 Part 1 Chapter 9 of The Manxman. Somewhere towards the dawn, in the vague shadow-land between a dream and the awakening, Kate thought she was startled by a handful of rice thrown at her carriage on her marriage morning. The rattle came again, and then she knew it was from gravel dashed at her bedroom window. As she recognized the sound, a voice came as through a cavern crying, Kate. She was fully awake by this time. Then it's to be Pete, she thought. It's bound to be Pete. It's like, she told herself, it's himself outside anyway. It was Pete indeed. He was standing in the thin darkness under the window, calling the girl's name out of the back of his throat, and whistling to her in a sort of whisper. Presently he heard a movement inside the room, and he said over his shoulder, she's coming. There was the click of a latch and the slithering of a sash, and then out through the little dark frame came a head like a picture, with a face all laughter, crowned by a cataract of streaming black hair, and routed off at the throat by a shadowy hint of the white frills of a nightdress. Kate said Pete again. She pretended to have come to the window, merely to look out, and like a true woman, she made a little start at the sound of his voice, and a little cry of dismay at the idea that he was so close beneath and had taken her unawares. Then she peered down into the gloom and said in a tone of wonderous surprise, it must be Pete surely. And so it is Kate, said Pete, and he couldn't take rest without speaking to you once again. Ah, she said, looking back and covering her eyes, and thinking of Black Tom and the fairies. But suddenly the mischief of her sex came dancing into her blood, and she could not help but plague the lad. Have you lost your way, Pete? She asked, with an air of innocence. Not my way, but my self-woman said, Pete. Lost yourself? Have the lad's wits gone moon-raking, I wonder? Are you witch then, Pete? She inquired with vast solemnity. Oh, witched enough, Kate. Poor fellow, sighed Kate. Did she strike you unknown and sudden? Unknown it was, Curie, and sudden, too. Listen, though. Oh, dear, oh, dear, was it all Mrs. Cowley of the Curra? Did she turn into a hare? Is it bitten, you've been, Pete? Oh, yes, bitten enough, but Kate. Then it was a dog, it's like. Is it flying from the water, you are, Pete? No, but flying to the water, woman. Kate, I say. Is it burning they're doing for it? Burning and freezing both. Will you hear me, though? I'm going away, hundreds and thousands of miles away. Then from the window came a tone of great awe, uttered with face turned upward, as if to the last remaining star. Poor boy, poor boy, it's bitten he is for sure. Then it's yourself that's bitten me. Curie, there was a little crow of gaiety. Me? Am I the witch? You called me a fairy in the road this evening. A fairy you are, girl, and a witch, too. But listen, now. You said I was an angel, though, at the cowhouse gable, and an angel doesn't bite. Then she barked like a dog, and laughed a shrill laugh like a witch, and barked again. But Pete could bear no more. Go on, then, go on with your capers. Go on, he cried in a voice of reproach. It's not a heart that's at you at all, girl, but only a stone. You see a man going away from the island. From the island, Kate Gasp? Middling down in the mouth, too, and plagued out of his life between the ruck of you, continued Pete. But God forgive you all. You can't help it. Did you say you were going out of the island, Pete? Course I did. But what's the odds? Africa? Kimberley? The Lord knows where. Kimberley? Not Kimberley, Pete. Kimberley or Timbuktu? What's it matter to the like of you? A man's coming up in the morning to bid you goodbye before an early sailing, and you're thinking of nothing but your capers and divlements. It's you to know what a girl's thinking, is it, Mr. Pete? And why are you flying in my face for a word? Flying? I'm not flying. It's driven I am. Driven, Pete? Driven away by them that's thinking I'm not fit for you. Well, that's true enough, but they shan't be telling me twice. They? Who are they, Pete? What's the odds flinging my mother at me too, poor little mother, and putting the bastard on me, it's like? The respectable man's girl isn't going begging that she need marry a lad without a name. There was a sudden ejaculation from the window sash. Who dared say that? No matter. Whoever they are, you can tell them. If it's me they mean, that name or no name, when I want to marry, I'll marry the man I like. If I thought that now, kitty, as for you, Mr. Pete, that's so ready with your cross words, you can go to your Kimberley. Yes, go and welcome. And what's more, what's more, but the voice of anger in the half-light overhead broke down suddenly into an inarticulate gurgle. Why, what's this, said Pete in a flurry? You're not crying, though, Kate. Whatever am I saying to you, kitty woman? Here, here, bash me on the head for a blockhead and an omethorn. And Pete was clambering up the wall by the side of the dairy window. Get down there and whispered, Kate. Her wrath was gone in a moment, and Pete, being nearer to her now, could see tears of laughter dancing in her eyes. Get down, Pete, or I'll shut the window. I will, yes, I will. And to show how much she was in earnest, in getting out of his reach, she shut up the higher sash and opened the lower one. Darling, cried Pete. Hush, what's that, Kate whispered, and drew back on her knees. Is the door of the pigsty open again, said Pete? Kate drew a breath of relief. It's only somebody snoring, she said. The old man said, Pete, that's all serene. A good old sheepdog that snaps more than he bites. But he's best when he's sleeping, more safer anyway. What's the good of going away, Pete, said Kate? You'd have to make a fortune to satisfy father. Others have done it, kitty. Why shouldn't I? Manx ones too. Silver kings and diamond kings, and the lord knows what. No fear of me. When I come back, it's a queen you'll be, woman. My queen anyway, with pigs and cattle and a girl to wash and do for you. So that's how you'd bribe a poor girl, is it? But you'd have to turn religious, or father would never consent. When I come home again, kitty, I'll be that religious you never seen. I'll be just rolling in it. You'll hear me spake and like the book of Genesis and Abraham and his sons and his cousins. I'll be coming up at night making love to you at the cowhouse door like the Acts of the Apostles. Well, that would be some sort of courting anyway. But who says I'll be wanting it? Who says I'm willing for you to go away at all with the notion that I must be bound to marry you when you come back? I do, said Pete stoutly. Oh, indeed, sir. Listen, I'll be working like a nigger out yonder, and making my pile and banking it up, and never seeing nothing but the gold and the girls. My goodness, what do you say? Oh, never fear, I'm a one woman man, Kate, but loving one is giving me eyes for all, and you'll be waiting for me constant, and never giving a scoot of your little eye to them drapers and draggers from Ramsay. Not one of them? Not Jamesy Corrin even? He's a nice boy, is Jamesy? That dandy devil with a collar? Hold your capers, woman. Nor young Balawain? Ross Christian, you know? Ross Christian be? Well, no. But on a bright, you'll be saying, Pete is coming. I must be through. So I've got my orders, sir, eh? It's all settled, then, is it? Hadn't you better fix the wedding day and take out the bans, now that your hand is in? I have got nothing to do with it, seemingly. Nobody asked me. Wistwoman, cried Pete. Don't you hear it? A cuckoo was passing over the house and calling. It's over the thatch, Kate. Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo, three times. Bravo! Three times is a good amen. Omen, is it? Have it as you like, love. The stars had paled out by this time and the dawn was coming up like a grey vapor from the sea. Oh, the air feels late. I must be going in, said Kate. Only a bit of a draft from the mountains. It's not morning yet, said Pete. A bird called from out of the mist somewhat far away. It is, though. That's the throttle up the glen, said Kate. Another bird answered from the eaves of the house. And what's that, said Pete? Was it yourself, kitty? How straight your voice is like the throttles. She hung her head at the sweet praise, but answered tartly. How people will be talking. A dead white light came sweeping over the front of the house, and the trees and the hedges, all quiet until then, began to shudder. Kate shuddered, too, and drew the frills closer about her throat. I'm going, Pete, she whispered. Not yet. It's only a taste of the salt from the sea, said Pete. The moon's not out many minutes. Why, you goose, it's been gone these two hours. This isn't Jupiter, where it's moonlight always. Always moonlight in Jupiter, is it, said Pete? My goodness, what courting there must be there. A cock crowed from under the hen roost. The dog barked indoors, and the mare began to stamp in her stall. When do you sail, Pete? First hide, seven o'clock. Time to be off then, goodbye. Hold hard a word first. Not a word. I'm going back to bed. See, there's the sun coming up over the mountains. Only a touch of red on the tip of old Cronky's nose. Listen, just to keep them dandy divils from plaguing you, I'll tell Phil to have an eye on you while I'm away. Mr. Christian. Call him Philip, Kate. He's as free as free. No pride at all. Let him take care of you till I come back. I'm shutting the window, Pete. Wait, something else. Bend down so the old man won't hear. I can't reach. What is it? Your hand then. I'll tell it to your hand. She hesitated a moment, and then dropped her hand over the window sill, and he clutched at it and kissed it, and pushed back the white sleeve, and ran up the arm with his lips as far as he could climb. Another, my girl, take your time. One more. Half a one, then. She drew her arm back until her hand got up to his hand, and then she said, What's this? The mole on your finger still, Pete. You call me a witch? Now see me charm it away. Listen. Ping, ping, prash. Curr and caddly, jargon, ass, machasse. She was uttering the man's charm in a mock solemn allulation, when a bow snapped in the orchard, and she cried, What's that? It's Philip. He's waiting under the apple tree, said Pete. My goodness, me, said Kate, and down went the window sash. A moment later it rose again, and there was the beautiful young face in its frame as before, but with the rosy light of the dawn on it. Has he been there all the while, she whispered? What matter? It's only Phil. Goodbye, good luck, and then the window went down for good. Time to go, said Philip, still in his tall silk hat and his knickerbockers. He had been standing alone among the dead brown fern, the withering gorse and the hanging brambles, gripping the apple tree and swallowing the cry that was bubbling up to his throat, but forcing himself to look upon Pete's happiness, which was his own calamity, though it was tearing his heart out, and he could hardly bear it. The birds were singing by this time, and Pete, going back, sang and whistled with the best of them. End of part one, chapter nine. Recording by Tony Ashworth Part one, chapter 10 of The Manxman. This is a LibriVox recording, or LibriVox recordings were in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tony Ashworth. The Manxman by Sir Hall Kane. Chapter 10 In the midst of the morning, Granny had awakened in her bed with the turfy scrays of the thatch just visible above her, and the window blind like a hazy moon floating on the wall at her side. And fixing her nightcap, she had sighed and said, I can't close my eyes for the dreaming that the poor lad has come to his end untimely. Caesar yawned and asked, What lad? Young Pete, of course, said Granny. Caesar umpt and grunted. We were poor ourselves when we began, Father. Granny felt the glare of the old man's eye on her in the darkness. Deed we were, but people forget things. We had to borrow to buy our big overshot wheel. We had, though. And when old person Harrison sent us the first bowl of oats, we couldn't grind it for want of— Caesar tugged at the counterpane and said, Will you lie quiet, woman, and let a hard-working man sleep? Then don't be the young man's destruction, Caesar. Caesar made a contemptuous snort and pulled the bedclothes about his head. Oh, Deed, Father! But the girl might do worse. A fine strapping lad, and dear heart the cheerful face at him. It's taking joy to look at, like drawing water from a well. And the laugh at the boy, too, that joyful. It's as good to hear in the morning as six pigs at a li— Then marry the lad yourself, woman, and have done with it, cried Caesar. And so saying, he kicked out his leg, turned over to the wall, and began to snore with great vigor. The tide was up in Ramsey Harbour, and rolling heavily on the shore before a fresh sea breeze with a cold taste of the salt in it. A steamer lying by the key was getting up steam. Trucks were running on her gangways, the clanking crane over her hold was working, and there was much shouting of name and ordering and protesting and general tumult. On the afterdeck stood the emigrants for Kimberley, the quarks from Glenrushan, and some of the young gills from Castletown, stalwart lads, bearing themselves bravely in the midst of a circle of their friends, who talked and laughed to make them forget they were on the point of going. Pete and Phil came up the key, and were received by a shout of incredulity from Quayle, the harbour master. What are you going to, Mr. Philip? Philip answered him no, and passed on to the ship. Pete was still in his stocking cap and Wellington boots, but he had a monkey jacket over his blue Guernsey. Except for a parcel and a red-print handkerchief, this was all his kit and luggage. He felt a little lost amid all the bustle and looked helpless and unhappy. The busy preparations on land and shipboard had another effect on Philip. He sniffed the breeze off the bay and laughed and said, The sea is calling me, Pete. I have half a mind to go with you. Pete answered with a watery smile. His high spirits were failing him at last. Five years were a long time to be away, if one built all one's hopes on coming back. So many things might happen, so many chances might befall. Pete had no heart for laughter. Philip had small mind for it either, after the first rush of the salt in his blood was over. He felt at some moments as if hell itself were inside of him. What troubled him most was that he could not, for the life of him, be sorry that Pete was leaving the island. Once or twice since they left Solby, he had been startled by the thought that he hated Pete. He knew that his lip curled down hard at sight of Pete's solemn face. But Pete never suspected this, and the innocent tenderness of the rough fellow was every moment beating it down with blows that cut like ice and burnt like fire. They were standing by the folksal head and talking above the loud throbbing of the funnel. Goodbye, Phil. You've been wonderful good to me, better know anybody in the world. I've not been much of a chum for the like of you either, you that's college bread, and ought to be the first gentry in the island, if everybody had his own. But you shan't be ashamed from me neither. No, you shan't, so help me God. I won't be long away, Phil. Maybe five years, maybe less. And when I come back, you'll be the first manxman living. No? But you will, though. You will, I'm telling you. No nonsense at all, man. Leave it to me to know. Philip's frosty blue eyes began to melt. And if I come back rich, I'll be your old friend again as much as a common man may. And if I come back poor and disappointed and done for, I'll not claim you to disgrace you. And if I never come back at all, I'll be saying to myself in my dark hour somewhere, he'll spake up for you at home, boy. He'll not forget you. Philip could hear no more for the puffing of the steam and the clanking of the chains. Shoot! The talker man will put out when he's thinking of old times gone by. The first bell rang on the bridge, and the harbormaster shouted, all ashore there. Phil, there's one turn more I'll ask of you, and if it's the last, it's the biggest. What is it? There's Kate, you know. Keep an eye on the girl while I'm away. Take a slew round now and then, and put a sight on her. She'll not give a scoot at the heirs the old man's telling of. But them young drapers and draggers, they'll plague the life out of the girl. Bait them off, Phil. They're not worth a fudge with their fists, but don't use no violence. Just duck the dandy divils in the harbour, that'll do. No harm shall come to her while you are away. Swear to it, Phil. Your words, your bond. I know that. But give me your hand and swear to it. It'll be more sureer. Philip gave his hand and his oath, and then tried to turn away, for he knew that his face was reddening. Wait there's another while your hand's in, Phil. Swear that nothing and nobody shall ever come between us, too. You know nothing ever will. But swear to it, Phil. There's bad tongues going, and it'll make me more azier. Whatever they do, whatever they say, friends and brothers to the last. Philip felt a buzzing in his head, and he was so dizzy that he could hardly stand, but he took the second oath also. Then the bell rang again, and there was a great hover. Gangways were drawn up, ropes were let go, the captain called to the shore from the bridge, and the blustering harbour master called to the bridge from the shore. Go and stand on the end of the pier, Phil, just a back of the lighthouse, and I'll put myself at the stern. I want a friend's face to be the last thing I see when I'm going away from the old home. Philip could bear no more. The hate in his heart was mastered. It was under his feet. His flushed face was wet. The throbbing of the funnels ceased, and all that could be heard was the running of the tide in the harbour and the wash of the waves on the shore. Across the sea the sun came up boldly, like a guest expected, and down its dancing water path the steamer moved away. Over the land old Baru rose up like a sea king with whorefrost on his forehead, and the smoke began to lift from the chimneys of the town at his feet. Goodbye, little island, goodbye. I'll not forget you. I'm getting kicked out of you, but you've been a good old mother to me, and God help me. I'll come back to you yet. So long, little Mona, so long. I'm leaving you, but I'm a manxman still. Peter had meant to take off his stocking cap as they passed the lighthouse, and to dash the tears from his eyes like a man. But all that Philip could see from the end of the pier was a figure huddled up at this stern on a coil of rope. End of Chapter 11, Recording by Tony Ashworth. Part 2, Chapter 1 of the Manxman. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings were in the public domain. For more information, auto-volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tony Ashworth. The Manxman by Sir Hall Cain. Part 2, Boy and Girl. Chapter 1 Aunty Nan had grown uneasy because Philip was not yet started in life. During the spell of his partnership with Pete she had protested and he had coaxed. She had scolded and he had laughed. But when Pete was gone she remembered her old device and began to play on Philip through the memory of his father. One day the air was full of the sea freshness of a beautiful Manx November. Philip sniffed it from the porch after breakfast and then gathered up his tackle for cod. The boat again, Philip, said Aunty Nan, then promised me to be back for tea. Philip gave his promise and kept it. When he returned after his day's fishing the old lady was waiting for him in the little blue room which she called her own. The sweet place was more than usually dainty and comfortable that day. A bright fire was burning and everything seemed to be arranged so carefully and natally. The table was laid with cups and saucers, the kettle was singing on the jockey-bar, and Aunty Nan herself, in a cap of black lace and a dress of russet silk with flounces, was fluttering about with an odour of lavender and the light gaiety of a bird. Why, what's the meaning of this? said Philip. And the sweet old thing answered half nervously, half jokingly. You don't know? What a child it is to be sure, so you don't remember what day it is. What day? The fifth of no—oh, my birthday! I had clean forgotten it, Aunty. Yes, and you are one and twenty for tea-time. That's why I asked you to be home. She pulled out the tea, settled herself with her feet on the fender, allowed the cat to establish itself on her skirt, and then with a nervous smile and a slight depression of the heart, she began on her task. How the years roll on, Philip? It's twenty years since I gave you my first birthday present. I wasn't here when you were born, dear. Grandfather had forbidden me, poor grandfather, but how I longed to come and wash and dress and nurse my boy's boy, and call myself an Aunty aloud. Oh, dear me, the day I first saw you, shall I ever forget it? Grandfather and I were at Cowley, the drapers, when a beautiful young person stepped in with a baby—a little too gay, poor thing, and that was how I knew her. My mother? Yes, dear, and grandfather was standing with his back to the street. I grow hot to this day when I remember, but she didn't seem afraid. She nodded and smiled and lifted the muslin veil from the baby's face, and said, Who's he like, Miss Christian? It was wonderful. You were asleep, and it was the same for all the world as if your father had stepped back to be a baby. I was trembling fit to drop and couldn't answer, and then your mother saw grandfather, and before I could stop her she had touched him on the shoulder. He stood with his bad ear towards us, and his sight was failing too, but seeing the form of a lady beside him, he swept round and bowed low, and smiled and raced his hat, as his way was with all women. Then your mother held the baby up and said quite gaily, Is it one of the balloos he is, Dempster, or one of the ballerwains? Dear heart, when I think of it, grandfather straightened himself up, turned about, and was out on the street in an instant. Poor father, said Philip. Aunty Nan's eyes brightened. I was going to tell you of your first birthday, dearest. Grandfather had gone then. Poor grandfather. And I had knitted you a little soft cap of white wool, with a tassel and a pink bow. Your mother's father was living still, Captain Billy, as they called him, and when I put the cap on your little head he cried out, A sailor every inch of him. And sure enough, though I had never thought it, a sailor's cap it was. And Captain Billy put you on his knee, and looked at you sideways, and slapped his thigh, and blew a cloud of smoke from his long pipe, and cried again. This boy is for a sailor, I'm telling you. You fell asleep in the old man's arms, and I carried you to your cot upstairs. Your father followed me into the bedroom, and your mother was there, already dusting the big shells on the mantelpiece. Poor Tom. I see him yet. He dropped his long white hand over the cot rail, pushed back the little cap and the yellow curls from your forehead, and said proudly, Ah, no, this head wasn't built for a sailor. He meant no harm, but oh dear, oh dear. Your mother heard him and thought he was belittling her and hers. These qualities she cried and slashed the duster and flounced out of the room, and one of the shells fell with a clank into the fender. Your father turned his face to the window. I could have cried for shame that he should be ashamed before me. But looking out on the sea, the bay was very loud that day, I remember. He said in his deep voice, that was like a mellow bell, and trembled ratherly. It's not for nothing, nanny, that the child has the furrowed of Napoleon. Only let God spare him, and he'll be something someday, when his father, with his broken heart and his broken brain, is dead and gone, and the days he's covered him. Auntie Nan carried her point. That night Philip laid up his boat for the winter, and next morning he set his face towards Balawain with the object of enlisting Uncle Peter's help in starting upon the profession of the law. Auntie Nan went with him. She had urged him to the step by the twofold plea that the Balawain was his only male relative of mature years, and that he had lately sent his own son Ross to study for the bar in England. Both were nervous and uncertain on the way down. Auntie Nan talked incessantly from under her poke bonnet, thinking to keep up Philip's courage. But when they came to the big gate and looked up at the turrets through the trees, her memory went back with deep tenderness to the days when the house had been her home, and she began to cry in silence. Philip himself was not unmoved. This had been the birthplace and birthright of his father. The English footman in Buffon Scarlet ushered them into the drawing room with the formality proper strangers. To their surprise they found Ross there. He was sitting at the piano strumming a music hall ditty. As the door opened he shuffled to his feet, shook hands distantly with Auntie Nan, and nodded his head to Philip. The young man was by this time a sapling well fed from the old tree, taller than his father by many inches, broader, heavier, and larger in all ways with the slow eyes of a seal and something of a seal's face as well. But with his father's sprawling legs and his father's levity and irony of manner and of voice, a mangsman disguised out of all recognition of race and aping the fashionable follies of the hour in London. Auntie Nan settled her umbrella, smoothed her gloves and her white front hair, and inquired meekly if he was well. Not very fit he drawled, shouldn't be here if I were, but father worried my life out until I came back to recruit. Perhaps said Auntie Nan looking simple and sympathetic, perhaps you've been longing for home. It must be a great trial to a young man to live in London for the first time. That's where a young woman has the advantage, she needn't leave home at all events. Then your lodgings, perhaps they are not in the best part either. I used to have chambers in an inn of court. Auntie Nan looked concerned. I don't think I should like Philip to live long at an inn, she said. But now I'm in rooms in the hay market. Auntie Nan looked relieved. That must be better, she said, noisy in the mornings, perhaps, but your evenings will be quiet for study, I should think. Precisely said boss with a snigger, touching the piano again, and Philip sitting near the door felt the palm of his hand itch for the whole breadth of his cousin's cheek. Uncle Peter came in hurriedly with shortened over steps. His hair as well as his eyebrows was now white. His eye was hollow, his cheeks were thin, his mouth was restless, and he had lost some of his upper teeth. He coughed frequently, he was shabbily dressed, and had the look of a dying man. Ah, it's you, Ann, and Philip too. Good morning, Philip. Give the piano a rest, Ross. That's a good lad. Well, Miss Christian, well? Philip came of age yesterday, Peter, said Auntie Nan, in a timid voice. Indeed, said the bowerwain. Then Ross is twenty next month, a little more than a year and a month between them. He scrutinised the old lady's face for a moment without speaking, and then said, well, he would like to go to London to study for the bar, faulted Auntie Nan. Why not the church at home? The church would have been my own choice, Peter, but his father, the bowerwain, crossed his leg over his knee. His father was always a man of a high stomach, Mom, he said, then facing towards Philip. Your idea would be to return to the island. Yes, said Philip. Practice as an advocate and push your way to insular preferment. My father seemed to wish it, sir, said Philip. The bowerwain turned back to Auntie Nan. Well, Miss Christian? Auntie Nan fumbled the handle of her umbrella and began. We were thinking, Peter, you see, we knew so little. Now, if his father had been living, the bowerwain coughed, scratched with his nail on his cheek, and said, you wish me to put him with a barrister and chambers, is that it? With a nervous smile and a little laugh of relief, Auntie Nan signified ascent. You are aware that a step like that costs money. How much have you got to spend on it? I'm afraid, Peter, you thought I might find the expenses, eh? It's so good of you to see it in the right way, Peter. The bowerwain made a rye face. Listen, he said, Riley. Ross has just gone to study for the English bar. Yes, said Auntie Nan, eagerly, and it was partly that. Indeed, said the bowerwain, raising his eyebrows. I calculate that his course in London will cost me one thing with another, more than a thousand pounds. Auntie Nan lifted her gloved hands in amazement. That sum I am prepared to spend in order that my son, as an English barrister, may have a better chance. Do you know we were thinking of that ourselves, Peter, said Auntie Nan? A better chance, the bowerwain continued, of the few places open in the island, than if he were brought up at the Manx Bar only, which would cost me less than half as much. Oh, but the money will come back to you both for Ross and Philip, said Auntie Nan. The bowerwain coughed impatiently. You don't read me, he said irritably. These places are few, and Manx advocates are as thick as flies in a glue pot. For every office there must be fifty applicants, but training counts for something, and influence for something, and family for something. Auntie Nan began to be penetrated as by a chill. These, said the bowerwain, I bring to bear for Ross that he may distance all competitors. Do you read me now? Read you, Peter, said Auntie Nan? The bowerwain fixed his hollow eye upon her, and said, What do you ask me to do? You come here and ask me to provide, prepare, and equip a rival to my own son? Auntie Nan had grasped his meaning at last. But gracious me, Peter, she said, Philip is your own nephew, your own brother's son. The bowerwain rubbed the side of his nose with his lean forefinger, and said, Near is my shirt, but nearer is my skin. Auntie Nan fixed her timid eyes upon him, and they grew brave in their gathering-ended nation. His father is dead, and he is poor and friendless, she said. We've had differences on that subject before, Mistress, he answered. And yet you begrudge him the little that would start him in life? My own has earlier claimed, Mum. Saving your presence, sir, let me tell you that every penny of the money you are spending on Ross would have been Philip's this day if things had gone different. The bowerwain bit his lip. Must I for my sins be compelled to put an end to this interview? He rose to go to the door. Philip rose also. Do you mean it, said Auntie Nan? Would you dare to turn me out of the house? Come on, Auntie, what's the use, said Philip? The bowerwain was drumming on the edge of the open door. You are right, young man, he said. A woman's hysteria is of no use. That will do, sir, said Philip in a firm voice. The bowerwain put his hand familiarly on Philip's shoulder. Try Bishop Wilson's theological college, my friend. It's cheap, and take your hand from him, Peter Christian cried Auntie Nan. Her eyes flashed, her cheeks were aflame, her little gloved hands were clenched. You made war between his father and your father, and when I would have made peace you prevented me. Your father is dead, and your brother is dead, and both died in hate that might have died in love, only for the lies you told and the deceit you practised. But they have gone where the mouse falls from all faces, and they have met before this eye to eye and hand to hand. Yes, and they are looking down on you now, Peter Christian, and they know you at last for what you are and always have been, a deceiver and a thief. By an involuntary impulse the bowerwain turned his eyes upward to the ceiling while she spoke, as if he had expected to see the ghosts of his father and his brother threatening him. Is the woman mad at all, he cried, and the timid old lady, lifted out of herself by the flame of her anger, blazed at him again with a tongue of fire. You have done wrong, Peter Christian, much wrong. You've done wrong all your days, and whatever your motive, God will find it out, and on that secret place he will bring your punishment. If it was only greed you've got your wages, but no good will they bring you, for another will spend them, and you will see them wasted like water from the ragged rock. And if it was hate as well, you will live till it comes back on your own head like burning coal. I know it, I feel it, she cried, sweeping into the hall, and sorry I am to say it before your own son who ought to honour and respect his father, but can't. No, he can't and never will, or else he has a heart to match your own in wickedness, and no bowels of compassion at him either. Come, auntie, come, said Philip, putting his arm about the old lady's waist, but she swerved round again to where the ballowain came slinking behind him. Turn me out of the house, will you, she cried, the place where I live fifteen years, and as mistress too, until your evil deeds made you master? Many a good cry I've had, that it's only a woman I am, and can do nothing on my own head, but it would rather be a woman that hasn't a roof to cover her than a man who can't warm to his own flesh and blood. Don't think I begrudge you your house, Peter Christian, though it was my old home, and I love it, for all I'm shown no respect in it, and I would have you to know, sir, that it isn't our houses we live in, after all, but our hearts, our hearts, Peter Christian, do you hear me? Our hearts and yours is full of darkness and dirt, and always will be, always will be. Come, come, auntie, come, cried Philip again, and the sweet old thing, too gentle to her to fly, turned on him also with the fury of a wild cat. Go along yourself with your come and come and come, say less and do more. With that final outburst she swept down the steps and along the path, leaving Philip three paces behind, and the ballerwain with a terrified look under the stuffed cormorant in the fan light above the open door. The fiery mood lasted her halfway home, and then broke down in a torrent of tears. Oh dear, oh dear, she cried. I've been too hasty. After all, he is your only relative. What shall I do now? What shall I do now? Philip was walking steadily, half a step behind, and he had never once spoken since they left ballerwain. Pack my bag tonight, auntie, said he with the voice of a man, I shall start for Douglas by the coach, tomorrow morning. He sought out the best-known of the Manx advocates, a college friend of his fathers, and said to him, I've sixty pounds a year, sir, for my mother's father, and my aunt has enough of her own to live on. Can I afford to pay your premium? The lawyer looked at him attentively for a moment and answered, no you can't, and Philip's face began to fall. But I'll take you the five years for nothing, Mr. Christian, the wise man added, and if you suit me, I'll give you wages after two. End of part two, chapter one. Recording by Tony Ashworth Part two, chapter two of the Manxman. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings were in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tony Ashworth. Chapter two. Philip did not forget the task wherewith Pete had charged him. It is a familiar duty in the Isle of Man, and he who discharges it is known by a familiar name. They call him the Wunamalia, literally the man-praiser, and his primary function is that of an informal, unmercinary, purely friendly, and philanthropic matchmaker introduced by the young man to persuade the parents of the young woman that he is a splendid fellow with substantial possessions or magnificent prospects and entirely fit to marry her. But he has a secondary function, less frequent, though scarcely less familiar, and it is that of lover by proxy or intended husband by deputy, with duties of moral guardianship over the girl while the man himself is off at the herrings or away at the mackerel or abroad on wider voyages. The second task, having gone through the first with dubious success, Philip discharged with conscientious zeal. The effects were peculiar. Their earliest manifestations were, as was most proper, on Philip and Kate themselves. Philip grew to be grave and wondrous solemn for assuming the tone of Guardian lifted his manners above all levity. Kate became suddenly very quiet and meek, very watchful and modest, soft of voice and most apt to blush. The girl who had hected it over Pete and played little mistress over everybody else grew to be like a dove under the eye of Philip. A kind of awe fell on her whenever he was near. She found it sweet to listen to his words of wisdom when he discoursed and sweet as still to obey his will when he gave commands. The little wistful head was always turning in his direction. His voice was like joy bells in her ears. His parting, how under his lifted hat, remained with her as a dream until the following day. She hardly knew what great change had been wrought in her, and her people at home were puzzled. Is it not very well you are, Kirrie woman, said Granny? Well enough, Mother, why not, said Kate? Is it the toothache that's plaguing you? No. Then maybe it's the new hat in the window at Miss Cluchus's. Hold your tongue, woman, whispered Caesar behind the back of his hand. It's the spirit that's working on the girl. Give it lave, Mother, give it lave. Give it fiddle, stick, said Nancy Jo. Give it brimstone and treacle and a cup full of wormwood and chamomile. When Philip and Kate were together, their talk was all of Pete. It was, Pete likes this, and Pete hates that, and Pete always says so and so. That was their way of keeping up the recollection of Pete's existence, and the uses they put poor Pete to were many and peculiar. One night the mangs fairy was merry and noisy with a scalter, a Christmas supper given by the captain of a fishing boat to the crew that he meant to engage for the season. Wives, sweethearts and friends were there, and the customs and superstitions of the hour were honoured. Isn't it the funniest thing in the world? Philip giggled Kate from the back of the door, and a moment afterwards she was standing alone with him in the lobby, looking demurely down at his boots. I suppose I ought to apologise. Why so? For calling you that. Pete calls me Philip. Why shouldn't you? The furtive eyes rose to the buttons of his waistcoat. Well no, there can't be much harm in calling you what Pete calls you can there, but then, well, he calls me Kate. Do you think he would like me to do so? I'm sure he would. Shall we then? I wonder. Just for Pete's sake. Just. Kate. Philip. They didn't know what they felt. It was something exquisite, something delicious. So sweet, so tender, they could only laugh as if someone had tickled them. Of course we need not do it except when we are quite by ourselves, said Kate. Oh no, of course not. Only when we are quite alone, said Philip. Thus they threw dust into each other's eyes, and walked hand in hand on the edge of a precipice. The last day of the old year after Pete's departure found Philip attending to his duty. Are you going to put the new year in any way, Philip? said Kate, from the door of the porch. I should be the first foot here. Only I'm no use as a qual-tak, said Philip. Why not? I'm a fair man and would bring you no luck, you know. Ah. There was silence for a moment, and then Kate cried. I know. Yes. Come for Pete, he's dark enough anyway. Philip was much impressed. That's a good idea, he said gravely. Being qual-tak for Pete is a good idea. His first new year from home too, poor fellow. Exactly, said Kate. Shall I then? I'll expect you at the very stroke of twelve. Philip was going off. And Philip, yes? Then in a low voice, so soft, so sweet, so merry, came from the doorway into the dark. I'll be standing at the door of the dairy. Philip began to feel alarm and resolve to take for the future a lighter view of his duties. He would visit the Manx Ferry less frequently. As soon as the Christmas holidays were over, he would devote himself to his studies and come back to Solby no more for half a year. But the Manx Christmas is long. It begins on the 24th of December and only ends for good on the 6th of January. In the country places which still preserve the old traditions, the culminating day is twelfth day. It is then that they cut off the fiddler's head and play Valentine's, which they call the Goggins. The girls set a row of mugs on the hearth in front of the fire, put something into each of them as a symbol of a trade, and troop out to the stairs. Then the boys change the order of the mugs and the girls come back blindfold, one by one, to select their Goggins. According to the Goggins they lay hands on, so will be the trades of their husbands. This game played at the Manx Ferry on the last night of Philip's holiday. Caesar being abroad on an evangelising errand, Kate was expected to draw water, but she drew a quill. A pen, a pen, cried the boys. Who says the girl is to marry a sailor? The ship isn't built thus to drown her husband. Good night all, said Philip. Good night, Mr. Christian. Good night, sir, said the boys. Kate slipped after him to the door. Going so early, Philip? I've got to be back at Douglas tomorrow morning, said Philip. I suppose we shan't see you very soon. No, I must set to work in earnest now. A fortnight? A month, maybe? Yes, and six months. I intend to do nothing else for half a year. That's a long time, isn't it, Philip? Not so long as I've wasted. Wasted? So you call it wasted? Of course, it's nothing to me, but there's your aunt. A man can't always be dangling about women, said Philip. Kate began to laugh. What are you laughing at? I'm so glad I'm a girl, said Kate. Well, so am I, said Philip. Are you? It came at his face like a flash of lightning, and Philip stammered. I mean, that is, you know, what about Pete? Oh, is that all? Well, good night, if you must go. Shall I bring you the lantern? No need? Starlight, is it? You can see your way to the gate quite plainly? Very well, if you don't want showing. Good night. The last words in a injured tone were half lost behind the closing door. But the heart of a girl is a dark forest, and Kate had determined that work or no work so long a spell as six months Philip should not be away. End of part two, chapter two, recording by Tony Ashworth. Part two, chapter three of The Manxman. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings were in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tony Ashworth. Part two, chapter three. One morning in the late spring, there came to Douglas a startling and most appalling piece of news. Ross Christian was constantly seen at the Manx Ferry. On the evening of that day Philip reappeared at Salby. He had come down in high wrath, inventing righteous speeches by the way on plighted troughs and broken pledges. Ross was there in lacquered boots, light-kid gloves, frock coat, and pepper and salt trousers, leaning with elbow on the counter that he might talk to Kate who was serving. Philip had never before seen her at that task and his indignation was extreme. He was more than ever sure that Granny was a simpleton and Caesar a brazen hypocrite. Kate nodded gaily to him as he entered and then continued her conversation with Ross. There was a look in her eyes that was new to him and it caused him to change his purpose. He would not be indignant, he would be cynical. He would be nasty, he would wait his opportunity and put in with some cutting remark. So at Caesar's invitation and Granny's welcome he pushed through the bar room to the kitchen, exchanged salutations, and then sat down to watch and to listen. The conversation beyond the glass partition was eager and enthusiastic. Ross was fluent and Kate was vivacious. My friend Monty? Yes, who is Monty? He's the centre of the fancy. The fancy? Ornaments of the ring, you know. Come now, surely you know the ring, my dear. His rooms in St. James's Street are full of them every night. All sorts, you know, feather weights and heavy weights and greyhams. And the faces. My goodness, you should see them. Such worn-out old images. Knowledge boxes, all the rye, mouths crooked and noses that have had the uppercut. But good men all. Good to take their gruel, you know. Monty will have nothing else about him. He was Tom Spring's packer. Never heard of Tom Spring? Tom of Bedford, the incorruptible, you know. Only he fought Cross that day. Monty lost a thousand, and Tom keeps a public in Hoban now with pictures of the fancy round the walls. Then Kate with a laugh said something which Philip did not catch, because Caesar was rustling the newspaper he was reading. Ladies come, said Ross. Girls of Monty's suppers? Rather. What should you think? Clear patra, but you ought to be there. I must be getting off myself very soon. There's the supper coming off next week at Handsome Honeys. Who's honey? Proprietor of a night-house in the hay market. Night-house? You come and see, my dear. Caesar dropped the newspaper and looked across at Philip. The gaze was long and embarrassing, and for want of better conversation Philip asked Caesar if he was thinking. Oh, thinking, thinking, and thinking again, sir, said Caesar. Then drawing his chair nearer to Philip's he added in a half-whisper. I'm getting a bit of a scoot into something, though. See Yonder? They're calling his father a miser, the man's racking his tenants and starving his land. But I believe enough the young brass lach, a weed, is choking the old grain. Caesar, as he spoke, tipped his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Ross, and seeing this, Ross interrupted his conversation with Kate to address himself to her father. So you've been reading the paper, Mr. Crogine? Oh, reading and reading, said Caesar grumpily. Then, in another tone, you're home again from London, sir. Great doings, Yonder, they're telling me. Battles, sir. Great battles. Ross elevated his eyebrows. Have you heard of them, then, he asked? Oh, heard enough, said Caesar. Meetings and conferences and conventions, and I don't know what. Oh, oh, I see, said Ross, with a look at Kate. They're doing without hell in England nowadays. That's a queer thing, sir. Conditional immorality, they're calling it. The singularist thing I know. Taking hell away drops the tailboard out of a man's religion, eh? The time for closing came, and Philip had waited in vain. Only one cut had come his way, and that had not been his own. As he rose to go, Kate had said, We didn't expect to see you again for six months, Mr. Christian. So it seemed, said Philip, and Kate laughed a little, and that was all the work of his evening, and the whole result of his errand. Caesar was waiting for him in the porch. His face was white, and it twitched visibly. It was plain to see that the natural man was fighting in Caesar. Mr. Christian, sir, said he, Are you the gentleman that came here to speak to me from Peter Quilliam? I am, said Philip. And do you remember the old mank saying, Perhaps the last dog may be catching the hare? Leave it to me, Mr. Crogine, said Philip, through his teeth. Half a minute afterwards he was swinging down the dark road homewards by the side of Ross, who was drawing along with his cold voice. So you've started on your lightweight handicap, Philip. Father was monstrous unreasonable that day. Seemed to think I was coming back here to put my shoulder out for your high bailiff ships, and bum bailiff ships, and heaven knows what. You're welcome to the lot for me, Philip. That girl's wonderful, though. It's positively miraculous, too. She's the living picture of a girl of my friend Montague's. Eyes, hair, that nervous movement of the mouth, everything. Old man looked glum enough, though. Poor little woman. I suppose she's past praying for. The old hypocrite will hold her like a dove in the claws of a buzzard-hawk till she throws herself away on some mank's omethon. It's the way with half these pretty creatures, they're wasted. Philip's blood was boiling. Do you call it being wasted when a good girl is married to an honest man, he asked? I do, because a girl like this can never marry the right man. The man who is worthy of her cannot marry her, and the man who marries her isn't worthy of her. It's like this, Philip. She's young, she's pretty, perhaps beautiful, has manners and taste, and some refinement. The man of her own class is clumsy and ignorant, and stupid and poor. She doesn't want him, and the man she does want, the man she's fit for, dare not marry her. It would be social suicide. And so said Philip bitterly. To save the man above from social suicide, the girl beneath must choose moral death, is that it? Ross laughed. Do you know I thought old Jeremiah was at you in the corner there, Philip? But look at it straight. Here's a girl like that. Two things are open to her, two only. Say she marries your mank's fellow, what follows? A thatch cottage three fields back from the mountain road, two rooms, a cowhouse, a crock, a dresser, a press, a form, a three-legged stool, an armchair, and a clock with a dirty face hanging on a nail in the wall, milking, weeding, digging, ninepence a day, and a can of buttermilk with a lump of butter thrown in. Potatoes, herrings, and barley bonag. Year one, a baby, a boy. Year two, another baby, a girl. Year three, twins. Year four, barefooted children, squaling, dirty house, man grumbling, woman distracted, measles, hooping cough, a journey at the tail of a cart to the bottom of the valley, and the awful words, I am the— Hushman, said Philip. They were passing Lezaire churchyard. When they had left it behind, he added, with a grim curl of the lip, which was lost in the darkness. Well, that's one side. What's the other? Life, said Ross. Short and sweet, perhaps. Everything she wants, everything she can wish for. Five years, four years, three years, what matter? And then? Everyone for himself and God for us all, my boy. She's as happy as the day while it lasts, lifts her head like a rosebud in the sun, then drops it, I suppose, like a rose leaf in the mud. Ross laughed again. Yes, it's a fact, old Jeremiah has been at you, Philip. Poor little kitty. Keep the girl's name out of it, if you please. Ross gave a long whistle. I was only saying the poor little woman. It's damnable, and I'll have no more of it. There's no duty on speech, I hope, in your precious Isle of Man. There is, though, said Philip, a duty of decency and honour, and to name that girl foolish as she is, in the same breath with your women. But here, listen to me. Best tell you now, so there may be no mistake and no excuse. Miss Krageen is to be married to a friend of mine. I needn't say who he is. He comes close enough to you at all events. When he's at home, he's able to take care of his own affairs. But while he's abroad, I've got to see that no harm comes to his promised wife. I mean to do it, too. Do you understand me, Ross? I mean to do it. Good night. They were at the gate of Balloway by this time, and Ross went through it giggling. End of Part 2, Chapter 3, recording by Tony Ashworth. Part 2, Chapter 4 of the Manxman. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings were in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Tony Ashworth. Part 2, Chapter 4. The following evening found Philip at the Manx Ferry again. Ross was there as usual, and he was laughing and talking in a low tone with Kate. This made Philip squirm on his chair, but Kate's behaviour tortured him. Her enjoyment of the man's jests was almost uproarious. She was signalling to him and peering up at him gaily. Her conduct disgusted Philip. It seemed to him an aggravation of her offence, that as often as he caught the look of her face, there was a roguish twinkle in the eye on his side, and a deliberate cast in his direction. This open disregard of the sanctity of a pledged word, this bare-faced indifference to the presence of him who stood to represent it, was positively indecent. This was what women were. Deceit was bred in their bones. It added to Philip's gathering roth, that Caesar who sat in shirt sleeves making up his milling accounts from the slates siphoned with crosses and triangles and circles, and heart circles, was lifting his eyes from time to time to look first at them and then at him with an expression of contempt. At a burst of fresh laughter and a shot of the bright eyes, Philip surged up to his feet, thrust himself between Ross and Kate, turned his back on him and his face to her, and said in a peremptory voice, coming to the parlour instantly, I have something to say to you. Oh, indeed, said Kate. But she came, looking mischievous and yet demure, with her head down but her eyes peering under their long upper lashes. Why don't you send this fellow about his business, said Philip. Kate looked up in blank surprise. What fellow, she said. What fellow, said Philip? Why, this one that is shilly-shallying with you night after night. You can never mean your own cousin, Philip, said Kate. More's the pity if he is my cousin, but he's no fit company for you. I'm sure the gentleman is polite enough. So's the devil himself. He can behave and keep his temper, anyway. Then it's the only thing he can keep. He can't keep his character or his credit or his honour, and you should not encourage him. Kate's underlet began to show the inner half. Who says I encourage him? I do. What right have you? Haven't I seen you with my own eyes? Kate grew defiant. Well, and what if you have? Then you are a jade and a cocket. The word hissed out like steam from a kettle. Kate saw it coming and took it full in the face. She felt an impulse to scream with laughter, so she seized her opportunity and cried. Philip's temper began to ebb. That man would be a poor bargain, Kate, if he were twenty times the heir of Balawain. Can't you gather from his conversation what his life and companions are? Of course it's nothing to me, Kate. No, it's nothing to you, Wimpered Kate, from behind both hands. I've no right. Of course not. You've no right, said Kate, and she stole the look sideways. Only. Philip did not see the glance that came from the corner of Kate's eye. When a girl forgets a manly fellow, who happens to be abroad for the first rascal that comes along with his dirty lands, down went the hands with an impatient fling. What are his lands to me? Then it's my duty as a friend. Duty, indeed, just what every old busybody says. Philip gripped her wrist. Listen to me. If you don't send this man packing, you're hurting me. Let go my arm. Philip flung it aside and said, What do I care? Then why do you call me a cocket? Do as you like. So I will. Philip, Philip, Phil. He's gone. It was 20 miles by coach and rail from Douglas to Solby, but Philip was back at the Manx Ferry the next evening also. He found a saddle horse linked to the gatepost and Ross inside the house with a riding whip in his hand, beating the leg of his riding britches. When Philip appeared, Kate began to look alarmed and Ross to look ugly. Caesar, who was taking his tea in the ingle, was having an unpleasant passage with granny and side breaths by the fire. Bad, bad, a notorious bad liver and dirty with the tongue, said Caesar. Shoot, father, said granny. The young man's civil enough, and girls will be girls. What's a word or a look or a laugh when you're young and have a face that's fit for anything? Better her face should be pitted with smallpox than bring her to the pit of hell, said Caesar. All flesh is grass, the grass withereth, the flower fadeeth. Nancy Joe came from the dairy at that moment. Gracious me, I did you see that now, she said. I wonder at Kitty, but it's the way of the men, smiling and smiling and maining nothing. Mmm, they main a dale, growled Caesar. Ross had recovered from his uneasiness at Philip's entrance and was engaged in some narration, whereof the only words that reached the kitchen were, I know, and I know, repeated frequently. You seem to know a dale, sir, shouted Caesar. Do you know what it is to be saved? There was silence for a moment, and then Ross, polishing his massive signet ring with his corduroy waistcoat, said, Is that the old gentleman's complaint, I wonder? My husband is a local preacher, and always strong for salvation, said Granny, by way of peace. Is that all, said Ross? I thought perhaps he had taken more wine than the sacrament. You're my crosswoman, muttered Caesar, but no cross, no crown. Lave women's matter alone, Father, it'll become you better, said Granny. Laugh as you like, Mr. Scragine. There's one above, there's one above. Ross had resumed his conversation with Kate, who was looking frightened, and listening with all his ears, Philip caught the substance of what was said. I'm due back by this time. There's this supper at Handsome Hunnies, not to speak of the everlasting examinations, but somehow I can't tear myself away. Why not? Can't you guess? No, not a notion. I would go tomorrow, Kitty, a word in your ear. I believe in my heart that man is for kissing her, said Caesar. If he does, then by. He's done it. Hold, sir. Caesar had risen to his feet, and in the moment the house was in an uproar. Ross lifted his head like a cock. Were you speaking to me, Mr., he asked? I was, and don't domain yourself like that again, said Caesar. Like what, said Ross? Paying court to a girl that isn't fit for you. Ross lifted his hat. Do you mean this young lady? No young lady at all, sir, but the daughter of a plain, respectable man that isn't going to see her fooled. Your hat to your head, sir. You'll be wanting it for the road. Father cried Kate in a voice of fear. Caesar turned his rough shoulder and said, Go to your room, ma'am, and keep it for a week. You may go, said Ross. I'll spare the old simpleton for your sake, Kate. You'll spare me, sir, cried Caesar. I've seen the day, but thank the Lord for restraining grace. Spare me? If you had said as much five and twenty years ago, sir, your head would have gone ringing against the wall. I'll spare you no more, then, said Ross. Take that, and that. Amid screams from the women, two sounding blows fell on Caesar's face. At the next instant, Philip was standing between the two men. Come this way, he said, addressing Ross. If I like, Ross answered. This way, I'd tell you, said Philip. Ross snapped his fingers. As you pleased, he said, and then followed Philip out of the house. Kate had run upstairs in terror, but five minutes afterwards she was on the road with a face full of distress and a shawl over her head and shoulders. At the bridge she met Kelly, the postman. Which way have they gone, she panted, the young Balawain and Philip Christian. I saw them heading down to the car, said Kelly, and Kate in the shawl flew like a bird over the ground in that direction. End of Part 2, Chapter 4, Recording by Tony Ashworth Part 2, Chapter 5 of The Manxman This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Tony Ashworth Part 2, Chapter 5 The two young men went on without a word. Philip walked with long strides, three paces in front, with head thrown back, pallid face and contracted features, mouth firmly shut, arms stiff by his side, and difficult and audible breathing. Ross slouched behind with an air of elaborate carelessness. His horse beside him, the reins over its head and round his arm, the riding whip under his other armpit, and both his hands deepened the bridge to his pocket. There was no road the way they went, but only a cart-track interrupted here and there by a gate, and bordered by square turf pits half full of water. The days were long and the light was not yet failing. Beyond the gorse, the willows, the reeds, the rushes, and the sally bushes of the flatland, the sun was setting over a streak of gold on the sea. They had left behind them the smell of burning turf, of crackling sticks, of fish, and of the cowhouse, and were come into the atmosphere of flowering gorse and damped grey soil and brine. Far enough, aren't we? shouted Ross, but Philip pushed on. He drew up at last in an open space, where the gorse had been burnt away, and its black remains desolated the surface and killed the odours of life. There was not a house near, not a landmark in sight, except a windmill on the sea's verge, and the ugly tower of a church like the funnel of a steamship between sea and sky. We're alone at last, he said hoarsely. We are, said Ross, interrupting the whistling of a tune, and now that you've got me here, perhaps you'll be good enough to tell me what we've come for. Philip made no more answer than to strip himself of his coat and waistcoat. You're never going to make a serious business of this stupid affair, said Ross, leaning against the horse and slapping the sole of one foot with the whip. Take off your coat, said Philip, in a thick voice. Can I help it if a pretty girl began Ross? Will you strip, cried Philip? Ross laughed. Ah, now I remember our talk of the other night. But you don't mean to say, he said, flipping at the flies at the horse's head. That because the little woman is forgetting the curmudgeon that's abroad, Philip strode up to him with clenched hands and quivering lips and said, Will you fight? Ross laughed again, but the blood was in his face, and he said tauntingly, I wouldn't distress myself, man. Dare say I'll be done with the girl before the fellow. You're a scoundrel, cried Philip, and if you won't stand up to me, Ross flung away his whip. If I must, I must, he said, and then threw the horse's reins around the charred arm of a half-destroyed gorse tree. A moment afterwards, the young men stood face to face. Stop, said Ross. Let me tell you first, it's only fair. Since I went up to London, I've learned a thing or two. I've stood up before men that can strip a picture. I've been opposite talent, and I can peck a bit, but I've never heard that you can stop a blow. Are you ready, cried Philip? As you will. You shall have one round, you'll want no more. The young men looked badly matched, Ross in riding britches ensured, with red bullet head and sprawling feet, arms like an oak and veins like willow boughs, Philip in shirt and knickerbockers, with long, fair hair, quivering face and delicate figure. It was strength and some skill against nerve alone. Like a rush of wind, Philip came on, striking right and left, and was driven back by a left-hand body blow. There you've got it, said Ross, smiling benignly. Didn't I tell you? That's all Bristol bull to begin with. Philip rushed on again, and came back with a smashing blow that cut his nether lip. You've got a second, said Ross. Have you had enough? Philip did not hear, but sprang fiercely at Ross once more. The next instant he was on the ground. Then Ross took on a manner of utter contempt. I can't keep on flipping at you all night. Mock me when you've beaten me, said Philip, and he was on his feet again, somewhat blown, but fresh as to spirit and doggedly resolute. Tell the scratch, then, said Ross. I must say you're good at your gruel. Philip flung himself on his man a third time, and fell more heavily than before, under a flush hit that seemed to bury itself in his chest. I can't go on fighting a man that's as good for nothing as my old grandmother, said Ross. But his contempt was abating. He was growing uneasy. Philip was before him as fierce as ever. Fight your equal, he cried. I'll fight you, growl, Philip. You're not fit. Give it up, and look. The dark is falling. There's enough daylight yet. Come on. Nobody is here to shame you. Come on, I say. Philip did not wait, but sprang on his man like a tiger. Ross met his blow, dodged, fainted. They gripped, swinging to and fro. There was a struggle, and Philip fell again with a dull thud against the ground. Will you stop now, said Ross? No, no, no, cried Philip, leaping to his feet. I'll eat you up. I'm a glutton. I can tell you. But his voice trembled, and Philip, blind with passion, laughed. You'll be hurt, said Ross. What of that, said Philip? You'll be killed. I'm willing. Ross tried to laugh mockingly, but the horse gurgled choked in his throat. He began to tremble. This man doesn't know when he's mauled, he muttered, and after a loud curse he stood up afresh with a craven and shifty look. His blows fell like scorching missiles, but Philip took them like a rock scoured with shingle, raining blood like water, but standing firm. What's the use, cried Ross? Drop it. I'll drop myself first, said Philip. If you won't give it up, I will, said Ross. You shan't, said Philip. Take your victory, if you like. I won't. So you've licked me. I'll do it first, said Philip. Ross laughed long and riotously, but he was trembling like a whipped kerb. With a blob of foam on his lips, he came up, collecting all his strength, and struck Philip a blow on the forehead that fell with the sound of a hammer on a coffin. Are you done, he snuffled? No, by God, cried Philip, black as ink with the burnt gorse from the ground, except where the blood ran red on him. This man means to kill me, mumbled Ross. He looked round shifterly and said, I mean no harm by the girl. You're a liar, cried Philip. With a glance of deep malignity, Ross closed with Philip again. It was now a struggle of right with wrong, as well as nerve with strength. The sun had set under the sea. The sally bushes were shivering in the twilight. A flight of rooks were screaming overhead. Blows were no more heard. Ross gripped Philip in a venomous embrace and dragged him onto one knee. Philip rose. Ross doubled round his waist, pushing him backward and fell heavily on his breast, shouting with a growl of a beast. You'll fight me, will you? Get up, get up. Philip did not rise, and Ross began dragging and lunging at him with brutal ferocity, when suddenly, where he bent double, a blow fell on his ear from behind, another and another. A hand gripped his shirt collar and choked him, and a voice cried, Let go, you brute, let go, let go. Ross dropped Philip and swung himself round to return the attack. It was the girl. Oh, it's you, is it, he panted. She was like a fury. You brute, you beast, you toad, she cried, and then threw herself over Philip. He was unconscious. She lifted his head onto her lap and lost to all shame, to all caution, to all thought but one thought. She kissed him on the cheek, on the lips, on the eyes, on the forehead, crying, Philip, oh Philip, Philip. Ross was shuddering beside them. Let me look at him, he faltered, but Kate fired back with a glance like an arrow and said, screaming like a seagull, If you touch him again, I'll strangle you. Ross caught a glimpse of Philip's face, and he was terrified. Going to a turf pit, he dipped both hands in the dub and brought some water. Take this, he said, for heaven's sake, let me bathe his head. He dashed the water on the pallid forehead and then withdrew his eyes, while the girl caked Philip back to consciousness with fresh kisses and pleading words. Is he breathing? Feel his heart. Any pulsation? Oh, God, said Ross. It wasn't my fault. He looked round with wild eyes. He meditated flight. Is he better yet? What's it to you, you coward, said Kate with a burning glance? She went on with her work. Come, then, dear, come, come now. Philip opened his eyes in a vacant stare and rose on his elbow. Then Kate fell back from him immediately and began to cry quietly, being all woman now and her moral courage gone again in an instant. But the moral courage of Mr. Ross came back as quickly. He began to sneer and to laugh lightly, picked up his riding whip and strode over to his horse. Are you hurt, asked Kate in a low tone? Is it Kate, said Philip? At the sound of his voice in that low whisper, Kate's tears came streaming down. I hope you'll forgive me, she said. I should have taken your warning. She wiped his face with the loose sleeve of her dress and then he struggled to his feet. Lean on me, Philip. No, no, I can walk. Do take my arm. Oh, no, Kate, I'm strong enough. Just to please me. Well, very well. Ross looked on with jealous rage. His horse, frightened by the fight, had twirl round and round till the reins were twisted into a knot about the gorse stump and as he liberated the beast, he flogged it back till it flew around him. Then he vaulted to the saddle, tugged at the curve and the horse reared. Down he cried with an oath and lashed brutally at the horse's head. Meantime Kate, going past him with Philip on her arm, was saying softly, Are you feeling better, Philip? And Ross, looking on in sulky meditation, sent a harsh laugh out of his hot throat and said, Oh, you can make your mind easy about him. If your other man fights for you like that, you'll do. Thought you'd have three of them, did you? Or perhaps you only wanted me for your decoy. Why don't you kiss him now when he can know it? But he's a beauty to take care of you for somebody else. Fighting for the other one, eh? Stuff and humbug. Take him home and the curse of Jealous on the brace of you. So saying, he burst into wild derisive laughter, flogged his horse on the ears and the nose, shouted, Down you brute, down, and shot off at a gallop across the open karak. Philip and Kate stood where he had left them till he had disappeared in the mist rising off the marshy land, and the thud of his horse's hooves could be no more heard. Their heads were down, and though their arms were locked, their faces were turned half aside. There was silence for some time. The girl's eyelids quivered. Her look was anxious and helpless. Then Philip said, Let us go home, and they began to walk together. Not another word did they speak. Neither looked into the other's eyes. Their entwined arms slackened a little in a passionless asundering, yet both felt that they must hold tight or they would fall. It was almost as if Ross's parting taunt had uncovered their hearts to each other and revealed to themselves their secret. They were like other children of the Garden of Eden, driven out and stripped naked. At the bridge they met Caesar, Granny, Nancy Jo, and half the inhabitants of Solby, abroad with lanterns in search of them. They're here, cried Caesar. You've chastised him then. You'd bait his head off, I'll go bail. And I believe enough you'll be forgiven, sir. Yon the blow was almost bitterer than flesh can bear. Before my days of grace, but praise the Lord for his restraining hand. The very minute my anger was up, he crippled me in the hip with rheumatics. But what's this holding the lantern over his head? There's blood on your face, sir. A scratch, it's nothing, said Philip. It's the women that's in every mischief, said Caesar. Lord bless me, aren't the women as good as the men, said Nancy? Mmm, said Caesar. We're told that man was made a little lower than the angels, but about women, we're just left to our own conclusions. Scripture has nothing to do with Ross Christian Father, said Granny. The Lord forbid it, said Caesar. What can you get from a cat but his skin? And doesn't the man come from Christian Ballowain? If it comes to that, though, haven't we all come from Adam, said Granny? Yes, and from Eve too, more's the pity, said Caesar. End of part two, chapter five. Recording by Tony Ashworth. Part two, chapter six of the Manxman. This is a LibriVox recording, or LibriVox recording to in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tony Ashworth. Part two, chapter six. For some time thereafter, Philip went no more to Salby. He had a sufficient excuse. His profession made demand of all his energies. When he was not at work in Douglas, he was expected to be at home with his aunt at Ballour. But neither absence nor the lapse of years served to lift him out of the reach of temptation. He had one besetting provocation to remembrance. One duty which forbade him to forget Kate. He's pledged to Pete. His office as Wunya Moya. Had he not vowed to keep guard over the girl? He must do it. The trust was a sacred one. Philip found a way out of his difficulty. The post was an impersonal and incorruptible go-between, so he wrote frequently. Sometimes he had news to send, for to avoid the espionage of Caesar, intelligence of Pete came through him. Occasionally he had love letters to enclose. Now and then he had presence to pass on. When such necessity did not arise, he found it agreeable to keep up the current of correspondence. At Christmas he sent Christmas cards. On Midsummer Day a bunch of moss roses, and even on St. Valentine's Day a Valentine. All this was in discharge of his duty, and everything he did was done in the name of Pete. He persuaded himself that he sank his own self absolutely, having denied his eyes the very sight of the girl's face. He stood erect in the belief that he was a true and loyal friend. Kate was less afraid and less ashamed. She took the presence from Pete and wore them for Philip. In her secret heart she thought no shame of this. The years gave her a larger flow of life, and made out of the bewitching girl a splendid woman, brought up to the fullest state of maidenly beauty. This change wrought by time on her bodily form caused the past to seem to her a very long way off. Something had occurred that made her a different being. She was like the elder sister of that laughing girl who had named Pete. To think of that little sister as having a kind of control over her was impossible. Kate never did think of it. Nevertheless she held her tongue. Her people were taken in by the episode of Ross Christian. According to their view, Kate loved the man and still longed for him, and that was why she never talked to Pete. Philip was disgusted with her unfaithfulness to his friend, and that was the reason of his absence. She never talked to Philip either, but they on their part talked of him perpetually, and fed her secret passion with his praises. Thus for three years these two were like two prisoners in neighbouring cells, very close and yet very far apart, able to hear each other's voices, yet never to see each other's faces, yearning to come together and to touch, but unable to do so because of the wall that stood between. Since the fight, Cesar had removed her from all duties of the inn, and one day in the spring she was in the gable house, peeling rushes to make tallow candles when Kelly the postman passed by the porch, where Nancy Joe was cleaning the candle lines. Heard the news as Nancy said, Kelly, Mr. Philip Christian is let off two years time and called to the bar. Nancy looked grave. I'm sure the young gentleman is that quiet and study, she said. What are they doing on him? Only making him a full advocate woman, said Kelly. You don't say, said Nancy. He passed his examination before the governor's man yesterday. Oh, there now. I took the letter to Belua this evening. It's like you would, Mr. Kelly. That's the boy for you. I'm always saying it. Indeed I am, though, but there's ones here that won't have it at all at all. Miss Kate, you mean? We know the reason. He's lumps in her porridge woman. Good day to you, Nancy. Yes, it's doing a nice day enough, Mr. Kelly, said Nancy, and the postman passed on. Kate came gliding out with a brush in her hand. What was the postman saying? That Mr. Philip Christian has been passing for an advocate, said Nancy deliberately. Kate's eyes glistened, and her lips quivered with delight, but she only said with an air of indifference. Was that all his news then? All you say, all, said Nancy, digging away at the candle-lines. Listen to the girl, and him that good to her while her promised man's away. Kate shelled her rush and said with a sigh and a sly look, I'm afraid you think a deal too much of him, Nancy. Then I'll be making men, said Nancy, for some that's thinking a day or two little. I'm quite on a loss to know what you see in him, said Kate. No, you don't say, said Nancy, with scorching irony. Then banging her eye and she added, I'm not much of a woman for a man myself. They're only poor, helpless creatures anyway, and I don't approve of them. But if I was for putting up with one of the sort, he wouldn't have legs and arms like a dolly, and a face like curds and whey, and coat and trousers that loud you can hear them coming up the street. With this parting shot at Ross Christian, Nancy flung into the house, thinking she had given Kate a dressing that she would never forget. Kate was radiant. Such abuse was honey on her lips, such scoldings with joy bells in her ears. She took silent delight in provoking these attacks. They served to turn both ways, bringing her delicious joy at the praise of Philip, and at the same time preserving her secret. End of part two, chapter six. Recording by Tony Ashworth. Part two, chapter seven of The Manxman. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings were in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tony Ashworth. The Manxman by Sir Hall Kane. Part two, chapter seven. Later that day, Caesar came in from the mill with the startling intelligence that Philip was riding up on the high road. Goodness mercy, cried Nancy, and she fled away to wash her face. Granny, with a turn of the hand, settled her cap and smoothed her grey hair under it. Kate herself had disappeared like a flash of light. But as Philip dismounted at the gate, looking taller and older and paler and more serious, but raising his cap from his fair head and smiling a smile like sunshine, she was coming leisurely out of the porch with a bewitching hat over her wavy black hair and a handbasket over her arm. Then there was a little start of surprise and recognition, a short catch of quick breath and nervous salutations. I'm going round to the nest, she said. I suppose you'll step in to see mother. Time enough for that, said Philip. May I help you with the eggs first? Besides, I've something to tell you. Is it that you admitted, said Kate? That's nothing, said Philip. Only the ABC, you know, getting ready to begin, so to speak. They walked round to the stackyard and he tied up his horse and gave it hay. Then while they poked about for eggs on hands and knees among the straw, under the stacks and between the bushes, she said she hoped he would have success and he answered that success was more than a hope to him now. It was a sort of superstition. She did not understand this, but looked up at him from all fours with brightening eyes and said, What a glorious thing it is to be a man. Is it, said Philip? And yet I remember somebody who said she wasn't sorry to be a girl. Did I, said Kate? But that was long ago and I remember somebody else who pretended he was glad I was. That was long ago too, said Philip and both laughed nervously. What strange things girls are and boys, said Kate, with a matronly sigh, burying her face in a nest where a hand was clucking and two downy chicks were peeping from her wing. They went through to the orchard where the trees were breaking into eager blossoms. I've another letter for you from Pete, said Philip. So, said Kate. Here it is, said Philip. Won't you read it, said Kate? But it's yours, surely a girl doesn't want anybody else. Ah, but you're different though. You know everything, and besides, read it aloud, Philip. With a basket of eggs on one arm and the other hand on the outstretched arm of an apple tree, she waited while he read. Dearest Kitty, how's yourself, darling, and how's Philip, and how's Granny? I'm getting on tremendous. They're calling me Captain now, Captain Pete, sort of overseer of the diamond mines outside Kimberley. Regular gentlemen's life and no mistake. Nothing to do but sit under a monstrous big umbrella with a paper in your fist like a chairman while twenty caffers do the work. Just a bit of a tussle now and then to keep you from dropping off. When a caffer turns up a diamond, you grab it and mark it on the time sheet against his name. They've got their own outlandish ones, but we always christen them ourselves. Six months, seven waistcoats, shoulder of mutton, tupney trotter, anything you like. When a caffer strikes a diamond, he gets a commission and so does his overseer. I'm afraid I'm going to be getting terrible rich soon. Tell the old man I'll be buying that harmonia yet. There are a knowing lot though, and if they can get up a dust to smuggle a stone when you're not looking, they will. Then they sell it to the Blackleg Boars and you've got to raise your voice like an advocate to get it back somehow. But the Boars can't do no harm to you with their fists at all. It's playing. They're a dirty lot, wonderful straight, like some of the lazy Manx ones, especially Black Tom. When they see us down at the river washing, they say, what dirty people the English must be if they have to wash themselves three times a day. We only do it once a week. When a caffer steals a stone, we usually court-martial him, but I don't hold with it, as the floggers on the compound can't be trusted. So I always lick my own niggers, being more kinder, and if anybody does anything against me, they lynch him. Kate made a little patient sigh and turned away her head, while Philip, in a halting voice, went on, Darling Kitty, I am longing mortal for a sight of your sweet face. When the night comes, and I'll be lying in the huts, boards on the ground, and good canvas, and everything comfortable, says I to the boys, shut your faces, men, and let a poor chap sleep. But they never twig the darkness of my meaning. I'll only be wanting a bit of quiet for thinking of, with the stars are twinkling down, she's looking at that one, shine on my angel. Really, Kate, faltered Philip, I can't. Give it to me then, said Kate. She was tugging with a trembling hand at the arm of the apple tree, and the white blossom was raining over her from the rowls of the thin boughs overhead, like silverfish falling from the herring net. Taking the letter, she glanced over the clothes. Darling Kitty, how is the mackerel the saison, and is the millen doing middling, and I wonder is the hens all laying, and is the grace gone out of the mare's leg yet, and how is the owl man, and is he still playing hang with the Texas? There is a big chap here that is straight like him. He hath swallowed the old book, and can't help bring it up again, but dear Kitty, no more a present. I expect to be home soon, Bach. To see you all, though I don't know exactly with love your loving sweetheart, Pate. When she had finished the letter, she turned it over in her fingers, and gave another patient little sigh. You didn't read it as it was spelled, Philip, she said. What odds of the spelling is uncertain when the lovers as sure as that, said Philip? Did he write it himself, think you, said Kate? He signed it anyway, and no doubt indicted it too. But perhaps one of the gills boys held the pen. She coloured a little, slipped the letter down her dress into her pocket, and looked ashamed. End of Part 2 Chapter 7 Recording by Tony Ashworth Part 2 Chapter 8 of The Manxman This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings were in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tony Ashworth The Manxman by Sir Hall Cain Part 2 Chapter 8 This shame at Pete's letter tormented Philip, and he stayed away again. His absence stimulated Kate and made Philip himself ashamed. She was vexed with him that he did not see that all this matter of Pete was foolishness. It was absurd to think of a girl marrying a man whom she had known when he was a boy. But Philip was trying to keep the bond sacred, and so she made her terms with it. She used Pete as a link to hold Philip. After the lapse of some months in which Philip had not been seen at Solby, she wrote him a letter. It was to say how anxious she had been at the length of time since she had last heard from Pete, and to ask if he had any news to relieve her fears. The poor little lie was written in a trembling hand which shook honestly enough, but from the torment of other feelings. Philip answered the letter in person. Something had been speaking to him day and night, like the humming of a top, finding him pretexts on which to go. But now he had to make excuses for staying so long away. It was evening. Kate was milking, and he went out to her in the cowhouse. We began to think we were to see no more of you, she said, over the rattle of the milk in the pail. I've—I've been ill, said Philip. The rattle died to a thin hiss. Very ill, she asked. Well, no, not seriously, he answered. I never once thought of that, she said. Something ought to have told me. I've been reproaching you, too. Philip felt shame of his subterfuge, but yet more shamed of the truth. So he leaned against the door and watched in silence. The smell of hay floated down from the loft, and the odor of the cow's breath came in gusts as she turned her face about. Kate sat on the milking stool close by the ewer, and her head, on which she wore a sun bonnet, she leaned against the cow's side. No news of Pete, then? No, she said? No, said Philip. Kate dug her head deeper in the cow and muttered, Dear Pete, so simple, so natural. He is, said Philip. So good-hearted, too. Yes. And such a manly fellow any girl might like him, said Kate. Indeed, yes, said Philip. There was silence again, and two pigs, which had been snoring on the manure heap outside, began to snort their way home. Kate turned her head so that the crown of the sun bonnet was toward Philip and said, Oh dear, can there be anything so terrible as marrying somebody you don't care for? Nothing so bad, said Philip. The mouth of the sun bonnet came round. Yes, there's one thing worse, Philip. No? Not having married somebody you do, said Kate, and the milk rattled like hail. In the straw behind Kate, there was a tailless manx cat with three-tailed kittens, and Philip began to play with them. Being back to back with Kate, he could keep his countenance. This old horny is terrible for switching, said Kate, over her shoulder. Don't you think you could hold her tail? That brought them face to face again. It's so sweet to have someone to talk to about Pete, said Kate. Yes, I don't know how I could bear his long absence, but for that, are you longing so much, Kate? Oh no, not longing, not to say longing, only you can't think what it is to be, have you never been yourself, Philip? What, hold on tight, in love, no? Well, said Philip, speaking at the crown of the sun bonnet. Ha-ha, well, not probably, perhaps. I don't—I can hardly say, Kate. There, you've let it go, after all, and she's covered me with the milk, but I'm finished, anyway. Kate was suddenly radiant. She kissed horny and hugged her calf in the adjoining stall, and as they crossed the haggard, Philip carrying the pail, she scattered great handfuls of oats to a cock and his two hens as they cackled their way to the roost. You'll be sure to come again soon, Philip, eh? It's so sweet to have someone to remind me of, but Pete's name choked her now. Not that I'm liking to forget him, now is that likely? But it's such a weary time to be left alone, and a girl gets longing. Did I, now? Give me the milk, then. Did I say I wasn't? Well, you can't expect a girl to be always reasonable. Goodbye, Kate. Yes, you had better go now, goodbye. Philip went away in pain, yet in delight. With a delicious thrill, and a sense of stifling hypocrisy. He had felt like a fool. Kate must have thought him one, but better she should think him a fool than a traitor. It was all his fault. Only for him the girl would have been walled round by her love for Pete. He would come no more. End of Part 2, Chapter 8 Recording by Tony Ashworth Part 2, Chapter 9 of The Manxman This is a Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings were in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org. Recording by Tony Ashworth The Manxman by Sir Hall Cain, Part 2, Chapter 9 Philip held to his resolution for three months, and grew thin and pale. Another letter came from Pete, a letter for himself, and he wondered what to do with it. To send it by post, pretending to be ill again, would be hypocrisy he could not support. He took it. The family were all at home. Nancy had just finished a noisy churning, and Kate was in the dairy, weighing the butter into pounds and stamping it. Philip read the letter in a loud voice to the old people in the kitchen, and the soft thumping and watery swishing ceased in the damp place adjoining. Pete was in high feather. He had made a mortal lot of money lately, and was for coming home quickly. Couldn't say exactly when, for some rascally black-legged boars who had been corrupting his caffers and slipping up country with a pile of stones, had first to be followed and caught. The job wouldn't take long, though, and they might expect to see him back within a twelve-month, with enough in his pocket to drive away the devil and the coroner anyway. Bald fellow, said Caesar. Oh, deed on Pete, said Granny. Now if it wasn't for that Ross, said Nancy. Philip went into the dairy where Kate was now skimming the cream of the last night's milking. He was sorry there was nothing but a message for her this time. Had she answered Pete's former letters? No, she had not. I must be writing soon, I suppose, she said, blowing the yellow surface. But I wish, puff, if I could have something to tell him, puff, puff, about you. About me, Kate? Something sweet, I mean. Puff, puff, puff. She shot a sly look upward. Aren't you sure yet? Can't say still? Not properly? No? Philip pretended not to understand. Kate's laugh echoed in the empty cream tins. How you want people to say things? No really, began Philip. I've always heard that the girls of Douglas are so beautiful. You must see so many now. Oh, it would be delicious to write a long story to Pete. Where you met in church, naturally, what she liked, fair of course, and, and all about it, you know. That's a story you will never tell to Pete, Kate, said Philip. No, never said Kate quite as light. And this being just what she wished to hear, she added mournfully. Don't say that, though. You can't think what pleasure you are denying me, and yourself, too. Take some poor girl to your heart, Philip. You don't know how happy it will make you. Are you so happy then, Kate? Kate laughed merrily. Why, what do you think? Dear old Pete, how happy he should be, said Philip. Kate began to hate the very name of Pete. She grew angry with Philip also. Why couldn't he guess? Concealment was eating her heart out. The next day she saw Philip. He passed her in the marketplace on the market day, as she stood by the tipped-up gig, selling her butter. There was a chatter of girls all round as he bowed and went on. This vexed her, and she sold out at a penny a pound less, got the horse from the saddle, and drove home early. On the way to Solby she overtook Philip and drew up. He was walking to Kirk Michael to visit the old deemster, who was ill. Would he not take a lift? He hesitated, half-declined, and then got into the gig. As she settled herself comfortably after this change, he trod on the edge of her dress. At that he drew quickly away as if he had trodden on her foot. She laughed, but she was vexed. And when he got down at the Manx Ferry, saying he might call on his way back in the evening, she had no doubt Granny would be glad to see him. The girls of the marketplace were standing by the mill-pond, worked done, and arms crossed under their aprons, twittering like the pairing birds about them in the trees, when Philip returned home by Solby. He saw Kate coming down the Glen Road, driving two heifers with a kushag for switch, and flashing its gold at them in the horizontal gleams of sunset. She had recovered her good humour, and was swinging along, singing merry snatches as she came, all life, all girlish blood and beauty. She pretended not to see him until they were abreast, and the heifers were going into the yard. Then she said, I've written and told him. What, said Philip? That you say you are a confirmed old bachelor. That I say so? Yes, and that I say you are so distant with a girl that I don't believe you have a heart at all. You don't? No, and that he couldn't have left anybody better to look after me all these years because you haven't eyes or ears or a thought for any living creature except himself. You've never written that to Pete, said Philip. Haven't I, though? said Kate, and she tripped off on tiptoe. He tripped after her. She ran into the yard. He ran also. She opened the gate of the orchard, slipped through, and made for the door of the dairy, and there he caught her by the waist. Never you rogue, say no, say no, he panted. No, she whispered, turning up her lips for a kiss. End of Part 2 Chapter 9 Recording by Tony Ashworth Part 2 Chapter 10 of The Manxman This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tony Ashworth The Manxman by Sir Hall Cain Part 2 Chapter 10 Granny saw nothing of Philip that night. He went home tingling with pleasure and yet overwhelmed with shame. Sometimes he told himself that he was no better than a Judas, and sometimes that Pete might never come back. The second thought rose oftenest. It crossed his mind like a ghostly gleam. He half wished to believe it. When he counted up the odds against Pete's return, his pulse beat quick. Then he hated himself. He was in torment. But under his distracted heart, there was a little chick of frightened joy, like a young cuckoo hatched in a wagtail's nest. After many days in which no further news had come from Pete, Kate received this brief letter from Philip. I'm coming to see you this evening. Have something of grave importance to tell you. It was afternoon and Kate ran upstairs, hurried on her best frock, and came down to help Nancy to gather apples in the orchard. Black Tom was there, new thatching the back of the house, and Caesar was making chougains, straw rope, for him with a twister. There was a soft feel of autumn in the air, pigeons were cooing in the ledges of the millhouse gable, and everything was luminous and tranquil. Kate had climbed to the fork of a tree and was throwing apples into Nancy's apron when the orchard gate clicked, and she uttered a little cry of joy, unaware as Philip entered. To cover this, she pretended to be falling, and he ran to help her. Oh, it's nothing, she said. I thought the vow was breaking. So it's you. Then in a clear voice, is your apron full, Nancy? Yes? Bring another basket. Then the white one with the handles. Did you come laxie way by the coach? Boat over, eh? Nancy, do you really think we'll have sugar enough for all these Kesswicks? Good evening, Mr. Christian Sir, said Caesar, and Black Tom from the ladder on the roof, nodded his wide straw brim. Thatching afresh, Mr. Cragine? Covering it up, sir, covering it up. May the Lord cover our sins up likewise, or how shall we cover ourselves from his avenging wrath? How vexing said Kate from the tree. Half of them get bruised, and will be good for nothing but preserving. They drop at the first touch, so ripe, you see. May we all be ripe for the great gathering, and good for preserving, too, said Caesar. Look at that big one now, knotted like a blacksmith's muscles, but it'll go rotten as fast as the least little one of the lot. It's taking us a lesson, sir, that we all do fall. Big mountains as easy as little cocks. This world is changeable. Philip was not listening, but looking up at Kate with a face of half-frightened tenderness. Do you know, she said, I was afraid you must be ill again. Your apron, Nancy, that was foolish, wasn't it? No, I have been well enough, said Philip. Kate looked at him. Is it somebody else, she said? I got your letter. Can I help, said Philip? What is it? I'm sure there's something, said Kate. Set your foot here, he said. Let me down, I feel giddy. Slowly then, hold by this one. Give me your hand. Their fingers touched and communicated fire. Why don't you tell me, she said, with a passionate tightening of his hand. It's bad news, isn't it? Are you going away? Somebody who went away will never come back, he answered. Is it Pete? Poor Pete is gone, said Philip. Her throat fluttered. Gone? He is dead, said Philip. She tottered, but drew herself up quickly. Stopped, she said. Let me make sure. Is there no mistake? Is it true? Too true. I can bear the truth now, but afterwards, tonight, tomorrow, in the morning, it might kill me if— Pete is dead, Kate. He died at Kimberley. Philip. She burst into a wild fit of hysterical weeping and buried her face in his breast. He put his arms about her, thinking to soothe her. There be brave. Hold yourself firm. It's a terrible blow. I was too sudden. My poor girl, my brave girl. She clung to him like a terrified child. The tears came from under her eyelids, tightly closed. The floodgates of four years reserve went down in a moment, and she kissed him on the lips. And throbbing with bliss and a blessed relief from four years' hypocrisy and treason, he kissed her back, and they smiled through their tears. Poor Pete. Poor Pete. Poor Pete. End of Part 2, Chapter 10, Recording by Tony Ashworth