Complete works of hall c.., p.96
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 96
“Nay, Reuben, Mrs. Ritson has gone back to where she came from.”
“Weel, it’s no’but naturable, after all that’s happent.... Easy now ... be quiet, wilta ... dusta want another snip, eh?... And young Mistress Greta — it’s like she’ll be mistress now?”
“It’s very likely she’ll come to the Ghyll with her husband, Reuben.”
“God bless her! And there’s been no luck on the land since he left it — and everything a fault, too.... There, she’s stripped. Away with her, Natt, man, and de’il tak’ her.”
In the afternoon a vast crowd of men, women and children had gathered once more about the old town-hall at Keswick. They laughed and bantered and sung. Presently the door of the hall was thrown open, and two men came out. One was Paul Ritson, no longer clad as a convict; the other was Parson Christian. The people hailed them with a mighty shout, lifted them into a gig that was drawn up in the market-place, took out the horses and crowded into the shafts. Then they set off with a great cheer through the town and the country road, the dust rising in clouds behind them.
They took the road to the west of the valley, and as they passed under the wood, an old man, much bent, was easing a smoking fire in the charcoal pit. He paused and raised himself, his iron rod in his hand, and lifted his heavy eyes toward the clamorous company. The gig flew past with its shouts, its cheers, and its noisy laughter, and the old man turned silently back to his work.
When they came near to the vicarage, Paul leaped from the carriage over the heads of the men who pulled it, vaulted the gate, and bounded into the house. There was one who waited for him there, and in an instant she was locked close in his arms. “At last!” he whispered. Her heart overflowed; she dropped her fair young head on his heaving breast, and wept sweet tears.
Parson Christian came rolling up the path surrounded by a tumultuous throng. Foremost and lustiest were the blacksmith and the miller, and close behind came the landlord and the postman. All were shouting as if their brassy throats might crack.
There was high revel at the Ghyll that evening. First came the feasting in the old kitchen: huge rounds of beef, quarters of lamb, pease, and sweet puddings and pies. Then came the dancing in the barn, lighted by candles in cloven sticks, and lanterns of turnips that were scooped out hollow.
But at the vicarage Paul and Greta sat alone in silence and with clasped hands. Parson Christian came in and out at intervals, gossiping cheerily of the odds and ends of daily life, as if its even tenor had never been disturbed. They supped together, and sat on till midnight; and then the old Christian took down his green tome and wrote:
“June 30. — So Paul being to return home after his long absence, I spent the forenoon on the fell shearing, and earned a stone of wool and a windle of rye. In the afternoon I set forward toward Keswick, wherefor Randal Alston had loaned me his mare and gig. At the Flying Horse I lighted not, but stood while I drank a pot of ale with John Proudfoot and Richard Parkinson and a neighbor that comes to-morrow to thatch the low barn for me. Then direct to Keswick, where there was a great concourse, and a hearty welcome, and much rejoicings that warmed me and came nigh to break me withal. Got son Paul at last, and would have driven direct home, but the good folk were not minded that it should be so, and naught would do but that they must loose the mare and run in the shafts. So we reached home about six, and found all well, and my love Greta, after long waiting in her closet, very busy with Paul, who had run in ahead of me. So I went out again and foddered and watered the mare, for Peter is sometimes a sad fatch and will not always give a horse what is worth its trouble in the eating. And being thrang this evening a-mending the heels of my old clock boots with lath nails, whereof I bought a pennyworth at Thomas Seed’s shop in the market-place, I saw little of Paul, but left him to Greta. Then supped, and read a psalm and prayed in my family, and sat till full midnight. So I retire to my lodging-room, at peace with all the world, and commend my all to God. The Lord forgive the sins of me and mine that we have committed in these our days of trial. Blessed be God who has wrought our victory, and overcome our enemies and brought us out more than conquerors. Amen.”
Parson Christian had put down the pen, and was sprinkling the writing with sand from a pepper-castor, when Brother Peter came in with candles in his hand and a letter under his abridged arm. “Laal Tom o’ Dint gave me this for thee,” he said to Paul, and dropped the letter on to his knees. “I was sa thrang with all their bodderments, that I don’t know as I didna forget it.”
Parson Christian returned the green-clad book to its shelf, took up his candle, bid good-night, and went to bed.
Brother Peter shambled out, and then Paul and Greta were left alone.
Paul opened the letter. It was inclosed in a sheet of paper that bore the stamp of the Convent of St. Margaret, and these words only, “Sent on by Sister Grace.” Paul began to read the letter aloud, Greta looking over his shoulder. But as he proceeded his voice faltered, and then he stopped. Then, in silence, the eyes of both traversed the written words. They ran:
“Mother, I have wronged you deeply, and yours is a wrong that may never be repaired. The past does not return, and what is done is done with. It is not allowed to us to raze out the sins and the sufferings of the days that are gone; they stand and will endure. I am not so bad a man as perhaps I seem; but of what avail is it to defend myself now? and who would believe me? My life has been one long error, and the threads of my fate have been tangled. Have I not passed before our little world for a stern and callous man? Yet the blight of my soul has been passion. Yearning for love where love could never be returned, I am the ruins of what I might have been. If I did wrong knowingly, it was not until passion mastered me; if I saw things as they did not exist, it was because passion made me blind. Mother, if there is One above to watch and judge our little lives, surely He sees this, and reckons the circumstances with the deed.
“Tell her that I wish her peace. If I were a man used to pray, perhaps I would ask Heaven to bless her. But my heart is barren of prayer. And what, after all, boots my praying? I have given her back at last to the love of a noble man. And now my wasted life is done, and this is the end — a sorry end!
“Mother, I shall not live to suffer the earthly punishment of my crime. Never fear — my hand shall not be lifted against myself. Be sure of that, whatever else may seem doubtful. But very soon this passionate and rebellious soul will stand for judgment before its awaiting God.
“Farewell, my mother, farewell!”
THE DEEMSTER
Published in 1887, The Deemster was Caine’s first great success. Dante Gabriel Rossetti originally suggested that Caine should write a novel set on the Isle of Man. However, it was not for another five years and a number of poorly received novels that he began to work on The Deemster. Having conceived of the plot outline, Caine wrote to his brother, T. E. Brown, the Manx poet, for his opinion. On 3 October 1886 Caine wrote:
“In the first place, the island has excellent atmosphere. It has the sea, a fine coast on the west, fine moorland above; it has traditions, folk-talk, folk-lore, a ballad literature, and no end of superstition – and all these are very much its own.”
Brown’s response on 14 October was blunt on the question of the novel’s setting:
“It could not possibly be placed in the Isle of Man, ... the stage is inadequate for your romance;... Your story is strong and vital; but the Isle of Man sinks beneath it. ... And as for an epic – just write the words, ‘A Manx Epic’ and behold the totally impossible at once!
Caine ignored this advice, but did adapt the plot and characters to some of T. E. Brown’s suggestions. He also sought the advice of two other Manxmen, A.W. Moore and Sir James Gell, particularly on the legal background of the novel. Having assembled his materials, Caine wrote the novel at his house in Bexley in the space of only seven months, a feat made possible by his recycling material from his 1885 novella, She’s All The World To Me, in particular the central scene of Ewan’s body floating back to shore. Caine visited the Isle of Man for a week in August to check the locations of some scenes in the novel and by September the novel was ready to go to the publisher. In financial need, Caine sold the copyright to Chatto & Windus for £150, signing the contract on 27 September 1887. Unfortunately, the terms of the contract meant that he did not gain much wealth from his royalties when the book became a bestseller upon its release in November. Indeed, in 1921 when Caine wanted to release his Collected Works through a different publisher, he would have to pay £350 to Chatto & Windus for the rights to The Deemster.
The plot revolves around the reckless actions of Dan Mylrea and the exile and atonement that follow. It opens with the introduction of the character Thorkell Mylrea, who eventually buys himself into becoming a Deemster (judge) on the Isle of Man. He then uses his influence to have his brother, Gilcrist, appointed Bishop, but Gilcrist disappoints him in being good, pious and beyond bribery. In contrast to their father, the Deemster’s children, Ewan and Mona, grow up to become a conscientious and diligent priest and a caring woman. In contrast, without the strong hand to admonish him, the Bishop’s son, Dan, grows up to become “thoughtless, brave, stubborn,” likeable but unreliable. The cousins, Mona and Dan, come to fall in love. Dan becomes a fisherman, his father funding the buying the boat. However, after only one season Dan is in debt due to the amount of time he has spent in the public house with his fishermen friends. Dan forges Ewan’s name as surety on a loan. When he inevitably defaults on the payments, the Bishop comes to learn of the loan and, although Ewan tries to claim the signature as his, the Bishop casts Dan out. Ewan determines that he can no longer accept Dan as a friend, and he asks him to not see his sister, Mona, any more. To cover over his shame and to try and hide from his failings, Dan again descends to his boisterous ways.
The first edition
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
CHAPTER XXXI
CHAPTER XXXII
CHAPTER XXXIII
CHAPTER XXXIV
CHAPTER XXXV
CHAPTER XXXVI
CHAPTER XXXVII
CHAPTER XXXVIII
CHAPTER XXXIX
CHAPTER XL
CHAPTER XLI
CHAPTER XLII
CHAPTER XLIII
CHAPTER XLIV
CHAPTER XLV
The view from the Chasms, the site of Dan’s home during his exile
CHAPTER I
THE DEATH OF OLD EWAN
Thorkell Mylrea had waited long for a dead man’s shoes, but he was wearing them at length. He was forty years of age; his black hair was thin on the crown and streaked with gray about the temples; the crow’s-feet were thick under his small eyes, and the backs of his lean hands were coated with a reddish down. But he had life in every vein, and restless energy in every limb.
His father, Ewan Mylrea, had lived long, and mourned much, and died in sorrow. The good man had been a patriarch among his people, and never a serener saint had trod the ways of men. He was already an old man when his wife died. Over her open grave he tried to say, “The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed—” But his voice faltered and broke. Though he lived ten years longer, he held up his head no more. Little by little he relinquished all active interest in material affairs. The world had lost its light for him, and he was traveling in the dusk.
On his sons, Thorkell, the elder, Gilcrist, the younger, with nearly five years between them, the conduct of his estate devolved. Never were brothers more unlike. Gilcrist, resembling his father, was of a simple and tranquil soul; Thorkell’s nature was fiery, impetuous, and crafty. The end was the inevitable one; the heel of Thorkell was too soon on the neck of Gilcrist.
Gilcrist’s placid spirit overcame its first vexation, and he seemed content to let his interests slip from his hands. Before he was out Thorkell Mylrea was in effect the master of Ballamona; his younger brother was nightly immersed in astronomy and the Fathers, and the old man was sitting daily, in his slippers, in the high-backed armchair by the ingle, over which these words were cut in the black oak: “God’s Providence is mine inheritance.”
They were strange effects that followed. People said they had never understood the extraordinary fortunes of Ballamona. Again and again the rents were raised throughout the estate, until the farmers cried in the grip of their poverty that they would neither go nor starve. Then the wagons of Thorkell Mylrea, followed close at their tail-boards by the carts of the clergy, drove into the cornfields when the corn was cut, and picked up the stooks and bore them away amid the deep curses of the bare-armed reapers, who looked on in their impotent rage.
Nevertheless, Thorkell Mylrea said, far and wide, without any show of reserve, and with every accent of sincerity, that never before had his father’s affairs worn so grave a look. He told Ewan as much time after time, and then the troubled old face looked puzzled. The end of many earnest consultations between father and son, as the one sat by the open hearth and the other leaned against the lettered ingle, was a speedy recourse to certain moneys that lay at an English bank, as well as the old man’s signature to documents of high moment.
Old Ewan’s spirits sank yet lower year by year, but he lived on peacefully enough. As time went by, he talked less, and his humid eyes seemed to look within in degree as they grew dim to things without. But the day came at length when the old man died in his chair, before the slumberous peat fire on the hearth, quietly, silently, without a movement, his graspless fingers fumbling a worm-eaten hour-glass, his long waves of thin white hair falling over his drooping shoulders, and his upturned eyes fixed in a strong stare on the text carved on the rannel-tree shelf, “God’s Providence is mine inheritance.”
That night Thorkell sat alone at the same ingle, in the same chair, glancing at many parchments, and dropping them one by one into the fire. Long afterward, when idle tongues were set to wag, it was said that the elder son of Ewan Mylrea had found a means whereby to sap away his father’s personalty. Then it was remembered that through all his strange misfortunes Thorkell had borne an equal countenance.
They buried the old man under the elder-tree by the wall of the churchyard that stands over against the sea. It seemed as if half of the inhabitants of the island came to his funeral, and six sets of bearers claimed their turn to carry him to the grave. The day was a gloomy day of winter; there was not a bird or a breath in the heavy air; the sky was low and empty; the long dead sea was very gray and cold; and over the unplowed land the withered stalks of the last crop lay dank on the mold. When the company returned to Ballamona they sat down to eat and drink and make merry, for “excessive sorrow is exceeding dry.” No one asked for the will; there was no will because there was no personalty, and the lands were by law the inheritance of the eldest son. Thorkell was at the head of his table, and he smiled a little, and sometimes reached over the board to touch with his glass the glass that was held out toward him. Gilcrist had stood with these mourners under the empty sky, and his heart was as bare and desolate, but he could endure their company no longer. In an agony of grief and remorse, and rage as well, he got up from his untouched food and walked away to his own room. It was a little, quiet nest of a room that looked out by one small window over the marshy Curraghs that lay between the house and the sea. There Gilcrist sat alone that day in a sort of dull stupor.
The daylight had gone, and the revolving lamps on the headland of Ayre were twinkling red after black over the blank waters, when the door opened and Thorkell entered. Gilcrist stirred the fire, and it broke into a bright blaze. Thorkell’s face wore a curious expression.
“I have been thinking a good deal about you, Gilcrist; especially during the last few days. In fact, I have been troubled about you, to say the truth,” said Thorkell, and then he paused. “Affairs are in a bad way at Ballamona — very.”
Gilcrist made no response whatever, but clasped his hands about his knee and looked steadily into the fire.
“We are neither of us young men now, but if you should think of — of — anything, I should consider it wrong to stand — to put myself in your way — to keep you here, that is — to your disadvantage, you know.”
Thorkell was standing with his back to the fire, and his fingers interlaced behind him.
Gilcrist rose to his feet. “Very well,” he said, with a strained quietness, and then turned toward the window and looked out at the dark sea. Only the sea’s voice from the shore beyond the churchyard broke the silence in that little room.
Thorkell stood a moment, leaning on the mantel-shelf, and the flickering lights of the fire seemed to make sinister smiles on his face. Then he went out without a word.
Next morning, at daybreak, Gilcrist Mylrea was riding toward Derby Haven with a pack in green cloth across his saddle-bow. He took passage by the “King Orry,” an old sea-tub plying once a week to Liverpool. From Liverpool he went on to Cambridge to offer himself as a sizar at the University.
It had never occurred to any one that Thorkell Mylrea would marry. But his father was scarcely cold in his grave, the old sea-tub that took his brother across the Channel had hardly grounded at Liverpool, when Thorkell Mylrea offered his heart and wrinkled hand, and the five hundred acres of Ballamona, to a lady twenty years of age, who lived at a distance of some six miles from his estate. It would be more precise to say that the liberal tender was made to the lady’s father, for her own will was little more than a cypher in the bargaining. She was a girl of sweet spirit, very tender and submissive, and much under the spell of religious feeling. Her mother had died during her infancy, and she had been brought up in a household that was without other children, in a gaunt rectory that never echoed with children’s voices. Her father was Archdeacon of the island, Archdeacon Teare; her own name was Joance.
