VIII.
The following evening the Deemster was in his rooms in Athol Street. His hat was on, his cloak was over his arm, he was resting his elbow on the sash of the window and looking vacantly into the churchyard. Jem was behind him, answering at his back. Their voices were low; they scarcely moved.
“All well upstairs?” said Philip.
“Pretty well, your Honour.”
“More cheerful and content?”
“Much more, except when your Honour is from home. ‘The Deemster’s back,’ she’ll say, and her poor face will be like sunshine on a rainy day.”
Philip remained silent for a moment, and then said in a scarcely audible voice —
“Not fretting so much about the child, Jemmy?”
“Just as anxious to hear of it, though. ‘Has he been to Ramsey to-day? Did he see her? Is she well?’ That’s the word constant, sir.”
The Deemster was silent again, and Jem was withdrawing with a deep bow. “Jemmy, I’m going to Government House, and may be late. Don’t wait up for me.”
Jem answered in a half whisper, “Some one waits up for your Honour whether I do or not ‘He’s at home now,’ she’ll say, and then creep away to bed.”
Philip muttered, thickly and huskily, “The decanter is empty — leave out another bottle.” Then he turned to go from the room, keeping his eyes from his servant’s face.
He found the Governor as violent as before, and eager to fall on him before he had time to speak.
“They tell me. Deemster, that the leader of this rising is a sort of left-hand relative of yours. Surely you can stop the man.”
“I’ve tried to, your Excellency, and failed,” said Philip.
The Governor tossed up his chin. “I’m told the fellow can’t even write his own name,” he said.
“It’s true,” said Philip.
“An illiterate and utterly uneducated person.”
“All the same, he’s the wisest and strongest man on this island,” said Philip decisively.
The Governor frowned, and the pockmarks on his forehead seemed to swell. “The wisest and strongest man on this island will have to leave it,” he said.
Philip made no answer. He had come to plead, but he saw that it was hopeless. The Governor put his right hand in the breast, of his white waistcoat — he was alone in the dining-room after dinner — and darted at Philip a look of anger and command.
“Deemster,” he said, “if, as you say, you cannot stop this low-bred rascal, there’s one thing you can do — leave him to himself.”
“That is to say,” said Philip out of a corner of his mouth, “to you.”
“To me be it, and who has more right?” said the Governor hotly.
Philip held himself in hand. He was silent, and his silence was taken for submission. Cracking some nuts and munching them, the Governor began to take another tone.
“I should be sorry, Mr. Christian, if anything came between you and me — very sorry. We’ve been good friends thus far, and you will allow that you owe me something. Don’t you see it yourself — this man is dishonouring me in the eyes of the island? If you have tried your best to keep his neck out of the halter, let the consequences be his own.”
“Eh?” said Philip, with his eyes on the floor.
“You have done your duty by the man, I say. Help yourself to a glass of wine.”
Still Philip did not speak. The Governor saw his advantage, but little did he guess the pitiless power of it.
“The fellow is your kinsman, Deemster, and I shall not ask you to deal with him. That would be inhuman. If there is no hope of restraining him to-morrow — wise as he is, if he will not listen to saner counsels, I will only beg of you — but this is a matter for the police. You are a high official now. It would be a pity to give you pain. Stay at home — I’ll gladly excuse you — you look as if a day’s rest would do you good.”
Philip drank two glasses of the wine in quick succession. The Governor poured him a third, and went on —
“I don’t know what you’re feeling for the man may be — it can’t be friendship. I’m sure he’s a thorn in your flesh. And as long as he’s here he will always be.”
Philip looked up with inquiry, doubt, and fear.
“Ah! I knew it. Even if this matter goes by, your time will come. You’ll quarrel with the fellow yet — you know you will — it’s in the nature of things — if he’s the man you say.”
Philip drank the third glass of wine and rose to go.
“Leave him to me — I’ll deal with him. You’ll be done with him, and a good riddance, too, I reckon. And now come in to the ladies — they’ll know you’re here.”
Philip excused himself and went off with feverish gestures and an excited face.
“The Governor is right,” he thought, as he went home over the dark roads. Pete was a thorn in his flesh, and always would be; his enemy, his relentless enemy, notwithstanding his love for him.
The misery of the past month could not be supported any longer. Perpetual fear of discovery, perpetual guard of the tongue, keeping watch and ward on every act of life — to-day, to-morrow, the next day, on and on until life’s end in wretchedness or disgrace — it was insupportable, it was impossible, it could not be attempted.
Then came thoughts that were too fearful to take form-too awful to take words. They were like the flapping of unseen wings going by him in the night, but the meaning of them was this: If Pete persists in his purpose, there will be a riot. If any one is injured, Pete will be transported. If any one is killed, Pete will be indicted for his life.
“Well, I have done my duty by him,” his heart whimpered. “I have tried to restrain him. I have tried to restrain the Governor. It isn’t my fault. What more can I do?”
Philip walked fast. Here was the way of escape from the evil that beset his path. Fate was stretching out her hands to him. When men had done wrong, they did yet more wrong to elude the consequences of their first fault; but there was no need for that in his case.
The hour was late. A strong breeze was blowing off the sea. It flicked his face with salt as he went swinging down the hill into the town. His blood was a-fire. He had a feeling, never felt before, of courage and even ferocity. Something told him that he was not so good a man as he had been, but it was a tingling pleasure to feel that he was a stronger man than before.
Should he tell Kate? No! Let the thing go on; let it end. After it was over she would see where their account lay. Thinking in this way, he laughed aloud.
The town was quiet when he came to it. So absorbed had he been that, though the air was sharp, he had been carrying his cloak over his arm. Now he put it on, and drew the hood close over his head. A dog, a homeless cur, had begun to follow at his heels. He drove it off, but it continued to hang about him. At last it got in front of his feet, and he stumbled over it in one of his large, quick strides. Then he kicked the dog, and it crossed the dark street yelping. He was a worse man, and he knew it.
He let himself into the house with his latch-key, and banged the door behind his back. But no sooner had he breathed the soft, woolly, stagnant air within than a change came over him. His ferocious strength ebbed away, and he began to tremble.
The hall passage and staircase were in darkness. This was by his orders — coming in late, he always forgot to put out the gas. But the lamp of his room was burning on the candle rest at the stairhead, and it cast a long sword of light down the staircase well.
Chilled by some unknown fear, he had set one foot on the first tread when he thought he heard the step of some one coming down the stairs. It was a familiar step. He was sure he knew it. It must be a step he heard daily.
He stopped, and the step seemed to stop also. At that moment there was a shuffling of slippered feet on an upper landing, and Jem-y-Lord called down, “Is it you, your Honour?”
With an effort he answered, “Yes.”
