The Manxman

Philip fled downstairs like one who flies from torture. While dragging on his coat in the hall, he began to foresee what was before him. He was to go to Pete, pretending to know nothing; he was to hear Pete's story, and show surprise; he was to comfort Pete--perhaps to help him in his search, for he dared not appear _not_ to help--he was to walk by Pete's side, looking for what he knew they should not find. He saw himself crawling along the streets like a snake, and the part he had to play revolted him. He went upstairs again.

"On second thoughts, you must be right, auntie."

"I'm sure I am."

"If not, he'll come again."

"I'm sure he will."

"If there's anything amiss with Pete, he'll come first to me."

"There can be nothing amiss except what I say. Just a gla.s.s too much maybe and no great sin either, considering the day, and how proud he is, for your sake, Philip. I believe in my heart that young man couldn't be prouder and happier if he stood in your own shoes instead."

"Good-night, Auntie," said Philip, in a thick gurgle.

"Good-night, dear. I'm going to bed, and mind you go yourself."

Being alone, Philip found himself leaning against the mantelpiece and looking across at his father's picture. He began to contrast his father with himself. He was a success, his father had been a failure. At seven-and-twenty he was Deemster at all events; at thirty his father had died a broken man. He had got what he had worked for; he had recovered the place of his people; and yet how mean a man he was compared to him who had done nothing and lost all.

Failure was all that his father had had to reproach himself with; but he had to accuse himself of dishonour as well. His father's offence had been a fault; his own was a crime. If his father had been willing to betray love and friends.h.i.+p, he might have succeeded. Because he himself had been true to neither, he had not failed. The very excess of his father's virtues had kept him down. Every act of his own selfishness had pushed him up. His father had thought first of love and truth and an upright life, and last of money and rank and applause. The world had renounced his father because his father had first renounced the world.

But it had opened its arms to him, and followed him with shouts and cheers, and loaded him with honours. And yet, miserable man, better be down in the ooze and slime of a broken life, better be dead and in the grave--for the dead in his grave must despise him.

An awful picture rose before Philip. It was a picture of himself in the time to come. An old man--great, powerful, perhaps even beloved, maybe wors.h.i.+pped, but heart-dead, tottering on to the grave, and the mockery of a gorgeous funeral, with crowds and drums and solemn music. Then suddenly a great silence, as if the snow had begun to fall, and a great white light, and an awful voice crying, "Who is this that comes with dust for a bleeding heart, and ashes for a living soul?"

Philip screamed aloud at the vision, as piece by piece he put it together. His cry died off with a tingle in the china ornaments of the mantelpiece, and he remembered where he was. Then two gentle taps came to the door of his room. He composed himself a little, s.n.a.t.c.hed up a book, and cried "Come in!"

It was Auntie Nan. She was in her night-dress and night-cap. A candle was in her hand, and the flame was shaking.

"Whatever's to do, my child?" she said.

"Only reading aloud, Auntie. Did I awaken you?"

"But you screamed, Philip."

"Macbeth, Auntie. See, the banquet scene. He has become king, you

He stopped. The little lady looked at him dubiously and made a pull at the string of her night-cap, causing it to fall aside and give a grotesque appearance to her troubled old face.

"Take a little brandy, dear. I left it here on the dressing-table."

"Don't trouble about me, Auntie. Good-night again. There! go back to bed."

Half coaxing, half forcing her, he drew her to the door, and she went out slowly, reluctantly, doubtfully, the wandering strings of her cap trailing on her shoulders, and her bare feet nipping up the bottom of the night-dress behind her.

Philip looked at the book he had s.n.a.t.c.hed up in his haste. What had put that book of all books into his hand? What had brought him to that room of all rooms? And on that night of all nights? What devil out of h.e.l.l had tempted Auntie Nan to torture him? He would not stay; he would go back to his own bed.

Out on the landing he heard a low voice. It came from Auntie Nan's room.

A spear of candle-light shot from her door, which was ajar. He paused and looked in. The white night-dress was by the bedside, the night-cap was buried in the counterpane. A cat had established itself beside it, and was purring softly. Auntie Nan was on her knees. Philip heard his own name----

"G.o.d bless my Philip in the great place to which he has been called this day. Give him wisdom and strength and peace!"

Holy woman, with angels hovering over you, who dared to think of devils tempting your innocence and love?

Philip went back to his father's room. He began to reconcile himself to his position. Though he had been extolling his father at his own expense, what had he done but realise his father's hopes. And, after all, he could not have acted differently. At no point could he have behaved otherwise than he had. What had he to accuse himself for? If there had been sin, he had been dragged into it by blind powers which he could not command. And what was true of himself was also true of Kate.

Ah! he could see her now. She was gone where he had sent her. There were tears in her beautiful eyes, but time would wipe them away. The duplicity of her old life was over; the corroding deceit, the daily torment, the hourly infidelity--all were left behind. If there was remorse, it was the fault of destiny; and if she was suffering the pangs of shame, she was a woman, and she would bear it cheerfully for the sake of the man she loved. She was going through everything for him. Heaven bless her! In spite of man and man's law, she was his love, his darling, his wife--yes, his wife--by right of nature and of G.o.d; and, come what would, he should cling to her to the last.

Suddenly a thick voice cut through the still air of the night.

"Philip!"

It was Pete at last He was calling up at the window from the path below.

Philip groaned and covered his face with his hands.

"Philip!"

With rigid steps Philip walked to the window and threw up the sash. It was starlight, and the branches were bending in the night air.

"Is it you, Pete?"

"Yes, it's me. I was seeing the lamp, so I knew you war'n in bed at all.

Studdying a bit, it's like, eh? I thought I wouldn't waken the house, but just shout up and tell you."

"What is it, Pete?" said Philip. His voice s.h.i.+vered like a sail at tacking.

"Nothing much at all. Only the wife's gone to England over by the night's steamer."

"To England?"

"Aw, time for it too, I'm thinking; the wake and narvous she's been lately. You remember what the doctor was saying yonder everin,' when we christened the child? 'Send her out of the island,' says he, 'and she'll be coming home another woman.' Wasn't for going, though. Crying and shouting she wouldn't be laving the lil one. So I had to put out a bit of authority. Of course, a husband's got the right to do that, Philip, eh? Well, I'll be taking the road again. Doing a fine night, isn't it?

Make's a man unwilling to go to bed."

Philip trembled and felt sick. He tried to speak, but could utter nothing except an inarticulate noise. As Pete went off, an owl screeched in the glen. Philip drew down the sash, pulled the blind, tugged the curtains across, stumbled into the middle of the floor, and leaned against the bed.

"Such is the beginning of the end," he thought.

The duplicity, the deceit, the daily torment which Kate had left behind, were henceforward to be his own! At one flash, as of lightning, he saw the path before him. It was over cliffs and chasms and quagmires, where his foot might slip at any step.

His head began to reel. He took the brandy bottle from the dressing-table, poured out half a tumbler, and drained it at one draught. As he did so, his eyes above the rim of the gla.s.s rested on the portrait of his mother over the fireplace. The face as he saw it then was no longer the face of the winsome bride. It was the living face as he remembered it--bleared, bloated, gross, and drunken. She smiled on him, she beckoned to him.

It was the beginning of the end indeed. He was his mother's son as well as his father's. The father had ruled down to that day, but it was the turn of the mother now. He could not resist her. She was alive in his blood, and he was hers.

Never before had he touched raw spirits, and the brandy mastered him instantly. Feeling dizzy, he made an effort to undress and get into bed.

He dragged off his coat and his waistcoat, and threw his braces over his shoulders. Then he stumbled, and he had to lay hold of the bedpost. His hand grew chill and relaxed its hold. Stupor came over him. He slipped, he slid, he fell, and rolled with outstretched arms on to the floor. The fire went out and the lamp died down.

Then the sun came up over the sea. It was a beautiful morning. The town awoke; people hailed each other cheerfully in the streets, and joy-bells rang from the big church tower for the first court-day of the new Deemster. But the Deemster himself still lay on the floor, with damp forehead and matted hair, behind the blind of the darkened room.