Complete works of hall c.., p.256
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 256
They stopped at every half-way houses — it was always halfway to somewhere. The men got exceedingly drunk and began to sing. At that the women grew very angry.
“Sakes alive! you’re no better than a lot of Cottonies.”— “Deed, but they’re worse than any Cottonies, ma’am. Some excuse for the like of them. In their cotton-mills all the year, and nothing at home but a piece of grass the size of your hand in the backyard, and going hopping on it like a lark in a cage.”
The rain came down in torrents, the mountain-path grew steep and desolate, the few houses passed were empty and boarded up, gorse bushes hissed to the rising breeze, geese scuttled and screamed across the untilled land, a solitary black crow flew across the leaden sky, and on the sea outside a tall pillar of smoke went stalking on and on, where the pleasure-steamer carried her freight of tourists round the island. Then songs gave way to sighs, some of the men began to pick quarrels, and some to break into fits of drunken sobbing.
Pete kept them all up. He chaffed and laughed and told funny stories. Choking, stifling, wounded to the heart as he was, still he was carrying on, struggling to convince everybody and himself as well, that nothing was amiss, that he was a jolly fellow, and had not a second thought.
He was glad to get home, nevertheless, where he need play the hypocrite no longer. Going through Sulby, he dropped out of the brake and looked in at the “Fairy.” The house was shut. Grannie was sitting up for Cæsar, and listening for the sound of wheels. There was something unusual and mysterious about her. Cruddled over the fire, she was smoking, a long clay in little puffs of blue smoke that could barely be seen. The sweet old soul in her troubles had taken to the pipe as a comforter. Pete could see that something had happened since morning, but she looked at him with damp eyes, and he was afraid to ask questions. He began to talk of the great doings of the day at Tynwald, then of Philip, and finally of Kate, apologising a little wildly for the mother not coming home sooner to the child, but protesting that she had sent the little one no end of presents.
“Presents, bless ye,” he began rapturously ——
“You don’t ate enough, Pete, ‘deed you don’t,” said Grannie.
“Ate? Did you say ate?” cried Pete. “If you’d seen me at the fair you’d have said, ‘That man’s got the inside of a limekiln!’ Aw, no, Grannie, I’m not letting my jaws travel far. When I’ve got anything before me it’s — down — same as an ostrich.”
Going away in the darkness, he heard Cæsar creaking up in the gig with old Horney, now old Mailie, diving along in front of him.
Nancy was waiting for Pete at Elm Cottage. She tried to bustle him upstairs.
“Come, man, come,” she said; “get yourself off to bed and I’ll bring your clothes down to the fire.”
He had never slept in the bedroom since Kate had left. “Chut! I’ve lost the habit of beds,” he answered. “Always used of the gable loft, you know, and the wind above the thatch.”
Not to be thought to behave otherwise than usual, he went upstairs that night. But —
“Feather beds are saft,
Pentit rooms are bonnie,
But ae kiss o’ my dear love
Better’s far than ony.”
The rain was still falling, the sea was loud, the mighty breath of night was shaking the walls of the house and rioting through the town. He was wet and tired, longing for a dry skin and a warm bed and rest.
“Yet fain wad I rise and rin
If I tho’t I would meet my dearie.”
The long-strained rapture of faith and confidence was breaking down. He saw it breaking. He could deceive himself no more. She was gone, she was lost, she would lie on his breast no more.
“God help me! O, Lord, help me,” he cried in his crushed and breaking heart.
XV.
When Kate thought of her husband after she had left him, it was not with any crushing sense of shame. She had injured him, but she had gained nothing by it. On the contrary, she had suffered, she had undergone separation from her child. To soften the hard blow inflicted, she had outraged the tenderest feelings of her heart. As often as she thought of Pete and the deep wrong she had done him, she remembered this sacrifice, she wept over this separation. Thus she reconciled herself to her conduct towards her husband. If she had bought happiness at the cost of Pete’s sufferings, her remorse might have been deep; but she had only accepted shame and humiliation and the severance of the dearest of her ties.
When she had said in the rapture of passionate confidence that if she possessed Philip’s love there could be no humiliation and no shame, she had not yet dreamt of the creeping degradation of a life in the dark, under a false name, in a false connection: a life under the same roof with Philip, yet not by his side, unacknowledged, unrecognised, hidden and suppressed. Even at the moment of that avowal, somewhere in the secret part of her heart, where lay her love of refinement and her desire to be a lady, she had cherished the hope that Philip would find a way out of the meanness of their relation, that she would come to live openly beside him, she hardly knew how, and she did not care at what cost of scandal, for with Philip as her own she would be proud and happy.
Philip had not found that way out, yet she did not blame him. She had begun to see that the deepest shame of their relation was not hers but his. Since she had lived in Philip’s house the man in him had begun to decay. She could not shut her eyes to this rapid demoralisation, and she knew well that it was the consequence of her presence. The deceptions, the subterfuges, the mean shifts forced upon him day by day, by every chance, every accident, were plunging him in ever-deepening degradation. And as she realised this a new fear possessed her, more bitter than any humiliation, more crushing than any shame — the fear that he would cease to love her, the terror that he would come to hate her, as he recognised the depth to which she had dragged him down.
XVI.
Back from Tynwald, Philip was standing in his room. From time to time he walked to the window, which was half open, for the air was close and heavy. A misty rain was falling from an empty sky, and the daylight was beginning to fail. The tombstones below were wet, the treed were dripping, the churchyard was desolate. In a corner under the wall lay the angular wooden lid which is laid by a gravedigger over an open grave. Presently the iron gates swung apart, and a funeral company entered. It consisted of three persons and an uncovered deal coffin. One of the three was the sexton of the church, another was the curate, the third was a policeman. The sexton and the policeman carried the coffin to the church-door, which the curate opened. He then went into the church, and was followed by the other two. A moment later there were three strokes of the church bell. Some minutes after that the funeral company reappeared. It made for the open grave in the corner by the wall. The cover was removed, the coffin was lowered, the policeman half lifted his helmet, and the sexton put a careless hand to his cap. Then the curate opened a book and closed it again. The burial service was at an end. Half an hour longer the sexton worked alone in the drenching rain, shovelling the earth back into the grave.
“Some waif,” thought Philip; “some friendless, homeless, nameless waif.”
He went noiselessly up the stairs to the floor above, slinking through the house like a shadow. At a door above his own he knocked with a heavy hand, and a woman’s voice answered him from within —
“Is any one there?”
“It is!,” he said. “I am coming to see you.”
Then he opened the door and slipped into the room. It was a room like his own at all points, only lower in the ceiling, and containing a bed. A woman was standing with her back to the window, as if she had just turned about from looking into the churchyard. It was Kate. She had been expecting Philip, and waiting for him, but she seemed to be overwhelmed with confusion. As he crossed the floor to go to her, he staggered, and then she raised her eyes to his face.
“You are ill,” she said. “Sit down. Shall I ring for the brandy?”
“No,” he answered. “We have had a hard day at Tyn-wald — some trouble — some excitement — I’m tired, that’s all.”
He sat on the end of the bed, and gazed out on the veil of rain, slanting across the square church tower and the sky.
“I was at Ramsey two days ago,” he said; “that’s what I came to tell you.”
“Ah!” She linked her hands before her, and gazed out also. Then, in a trembling voice, she asked, “Is mother well?”
“Yes; I did not see her, but — yes, she bears up bravely.”
“And — and—” the words stuck in her throat, “and Pete?”
“Well, also — in health, at all events.”
“You mean that he is broken-hearted?”
With a deep breath he answered, “To listen to him you would think he was cheerful enough.”
“And little Katherine?”
“She is well too. I did not see her awake. It was late, and she was in her cradle. So rosy, and fresh, and beautiful!”
“My sweet darling! She was clean too? They take care of her, don’t they?”
“More care they could not take.”
“My darling baby! Has she grown?”
“Yes; they talk of taking her out of the long clothes soon. Nancy is like a second mother to her.”
Kate’s foot was beating the floor. “Oh, why can’t her own mother — —” she began, and then in a faltering voice, “but that cannot be, I suppose.... Do her eyes change? Are they still blue? But she was asleep, you say. My dear baby! Was it very late? Nine o’clock? Just nine? I was thinking of her at that moment. It is true I am always thinking of her, but I remember, because the clock was striking. ‘She will be in her little cot now,’ I thought, ‘bathed and clean, and so pretty in her nightdress, the one with the frill!’ My sweet, sweet angel!”
Her speech was confused and broken. “Do you think if I never see her until... Will I know her if... It’s useless to think of that, though. Is her hair like... What is the colour of her hair, Philip?”
“Fair, quite fair; as fair as mine was — —”
She swirled round, came face to face with him, and cried, “Philip, Philip, why can’t I have my darling to myself? She would be well enough here. I could keep her quiet. Oh, she would not disturb you. And I should be so happy with my little Kate for company. The time is long with me sometimes, Philip, and I could play with her all the day. And then at night, when she would be in the cot, I could make her little stock of clothes — her frocks and her little pinafores, and — —”
“Impossible, Kate, impossible!” said Philip.
She turned to the window. “Yes,” she said, in a choking voice, “I suppose it would even be stealing to fetch her away now. Only think! A mother stealing her own child! O gracious heaven, have I sinned myself so far from my innocent baby! My child, my child! My little Katherine!”
Her bosom heaved, and she said in a hard tone, “I daresay they think I’m a bad mother because I left her to others to nurse her and to love her, to see her every day and all day, to bathe her sweet body, and to comb her yellow hair, to look into her little blue eyes, and to watch all her pretty, pretty ways — Oh, yes, yes.” she said, with increasing emotion, “I daresay they think that of me.”
“They think nothing but what is good of you, Kate — nothing but what is good and kind.”
She looked out on the rain which fell unceasingly, and said in a low voice, “Is Pete still telling the same story — that I am only away for a little while — that I am coming back?”
“He is writing letters to himself now, and saying they come from you.”
“From me?”
“Such simple things — all in his own way — full of love and happiness — I am so happy and comfortable — it is pitiful. He is like a child — he never suspects anything. You are better and enjoying yourself and looking forward to coming home soon. Sending kisses and presents for the baby, too, and greetings for everybody. There are messages for me also. Your true and loving wife — it is terrible.”
She covered her face with both hands. “And is he telling everybody?”
“Yes; that’s what the letters are meant for. He thinks he is keeping your name sweet and your place clean, so that you may return at any time, and scandal may not touch you.”
“Oh, why do you tell me that, Philip? It is dragging me back. And the child is dragging me back also... Does he show the letters to you?”
“Worse than that, Kate — much worse — he makes me answer them. I answered one the other night. Oh, when I think of it! Dear wife, glad to get your welcome letters. God knows how I held the pen — I was giddy enough to drop it. He gave you all the news — about your father, and Grannie, and everybody. All in his own bright way — poor old Pete, the cheeriest, sunniest soul alive. The Dempster is putting a sight on us regular — trusts you are the better for leaving home. It was awful — awful! Dearest Kirry, I’m missing you mortal — worse than Kimberley. So come home soon, my true lil wife, to your foolish ould husband, for his heart is losing him.”
He leapt up, and began to tramp the floor. “But why do I tell you this? I should bear my own burdens.”
Her hands had come down from her face, which was full of a great compassion. “And did you have to write all that?” she asked.
“Oh, he meant no harm. He had no thought of hurting anybody! He never dreamt that every word was burning and blistering me to the heart of hearts.”
His voice deepened, and his face grew hard and ugly. “But it was the same as if some devil out of hell had entered into the man and told him how to torture me — as if the cruellest tyrant on earth had made me take up the pen and write down my own death-warrant. I could have killed him — I could not help it — yes, I felt at that moment as if —— Oh, what am I saying?”
He stopped, sat on the end of the bed again, and held his head between his hands.
She came and sat by his side. “Philip,” she said, “I am ruining you. Yes, I am corrupting you. I who would have had you so high and pure — and you so pure-minded — I am bringing you to ruin. Having me here is destroying you, Philip. No one visits you now. You are shutting the door on everybody.... I heard you come in last night, Philip. I hear you every night. Yes, I know everything. Oh, you will end by hating me — I know you will. Why don’t you send me away? It will be better to send me away in time, Philip. Besides, it will make no difference. We are in the same house, yet we never meet. Send me away now, before it is too late.”
He dropped his hand and felt for her hand; he was trying not to look into her face. “We have both suffered, Kate. We can never hate one another — we have suffered for each other’s sake.”
She clung tightly to the hand he gave her, and said, “Then you will never forsake me, whatever happens?”
“Never, Kate, never,” he answered; and with a smothered cry she threw her arms about his neck.
The rain continued to pour down on the roofs and on the tombs with a monotonous plash. “But what is to be done?” she said.
“God knows,” he answered.
“What is to become of us, Philip? Are we never to smile on each other again? We cannot carry a burden like this for ever. To-day, to-morrow, the next day, the next year — is it to go on like this for a lifetime? Is this life? Is there nothing that will end it?”
“Yes, Kate, yes; there is one thing that will end it — one thing only.”
“Do you mean — death?”
He did not answer. She rose slowly from his side and returned to the window, rested her forehead against the pane, and looked down on the desolate churchyard and the sexton at his work in the rain. Suddenly she broke the silence. “Philip,” she said, “I know now what we ought to do. I wonder we have never thought of it before.”
“What is it?” he asked.
She was standing in front of him. Her breath came quickly. “Tell Pete that I am dead.”
“No, no, no.”
She took both his hands. “Yes, yes,” she said.
He kept his face away from her. “Kate, what are you saying?”
“What is more natural, Philip? Only think — if you had been anybody else, it would have come to that already. You must have hated me for dragging you down into this mire of deceit, you must have forsaken me, and I must have gone to wreck and ruin. Oh, I see it all — just as if it had really happened. A solitary room somewhere — alone — sinking — dying — unknown, unnamed — forgotten — —”
His eyes were wandering about the room. “It will kill him. If his heart can break, it will break it,” he said.
“He has lived after a heavier blow than that, Philip. Do you think he is not suffering? For all his bright ways and hopeful talk and the letters and the presents, do you think he is not suffering?”
He liberated his hands, and began to tramp the room as before, but with head down dud hands linked behind him.
“It will be cruel to deceive him,” he said.
“No, Philip, but kind. Death is not cruel. The wound it makes will heal. It won’t bleed for ever. Once he thinks I am dead he will weep a little perhaps, and then “ — she was stifling a sob— “then it will be all over. ‘Poor girl,’ he will say, ‘she was much to blame. I loved her once, and never did her any wrong. But she is gone, and she was the mother of little Katherine — let us forget her faults’ — —”
He had not heard her; he was standing before the window looking down. “You are right, Kate, I think you must be right.”
“I’m sure I am.”
“He will suffer, but he will get over it.”
“Yes, indeed. And you, Philip — he will torture you no longer. No more letters, no more presents, no more messages — —”
“I’ll do it — I’ll do it to-morrow,” he said.
She opened her arms wide, and cried, “Kiss me, Philip, kiss me. We shall live again. Yes, we shall laugh together still — kiss me, kiss me.”
