 On the second morning afterwards the air was quiet and full of the odor of seaweed. The sky was round as the inside of a shell, and pale pink like the shadow of flame. The water was smooth and silent. The hills had lost the memory of the storm, and land and sea lay like a sleeping child. In this broad and steady morning Kate came back to consciousness. She had slid out of delirium into sleep as a boat slides out of the open sea into harbour, and when she awoke there was a voice in her ears that seemed to be calling to her from the key. There was a familiar voice, and yet it was unfamiliar. It was like the voice of a friend heard for the first time after a voyage. It seemed to come from a long way off, and yet to be knocking at the very door of her heart. She kept her eyes closed for a moment and listened. Then she opened them and looked again. The light was clouded and yet dazzling, as if glazed muslin were shaking before her eyes. Granny was sitting by her bedside, knitting in silence. Why are you sitting there, mother? she asked. Granny dropped her needles and caught at her apron. Dear heart alive, the child's herself again, she said. Has anything happened, said Kate? What time is it? Monday morning bough, thank the Lord for all his mercies, cried Granny. The familiar voice came again. It came from the direction of the stairs. Whose that, said Kate, whispering fearfully. Kate himself, Kiri, oh well, oh dear. Pete cried Kate in terror. Oh, no woman, but a living man come back again. No fear of him, bough. Not dead at all, but worth twenty dead men yet, and he brought you safe out of the storm. The storm? Yes, the storm woman. There was such a storm on the island, I don't know the years. He found you in the Tolton, up the Glen. Lost your way in the wind, it's like, and no wonder. But let me call Father. Father, Father, shoot the man's as deaf as little Tom Hommie. Father called Granny bustling about at the stairhead in a half-demented way. There was some commotion below, and the voice on the stairs was saying, this way, no sir, that way, if you please. Do you hear him, Kiri, cried Granny, putting her head back into the room? That's the man himself, sitting on the bottom step, same as an old bulldog, and keeping watch that nobody bothers you. The good natured a bulldog breathing, though, and he hasn't had a wink on the night. Saved your life, darling, he did? Yes, he did, praise God. At mention of the Tolton, Kate had remembered everything. She dropped back on the pillow and cried in a voice of pain, why couldn't he leave me to die? Granny chuckled knowingly at that, and wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron. The boch is itself for sure. When they're wishing themselves dead, they're always mending farther. But I'll go down instead, lie still, boch, lie still. The voice of Granny went muffled down the stairs, with many aw-deers, aw-deers, and then crackled from below through the floor and the unsealed joists, saying sharply, but with a tremor too. Nancy, Joe, why aren't you taking a cup of something upstairs, woman? Goodness me, Mistress Craigine, is it true for all, said Nancy? Why, of course it's true. Do you think a poor child is going fasting forever? What's that? shouted the familiar voice again. Was it herself you were spaking to in the dairy loft, Granny? Who else, man, said Granny, and then there was a general tumult. Oh, the joy, oh, the delight, God bless me, Granny. I was thinking she was for spaking no more. Out of the way, cried Nancy, as if pushing past somebody to whip the kettle onto the fire. These men creatures have no more rising in their hearts than bread without balm. You're balm enough, yourself, Nancy, for a quiet husband, but lend me a hold of the bellows there. I'll blow up like blazes. Caesar came into the house, on the top of this commotion, grumbling as he stepped over the porch. The wind has taken half the stacks of my haggard mother. Your matter, sir, shouted Pete, the best of your melior is saved upstairs. Is she herself, said Caesar? Praise his name. And over the furious puffing and panting and quacking of the bellows, and the cracking and roaring of the fire, the voice of Pete came in gusts through the floor, crying, I'll go mad with the joy. I will, yes, I will, and nobody shall stop me, neither. The house which seemed to have been holding its breath since the storm now broke into a ripple of laughter. It began in the kitchen, it ran up the stairs, it crept through the chinks in the floor, it went over the roof, but Kate lay on her pillow and moaned, and turned her face to the wall. Presently Nancy Joe appeared in the bedroom, making herself tidy at the doorway with a turn of the hand over her hair. Mercy on me, she cried, clapping her hands at the first sight of Kate's face. Who was the born blockhead that said the girl's wedding was as like to be in the churchyard as in the church? That's me, said a deep voice from the middle of the stairs. And then Nancy clashed the door back and poured Pete into Kate in a broadside. It was Pete that done it, though, as she said. You can't expect much sense of the like, but still and for all, he saved your life, Kitty. Dr. Milchrist says so. If the girl had been lying out another hour, says he, and my goodness, the fond of you that man is, it's wonderful. Twisting and turning all day yesterday on the bottom step yonder, same as a live conger on the key, but looking as soft about the eyes as if he'd been a week out of the water. And now, my sakes, now, do you hear him, Kirrie? He's fit to burst the bellows. No use, though. He's a shocking, fine young fellow. He's all that, but just listen. There was a fishing sound from below and a sense of burning. What do I always say? He can never trust a man to have sense enough to take it off. That's the kettle on the boil. Nancy went flopping downstairs, where with furious words she rated Pete, who laughed immoderately. Caesar came next. He had taken off his boots and was walking lightly in his stockings. But Kate felt his approach by his asthmatic breathing. As he stepped in at the door, he cried in the high pitch of the preacher, Praise the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me, praise his holy name. Then he fell to the praise of Pete as well. He brought you out of the jaws of death and the mouth of Satan. It was a sign, Catherine, and we can't do better than follow the Spirit's leading. He saved your life, woman, and that's giving him the right to have and to hold it. While I'm only one child in this life, but if it's the Lord's will, I'm willing. He was always my white-headed boy, and he has made his independent fortune in a matter of five years' time. The church bell began to toll, and Kate started up and listened. Only the Dempster's funeral kitty said, Caesar, they were for burying him tomorrow, but men that drink don't keep. They'll be putting him in the family vault at Lausair with his father, the staunch ol' reccabite. Many a good cow has a bad calf, you see, and that's bad news for a man's children. But many a good calf is from a bad cow, and that's good news for the man himself. It's been the way with Peter anyway, for the Lord has delivered him and prospered him, and I'm hearing on the best authority he has five thousand golden sovereigns sent home to Mr. Dumbled's bank at Douglas. Granny came up with a basin of beef tea, and Caesar was hustled out of the room. Come now, boch, take a spoonful, and I'll leave you to yourself, said Granny. Yes, leave me to myself, said Kate, sipping wearily. And then Granny went off with the basin in her hand. Has she taken it, said someone below? Look at that, if you please, said Granny in a jubilant tone. And Kate knew that the empty basin was being shown around. Kate lay back on the pillow, listening to the tolling of the bell, and shuddered. She thought at a ghostly thing that the first voice she had heard on coming as from another world had been the voice of Pete, and the first name dinted to her ears had been Pete's name. The possession of the Deemster's funeral passed the house, and she closed her eyes and seemed to see it, the coffin on the open cart, the men on horseback riding beside it, and then the horses tied up to posts and gates about the churchyard, and the crowd of men of all conditions at the graveside. In her mind's eye Kate was searching through that crowd for somebody. Was he there? Had he heard what had happened to her? She fell into a doze and was awakened by a horse's step on the road, and the voices of two men talking as they came nearer. Man alive, the joy I'm taking to see you. The telegraph? Course not. Knew I'd find you at the funeral, though. It was Pete. But I meant to come over after it. It was Philip, and Kate's heart stood still. The voices were smothered for a moment, as the buzzing is when the bees enter the hive, and then began with a sharper ring from the rooms below. How's she now, Mrs. Greguine? said the voice of Philip. Better, sir, much better, answered Granny. No return of the unconsciousness? Oh, no, said Granny. Was she? Kate thought the voice faltered. Was she delirious? Not rambling at all, replied Granny. Thank God, said Philip, and Kate felt a long breath of relief go through the air. I didn't hear of it until this morning, said Philip. The postman told me a breakfast time, and I called on Dr. Milquist coming out. If I had known, I didn't sleep much last night anyway, but if I had ever imagined. You're right good to the girls, sir, said Granny, and then Kate, listening intently, caught a quavering sound of protestation. Did you are, though, and always have been, said Granny, and I'm saying it before Pete here that ought to know and doesn't. Don't I, though, came in the other voice, the resounding voice, the voice full of laughter and tears together? But I do that, Granny, same as if I'd been here and seen it. Lave it to me to know, Phil Christian. I've summered and wintered the man, haven't I? He's timber that doesn't start, and other blow high, blow low. Kate heard another broken sound as a painful protest, and then, with a sickening sense, she covered up her head that she might hear no more. End of Part 3, Chapter 11. Part 3, Chapter 12 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, recording by Tony Ashworth, The Manxman by Sir Hall Cain, Part 3, Chapter 12. She was weak and over-raught, and she fell asleep as she lay covered. While she slept, the babble of meaningless voices kept clashing in her ears, and her own voice haunted her perpetually. When she awoke, it was broad morning again, and the house was full of the smell of boiling stockfish. By that she knew it was another day, and the hour of early breakfast. She heard the click of cups and sauces on the kitchen table, the step of her father coming in from the mill, and then the heartsome voice of Pete talking of the changes in the island since he went away. New houses, promenades, iron piers, breakwaters, lakes, towers, wonderful, extraordinary, tremendous. But the boys, where's the Manx boys at all, said Pete? Gone like a flight of birds to Australia, and Cleveland, and the Cape, and I don't know where, not a Manx house now that hasn't one of the boys' forum. And the houses themselves, where's the old houses and the crafts? Feld, all felled or boarded up. And the boats, where's the boats, lying rotting at the top of the harbor? Granny's step came into the kitchen, and Pete's loud voice drooped to a whisper. How's herself this morning, mother? Sleeping quiet and nice when I came downstairs, said Granny. Will I be seeing her myself today, think you? Asked Pete. I don't know in the world, but I'll ask, answered Granny. You're an angel, Granny, said Pete, a regular old dark angel. Kate shuddered with a new fear. It was clear that in the eyes of her people, the old relations with Pete were to stand. Everybody expected her to marry Pete. Everybody seemed anxious to push the marriage on. Granny came up with her breakfast, pulled aside the blind, and opened the window. Nancy will tidy the room a taste, she said coaxingly. And then I shouldn't wonder if you'll be sending for Pete. Kate raised a cry of alarm. All on no harm when a girl's poor, he said, Granny, and her promised man for all. Kate tried to protest and explain, but courage failed her. She only said, not yet, mother. I'm not fit to see him yet. Say no more about it, not today at all. Tomorrow may be, said Granny. And Kate clutched at the word and answered eagerly. Yes, tomorrow, mother. Tomorrow may be. Before noon, Philip had come again. Kate heard his horses step on the road, trotting hard from the direction of Peel. He drew up at the porch, but did not alight, and Granny went out to him. I'll not come in today, Mrs. Craigine, he said. Does she continue to improve? As nice as nice, said Granny. Kate crept out of bed, stole to the window, hid behind the curtains, and listened intently. What a mercy all goes well, he said. Kate could hear the heaving of his breath. Is Pete about? No, but gone to Ramsay, said Granny. It's like you'll meet him if you're going on to Belour. I must be getting back to business, said Philip. And the horse swirled across the road. Did you ride from Douglas on purpose, then, said Granny? And Philip answered with an audible effort. I was anxious. What an escape she has had. I could scarcely sleep last night for thinking of it. Kate put her hand to her throat to keep back the cry that was bubbling up, and her mother's voice came thick and deep. The Lord's blessing, Master Philip, she began, but the horse's feet stamped out everything as it leapt to a gallop in going off. Kate listened where she knelt until the last beat of the hoofs had died away in the distance, and then she crept back to bed and covered up her head in the clothes as before, but with a storm of other feelings. He loves me, she told herself, with a thrill of the heart. He loves me. He loves me still, and he will never, never, never see me married to anybody else. She felt an immense relief now, and suddenly found strength to think of facing Pete. It even occurred to her to send for him at once as a first step towards removing the impression that the old relations were to remain. She would be quiet. She would be cold. She would show by her manner that Pete was impossible. She would break the news gently. Pete came like the light at Nancy's summons. Kate heard him on the stairs, whispering with Nancy and breathing heavily. Nancy was hectoring it over him and pulling him about to make him presentable. Here, whispered Nancy, take the redding comb and lash her hair out. It's all through others. And listen, you've got to be quiet. Promise me you'll be quiet. She's awake and low and nervous, so no kissing. Do you hear me now? No kissing. Oh, kissing makes no noise to spake of. Woman, whispered Pete. And then he was in the room. Kate saw him come, a towering dark figure between her and the door. He did not speak at first, but slid down to the chair at the foot of the bed, modestly, meekly, reverently, as if he had entered a sanctuary. His hand rested on his knee, and she noticed that the wrist was hairy and tattooed with the three legs of man. Is it you, Pete, she asked? And then he said in a low tone, almost in a whisper, as if speaking to himself in a hush of awe. It's her own voice again. I've heard it in my dreams these five years. He looked helplessly about him for a moment, fixed his watery eyes on Nancy, as if he wanted to burst into sobs, but dare not for fear of the noise, then turned on his chair and seemed on the point of taking to flight. But just of that instant, his dog, which had followed him into the room, planted its four legs on the counterpane and looked impudently into Kate's face. Down, they stood down, cried Pete. And after that, the eyes being broken by the sound of his voice. Pete was his own man once more. Is that your dog, Pete, said Kate? Oh, no, Kate, but I'm his man, said Pete. He does what he likes with me anyway, caught me out in Kimberley and fetched me home. Is he old? Old, you say? He's one of the lost 10 tribes of dogs and behaves as if he's got to inherit the earth. She felt Pete's big black eyes shining on her. My gracious kitty, what a woman you're growing, though, he said. Am I so much changed, she asked? Changed, is it, he cried? Gah, bless me hard. The nice little thing you were when we used to play fishermen together down at Cornay Harbour. Do you remember? The old kipper box rolling on a block for a boat at sea. Do you mind it? Yourself holding a bit of a broken broomstick in the rope handle for a mast and me working the potato dipper on the ground, first port and then starboard for rudder and wind and ore and tide. Mortal dirty weather this, Captain. Oh, yes, woman, big sea extraordinary. Do you mind it, Kirrie? Kate tried to laugh a little and to say what a long time ago it was since then. But Pete, being started, laughed up roriously, slapped his knee and rattled on. Up at the mill, too. Do you remember that now? Yourself with the top of a barrel for a flower basket, holding it Kimber with your little hip and shouting, violets, sweet violets, fresh violets. He mocked a silvery treble in his lusty baritone and roared with laughter. And then me, woman, do you mind me? Me with the pig sty gate atop of my head for a fishboard, yelling, mackerel, fine ladies, fresh ladies and bellies as big as bishops, mackerel. Oh, Kirrie, Kirrie. All the dear old times gone by. All the changes, the changes. Did I know you then? Are you asking me, did I know you when I found you in the Glen? Did I know I was a live kitty? Did I know the wind was howling? Did I know my head was going round like a compass and my heart thumping 120 pound to the square inch? Did I kiss you and kiss you while you were lying there useless and lift you up and hitch your poor limp arms around my neck and carry you out of the dirty old toleton that was going to be the death of you? The first job I was doing on the island, too, coming back to it. Lord, save us, kitty. What have I done? Kate had dropped back on the pillow and was sobbing as if her heart would break. And seeing this, Nancy fell on Pete with loud reproaches, took the man by the shoulders and his dog by the neck and pushed both out of the room. Out of it, cried Nancy. Didn't I tell you to be quiet? You great, blethering omathorn, you shall come no more. Abashed, ashamed, humiliated and quiet enough now, Pete went slowly down the stairs. End of Part 3, Chapter 12. Part 3, Chapter 13 of The Manxman. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings were in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tony Ashworth. The Manxman by Sir Hall Cain. Part 3, Chapter 13. Late that night, Kate heard Caesar and her mother talking together as they were going to bed. Caesar was saying, I got him on the track of a good house and he went off to Ramsey this morning to put a sight on it. Dear heart alive, Father, Granny answered, Pete isn't home till a week comes Saturday. The young man is warm on the wedding, said Caesar, and he has money and store is no sore. But the girl's not fit for it. Indeed, she isn't, said Granny. If she's awake, said Caesar, she'll be no worse for saying I will. And when she said it, she'll have time enough to get better. Kate trembled with fear. The matter of her marriage with Pete was going on without her. A sort of supernatural power seemed to be pushing it along. Nobody asked if she wished it. Nobody questioned that she did so. It was taken for granted that the old relations would stand. As soon as she could go about, she would be expected to marry Pete. Pete himself would expect it because he believed he had her promise. Her mother would expect it because she had always thought of it as a thing understood. Her father would expect it because Pete's prosperity had given him a new view of Pete's piety and pedigree. And Nancy Jo would expect it too, if only because she was still haunted by her old bugbear, the dark shadow of Ross Christian. There was only one way to break down these expectations, and that was to speak out. But how was a girl to speak? What was she to say? Kate pretended to be ill. Three days longer she lay, like a hunted wolf in its hole, keeping her bed from sheer dread of the consequences of leaving it. The fourth day was Sunday. It was morning, and the church bells were ringing. Caesar had shouted from his bedroom for someone to tie his bow, then for someone to button his black gloves. He had gone off at length with the footsteps of the people stepping round the chapel. The first hymn had been started, and its doleful notes were trailing through the mill walls. Kate was propped up in bed, and the window of her room was open. Over the droning of the hymn she caught the sound of a horse's hooves on the road. They stopped at a little distance and then came on again with the same two voices as before. Pete was talking with great eagerness. Plenty of house or plenty, plenty he was saying. Elm cottage they're calling it, the slate one with the old fir tree behind the courthouse and by the lane to Clockbane. Dry as a bone and clean as a gull's wing. You could lie with your back to the wall and ate off the floor. Taps inside and water as white as gin. I've been buying the cabin of the Mona's Isle for a summer house in the garden. Got a figurehead for the porch too, and I'll have an anchor for the gate before I'm done, or I'm bound to have everything nice for her. There was a short silence in which nothing was heard but the step of the horse. And then Philip said in a faltering voice, but isn't this being rather in a hurry, Pete? Short courtons are best courton and ours has been long enough anyway, said Pete. They had drawn up at the porch and Pete's laugh came in at the window. But think how weak she is, said Philip. She hasn't even left her bed yet, has she? Well, yes, of course, certainly, said Pete in a steadier voice, if the girl isn't fit. It's so sudden you see, said Philip. Has she consented? Not to say consented, began Pete, and Philip took him up and said quickly, eagerly, hotly. She can't, I'm sure she can't. There was silence again, broken only by the horse's impatient pawing. And then Philip said more calmly, let Dr. Milcri see her first at all events. I'm not a man for skin in the meadow to the sod, no, said Pete in a doleful tone, but Kate heard no more. She was trembling with a new thought. It was only a shadowy suggestion as yet, and at first she tried to beat it back. But it came again, it forced itself upon her, it mastered her, she could not resist it. The way to break the fate that was pursuing her was to make Philip speak out. The way to stop the marriage with Pete was to compel Philip to marry her. He thought she would never consent to marry Pete. What if he were given to understand that she had consented? That was the way to gain the victory over Philip, the way to punish him. He would not blame her, he would lay the blame at the door of chance, of fate, of her people. He would think they were forcing this marriage upon her, the mother out of love of Pete, the father out of love of Pete's money, and Nancy out of fear of Ross Christian. He would know that she could not struggle because she could not speak. He would believe she was yielding against her will in spite of her love in the teeth of their intention. He would think of her as a victim, as a martyr, as a sacrifice. It was a deceit, a small deceit. It looked so harmless too, so innocent, almost humorous, half ridiculous. And she was a woman and she could not put it away. Love, love, love. It would be her excuse and her forgiveness. She had appealed to Philip himself and in vain. Now she would pretend to go on with her old relations. It was so little to do and the effects were so certain. In jealousy and in terror, Philip would step out of himself and claim her. She had craft, all hungry things have craft. She had inklings of ambition, a certain love of luxury and desire to be a lady. To get Philip was to get everything. Love would be satisfied, ambition fulfilled, the aims of refinement reached. Why not risk the great stake? Nancy came to tidy the room and Kate said, "'Where's Pete all this time, I wonder?' "'Sitting in the far seat this half hour,' said Nancy. "'I don't know in the world what's come over the man. "'He's rocking and moaning there "'like a cow licking a dead calf.' "'Would he like to come up, thank you?' "'Don't ask the man twice "'if you want him to say no,' said Nancy. Blushing and stammering and trying to straighten his black curls, Pete came at Nancy's call. Kate had few qualms. The wounds she had received from Philip had left her consciousness towards Pete, yet she turned her head a little sideways as she welcomed him. "'Are you better than Kiri?' said Pete timidly. "'I'm nearly as well as ever,' she answered. "'You are, though,' said Pete. "'Then you'll be down soon, it's like, eh?' "'I hope so, Pete, quite soon. "'And fit for anything now, yes?' "'Oh, yes, fit for anything.' "'Pete laughed from his heart like a boy. "'I'll take a slew round to Belour "'until Philip made itnfully.' "'Philip said, Kate, with a look of inquiry. "'He was saying this morning you wouldn't be equal to it, Kiri. "'Equal to what, Pete?' "'Getting going, having... "'That's to say, well, you know, "'putting a sight on the person himself "'one of these days, that's the fact. "'And to cover his confusion, "'Pete laughed until the sprays of the roof began to snip. "'There was a moment's pause, "'and then Kate said, with a cough and a stammer "'and her head aside, "'is that so very tiring, Pete?' "'Pete leapt from his chair "'and laughed again like a man demented. "'Do you say so, Kiri? "'The word, then, darling? "'The word in my ear, as soft as soft.' "'He was leaning over the bed, "'but Kate drew away from him, "'and Nancy pulled him back, saying, "'Get off with you, you goosey gander. "'What for should you bother a poor girl "'to know if sugar's sweet, "'and if she's willing to change a sweetheart for a husband?' "'It was done. "'One act, nay, half an act, a word. "'Nay, no word at all, but only silence. "'The daring venture was afoot. "'Granny came up with Kate's dinner that day, "'kissed her on both cheeks, felt them hot, "'wagged her head wisely and whispered, "'I know, you needn't tell me.'" End of Part 3, Chapter 13. Part 3, Chapter 14 of the Magsman. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings were in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tony Ashworth. The Magsman by Sir Hall Cain. Part 3, Chapter 14. The last hymn was sung. Caesar came home from Chapel. Changed back from his best to his workday clothes, and then there was talking and laughing in the kitchen amid the jingling of plates and the vigorous rattling of knives and forks. "'Phil must be my best man,' said Pete. "'He'll be back to Douglas now, "'but I'll get you to write me a line, Caesar, and ask him. "'Do you hold with long engagements, Pete?' said Granny. "'A week,' said Pete, with the error of a judge. "'Not much less, anyway. "'Not of a rule, you know.' "'You goose,' cried Nancy. "'It must be three Sundays for the bands.' "'Then John the Clarke shall get them going this evening,' said Pete. "'Nancy had the pull of me there, Granny. "'Not being in the habit of getting married, "'I claim forgot about the bands.' John the Clarke came in the afternoon, and there was some lusty disputation. "'We must have bridesmaids and wedding cakes, Pete. "'It's only proper,' said Nancy. "'Oh, yes, and tobacco and rum "'and everything respectable,' said Pete. "'And the parson? "'Mind it's the parson now, said Granny. "'None of their nasty high bailiffs. "'I don't know in the world how a decent woman "'can rest in her bed.' "'Oh, the parson, of course, "'and the parson's wife may be,' said Pete. "'I think I can manage it for you, "'for tomorrow fortnight,' said John the Clarke impressively. "'And there was some clapping of hands, "'quickly suppressed by Caesar, "'with mutterings of... "'Popery, plain popery, sir. "'Can't a person commit matrimony "'without a parson bothering a man?' "'And Caesar squared his elbows across the table "'and wrote the letter to Philip. "'Pete never stood sponsor for anything so pious. "'Respected and honoured, sir. "'I write first to thee that it hath been borne in on my mind, "'strong to believe the Lord hath spoken, "'to marry on Catherine Cragine, "'only beloved daughter of Caesar Cragine, "'a respectable man and a local preacher, "'in whose house I tarry, "'being free to use all his means of grace. "'Wedding tomorrow fortnight at Kirk Christ, "'Lazare, eleven o'clock four noon, "'and the Lord make it profitable to my soul. "'With love and reverence thy servant, "'and I trust the Lord's Peter Quilliam.' "'Having written this, Caesar read it aloud "'with proper elevation of pitch. "'Granny wiped her eyes and Pete said, "'indicted beautiful, sir, only haven't asked him. "'My pen's getting cross legs,' said Caesar, "'but that'll do for an N.B.' "'N.B. Will you come for my best man?' "'Then there was more talk and more laughter. "'You're a lucky fellow, Pete,' said Pete himself. "'My sailor you are, though. "'She's as sweet as clover with the bumbees humming over it "'and as warm as a gorse bush when the summer's gone. "'And then, affection being infectious "'beyond all maladies known to mortals, "'Nancy Joe was heard to say, "'I believe in my heart I must be having a man myself "'before long, or I'll be losing the notion. "'Do you hear that, boys?' shouted Pete. "'Don't all spake at once. "'Too late, I've lost it,' said Nancy, "'and there was yet more laughter. "'To put an end to this frivolity, "'Caesar raised a hymn, "'and they sang it together with cheerful voices. "'Then Caesar prayed appropriately. "'John the Clarke improvised responses, "'and Pete went out and sat on the bottom step in the lobby "'and smoked up the stairs, "'so that Kate in the bedroom should not feel too lonely.'" End of Part 3, Chapter 14. Part 3, Chapter 15 of The Manxman. This is a LibriVox recording, or LibriVox recording through in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tony Ashworth. The Manxman by Sir Hall Kane. Part 3, Chapter 15. Meanwhile Kate, overwhelmed with shame, humiliation, self-reproach, horror of herself, and dread of everything, lay with cheeks ablaze and her head buried in the bedclothes. She had no longer any need to pretend to be sick. She was now sick in reality. Fate had threatened her. She had challenged it. They were gambling together. The stake was her love, her life, her doom. By the next day she had worked herself into a nervous fever. Dr. Milcrice came to see her, unbidden of the family. He was one of those tall, bashful men who, in their eagerness to be gone, seemed always to have urgent business somewhere else. After a single glance at her and a few muttered syllables, he went off hurriedly, as if someone were waiting for him round the corner. But on going downstairs he met Caesar, who asked him how he found her. Feverish, berry, keep her in bed, he answered. As for this marriage, it must be put off. She's exciting herself, and I won't answer for the consequences. The thing has fallen too suddenly. To tell you the truth, this way, Mr. Crigine, I'm afraid of a malady of the brain. Tut, tut, Dr. said Caesar. Very well, if you know better, good day, but let the wedding wait. Très-de-lure, time enough, Mr. Crigine. A right good makes maximum for once. Put it off, put it off. It's not by putting off, Doctor. What can you do with a man that's wanting to be married? You can't bridle a horse with pincers. But when the doctor was gone, Caesar said to Granny, cut out the bridesmaids and the wedding cakes and the fiddles and the foolery, and let the girl be married immediately. Dear heart and live father, what's all the hurry, said Granny? And Lord bless my soul, what's all the fuss, said Caesar? First one objecting this, then another objecting that, as if everybody was entamined to stop the thing. It's going on, I'm telling you. Do you hear me? There's many a slip, but no matter. What's written with the pen can't be cut out with the ax, so label alone, the lot of you. Kate was in an ecstasy of exaltation. The doctor had been sent by Philip. It was Philip who was trying to stop the marriage. He would never be able to bear it. He would claim her soon. It might be today, it might be tomorrow, it might be the next day, the odds were with her. Fate was being worsted. Thus she clung to her blind faith that Philip would intervene. That was Monday, and on Tuesday morning, Philip came again. He was very quiet, but the heart has ears and Kate heard him. Pete's letter had reached him and she could see his white face. After a few words of commonplace conversation, he drew Pete out of the house. What had he got to say? Was he thinking that Pete must be stopped at all hazards? Was he about to make a clean breast of it? Was he going to tell all? Impossible. He could not, he dared not. It was her secret. Pete came back to the house alone, looking serious and even sad. Kate heard him exchange a few words with her father as they passed through the lobby to the kitchen. Caesar was saying, stand on your own head, sir, that's my advice to you. In the intensity of her torment, she could not rest. She sent for Pete. What about Philip, she said? Is he coming? What has he been telling you? Bad news, Kate, very bad, said Pete. There was a fearful silence for a moment. It was like the awful hush at the instant when the tide turns and you feel as if something has happened to the world. Then Kate hardened her face and said, what is it? He's ill and wants to go away in a week. He can't come to the wedding, said Pete. Is that all, said Kate? Her heart leapt for joy. She could not help it, she laughed. She saw through Philip's excuse. It was only his subterfuge. He thought Pete would not marry without him. Oh, but you never seen the like though, Kiri, said Pete. He was that white and wake and nervous. Work and worry, that's the size of it. There's nothing done in this world without paying the price of it, and that's as true as gospel. The seas calling me, Pete, says he, and then he laughed. But it was the same as if a ghost itself was grinning. In the selfishness of her enfeebled spirit, Kate still rejoiced. Philip was suffering. It was another assurance that he would come to her relief. When does he go, she asked? On Tuesday, answered Pete. Isn't there a way of getting a bishop's license to marry in a week, said Kate? But will you though, said Pete, with a shout of joy? Ask Philip first. No use changing if Philip can't come. He shall, he must. I won't take no. You may kiss me now, said Kate, and Pete plucked her up into his arms and kissed her. She was hard dead to him yet, from the wound that Philip had dealt her. But at the touch of his lips, a feeling of horror seemed to cramp all her limbs. With a shudder, she crept down in the bed and hid her face, hating herself, loathing herself, wishing herself dead. He stood a moment by her side, crying like a big boy in his great happiness. I don't know in the world what she sees in me to be so fond of me, but that's the way with the women always. God bless them. She did not lift her face, and he stepped quietly to the door. Halfway through, he turned about and raised one arm over his head. God's rest and God's peace be with you. And may the man that gets you keep a clean heart and a clean hand, and be fit for the good woman he's won for his wife. At the next minute, he went tearing down the stairs and the kitchen rang with his laughter. End of part three, chapter 15. Part three, chapter 16 of the Manxman. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Tony Ashworth. Part three, chapter 16. Fate scored one. Kate had been telling herself that Philip was tired of her, that he did not love her any longer, that having taken all he could take, he desired to be done with her, that he was trying to forget her, and that she was a drag upon him, when suddenly she remembered the Tolton and rethought herself for the first time of a possible contingency. Why had she not thought of it before? Why had he never thought of it? If it should come to pass, the prospect did not appall her. It did not overwhelm her with confusion or oppress her with shame. It did not threaten to fall like a thunderbolt. The thought of it came down like an angel's whisper. She was not afraid. It was only an idea, only a possibility, only a dream of consequences, but at one bound it brought her so much nearer to Philip. It gave her a right to him. How dare he make her suffer so! She would not permit him to leave her. He was her husband, and he must cling to her, come what would. Across the void that had divided them, a mysterious power drew them together. She was he, he was she, and they were one. For who knows? Who could say? Perhaps nature herself had willed it. Thus the first effect of the new thought upon Kate was frenzied exultation. She had only one thing to do now. She had only to go to Philip as Bathsheba went to David. True she could not say what Bathsheba said. She had no certainty, but her case was no less strong. Have you never thought of what may possibly occur? This is what she would say now to Philip, and Philip would say to her, dearest, I have never thought of that. Where was my head, then? I never reflected. Then in spite of his plans, in spite of his pledge to Pete, in spite of the world, in spite of himself, yea, in spite of his own soul, if it stood between them, he would cling to her. She was sure of it. She could swear to it. He could not resist. He will believe whatever I tell him, she thought, and she would say, come to me, Philip, I'm frightened. In the torture of her palpitating heart she would have rejoiced at that moment if she could have been sure that she was in the position of what the world calls a shameful woman. With that for her claim she could see herself going to Philip and telling him, her head on his breast, whispering sweetly the great secret, the wondrous news, and then the joy, the rapture, the long kiss of love. Mine, mine, mine, he is mine at last. That could not be quite so. She was not so happy as Bathsheba. She was not sure, but her right was the same for all that. Oh, it was joyful, it was delicious. The little cunning arts of her sex, the small deceits in which she had disguised herself fell away from her now. She said to herself, I will stop the nonsense about the marriage with Pete. It was mean, it was foolish, it was miserable trifling. It was wicked, it was a waste of life. Above all, it was doing a great, great wrong to her love of Philip. How could she ever have thought of it? Next morning she was up and was dressing when Granny came into the room with a cup of tea. I feel so much better, she said, but I think I'll go to Douglas by the coach today, mother. Duboch said Granny cheerfully and Pete shall go with you. Oh, no, I must be quite alone, mother. Oh, oh, a little errand may be. Shopping, is it? Present, say. Take your day, then. And Granny rolled the blind, saying, a beautiful morning you'll have for a two. I can see the spire as plain as plain. And turning about, did you hear the bells this morning, Kitty? Why, what bells, Mammy, said Kate, through a mouthful of bread and butter? The bells for Christian Killip. Her old sweetheart took her to church at last. He wouldn't get rest at your father till he did and her baby two years for Christmas. But what do you think now? Robbie left her at the church door and he's off by the Ramsey Packet for England. Oh, dear, he did, though. You can make me marry her, said he, but you can't make me live with her, he said. And he was away down the road like the dust. I don't think I'll go to Douglas today, mother, said Kate in a broken voice. I'm not so very well, after all. Oh, the boch, said Granny, making too sure of herself, was she? It's the way with them all when they're mending. With cheerful protestations, Granny helped her back to bed and then went off with an anxious face to tell Caesar that she was more ill than ever. She was ill indeed, but her worst illness was of the heart. If I go to him and tell him, she thought, he will marry me, yes. No fear that he will leave me at the church door or elsewhere, he will stay with me. We will be man and wife to the last. The world will know nothing, but I will know. As long as I live, I will remember that he only sacrificed himself to repair a fault. That shall never be, never, never. Caesar came up in great alarm. He seemed to be living in an hourly dread that some obstacle would arise at the last moment to stop the marriage. Shoot, woman, he said playfully. Have a good heart, Kitty. The sun's not going down on you yet at all. That night there were loud voices from the bar room. The talk was of the marriage which had taken place in the morning and of its strange and painful sequel. John the Clark was saying, but you'd be hearing of the by-child, it's like. Never a word said somebody. Not heard of it, though. Fetching the child to the wedding to have the bad name taken off it, no. They were standing the little boch. It's only three, two, is it, Granny? Only two? Well, they were standing the little thing under its mother's pericate while the service was saying, you don't say. Oh, truth enough, sir. It's the old man's way of legitimating. The Parsons are knowing nothing of it, but I've seen it times. John's right, said Mr. Jelly, and I can tell you more. It was just that the man went to church for. Wouldn't trust, said John the Clark. The woman wasn't getting much of a husband out of it anyway. No, said Pete. He had not spoken before, but the child was getting the name of his father, though. That's not mountains of thick porridge, sir, said somebody. Bobby's gone. What's the good of a father if he's doing nothing to bring you up? Ask your son if you've got any of the sorts, said Pete. Some of you have. Ask me. I know middling well what it is to go through the world without a father's name to my back. If your lad is like myself, he's knowing it early and he's knowing it late. He's knowing it when he's saying his bits of prayers atop of the bed in the gable loft. God bless mother and grandmother. Maybe. There's never no father in his little texas. And he's knowing it when he's growing up to a lump of a lad and going for a trade, and the beast of life is getting the grip of him. Ten to one he comes to be a wasteful then, and if it's a girl instead, a hundred to nothing she turns out, well, worse. Only a notion, is it? Just a parson's lie, eh? Having your father's name is nothing, no? That's what the man says, but ask the child and shut your mouth for a fool. There was a hush and a hum after that, and Kate, who had reached from the bed to open the door, clutched it with a feverish grasp. But Christian Killop is nothing but a trollop anyway, sir, said Caesar. Every cat is black in the night, father. The girls in trouble, said Pete. No, no, if I'd done wrong by a woman and she was having a child by me, I'd marry her if she'd take me, though I'd come to hate her like sin itself. Granny in the kitchen was wiping her eyes at these brave words, but Kate in the bedroom was tossing in a delirium of wrath. Never, never, never, she thought. Oh yes, Philip would marry her if she imposed herself upon him, if she hinted at a possible contingency. He too was a brave man. He also had a lofty soul. He would not shrink, but no, not for the wealth of worlds. Philip loved her, and his love alone should bring him to her side. No other compulsion should be put upon him, neither the thought of her possible future position, nor the consequences to another. It was the only justice, the only safety, the only happiness now or in the time to come. He shall marry me for my sake, she thought, for my own sake, my own sake only. Thus in the wild disorder of her soul, the tempest of conflicting passions her pride barred up the one great way. End of part three, chapter 16. Part three, chapter 17 of the Magsman. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tony Ashworth. The Magsman, part three, chapter 17. There was no help for it after all. She must go on as she had begun, with the old scheme, the old chance, the old gambling hazard. Hard-sick and ashamed, waiting for Philip and listening to every step, she kept her room two days longer. Then Caesar came and rallied her. God bless me, but nobody will credit it, he said. The marriage for Monday and the bride in bed a Wednesday, people would say it isn't coming off at all. This alarmed her. It partly explained why Philip did not come. If he thought there was no danger of the marriage, he would be in no hurry to intervene. Next day, Thursday, she struggled up and dressed in a light wrapper, feeling weak and nervous and looking pale and white like apple blossom nipped by frost. Pete would have carried her downstairs, but she would not have it. They established her among a pile of cushions before a fire in the parlor with its bowl of seabird's eggs that had the faint, unfamiliar smell, its tables of old china that shook and rang slightly with every step and sound. The kitchen was covered with the litter of dressmakers preparing for the wedding. There were bodices to try on and decisions to give on points of style. Kate agreed to everything. In a weak and toneless voice, she kept on telling them to do as they thought best. Only when she heard that Pete was to pay did she assert her will, and that was to limit the dresses to one. Sakes are live now, Kirrie, cried Nancy. That's what I call ruining a good husband. The man was willing to buy frocks for a boarding school. Pete came, sat on a stool at her feet and told stories. They were funny stories of his life abroad, and now and again they came bursts of laughter from the kitchen, where they were straining their necks to catch his words through the doors, which they kept a jar. But Kate hardly listened. She showed signs of impatience sometimes and made quick glances around when the door opened, as if expecting somebody. On recovering herself at these moments, she found Pete looking up at her with the big, serious moist eyes of a dog. He began to tell of the house he had taken, to excuse himself for not consulting her, and to describe the progress of the furnishing. I've put it all in the hands of Canell and Quayle Kitty, he said, and they're doing it beautiful. Marble slabs bless you like a butcher's counter, carpets as soft as daisies, and looking glasses as tall as a man. Kate had not heard him. She was trying to remember all she knew of the courts of the island, where they were held, and on what days. Have you seen Philip lately, she asked? Not since Monday, said Pete, he's in Douglas working like mad to be here on Monday, God bless him. What did he say when he heard we had changed the day? Wanted to get out of it first. I'm sailing on Tuesday, said he. Did you tell him that I proposed it? Trust me for not forgetting that at all. Oh, then says he. There's no choice left, he says. Kate's pale face became paler. The dark circles about her eyes grew yet more dark. I think I'll go back to bed, mother, she said in the same toneless voice. Pete helped her to the foot of the stairs. The big moist eyes were looking at her constantly. She found it hard to keep an equal countenance. But will you be fit for it, darling, said Pete? Why, of course, you'll be fit, sir, said Caesar. What girl is ever more than middling the week before she's married? Next day, she persuaded her father to take her to Douglas. She had little errands there that could not be done in Ramsay. The morning was fine, but cold. Pete helped her up in the gig, and they drove away. If only she could see Philip. If only Philip could see her. He would know by the look of her face that the marriage was not of her making. That compulsion of some sort was being put on her. She spent four hours going from shop to shop, lingering in the streets, but seeing nothing of Philip. Her step was slow and weary. Her features were pinched and starved. But Caesar could scarcely get her out of the town. At length the daylight began to fail, and then she yielded to his importunities. How short the days are now, she said, with a sigh as they ran into the country. Yes, they are a cock-stride shorter in September, since Caesar, but when a woman once gets shopping, mid-summer day itself won't do. She's wanting the land of the midnight sun. Pete lifted her out of the gig in darkness at the door of the ferry, and his great arms being about her, he carried her into the house and set her down in the fire seat. She would have struggled through her feet if she had been able. She felt something like repulsion at his touch, but he looked at her with the mute eloquence of love, and she was ashamed. The house was full of gossips that night. They talked of the marriage customs of the old times. One described the pay weddings where the hat went round, and every guest gave something towards the cost of the breakfast and the expenses of beginning housekeeping, rude forefather of the practice of the modern wedding present. Another pictured the irregular marriages made in public houses in the days when the island had three breweries and 30 drinking shops to every thousand of its inhabitants. The publican laid two sticks crosswise on the floor and said to the bride and bridegroom, hop over the sticks and lie crossed on the floor, and your man and wife are never more. There was some laughter at this, but Kate sat in the fire seat and sipped her tea in silence, and Pete said quietly, nothing to laugh at though. I remember a girl over Foxall Way that was married to a man like that, and then he went off to Kinsale and got kept for the herring riots. Do you mind them? She was a strapping girl though, and when the man was gone the boys came bothering her, first one and then another, and good ones among them too. And on a bride for all, they were for taking her to the parson about right. But no, did they think she was for committing begamy? She was married to one man and wasn't that enough for a decent girl anyway? And so she wouldn't and she didn't, and last of all her own boy came back and they lived together man and wife, and what for shouldn't they? This question from the man who was on the point of going to church was received with shouts of laughter, through which the voice of Granny rose in affectionate remonstrance, saying, oh, Pete, it's terrible to hear you boch. What's there terrible about that, Granny? said Pete. Isn't it the Almighty and not the parson that makes the marriage? Oh, boy, Veen, boy, Veen, cried Granny. You was used to be a good man, but you have fell off very bad. Kate was in a fever of eagerness. She wanted to open her heart to Pete, to beg him to spare her, to tell him that it was impossible that they should ever marry. Pete would see that Philip was her husband by every true law, human and divine. In this mood she lived through much of the following day, Friday, tossing and turning in bed, for the exhaustion of the day in Douglas had confined her to her room again. In the evening she came downstairs and was established in the fire seat as before. There were four or five old women in the kitchen, spinning yarn for a set of blankets which Granny intended for a wedding present. When the day's work was nearly done, two or three old men, the old husbands of the old women, came to carry their wheels home again. And as the wheels word for the last of the twist, Pete set the old crones to tell stories of old times. Tell us of the days when you were young, Anne, said Pete, to an ancient dame of eighty. A husband of eighty-four sat sucking his pipe by his side. Well said old Anne, stretching her arms to the yarn. I was as near going foreign, same as yourself, sir, just as near now as makes no matter. It was the very day I married this man, and his brother was making a start for Australia. Jemmy was my old sweetheart, only I had given him up because he was always stealing my pocket handkerchiefs. But he came that morning and tapped at my window. And will you come, Anne, says he? And I whipped on my pericate and stole out and down to the quay with him. But my heart was losing me when I saw the white horses on the water. And home I came and went to church with this one instead. While old Anne told her story, her old husband opened his mouth wider and wider until the pipe shank dropped out of his toothless gums onto his waistcoat. Then he stretched his left arm and brought down his clenched hand with a bang onto her shoulder. And have you been living with me better than sixty years, said he, and never telling me that before? Pete tried to pacify his ancient jealousy, but it was not to be appeased, and he shouldered the wheel and hobbled off, saying, and I sent out two pound five to put a stone on the man's grave. There was loud laughter when the old couple were gone, but Pete said nevertheless. A secret's a secret, though, and the old lady had no right to tell it. It was the dead man's secret, too, and she's fouled the old man's memory. If a person's done wrong, the best thing he can do next is to say darn little about it. Kate rose and went off to bed. Another door had been barred to her, and she felt sick and faint. End of Part 3 Chapter 17 Part 3 Chapter 18 of the Maxman This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings were in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Tony Ashworth The Maxman by Sir Hall Cain Part 3 Chapter 18 The next day was Saturday. Kate remembered that Philip came to Belua on Saturdays. She felt sure that he would come to Selby also. Let him only set eyes on her, and he would divine the trouble that had taken the colour out of her cheeks. Then he would speak to Pete and to her father. He would deliver her. He would take everything upon himself. Thus all day long, like a white-eyed gambler who has staked his last, she waited and listened and watched. At breakfast, she said to herself, he will come this morning. At dinner, he will come this evening. At supper, he will come tonight. But Philip did not come, and she grew hysterical as well as restless. She watched the clock. The minutes passed with feet of lead, but the hours with wings of fire. She was now like a criminal looking for a reprieve. Every time the clock warmed to strike, she felt one hour nearer her doom. The strain was wearing her out. She reproached Philip for leaving her to this cruel uncertainty, and she suffered the pangs of one who tries at the same time to love and to hate. Then she reproached herself with altering the date of the marriage. And excused Philip on the grounds of her haste. She felt like a witch who was burning by her own spell. Hope was failing her, and Will was breaking down as well. Nevertheless, she determined that the wedding should be postponed. That was on Saturday night. On Sunday morning, she had gone one step farther. The last pitiful shred of expectation that Philip would intervene seemed then to be lost, and she had resolved that come what would, she should not marry at all. No need to appeal to Pete. No necessity to portray the secret of Philip. All she had to do was to say she would not go on with the wedding, and no power on earth should compel her. With this determination and a feeling of immense relief, she went downstairs. Caesar was coming in from the preaching room and Pete from the new house at Ramsey. They sat down to dinner. After dinner, she would speak out. Caesar sharpened the carving knife on the steel and said, We've taken the girl Christian Killet back to Communion today. Poor thing, said Granny. Pity she was ever put out of it, though. Maybe so, maybe so, said Caesar. Necessary, anyway. One scabby sheep infects the flock. And his marriage door graced on the poor sheep's sore, then, Caesar, said Pete. She's mistress Robbie Tear and a decent woman, sir, said Caesar, digging into the beef. And that's all the truck a Christian church has got with it. Kate did not eat her dinner that day and neither did she speak out as she had intended. Her supernatural powers seemed to have come down at the last moment and barred up the one remaining pathway of escape. She was in the track of the storm. The tempest was ready to fall on her. Where could she fly for shelter? What her father had said of the girl had revealed her life to her in the light of her relation to Philip. The thought of the possible contingency which she had foreseen with so much joy as so much power had awakened the consciousness of her moral position. She was a fallen woman. What else was she? And if the contingency befell, what would become of her? In the intensity of her father's pietistic views, the very shadow of shame would overwhelm his household, overthrow his sect, and uproot his religious pretensions. Kate trembled at the possibility of such a disaster coming through her. She saw herself being driven from house and home. Where could she fly? And though she fled away, would she not still be the cause of sorrow and disgrace to all whom she left behind? Her mother, her father, Pete, everybody. If she could only tear out the past, at least she could stop this marriage. Or if she had been a man, she could stop it. For a man may sin and still look to the future with a firm face. But she was a woman and a woman's acts may be her own. But their consequences are beyond her. Or the misery of being a woman. She asked herself what she could do and there was no answer. She could not break the web of circumstances. Her situation might be false, it might be dishonorable, but there was no escape from it. There was no gleam of hope anywhere. Late that night, Sunday night, they were sitting together in the kitchen, Kate in the fire seat as usual, Pete on the stool by the turf closet, smoking up the chimney, Caesar reading aloud, Granny listening and Nancy cooking the supper, when the porch door burst open and somebody entered. Kate rose to her feet with a startled cry of joy, looked round eagerly and then sat down again, covered with confusion. It was the girl, Christian Killip, a pale weak frightened creature with the mouth and eyes of a hare. Is Mr. Quilliam here, she asked? Here's the man himself, Christian, said Granny. What do you want with him? Oh, God bless you, sirs of the girl to Pete. God bless you forever and ever. Then turning back to Granny, she explained in woman's fashion with many words that somebody unknown had sent her twenty pounds for the child by post the day before, and she had only now guessed who it must be when John the Clark had told her what Pete had said a week before. Pete grunted and glimed, smoked up the chimney and said, That'll do, man, that'll do. Don't believe all you hear. John says more than his arm ends, anyway. I'm axing your pardon, Miss, said the girl to Kate, but I couldn't help coming. I couldn't really. No, I couldn't. And then she began to cry. Where's that child, said Pete, heaving up to his feet with a ferocious look. What, you mean to say you've left the little thing alone asleep? Go back to it then, Magent. Good night. Good night, sir, and God bless you, and when you're married tomorrow, God bless your wife as well. That'll do, that'll do, said Pete, backing her to the porch. You deserve a good woman, sir, and may the Lord be good to you both. Tut, tut, said Pete, and he tut-tutted her out of the house. She smoothed her baby's hair more tenderly than ever that night, and kissed it again and again. Kate could scarcely breathe. She could barely see. Her pride and her will had broken down utterly. This great-hearted man loved her. He would lay down his life, if need be, to save her. Tomorrow he would marry her. Here, then, was her rock of refuge, the strong man by her side. She could struggle against fate no longer. Its invisible hand was pushing her on. Its blind power was dragging her. If Philip would not come to claim her, she must marry Pete. And Pete? She meant no harm to Pete. She had not yet thought of things from Pete's point of view. He was like the camel-bag in the desert to the terrified wayfarer when the sand-cloud breaks over him. He flies to it. It shelters him. But what of the camel itself, with its head in the storm? Until the storm is over, he does not think of that. End of Part 3, Chapter 18. Part 3, Chapter 19 of the Manxman. This is a lip-revox recording. All lip-revox recordings were in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit liprevox.org. Recording by Tony Ashworth. The Manxman by Sir Hall Cain, Part 3, Chapter 19. Meantime Philip himself was in the throes of his own agony. At the news of Kate's illness, he was overwhelmed with remorse. And when he inquired if she had been delirious, he was oppressed with a sense of meanness never felt before. At his meeting with Pete, he realized for the first time to what depths his duplicity had degraded him. He had prided himself on being a man of honor, and he was suddenly thrown out of the paths in which he could walk honorably. When the first shock of Kate's disaster was over, he remembered the interview with the governor. The deemstership burnt in his mind with a growing fever of desire, but he did not apply for it. He did not even mention it to Aunty Nan. She heard of his prospects from Peter Christian Balawain, who first set foot in her house on this errand of congratulation. The sweet old soul was wildly excited. All the hopes of her life were about to be realized. The visions and the dreams were coming true. Philip was going to regain what his father had lost. Had he made his application yet? No? He would, though. It was his duty. But Philip could not apply for the deemstership to sit down in cold blood and write to the home secretary while Kate was lying sick in bed would be too much like asking the devil's wages for sacrificing her. Then came Pete with his talk of the wedding. That did not really alarm him. It was only the last revolution of the old wheel that had been set spinning before Pete went away. Kate would not consent. They had taken her consent for granted. He felt easy, calm and secure. Next came his old master, the college friend of his father, now promoted to the position of Clark of the Poles. He was proud of his pupil and had learnt that Philip was first favourite with the governor. I always knew it, he said. I did, ma'am, I did. The first time I set eyes on him, thinks I. Here comes the makings of the best lawyer in the island. And by God, he's not going to disappoint me, either. A good fellow was a noisy, hearty, robust just creature, a bachelor. And when talking of the late deemster, he said women were usually the chief obstacles in a man's career. Then he begged Auntie Nan's pardon. But the old lady showed no anger. She agreed that it had been so in some cases. Young men should be careful what stumbling blocks they set up in the way of their own progress. Philip listened in silence and was conscious, through all the unselfish counselling, of a certain cynical bitterness. Still he did not make application for the deemstership. Then came Caesar's letter announcing the marriage and even fixing a date for it. This threw him into a fit of towering indignation. He was certain of undue pressure. They were forcing the girl. It was his duty to stop the marriage. But how? There was one clear course, but that course he could not take. He could not go back on his subtle determination that he must not, should not, marry the girl himself. Only one thing was left to rely on Kate. She would never consent. Not being able to marry him, she would marry no man. She would do as he was doing. She would suffer and stand alone. By this time Philip's love, which in spite of himself had grown cool since the melio, and in his fierce battle with his worldly aims suddenly awakened to fresh violence at the approach of another man. But his ambition fought with his love and he began to ask himself if it made any difference after all in this matter of Kate, whether he took the deemstership or left it. Kate was recovering. He had nothing to reproach himself with and it would be folly to sacrifice the ambition of a lifetime to the love of a woman who could never be his, a woman he could never marry. At that he wrote his letter to the Home Secretary. It was a brilliant letter of its kind, simple, natural, strong and judicious. He had a calm assurance that nothing so good would leave the island, yet he could not bring himself to post it. Some quiverings of the old tenderness came back as he held it in his hand, some visions of Kate, with her twitching lips, her passionate eyes, some whisperings of their smothered love. Then came Pete again with the decisive blow. Kate had consented. There was no longer any room for doubt. His former indignation seemed almost comic, his confidence absurd. Kate was willing to marry Pete and, after all, what right had he to blame her? What right had he to stop the marriage? He had wronged the girl enough already. A good man came and offered her his love. She was going to take it. How should he dare to stop her from marrying another, being unable to marry her himself? That night he posted his letter to the Home Secretary, and calmed the gnawings of his love with dreams of ambition. He would regain the place of his father. He would revive the traditions of his grandfather. The Christians would resume their ancient standing in the Isle of Man. The last of their race should be a strong man and a just one. No, he would never marry. He would live alone, a quiet life, a peaceful one, slightly tinged with melancholy, yet not altogether unhappy, not without cheer. Under all other emotions, strengthening and supporting him was a secret bitterness towards Kate, a certain contempt of her fickleness, her lightness, her shallow love, her readiness to be off with the old love and on with the new. There was a sort of pride in his own higher type of devotion, his sterner passion. Pete invited him to the wedding, but he would not go. He would invent some excuse. Then came the change of the day to suit his supposed convenience and also Kate's own invitation. Very well be it so. Kate was defying him. Her invitation was a challenge. He would take it. He would go to the wedding. And if their eyes should meet, he knew whose eyes must fall. End of Part 3 Chapter 19 Part 3 Chapter 20 of The Manxman This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tony Ashworth. The Manxman by Sir Hall Cain. Part 3 Chapter 20 Early next day, the sleeping morning was awakened by the sound of a horn. It began somewhere in the village, wandered down the Glen, crossed the bridge, plodded over the fields, and finally coiled round the house of the bride in thickening groans of discord. This restless spirit in the gray light was meant as herald of the approaching wedding. It came from the husky lungs of Mr. Johnnate Jelly. Before daylight, the Manx ferry was already a stir. Somewhere in the early reaches of the dawn, the house had its last dusting down at the hands of Nancy Jo. Then Granny finished, on hearth and griddle, the baking of her cakes. After that, some of the neighbors came and carried off to their own fires the beef, mutton, chickens, and ducks intended for the day's dinner. It was women's work that was to the fore, and all idle men were hustled out of the way. Towards nine o'clock, breakfast was swallowed standing, and everybody began to think of dressing. In this matter, the men had to be finished off before the women could begin. Already they were heard bellowing for help from unseen regions upstairs. Granny took Caesar in hand. Pete was in charge of Nancy Jo. It was found at the last moment that Pete had forgotten to provide himself with a white shirt. He had nothing to be married in except the flannel one in which he came home from Africa. This would never do. It wasn't proper. It wasn't respectable. There was no choice but to borrow a shirt of Caesar's. Caesar's shirt was of ancient pattern, and Pete was shy of taking it. Take it or you'll have none, said Nancy, and she pushed him back into his room. When he emerged from it, he walked with a stiff neck down the stairs in a collar that reached to his ears at either side and stood out at his cheeks like the wings of a white bat with two long sharp points on the level of his eyes, which he seemed to be watching wearily to avoid the stab of their iron starch. At the same moment, Caesar appeared in duck trousers, a floured waistcoat, a swallowtail coat, and a tall hat of rough black beaver. The kitchen was full of men and women by this time, and groups of young fellows were gathered on the road outside, some with horses saddled and bridled for the bride's race home after the ceremony. Others with guns ready loaded for firing as the procession appeared, and others again with lines of print handkerchiefs, which as substitutes for flags, they were hanging from tree to tree. At every moment, the crowd became greater outside, and the company inside more dense. John the Clarke called on his way to church and whispered Pete that everything was ready, and they were going to sing a beautiful psalm. It isn't many a man's wedding I would be taking the same trouble with, said John. When you are coming down the alley, give a sight up, sir, and you'll see me. He's only a poor thing, said Mr. Jelly and Pete's ear as John the Clarke went off. No more music in the man than my old sow. Did you hear the horn this morning, sir? Never got up so early for a wedding before. I'll be giving you the black and the gray going into the church. Granny came down in a gigantic bonnet like a half moon with a white cap visible beneath it, and Nancy Jo appeared behind her, be ribboned out of all recognition and taller by many inches for the turret of feathers and flowers on the head that was usually there. And the church bells began to peel and Caesar made a prolonged hum and said in a large way, has the carriage arrived? It's coming over the bridge now, said somebody at the door, and at the next moment a covered wagonette drew up at the porch. Already asked Caesar. Stop, sir, said Pete, and then turning to Nancy Jo, is it glad a man should be on his wedding day, Nancy? Why, of course, you goose. What else, she answered. Well, no man can be glad in a shirt like this, said Pete. I'm going back to take it off. Two minutes afterwards, he reappeared in his flannel one under his suit of blue pillow, looking simple and natural and a man every inch of him. Now call the bride, said Caesar. End of Part 3, Chapter 20. Part 3, Chapter 21 of the Manksman. This is a LibriVox recording, or LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Tony Ashworth, The Manksman by Sir Hall Cain, Part 3, Chapter 21. Kate had been kept awake during the dark hours with the sound in her ears that was like the measured ringing of far-off bells. When the daylight came, she slept a troubled sleep, and when she awoke, she had a sense of stupefaction, as if she had taken a drug, and was not yet recovered from the effects of it. Nancy came bouncing into her room and crying, It's your wedding day, kitty. She answered by repeating mechanically, It's your wedding day, kitty. There was an expression of serenity on her face. She even smiled a little, a sort of vague gaiety came over her, such as comes to one who has watched long in agony and suspense by the bed of a sick person, and the person is dead. Nancy drew the little window curtain aside, stooped down, and looked out and said, Happy the bride, the sun shines on, they're saying, and look, the sun is shining. Oh, but the sun is an old sly boot, she answered. They came up to dress her. She kept stumbling against things, and then laughing in a faint way. The dress was the new one, and when they had put it on her, they stood back from her and shouted with delight. She took up the little broken hand-glass to look at herself. The great eyes sparkled piteously. The church bells began to ring her wedding peal. She had to listen hard to hear it. All sounds seemed to be very far away. Everything looked a long way off. She was living in a sort of dead white dawn of thought and feeling. At last they came to say the coach was ready, and everything was waiting for the bride. She repeated their message like a machine, made a slow gesture, and followed them downstairs. When she got near to the bottom, she looked around on the faces below, as if expecting to see somebody. Just then her father was saying, Mr. Christian is to meet us at the church. She smiled faintly and answered the people's greetings in an indistinct tone. There was some indulgent whispering at sight of her pale face. Pale but gentile said someone, and then Nancy reached over and drew the bride's veil down over her face. At the next minute she was outside the house, standing at the back of the wagonette. The coachman with his white rosette was holding the door open on one side, and her father was elevating her hand on the other. Am I to go then? She asked in a helpless voice. Well, what do you think? said Caesar. Shall the man slip off and get married to himself? Thank you. There was laughter among the people standing round, and she laughed also and stepped into the coach. Her mother followed her, crinkling in noisy old silk. And Nancy Jo came next, smelling of lavender and hair oil. Then her father got in, and then Pete with his great warm presence. A salute of six guns was fired straight up by the coach windows. The horses pranced, Nancy screamed, and Granny started, but Kate gave no sign. People were closing round the coach door and shouting altogether as at a fair. Good luck to you, boy. Good luck. Good luck. Pete was answering in a rolling voice that seemed to be lifting the low roof off, and at the same time flinging money out in handfuls as the horses moved away. They were going slowly down the road. From somewhere in front came the sound of a clarinet. It was playing the black and the gray. Immediately behind, there was the tramp of people walking with an even step, and on either side, the rustle of an irregular crowd. The morning was warm and beautiful. Here and there, the last of the golden kushag glistened on the hedges with the first of the autumn gorse. They passed two or three houses that had been made ruthless by the recent storm, and once or twice, they came on a fallen tree truck with its thin leaves yellowing on the fading grass. Kate was floating vaguely through these sights and sounds. It was all like a dream to her, a waking dream in shadow land. She knew where she was and where she was going. Some glimmering of hope was left yet. She was half expecting a miracle of some sort. Philip would be at the church, something supernatural would occur. They drew up sharply, the glass of the windows rattled, and the torque that had been going on in the carriage ceased. Here we are, cried Caesar. There were voices outside, and then the others inside stepped down. She saw a hand held out to her and knew whose it was before her eyes had risen to the face. Philip was there. He was helping her to a light. Am I to get down too? She asked in a helpless way. Caesar said something that made the people laugh again, and then she smiled like faded sunshine and took the hand of Philip. She held in a moment as if expecting him to say something, but he only raised his hat. His face was white as marble. He will speak yet, she thought. Over the gateway to the churchyard, there was an arch of flowers and evergreens with an inscription in coloured letters. God bless the happy pair. The sloping path going down as to a dell was strewn with gilvers and slips of fuchsia. At the bottom stood the old church mantled in ivy, like a rock of the sea covered by green moss. Leaning on her father's arm, she walked in at the porch. The church was full of people. As they passed under the gallery, there was a twittering as of birds. The Sunday school girls were up there looking down and talking eagerly. Then the coughing and hemming ceased. There was a sort of deep inspiration. The church seemed to hold its breath for a moment. After that, there were broken exclamations and the coughing and hemming began again. How pale! Not fit, poor thing! Everybody was pitying her starved features. Stand here, said somebody in a soft voice. Must I, she said quite loudly? All at once she was aware that she was alone before the Communion Rail, with the parson, old ruddy-faced parson Quiggin, in his white surplus facing her. Someone came and stood beside her. It was Pete. She did not look at him, but she felt his warm presence again and was relieved. It was like shelter from the eyes around. After a moment she turned about. Philip was one step behind Pete. His head was bent. Then the service began. The voice of the parson muttered words in a low voice, but she did not listen. She found herself trying to spell out the man's text printed over the chancel arch. Bannet Teshin to cheat, and Sennin Icherrin. Blessed is he that cometh in the name of the Lord. Suddenly the words the parson was speaking leapt into meaning and made her quiver. Is commended of St. Paul to be honourable among all men and therefore not by any to be enterprise, nor taken in hand unadvisably, lightly, or wantonly? She seemed to know that Philip's eyes were on her. They were on the back of her head, and the veil over her face began to shake. The voice of the parson was going on again. Therefore if any man can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak or else hereafter forever hold his peace. She turned half around. Her eyes fell on Philip. His face was colourless, almost fierce. His forehead was deathly white. She was sure that something was about to happen. Now was the moment for the miracle. It seemed to hers if the whole congregation were beginning to divine what tie there was between him and her. She did not care, for he would soon declare it. He was going to do so now. He had raised his head. He was about to speak. No, there was no miracle. Philip's eyes fell before her eyes, and his head went down. He was only digging at the red beige with one of his feet. She felt tired, so very tired, and oh so cold. The parson had gone on with his reading. When she caught up with him, he was saying, As ye shall answer at the great day of judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment why ye may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it. The parson paused. He always paused at that point. The pause had no meaning for him, but for Kate, how much? Impediment. There was indeed an impediment. Confess? How could she ever confess? The warning terrified her. It seemed to have been made for her alone. She had heard it before and thought nothing of it. Now it seemed to scorch her very soul. She began to tremble violently. There was an indistinct murmur which she did not catch. The parson seemed to be speaking to Pete. Love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, so long as she both shall live. And then came Pete's voice, full and strong, from his great chest, but far off, and going by her ear like a voice in a shell. I will. After that the parson's words seemed to be falling on her face. Will thou have this man to thy wedded husband to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Will thou obey him and serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health, and forsaking all other, keep thee unto him, so long as she both shall live? Kate was far away. She was spelling out the man's text. Bannet teshen to cheat. But the letters were dancing in and out of each other, and yellow lights were darting from her eyes. Suddenly she was aware that the parson's voice had stopped. There was blank silence, then an uneasy rustle, and then somebody was saying something in a soft tone. Hey, she said aloud. The parson's voice came now in a whisper at her breast. Say, I will. Ah, I — she murmured. I will. That's all, my dear. Say it with me. I will. She framed her lips to speak, but the words were half-utted by the parson. The next thing she knew was that a stray hand was holding her hand. She felt more safe now that her poor cold fingers lay in that big warm palm. It was Pete, and he was speaking again. She did not so much hear him as feel his voice tingling through her veins. I, Pete Aquilliam, take thee, Catherine Craigine. But it was all a vague murmur, fraying off into nothing, ending like a wave with a long upward plash of low sound. The parson was speaking to her again, softly, gently, caressingly, almost as if she were a frightened child. Don't be afraid, my dear. Try to speak after me. Take your time. Then allowed. I, Catherine Craigine. Her throat gurgled. She faltered. But she spoke at length in the toneless voice of one who speaks in sleep. I, Catherine Craigine. Take thee, Pete Aquilliam. The toneless voice broke. Take thee, Pete Aquilliam. And then all came in a rush, with some of the words distinctly repeated, and some of them droned and dropped. To my wedded husband, to have and to hold. Have and to hold. From this day forward till death do us part. Death do us part. Therefore I give thee my troth. Troth. The last word fell like a broken echo, and then there was a rustle in the church, and much audible breathing. Some of the schoolgirls in the gallery were reaching over the pews with parted lips and dancing eyes. Pete had taken her left hand and was putting the ring on her finger. She was conscious of his warm breath and of the words. With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow. Amen. Again she left her cold hand in Pete's warm hand. He was stroking it on the outside with his other one. It was all a dream. She seemed to rally from it as she moved down the aisle. Ghostly faces were smiling at her out of the air on either side, and the choir in the gallery behind the schoolgirls were singing the psalm, with John the Clark's husky voice drawing out the first word of each new verse as his companions were singing the last word of the preceding one. Thy wife shall be as the fruitful vine upon the walls of thine house. Thy children like the olive branches round about thy table. As it was in the beginning is now and ever shall be. World without end. Amen. They were all in the vestry now, standing together in a group. Her mother was wiping her eyes, Pete was laughing, and Nancy Jo was nudging him and saying in an audible whisper, Kiss her, man, it's only respectable. The parson was leaning over the table. He spoke to Pete, and then said, A substantial mark too. The ladies turned next. The open book was before her, and the pen was put into her hand. When she laid it down the parson returned his spectacles to their sheath and a nervous voice, which thrilled and frightened her, said from behind, Let me be the first to wish you happiness, Mrs. William. It was Philip. She turned towards him, and their eyes met for a moment. But she was only conscious of his prominent nose, his clear-cut chin, his rapid smile like sunshine, disappearing as before a cloud. He said something else, something about a new life and a new beginning, but she could not gather its meaning. Her mind would not take it in. At the next moment they were all in the open air. Philip had been in torment, first the torment of an irresistible hatred of Kate. He knew that this hatred was illogical, that it was monstrous, but it supported his pride. It held him safe above self-contempt in being present at the wedding. When the carriage drew up at the church gate, and he helped Kate to alight, he thought she looked up at him as one who says, You see, things are not so bad after all. And when she turned her face to him at the beginning of the service, he thought it wore a look of fierce triumph, a victory of disdain. But as the ceremony proceeded, and he observed her absentness, her vacancy, her pathetic imbecility, he began to be oppressed by an awful sense of her consciousness of error. Was she taking this step out of peak? Was she thinking to punish him for getting the price she would have to pay? Would she awake tomorrow morning with her vexation and vanity gone, face to face with a hideous future, the worst and most terrible that is possible to any woman, that of being married to one man and loving another? For, would his own vanity haunt him even there? Shame, shame! He forced himself to do the duty of a best man. In the vestry he approached the bride and muttered the conventional wishes. His heart was devouring itself like a rapid fire, and it was as much as he could do to look into her piteous eyes and speak. Struggles he might at that moment, he could not put out of his heart a passionate tenderness. This frightened him, and straightway he resolved to see no more of Kate. He must be fair to her, he must be true to himself. But walking behind her up the path strewn with flowers from the church door to the gate, the knowings of the worm of buried love came on him again, and he felt like a man who was being dragged through the dirt. End of Part 3 Chapter 22 Part 3 Chapter 23 of the Manxman This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tony Ashworth The Manxman by Sir Hall Cain Part 3 Chapter 23 Four saddle-horses, each with its rider seated and ready, had been waiting at the churchyard gate. Powing up the gravel, the instant the bride and bridegroom came out of the church, the horses set off for Caesar's house at a furious gallop. Kate and Pete, Caesar, Granny and Nancy, with the addition of Philip and Parson Quiggin, returned in the covered carriage. At the turn of the road the way was blocked by a group of stalwart girls out of the last of the years cornfields. With the straw rope of the stackyard stretched across, they demanded toll before the carriage would be allowed to pass. Pete, who sat by the door, put his head out and inquired solemnly if the highway women would take their charge in silver or in kind, half a crown apiece or a kissle round. They laughed and answered that they saw no objection to taking both. Whereupon Pete, whispering behind his hand that the mistress was looking, tossed into the air a paper bag, which rose like a cannonball, broke in the air like a shell, and fell over their white sun-bonnets like a shower. At the door of the bank's ferry the four riders were waiting with smoking horses. The first to arrive had been rewarded already with a bottle of rum. He had one other ancient privilege. As the coach drove up to the door he stepped up to the bride with the wedding cake and broke it over her head. Then there was a scramble for the pieces among the girls who gathered round her, that they might take them to bed and dream of a day to come when they should themselves be as proud and happy. The wedding breakfast, a wedding dinner, was laid in the loft of the mill, the chapel of the Christians. Caesar sat at the head of the table with Granny on one side and Kate on the other. Pete sat next to Kate and Philip next to Granny. The person sat at the foot with Nancy Jo, a lady of consequence, receiving much consideration at his reverend right hand. Genake Jelly sat midway down the table with a fine scorn on his features, for John the Clarke sat opposite with a fiddle grip between his knees. The neighbours brought in the joints of beef and mutton, the chickens and the ducks. Caesar and the parson carved. Black Tom, who had been invited by way of truce, served out the liquor from an 18-gallon cask and sucked it up himself like the soul of an old shoe. Then Caesar said grace and the company fell too. Such noise, such sport, such chaff, such laughter. Everything was a jest, every word had wit in it. How are you doing, John? Haven't done as well for a month, sir, but what's it saying? Two hungry meals make the third a glutton? How are you doing, Tom? No time to get a right mouthful for myself, Caesar. Kept so busy with the drink. Oh, there'll be some with their top works hampered soon. Got plenty, Genake? Plenty, sir, plenty. Enough down here to vital the menagerie. It'll be Sunday every day of the week with the man that's getting the lavings. Take a taste of this beef before it goes, Mr. Thomas Quilliam, or do you prefer the mutton? I'm not particular, Mr. Creguine. Ating's nothing to me but filling a sack that's empty. Granny praised the wedding service. It was lovely. It was beautiful. She didn't think the old parson could have made the like. But Caesar criticized both church and clergy. Couldn't see what for the cross on the pulpit and the petticoat on the parson. Popory, sir, clean popory he whispered across granny to Philip. Away went the shanks of mutton, the breasts of birds, and the slabs of beef, and up came an apple pudding as round as a well-fed salmon, and as long as a twenty-pound cod. There was a shout of welcome. None of your dynamite pudding that, as green as grass and as sour as vinegar. Tate was called on to make the first cut of the monster. A faint colour had returned to her cheeks since she had come home. She was talking a little, and even laughing sometimes, as if the weight on her heart was lightening every moment. She rose at the call, took with the hand nearest to the dish, the knife that her father held out, and plunged it into the pudding. As she did so, with all eyes upon her, the wedding ring on her finger flashed in the light and was seen by everybody. Look at that, though, cried Black Tom. There's the wife for her husband, if you please. Ashamed of showing it, is she? Not she, the boch. Then there was much giggling among the younger women, and cries of, Oh, the poor girl, going to church has been making her left-handed. Time enough, my beauties, cried Pete, and mind you're not struck that way yourselves, one of these days. Away went the dishes, and the parson rose to return thanks. Never heard that grace, but once before parson Quiggan, said Pete, and then, lighting his pipe, then it was a burial service. A burial service. A dozen voices echoed the words together, and in a moment the table was quiet. Yes, though, said Pete, it was up at Johannesburg. Two chums settled there, and one married a girl. Nice little thing, too. Some of the bull girls, you know, but not much ballast at her at all. The husband went up country for the consolidated company, and when he came back there was trouble. Chum had been sweet-houting the wife a bit. Oh, dear, oh, well, well. Do the husband? He went after the chum with a repeater, and took him. Bath chair sort of a chap. No fight in him at all. Mercy, he cries. I can't, says the husband. Forgive him this once, says the wife. It's only once a woman loses herself, says the man. Mercy, mercy. Say your prayers. Mercy, mercy, mercy. Too late, and the husband shot him dead. A woman dropped in a faint, but the man said, he didn't say his prayers, though. I must be doing it for him. And down he went on his knees by the body, but the prayers were all forgotten at him. All but the bit of a grace, so he said that instead. Loud breathings on every side followed Pete's story, and Caesar leaning over towards Philip, whose face had grown ashy, said, Terrible, sir, terrible. But still and for all right enough, though, eh? What's it saying? Better an enemy than a bad friend? Philip answered absently. His eyes were on the opposite side of the table. There was a sudden rising of the people about Kate. Water there, shouted Pete. It's a thundering blockhead I am for sure, frightening a life out of people with stories fit for a funeral. No, no, said Kate. I'm not faint. Why should you think so? Of course not. Oh, said Nancy, who was behind her in a twinkling. Why, did she? Well, what of it, man? It's only becoming on a girl's wedding day. Take a little sip, though, woman. There, there. Kate drank the water, with the glass jingling against her teeth, and then began to laugh. The person's ruddy face rose at the end of the table. Friends, he said. After that tragic story, let us indulge in a little vanity. Fill up your glasses to the brim, and drink with me to the health of the happy couple. We all know both of them. We know the bride for a good daughter and a sweet girl, one so naturally pure that nobody can ever say an evil word or think an evil thought when she is near. We know the bridegroom for a real manxman, simple and rugged and true, who says all he thinks and thinks all he says. God has been very good to them. Such virginal and transparent souls have much to be thankful for. It is not for them to struggle with that worst enemy of man, the enemy that is within, the enemy of bad passions. So we can wish them joy on their union with a full heart and a sure hope that whatever chance befall them on the ways of this world, they will be happy and content. Oh, the beautiful advice, said Granny, wiping her eyes. Popery, just popery, muttered Caesar. What about original sin? There was a chorus of applause. Kate was still laughing, Philip's head was down. And now friends continued the parson. Captain Quilliam has been a successful man abroad, but he has had to come home to do the best piece of work he ever did. A voice, do it yourself parson. It is true I've never done it myself. Vanity of vanities, love is not for me. It's been the Lord's will to put me here to do the marrying and leave my people to do the loving. But there is a young man present who has all the world before him and everything this life can promise except one thing. And that's the best thing of all, a wife. Kate's laughter grew boisterous. This morning he helped his friend to marry a pure and beautiful maiden. Now let me remind him of the text which says, go thou and do likewise. The toast was drunk standing, with shouts of Captain Pete, and a mid-much hammering on the table, stamping on the floor, and other thunderings of applause, Captain Pete rolled up to reply. After a moment's pause in which he distributed sage winks and nods on every side, he said, I'm not much for public speaking myself. I made my best speech in my shortest in church this morning. I will. The parson has been telling my dunya molla to do as I have done today. He can't. Begging pardon of the ladies, there's only one woman on the island fit for him, and I've got her. Kate's laughter grew shrill. My wife. At this word uttered with an air of lifelong familiarity, twenty clay pipes lost their heads by collusion with the table, and Pete was interrupted by rows of laughter. God bless me. Can a married man mention his wife in company? Well then, Mistress Captain Peter Quilliam. This mouthful was the signal for another riotous interruption, and a general call for more to drink. Won't that do for you neither? I'm not going back on it, though, whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder. Isn't that it, parson Quiggan? What's it you're saying? No man but the demster? Well, the demster's here that is to be. I'll clear him of that anyway. Kate's laughter became explosive and uncontrollable. Pete nodded sideways to fill up the gap in his eloquence, and then went on. But if my dunya molla can't marry my wife, there's one thing he can do for her. He can make her house his home in Ramsey, when he goes to Douglas for good, and comes down here to the courts once a fortnight. Kate laughed more immoderately than ever, but Philip, with the look of alarm, half rose from his seat and set across the table. There's my aunt at Belua, Pete. She'll be following after you, said Pete. There are hotels enough for travellers, said Philip. Too many by half, and that's why I asked in public, said Pete. I know the brotherly feeling, began Philip. Is it a promise, demanded Pete? If I can't escape your kindness? No, you can't, so there's an end of it. It will kill me yet. May you never die till it polishes you off. At Philip's submission to Pete's will, there was a general chorus of cheers, through which Kate's shrill laughter rang like a scream. Pete patted the back of her hand and continued, And now, young fellows there, let an old, experienced, married man give you a bit of advice. He swore away all his worldly goods this morning, so he hasn't much else to give. I've no belief in bachelors myself. They're like a tub without a handle. Nothing to lay hold of them by. Much nudging and whispering about the bottom of the table. What's that down yonder? The vicar, you say? Oh, the vicar's a grand man, but he's only a parson, you see. Mr. Christian, is it? He's got too much work to do to be thinking about women. We're living on the 19th century boys, and it's middling hard feeding for some of us. If the fishing's going to the dogs, and the farming going to the deuce, don't be tossing head over tip at the tail of the tourist. If you've got the pumping engine inside of you, in plain English, if you've got the indomitable character of the rail manxman, do as I've done. Go for him. Then watch your opportunity. What Shakespeare's saying? Pete paused. What's that he's saying now? Pete scratched his forehead. Something about a flood, anyway. Pete stretched his hand out vigorously. Lay hold of it at the flood, says he. That's the way to make you fortune. Then Pete melted to sentiment, glanced down at Kate's head and continued. And when you come back to the old island, and there isn't no place like it, you can marry the girl of your heart, God bless her. Works black, but money's white, and love is as sweet on potatoes and herrings three times a day as on nothing for dinner, and the same every night of the week for supper. While you're away, you'll be dreaming of her. Is she faithful? Is she through? Course she is. I'm waiting to take you the very minute you come home. Kate was still laughing as if she could not stop. Look out for the right sort, boys. Plenty of the like in yet. If the young men of these days are more smart and more educated than the fathers, the young women are more handsome and more virtuous than their mothers. So, Ben McCree, my hearties, and enough in the locker to drive away the devil and the coroner. Through the volley of cheers which followed Pete's speech came the voice of Black Tom, thick with drink. Drive off the crow at the wedding breakfast. Everybody rose and looked. A great crow, black as night, had come in at the open door of the mill, calmly, sedately, as if by habit, for the corn that usually lay there. It means divorce, said Black Tom. Scare it away, cried someone. It's the new wife must do it, said another. Where's Kate? cried Nancy. But Kate only looked and went on laughing as before. The crow turned tail and took flight of itself at finding so eager an audience. Then Pete said, who's holding with such old wife's wonders? And Caesar answered, course not, or fairies either. I've slept out all night on Cronkner airy lay, before my days of grace, I mean, and I never seen no fairies. It would be a fool of a fairy, though, that would let you see him, Caesar, said Black Tom. At nine o'clock Caesar's gig was at the door of the man's fairy to take the bride and bridegroom home. They had sung Milica Rain and Ciri Fruschnati, and Hunting the Wren, and the wind that shook the barley, and then they had cleared away the tables and danced to the fiddle of John the Clark and the clarionette of John Ake Jelly. Kate with wild eyes and flushed cheeks had taken part in everything, but always fiercely, violently, almost tempestuously, until people lost enjoyment of her heartiness in fear of her hysteria, and Caesar whispered Pete to take her away. And brought round the gig to hasten them. Kate went up for her cloak and hat, and in the interval between her departure and reappearance, Granny and Nancy Jo, both glorified beings, Nancy with her unaccustomed cap askew, stood in the middle of a group of women who were deferring and inquiring and sympathizing. I don't know in the world how she has kept up so long, said Granny. And dear heart knows how I'm going to keep up when she's gone, said Nancy, with her apron to her eyes. Kate came down ready. Everybody followed her into the road, and all stood round the gig, with flashes from the gig lamps on their faces, while Pete swung her up into the seat, lifting her bodily in his great arms. You wouldn't drown yourself tonight for an old rusty nail, eh, Captain? cried somebody with a laugh. You go, Bale, said Pete, and he leapt up to Kate's side, twiddled the reins, cracked the whip, and they drove away. End of Part 3, Chapter 23. Part 3, Chapter 24, The Manxman. This is a LibriVox recording, or LibriVox recordings were in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tony Ashworth. The Manxman by Sir Hall Cain. Part 3, Chapter 24. Philip had stood at the door of the porch, struggling to command his soul, and employing all his powers to look cheerful and even gay. But as Kate had passed, she had looked at him with an imploring look, and then he had seemed to understand everything, that she had made a mistake and that she knew it, that her laughter had been bitterer than tears, that some compulsion had been put upon her, and that she was a wretched and miserable woman. At the next moment she had gone by with an odor of lace and perfume, and then a flood of tenderness, of pity, of mad jealousy had come upon him, and it had been as much as he could do to restrain himself. One instant he held himself in hand, and that the necks, the wheels of the gig, had begun to move. The horse had started, the women had trooped into the house again, and there was nothing before him but the broad back of Caesar, who was looking into the darkness after the vanishing gig lamps, and breathing asthmatical breath. "'Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife,' said Caesar. "'You're time enough yet, sir. Come in, come in.' But the man was odious to Philip at that moment, the house was odious, the people and the talk inside were odious, and he slipped away, unobserved. Too late! From the torment of his own thoughts he could not escape, his lost love, his lost happiness, his memories of the past, his dreams of the future. A voice, it was his own voice, seemed to be taunting him constantly. You were not worthy of her, you did not know her value, she is gone, and what have you got instead? The deemstership. That was of no consequence now, a name, an idle name. Love was the only thing worth having, and it was lost. Without it all the rest was nothing, and he had flung it away. He had been a monster, he had been a fool. The thought of his folly was insupportable. The recollection of his selfishness was stifling. The memory of his calculating deliberations was dragging him again in the dust. Thus, with a sense of crushing shame, he plunged down the dark road, trying not to think of the gig that had gone swinging along in front of him. He would leave the island, tomorrow he would sail for England. No matter if he lost the chance of promotion. Tomorrow, tomorrow, but tonight? How could he live through the hours until morning, with the black thoughts which the darkness generated? How could he sleep?