Complete works of hall c.., p.655
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 655
PHILIP.
Be calm, Kate, be calm!
KATE.
Calm? Calm here? Here in this house? His house? How can I? The very walls seem to crush me! The very air seems to stifle me!
PHILIP.
I know! I feel it myself, Kate. But what are we to do?
KATE.
You mean — what am I to do?
PHILIP.
Yes, it’s as bad for you as it is for me, Kate.
KATE.
No worse?
PHILIP.
Yes, perhaps even worse. Oh, Kate, Kate, why did you marry him?
KATE.
I snatched at happiness and plucked — remorse.
PHILIP.
You’ll outlive all that, though. God grant we may both outlive it — but the regret — the lasting, undying regret!
KATE.
There’s something I fear more than that, Philip, more than Pete, more than anything else in the world.
PHILIP.
What?
KATE.
Myself!
PHILIP.
Yourself? Why?
KATE.
Because — because I am learning to love the man I have married and wronged. How can I help it? How can I help it? Yet it drives me mad! It drives me mad!
PHILIP.
You are thinking of me, perhaps of the dear, sweet days —
KATE.
No, I am not thinking of you, Philip. I’m thinking —
PHILIP.
Of what, Kate?
KATE.
The child!
PHILIP.
The child?
KATE.
Oh, why didn’t I die when my baby came?
PHILIP.
What are you saying? For your child’s sake you must bear all and live.
KATE.
But it’s the child that is killing me. Yet you never knew — never guessed —
PHILIP.
Guessed what, Kate?
KATE.
When I entreated you to be true to the promise you made me — the promise to marry me —
PHILIP.
Well? Well?
KATE.
You wouldn’t understand me, then.
PHILIP.
(Rising in horror?) Understand you —
(Dead silence for a moment. They look into each other’s faces.)
KATE.
Do you understand me — now?
(Band outside heard playing “Home, Sweet Home.”)
PHILIP.
But this is a mistake — imagination — hysteria —
KATE.
It’s God’s truth, Philip.
PHILIP.
Oh, God! Oh, God!
KATE.
I wonder everybody hasn’t seen it in the child’s face. I wonder all the world hasn’t seen it! I wish it had! Then it would be all over — all over at last.
PHILIP.
Hush! For heaven’s sake, don’t talk so wildly.
KATE.
(Rises) Wildly! What talk is there that can give words to what is going on — (beating her breast) — here? Night and day — every hour — every moment — a sledge-hammer is beating in my brain. A voice, like the last trump, is sounding in my ears: Liar! Thief! You have stolen a good man’s love, an honest man’s name. You have betrayed his trust: you have brought shame into his house; you are shame! You — you — you!
PHILIP.
Kate, what are you going to do?
KATE.
Do? What do you suppose I’m going to do? Do you think I can go on living here?
PHILIP.
(With horror.) You don’t mean that you are going to —
KATE.
Oh, don’t be afraid. I’m not going to kill myself — yet. I thought of that, too, this morning, when I crossed the river, coming home from church. It would soon be over there, I thought. No more trouble, no more dreams, no more waking in the night with his peaceful breathing by my side and the voice out of the darkness crying —
PHILIP.
Kate!
KATE.
No. I haven’t courage enough for that.
PHILIP.
What then? What?
KATE.
I’m going away. (She sees his fears, and changes her tone to one of cold indifference.) After all, it’s no concern of yours, is it? What I am going to do only concerns me — the woman. What has Philip Christian, the Deemster, to do with that? Philip Christian, the lover — ah, that was a different matter. He could lie in the sunshine and gather the roses. But the Deemster! What can the Deemster have to do with the doings of — of a disgraced and outcast wife?
PHILIP.
I deserve all your scorn, but I beg — I pray — think of the torture I shall suffer —
KATE.
Think of the torture I am suffering! But what have you to fear? Nothing at all. You can sleep sound and wake happy. The woman’s burden is for me — alone!
(PETE bursts in at door. Cheering outside.)
PETE.
Did you hear us, Phil? Did you hear me on the drum? The boys are here to take you home in procession, and they’re wanting you to make a speech to them.
PHILIP.
I can’t speak to them.
PETE.
But you must.
PHILIP.
Not to-day, at all events.
PETE.
You must, man veen, you must. Here, come along, now — come to the door.
(He hustles PHILIP out of the door, remaining inside himself. A great cheer outside.)
PHILIP.
(Outside.) Friends, and fellow-townsmen —
(Shouts of “Hear! Hear!”)
PETE.
(At KATE’S side.) That’s good. That’ll fetch ‘em.
PHILIP.
(Outside.’) You can never know how much your kind congratulations have moved me —
(Cheers, and cries: “You deserve it all, sir!”)
Yet I cannot say whether in my heart of hearts I feel more pride than shame pride at the honour that has been done me, shame at my own unworthiness.
PETE.
“Unworthiness” — do ye hear that, Kirry?
PHILIP.
God only knows the frailties and infirmities, the weaknesses and sins that each of us hide in our hearts —
PETE.
Eh? What’s that? Is he off his head, Kate?
PHILIP.
But I’ll try to do my duty for the honour of the place I fill, and if it should ever appear that your confidence has been misplaced — if I should seem to be untrue to the oath I am so soon to take — a wrong-doer — not a righter of the wronged — remember, fellow-countrymen, remember, I beseech you, that much as you may be suffering then, I shall be suffering more.
(Confused murmurs outside, cries of “No, no,” etc.)
PETE.
The wrong tack, Phil! The wind’s out of your sails, boy! Where’s that drum? I must lift this up a bit. (Going out, crying.) Three cheers for the new Deemster, my lads!
(Great cheering.)
On to your shoulders with him, boys! Now then, Jonaique Jelly! “See the Conquering Hero.”
(Big bang of the drum. Band plays “Conquering Hero,” and gradually dies away. NANCY is seen on top of stairs holding the baby.)
NANCY.
My gracious mercy! Whatever’s the matter?
KATE.
Has the noise waked baby?
NANCY.
He was making a fine to-do, ma’am. (To Baby.) There, there — was ‘em naughty men?
KATE.
Bring him down.
NANCY.
(Coming down steps.) But what was the band for?
KATE.
They’re seeing the Deemster home, Nancy.
NANCY.
Seeing him home, are they? (Hands the Baby to her. She -puts it in the cradle.) Here, ma’am! (Hands her a bottle.) And here’s fresh milk. There’ll be a grand sight in the town, I’m thinking. I wonder now —
KATE.
(Busy with the baby.) What, Nancy?
NANCY.
I wonder would you let me go and see the “do,” ma’am?
KATE.
Why, of course, Nancy, if you want to.
NANCY.
Shan’t be gone more’n quarter of an hour, ma’am.
KATE.
No need to hurry back, Nancy — I’ll see to baby.
NANCY.
Thank you, ma’am! For the master’s sake you’d do that, if you wouldn’t for your own. The way that man dotes on that child, it’s shocking! If anything happened to it, he’d just break his heart, I do believe. (She -puts the shawl she’s wearing over her head.) There! I’ve seen Mr. Philip grow up and I love him! Everybody loves Mr. Philip, don’t they, ma’am? (Opening door.) Listen! I know what that is — (sings)— “See, see, the conquering—” Oh, my!
(Exit NANCY, as if marching to tune.)
KATE.
(Suddenly active. Finds her hat and cloak, which she took of when she came in — comes to cradle.) Oh, baby, baby, we must go. We’re strangers in this house, dearie — strangers and robbers. Your mother’s heart’s breaking, baby, and she’ll die if she stays here and hears him saying loving things, and sees him looking at her with his great, trusting eyes. (Bends low over cradle.) Baby — he’s making your mother love him — and that’s what drives her away. How can she lie to the man she loves? (Lifts the baby out.) Oh, come, come! We must go! We must go! (Stands in the middle of the room and looks about her.) Good-bye! — How empty how desolate and empty! What a home for him to come back to! Well! It’ll be no emptier than when I’m here. (Looks at tine cradle?) That will break his heart. The empty cradle will break his heart. What shall I do? (With an agonised conflict.) Baby — can I give you to him? Must I? Must I give my child? My own child? Yes! Then, perhaps, I shall have atoned. Perhaps God will give me a little peace. My baby! My little Philip! I’ll leave you with him. He cannot live without one of us. Good-bye! (Kisses child.) I may never see you again. You will grow up and never see your mother — never know she loved you!
(Band heard far off playing again “Home, Sweet Home.”)
(She carries the baby back and lays it in the cradle. She kisses it, shaken with dreadful sobs. Then she dashes her tears aside and rises, takes off a ring, a little necklace and bracelet, and lays them on the table.) His, not mine! (Is about to take off her wedding ring.) And this “With this ring I thee wed.” No, no, not that! (She turns back to cradle, kneels by it, kisses child.) Good-bye, darling! One more kiss! Good-bye! Good-bye! (She totters towards the door; opens it, looks back — rushes back and kisses the child frantically. Then dashes out, closing the door after her.)
(Pause. The clock is heard ticking. It strikes the half hour. Ticks again.)
(PETE bursts in, singing “See the Conquering Hero.”)
PETE.
You should have seen ‘em in the market-place, Kate! Poor Philip was mortal uncomfortable, though! Four of us had him on our shoulders and we laughed so much we nearly let him drop. I wish you’d — hulloa! (Calls.) Kate! Katie! Gone out? Kirry! (Sees baby.) Why, Lord bless me, if there isn’t the Emperor! Where’s your mother, old chap? She can’t have gone out; she could hardly stand. (Calls again.) Ka-ate! Peggy! No — I sent Peggy for the port — Nancy! What’s the matter with the house, anyway? (Slight shudder.) It feels as if — (Dashes upstairs and opens door B.) Kitty — is anything — (Is stopped short. Looks over the railing, speaking with fear.) Nancy! (From where he stands in the gallery he sees the ring and bracelet lying on the table. He is fascinated, and stares long at them.) What’s that? What’s that, glittering on the table? What’s that glittering? (He comes down the stairs and to the table, takes up ring and the bracelet and looks at them without understanding) Her ring — her bracelet — money — all she had — everything I gave her — Kirry! Kitty! Kate! (Looks round.) Her cloak’s gone! Her hat, too! (Calls again, hoarsely.) Kate! Kate!
(Suddenly the whistle of a passing train is heard.)
(He looks up.) Gone! — my God, gone! My Kirry ‘s gone! (He makes a dash for the door.)
(Enter NANCY).
PETE.
Kirry, is that you?
NANCY.
No, it’s only me, Capt’n.
PETE.
Then where’s — where’s — (Stops suddenly.)
NANCY.
Where’s what? The mistress? I left her here. Lord-a-massy, the white you’re looking! Has anything happened? Is the mistress ill? Where has she gone to?
PETE.
Where should she be gone to? The father’s, of course.
NANCY.
She couldn’t she was that tired.
PETE.
But she has — I tell ye she has — say another word and I’ll — I’ll kill ye.
NANCY.
Goodness me! You needn’t speak like that. I wouldn’t say nothing against Kate Cregeen — I’ve known her since she was a girl, and I love the very —
PETE.
Then run — run round to the father’s and fetch her back. She’s hysterical — she’s gone out without knowing it — run, girl, run!
NANCY.
(Indicating cradle.) But —
PETE.
(Pushing her out.) I’ll see to him! Run!
(Exit NANCY A.)
PETE.
(At cradle.) Your mother couldn’t leave you, could she, old man? No, not if she tried, she couldn’t! Nor me, neither, she’s that faithful and true — not like some sorts o’ women, a serpent in a poor man’s heart. She’s ill, boy, that’s what she is — nervous and hysterical and doesn’t know what she’s doing. Is Nancy never coming back? I must have drink, though — I’m choking with thirst. (Takes water from table and gulps it down.) Here’s to you, my Emperor! And your mother too, God bless her! She’s gone for a breath o’ fresh air — (mechanically) — a breath o’ fresh air a breath o’ fresh — What a time that woman is, though!
(The door opens A. He swings back, and cries.)
Nancy!
(Enter CAESAR CREGEEN, and NANCY.)
Well?
CAESAR.
(Excited, fierce.) What’s this Nancy says? Kate gone?
PETE.
(Startled.) Caesar! Isn’t she with — (Pulls himself up.)
CAESAR.
Don’t you know where she’s gone to?
PETE.
(To gain time.) Don’t I know — don’t I know — don’t I know, you say —
CAESAR.
Out with it, man. I see it in your face. Why don’t you speak the truth? I’m her father — I’ve a right to know.
(PETE is seen rapidly slipping the ring and necklace into his pocket.)
PETE.
You’re her father, are ye?
CAESAR.
She’s gone — left you — and I warned you —
PETE.
Warned me, did ye?
CAESAR.
Yes, of that loose liver, that prodigal, that profligate, Ross Christian. He has gone, too they’ve gone together —
PETE.
Stop that — stop it, d’ye hear?
(Enter BLACK TOM, KELLY, the Postman, JONAIQUE JELLY, and OTHERS, audaciously.)
JONAIQUE.
What’s wrong here?
TOM.
Yes, what the jeel — what’s the trouble?
PETE.
Trouble? What trouble, if you please?
POSTMAN.
Your wife, man, your wife!
PETE.
My wife? What about my wife?
TOM.
Gone, isn’t she? Gone by the train.
PETE.
Gone by the train, eh?
POSTMAN.
With a strange man, they’re saying —
PETE.
A strange man!
TOM.
We were at the station ourselves —
PETE.
You were at the station yourselves — Well, that’s grand! That’s rich!
(Breaks into wild and -prolonged peal of laughter, then suddenly sobers and becomes fierce.)
And so, because you were at the station and saw my wife going by train you smelt mischief, did you? And now you come here to pry into my private affairs, you sneaking set of scandalmongers!
TOM.
Aisy, man! Aisy with the tongue! We only thought —
PETE.
You only thought — what? You thought there was another dirty meal for you here you carrion eaters! That’s it, isn’t it? Well, you’re wrong for once. “My wife has been ill hasn’t she, Nancy?
NANCY.
Yes yes!
PETE.
And Dr. Mylechreest ordered her a change of air — didn’t he, Caesar?
CAESAR.
I — I — I think he did —
PETE.
You know he did — out of the Island for a bit, he said, and she’ll come back another woman.
CAESAR.
Well, yes, I must say — certainly —
PETE.
So I’ve sent her to Liverpool sent her on a visit to my uncle — I suppose a man may send his wife to Liverpool to visit his uncle without asking the consent of all the town! And now — now that you know the truth, you can get out of my house, the ruck of you! My wife’s a good woman, d’ye hear? A good, true woman and a faithful wife, and any of you that wants to whisper a word against that had better come and do it first to me. So out of my house, you scandalmongers! Out of it, you pecking, prying, carrion crows! Out you go, you dirty, measly pig’s wash, before I throw the whole boiling of you into the road! Out with you! Out! Out! (Flings them out as curtain falls quickly.)
CURTAIN.
THE THIRD ACT
SCENE. The Keep of CASTLE RUSHEN. A. square enclosure open to the sky. On the R a stone staircase leads up to a landing and small door (B) in the right wall. Under the stairs is an arched recess. The back of the scene is the wall of the chapel, and in the centre of it is a quaint clock. There is a divide and heavy gate (A) left front, and a smaller postern (C) right front. The clock at the back points to two minutes to ten. (The clock is going, and must point to the time indicated in the dialogue throughout the Act.)
(The stage is empty. There is the noise of a CROWD off L. The clock strikes ten.)
(The CAPTAIN’S voice, outside.)
CAPTAIN.
Present arms!
(Noise of rifles brought into position.)
(Voice of LIEUTENANT-GOVERNOR.)
LIEUTENANT-GOVERNOR.
Philip Christian, you are now to take the solemn oath as Deemster of this island. Lay your hands upon this book and repeat the words of the oath after me, sentence by sentence, as I shall deliver them:
