Complete works of hall c.., p.265
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 265
“Out of this! Out you go!” cried Pete hoarsely.
“No use taking the anger with him — the man’s tried,” they muttered, and away they went.
Jemmy was loth to see them go. He was afraid to be left alone with Pete — afraid that the Deemster should be at the mercy of this wild creature with the flaming eyes.
And now that Philip was a living man Pete began to feel afraid of himself. At sight of life in Philip’s face, his gnawing misery returned. He thought his hatred had been overcome, but he was wrestling in the throes of forgiveness again. Here was the man who had robbed him of wife and child and home! In another moment he might have held him in the grip of his just wrath.
It is an inscrutable and awful fact, that just at that moment when a man’s good angel has conquered, but is spent, his evil angel is sure to get the advantage of chance. Philip’s delirium set in strong, and the brute beast in Pete, going through its final struggle, stood over the bed and watched him. In his violence Philip tore at his breast, and dragged something from beneath his shirt. A moment later it fell from his graspless fingers to the floor. It was a lock of dark hair. Pete knew whose hair it was, and he put his foot on it, and that instant the mad impulse came again to take Philip by the throat and choke him. Again and again it came. He had to tread it down even amid his sobs and his tears.
But love cannot be killed in an instant. It does not drop down dead. There was a sort of tenderness in the thought that this was the man for whom Kate had given up all the world. Pete began to feel gently towards Philip because Kate loved him; he began to see something of Kate in Philip’s face. This strange softening increased as he caught the words of Philip’s delirium. He thought he ought to leave the room, but he could not tear himself away. Crouching down on the stool, he clasped his hands behind his head, and tightened his arms over his ears. It was useless. He could not help but listen. Only disjointed sentences, odd pages torn from the book of life, some of them blurred with tears; but they were like a cool hand on a fevered brow to him that heard him.
“I was a child, Philip —— didn’t know what love was then —— coming home by Ramsey steamer —— tell the simple truth, Philip —— say we tried to be faithful and loyal and could not, because we loved each other, and there was no help for —— tell Kirry —— yes, Auntie, I have read father’s letters —— that picture is cracked — —”
This in the voice of one who speaks in his sleep, and then in a hushed, hot whisper, “Haven’t I a right to you? —— yes, I have a right —— take your topcoat, then, the storm is coming —— I’ll never let you go —— don’t you remember? —— can you ever forget —— my husband! —— my husband!”
Pete lifted his head as he listened. He had been thinking that Philip had robbed him of Kate. Was it he who had robbed Kate of Philip?
“I can’t live any longer in this house, Philip —— the walls are crushing me; the ceiling is falling on me; the air is stifling me —— three o’clock, Pete —— yes, three to-morrow, in the Council Chamber at Douglas —— I’m not a bad woman, Philip Christian —— there is something you have never guessed and I have never told you —— is it the child, Kate? —— did you say the child? —— you are sure —— you are not deceiving yourself?”
All this in a tone of deep entreaty, and then, with quick-coming breath, “Jemmy, get the carriage at Shimmin’s and drive it yourself —— if there is any attempt at Ramsey to take the horse out —— drive to the lane between the chapel and the cottage —— the moment the lady joins you —— you are right, Kate —— you cannot live here any longer —— this life of deception must end —— that’s the churring of the night-jar going up to Ballure Glen.”
Jem-y-Lord, who was beating out the pillow, dropped it, in his fumbling, half over the Deemster’s face, and looked at Pete in terror. Would this cruel delirium never break? Where was the doctor? Would he not come at all?
Pete had risen to his feet, and was gazing down with a look of stupor. He had been thinking that Philip had robbed him of the child. Was it he who had robbed Philip?
“Yes, Pete is telling the same story. He is writing letters to himself —— such simple things! —— poor old Pete —— he means no harm —— he never dreams that every word is burning —— Jemmy, leave out more brandy to-night, the decanter is empty — —”
Pete leaned over the pillow. All at once he started back. Philip’s eyes were open and shining up at him. It was hard to believe that Philip was not speaking to him eye to eye. But there was a veil between them, the veil of the hand of God.
“I know, Philip, I know,” said the unconscious man in a quick whisper; he was breathing fast and loud. “Tell him I’m dead —— yes, yes, that’s it, that’s it —— cruel? —— no, but kind — — ‘Poor girl,’ he’ll say, ‘I loved her once, but she’s gone’ —— I’ll do it, I’ll do it.” Then, in tones of fear, “It’s madness —— to paint faces on the darkness, to hear voices in the air is madness.” And then, solemnly, with a chill, thick utterance, “There —— there —— that one by the wall — —”
Big drops of sweat broke out on Pete’s forehead. Had he been thinking that Philip had tortured him? It was he who had been torturing Philip. The letters, the messages, the presents, these had been the whips and scorpions in his hand. Every innocent word, every look, every sign, had been as thongs in the instrument of torture. Pete began to feel a great pity for Philip. “He had suffered plenty,” thought Pete. “He has carried this cross about far enough.”
“Good-night, boatman! —— I went too far —— yes, I am back again, thank God — —”
These words brightly, cheerily, hopefully; then, in the deepest tones, “Good-bye, Philip —— it’s all my fault —— I’ve broken the heart of one man, and I’m destroying the soul of another —— I’m leaving this lock of hair — it is all I have to leave —— good-bye! —— I ought to have gone long ago —— you will not hate me now — —”
The last words frayed off, broke in the throat, and stopped. Then quickly, with panting breath, came, “Kate! Kate! Kate!” again and again repeated, beginning in a loud beseeching cry and dying down to a long wail, as if shouted over a gloomy waste wherein the voice was lost.
Jem-y-Lord had been beating round towards the door, wringing his white hands like a woman, and praying to God that the Deemster might never come out of his unconsciousness. “He has told him everything,” thought Jem. “The man will take his life.”
“I came between them,” thought Pete. “She was not for me. She was not mine. She was Philip’s. It was God’s doings.”
The bitterness of Pete’s heart had passed away. “But I wish —— what’s the good of wishing, though? God help us all,” he muttered, in a breaking voice, and then he crouched down on the stool as before and covered his face with his hands..
Philip had lifted his head and risen on one elbow. He was looking out on the empty air with his glassy eyes, as if a picture stood up before them.
“Yes, no, yes —— don’t tell me —— that Kate? —— it’s a mistake —— that’s not Kate —— that white face! —— those hollow eyes! —— that miserable woman! —— besides, Kate is dead —— she must be dead —— what’s to do with the lamps? —— they are going out —— in the dock, too, and before me —— she there and I here! —— she the prisoner, I the judge!”
All this with violent emotion, and with one arm outstretched over Pete’s crouching head.
“If I could hear her voice, though —— perhaps her voice now —— I’m going to fall —— it’s Kate, it’s Kate! Oh! oh!”
Philip had paused for several seconds, as if trying to listen, and then, with a loud cry of agony, he had closed his eyes and rolled back on to the pillow.
“God has meant me to hear all this,” thought Pete. God had intended that for this, the peace of his soul, he should follow the phases of this drama of a naked heart. He was sobbing, but his sobs were like growls.
“What’s he doing now?” thought Jem-y-Lord, craning his neck at the door. “Shall I call for somebody?”
Pete had picked up from the floor the lock of hair that had been lying under his foot, and he was putting it back into Philip’s breast.
“Nothing but me between them,” he thought, “nothing but me.”
“Sit down, sir,” cried the unconscious man. It was only the last outbreak of Philip’s delirium, but Pete trembled and shrank back.
Then Philip groaned and his blue lips quivered. He opened his eyes. They wandered about the room for a moment, and afterwards fixed themselves on Pete in a long and haggard gaze. Pete’s own eyes were too full of tears to be full of sight, but he could see that the change had come. He panted with expectation, and looked down at Philip with doglike delight.
There was a moment’s silence, and then, in a voice as faint as a breath, Philip murmured. “What’s —— where’s —— is it Pete?”
At that Pete uttered a shout of joy. “He’s himself! He’s himself! Thank God!”
“Eh?” said Philip helplessly.
“Don’t you be bothering yourself now,” cried Pete. “Lie quiet, boy; you’re in your own room, and as nice as nice.”
“But,” said Philip, “will you not kindly — —”
“Not another word, Phil. It’s nothing. You’re all serene, and about as right as ninepence.”
“Your Honour has been delirious,” said Jem-y-Lord.
“Chut!” said Pete behind his hand, and then, with another joyful shout, “Is it a beefsteak you’ll be having, Phil, or a dish of tay and a herring?”
Philip looked perplexed. “But could you not help me — —” he faltered.
“You fainted in the Court-house, sir,” said Jem-y-Lord.
“Ah!” It had all come back.
“Hould your whisht, you gawbie,” whispered Pete, and he made a furtive kick at Jemmy’s shins.
Pete was laughing and crying in one breath. In the joyful reflux from evil passions the great fellow was like a boy. He poked the fire into a blaze, snuffed the candle with his fingers, sang out “My gough!” when he burnt them, and then hopped about the floor and cut as many capers as a swallow after a shower of rain.
Philip looked at him and relapsed into silence. It seemed as if he had been on a journey and something had happened in his absence. The secret which he had struggled so long to confess had somehow been revealed.
Jem-y-Lord was beating out his pillows. “Does he know?” said Philip.— “Yes,” whispered Jemmy.
“Everything!”
“Everything. You have been delirious.”
“Delirious!” said Philip, with alarm.
Then he struggled to rise. “Help me up. Let me go away. Why did you bring me here?”
“I couldn’t help it, sir. I tried to prevent — —”
“I cannot face him,” said Philip. “I am afraid. Help me, help me.”
“You are too weak, sir. Lie still. No one shall harm you. The doctor is coming.”
Philip sank back with a look of fear. “Water,” he cried feebly.
“Here it is,” said Jem-y-Lord, lifting from the dressing-table the jug out of which he had moistened the sponge.
“Tut!” cried Pete, and he tipped the jug so that half the water spilled. “Brandy for a man when he’s in bed, you goosey gander. Hould, hard, boy; I’ve a taste of the rael stuff in the cupboard. Half a minute, mate. A drop will be doing no harm at all,” and away he went down the stairs like a flood, almost sweeping over Nancy, who had come creeping up in her stockings at the sound of voices.
The child had awakened in its cradle, and, with one dumpy leg over its little quilt, it was holding quiet converse with its toes.
“Hollo, young cockalorum, is it there you are!” shouted Pete.
At the next moment, with a noggin bottle of brandy in his fist, he was leaping upstairs, three steps at a time.
Meanwhile Jem-y-Lord had edged up to the Deemster and whispered, with looks of fear and mystery, “Don’t take it, sir.”
“What?” said Philip vacantly.— “The brandy,” said Jem.
“Eh?”
“It will be — —” began Jem, but Pete’s step was thundering up the stairs, and with a big opening of the mouth, rather than an audible utterance of the tongue, he added, “poisoned.”
Philip could not comprehend, and Pete came shouting —
“Where’s your water, now, ould Snuff-the-Wind?”
While Pete was pouring the brandy into a glass and adding the water, Jemmy caught up a scrap of newspaper that was lying about, rummaged for a pencil, wrote some words on the margin, tore the piece off, and smuggled it into the Deemster’s hand.
“Afraid of Pete!” thought Philip. “It is monstrous! monstrous!”
At that moment there was the sound of a horse’s hoofs on the road.
“The doctor,” cried Jem-y-Lord. “The doctor at last. Wait, sir, wait,” and he ran downstairs.
“Here you are,” cried Pete, coming to the bedside, glass in hand. “Drink it up, boy. It’ll stiffen you. My faith, but it’s a oner. Aw, God is good, though. He’s all that. He’s good tremenjous.”
Pete was laughing; he was crying; he was tasting a new sweetness — the sweetness of being a good man again.
Philip was holding Jem-y-Lord’s paper before his eyes, and trying to read it.
“What’s this that Jemmy has given me?” he said. “Read it, Pete. My eyes are dazed.”
Pete took the paper in his left hand, still holding the glass in his right. To get the light on to the writing he went down on his knees by the bed-head and leaned over towards the fire. Then, like a school-boy repeating his task, he read in a singsong voice the words that Jem-y-Lord had written:— “Don’t drink the brandy. Pete is trying to kill you.”
Pete made a grating laugh. “That’s a pretty thing now,” he began, but he could not finish. His laughter ceased, his eyes opened wide, his tongue seemed to hang out of his mouth, and he turned his head and looked back with an agony of doubt into Philip’s face.
Philip struggled up. “Give me the brandy, Pete.” He took the glass out of Pete’s hand, and without a second thought, with only a smile of faith and confidence, he raised it to his lips and drank. When the doctor entered the room a moment afterwards, Pete was sobbing into the bed-clothes, and Philip’s hand was resting on his head.
XI.
Early the next morning Pete visited Kate in prison. He had something to say to her, something to ask; but he intended to keep back his own feelings, to bear himself bravely, to sustain the poor girl’s courage. The light was cold and ashen within the prison walls, and as he followed the sergeant into the cell, he could not help but think of Kate as he had first known her, so bright, so merry, so full of life and gaiety. He found her now doubled up on a settle by a newly-kindled fire in the sergeant’s own apartment. She lifted her head, with a terrified look, as he entered, and she saw his hollow cheeks and deep eyes and ragged beard.
“I’m not coming to trouble you,” he said. “I’ve forgiven him, and I’m forgiving you, too.”
“You are very good,” she answered nervously.
“Good?” He gave a crack of bitter laughter. “I meant to kill him — that’s how good I am. And it’s the same as if all the devils out of hell had been at me the night through to do it still. Maybe I hadn’t much to forgive. I’m like a bat in the light — I’m not knowing where I am ezactly. Daresay the people will laugh at me when they’re getting to know. Wouldn’t trust, but they’ll think me a poor-spirited cur, anyway. Let them — there’s never much pity for the dog that’s licked.”
His voice shook, although so hard and so husky. “That’s not what I came to say, though. You’ll be laving this place soon, and I’m wanting to ask — I’m wanting to know — —”
She had covered her face, and now she said through her hands, “Do as you like with me, Pete. You are my husband, and I must obey.”
He looked down at her for a moment. “But you cannot love me?”
“I have deceived you, and whatever you tell me to do I will do it.”
“But you cannot love me?”
“I’ll be a good wife for the future* Pete — I will, indeed, indeed I will.”
“But you cannot love me?”
She began to cry. “That’s enough,” he said. “I’ll not force you.”
“You are very good,” she said again.
He laughed more bitterly than before. “Dou yo think I’m wanting your body while another man has your heart? That’s a game I’ve played about long enough, I’m thinking. Good? Not me, missis.”
His eyes, which had been fixed on the fire, wandered to his wife, and then his lips quivered and his manner changed.
“I’m hard — I’ll cut it short. Fact is, I’ve detarmined to do something, but I’ve a question to ask first. You’ve suffered since you left me, Kate. He has dragged you down a dale — but tell me, do you love him still?”
She shuddered and crept closer to the wall.
“Don’t be freckened. It’s a woman’s way to love the man that’s done wrong by her. Being good to her is nothing — sarvice is nothing — kindness is nothing. Maybe there’s some ones that cry shame on her for that — but not me. Giving herself, body and soul, and thinking nothing what she gets for it — that’s the glory of a woman when she cares for anybody. Spake up, Kate — do you love him in spite of all?”
The answer came in a whisper that was like a breath— “Yes.”
“That’ll do,” said Pete.
He pressed his hand against the place of his old wound. “I might have known you could never care for me — I might have known that,” he said with difficulty. “But don’t think I can’t stand my rackups, as the saying is. I know my course now — I know my job.”
She was sobbing into her hands, and he was breathing fast and loud.
“One word more — only one — about the child.”
“Little Katherine!”
“Have I a right to her?”
