 Part 5, Chapter 18 of the Manxman. Pete had not awakened until late that morning, while still in bed he had heard Granny and Nancy in the room below. The first sound of their voices told him that something was amiss. Oh, God bless me, God bless me, said Nancy, as though with uplifted hand. It was Kelly the Postman, said Granny, in a doleful tone, the tone in which she had spoken between the puffs of her pipe. The dirt, said Nancy. He was up at Caesars before breakfast this morning, said Granny. There now cried Nancy. There's men like that, though, just eager for mischief. It's sweeter than all their prayers to them, but where can she be, then? Has she made away with her self-poor thing? That's what I was asking Caesar, said Granny. If she's gone with the young Ballawayne, what for aren't you going to England over and fetching her home, says I? And what did Caesar say? No, says he. Not a step, says he. If she's dead, says he. We'll only know it a day the sooner. And if she's in life, it'll be a disgrace to us the longest day we live. Oh, Ballawayne, Ballawayne, said Nancy. When some man is getting religion, there's no more inside at them than a gutted herring. And they're good for nothing but to put up in the chimney to smoke. It's black, Tom, woman, said Granny. Caesar's freckin' mortal of the man's tongue going. It's water to his wheel, he's saying. He'll be telling me to set my own house in order, and me a local preacher, too. But how's the man himself? Pete, said Nancy. Oh, tired enough last night, and not down yet. Hush, it's his foot on the loft. Poor boy, poor boy, said Granny. The child cried, and then somebody began to beat the floor to the measure of a long-drawn hymn. Granny must have been sitting before the fire with the baby across her knees. Something has happened, thought Pete as he drew on his clothes. A moment later something had happened indeed. He had opened a drawer of the dressing table and found the wedding ring and the earrings, where Kate had left them. There was a commotion in the room below by this time, but Pete did not hear it. He was crying in his heart. It is coming. I know it. I feel it. God help me. Lord, forgive me. Amen, amen. Caesar the postman and the Constable as a deputation from the Christians had just entered the house. Black Tom was with them. He was the ferret that had fetched them out of their holes. Get the home woman, said Caesar to Granny. This is no place for thee. It is the abode of sin and deception. It's the home of my child's child, and that's enough for me, said Granny. Get thee back, I tell thee, said Caesar, and come thee to this house of shame no more. Take her, Nancy, said Granny, giving up the child. Shame enough indeed, I'm thinking, when a woman has to shut her heart to her own flesh and blood, if she's not to disrespect her husband. And she went off weeping. But Caesar's emotions were walled in by his pietistical views. Everyone that hath forsaken houses or brethren or sisters or father or mother or wife or children or land, for my name's sake shall receive an hundredfold, said Caesar, with a cast of his eye towards Black Tom. Well, if I ever said, Nancy, the husband that wanted the like of that from me now, a hundredfold indeed. No, not for a hundred hundredfolds, that nasty dirt. Don't be turning up your nose, woman, but call your master, said Caesar. It's more than some one's need to do, then, and I won't call my master neither. No, thank you, said Nancy. I've something to tell him, and I've come, too, for to do it, said Caesar. The devil came farther than ever you did, and it was only a lie he was bringing for all that, said Nancy. All your tongue, Nancy Cain, said Caesar, and take that popish thing off the child's head. It was the scarlet hood. It was the scarlet hood. Pity the money that's wasted on the like wasn't given to the poor. I've heard something the same before, Caesar Cragine, said Nancy. It was Judas Iscariot was saying it first, and you're just thieving it from the thief. Trout, said Caesar, goaded by the laughter of Black Tom. I'll call the man myself, Peter Quilliam, and he made for the staircase door. Stand back, cried Nancy, holding the child like a pillow over one of her arms, and lifting the other threateningly. Or you'll never be raising your hand to the man of God, woman, Giggle Black Tom. Won't I, though, said Nancy Grimly, or the man of the devil either, she added, flashing at himself. The woman's not to trust, sir, she'd suffer the constable. She's only an infantile, anyway. I've heard tell of her saying she didn't believe the whale swallowed Jonah. That's a difference between us, then, said Nancy, for there's some of you manx ones would believe if Jonah swallowed the whale. The staircase door opened at the back of Nancy, and Pete stepped into the room. What's this, friends, he asked in a care-worn voice. Caesar stepped forward with a yellow envelope in his hand. What's that, sir, he answered. Pete took the envelope and opened it. That's your letter back to you through the dead letter office, isn't it? Said Caesar. Well, said Pete. There's nobody of that name in that place, is there? Said Caesar. Well, said Pete again. Letters from England don't come through Peel, but your first letter had the Peel postmark, hadn't it? Well, parcels from England don't come through Port St Mary, but your parcel was stamped in Port St Mary, wasn't it? Anything else? The handwriting inside the letter wasn't your own handwriting, was it? The address on the outside of the parcel wasn't your own address, no? Is that all? Enough to be going on, I'm thinking. What about Uncle Joe? said Black Tom with another giggle. Your mistress is not in Liverpool. You don't know where she is. She has gone the way of all sinners, said Caesar. Is that what you're coming to tell me, said Pete? No, we're coming to tell you, said Caesar, that as a notorious loose liver, we must be putting her out of class, and we're coming to call on yourself to look to your own salvation. You've dissaved us, Mr. Quilliam. You've grieved the spirit of the Lord with another glime in the direction of Black Tom. You've brought contempt on the fellowship that counts you for one of the fold. You've given the light of your countenance to the path of an evil doer, and you've brought down the head of a child of God with sorrow to the grave. Caesar was moved by his self-satisfied piety and began to make noises in his nostrils. Let us lay the case before the Lord, he said, and he went down on his knees and prayed. Our brother has deceived us, O Lord, but we forgive him freely. Forgive thou also his trespasses, so that at the last he escape hellfire. Count not thy handmaid for a daughter of Belial, wherever she is this day. May it be good for her to be cut off from the body of the righteous. Grant that she feel this mercy in her carnal body before her eternal soul be called to everlasting judgment. Lord, strengthen thy servant. Let not his natural affections be as the snare of the fowler unto his feet. Though it grieve him sore, even to tears and tribulation, help him to pluck out the gourd that groweth in his own bosom. Dear heart, a live cried Nancy, clattering her clogs. It's a wonder in the world the man isn't thinking shame to blacken his own daughter before the Almighty himself. Be merciful, O Lord, continued Caesar, to all rank unbelievers, and such as live in heathen darkness in a Christian land, and don't know Saturday from Sunday, and are imperant uncommon and bad with the tongue. Stop that now, cried Nancy, that's meant for me. Pete had stood through this in silence, but with an angry, miserable face. Big pardon all, he said. I'm not going for denying to what you say. I'm like the fish at the heel of the trawl boat, the nets closing in on me and I'm caught. The game's up, I did dissave you. I did write those letters myself. I've no uncle Joan or no auntie Joanie neither. My wife's left me. I'm not knowing where she is or what's becoming of her. I'm done, and I'm for throwing up the sponge. There were grunts of satisfaction. But don't you feel the need of pardon, brother, said Caesar? I don't, said Pete. What I was doing, I was doing for the best, and if I was doing wrong, the Almighty will have to forgive me. That's about all. Caesar shot out his lip. Pete raised himself to his full height and look from face to face, until his eyes settled on the postman. But it takes a thief to catch a thief, he said. Which of you was the thief that catched me? Maybe I've been only a blundering blockhead, and perhaps you've been clever and smart and common, but I'm thinking there's some of you hasn't been rocked enough for all that. He held out the yellow envelope. This letter was sealed when you gave it to me, Mr. Craigine. How did you know what was inside of it? On her majesty's service, you say, but it isn't dead letters only that's coming with words same as that. The postman was meddling with his front hair. The Lord has his own ways of doing his work, has he, Caesar? I never heard tell, though, that opening other people's letters was one of them. Mr. Kelly's ferret eyes were nearly twinkling themselves out. Pete threw later an envelope into the fire. You've come to tell me you're going to turn my wife out of class. All right. You can turn me out too, and if the money I gave you is anywhere handy, you can turn that out at the same time, and make a clean job. Black Tom was doubling with suppressed laughter at the corner of the dresser, and Caesar was writhing under his searching glances. You're knowing a tale about the old book and I'm not knowing much, said Pete. But isn't it saying somewhere, let him that's without sin amongst you chuck the first stone? I'm not worth mentioning for a saint myself, so I'll leave it with you. His voice began to break. You're thinking a tale about the broken law seemingly, but I'm thinking more about the broken heart. There's the like in somewhere you go bail. The woman that's gone may have done wrong. I'm not saying she didn't, poor thing, but if she comes home again, you may turn her out, but I'll take her back. Whatever she is and whatever she's done, so help me God, I will, and I'll not wait for the day of judgment to ask the Almighty if I'm doing right. Then he sat down with his back to the monitor chair before the fire. Now you can go home to nurse, said Nancy, wiping her eyes, and lay me to sweeten the kitchen. It's wanting water enough after dirt's like you. Caesar also was wiping his eye, the one nearest to Black Tom. Come, he said with plaintive resignation. Our errand was useless. The Ethiopian cannot change his skin, nor the leopard his spots. No, but he can get a topcoat to cover them, though, said Nancy. Oh, that fleece sticks, does it, Caesar? Don't blame the looking glass if your face is ugly. Caesar pretended not to hear her. Well, he said with a sigh discharged at Pete's back. We'll pray, spite of appearances, that we may all go to heaven together someday. No, thank you, not me, said Nancy. I wouldn't be maimed myself going anywhere with the like of you. The Job in Caesar could bear up no longer. Vain an ungrateful woman, he cried, who hath eaten of my bread and drunken of my cup. Cursing me, are you, said Nancy? Sakes, you must have been found in the bullrushes that Pharaoh's daughter had made a prophet of. No use bandying words, sir, with a single woman that lives alone, with a single man, said Mr. Nipp lightly. Nancy flopped the child from her right arm to her left, and with the back of her hand she slapped the custable across the face. Take that for the cure of a bad heart, she said, until the damster I gave it to you. Then she turned on the postman and blacked Tom. Out of it, you little thief, your mouth's only a dirty town well, and your tongue's the pump in it. Go home and die, you big black spider. You're old enough for it, and wicked enough too. Out of it, the lot of you. She cried and clashed the door at their backs, and then opened it again for a parting shot. And if it's true you're on your way to heaven together, just let me know, and I'll see if I can't put up with the other place myself. End of Part 5 Chapter 18 Part 5 Chapter 19 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. The Manxman by Sir Hall Cain Part 5 Chapter 19 That evening Pete was sitting with one foot on the cradle rocker, one arm on the table, and the other hand trifling tenderly with the ring and the earrings, which he had found in the drawer of the dressing table, when there was a hurried knock on the door. It had the hollow reverberation of a knock on the lid of a coffin. Come in, call Pete. It was fillet, but it was almost as if death had entered, so thin and bony were his cheeks, so wild his eyes, so cold his hands. Pete was prepared for anything. You found me out too, I see you have, he said defiantly. You needn't tell me it's chasing caught fish. Be brave, Pete, said Philip. There will be a great shock to you. Pete looked up and his manner changed. Speak it out, sir. It's a poor man that can't stand. I've come on the saddest errand, said Philip, taking a seat as far away as possible. You found her. You've seen her, sir. Where is she? She is, began Philip, and then he stopped. Go on, mate. I've known trouble before today, said Pete. Can you bear it, said Philip? She is, and he stopped again. She is where, said Pete. She is dead, said Philip at last. Pete rose to his feet. Philip rose also, and now poured out his message with the headlong rush of a cataract. In fact, it all happened some time ago, Pete, but I couldn't bring myself to tell you before. I tried, but I couldn't. It was in Douglas, of a fever, in a lodging, alone, unattended. Hold hard, sir. Give me time, said Pete. I had a gunshot wound at Kimberley, and since then I've a stitch in my side at Wiles and sometimes a bit of a catch in my breathing. He staggered to the porch door and threw it open, then came back panting. Dead! Dead! Kate is dead! Nancy came from the kitchen at the moment, and hearing what he was saying, she lifted both hands and uttered a piercing shriek. He took her by the shoulders and turned her back, shut the door behind her, and said holding his right hand hard at his side. Women are brave, sir, but when the storm breaks on a man, he broke off and muttered again. Dead! Kate is dead! The child, awakened by Nancy's cry, was now whimpering fretfully. Pete went to the cradle and rocked it with one foot, crooning in a quivering treble. Hushabye! Hushabye! Philip's breathing was oppressed. He felt like a man at the edge of a precipice, with an impulse to throw himself over. God forgive me, he said. I could kill myself. I've broken your heart. No fear of me, sir, said Pete. I'm an old hulk that's seen weather. I'll not go to pieces from inside at all. Give me time, mate. Give me time. And then he went on muttering as before. Dead! Kate is dead! Hushabye! My Kate is dead! The little one slept, and Pete drew back in his chair, nodded into the fire and said in a weak childish voice, I've known her all my life, do you know? She's been my little sweetheart since she was a slip of a girl, and slapped the schoolmaster for baiting me wronglessly. Sweat little thing in them days, mate, with her brown feet and tossing hair. And now she's a woman and she's dead. The Lord have mercy upon me. He got up and began to walk heavily across the floor, dipping and plunging as if going upstairs. The bright and happy she was when I started for Kimberley, too. With a pretty face by the easing stones in the morning, all laughter and mischief. Five years I was seeing it in my dreams like that, and now it's gone. Curie is gone. My Curie. God help me. Oh, God have mercy upon me. He stopped in his unsteady walk and sat and stared into the fire. His eyes were red. Blotches of heart's blood seemed to be rising to them, but there was not the sign of a tear. Philip did not attempt to console him. He felt as if the first syllable would choke in his throat. I see how his bean-sir said, Pete. While I was away her heart was changing her, and when I came back she thought she must keep her word. A poor lamb. She was only a child anyway. But I was a man. I ought to have seen how it was. I'm like a drowning man, too. Things are coming back on me. I'm seeing them plain enough now, but it's too late. My poor Curie. And I thought I was making her so happy. Then with a helpless look, you wouldn't believe it, sir, but I was never once thinking nothing else. No, I wasn't. It's a fact. I was same as a sailor working all the voyage home, making a cage and painting it gold for the lovebird he'd catched in the sunny land somewhere. But when he's putting it in, it's only wanting away, poor thing. With a sense of groveling meanness, Philip sat and listened. Then, with eyes wandering across the floor, he said, You have nothing to reproach yourself with. You did everything a man could do. Everything. And she was innocent also. It was the fault of another. He came between you. Perhaps he thought he couldn't help it. Perhaps he persuaded himself. God knows what lie he told himself. But she's innocent, Pete. Believe me, she's... Pete brought his fist down heavily on the table, and the rings that lay on it jumped and tingled. What's that to me, he cried hoarsely. What do I care if she's innocent or guilty? She's dead, isn't she? And that's enough. Curse the man. I don't want to hear of him. He's mine now. What for should he come here between me and my own? The torn heart and wracked brain could bear no more. Pete dropped his head on the table. Presently, his anger ebbed. Without lifting his head, he stretched his hand across the rings to feel for Philip's hand. Philip's hand trembled in his grasp. He took that for sympathy and became the more ashamed. Give me time, mate, he said. I'll be my own man soon. My head's moitering dreadful. I'm not knowing if I heard you right. In Douglas, you say? By herself, too? Not by herself, surely. Not quite alone, neither. She found you out, didn't she? You'd be there, Phil. You'd be with her yourself. She'd be wanting for nothing. Philip answered huskily. His eyes still wandering. If it would be any comfort to you, yes, I was with her. She wanted for nothing. My poor girl, said Pete. Did she send— had she any— maybe she said a word or two at the last, eh? Philip clutched at the question. There was something at last that he could say without falsehood. She sent a prayer for your forgiveness, he said. She told me to tell you to think of her as little as might be, not to grieve for her too much, and to try to forget her, so that her sin also might be forgotten. And the little one? Anything about the little one, asked Pete? That was the bitterest grief of all, said Philip. It was so hard that you must think her an unnatural mother. My Catherine, my little Catherine, my sweet angel. It was her cry the whole day long. I see, I see, said Pete nodding at the fire. She left the little one for my sake, wanting it with her all the while. Poor thing. You'd comfort her, Philip. You'd let her go easy. The child is well and happy, I told her. He's thinking nothing of yourself, but what is good and kind, I said. God's peace rest on her, my darling, my wife, said Pete solemnly, and suddenly in another tone, do you know where she's buried? Philip hesitated. He had not foreseen this question. Where had been his head that he had never thought of it? But there was no going back now. He was compelled to go on. He must tell lie on lie. Yes, he faltered. Could you take me to the grave? Philip gasped. Philip gasped. The sweat broke out on his forehead. Don't be frightened, sir, said Pete. I'm my own man again. Could you take me to my wife's grave? Yes, said Philip. He was in the rapids. He was on the edge of precipitation. He was compelled to go over. He made a blindfold plunge. Lie on lie. Lie on lie. Then we'll start by the coach tomorrow, said Pete. Philip rose with rigid limbs. He had meant to tell one lie only, and already he had told many. Truly a lie is a cripple. It cannot stand alone. Good night, Pete. I'll go home. I'm not well tonight. We'll stop the coach at your aunt's gate in the morning, said Pete. They stepped to the door together and stood for a moment in the dank and lifeless darkness. The world's getting wonderful lonely man, and you're all that's left to me now, Phil. You and the child. I'm not for wailing, though. When I got my gunshot wound out yonder, I was away over the big belt, hundreds of miles from anywhere, behind the last bush and the last blade of grass, with the stones and the ashes and the dust, about as far, you'd say, as the world was finished, and never looking to see his self and the old island and the old faces no more. I'm not so lonesome as that at all. Good night, old fellow, and God bless you. The gate opened and closed. Philip went stumbling up the road. He was hating Pete. To hate this open-hearted man who had dragged him into an entanglement of lies was the only resource of his stifled conscience. Pete went back to the house, muttering, Curie is dead. Curie is dead. He put the catch on the door and said, Close this shutters, Nancy, and then return to his chair by the cradle. Later the same night, Pete carried the news to Solby. Granny was in the bar room, and he broke it to her gently, tenderly, lovingly. Loud voices came from the kitchen. Caesar was there in angry contention with Black Tom. An open Bible was between them on their knees. Tom tugged it towards him, bobbed his blunt forefinger down on the page and cried, There's the text, that'll pin you, publicans and sinners. Caesar leaned back in his seat and said with withering scorn, It's a bad business, I'll give you life to say that. It's men like you that's making it bad, but whether it is better for a bad business to be in bad hands or in good ones. There's a big local preacher in London they're telling me that's hot for joining the public house to the church and turning the parson's into the publicans. That's what they all were on the Isle of Man in old days gone by, and pity they're not so still. Oh, I've been giving it my serious thoughts, sir. I've been making it a subject for prayer. Will I give up my public or hold fast to it to keep it out of the worst hands? And I'm strong to believe the Lord has spoken. It's a little vineyard, a little work and a little vineyard. Stick to it, Caesar, and so I will. Pete stepped into the kitchen and flung his news at Caesar with a sort of wild melancholy, as who would say, There, is that enough for you? Are you satisfied now? Mare ye sure? It's the hand of God, said Caesar. A middling bad hand then, said Pete. I've seen better anyway. A high spiritual pride took hold of Caesar. Black Tom was watching him and working his big eyebrows vigorously. With mouth firmly shut and head thrown back, Caesar said in a suppelical voice, The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord. Pete made a crack of savage laughter. Aren't you feeling it, sir, said Caesar? Not a feel near me, said Pete. I never did the Lord no harm that I know of, but he's taken my young wife and left my poor innocent little one motherless. Unsearchable the wisdom and justice of God, said Caesar. Unsearchable, said Pete. It's all that, but I don't know if you're calling it justice. I'm not myself. It isn't my tally. Bless for me. I lay it with you. A scoffer, am I? So be it. The Lord's licked me and I've had enough, but I'm not going down on my knees for it anyway. The Almighty in me is about quits. With that word on his lips he strode out of the place, grim, implacable, almost savage, a fierce smile fluttering on his ashy face. Granny came to Elm Cottage next morning with two duck eggs for Pete's breakfast. She was boiling them in a saucepan when Pete came downstairs. Come now, she said coaxingly as she laid them on the table with the water smoking off the shells, but Pete could not eat. He hasn't destroyed any food these days, said Nancy. A little before she had rolled her apron slipped out into the street and brought back a tiny packet screwed up in a bit of newspaper. Perhaps he'll ate them on the road, said Granny. I'll put them in the handkerchief in his hat anyway. My faith no woman, cried Nancy. He's the mischief for sweating. He'll be mopping his forehead and forgetting the eggs. But here, where's your waistcoat pocket, Pete? Have you room for a hayseed anywhere? There. It's a quarter of twist, poor boy. She whispered behind her hand to Granny. Thus they vied with each other in little attentions to the downhearted man. Meantime Crow, the driver of the Douglas Coach, a merry old sinner with a bulbous nose and short hair, standing erect like the steel pins of an electric brush, was whistling as he put his horses too in the marketplace. Presently he swirled round the corner and drew up at the gate. The women then became suddenly quiet and put their aprons to their mouths, as if a hearse had stopped at the door. But Pete bustled about and shouted boisterously to cover the emotion of his farewell. Good-bye, Granny. I'll say a word for you when I get there. Good-bye, Nancy. I'll not be forgetting yourself, neither. Good-bye, little boch. Dropping on one knee at the side of the cradle. What right has a man's heart to be going losing him while he has a little innocent like this to live for? Good-bye. There was a throng of women at the gate talking of Kate. Oh, a civil person very. A civiler person never was. It's me that'll be missing her, too. I served her eggs to the day of her death, as you might say. Good morning, Christian Anne, says she. Just like that. Welcome, you say. I was at home at the woman's door. And the beautiful she came home in the gig with the baby. Only yesterday, you might say. And now, Lord Amassie. Hush, it's himself. I'm fit enough to cry when I look at the man. The cheerful heart is broke at him. Hush. They dropped their heads so that Pete might avoid their gaze, and held the coach door open for him, expecting that he would go inside as to a funeral. But he saluted them with, good morning all, and leapt to the box seat with crow. The coach stopped to take up the deemster at the gate of Belua House. Philip looked thin and emaciated, and walked with a death-like weakness, but also a feverish resolution. Behind him, carrying a rag, came Aunty Nan in her white cap, with little nervous attentions and a face full of anxiety. Drive inside today, Philip, she said. No, no, he answered, and kissed her, pushed her to the other side of the gate with gentle protestation, and climbed to Pete's side. Then the old lady said, Good morning, Peter. I'm so sorry for your great trouble and trust. But you'll not let the deemster ride too long outside if it grows. He's had a sleepless night, and — go on, Crow, said Philip, in a decisive voice. I'll see to that, Miss Christian, ma'am, shouted Crow over his shoulder. His honour's studying a bit too hard, that's what he is. But a gentleman's not much use if his wife's a widow, as the man said, eh? Looking well enough yourself, though, Miss Christian, ma'am? Getting younger every day, in fact. I'll have to be fetching that East Indy captain up yet. I will that. Aha! Get on, Boxer. Then with a flick of the whip, they were off on their journey. The day was calm and beautiful. Old Barul wore his yellow skull-cap of flowering gorse. The birds sang on the trees, and the sea on the shore sang also with the sound of far-off joy bells. It was a heartbreaking day to Pete, but he tried to bear himself bravely. He was seated between Philip and the driver. On the farther side of Crow, there were two other passengers, a farmer and a fisherman. The farmer, a foul-mouthed fellow with a long staff and two dogs racing and barking on the road, was returning from Midsummer Fair, at which he had sold his sheep. The fisherman, the simple creature, was coming home from the mackerel fishing at Kinsale, with a box of the fish between his legs. The wife's been having a little one since I was leaving in March, said the fisherman, laughing all over his bronze face. A boy, did you say? Oh, another boy, of course. Three of them now, all men. Got a letter at Ramsey Post Office coming through. She's getting on as nice as nice, and the old woman's busy doing for her. Gee, a boxer will wet its head at the hibernian, said Crow. I'm not particular at all, said the fisherman cheerily. The mackerel's been doing middling this season anyway. And then in his simple way he went on to paint home and the joy of coming back to it, with the new baby and the mother-in-child bed and the grandmother's housekeeper and the other children waiting for new frocks and new jackets out of the earnings of the fishing, and himself going round to pay the grosser what had been put on strap while he was at Kinsale, till Pete was melted and could listen no longer. Unpersuaded still she wasn't well when she went away, he whispered, turning his shoulder to the man and his face to Philip. He talked in a low voice, just above the rumble of the wheels, trying to extenuate Kate's fault and to excuse her to Philip. It's no use thinking hard of anybody, is it, sir? he said. We can't crawl into another person's soul, as the saying is. After that he asked many questions about Kate's illness, about the doctor, about the funeral, about everything except the man. Of him he asked nothing. Philip was compelled to answer. He was like a prisoner chained at the galleys. He was forced to go on. They crossed the bridge over the top of Balaglass, which goes down to the mill at Cornet. There's the glenser, said Pete. Oh, the dear old days, wading in the water, leaping over the stones, clambering on the trunks. Oh, dear, oh, dear, bear-headed and barefooted in those times, sir, but smart, extraordinary and a terrible notion of being dressy, too. Twisting ferns about her little neck for lace, sticking a mountain thistle sparkling with dew on her breast for a diamond, pining a trail of fuchsia around her head for a crown. Oh, dear, oh, dear, and now well, well to think, to think. There was laughter on the other side of the coach. What do you say, Captain Pete? shouted Crow. What's that, asked Pete? The fisherman had treated the driver and the farmer at the hibernian and was being rewarded with robustious chaff. I'm telling Dan Johnny here, these children's that's coming when a man's away from home isn't much to trust. Best put a sight up with the little one, to the wise woman of Glenelden, eh? A man doesn't like to bring up a cuckoo in the nest. What'd you say, Captain? I say you're a dirty old devil, Crow, and I don't want to be chucking you off your seat, said Pete. And with that, he turned back to Philip. The driver was affronted, but the farmer pacified him by an appeal to his fear. He'd be cost to tackle the same fellow. I saw him clean out a tent with one hand at Tynwald. It's a wonder she didn't come home for all, said Pete at Philip's ear. At the end, you know, couldn't face it out, I suppose. Nothing to be afraid of, though, if she'd only known. I had kept things middling straight up to then, and I'd have broke the head of the first man that had wagged the tongue. But maybe it was myself she was frightened of. Frackened of me, poor thing, poor thing. Philip was in torment, to witness Pete's simple grief, to hear him breathe the forgiveness for the earring woman, and to be trusted with the thoughts of his heart as a father might be trusted by a young child. It was anguish. It was agony. It was horror. More than once, he felt an impulse to cast off his load, to confess, to tell everything. But he reflected that he had no right to do this, that the secret was not his own to give away. His fear restrained him also. He looked into Pete's face, so full of manly sorrow, and shuddered to think of it transformed by rage. Sit hard, gentlemen. Bridges work here, shouted Crowe. They were at the top of the steep descent going down to Laxie. A white town lay sprinkled over the green banks of the Glen, and the great water wheel stood in the depths of the mountain gill behind it. She's there. She's yonder. It's herself at the door. She's up. She's looking out for the coach, cried the fisherman, clambering up to the seat. A easy all, shouted Crowe. No use, Mr. Crowe. No use, Mr. Crowe. Nothing will persuade me, but that's herself with the little one in a blanket at the door. Before the coach had drawn up at the bridge, the fisherman had leapt to the ground, shouldered his keg, shouted, could ever and all, and disappeared down an alley of the town. The driver alighted. A crowd gathered around. There were parcels to take up, parcels to set down, and the horses to water. Then the coach was ready to start again. The farmer with the dogs had gone, but there was a passenger for an inside place. It was a girl, a bright young thing, with a comely face and laughing black eyes. She was dressed smartly, after her country fashion, in a hat covered with scarlet poppies, and with a vast brooch at the neck of her bodice. In one hand she carried a huge bunch of sweet-smelling guilvers. A group of girl companions came to see her off, and there was much giggling and chatter and general excitement. Are you forgetting the pouch and the pipe, Emma? Let me see, am I? No, it's here in my frock. Well, you'll be coming together by the coach at nine, it's like. It's like we will, Lisa, if the steamer isn't late. Now then, ladies, off the step. Any room for a little calf in the straw with you, Missy? Freckled? Putt, only a little calf as clean as clean, and breath as sweet as your own, Miss. There you are. It'll be lying quiet enough till we get to Douglas. All ready? Ready we are, then. Collar work now, gentlemen. Ayes the horse, sir. Thank you. Thank you. Not you, Your Honor. Sit where you are, Dempster. End of Part 5, Chapter 21. Part 5, Chapter 22 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. The Manxman by Sir Hall Kane. Part 5, Chapter 22. Pete got down to walk up the hill, but Philip, though he made some show of a lighting also, was glad of the excuse to remain in his seat. It relieved him of Pete's company for a while at all events. He had time to ask himself again why he was there, where he was going to, and what he was going to do. But his brain was a cloudy waste. Only one picture emerged from the maze. It was that of the burial of the nameless wife in the grave at the foot of the wall. If he was conscious of any purpose, it was a vague idea of going to that grave. But it lay ahead of him only as an ultimate goal. He was waiting and watching for an opportunity of escape. If it came, God be praised. If it did not come, God help and forgive him. Meanwhile, Pete walked behind and caught fragments of a conversation between the girl and Crow. So you're going to meet himself coming home, Miss, eh? My faith, how'd you know that? But it's yourself for knowing things, Mr. Crow. Has he been sailing for him? Yes, sir. And nine months away for a week come Monday. But spoken at Holly Head in Tuesday's paper and paid off in Liverpool yesterday. That's his initials, if you want to know. J.W. I worked them on the pouch myself. I've spun him a web for a jacket, too. Sweet-hearting with the minor fellows while Jimmy's been away? Have I, do you say? How people will be talking. Oh, no offence at all. But sorry you're not keeping another string to your bow, Missy. These sailor lads aren't particular anyway. Bless your heart, no. For getting as tired of one sweat-art as a pig of Brewer's grain. Constant? Chut. When the like of that sword is away foreign, he lays up of the first girl he comes foul of. The girl laughed and shook her head bravely, but the tears were beginning to trickle from her eyes, and the hand that held the flowers was trembling. Don't listen to the man, my dear, said Pete. There's too much comic in these old bachelor bucks. Your boy is dying to get home to you. Go bail on that, Emma. The packet isn't making halfway enough for him, and he's bad dreadful wanting to ship a loft and let out the topsoil. At the crest of the hill, Pete climbed back to Philip's side and said, The heart's a queer thing, sir. Got its winds and tides same as anything else. The wind blows contrary ways in one day, and it's the same with the heart itself. Changeable? Well, maybe. We shouldn't be too hard on it for all. If I'd only known now, she wasn't much better than a child when I left for Kimberley. And then what was I? I was only common stuff anyway. Not much fit for the likes of herself, when you think of it, sir. If I'd only guessed when I came back, I could have done it, sir. I was loving the woman-like life. But if I'd only known now, well, and what's love if it's thinking of nothing but itself? If I'd thought she was loving another man by the time I came home, I could have given her up to him. Yes, I could. I'm persuaded I could, so help me God, I could. Philip was wasting on that journey like a piece of wax. Pete saw his face melting away till it looked more like a skeleton than the face of a man really alive. He mustn't be taking it so bad at all, Phil, said Pete. She'll be middling right where she's gone to, sir. She'll be right enough yonder, he said, rolling his head sideways to where the sun was going round to its setting. And then softly, as if half-afraid she might not be, he muttered into his beard, God be good to my poor broken-hearted girl, and forgive her sins for Christ's sake. An elderly gentleman got on the coach at Onkin. Hello, a deamster, he cried. You look as sober as an old crow. Sober, a whole crow, haha! He was a facetious person of high descent in the island. Crow never goes home without getting off the box once or twice to pick up the moonlight on the road, do you, crow? That'll do, Parson, that'll do, roared crow. And then his reverence leaned across the driver and directed the shaft of his wit at Philip. And how's the young housekeeper, deamster? Philip shuddered visibly and made some inarticulate reply. Good-looking young woman there telling me, Gemma Lord's got taste, seemingly. But take care, Your Honor, take care. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife, nor his ox, nor his ass. Philip laughed noisily. The miserable man was writhing in his seat. Take an old fiddler's advice, deamster, have nothing to do with the women. When they're young, they're kittens to play with you. But when they're old, they're cats to scratch you. Pete twisted his body until the whole breadth of his back blocked the parson from Philip's face. A fortnight ago, you were saying, sir? A fortnight, buttered Philip. There'll be days he's going to sleep, there'll be days he's growing on aggrieved by this time, said Pete softly. The parson had put up his noseglasses. Who's this fellow crow? Captain, what? His Honor's cousin? Cousin? Oh, of course, yes, I remember. Tinwold. Ah, hmm. The coach set down his passengers in the marketplace. Pete inquired the hour of its return journey and was told that it started back at six. He helped the girl to alight and directed her to the pier where a crowd of people were awaiting the arrival of the steamer. Then he rejoined Philip, who led the way through the town. The deemster was observed by everybody. As he passed along the streets, there was much whispering and nudging and some bowing and lifting of hats. He responded to none of it. He recognized no one. He, who was famous for courtesy, renowned for gracious manners, beloved for a smile like sunshine, the brighter and more winsome when it broke as from a cloud, returned no man's salutation that day and replied to no woman's greeting. His face was set hard like a marble mask. It passed along without appearing to see. Pete walked one step behind. They did not speak as they went through the town. Not a word or a sign passed between them. Philip turned into a side street and drew up at an iron gate which opened onto a churchyard. They were at the churchyard of St George's. This is the place, said Philip Huskily. Pete took off his hat. The gate was partly open. It was Saturday and the organist was alone in the church practicing hymns for Sunday's service. They passed through. The churchyard was an oblong enclosure within high walls, overlooked on its long sides by rows of houses. One of these rows was Athol Street and one of the houses was the Deemsters. It was late afternoon by this time. Long shadows were cast eastward from the tombstones. The horizontal sunlight was making the leaves very light. Philip walked noisily, jerkily, irregularly, like a man conscious of weakness and determined to conquer it. Pete walked behind so softly that his foot on the gravel was hardly to be heard. The organist was playing Cooper's familiar hymn. God moves in a mysterious way, his wonders to perform. There was a broad avenue bordered by rail tombs leading to the church door. Philip turned out of this into a narrow path which went through a bare green space that was dotted with pegs of wood and little unhewn slabs of slate, like an abandoned quiet ground. At the farthest corner of the space he stopped before a mound near to the wall. It was the new-mate grave. The scars of the turf were still unhealed and the glist of the spade was on the grass. Philip hesitated the moment and looked round at Pete as if even then, even there, he would confess. But he saw no escape from the mesh of his own lies and with a deep breath of submission he pointed down, turned his head over his shoulder and said in a strange voice, There. The silence was long and awful. At length Pete said in a broken whisper, Leave me, sir, leave me. Philip turned away, breathing audibly. A moment longer Pete stood where he was, gripping his hat with both hands in front of him. Then he went down on his knees. Oh, forgive me my hard thoughts of thee, he said. Jesus, forgive me my hard thoughts of my poor Kiri. Philip heard no more. The organ was very loud and triumphant. Deep in unfathomable minds of never-failing skill he treasures up his bright designs and works his sovereign will. A red shaft of sunlight tipped down on Pete's uncovered head from the top of the wall. The blessed tears had come to him. He was sobbing aloud. He was alone with his love at last. He was alone with her indeed. At that moment Kate was looking down from the window of her room. She saw him kneeling and praying by another's grave. Philip never knew how he got out of the churchyard. He crawled out, creeping along by the wall and slinking through the gate, heart sick and all but heart dead. When he came to himself he was standing in Athol Street and a company of jolly fellows in a jaunting car driving out of the golden sunset were rattling past him with shouts and peals of laughter. End of Part 5 Chapter 22 Part 5 Chapter 23 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 The Manxman by Sir Hall Cain Part 5 Chapter 23 Kate was standing in her room with the door open beating her hands together in the first helpless stupor of fear when she saw a man coming up the stairs. His legs seemed to be giving way as he ascended. He was bent and feeble and had all the look of great age. As he approached he lifted his face which was old and withered. Then she saw her it was. It was Philip. She made an involuntary cry and he smiled upon her a hard frozen terrible smile. He is lost she thought. A scared expression penetrated to his soul. He knew that she had seen everything. At first he tried to speak but he could utter nothing. Then a mad desire seized him to lay hold of her by the arms by the shoulders by the throat. Conquering this impulse he stood motionless passing his hands through his hair. She dropped her eyes and hung her head. Their abasement in each other's eyes was complete. He was ashamed before her she was ashamed before him. One moment they faced each other thus in silence, in pitiless and awful silence, and then slowly, very slowly stupefied and crushed. He turned away and crept out of the house. It is the end, the end. What was the use of going farther? He had fallen too low. His degradation was abject. It was hopeless, irreparable, irremediable. End it all, end it all. The words clamoured in his inmost soul. Holding down the key he made for the very steps where boats were waiting for hire. He had lately hired one of an evening and pulled round the head for the sake of the breath and the silence of the sea. Going far out this evening, your honour, the boatman asked. Father than ever he answered. Pull, pull, away from the terrible past, away from the horrible present. The steamer had arrived and had discharged her passengers. She was still pulsing at the end of the red pier like a horse that pants after running a race. A band was playing a waltz somewhere on the promenade. Pleasure boats were darting about the bay. Sea birds were sitting on the water where the sewers of the gay little town empty into the sea. Pull, pull. He was flying from remorse, from despair, from the deep duplicity of a double life, from the lie that had slain the heart of a living man. How low he had fallen. Could he fall lower without falling into crime? Pull, pull. He would be a criminal next, when a man had been degraded in his own eyes and in the eyes of her he loved. Crime stood beckoning him. He might try, but he could not resist. He must yield, he must fall. It was the only degradation remaining. Better end everything before dropping into that last abyss. Pull, pull. He was the judge of his island, and he had outraged justice. Holding a false title, living on a false honor, he was safe of no man's respect, secure of no woman's good will. Exposure hung over him. He would be disgraced. The law would be disgraced. The island would be disgraced. Pull, pull, pull. Before it is too late. Out, far out, farther than tide returns, or sea-tells stories to the shore. He had rode like a slave escaping from his chains, in terror of being overtaken and dragged back. The voices of the harbour were now hushed. The music of the band was deadened. The horses running along the promenade seemed to creep like ants, and the traffic of the streets was no louder than the dull, subterranean rumble. He had shot out of the margin of smooth blue water in which the island lay as on a mirror, and out of the shadow of the hill upon the bay. The sea about him now was running green and glistening, and the red sunlight was coming down on it like smoke. Only the steeples and towers and glass domes of the town reached up into luminous air. He could see the squat tower of St. George's silhouetted against the dying glory of the sky. Seven years he had been its neighbour, and it had witnessed such happy and such cruel hours. All the joy of work, the sweetness of success, the dreams of greatness, the rosy flushes of love, and then the tortures of conscience, the visions, the horror, the secret shame, the self-abandonment, and last of all, the twofold existence as of husband with wife, hidden, incomplete, unfulfilled, yet full of tender ties which had seemed like galling bonds so many a time, but were now so sweet when the hour had come to break them. How distant it all appeared to be, and was he flying from the island like this, the island that had honoured him, that had rewarded him beyond his desserts, and earlier than his dreams, that had suffered no jealousy to impede him, no rivalry to fret him, no disparity of age and service to hold him back, the little island that had seemed to open its arms to him and to cry, Philip Christian, son of your father, grandson of your grandfather, first of Manxman, come up. Oh, for what might have been, useless regrets, pull, pull and forget, but the home of his childhood, Balour, Aunty Nan, his father's death, brightened by one hope, the last but, ah, how vain, Port Moor, Pete, the seas calling me, pull, pull, the sea was calling him indeed, calling him to the deep womb, that his death not birth. He was far out, the sun had gone, the island was like a bird of ashy gray stretched across the horizon, the great wing of night was coming down from the sky, and up out of the mysterious depth of the sea came the profound hum, the mighty voice that is the organ of the world. He took in the oars, and his tiny shell began to drift, at that moment his eye caught something at the bottom of the boat. It was a flower, a broken stem, a torn rose, and a few scattered rose leaves, only a relic of the last occupants, but it brought back the perfume of love, a sense of tenderness, and bright eyes, of a caress, a kiss. His mind went back to Solby, to the Melia, to the Glen, to the days so full of tremulous love, when they hovered on the edge of the precipice. They had been hurled over it since then, it was some relief that between love and honour he would not have to struggle any longer. And Kate? When all was over and word went round, the deemster is gone? What would happen to Kate? She would still be at his house in Athol Street. That would be the beginning of evil. She would wait for him, and when hope of his return was lost she would weep for him. That would be the key of discovery. The truth would become known, though he might be at the bottom of the sea, yet the cloud that hung over his life would break. It was inevitable, and she would be there to bear the storm alone, alone with the island which had been deceived, alone with Pete who had been lied to and betrayed. Was that just? Was that brave? And then what then? What would become of her? Openly shamed, charged as she must be with the whole weight of the crime from whose burden he had fled, accused of his downfall, a Delilah, a Jezebel. What fate should befall her? Where would she go? Down to what depths? He saw her sinking lower than ever, man sinks. He heard her appeals, her supplications. Oh, what have I done, he cried, that I can neither live nor die? Then in that delirium of anguish in which the order of nature is reversed, and external objects no longer produce sensation, but sensation produces, as it were, external objects. He thought he saw something at the bottom of the boat where the broken rose had been. It was the figure of a man, stretched out, still and lifeless. His eyes went up to the face. The face was his own. It was ashy grey, and it stared up at the grey sky. The brain image was himself, and he was dead. He watched it, and it faded away. There was nothing left but the scattered rose leaves and the torn flower on the broken stem. The terrible shadow was gone. He felt that it was gone forever. It was dead, and it would haunt him no longer. It had lived on an empire of evil doing, and his evil doing was at the end. He would see his soul no more. The tears gushed to his eyes and blinded him. They were the first he could remember since he was a boy. Alone between the two mirrors of sea and sky, the chain that he had dragged so long fell away from him. He was a free man again. Go back. Your place is by her side. Don't sneak out of life and leave another to pay. Suffering is a grand thing. It is the struggle of the soul to cast off its sin. Accept it. Go through with it. Come out of it purged. Go back to the island. Your life is not ended yet. End of Part 5, Chapter 23 Part 5, Chapter 24 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. The Manxman by Sir Hall Kane. Part 5, Chapter 24 We were just going sending a little yaw after you, Dempster, when we were seeing you a bit over the head yonder coming back. He's drifting home on the flowing tide, says I, and so you were. Must have been a middling stiff pool for all. We were thinking you were lost one while there. I was almost lost, but I'm here again, thank God, said Philip. He spoke cheerily and went away with a light step. It was now full night, the town was lit up, and the musicians on the pavement were twanging their banjos and harps. Philip felt a sort of physical regeneration, a renewal of youth, a new birth of heart and hope. He was like a man coming out of some hideous gheno of delirious illness. He thought he had never been so light, so buoyant, so happy in his life before. The future was vague. He did not yet know what he would do. It would be something radical, something that would go down to the heart of his condition. Oh, he would be strong, he would be resolute, he would pay the uttermost farthing, he would not wait to count the cost. And she, she would be with him. He could do nothing without her. The partner of his fault would share his redemption also. God bless her. He let himself into the house and shut the door firmly behind him. The lights were still burning in the hall, so it was not very late. He mounted the stairs with a loud step and swung into his room. The lamp was on the table, and within the circle cast by its blue shade, the letter was lying. He took it up with dismay. It was in Kate's handwriting. Forgive me, I'm going away. It is all my fault. I have broken the heart of one man and I am destroying the soul of another. If I stay here any longer, you will be ruined and lost. I'm only a millstone about your neck. I see it, I feel it, and yet I have loved you so and wished to be so proud of you. Your heart is brave enough, though I have sunk it down so low. You will live to be strong and good and true, though that can never be while I am with you. I have been far below you from the first. All along I have only been thinking how much I loved you, but you have had so many other things to consider. My life seems to have been one long battle for love. I think it has been a cruel battle too. Anyway, I am beaten and oh so tired. Do not follow me. I pray of you do not try to find me. It is my last request. Think of me as on a long journey. I may be the great God of heaven knows. I am taking the little cracked medallion from the bottom of the oak box. It is the only picture I can find and it will remind me of someone else as well, my little Catherine, my motherless baby. I have nothing to leave with you but this. It was a lock of her hair. At first I thought of the wedding ring that you gave me when I came here, but it would not come off and besides I could not part with it. Goodbye. I ought to have done this long ago, but you will not hate me now. We could never be happy together again. Goodbye. End of Part 5, Chapter 24. Part 6, Chapter 1 of The Manxman. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Manxman by Sir Hall Cain. Part 6, Man and God. Chapter 1. The summer had gone, the gorse had dried up, the herring fishing had ended, and Pete had become poor. His nicky had done nothing, his last hundred pounds had been spent, and his creditors in scores, quiet as mice until then, were baying about him like bloodhounds. He sold his boat and satisfied everybody, but fell nevertheless to the position of a person of no credit and little consequence. On the lips of the people he descended from Captain Pete to Peter Bridget, when he saluted the rich with how-do, they replied with a stare, a lift of the chin, and you've the odds on me, my good man. To this he replied with a roll of the head and a peel of laughter, have I now, but you'll die for all. Balajorah Chapel had been three months rehearsing a children's cantata entitled Under the Palms, and building an arbor of palm branches on a platform for Pete's rugged form to figure in, but Caesar sat there instead. Still, Pete had his six thousand pounds in mortgage on Balawain. Only three other persons knew anything of that, Caesar who had his own reasons for saying nothing, Peter Christian himself, who was hardly likely to tell, and the High Bailiff, who was a bachelor and a miser, and kept all business revelations as sacred as are the secrets of another kind of confessional. When Pete's evil day came, and the world showed no pity, Caesar became afraid. I wouldn't sell out, sir, said he. Hold on till Martin mass, anyway. The first half year's interest is due, then. There's no knowing what'll happen before that. What's it saying? He shall give his angels charge concerning thee. The old man has had a poetic stroke, they're telling me, or the Lord's mercy endureth forever. Pete began to sell his furniture. He cleared out the parlour as bare as a vault. Time for a two, he said. I've been wanting the room for a workshop. Martin mass came, and Caesar returned in high feather. No interest, he said. Give him the month's grace, and hold hard till it's over. The Lord will provide. Isn't it written? In the world you shall have tribulation. Things are doing wonderful, though. Last night going home from Balajorra, I saw the corpse lights coming from the big house to Kirk Christ's churchyard, with the parson's arming in front of them. The old man's dying, I've seen his soul. To thy name, O Lord, be all the glory. Pete sold out a second room, and turned the key on it. Mortal cozy and small this big ugly mansion is getting Nancy, he said. The month's grace allowed by the deed of mortgage expired, and Caesar came to Elm Cottage, rubbing both hands. Turn him out, neck and crop, sir, not a penny left to the man, and six thousand golden pounds paid into his hands seven months ago. But who's wondering at that? There's Ross back again, carrying half a ton of his friends over the island, and lashing out the silver like dust. Your silver, sir, yours. And here's yourself with the world darkening round you terrible, but no fear of you now. The meek shall inherit the earth. Oh, God is opening his word more and more, sir, more and more. There's that black tome, too. He was talking big a piece back, but this morning he was up before the high bailiff for charming and cheating, and was put away for the Dempster. Lord, keep him from the gallows and hellfire. Oh, it's a refreshing season. It was God speaking to me by providence when I told you to put money on that mortgage. What's the scripture saying? For brass I bring thee gold. Turn him out, sir, turn him out. Didn't you tell me that old Ballowayne had a poetic stroke, said Pete? I did, but he's a big man. Let him pay his way, said Caesar. Samson was a strong man, and Solomon was a wise one, but they couldn't pay money when they hadn't got it, said Pete. Let him look to his son, then, said Caesar. That's just what he's going to do, said Pete. I'll let him die in his bed, God forgive him. The winter came, and Pete began to think of buying a dandy, which being smaller than a nicky and of your rig, he could sail up himself, and so earn a living by fishing the cod. To do this he had a further clearing of furniture, thereby reducing the size of the house to three rooms. The feather bed left his own bedstead, the watch came out of his pocket, and the walls of the hall kitchen gaped and yawned in the places where the pictures had been. The bog-bane to the rushy-curric, say I, Nancy, said Pete, not being used to such grandeur, I was taking it hard, never could remember to wind that watch. And feathers bless you, don't I remember the little mother with a sickle and a bag going cutting the long grass on the steep brooves for the cow, and drying a handful for myself for a bed? Sleeping on it? Never slept the likes since at all. The result of Pete's first week's fishing was twenty cod and a gigantic ling. He packed the cod in boxes and sent them by crow and the steam packet to the market in Liverpool. The ling he swung on his back over his oil-skinned jacket and carried it home, the head at his shoulder, and the tail dangling at his legs. There he cried, dropping it on the floor. Split it and salt it, and you have breakfasts for a month. When the remittance came from Liverpool it was a postal order for seven and six months. Never mind, said Pete. We're baiting down Hommy anyway. The old muff has only made seven and a penny. The weather was rough, the fishing was bad, the tackle got broken, and Pete began to extol plain living. God bless me, he said. I don't know in the world what's coming to the old island at all. When I was for a man's servant with Caesar, the farming boys were eating potatoes and herrings three times a day. But now? Witches mate every dinner time if you please, and tey, the girls must be having it regular and taking no shame with them neither. My sake I remember when the mother would be whispering, keep an eye on the road boy while I'm brewing myself a cup of tey. Truth enough Nancy, an ounce a week and a pound of sugar and people wondering at the woman for that. The mountains were taken from the people and they were no longer allowed to cut turf for fuel, coals were dear, the winter was cold, and Pete began to complain of a loss of appetite. My teeth must be getting bad Nancy, he whined. They were white as milk and faultless as a negro's. Don't domesticate my food somehow. What's the odds though? Can't ate supper at all and that's some constellation. Nothing like going to bed hungry Nancy if you're wanting to get up with an appetite for breakfast. Then the beautiful James woman, God bless me, the dinners and the feasts and the blankets you're eating in your sleep. Now if you fill your skin like a high bailiff before going to bed, 10 to 1 you'd have a bugain riding on your breast the night through and dream of dying for a drink of water. Oh sleeps a regular radical good for levelling up anyway. Christmas approached, servants boasted of the Christmas boxes they got from their masters and Pete remembered Nancy. Nancy said he, they're telling me Lisa Billy Niclay is getting 20 pound per year per annum at her new situation in Douglas. She isn't nothing to yourself for cooking, mustn't let the little one stand in your way woman, she's getting a big girl now and I'll be taking her out in the dandy with me and tying her down on the low deck there and giving her a pigs bladder and she'll be playing away as nice as nice, see? Nancy looked at him and he dropped his eyes before her. Is it wanting to get done with me you are Pete? She said in a quavering voice. There's my black. I can sell it for something. It's never been worn at me since I sat through the service with Granny the Sunday after we got news of Curie. Well I'm not a big eater Pete, never was. You can clear me of that anyway. A bit of bread and cheese for my dinner when you are out at the fishing and I'm asking no better. Hold your tongue woman cried Pete hold your tongue before you break my heart. I've seen my rich days and I've seen my poor days. I've tried both and I'm content. End of part six chapter one. Part six chapter two of The Manxman. This is a LibriVox recording or LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. The Manxman by Sir Hall Cain. Part six chapter two. Meantime Philip and Douglas was going from success to success from rank to rank from fame to fame. Everything he put his hand to counted to him for righteousness. When he came to himself after the disappearance of Kate his heart was a wasted field of volcanic action with ashes and scoriae of infernal blackness on the surface but the wholesome soil beneath. In spite of her injunction he set himself to look for her. More than love more than pity more than remorse prompted and supported him. She was necessary to his resurrection to his new birth. So he scoured every poor quarter of the town every rookery of old Douglas and this was set down to an interest in the poor. An epidemic broke out on the island and during the scare that followed were in some of the wealthy left their homes for England and many of the poor betook themselves to the mountains and even certain of the doctors found refuge in flight. Philip won golden opinions for presence of mind and personal courage. He organised a system of registration regulated quarantine and caused the examination of everybody coming to the island or leaving it. From day to day he went from house to house from hospital to hospital from ward to ward. No dangers terrified him. He seemed to keep his eye on each case. He was only looking for Kate only assuring himself that she had not fallen victim to the pest only making certain that she had not come or gone. But the divine madness which seizes upon a crowd when its heart is touched laid hold of the island at the site of Philip's activities. He was worshipped. He was beloved. He was the idol of the poor. Almost everybody else was forgotten in the splendour of his fame. No committee could proceed without him. No list was complete until it included his name. Philip was ashamed of his glories but he had no heart to repudiate them. When the epidemic subsided he had convinced himself that Kate must be gone that she must be dead. Gone therefore was his only hold on life and dead was his hope of a moral resurrection. He could do nothing without her but go on as he was going. To pretend to a new birth now would be like a deathbed conversion. It would be like renouncing the joys of life after they have renounced the renouncer. His colleague the old deemster was stricken down by paralysis and he was required to attend to both their duties. This made it necessary at first that all deemsters' courts should be held in Castle Town and hence Ramsey saw him rarely. He spent his days in the courthouse of the castle and his nights at home. His fair hair became prematurely white and his face grew more than ever like that of a man newly risen from a fever. Study said the world and it bowed its head the lower. Yet he was seen to be not only a studious man but a melancholy one. To defeat curiosity he began to enter a little into the life of the island and as time went on to engage in some of the social duties of his official position. On Christmas Eve he gave a reception at his house in Athol Street. He had hardly realised how it would tear at the tenderest fibres of memory. The very rooms that had been Cates were given over to the ladies who were his guests. All afternoon the crush was great and the host was the attraction he was a fascinating figure so young yet already so high so silent yet able to speak so splendidly and then so handsome with that whitening head and that smile like vanishing sunshine. In the midst of the reception Philip received a letter from Ramsay that was like the cry of a bleeding heart. My little one is ill they're saying she's dying come to me for God's sake Pete. The snow was beginning to fall as the guests departed. When the last of them was gone the clock on the bureau was striking six and the night was closing in. By eight o'clock Philip was at Elm Cottage. End of Part 6 Chapter 2 Part 6 Chapter 3 of The Manxman This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and all to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. The Manxman by Sir Hall Cain Part 6 Chapter 3 Pete was sitting at the foot of the stairs unwashed, uncombed with his clothes half buttoned and his shoes unlaced. Phil he cried and leaping up he took Philip by both hands and fell to sobbing like a child. They went upstairs together. The bedroom was dense with steam and the forms of two women were floating like figures in a fog. There she is the boch quite Pete in a pitiful wail. The child lay out stretched on Granny's lap with no sign of consciousness and hardly any sign of life except the hollow breathing of bronchitis. Philip felt a strange emotion come over him. He sat on the end of the bed and looked down. The little face with its twitching mouth and pinched nostrils beating with every breath was the face of Kate. The little head with its round forehead and the silvery hair brushed back from the temples was his own head. A mysterious throb surprised him. A great tenderness a deep yearning something new to him. And born as it were in his breast at that instant. He had an impulse never felt before to go down on his knees where the child lay to take it in his arms to draw it to him to fondle it to call it his own and to pour over at the inarticulate babble of pain and love that was bursting from his tongue. But someone was kneeling there already and in his jealous longing he realized that his passionate sorrow could have no voice. Pete at Granny's lap was stroking the child's arm and her forehead with the tenderness of a woman. The boch millish seems easier now doesn't she Granny? Quieter anyway? Not coughing so much is she? The doctor came at the moment and Caesar entered the room behind him with a face of funereal resignation. See cried Pete? There's your little patient doctor. She's lying as quiet as quiet and hasn't coughed to spake of for better than an hour. Hmm! said the doctor ominously. He looked at the child, made some inquiries of Granny, gave certain instructions to Nancy and then lifted his head with a sigh. Well, we've done all we can for her, he said. If the child lives through the night she may get over it. The women threw up the hands with, oh dear, oh dear, Philip gave a low sharp cry of pain. But Pete who had been breathing heavily, watching intently and holding his arms about the little one as if he would save it from disease and death and heaven itself, now lost himself in the immensity of his woe. Tut, doctor, what are you saying? he said. You always took for a knowledgeable man, doctor. But you're talking nonsense now. Don't you see the child's only sleeping comfortable? And haven't I told you she hasn't coughed anything worth for an hour? Do you think a poor fellow has got no sense at all? The doctor was a patient man as well as a wise one. He left the room without a word. But thinking to pour oil on Pete's wounds and not mining that his oil was vitriol, Caesar said, If it's the Lord's will, it's his will, sir. The sins of the fathers are visited upon the children. Yes, and the mothers too, God forgive them. At that, Pete leapt to his feet in a flame of wrath. You lie, you lie, he cried. God doesn't punish the innocent for the guilty. If he does, he's not a good God, but a bad one. Why should this child be made to suffer and die for the sin of his mother, I or his father either? Show me the man that would make it do the like, and I'll smash his head against the wall. Blaspheming, am I? No, but it's you that's blaspheming. God is good. God is just. God is in heaven. And you are making him out no God at all, but worse than the blackest devil that's in hell. Caesar went off in horror of Pete's profanities. If the Lord keeps not the city, he said, the watchman waketh in vain. Pete's loud voice had aroused the child. He'd made a little cry and he was all softness in an instant. The women moistened its lips with barley water and hushed its fretful whimper. Come, said Philip, taking Pete's arm. Let me lean on you, Philip, said Pete, and the stalwart fellow went tottering down the stairs. They sat on opposite sides of the fireplace and kept the staircase door open that they might hear all that happened in the room above. Get thee to bed, Nancy, said the voice of Granny. Dear knows how soon you'll be wanted. You'll be calling me for twelve then, Granny. Now mine, you'll be calling me. Oh, Pete, he's not so far wrong, though. What's it saying? Suffer little childrens? But Caesar's right enough this time, Granny. The boch who's took for death, as sure as sure. I saw the crow that was at the wedding going crossing the child's head the very last time she was out of doors. Pete was listening intently. Philip was gazing passively into the fire. I couldn't help it, sir. I couldn't really whispered Pete across the hearth. When a man's got a child that's ill, they may talk about saving souls. But what's the constellation in that? It's not the soul he's wanting, saving at all. It's the child now, isn't it now? Philip made some confused response. Of course I can't expect you to understand that, Philip. You're a grand man and a clever man and a feeling man, but I can't expect you to understand that now, is it likely? The greenest galls egg of a father that isn't half-wise has the pull of you there, Phil. Deed he has, though. When a man has a child of his own, he's knowing what it means. The Lord help him. Something calls to him. It's like blood calling to blood. It's like, I don't know that I'm understanding it myself, neither. Not to say understand, exactly. Every word that Pete spoke was like a sword turning both ways. Philip drew his breath heavily. You can feel for another, Phil. The Lord forbid you should ever feel for yourself. Books are your children and they're best off that's never having no better. But the little ones, God help them, to see them fail and suffer and sink and you not able to do nothing and themselves calling to you, calling still, calling regular, calling out of mercy. The way I'm telling of, anyway. Oh, God, oh, God. Philip's throat rose. He felt as if he must betray himself the next instant. Perhaps the doctor was right for all. Maybe the child isn't willing to stay with us now the mother is gone. Maybe it's wanting away, poor thing. And who knows? Wouldn't trust that the mother is waiting for the little boch yonder. Waiting and waiting on the shore there. And ticing and ticing. I've heard of the like, anyway. Philip groaned. His brain reeled. His legs grew cold as stones. A great awe came over him. It was not Pete alone that he was encountering. In these searchings and rendings of the heart which uncovered every thought and tore open every wound, he was entering the lists with God himself. The church bell began to ring. What's that, cried Philip? It had struck upon his ear like a knell. E very, said Pete. The bell was ringing for the old man's service for the singing of Christmas carols. The fibres of Pete's memory were touched by it. He told of his Christmases abroad how it was summer instead of winter, and fruits were on the trees instead of snow on the ground. How people who had never spoken to him before would shake hands and wish him a merry Christmas. Then from sheer weariness and a sense of utter desolation, broken by the comfort of Philip's company, he fell asleep in his chair. The night wore on. The house was quiet. Only the husky rasping of the child's hurried breathing came from the floor above. An evil thought in the guise of a pious one took possession of Philip. God is wise, he told himself. God is merciful. He knows what is best for all of us. What are we, poor, impotent grasshoppers, that we dare pray to him to change his great purposes? It is idle. It is impious. It is impious. While the child lives, there will be security for no one. If it dies, there will be peace and rest and the beginning of content. The mother must be gone already, so the dark chapter of our lives will be closed at last. God is all wise, God is all good. The child made a feeble cry and Philip crept upstairs to look. Granny had dozed off in her seat, and little Catherine was on the bed. A disregarded doll lay with inverted head on the counterpane. The fire had slid and died down to a lifeless glow, and the kettle had ceased to steam. There was no noise in the room, save the child's galloping breathing, which seemed to scrape the walls as with a file. Sometimes there was a cough that came like a voice through a fog. Philip crept in noiselessly, knelt down by the bed head, and leaned over the pillow. A candle which burned on the mantelpiece cast its light on the head that lay there. The little face was drawn, the little pinched nostrils were beating like a pulse. The little lip beneath was beaded with perspiration. The beautiful round forehead was damp, and the silken silvery hair was matted. Philip thought the child must be dying, and his ugly piety gave way. There was a movement on the bed. One little hand that had been clenched hard on the breast came over the counterpane and fell outstretched and open before him. He took it for an appeal, a dumb and piteous appeal, and the smothered tenderness of the father's heart came uppermost. Her child, his child, dying, and he there yet not daring to claim her. A new fear took hold of him. He had been wrong. There could be no security in the child's death, no peace, no rest, no content. As surely as the child died he would betray himself. He would blurt it all out. He would tell everything. My child, my darling, my Kate's Kate. The cry would burst from him. He could not help it. And to reveal the black secret at the mouth of an open grave would be terrible. It would be horrible. It would be awful. Spare her, O Lord, spare her. In a fear bordering on the lyrium he went downstairs and shook Pete by the shoulders to awaken him. Come quickly, he said. Pete opened his eyes with a bewildered look. She's better, isn't she? He asked. Courage, said Philip. Is she worse? It's life or death now. We must try something that I saw when I was away. Good Lord, and I've been sleeping. Safer, Philip. You're great. You're clever. Be quiet for God's sake, my good fellow. Quick, a kettle of boiling water, a blanket, some hot towels. Oh, you're a friend. You'll save her. The doctors don't know nothing. Ten minutes afterwards the child made a feeble cry, coughed loosely, threw up phlegm, and came out of the drowsy land which it had inhabited for a week. In ten minutes more it was wrapped in the hot towels and sitting on Pete's knee before a brisk fire, opening its little eyes and percing its little mouth and making some inarticulate communication. Then Granny awoke with a start and reproached herself for sleeping. But dear heart alive she cried with both hands up. The boch village is mended wonderful. Nancy came back in her stockings, blinking and yawning. She clapped and crowed at sight of the child's altered face. The clock in the kitchen was striking twelve by this time. The bells had begun to ring again. The carol singers were coming out of the church. There was a sound on the light snow of the street like the running of a shallow river and the weights were being sung for the dawn of another Christmas. The doctor looked in on his way home and congratulated himself on the improved condition. The crisis was passed. The child was safe. Ah, better, better, he said, cheerily. I thought we might manage at this time. It was a demster that done it, cried Pete. He was cooing and blowing a little Catherine over the fringe of her towels. He couldn't have done more for the little one if she'd been his own flesh and blood. Philip dared not speak. He hurried away in a storm of emotion. Not yet, he thought, not yet. The time of his discovery was not yet. It was like death, though. It waited for him somewhere. Somewhere and at some time, some day in the year, some place on the earth. Perhaps his eyes knew the date in the calendar. Perhaps his feet knew the spot on the land. Yet he knew neither. Somewhere and at some time, God knew where. God knew when. He kept his own secrets. That night, Philip slept at the mitre. And next morning he went up to Balour. End of Part 6, Chapter 3 Part 6, 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. The Manxman by Sir Hall Cain Part 6, Chapter 4 The Governor could not forget Tinwold. Exaggerating the humiliation of that day, he thought his influence in the island was gone. He sold his horses and carriages and otherwise behaved like a man who expected to be recalled. Towards Philip he showed no malice. It was not merely as the author of his shame that Philip had disappointed him. He had half cherished a hope that Philip would become his son-in-law. But when the rod in his hand had failed him, when it proved too big for a staff and too rough for a crutch, he did not attempt to break it. Either from the instinct of a gentleman, or the pride of a strong man, he continued to shower his favours upon Philip. Going to London with his wife and daughter at the beginning of the new year, he appointed Philip to act as his deputy. Philip did not abuse his powers. As grandson of the one great manxman of his century and himself a man of talents, he was readily accepted by the island. His only drawback was his settled melancholy. This added to his interest if it took from his popularity. The ladies began to whisper that he had fallen in love, and that his heart was buried in the grave. He did not forget, old comrades, it was remembered in his favour that one of his friends was a fisherman, a cousin across the bar of Bastardy, who had been a fool and gone through his fortune. On St. Bridget's Day Philip held Deemster's court in Ramsey. The snow had gone and the earth had the smell of violets. It was almost as if the violets themselves lay close beneath the soil, and the rhoda had been too long kept under. The sun, which had not been seen for weeks, had burst out that day. The air was warm and the sky was blue. Inside the courthouse the upper arcs of the windows had been let down. The sun shone on the Deemster as he sat on the dais, and the spring breeze played with his silvery wig. Sometimes in the pauses of rasping voices the birds were heard to sing from the trees on the lawn outside. The trial was a tedious and protracted one. It was the trial of Black Tom. During the epidemic that had visited the island he had developed the character of a witch doctor. His first appearance in court had been before the High Bailiff, who had committed him to prison. He had been bailed out by Pete, and had forfeited his bail in an attempt at flight. The witnesses were now many, and some came from a long distance. It was desirable to conclude the same day. At five in the evening the Deemster rose and said, the court will adjourn for an hour, gentlemen. Philip took his own refreshments in the Deemster's room. Gemma Lord was with him, then put off his wig and gown, and slipped through the prisoner's yard at the back and round the corner to Elm Cottage. It was now quite dark. The house was lit by the firelight only, which flashed like willow the wisp on the whole window. Philip was surprised by unusual sounds. There was laughter within, then singing, and then laughter again. He had reached the porch, and his approach had not been heard. The door stood open, and he looked in and listened. The room was bareer than he had ever seen it, a table, three chairs, a cradle, a dresser, and a corner cupboard. Nancy sat by the fire with the child on her lap. Pete was squatting on the floor, which was strewn with rushes, and singing. Come, Bridget, St. Bridget, come in at my door. The crock's on the bink, and the rush is on the floor. Then, getting on to all fours like a great boy, and bobbing his head up and down, and making deep growls to imitate the terrors of a wild beast, he made little runs and plunges at the child. He jumped and crowed in Nancy's lap, and laughed and squealed till she kinked. Now, stop, you great omathom, stop, said Nancy. It isn't good for the little one. Indeed it isn't. But Pete was too greedy of the child's joy to deny himself the delight of it. Making a great low sweep of the room, he came back hopping on his haunches and barking like a dog. Then the child laughed till the laughter rolled like a marble in her little throat. Philip's own throat rose at the sight, and his breast began to ache. He felt the same thrill as before, the same yet different, more painful, more full of jealous longing. This was no place for him. He thought he would go away. But turning on his heel, he was seen by Pete, who was now on his back on the floor, rocking the child up and down like the bellows of an accordion, and two and fro like the sleigh of a loom. My faith, the Dempster! Come in, sir, come in, cried Pete, looking over his forehead. Then, giving the child back to Nancy, he leapt to his feet. Philip entered with a sick yearning and sat down in the chair facing Nancy. You're wondering at me, Dempster? I know you are, sir, said Pete. Deed, but I'm wondering at myself as well. I thought it was never going to see a glad day again, and if the sky would ever be blue, I would be breaking my heart. But what is the mank's poet saying, sir? I have no will but thy know God. That's me, sir, truth enough, and since the little one has been mending, I've never been so happy in my life. Philip muttered some commonplace and put his thumb into the baby's hand. It was sucked in by the little fingers, as by the soft feelers of the sea and enemy. Pete drew up the third chair. Then all interest was centred on the child. She's growing, said Philip Huskily. And getting wise, terrible, said Pete. You wouldn't belive it, sir, but that child's got the head of an almanac. She has, though. Listen here, sir. What does the cow say, darling? Moo, said the little one. Look at that now, said Pete, rapturously. She knows what the dog says, too, said Nancy. What does Dempster say, boch? But how well, said the child. Bless me, soul, said Pete, turning to Philip with amazement at the child's supernatural wisdom. And there's Tom Hommie's boy, and a findable fellow enough for it, but six weeks older than this one are not a word out of him yet. Hearing himself talked of, the dog had come from under the table. The child gurgled down at it, then made purring noises at its own feet. And wriggled in Nancy's lap. Dear heart alive, if it's not like nursing an eel, said Nancy. Be quiet, will you? And the little one was shaken back to her seat. Aisy, all woman, said Pete. She's just wanting her little shoes and stockings off, that's it. Then talking to the child. Ah-mah-mim-lum-laloo, just so. I don't know what that means myself, but she does, you see. Oh, the child is teaching me heaps, sir. Listening to the little one, I'm remembering things. Well, we're only big children the best of us. That's the way the world's keeping young, and God help it when we're getting so clever, there's no child left in us at all. Time for young women to be in bed, though, said Nancy, getting up to give the baby her bath. Let me have a hold of the rogue first, said Pete. And as Nancy took the child out of the room, he dragged at it and smothered its open mouth with kisses. Poor sport for you, sir, watching a foolish old father playing games with his little one, said Pete. Philip's answer was broken and confused. His eyes had begun to fill, and to hide them he turned his head aside. Thinking he was looking at the empty places about the walls, Pete began to enlarge on his prosperity and to talk as if he were driving all the trade of the island before him. Wonderful fishing now, Phil. I'm exporting a power of cod, getting postal orders and stamps, and I don't know what. Seven and sixpence in a single post from Liverpool. That's nothing, sir, nothing at all. Nancy brought back the child, whose silvery curls were now damp. What? A young lady coming in her nightdress, cried Pete. Work enough had to get it over her head, too, said Nancy. She wouldn't. No, she wouldn't. Here take and dry her hair by the fire while I warm up her supper. Pete rolled the sleeves of his jersey above his elbows, took the child on his knee, and rubbed her hair between his hands, singing, Come Bridget, Saint Bridget, come in at my door. Nancy clattered about in her clogs, filled the saucepan with bread and milk, and brought it to the fire. Give it to me, Nancy, said Philip, and he leaned over and held the saucepan above the bar. The child watched him intently. Well, did you ever, said Pete, the strange she's making of you, Philip? Don't you know the gentleman, darling? Oh, but he's knowing you, though. The saucepan boiled, and Philip handed it back to Nancy. Go to him, then, away with you, said Pete. Go to your godfather. He'd have been your namefather, too, if it had been a boy you'd been. Off you go. And he stretched out his hairy arms until the child touched the floor. Philip stooped to take the little one, who first pranced and beat the rushes with its feet, as with two drumsticks, then trod on its own legs, swirled about to Pete's arms, dropped its lower lip and set up a terrified outcry. Ah, she knows her own father, bless her, cried Pete, plucking the child back to his breast. Philip dropped his head and laughed. A sort of creeping fear had taken possession of him, as if he felt remotely that the child was to be the channel of his retribution. Will you feed her yourself, Pete, said Nancy? She was coming up with a saucer, of which she was tasting the contents. He's that handy with a child, sir. You wouldn't think. Deed, you wouldn't. Then stooping on the baby as it ate its supper. But I'm saying, young woman, is there no sleep in your eyes tonight? No, but nodding away here like a woodthrush in a tree, said Pete. He was ladling the pobs into the child's mouth, and scooping the overflow from her chin. Sleep's a terrible enemy of this one, sir. She's having a battle with it every night of life, anyway. God help her, she'll have luck better than some of us, or she'll be fighting it the other way about one of these days. She's usually going off with the spoon in her mouth, sir, for all the world like a little chirrup, said Nancy. Too busy looking at her godfather tonight, though, said Pete. Well, look at him. You owe him your life, you little sandpiper. And my sakes, the straight like him you are, too. Isn't she, said Nancy? If I wasn't thinking the same myself, couldn't look straighter like him if she'd been his born child. Now could she? And the curls, too, and the eyes. Well, well. If she'd been a boy now, began Pete. But Philip had risen to return to the courthouse, and Pete said in another tone, Hold hard a minute, sir. I've something to show you. Here, take the little one, Nancy. Pete lit a candle and led the way into the parlour. The room was empty of furniture, but at one end there was a stool, a stone mason's mallet, a few chisels, and a large stone. The stone was a gravestone. Pete approached it solemnly, held up the candle in front of it, and said in a low voice, It's for her. I've been doing it myself, sir, and it's last to me all winter, dark nights and bad days. I'll be finishing it tonight, though, God willing, and tomorrow maybe I'll be taking it to Douglas. Is it? Began Philip, but he could not finish. The stone was a plain slab, rounded at the top, bevelled about the edge, smoothed on the face, and chiseled over the back, but there was no sign or symbol on it, and no lettering or inscription. Is there to be no name, asked Philip at last? No, said Pete. No? Tell you the truth, sir. I've been reading what it's saying in the old book about the recording angel calling the dead out of their graves. Yes? And I've been thinking the way he'll be doing it will be going to the graveyards and seeing the names on the gravestones and calling them out loud to rise up to judgment. Some, as it's saying, to life eternal, and some to everlasting punishment. Well? Well, sir, I've been thinking if he comes to this one and sees no name on it, Pete's voice sank to a whisper. Maybe he'll pass it by and let the poor sinner sleep on. Stumbling back to the courthouse through the dark lane, Philip thought, it was a lie then, but it's true now. It must be true. She must be dead. It was a sort of relief in the certainty. It was an end at all events, a pitiful end, a cowardly end, a kind of sneaking out of fate's fingers. It was not what he had looked for and intended, but he struggled to reconcile himself to it. Then he remembered the child and thought, why should I disturb it? Why should I disturb Pete? I will watch over it all its life. I will protect it and find a way to provide for it. I will do my duty by it. The child shall never want. He was offering the key to the lock of the prisoner's yard when someone passed him in the lane, peered into his face, then turned about and spoke. Oh, it's you, deemster Christian. Yes, doctor, good night. Have you heard the news from Balawain? The old gentleman had another stroke this morning. No, I had not heard it. Another? Dear me, dear me. Back in his room, Philip resumed his wig and gown and returned to the courthouse. The place was now lit up by candlelight and densely crowded. Everybody rose to his feet as the deemster stepped to the dais. End of Part 6, Chapter 4. Part 6, Chapter 5 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. The Manxman by Sir Hall Cain. Part 6, Chapter 5. Come, Bridget, Saint Bridget, come in at my door, the crocs on the bink and the rush. She's fast, said Nancy. Rocking this one to sleep is like waiting for the kettle to boil. You may try and try and blow and blow, but never a sound. No sooner have you forgotten all about her, but she's singing away as steady as a tot. Nancy put the child into the cradle, tucked her about, twisted the head of the little nest so that the warmth of the fire should enter it, and hung a shawl over the hood to protect the little eyelids from the light. Really keep the house till I'm home from Selby, Pete? I've my workwoman, said Pete, from the parlour. I'll put a junk on the fire and be off, then, said Nancy. She pulled the door onto the catch behind her, and went crunching the gravel to the gate. There was no sound in the house now, but the gentle breathing of the sleeping child, soft as an angel's prayer, the chirping of the mended fire like a cage of birds, the ticking of the clock, and through the parlour wall the dull pat-pat-pat-pat of the wooden mallet, and the scrape of the chisel on the stone. Pete worked steadily for half an hour, and then came back to the hall kitchen with the tools in his hand. The cob of coal had kindled to a lively flame, which flashed and went out, and the quick black shadows of the chairs and the table and the jugs on the dresser were leaping about the room like elves. With parted lips just breaking into a smile, Pete went down on one knee by the cradle, put the mallet under his arm, and gently raised the shawl curtain. God bless my motherless girl, he said, in a voice no louder than a breath. Suddenly while he knelt there he was smitten as by an electric shock. His face straightened and he drew back, still holding the shawl at the tips of his fingers. The child was sleeping peacefully, with one of its little arms over the counterpane. On its face the flickering light of the fire was coming and going, making lines about the baby's eyes and throwing up the baby features. It is in such lights that we are startled by resemblances in the child's face. Pete was startled by a resemblance. He had seen it before, but not as he saw it now. A moment afterwards he was reaching across the cradle again. His arms spread over it, and his face close down at the child's face, scanning every line of it as one scans a map. Indeed, but she is though, he murmured. She's like him enough anyway. An awful idea had taken possession of his mind. He rose stiffly to his feet and the shawl flapped back. The room seemed to be darkening round him. He broke the coal, though it was burning brightly, stepped to the other side of the cradle, and looked at the child again. It was the same from there. The resemblance was ghostly. He felt something growing hard inside of him, and he returned to his work in the parlour. But the chisels slipped, the mallet fell too heavily, and he stopped. His mind fluctuated among distant things. He could not help thinking of Portmore, of the carousel do-men, of the day when he and Philip were brought home in the early morning. Putting his tools down, he returned to the room. He was holding his breath and walking softly, as if in the presence of an invisible thing. The room was perfectly quiet. He could hear the breath in his nostrils. In a state of stupor, he stood for some time with his back to the fire, and watched his shadow on the opposite wall and on the ceiling. The cradle was at his feet. He could not keep his eyes off it. From time to time, he looked down across one of his shoulders. With head thrown back and lips apart, the child was breathing calmly and sleeping the innocent sleep. This angel innocence reproached him. My heart must be going bad, he muttered. Your bad thoughts are blackening the dead. For shame, Pete, William, for shame. He was feeling like a man who is in a storm of thunder and lightning at night. Familiar things about him look strange and awful. Stooping to the cradle again, he turned back the shawl onto the cradle head, as the girl turns back the shade of her son bonnet. Then the firelight was full on the child's face, and it moved in its sleep. It moved yet more under his steadfast gaze and cried a little, as if the terrible thought that was in his mind had penetrated to its own. He was stooping so when the door was open, and Caesar entered violently, making asthmatic noises in his throat. Pete looked up at him with a stupefied air. Peter, he said, will you sell that mortgage? Pete answered with a growl. Will you transfer it to me, said Caesar? The time's not come, said Pete. What time? The time foretold by the prophet when the lion can lie down with the lamb. Pete laughed bitterly. Caesar was quivering, his mouth was twitching, and his eyes were wild. Will you come over to the mitre, then? What for to the mitre? Ross Christian is there. Pete made an impatient gesture, that stormy petrol again. He's always about when there's bad weather going. Will you come and hear what the man's saying? What's he saying? Will you hear for yourself? Pete looked hard at Caesar, looked again, then caught up his cap, and went out at the door. End of Part 6, Chapter 5. Part 6, Chapter 6 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. The Manxman by Sir Hall Cain, Part 6, Chapter 6. With two of his cronies, the man had spent the day in a room overlooking the harbour, drinking hard and playing billiards. Early in the afternoon, a messenger had come from Balloway, and saying, Your father is ill. Come home immediately. By and by, he had said, and gone on with the game. Later in the afternoon, later in the afternoon, the messenger had come again, saying, Your father has had a stroke of paralysis, and he is calling for you. Let me finish the break first, he had replied. In the evening, the messenger had come a third time, saying, Your father is unconscious. Where is the hurry then, he had answered, and he sang a stave of the miller's daughter. They married me against my will when I was daughter at the mill. Finally, Caesar, who had been remonstrating with the Balloway in at the moment of his attack, came to remonstrate with Ross and to pay off a score of his own as well. Honor thy father and thy mother that thy days cried Caesar with uplifted arm and the high pitch of the preacher, but your days will not be long anyway, and if you are the death of that foolish old man, it won't be the first death you are answerable for. So you believe it too, said Ross, Q in hand. You believe your daughter is dead, do you, old Jephtha Deramire? Would you be surprised to hear now? The cronies giggled, that she isn't dead at all. Good shot. Cannon off the cushion. Hallowah, Jephtha Deramire has seen a ghost seemingly, saw her myself, man, when I was up in town a month ago. Want to know where she is? Shall I tell you? Oh, you're a beauty, you're a pattern. You know how to train up a child in the way. Pocket off the red. It's you to preach at my father, isn't it? She's on the streets of London. Ah, Jephtha Deramire's gone. They married me against my will. There you are then. Good shot. Love 25 and nothing left. Pete pushed through to the billiard room, fearing there might be violence, hoping there would be, yet thinking it's scarcely proper to lend the scene of it the light of his countenance, Caesar had stayed outside. Hallowah, here's Uriah, cried Ross. Talk of the devil, just thought as much. Ever read the story of David and Uriah? Should, though. Do you, good master? David was a great man, or, with a mock imitation of Pete's Manx, a terrible, wonderful, shocking great man. Uriah was his henchman. Terrible clever, too. But that green, for all, the old cow might have ate him. And Uriah had a nice little wife. The nice now, you wouldn't think. But when Uriah was away, David took her. And then, and then, dropping the Manx, it doesn't just run on Bible lines, neither. But David told Uriah that his wife was dead. Ha, ha, ha. Who saw her die? I said the fly. I saw her. Stop that. Let go. Help. You'll choke me. Help, help. At two strides, Pete had come face to face with Ross, put one of his hands at the man's throat and his leg behind him, doubled him back on his knee and was holding him there in a grip like that of a vice. Help, help. Oh, the fellow gasped and his face grew dark. You're not worth it, said Pete. I meant to choke the life out of your dirty body for lying about the living and blackening the dead. But you're not worth hanging for. You've got the same blood in you, too, and I'm ashamed for you. There, get up. With a gesture of indescribable loathing, Pete flung the man to the ground, and he fell over his cue and broke it. The people of the house came thronging into the room and met Pete going out of it. His face was hard and ugly. At first sight they mistook him for Ross, so disfigured was he by bad passions. Caesar was tramping the pavement outside. Will you let me do it now, he said in a hot whisper? Do as you like, said Pete savagely. The wicked is snared in the work of his own hand. Higeon, Salah, said Caesar, and they parted by the entrance to the courthouse. Pete went home muttering to himself. The man was lying. She's dead. She's dead. At the gate of Elm Cottage the dog came up to him, barking with glee, and it darted back to the house door which stood open. Someone has come for Pete. She's dead. The man lied. She's dead, he muttered, and he stumbled down the path. End of Part 6