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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/25572-0.txt b/25572-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..491e674 --- /dev/null +++ b/25572-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4253 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Capt’n Davy’s Honeymoon, by Hall Caine + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Capt’n Davy’s Honeymoon + 1893 + +Author: Hall Caine + +Release Date: May 23, 2008 [EBook #25572] +Last Updated: October 6, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAPT’N DAVY’S HONEYMOON *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +CAPT’N DAVY’S HONEYMOON + +By Hall Caine + +Harper And Brothers - 1893 + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +“My money, ma’am--my money, not me.” + +“So you say, sir.” + +“It’s my money you’ve been marrying, ma’am.” + +“Maybe so, sir.” + +“Deny it, deny it!” + +“Why should I? You say it is so, and so be it.” + +“Then d------ the money. It took me more till ten years to make it, and +middling hard work at that; but you go bail it’ll take me less nor ten +months to spend it. Ay, or ten weeks, and aisy doing, too! And ‘till +it’s gone, Mistress Quig-gin--d’ye hear me?--gone, every mortal penny of +it gone, pitched into the sea, scattered to smithereens, blown to ould +Harry, and dang him--I’ll lave ye, ma’am, I’ll lave ye; and, sink or +swim, I’ll darken your doors no more.” + +The lady and gentleman who blazed at each other with these burning +words, which were pointed, and driven home by flashing eyes and +quivering lips, were newly-married husband and wife. They were staying +at the old Castle Mona, in Douglas, Isle of Man, and their honeymoon +had not yet finished its second quarter. The gentleman was Captain Davy +Quiggin, commonly called Capt’n Davy, a typical Manx sea-dog, thirty +years of age; stalwart, stout, shaggy, lusty-lunged, with the tongue of +a trooper, the heavy manners of a bear, the stubborn head of a stupid +donkey, and the big, soft heart of the baby of a girl. The lady was +Ellen Kinvig, known of old to all and sundry as Nelly, Ness, or +Nell, but now to everybody concerned as Mistress Capt’n Davy Quiggin, +six-and-twenty years of age, tall, comely, as blooming as the gorse; +once as free as the air, and as racy of the soil as new-cut peat, but +suddenly grown stately, smooth, refined, proud, and reserved. They loved +each other to the point of idolatry; and yet they parted ten days after +marriage with these words of wroth and madness. Something had come +between them. What was it? Another man? No. Another woman? Still no. +What then? A ghost, an intangible, almost an invisible but very real and +divorce-making co-respondent. They call it Education. + +Davy Quiggin was born in a mud house on the shore, near the old +church at Ballaugh. The house had one room only, and it had been the +living-room, sleeping-room, birth-room, and death-room of a family of +six. Davy, who was the youngest, saw them all out. The last to go were +his mother and his grandfather. They lay ill at the same time, and died +on the one day. The old man died first, and Davy fixed up a herring-net +in front of him, where he lay on the settle by the fire, so that his +mother might not see him from her place on the bed. + +Not long after that, Davy, who was fifteen years of age, went to live as +farm lad with Kinvig, of Ballavolley. Kinvig was a solemn person, very +stiff and starchy, and sententious in his way, a mighty man among the +Methodists, and a power in the pulpit. He thought he had done an act of +charity when he took Davy into his home, and Davy repaid him in due time +by falling in love with Nelly, his daughter. + +When that happened Davy never quite knew. “That’s the way of it,” he +used to say. “A girl slips in, and there ye are.” Nelly was in to a +certainty when one night Davy came home late from the club meeting on +the street, and rapped at the kitchen window. That was the signal of the +home circle that some member of it was waiting at the door. Now there +are ways and ways of rapping at a kitchen window. There is the pit-a-pat +of a light heart, and the thud-thud of a heavy one; and there is the +sharp crack-crack of haste, and the dithering que-we-we of fear. Davy +had a rap of his own, and Nelly knew it. + +There was a sort of a trip and dance and a rum-tum-tum in Davy’s rap +that always made Nelly’s heart and feet leap up at the same instant. But +on this unlucky night it was Nelly’s mother who heard it, and opened the +door. What happened then was like the dismal sneck of the outside gate +to Davy for ten years thereafter. The porch was dark, and so was the +little square lobby behind the door. On numerous other nights that had +been an advantage in Davy’s eyes, but on this occasion he thought it a +snare of the evil one. Seeing something white in a petticoat he thew his +arms about it and kissed and hugged it madly. It struck him at the time +as strange that the arms he held did not clout him under the chin, and +that the lips he smothered did not catch breath enough to call him a +gawbie, and whisper that the old people inside were listening. The +truth dawned on him in a moment, and then he felt like a man with an eel +crawling down his back, and he wanted nothing else for supper. + +It was summer time, and Davy, though a most accomplished sleeper, found +no difficulty in wakening himself with the dawn next morning. He was +cutting turf in the dubs of the Curragh just then, and he had four hours +of this pastime, with spells of sober meditation between, before he came +up to the house for breakfast. Then as he rolled in at the porch, and +stamped the water out of his long-legged boots, he saw at a glance that +a thunder-cloud was brewing there. Nelly was busy at the long table +before the window, laying the bowls of milk and the deep plates for the +porridge. Her print frock was as sweet as the May blossom, her cheeks +were nearly as red as the red rose, and like the rose her head hung +down. She did not look at him as he entered. Neither did Mrs. Kinvig, +who was bending over the pot swung from the hook above the fire, and +working the porridge-stick round and round with unwonted energy. But +Kinvig himself made up for both of them. The big man was shaving before +a looking-glass propped up on the table, and against the Pilgrim’s +Progress and Clark’s Commentaries. His left hand held the point of his +nose aside between the tip of his thumb and first finger, while the +other swept the razor through a hillock of lather and revealed a portion +of a mouth twisted three-quarters across his face. But the moment he saw +Davy he dropped the razor, and looked up with as much dignity as a man +could get out of a countenance half covered with soap. + +“Come in, sir,” said he, with a pretense of great deference. “Mawther,” + he said, twisting to Mrs. Kinvig, “just wipe down a chair for the +gentleman.” + +Davy slithered into his seat. “I’m in for it,” he thought. + +“They’re telling me,” said Kinvig, “that there is a fortune coming at +you. Aw, yes, though, and that you’re taking notions on a farmer’s girl. +Respectable man, too--one of the first that’s going, with sixty acres +at him and more. Amazing thick, they’re telling me. Kissing behind the +door, and the like of that! The capers! It was only yesterday you came +to me with nothing on your back but your father’s ould trowis, cut down +at the knees.” + +Nelly slipped out. Her mother made a noise with the porridge-pot. Davy +was silent. Kinvig walloped his razor on the strop with terrific vigor, +then paused, pointed the handle in Davy’s direction, tried to curl up +his lip into a withering sneer that was half lost in the lather, and +said with bitter irony, “My house is too mane for you, sir. You must +lave me. It isn’t the Isle of Man itself that’ll hould the likes of +you.” + +Then Davy found his tongue. “You’re right, sir,” said he, leaping to +his feet, “It’s too poor I am for your daughter, is it? Maybe I’ll be a +piece richer someday, and then you’ll be a taste civiler.” + +“Behold ye now,” said Kinvig, “as bould as a goat! Cut your stick and +quick.” + +“I’m off, sir,” said Davy; and, then, looking round and remembering that +he was being kicked out like a dog and would see Nelly no more, day +by day, the devil took hold of him and he began to laugh in Kinvig’s +ridiculous face. + +“Good-by, ould Sukee,” he cried. “I lave you to your texes.” + +And, turning to where Mrs. Kinvig stood with her back to him, he cried +again, “Good-by, mawther, take care of his ould head--it’s swelling so +much that his chapel hat is putting corns on it.” + +That night with his “chiss” of clothes on his shoulders, Davy came down +stairs and went out at the porch. There he slipped his burden to the +ground, for somebody was waiting to say farewell to him. It was the +right petticoat this time, and she was on the right side of the door. +The stars were shining overhead, but two that were better than any in +the sky were looking into Davy’s face, and they were twinkling in tears. + +It was only a moment the parting lasted, but a world of love was got +into it. Davy had to do penance for the insults he had heaped upon +Nelly’s father, and in return he got pity for those that had been +shoveled upon himself. + +“Good-by, Nell,” he whispered; “there’s thistles in everybody’s crop. +But no matter! I’ll come back, and then it’s married we’ll be. My +goodness, yes, and take Ballacry and have six bas’es, and ten pigs, and +a pony. But, Nelly, will ye wait for me?” + +“D’ye doubt me, Davy?” + +“No; but will ye though?” + +“Yes.” + +“Then its all serene,” said Davy, and with another hug and a kiss, and +a lock of brown hair which was cut ready and tied in blue ribbon, he was +gone with his chest into the darkness. + +Davy sailed in an Irish schooner to the Pacific coast of South America. +There he cut his stick again, and got a berth on a coasting steamer +trading between Valparaiso and Callao. The climate was unhealthy, +the ports were foul, the government was uncertain, the dangers were +constant, and the hands above him dropped off rapidly. In two years Davy +was skipper, and in three years more he was sailing a steamer of his +own. Then the money began to tumble into his chest like crushed oats out +of a Crown’s shaft. + +The first hundred pounds he had saved he sent home to Dumbell’s bank, +because he could not trust it out of the Isle of Man. But the hundreds +grew to thousands, and the thousands to tens of thousands, and to send +all his savings over the sea as he made them began to be slow work, like +supping porridge with a pitchfork. He put much of it away in paper rolls +at the bottom of his chest in the cabin, and every roll he put by stood +to him for something in the Isle of Man. “That’s a new cowhouse at +Ballavolly.” “That’s Balladry.” “That’s ould Brew’s mill at Sulby--he’ll +be out by this time.” + +All his dreams were of coming home, and sometimes he wrote letters to +Nelly. The writing in them was uncertain, and the spelling was doubtful, +but the love was safe enough. And when he had poured out his heart +in small “i’s” and capital “U’s”? he always inquired how more material +things were faring. “How’s the herrings this sayson; and did the men do +well with the mack’rel at Kinsale; and is the cowhouse new thatched, and +how’s the chapel going? And is the ould man still playing hang with the +texes?” + +Kinvig heard of Davy’s prosperity, and received the news at first in +silence, then with satisfaction, and at length with noisy pride. His boy +was a bould fellow. “None o’ yer randy-tandy-tissimee-tea tied to the +old mawther’s apron-strings about _him_. He’s coming home rich, and +he’ll buy half the island over, and make a donation of a harmonia to the +chapel, and kick ould Cowley and his fiddle out.” + +Awaiting that event, Kinvig sent Nelly to England, to be educated +according to the station she was about to fill. Nelly was four years in +Liverpool, but she had as many breaks for visits home. The first time +she came she minced her words affectedly, and Kinvig whispered the +mother that she was getting “a fine English tongue at her.” The second +time she came she plagued everybody out of peace by correcting their +“plaze” to “please,” and the “mate” to “meat,” and the “lave” to +“leave.” The third time she came she was silent, and looked ashamed: and +the fourth time it was to meet her sweetheart on his return home after +ten years’ absence. + +Davy came by the Sneafell from Liverpool. It was August--the height of +the visiting season--and the deck of the steamer was full of tourists. +Davy walked through the cobweb of feet and outstretched legs with the +face of a man who thought he ought to speak to everybody. Fifty times in +the first three hours he went forward to peer through the wind and +the glaring sunshine for the first glimpse of the Isle of Man. When at +length he saw it, like a gray bird lying on the waters far away, with +the sun’s light tipping the hill-tops like a feathery crest, he felt so +thick about the throat that he took six steerage passengers to the bar +below to help him to get rid of his hoarseness. There was a brass band +aboard, and during the trip they played all the outlandish airs of +Germany, but just as the pacquet steamed into Douglas Bay, and Davy +was watching the land and remembering everything upon it, and shouting +“That’s Castle Mona!” “There’s Fort Ann!” “Yonder’s ould St. Mathews’s!” + they struck up “Home, Sweet Home.” That was too much for Davy. He +dived into his breeches’ pockets, gave every German of the troupe five +shillings apiece, and then sat down on a coil of rope and blubbered +aloud like a baby. + +Kinvig had sent a grand landau from Ramsey to fetch Capt’n Davy to +Ballaugh; but before the English driver from the Mitre had identified +his fare Davy had recognized an old crony, with a high, springless, +country cart--Billiam Ballaneddan, who had come to Douglas to dispatch a +barrel of salted herrings to his married daughter at Liverpool, and was +going back immediately. So Davy tumbled his boxes and bags and other +belongings into the landau, piling them mountains high on the cushioned +seats, and clambered into the cart himself. Then they set off at a race +which should be home first--the cart or the carriage, the luggage or the +owner of it; the English driver on his box seat with his tall hat and +starchy cravat, or Billiam twidling his rope reins, and Davy on the +plank seat beside him, bobbing and bumping, and rattling over the +stones like a parched pea on a frying pan. + +That was a tremendous drive for Davy. He shouted when he recognized +anything, and as he recognized everything he shouted throughout the +drive. They took the road by old Braddan Church and Union Mills, past +St. John’s, under the Tynwald Hill, and down Creg Willie’s Hill. As he +approached Kirk Michael his excitement was intense. He was nearing +home and he began to know the people. “Lord save us, there’s Tommy +Bill-beg--how do, Tommy? And there’s ould Betty! My gough, she’s in +yet--how do, mawther? There’s little Juan Caine growed up to a man! +How do, Johnny, and how’s the girls and how’s the ould man, and how’s +yourself? Goodness me, here’s Liza Corlett, and a baby at her----! I +knew her when she was no more than a babby herself.” This last remark +to the English driver who was coming up sedately with his landau at the +tail of the springless cart. + +“Drive on, Billiam! Come up, ould girl--just a taste of the whip, +Billiam! Do her no harm at all. Bishop’s Court! Deary me, the ould house +is in the same place still.” + +At length the square tower of Ballaugh + +Church was seen above the trees with the last rays of the setting sun +on its topmost story, and then Davy’s eagerness swept down all his +patience. He jumped up in the cart at the peril of being flung out, took +off his billycock, whirled it round his head, bellowed “Hurrah! Hurrah! +Hurrah!” After that he would have leaped alongside to the ground and +run. “Hould hard!” he cried, “I’ll bate the best mare that’s going.” But +Billiam pinned him down to the seat with one hand while he whipped up +the horse to a gallop with the other. + +They arrived at Ballavolly an hour and a half before they were expected. +Mistress Kinvig was washing dishes in a tub on the kitchen table. Kinvig +himself was sitting lame with rheumatism in the “elber chair” by the +ingle. They wiped down a chair for Davy this time. + +“And Nelly,” said Davy. “Where’s Nelly?” + +“She’s coming, Capt’n,” said Kinvig. “Nelly!” he called up the kitchen +stairs, with a knowing wink at Davy, “Here’s a gentleman asking after +you.” + +Davy was dying of impatience. Would she be the same dear old Nell? + +“Nell--Nelly,” he shouted, “I’ve kep’ my word.” + +“Aw, give her time, Capt’n,” said Kinvig; “a new frock isn’t rigged up +in no time, not to spake of a silk handkercher going pinning round your +throat.” + +But Davy, who had waited ten years, would not wait a minute longer, and +he was making for the stairs with the purpose of invading Nell’s own +bedroom, when the lady herself came sweeping down on tiptoes. Davy saw +her coming in a cloud of silk, and at the next moment the slippery stuff +was crumbling, and whisking, and creaking under his hands, for his arms +were full of it. + +“Aw, mawther,” said he. “They’re like honeysuckles--don’t spake to me +for a week. Many’s the time I’ve been lying in my bunk a-twigging the +rats squeaking and coorting overhead, and thinking to myself, Kisses is +skess with you now, Davy.” + +The wedding came off in a week. There were terrific rejoicings. The +party returned from church in the landau that brought up Davy’s luggage. +At the bridge six strapping fellows, headed by the blacksmith, and +surrounded by a troop of women and children, stretched a rope across the +road, and would not let the horses pass until the bridegroom had paid +the toll. Davy had prepared him-self in advance with two pounds in +sixpenny bits, which made his trowsers pockets stand out like a couple +of cannon balls. He fired those balls, and they broke in the air like +shells. + +At the wedding breakfast in the barn at Ballavolly Davy made a speech. +It was a sermon to young fellows on the subject of sweethearts. “Don’t +you marry for land,” said he. “It’s muck,” said he. “What d’ye say, +Billiam--you’d like more of it? I wouldn’t trust; but it’s spaking the +truth I am for all. Maybe you think about some dirty ould trouss: ‘She’s +a warm girl, she’s got nice things at her--bas’es and pigs, and the like +of that.’ But don’t, if you’rr not a reg’lar blundering blockit.” Then, +looking down at the top of Nelly’s head, where she sat with her eyes in +her lap beside him, he softened down to sentiment, and said, “Marry for +love, boys; stick to the girl that’s good, and then go where you will +she’ll be the star above that you’ll sail your barque by, and if you +stay at home (and there’s no place like it) her parting kiss at midnight +will be helping you through your work all next day.” + +The parting kiss at midnight brought Davy’s oration to a close, for a +tug at his coat-tails on Nelly’s side fetched him suddenly to his seat. + +Two hours afterward the landau was rolling away toward the Castle Mona +Hotel at Douglas, where, by Nell’s arrangement, Capt’n Davy and his +bride were to spend their honeymoon. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +Now it so befell that on the very day when Capt’n Davy and Mrs. Quiggin +quarreled and separated, two of their friends were by their urgent +invitation crossing from England to visit them, Davy’s friend was +Jonathan Lovibond, an Englishman, whose acquaintance he had made on the +coast. Mrs. Quiggin’s was Jenny Crow, a young lady of lively manners, +whom she had annexed during her four years’ residence at Liverpool. +These two had been lovers five years before, had quarreled and parted on +the eve of the time appointed for their marriage, and had not since set +eyes on each other. They met for the first time afterward on the +steamer that was taking them to the Isle of Man, and neither knew the +destination of the other. + +Miss Crow looked out of her twinkling eyes and saw a gentleman +promenading on the quarter-deck before her, whom she must have thought +she had somewhere seen before, but that his gigantic black mustache was +a puzzle, and the little imperial on his chin was a baffling difficulty. +Mr. Lovibond puffed the smoke from a colossal cigar, and wondered if the +world held two pair of eyes like those big black ones which glanced +up at him sometimes from a deck stool, a puffy pile of wool, two long +crochet needles, and a couple of white hands, from which there flashed a +diamond ring he somehow thought he knew. + +These mutual meditations lasted two long hours, and then a runaway ball +of the wool from the lap of the lady on the deck stool was hotly pursued +by the gentleman with the mustache, and instantly all uncertainty was at +an end. + +After exclamations of surprise at the strange recognition (it was all +so sudden), the two old friends came to closer quarters. They touched +gingerly on the past, had some tender passages of delicate fencing, gave +various sly hits and digs, threw out certain subtle hints, and came to +a mutual and satisfactory understanding. Neither had ever looked +at anybody else since their rupture, and therefore both were still +unmarried. + +Having reached this stage of investigation, the wool and its needles +were stowed away in a basket under the chair, in order that the lady +might accept the invitation of the gentleman to walk with him on the +deck; and as the wind had freshened by this time, and walking in skirts +was like tacking in a stiff breeze, the gentleman offered his arm to the +lady, and thus they sailed forth together. + +“And with whom are you to stay when we reach the island, Jenny?” said +Lovibond. + +“With a young Manx friend lately married,” said Jenny. + +“That’s strange; for I am going to do the same,” said Lovibond. “Where?” + +“At Castle Mona,” said Jenny. + +“That’s stranger still; for it’s the place to which I am going,” said +Lovibond. “What’s your Manx friend’s name?” + +“Mrs. Quiggin, now,” said Jenny. + +“That’s strangest of all,” said Lovibond; “for my friend is Captain +Quiggin, and we are bound for the same place, on the same errand.” + +This series of coincidences thawed down the remaining frost between the +pair, and they exchanged mutual confidences. They had gone so far as +to promise themselves a fortnight’s further enjoyment of each other’s +society, when their arrival at Douglas put a sudden end to their +anticipations. + +Two carriages were waiting for them on the pier--one, with a maid +inside, was to take Jenny to Castle Mona: the other, with a boy, was to +take Lovibond to Fort Ann. + +The maid was Peggy Quine, seventeen years of age, of dark complexion, +nearly as round as a dolley-tub, and of deadly earnest temperament. When +Jenny found herself face to face and alone with this person, she lost no +time in asking how it came to pass that Mrs. Quiggin was at Castle Mona +while her husband was at Fort Ann. + +“They’ve parted, ma’am,” said Peggy. + +“Parted?” shrieked Jenny above the rattle of the carriage glass. + +“Ah, yes, ma’am,” Peggy stammered; “cruel, ma’am, right cruel, cruel +extraordinary. It’s a wonder the capt’n doesn’t think shame of his +conduck. The poor misthress! She’s clane heartbroken. It’s a mercy to me +she didn’t clout him.” + +In two minutes more Jenny was in Mrs. Quiggin’s room at Castle Mona, +crying, “Gracious me, Ellen, what is this your maid tells me?” + +Nelly had been eating out her heart in silence all day long, and now the +flood of her pride and wrath burst out, and she poured her wrongs upon +Jenny as fiercely as if that lady stood for the transgressions of her +husband. + +“He reproached me with my poverty,” she cried. + +“What?” + +“Well, he told me I had only married him for his money--there’s not much +difference.” + +“And what did you say?” said Jenny. + +“Say? What could I say? What would any woman say who had any respect for +herself?” + +“But how did he come to accuse you of marrying him for his money? Had +you asked him for any?” + +“Not I, indeed.” + +“Perhaps you hadn’t loved him enough?” + +“Not that either--that I know of.” + +“Then why did he say it?” + +“Just because I wanted him to respect himself, and have some respect for +his wife, too, and behave as a gentleman, and not as a raw Manx rabbit +from the Calf.” + +Jenny gave a look of amused intelligence, and said, “Oh, oh, I see, I +see! Well, let me take off my bonnet, at all events.” + +While this was being done in the bedroom Nelly, who was furtively wiping +her eyes, continued the recital of her wrongs:-- + +“Would you believe it, Jenny, the first thing he did when we arrived +here after the wedding was to shake hands with the hall porter, and +the boots who took our luggage, and ask after their sisters and their +mothers, and their sweethearts--the man knew them all. And when he heard +from his boy, Willie Quarrie, that the cook was a person from Michael, +it was as much as I could do to keep him from tearing down to the +kitchen to talk about old times.” + +“Yes, I see,” said Jenny; “he has made a fortune, but he is just the same +simple Manx lad that he was ten years ago.” + +“Just, just! We can’t go out for a walk together but he shouts, ‘How +do? Fine day, mates!’ to the drivers of the hackney cabs across the +promenade; and the joy of his life is to get up at seven in the morning +and go down to the quay before breakfast to keep tally with a chalk +for the fishermen counting their herrings out of the boats into the +barrels.” + +“Not a bit changed, then, since he went away?” said Jenny, before the +glass. + +“Not a bit; and because I asked him to know his place, and if he is a +gentleman to behave as a gentleman and speak as a gentleman and not make +so easy with such as don’t respect him any the better for it, he turns +on me and tells me I’ve only married him for his money.” + +“Dreadful!” said Jenny, fixing her fringe. “And is this the old +sweetheart you have waited ten years for?” + +“Indeed, it is.” + +“And now that he has come back and you’ve married him, he has parted +from you in ten days?” + +“Yes; and it will be the talk of the island--indeed it will.” + +“Shocking! And so he has left you here on your honeymoon without a penny +to bless yourself?” + +“Oh, for the matter of that, he fixed something on me before the +wedding--a jointure, the advocates called it.” + +“Terrible! Let me see. He’s the one who sent you presents from America?” + +“Oh; he piled presents enough on me. It’s the way of the men: the +stingiest will do that. They like to think they’re such generous +creatures. But let a poor woman count on it, and she’ll soon be wakened +from her dream. ‘You married me for my money--deny it?’” + +“Fearful!” + +Jenny was leaning her forehead against the window sash, and looking +vacantly out on the bay. Nelly observed her a moment, stopped suddenly +in the tale of her troubles, and said, in another voice, “Jenny Crow, +I believe you are laughing at me. It’s always the way with you. You can +take nothing seriously.” + +Jenny turned back to the room with a solemn face, and said, “Nellie, +if you waited ten years for your husband, I suppose that he waited ten +years for you.” + +“I suppose he did.” + +“And, if he is the same man as he was when he went away, I suppose his +love is the same?” + +“Then how _could_ he say such things?” + +“And, if he is the same, and his love is the same, isn’t it possible +that somebody else is different?” + +“Now, Jenny Crow, you are going to say it’s all my fault?” + +“Not all, Nelly. Something has come between you.” + +“It’s the money. Oh, Jenny, if you ever marry, marry a poor man, and +then he can’t fling it in your face that you are poorer than he.” + +“No; it can’t be the money, Nelly, for the money is his, and yet it +hasn’t changed him. And, Nelly, isn’t it a good thing in a rich man not +to turn his back on his old poor comrades--not to think because he has +been in the sun that people are black who are only in the shade--not +to pretend to have altered his skin because his coat has changed--isn’t +it?” + +“I see what you mean. You mean that I’ve driven my husband away with my +bad temper.” + +“No; not that; but Nelly--dear old Nell--think what you’re doing. Take +warning from one who once made shipwreck of her own life. Think no man +common who loves you--no matter what his ways are, or his manners, or +his speech. Love makes the true nobility. It ennobles him who loves you +and you who are beloved. Cling to it--prize it--do not throw it away. +Money can not buy it, nor fame nor rank atone for it. When a woman is +loved she is a queen, and he who loves her is her king.” + +Mrs. Quiggin was weeping behind her hands by this time, but she lifted +swollen eyes to say, “I see; you would have me go to him and submit, and +explain, and beg his pardon. ‘Dear David, I didn’t marry you for your +money----’ No,” leaping to her feet, “I’ll scrub my fingers to the bone +first.” + +“But, Nelly----” + +“Say no more, Jenny Crow, We’re hot-headed people, both of us, and we’ll +quarrel.” + +Then Jenny’s solemn manner was gone in an instant. She snapped her +fingers, kicked up one leg a little, and said lightly, “Very well; and +now let us have some dinner,”---- + +Meantime Lovibond was hearing the other side of the story from Captain +Davy at Forte Ann. On the way there he had heard of the separation from +the boy, Willie Quarrie, a lugubrious Manx lad, eighteen years old, with +a face as white as a haddock and as grim as a gannet. + +“Aw, terr’ble doings, sir, terr’ble, terr’ble!” moaned Willie. “Young +Mistress Quiggin ateing her heart out at Castle Mona, and Captain Davy +hisself at Forte Ann over, drinking and tearing and carrying on till +all’s blue.” + +Lovibond found Captain Davy in the smoke-room with a face as hard as a +frozen turnip, one leg over the arm of an elbow chair, a church-warden +pipe in his mouth, a gigantic glass of brandy and soda before him, and +an admiring circle of the laziest riff-raff of the town about him. As +soon as they were alone he said: + +“But what’s this that your boy tells me, captain?” + +“I’m foundered,” said Davy, “broke, wrecked, the screw of my tide’s gone +twisting on the rocks. I’m done, mate, I’m done.” + +Then he proceeded to recite the incidents of the quarrel, coloring them +by the light of the numerous glasses with which he had covered his brain +since morning. + +“‘You’ve married me for my money,’ says I. ‘What else?’ said she. ‘Then +d------ the money,’ says I, ‘I’ll lave you till it’s gone.’ ‘Do it and +welcome,’ says she, and I’m doing it, bad cess to it, I’m doing it. +But, stop this jaw. I swore to myself I wouldn’t spake of it to any man +living. What d’ye drink? I’ve took to the brandy swig myself. Join +in. Mate!” (this in a voice of thunder to the waiter at the end of the +adjoining room) “brandy for the gentleman.” + +Lovibond waited a moment and then said quietly, “But whatever made you +give her an ungenerous stab like that, captain?” + +Davy looked up curiously and answered, “That’s just what I’ve tooken six +big drinks to find out. But no use at all, and what’s left to do?” + +“Why take it back?” said Lovibond. + +“No, deng my buttons if I will.” + +“Why not?” + +“‘Cause it’s true.” + +Lovibond waited again, and then said in another voice, “And is this the +little girl you used to tell of out yonder on the coast--Nessy, Nelly, +Nell, what was it?” + +Davy’s eyes began to fill, but his mouth remained firm. He cleared his +throat noisily, shook the dust out of his pipe on to the heel of his +boot, and said, “No--yes--no--Well, it is and it isn’t. It’s Nelly +Kinvig, that’s sarten sure. But the juice of the woman’s sowl’s dried +up.” + +“The little thing that used to know your rap at the kitchen window, and +come tripping out like a bird chirping in the night, and go linking down +the lane with you in the starlight?” + +Davy broke the shaft of his churchwarden into small lengths, and flung +the pieces out at the open window and said, “I darn’t say no.” + +“The one that stuck to you like wax when her father gave you the great +bounce out--eh?” + +Davy wriggled and spat, and then muttered, “You go bail.” + +“You have known her since you were children, haven’t you?” + +Davy’s hard face thawed suddenly, and he said, “Ay, since she wore +petticoats up to her knees, and I was a boy in a jacket, and we played +hop-skotch in the haggard, and double-my-duck agen the cowhouse gable. +Aw dear, aw dear! The sweet little thing she was then any way. Yellow +hair at her, and eyes like the sea, and a voice same as the throstle! +Well, well, to think, to think! Playing in the gorse and the ling +together, and the daisies and the buttercups--and then the curlews +whistling and the river singing like music, and the bees ahumoning--aw, +terr’ble sweet and nice. And me going barefoot, and her bare-legged, and +divil a hat at the one of us--aw, deary me, deary me! Wasn’t much starch +at her in them ould days, mate.” + +“Is there now, captain?” + +“Now? D’ye say _now_? My goodness! It’s always hemming and humming and a +heise of the neck, and her head up like a Cochin-China, with a topknot, +and ‘How d’ye do?’ and cetererar and cetererar. Aw, smooth as an ould +threepenny bit--smooth astonishing. And partic’lar! My gough! You +couldn’t call Tom to a cat afore her, but she’d be agate of you to make +it Thomas.” + +Lovibond smiled behind his big mustache. + +“The rael ould Manx isn’t good enough for her now. Well, I wasn’t +objecting, not me. She’s got the English tongue at her--that’s all +right. Only I’ll stick to what I’m used of. Job’s patience went at last +and so did mine, and I arn’t much of a Job neither.” + +“And what has made all this difference,” said Lovibond. + +“Why, the money, of coorse. It was the money that done it, bad sess to +it,” said Davy, pitching the head of his pipe after the shank. “I went +out yonder to get it and I got it. Middling hard work, too, but no +matter. It was to be all for her. ‘I’ll come back, Nelly,’ says I, ‘and +we’ll take Ballacry and have six craythurs and a pony, and keep a +girl to do for you, and you’ll take your aise--only milking maybe, or +churning, but nothing to do no harm.’ I was ten years getting it, and I +never took notions on no other girls neither. No, honor bright, thinks +I, Nelly’s waiting for you, Davy. Always dreaming of her, ‘cept when +them lazy black chaps wanted leathering, and that’s a job that isn’t +nothing without a bit of swearing at whiles. But at night, aw, at night, +mate, lying out on the deck in that heat like the miller’s kiln, and +shelling your clothes piece by piece same as a bushel of oats, and +looking up at the stars atwinkling in the sky, and spotting one of them, +and saying to yourself quietlike, so as them niggers won’t hear, ‘That’s +star is atwinkling over Nelly, too, and maybe she’s watching it now.’ +It seemed as if we wasn’t so far apart then. Somehow it made the world +a taste smaller. ‘Shine on, my beauty,’ thinks I, ‘shine down straight +into Nelly’s room, and if she’s awake tell her I’m coming, and if she’s +asleep just make her dream that I’m loving nobody else till her.’ But, +chut! It was myself that was dreaming. Drink up! She married me for my +money, so I’m making it fly.” + +“And when it’s gone--what then?” said Lovibond. “Will you go back to +her!” + +“Maybe so, maybe no.” + +“Will anything be the better because the money’s spent?” + +“God knows.” + +“Will she be as sweet and good as she once was when you are as poor as +you were?” + +Davy heaved up to his feet. “What’s the use of thinking of the like of +that?” he cried. “My money’s mine, I baked for it out in that oven. Now +I’m spending it, and what for shouldn’t I? Here goes--healths apiece!” + +Next day Lovibond and Jenny Crow met on the pier. There they pondered +the ticklish situation of their friends, and every word they said on it +was pointed and punctuated by a sense of their own relations. + +“It’s plain that the good fools love each other,” said Jenny. + +“Quite plain,” said Lovibond. + +“Heigho! It’s mad work being angry with somebody you are dying to love,” + said Jenny. + +“Colney Hatch is nothing to it,” said Lovibond. + +“Smaller things have parted people for years,” said Jenny. + +“Yes; five years,” said Lovibond. + +“The longer apart the wider the breach, and the harder to cover it,” + said Jenny. + +“Just so,” said Lovibond. + +“They must meet. Of course they’ll fight like cat and dog, but better +that than this separation. Time leaves bigger scars than claws ever +made. Now, couldn’t we bring them together?” + +“Just what I was thinking,” said Lovibond. + +“I’m sure he must be a dear, simple soul, though I’ve never set eyes on +him,” said Jenny. + +“And I’m certain she must be as sweet as an angel, though I’ve never +seen her,” said Lovibond. + +Jenny shot a jealous glance at her companion, then cracked two fingers +and said eagerly, “There you are--there’s the idea in a cockle-shell. +Now _if each could see the other through other eyes!_” + +“The very thing!” said Lovibond. + +“Then why don’t you give me your arm at once, and let me think me over?” + said Jenny. In less than an hour these two wise heads had devised a +scheme to bring Capt’n Davy and his bride together. What that scheme was +and how it worked let those who read discover. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +Six days passed as with feet of lead, and Capt’n Davy and Mrs. Quiggin +were still in Douglas. They could not tear themselves away. Morning +and night the good souls were seized by a morbid curiosity about their +servants’ sweethearts. “Seen Peggy lately?” Capt’n Davy would say. “I +suppose you’ve not come across Willie Quarrie lately?” Mrs. Quiggin +would ask. Thus did they squeeze to the driest pulp every opportunity of +hearing anything of each other. + +Jenny Crow, with Mrs. Quiggin at Castle Mona, had not yet set eyes on +Captain Davy, and Lovibond, with Captain Davy at Fort Ann, had never +once seen Mrs. Quiggin. Jenny had said nothing of Lovibond to Nelly, and +Lovibond had said nothing of Jenny to Davy. + +Matters stood so when one evening Peggy Quine was dressing up her +mistress’s hair for dinner, and answering the usual question. + +“Seen Willie Quarrie, ma’am? Aw ‘deed, yes, ma’am; and it’s shocking the +stories he’s telling me. The Capt’n’s making the money fly. Bowls and +beer, and cards and betting--it’s ter’ble, ma’m, ter’ble. Somebody +should hould him. He’s distracted like. Giving to everybody as free as +free. Parsons and preachers and the like--they’re all at him, same as +flies at a sheep with the rot.” + +“And what do people say, Peggy?” + +“They say fools and their money is quickly parted ma’am.” + +“How dare you call anybody a fool, Peggy?” + +“Aw it’s not me, ma’am. It’s them that’s seeing him wasting his money +like water through a pitchfork. And the dirts that’s catching most is +shouting loudest. ‘Deed, ma’am, but his conduct is shocking.” + +“And what do people say is the cause of it, Peggy?” + +“Lumps in his porridge, ma’am.” + +“What?” + +“Yes, though, that’s what Willie Quarrie is telling me. When a woman +isn’t just running even with her husband they call her lumps in his +porridge. Aw, Willie’s a feeling lad.” + +There was a pause after this disclosure, and then Mrs. Quiggin said +in another voice, “Peggy, there’s a strange gentleman staying with the +Captain at Forte Ann, is there not?” + +“Yes, ma’am; Mr. Loviboy.” + +“What is he like, Peggy?” + +“Pepper and salt trowis, ma’am, and a morsel of hair on the tip of his +chin.” + +“Tall, Peggy?” + +“No, a long wisp’ry man.” + +“I suppose he helps the Captain to spend his money?” + +“Never a ha’po’th, ma’am, ‘deed no; but ter’ble onaisy at it, and +rigging him constant But no use at all, at all. The Capt’n’s intarmined +to ruin hisself. Somebody should just take him and wallop him, ding +dong, afore he’s wasted all he’s got, and hasn’t a penny left at him.” + +“How dare you, Peggy?” + +Peggy was dismissed in anger, and Mrs. Quiggin sat down to write a +letter to Lovibond. She begged him to pardon the liberty of one who was +no stranger, though they had never met, in asking him to come to her +without delay. This done, and marked _private_, she called Peggy back +and bade her to take the letter to Willie Quarrie, and tell him to give +it to the gentleman before the Captain came down to breakfast in the +morning. + +The day was Sunday, the weather was brilliant, the window was open, and +the salt breath of the sea was floating into the room. With the rustle +of silk like a breeze in a pine tree Jenny Crow came back from a walk, +swinging a parasol by a ring about her wrist. + +“Such an adventure!” she said, sinking into a chair. “A man, of +course! I saw him first on the Head at the skirts of the crowd that +was listening to the Bishop’s preaching. Such a manly fellow! +Broad-shouldered, big-chested, standing square on his legs like a rock. +Dark, of course, and such eyes, Nelly! Brown--no black-brown. I like +black-brown eyes in a man, don’t you?” + +Captain Davy’s eyes were of the darkest brown. Mrs. Quiggin gave no +sign. + +“Then his dress--so simple. None of your cuffs and ruffs, and great high +collars like a cart going for coke. Just a blue serge suit, and a monkey +jacket. I like a man in a monkey jacket.” + +Captain Davy wore a monkey jacket; Mrs. Quiggin colored slightly. + +“A sailor, thinks I. There’s something so free and open about a sailor, +isn’t there?” + +“Do you think so, Jenny?” said Mrs. Quiggin in a faint voice. + +“I’m sure of it, Nelly. The sailor is just like the sea. He’s noisy--so +is the sea. Liable to storms--so is the sea. Blusters and boils, and +rocks and reels--so does the sea. But he’s sunny too, and open and free, +and healthy and bracing, and the sea is all that as well.” + +Mrs. Quiggin was thinking of Captain Davy, and tingling with pleasure +and shame, but she only said, falteringly, “Didn’t you talk of some +adventure?” + +“Oh, of course, certainly,” said Jenny. “After he had listened a moment +he went on, and I lost sight of him. Presently I went on, too, and +walked across the Head until I came within sight of Port Soderick. Then +I sat down by a great bowlder. So quiet up there, Nelly; not a sound +except the squeal of the sea birds, the boo-oo of the big waves outside, +and the plash-ash of the little ones on the beach below. All at once +I heard a sigh. At that I looked to the other side of the bowlder, and +there was my friend of the monkey jacket. I was going to rise, but +he rose instead, and begged me not to trouble. Then I was vexed with +myself, and said I hoped he wouldn’t disturb himself on my account.” + +“You never said that, Jenny Crow?” + +“Why not, my dear? You wouldn’t have had me less courteous than he was. +So he stood and talked. You never heard such a voice, Nelly. Deep as +a bell, and his Manx tongue was like music. Talk of the Irish brogue! +There’s no brogue in the world like the Manx, is there now, not if the +right man is speaking it.” + +“So he was a Manxman,” said Mrs. Quiggin, with a far-away look through +the open window. + +“Didn’t I say so before? But he has quite saddened me. I’m sure there’s +trouble hanging over him. ‘I’ve been sailing foreign, ma’am,’ said he, +‘and I don’t know nothing--‘.” + +“Oh, then he wasn’t a gentleman?” said Mrs. Quiggin. + +Jenny fired up sharply. “Depends on what you call a gentleman, my dear. +Now, any man is a gentleman to me who can afford to dispense with the +first two syllables of the name.” + +Mrs. Quiggin looked down at her feet. + +“I only meant,” she said meekly, “that your friend hasn’t as much +education--.” + +“Then, perhaps, he has more brains,” said Jenny. “That’s the way they’re +sometimes divided, you know, and education isn’t everything.” + +“Do _you_ think that, Jenny?” said Mrs. Quiggin, with another long look +through the window. + +“Of course I do,” said Jenny. + +“And what did he say?” + +“’ I’ve been sailing foreign, ma’am,’ he said. ‘And I don’t know nothing +that cut’s a man’s heart from its moorings like coming home same as +a homing pigeon, and then wishing yourself back again same as a lost +one.’” + +“Poor fellow!” said Mrs. Quiggin. “He must have found things changed +since he went away.” + +“He must,” said Jenny. + +“Perhaps he has lost some one who was dear to him,” said Mrs. Quiggin. + +“Perhaps,” said Jenny, with a sigh. + +“His mother may be, or his sister--” began Mrs. Quiggin. + +“Yes, or his wife.” continued Jenny, with a moan. + +Mrs. Quiggin drew up suddenly. “What’s his name?” she asked sharply. + +“Nay, how could I ask him that?” said Jenny. + +“Where does he live?” said Mrs. Quiggin. + +“Or that either?” said Jenny. + +Mrs. Quiggin’s eyes wandered slowly back to the window. “We’ve all got +our troubles, Jenny,” she said quietly. + +“All,” said Jenny. “I wonder if I shall ever see him again.” + +“Tell me if you do, Jenny?” said Mrs. Quiggin. + +“I will, Nelly,” said Jenny. + +“Poor fellow, poor fellow,” said Mrs. Quiggin. + +As Jenny rose to remove her bonnet she shot a sly glance out of the +corners of her eyes, and saw that Mrs. Quiggin was furtively wiping her +own. + +Meanwhile Lovibond at Fort Ann was telling a similar story to Captain +Davy. He had left the house for a walk before Davy had come down to +breakfast, and on returning at noon he found him immersed in the usual +occupation of his mornings. This was that of reading and replying to his +correspondence. Davy read with difficulty, and replied to all letters +by check. His method of business was peculiar and original. He was +stretched on the sofa with a pipe in his mouth, and the morning’s +letters pigeonholed between his legs. Willie Quarrie sat at a table +with a check-book before him. While Davy read the letters one by one he +instructed Willie as to the nature of the answer, and Willie, with his +head aslant, his mouth awry, and his tongue in his cheek, turned it into +figures on the check-book. + +As Lovibond came in Davy was knocking off the last batch for the day. +“‘Respected sir,’ he was reading, ‘I know you’ve a tender heart’... +Send her five pounds, Willie, and tell her to take that talk to the +butchers.” + +“‘Honored Captain, we are going to erect a new school in connection +with Ballajora chapel, and if you will honor us by laying the foundation +stone....’ Never laid a stone in my life ‘cept one, and that was my +mawther’s sink-stone. Twenty pounds, Willie. ‘Sir, we are to hold a +bazaar, and if you will consent to open it....’ Bazaar! I know: a +sort of ould clothes shop in a chapel where you’re never tooken up for +cheating, because you always says your paternoster-ings afore you begin. +Ten pounds, Willie. Helloa, here’s Parson Quiggin. Wish the ould devil +would write more simpler; I was never no good at the big spells myself. +‘Dear David....’ That’s good--he walloped me out of the school once for +mimicking his walk--same as a coakatoo esactly. ‘Dear David, owing to +the lamentable death of brother Mylechreest it has been resolved to +ask you to become a member of our committee....’ Com-mittee! I know the +sort--kind of religious firm where there’s three partners, only two of +them’s sleeping ones. Dirty ould hypocrite! Fifteen pounds, Willie.” + +This was the scene that Lovibond interrupted by his entrance. “Still +bent on spending your money, Captain?” he said. “Don’t you see that the +people who write you these begging letters are impostors?” + +“Coorse I do,” said Davy. “What’s it saying in the Ould Book? ‘Where the +carcass is, there will the eagles be gathered together.’ Only, as Parson +Howard used to say, bless the ould angel, ‘Summat’s gone screw with the +translation theer, friends, should have been vultures.” + +“Half of them will only drink your money, Captain,” said Lovibond. + +“And what for shouldn’t they? That’s what I’m doing,” said Davy. + +“It’s poor work, Captain, poor work. You didn’t always think: money was +a thing to pitch into a ditch.” + +“Always? My goodness, no!” said Davy. “Time was once when I thought +money was just all and Tommy in this world. My gough, yes, when I was a +slip of a lad, didn’t I?” said he, sobering very suddenly. “The father +was lost in a gale at the herrings, and the mawther had to fend for the +lot of us. They all went off except myself--the sisters and brothers. +Poor things, they wasn’t willing to stay with us, and no wonder. But +there’s mostly an ould person about every Manx house that sees the young +ones out, and the mawther’s father was at us still. Lame though of his +legs with the rheumatics, and wake in his intellecs for all. Couldn’t +do nothing but lie in by the fire with his bit of a blanket hanging over +his head, same as snow atop of a hawthorn bush. Just stirring the peats, +and boiling the kettle, and lifting the gorse when there was any fire. +The mawther weeded for Jarvis Kewley--sixpence a day dry days, and +fourpence all weathers. Middling hard do’s, mate. And when she’d give +the ould man his basin of broth he’d be saying, squeaky-like, ‘Give +it to the boy, woman; he’s a growing lad?’ ‘Chut! take it, man,’ the +mawther would say, and then he’d be whimpering, ‘I’m keeping you long, +Liza, I’m keeping you long.’ And there was herself making a noise with +her spoon in the bottom of a basin, and there was me grinding my teeth, +and swearing to myself like mad, ‘As sure as the living God I’ll be ruch +some day.’ And now--” + +Davy snapped his fingers, laughed boisterously, rolled to his feet, and +said shortly, “Where’ve you been to?” + +“To church--the church with a spire at the end of the parade,” said +Lovibond. + +“St. Thomas’s--I know it,” said Davy. + +St. Thomas’s was half way up to Castle Mona. + +The men strolled out at the window, which opened on to the warm, soft +turf of the Head, and lay down there with their faces to the sun-lit +bay. + +“Who preached?” said Davy, clasping hands at the back of his head. + +“A young woman,” said Lovibond. + +Davy lifted his head out of its socket, “My goodness!” he said. + +“Well, at all events,” explained Lovi-bond, “it was a girl who preached +to _me_. The moment I went into the church I saw her, and I saw nothing +else until I came out again.” + +Davy laughed, “Ay, that’s the way a girl slips in,” said he. “Who was +she?” + +“Nay; I don’t know,” said Lovibond; “but she sat over against me on +the opposite side of the aisle, and her face was the only prayer-book I +could keep my eyes from wandering from.” + +“And what was her tex’, mate?” + +“Beauty, grace, truth, the tenderness of a true heart, the sweetness of +a soul that is fresh and pure.” + +Davy looked up with vast solemnity. “Take care,” said he. “There’s odds +of women, sir. They’re like sheep’s broth is women. If there’s a heart +and head in them they’re good, and if there isn’t you might as well be +supping hot water. Faces isn’t the chronometer to steer your boat to the +good ones. Now I’ve seen some you could swear to----.” + +“I’ll swear to this one,” said Lovibond with an appearance of tremendous +earnestness. + +Davy looked at him, gravely. “D’ye say so?” said he. + +“Such eyes, Capt’n--big and full, and blue, and then pale, pale blue, in +the whites of them too, like--like----.” + +“I know,” said Davy; “like a blackbird’s eggs with the young birds just +breaking out of them.” + +“Just,” said Lovibond, “And then her hair, Capt’n--brown, that brown +with a golden bloom, as if it must have been yellow when she was a +child.” + +“I know the sort, sir,” said Davy, proudly; “like the ling on the +mountains in May, with the gorse creeping under it.” + +“Exactly. And then her voice, Cap tain, her voice--.” + +“So you were speaking to her?” said Davy. + +“No, but didn’t she sing?” said Lovi-bond. “Such tones, soft and +tremulous, rising and falling, the same as--as--.” + +“Same as the lark’s, mate,” said Davy, eagerly; “same as the +lark’s--first a burst and a mount and then a trimble and a tumble, as if +she’d got a drink of water out of the clouds of heaven, and was singing +and swallowing together--I know the sort; go on.” + +Lovibond had kept pace with Davy’s warmth, but now he paused and said +quietly, “I’m afraid she’s in trouble.” + +“Poor thing!” said Davy. “How’s that, mate?” + +“People can never disguise their feelings in singing a hymn,” said +Lovibond. + +“You say true, mate,” said Davy; “nor in giving one out neither. Now, +there was old Kinvig. He had a sow once that wasn’t too reg’lar in her +pigging. Sometimes she gave many, and sometimes she gave few, and +sometimes she gave none. She was a hit-and-a-missy sort of a sow, you +might say. But you always know’d how the ould sow done, by the way +Kinvig gave out the hymn. If it was six he was as loud as a clarnet, and +if it was one his voice was like the tram-bones. But go on about the +girl.” + +“That’s all,” said Lovibond. “When the service was over I walked down +the aisle behind her, and touched her dress with my hand, and somehow--” + +“I know,” cried Davy. “Gave you a kind of ‘lectricity shock, didn’t it? +Lord alive, mate, girls is quare things.” + +“Then she walked off the other way,” said Lovibond. + +“So you don’t know where she comes from?” said Davy. + +“I couldn’t bring myself to follow her, Capt’n.” + +“And right too, mate. It’s sneaking. Following a girl in the streets is +sneaking, and the man that done it ought to be wallopped till all’s +blue. But you’ll see her again, I’ll go bail, and maybe hear who she is. +Rael true women is skess these days, sir; but I’m thinking you’ve got +your flotes down for a good one. Give her line, mate--give her line--and +if I wasn’t such a downhearted chap myself I’d be helping you to land +her.” + +Lovibond observed that Capt’n Davy was more than usually restless after +this conversation, and in the course of the afternoon, while he lay in a +hazy dose on the sofa, he overheard this passage between the captain and +his boy:-- + +“Willie Quarrie, didn’t you say there was an English lady staying with +Mistress Quiggin at Castle Mona?” + +“Miss Crows; yes,” said Willie. “So Peggy Quine is telling me--a little +person with a spyglass, and that fond of the mistress you wouldn’t +think.” + +“Then just slip across in the morning, and spake to herself, and say can +I see her somewheres, or will she come here, and never say nothing to +nobody.” + +Davy’s uneasiness continued far into the evening. He walked alone to +and fro on the turf of the Head in front of the house, until the sun set +behind the hills to the west, where a golden rim from its falling light +died off on the farthest line of the sea to the east, and the town +between lay in a haze of deepening purple. Lovibond knew where his +thoughts were, and what new turn they had taken; but he pretended to see +nothing, and he gave no sign. + +Sunday as it was, Capt’n Davy’s cronies came as usual at nightfall. They +were a sorry gang, but Davy welcomed them with noisy cheer. The lights +were brought in, and the company sat down to its accustomed amusements. +These were drinking and smoking, with gambling in disguise at intervals. +Davy lost tremendously, and laughed with a sort of wild joy at every +failure. He was cheated on all hands, and he knew it. Now and again he +called the cheaters by hard name, but he always paid them their money. +They forgave the one for the sake of the other, and went on without +shame. Lovibond’s gorge rose at the spectacle. He was an old gambler +himself, and could have stripped every rascal of them all as naked as a +lettuce after a locust. His indignation got the better of him at last, +and he went out on to the Head. + +The calm sea lay like a dark pavement dotted with the reflection of the +stars overhead. Lights in a wide half-circle showed the line of the bay. +Below was the black rock of the island of the Tower of Refuge, and the +narrow strip of the old Red pier; beyond was the dark outline of +the Head, and from the seaward breast of it shot the light of the +lighthouse, like the glow of a kiln. It was as quiet and beautiful out +there as it had been noisy and hideous within. + +Lovibond had been walking to and fro for more than an hour listening to +the slumberous voices of the night, and hearing at intervals the louder +bellowing from the room where Captain Davy and his cronies were sitting, +when Davy himself came out. + +“I can’t stand no more of it, and I’ve sent them home,” he said. “It’s +like saying your prayers to a hornpipe, thinking of her and carrying on +with them wastrels.” + +He was sober in one sense only. + +“Tell me more about the little girl in church. Aw, matey, matey! +Something under my waistcoat went creep, creep, creep, same as a +sarpent, when you first spake of her; but its easier to stand till that +jaw inside anyway. Go on, sir. Love at first sight, was it? Aw, well, +the eyes isn’t the only place that love is coming in at, or blind men +would all be bachelors. Now mine came in at the ear.” + +“Did you fall in love with her singing, Capt’n?” said Lovibond. + +“Yes, did I,” said Davy, “and her spaking, too, and her whispering as +well, but it wasn’t music that brought love in at my ear--my left ear it +was, Matey.” + +“Whatever was it then, Capt’n,” said Lovibond. + +“Milk,” said Davy. + +“Milk?” cried Lovibond, drawing up in their walk. + +“Just milk,” said Davy again. “Come along and I tell you. It was this +way. Ould Kinvig kep’ two cows, and we were calling the one Whitie and +the other Brownie. Nelly and me was milking the pair of them, and she +was like a young goat, that full of tricks, and I was same as a big +calf, that shy. One evening--it was just between the lights--that’s +when girls is like kittens, terr’ble full of capers and +mischievousness--Nelly rigged up her kopie--that’s her +milking-stool--agen mine, so that we sat back to back, her milking +Brownie and me milking Whitie. ‘What she agate of now?’ thinks I, but +she was looking as innocent as the bas’es themselves, with their ould +solem faces when they were twisting round. Then we started, and there +wasn’t no noise in the cow-house, but just the cows chewing constant, +and, maybe, the rope running on their necks at whiles and the rattle of +the milk in the pails. And I got to draeming same as I was used of, with +the smell of the hay stealing down from the loft and the breath of +the cows coming puff when they were blowing, and the tits in my hands +agoing, when the rattle-rattle aback of me stopped sudden, and I felt a +squish in my ear like the syringe at the doctor’s. ‘What’s that?’ thinks +I. ‘Is it deaf I’m going?’ But it’s deaf I’d been and blind, too, and +stupid for all down to that blessed minute, for there was Nessy laughing +like fits, and working like mad, and drops of Brownie’s milk going +trickling out of my ear on to my shoulder. ‘It’s not deafness,’ thinks +I; ‘it’s love’; and my breath was coming and going and making noises +like the smithy bellows. So I twisted my wrist and blazed back at her, +and we both fired away, ding-dong, till the cows was as dry as Kinvig +when he was teetotal, and the cow-house was like a snowstorm with a gale +of wind through it, and you couldn’t see a face at the one of us for +swansdown. That’s how Nelly and me ‘came engage.” + +He was laughing noisily by this time, and crying alternately, with a +merry shout and a husky croak, “Aw, dear, aw, dear; the days that was, +sir--the days that was!” + +Lovibond let him rattle on, and he talked of Nelly for an hour. He had +stories without end of her, some of them as simple as a baby’s prattle, +some as deep as the heart of man, and splitting open the very crust of +the fires of buried passion. + +It was late when they turned in for the night. The lights on the line of +the land were all put out, and save for the reflection of the stars only +the lamps of ships at anchor lit up the waters of the bay. + +“Good night, capt’n,” said Lovi-bond. “I suppose you’ll go to bed now?” + +“Maybe so, maybe no,” said Davy. “You see, I’m like Kinvig these days, +and go to bed to do my thinking. The ould man’s cart-wheel came off +in the road once, and we couldn’t rig it on again no how. ‘Hould hard, +boys,’ says Kinvig; and he went away home and up to the loft, and +whipped off his clothes, and into the blankets and stayed there till +he’d got the lay of that cartwheel. Aw, yes, though--thinking, thinking, +thinking constant--that’s me when I’m in bed. But it isn’t the lying +awake I’m minding. Och, no; it’s the wakening up again. That’s like +nothing in the world but a rusty nail going driving into your skull +afore a blacksmith’s seven-pound sledge. Good night, mate; good night.” + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +Next day Lovibond saw Mrs. Quiggin at Castle Mona. He had come at once +in obedience to her summons, and she took his sympathies by storm. It +was hard for him to realize that he had not seen her somewhere before. +He _had_ seen her--in his own description of the girl in church, helped +out, led on, directed, vivified, and transfigured by Capt’n Davy’s own +impetuous picture, just as the mesmerist sees what he pretends to show +by aid of the eye of the mesmerized. There she sat, like one for whom +life had lost its savor. Her great slow eyes, her pale and quivering +face,’ her long deep look as she took his hand, and her softly +tightening grasp of it went through him like a knife. Not all his +loyalty to Capt’n Davy could crush the thought that the man who had +thrown away a jewel such as this must be a brute and a blockhead. +But the sweet woman was not so lost to life that she did not see her +advantage. There were some weary sighs and then she said:-- + +“I am in great, great trouble about my husband. They say he is wasting +his money. Is it true?” + +“Too true,” said Lovibond. + +“And that if he goes on as he is now going he will be penniless?” + +“Not impossible,” said Lovibond, “provided the mad fit last long +enough.” + +“Is remonstrance quite useless, Mr. Lovibond?” + +“Quite, Mrs. Quiggin.” + +The great slow eyes began to fill, and Lovibond’s gaze to seek the laces +of his boots. + +“It is sorrow enough to me, Mr. Lovibond, that my husband and I have +quarreled and parted, but it will be the worst grief of all if some day +I should have to think that I came into his life to wreck it.” + +“Don’t blame yourself for that, Mrs. Quiggin. It will be his own fault +if he ruins himself.” + +“You are very good, Mr. Lovi-bond.” + +“Your husband will never blame you either.” + +“That will hardly reconcile me to his misfortunes.” + +[“The man’s an ass,” thought Lovibond.] + +“I shall not trouble him much longer with my presence here,” Mrs. +Quiggin continued, and Lovibond looked up inquiringly. + +“I am going back home soon,” she added. “But if before I go some friend +would help me to save my husband from himself----” + +Lovibond rose in an instant. “I am at your service, Mrs. Quiggin,” he +said briskly. “Have you thought of anything?” + +“Yes. They tell me that he is gambling, and that all the cheats of the +island are winning from him.” + +“Well?” + +The pale face turned very red, and quivered visibly about the lips. + +“I have heard him say, when he has spoken of you, Mr. Lovibond, +that--that--but will you forgive what I am going to tell you?” + +“Anything,” said Lovibond. + +“That out on the coast _you_ could win from anybody. I remembered this +when they told me that he was gambling, and I thought if you would play +against my husband--for _me_------” + +“I see what you mean, Mrs. Quiggin,” said Lovibond. + +“I don’t want the money, though he was so cruel as to say I had only +married him for sake of it. But you could put it back into Dumbell’s +Bank day by day as you got it.” + +“In whose name?” said Lovibond. + +The great eyes opened very wide. “His, surely,” she said falteringly. + +Lovibond saw the folly of that thought, but he also recognized its +tenderness. + +“Very well,” he said; “I’ll do my best.” + +“Will it be wrong to deceive him, Mr. Lovibond?” + +“It will be mercy itself, Mrs. Quiggin.” + +“To be sure, it is only to save him from ruin. But you will not believe +that I am thinking of myself, Mr. Lovibond?” + +“Trust me for that, Mrs. Quiggin.” + +“And when the wild fit is over, and my husband hears of what has been +done, you will be careful not to let him know that it was I who thought +of it?” + +“You shall tell him yourself, Mrs. Quiggin.” + +“Ah! that can never, never be,” she said, with a sigh. And then she +murmured softly, “I don’t know what my husband may have told you about +me, Mr. Lovibond--” + +Lovibond’s ardor overcame his prudence. “He has told me that you were +an angel once--and he has wronged you, the dunce and dulbert--you are an +angel still.” + +While Lovibond was with Mrs. Quig-gin Jenny Crow was with Capt’n Davy. +She had clutched at his invitation with secret delight. “Just the +thing,” she thought. “Now, won’t I give the other simpleton a piece of +my mind, too?” So she had bowled off to Fort Ann with a heart as warm +as toast, and a tongue that was stinging hot. But when she had got there +her purpose had suddenly changed. The first sight of Capt’n Davy’s face +had conquered her. It was so child-like, and yet so manly, so strong and +yet so tender, so obviously made for smiles like sunshine, and yet so +full of the memories of recent tears! Jenny recalled her description +of the sailor on the Head, and thought it no better than a vulgar +caricature. + +Davy wiped down a chair for her with the outside of his billycock and +led her up to it with rude but natural manners. “The girl was a ninny to +quarrel with a man like this,” she thought. Nevertheless she remembered +her purpose of making him smart, and she stuck to her guns for a round +or two. + +“It’s rael nice of you to come, ma’am,” said Davy. + +“It’s more than you deserve,” said Jenny. + +“I shouldn’t wonder but you think me a blundering blocket,” said Davy. + +“I didn’t think you had sense enough to know it,” said Jenny. + +With that second shot Jenny’s powder was spent. Davy looked down into +her face and said-- + +“I’m terr’ble onaisy about herself, ma’am, and can’t take rest at nights +for thinking what’s to come to her when I am gone.” + +“Gone?” said Jenny, rising quietly. + +“That’s so ma’am,” said Davy. “I’m going away--back to that ould Nick’s +oven I came from, and I’ll want no money there.” + +“Is that why you’re wasting it here, Captain Quiggin?” said Jenny. Her +gayety was gone by this time. + +“No--yes! Wasting? Well maybe so, ma’am, may be so. It’s the way with +money. Comes like the droppings out of the spout at the gable, ma’am; +but goes like the tub when the bull has tipped it. Now I was thinking +ma’am----” + +“Well, Captain?” + +“She won’t take any of it, coming from me, but I was thinking, ma’am--” + +“Yes?” Davy was pawing the carpet with one foot, and Jenny’s eyes were +creeping up the horn buttons of his waistcoat. + +“I was thinking, ma’am, if you could take a mossle of it yourself +before it’s all gone, and go and live with her--you and she together +somewheres--some quiet place--and make out somehow--women’s mortal +clever at rigging up yarns that do no harm--make out that somebody +belonging to you is dead--it can’t kill nobody to say that ma’am--and +left you a bit of a fortune out of hand----” + +Davy’s restless foot was digging away at the carpet while he was +stammering out these broken words: + +“Haven’t you no ould uncle, ma’am, that would do for the like of that?” + +Jenny had to struggle with herself not to leap up and hug Capt’n Davy +then and there, “What a ninny the girl was!” she thought. But she said +aloud, as well as she could for her throat that was choking her, “I see +what you mean, Captain Quiggin. But, Cap tain----” + +“Ma’am?” said Davy. + +“If you have so much thought--(_gulp, gulp_)--for your wife’s welfare +(_gulp_), you--must love her still (_gulp, gulp_)? + +“I daren’t say no, ma’am,” said Davy, with downcast eyes. + +“And if you love her, however deeply she may have offended you, surely +you should never leave her. Come, now, Captain, forgive and forget; she +is only a woman, you know.” + +“That’s just where the shoe pinches, ma’am, so I’m taking it off. Out +yonder it’ll be easier to forgive. And if it’ll be harder to forget, +what matter?” + +Jenny’s eyes were beginning to fill. + +“No use crying over spilled milk, is it, ma’am? The heart-ache is a sort +of colic that isn’t cured by drops.” + +Jenny was breaking down fast. + +“Aw, the heart’s a quare thing, ma’am. Got its hunger same as anything +else. Starve it, and it’ll know why. Gives you a kind of a sinking at +the pit of your stomach, ma’am. Did you never feel it, ma’am?” + +Davy’s speech was rude enough, but that only made its emotion the more +touching to Jenny. Between gulp and gulp she tried to say that if he +went away he would never be happy again. + +“Happy, ma’am? D’ye say happy? I’m not happy _now,_” said Davy. + +“It isn’t everybody would think so, Captain,” said Jenny, “considering +how you spend your evenings--singing and laughing----” + +“Laughing! More cry till wool, ma’am, same as clipping a pig.” + +“So your new friends, Captain, those that your riches have brought +you--” + +“Friends? D’ye say friends? Them wastrels! What are they? Nothing but +a parcel of Betty Quilleash’s baby’s stepmothers. And I’m nothing but +Betty Quilleash’s baby myself, ma’am; that’s what I am.” + +The stalwart fellow did not look much like anybody’s infant, but Davy +could not laugh, and Jenny’s eyes were streaming. + +“Betty lived at Michael, ma’am, and died when her baby was suckling. +There wasn’t no feeding-bottles in them days, and the little one was +missing the poor dead mawther mortal. But babies is like lammies, ma’am, +they’ve got their season, and mostly all the women of the parish had +babies that year. So first one woman would whip up Betty’s baby and +give it a taste of the breast, and then another would whip it up and +do likewise, until the little baby cuckoo was in every baby nest in the +place, and living all over the street, like the rum-butter bowl and the +preserving pan. But no use at all, at all. The little mite wasted away. +Poor thing, poor thing. Twenty mawthers wasn’t making up to it for the +right one it had lost. That’s me, ma’am; that’s me.” + +Jenny Crow went away, crying openly, having promised to be a party to +the innocent deception which Captain Davy had suggested. “That Nelly +Kinvig is as hard as a flint,” she told herself, bitterly. “I’ve no +patience with such flinty people; and won’t I give it her piping hot at +the very next opportunity?” + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +Jenny’s opportunity was a week in coming, and various events of some +consequence in this history occurred in the mean time. The first of +these was that Capt’n Davy’s fortune changed hands. + +Davy’s savings had been invested in two securities--the Liverpool Dock +Trust and Dumbell’s Manx Bank. His property in the former he made over +by help of the advocates, and with vast show of secrecy, to the name of +Jenny Crow; and she, on her part, by help of other advocates, and with +yet more real secrecy, transferred it to the name of Mrs. Quiggin. + +The remains of his possessions in the latter he lost to Lovibond, who +gambled with him constantly, beginning with a sovereign, which Mrs. +Quiggin had lent him for the purpose, and going on by a process of +doubling until the stakes were prodigious. Every night he discharged his +debt by check on Dumbell’s, and every morning Lovibond repaid it into +the same bank to the account of his wife. Thus, within a week, unknown +to either of the two persons chiefly concerned, the money which had been +the immediate cause of strife between them passed from the offender to +the offended, from the strong to the weak. + +That was the more material of the changes that had come to pass, and the +more spiritual were of still greater consequence. + +Lovibond and Jenny met constantly. They made various excursions through +the island--to the Tynwald Hill, to Peel Castle, to Castle Rushen, the +Chasms, and the Calf. Of course they persuaded each other that these +trips were taken solely in the interests of their friends. It was +necessary to meet; it was desirable to do so where they would be +unobserved; what else was left to them but to steal away together on +these little jaunts and journeys? + +Then their talk was of love and estrangement and reconciliation, and how +easy to quarrel, and how hard to come together again. Capt’n Davy and +Mrs. Quiggin provided all their illustrations to these interesting +themes, for naturally they never spoke of themselves. + +“It’s astonishing what geese some people can be,” said Jenny. + +“Astonishing,” echoed Lovibond. + +“Just for sake of a poor little word of confession to hold off like +this,” said Jenny. + +“Just a poor little word,” said Lovibond. + +“He has only to say ‘My dear, I behaved like a brute,’ but----” + +“Only that,” said Lovibond. “And she has merely to say, ‘My love, I +behaved like a cat,’ but----” + +“That’s all,” said Jenny. “But he doesn’t--men never do.” + +“Never,” said Lovibond. “And she won’t--women never will.” + +Then there would be innocent glances on both sides, and sly hints cast +out as grappling hooks for jealousy. + +“Ah, well, he’s the dearest, simplest, manliest fellow in the world, and +there are women who would give their two ears for him,” said Jenny. + +“And she’s the sweetest, tenderest, loveliest woman alive, and there are +men who would give their two eyes for her,” said Lovibond. + +“Pity they don’t,” said Jenny, “for all the use they make of them.” + +Amid such bouts of thrust and counter-thrust, the affair of Capt’n Davy +and Mrs. Quiggin nevertheless made due progress. + +“She’s half in love with my Manx sailor on the Head,” said Jenny. + +“And he’s more than half in love with my lady in the church,” said +Lovibond. + +“And now that we’ve made each of them fond of each other in disguise, we +have just to make both of them ashamed of themselves in reality,” said +Jenny. + +“Just that,” said Lovibond. + +“Ah me,” said Jenny. “It isn’t every pair of geese that have friends +like us to prevent them from going astray.” + +“It isn’t,” said Lovibond. “We’re the good old ganders that keep the +geese together.” + +“Speak for yourself, sir,” said Jenny. + +Then came Jenny’s opportunity. She had been out on one of her jaunts +with Lovibond, leaving Mrs. Quiggin alone in her room at Castle +Mona. Mrs. Quiggin was still in her room, and still alone. Since the +separation a fortnight before that had been the constant condition of +her existence. Never going out, never even going down for her meals, +rarely speaking of her husband, always thinking of him, and eating out +her heart with pride and vexation, and anger and self-reproach. + +It was the hour when the life of the island rises to the fever point; +the hour of the arrival of the steamers from England. All day long the +town had droned and dosed under a drowsy heat. The boatmen and carmen, +with both hands in their breeches’ pocket, had been burning the daylight +on the esplanade; the band on the pier had been blowing music out of +lungs that snored between every other blast; and the visitors had been +lolling on the seats of the parade and watching the sea gulls disporting +on the bay with eyes that were drawing straws. But the first trail of +smoke had been seen across the sea by the point of the lighthouse, and +all the slugs and marmots were wide awake: promenade deserted, streets +quiet and pothouses empty; but every front window of every front house +occupied, and the pier crowded with people looking seaward. “She’s the +Snaefell?” “No, but the Ben-my-Chree--see, she has four funnels.” Then, +the steaming up, the firing of the gun, the landing of the passengers, +the mails and newspapers, the shouting of the touts, the bawling of the +porters, the salutations, the welcomes, the passings of the time of day, +the rattling of the oars, the tinkling of the trams, and the cries +of the newsboys: “This way for Castle Mona!” “Falcon Cliff this way!” + “Echo!” “Evening Express!” “Good passage, John?” “Good.” “Five hours?” + “And ten minutes.” “What news over the water?” “They’ve caught him.” + “Never.” “Express!” “Fort Anne here--here for Villiers.” “Comfortable +lodgings, sir.” “Take a card, ma’am.” “What verdict d’ye say?” “She’s +got ten years.” “Had fine weather in the island?” “Fine.” “Echo! Evening +Echo!” “Fort Anne this way!” “Gladstone in Liverpool?” “Yes, spoke at +Hengler’s last night--fearful crush.” “Castle Mona!” “Evening News!” + “Peveril!” “This way Falcon Cliff!” “Ex-press!” + +Thus, leaving the pier and the steamers behind them, through the streets +and into the hotels, the houses, the cars, and the trains go, the new +comers, and the newspapers, and the letters from England, all hot +and active, bringing word of the main land, with its hub-bub and +hurly-burly, to the island that has been four-and-twenty hours cut +off from it--like the throbbing and bounding globules of fresh blood +fetching life from the fountain-head to some half-severed limb. It is an +hour of tremendous vitality, coming once a day, when the little island +pulsates like a living thing. But that evening, as always since the time +of the separation, Mrs. Quiggin was unmoved by it. With a book in her +hand she was sitting by the open window fingering the pages, but looking +listlessly over the tops of them to the line of the sea and sky, and +asking herself if she should not go home to her father’s house on the +morrow. She had reached that point of her reverie at which something +told her that she should, and something else told her that she should +not, when down came Jenny Crow upon her troubled quiet, like the rush of +an evening breeze. + +“Such news!” cried Jenny. “I’ve seen him again.” + +Mrs. Quiggin’s book dropped suddenly to her lap. “Seen him?” she said +with bated breath. + +“You remember--the Manx sailor on the Head,” said Jenny. + +“Oh!” said Mrs. Quiggin, languidly, and her book went back to before her +face. + +“Been to Laxey to look at the big wheel,” said Jenny; “and found the +Manxman coming back in the same coach. We were the only passengers, and +so I heard everything. Didn’t I tell you that he must be in trouble?” + +“And is he?” said Mrs. Quiggin, monotonously. + +“My dear,” said Jenny, “he’s married.” + +“I’m very sorry,” said Mrs. Quiggin, with a listless look toward the +sea. “I mean,” she added more briskly, “that I thought you liked him +yourself.” + +“Liked him!” cried Jenny. “I loved him. He’s splendid, he’s glorious, +he’s the simplest, manliest, tenderest, most natural creature in the +world. But it’s just my luck--another woman has got him. And such +a woman, too! A nagger, a shrew, a cat, a piece of human flint, a +thankless wretch, whose whole selfish body isn’t worth the tip of his +little finger.” + +“Is she so bad as that?” said Mrs. Quiggin, smiling feebly above the top +edge of her book, which covered her face up to the mouth. + +“My dear,” said Jenny, solemnly, “she has turned him out of the house.” + +“Good gracious!” said Mrs. Quiggin; and away went the book on to the +sofa. + +Then Jenny told a woeful tale, her eyes flashing, her lips quivering, +and her voice ringing with indignation. And, anxious to hit hard, +she hovered so closely over the truth as sometimes to run the risk of +uncovering it. The poor fellow had made long voyages abroad and saved +some money. He had loved his wife passionately--that was the only blot +on his character. He always dreamt of coming home, and settling down +in comfort for the rest of his life. He had come at last, and a fine +welcome had awaited him. His wife was as proud as Lucifer--the daughter +of some green-grocer, of course. She had been ashamed of her husband, +apparently, and settling down hadn’t suited her. So she had nagged the +poor fellow out of all peace of mind and body, taken his money, and +turned him adrift. + +Jenny’s audacity carried her through, and Mrs. Quiggin, who was now wide +awake, listened eagerly. “Can it be possible that there are women like +that?” she said, in a hushed whisper. + +“Indeed, yes,” said Jenny; “and men are simple enough to prefer them to +better people.” + +“But, Jenny,” said Mrs. Quiggin, with a far-away look, “we have only +heard one story, you know. If we were inside the Manxman’s house--if we +knew all--might we not find that there are two sides to its troubles?” + +“There are two sides to its street-door,” said Jenny, “and the husband +is on the outside of it.” + +“She took his money, you say, Jenny?” + +“Indeed she did, Nelly, and is living on it now.” + +“And then turned him out of doors?” + +“Well, so to speak, she made it impossible for him to live with her.” + +“What a cat she must be!” said Mrs. Quiggin. + +“She must,” said Jenny. “And, would you believe it, though she has +treated him so shamefully yet he loves her still.” + +“Why do you think so, Jenny,” said Mrs. Quiggin. + +“Because,” said Jenny, “though he is always sober when I see him I +suspect that he is drinking himself to death. He said as much.” + +“Poor fellow!” said Mrs. Quiggin. “But men should not take these things +so much to heart. Such women are not worth it.” + +“No, are they?” said Jenny. + +“They have hardly a right to live,” said Mrs. Quiggin. + +“No, have they?” said Jenny. + +“There should be a law to put down nagging wives the same as biting +dogs,” said Mrs. Quiggin. + +“Yes, shouldn’t there?” said Jenny. + +“Once on a time men took their wives like their horses on trial for a +year and a day, and really with some women there would be something to +say for the old custom.” + +“Yes, wouldn’t there?” said Jenny. + +“The woman who is nothing of herself apart from her husband, and has +no claim to his consideration, except on the score of his love, and yet +uses him only to abuse him, and takes his very ‘money, having none of +her own, and still----” + +“Did I say she took his money, Nelly?” said Jenny. “Well of course--not +to be unfair--some men are such generous fools, you know--he may have +given it to her.” + +“No matter; taken or given, she has got it, I suppose, and is living on +it now.” + +“Oh, yes, certainly, that’s very sure,” said Jenny; “but then she’s his +wife, you see, and naturally her maintenance----” + +“Maintenance!” cried Mrs. Quig-gin. “How many children has she got?” + +“None,” said Jenny. “At least I haven’t heard of any.” + +“Then she ought to be ashamed of herself for thinking of such a thing.” + +“I quite agree with you, Nelly,” said Jenny. + +“If I were a man,” said Mrs. Quiggin, “and my wife turned me out of +doors----” + +“Did I say that, Nelly? Well not exactly that--no, not turned him out of +doors exactly, Nelly.” + +“It’s all one, Jenny. If a woman behaves so that her husband can not +live with her what is she doing but turning him out of doors?” + +“But, Nelly!” cried Jenny, rising suddenly. “What about Captain Davy?” + +Then there was a blank silence. Mrs. Quiggin had been borne along on +the torrent of her indignation, brooking no objection, and sweeping down +every obstacle, until brought up sharply by Jenny’s question--like a +river that flows fastest and makes most noise where the bowlders in its +course are biggest, but breaks itself at last against the brant sides +of some impassable rock. She drew her breath in one silent spasm, turned +from feverish red to deadly pale, quivered about the mouth, twitched +about the eyelids, rose stiffly on her half-rigid limbs, and then fell +on Jenny with loud and hot reproaches. + +“How dare you, Jenny Crow?” she cried. + +“Dare what, my dear?” said Jenny. + +“Say that I’ve turned my husband out of doors, and that I’ve taken his +money, and that I am a cat and shrew, and a nagger, and that there ought +to be a law to put me down.” + +“My dear Nelly,” said Jenny, “it was yourself that said so. I was +speaking of the wife of the Manx sailor.” + +“Yes, but you were thinking of me,” said Mrs. Quiggin. + +“I was thinking of her,” said Jenny. + +“You were thinking of me as well,” said Mrs. Quiggin. + +“I tell you that I was only thinking of her,” said Jenny. + +“You were thinking of me, Jenny Crow--you know you were; and you meant +that I was as bad as she was. But circumstances alter cases, and my case +is different. My husband is turning _me_ out of doors: and, as for +his money, I didn’t ask for it and I don’t want it. I’ll go back home +to-morrow morning. I will--indeed, I will. I’ll bear this torment no +longer.” + +So saying, with many gasps and gulps, breaking at last into a burst of +weeping, she covered her face with both hands and flounced out of the +room. Jenny watched her go, then listened to the sobs that came from the +other side of the door, and said beneath her breath, “Let her cry, poor +girl. The crying has to be done by somebody, and it might as well be +she. Crying is good for a woman sometimes, but when a man cries it hurts +so much.” + +Half an hour later, as Jenny was leaving the room for dinner, she heard +Mrs. Quiggin telling Peggy Quine to ask at the office for her bill, and +to order a carriage to be ready at the door for her at eleven o’clock in +the morning. + +When the first burst of her vexation was spent Mrs. Quiggin made a +secret and startling discovery. The man whom Jenny Crow had stumbled +upon, first on the Head and afterward on the Laxey coach, could be no +one in the world but her own husband. A certain shadowy suspicion of +this had floated hazily before her mind at the beginning, but she had +dismissed the idea and forgotten it. Now she felt so sure of it that it +was beyond contempt of question. So the Manx sailor in whom Jenny had +found so much to admire--the simple, brave, manly, generous, natural +soul, all fresh air and by rights all sunshine--was no other than +Capt’n Davy Quiggin! That thought brought the hot blood tingling to Mrs. +Quiggin’s cheeks with sensations of exquisite delight, and never before +had her husband seemed so fine in her own eyes as now, when she saw +him so noble in the eyes of another. But close behind this delicious +reflection, like the green blight at the back of the apple blossom, lay +a withering and cankering thought. The Manx sailor’s wife--she who had +so behaved that it was impossible for him to live with her--she who was +a cat, a shrew, a nagger, a thankless wretch, a piece of human flint, +a creature that should be put down by the law as it puts down biting +dogs--she whose whole selfish body was not worth the tip of his little +finger--was no one else than herself! + +Then came another burst of weeping, but this time the tears were of +shame, not of vexation, and they washed away every remaining evil humor +and left the vision clear. She had been in the wrong, she was judged out +of her own mouth; but she had no intention of fitting on the cap of +the unknown woman. Why should she? Jenny did not know who the woman +was--that was as plain as a pickle. Then where was the good of +confessing? + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +While Jenny Crow was doing her easy duty at Castle Mona, Lovibond was +engaged in a task of yet more simplicity at Fort Ann. On returning +from Laxey he found Captain Davey occupied with Willie Quarrie in +preparations for a farewell supper to be given that night to the cronies +who had helped him to spend his fortune. These worthies had deserted +his company since Lovibond had begun to take all the winnings, including +some of their own earlier ones; and hence the necessity to invite them. +“There’s ould Billy, the carrier--ask him,” Davy was saying, as he lay +stretched on the sofa, puffing whorls of gray smoke from a pipe of thick +twist. “And then there’s Kerruish, the churchwarden, and Kewley, the +crier, and Hugh Corlett, the blacksmith, and Tommy Tubman, the brewer, +and Willie Qualtrough, that keeps the lodging-house contagious, and the +fat man that bosses the Sick and Indignant society, and the long, +lanky shanks that is the headpiece of the Friendly and Malevolent +Association--got them all down, boy?” + +“They’re all through there in my head already, Capt’n,” groaned Willie +Quarrie in despair, as he struggled at the table to keep pace with his +slow pen to Davy’s impetuous tongue. + +“Then ask whosomever you plaze, boy,” said Davy. “What’s it saying in +the ould Book: ‘Go out into the highways and hedges and compel them to +come in.’ Only it’s the back-courts and the public-houses this time, and +you’ll be wanting no grappling hooks to fetch them. Just whip a whisky +bottle under your arm, and they’ll be asking for no other invitation. +Reminds me, sir,” he added, looking up as Lovibond entered, “reminds me +of little Jimmy Quayle’s aisy way of fetching poor Hughie Collister +from the bottom of Ramsey harbor. Himself and Hughie were same as +brothers--that thick--and they’d been middling hard on the drink +together, and one night Hughie, going home to Andreas, tumbled over the +bridge by the sandy road and got hisself washed away and drowned. So the +boys fetched grapplings and went out immadient to drag for the body, +but Jimmy took another notion. He rigged up a tremenjous long pole, like +your mawther’s clothes’ prop on washing day and tied a string to the +top of it, and baited the end of the string with an empty bottle of Ould +Tom, and then sat hisself down on the end of the jetty, same as a man +that’s going fishing. ‘Lord-a-massy, Jemmy,’ says the boys, looking up +out of the boat; ‘whatever in the name of goodness are you doing there?’ +‘They’re telling me,’ says Jemmy, bobbing the gin-bottle up and down +constant, flip-a-flop, flip-a-flop atop of the water; ‘they’re telling +me,’ says he, ‘that poor ould Hughie is down yonder, and I’m thinking +there isn’t nothing in the island that’ll fetch him up quicker till +this.’” + +“But what is going on here, Capt’n?” said Lovibond, with an inclination +of his head toward the table where Willie Quarrie was still laboring +with his invitations. + +“It’s railly wuss till ever, sir,” groaned Willie from behind his pen. + +“What does it mean?” said Lovibond. + +“It manes that I’m sailing to-morrow,” said Davy. + +“Sailing!” cried Lovibond. + +“That’s so,” said Davy. “Back to the ould oven we came from. Pacific +steamer laves Liverpool by the afternoon tide, and we’ll catch her aisy +if we take the ‘Snaefell’ in the morning. Fixed a couple of berths +by telegraph, and paid through Dumbell’s. Only ninety pounds the +two--for’ard passage--but nearly claned out at that. What’s the odds +though? Enough left to give the boys a blow-out to-night, and then, +heigho! stone broke, cut your stick and get out of it.” + +“A couple of berths? Did you say two?” said Lovibond. + +“I’m taking Willie along with me,” said Davy; “and he’s that joyful at +the thought of it that you can’t get a word out of him for hallelujahs.” + +Willie’s joy expressed itself at that moment in a moan, as he rose from +the table with a woe-begone countenance, and went out on his errand of +invitation. + +“But you’ll stay on,” said Davy, “Eh?” + +“No,” said Lovibond, in a melancholy voice. + +“Why not, then?” said Davy. + +Lovibond did not answer at once, and Davy heaved up to a sitting posture +that he might look into his face. + +“Why, man; what’s this--what’s this?” said Davy. “You’re looking as down +as ould Kinvig at the camp meeting, when the preacher afore him had used +up all his tex’es. What’s going doing?” + +Lovibond settled himself on the sofa beside Davy, and drew a deep +breath. “I’ve seen her again, Capt’n,” he said, solemnly. + +“The sweet little lily in the church, sir?” said Davy. + +“Yes,” said Lovibond; and, after another deep breath, “I’ve spoken to +her.” + +“Out with it, sir; out with it,” said Davy, and then, putting one hand +on Lovibond’s knee caressingly, “I’ve seen trouble in my time, mate; you +may trust me--go on, what is it?” + +“She’s married,” said Lovibond. + +Davy gave a prolonged whistle. “That’s bad,” he said. “I’m symperthizing +with you. You’ve been fishing with another man’s floats and losing your +labor. I’m feeling for you. ‘Deed I am.” + +“It’s not myself I’m thinking of,” said Lovibond. “It’s that angel of a +woman. She’s not only married, but married to a brute.” + +“That’s wuss still,” said Davy. + +“And not only married to a brute,” said Lovibond, “but parted from him.” + +Davy gave a yet longer whistle. “O-ho, O-ho! A quarrel is it?” he cried. +“Husband and wife, eh? Aw, take care, sir, take care. Women is ‘cute. +Extraordinary wayses they’ve at them of touching a man up under the +watch-pocket of the weskit till you’d never think nothing but they’re +angels fresh down from heaven, and you could work at the docks to keep +them; but maybe cunning as ould Harry all the time, and playing the +divil with some poor man. It’s me for knowing them. Husband and wife? +That’ll do, that’ll do. Lave them alone, mate, lave them alone.” + +“Ah, the sweet creature has had a terrible time of it!” said Lovibond, +lying back and looking up at the ceiling. + +“I lave it with you,” said Davy, charging his pipe afresh as a signal of +his neutrality. + +“He must have led her a fearful life,” continued Lovibond. + +Davy lit up, and puffed vigorously. + +“It would appear,” said Lovibond, “that though she is so like a lady, +she is entirely dependent upon her husband.” + +“Well, well,” said Davy, between puff and puff. + +“He didn’t forget that either, for he seems to have taunted her with her +poverty.” + +A growl, like an oath half smothered by smoke, came from Davy. + +“Indeed, that was the cause of quarrel.” + +“She did well to lave him,” said Davy, watching the coils of his smoke +going upward. + +“Nay, it was he who left her.” + +“The villain!” said Davy. But after Davy had delivered himself so there +was nothing to be heard for the next ten seconds but the sucking of lips +over the pipe. + +“And now,” said Lovibond, “she can not stir out of doors but she finds +herself the gossip of the island, and the gaze of every passer-by.” + +“Poor thing, poor thing!” said Davy. + +“He must be a low, vulgar fellow,” said Lovibond; “and yet--would you +believe it?--she wouldn’t hear a word against him.” + +“The sweet woman!” said Davy. + +“It’s my firm belief that she loves the fellow still,” said Lovibond. + +“I wouldn’t trust,” said Davy. “That’s the ways of women, sir; I’ve seen +it myself. Aw, women is quare, sir, wonderful quare.” + +“And yet,” said Lovibond, “while she is sitting pining to death indoors +he is enjoying himself night and day with his coarse companions.” + +Davy put up his pipe on the mantelpiece. “Now the man that does the like +of that is a scoundrel,” he said, warmly. + +“I agree with you, Capt’n,” said Lovibond. + +“He’s a brute!” said Davy, more loudly. + +“Of course we’ve only heard one side of the story,” said Lovibond. + +“No matter; he’s a brute and a scoundrel,” said Davy. “Dont you hould +with me there, mate?” + +“I do,” said Lovibond. “But still--who knows? She may--I say she may--be +one of those women who want their own way.” + +“All women wants it,” said Davy. “It’s mawther’s milk to them--Mawther +Eve’s milk, as you might say.” + +“True, true!” said Lovibond; “but though she looks so sweet she may have +a temper.” + +“And what for shouldn’t she?” said Davy, “D’ye think God A’mighty meant +it all for the men?” + +“Perhaps,” said Lovibond, “she turned up her nose at his coarse ways and +rough comrades.” + +“And right, too,” said Davy. “Let him keep his dirty trousses to +hisself. Who is he?” + +“She didn’t tell me that,” said Lovibond. + +“Whoever he is he’s a wastrel,” said Davy. + +“I’m afraid you’re right, Capt’n,” said Lovibond. + +“Women is priv’leged where money goes,” said Davy. “If they haven’t got +it by heirship they can’t make it by industry, and to accuse them of +being without it is taking a mane advantage. It’s hitting below the +belt, sir. Accuse a man if you like--ten to one he’s lazy--but a +woman--never, sir, never, never!” + +Davy was tramping the room by this time, and making it ring with the +voice as of a lion, and the foot as of an elephant. + +“More till that, sir,” he said. “A good girl with nothing at her who +takes a bad man with a million cries talley with the crayther the day +she marries him. What has he brought her? His dirty, mucky, measley +money, come from the Lord knows where. What has _she_ brought him? +Herself, and everything she is and will be, stand or fall, sink or swim, +blow high, blow low--to sail by his side till they cast anchor together +at last Don’t you hould with me there, sir?” + +“I do, Capt’n, I do,” said Lovibond. + +“And the ruch man that goes bearing up alongside a girl that’s sweet and +honest, and then twitting her with being poorer till hisself, is a dirt +and divil, and ought to be walloped out of the company of dacent men.” + +“But, Capt’n,” said Lovibond, falteringly! “Capt’n....” + +“What?” + +“Wasn’t Mrs. Quiggin a poor girl when you married her?” + +At that word Davy looked like a man newly awakened from a trance. His +voice, which had rung out like a horn, seemed to wheeze back like a +whistle; his eyes, which had begun to blaze, took a fixed and stupid +look; his lips parted; his head dropped forward; his chest fell inward; +and his big shoulders seemed to shrink. He looked about him vacantly, +put one hand up to his forehead and said in a broken underbreath, +“Lord-a-massy! What am I doing? What am I saying?” + +The painful moment was broken by the arrival of the first of the guests. +It was Keruish, the churchwarden, a very-secular person, deep in the +dumps over a horse which he had bought at Castletown fair the week +before (with money cheated out of Davy), and lost by an attack of the +worms that morning. “Butts in the stomach, sir,” he moaned; “they’re +bad, sir, aw, they’re bad.” + +“Nothing wuss,” said Davy. “I know them. Ate all the goodness out of +you and lave you without bowels. Men has them as well as horses--only we +call (them) friends instead.” + +The other guests arrived one by one--the blacksmith, the crier, the +brewer, the lodging-house keeper, and the two secretaries of the +charitable societies (whose names were “spells” too big for Davy), and +the keeper of a home for lost dogs. + +They were a various and motley company of the riff-raff and raggabash of +the island,--young and elderly, silent and glib--rough as a pigskin, and +smooth as their sleeves at the elbow; with just one feature common to +the whole pack of pick-thanks, and that was a look of shallow cunning. + +Davy received them with noisy welcomes and equal cheer, but he had +the measure of every man of them all, down to the bottom of their fob +pockets. The cloth was laid, the supper was served, and down they sat at +the table. + +“Anywhere, anywhere!” cried Davy, as they took their places. “The mate +is the same at every seat.” + +“Ay, ay,” they laughed, and then fell to without ceremony. + +“Only wait till I’ve done the carving, and we’ll all start fair,” said +Davy. + +“Coorse, coorse,” they answered, from mouths half full already. + +“That’s what Kinvig said when he was cutting up his sermon into firstly, +secondly, thirdly, and fourteenthly.” + +“Ha, ha! Kinvig! I’d drink the ould man’s health if I had anything,” + cried the blacksmith, with a wink at his opposite neighbor. + +“No liquor?” said Davy, looking up to sharpen the carving knife on the +steel. “Am I laving you dry like herrings in the hould?” + +“Season us, capt’n,” cried the black-smith, amid general laughter from +the rest. + +“Aw, lave you alone for that,” said Davy. “If you’re like myself you’re +in pickle enough already.” + +Then there were more winks and louder laughter. + +“Mate!” shouted Davy over his shoulder to the waiter behind him, “a +gallon to every gentleman.” + +“Ay, ay,” from all sides of the table in various tones of satisfaction. + +“Yes, sir--of course, sir; beg pardon, sir, here, sir,” said the waiter. + +“Boys, healths apiece!” cried Davy. + +“Healths apiece, Capt’n!” answered numerous thick voices, and up leaped +a line of yellow glasses. + +“Ate, drink--there’s plenty, boys; there’s plenty,” said Davy. + +“Aw, plenty, capt’n--plenty.” + +“Come again, boys, come again,” said Davy, from time to time; “but clane +plates--aw, clane plates--I hould with being nice at your males for all, +and no pigging.” + +Thus the supper went on for an hour, and then Davy by way of grace said, +“Praise the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me, praise His holy +name.” + +“A ‘propriate tex’, too,” said the church-warden. “Aw, it’s wonderful +the scriptural the Captn’s getting when he’s a bit crooked,” he +whispered behind the back of his hand. + +After that Davy stretched back in his chair and cried, “Your pipes +in your faces, boys. Smook up, smook up; chimleys everywhere, same as +Douglas at breakfast time.” + +For Davy’s sake Lovibond had sat at table with the guests, though their +voracity had almost turned his stomach. At sight of the green light of +greed in their eyes he had said to himself, “Davy is a rough fellow, but +a born Christian. These creatures are hogs. Why doesn’t his gorge +rise at them?” When the supper was done, and while the cloth was being +removed, amid the clatter of dishes and the striking of lights, Lovibond +rose and slipped out of the room. + +Davy saw him go, and from that moment he became constrained and silent. +Sucking at his pipe and devoting himself steadily to the drink, he +answered in _hum’s and ha’s and that’ll do’s_ to the questions put to +him, and his laughter came out of him at intervals in jumps and jerks +like water from the neck of a bottle. + +“What’s agate of the Capt’n?” the men whispered. “He’s quiet +to-night--quiet uncommon.” + +After a while Davy heaved up and followed Lovibond. He found him walking +too and fro in the soft turf outside the window. The night was calm and +beautiful. In the sky a sea of stars and a great full moon; on the +land a line of gas jets, and on the dark bay a point here and there of +rolling light. No sound but the distant hum of traffic in the town, +the inarticulate shout of a sailor on one of the ships outside, and +the rock-row rock-row of the oars in the rol-locks of some unseen boat +gliding into the harbor below. + +Davy drew a long breath. “So you think,” said he, “that the sweet woman +in the church is loving her husband in spite of all?” + +“Fear she is, poor fool,” said Lovibond. + +“Bless her!” said Davy, beneath his breath. “D’ye think, now,” said he, +“that all women are like that?” + +“Many are--too many,” said Lovibond. + +“Equal to forgiving and forgetting, eh?” said Davy. + +“Yes--the sweet simpletons--and taking the men back as well,” said +Lovibond. + +“Extraordinary!” said Davy. “Aw, matey, matey, men’s only muck where +women comes. Women is reg’lar eight-teen-carat goold. It’s me to know +it too. There was the mawther herself now. My father was a bit of a +rip--God forgive his son for saying it--and once he went trapsing after +a girl and got her into trouble. An imperent young hussy anyway, but no +matter. Coorse the mawther wouldn’t have no truck with her; but one day +she died sudden, and then the child hadn’t nobody but the neighbors to +look to it. ‘Go for it, Davy,’ says the mawther to me. It was evening, +middling late after the herrings, and when I got to the kitchen windey +there was the little one atop of the bed in her nightdress saying her +bits of prayers; ‘God bless mawther, and everybody,’ and all to that. +She couldn’t get out of the ‘mawther’ yet, being always used of it, and +there never was no ‘father’ in her little tex’es. Poor thing! she come +along with me, bless you, like a lammie that you’d pick out of the snow. +Just hitched her hands round my neck and fell asleep in my arms +going back, with her putty face looking up at the stars same as an +angel’s--soft and woolly to your lips like milk straight from the cow, +and her little body smelling sweet and damp, same as the breath of a +calf. And when the mawther saw me she smoothed her brat and dried her +hands, and catched at the little one, and chuckled over her, and clucked +at her and kissed her, with her own face slushed like rain, till yer’d +have thought nothing but it was one of her own that had been lost and +was found agen. Aw, women for your life, mate, for forgiveness.’” + +Lovibond did not speak, and Davy began to laugh in a husky voice. + +“Bless me, the talk a man will put out when he’s a bit over the rope and +thinking of ould times,” he said. + +“Sign that I’m thirsty,” he added; and then walked toward the window. +“But the father could never forgive hisself,” he said, as he was +stepping through, “and if I done wrong to a woman neither could I--I’ve +that much of the ould man in me anyway.” + +When he got back to the room the air was dense with tobacco-smoke, and +his guests were shouting for his company. “Capt’n Davy!” “Where’s Capt’n +Davy?” “Aw, here’s the man himself?” “Been studying the stars, Capt’n?” + “Well, that’s a bit of navigation.” “Navigation by starlight--I know the +sort. Navigating up alongside a pretty girl, eh, Capt’n?” + +There were rough jokes, and strange stories, and more liquor and loud +laughter, and for a time Davy took his part in everything. But after a +while he grew quiet again, and absent in manner, and he glanced up at +intervals in the direction of the window, A new thought had come to him. +It made the sweat to break out at the top of his forehead, and then he +heard no more of the clatter around him than the rum-humdrum as of +a train in a tunnel, pierced sometimes by the shrill scream as of an +occasional whistle. Presently he rolled up again, and went out once more +to Lovibond. + +The thought that had seized him was agony, and he could not broach it at +once. So he beat about it for a moment, and then came down on it with a +crash. + +“Sitting alone, is she, poor thing?” he said. + +“Alone,” said Lovibond. + +“I know, I know,” said Davy. “Like a bird on a bough calling mournful +for her mate; but he’s gone, he’s down, maybe worse, but lost anyway. +Yet if he should ever come back now--eh?” + +“He’ll have to be quick then,” said Lovibond; “for she intends to go +home to her people soon.” + +“Did you say she was for going home?” said Davy, eagerly. “Home +where--where to--to England?” + +“No,” said Lovibond. “Havn’t I told you she’s a Manx woman?” + +“A Manx woman, is she?” said Davy. “What’s her name?” + +“I didn’t ask her that,” said Lovibond. + +“Then where’s her home?” said Davy. + +“I forget the name of the place,” said Lovibond. “Balla--something.” + +“Is it---- is it----” Davy was speaking very quickly--“is it Ballaugh, +sir?” + +“That’s it,” and Lovibond. “And her father’s farm--I heard the name of +the farm as well--Balla--balla--something else--oh, Ballavalley.” + +“Ballavolly?” said Davy. + +“Exactly,” said Lovibond. + +Davy breathed heavily, swayed slightly, and rolled against Lovibond as +they walked side by side. + +“Then you know the place, Capt’n,” said Lovibond. + +Davy laughed noisily. “Ay, I know it,” he said. + +“And the girl’s father, too, I suppose?” said Lovibond. + +Davy laughed bitterly. “Ay, and the girl’s father too,” he said. + +“And the girl herself perhaps?” said Lovibond. + +Davy laughed almost fiercely, “Ay, and the girl herself,” he said. + +Lovibond did not spare him. “Then,” said he, in an innocent way, “you +must know her husband also.” + +Davy laughed wildly. “I wouldn’t trust,” he said. + +“He’s a brute--isn’t he?” said Lovibond. + +“Ugh!” Davy’s laughter stopped very suddenly. + +“A fool, too--is he not?” said Lovibond. + +“Ay--a damned fool!” said Davy out of the depths of his throat, and then +he laughed and reeled again, and gripped at Lovibond’s sleeve to keep +himself erect. + +“Helloa!” he cried, in another voice; “I’m rocking full like a ship with +a rolling cargo and my head is as thick as Taubman’s brewery on boiling +day.” + +He was a changed man from that instant onward. An angel of God that had +been breathing on his soul was driven out by a devil of despair. The +conviction had settled on him that he was a dastard. Lovibond remembered +the story of his father? and trembled for what he had done. + +Davy stumbled back through the window into the room, singing lustily-- + + O, Molla Char--aine, where got you your gold? + Lone, lone, you have le--eft me here, + O, not in the Curragh, deep under the mo--old, + Lone, lo--one, and void of cheer, + Lone, lo--one, and void of cheer. + +His cronies received him with shouts of welcome. “You’ll be walking +the crank yet, Capt’n,” said they, in mockery of his unsteady gait. His +altered humor suited them. “Cards,” they cried; “cards--a game for good +luck.” + +“Hould hard,” said Davy. “Fair do’s. Send for the landlord first.” + +“What for?” they asked. “To stop us? He’ll do that quick enough.” + +“You’ll see,” said Davy. “Willie,” he shouted, “bring up the skipper.” + +Willie Quarrie went out on his errand, and Davy called for a song. The +Crier gave one line three times, and broke down as often. “I linger +round this very spot--I linger round this ve--ery spot--I linger round +this very--” + +“Don’t do it any longer, mate,” cried Davy. “Your song is like Kinvig’s +first sermon. The ould man couldn’t get no farther till his tex’, so he +gave it out three times--‘I am the Light of the World--I am the Light of +the World--I am the Light--’ ‘Maybe so, brother,’ says ould Kennish, in +the pew below; ‘but you want snuffing. Come down out of that.’”-- + +Loud peals of wild laughter followed, and Davy’s own laughter rang out +wildest and maddest of all. Then up came the landlord with his round +face smiling. What was the Captain’s pleasure? + +“Landlord,” cried Davy, “tell your men to fill up these glasses, and +then send me your bill for all I owe you, and make it cover everything +I’ll want till to-morrow morning.” + +“To-morrow will do for the bill, Captain,” said the landlord. “I’m not +afraid that you’ll cut your country.” + +“Aren’t you, though? Then the more fool you,” said Davy. “Send it up, my +shining sunflower; send it up.” + +“Very well, Captain, just to humor you,” said the landlord, backing +himself out with his head in his chest. + +“Why, where are you going to, Capt’n?” cried many voices at once. + +“Wherever there’s a big cabbage growing, boys,” said Davy. + +The bill came up, and Willie Quarrie examined it. “Shocking!” cried +Willie; “it’s really shocking! Shillings apiece for my breakfas’es--now +that’s what I call a reg’lar piece of ambition.” + +Davy turned out his pockets on to the table. The pockets were many, +and were hidden away, back and front and side, in every slack and tight +place in his clothes. Gold, silver, and copper came mixed and loose from +all of them, and he piled up the money in a little heap before him. When +all was out he picked five sovereigns from the haggis of coin and put +them back into his waistcoat pocket, while he screwed up one eye into +the semblance of a wink, and said to Willie, “That’ll see us over.” Then +he called for a sight of the bill, glanced at the total and proceeded to +count out the amount of it. This being done, he rolled the money in the +paper, screwed it up like a penny worth of lozenges, and sent it down +to the landlord with his bes’ respec’s. After that he straightened his +chest, stuck his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat, nodded his +head downward at the money remaining on the table and said, “Men, see +that? It’s every ha’penny I’m worth in the world, A month ago I came +home with a nice warm fortune at me. That’s what’s left, and when it’s +gone I’m up the spout.” + +The men looked at each other in blank surprise, and began to mutter +among themselves, “What game is he agate of now?” “Aw, it’s true.” “True +enough, you go bail.” “I wouldn’t trust, he’s been so reckless.” “Twenty +thousands, they’re saying.” “Aw, he’s been helped--there’s that Mister +Loviboy, a power of money the craythur must have had out of him.” “Well, +sarve him right; fools and their money is rightly parted.” + +Thus they croaked and crowed, and though Davy was devoting himself to +the drink he heard them. + +A wild light shot into his eyes, but he only laughed more noisily and +talked more incessantly. + +“Come, lay down, d’ye hear,” he cried. “Do you think I care for the +fortune? I care nothing, not I. I’ve had a bigger loss till that in my +time.” + +“Lord save us, Capt’n--when?” cried one. + +“Never mind when--not long ago, any way,” said Davy. + +“And you had heart to start afresh, Cap’n, eh?” cried another. + +“Heart, you say? Maybe so, maybe no,” said Davy. “But stow this jaw. +Here’s my harvest home, boys, my Melliah, only I am bringing back the +tares--who’s game to toss for it? Equal stakes, sudden death!” + +The brewer tossed with him and won. Davy brushed the money across the +table, and laughed more madly than ever. “I care nothing, not I, say +what you like,” he cried again and again, though no one disputed his +protestation. + +But the manner of the cronies changed toward him nevertheless. Some fell +to patronizing him, some to advising him, and some to sneering at the +hubbub he was making. + +“Well, well,” he cried, “One glass and a toast, anyway, and part friends +for all.” “Aisy there! silence! Hush? Chink up! (Hear, hear?) Are +you ready? Here goes, boys? The biggest blockit in the island, bar +none--Capt’n Davy Quiggin.” + +At that the raggabash who had been clinking glasses pretended to be +mightily offended in their dignity. They looked about for their hats, +and began to shuffle out. + +“Lave me, then; lave me,” cried Davy. “Lave me, now, you Noah’s ark of +creeping things. Lave me, I’m stone broke. Ay, lave me, you dogs with +your noses in the snow. I’m done, I’m done.” + +As the rascals who had cheated and robbed him trooped out like men +aggrieved, Davy broke out into a stave of another wild song: + + “I’m hunting the wren,” said Bobbin to Bobbin, + “I’m hunting the wren,” said Richard to Rob-bin, + “I’m hunting the wren,” said Jack of the Lhen, + “I’m hunting the wren,” said every one. + +When the men were gone Lovibond came back by the window. The room was +dense with the fumes of dead smoke, and foul with the smell of stale +liquor. Broken pipes lay on the table amid the refuse of spilled beer, +and a candle, at which the pipes had been lighted, still stood there +burning. + +Davy was reeling about madly, and singing and laughing in gust on gust. +His face was afire with the drink that he had taken, and his throat was +guggling and sputtering. + +“I care nothing, not I--say what you like; I’ve had worse losses in my +time,” he cried. + +He plunged his right hand into his breast and drew out something. + +“See, that, mate?” he said, and held it up under the glass chandelier. + +It was a little curl of brown hair, tied across the middle with a piece +of faded blue ribbon. + +“See it?” he cried in a husky gurgle. “It’s all I’ve got left in the +world.” + +He held it up to the light and looked at it, and laughed until the glass +pendants of the chandelier swung and jingled with the vibration of his +voice. + +“The gorse under the ling, eh? There you are then! _She_ gave it me. +Yes, though, on the night I sailed. My gough! The ruch and proud I was +that night anyway! I was a homeless beggar, but I might have owned the +stars, for, by God, I was walking on them going away.” + +He reeled again, and laughed as if in mockery of himself, and then said, +“That’s ten year ago, mate, and I’ve kep’ it ever since. I have though, +here in my breast, and it’s druv out wuss things. When I’ve been far +away foreign, and losing heart a bit, and down with the fever, maybe, in +that ould hell, and never looking to see herself again, no, never, I’ve +been touching it gentle and saying to myself, soft and low, like a sort +of an angel’s whisper, ‘Nelly is with you, Davy. She isn’t so very far +away, boy; she’s here for all.’ And when I’ve been going into some dirt +of a place that a dacent man shouldn’t, it’s been cutting at my ribs, +same as a knife, and crying like mad, ‘Hould hard, Davy; you can’t take +Nelly in theer?’ When I’ve been hot it’s been keeping me cool, and when +I’ve been cold it’s been keeping me warm, better till any comforter. +D’ye see it, sir? We’re ould comrades, it and me, the best that’s going, +and never no quarreling and no words neither. Ten years together, sir; +blow high, blow low. But we’re going to part at last.” + +Then he picked up the candle in his left hand, still holding the lock of +hair in his right. + +“Good-by, ould friend!” he cried, in a shrill voice, rolling his head to +look at the curl, and holding it over the candle. “We’re parting company +to-night. I’m going where I can’t take you along with me--I’m going to +the divil. So long! S’long! I’ll never strook you, nor smooth you, nor +kiss you no more! S’long!” + +He put the curl to his lips, holding it tremblingly between his great +fingers and thumb. Then he clutched it in his palm, reeled a step +backward, swung the candle about and dashed it on to the floor. + +“I can’t, I can’t,” he cried, “God A’mighty, I can’t. It’s +Nelly--Nelly--my Nelly--my little Nell!” + +The curl went back into his breast. He sank into a chair, covered his +face with his hands, and wept aloud as little children do. + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +When Mrs. Quiggin came down to breakfast next morning, a change both in +her appearance and in her manner caught the eye and ear of Jenny Crow. +Her fringe was combed back from her forehead, and her speech, even in +the first salutation, gave a delicate hint of the broad Manx accent. +“Ho, ho! what’s this?” thought Jenny, and she had not long to wait for +an answer. + +An English waiter, who affected the ways of a French one, was fussing +around with needless inquiries--_would Madame have this; would Madame +do that?_--and when this person had scraped himself out of the room Mrs. +Quiggin drew a long breath and said, “I don’t think I care so very much +for this sort of thing after all, Jenny.” + +“What sort of thing, Nelly?” + +“Waiters and servants, and hotels and things,” said Nelly. + +“Really!” said Jenny. + +“It’s wonderful how much happier you are when you can be your own +servant, and boil your own kettle and mash your own tea, and lay your +own cloth, and clear away and wash up afterward.” + +“Do you say so, Nelly?” + +“Deed I do, though, Jenny. There’s some life in the like of that--seeing +to yourself and such like. And what are the pleasures of towns and +streets and hotels and servants, and such botherations to those of a +sweet old farm that is all your own somewhere? And, to think--to think, +Jenny, getting up in the summer morning before the sun itself, when the +light is that cool dead gray, and the last stars are dying off, and the +first birds are calling to their mates that are still asleep, and +then going round to the cowhouse in the clear, crisp, ringing air, +and startling the rabbits and the hares that are hopping about in the +haggard--O! it’s delightful!” + +“Really now!” said Jenny. + +“And then the men coming down stairs, half awake and yawning, in their +shirt sleeves and their stocking feet, and pushing on their boots +and clattering out to the stable, and shouting to the horses that are +stamping in their stalls; and then you yoursef busy as Thop’s wife +laying the cups and saucers, and sending the boys to the well for water, +and filling the big crock to the brim, and hanging the kettle on the +hook, and setting somebody to blow the fire while the gorse flames and +crackles, and bustling here and bustling there, and stirring yoursef +terr’ble, and getting breakfast over, and starting everybody away to his +work in the fields--aw, there’s nothing like it in the world.” + +“And do _you_ think that, Nelly?” said Jenny. + +“Why, yes; why shouldn’t I?” said Nelly. + +“Well, well,” said Jenny. “‘There’s nowt so queer as folk,’ as they say +in Manchester. + +“What do you mean, Jenny Crow?” + +“I fancy I see you,” said Jenny, “bowling off to Balla--what d’ye call +it?--and doing all that _by yourself_.” + +“Oh!” said Nelly. + +Mrs. Quiggin had begun to speak in a voice that was something between a +shrill laugh and a cry, and she ended with a smothered gurgle, such as +comes from the throat of a pea-hen. After breakfast Peggy Quine came +chirping around with a hundred inquiries about the packing of luggage +which was then proceeding, with a view to the carriage that had been +ordered for eleven o’clock. Mrs. Quiggin betrayed only the most languid +interest in these hurrying operations, and settled herself with her +needlework in a chair near to Jenny Crow. Jenny watched her, and +thought, “Now, wouldn’t she jump at a good excuse for not going at all?” + +Presently Mrs. Quiggin said, in a tone of well-acted unconcern, “And +so you say that the poor man you tell me of is still loving his wife in +spite of all she has done to him?” + +“Yes, Nelly. All men are like that--more fools they,” said Jenny. + +Nelly’s face brightened over the needles in her hand, and her parted +lips seemed to whisper, “Bless them!” But in a note of delicious +insincerity she only said aloud, “Not all, Jenny; surely not all.” + +“Yes, all,” said Jenny, with emphasis. “Do you think I don’t know the +men better than you do?” + +Nelly dropped her needles and raised her face. “Why, Jenny,” she said, +“however can that be?--you’ve never even been married.” + +“That’s why, my dear,” said Jenny. + +Nelly laughed; then returning to the attack, she said, with a +poor pretense at a yawn, “So you think a man may love a woman even +after--after she has turned him out of doors, as you say?” + +“Yes, but that isn’t to say that he’ll ever come back to her,” said +Jenny. + +The needles dropped to the lap again. “No? Why shouldn’t he then?” + +“Why? Because men are never good at the bended knee business,” said +Jenny. “A man on his knees is ridiculous. It must be his legs that look +so silly. If I had done anything to a man, and he went down on his knees +to me, I would----” + +“What, Jenny?” + +Jenny lifted her skirt an inch or two, and showed a dainty foot swinging +to and fro. “Kick him,” she answered. + +Nelly laughed again, and said, “And if you were a man, and a woman did +so, what then?” + +“Why lift her up and kiss her, and forgive her, of course,” said Jenny. + +Nelly tingled with delight, and burned to ask Jenny if she should not at +least let Captain Davy know that she was leaving Douglas and going home. +But being a true woman, she asked something else instead. + +“So you think, Jenny,” she said, “that your poor friend will never go +back to his wife?” + +“I’m sure he won’t,” said Jenny. “Didn’t I tell you?” she added, +straightening up. + +“What?” said Nelly, with a quiver of alarm. + +“That he’s going back to sea,” said Jenny. + +“To sea!” cried Nelly, dropping her needles entirely. “Back to sea?” she +said, in a shrill voice. “And without even saying ‘good-by!’” + +“Good-by to whom, my dear?” said Jenny. “To me?” + +“To his wife, of course,” said Nelly, huskily. + +“Well, we don’t know that, do we?” said Jenny. “And, besides, why should +he?” + +“If he doesn’t he’s a cruel, heartless, unfeeling, unforgiving monster,” + said Nelly. + +And then Jenny burned in her turn to ask if Nelly herself had not +intended to do as much by Captain Davy, but, being a true woman as well +as her adversary, she found a crooked way to the plain question. “Is it +at eleven,” she said, “that the carriage is to come for you?” + +Mrs. Quiggin had recovered herself in a moment, and then there was a +delicate bout of thrust and parry. “I’m so sorry for your sake, Jenny,” + she said, in the old tone of delicious insincerity, “that the poor +fellow is married.” + +“Gracious me, for my sake? Why?” said Jenny. + +“I thought you were half in love with him, you know,” said Nelly. + +“Half?” cried Jenny. “I’m over head and ears in love with him.” + +“That’s a pity,” said Nelly; “for, of course, you’ll give him up now +that you know he has a wife.” + +“What of that? If he _has_ a wife I have no husband--so it’s as broad as +it’s long,” said Jenny. + +“Jenny!” cried Nelly. + +“And, oh!” said Jenny, “there is one thing I didn’t tell you. But you’ll +keep it secret? Promise me you’ll keep it secret. I’m to meet him again +by appointment this very night.” + +“But, Jenny!” + +“Yes, in the garden of this house--by the waterfall at eight o’clock. +I’ll slip out after dinner in my cloak with the hood to it.” + +“Jenny Crow!” + +“It’s our last chance, it seems. The poor fellow sails at midnight, or +tomorrow morning, or to-morrow night, or the next night, or sometime. +So you see he’s not going away without saying good-by to somebody. I +couldn’t help telling you, Nelly. It’s nice to share a secret with a +friend one can trust, and if he _is_ another woman’s husband--” + +Nell had risen to her feet with her face aflame. + +“But you mustn’t do it,” she cried. “It’s shocking, it’s +horrible--common morality is against it.” + +Jenny looked wondrous grave. “That’s it, you see,” she said. “Common +morality always _is_ against everything that’s nice and agreeable.” + +“I’m ashamed of you, Jenny Crow. I am; indeed, I am. I could never have +believed it of you; indeed, I couldn’t. And the man you speak of is no +better than you are, and all his talk of loving the wife is hypocrisy +and deceit; and the poor woman herself should know of it, and come down +on you both and shame you--indeed, she should,” cried Nelly, and she +flounced out of the room in a fury. + +Jenny watched her go and thought to herself. “She’ll keep that +appointment for me at eight o’clock to-night by the waterfall.” + Presently she heard Mrs. Quiggin with a servant of the hotel +countermanding the order for the carriage at eleven, and engaging it +instead for the extraordinary hour of nine at night. “She intends to +keep it,” thought Jenny. + +“And now,” she said, settling herself at the writing-table; “now for the +_other_ simpleton.” + +“Tell D. Q.,” she wrote, addressing Lovibond; “that E. Q. goes home by +carriage at nine o’clock to-night, and that you have appointed to meet +her for a last farewell at eight by the waterfall in the gardens of +Castle Mona. Then meet _me_ on the pier at seven-thirty.” + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +Lovibond received this message while sitting at breakfast, and he caught +the idea of it in an instant. Since the supper of the night before he +had been pestered by many misgivings, and troubled by some remorse. +Capt’n Davy was bent on going away. Overwhelmed by a sense of what he +took to be his dastardly conduct he was in that worst position of the +man who can forgive neither himself nor the person he has injured. +So much had Lovibond done for him by the fine scheme that had brought +matters to such a pass. But having gone so far, Lovibond had found +himself at a stand. His next step he could not see. Capt’n Davy must not +be allowed to leave the island, but how to keep him from going away was +a bewildering difficulty. To tell him the truth was impossible, and to +concoct a further fable was beyond Lovibond’s invention. And so it was +that when Lovi-bond received the letter from Jenny Crow, he rose to the +cue it offered like a drowning man to a life-buoy. + +“Jealousy--the very thing!” he thought; and not until he was already +in the thick of his enterprise as wizard of that passion did he realize +that if it was an effectual instrument to his end it was also a cruel +one. + +He found Capt’n Davy in the midst of the final preparations for their +journey. These consisted of the packing of clothes into trunks, bags, +sacks, and hampers. On the floor of the sitting-room lay a various +assortment of coats, waistcoats, trowsers, great-coats, billycock hats +and sou’-westers, together with countless shirts and collars, scarfs +and handkerchiefs. At Davy’s order Willie Quarrie had gathered up the +garments in armsful out of drawers and wardrobes, and heaped them at his +feet for inspection. This process they were undergoing with a view to +the selection of such as were suitable to the climate in which it +was intended that they should be worn. The hour was 8.30 a.m., the +“Snaefell” was announced to sail for Liverpool at nine. + +But, as Lovibond entered the room, a scene of yet more primitive +interest was actively proceeding. A waiter of the hotel was strutting +across the floor and sputtering out protests against this unseemly use +of the sitting-room. The person was the same who the night before had +haunted Davy’s elbow with his obsequious “Yes, sirs,” “No, sirs,” and +“Beg pardon, sirs”; but the morning had brought him knowledge of Davy’s +penury, and with that wisdom had come impudence if not dignity. + +“The ideal!” he cried. “Turnin’ a ‘otel drawrin’-room into a charwoman’s +laundry!” + +“Make it a rag shop at once,” said Davy, as he went on quietly with his +work. + +“A rag shop it is, and I’ll ‘ave no more of it,” said the waiter +loftily. “Who ever ‘eard of such a thing?” + +“No?” said Davy. “Well, well, now! Who’d have thought it? You never +did? A rael Liverpool gentleman, eh? A reg’lar aristocrack out of Sawney +Pope-street!” + +“No, sir, but it’s easy to see where _you_ came from,” said the waiter, +with withering scorn. + +“You say true, boy,” said Davy, “but it’s aisier still to see where you +are going to. Ever seen the black man on the beach at all? No? Him with +the performing birds? You know--jacks and ravens and owls and such like. +Well, he’s been wanting something like you this long time. Wouldn’t +trust, but he’d give twopence-halfpenny for you--and drinks all round. +You’d make his fortune as a cockatoo.” + +The waiter in fury called downstairs for assistance, and when two of +his fellow servants had arrived in the room they made some poor show of +working their will by force. Then Davy paused from his work, scratched +the under part of his chin with the nail of his forefinger, and said, +“Friends, some of us four is interrupting the play, and they’re wanting +us at the pay box to give us back the fare. I’m thinking it’s you’s +fellows--what do _you_ say? They’re longing for you downstairs--won’t +you go? No? you’ll not though? Then where d’ye keep the slack of your +trowsis?” + +Saying this Davy rose to his feet, hitched his left hand into the collar +of the first waiter, and his right into the depths under his coat tails, +and ran him out of the room. Returning for the other two waiters he did +much the same by each of them, and then came back with a look of awe, +and said-- + +“My gough! they must have been Manxmen after all--they rowled downstairs +as if they’d been all legs together.” + +Lovibond looked grave. “That’s going too far, Capt’n,” he said. “For +your own sake it’s risking too much.” + +“Risking too much?” said Davy. “There’s only three of them.” + +The first bell rang on the steamer; it was quarter to nine o’clock. +Willie Quarrie looked out at the window. The “Snaefell” was lying by the +red pier in the harbor, getting up steam, and sending clouds of smoke +over the old “Imperial.” Cars were rattling up the quay, passengers +were making for the gangways, and already the decks, fore and aft, were +thronged with people. + +“Come along, my lad; look slippy,” cried Davy, “only two bells more, +and three hampers still to pack. Tumble them in--here goes.” + +“Capt’n!” said Willie, still looking out. + +“What?” said Davy. + +“Don’t cross by the ferry, Capt’n.” + +“Why not?” + +“They’re all waiting for you,” said Willie, “every dirt of them all is +waiting by the steps--there’s Tommy Tubman, and Billy Balla-Slieau, and +that wastrel of a churchwarden--yes, and there’s ould Kennish--they’re +all there. Deng my buttons, all of them. They’re thinking to crow over +us, Capt’n. Don’t cross by the ferry. Let me run for a car. Then we’ll +slip up by the bridge yonder, and down the quay like a mill race, and up +to the gangway like smook, and abooard in a jiffy. That’s it--yes, I’ll +be off immadient, and we’ll bate the blackguards anyway.” + +Willie was seizing his cap to carry out his intention of going for a +cab in order that his master might be spared the humiliation of passing +through the line of false friends who had gathered at the ferry steps to +see the last of him; but Davy shouted “Stop,” and pointed to the hampers +still unpacked. + +“I’m broke,” said he, “and what matter who knows it? Reminds me, sir,” + said Davy to Lovibond, “of Parson Cowan. The ould man lived up Andreas +way, and after sarvice he’d be saying, ‘Boys let’s put a sight on the +Methodees,’ and they’d be taking a slieu round to the chapel door. +Then as the people came out he’d be offering his snuff-boxes all about. +‘William, how do? have a pinch?’ ‘Ah, Robbie, fine evening; take a +sneeze?’ ‘Is that you, Tommy? I haven’t another box in my clothes, +but if you’ll put your finger and thumb into my waistcoat pocket here, +you’ll find some dust.’ Aw, yes, a reglar up-and-a-down-er, Parson +Cowan, as aisy, as aisy, and no pride at all. But he had his wakeness +same as a common man, and it was the Plow Inn at Ramsey. One day he was +going out of it middling full--not fit to walk the crank anyway--when +who should be coming up the street from the court-house but the Bishop! +It was Bishop--Bishop--chut, his name’s gone at me--but no matter, +glum as a gur-goyle anyway, and straight as a lamppost--a reglar +steeple-up-your-back sort of a chap. Ould Mrs. Beatty saw him, and she +lays a hould of Parson Cowan and starts awkisking him back into the +house, and through into the parlor where the chiney cups is. ‘You +mustn’t go out yet,’ the ould woman was whispering. ‘It’s the Bishop. +And him that sevare--it’s shocking! He’ll surspend you! And think what +they’ll be saying! A parson, too! Hush, sir hush! Don’t spake! You’ll be +waiting till it’s dark, and then going home with John in the bottom of +the cart, and nice clane straw to lie on, and nobody knowing nothing.’ +But the ould man wouldn’t listen. He drew hisself up on the ould woman +tremenjous, and studdied hisself agen the door, and ‘No,’ says he; ‘I’m +drunk,’ says he, ‘God knows it,’ says he, ‘and for what man knows I +don’t care a damn--_I’ll walk!_’ Then away he went down the street past +the Bishop, with his hat a-one side, and his hair all through-others, +tacking a bit with romps in the fetlock joints, but driving on like +mad.”-- + +The second bell rang on the steamer. It was seven minutes to nine, and +the last of the luggage was packed. On the floor there still lay a pile +of clothing, which was to be left as oil for the wounded joints of the +gentlemen who had been flung down stairs. Willie Quarrie bustled about +to get the trunks and hampers to the ferry steps. Davy, who had been in +his shirt-sleeves, drew on his coat, and Lovibond, who had been waiting +twenty torturing minutes for some opportunity to begin, plunged into the +business of his visit at last. + +“So you’re determined to go, Capt’n?” he said. + +“I am,” said Davy. + +“No message for Mrs. Quiggin? Dare say I could find her at Castle Mona.” + +“No! Wait--yes--tell her--say I’m--if ever I--Chut! what’s the odds? No, +no message.” + +“Not even good-by, Capt’n?” + +“She sent none to me--no.” + +“Not a word?” + +“Not a word.” + +Davy was pawing up the carpet with the toe of his boot, and filling his +pipe from his pouch. + +“Going back to Callao, Capt’n?” said Lovibond. + +“God knows, mate,” said Davy. “I’m like the seeding grass, blown here +and there, and the Lord knows where; but maybe I’ll find land at last.” + +“Capt’n, about the money?--dy’e owe me any grudge about that?” said +Lovibond. + +“Lord-a-massy! Grudge, is it?” said Davy. “Aw, no, man, no. The money +was my mischief. It’s gone, and good luck to it.” + +“But if I could show you a way to get it all back again, Capt’n----” + +“Chut! I wouldn’t have it, and I wouldn’t stay. But, matey, if you could +show me how to get back... the money isn’t the loss I’m... if I was as +poor as ould Chalse-a-killey, and had to work my flesh.... I’d stay if I +could get back....” + +The whistle sounded from the funnel of the “Snaefell,” and the loud +throbs of escaping steam echoed from the Head. Willie Quarrie ran in to +say that the luggage was down at the ferry steps, and the ferryboat was +coming over the harbor. + +“Capt’n,” said Lovibond, “she must have injured you badly----” + +“Injured _me?_” said Davy. “Wish she had! I wouldn’t go off to the +world’s end if that was all betwixt us.” + +“If she hasn’t, Capt’n,” said Lovi-bond, “you’re putting her in the way +of it.” + +“What?” + +Davy was about to light his pipe, but he flung away the match. + +“Have you never thought of it?” said Lovibond, “That when a husband +deserts his wife like this he throws her in the way of--” + +“Not Nelly, no,” said Davy, promptly. “I’ll lave _that_ with her, +anyway. Any other woman perhaps, but Nelly--never! She’s as pure as new +milk, and no beast milk neither. Nelly going wrong, eh? Well, well! I’d +like to see the man that would... I may have treated her bad... but I’d +like to see the man, I say...” + +Then there was another shrieking whistle from the steamer. Willie +Quarrie called up at the window and gesticulated wildly from the lawn +outside. + +“Coming, boy, coming,” Davy shouted back, and looking at his watch, he +said, “Four minutes and a half--time enough yet.” + +Then they left the hotel and moved toward the ferry steps. As they +walked Davy begun to laugh. “Well, well!” he said, and he laughed again. +“Aw, to think, to think!” he said, and he laughed once more. But +with every fresh outbreak of his laughter the note of his voice lost +freshness. + +Lovibond saw his opportunity, and yet could not lay hold of it, so cruel +at that moment seemed the only weapon that would be effectual. But Davy +himself thrust in between him and his timid spirit. With another hollow +laugh, as if half ashamed of keeping up the deception to the last, yet +convinced that he alone could see through it, he said, “No news of the +girl in the church, mate, eh? Gone home, I suppose?” + +“Not yet,” said Lovibond. + +“No?” said Davy. + +“The fact is--but you’ll be secret?” + +“Coorse.” + +“It isn’t a thing I’d tell everybody--” + +“What?” + +“You see, if her husband has treated her like a brute, she’s his wife, +after all.” + +Davy drew up on the path. “What is it?” he said. + +“I’m to meet her to-night, alone,” said Lovibond. + +“No!” + +“Yes; in the grounds of Castle Mona, by the waterfall, after dark--at +eight o’clock, in fact. + +“Castle Mona--by the waterfall--eight o’clock--that’s a--now, that must +be a--” + +Davy had lifted his pipe hand to give emphasis to the protest on his +lips, when he stopped and laughed, and said, “Amazing thick, eh?” + +“Why not,” said Lovibond? “Who wouldn’t be with a sweet woman like that? +If the fool that’s left her doesn’t know her worth, so much the better +for somebody else.” + +“Then you’re for making it up there?” said Davy, clearing his throat. + +“It’ll not be my fault if I don’t,” said Lovibond. “I’m not one of the +wise asses that talk big about God’s law and man’s law; and if I were, +man’s law has tied this sweet little woman to a brute, and God’s law +draws her to me--that’s all.” + +“And she’s willing, eh?” said Davy. + +“Give her time, Capt’n,” said Lovibond. + +“But didn’t you say she was loving this--this brute of a husband?” said +Davy. + +“Time, Capt’n, time,” said Lovibond. “That will mend with time.” + +“And, manewhile, she’s tellin’ you all her secrets.” + +“I leave you to judge, Capt’n.” + +“After dark, you say--that’s middling tidy to begin with, eh, mate--eh?” + +Lovibond laughed: Capt’n Davy laughed. They laughed together. + +Willie Quarrie, standing by the boat at the bottom of the steps, with +the luggage piled up at the bow, shouted that there was not a minute to +spare. The throbbing of the steam in the funnel had ceased, one of the +two gangways had been run ashore, and the captain was on the bridge. + +“Now, then, Capt’n,” cried Willie. + +But Davy did not hear. He was watching Lovibond’s face with eyes of +suspicion. Was the man fooling him? Did he know the secret? + +“Good-by Capt’n,” said Lovibond, taking Davy by the hand. + +“Good-by, mate,” said Davy, absently. + +“Good luck to you and a second fortune,” said Lovibond. + +“Damn the fortune,” said Davy, under his breath. + +Then there was another whistle from the “Snaefell.” + +“Capt’n Davy! Capt’n Davy!” cried Willie Quarrie. + +“Coming,” answered Davy. But still he stood at the top of the ferry +steps, holding Lovibond’s hand, and looking into his face. + +Then there came a loud voice from the bridge of the steamer--“Steam up!” + +“Capt’n! Capt’n!” cried Willie from the bottom of the steps. + +Davy dropped Lovibond’s hand and turned to look across the harbor. “Too +late,” he said quietly. + +“Not if you’ll come quick, Capt’n. See, the last gangway is up yet,” + cried Willie. + +“Too late,” repeated Davy, more loudly. + +“Just time to do it by the skin of your teeth, Capt’n,” shouted the +ferryman. + +“Too late, I tell you,” thundered Davy, sternly. + +Meanwhile there was a great commotion on the other side of the harbor. + +“Out of the way there!” “All ashore!” “Ready?” “Ready!” “Steam +up--slow!” The last bell rang. The first stroke of nine was struck by +the clock of the tower; one echoing blast came from the steam whistle, +and the “Snaefell” began to move slowly from the quay. Then there were +shouts from the deck and adieus from the shore. “Good-by!” “Good-by!” + “Farewell, little Mona!” “Good-by, dear Elian Vannin!” Handkerchiefs +waving on the steamer; handkerchiefs waving on the quay; seagulls +wheeling over the stern; white churning water in the wake; flag down; +and harbor empty. + +“She’s gone!” + +Lovibond smiled behind a handkerchief, with which he pretended to wipe +his big mustache. Willie Quarrie looked helplessly up the ferry steps. +Davy gnashed his teeth at the top of them. + +After a moment Davy said, “No matter; we can take the Irish packet at +nine, and catch the Pacific boat at Belfast. Willie,” he shouted, “put +the luggage in the shed for the Belfast steamer. We’ll sail to-night +instead.” + +Then the three parted company, each with his own reflections. + +“The Capt’n done that a-purpose,” thought Willie. + +“He’ll keep my engagement for me at eight o’clock,” thought Lovibond. + +“I wouldn’t have believed it of her if the Dempster himself had swore to +it,” thought Davy. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +At half-past seven that night the iron pier was a varied and animated +scene. A band was playing a waltz on the circle at the end; young people +were dancing, other young people of both sexes were promenading, lines +of yet younger people, chiefly girls in short frocks, but with the +wagging heads and sparkling eyes of one type of budding maidenhood, +were skipping along arm-in-arm, singing snatches of the words set to +the waltz, and beating a half-dancing time with an alternate scrape and +stroke of the soles of their shoes upon the wood floor on which they +walked. The odor of the brine came up from below and mingled with the +whiffs of Mona Bouquet that swept after the young girls as they passed, +and with the puffs of tobacco smoke that enveloped the young men as +they dawdled on. Sometimes the revolving light of the lightship in the +channel could be seen above the flash and flare of the pier lamps, and +sometimes the dark water under foot gleamed and glinted between the open +timbers of the pier pavement, and sometimes the deep rumble of the sea +could be heard over the clash and clang of the pier band. + +Lovibond was there, walking to and fro, feeling himself for the first +time to be an old fellow among so many younger folks, watching the +clock, counting the minutes, and scanning every female form that +came alone with the crink-crank-crick through the round stile of the +pay-gate. + +Not until five minutes to eight did the right one appear, but she made +up for the tardiness of her coming by the animation of her spirits. + +“I couldn’t get away sooner,” whispered Jenny. “She watched me like a +cat. She’ll be out in the grounds by this time. It’s delicious! But is +he coming!” + +“Trust him,” said Lovibond. + +“O, dear, what a meeting it will be!” said Jenny. + +“I’d love to be there,” said Lovibond. + +“Umph! Would you? Two’s company, three’s none--you’re just as well where +you are,” said Jenny. + +“Better,” said Lovibond. + +The clock struck eight in the tower. + +“Eight o’clock,” said Lovibond, “They’ll be flying at each other’s eyes +by this time.” + +“Eight o’clock, twenty seconds!” said Jenny. “And they’ll be lying in +each other’s arms by now.” + +“Did she suspect?” said Lovibond. + +“Of course she did!” said Jenny. “Did he?” + +“Certainly!” said Lovibond. + +“O dear, O dear!” said Jenny. “It’s wonderful how far you can fool +people when it’s to their interest to be fooled.” + +“Wonderful!” said Lovibond. + +They had walked to the end of the pier; the band was playing-- + + “Ben-my-chree! + Sweet Ben-my-chree, + I love but thee, sweet Mona.” + +“So our little drama is over, eh?” said. Jenny. + +“Yes; it’s over,” said Lovibond. + +Jenny sighed; Lovibond sighed; they looked at each other and sighed +together. + +“And these good people have no further use for us,” said Jenny. + +“None,” said Lovibond. + +“Then I suppose we’ve no further use for each other?” moaned Jenny. + +“Eh?” said Lovibond. + +“Tut!” said Jenny, and she swung aside. + + “Mona, sweet Mona, + I love but thee, sweet Mona.’ + +“There’s only one thing I regret,” said Lovibond, inclining his head +toward Jenny’s averted face. + +“And pray, what’s that?” said Jenny, without turning about. + +“Didn’t I tell you that Capt’n Davy had taken two berths in the Pacific +steamer to the west coast?” said Lovibond. + +“Well?” said Jenny. + +“That’s ninety pounds wasted,” said Lovibond. + +“_What_ a pity!” sighed Jenny. + +“Isn’t it?” said Lovibond--his left hand was fumbling for her right. + +“If she were any other woman, she might be glad to go still,” said +Jenny. + +“And if he were any other man he would be proud to take her,” said +Lovibond. + +“Some woman without kith or kin to miss her--” began Jenny. + +“Yes, or some man without anybody in the world--” began Lovibond. + +“Now, if it had been _my_ case--” said Jenny, wearily. + +“Or mine,” said Lovibond, sadly. + +Each drew a long breath. + +“Do you know, if I disappeared tonight, there’s not a soul--” said +Jenny, sorrowfully. + +“That’s just my case, too,” interrupted Lovibond. + +“Ah!” they said together. + +They looked into each other’s eyes with a mournful expression, and +sighed again. Also their hands touched as their arms hung by their +sides. + +“Ninety pounds! Did you say ninety? Two berths?” said Jenny. “What a +shocking waste! Couldn’t somebody else use them?” + +“Just what I was thinking,” said Lovibond; and he linked the lady’s arm +through his own. + +“Hadn’t you better get the tickets from Capt’n Davy, and--and give them +to somebody before it is too late?” said Jenny. + +“I’ve got them already--his boy Quarrie was keeping them,” said +Lovibond. + +“How thoughtful of you, Jona--I mean, Mr. Lovi--” + +“Je--Jen--” + +“Ben-my-chree! Sweet Ben-my-chree, I love but thee--” + +“O, Jonathan!” whispered Jenny. + +“O, Jenny!” gasped Jonathan. + +They were on the dark side of the round house; the band was playing +behind them, the sea was rumbling in front; there was a shuffle of feet, +a sudden rustle of a dress; the lady glanced to the right, the gentleman +looked to the left, and then for a fraction of an instant they were +locked in each other’s arms. + +“Will you go back with me, Jenny?” + +“Well,” whispered Jenny. “Just to keep the tickets from wasting--” + +“Just that,” whispered Lovibond. + +Three quarters of an hour later they were sailing out of Douglas harbor +on board the Irish packet that was to overtake the Pacific steamship +next morning at Belfast. The lights of Castle Mona lay low on the +water’s edge, and from the iron pier as they passed came the faint sound +of the music of the band: + + “Mona, sweet Mona, + Fairest isle beneath the sky, + Mona, sweet Mona, + We bid thee now good-by.” + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +The life that Davy had led that day-was infernal At the first shaft of +Lovi-bond’s insinuation against Mrs. Quiggin’s fidelity he had turned +sick at heart. “When he said it,” Davy had thought, “the blood went from +me like the tide out of the Ragged Mouth, where the ships lie wrecked +and rotten.” + +He had baffled with his bemuddled brain, to recall the conversation he +had held with his wife since his return home to marry her, and every +innocent word she had uttered in jest had seemed guilty and foul. +“You’ve been nothing but a fool, Davy,” he told himself. “You’ve been +tooken in.” + +Then he had reproached himself for his hasty judgment. “Hould hard, boy, +hould hard; aisy for all, though, aisy, aisy!” He had remembered how +modest his wife had been in the old days--how simple and how natural. +“She was as pure as the mountain turf,” he had thought, “and quiet +extraordinary.” Yet there was the ugly fact that she had appointed to +meet a strange man in the gardens of Castle Mona, that night, alone. +“Some charm is put on her--some charm or the like,” he had thought +again. + +That had been the utmost and best he could make of it, and he had +suffered the torments of the damned. During the earlier part of the day +he had rambled through the town, drinking freely, and his face had been +a piteous sight to see. Toward nightfall he had drifted past Castle +Mona toward Onchan Head, and stretched himself on the beach before Derby +Castle. There he had reviewed the case afresh, and asked himself what he +ought to do. + +“It’s not for me to go sneaking after her,” he had thought. “She’s true, +I’ll swear to it. The man’s lying... Very well, then, Davy, boy, don’t +you take rest till you’re proving it.” + +The autumn day had begun to close in, and the first stars to come out. +“Other women are like yonder,” he had thought; “just common stars in the +sky, where there’s millions and millions of them. But Nelly is like the +moon--the moon, bless her--” + +At that thought Davy had leaped to his feet, in disgust of his own +simplicity. “I’m a fool,” he had muttered, “a reg’lar ould bleating +billygoat; talking pieces of poethry to myself, like a stupid, gawky +Tommy Big Eyes.” + +He had looked at his watch. It was a quarter to eight o’clock. +Unconsciously he had begun to walk toward Castle Mona. “I’m not for +misdoubting my wife, not me; but then a man may be over certain. I’ll +find out for myself; and if it’s true, if she’s there, if she meets +him.... Well, well, be aisy for all, Davy; be aisy, boy, be aisy! If the +worst comes to the worst, and you’ve got to cut your stick, you’ll be +doing it without a heart-ache anyway. She’ll not be worth it, and you’ll +be selling yourself to the Divil with a clane conscience. So it’s all +serene either way, Davy, my man, and here goes for it.” + +Meanwhile Mrs. Quiggin had been going through similar torments. “I don’t +blame _him_,” she had thought. “It’s that mischief-making huzzy. Why did +I ask her? I wonder what in the world I ever saw in her. If I were not +going away myself she should pack out of the house in the morning. The +sly thing! How clever she thinks herself, too! But she’ll be surprised +when I come down on her. I’ll watch her; she sha’n’t escape me. And as +for _him_--well, we’ll see, Mr. David, we’ll see!” + +As the clock in the hall in Castle Mona was striking eight these +good souls in these wise humors were making their several ways to the +waterfall under the cliff, in the darkest part of the hotel grounds. + +Davy got there first, going in by the gate at the Onchan end. It struck +him with astonishment that Lovibond was not there already. “The man +bragged of coming, but I don’t see him,” he thought. He felt half +inclined to be wroth with Lovibond for daring to run the risk of being +late. “I know someone who would have been early enough if he had been +coming to meet with somebody,” he thought. + +Presently he saw a female form approaching from the thick darkness at +the Douglas end of the house. It was a tall figure in a long cloak, with +the hood drawn over the head. Through the opening of the cloak in front +a light dress beneath gleamed and glinted in the brightening starlight. +“It’s herself,” Davy muttered, under his breath. “She’s like the silvery +fir tree with her little dark head agen the sky. Trust me for knowing +her! I’d be doing that if I was blind. Yes, would I though, if I was +only the grass under her feet, and she walked on me. She’s coming! My +God, then, it’s true! It’s true, Davy! Hould hard, boy! She’s a woman +for all! She’s here! She sees me! She thinks I’m the man?” + +In the strange mood of the moment he was half sorry to take her by +surprise. + +Davy was right that Mrs. Quiggin saw him. While still in the shadow +of the house she recognized his dark figure among the trees. “But he’s +alone,” she thought. “Then the huzzy must have gone back to her room +when I thought she slipped out at the porch. He’s waiting for her. +Should I wait, too? No! That he is there is enough. He sees me. He is +coming. He thinks I am she. Umph! Now to astonish him!” + +Thus thinking, and both trembling with rage and indignation, and both +quivering with love and fear, the two came face to face. + +But neither betrayed the least surprise. + +“I’m sorry, ma’am, if I’m not the man------” faltered Davy. + +“It’s a pity, sir, if I’m not the woman------” stammered Nelly. + +“Hope I don’t interrupt any terterta-tie,” continued Davy. + +“I trust you won’t allow _me_----” began Nelly. + +And then, having launched these shafts of impotent irony in vain, they +came to a stand with an uneasy feeling that something unlooked for was +amiss. + +“What d’ye mane, ma’am?” said Davy. + +“What do _you_ mean, sir?” said Nelly. + +“I mane, that you’re here to meet with a man,” said Davy. + +“I!” cried Nelly. “I? Did you say that I was here to meet----” + +“Don’t go to deny it, ma’am,” said Davy. + +“I do deny it,” said Nelly. “And what’s more, sir, I know why you are +here. You are here to meet with a woman.” + +“Me! To meet with a woman! Me?” cried Davy. + +“Oh, _you_ needn’t deny it, sir,” said Nelly. “Your presence here is +proof enough against you.” + +“And _your_ presence here is proof enough agen you,” said Davy. + +“You had to meet her at eight,” said Nelly. + +“That’s a reg’lar bluff, ma’am,” said Davy, “for it was at eight you had +to meet with _him_? + +“How dare you say so?” cried Nelly. + +“I had it from the man himself,” said Davy. + +“It’s false, sir, for there _is_ no man; but I had it from the woman,” + said Nelly. + +“And did you believe her?” said Davy. + +“Did _you_ believe _him?_” said Nelly. “Were you simple enough to trust +a man who told you that he was going to meet your own wife?” + +“He wasn’t for knowing it was my own wife,” said Davy. “But were _you_ +simple enough to trust the woman who was telling you she was going to +meet your own husband?” + +“She didn’t know it was my own husband,” said Nelly. “But that wasn’t +the only thing she told me.” + +“And it wasn’t the only thing _he_ tould _me_.” said Davy. “He tould me +all your secrets--that your husband had deserted you because he was a +brute and a blackguard.” + +“I have never said so,” cried Nelly. “Who dares to say I have? I +have never opened my lips to any living man against you. But you are +measuring me by your own yard, sir; for you led _her_ to believe that I +was a cat and a shrew and a nagger, and a thankless wretch who ought to +be put down by the law just as it puts down biting dogs.” + +“Now, begging you pardon, ma’am,” said Davy; “but that’s a damned lie, +whoever made it.” + +After this burst there was a pause and a hush, and then Nelly said, +“It’s easy to say that when she isn’t here to contradict you; but wait, +sir, only wait.” + +“And it’s aisy for you to say yonder,” said Davy, “when he isn’t come to +deny it--but take your time, ma’am, take your time.” + +“Who is it?” said Nelly. + +“No matter,” said Davy. + +“Who is the man,” demanded Nelly. + +“My friend Lovibond,” answered Davy. + +“Lovibond!” cried Nelly. + +“The same,” groaned Davy. + +“Mr. Lovibond!” cried Nelly again. + +“Aw--keep it up, ma’am; keep it up!” said Davy. “And, manewhile, if you +plaze, who is the woman?” + +“My friend Jenny Crow,” said Nelly. + +Then there was another pause. + +“And did she tell you that I had agreed to meet her?” said Davy. + +“She did,” said Nelly. “And did _he_ tell _you_ that I had appointed to +meet _him?_” + +“Yes, did he,” said Davy. “At eight o’clock, did she say?” + +“Yes, eight o’clock,” said Nelly. “Did _he_ say eight?” + +“He did,” said Davy. + +The loud voices of a moment before had suddenly dropped to broken +whispers. Davy made a prolonged whistle. + +“Stop,” said he; “haven’t you been in the habit of meeting him?” + +“I have never seen him but once,” said Nelly. “But haven’t _you_ been in +the habit of meeting _her?_” + +“Never set eyes on the little skute but twice altogether,” said Davy. +“But didn’t he see you first in St. Thomas’s, and didn’t you speak with +him on the shore--” + +“I’ve never been in St. Thomas’s in my life!” said Nelly. “But didn’t +you meet her first on the Head above Port Soderick, and to go to Laxey, +and come home with her in the coach?” + +“Not I,” said Davy. + +“Then the stories she told me of the Manx sailor were all imagination, +were they?” said Nelly. + +“And the yarns _he_ tould _me_ of the girl in the church were all +make-ups, eh?” said Davy. + +“Dear me, what a pair of deceitful people!” said Nelly. + +“My gough! what a couple of cuffers!” said Davy. + +There was another pause, and then Davy began to laugh. First came a +low gurgle like that of suppressed bubbles in a fountain, then a sharp, +crackling breaker of sound, and then a long, deep roar of liberated +mirth that seemed to shake and heave the whole man, and to convulse the +very air around him. + +Davy’s laughter was contagious. As the truth began to dawn on her Mrs. +Quiggin first chuckled, then tittered, then laughed outright; and +at last her voice rose behind her husband’s in clear trills of +uncontrollable merriment. + +Laughter was the good genie that drew their assundered hearts together. +It broke down the barrier that divided them; it melted the frozen places +where love might not pass. They could not resist it. Their anger fled +before it like evil creatures of the night. + +At the first sound of Davy’s laughter something in Nelly’s bosom seemed +to whisper “He loves me still;” and at the first note of Nelly’s, +something clamored in Davy’s breast, “She’s mine, she’s mine!” They +turned toward each other in the darkness with a yearning cry. + +“Nelly!” cried Davy, and he opened his arms to her. + +“Davy!” cried Nelly, and she leaped to his embrace. + +And so ended in laughter and kisses their little foolish comedy of love. + +As soon as Davy had recovered his breath he said, with what gravity he +could command, “Seems to me, Nelly Vauch, begging your pardon, darling, +that we’ve been a couple of fools.” + +“Whoever could have believed it?” said Nelly. + +“What does it mane at all, said Davy. + +“It means,” said Nelly, “that our good friends knew each other, and that +he told her, and she told him, and that to bring us together again they +played a trick on our jealousy.” + +“Then we _were_ jealous?” said Davy. + +“Why else are we here?” said Nelly. + +“So you _did_ come to see a man, after all?” said Davy. + +“And _you_ came to see a woman,” said Nelly. + +They had began to laugh again, and to walk to and fro about the lawn, +arm-inarm and waist-to-waist, vowing that they would never part--no, +never, never, never--and that nothing on earth should separate them, +when they heard a step on the grass behind. + +“Who’s there?” said Davy. + +And a voice from the darkness answered, “It’s Willie Quarrie, Capt’n.” + +Davy caught his breath. “Lord-a-massy me!” said he. “I’d clane +forgotten.” + +“So had I,” said Nelly, with alarm. + +“I was to have started back for Cajlao by the Belfast packet.” + +“And I was to have gone home by carriage.” + +“If you plaze, Capt’n,” said Willie Quarrie, coming up. “I’ve been +looking for you high and low--the pacquet’s gone.” + +Davy drew a long breath of relief. “Good luck to her,” said he, with a +shout. + +“And, if you plaze,” said Willie, “Mr. Lovibond is gone with her.” + +“Good luck to _him_,” said Davy. + +“And Miss Crows has gone, too,” said Willie. + +“Good luck to her as well,” said Davy; and Nelly whispered at his side, +“There--what did I tell you?” + +“And if you plaze, Capt’n,” said Willie Quarrie, stammering nervously, +“Mr. Lovibond, sir, he has borrowed our--our tickets and--and taken them +away with him.” + +“He’s welcome, boy, he’s welcome,” cried Davy, promptly. “We’re going +home instead. Home!” he said again--this time to Nelly, and in a tone +of delight, as if the word rolled on his tongue like a lozenge--“that +sounds better, doesn’t it? Middling tidy, isn’t it. Not so dusty, eh?” + +“We’ll never leave it again,” said Nelly. + +“Never!” said Davy. “Not for a Dempster’s palace. Just a piece of a +croft and a bit of a thatch cottage on the lea of ould Orrisdale, and +we’ll lie ashore and take the sun like the goats.” + +“That reminds me of something,” whispered Nelly. “Listen! I’ve had a +letter from father. It made me cry this morning, but it’s all right +now--Ballamooar is to let!” + +“Ballamooar!” repeated Davy, but in another voice. “Aw, no, woman, no! +And that reminds _me_ of something.” + +“What is it,” said Nelly. + +“I should have been telling you first,” said Davy, with downcast head, +and in a tone of humiliation. + +“Then what?” whispered Nelly. + +“There’s never no money at a dirty ould swiper that drinks and gambles +everything. I’m on the ebby tide, Nelly, and my boat is on the rocks +like a taypot. I’m broke, woman, I’m broke.” + +Nelly laughed lightly. “Do you say so?” she said with mock solemnity. + +“It’s only an ould shirt I’m bringing you to patch, Nelly,” said Davy; +“but here I am, what’s left of me, to take me or lave me, and not much +choice either ways.” + +“Then I take you, sir,” said Nelly. “And as for the money,” she +whispered in a meaning voice, “I’ll take Ballamooar myself and give you +trust.” + +With a cry of joy Davy caught her to his breast and held her there as +in a vice. “Then kiss me on it again and swear to it,” he cried, “Again! +Again! Don’t be in a hurry woman! Aw, kissing is mortal hasty work! Take +your time, girl! Once more! Shocking, is it? It’s like the bags of the +bees that we were stealing when we were boys! Another! Then half a one, +and I’m done!” + +Since they had spoken to Willie Quarrie they had given no further +thought to him, when he stepped forward and said out of the darkness: +“If you plaze, capt’n, Mr. Lovibond was telling me to give you this +lether and this other thing,” giving a letter and a book to Davy. + +“Hould hard, though; what’s doing now?” said Davy, turning them over in +his hand. + +“Let us go into the house and look,” said Nelly. + +But Davy had brought out his matchbox, and was striking a light. “Hould +up my billycock, boy,” said he; and in another moment Willie Quarrie was +holding Davy’s hat on end to shield from the breeze the burning match +which Nelly held inside of it. Then Davy, bareheaded, proceeded to +examine what Lovibond had sent him. + +“A book tied up in a red tape, eh?” said Davy. “Must be the one he +was writing in constant, morning and evening, telling hisself and God +A’mighty what he was doing and wasn’t doing, and where he was going to +and when he was going to go. Aw, yes, he always kep’ a diarrhea.” + +“A diary, Davy,” said Nelly. + +“Have it as you like, _Vauch_, and don’t burn your little fingers,” + said Davy; and then he opened the letter, and with many interjections +proceeded to read it. + +“‘Dear Captain. How can I ask you to forgive me for the trick I have +played upon you? ‘(Forgive, is it?)’ I have never had an appointment +with the Manx lady; I have never had an intention of carrying her off +from her husband; I have never seen her in church, and the story I have +told you has been a lie from beginning to end.’” + +Davy lifted his head and laughed. + +“Another match, Willie,” he cried. And while the boy was striking a +fresh one Davy stamped out the burning end that Nelly dropped on to +the grass, and said: “A lie! Well, it was an’ it wasn’t. A sort of a +scriptural parable, eh?” + +“Go on, Davy,” said Nelly, impatiently, and Davy began again: + +“‘You know the object of that trick by this time’ (Wouldn’t trust), ‘but +you have been the victim of another’ (Holy sailor!), ‘to which I must +also confess. In the gambling by which I won a large part of your money’ +(True for you!) ‘I was not playing for my own hand. It was for one who +wished to save you from yourself.’ (Lord a massy!) ‘That person was your +wife’ (Goodness me!), ‘and all my earnings belong to her.’ (Good thing, +too!) ‘They are deposited at Dumbell’s in her name’ (Right!), ‘and---’” + +“There--that will do,” said Nelly, nervously. + +“‘And I send you the bank-book, together with the dock bonds,... which +you transferred for Mrs. Quiggin’s benefit... to the name... of her +friend...’” + +Davy’s lusty voice died off to a whisper. + +“What is that?” said Nelly, eagerly. + +“Nothin’,” said Davy, very thick about the throat; and he rammed the +letter into his breeches’ pocket and grabbed at his hat. As he did so, +a paper slipped to the ground. Nelly caught it up and held it on the +breezy side of the flickering match. + +It was a note from Jenny Crow: “‘You dear old goosy; your jealous little +heart found out who the Manx sailor was, but your wise little poll never +once suspected that Mr. Lovibond could be anything to anybody, although +I must have told you twenty times in the old days of the sweetheart from +whom I parted. Good thing, too. Glad you were so stupid, my dear, for +by helping you to make up your quarrel we have contrived to patch up our +own. Good-by! What lovely stories I told you! And how you liked them! +We have borrowed your husband’s berths for the Pacific steamer, and are +going to have an Irish marriage tomorrow morning at Belfast--’” + +“So they’re a Co. consarn already,” said Davy. + +“‘Good-by! Give your Manx sailor one kiss for me--’” + +“Do it!” cried Davy. “Do it! What you’ve got to do only once you ought +to do it well.” + +Then they became conscious that a smaller and dumpier figure was +standing in the darkness by the side of Willie. It was Peggy Quine. + +“Are you longing, Peggy?” Willie was saying in a voice of melancholy +sympathy. + +And Peggy was answering in a doleful tone, “Aw, yes, though--longing +mortal.” + +Becoming conscious that the eyes of her mistress were on her, Peggy +stepped out and said, “If you plaze, ma’am, the carriage is waiting this +half-hour.” + +“Then send it away again,” said Davy. + +“But the boxes is packed, sir----” + +“Send it away,” repeated Davy. + +“No, no,” said Nelly; “we must go home to-night.” + +“To-morrow morning,” shouted Davy, with a stamp of his foot and a laugh. + +“But I have paid the bill,” said Nelly, “and everything is arranged, and +we are all ready.” + +“To-morrow morning,” thundered Davy, with another stamp of the foot and +a peal of laughter. + +And Davy had his way. + + + THE END. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Capt’n Davy’s Honeymoon, by Hall Caine + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAPT’N DAVY’S HONEYMOON *** + +***** This file should be named 25572-0.txt or 25572-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/5/5/7/25572/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Capt'n Davy's Honeymoon + 1893 + +Author: Hall Caine + +Release Date: May 23, 2008 [EBook #25572] +Last Updated: October 6, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAPT'N DAVY'S HONEYMOON *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + CAPT’N DAVY’S HONEYMOON + </h1> + <h2> + By Hall Caine + </h2> + <h4> + Harper And Brothers - 1893 + </h4> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. + </h2> + <p> + “My money, ma’am—my money, not me.” + </p> + <p> + “So you say, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s my money you’ve been marrying, ma’am.” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe so, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Deny it, deny it!” + </p> + <p> + “Why should I? You say it is so, and so be it.” + </p> + <p> + “Then d——— the money. It took me more till ten years to + make it, and middling hard work at that; but you go bail it’ll take me + less nor ten months to spend it. Ay, or ten weeks, and aisy doing, too! + And ‘till it’s gone, Mistress Quig-gin—d’ye hear me?—gone, + every mortal penny of it gone, pitched into the sea, scattered to + smithereens, blown to ould Harry, and dang him—I’ll lave ye, ma’am, + I’ll lave ye; and, sink or swim, I’ll darken your doors no more.” + </p> + <p> + The lady and gentleman who blazed at each other with these burning words, + which were pointed, and driven home by flashing eyes and quivering lips, + were newly-married husband and wife. They were staying at the old Castle + Mona, in Douglas, Isle of Man, and their honeymoon had not yet finished + its second quarter. The gentleman was Captain Davy Quiggin, commonly + called Capt’n Davy, a typical Manx sea-dog, thirty years of age; stalwart, + stout, shaggy, lusty-lunged, with the tongue of a trooper, the heavy + manners of a bear, the stubborn head of a stupid donkey, and the big, soft + heart of the baby of a girl. The lady was Ellen Kinvig, known of old to + all and sundry as Nelly, Ness, or Nell, but now to everybody concerned as + Mistress Capt’n Davy Quiggin, six-and-twenty years of age, tall, comely, + as blooming as the gorse; once as free as the air, and as racy of the soil + as new-cut peat, but suddenly grown stately, smooth, refined, proud, and + reserved. They loved each other to the point of idolatry; and yet they + parted ten days after marriage with these words of wroth and madness. + Something had come between them. What was it? Another man? No. Another + woman? Still no. What then? A ghost, an intangible, almost an invisible + but very real and divorce-making co-respondent. They call it Education. + </p> + <p> + Davy Quiggin was born in a mud house on the shore, near the old church at + Ballaugh. The house had one room only, and it had been the living-room, + sleeping-room, birth-room, and death-room of a family of six. Davy, who + was the youngest, saw them all out. The last to go were his mother and his + grandfather. They lay ill at the same time, and died on the one day. The + old man died first, and Davy fixed up a herring-net in front of him, where + he lay on the settle by the fire, so that his mother might not see him + from her place on the bed. + </p> + <p> + Not long after that, Davy, who was fifteen years of age, went to live as + farm lad with Kinvig, of Ballavolley. Kinvig was a solemn person, very + stiff and starchy, and sententious in his way, a mighty man among the + Methodists, and a power in the pulpit. He thought he had done an act of + charity when he took Davy into his home, and Davy repaid him in due time + by falling in love with Nelly, his daughter. + </p> + <p> + When that happened Davy never quite knew. “That’s the way of it,” he used + to say. “A girl slips in, and there ye are.” Nelly was in to a certainty + when one night Davy came home late from the club meeting on the street, + and rapped at the kitchen window. That was the signal of the home circle + that some member of it was waiting at the door. Now there are ways and + ways of rapping at a kitchen window. There is the pit-a-pat of a light + heart, and the thud-thud of a heavy one; and there is the sharp + crack-crack of haste, and the dithering que-we-we of fear. Davy had a rap + of his own, and Nelly knew it. + </p> + <p> + There was a sort of a trip and dance and a rum-tum-tum in Davy’s rap that + always made Nelly’s heart and feet leap up at the same instant. But on + this unlucky night it was Nelly’s mother who heard it, and opened the + door. What happened then was like the dismal sneck of the outside gate to + Davy for ten years thereafter. The porch was dark, and so was the little + square lobby behind the door. On numerous other nights that had been an + advantage in Davy’s eyes, but on this occasion he thought it a snare of + the evil one. Seeing something white in a petticoat he thew his arms about + it and kissed and hugged it madly. It struck him at the time as strange + that the arms he held did not clout him under the chin, and that the lips + he smothered did not catch breath enough to call him a gawbie, and whisper + that the old people inside were listening. The truth dawned on him in a + moment, and then he felt like a man with an eel crawling down his back, + and he wanted nothing else for supper. + </p> + <p> + It was summer time, and Davy, though a most accomplished sleeper, found no + difficulty in wakening himself with the dawn next morning. He was cutting + turf in the dubs of the Curragh just then, and he had four hours of this + pastime, with spells of sober meditation between, before he came up to the + house for breakfast. Then as he rolled in at the porch, and stamped the + water out of his long-legged boots, he saw at a glance that a + thunder-cloud was brewing there. Nelly was busy at the long table before + the window, laying the bowls of milk and the deep plates for the porridge. + Her print frock was as sweet as the May blossom, her cheeks were nearly as + red as the red rose, and like the rose her head hung down. She did not + look at him as he entered. Neither did Mrs. Kinvig, who was bending over + the pot swung from the hook above the fire, and working the porridge-stick + round and round with unwonted energy. But Kinvig himself made up for both + of them. The big man was shaving before a looking-glass propped up on the + table, and against the Pilgrim’s Progress and Clark’s Commentaries. His + left hand held the point of his nose aside between the tip of his thumb + and first finger, while the other swept the razor through a hillock of + lather and revealed a portion of a mouth twisted three-quarters across his + face. But the moment he saw Davy he dropped the razor, and looked up with + as much dignity as a man could get out of a countenance half covered with + soap. + </p> + <p> + “Come in, sir,” said he, with a pretense of great deference. “Mawther,” he + said, twisting to Mrs. Kinvig, “just wipe down a chair for the gentleman.” + </p> + <p> + Davy slithered into his seat. “I’m in for it,” he thought. + </p> + <p> + “They’re telling me,” said Kinvig, “that there is a fortune coming at you. + Aw, yes, though, and that you’re taking notions on a farmer’s girl. + Respectable man, too—one of the first that’s going, with sixty acres + at him and more. Amazing thick, they’re telling me. Kissing behind the + door, and the like of that! The capers! It was only yesterday you came to + me with nothing on your back but your father’s ould trowis, cut down at + the knees.” + </p> + <p> + Nelly slipped out. Her mother made a noise with the porridge-pot. Davy was + silent. Kinvig walloped his razor on the strop with terrific vigor, then + paused, pointed the handle in Davy’s direction, tried to curl up his lip + into a withering sneer that was half lost in the lather, and said with + bitter irony, “My house is too mane for you, sir. You must lave me. It + isn’t the Isle of Man itself that’ll hould the likes of you.” + </p> + <p> + Then Davy found his tongue. “You’re right, sir,” said he, leaping to his + feet, “It’s too poor I am for your daughter, is it? Maybe I’ll be a piece + richer someday, and then you’ll be a taste civiler.” + </p> + <p> + “Behold ye now,” said Kinvig, “as bould as a goat! Cut your stick and + quick.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m off, sir,” said Davy; and, then, looking round and remembering that + he was being kicked out like a dog and would see Nelly no more, day by + day, the devil took hold of him and he began to laugh in Kinvig’s + ridiculous face. + </p> + <p> + “Good-by, ould Sukee,” he cried. “I lave you to your texes.” + </p> + <p> + And, turning to where Mrs. Kinvig stood with her back to him, he cried + again, “Good-by, mawther, take care of his ould head—it’s swelling + so much that his chapel hat is putting corns on it.” + </p> + <p> + That night with his “chiss” of clothes on his shoulders, Davy came down + stairs and went out at the porch. There he slipped his burden to the + ground, for somebody was waiting to say farewell to him. It was the right + petticoat this time, and she was on the right side of the door. The stars + were shining overhead, but two that were better than any in the sky were + looking into Davy’s face, and they were twinkling in tears. + </p> + <p> + It was only a moment the parting lasted, but a world of love was got into + it. Davy had to do penance for the insults he had heaped upon Nelly’s + father, and in return he got pity for those that had been shoveled upon + himself. + </p> + <p> + “Good-by, Nell,” he whispered; “there’s thistles in everybody’s crop. But + no matter! I’ll come back, and then it’s married we’ll be. My goodness, + yes, and take Ballacry and have six bas’es, and ten pigs, and a pony. But, + Nelly, will ye wait for me?” + </p> + <p> + “D’ye doubt me, Davy?” + </p> + <p> + “No; but will ye though?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Then its all serene,” said Davy, and with another hug and a kiss, and a + lock of brown hair which was cut ready and tied in blue ribbon, he was + gone with his chest into the darkness. + </p> + <p> + Davy sailed in an Irish schooner to the Pacific coast of South America. + There he cut his stick again, and got a berth on a coasting steamer + trading between Valparaiso and Callao. The climate was unhealthy, the + ports were foul, the government was uncertain, the dangers were constant, + and the hands above him dropped off rapidly. In two years Davy was + skipper, and in three years more he was sailing a steamer of his own. Then + the money began to tumble into his chest like crushed oats out of a + Crown’s shaft. + </p> + <p> + The first hundred pounds he had saved he sent home to Dumbell’s bank, + because he could not trust it out of the Isle of Man. But the hundreds + grew to thousands, and the thousands to tens of thousands, and to send all + his savings over the sea as he made them began to be slow work, like + supping porridge with a pitchfork. He put much of it away in paper rolls + at the bottom of his chest in the cabin, and every roll he put by stood to + him for something in the Isle of Man. “That’s a new cowhouse at + Ballavolly.” “That’s Balladry.” “That’s ould Brew’s mill at Sulby—he’ll + be out by this time.” + </p> + <p> + All his dreams were of coming home, and sometimes he wrote letters to + Nelly. The writing in them was uncertain, and the spelling was doubtful, + but the love was safe enough. And when he had poured out his heart in + small “i’s” and capital “U’s”? he always inquired how more material things + were faring. “How’s the herrings this sayson; and did the men do well with + the mack’rel at Kinsale; and is the cowhouse new thatched, and how’s the + chapel going? And is the ould man still playing hang with the texes?” + </p> + <p> + Kinvig heard of Davy’s prosperity, and received the news at first in + silence, then with satisfaction, and at length with noisy pride. His boy + was a bould fellow. “None o’ yer randy-tandy-tissimee-tea tied to the old + mawther’s apron-strings about <i>him</i>. He’s coming home rich, and he’ll + buy half the island over, and make a donation of a harmonia to the chapel, + and kick ould Cowley and his fiddle out.” + </p> + <p> + Awaiting that event, Kinvig sent Nelly to England, to be educated + according to the station she was about to fill. Nelly was four years in + Liverpool, but she had as many breaks for visits home. The first time she + came she minced her words affectedly, and Kinvig whispered the mother that + she was getting “a fine English tongue at her.” The second time she came + she plagued everybody out of peace by correcting their “plaze” to + “please,” and the “mate” to “meat,” and the “lave” to “leave.” The third + time she came she was silent, and looked ashamed: and the fourth time it + was to meet her sweetheart on his return home after ten years’ absence. + </p> + <p> + Davy came by the Sneafell from Liverpool. It was August—the height + of the visiting season—and the deck of the steamer was full of + tourists. Davy walked through the cobweb of feet and outstretched legs + with the face of a man who thought he ought to speak to everybody. Fifty + times in the first three hours he went forward to peer through the wind + and the glaring sunshine for the first glimpse of the Isle of Man. When at + length he saw it, like a gray bird lying on the waters far away, with the + sun’s light tipping the hill-tops like a feathery crest, he felt so thick + about the throat that he took six steerage passengers to the bar below to + help him to get rid of his hoarseness. There was a brass band aboard, and + during the trip they played all the outlandish airs of Germany, but just + as the pacquet steamed into Douglas Bay, and Davy was watching the land + and remembering everything upon it, and shouting “That’s Castle Mona!” + “There’s Fort Ann!” “Yonder’s ould St. Mathews’s!” they struck up “Home, + Sweet Home.” That was too much for Davy. He dived into his breeches’ + pockets, gave every German of the troupe five shillings apiece, and then + sat down on a coil of rope and blubbered aloud like a baby. + </p> + <p> + Kinvig had sent a grand landau from Ramsey to fetch Capt’n Davy to + Ballaugh; but before the English driver from the Mitre had identified his + fare Davy had recognized an old crony, with a high, springless, country + cart—Billiam Ballaneddan, who had come to Douglas to dispatch a + barrel of salted herrings to his married daughter at Liverpool, and was + going back immediately. So Davy tumbled his boxes and bags and other + belongings into the landau, piling them mountains high on the cushioned + seats, and clambered into the cart himself. Then they set off at a race + which should be home first—the cart or the carriage, the luggage or + the owner of it; the English driver on his box seat with his tall hat and + starchy cravat, or Billiam twidling his rope reins, and Davy on the plank + seat beside him, bobbing and bumping, and rattling over the stones like a + parched pea on a frying pan. + </p> + <p> + That was a tremendous drive for Davy. He shouted when he recognized + anything, and as he recognized everything he shouted throughout the drive. + They took the road by old Braddan Church and Union Mills, past St. John’s, + under the Tynwald Hill, and down Creg Willie’s Hill. As he approached Kirk + Michael his excitement was intense. He was nearing home and he began to + know the people. “Lord save us, there’s Tommy Bill-beg—how do, + Tommy? And there’s ould Betty! My gough, she’s in yet—how do, + mawther? There’s little Juan Caine growed up to a man! How do, Johnny, and + how’s the girls and how’s the ould man, and how’s yourself? Goodness me, + here’s Liza Corlett, and a baby at her——! I knew her when she + was no more than a babby herself.” This last remark to the English driver + who was coming up sedately with his landau at the tail of the springless + cart. + </p> + <p> + “Drive on, Billiam! Come up, ould girl—just a taste of the whip, + Billiam! Do her no harm at all. Bishop’s Court! Deary me, the ould house + is in the same place still.” + </p> + <p> + At length the square tower of Ballaugh + </p> + <p> + Church was seen above the trees with the last rays of the setting sun on + its topmost story, and then Davy’s eagerness swept down all his patience. + He jumped up in the cart at the peril of being flung out, took off his + billycock, whirled it round his head, bellowed “Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!” + After that he would have leaped alongside to the ground and run. “Hould + hard!” he cried, “I’ll bate the best mare that’s going.” But Billiam + pinned him down to the seat with one hand while he whipped up the horse to + a gallop with the other. + </p> + <p> + They arrived at Ballavolly an hour and a half before they were expected. + Mistress Kinvig was washing dishes in a tub on the kitchen table. Kinvig + himself was sitting lame with rheumatism in the “elber chair” by the + ingle. They wiped down a chair for Davy this time. + </p> + <p> + “And Nelly,” said Davy. “Where’s Nelly?” + </p> + <p> + “She’s coming, Capt’n,” said Kinvig. “Nelly!” he called up the kitchen + stairs, with a knowing wink at Davy, “Here’s a gentleman asking after + you.” + </p> + <p> + Davy was dying of impatience. Would she be the same dear old Nell? + </p> + <p> + “Nell—Nelly,” he shouted, “I’ve kep’ my word.” + </p> + <p> + “Aw, give her time, Capt’n,” said Kinvig; “a new frock isn’t rigged up in + no time, not to spake of a silk handkercher going pinning round your + throat.” + </p> + <p> + But Davy, who had waited ten years, would not wait a minute longer, and he + was making for the stairs with the purpose of invading Nell’s own bedroom, + when the lady herself came sweeping down on tiptoes. Davy saw her coming + in a cloud of silk, and at the next moment the slippery stuff was + crumbling, and whisking, and creaking under his hands, for his arms were + full of it. + </p> + <p> + “Aw, mawther,” said he. “They’re like honeysuckles—don’t spake to me + for a week. Many’s the time I’ve been lying in my bunk a-twigging the rats + squeaking and coorting overhead, and thinking to myself, Kisses is skess + with you now, Davy.” + </p> + <p> + The wedding came off in a week. There were terrific rejoicings. The party + returned from church in the landau that brought up Davy’s luggage. At the + bridge six strapping fellows, headed by the blacksmith, and surrounded by + a troop of women and children, stretched a rope across the road, and would + not let the horses pass until the bridegroom had paid the toll. Davy had + prepared him-self in advance with two pounds in sixpenny bits, which made + his trowsers pockets stand out like a couple of cannon balls. He fired + those balls, and they broke in the air like shells. + </p> + <p> + At the wedding breakfast in the barn at Ballavolly Davy made a speech. It + was a sermon to young fellows on the subject of sweethearts. “Don’t you + marry for land,” said he. “It’s muck,” said he. “What d’ye say, Billiam—you’d + like more of it? I wouldn’t trust; but it’s spaking the truth I am for + all. Maybe you think about some dirty ould trouss: ‘She’s a warm girl, + she’s got nice things at her—bas’es and pigs, and the like of that.’ + But don’t, if you’rr not a reg’lar blundering blockit.” Then, looking down + at the top of Nelly’s head, where she sat with her eyes in her lap beside + him, he softened down to sentiment, and said, “Marry for love, boys; stick + to the girl that’s good, and then go where you will she’ll be the star + above that you’ll sail your barque by, and if you stay at home (and + there’s no place like it) her parting kiss at midnight will be helping you + through your work all next day.” + </p> + <p> + The parting kiss at midnight brought Davy’s oration to a close, for a tug + at his coat-tails on Nelly’s side fetched him suddenly to his seat. + </p> + <p> + Two hours afterward the landau was rolling away toward the Castle Mona + Hotel at Douglas, where, by Nell’s arrangement, Capt’n Davy and his bride + were to spend their honeymoon. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. + </h2> + <p> + Now it so befell that on the very day when Capt’n Davy and Mrs. Quiggin + quarreled and separated, two of their friends were by their urgent + invitation crossing from England to visit them, Davy’s friend was Jonathan + Lovibond, an Englishman, whose acquaintance he had made on the coast. Mrs. + Quiggin’s was Jenny Crow, a young lady of lively manners, whom she had + annexed during her four years’ residence at Liverpool. These two had been + lovers five years before, had quarreled and parted on the eve of the time + appointed for their marriage, and had not since set eyes on each other. + They met for the first time afterward on the steamer that was taking them + to the Isle of Man, and neither knew the destination of the other. + </p> + <p> + Miss Crow looked out of her twinkling eyes and saw a gentleman promenading + on the quarter-deck before her, whom she must have thought she had + somewhere seen before, but that his gigantic black mustache was a puzzle, + and the little imperial on his chin was a baffling difficulty. Mr. + Lovibond puffed the smoke from a colossal cigar, and wondered if the world + held two pair of eyes like those big black ones which glanced up at him + sometimes from a deck stool, a puffy pile of wool, two long crochet + needles, and a couple of white hands, from which there flashed a diamond + ring he somehow thought he knew. + </p> + <p> + These mutual meditations lasted two long hours, and then a runaway ball of + the wool from the lap of the lady on the deck stool was hotly pursued by + the gentleman with the mustache, and instantly all uncertainty was at an + end. + </p> + <p> + After exclamations of surprise at the strange recognition (it was all so + sudden), the two old friends came to closer quarters. They touched + gingerly on the past, had some tender passages of delicate fencing, gave + various sly hits and digs, threw out certain subtle hints, and came to a + mutual and satisfactory understanding. Neither had ever looked at anybody + else since their rupture, and therefore both were still unmarried. + </p> + <p> + Having reached this stage of investigation, the wool and its needles were + stowed away in a basket under the chair, in order that the lady might + accept the invitation of the gentleman to walk with him on the deck; and + as the wind had freshened by this time, and walking in skirts was like + tacking in a stiff breeze, the gentleman offered his arm to the lady, and + thus they sailed forth together. + </p> + <p> + “And with whom are you to stay when we reach the island, Jenny?” said + Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “With a young Manx friend lately married,” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “That’s strange; for I am going to do the same,” said Lovibond. “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “At Castle Mona,” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “That’s stranger still; for it’s the place to which I am going,” said + Lovibond. “What’s your Manx friend’s name?” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Quiggin, now,” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “That’s strangest of all,” said Lovibond; “for my friend is Captain + Quiggin, and we are bound for the same place, on the same errand.” + </p> + <p> + This series of coincidences thawed down the remaining frost between the + pair, and they exchanged mutual confidences. They had gone so far as to + promise themselves a fortnight’s further enjoyment of each other’s + society, when their arrival at Douglas put a sudden end to their + anticipations. + </p> + <p> + Two carriages were waiting for them on the pier—one, with a maid + inside, was to take Jenny to Castle Mona: the other, with a boy, was to + take Lovibond to Fort Ann. + </p> + <p> + The maid was Peggy Quine, seventeen years of age, of dark complexion, + nearly as round as a dolley-tub, and of deadly earnest temperament. When + Jenny found herself face to face and alone with this person, she lost no + time in asking how it came to pass that Mrs. Quiggin was at Castle Mona + while her husband was at Fort Ann. + </p> + <p> + “They’ve parted, ma’am,” said Peggy. + </p> + <p> + “Parted?” shrieked Jenny above the rattle of the carriage glass. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes, ma’am,” Peggy stammered; “cruel, ma’am, right cruel, cruel + extraordinary. It’s a wonder the capt’n doesn’t think shame of his + conduck. The poor misthress! She’s clane heartbroken. It’s a mercy to me + she didn’t clout him.” + </p> + <p> + In two minutes more Jenny was in Mrs. Quiggin’s room at Castle Mona, + crying, “Gracious me, Ellen, what is this your maid tells me?” + </p> + <p> + Nelly had been eating out her heart in silence all day long, and now the + flood of her pride and wrath burst out, and she poured her wrongs upon + Jenny as fiercely as if that lady stood for the transgressions of her + husband. + </p> + <p> + “He reproached me with my poverty,” she cried. + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, he told me I had only married him for his money—there’s not + much difference.” + </p> + <p> + “And what did you say?” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “Say? What could I say? What would any woman say who had any respect for + herself?” + </p> + <p> + “But how did he come to accuse you of marrying him for his money? Had you + asked him for any?” + </p> + <p> + “Not I, indeed.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you hadn’t loved him enough?” + </p> + <p> + “Not that either—that I know of.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why did he say it?” + </p> + <p> + “Just because I wanted him to respect himself, and have some respect for + his wife, too, and behave as a gentleman, and not as a raw Manx rabbit + from the Calf.” + </p> + <p> + Jenny gave a look of amused intelligence, and said, “Oh, oh, I see, I see! + Well, let me take off my bonnet, at all events.” + </p> + <p> + While this was being done in the bedroom Nelly, who was furtively wiping + her eyes, continued the recital of her wrongs:— + </p> + <p> + “Would you believe it, Jenny, the first thing he did when we arrived here + after the wedding was to shake hands with the hall porter, and the boots + who took our luggage, and ask after their sisters and their mothers, and + their sweethearts—the man knew them all. And when he heard from his + boy, Willie Quarrie, that the cook was a person from Michael, it was as + much as I could do to keep him from tearing down to the kitchen to talk + about old times.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I see,” said Jenny; “he has made a fortune, but he is just the same + simple Manx lad that he was ten years ago.” + </p> + <p> + “Just, just! We can’t go out for a walk together but he shouts, ‘How do? + Fine day, mates!’ to the drivers of the hackney cabs across the promenade; + and the joy of his life is to get up at seven in the morning and go down + to the quay before breakfast to keep tally with a chalk for the fishermen + counting their herrings out of the boats into the barrels.” + </p> + <p> + “Not a bit changed, then, since he went away?” said Jenny, before the + glass. + </p> + <p> + “Not a bit; and because I asked him to know his place, and if he is a + gentleman to behave as a gentleman and speak as a gentleman and not make + so easy with such as don’t respect him any the better for it, he turns on + me and tells me I’ve only married him for his money.” + </p> + <p> + “Dreadful!” said Jenny, fixing her fringe. “And is this the old sweetheart + you have waited ten years for?” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, it is.” + </p> + <p> + “And now that he has come back and you’ve married him, he has parted from + you in ten days?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; and it will be the talk of the island—indeed it will.” + </p> + <p> + “Shocking! And so he has left you here on your honeymoon without a penny + to bless yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, for the matter of that, he fixed something on me before the wedding—a + jointure, the advocates called it.” + </p> + <p> + “Terrible! Let me see. He’s the one who sent you presents from America?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh; he piled presents enough on me. It’s the way of the men: the + stingiest will do that. They like to think they’re such generous + creatures. But let a poor woman count on it, and she’ll soon be wakened + from her dream. ‘You married me for my money—deny it?’” + </p> + <p> + “Fearful!” + </p> + <p> + Jenny was leaning her forehead against the window sash, and looking + vacantly out on the bay. Nelly observed her a moment, stopped suddenly in + the tale of her troubles, and said, in another voice, “Jenny Crow, I + believe you are laughing at me. It’s always the way with you. You can take + nothing seriously.” + </p> + <p> + Jenny turned back to the room with a solemn face, and said, “Nellie, if + you waited ten years for your husband, I suppose that he waited ten years + for you.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose he did.” + </p> + <p> + “And, if he is the same man as he was when he went away, I suppose his + love is the same?” + </p> + <p> + “Then how <i>could</i> he say such things?” + </p> + <p> + “And, if he is the same, and his love is the same, isn’t it possible that + somebody else is different?” + </p> + <p> + “Now, Jenny Crow, you are going to say it’s all my fault?” + </p> + <p> + “Not all, Nelly. Something has come between you.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s the money. Oh, Jenny, if you ever marry, marry a poor man, and then + he can’t fling it in your face that you are poorer than he.” + </p> + <p> + “No; it can’t be the money, Nelly, for the money is his, and yet it hasn’t + changed him. And, Nelly, isn’t it a good thing in a rich man not to turn + his back on his old poor comrades—not to think because he has been + in the sun that people are black who are only in the shade—not to + pretend to have altered his skin because his coat has changed—isn’t + it?” + </p> + <p> + “I see what you mean. You mean that I’ve driven my husband away with my + bad temper.” + </p> + <p> + “No; not that; but Nelly—dear old Nell—think what you’re + doing. Take warning from one who once made shipwreck of her own life. + Think no man common who loves you—no matter what his ways are, or + his manners, or his speech. Love makes the true nobility. It ennobles him + who loves you and you who are beloved. Cling to it—prize it—do + not throw it away. Money can not buy it, nor fame nor rank atone for it. + When a woman is loved she is a queen, and he who loves her is her king.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Quiggin was weeping behind her hands by this time, but she lifted + swollen eyes to say, “I see; you would have me go to him and submit, and + explain, and beg his pardon. ‘Dear David, I didn’t marry you for your + money——’ No,” leaping to her feet, “I’ll scrub my fingers to + the bone first.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Nelly——” + </p> + <p> + “Say no more, Jenny Crow, We’re hot-headed people, both of us, and we’ll + quarrel.” + </p> + <p> + Then Jenny’s solemn manner was gone in an instant. She snapped her + fingers, kicked up one leg a little, and said lightly, “Very well; and now + let us have some dinner,”—— + </p> + <p> + Meantime Lovibond was hearing the other side of the story from Captain + Davy at Forte Ann. On the way there he had heard of the separation from + the boy, Willie Quarrie, a lugubrious Manx lad, eighteen years old, with a + face as white as a haddock and as grim as a gannet. + </p> + <p> + “Aw, terr’ble doings, sir, terr’ble, terr’ble!” moaned Willie. “Young + Mistress Quiggin ateing her heart out at Castle Mona, and Captain Davy + hisself at Forte Ann over, drinking and tearing and carrying on till all’s + blue.” + </p> + <p> + Lovibond found Captain Davy in the smoke-room with a face as hard as a + frozen turnip, one leg over the arm of an elbow chair, a church-warden + pipe in his mouth, a gigantic glass of brandy and soda before him, and an + admiring circle of the laziest riff-raff of the town about him. As soon as + they were alone he said: + </p> + <p> + “But what’s this that your boy tells me, captain?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m foundered,” said Davy, “broke, wrecked, the screw of my tide’s gone + twisting on the rocks. I’m done, mate, I’m done.” + </p> + <p> + Then he proceeded to recite the incidents of the quarrel, coloring them by + the light of the numerous glasses with which he had covered his brain + since morning. + </p> + <p> + “‘You’ve married me for my money,’ says I. ‘What else?’ said she. ‘Then d——— + the money,’ says I, ‘I’ll lave you till it’s gone.’ ‘Do it and welcome,’ + says she, and I’m doing it, bad cess to it, I’m doing it. But, stop this + jaw. I swore to myself I wouldn’t spake of it to any man living. What d’ye + drink? I’ve took to the brandy swig myself. Join in. Mate!” (this in a + voice of thunder to the waiter at the end of the adjoining room) “brandy + for the gentleman.” + </p> + <p> + Lovibond waited a moment and then said quietly, “But whatever made you + give her an ungenerous stab like that, captain?” + </p> + <p> + Davy looked up curiously and answered, “That’s just what I’ve tooken six + big drinks to find out. But no use at all, and what’s left to do?” + </p> + <p> + “Why take it back?” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “No, deng my buttons if I will.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “‘Cause it’s true.” + </p> + <p> + Lovibond waited again, and then said in another voice, “And is this the + little girl you used to tell of out yonder on the coast—Nessy, + Nelly, Nell, what was it?” + </p> + <p> + Davy’s eyes began to fill, but his mouth remained firm. He cleared his + throat noisily, shook the dust out of his pipe on to the heel of his boot, + and said, “No—yes—no—Well, it is and it isn’t. It’s + Nelly Kinvig, that’s sarten sure. But the juice of the woman’s sowl’s + dried up.” + </p> + <p> + “The little thing that used to know your rap at the kitchen window, and + come tripping out like a bird chirping in the night, and go linking down + the lane with you in the starlight?” + </p> + <p> + Davy broke the shaft of his churchwarden into small lengths, and flung the + pieces out at the open window and said, “I darn’t say no.” + </p> + <p> + “The one that stuck to you like wax when her father gave you the great + bounce out—eh?” + </p> + <p> + Davy wriggled and spat, and then muttered, “You go bail.” + </p> + <p> + “You have known her since you were children, haven’t you?” + </p> + <p> + Davy’s hard face thawed suddenly, and he said, “Ay, since she wore + petticoats up to her knees, and I was a boy in a jacket, and we played + hop-skotch in the haggard, and double-my-duck agen the cowhouse gable. Aw + dear, aw dear! The sweet little thing she was then any way. Yellow hair at + her, and eyes like the sea, and a voice same as the throstle! Well, well, + to think, to think! Playing in the gorse and the ling together, and the + daisies and the buttercups—and then the curlews whistling and the + river singing like music, and the bees ahumoning—aw, terr’ble sweet + and nice. And me going barefoot, and her bare-legged, and divil a hat at + the one of us—aw, deary me, deary me! Wasn’t much starch at her in + them ould days, mate.” + </p> + <p> + “Is there now, captain?” + </p> + <p> + “Now? D’ye say <i>now</i>? My goodness! It’s always hemming and humming + and a heise of the neck, and her head up like a Cochin-China, with a + topknot, and ‘How d’ye do?’ and cetererar and cetererar. Aw, smooth as an + ould threepenny bit—smooth astonishing. And partic’lar! My gough! + You couldn’t call Tom to a cat afore her, but she’d be agate of you to + make it Thomas.” + </p> + <p> + Lovibond smiled behind his big mustache. + </p> + <p> + “The rael ould Manx isn’t good enough for her now. Well, I wasn’t + objecting, not me. She’s got the English tongue at her—that’s all + right. Only I’ll stick to what I’m used of. Job’s patience went at last + and so did mine, and I arn’t much of a Job neither.” + </p> + <p> + “And what has made all this difference,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “Why, the money, of coorse. It was the money that done it, bad sess to + it,” said Davy, pitching the head of his pipe after the shank. “I went out + yonder to get it and I got it. Middling hard work, too, but no matter. It + was to be all for her. ‘I’ll come back, Nelly,’ says I, ‘and we’ll take + Ballacry and have six craythurs and a pony, and keep a girl to do for you, + and you’ll take your aise—only milking maybe, or churning, but + nothing to do no harm.’ I was ten years getting it, and I never took + notions on no other girls neither. No, honor bright, thinks I, Nelly’s + waiting for you, Davy. Always dreaming of her, ‘cept when them lazy black + chaps wanted leathering, and that’s a job that isn’t nothing without a bit + of swearing at whiles. But at night, aw, at night, mate, lying out on the + deck in that heat like the miller’s kiln, and shelling your clothes piece + by piece same as a bushel of oats, and looking up at the stars atwinkling + in the sky, and spotting one of them, and saying to yourself quietlike, so + as them niggers won’t hear, ‘That’s star is atwinkling over Nelly, too, + and maybe she’s watching it now.’ It seemed as if we wasn’t so far apart + then. Somehow it made the world a taste smaller. ‘Shine on, my beauty,’ + thinks I, ‘shine down straight into Nelly’s room, and if she’s awake tell + her I’m coming, and if she’s asleep just make her dream that I’m loving + nobody else till her.’ But, chut! It was myself that was dreaming. Drink + up! She married me for my money, so I’m making it fly.” + </p> + <p> + “And when it’s gone—what then?” said Lovibond. “Will you go back to + her!” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe so, maybe no.” + </p> + <p> + “Will anything be the better because the money’s spent?” + </p> + <p> + “God knows.” + </p> + <p> + “Will she be as sweet and good as she once was when you are as poor as you + were?” + </p> + <p> + Davy heaved up to his feet. “What’s the use of thinking of the like of + that?” he cried. “My money’s mine, I baked for it out in that oven. Now + I’m spending it, and what for shouldn’t I? Here goes—healths + apiece!” + </p> + <p> + Next day Lovibond and Jenny Crow met on the pier. There they pondered the + ticklish situation of their friends, and every word they said on it was + pointed and punctuated by a sense of their own relations. + </p> + <p> + “It’s plain that the good fools love each other,” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “Quite plain,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “Heigho! It’s mad work being angry with somebody you are dying to love,” + said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “Colney Hatch is nothing to it,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “Smaller things have parted people for years,” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; five years,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “The longer apart the wider the breach, and the harder to cover it,” said + Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “Just so,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “They must meet. Of course they’ll fight like cat and dog, but better that + than this separation. Time leaves bigger scars than claws ever made. Now, + couldn’t we bring them together?” + </p> + <p> + “Just what I was thinking,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure he must be a dear, simple soul, though I’ve never set eyes on + him,” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “And I’m certain she must be as sweet as an angel, though I’ve never seen + her,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + Jenny shot a jealous glance at her companion, then cracked two fingers and + said eagerly, “There you are—there’s the idea in a cockle-shell. Now + <i>if each could see the other through other eyes!</i>” + </p> + <p> + “The very thing!” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “Then why don’t you give me your arm at once, and let me think me over?” + said Jenny. In less than an hour these two wise heads had devised a scheme + to bring Capt’n Davy and his bride together. What that scheme was and how + it worked let those who read discover. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. + </h2> + <p> + Six days passed as with feet of lead, and Capt’n Davy and Mrs. Quiggin + were still in Douglas. They could not tear themselves away. Morning and + night the good souls were seized by a morbid curiosity about their + servants’ sweethearts. “Seen Peggy lately?” Capt’n Davy would say. “I + suppose you’ve not come across Willie Quarrie lately?” Mrs. Quiggin would + ask. Thus did they squeeze to the driest pulp every opportunity of hearing + anything of each other. + </p> + <p> + Jenny Crow, with Mrs. Quiggin at Castle Mona, had not yet set eyes on + Captain Davy, and Lovibond, with Captain Davy at Fort Ann, had never once + seen Mrs. Quiggin. Jenny had said nothing of Lovibond to Nelly, and + Lovibond had said nothing of Jenny to Davy. + </p> + <p> + Matters stood so when one evening Peggy Quine was dressing up her + mistress’s hair for dinner, and answering the usual question. + </p> + <p> + “Seen Willie Quarrie, ma’am? Aw ‘deed, yes, ma’am; and it’s shocking the + stories he’s telling me. The Capt’n’s making the money fly. Bowls and + beer, and cards and betting—it’s ter’ble, ma’m, ter’ble. Somebody + should hould him. He’s distracted like. Giving to everybody as free as + free. Parsons and preachers and the like—they’re all at him, same as + flies at a sheep with the rot.” + </p> + <p> + “And what do people say, Peggy?” + </p> + <p> + “They say fools and their money is quickly parted ma’am.” + </p> + <p> + “How dare you call anybody a fool, Peggy?” + </p> + <p> + “Aw it’s not me, ma’am. It’s them that’s seeing him wasting his money like + water through a pitchfork. And the dirts that’s catching most is shouting + loudest. ‘Deed, ma’am, but his conduct is shocking.” + </p> + <p> + “And what do people say is the cause of it, Peggy?” + </p> + <p> + “Lumps in his porridge, ma’am.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, though, that’s what Willie Quarrie is telling me. When a woman isn’t + just running even with her husband they call her lumps in his porridge. + Aw, Willie’s a feeling lad.” + </p> + <p> + There was a pause after this disclosure, and then Mrs. Quiggin said in + another voice, “Peggy, there’s a strange gentleman staying with the + Captain at Forte Ann, is there not?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma’am; Mr. Loviboy.” + </p> + <p> + “What is he like, Peggy?” + </p> + <p> + “Pepper and salt trowis, ma’am, and a morsel of hair on the tip of his + chin.” + </p> + <p> + “Tall, Peggy?” + </p> + <p> + “No, a long wisp’ry man.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose he helps the Captain to spend his money?” + </p> + <p> + “Never a ha’po’th, ma’am, ‘deed no; but ter’ble onaisy at it, and rigging + him constant But no use at all, at all. The Capt’n’s intarmined to ruin + hisself. Somebody should just take him and wallop him, ding dong, afore + he’s wasted all he’s got, and hasn’t a penny left at him.” + </p> + <p> + “How dare you, Peggy?” + </p> + <p> + Peggy was dismissed in anger, and Mrs. Quiggin sat down to write a letter + to Lovibond. She begged him to pardon the liberty of one who was no + stranger, though they had never met, in asking him to come to her without + delay. This done, and marked <i>private</i>, she called Peggy back and + bade her to take the letter to Willie Quarrie, and tell him to give it to + the gentleman before the Captain came down to breakfast in the morning. + </p> + <p> + The day was Sunday, the weather was brilliant, the window was open, and + the salt breath of the sea was floating into the room. With the rustle of + silk like a breeze in a pine tree Jenny Crow came back from a walk, + swinging a parasol by a ring about her wrist. + </p> + <p> + “Such an adventure!” she said, sinking into a chair. “A man, of course! I + saw him first on the Head at the skirts of the crowd that was listening to + the Bishop’s preaching. Such a manly fellow! Broad-shouldered, + big-chested, standing square on his legs like a rock. Dark, of course, and + such eyes, Nelly! Brown—no black-brown. I like black-brown eyes in a + man, don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + Captain Davy’s eyes were of the darkest brown. Mrs. Quiggin gave no sign. + </p> + <p> + “Then his dress—so simple. None of your cuffs and ruffs, and great + high collars like a cart going for coke. Just a blue serge suit, and a + monkey jacket. I like a man in a monkey jacket.” + </p> + <p> + Captain Davy wore a monkey jacket; Mrs. Quiggin colored slightly. + </p> + <p> + “A sailor, thinks I. There’s something so free and open about a sailor, + isn’t there?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think so, Jenny?” said Mrs. Quiggin in a faint voice. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure of it, Nelly. The sailor is just like the sea. He’s noisy—so + is the sea. Liable to storms—so is the sea. Blusters and boils, and + rocks and reels—so does the sea. But he’s sunny too, and open and + free, and healthy and bracing, and the sea is all that as well.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Quiggin was thinking of Captain Davy, and tingling with pleasure and + shame, but she only said, falteringly, “Didn’t you talk of some + adventure?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, of course, certainly,” said Jenny. “After he had listened a moment he + went on, and I lost sight of him. Presently I went on, too, and walked + across the Head until I came within sight of Port Soderick. Then I sat + down by a great bowlder. So quiet up there, Nelly; not a sound except the + squeal of the sea birds, the boo-oo of the big waves outside, and the + plash-ash of the little ones on the beach below. All at once I heard a + sigh. At that I looked to the other side of the bowlder, and there was my + friend of the monkey jacket. I was going to rise, but he rose instead, and + begged me not to trouble. Then I was vexed with myself, and said I hoped + he wouldn’t disturb himself on my account.” + </p> + <p> + “You never said that, Jenny Crow?” + </p> + <p> + “Why not, my dear? You wouldn’t have had me less courteous than he was. So + he stood and talked. You never heard such a voice, Nelly. Deep as a bell, + and his Manx tongue was like music. Talk of the Irish brogue! There’s no + brogue in the world like the Manx, is there now, not if the right man is + speaking it.” + </p> + <p> + “So he was a Manxman,” said Mrs. Quiggin, with a far-away look through the + open window. + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t I say so before? But he has quite saddened me. I’m sure there’s + trouble hanging over him. ‘I’ve been sailing foreign, ma’am,’ said he, + ‘and I don’t know nothing—‘.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, then he wasn’t a gentleman?” said Mrs. Quiggin. + </p> + <p> + Jenny fired up sharply. “Depends on what you call a gentleman, my dear. + Now, any man is a gentleman to me who can afford to dispense with the + first two syllables of the name.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Quiggin looked down at her feet. + </p> + <p> + “I only meant,” she said meekly, “that your friend hasn’t as much + education—.” + </p> + <p> + “Then, perhaps, he has more brains,” said Jenny. “That’s the way they’re + sometimes divided, you know, and education isn’t everything.” + </p> + <p> + “Do <i>you</i> think that, Jenny?” said Mrs. Quiggin, with another long + look through the window. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I do,” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “And what did he say?” + </p> + <p> + “’ I’ve been sailing foreign, ma’am,’ he said. ‘And I don’t know nothing + that cut’s a man’s heart from its moorings like coming home same as a + homing pigeon, and then wishing yourself back again same as a lost one.’” + </p> + <p> + “Poor fellow!” said Mrs. Quiggin. “He must have found things changed since + he went away.” + </p> + <p> + “He must,” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps he has lost some one who was dear to him,” said Mrs. Quiggin. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps,” said Jenny, with a sigh. + </p> + <p> + “His mother may be, or his sister—” began Mrs. Quiggin. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, or his wife.” continued Jenny, with a moan. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Quiggin drew up suddenly. “What’s his name?” she asked sharply. + </p> + <p> + “Nay, how could I ask him that?” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “Where does he live?” said Mrs. Quiggin. + </p> + <p> + “Or that either?” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Quiggin’s eyes wandered slowly back to the window. “We’ve all got our + troubles, Jenny,” she said quietly. + </p> + <p> + “All,” said Jenny. “I wonder if I shall ever see him again.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me if you do, Jenny?” said Mrs. Quiggin. + </p> + <p> + “I will, Nelly,” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “Poor fellow, poor fellow,” said Mrs. Quiggin. + </p> + <p> + As Jenny rose to remove her bonnet she shot a sly glance out of the + corners of her eyes, and saw that Mrs. Quiggin was furtively wiping her + own. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile Lovibond at Fort Ann was telling a similar story to Captain + Davy. He had left the house for a walk before Davy had come down to + breakfast, and on returning at noon he found him immersed in the usual + occupation of his mornings. This was that of reading and replying to his + correspondence. Davy read with difficulty, and replied to all letters by + check. His method of business was peculiar and original. He was stretched + on the sofa with a pipe in his mouth, and the morning’s letters + pigeonholed between his legs. Willie Quarrie sat at a table with a + check-book before him. While Davy read the letters one by one he + instructed Willie as to the nature of the answer, and Willie, with his + head aslant, his mouth awry, and his tongue in his cheek, turned it into + figures on the check-book. + </p> + <p> + As Lovibond came in Davy was knocking off the last batch for the day. + “‘Respected sir,’ he was reading, ‘I know you’ve a tender heart’... Send + her five pounds, Willie, and tell her to take that talk to the butchers.” + </p> + <p> + “‘Honored Captain, we are going to erect a new school in connection with + Ballajora chapel, and if you will honor us by laying the foundation + stone....’ Never laid a stone in my life ‘cept one, and that was my + mawther’s sink-stone. Twenty pounds, Willie. ‘Sir, we are to hold a + bazaar, and if you will consent to open it....’ Bazaar! I know: a sort of + ould clothes shop in a chapel where you’re never tooken up for cheating, + because you always says your paternoster-ings afore you begin. Ten pounds, + Willie. Helloa, here’s Parson Quiggin. Wish the ould devil would write + more simpler; I was never no good at the big spells myself. ‘Dear + David....’ That’s good—he walloped me out of the school once for + mimicking his walk—same as a coakatoo esactly. ‘Dear David, owing to + the lamentable death of brother Mylechreest it has been resolved to ask + you to become a member of our committee....’ Com-mittee! I know the sort—kind + of religious firm where there’s three partners, only two of them’s + sleeping ones. Dirty ould hypocrite! Fifteen pounds, Willie.” + </p> + <p> + This was the scene that Lovibond interrupted by his entrance. “Still bent + on spending your money, Captain?” he said. “Don’t you see that the people + who write you these begging letters are impostors?” + </p> + <p> + “Coorse I do,” said Davy. “What’s it saying in the Ould Book? ‘Where the + carcass is, there will the eagles be gathered together.’ Only, as Parson + Howard used to say, bless the ould angel, ‘Summat’s gone screw with the + translation theer, friends, should have been vultures.” + </p> + <p> + “Half of them will only drink your money, Captain,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “And what for shouldn’t they? That’s what I’m doing,” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “It’s poor work, Captain, poor work. You didn’t always think: money was a + thing to pitch into a ditch.” + </p> + <p> + “Always? My goodness, no!” said Davy. “Time was once when I thought money + was just all and Tommy in this world. My gough, yes, when I was a slip of + a lad, didn’t I?” said he, sobering very suddenly. “The father was lost in + a gale at the herrings, and the mawther had to fend for the lot of us. + They all went off except myself—the sisters and brothers. Poor + things, they wasn’t willing to stay with us, and no wonder. But there’s + mostly an ould person about every Manx house that sees the young ones out, + and the mawther’s father was at us still. Lame though of his legs with the + rheumatics, and wake in his intellecs for all. Couldn’t do nothing but lie + in by the fire with his bit of a blanket hanging over his head, same as + snow atop of a hawthorn bush. Just stirring the peats, and boiling the + kettle, and lifting the gorse when there was any fire. The mawther weeded + for Jarvis Kewley—sixpence a day dry days, and fourpence all + weathers. Middling hard do’s, mate. And when she’d give the ould man his + basin of broth he’d be saying, squeaky-like, ‘Give it to the boy, woman; + he’s a growing lad?’ ‘Chut! take it, man,’ the mawther would say, and then + he’d be whimpering, ‘I’m keeping you long, Liza, I’m keeping you long.’ + And there was herself making a noise with her spoon in the bottom of a + basin, and there was me grinding my teeth, and swearing to myself like + mad, ‘As sure as the living God I’ll be ruch some day.’ And now—” + </p> + <p> + Davy snapped his fingers, laughed boisterously, rolled to his feet, and + said shortly, “Where’ve you been to?” + </p> + <p> + “To church—the church with a spire at the end of the parade,” said + Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “St. Thomas’s—I know it,” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + St. Thomas’s was half way up to Castle Mona. + </p> + <p> + The men strolled out at the window, which opened on to the warm, soft turf + of the Head, and lay down there with their faces to the sun-lit bay. + </p> + <p> + “Who preached?” said Davy, clasping hands at the back of his head. + </p> + <p> + “A young woman,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + Davy lifted his head out of its socket, “My goodness!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Well, at all events,” explained Lovi-bond, “it was a girl who preached to + <i>me</i>. The moment I went into the church I saw her, and I saw nothing + else until I came out again.” + </p> + <p> + Davy laughed, “Ay, that’s the way a girl slips in,” said he. “Who was + she?” + </p> + <p> + “Nay; I don’t know,” said Lovibond; “but she sat over against me on the + opposite side of the aisle, and her face was the only prayer-book I could + keep my eyes from wandering from.” + </p> + <p> + “And what was her tex’, mate?” + </p> + <p> + “Beauty, grace, truth, the tenderness of a true heart, the sweetness of a + soul that is fresh and pure.” + </p> + <p> + Davy looked up with vast solemnity. “Take care,” said he. “There’s odds of + women, sir. They’re like sheep’s broth is women. If there’s a heart and + head in them they’re good, and if there isn’t you might as well be supping + hot water. Faces isn’t the chronometer to steer your boat to the good + ones. Now I’ve seen some you could swear to——.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll swear to this one,” said Lovibond with an appearance of tremendous + earnestness. + </p> + <p> + Davy looked at him, gravely. “D’ye say so?” said he. + </p> + <p> + “Such eyes, Capt’n—big and full, and blue, and then pale, pale blue, + in the whites of them too, like—like——.” + </p> + <p> + “I know,” said Davy; “like a blackbird’s eggs with the young birds just + breaking out of them.” + </p> + <p> + “Just,” said Lovibond, “And then her hair, Capt’n—brown, that brown + with a golden bloom, as if it must have been yellow when she was a child.” + </p> + <p> + “I know the sort, sir,” said Davy, proudly; “like the ling on the + mountains in May, with the gorse creeping under it.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly. And then her voice, Cap tain, her voice—.” + </p> + <p> + “So you were speaking to her?” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “No, but didn’t she sing?” said Lovi-bond. “Such tones, soft and + tremulous, rising and falling, the same as—as—.” + </p> + <p> + “Same as the lark’s, mate,” said Davy, eagerly; “same as the lark’s—first + a burst and a mount and then a trimble and a tumble, as if she’d got a + drink of water out of the clouds of heaven, and was singing and swallowing + together—I know the sort; go on.” + </p> + <p> + Lovibond had kept pace with Davy’s warmth, but now he paused and said + quietly, “I’m afraid she’s in trouble.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor thing!” said Davy. “How’s that, mate?” + </p> + <p> + “People can never disguise their feelings in singing a hymn,” said + Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “You say true, mate,” said Davy; “nor in giving one out neither. Now, + there was old Kinvig. He had a sow once that wasn’t too reg’lar in her + pigging. Sometimes she gave many, and sometimes she gave few, and + sometimes she gave none. She was a hit-and-a-missy sort of a sow, you + might say. But you always know’d how the ould sow done, by the way Kinvig + gave out the hymn. If it was six he was as loud as a clarnet, and if it + was one his voice was like the tram-bones. But go on about the girl.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s all,” said Lovibond. “When the service was over I walked down the + aisle behind her, and touched her dress with my hand, and somehow—” + </p> + <p> + “I know,” cried Davy. “Gave you a kind of ‘lectricity shock, didn’t it? + Lord alive, mate, girls is quare things.” + </p> + <p> + “Then she walked off the other way,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “So you don’t know where she comes from?” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “I couldn’t bring myself to follow her, Capt’n.” + </p> + <p> + “And right too, mate. It’s sneaking. Following a girl in the streets is + sneaking, and the man that done it ought to be wallopped till all’s blue. + But you’ll see her again, I’ll go bail, and maybe hear who she is. Rael + true women is skess these days, sir; but I’m thinking you’ve got your + flotes down for a good one. Give her line, mate—give her line—and + if I wasn’t such a downhearted chap myself I’d be helping you to land + her.” + </p> + <p> + Lovibond observed that Capt’n Davy was more than usually restless after + this conversation, and in the course of the afternoon, while he lay in a + hazy dose on the sofa, he overheard this passage between the captain and + his boy:— + </p> + <p> + “Willie Quarrie, didn’t you say there was an English lady staying with + Mistress Quiggin at Castle Mona?” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Crows; yes,” said Willie. “So Peggy Quine is telling me—a + little person with a spyglass, and that fond of the mistress you wouldn’t + think.” + </p> + <p> + “Then just slip across in the morning, and spake to herself, and say can I + see her somewheres, or will she come here, and never say nothing to + nobody.” + </p> + <p> + Davy’s uneasiness continued far into the evening. He walked alone to and + fro on the turf of the Head in front of the house, until the sun set + behind the hills to the west, where a golden rim from its falling light + died off on the farthest line of the sea to the east, and the town between + lay in a haze of deepening purple. Lovibond knew where his thoughts were, + and what new turn they had taken; but he pretended to see nothing, and he + gave no sign. + </p> + <p> + Sunday as it was, Capt’n Davy’s cronies came as usual at nightfall. They + were a sorry gang, but Davy welcomed them with noisy cheer. The lights + were brought in, and the company sat down to its accustomed amusements. + These were drinking and smoking, with gambling in disguise at intervals. + Davy lost tremendously, and laughed with a sort of wild joy at every + failure. He was cheated on all hands, and he knew it. Now and again he + called the cheaters by hard name, but he always paid them their money. + They forgave the one for the sake of the other, and went on without shame. + Lovibond’s gorge rose at the spectacle. He was an old gambler himself, and + could have stripped every rascal of them all as naked as a lettuce after a + locust. His indignation got the better of him at last, and he went out on + to the Head. + </p> + <p> + The calm sea lay like a dark pavement dotted with the reflection of the + stars overhead. Lights in a wide half-circle showed the line of the bay. + Below was the black rock of the island of the Tower of Refuge, and the + narrow strip of the old Red pier; beyond was the dark outline of the Head, + and from the seaward breast of it shot the light of the lighthouse, like + the glow of a kiln. It was as quiet and beautiful out there as it had been + noisy and hideous within. + </p> + <p> + Lovibond had been walking to and fro for more than an hour listening to + the slumberous voices of the night, and hearing at intervals the louder + bellowing from the room where Captain Davy and his cronies were sitting, + when Davy himself came out. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t stand no more of it, and I’ve sent them home,” he said. “It’s + like saying your prayers to a hornpipe, thinking of her and carrying on + with them wastrels.” + </p> + <p> + He was sober in one sense only. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me more about the little girl in church. Aw, matey, matey! Something + under my waistcoat went creep, creep, creep, same as a sarpent, when you + first spake of her; but its easier to stand till that jaw inside anyway. + Go on, sir. Love at first sight, was it? Aw, well, the eyes isn’t the only + place that love is coming in at, or blind men would all be bachelors. Now + mine came in at the ear.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you fall in love with her singing, Capt’n?” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, did I,” said Davy, “and her spaking, too, and her whispering as + well, but it wasn’t music that brought love in at my ear—my left ear + it was, Matey.” + </p> + <p> + “Whatever was it then, Capt’n,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “Milk,” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “Milk?” cried Lovibond, drawing up in their walk. + </p> + <p> + “Just milk,” said Davy again. “Come along and I tell you. It was this way. + Ould Kinvig kep’ two cows, and we were calling the one Whitie and the + other Brownie. Nelly and me was milking the pair of them, and she was like + a young goat, that full of tricks, and I was same as a big calf, that shy. + One evening—it was just between the lights—that’s when girls + is like kittens, terr’ble full of capers and mischievousness—Nelly + rigged up her kopie—that’s her milking-stool—agen mine, so + that we sat back to back, her milking Brownie and me milking Whitie. ‘What + she agate of now?’ thinks I, but she was looking as innocent as the bas’es + themselves, with their ould solem faces when they were twisting round. + Then we started, and there wasn’t no noise in the cow-house, but just the + cows chewing constant, and, maybe, the rope running on their necks at + whiles and the rattle of the milk in the pails. And I got to draeming same + as I was used of, with the smell of the hay stealing down from the loft + and the breath of the cows coming puff when they were blowing, and the + tits in my hands agoing, when the rattle-rattle aback of me stopped + sudden, and I felt a squish in my ear like the syringe at the doctor’s. + ‘What’s that?’ thinks I. ‘Is it deaf I’m going?’ But it’s deaf I’d been + and blind, too, and stupid for all down to that blessed minute, for there + was Nessy laughing like fits, and working like mad, and drops of Brownie’s + milk going trickling out of my ear on to my shoulder. ‘It’s not deafness,’ + thinks I; ‘it’s love’; and my breath was coming and going and making + noises like the smithy bellows. So I twisted my wrist and blazed back at + her, and we both fired away, ding-dong, till the cows was as dry as Kinvig + when he was teetotal, and the cow-house was like a snowstorm with a gale + of wind through it, and you couldn’t see a face at the one of us for + swansdown. That’s how Nelly and me ‘came engage.” + </p> + <p> + He was laughing noisily by this time, and crying alternately, with a merry + shout and a husky croak, “Aw, dear, aw, dear; the days that was, sir—the + days that was!” + </p> + <p> + Lovibond let him rattle on, and he talked of Nelly for an hour. He had + stories without end of her, some of them as simple as a baby’s prattle, + some as deep as the heart of man, and splitting open the very crust of the + fires of buried passion. + </p> + <p> + It was late when they turned in for the night. The lights on the line of + the land were all put out, and save for the reflection of the stars only + the lamps of ships at anchor lit up the waters of the bay. + </p> + <p> + “Good night, capt’n,” said Lovi-bond. “I suppose you’ll go to bed now?” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe so, maybe no,” said Davy. “You see, I’m like Kinvig these days, and + go to bed to do my thinking. The ould man’s cart-wheel came off in the + road once, and we couldn’t rig it on again no how. ‘Hould hard, boys,’ + says Kinvig; and he went away home and up to the loft, and whipped off his + clothes, and into the blankets and stayed there till he’d got the lay of + that cartwheel. Aw, yes, though—thinking, thinking, thinking + constant—that’s me when I’m in bed. But it isn’t the lying awake I’m + minding. Och, no; it’s the wakening up again. That’s like nothing in the + world but a rusty nail going driving into your skull afore a blacksmith’s + seven-pound sledge. Good night, mate; good night.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. + </h2> + <p> + Next day Lovibond saw Mrs. Quiggin at Castle Mona. He had come at once in + obedience to her summons, and she took his sympathies by storm. It was + hard for him to realize that he had not seen her somewhere before. He <i>had</i> + seen her—in his own description of the girl in church, helped out, + led on, directed, vivified, and transfigured by Capt’n Davy’s own + impetuous picture, just as the mesmerist sees what he pretends to show by + aid of the eye of the mesmerized. There she sat, like one for whom life + had lost its savor. Her great slow eyes, her pale and quivering face,’ her + long deep look as she took his hand, and her softly tightening grasp of it + went through him like a knife. Not all his loyalty to Capt’n Davy could + crush the thought that the man who had thrown away a jewel such as this + must be a brute and a blockhead. But the sweet woman was not so lost to + life that she did not see her advantage. There were some weary sighs and + then she said:— + </p> + <p> + “I am in great, great trouble about my husband. They say he is wasting his + money. Is it true?” + </p> + <p> + “Too true,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “And that if he goes on as he is now going he will be penniless?” + </p> + <p> + “Not impossible,” said Lovibond, “provided the mad fit last long enough.” + </p> + <p> + “Is remonstrance quite useless, Mr. Lovibond?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite, Mrs. Quiggin.” + </p> + <p> + The great slow eyes began to fill, and Lovibond’s gaze to seek the laces + of his boots. + </p> + <p> + “It is sorrow enough to me, Mr. Lovibond, that my husband and I have + quarreled and parted, but it will be the worst grief of all if some day I + should have to think that I came into his life to wreck it.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t blame yourself for that, Mrs. Quiggin. It will be his own fault if + he ruins himself.” + </p> + <p> + “You are very good, Mr. Lovi-bond.” + </p> + <p> + “Your husband will never blame you either.” + </p> + <p> + “That will hardly reconcile me to his misfortunes.” + </p> + <p> + [“The man’s an ass,” thought Lovibond.] + </p> + <p> + “I shall not trouble him much longer with my presence here,” Mrs. Quiggin + continued, and Lovibond looked up inquiringly. + </p> + <p> + “I am going back home soon,” she added. “But if before I go some friend + would help me to save my husband from himself——” + </p> + <p> + Lovibond rose in an instant. “I am at your service, Mrs. Quiggin,” he said + briskly. “Have you thought of anything?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. They tell me that he is gambling, and that all the cheats of the + island are winning from him.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + The pale face turned very red, and quivered visibly about the lips. + </p> + <p> + “I have heard him say, when he has spoken of you, Mr. Lovibond, that—that—but + will you forgive what I am going to tell you?” + </p> + <p> + “Anything,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “That out on the coast <i>you</i> could win from anybody. I remembered + this when they told me that he was gambling, and I thought if you would + play against my husband—for <i>me</i>———” + </p> + <p> + “I see what you mean, Mrs. Quiggin,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t want the money, though he was so cruel as to say I had only + married him for sake of it. But you could put it back into Dumbell’s Bank + day by day as you got it.” + </p> + <p> + “In whose name?” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + The great eyes opened very wide. “His, surely,” she said falteringly. + </p> + <p> + Lovibond saw the folly of that thought, but he also recognized its + tenderness. + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” he said; “I’ll do my best.” + </p> + <p> + “Will it be wrong to deceive him, Mr. Lovibond?” + </p> + <p> + “It will be mercy itself, Mrs. Quiggin.” + </p> + <p> + “To be sure, it is only to save him from ruin. But you will not believe + that I am thinking of myself, Mr. Lovibond?” + </p> + <p> + “Trust me for that, Mrs. Quiggin.” + </p> + <p> + “And when the wild fit is over, and my husband hears of what has been + done, you will be careful not to let him know that it was I who thought of + it?” + </p> + <p> + “You shall tell him yourself, Mrs. Quiggin.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! that can never, never be,” she said, with a sigh. And then she + murmured softly, “I don’t know what my husband may have told you about me, + Mr. Lovibond—” + </p> + <p> + Lovibond’s ardor overcame his prudence. “He has told me that you were an + angel once—and he has wronged you, the dunce and dulbert—you + are an angel still.” + </p> + <p> + While Lovibond was with Mrs. Quig-gin Jenny Crow was with Capt’n Davy. She + had clutched at his invitation with secret delight. “Just the thing,” she + thought. “Now, won’t I give the other simpleton a piece of my mind, too?” + So she had bowled off to Fort Ann with a heart as warm as toast, and a + tongue that was stinging hot. But when she had got there her purpose had + suddenly changed. The first sight of Capt’n Davy’s face had conquered her. + It was so child-like, and yet so manly, so strong and yet so tender, so + obviously made for smiles like sunshine, and yet so full of the memories + of recent tears! Jenny recalled her description of the sailor on the Head, + and thought it no better than a vulgar caricature. + </p> + <p> + Davy wiped down a chair for her with the outside of his billycock and led + her up to it with rude but natural manners. “The girl was a ninny to + quarrel with a man like this,” she thought. Nevertheless she remembered + her purpose of making him smart, and she stuck to her guns for a round or + two. + </p> + <p> + “It’s rael nice of you to come, ma’am,” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “It’s more than you deserve,” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn’t wonder but you think me a blundering blocket,” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t think you had sense enough to know it,” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + With that second shot Jenny’s powder was spent. Davy looked down into her + face and said— + </p> + <p> + “I’m terr’ble onaisy about herself, ma’am, and can’t take rest at nights + for thinking what’s to come to her when I am gone.” + </p> + <p> + “Gone?” said Jenny, rising quietly. + </p> + <p> + “That’s so ma’am,” said Davy. “I’m going away—back to that ould + Nick’s oven I came from, and I’ll want no money there.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that why you’re wasting it here, Captain Quiggin?” said Jenny. Her + gayety was gone by this time. + </p> + <p> + “No—yes! Wasting? Well maybe so, ma’am, may be so. It’s the way with + money. Comes like the droppings out of the spout at the gable, ma’am; but + goes like the tub when the bull has tipped it. Now I was thinking ma’am——” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Captain?” + </p> + <p> + “She won’t take any of it, coming from me, but I was thinking, ma’am—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” Davy was pawing the carpet with one foot, and Jenny’s eyes were + creeping up the horn buttons of his waistcoat. + </p> + <p> + “I was thinking, ma’am, if you could take a mossle of it yourself before + it’s all gone, and go and live with her—you and she together + somewheres—some quiet place—and make out somehow—women’s + mortal clever at rigging up yarns that do no harm—make out that + somebody belonging to you is dead—it can’t kill nobody to say that + ma’am—and left you a bit of a fortune out of hand——” + </p> + <p> + Davy’s restless foot was digging away at the carpet while he was + stammering out these broken words: + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t you no ould uncle, ma’am, that would do for the like of that?” + </p> + <p> + Jenny had to struggle with herself not to leap up and hug Capt’n Davy then + and there, “What a ninny the girl was!” she thought. But she said aloud, + as well as she could for her throat that was choking her, “I see what you + mean, Captain Quiggin. But, Cap tain——” + </p> + <p> + “Ma’am?” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “If you have so much thought—(<i>gulp, gulp</i>)—for your + wife’s welfare (<i>gulp</i>), you—must love her still (<i>gulp, gulp</i>)? + </p> + <p> + “I daren’t say no, ma’am,” said Davy, with downcast eyes. + </p> + <p> + “And if you love her, however deeply she may have offended you, surely you + should never leave her. Come, now, Captain, forgive and forget; she is + only a woman, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s just where the shoe pinches, ma’am, so I’m taking it off. Out + yonder it’ll be easier to forgive. And if it’ll be harder to forget, what + matter?” + </p> + <p> + Jenny’s eyes were beginning to fill. + </p> + <p> + “No use crying over spilled milk, is it, ma’am? The heart-ache is a sort + of colic that isn’t cured by drops.” + </p> + <p> + Jenny was breaking down fast. + </p> + <p> + “Aw, the heart’s a quare thing, ma’am. Got its hunger same as anything + else. Starve it, and it’ll know why. Gives you a kind of a sinking at the + pit of your stomach, ma’am. Did you never feel it, ma’am?” + </p> + <p> + Davy’s speech was rude enough, but that only made its emotion the more + touching to Jenny. Between gulp and gulp she tried to say that if he went + away he would never be happy again. + </p> + <p> + “Happy, ma’am? D’ye say happy? I’m not happy <i>now,</i>” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t everybody would think so, Captain,” said Jenny, “considering how + you spend your evenings—singing and laughing——” + </p> + <p> + “Laughing! More cry till wool, ma’am, same as clipping a pig.” + </p> + <p> + “So your new friends, Captain, those that your riches have brought you—” + </p> + <p> + “Friends? D’ye say friends? Them wastrels! What are they? Nothing but a + parcel of Betty Quilleash’s baby’s stepmothers. And I’m nothing but Betty + Quilleash’s baby myself, ma’am; that’s what I am.” + </p> + <p> + The stalwart fellow did not look much like anybody’s infant, but Davy + could not laugh, and Jenny’s eyes were streaming. + </p> + <p> + “Betty lived at Michael, ma’am, and died when her baby was suckling. There + wasn’t no feeding-bottles in them days, and the little one was missing the + poor dead mawther mortal. But babies is like lammies, ma’am, they’ve got + their season, and mostly all the women of the parish had babies that year. + So first one woman would whip up Betty’s baby and give it a taste of the + breast, and then another would whip it up and do likewise, until the + little baby cuckoo was in every baby nest in the place, and living all + over the street, like the rum-butter bowl and the preserving pan. But no + use at all, at all. The little mite wasted away. Poor thing, poor thing. + Twenty mawthers wasn’t making up to it for the right one it had lost. + That’s me, ma’am; that’s me.” + </p> + <p> + Jenny Crow went away, crying openly, having promised to be a party to the + innocent deception which Captain Davy had suggested. “That Nelly Kinvig is + as hard as a flint,” she told herself, bitterly. “I’ve no patience with + such flinty people; and won’t I give it her piping hot at the very next + opportunity?” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. + </h2> + <p> + Jenny’s opportunity was a week in coming, and various events of some + consequence in this history occurred in the mean time. The first of these + was that Capt’n Davy’s fortune changed hands. + </p> + <p> + Davy’s savings had been invested in two securities—the Liverpool + Dock Trust and Dumbell’s Manx Bank. His property in the former he made + over by help of the advocates, and with vast show of secrecy, to the name + of Jenny Crow; and she, on her part, by help of other advocates, and with + yet more real secrecy, transferred it to the name of Mrs. Quiggin. + </p> + <p> + The remains of his possessions in the latter he lost to Lovibond, who + gambled with him constantly, beginning with a sovereign, which Mrs. + Quiggin had lent him for the purpose, and going on by a process of + doubling until the stakes were prodigious. Every night he discharged his + debt by check on Dumbell’s, and every morning Lovibond repaid it into the + same bank to the account of his wife. Thus, within a week, unknown to + either of the two persons chiefly concerned, the money which had been the + immediate cause of strife between them passed from the offender to the + offended, from the strong to the weak. + </p> + <p> + That was the more material of the changes that had come to pass, and the + more spiritual were of still greater consequence. + </p> + <p> + Lovibond and Jenny met constantly. They made various excursions through + the island—to the Tynwald Hill, to Peel Castle, to Castle Rushen, + the Chasms, and the Calf. Of course they persuaded each other that these + trips were taken solely in the interests of their friends. It was + necessary to meet; it was desirable to do so where they would be + unobserved; what else was left to them but to steal away together on these + little jaunts and journeys? + </p> + <p> + Then their talk was of love and estrangement and reconciliation, and how + easy to quarrel, and how hard to come together again. Capt’n Davy and Mrs. + Quiggin provided all their illustrations to these interesting themes, for + naturally they never spoke of themselves. + </p> + <p> + “It’s astonishing what geese some people can be,” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “Astonishing,” echoed Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “Just for sake of a poor little word of confession to hold off like this,” + said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “Just a poor little word,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “He has only to say ‘My dear, I behaved like a brute,’ but——” + </p> + <p> + “Only that,” said Lovibond. “And she has merely to say, ‘My love, I + behaved like a cat,’ but——” + </p> + <p> + “That’s all,” said Jenny. “But he doesn’t—men never do.” + </p> + <p> + “Never,” said Lovibond. “And she won’t—women never will.” + </p> + <p> + Then there would be innocent glances on both sides, and sly hints cast out + as grappling hooks for jealousy. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, well, he’s the dearest, simplest, manliest fellow in the world, and + there are women who would give their two ears for him,” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “And she’s the sweetest, tenderest, loveliest woman alive, and there are + men who would give their two eyes for her,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “Pity they don’t,” said Jenny, “for all the use they make of them.” + </p> + <p> + Amid such bouts of thrust and counter-thrust, the affair of Capt’n Davy + and Mrs. Quiggin nevertheless made due progress. + </p> + <p> + “She’s half in love with my Manx sailor on the Head,” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “And he’s more than half in love with my lady in the church,” said + Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “And now that we’ve made each of them fond of each other in disguise, we + have just to make both of them ashamed of themselves in reality,” said + Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “Just that,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “Ah me,” said Jenny. “It isn’t every pair of geese that have friends like + us to prevent them from going astray.” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t,” said Lovibond. “We’re the good old ganders that keep the geese + together.” + </p> + <p> + “Speak for yourself, sir,” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + Then came Jenny’s opportunity. She had been out on one of her jaunts with + Lovibond, leaving Mrs. Quiggin alone in her room at Castle Mona. Mrs. + Quiggin was still in her room, and still alone. Since the separation a + fortnight before that had been the constant condition of her existence. + Never going out, never even going down for her meals, rarely speaking of + her husband, always thinking of him, and eating out her heart with pride + and vexation, and anger and self-reproach. + </p> + <p> + It was the hour when the life of the island rises to the fever point; the + hour of the arrival of the steamers from England. All day long the town + had droned and dosed under a drowsy heat. The boatmen and carmen, with + both hands in their breeches’ pocket, had been burning the daylight on the + esplanade; the band on the pier had been blowing music out of lungs that + snored between every other blast; and the visitors had been lolling on the + seats of the parade and watching the sea gulls disporting on the bay with + eyes that were drawing straws. But the first trail of smoke had been seen + across the sea by the point of the lighthouse, and all the slugs and + marmots were wide awake: promenade deserted, streets quiet and pothouses + empty; but every front window of every front house occupied, and the pier + crowded with people looking seaward. “She’s the Snaefell?” “No, but the + Ben-my-Chree—see, she has four funnels.” Then, the steaming up, the + firing of the gun, the landing of the passengers, the mails and + newspapers, the shouting of the touts, the bawling of the porters, the + salutations, the welcomes, the passings of the time of day, the rattling + of the oars, the tinkling of the trams, and the cries of the newsboys: + “This way for Castle Mona!” “Falcon Cliff this way!” “Echo!” “Evening + Express!” “Good passage, John?” “Good.” “Five hours?” “And ten minutes.” + “What news over the water?” “They’ve caught him.” “Never.” “Express!” + “Fort Anne here—here for Villiers.” “Comfortable lodgings, sir.” + “Take a card, ma’am.” “What verdict d’ye say?” “She’s got ten years.” “Had + fine weather in the island?” “Fine.” “Echo! Evening Echo!” “Fort Anne this + way!” “Gladstone in Liverpool?” “Yes, spoke at Hengler’s last night—fearful + crush.” “Castle Mona!” “Evening News!” “Peveril!” “This way Falcon Cliff!” + “Ex-press!” + </p> + <p> + Thus, leaving the pier and the steamers behind them, through the streets + and into the hotels, the houses, the cars, and the trains go, the new + comers, and the newspapers, and the letters from England, all hot and + active, bringing word of the main land, with its hub-bub and hurly-burly, + to the island that has been four-and-twenty hours cut off from it—like + the throbbing and bounding globules of fresh blood fetching life from the + fountain-head to some half-severed limb. It is an hour of tremendous + vitality, coming once a day, when the little island pulsates like a living + thing. But that evening, as always since the time of the separation, Mrs. + Quiggin was unmoved by it. With a book in her hand she was sitting by the + open window fingering the pages, but looking listlessly over the tops of + them to the line of the sea and sky, and asking herself if she should not + go home to her father’s house on the morrow. She had reached that point of + her reverie at which something told her that she should, and something + else told her that she should not, when down came Jenny Crow upon her + troubled quiet, like the rush of an evening breeze. + </p> + <p> + “Such news!” cried Jenny. “I’ve seen him again.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Quiggin’s book dropped suddenly to her lap. “Seen him?” she said with + bated breath. + </p> + <p> + “You remember—the Manx sailor on the Head,” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” said Mrs. Quiggin, languidly, and her book went back to before her + face. + </p> + <p> + “Been to Laxey to look at the big wheel,” said Jenny; “and found the + Manxman coming back in the same coach. We were the only passengers, and so + I heard everything. Didn’t I tell you that he must be in trouble?” + </p> + <p> + “And is he?” said Mrs. Quiggin, monotonously. + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” said Jenny, “he’s married.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m very sorry,” said Mrs. Quiggin, with a listless look toward the sea. + “I mean,” she added more briskly, “that I thought you liked him yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Liked him!” cried Jenny. “I loved him. He’s splendid, he’s glorious, he’s + the simplest, manliest, tenderest, most natural creature in the world. But + it’s just my luck—another woman has got him. And such a woman, too! + A nagger, a shrew, a cat, a piece of human flint, a thankless wretch, + whose whole selfish body isn’t worth the tip of his little finger.” + </p> + <p> + “Is she so bad as that?” said Mrs. Quiggin, smiling feebly above the top + edge of her book, which covered her face up to the mouth. + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” said Jenny, solemnly, “she has turned him out of the house.” + </p> + <p> + “Good gracious!” said Mrs. Quiggin; and away went the book on to the sofa. + </p> + <p> + Then Jenny told a woeful tale, her eyes flashing, her lips quivering, and + her voice ringing with indignation. And, anxious to hit hard, she hovered + so closely over the truth as sometimes to run the risk of uncovering it. + The poor fellow had made long voyages abroad and saved some money. He had + loved his wife passionately—that was the only blot on his character. + He always dreamt of coming home, and settling down in comfort for the rest + of his life. He had come at last, and a fine welcome had awaited him. His + wife was as proud as Lucifer—the daughter of some green-grocer, of + course. She had been ashamed of her husband, apparently, and settling down + hadn’t suited her. So she had nagged the poor fellow out of all peace of + mind and body, taken his money, and turned him adrift. + </p> + <p> + Jenny’s audacity carried her through, and Mrs. Quiggin, who was now wide + awake, listened eagerly. “Can it be possible that there are women like + that?” she said, in a hushed whisper. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, yes,” said Jenny; “and men are simple enough to prefer them to + better people.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Jenny,” said Mrs. Quiggin, with a far-away look, “we have only heard + one story, you know. If we were inside the Manxman’s house—if we + knew all—might we not find that there are two sides to its + troubles?” + </p> + <p> + “There are two sides to its street-door,” said Jenny, “and the husband is + on the outside of it.” + </p> + <p> + “She took his money, you say, Jenny?” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed she did, Nelly, and is living on it now.” + </p> + <p> + “And then turned him out of doors?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, so to speak, she made it impossible for him to live with her.” + </p> + <p> + “What a cat she must be!” said Mrs. Quiggin. + </p> + <p> + “She must,” said Jenny. “And, would you believe it, though she has treated + him so shamefully yet he loves her still.” + </p> + <p> + “Why do you think so, Jenny,” said Mrs. Quiggin. + </p> + <p> + “Because,” said Jenny, “though he is always sober when I see him I suspect + that he is drinking himself to death. He said as much.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor fellow!” said Mrs. Quiggin. “But men should not take these things so + much to heart. Such women are not worth it.” + </p> + <p> + “No, are they?” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “They have hardly a right to live,” said Mrs. Quiggin. + </p> + <p> + “No, have they?” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “There should be a law to put down nagging wives the same as biting dogs,” + said Mrs. Quiggin. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, shouldn’t there?” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “Once on a time men took their wives like their horses on trial for a year + and a day, and really with some women there would be something to say for + the old custom.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, wouldn’t there?” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “The woman who is nothing of herself apart from her husband, and has no + claim to his consideration, except on the score of his love, and yet uses + him only to abuse him, and takes his very ‘money, having none of her own, + and still——” + </p> + <p> + “Did I say she took his money, Nelly?” said Jenny. “Well of course—not + to be unfair—some men are such generous fools, you know—he may + have given it to her.” + </p> + <p> + “No matter; taken or given, she has got it, I suppose, and is living on it + now.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, certainly, that’s very sure,” said Jenny; “but then she’s his + wife, you see, and naturally her maintenance——” + </p> + <p> + “Maintenance!” cried Mrs. Quig-gin. “How many children has she got?” + </p> + <p> + “None,” said Jenny. “At least I haven’t heard of any.” + </p> + <p> + “Then she ought to be ashamed of herself for thinking of such a thing.” + </p> + <p> + “I quite agree with you, Nelly,” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “If I were a man,” said Mrs. Quiggin, “and my wife turned me out of doors——” + </p> + <p> + “Did I say that, Nelly? Well not exactly that—no, not turned him out + of doors exactly, Nelly.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s all one, Jenny. If a woman behaves so that her husband can not live + with her what is she doing but turning him out of doors?” + </p> + <p> + “But, Nelly!” cried Jenny, rising suddenly. “What about Captain Davy?” + </p> + <p> + Then there was a blank silence. Mrs. Quiggin had been borne along on the + torrent of her indignation, brooking no objection, and sweeping down every + obstacle, until brought up sharply by Jenny’s question—like a river + that flows fastest and makes most noise where the bowlders in its course + are biggest, but breaks itself at last against the brant sides of some + impassable rock. She drew her breath in one silent spasm, turned from + feverish red to deadly pale, quivered about the mouth, twitched about the + eyelids, rose stiffly on her half-rigid limbs, and then fell on Jenny with + loud and hot reproaches. + </p> + <p> + “How dare you, Jenny Crow?” she cried. + </p> + <p> + “Dare what, my dear?” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “Say that I’ve turned my husband out of doors, and that I’ve taken his + money, and that I am a cat and shrew, and a nagger, and that there ought + to be a law to put me down.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Nelly,” said Jenny, “it was yourself that said so. I was speaking + of the wife of the Manx sailor.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but you were thinking of me,” said Mrs. Quiggin. + </p> + <p> + “I was thinking of her,” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “You were thinking of me as well,” said Mrs. Quiggin. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you that I was only thinking of her,” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “You were thinking of me, Jenny Crow—you know you were; and you + meant that I was as bad as she was. But circumstances alter cases, and my + case is different. My husband is turning <i>me</i> out of doors: and, as + for his money, I didn’t ask for it and I don’t want it. I’ll go back home + to-morrow morning. I will—indeed, I will. I’ll bear this torment no + longer.” + </p> + <p> + So saying, with many gasps and gulps, breaking at last into a burst of + weeping, she covered her face with both hands and flounced out of the + room. Jenny watched her go, then listened to the sobs that came from the + other side of the door, and said beneath her breath, “Let her cry, poor + girl. The crying has to be done by somebody, and it might as well be she. + Crying is good for a woman sometimes, but when a man cries it hurts so + much.” + </p> + <p> + Half an hour later, as Jenny was leaving the room for dinner, she heard + Mrs. Quiggin telling Peggy Quine to ask at the office for her bill, and to + order a carriage to be ready at the door for her at eleven o’clock in the + morning. + </p> + <p> + When the first burst of her vexation was spent Mrs. Quiggin made a secret + and startling discovery. The man whom Jenny Crow had stumbled upon, first + on the Head and afterward on the Laxey coach, could be no one in the world + but her own husband. A certain shadowy suspicion of this had floated + hazily before her mind at the beginning, but she had dismissed the idea + and forgotten it. Now she felt so sure of it that it was beyond contempt + of question. So the Manx sailor in whom Jenny had found so much to admire—the + simple, brave, manly, generous, natural soul, all fresh air and by rights + all sunshine—was no other than Capt’n Davy Quiggin! That thought + brought the hot blood tingling to Mrs. Quiggin’s cheeks with sensations of + exquisite delight, and never before had her husband seemed so fine in her + own eyes as now, when she saw him so noble in the eyes of another. But + close behind this delicious reflection, like the green blight at the back + of the apple blossom, lay a withering and cankering thought. The Manx + sailor’s wife—she who had so behaved that it was impossible for him + to live with her—she who was a cat, a shrew, a nagger, a thankless + wretch, a piece of human flint, a creature that should be put down by the + law as it puts down biting dogs—she whose whole selfish body was not + worth the tip of his little finger—was no one else than herself! + </p> + <p> + Then came another burst of weeping, but this time the tears were of shame, + not of vexation, and they washed away every remaining evil humor and left + the vision clear. She had been in the wrong, she was judged out of her own + mouth; but she had no intention of fitting on the cap of the unknown + woman. Why should she? Jenny did not know who the woman was—that was + as plain as a pickle. Then where was the good of confessing? + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. + </h2> + <p> + While Jenny Crow was doing her easy duty at Castle Mona, Lovibond was + engaged in a task of yet more simplicity at Fort Ann. On returning from + Laxey he found Captain Davey occupied with Willie Quarrie in preparations + for a farewell supper to be given that night to the cronies who had helped + him to spend his fortune. These worthies had deserted his company since + Lovibond had begun to take all the winnings, including some of their own + earlier ones; and hence the necessity to invite them. “There’s ould Billy, + the carrier—ask him,” Davy was saying, as he lay stretched on the + sofa, puffing whorls of gray smoke from a pipe of thick twist. “And then + there’s Kerruish, the churchwarden, and Kewley, the crier, and Hugh + Corlett, the blacksmith, and Tommy Tubman, the brewer, and Willie + Qualtrough, that keeps the lodging-house contagious, and the fat man that + bosses the Sick and Indignant society, and the long, lanky shanks that is + the headpiece of the Friendly and Malevolent Association—got them + all down, boy?” + </p> + <p> + “They’re all through there in my head already, Capt’n,” groaned Willie + Quarrie in despair, as he struggled at the table to keep pace with his + slow pen to Davy’s impetuous tongue. + </p> + <p> + “Then ask whosomever you plaze, boy,” said Davy. “What’s it saying in the + ould Book: ‘Go out into the highways and hedges and compel them to come + in.’ Only it’s the back-courts and the public-houses this time, and you’ll + be wanting no grappling hooks to fetch them. Just whip a whisky bottle + under your arm, and they’ll be asking for no other invitation. Reminds me, + sir,” he added, looking up as Lovibond entered, “reminds me of little + Jimmy Quayle’s aisy way of fetching poor Hughie Collister from the bottom + of Ramsey harbor. Himself and Hughie were same as brothers—that + thick—and they’d been middling hard on the drink together, and one + night Hughie, going home to Andreas, tumbled over the bridge by the sandy + road and got hisself washed away and drowned. So the boys fetched + grapplings and went out immadient to drag for the body, but Jimmy took + another notion. He rigged up a tremenjous long pole, like your mawther’s + clothes’ prop on washing day and tied a string to the top of it, and + baited the end of the string with an empty bottle of Ould Tom, and then + sat hisself down on the end of the jetty, same as a man that’s going + fishing. ‘Lord-a-massy, Jemmy,’ says the boys, looking up out of the boat; + ‘whatever in the name of goodness are you doing there?’ ‘They’re telling + me,’ says Jemmy, bobbing the gin-bottle up and down constant, flip-a-flop, + flip-a-flop atop of the water; ‘they’re telling me,’ says he, ‘that poor + ould Hughie is down yonder, and I’m thinking there isn’t nothing in the + island that’ll fetch him up quicker till this.’” + </p> + <p> + “But what is going on here, Capt’n?” said Lovibond, with an inclination of + his head toward the table where Willie Quarrie was still laboring with his + invitations. + </p> + <p> + “It’s railly wuss till ever, sir,” groaned Willie from behind his pen. + </p> + <p> + “What does it mean?” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “It manes that I’m sailing to-morrow,” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “Sailing!” cried Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “That’s so,” said Davy. “Back to the ould oven we came from. Pacific + steamer laves Liverpool by the afternoon tide, and we’ll catch her aisy if + we take the ‘Snaefell’ in the morning. Fixed a couple of berths by + telegraph, and paid through Dumbell’s. Only ninety pounds the two—for’ard + passage—but nearly claned out at that. What’s the odds though? + Enough left to give the boys a blow-out to-night, and then, heigho! stone + broke, cut your stick and get out of it.” + </p> + <p> + “A couple of berths? Did you say two?” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “I’m taking Willie along with me,” said Davy; “and he’s that joyful at the + thought of it that you can’t get a word out of him for hallelujahs.” + </p> + <p> + Willie’s joy expressed itself at that moment in a moan, as he rose from + the table with a woe-begone countenance, and went out on his errand of + invitation. + </p> + <p> + “But you’ll stay on,” said Davy, “Eh?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Lovibond, in a melancholy voice. + </p> + <p> + “Why not, then?” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + Lovibond did not answer at once, and Davy heaved up to a sitting posture + that he might look into his face. + </p> + <p> + “Why, man; what’s this—what’s this?” said Davy. “You’re looking as + down as ould Kinvig at the camp meeting, when the preacher afore him had + used up all his tex’es. What’s going doing?” + </p> + <p> + Lovibond settled himself on the sofa beside Davy, and drew a deep breath. + “I’ve seen her again, Capt’n,” he said, solemnly. + </p> + <p> + “The sweet little lily in the church, sir?” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Lovibond; and, after another deep breath, “I’ve spoken to + her.” + </p> + <p> + “Out with it, sir; out with it,” said Davy, and then, putting one hand on + Lovibond’s knee caressingly, “I’ve seen trouble in my time, mate; you may + trust me—go on, what is it?” + </p> + <p> + “She’s married,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + Davy gave a prolonged whistle. “That’s bad,” he said. “I’m symperthizing + with you. You’ve been fishing with another man’s floats and losing your + labor. I’m feeling for you. ‘Deed I am.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s not myself I’m thinking of,” said Lovibond. “It’s that angel of a + woman. She’s not only married, but married to a brute.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s wuss still,” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “And not only married to a brute,” said Lovibond, “but parted from him.” + </p> + <p> + Davy gave a yet longer whistle. “O-ho, O-ho! A quarrel is it?” he cried. + “Husband and wife, eh? Aw, take care, sir, take care. Women is ‘cute. + Extraordinary wayses they’ve at them of touching a man up under the + watch-pocket of the weskit till you’d never think nothing but they’re + angels fresh down from heaven, and you could work at the docks to keep + them; but maybe cunning as ould Harry all the time, and playing the divil + with some poor man. It’s me for knowing them. Husband and wife? That’ll + do, that’ll do. Lave them alone, mate, lave them alone.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, the sweet creature has had a terrible time of it!” said Lovibond, + lying back and looking up at the ceiling. + </p> + <p> + “I lave it with you,” said Davy, charging his pipe afresh as a signal of + his neutrality. + </p> + <p> + “He must have led her a fearful life,” continued Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + Davy lit up, and puffed vigorously. + </p> + <p> + “It would appear,” said Lovibond, “that though she is so like a lady, she + is entirely dependent upon her husband.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, well,” said Davy, between puff and puff. + </p> + <p> + “He didn’t forget that either, for he seems to have taunted her with her + poverty.” + </p> + <p> + A growl, like an oath half smothered by smoke, came from Davy. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, that was the cause of quarrel.” + </p> + <p> + “She did well to lave him,” said Davy, watching the coils of his smoke + going upward. + </p> + <p> + “Nay, it was he who left her.” + </p> + <p> + “The villain!” said Davy. But after Davy had delivered himself so there + was nothing to be heard for the next ten seconds but the sucking of lips + over the pipe. + </p> + <p> + “And now,” said Lovibond, “she can not stir out of doors but she finds + herself the gossip of the island, and the gaze of every passer-by.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor thing, poor thing!” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “He must be a low, vulgar fellow,” said Lovibond; “and yet—would you + believe it?—she wouldn’t hear a word against him.” + </p> + <p> + “The sweet woman!” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “It’s my firm belief that she loves the fellow still,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “I wouldn’t trust,” said Davy. “That’s the ways of women, sir; I’ve seen + it myself. Aw, women is quare, sir, wonderful quare.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet,” said Lovibond, “while she is sitting pining to death indoors he + is enjoying himself night and day with his coarse companions.” + </p> + <p> + Davy put up his pipe on the mantelpiece. “Now the man that does the like + of that is a scoundrel,” he said, warmly. + </p> + <p> + “I agree with you, Capt’n,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “He’s a brute!” said Davy, more loudly. + </p> + <p> + “Of course we’ve only heard one side of the story,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “No matter; he’s a brute and a scoundrel,” said Davy. “Dont you hould with + me there, mate?” + </p> + <p> + “I do,” said Lovibond. “But still—who knows? She may—I say she + may—be one of those women who want their own way.” + </p> + <p> + “All women wants it,” said Davy. “It’s mawther’s milk to them—Mawther + Eve’s milk, as you might say.” + </p> + <p> + “True, true!” said Lovibond; “but though she looks so sweet she may have a + temper.” + </p> + <p> + “And what for shouldn’t she?” said Davy, “D’ye think God A’mighty meant it + all for the men?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps,” said Lovibond, “she turned up her nose at his coarse ways and + rough comrades.” + </p> + <p> + “And right, too,” said Davy. “Let him keep his dirty trousses to hisself. + Who is he?” + </p> + <p> + “She didn’t tell me that,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “Whoever he is he’s a wastrel,” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid you’re right, Capt’n,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “Women is priv’leged where money goes,” said Davy. “If they haven’t got it + by heirship they can’t make it by industry, and to accuse them of being + without it is taking a mane advantage. It’s hitting below the belt, sir. + Accuse a man if you like—ten to one he’s lazy—but a woman—never, + sir, never, never!” + </p> + <p> + Davy was tramping the room by this time, and making it ring with the voice + as of a lion, and the foot as of an elephant. + </p> + <p> + “More till that, sir,” he said. “A good girl with nothing at her who takes + a bad man with a million cries talley with the crayther the day she + marries him. What has he brought her? His dirty, mucky, measley money, + come from the Lord knows where. What has <i>she</i> brought him? Herself, + and everything she is and will be, stand or fall, sink or swim, blow high, + blow low—to sail by his side till they cast anchor together at last + Don’t you hould with me there, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “I do, Capt’n, I do,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “And the ruch man that goes bearing up alongside a girl that’s sweet and + honest, and then twitting her with being poorer till hisself, is a dirt + and divil, and ought to be walloped out of the company of dacent men.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Capt’n,” said Lovibond, falteringly! “Capt’n....” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “Wasn’t Mrs. Quiggin a poor girl when you married her?” + </p> + <p> + At that word Davy looked like a man newly awakened from a trance. His + voice, which had rung out like a horn, seemed to wheeze back like a + whistle; his eyes, which had begun to blaze, took a fixed and stupid look; + his lips parted; his head dropped forward; his chest fell inward; and his + big shoulders seemed to shrink. He looked about him vacantly, put one hand + up to his forehead and said in a broken underbreath, “Lord-a-massy! What + am I doing? What am I saying?” + </p> + <p> + The painful moment was broken by the arrival of the first of the guests. + It was Keruish, the churchwarden, a very-secular person, deep in the dumps + over a horse which he had bought at Castletown fair the week before (with + money cheated out of Davy), and lost by an attack of the worms that + morning. “Butts in the stomach, sir,” he moaned; “they’re bad, sir, aw, + they’re bad.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing wuss,” said Davy. “I know them. Ate all the goodness out of you + and lave you without bowels. Men has them as well as horses—only we + call (them) friends instead.” + </p> + <p> + The other guests arrived one by one—the blacksmith, the crier, the + brewer, the lodging-house keeper, and the two secretaries of the + charitable societies (whose names were “spells” too big for Davy), and the + keeper of a home for lost dogs. + </p> + <p> + They were a various and motley company of the riff-raff and raggabash of + the island,—young and elderly, silent and glib—rough as a + pigskin, and smooth as their sleeves at the elbow; with just one feature + common to the whole pack of pick-thanks, and that was a look of shallow + cunning. + </p> + <p> + Davy received them with noisy welcomes and equal cheer, but he had the + measure of every man of them all, down to the bottom of their fob pockets. + The cloth was laid, the supper was served, and down they sat at the table. + </p> + <p> + “Anywhere, anywhere!” cried Davy, as they took their places. “The mate is + the same at every seat.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay, ay,” they laughed, and then fell to without ceremony. + </p> + <p> + “Only wait till I’ve done the carving, and we’ll all start fair,” said + Davy. + </p> + <p> + “Coorse, coorse,” they answered, from mouths half full already. + </p> + <p> + “That’s what Kinvig said when he was cutting up his sermon into firstly, + secondly, thirdly, and fourteenthly.” + </p> + <p> + “Ha, ha! Kinvig! I’d drink the ould man’s health if I had anything,” cried + the blacksmith, with a wink at his opposite neighbor. + </p> + <p> + “No liquor?” said Davy, looking up to sharpen the carving knife on the + steel. “Am I laving you dry like herrings in the hould?” + </p> + <p> + “Season us, capt’n,” cried the black-smith, amid general laughter from the + rest. + </p> + <p> + “Aw, lave you alone for that,” said Davy. “If you’re like myself you’re in + pickle enough already.” + </p> + <p> + Then there were more winks and louder laughter. + </p> + <p> + “Mate!” shouted Davy over his shoulder to the waiter behind him, “a gallon + to every gentleman.” + </p> + <p> + “Ay, ay,” from all sides of the table in various tones of satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir—of course, sir; beg pardon, sir, here, sir,” said the + waiter. + </p> + <p> + “Boys, healths apiece!” cried Davy. + </p> + <p> + “Healths apiece, Capt’n!” answered numerous thick voices, and up leaped a + line of yellow glasses. + </p> + <p> + “Ate, drink—there’s plenty, boys; there’s plenty,” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “Aw, plenty, capt’n—plenty.” + </p> + <p> + “Come again, boys, come again,” said Davy, from time to time; “but clane + plates—aw, clane plates—I hould with being nice at your males + for all, and no pigging.” + </p> + <p> + Thus the supper went on for an hour, and then Davy by way of grace said, + “Praise the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me, praise His holy + name.” + </p> + <p> + “A ‘propriate tex’, too,” said the church-warden. “Aw, it’s wonderful the + scriptural the Captn’s getting when he’s a bit crooked,” he whispered + behind the back of his hand. + </p> + <p> + After that Davy stretched back in his chair and cried, “Your pipes in your + faces, boys. Smook up, smook up; chimleys everywhere, same as Douglas at + breakfast time.” + </p> + <p> + For Davy’s sake Lovibond had sat at table with the guests, though their + voracity had almost turned his stomach. At sight of the green light of + greed in their eyes he had said to himself, “Davy is a rough fellow, but a + born Christian. These creatures are hogs. Why doesn’t his gorge rise at + them?” When the supper was done, and while the cloth was being removed, + amid the clatter of dishes and the striking of lights, Lovibond rose and + slipped out of the room. + </p> + <p> + Davy saw him go, and from that moment he became constrained and silent. + Sucking at his pipe and devoting himself steadily to the drink, he + answered in <i>hum’s and ha’s and that’ll do’s</i> to the questions put to + him, and his laughter came out of him at intervals in jumps and jerks like + water from the neck of a bottle. + </p> + <p> + “What’s agate of the Capt’n?” the men whispered. “He’s quiet to-night—quiet + uncommon.” + </p> + <p> + After a while Davy heaved up and followed Lovibond. He found him walking + too and fro in the soft turf outside the window. The night was calm and + beautiful. In the sky a sea of stars and a great full moon; on the land a + line of gas jets, and on the dark bay a point here and there of rolling + light. No sound but the distant hum of traffic in the town, the + inarticulate shout of a sailor on one of the ships outside, and the + rock-row rock-row of the oars in the rol-locks of some unseen boat gliding + into the harbor below. + </p> + <p> + Davy drew a long breath. “So you think,” said he, “that the sweet woman in + the church is loving her husband in spite of all?” + </p> + <p> + “Fear she is, poor fool,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “Bless her!” said Davy, beneath his breath. “D’ye think, now,” said he, + “that all women are like that?” + </p> + <p> + “Many are—too many,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “Equal to forgiving and forgetting, eh?” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—the sweet simpletons—and taking the men back as well,” + said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “Extraordinary!” said Davy. “Aw, matey, matey, men’s only muck where women + comes. Women is reg’lar eight-teen-carat goold. It’s me to know it too. + There was the mawther herself now. My father was a bit of a rip—God + forgive his son for saying it—and once he went trapsing after a girl + and got her into trouble. An imperent young hussy anyway, but no matter. + Coorse the mawther wouldn’t have no truck with her; but one day she died + sudden, and then the child hadn’t nobody but the neighbors to look to it. + ‘Go for it, Davy,’ says the mawther to me. It was evening, middling late + after the herrings, and when I got to the kitchen windey there was the + little one atop of the bed in her nightdress saying her bits of prayers; + ‘God bless mawther, and everybody,’ and all to that. She couldn’t get out + of the ‘mawther’ yet, being always used of it, and there never was no + ‘father’ in her little tex’es. Poor thing! she come along with me, bless + you, like a lammie that you’d pick out of the snow. Just hitched her hands + round my neck and fell asleep in my arms going back, with her putty face + looking up at the stars same as an angel’s—soft and woolly to your + lips like milk straight from the cow, and her little body smelling sweet + and damp, same as the breath of a calf. And when the mawther saw me she + smoothed her brat and dried her hands, and catched at the little one, and + chuckled over her, and clucked at her and kissed her, with her own face + slushed like rain, till yer’d have thought nothing but it was one of her + own that had been lost and was found agen. Aw, women for your life, mate, + for forgiveness.’” + </p> + <p> + Lovibond did not speak, and Davy began to laugh in a husky voice. + </p> + <p> + “Bless me, the talk a man will put out when he’s a bit over the rope and + thinking of ould times,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Sign that I’m thirsty,” he added; and then walked toward the window. “But + the father could never forgive hisself,” he said, as he was stepping + through, “and if I done wrong to a woman neither could I—I’ve that + much of the ould man in me anyway.” + </p> + <p> + When he got back to the room the air was dense with tobacco-smoke, and his + guests were shouting for his company. “Capt’n Davy!” “Where’s Capt’n + Davy?” “Aw, here’s the man himself?” “Been studying the stars, Capt’n?” + “Well, that’s a bit of navigation.” “Navigation by starlight—I know + the sort. Navigating up alongside a pretty girl, eh, Capt’n?” + </p> + <p> + There were rough jokes, and strange stories, and more liquor and loud + laughter, and for a time Davy took his part in everything. But after a + while he grew quiet again, and absent in manner, and he glanced up at + intervals in the direction of the window, A new thought had come to him. + It made the sweat to break out at the top of his forehead, and then he + heard no more of the clatter around him than the rum-humdrum as of a train + in a tunnel, pierced sometimes by the shrill scream as of an occasional + whistle. Presently he rolled up again, and went out once more to Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + The thought that had seized him was agony, and he could not broach it at + once. So he beat about it for a moment, and then came down on it with a + crash. + </p> + <p> + “Sitting alone, is she, poor thing?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Alone,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “I know, I know,” said Davy. “Like a bird on a bough calling mournful for + her mate; but he’s gone, he’s down, maybe worse, but lost anyway. Yet if + he should ever come back now—eh?” + </p> + <p> + “He’ll have to be quick then,” said Lovibond; “for she intends to go home + to her people soon.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you say she was for going home?” said Davy, eagerly. “Home where—where + to—to England?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Lovibond. “Havn’t I told you she’s a Manx woman?” + </p> + <p> + “A Manx woman, is she?” said Davy. “What’s her name?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t ask her that,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “Then where’s her home?” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “I forget the name of the place,” said Lovibond. “Balla—something.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it—— is it——” Davy was speaking very quickly—“is + it Ballaugh, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s it,” and Lovibond. “And her father’s farm—I heard the name + of the farm as well—Balla—balla—something else—oh, + Ballavalley.” + </p> + <p> + “Ballavolly?” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “Exactly,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + Davy breathed heavily, swayed slightly, and rolled against Lovibond as + they walked side by side. + </p> + <p> + “Then you know the place, Capt’n,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + Davy laughed noisily. “Ay, I know it,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “And the girl’s father, too, I suppose?” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + Davy laughed bitterly. “Ay, and the girl’s father too,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “And the girl herself perhaps?” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + Davy laughed almost fiercely, “Ay, and the girl herself,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Lovibond did not spare him. “Then,” said he, in an innocent way, “you must + know her husband also.” + </p> + <p> + Davy laughed wildly. “I wouldn’t trust,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “He’s a brute—isn’t he?” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “Ugh!” Davy’s laughter stopped very suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “A fool, too—is he not?” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “Ay—a damned fool!” said Davy out of the depths of his throat, and + then he laughed and reeled again, and gripped at Lovibond’s sleeve to keep + himself erect. + </p> + <p> + “Helloa!” he cried, in another voice; “I’m rocking full like a ship with a + rolling cargo and my head is as thick as Taubman’s brewery on boiling + day.” + </p> + <p> + He was a changed man from that instant onward. An angel of God that had + been breathing on his soul was driven out by a devil of despair. The + conviction had settled on him that he was a dastard. Lovibond remembered + the story of his father? and trembled for what he had done. + </p> + <p> + Davy stumbled back through the window into the room, singing lustily— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O, Molla Char—aine, where got you your gold? + Lone, lone, you have le—eft me here, + O, not in the Curragh, deep under the mo—old, + Lone, lo—one, and void of cheer, + Lone, lo—one, and void of cheer. +</pre> + <p> + His cronies received him with shouts of welcome. “You’ll be walking the + crank yet, Capt’n,” said they, in mockery of his unsteady gait. His + altered humor suited them. “Cards,” they cried; “cards—a game for + good luck.” + </p> + <p> + “Hould hard,” said Davy. “Fair do’s. Send for the landlord first.” + </p> + <p> + “What for?” they asked. “To stop us? He’ll do that quick enough.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll see,” said Davy. “Willie,” he shouted, “bring up the skipper.” + </p> + <p> + Willie Quarrie went out on his errand, and Davy called for a song. The + Crier gave one line three times, and broke down as often. “I linger round + this very spot—I linger round this ve—ery spot—I linger + round this very—” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t do it any longer, mate,” cried Davy. “Your song is like Kinvig’s + first sermon. The ould man couldn’t get no farther till his tex’, so he + gave it out three times—‘I am the Light of the World—I am the + Light of the World—I am the Light—’ ‘Maybe so, brother,’ says + ould Kennish, in the pew below; ‘but you want snuffing. Come down out of + that.’”— + </p> + <p> + Loud peals of wild laughter followed, and Davy’s own laughter rang out + wildest and maddest of all. Then up came the landlord with his round face + smiling. What was the Captain’s pleasure? + </p> + <p> + “Landlord,” cried Davy, “tell your men to fill up these glasses, and then + send me your bill for all I owe you, and make it cover everything I’ll + want till to-morrow morning.” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow will do for the bill, Captain,” said the landlord. “I’m not + afraid that you’ll cut your country.” + </p> + <p> + “Aren’t you, though? Then the more fool you,” said Davy. “Send it up, my + shining sunflower; send it up.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, Captain, just to humor you,” said the landlord, backing + himself out with his head in his chest. + </p> + <p> + “Why, where are you going to, Capt’n?” cried many voices at once. + </p> + <p> + “Wherever there’s a big cabbage growing, boys,” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + The bill came up, and Willie Quarrie examined it. “Shocking!” cried + Willie; “it’s really shocking! Shillings apiece for my breakfas’es—now + that’s what I call a reg’lar piece of ambition.” + </p> + <p> + Davy turned out his pockets on to the table. The pockets were many, and + were hidden away, back and front and side, in every slack and tight place + in his clothes. Gold, silver, and copper came mixed and loose from all of + them, and he piled up the money in a little heap before him. When all was + out he picked five sovereigns from the haggis of coin and put them back + into his waistcoat pocket, while he screwed up one eye into the semblance + of a wink, and said to Willie, “That’ll see us over.” Then he called for a + sight of the bill, glanced at the total and proceeded to count out the + amount of it. This being done, he rolled the money in the paper, screwed + it up like a penny worth of lozenges, and sent it down to the landlord + with his bes’ respec’s. After that he straightened his chest, stuck his + thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat, nodded his head downward at the + money remaining on the table and said, “Men, see that? It’s every ha’penny + I’m worth in the world, A month ago I came home with a nice warm fortune + at me. That’s what’s left, and when it’s gone I’m up the spout.” + </p> + <p> + The men looked at each other in blank surprise, and began to mutter among + themselves, “What game is he agate of now?” “Aw, it’s true.” “True enough, + you go bail.” “I wouldn’t trust, he’s been so reckless.” “Twenty + thousands, they’re saying.” “Aw, he’s been helped—there’s that + Mister Loviboy, a power of money the craythur must have had out of him.” + “Well, sarve him right; fools and their money is rightly parted.” + </p> + <p> + Thus they croaked and crowed, and though Davy was devoting himself to the + drink he heard them. + </p> + <p> + A wild light shot into his eyes, but he only laughed more noisily and + talked more incessantly. + </p> + <p> + “Come, lay down, d’ye hear,” he cried. “Do you think I care for the + fortune? I care nothing, not I. I’ve had a bigger loss till that in my + time.” + </p> + <p> + “Lord save us, Capt’n—when?” cried one. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind when—not long ago, any way,” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “And you had heart to start afresh, Cap’n, eh?” cried another. + </p> + <p> + “Heart, you say? Maybe so, maybe no,” said Davy. “But stow this jaw. + Here’s my harvest home, boys, my Melliah, only I am bringing back the + tares—who’s game to toss for it? Equal stakes, sudden death!” + </p> + <p> + The brewer tossed with him and won. Davy brushed the money across the + table, and laughed more madly than ever. “I care nothing, not I, say what + you like,” he cried again and again, though no one disputed his + protestation. + </p> + <p> + But the manner of the cronies changed toward him nevertheless. Some fell + to patronizing him, some to advising him, and some to sneering at the + hubbub he was making. + </p> + <p> + “Well, well,” he cried, “One glass and a toast, anyway, and part friends + for all.” “Aisy there! silence! Hush? Chink up! (Hear, hear?) Are you + ready? Here goes, boys? The biggest blockit in the island, bar none—Capt’n + Davy Quiggin.” + </p> + <p> + At that the raggabash who had been clinking glasses pretended to be + mightily offended in their dignity. They looked about for their hats, and + began to shuffle out. + </p> + <p> + “Lave me, then; lave me,” cried Davy. “Lave me, now, you Noah’s ark of + creeping things. Lave me, I’m stone broke. Ay, lave me, you dogs with your + noses in the snow. I’m done, I’m done.” + </p> + <p> + As the rascals who had cheated and robbed him trooped out like men + aggrieved, Davy broke out into a stave of another wild song: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I’m hunting the wren,” said Bobbin to Bobbin, + “I’m hunting the wren,” said Richard to Rob-bin, + “I’m hunting the wren,” said Jack of the Lhen, + “I’m hunting the wren,” said every one. +</pre> + <p> + When the men were gone Lovibond came back by the window. The room was + dense with the fumes of dead smoke, and foul with the smell of stale + liquor. Broken pipes lay on the table amid the refuse of spilled beer, and + a candle, at which the pipes had been lighted, still stood there burning. + </p> + <p> + Davy was reeling about madly, and singing and laughing in gust on gust. + His face was afire with the drink that he had taken, and his throat was + guggling and sputtering. + </p> + <p> + “I care nothing, not I—say what you like; I’ve had worse losses in + my time,” he cried. + </p> + <p> + He plunged his right hand into his breast and drew out something. + </p> + <p> + “See, that, mate?” he said, and held it up under the glass chandelier. + </p> + <p> + It was a little curl of brown hair, tied across the middle with a piece of + faded blue ribbon. + </p> + <p> + “See it?” he cried in a husky gurgle. “It’s all I’ve got left in the + world.” + </p> + <p> + He held it up to the light and looked at it, and laughed until the glass + pendants of the chandelier swung and jingled with the vibration of his + voice. + </p> + <p> + “The gorse under the ling, eh? There you are then! <i>She</i> gave it me. + Yes, though, on the night I sailed. My gough! The ruch and proud I was + that night anyway! I was a homeless beggar, but I might have owned the + stars, for, by God, I was walking on them going away.” + </p> + <p> + He reeled again, and laughed as if in mockery of himself, and then said, + “That’s ten year ago, mate, and I’ve kep’ it ever since. I have though, + here in my breast, and it’s druv out wuss things. When I’ve been far away + foreign, and losing heart a bit, and down with the fever, maybe, in that + ould hell, and never looking to see herself again, no, never, I’ve been + touching it gentle and saying to myself, soft and low, like a sort of an + angel’s whisper, ‘Nelly is with you, Davy. She isn’t so very far away, + boy; she’s here for all.’ And when I’ve been going into some dirt of a + place that a dacent man shouldn’t, it’s been cutting at my ribs, same as a + knife, and crying like mad, ‘Hould hard, Davy; you can’t take Nelly in + theer?’ When I’ve been hot it’s been keeping me cool, and when I’ve been + cold it’s been keeping me warm, better till any comforter. D’ye see it, + sir? We’re ould comrades, it and me, the best that’s going, and never no + quarreling and no words neither. Ten years together, sir; blow high, blow + low. But we’re going to part at last.” + </p> + <p> + Then he picked up the candle in his left hand, still holding the lock of + hair in his right. + </p> + <p> + “Good-by, ould friend!” he cried, in a shrill voice, rolling his head to + look at the curl, and holding it over the candle. “We’re parting company + to-night. I’m going where I can’t take you along with me—I’m going + to the divil. So long! S’long! I’ll never strook you, nor smooth you, nor + kiss you no more! S’long!” + </p> + <p> + He put the curl to his lips, holding it tremblingly between his great + fingers and thumb. Then he clutched it in his palm, reeled a step + backward, swung the candle about and dashed it on to the floor. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t, I can’t,” he cried, “God A’mighty, I can’t. It’s Nelly—Nelly—my + Nelly—my little Nell!” + </p> + <p> + The curl went back into his breast. He sank into a chair, covered his face + with his hands, and wept aloud as little children do. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. + </h2> + <p> + When Mrs. Quiggin came down to breakfast next morning, a change both in + her appearance and in her manner caught the eye and ear of Jenny Crow. Her + fringe was combed back from her forehead, and her speech, even in the + first salutation, gave a delicate hint of the broad Manx accent. “Ho, ho! + what’s this?” thought Jenny, and she had not long to wait for an answer. + </p> + <p> + An English waiter, who affected the ways of a French one, was fussing + around with needless inquiries—<i>would Madame have this; would + Madame do that?</i>—and when this person had scraped himself out of + the room Mrs. Quiggin drew a long breath and said, “I don’t think I care + so very much for this sort of thing after all, Jenny.” + </p> + <p> + “What sort of thing, Nelly?” + </p> + <p> + “Waiters and servants, and hotels and things,” said Nelly. + </p> + <p> + “Really!” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “It’s wonderful how much happier you are when you can be your own servant, + and boil your own kettle and mash your own tea, and lay your own cloth, + and clear away and wash up afterward.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you say so, Nelly?” + </p> + <p> + “Deed I do, though, Jenny. There’s some life in the like of that—seeing + to yourself and such like. And what are the pleasures of towns and streets + and hotels and servants, and such botherations to those of a sweet old + farm that is all your own somewhere? And, to think—to think, Jenny, + getting up in the summer morning before the sun itself, when the light is + that cool dead gray, and the last stars are dying off, and the first birds + are calling to their mates that are still asleep, and then going round to + the cowhouse in the clear, crisp, ringing air, and startling the rabbits + and the hares that are hopping about in the haggard—O! it’s + delightful!” + </p> + <p> + “Really now!” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “And then the men coming down stairs, half awake and yawning, in their + shirt sleeves and their stocking feet, and pushing on their boots and + clattering out to the stable, and shouting to the horses that are stamping + in their stalls; and then you yoursef busy as Thop’s wife laying the cups + and saucers, and sending the boys to the well for water, and filling the + big crock to the brim, and hanging the kettle on the hook, and setting + somebody to blow the fire while the gorse flames and crackles, and + bustling here and bustling there, and stirring yoursef terr’ble, and + getting breakfast over, and starting everybody away to his work in the + fields—aw, there’s nothing like it in the world.” + </p> + <p> + “And do <i>you</i> think that, Nelly?” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “Why, yes; why shouldn’t I?” said Nelly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, well,” said Jenny. “‘There’s nowt so queer as folk,’ as they say in + Manchester. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean, Jenny Crow?” + </p> + <p> + “I fancy I see you,” said Jenny, “bowling off to Balla—what d’ye + call it?—and doing all that <i>by yourself</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” said Nelly. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Quiggin had begun to speak in a voice that was something between a + shrill laugh and a cry, and she ended with a smothered gurgle, such as + comes from the throat of a pea-hen. After breakfast Peggy Quine came + chirping around with a hundred inquiries about the packing of luggage + which was then proceeding, with a view to the carriage that had been + ordered for eleven o’clock. Mrs. Quiggin betrayed only the most languid + interest in these hurrying operations, and settled herself with her + needlework in a chair near to Jenny Crow. Jenny watched her, and thought, + “Now, wouldn’t she jump at a good excuse for not going at all?” + </p> + <p> + Presently Mrs. Quiggin said, in a tone of well-acted unconcern, “And so + you say that the poor man you tell me of is still loving his wife in spite + of all she has done to him?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Nelly. All men are like that—more fools they,” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + Nelly’s face brightened over the needles in her hand, and her parted lips + seemed to whisper, “Bless them!” But in a note of delicious insincerity + she only said aloud, “Not all, Jenny; surely not all.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, all,” said Jenny, with emphasis. “Do you think I don’t know the men + better than you do?” + </p> + <p> + Nelly dropped her needles and raised her face. “Why, Jenny,” she said, + “however can that be?—you’ve never even been married.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s why, my dear,” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + Nelly laughed; then returning to the attack, she said, with a poor + pretense at a yawn, “So you think a man may love a woman even after—after + she has turned him out of doors, as you say?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but that isn’t to say that he’ll ever come back to her,” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + The needles dropped to the lap again. “No? Why shouldn’t he then?” + </p> + <p> + “Why? Because men are never good at the bended knee business,” said Jenny. + “A man on his knees is ridiculous. It must be his legs that look so silly. + If I had done anything to a man, and he went down on his knees to me, I + would——” + </p> + <p> + “What, Jenny?” + </p> + <p> + Jenny lifted her skirt an inch or two, and showed a dainty foot swinging + to and fro. “Kick him,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + Nelly laughed again, and said, “And if you were a man, and a woman did so, + what then?” + </p> + <p> + “Why lift her up and kiss her, and forgive her, of course,” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + Nelly tingled with delight, and burned to ask Jenny if she should not at + least let Captain Davy know that she was leaving Douglas and going home. + But being a true woman, she asked something else instead. + </p> + <p> + “So you think, Jenny,” she said, “that your poor friend will never go back + to his wife?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure he won’t,” said Jenny. “Didn’t I tell you?” she added, + straightening up. + </p> + <p> + “What?” said Nelly, with a quiver of alarm. + </p> + <p> + “That he’s going back to sea,” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “To sea!” cried Nelly, dropping her needles entirely. “Back to sea?” she + said, in a shrill voice. “And without even saying ‘good-by!’” + </p> + <p> + “Good-by to whom, my dear?” said Jenny. “To me?” + </p> + <p> + “To his wife, of course,” said Nelly, huskily. + </p> + <p> + “Well, we don’t know that, do we?” said Jenny. “And, besides, why should + he?” + </p> + <p> + “If he doesn’t he’s a cruel, heartless, unfeeling, unforgiving monster,” + said Nelly. + </p> + <p> + And then Jenny burned in her turn to ask if Nelly herself had not intended + to do as much by Captain Davy, but, being a true woman as well as her + adversary, she found a crooked way to the plain question. “Is it at + eleven,” she said, “that the carriage is to come for you?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Quiggin had recovered herself in a moment, and then there was a + delicate bout of thrust and parry. “I’m so sorry for your sake, Jenny,” + she said, in the old tone of delicious insincerity, “that the poor fellow + is married.” + </p> + <p> + “Gracious me, for my sake? Why?” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “I thought you were half in love with him, you know,” said Nelly. + </p> + <p> + “Half?” cried Jenny. “I’m over head and ears in love with him.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a pity,” said Nelly; “for, of course, you’ll give him up now that + you know he has a wife.” + </p> + <p> + “What of that? If he <i>has</i> a wife I have no husband—so it’s as + broad as it’s long,” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “Jenny!” cried Nelly. + </p> + <p> + “And, oh!” said Jenny, “there is one thing I didn’t tell you. But you’ll + keep it secret? Promise me you’ll keep it secret. I’m to meet him again by + appointment this very night.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Jenny!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, in the garden of this house—by the waterfall at eight o’clock. + I’ll slip out after dinner in my cloak with the hood to it.” + </p> + <p> + “Jenny Crow!” + </p> + <p> + “It’s our last chance, it seems. The poor fellow sails at midnight, or + tomorrow morning, or to-morrow night, or the next night, or sometime. So + you see he’s not going away without saying good-by to somebody. I couldn’t + help telling you, Nelly. It’s nice to share a secret with a friend one can + trust, and if he <i>is</i> another woman’s husband—” + </p> + <p> + Nell had risen to her feet with her face aflame. + </p> + <p> + “But you mustn’t do it,” she cried. “It’s shocking, it’s horrible—common + morality is against it.” + </p> + <p> + Jenny looked wondrous grave. “That’s it, you see,” she said. “Common + morality always <i>is</i> against everything that’s nice and agreeable.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m ashamed of you, Jenny Crow. I am; indeed, I am. I could never have + believed it of you; indeed, I couldn’t. And the man you speak of is no + better than you are, and all his talk of loving the wife is hypocrisy and + deceit; and the poor woman herself should know of it, and come down on you + both and shame you—indeed, she should,” cried Nelly, and she + flounced out of the room in a fury. + </p> + <p> + Jenny watched her go and thought to herself. “She’ll keep that appointment + for me at eight o’clock to-night by the waterfall.” Presently she heard + Mrs. Quiggin with a servant of the hotel countermanding the order for the + carriage at eleven, and engaging it instead for the extraordinary hour of + nine at night. “She intends to keep it,” thought Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “And now,” she said, settling herself at the writing-table; “now for the + <i>other</i> simpleton.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell D. Q.,” she wrote, addressing Lovibond; “that E. Q. goes home by + carriage at nine o’clock to-night, and that you have appointed to meet her + for a last farewell at eight by the waterfall in the gardens of Castle + Mona. Then meet <i>me</i> on the pier at seven-thirty.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. + </h2> + <p> + Lovibond received this message while sitting at breakfast, and he caught + the idea of it in an instant. Since the supper of the night before he had + been pestered by many misgivings, and troubled by some remorse. Capt’n + Davy was bent on going away. Overwhelmed by a sense of what he took to be + his dastardly conduct he was in that worst position of the man who can + forgive neither himself nor the person he has injured. So much had + Lovibond done for him by the fine scheme that had brought matters to such + a pass. But having gone so far, Lovibond had found himself at a stand. His + next step he could not see. Capt’n Davy must not be allowed to leave the + island, but how to keep him from going away was a bewildering difficulty. + To tell him the truth was impossible, and to concoct a further fable was + beyond Lovibond’s invention. And so it was that when Lovi-bond received + the letter from Jenny Crow, he rose to the cue it offered like a drowning + man to a life-buoy. + </p> + <p> + “Jealousy—the very thing!” he thought; and not until he was already + in the thick of his enterprise as wizard of that passion did he realize + that if it was an effectual instrument to his end it was also a cruel one. + </p> + <p> + He found Capt’n Davy in the midst of the final preparations for their + journey. These consisted of the packing of clothes into trunks, bags, + sacks, and hampers. On the floor of the sitting-room lay a various + assortment of coats, waistcoats, trowsers, great-coats, billycock hats and + sou’-westers, together with countless shirts and collars, scarfs and + handkerchiefs. At Davy’s order Willie Quarrie had gathered up the garments + in armsful out of drawers and wardrobes, and heaped them at his feet for + inspection. This process they were undergoing with a view to the selection + of such as were suitable to the climate in which it was intended that they + should be worn. The hour was 8.30 a.m., the “Snaefell” was announced to + sail for Liverpool at nine. + </p> + <p> + But, as Lovibond entered the room, a scene of yet more primitive interest + was actively proceeding. A waiter of the hotel was strutting across the + floor and sputtering out protests against this unseemly use of the + sitting-room. The person was the same who the night before had haunted + Davy’s elbow with his obsequious “Yes, sirs,” “No, sirs,” and “Beg pardon, + sirs”; but the morning had brought him knowledge of Davy’s penury, and + with that wisdom had come impudence if not dignity. + </p> + <p> + “The ideal!” he cried. “Turnin’ a ‘otel drawrin’-room into a charwoman’s + laundry!” + </p> + <p> + “Make it a rag shop at once,” said Davy, as he went on quietly with his + work. + </p> + <p> + “A rag shop it is, and I’ll ‘ave no more of it,” said the waiter loftily. + “Who ever ‘eard of such a thing?” + </p> + <p> + “No?” said Davy. “Well, well, now! Who’d have thought it? You never did? A + rael Liverpool gentleman, eh? A reg’lar aristocrack out of Sawney + Pope-street!” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir, but it’s easy to see where <i>you</i> came from,” said the + waiter, with withering scorn. + </p> + <p> + “You say true, boy,” said Davy, “but it’s aisier still to see where you + are going to. Ever seen the black man on the beach at all? No? Him with + the performing birds? You know—jacks and ravens and owls and such + like. Well, he’s been wanting something like you this long time. Wouldn’t + trust, but he’d give twopence-halfpenny for you—and drinks all + round. You’d make his fortune as a cockatoo.” + </p> + <p> + The waiter in fury called downstairs for assistance, and when two of his + fellow servants had arrived in the room they made some poor show of + working their will by force. Then Davy paused from his work, scratched the + under part of his chin with the nail of his forefinger, and said, + “Friends, some of us four is interrupting the play, and they’re wanting us + at the pay box to give us back the fare. I’m thinking it’s you’s fellows—what + do <i>you</i> say? They’re longing for you downstairs—won’t you go? + No? you’ll not though? Then where d’ye keep the slack of your trowsis?” + </p> + <p> + Saying this Davy rose to his feet, hitched his left hand into the collar + of the first waiter, and his right into the depths under his coat tails, + and ran him out of the room. Returning for the other two waiters he did + much the same by each of them, and then came back with a look of awe, and + said— + </p> + <p> + “My gough! they must have been Manxmen after all—they rowled + downstairs as if they’d been all legs together.” + </p> + <p> + Lovibond looked grave. “That’s going too far, Capt’n,” he said. “For your + own sake it’s risking too much.” + </p> + <p> + “Risking too much?” said Davy. “There’s only three of them.” + </p> + <p> + The first bell rang on the steamer; it was quarter to nine o’clock. Willie + Quarrie looked out at the window. The “Snaefell” was lying by the red pier + in the harbor, getting up steam, and sending clouds of smoke over the old + “Imperial.” Cars were rattling up the quay, passengers were making for the + gangways, and already the decks, fore and aft, were thronged with people. + </p> + <p> + “Come along, my lad; look slippy,” cried Davy, “only two bells more, and + three hampers still to pack. Tumble them in—here goes.” + </p> + <p> + “Capt’n!” said Willie, still looking out. + </p> + <p> + “What?” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t cross by the ferry, Capt’n.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “They’re all waiting for you,” said Willie, “every dirt of them all is + waiting by the steps—there’s Tommy Tubman, and Billy Balla-Slieau, + and that wastrel of a churchwarden—yes, and there’s ould Kennish—they’re + all there. Deng my buttons, all of them. They’re thinking to crow over us, + Capt’n. Don’t cross by the ferry. Let me run for a car. Then we’ll slip up + by the bridge yonder, and down the quay like a mill race, and up to the + gangway like smook, and abooard in a jiffy. That’s it—yes, I’ll be + off immadient, and we’ll bate the blackguards anyway.” + </p> + <p> + Willie was seizing his cap to carry out his intention of going for a cab + in order that his master might be spared the humiliation of passing + through the line of false friends who had gathered at the ferry steps to + see the last of him; but Davy shouted “Stop,” and pointed to the hampers + still unpacked. + </p> + <p> + “I’m broke,” said he, “and what matter who knows it? Reminds me, sir,” + said Davy to Lovibond, “of Parson Cowan. The ould man lived up Andreas + way, and after sarvice he’d be saying, ‘Boys let’s put a sight on the + Methodees,’ and they’d be taking a slieu round to the chapel door. Then as + the people came out he’d be offering his snuff-boxes all about. ‘William, + how do? have a pinch?’ ‘Ah, Robbie, fine evening; take a sneeze?’ ‘Is that + you, Tommy? I haven’t another box in my clothes, but if you’ll put your + finger and thumb into my waistcoat pocket here, you’ll find some dust.’ + Aw, yes, a reglar up-and-a-down-er, Parson Cowan, as aisy, as aisy, and no + pride at all. But he had his wakeness same as a common man, and it was the + Plow Inn at Ramsey. One day he was going out of it middling full—not + fit to walk the crank anyway—when who should be coming up the street + from the court-house but the Bishop! It was Bishop—Bishop—chut, + his name’s gone at me—but no matter, glum as a gur-goyle anyway, and + straight as a lamppost—a reglar steeple-up-your-back sort of a chap. + Ould Mrs. Beatty saw him, and she lays a hould of Parson Cowan and starts + awkisking him back into the house, and through into the parlor where the + chiney cups is. ‘You mustn’t go out yet,’ the ould woman was whispering. + ‘It’s the Bishop. And him that sevare—it’s shocking! He’ll surspend + you! And think what they’ll be saying! A parson, too! Hush, sir hush! + Don’t spake! You’ll be waiting till it’s dark, and then going home with + John in the bottom of the cart, and nice clane straw to lie on, and nobody + knowing nothing.’ But the ould man wouldn’t listen. He drew hisself up on + the ould woman tremenjous, and studdied hisself agen the door, and ‘No,’ + says he; ‘I’m drunk,’ says he, ‘God knows it,’ says he, ‘and for what man + knows I don’t care a damn—<i>I’ll walk!</i>’ Then away he went down + the street past the Bishop, with his hat a-one side, and his hair all + through-others, tacking a bit with romps in the fetlock joints, but + driving on like mad.”— + </p> + <p> + The second bell rang on the steamer. It was seven minutes to nine, and the + last of the luggage was packed. On the floor there still lay a pile of + clothing, which was to be left as oil for the wounded joints of the + gentlemen who had been flung down stairs. Willie Quarrie bustled about to + get the trunks and hampers to the ferry steps. Davy, who had been in his + shirt-sleeves, drew on his coat, and Lovibond, who had been waiting twenty + torturing minutes for some opportunity to begin, plunged into the business + of his visit at last. + </p> + <p> + “So you’re determined to go, Capt’n?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I am,” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “No message for Mrs. Quiggin? Dare say I could find her at Castle Mona.” + </p> + <p> + “No! Wait—yes—tell her—say I’m—if ever I—Chut! + what’s the odds? No, no message.” + </p> + <p> + “Not even good-by, Capt’n?” + </p> + <p> + “She sent none to me—no.” + </p> + <p> + “Not a word?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a word.” + </p> + <p> + Davy was pawing up the carpet with the toe of his boot, and filling his + pipe from his pouch. + </p> + <p> + “Going back to Callao, Capt’n?” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “God knows, mate,” said Davy. “I’m like the seeding grass, blown here and + there, and the Lord knows where; but maybe I’ll find land at last.” + </p> + <p> + “Capt’n, about the money?—dy’e owe me any grudge about that?” said + Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “Lord-a-massy! Grudge, is it?” said Davy. “Aw, no, man, no. The money was + my mischief. It’s gone, and good luck to it.” + </p> + <p> + “But if I could show you a way to get it all back again, Capt’n——” + </p> + <p> + “Chut! I wouldn’t have it, and I wouldn’t stay. But, matey, if you could + show me how to get back... the money isn’t the loss I’m... if I was as + poor as ould Chalse-a-killey, and had to work my flesh.... I’d stay if I + could get back....” + </p> + <p> + The whistle sounded from the funnel of the “Snaefell,” and the loud throbs + of escaping steam echoed from the Head. Willie Quarrie ran in to say that + the luggage was down at the ferry steps, and the ferryboat was coming over + the harbor. + </p> + <p> + “Capt’n,” said Lovibond, “she must have injured you badly——” + </p> + <p> + “Injured <i>me?</i>” said Davy. “Wish she had! I wouldn’t go off to the + world’s end if that was all betwixt us.” + </p> + <p> + “If she hasn’t, Capt’n,” said Lovi-bond, “you’re putting her in the way of + it.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + Davy was about to light his pipe, but he flung away the match. + </p> + <p> + “Have you never thought of it?” said Lovibond, “That when a husband + deserts his wife like this he throws her in the way of—” + </p> + <p> + “Not Nelly, no,” said Davy, promptly. “I’ll lave <i>that</i> with her, + anyway. Any other woman perhaps, but Nelly—never! She’s as pure as + new milk, and no beast milk neither. Nelly going wrong, eh? Well, well! + I’d like to see the man that would... I may have treated her bad... but + I’d like to see the man, I say...” + </p> + <p> + Then there was another shrieking whistle from the steamer. Willie Quarrie + called up at the window and gesticulated wildly from the lawn outside. + </p> + <p> + “Coming, boy, coming,” Davy shouted back, and looking at his watch, he + said, “Four minutes and a half—time enough yet.” + </p> + <p> + Then they left the hotel and moved toward the ferry steps. As they walked + Davy begun to laugh. “Well, well!” he said, and he laughed again. “Aw, to + think, to think!” he said, and he laughed once more. But with every fresh + outbreak of his laughter the note of his voice lost freshness. + </p> + <p> + Lovibond saw his opportunity, and yet could not lay hold of it, so cruel + at that moment seemed the only weapon that would be effectual. But Davy + himself thrust in between him and his timid spirit. With another hollow + laugh, as if half ashamed of keeping up the deception to the last, yet + convinced that he alone could see through it, he said, “No news of the + girl in the church, mate, eh? Gone home, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “No?” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “The fact is—but you’ll be secret?” + </p> + <p> + “Coorse.” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t a thing I’d tell everybody—” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “You see, if her husband has treated her like a brute, she’s his wife, + after all.” + </p> + <p> + Davy drew up on the path. “What is it?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I’m to meet her to-night, alone,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “No!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; in the grounds of Castle Mona, by the waterfall, after dark—at + eight o’clock, in fact. + </p> + <p> + “Castle Mona—by the waterfall—eight o’clock—that’s a—now, + that must be a—” + </p> + <p> + Davy had lifted his pipe hand to give emphasis to the protest on his lips, + when he stopped and laughed, and said, “Amazing thick, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “Why not,” said Lovibond? “Who wouldn’t be with a sweet woman like that? + If the fool that’s left her doesn’t know her worth, so much the better for + somebody else.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you’re for making it up there?” said Davy, clearing his throat. + </p> + <p> + “It’ll not be my fault if I don’t,” said Lovibond. “I’m not one of the + wise asses that talk big about God’s law and man’s law; and if I were, + man’s law has tied this sweet little woman to a brute, and God’s law draws + her to me—that’s all.” + </p> + <p> + “And she’s willing, eh?” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “Give her time, Capt’n,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “But didn’t you say she was loving this—this brute of a husband?” + said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “Time, Capt’n, time,” said Lovibond. “That will mend with time.” + </p> + <p> + “And, manewhile, she’s tellin’ you all her secrets.” + </p> + <p> + “I leave you to judge, Capt’n.” + </p> + <p> + “After dark, you say—that’s middling tidy to begin with, eh, mate—eh?” + </p> + <p> + Lovibond laughed: Capt’n Davy laughed. They laughed together. + </p> + <p> + Willie Quarrie, standing by the boat at the bottom of the steps, with the + luggage piled up at the bow, shouted that there was not a minute to spare. + The throbbing of the steam in the funnel had ceased, one of the two + gangways had been run ashore, and the captain was on the bridge. + </p> + <p> + “Now, then, Capt’n,” cried Willie. + </p> + <p> + But Davy did not hear. He was watching Lovibond’s face with eyes of + suspicion. Was the man fooling him? Did he know the secret? + </p> + <p> + “Good-by Capt’n,” said Lovibond, taking Davy by the hand. + </p> + <p> + “Good-by, mate,” said Davy, absently. + </p> + <p> + “Good luck to you and a second fortune,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “Damn the fortune,” said Davy, under his breath. + </p> + <p> + Then there was another whistle from the “Snaefell.” + </p> + <p> + “Capt’n Davy! Capt’n Davy!” cried Willie Quarrie. + </p> + <p> + “Coming,” answered Davy. But still he stood at the top of the ferry steps, + holding Lovibond’s hand, and looking into his face. + </p> + <p> + Then there came a loud voice from the bridge of the steamer—“Steam + up!” + </p> + <p> + “Capt’n! Capt’n!” cried Willie from the bottom of the steps. + </p> + <p> + Davy dropped Lovibond’s hand and turned to look across the harbor. “Too + late,” he said quietly. + </p> + <p> + “Not if you’ll come quick, Capt’n. See, the last gangway is up yet,” cried + Willie. + </p> + <p> + “Too late,” repeated Davy, more loudly. + </p> + <p> + “Just time to do it by the skin of your teeth, Capt’n,” shouted the + ferryman. + </p> + <p> + “Too late, I tell you,” thundered Davy, sternly. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile there was a great commotion on the other side of the harbor. + </p> + <p> + “Out of the way there!” “All ashore!” “Ready?” “Ready!” “Steam up—slow!” + The last bell rang. The first stroke of nine was struck by the clock of + the tower; one echoing blast came from the steam whistle, and the + “Snaefell” began to move slowly from the quay. Then there were shouts from + the deck and adieus from the shore. “Good-by!” “Good-by!” “Farewell, + little Mona!” “Good-by, dear Elian Vannin!” Handkerchiefs waving on the + steamer; handkerchiefs waving on the quay; seagulls wheeling over the + stern; white churning water in the wake; flag down; and harbor empty. + </p> + <p> + “She’s gone!” + </p> + <p> + Lovibond smiled behind a handkerchief, with which he pretended to wipe his + big mustache. Willie Quarrie looked helplessly up the ferry steps. Davy + gnashed his teeth at the top of them. + </p> + <p> + After a moment Davy said, “No matter; we can take the Irish packet at + nine, and catch the Pacific boat at Belfast. Willie,” he shouted, “put the + luggage in the shed for the Belfast steamer. We’ll sail to-night instead.” + </p> + <p> + Then the three parted company, each with his own reflections. + </p> + <p> + “The Capt’n done that a-purpose,” thought Willie. + </p> + <p> + “He’ll keep my engagement for me at eight o’clock,” thought Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “I wouldn’t have believed it of her if the Dempster himself had swore to + it,” thought Davy. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. + </h2> + <p> + At half-past seven that night the iron pier was a varied and animated + scene. A band was playing a waltz on the circle at the end; young people + were dancing, other young people of both sexes were promenading, lines of + yet younger people, chiefly girls in short frocks, but with the wagging + heads and sparkling eyes of one type of budding maidenhood, were skipping + along arm-in-arm, singing snatches of the words set to the waltz, and + beating a half-dancing time with an alternate scrape and stroke of the + soles of their shoes upon the wood floor on which they walked. The odor of + the brine came up from below and mingled with the whiffs of Mona Bouquet + that swept after the young girls as they passed, and with the puffs of + tobacco smoke that enveloped the young men as they dawdled on. Sometimes + the revolving light of the lightship in the channel could be seen above + the flash and flare of the pier lamps, and sometimes the dark water under + foot gleamed and glinted between the open timbers of the pier pavement, + and sometimes the deep rumble of the sea could be heard over the clash and + clang of the pier band. + </p> + <p> + Lovibond was there, walking to and fro, feeling himself for the first time + to be an old fellow among so many younger folks, watching the clock, + counting the minutes, and scanning every female form that came alone with + the crink-crank-crick through the round stile of the pay-gate. + </p> + <p> + Not until five minutes to eight did the right one appear, but she made up + for the tardiness of her coming by the animation of her spirits. + </p> + <p> + “I couldn’t get away sooner,” whispered Jenny. “She watched me like a cat. + She’ll be out in the grounds by this time. It’s delicious! But is he + coming!” + </p> + <p> + “Trust him,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “O, dear, what a meeting it will be!” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “I’d love to be there,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “Umph! Would you? Two’s company, three’s none—you’re just as well + where you are,” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “Better,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + The clock struck eight in the tower. + </p> + <p> + “Eight o’clock,” said Lovibond, “They’ll be flying at each other’s eyes by + this time.” + </p> + <p> + “Eight o’clock, twenty seconds!” said Jenny. “And they’ll be lying in each + other’s arms by now.” + </p> + <p> + “Did she suspect?” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “Of course she did!” said Jenny. “Did he?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly!” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “O dear, O dear!” said Jenny. “It’s wonderful how far you can fool people + when it’s to their interest to be fooled.” + </p> + <p> + “Wonderful!” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + They had walked to the end of the pier; the band was playing— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Ben-my-chree! + Sweet Ben-my-chree, + I love but thee, sweet Mona.” + </pre> + <p> + “So our little drama is over, eh?” said. Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; it’s over,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + Jenny sighed; Lovibond sighed; they looked at each other and sighed + together. + </p> + <p> + “And these good people have no further use for us,” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “None,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “Then I suppose we’ve no further use for each other?” moaned Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “Eh?” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “Tut!” said Jenny, and she swung aside. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Mona, sweet Mona, + I love but thee, sweet Mona.’ +</pre> + <p> + “There’s only one thing I regret,” said Lovibond, inclining his head + toward Jenny’s averted face. + </p> + <p> + “And pray, what’s that?” said Jenny, without turning about. + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t I tell you that Capt’n Davy had taken two berths in the Pacific + steamer to the west coast?” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “That’s ninety pounds wasted,” said Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “<i>What</i> a pity!” sighed Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t it?” said Lovibond—his left hand was fumbling for her right. + </p> + <p> + “If she were any other woman, she might be glad to go still,” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “And if he were any other man he would be proud to take her,” said + Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “Some woman without kith or kin to miss her—” began Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, or some man without anybody in the world—” began Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “Now, if it had been <i>my</i> case—” said Jenny, wearily. + </p> + <p> + “Or mine,” said Lovibond, sadly. + </p> + <p> + Each drew a long breath. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know, if I disappeared tonight, there’s not a soul—” said + Jenny, sorrowfully. + </p> + <p> + “That’s just my case, too,” interrupted Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” they said together. + </p> + <p> + They looked into each other’s eyes with a mournful expression, and sighed + again. Also their hands touched as their arms hung by their sides. + </p> + <p> + “Ninety pounds! Did you say ninety? Two berths?” said Jenny. “What a + shocking waste! Couldn’t somebody else use them?” + </p> + <p> + “Just what I was thinking,” said Lovibond; and he linked the lady’s arm + through his own. + </p> + <p> + “Hadn’t you better get the tickets from Capt’n Davy, and—and give + them to somebody before it is too late?” said Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got them already—his boy Quarrie was keeping them,” said + Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + “How thoughtful of you, Jona—I mean, Mr. Lovi—” + </p> + <p> + “Je—Jen—” + </p> + <p> + “Ben-my-chree! Sweet Ben-my-chree, I love but thee—” + </p> + <p> + “O, Jonathan!” whispered Jenny. + </p> + <p> + “O, Jenny!” gasped Jonathan. + </p> + <p> + They were on the dark side of the round house; the band was playing behind + them, the sea was rumbling in front; there was a shuffle of feet, a sudden + rustle of a dress; the lady glanced to the right, the gentleman looked to + the left, and then for a fraction of an instant they were locked in each + other’s arms. + </p> + <p> + “Will you go back with me, Jenny?” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” whispered Jenny. “Just to keep the tickets from wasting—” + </p> + <p> + “Just that,” whispered Lovibond. + </p> + <p> + Three quarters of an hour later they were sailing out of Douglas harbor on + board the Irish packet that was to overtake the Pacific steamship next + morning at Belfast. The lights of Castle Mona lay low on the water’s edge, + and from the iron pier as they passed came the faint sound of the music of + the band: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Mona, sweet Mona, + Fairest isle beneath the sky, + Mona, sweet Mona, + We bid thee now good-by.” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. + </h2> + <p> + The life that Davy had led that day-was infernal At the first shaft of + Lovi-bond’s insinuation against Mrs. Quiggin’s fidelity he had turned sick + at heart. “When he said it,” Davy had thought, “the blood went from me + like the tide out of the Ragged Mouth, where the ships lie wrecked and + rotten.” + </p> + <p> + He had baffled with his bemuddled brain, to recall the conversation he had + held with his wife since his return home to marry her, and every innocent + word she had uttered in jest had seemed guilty and foul. “You’ve been + nothing but a fool, Davy,” he told himself. “You’ve been tooken in.” + </p> + <p> + Then he had reproached himself for his hasty judgment. “Hould hard, boy, + hould hard; aisy for all, though, aisy, aisy!” He had remembered how + modest his wife had been in the old days—how simple and how natural. + “She was as pure as the mountain turf,” he had thought, “and quiet + extraordinary.” Yet there was the ugly fact that she had appointed to meet + a strange man in the gardens of Castle Mona, that night, alone. “Some + charm is put on her—some charm or the like,” he had thought again. + </p> + <p> + That had been the utmost and best he could make of it, and he had suffered + the torments of the damned. During the earlier part of the day he had + rambled through the town, drinking freely, and his face had been a piteous + sight to see. Toward nightfall he had drifted past Castle Mona toward + Onchan Head, and stretched himself on the beach before Derby Castle. There + he had reviewed the case afresh, and asked himself what he ought to do. + </p> + <p> + “It’s not for me to go sneaking after her,” he had thought. “She’s true, + I’ll swear to it. The man’s lying... Very well, then, Davy, boy, don’t you + take rest till you’re proving it.” + </p> + <p> + The autumn day had begun to close in, and the first stars to come out. + “Other women are like yonder,” he had thought; “just common stars in the + sky, where there’s millions and millions of them. But Nelly is like the + moon—the moon, bless her—” + </p> + <p> + At that thought Davy had leaped to his feet, in disgust of his own + simplicity. “I’m a fool,” he had muttered, “a reg’lar ould bleating + billygoat; talking pieces of poethry to myself, like a stupid, gawky Tommy + Big Eyes.” + </p> + <p> + He had looked at his watch. It was a quarter to eight o’clock. + Unconsciously he had begun to walk toward Castle Mona. “I’m not for + misdoubting my wife, not me; but then a man may be over certain. I’ll find + out for myself; and if it’s true, if she’s there, if she meets him.... + Well, well, be aisy for all, Davy; be aisy, boy, be aisy! If the worst + comes to the worst, and you’ve got to cut your stick, you’ll be doing it + without a heart-ache anyway. She’ll not be worth it, and you’ll be selling + yourself to the Divil with a clane conscience. So it’s all serene either + way, Davy, my man, and here goes for it.” + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile Mrs. Quiggin had been going through similar torments. “I don’t + blame <i>him</i>,” she had thought. “It’s that mischief-making huzzy. Why + did I ask her? I wonder what in the world I ever saw in her. If I were not + going away myself she should pack out of the house in the morning. The sly + thing! How clever she thinks herself, too! But she’ll be surprised when I + come down on her. I’ll watch her; she sha’n’t escape me. And as for <i>him</i>—well, + we’ll see, Mr. David, we’ll see!” + </p> + <p> + As the clock in the hall in Castle Mona was striking eight these good + souls in these wise humors were making their several ways to the waterfall + under the cliff, in the darkest part of the hotel grounds. + </p> + <p> + Davy got there first, going in by the gate at the Onchan end. It struck + him with astonishment that Lovibond was not there already. “The man + bragged of coming, but I don’t see him,” he thought. He felt half inclined + to be wroth with Lovibond for daring to run the risk of being late. “I + know someone who would have been early enough if he had been coming to + meet with somebody,” he thought. + </p> + <p> + Presently he saw a female form approaching from the thick darkness at the + Douglas end of the house. It was a tall figure in a long cloak, with the + hood drawn over the head. Through the opening of the cloak in front a + light dress beneath gleamed and glinted in the brightening starlight. + “It’s herself,” Davy muttered, under his breath. “She’s like the silvery + fir tree with her little dark head agen the sky. Trust me for knowing her! + I’d be doing that if I was blind. Yes, would I though, if I was only the + grass under her feet, and she walked on me. She’s coming! My God, then, + it’s true! It’s true, Davy! Hould hard, boy! She’s a woman for all! She’s + here! She sees me! She thinks I’m the man?” + </p> + <p> + In the strange mood of the moment he was half sorry to take her by + surprise. + </p> + <p> + Davy was right that Mrs. Quiggin saw him. While still in the shadow of the + house she recognized his dark figure among the trees. “But he’s alone,” + she thought. “Then the huzzy must have gone back to her room when I + thought she slipped out at the porch. He’s waiting for her. Should I wait, + too? No! That he is there is enough. He sees me. He is coming. He thinks I + am she. Umph! Now to astonish him!” + </p> + <p> + Thus thinking, and both trembling with rage and indignation, and both + quivering with love and fear, the two came face to face. + </p> + <p> + But neither betrayed the least surprise. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry, ma’am, if I’m not the man———” faltered Davy. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a pity, sir, if I’m not the woman———” stammered + Nelly. + </p> + <p> + “Hope I don’t interrupt any terterta-tie,” continued Davy. + </p> + <p> + “I trust you won’t allow <i>me</i>——” began Nelly. + </p> + <p> + And then, having launched these shafts of impotent irony in vain, they + came to a stand with an uneasy feeling that something unlooked for was + amiss. + </p> + <p> + “What d’ye mane, ma’am?” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “What do <i>you</i> mean, sir?” said Nelly. + </p> + <p> + “I mane, that you’re here to meet with a man,” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “I!” cried Nelly. “I? Did you say that I was here to meet——” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t go to deny it, ma’am,” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “I do deny it,” said Nelly. “And what’s more, sir, I know why you are + here. You are here to meet with a woman.” + </p> + <p> + “Me! To meet with a woman! Me?” cried Davy. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, <i>you</i> needn’t deny it, sir,” said Nelly. “Your presence here is + proof enough against you.” + </p> + <p> + “And <i>your</i> presence here is proof enough agen you,” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “You had to meet her at eight,” said Nelly. + </p> + <p> + “That’s a reg’lar bluff, ma’am,” said Davy, “for it was at eight you had + to meet with <i>him</i>? + </p> + <p> + “How dare you say so?” cried Nelly. + </p> + <p> + “I had it from the man himself,” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “It’s false, sir, for there <i>is</i> no man; but I had it from the + woman,” said Nelly. + </p> + <p> + “And did you believe her?” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “Did <i>you</i> believe <i>him?</i>” said Nelly. “Were you simple enough + to trust a man who told you that he was going to meet your own wife?” + </p> + <p> + “He wasn’t for knowing it was my own wife,” said Davy. “But were <i>you</i> + simple enough to trust the woman who was telling you she was going to meet + your own husband?” + </p> + <p> + “She didn’t know it was my own husband,” said Nelly. “But that wasn’t the + only thing she told me.” + </p> + <p> + “And it wasn’t the only thing <i>he</i> tould <i>me</i>.” said Davy. “He + tould me all your secrets—that your husband had deserted you because + he was a brute and a blackguard.” + </p> + <p> + “I have never said so,” cried Nelly. “Who dares to say I have? I have + never opened my lips to any living man against you. But you are measuring + me by your own yard, sir; for you led <i>her</i> to believe that I was a + cat and a shrew and a nagger, and a thankless wretch who ought to be put + down by the law just as it puts down biting dogs.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, begging you pardon, ma’am,” said Davy; “but that’s a damned lie, + whoever made it.” + </p> + <p> + After this burst there was a pause and a hush, and then Nelly said, “It’s + easy to say that when she isn’t here to contradict you; but wait, sir, + only wait.” + </p> + <p> + “And it’s aisy for you to say yonder,” said Davy, “when he isn’t come to + deny it—but take your time, ma’am, take your time.” + </p> + <p> + “Who is it?” said Nelly. + </p> + <p> + “No matter,” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “Who is the man,” demanded Nelly. + </p> + <p> + “My friend Lovibond,” answered Davy. + </p> + <p> + “Lovibond!” cried Nelly. + </p> + <p> + “The same,” groaned Davy. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Lovibond!” cried Nelly again. + </p> + <p> + “Aw—keep it up, ma’am; keep it up!” said Davy. “And, manewhile, if + you plaze, who is the woman?” + </p> + <p> + “My friend Jenny Crow,” said Nelly. + </p> + <p> + Then there was another pause. + </p> + <p> + “And did she tell you that I had agreed to meet her?” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “She did,” said Nelly. “And did <i>he</i> tell <i>you</i> that I had + appointed to meet <i>him?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, did he,” said Davy. “At eight o’clock, did she say?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, eight o’clock,” said Nelly. “Did <i>he</i> say eight?” + </p> + <p> + “He did,” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + The loud voices of a moment before had suddenly dropped to broken + whispers. Davy made a prolonged whistle. + </p> + <p> + “Stop,” said he; “haven’t you been in the habit of meeting him?” + </p> + <p> + “I have never seen him but once,” said Nelly. “But haven’t <i>you</i> been + in the habit of meeting <i>her?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Never set eyes on the little skute but twice altogether,” said Davy. “But + didn’t he see you first in St. Thomas’s, and didn’t you speak with him on + the shore—” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve never been in St. Thomas’s in my life!” said Nelly. “But didn’t you + meet her first on the Head above Port Soderick, and to go to Laxey, and + come home with her in the coach?” + </p> + <p> + “Not I,” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “Then the stories she told me of the Manx sailor were all imagination, + were they?” said Nelly. + </p> + <p> + “And the yarns <i>he</i> tould <i>me</i> of the girl in the church were + all make-ups, eh?” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “Dear me, what a pair of deceitful people!” said Nelly. + </p> + <p> + “My gough! what a couple of cuffers!” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + There was another pause, and then Davy began to laugh. First came a low + gurgle like that of suppressed bubbles in a fountain, then a sharp, + crackling breaker of sound, and then a long, deep roar of liberated mirth + that seemed to shake and heave the whole man, and to convulse the very air + around him. + </p> + <p> + Davy’s laughter was contagious. As the truth began to dawn on her Mrs. + Quiggin first chuckled, then tittered, then laughed outright; and at last + her voice rose behind her husband’s in clear trills of uncontrollable + merriment. + </p> + <p> + Laughter was the good genie that drew their assundered hearts together. It + broke down the barrier that divided them; it melted the frozen places + where love might not pass. They could not resist it. Their anger fled + before it like evil creatures of the night. + </p> + <p> + At the first sound of Davy’s laughter something in Nelly’s bosom seemed to + whisper “He loves me still;” and at the first note of Nelly’s, something + clamored in Davy’s breast, “She’s mine, she’s mine!” They turned toward + each other in the darkness with a yearning cry. + </p> + <p> + “Nelly!” cried Davy, and he opened his arms to her. + </p> + <p> + “Davy!” cried Nelly, and she leaped to his embrace. + </p> + <p> + And so ended in laughter and kisses their little foolish comedy of love. + </p> + <p> + As soon as Davy had recovered his breath he said, with what gravity he + could command, “Seems to me, Nelly Vauch, begging your pardon, darling, + that we’ve been a couple of fools.” + </p> + <p> + “Whoever could have believed it?” said Nelly. + </p> + <p> + “What does it mane at all, said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “It means,” said Nelly, “that our good friends knew each other, and that + he told her, and she told him, and that to bring us together again they + played a trick on our jealousy.” + </p> + <p> + “Then we <i>were</i> jealous?” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “Why else are we here?” said Nelly. + </p> + <p> + “So you <i>did</i> come to see a man, after all?” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “And <i>you</i> came to see a woman,” said Nelly. + </p> + <p> + They had began to laugh again, and to walk to and fro about the lawn, + arm-inarm and waist-to-waist, vowing that they would never part—no, + never, never, never—and that nothing on earth should separate them, + when they heard a step on the grass behind. + </p> + <p> + “Who’s there?” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + And a voice from the darkness answered, “It’s Willie Quarrie, Capt’n.” + </p> + <p> + Davy caught his breath. “Lord-a-massy me!” said he. “I’d clane forgotten.” + </p> + <p> + “So had I,” said Nelly, with alarm. + </p> + <p> + “I was to have started back for Cajlao by the Belfast packet.” + </p> + <p> + “And I was to have gone home by carriage.” + </p> + <p> + “If you plaze, Capt’n,” said Willie Quarrie, coming up. “I’ve been looking + for you high and low—the pacquet’s gone.” + </p> + <p> + Davy drew a long breath of relief. “Good luck to her,” said he, with a + shout. + </p> + <p> + “And, if you plaze,” said Willie, “Mr. Lovibond is gone with her.” + </p> + <p> + “Good luck to <i>him</i>,” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “And Miss Crows has gone, too,” said Willie. + </p> + <p> + “Good luck to her as well,” said Davy; and Nelly whispered at his side, + “There—what did I tell you?” + </p> + <p> + “And if you plaze, Capt’n,” said Willie Quarrie, stammering nervously, + “Mr. Lovibond, sir, he has borrowed our—our tickets and—and + taken them away with him.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s welcome, boy, he’s welcome,” cried Davy, promptly. “We’re going home + instead. Home!” he said again—this time to Nelly, and in a tone of + delight, as if the word rolled on his tongue like a lozenge—“that + sounds better, doesn’t it? Middling tidy, isn’t it. Not so dusty, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “We’ll never leave it again,” said Nelly. + </p> + <p> + “Never!” said Davy. “Not for a Dempster’s palace. Just a piece of a croft + and a bit of a thatch cottage on the lea of ould Orrisdale, and we’ll lie + ashore and take the sun like the goats.” + </p> + <p> + “That reminds me of something,” whispered Nelly. “Listen! I’ve had a + letter from father. It made me cry this morning, but it’s all right now—Ballamooar + is to let!” + </p> + <p> + “Ballamooar!” repeated Davy, but in another voice. “Aw, no, woman, no! And + that reminds <i>me</i> of something.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it,” said Nelly. + </p> + <p> + “I should have been telling you first,” said Davy, with downcast head, and + in a tone of humiliation. + </p> + <p> + “Then what?” whispered Nelly. + </p> + <p> + “There’s never no money at a dirty ould swiper that drinks and gambles + everything. I’m on the ebby tide, Nelly, and my boat is on the rocks like + a taypot. I’m broke, woman, I’m broke.” + </p> + <p> + Nelly laughed lightly. “Do you say so?” she said with mock solemnity. + </p> + <p> + “It’s only an ould shirt I’m bringing you to patch, Nelly,” said Davy; + “but here I am, what’s left of me, to take me or lave me, and not much + choice either ways.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I take you, sir,” said Nelly. “And as for the money,” she whispered + in a meaning voice, “I’ll take Ballamooar myself and give you trust.” + </p> + <p> + With a cry of joy Davy caught her to his breast and held her there as in a + vice. “Then kiss me on it again and swear to it,” he cried, “Again! Again! + Don’t be in a hurry woman! Aw, kissing is mortal hasty work! Take your + time, girl! Once more! Shocking, is it? It’s like the bags of the bees + that we were stealing when we were boys! Another! Then half a one, and I’m + done!” + </p> + <p> + Since they had spoken to Willie Quarrie they had given no further thought + to him, when he stepped forward and said out of the darkness: “If you + plaze, capt’n, Mr. Lovibond was telling me to give you this lether and + this other thing,” giving a letter and a book to Davy. + </p> + <p> + “Hould hard, though; what’s doing now?” said Davy, turning them over in + his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Let us go into the house and look,” said Nelly. + </p> + <p> + But Davy had brought out his matchbox, and was striking a light. “Hould up + my billycock, boy,” said he; and in another moment Willie Quarrie was + holding Davy’s hat on end to shield from the breeze the burning match + which Nelly held inside of it. Then Davy, bareheaded, proceeded to examine + what Lovibond had sent him. + </p> + <p> + “A book tied up in a red tape, eh?” said Davy. “Must be the one he was + writing in constant, morning and evening, telling hisself and God A’mighty + what he was doing and wasn’t doing, and where he was going to and when he + was going to go. Aw, yes, he always kep’ a diarrhea.” + </p> + <p> + “A diary, Davy,” said Nelly. + </p> + <p> + “Have it as you like, <i>Vauch</i>, and don’t burn your little fingers,” + said Davy; and then he opened the letter, and with many interjections + proceeded to read it. + </p> + <p> + “‘Dear Captain. How can I ask you to forgive me for the trick I have + played upon you? ‘(Forgive, is it?)’ I have never had an appointment with + the Manx lady; I have never had an intention of carrying her off from her + husband; I have never seen her in church, and the story I have told you + has been a lie from beginning to end.’” + </p> + <p> + Davy lifted his head and laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Another match, Willie,” he cried. And while the boy was striking a fresh + one Davy stamped out the burning end that Nelly dropped on to the grass, + and said: “A lie! Well, it was an’ it wasn’t. A sort of a scriptural + parable, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “Go on, Davy,” said Nelly, impatiently, and Davy began again: + </p> + <p> + “‘You know the object of that trick by this time’ (Wouldn’t trust), ‘but + you have been the victim of another’ (Holy sailor!), ‘to which I must also + confess. In the gambling by which I won a large part of your money’ (True + for you!) ‘I was not playing for my own hand. It was for one who wished to + save you from yourself.’ (Lord a massy!) ‘That person was your wife’ + (Goodness me!), ‘and all my earnings belong to her.’ (Good thing, too!) + ‘They are deposited at Dumbell’s in her name’ (Right!), ‘and—-’” + </p> + <p> + “There—that will do,” said Nelly, nervously. + </p> + <p> + “‘And I send you the bank-book, together with the dock bonds,... which you + transferred for Mrs. Quiggin’s benefit... to the name... of her + friend...’” + </p> + <p> + Davy’s lusty voice died off to a whisper. + </p> + <p> + “What is that?” said Nelly, eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “Nothin’,” said Davy, very thick about the throat; and he rammed the + letter into his breeches’ pocket and grabbed at his hat. As he did so, a + paper slipped to the ground. Nelly caught it up and held it on the breezy + side of the flickering match. + </p> + <p> + It was a note from Jenny Crow: “‘You dear old goosy; your jealous little + heart found out who the Manx sailor was, but your wise little poll never + once suspected that Mr. Lovibond could be anything to anybody, although I + must have told you twenty times in the old days of the sweetheart from + whom I parted. Good thing, too. Glad you were so stupid, my dear, for by + helping you to make up your quarrel we have contrived to patch up our own. + Good-by! What lovely stories I told you! And how you liked them! We have + borrowed your husband’s berths for the Pacific steamer, and are going to + have an Irish marriage tomorrow morning at Belfast—‘” + </p> + <p> + “So they’re a Co. consarn already,” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “‘Good-by! Give your Manx sailor one kiss for me—‘” + </p> + <p> + “Do it!” cried Davy. “Do it! What you’ve got to do only once you ought to + do it well.” + </p> + <p> + Then they became conscious that a smaller and dumpier figure was standing + in the darkness by the side of Willie. It was Peggy Quine. + </p> + <p> + “Are you longing, Peggy?” Willie was saying in a voice of melancholy + sympathy. + </p> + <p> + And Peggy was answering in a doleful tone, “Aw, yes, though—longing + mortal.” + </p> + <p> + Becoming conscious that the eyes of her mistress were on her, Peggy + stepped out and said, “If you plaze, ma’am, the carriage is waiting this + half-hour.” + </p> + <p> + “Then send it away again,” said Davy. + </p> + <p> + “But the boxes is packed, sir——” + </p> + <p> + “Send it away,” repeated Davy. + </p> + <p> + “No, no,” said Nelly; “we must go home to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow morning,” shouted Davy, with a stamp of his foot and a laugh. + </p> + <p> + “But I have paid the bill,” said Nelly, “and everything is arranged, and + we are all ready.” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow morning,” thundered Davy, with another stamp of the foot and a + peal of laughter. + </p> + <p> + And Davy had his way. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE END. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Capt’n Davy’s Honeymoon, by Hall Caine + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAPT’N DAVY’S HONEYMOON *** + +***** This file should be named 25572-h.htm or 25572-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/5/5/7/25572/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Capt'n Davy's Honeymoon + 1893 + +Author: Hall Caine + +Release Date: May 23, 2008 [EBook #25572] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAPT'N DAVY'S HONEYMOON *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +CAPT'N DAVY'S HONEYMOON + +By Hall Caine + +Harper And Brothers - 1893 + + + + +CHAPTER I. + +"My money, ma'am--my money, not me." + +"So you say, sir." + +"It's my money you've been marrying, ma'am." + +"Maybe so, sir." + +"Deny it, deny it!" + +"Why should I? You say it is so, and so be it." + +"Then d------ the money. It took me more till ten years to make it, and +middling hard work at that; but you go bail it'll take me less nor ten +months to spend it. Ay, or ten weeks, and aisy doing, too! And 'till +it's gone, Mistress Quig-gin--d'ye hear me?--gone, every mortal penny of +it gone, pitched into the sea, scattered to smithereens, blown to ould +Harry, and dang him--I'll lave ye, ma'am, I'll lave ye; and, sink or +swim, I'll darken your doors no more." + +The lady and gentleman who blazed at each other with these burning +words, which were pointed, and driven home by flashing eyes and +quivering lips, were newly-married husband and wife. They were staying +at the old Castle Mona, in Douglas, Isle of Man, and their honeymoon +had not yet finished its second quarter. The gentleman was Captain Davy +Quiggin, commonly called Capt'n Davy, a typical Manx sea-dog, thirty +years of age; stalwart, stout, shaggy, lusty-lunged, with the tongue of +a trooper, the heavy manners of a bear, the stubborn head of a stupid +donkey, and the big, soft heart of the baby of a girl. The lady was +Ellen Kinvig, known of old to all and sundry as Nelly, Ness, or +Nell, but now to everybody concerned as Mistress Capt'n Davy Quiggin, +six-and-twenty years of age, tall, comely, as blooming as the gorse; +once as free as the air, and as racy of the soil as new-cut peat, but +suddenly grown stately, smooth, refined, proud, and reserved. They loved +each other to the point of idolatry; and yet they parted ten days after +marriage with these words of wroth and madness. Something had come +between them. What was it? Another man? No. Another woman? Still no. +What then? A ghost, an intangible, almost an invisible but very real and +divorce-making co-respondent. They call it Education. + +Davy Quiggin was born in a mud house on the shore, near the old +church at Ballaugh. The house had one room only, and it had been the +living-room, sleeping-room, birth-room, and death-room of a family of +six. Davy, who was the youngest, saw them all out. The last to go were +his mother and his grandfather. They lay ill at the same time, and died +on the one day. The old man died first, and Davy fixed up a herring-net +in front of him, where he lay on the settle by the fire, so that his +mother might not see him from her place on the bed. + +Not long after that, Davy, who was fifteen years of age, went to live as +farm lad with Kinvig, of Ballavolley. Kinvig was a solemn person, very +stiff and starchy, and sententious in his way, a mighty man among the +Methodists, and a power in the pulpit. He thought he had done an act of +charity when he took Davy into his home, and Davy repaid him in due time +by falling in love with Nelly, his daughter. + +When that happened Davy never quite knew. "That's the way of it," he +used to say. "A girl slips in, and there ye are." Nelly was in to a +certainty when one night Davy came home late from the club meeting on +the street, and rapped at the kitchen window. That was the signal of the +home circle that some member of it was waiting at the door. Now there +are ways and ways of rapping at a kitchen window. There is the pit-a-pat +of a light heart, and the thud-thud of a heavy one; and there is the +sharp crack-crack of haste, and the dithering que-we-we of fear. Davy +had a rap of his own, and Nelly knew it. + +There was a sort of a trip and dance and a rum-tum-tum in Davy's rap +that always made Nelly's heart and feet leap up at the same instant. But +on this unlucky night it was Nelly's mother who heard it, and opened the +door. What happened then was like the dismal sneck of the outside gate +to Davy for ten years thereafter. The porch was dark, and so was the +little square lobby behind the door. On numerous other nights that had +been an advantage in Davy's eyes, but on this occasion he thought it a +snare of the evil one. Seeing something white in a petticoat he thew his +arms about it and kissed and hugged it madly. It struck him at the time +as strange that the arms he held did not clout him under the chin, and +that the lips he smothered did not catch breath enough to call him a +gawbie, and whisper that the old people inside were listening. The +truth dawned on him in a moment, and then he felt like a man with an eel +crawling down his back, and he wanted nothing else for supper. + +It was summer time, and Davy, though a most accomplished sleeper, found +no difficulty in wakening himself with the dawn next morning. He was +cutting turf in the dubs of the Curragh just then, and he had four hours +of this pastime, with spells of sober meditation between, before he came +up to the house for breakfast. Then as he rolled in at the porch, and +stamped the water out of his long-legged boots, he saw at a glance that +a thunder-cloud was brewing there. Nelly was busy at the long table +before the window, laying the bowls of milk and the deep plates for the +porridge. Her print frock was as sweet as the May blossom, her cheeks +were nearly as red as the red rose, and like the rose her head hung +down. She did not look at him as he entered. Neither did Mrs. Kinvig, +who was bending over the pot swung from the hook above the fire, and +working the porridge-stick round and round with unwonted energy. But +Kinvig himself made up for both of them. The big man was shaving before +a looking-glass propped up on the table, and against the Pilgrim's +Progress and Clark's Commentaries. His left hand held the point of his +nose aside between the tip of his thumb and first finger, while the +other swept the razor through a hillock of lather and revealed a portion +of a mouth twisted three-quarters across his face. But the moment he saw +Davy he dropped the razor, and looked up with as much dignity as a man +could get out of a countenance half covered with soap. + +"Come in, sir," said he, with a pretense of great deference. "Mawther," +he said, twisting to Mrs. Kinvig, "just wipe down a chair for the +gentleman." + +Davy slithered into his seat. "I'm in for it," he thought. + +"They're telling me," said Kinvig, "that there is a fortune coming at +you. Aw, yes, though, and that you're taking notions on a farmer's girl. +Respectable man, too--one of the first that's going, with sixty acres +at him and more. Amazing thick, they're telling me. Kissing behind the +door, and the like of that! The capers! It was only yesterday you came +to me with nothing on your back but your father's ould trowis, cut down +at the knees." + +Nelly slipped out. Her mother made a noise with the porridge-pot. Davy +was silent. Kinvig walloped his razor on the strop with terrific vigor, +then paused, pointed the handle in Davy's direction, tried to curl up +his lip into a withering sneer that was half lost in the lather, and +said with bitter irony, "My house is too mane for you, sir. You must +lave me. It isn't the Isle of Man itself that'll hould the likes of +you." + +Then Davy found his tongue. "You're right, sir," said he, leaping to +his feet, "It's too poor I am for your daughter, is it? Maybe I'll be a +piece richer someday, and then you'll be a taste civiler." + +"Behold ye now," said Kinvig, "as bould as a goat! Cut your stick and +quick." + +"I'm off, sir," said Davy; and, then, looking round and remembering that +he was being kicked out like a dog and would see Nelly no more, day +by day, the devil took hold of him and he began to laugh in Kinvig's +ridiculous face. + +"Good-by, ould Sukee," he cried. "I lave you to your texes." + +And, turning to where Mrs. Kinvig stood with her back to him, he cried +again, "Good-by, mawther, take care of his ould head--it's swelling so +much that his chapel hat is putting corns on it." + +That night with his "chiss" of clothes on his shoulders, Davy came down +stairs and went out at the porch. There he slipped his burden to the +ground, for somebody was waiting to say farewell to him. It was the +right petticoat this time, and she was on the right side of the door. +The stars were shining overhead, but two that were better than any in +the sky were looking into Davy's face, and they were twinkling in tears. + +It was only a moment the parting lasted, but a world of love was got +into it. Davy had to do penance for the insults he had heaped upon +Nelly's father, and in return he got pity for those that had been +shoveled upon himself. + +"Good-by, Nell," he whispered; "there's thistles in everybody's crop. +But no matter! I'll come back, and then it's married we'll be. My +goodness, yes, and take Ballacry and have six bas'es, and ten pigs, and +a pony. But, Nelly, will ye wait for me?" + +"D'ye doubt me, Davy?" + +"No; but will ye though?" + +"Yes." + +"Then its all serene," said Davy, and with another hug and a kiss, and +a lock of brown hair which was cut ready and tied in blue ribbon, he was +gone with his chest into the darkness. + +Davy sailed in an Irish schooner to the Pacific coast of South America. +There he cut his stick again, and got a berth on a coasting steamer +trading between Valparaiso and Callao. The climate was unhealthy, +the ports were foul, the government was uncertain, the dangers were +constant, and the hands above him dropped off rapidly. In two years Davy +was skipper, and in three years more he was sailing a steamer of his +own. Then the money began to tumble into his chest like crushed oats out +of a Crown's shaft. + +The first hundred pounds he had saved he sent home to Dumbell's bank, +because he could not trust it out of the Isle of Man. But the hundreds +grew to thousands, and the thousands to tens of thousands, and to send +all his savings over the sea as he made them began to be slow work, like +supping porridge with a pitchfork. He put much of it away in paper rolls +at the bottom of his chest in the cabin, and every roll he put by stood +to him for something in the Isle of Man. "That's a new cowhouse at +Ballavolly." "That's Balladry." "That's ould Brew's mill at Sulby--he'll +be out by this time." + +All his dreams were of coming home, and sometimes he wrote letters to +Nelly. The writing in them was uncertain, and the spelling was doubtful, +but the love was safe enough. And when he had poured out his heart +in small "i's" and capital "U's"? he always inquired how more material +things were faring. "How's the herrings this sayson; and did the men do +well with the mack'rel at Kinsale; and is the cowhouse new thatched, and +how's the chapel going? And is the ould man still playing hang with the +texes?" + +Kinvig heard of Davy's prosperity, and received the news at first in +silence, then with satisfaction, and at length with noisy pride. His boy +was a bould fellow. "None o' yer randy-tandy-tissimee-tea tied to the +old mawther's apron-strings about _him_. He's coming home rich, and +he'll buy half the island over, and make a donation of a harmonia to the +chapel, and kick ould Cowley and his fiddle out." + +Awaiting that event, Kinvig sent Nelly to England, to be educated +according to the station she was about to fill. Nelly was four years in +Liverpool, but she had as many breaks for visits home. The first time +she came she minced her words affectedly, and Kinvig whispered the +mother that she was getting "a fine English tongue at her." The second +time she came she plagued everybody out of peace by correcting their +"plaze" to "please," and the "mate" to "meat," and the "lave" to +"leave." The third time she came she was silent, and looked ashamed: and +the fourth time it was to meet her sweetheart on his return home after +ten years' absence. + +Davy came by the Sneafell from Liverpool. It was August--the height of +the visiting season--and the deck of the steamer was full of tourists. +Davy walked through the cobweb of feet and outstretched legs with the +face of a man who thought he ought to speak to everybody. Fifty times in +the first three hours he went forward to peer through the wind and +the glaring sunshine for the first glimpse of the Isle of Man. When at +length he saw it, like a gray bird lying on the waters far away, with +the sun's light tipping the hill-tops like a feathery crest, he felt so +thick about the throat that he took six steerage passengers to the bar +below to help him to get rid of his hoarseness. There was a brass band +aboard, and during the trip they played all the outlandish airs of +Germany, but just as the pacquet steamed into Douglas Bay, and Davy +was watching the land and remembering everything upon it, and shouting +"That's Castle Mona!" "There's Fort Ann!" "Yonder's ould St. Mathews's!" +they struck up "Home, Sweet Home." That was too much for Davy. He +dived into his breeches' pockets, gave every German of the troupe five +shillings apiece, and then sat down on a coil of rope and blubbered +aloud like a baby. + +Kinvig had sent a grand landau from Ramsey to fetch Capt'n Davy to +Ballaugh; but before the English driver from the Mitre had identified +his fare Davy had recognized an old crony, with a high, springless, +country cart--Billiam Ballaneddan, who had come to Douglas to dispatch a +barrel of salted herrings to his married daughter at Liverpool, and was +going back immediately. So Davy tumbled his boxes and bags and other +belongings into the landau, piling them mountains high on the cushioned +seats, and clambered into the cart himself. Then they set off at a race +which should be home first--the cart or the carriage, the luggage or the +owner of it; the English driver on his box seat with his tall hat and +starchy cravat, or Billiam twidling his rope reins, and Davy on the +plank seat beside him, bobbing and bumping, and rattling over the +stones like a parched pea on a frying pan. + +That was a tremendous drive for Davy. He shouted when he recognized +anything, and as he recognized everything he shouted throughout the +drive. They took the road by old Braddan Church and Union Mills, past +St. John's, under the Tynwald Hill, and down Creg Willie's Hill. As he +approached Kirk Michael his excitement was intense. He was nearing +home and he began to know the people. "Lord save us, there's Tommy +Bill-beg--how do, Tommy? And there's ould Betty! My gough, she's in +yet--how do, mawther? There's little Juan Caine growed up to a man! +How do, Johnny, and how's the girls and how's the ould man, and how's +yourself? Goodness me, here's Liza Corlett, and a baby at her----! I +knew her when she was no more than a babby herself." This last remark +to the English driver who was coming up sedately with his landau at the +tail of the springless cart. + +"Drive on, Billiam! Come up, ould girl--just a taste of the whip, +Billiam! Do her no harm at all. Bishop's Court! Deary me, the ould house +is in the same place still." + +At length the square tower of Ballaugh + +Church was seen above the trees with the last rays of the setting sun +on its topmost story, and then Davy's eagerness swept down all his +patience. He jumped up in the cart at the peril of being flung out, took +off his billycock, whirled it round his head, bellowed "Hurrah! Hurrah! +Hurrah!" After that he would have leaped alongside to the ground and +run. "Hould hard!" he cried, "I'll bate the best mare that's going." But +Billiam pinned him down to the seat with one hand while he whipped up +the horse to a gallop with the other. + +They arrived at Ballavolly an hour and a half before they were expected. +Mistress Kinvig was washing dishes in a tub on the kitchen table. Kinvig +himself was sitting lame with rheumatism in the "elber chair" by the +ingle. They wiped down a chair for Davy this time. + +"And Nelly," said Davy. "Where's Nelly?" + +"She's coming, Capt'n," said Kinvig. "Nelly!" he called up the kitchen +stairs, with a knowing wink at Davy, "Here's a gentleman asking after +you." + +Davy was dying of impatience. Would she be the same dear old Nell? + +"Nell--Nelly," he shouted, "I've kep' my word." + +"Aw, give her time, Capt'n," said Kinvig; "a new frock isn't rigged up +in no time, not to spake of a silk handkercher going pinning round your +throat." + +But Davy, who had waited ten years, would not wait a minute longer, and +he was making for the stairs with the purpose of invading Nell's own +bedroom, when the lady herself came sweeping down on tiptoes. Davy saw +her coming in a cloud of silk, and at the next moment the slippery stuff +was crumbling, and whisking, and creaking under his hands, for his arms +were full of it. + +"Aw, mawther," said he. "They're like honeysuckles--don't spake to me +for a week. Many's the time I've been lying in my bunk a-twigging the +rats squeaking and coorting overhead, and thinking to myself, Kisses is +skess with you now, Davy." + +The wedding came off in a week. There were terrific rejoicings. The +party returned from church in the landau that brought up Davy's luggage. +At the bridge six strapping fellows, headed by the blacksmith, and +surrounded by a troop of women and children, stretched a rope across the +road, and would not let the horses pass until the bridegroom had paid +the toll. Davy had prepared him-self in advance with two pounds in +sixpenny bits, which made his trowsers pockets stand out like a couple +of cannon balls. He fired those balls, and they broke in the air like +shells. + +At the wedding breakfast in the barn at Ballavolly Davy made a speech. +It was a sermon to young fellows on the subject of sweethearts. "Don't +you marry for land," said he. "It's muck," said he. "What d'ye say, +Billiam--you'd like more of it? I wouldn't trust; but it's spaking the +truth I am for all. Maybe you think about some dirty ould trouss: 'She's +a warm girl, she's got nice things at her--bas'es and pigs, and the like +of that.' But don't, if you'rr not a reg'lar blundering blockit." Then, +looking down at the top of Nelly's head, where she sat with her eyes in +her lap beside him, he softened down to sentiment, and said, "Marry for +love, boys; stick to the girl that's good, and then go where you will +she'll be the star above that you'll sail your barque by, and if you +stay at home (and there's no place like it) her parting kiss at midnight +will be helping you through your work all next day." + +The parting kiss at midnight brought Davy's oration to a close, for a +tug at his coat-tails on Nelly's side fetched him suddenly to his seat. + +Two hours afterward the landau was rolling away toward the Castle Mona +Hotel at Douglas, where, by Nell's arrangement, Capt'n Davy and his +bride were to spend their honeymoon. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +Now it so befell that on the very day when Capt'n Davy and Mrs. Quiggin +quarreled and separated, two of their friends were by their urgent +invitation crossing from England to visit them, Davy's friend was +Jonathan Lovibond, an Englishman, whose acquaintance he had made on the +coast. Mrs. Quiggin's was Jenny Crow, a young lady of lively manners, +whom she had annexed during her four years' residence at Liverpool. +These two had been lovers five years before, had quarreled and parted on +the eve of the time appointed for their marriage, and had not since set +eyes on each other. They met for the first time afterward on the +steamer that was taking them to the Isle of Man, and neither knew the +destination of the other. + +Miss Crow looked out of her twinkling eyes and saw a gentleman +promenading on the quarter-deck before her, whom she must have thought +she had somewhere seen before, but that his gigantic black mustache was +a puzzle, and the little imperial on his chin was a baffling difficulty. +Mr. Lovibond puffed the smoke from a colossal cigar, and wondered if the +world held two pair of eyes like those big black ones which glanced +up at him sometimes from a deck stool, a puffy pile of wool, two long +crochet needles, and a couple of white hands, from which there flashed a +diamond ring he somehow thought he knew. + +These mutual meditations lasted two long hours, and then a runaway ball +of the wool from the lap of the lady on the deck stool was hotly pursued +by the gentleman with the mustache, and instantly all uncertainty was at +an end. + +After exclamations of surprise at the strange recognition (it was all +so sudden), the two old friends came to closer quarters. They touched +gingerly on the past, had some tender passages of delicate fencing, gave +various sly hits and digs, threw out certain subtle hints, and came to +a mutual and satisfactory understanding. Neither had ever looked +at anybody else since their rupture, and therefore both were still +unmarried. + +Having reached this stage of investigation, the wool and its needles +were stowed away in a basket under the chair, in order that the lady +might accept the invitation of the gentleman to walk with him on the +deck; and as the wind had freshened by this time, and walking in skirts +was like tacking in a stiff breeze, the gentleman offered his arm to the +lady, and thus they sailed forth together. + +"And with whom are you to stay when we reach the island, Jenny?" said +Lovibond. + +"With a young Manx friend lately married," said Jenny. + +"That's strange; for I am going to do the same," said Lovibond. "Where?" + +"At Castle Mona," said Jenny. + +"That's stranger still; for it's the place to which I am going," said +Lovibond. "What's your Manx friend's name?" + +"Mrs. Quiggin, now," said Jenny. + +"That's strangest of all," said Lovibond; "for my friend is Captain +Quiggin, and we are bound for the same place, on the same errand." + +This series of coincidences thawed down the remaining frost between the +pair, and they exchanged mutual confidences. They had gone so far as +to promise themselves a fortnight's further enjoyment of each other's +society, when their arrival at Douglas put a sudden end to their +anticipations. + +Two carriages were waiting for them on the pier--one, with a maid +inside, was to take Jenny to Castle Mona: the other, with a boy, was to +take Lovibond to Fort Ann. + +The maid was Peggy Quine, seventeen years of age, of dark complexion, +nearly as round as a dolley-tub, and of deadly earnest temperament. When +Jenny found herself face to face and alone with this person, she lost no +time in asking how it came to pass that Mrs. Quiggin was at Castle Mona +while her husband was at Fort Ann. + +"They've parted, ma'am," said Peggy. + +"Parted?" shrieked Jenny above the rattle of the carriage glass. + +"Ah, yes, ma'am," Peggy stammered; "cruel, ma'am, right cruel, cruel +extraordinary. It's a wonder the capt'n doesn't think shame of his +conduck. The poor misthress! She's clane heartbroken. It's a mercy to me +she didn't clout him." + +In two minutes more Jenny was in Mrs. Quiggin's room at Castle Mona, +crying, "Gracious me, Ellen, what is this your maid tells me?" + +Nelly had been eating out her heart in silence all day long, and now the +flood of her pride and wrath burst out, and she poured her wrongs upon +Jenny as fiercely as if that lady stood for the transgressions of her +husband. + +"He reproached me with my poverty," she cried. + +"What?" + +"Well, he told me I had only married him for his money--there's not much +difference." + +"And what did you say?" said Jenny. + +"Say? What could I say? What would any woman say who had any respect for +herself?" + +"But how did he come to accuse you of marrying him for his money? Had +you asked him for any?" + +"Not I, indeed." + +"Perhaps you hadn't loved him enough?" + +"Not that either--that I know of." + +"Then why did he say it?" + +"Just because I wanted him to respect himself, and have some respect for +his wife, too, and behave as a gentleman, and not as a raw Manx rabbit +from the Calf." + +Jenny gave a look of amused intelligence, and said, "Oh, oh, I see, I +see! Well, let me take off my bonnet, at all events." + +While this was being done in the bedroom Nelly, who was furtively wiping +her eyes, continued the recital of her wrongs:-- + +"Would you believe it, Jenny, the first thing he did when we arrived +here after the wedding was to shake hands with the hall porter, and +the boots who took our luggage, and ask after their sisters and their +mothers, and their sweethearts--the man knew them all. And when he heard +from his boy, Willie Quarrie, that the cook was a person from Michael, +it was as much as I could do to keep him from tearing down to the +kitchen to talk about old times." + +"Yes, I see," said Jenny; "he has made a fortune, but he is just the same +simple Manx lad that he was ten years ago." + +"Just, just! We can't go out for a walk together but he shouts, 'How +do? Fine day, mates!' to the drivers of the hackney cabs across the +promenade; and the joy of his life is to get up at seven in the morning +and go down to the quay before breakfast to keep tally with a chalk +for the fishermen counting their herrings out of the boats into the +barrels." + +"Not a bit changed, then, since he went away?" said Jenny, before the +glass. + +"Not a bit; and because I asked him to know his place, and if he is a +gentleman to behave as a gentleman and speak as a gentleman and not make +so easy with such as don't respect him any the better for it, he turns +on me and tells me I've only married him for his money." + +"Dreadful!" said Jenny, fixing her fringe. "And is this the old +sweetheart you have waited ten years for?" + +"Indeed, it is." + +"And now that he has come back and you've married him, he has parted +from you in ten days?" + +"Yes; and it will be the talk of the island--indeed it will." + +"Shocking! And so he has left you here on your honeymoon without a penny +to bless yourself?" + +"Oh, for the matter of that, he fixed something on me before the +wedding--a jointure, the advocates called it." + +"Terrible! Let me see. He's the one who sent you presents from America?" + +"Oh; he piled presents enough on me. It's the way of the men: the +stingiest will do that. They like to think they're such generous +creatures. But let a poor woman count on it, and she'll soon be wakened +from her dream. 'You married me for my money--deny it?'" + +"Fearful!" + +Jenny was leaning her forehead against the window sash, and looking +vacantly out on the bay. Nelly observed her a moment, stopped suddenly +in the tale of her troubles, and said, in another voice, "Jenny Crow, +I believe you are laughing at me. It's always the way with you. You can +take nothing seriously." + +Jenny turned back to the room with a solemn face, and said, "Nellie, +if you waited ten years for your husband, I suppose that he waited ten +years for you." + +"I suppose he did." + +"And, if he is the same man as he was when he went away, I suppose his +love is the same?" + +"Then how _could_ he say such things?" + +"And, if he is the same, and his love is the same, isn't it possible +that somebody else is different?" + +"Now, Jenny Crow, you are going to say it's all my fault?" + +"Not all, Nelly. Something has come between you." + +"It's the money. Oh, Jenny, if you ever marry, marry a poor man, and +then he can't fling it in your face that you are poorer than he." + +"No; it can't be the money, Nelly, for the money is his, and yet it +hasn't changed him. And, Nelly, isn't it a good thing in a rich man not +to turn his back on his old poor comrades--not to think because he has +been in the sun that people are black who are only in the shade--not +to pretend to have altered his skin because his coat has changed--isn't +it?" + +"I see what you mean. You mean that I've driven my husband away with my +bad temper." + +"No; not that; but Nelly--dear old Nell--think what you're doing. Take +warning from one who once made shipwreck of her own life. Think no man +common who loves you--no matter what his ways are, or his manners, or +his speech. Love makes the true nobility. It ennobles him who loves you +and you who are beloved. Cling to it--prize it--do not throw it away. +Money can not buy it, nor fame nor rank atone for it. When a woman is +loved she is a queen, and he who loves her is her king." + +Mrs. Quiggin was weeping behind her hands by this time, but she lifted +swollen eyes to say, "I see; you would have me go to him and submit, and +explain, and beg his pardon. 'Dear David, I didn't marry you for your +money----' No," leaping to her feet, "I'll scrub my fingers to the bone +first." + +"But, Nelly----" + +"Say no more, Jenny Crow, We're hot-headed people, both of us, and we'll +quarrel." + +Then Jenny's solemn manner was gone in an instant. She snapped her +fingers, kicked up one leg a little, and said lightly, "Very well; and +now let us have some dinner,"---- + +Meantime Lovibond was hearing the other side of the story from Captain +Davy at Forte Ann. On the way there he had heard of the separation from +the boy, Willie Quarrie, a lugubrious Manx lad, eighteen years old, with +a face as white as a haddock and as grim as a gannet. + +"Aw, terr'ble doings, sir, terr'ble, terr'ble!" moaned Willie. "Young +Mistress Quiggin ateing her heart out at Castle Mona, and Captain Davy +hisself at Forte Ann over, drinking and tearing and carrying on till +all's blue." + +Lovibond found Captain Davy in the smoke-room with a face as hard as a +frozen turnip, one leg over the arm of an elbow chair, a church-warden +pipe in his mouth, a gigantic glass of brandy and soda before him, and +an admiring circle of the laziest riff-raff of the town about him. As +soon as they were alone he said: + +"But what's this that your boy tells me, captain?" + +"I'm foundered," said Davy, "broke, wrecked, the screw of my tide's gone +twisting on the rocks. I'm done, mate, I'm done." + +Then he proceeded to recite the incidents of the quarrel, coloring them +by the light of the numerous glasses with which he had covered his brain +since morning. + +"'You've married me for my money,' says I. 'What else?' said she. 'Then +d------ the money,' says I, 'I'll lave you till it's gone.' 'Do it and +welcome,' says she, and I'm doing it, bad cess to it, I'm doing it. +But, stop this jaw. I swore to myself I wouldn't spake of it to any man +living. What d'ye drink? I've took to the brandy swig myself. Join +in. Mate!" (this in a voice of thunder to the waiter at the end of the +adjoining room) "brandy for the gentleman." + +Lovibond waited a moment and then said quietly, "But whatever made you +give her an ungenerous stab like that, captain?" + +Davy looked up curiously and answered, "That's just what I've tooken six +big drinks to find out. But no use at all, and what's left to do?" + +"Why take it back?" said Lovibond. + +"No, deng my buttons if I will." + +"Why not?" + +"'Cause it's true." + +Lovibond waited again, and then said in another voice, "And is this the +little girl you used to tell of out yonder on the coast--Nessy, Nelly, +Nell, what was it?" + +Davy's eyes began to fill, but his mouth remained firm. He cleared his +throat noisily, shook the dust out of his pipe on to the heel of his +boot, and said, "No--yes--no--Well, it is and it isn't. It's Nelly +Kinvig, that's sarten sure. But the juice of the woman's sowl's dried +up." + +"The little thing that used to know your rap at the kitchen window, and +come tripping out like a bird chirping in the night, and go linking down +the lane with you in the starlight?" + +Davy broke the shaft of his churchwarden into small lengths, and flung +the pieces out at the open window and said, "I darn't say no." + +"The one that stuck to you like wax when her father gave you the great +bounce out--eh?" + +Davy wriggled and spat, and then muttered, "You go bail." + +"You have known her since you were children, haven't you?" + +Davy's hard face thawed suddenly, and he said, "Ay, since she wore +petticoats up to her knees, and I was a boy in a jacket, and we played +hop-skotch in the haggard, and double-my-duck agen the cowhouse gable. +Aw dear, aw dear! The sweet little thing she was then any way. Yellow +hair at her, and eyes like the sea, and a voice same as the throstle! +Well, well, to think, to think! Playing in the gorse and the ling +together, and the daisies and the buttercups--and then the curlews +whistling and the river singing like music, and the bees ahumoning--aw, +terr'ble sweet and nice. And me going barefoot, and her bare-legged, and +divil a hat at the one of us--aw, deary me, deary me! Wasn't much starch +at her in them ould days, mate." + +"Is there now, captain?" + +"Now? D'ye say _now_? My goodness! It's always hemming and humming and a +heise of the neck, and her head up like a Cochin-China, with a topknot, +and 'How d'ye do?' and cetererar and cetererar. Aw, smooth as an ould +threepenny bit--smooth astonishing. And partic'lar! My gough! You +couldn't call Tom to a cat afore her, but she'd be agate of you to make +it Thomas." + +Lovibond smiled behind his big mustache. + +"The rael ould Manx isn't good enough for her now. Well, I wasn't +objecting, not me. She's got the English tongue at her--that's all +right. Only I'll stick to what I'm used of. Job's patience went at last +and so did mine, and I arn't much of a Job neither." + +"And what has made all this difference," said Lovibond. + +"Why, the money, of coorse. It was the money that done it, bad sess to +it," said Davy, pitching the head of his pipe after the shank. "I went +out yonder to get it and I got it. Middling hard work, too, but no +matter. It was to be all for her. 'I'll come back, Nelly,' says I, 'and +we'll take Ballacry and have six craythurs and a pony, and keep a +girl to do for you, and you'll take your aise--only milking maybe, or +churning, but nothing to do no harm.' I was ten years getting it, and I +never took notions on no other girls neither. No, honor bright, thinks +I, Nelly's waiting for you, Davy. Always dreaming of her, 'cept when +them lazy black chaps wanted leathering, and that's a job that isn't +nothing without a bit of swearing at whiles. But at night, aw, at night, +mate, lying out on the deck in that heat like the miller's kiln, and +shelling your clothes piece by piece same as a bushel of oats, and +looking up at the stars atwinkling in the sky, and spotting one of them, +and saying to yourself quietlike, so as them niggers won't hear, 'That's +star is atwinkling over Nelly, too, and maybe she's watching it now.' +It seemed as if we wasn't so far apart then. Somehow it made the world +a taste smaller. 'Shine on, my beauty,' thinks I, 'shine down straight +into Nelly's room, and if she's awake tell her I'm coming, and if she's +asleep just make her dream that I'm loving nobody else till her.' But, +chut! It was myself that was dreaming. Drink up! She married me for my +money, so I'm making it fly." + +"And when it's gone--what then?" said Lovibond. "Will you go back to +her!" + +"Maybe so, maybe no." + +"Will anything be the better because the money's spent?" + +"God knows." + +"Will she be as sweet and good as she once was when you are as poor as +you were?" + +Davy heaved up to his feet. "What's the use of thinking of the like of +that?" he cried. "My money's mine, I baked for it out in that oven. Now +I'm spending it, and what for shouldn't I? Here goes--healths apiece!" + +Next day Lovibond and Jenny Crow met on the pier. There they pondered +the ticklish situation of their friends, and every word they said on it +was pointed and punctuated by a sense of their own relations. + +"It's plain that the good fools love each other," said Jenny. + +"Quite plain," said Lovibond. + +"Heigho! It's mad work being angry with somebody you are dying to love," +said Jenny. + +"Colney Hatch is nothing to it," said Lovibond. + +"Smaller things have parted people for years," said Jenny. + +"Yes; five years," said Lovibond. + +"The longer apart the wider the breach, and the harder to cover it," +said Jenny. + +"Just so," said Lovibond. + +"They must meet. Of course they'll fight like cat and dog, but better +that than this separation. Time leaves bigger scars than claws ever +made. Now, couldn't we bring them together?" + +"Just what I was thinking," said Lovibond. + +"I'm sure he must be a dear, simple soul, though I've never set eyes on +him," said Jenny. + +"And I'm certain she must be as sweet as an angel, though I've never +seen her," said Lovibond. + +Jenny shot a jealous glance at her companion, then cracked two fingers +and said eagerly, "There you are--there's the idea in a cockle-shell. +Now _if each could see the other through other eyes!_" + +"The very thing!" said Lovibond. + +"Then why don't you give me your arm at once, and let me think me over?" +said Jenny. In less than an hour these two wise heads had devised a +scheme to bring Capt'n Davy and his bride together. What that scheme was +and how it worked let those who read discover. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +Six days passed as with feet of lead, and Capt'n Davy and Mrs. Quiggin +were still in Douglas. They could not tear themselves away. Morning +and night the good souls were seized by a morbid curiosity about their +servants' sweethearts. "Seen Peggy lately?" Capt'n Davy would say. "I +suppose you've not come across Willie Quarrie lately?" Mrs. Quiggin +would ask. Thus did they squeeze to the driest pulp every opportunity of +hearing anything of each other. + +Jenny Crow, with Mrs. Quiggin at Castle Mona, had not yet set eyes on +Captain Davy, and Lovibond, with Captain Davy at Fort Ann, had never +once seen Mrs. Quiggin. Jenny had said nothing of Lovibond to Nelly, and +Lovibond had said nothing of Jenny to Davy. + +Matters stood so when one evening Peggy Quine was dressing up her +mistress's hair for dinner, and answering the usual question. + +"Seen Willie Quarrie, ma'am? Aw 'deed, yes, ma'am; and it's shocking the +stories he's telling me. The Capt'n's making the money fly. Bowls and +beer, and cards and betting--it's ter'ble, ma'm, ter'ble. Somebody +should hould him. He's distracted like. Giving to everybody as free as +free. Parsons and preachers and the like--they're all at him, same as +flies at a sheep with the rot." + +"And what do people say, Peggy?" + +"They say fools and their money is quickly parted ma'am." + +"How dare you call anybody a fool, Peggy?" + +"Aw it's not me, ma'am. It's them that's seeing him wasting his money +like water through a pitchfork. And the dirts that's catching most is +shouting loudest. 'Deed, ma'am, but his conduct is shocking." + +"And what do people say is the cause of it, Peggy?" + +"Lumps in his porridge, ma'am." + +"What?" + +"Yes, though, that's what Willie Quarrie is telling me. When a woman +isn't just running even with her husband they call her lumps in his +porridge. Aw, Willie's a feeling lad." + +There was a pause after this disclosure, and then Mrs. Quiggin said +in another voice, "Peggy, there's a strange gentleman staying with the +Captain at Forte Ann, is there not?" + +"Yes, ma'am; Mr. Loviboy." + +"What is he like, Peggy?" + +"Pepper and salt trowis, ma'am, and a morsel of hair on the tip of his +chin." + +"Tall, Peggy?" + +"No, a long wisp'ry man." + +"I suppose he helps the Captain to spend his money?" + +"Never a ha'po'th, ma'am, 'deed no; but ter'ble onaisy at it, and +rigging him constant But no use at all, at all. The Capt'n's intarmined +to ruin hisself. Somebody should just take him and wallop him, ding +dong, afore he's wasted all he's got, and hasn't a penny left at him." + +"How dare you, Peggy?" + +Peggy was dismissed in anger, and Mrs. Quiggin sat down to write a +letter to Lovibond. She begged him to pardon the liberty of one who was +no stranger, though they had never met, in asking him to come to her +without delay. This done, and marked _private_, she called Peggy back +and bade her to take the letter to Willie Quarrie, and tell him to give +it to the gentleman before the Captain came down to breakfast in the +morning. + +The day was Sunday, the weather was brilliant, the window was open, and +the salt breath of the sea was floating into the room. With the rustle +of silk like a breeze in a pine tree Jenny Crow came back from a walk, +swinging a parasol by a ring about her wrist. + +"Such an adventure!" she said, sinking into a chair. "A man, of +course! I saw him first on the Head at the skirts of the crowd that +was listening to the Bishop's preaching. Such a manly fellow! +Broad-shouldered, big-chested, standing square on his legs like a rock. +Dark, of course, and such eyes, Nelly! Brown--no black-brown. I like +black-brown eyes in a man, don't you?" + +Captain Davy's eyes were of the darkest brown. Mrs. Quiggin gave no +sign. + +"Then his dress--so simple. None of your cuffs and ruffs, and great high +collars like a cart going for coke. Just a blue serge suit, and a monkey +jacket. I like a man in a monkey jacket." + +Captain Davy wore a monkey jacket; Mrs. Quiggin colored slightly. + +"A sailor, thinks I. There's something so free and open about a sailor, +isn't there?" + +"Do you think so, Jenny?" said Mrs. Quiggin in a faint voice. + +"I'm sure of it, Nelly. The sailor is just like the sea. He's noisy--so +is the sea. Liable to storms--so is the sea. Blusters and boils, and +rocks and reels--so does the sea. But he's sunny too, and open and free, +and healthy and bracing, and the sea is all that as well." + +Mrs. Quiggin was thinking of Captain Davy, and tingling with pleasure +and shame, but she only said, falteringly, "Didn't you talk of some +adventure?" + +"Oh, of course, certainly," said Jenny. "After he had listened a moment +he went on, and I lost sight of him. Presently I went on, too, and +walked across the Head until I came within sight of Port Soderick. Then +I sat down by a great bowlder. So quiet up there, Nelly; not a sound +except the squeal of the sea birds, the boo-oo of the big waves outside, +and the plash-ash of the little ones on the beach below. All at once +I heard a sigh. At that I looked to the other side of the bowlder, and +there was my friend of the monkey jacket. I was going to rise, but +he rose instead, and begged me not to trouble. Then I was vexed with +myself, and said I hoped he wouldn't disturb himself on my account." + +"You never said that, Jenny Crow?" + +"Why not, my dear? You wouldn't have had me less courteous than he was. +So he stood and talked. You never heard such a voice, Nelly. Deep as +a bell, and his Manx tongue was like music. Talk of the Irish brogue! +There's no brogue in the world like the Manx, is there now, not if the +right man is speaking it." + +"So he was a Manxman," said Mrs. Quiggin, with a far-away look through +the open window. + +"Didn't I say so before? But he has quite saddened me. I'm sure there's +trouble hanging over him. 'I've been sailing foreign, ma'am,' said he, +'and I don't know nothing--'." + +"Oh, then he wasn't a gentleman?" said Mrs. Quiggin. + +Jenny fired up sharply. "Depends on what you call a gentleman, my dear. +Now, any man is a gentleman to me who can afford to dispense with the +first two syllables of the name." + +Mrs. Quiggin looked down at her feet. + +"I only meant," she said meekly, "that your friend hasn't as much +education--." + +"Then, perhaps, he has more brains," said Jenny. "That's the way they're +sometimes divided, you know, and education isn't everything." + +"Do _you_ think that, Jenny?" said Mrs. Quiggin, with another long look +through the window. + +"Of course I do," said Jenny. + +"And what did he say?" + +"' I've been sailing foreign, ma'am,' he said. 'And I don't know nothing +that cut's a man's heart from its moorings like coming home same as +a homing pigeon, and then wishing yourself back again same as a lost +one.'" + +"Poor fellow!" said Mrs. Quiggin. "He must have found things changed +since he went away." + +"He must," said Jenny. + +"Perhaps he has lost some one who was dear to him," said Mrs. Quiggin. + +"Perhaps," said Jenny, with a sigh. + +"His mother may be, or his sister--" began Mrs. Quiggin. + +"Yes, or his wife." continued Jenny, with a moan. + +Mrs. Quiggin drew up suddenly. "What's his name?" she asked sharply. + +"Nay, how could I ask him that?" said Jenny. + +"Where does he live?" said Mrs. Quiggin. + +"Or that either?" said Jenny. + +Mrs. Quiggin's eyes wandered slowly back to the window. "We've all got +our troubles, Jenny," she said quietly. + +"All," said Jenny. "I wonder if I shall ever see him again." + +"Tell me if you do, Jenny?" said Mrs. Quiggin. + +"I will, Nelly," said Jenny. + +"Poor fellow, poor fellow," said Mrs. Quiggin. + +As Jenny rose to remove her bonnet she shot a sly glance out of the +corners of her eyes, and saw that Mrs. Quiggin was furtively wiping her +own. + +Meanwhile Lovibond at Fort Ann was telling a similar story to Captain +Davy. He had left the house for a walk before Davy had come down to +breakfast, and on returning at noon he found him immersed in the usual +occupation of his mornings. This was that of reading and replying to his +correspondence. Davy read with difficulty, and replied to all letters +by check. His method of business was peculiar and original. He was +stretched on the sofa with a pipe in his mouth, and the morning's +letters pigeonholed between his legs. Willie Quarrie sat at a table +with a check-book before him. While Davy read the letters one by one he +instructed Willie as to the nature of the answer, and Willie, with his +head aslant, his mouth awry, and his tongue in his cheek, turned it into +figures on the check-book. + +As Lovibond came in Davy was knocking off the last batch for the day. +"'Respected sir,' he was reading, 'I know you've a tender heart'... +Send her five pounds, Willie, and tell her to take that talk to the +butchers." + +"'Honored Captain, we are going to erect a new school in connection +with Ballajora chapel, and if you will honor us by laying the foundation +stone....' Never laid a stone in my life 'cept one, and that was my +mawther's sink-stone. Twenty pounds, Willie. 'Sir, we are to hold a +bazaar, and if you will consent to open it....' Bazaar! I know: a +sort of ould clothes shop in a chapel where you're never tooken up for +cheating, because you always says your paternoster-ings afore you begin. +Ten pounds, Willie. Helloa, here's Parson Quiggin. Wish the ould devil +would write more simpler; I was never no good at the big spells myself. +'Dear David....' That's good--he walloped me out of the school once for +mimicking his walk--same as a coakatoo esactly. 'Dear David, owing to +the lamentable death of brother Mylechreest it has been resolved to +ask you to become a member of our committee....' Com-mittee! I know the +sort--kind of religious firm where there's three partners, only two of +them's sleeping ones. Dirty ould hypocrite! Fifteen pounds, Willie." + +This was the scene that Lovibond interrupted by his entrance. "Still +bent on spending your money, Captain?" he said. "Don't you see that the +people who write you these begging letters are impostors?" + +"Coorse I do," said Davy. "What's it saying in the Ould Book? 'Where the +carcass is, there will the eagles be gathered together.' Only, as Parson +Howard used to say, bless the ould angel, 'Summat's gone screw with the +translation theer, friends, should have been vultures." + +"Half of them will only drink your money, Captain," said Lovibond. + +"And what for shouldn't they? That's what I'm doing," said Davy. + +"It's poor work, Captain, poor work. You didn't always think: money was +a thing to pitch into a ditch." + +"Always? My goodness, no!" said Davy. "Time was once when I thought +money was just all and Tommy in this world. My gough, yes, when I was a +slip of a lad, didn't I?" said he, sobering very suddenly. "The father +was lost in a gale at the herrings, and the mawther had to fend for the +lot of us. They all went off except myself--the sisters and brothers. +Poor things, they wasn't willing to stay with us, and no wonder. But +there's mostly an ould person about every Manx house that sees the young +ones out, and the mawther's father was at us still. Lame though of his +legs with the rheumatics, and wake in his intellecs for all. Couldn't +do nothing but lie in by the fire with his bit of a blanket hanging over +his head, same as snow atop of a hawthorn bush. Just stirring the peats, +and boiling the kettle, and lifting the gorse when there was any fire. +The mawther weeded for Jarvis Kewley--sixpence a day dry days, and +fourpence all weathers. Middling hard do's, mate. And when she'd give +the ould man his basin of broth he'd be saying, squeaky-like, 'Give +it to the boy, woman; he's a growing lad?' 'Chut! take it, man,' the +mawther would say, and then he'd be whimpering, 'I'm keeping you long, +Liza, I'm keeping you long.' And there was herself making a noise with +her spoon in the bottom of a basin, and there was me grinding my teeth, +and swearing to myself like mad, 'As sure as the living God I'll be ruch +some day.' And now--" + +Davy snapped his fingers, laughed boisterously, rolled to his feet, and +said shortly, "Where've you been to?" + +"To church--the church with a spire at the end of the parade," said +Lovibond. + +"St. Thomas's--I know it," said Davy. + +St. Thomas's was half way up to Castle Mona. + +The men strolled out at the window, which opened on to the warm, soft +turf of the Head, and lay down there with their faces to the sun-lit +bay. + +"Who preached?" said Davy, clasping hands at the back of his head. + +"A young woman," said Lovibond. + +Davy lifted his head out of its socket, "My goodness!" he said. + +"Well, at all events," explained Lovi-bond, "it was a girl who preached +to _me_. The moment I went into the church I saw her, and I saw nothing +else until I came out again." + +Davy laughed, "Ay, that's the way a girl slips in," said he. "Who was +she?" + +"Nay; I don't know," said Lovibond; "but she sat over against me on +the opposite side of the aisle, and her face was the only prayer-book I +could keep my eyes from wandering from." + +"And what was her tex', mate?" + +"Beauty, grace, truth, the tenderness of a true heart, the sweetness of +a soul that is fresh and pure." + +Davy looked up with vast solemnity. "Take care," said he. "There's odds +of women, sir. They're like sheep's broth is women. If there's a heart +and head in them they're good, and if there isn't you might as well be +supping hot water. Faces isn't the chronometer to steer your boat to the +good ones. Now I've seen some you could swear to----." + +"I'll swear to this one," said Lovibond with an appearance of tremendous +earnestness. + +Davy looked at him, gravely. "D'ye say so?" said he. + +"Such eyes, Capt'n--big and full, and blue, and then pale, pale blue, in +the whites of them too, like--like----." + +"I know," said Davy; "like a blackbird's eggs with the young birds just +breaking out of them." + +"Just," said Lovibond, "And then her hair, Capt'n--brown, that brown +with a golden bloom, as if it must have been yellow when she was a +child." + +"I know the sort, sir," said Davy, proudly; "like the ling on the +mountains in May, with the gorse creeping under it." + +"Exactly. And then her voice, Cap tain, her voice--." + +"So you were speaking to her?" said Davy. + +"No, but didn't she sing?" said Lovi-bond. "Such tones, soft and +tremulous, rising and falling, the same as--as--." + +"Same as the lark's, mate," said Davy, eagerly; "same as the +lark's--first a burst and a mount and then a trimble and a tumble, as if +she'd got a drink of water out of the clouds of heaven, and was singing +and swallowing together--I know the sort; go on." + +Lovibond had kept pace with Davy's warmth, but now he paused and said +quietly, "I'm afraid she's in trouble." + +"Poor thing!" said Davy. "How's that, mate?" + +"People can never disguise their feelings in singing a hymn," said +Lovibond. + +"You say true, mate," said Davy; "nor in giving one out neither. Now, +there was old Kinvig. He had a sow once that wasn't too reg'lar in her +pigging. Sometimes she gave many, and sometimes she gave few, and +sometimes she gave none. She was a hit-and-a-missy sort of a sow, you +might say. But you always know'd how the ould sow done, by the way +Kinvig gave out the hymn. If it was six he was as loud as a clarnet, and +if it was one his voice was like the tram-bones. But go on about the +girl." + +"That's all," said Lovibond. "When the service was over I walked down +the aisle behind her, and touched her dress with my hand, and somehow--" + +"I know," cried Davy. "Gave you a kind of 'lectricity shock, didn't it? +Lord alive, mate, girls is quare things." + +"Then she walked off the other way," said Lovibond. + +"So you don't know where she comes from?" said Davy. + +"I couldn't bring myself to follow her, Capt'n." + +"And right too, mate. It's sneaking. Following a girl in the streets is +sneaking, and the man that done it ought to be wallopped till all's +blue. But you'll see her again, I'll go bail, and maybe hear who she is. +Rael true women is skess these days, sir; but I'm thinking you've got +your flotes down for a good one. Give her line, mate--give her line--and +if I wasn't such a downhearted chap myself I'd be helping you to land +her." + +Lovibond observed that Capt'n Davy was more than usually restless after +this conversation, and in the course of the afternoon, while he lay in a +hazy dose on the sofa, he overheard this passage between the captain and +his boy:-- + +"Willie Quarrie, didn't you say there was an English lady staying with +Mistress Quiggin at Castle Mona?" + +"Miss Crows; yes," said Willie. "So Peggy Quine is telling me--a little +person with a spyglass, and that fond of the mistress you wouldn't +think." + +"Then just slip across in the morning, and spake to herself, and say can +I see her somewheres, or will she come here, and never say nothing to +nobody." + +Davy's uneasiness continued far into the evening. He walked alone to +and fro on the turf of the Head in front of the house, until the sun set +behind the hills to the west, where a golden rim from its falling light +died off on the farthest line of the sea to the east, and the town +between lay in a haze of deepening purple. Lovibond knew where his +thoughts were, and what new turn they had taken; but he pretended to see +nothing, and he gave no sign. + +Sunday as it was, Capt'n Davy's cronies came as usual at nightfall. They +were a sorry gang, but Davy welcomed them with noisy cheer. The lights +were brought in, and the company sat down to its accustomed amusements. +These were drinking and smoking, with gambling in disguise at intervals. +Davy lost tremendously, and laughed with a sort of wild joy at every +failure. He was cheated on all hands, and he knew it. Now and again he +called the cheaters by hard name, but he always paid them their money. +They forgave the one for the sake of the other, and went on without +shame. Lovibond's gorge rose at the spectacle. He was an old gambler +himself, and could have stripped every rascal of them all as naked as a +lettuce after a locust. His indignation got the better of him at last, +and he went out on to the Head. + +The calm sea lay like a dark pavement dotted with the reflection of the +stars overhead. Lights in a wide half-circle showed the line of the bay. +Below was the black rock of the island of the Tower of Refuge, and the +narrow strip of the old Red pier; beyond was the dark outline of +the Head, and from the seaward breast of it shot the light of the +lighthouse, like the glow of a kiln. It was as quiet and beautiful out +there as it had been noisy and hideous within. + +Lovibond had been walking to and fro for more than an hour listening to +the slumberous voices of the night, and hearing at intervals the louder +bellowing from the room where Captain Davy and his cronies were sitting, +when Davy himself came out. + +"I can't stand no more of it, and I've sent them home," he said. "It's +like saying your prayers to a hornpipe, thinking of her and carrying on +with them wastrels." + +He was sober in one sense only. + +"Tell me more about the little girl in church. Aw, matey, matey! +Something under my waistcoat went creep, creep, creep, same as a +sarpent, when you first spake of her; but its easier to stand till that +jaw inside anyway. Go on, sir. Love at first sight, was it? Aw, well, +the eyes isn't the only place that love is coming in at, or blind men +would all be bachelors. Now mine came in at the ear." + +"Did you fall in love with her singing, Capt'n?" said Lovibond. + +"Yes, did I," said Davy, "and her spaking, too, and her whispering as +well, but it wasn't music that brought love in at my ear--my left ear it +was, Matey." + +"Whatever was it then, Capt'n," said Lovibond. + +"Milk," said Davy. + +"Milk?" cried Lovibond, drawing up in their walk. + +"Just milk," said Davy again. "Come along and I tell you. It was this +way. Ould Kinvig kep' two cows, and we were calling the one Whitie and +the other Brownie. Nelly and me was milking the pair of them, and she +was like a young goat, that full of tricks, and I was same as a big +calf, that shy. One evening--it was just between the lights--that's +when girls is like kittens, terr'ble full of capers and +mischievousness--Nelly rigged up her kopie--that's her +milking-stool--agen mine, so that we sat back to back, her milking +Brownie and me milking Whitie. 'What she agate of now?' thinks I, but +she was looking as innocent as the bas'es themselves, with their ould +solem faces when they were twisting round. Then we started, and there +wasn't no noise in the cow-house, but just the cows chewing constant, +and, maybe, the rope running on their necks at whiles and the rattle of +the milk in the pails. And I got to draeming same as I was used of, with +the smell of the hay stealing down from the loft and the breath of +the cows coming puff when they were blowing, and the tits in my hands +agoing, when the rattle-rattle aback of me stopped sudden, and I felt a +squish in my ear like the syringe at the doctor's. 'What's that?' thinks +I. 'Is it deaf I'm going?' But it's deaf I'd been and blind, too, and +stupid for all down to that blessed minute, for there was Nessy laughing +like fits, and working like mad, and drops of Brownie's milk going +trickling out of my ear on to my shoulder. 'It's not deafness,' thinks +I; 'it's love'; and my breath was coming and going and making noises +like the smithy bellows. So I twisted my wrist and blazed back at her, +and we both fired away, ding-dong, till the cows was as dry as Kinvig +when he was teetotal, and the cow-house was like a snowstorm with a gale +of wind through it, and you couldn't see a face at the one of us for +swansdown. That's how Nelly and me 'came engage." + +He was laughing noisily by this time, and crying alternately, with a +merry shout and a husky croak, "Aw, dear, aw, dear; the days that was, +sir--the days that was!" + +Lovibond let him rattle on, and he talked of Nelly for an hour. He had +stories without end of her, some of them as simple as a baby's prattle, +some as deep as the heart of man, and splitting open the very crust of +the fires of buried passion. + +It was late when they turned in for the night. The lights on the line of +the land were all put out, and save for the reflection of the stars only +the lamps of ships at anchor lit up the waters of the bay. + +"Good night, capt'n," said Lovi-bond. "I suppose you'll go to bed now?" + +"Maybe so, maybe no," said Davy. "You see, I'm like Kinvig these days, +and go to bed to do my thinking. The ould man's cart-wheel came off +in the road once, and we couldn't rig it on again no how. 'Hould hard, +boys,' says Kinvig; and he went away home and up to the loft, and +whipped off his clothes, and into the blankets and stayed there till +he'd got the lay of that cartwheel. Aw, yes, though--thinking, thinking, +thinking constant--that's me when I'm in bed. But it isn't the lying +awake I'm minding. Och, no; it's the wakening up again. That's like +nothing in the world but a rusty nail going driving into your skull +afore a blacksmith's seven-pound sledge. Good night, mate; good night." + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +Next day Lovibond saw Mrs. Quiggin at Castle Mona. He had come at once +in obedience to her summons, and she took his sympathies by storm. It +was hard for him to realize that he had not seen her somewhere before. +He _had_ seen her--in his own description of the girl in church, helped +out, led on, directed, vivified, and transfigured by Capt'n Davy's own +impetuous picture, just as the mesmerist sees what he pretends to show +by aid of the eye of the mesmerized. There she sat, like one for whom +life had lost its savor. Her great slow eyes, her pale and quivering +face,' her long deep look as she took his hand, and her softly +tightening grasp of it went through him like a knife. Not all his +loyalty to Capt'n Davy could crush the thought that the man who had +thrown away a jewel such as this must be a brute and a blockhead. +But the sweet woman was not so lost to life that she did not see her +advantage. There were some weary sighs and then she said:-- + +"I am in great, great trouble about my husband. They say he is wasting +his money. Is it true?" + +"Too true," said Lovibond. + +"And that if he goes on as he is now going he will be penniless?" + +"Not impossible," said Lovibond, "provided the mad fit last long +enough." + +"Is remonstrance quite useless, Mr. Lovibond?" + +"Quite, Mrs. Quiggin." + +The great slow eyes began to fill, and Lovibond's gaze to seek the laces +of his boots. + +"It is sorrow enough to me, Mr. Lovibond, that my husband and I have +quarreled and parted, but it will be the worst grief of all if some day +I should have to think that I came into his life to wreck it." + +"Don't blame yourself for that, Mrs. Quiggin. It will be his own fault +if he ruins himself." + +"You are very good, Mr. Lovi-bond." + +"Your husband will never blame you either." + +"That will hardly reconcile me to his misfortunes." + +["The man's an ass," thought Lovibond.] + +"I shall not trouble him much longer with my presence here," Mrs. +Quiggin continued, and Lovibond looked up inquiringly. + +"I am going back home soon," she added. "But if before I go some friend +would help me to save my husband from himself----" + +Lovibond rose in an instant. "I am at your service, Mrs. Quiggin," he +said briskly. "Have you thought of anything?" + +"Yes. They tell me that he is gambling, and that all the cheats of the +island are winning from him." + +"Well?" + +The pale face turned very red, and quivered visibly about the lips. + +"I have heard him say, when he has spoken of you, Mr. Lovibond, +that--that--but will you forgive what I am going to tell you?" + +"Anything," said Lovibond. + +"That out on the coast _you_ could win from anybody. I remembered this +when they told me that he was gambling, and I thought if you would play +against my husband--for _me_------" + +"I see what you mean, Mrs. Quiggin," said Lovibond. + +"I don't want the money, though he was so cruel as to say I had only +married him for sake of it. But you could put it back into Dumbell's +Bank day by day as you got it." + +"In whose name?" said Lovibond. + +The great eyes opened very wide. "His, surely," she said falteringly. + +Lovibond saw the folly of that thought, but he also recognized its +tenderness. + +"Very well," he said; "I'll do my best." + +"Will it be wrong to deceive him, Mr. Lovibond?" + +"It will be mercy itself, Mrs. Quiggin." + +"To be sure, it is only to save him from ruin. But you will not believe +that I am thinking of myself, Mr. Lovibond?" + +"Trust me for that, Mrs. Quiggin." + +"And when the wild fit is over, and my husband hears of what has been +done, you will be careful not to let him know that it was I who thought +of it?" + +"You shall tell him yourself, Mrs. Quiggin." + +"Ah! that can never, never be," she said, with a sigh. And then she +murmured softly, "I don't know what my husband may have told you about +me, Mr. Lovibond--" + +Lovibond's ardor overcame his prudence. "He has told me that you were +an angel once--and he has wronged you, the dunce and dulbert--you are an +angel still." + +While Lovibond was with Mrs. Quig-gin Jenny Crow was with Capt'n Davy. +She had clutched at his invitation with secret delight. "Just the +thing," she thought. "Now, won't I give the other simpleton a piece of +my mind, too?" So she had bowled off to Fort Ann with a heart as warm +as toast, and a tongue that was stinging hot. But when she had got there +her purpose had suddenly changed. The first sight of Capt'n Davy's face +had conquered her. It was so child-like, and yet so manly, so strong and +yet so tender, so obviously made for smiles like sunshine, and yet so +full of the memories of recent tears! Jenny recalled her description +of the sailor on the Head, and thought it no better than a vulgar +caricature. + +Davy wiped down a chair for her with the outside of his billycock and +led her up to it with rude but natural manners. "The girl was a ninny to +quarrel with a man like this," she thought. Nevertheless she remembered +her purpose of making him smart, and she stuck to her guns for a round +or two. + +"It's rael nice of you to come, ma'am," said Davy. + +"It's more than you deserve," said Jenny. + +"I shouldn't wonder but you think me a blundering blocket," said Davy. + +"I didn't think you had sense enough to know it," said Jenny. + +With that second shot Jenny's powder was spent. Davy looked down into +her face and said-- + +"I'm terr'ble onaisy about herself, ma'am, and can't take rest at nights +for thinking what's to come to her when I am gone." + +"Gone?" said Jenny, rising quietly. + +"That's so ma'am," said Davy. "I'm going away--back to that ould Nick's +oven I came from, and I'll want no money there." + +"Is that why you're wasting it here, Captain Quiggin?" said Jenny. Her +gayety was gone by this time. + +"No--yes! Wasting? Well maybe so, ma'am, may be so. It's the way with +money. Comes like the droppings out of the spout at the gable, ma'am; +but goes like the tub when the bull has tipped it. Now I was thinking +ma'am----" + +"Well, Captain?" + +"She won't take any of it, coming from me, but I was thinking, ma'am--" + +"Yes?" Davy was pawing the carpet with one foot, and Jenny's eyes were +creeping up the horn buttons of his waistcoat. + +"I was thinking, ma'am, if you could take a mossle of it yourself +before it's all gone, and go and live with her--you and she together +somewheres--some quiet place--and make out somehow--women's mortal +clever at rigging up yarns that do no harm--make out that somebody +belonging to you is dead--it can't kill nobody to say that ma'am--and +left you a bit of a fortune out of hand----" + +Davy's restless foot was digging away at the carpet while he was +stammering out these broken words: + +"Haven't you no ould uncle, ma'am, that would do for the like of that?" + +Jenny had to struggle with herself not to leap up and hug Capt'n Davy +then and there, "What a ninny the girl was!" she thought. But she said +aloud, as well as she could for her throat that was choking her, "I see +what you mean, Captain Quiggin. But, Cap tain----" + +"Ma'am?" said Davy. + +"If you have so much thought--(_gulp, gulp_)--for your wife's welfare +(_gulp_), you--must love her still (_gulp, gulp_)? + +"I daren't say no, ma'am," said Davy, with downcast eyes. + +"And if you love her, however deeply she may have offended you, surely +you should never leave her. Come, now, Captain, forgive and forget; she +is only a woman, you know." + +"That's just where the shoe pinches, ma'am, so I'm taking it off. Out +yonder it'll be easier to forgive. And if it'll be harder to forget, +what matter?" + +Jenny's eyes were beginning to fill. + +"No use crying over spilled milk, is it, ma'am? The heart-ache is a sort +of colic that isn't cured by drops." + +Jenny was breaking down fast. + +"Aw, the heart's a quare thing, ma'am. Got its hunger same as anything +else. Starve it, and it'll know why. Gives you a kind of a sinking at +the pit of your stomach, ma'am. Did you never feel it, ma'am?" + +Davy's speech was rude enough, but that only made its emotion the more +touching to Jenny. Between gulp and gulp she tried to say that if he +went away he would never be happy again. + +"Happy, ma'am? D'ye say happy? I'm not happy _now,_" said Davy. + +"It isn't everybody would think so, Captain," said Jenny, "considering +how you spend your evenings--singing and laughing----" + +"Laughing! More cry till wool, ma'am, same as clipping a pig." + +"So your new friends, Captain, those that your riches have brought +you--" + +"Friends? D'ye say friends? Them wastrels! What are they? Nothing but +a parcel of Betty Quilleash's baby's stepmothers. And I'm nothing but +Betty Quilleash's baby myself, ma'am; that's what I am." + +The stalwart fellow did not look much like anybody's infant, but Davy +could not laugh, and Jenny's eyes were streaming. + +"Betty lived at Michael, ma'am, and died when her baby was suckling. +There wasn't no feeding-bottles in them days, and the little one was +missing the poor dead mawther mortal. But babies is like lammies, ma'am, +they've got their season, and mostly all the women of the parish had +babies that year. So first one woman would whip up Betty's baby and +give it a taste of the breast, and then another would whip it up and +do likewise, until the little baby cuckoo was in every baby nest in the +place, and living all over the street, like the rum-butter bowl and the +preserving pan. But no use at all, at all. The little mite wasted away. +Poor thing, poor thing. Twenty mawthers wasn't making up to it for the +right one it had lost. That's me, ma'am; that's me." + +Jenny Crow went away, crying openly, having promised to be a party to +the innocent deception which Captain Davy had suggested. "That Nelly +Kinvig is as hard as a flint," she told herself, bitterly. "I've no +patience with such flinty people; and won't I give it her piping hot at +the very next opportunity?" + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +Jenny's opportunity was a week in coming, and various events of some +consequence in this history occurred in the mean time. The first of +these was that Capt'n Davy's fortune changed hands. + +Davy's savings had been invested in two securities--the Liverpool Dock +Trust and Dumbell's Manx Bank. His property in the former he made over +by help of the advocates, and with vast show of secrecy, to the name of +Jenny Crow; and she, on her part, by help of other advocates, and with +yet more real secrecy, transferred it to the name of Mrs. Quiggin. + +The remains of his possessions in the latter he lost to Lovibond, who +gambled with him constantly, beginning with a sovereign, which Mrs. +Quiggin had lent him for the purpose, and going on by a process of +doubling until the stakes were prodigious. Every night he discharged his +debt by check on Dumbell's, and every morning Lovibond repaid it into +the same bank to the account of his wife. Thus, within a week, unknown +to either of the two persons chiefly concerned, the money which had been +the immediate cause of strife between them passed from the offender to +the offended, from the strong to the weak. + +That was the more material of the changes that had come to pass, and the +more spiritual were of still greater consequence. + +Lovibond and Jenny met constantly. They made various excursions through +the island--to the Tynwald Hill, to Peel Castle, to Castle Rushen, the +Chasms, and the Calf. Of course they persuaded each other that these +trips were taken solely in the interests of their friends. It was +necessary to meet; it was desirable to do so where they would be +unobserved; what else was left to them but to steal away together on +these little jaunts and journeys? + +Then their talk was of love and estrangement and reconciliation, and how +easy to quarrel, and how hard to come together again. Capt'n Davy and +Mrs. Quiggin provided all their illustrations to these interesting +themes, for naturally they never spoke of themselves. + +"It's astonishing what geese some people can be," said Jenny. + +"Astonishing," echoed Lovibond. + +"Just for sake of a poor little word of confession to hold off like +this," said Jenny. + +"Just a poor little word," said Lovibond. + +"He has only to say 'My dear, I behaved like a brute,' but----" + +"Only that," said Lovibond. "And she has merely to say, 'My love, I +behaved like a cat,' but----" + +"That's all," said Jenny. "But he doesn't--men never do." + +"Never," said Lovibond. "And she won't--women never will." + +Then there would be innocent glances on both sides, and sly hints cast +out as grappling hooks for jealousy. + +"Ah, well, he's the dearest, simplest, manliest fellow in the world, and +there are women who would give their two ears for him," said Jenny. + +"And she's the sweetest, tenderest, loveliest woman alive, and there are +men who would give their two eyes for her," said Lovibond. + +"Pity they don't," said Jenny, "for all the use they make of them." + +Amid such bouts of thrust and counter-thrust, the affair of Capt'n Davy +and Mrs. Quiggin nevertheless made due progress. + +"She's half in love with my Manx sailor on the Head," said Jenny. + +"And he's more than half in love with my lady in the church," said +Lovibond. + +"And now that we've made each of them fond of each other in disguise, we +have just to make both of them ashamed of themselves in reality," said +Jenny. + +"Just that," said Lovibond. + +"Ah me," said Jenny. "It isn't every pair of geese that have friends +like us to prevent them from going astray." + +"It isn't," said Lovibond. "We're the good old ganders that keep the +geese together." + +"Speak for yourself, sir," said Jenny. + +Then came Jenny's opportunity. She had been out on one of her jaunts +with Lovibond, leaving Mrs. Quiggin alone in her room at Castle +Mona. Mrs. Quiggin was still in her room, and still alone. Since the +separation a fortnight before that had been the constant condition of +her existence. Never going out, never even going down for her meals, +rarely speaking of her husband, always thinking of him, and eating out +her heart with pride and vexation, and anger and self-reproach. + +It was the hour when the life of the island rises to the fever point; +the hour of the arrival of the steamers from England. All day long the +town had droned and dosed under a drowsy heat. The boatmen and carmen, +with both hands in their breeches' pocket, had been burning the daylight +on the esplanade; the band on the pier had been blowing music out of +lungs that snored between every other blast; and the visitors had been +lolling on the seats of the parade and watching the sea gulls disporting +on the bay with eyes that were drawing straws. But the first trail of +smoke had been seen across the sea by the point of the lighthouse, and +all the slugs and marmots were wide awake: promenade deserted, streets +quiet and pothouses empty; but every front window of every front house +occupied, and the pier crowded with people looking seaward. "She's the +Snaefell?" "No, but the Ben-my-Chree--see, she has four funnels." Then, +the steaming up, the firing of the gun, the landing of the passengers, +the mails and newspapers, the shouting of the touts, the bawling of the +porters, the salutations, the welcomes, the passings of the time of day, +the rattling of the oars, the tinkling of the trams, and the cries +of the newsboys: "This way for Castle Mona!" "Falcon Cliff this way!" +"Echo!" "Evening Express!" "Good passage, John?" "Good." "Five hours?" +"And ten minutes." "What news over the water?" "They've caught him." +"Never." "Express!" "Fort Anne here--here for Villiers." "Comfortable +lodgings, sir." "Take a card, ma'am." "What verdict d'ye say?" "She's +got ten years." "Had fine weather in the island?" "Fine." "Echo! Evening +Echo!" "Fort Anne this way!" "Gladstone in Liverpool?" "Yes, spoke at +Hengler's last night--fearful crush." "Castle Mona!" "Evening News!" +"Peveril!" "This way Falcon Cliff!" "Ex-press!" + +Thus, leaving the pier and the steamers behind them, through the streets +and into the hotels, the houses, the cars, and the trains go, the new +comers, and the newspapers, and the letters from England, all hot +and active, bringing word of the main land, with its hub-bub and +hurly-burly, to the island that has been four-and-twenty hours cut +off from it--like the throbbing and bounding globules of fresh blood +fetching life from the fountain-head to some half-severed limb. It is an +hour of tremendous vitality, coming once a day, when the little island +pulsates like a living thing. But that evening, as always since the time +of the separation, Mrs. Quiggin was unmoved by it. With a book in her +hand she was sitting by the open window fingering the pages, but looking +listlessly over the tops of them to the line of the sea and sky, and +asking herself if she should not go home to her father's house on the +morrow. She had reached that point of her reverie at which something +told her that she should, and something else told her that she should +not, when down came Jenny Crow upon her troubled quiet, like the rush of +an evening breeze. + +"Such news!" cried Jenny. "I've seen him again." + +Mrs. Quiggin's book dropped suddenly to her lap. "Seen him?" she said +with bated breath. + +"You remember--the Manx sailor on the Head," said Jenny. + +"Oh!" said Mrs. Quiggin, languidly, and her book went back to before her +face. + +"Been to Laxey to look at the big wheel," said Jenny; "and found the +Manxman coming back in the same coach. We were the only passengers, and +so I heard everything. Didn't I tell you that he must be in trouble?" + +"And is he?" said Mrs. Quiggin, monotonously. + +"My dear," said Jenny, "he's married." + +"I'm very sorry," said Mrs. Quiggin, with a listless look toward the +sea. "I mean," she added more briskly, "that I thought you liked him +yourself." + +"Liked him!" cried Jenny. "I loved him. He's splendid, he's glorious, +he's the simplest, manliest, tenderest, most natural creature in the +world. But it's just my luck--another woman has got him. And such +a woman, too! A nagger, a shrew, a cat, a piece of human flint, a +thankless wretch, whose whole selfish body isn't worth the tip of his +little finger." + +"Is she so bad as that?" said Mrs. Quiggin, smiling feebly above the top +edge of her book, which covered her face up to the mouth. + +"My dear," said Jenny, solemnly, "she has turned him out of the house." + +"Good gracious!" said Mrs. Quiggin; and away went the book on to the +sofa. + +Then Jenny told a woeful tale, her eyes flashing, her lips quivering, +and her voice ringing with indignation. And, anxious to hit hard, +she hovered so closely over the truth as sometimes to run the risk of +uncovering it. The poor fellow had made long voyages abroad and saved +some money. He had loved his wife passionately--that was the only blot +on his character. He always dreamt of coming home, and settling down +in comfort for the rest of his life. He had come at last, and a fine +welcome had awaited him. His wife was as proud as Lucifer--the daughter +of some green-grocer, of course. She had been ashamed of her husband, +apparently, and settling down hadn't suited her. So she had nagged the +poor fellow out of all peace of mind and body, taken his money, and +turned him adrift. + +Jenny's audacity carried her through, and Mrs. Quiggin, who was now wide +awake, listened eagerly. "Can it be possible that there are women like +that?" she said, in a hushed whisper. + +"Indeed, yes," said Jenny; "and men are simple enough to prefer them to +better people." + +"But, Jenny," said Mrs. Quiggin, with a far-away look, "we have only +heard one story, you know. If we were inside the Manxman's house--if we +knew all--might we not find that there are two sides to its troubles?" + +"There are two sides to its street-door," said Jenny, "and the husband +is on the outside of it." + +"She took his money, you say, Jenny?" + +"Indeed she did, Nelly, and is living on it now." + +"And then turned him out of doors?" + +"Well, so to speak, she made it impossible for him to live with her." + +"What a cat she must be!" said Mrs. Quiggin. + +"She must," said Jenny. "And, would you believe it, though she has +treated him so shamefully yet he loves her still." + +"Why do you think so, Jenny," said Mrs. Quiggin. + +"Because," said Jenny, "though he is always sober when I see him I +suspect that he is drinking himself to death. He said as much." + +"Poor fellow!" said Mrs. Quiggin. "But men should not take these things +so much to heart. Such women are not worth it." + +"No, are they?" said Jenny. + +"They have hardly a right to live," said Mrs. Quiggin. + +"No, have they?" said Jenny. + +"There should be a law to put down nagging wives the same as biting +dogs," said Mrs. Quiggin. + +"Yes, shouldn't there?" said Jenny. + +"Once on a time men took their wives like their horses on trial for a +year and a day, and really with some women there would be something to +say for the old custom." + +"Yes, wouldn't there?" said Jenny. + +"The woman who is nothing of herself apart from her husband, and has +no claim to his consideration, except on the score of his love, and yet +uses him only to abuse him, and takes his very 'money, having none of +her own, and still----" + +"Did I say she took his money, Nelly?" said Jenny. "Well of course--not +to be unfair--some men are such generous fools, you know--he may have +given it to her." + +"No matter; taken or given, she has got it, I suppose, and is living on +it now." + +"Oh, yes, certainly, that's very sure," said Jenny; "but then she's his +wife, you see, and naturally her maintenance----" + +"Maintenance!" cried Mrs. Quig-gin. "How many children has she got?" + +"None," said Jenny. "At least I haven't heard of any." + +"Then she ought to be ashamed of herself for thinking of such a thing." + +"I quite agree with you, Nelly," said Jenny. + +"If I were a man," said Mrs. Quiggin, "and my wife turned me out of +doors----" + +"Did I say that, Nelly? Well not exactly that--no, not turned him out of +doors exactly, Nelly." + +"It's all one, Jenny. If a woman behaves so that her husband can not +live with her what is she doing but turning him out of doors?" + +"But, Nelly!" cried Jenny, rising suddenly. "What about Captain Davy?" + +Then there was a blank silence. Mrs. Quiggin had been borne along on +the torrent of her indignation, brooking no objection, and sweeping down +every obstacle, until brought up sharply by Jenny's question--like a +river that flows fastest and makes most noise where the bowlders in its +course are biggest, but breaks itself at last against the brant sides +of some impassable rock. She drew her breath in one silent spasm, turned +from feverish red to deadly pale, quivered about the mouth, twitched +about the eyelids, rose stiffly on her half-rigid limbs, and then fell +on Jenny with loud and hot reproaches. + +"How dare you, Jenny Crow?" she cried. + +"Dare what, my dear?" said Jenny. + +"Say that I've turned my husband out of doors, and that I've taken his +money, and that I am a cat and shrew, and a nagger, and that there ought +to be a law to put me down." + +"My dear Nelly," said Jenny, "it was yourself that said so. I was +speaking of the wife of the Manx sailor." + +"Yes, but you were thinking of me," said Mrs. Quiggin. + +"I was thinking of her," said Jenny. + +"You were thinking of me as well," said Mrs. Quiggin. + +"I tell you that I was only thinking of her," said Jenny. + +"You were thinking of me, Jenny Crow--you know you were; and you meant +that I was as bad as she was. But circumstances alter cases, and my case +is different. My husband is turning _me_ out of doors: and, as for +his money, I didn't ask for it and I don't want it. I'll go back home +to-morrow morning. I will--indeed, I will. I'll bear this torment no +longer." + +So saying, with many gasps and gulps, breaking at last into a burst of +weeping, she covered her face with both hands and flounced out of the +room. Jenny watched her go, then listened to the sobs that came from the +other side of the door, and said beneath her breath, "Let her cry, poor +girl. The crying has to be done by somebody, and it might as well be +she. Crying is good for a woman sometimes, but when a man cries it hurts +so much." + +Half an hour later, as Jenny was leaving the room for dinner, she heard +Mrs. Quiggin telling Peggy Quine to ask at the office for her bill, and +to order a carriage to be ready at the door for her at eleven o'clock in +the morning. + +When the first burst of her vexation was spent Mrs. Quiggin made a +secret and startling discovery. The man whom Jenny Crow had stumbled +upon, first on the Head and afterward on the Laxey coach, could be no +one in the world but her own husband. A certain shadowy suspicion of +this had floated hazily before her mind at the beginning, but she had +dismissed the idea and forgotten it. Now she felt so sure of it that it +was beyond contempt of question. So the Manx sailor in whom Jenny had +found so much to admire--the simple, brave, manly, generous, natural +soul, all fresh air and by rights all sunshine--was no other than +Capt'n Davy Quiggin! That thought brought the hot blood tingling to Mrs. +Quiggin's cheeks with sensations of exquisite delight, and never before +had her husband seemed so fine in her own eyes as now, when she saw +him so noble in the eyes of another. But close behind this delicious +reflection, like the green blight at the back of the apple blossom, lay +a withering and cankering thought. The Manx sailor's wife--she who had +so behaved that it was impossible for him to live with her--she who was +a cat, a shrew, a nagger, a thankless wretch, a piece of human flint, +a creature that should be put down by the law as it puts down biting +dogs--she whose whole selfish body was not worth the tip of his little +finger--was no one else than herself! + +Then came another burst of weeping, but this time the tears were of +shame, not of vexation, and they washed away every remaining evil humor +and left the vision clear. She had been in the wrong, she was judged out +of her own mouth; but she had no intention of fitting on the cap of +the unknown woman. Why should she? Jenny did not know who the woman +was--that was as plain as a pickle. Then where was the good of +confessing? + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +While Jenny Crow was doing her easy duty at Castle Mona, Lovibond was +engaged in a task of yet more simplicity at Fort Ann. On returning +from Laxey he found Captain Davey occupied with Willie Quarrie in +preparations for a farewell supper to be given that night to the cronies +who had helped him to spend his fortune. These worthies had deserted +his company since Lovibond had begun to take all the winnings, including +some of their own earlier ones; and hence the necessity to invite them. +"There's ould Billy, the carrier--ask him," Davy was saying, as he lay +stretched on the sofa, puffing whorls of gray smoke from a pipe of thick +twist. "And then there's Kerruish, the churchwarden, and Kewley, the +crier, and Hugh Corlett, the blacksmith, and Tommy Tubman, the brewer, +and Willie Qualtrough, that keeps the lodging-house contagious, and the +fat man that bosses the Sick and Indignant society, and the long, +lanky shanks that is the headpiece of the Friendly and Malevolent +Association--got them all down, boy?" + +"They're all through there in my head already, Capt'n," groaned Willie +Quarrie in despair, as he struggled at the table to keep pace with his +slow pen to Davy's impetuous tongue. + +"Then ask whosomever you plaze, boy," said Davy. "What's it saying in +the ould Book: 'Go out into the highways and hedges and compel them to +come in.' Only it's the back-courts and the public-houses this time, and +you'll be wanting no grappling hooks to fetch them. Just whip a whisky +bottle under your arm, and they'll be asking for no other invitation. +Reminds me, sir," he added, looking up as Lovibond entered, "reminds me +of little Jimmy Quayle's aisy way of fetching poor Hughie Collister +from the bottom of Ramsey harbor. Himself and Hughie were same as +brothers--that thick--and they'd been middling hard on the drink +together, and one night Hughie, going home to Andreas, tumbled over the +bridge by the sandy road and got hisself washed away and drowned. So the +boys fetched grapplings and went out immadient to drag for the body, +but Jimmy took another notion. He rigged up a tremenjous long pole, like +your mawther's clothes' prop on washing day and tied a string to the +top of it, and baited the end of the string with an empty bottle of Ould +Tom, and then sat hisself down on the end of the jetty, same as a man +that's going fishing. 'Lord-a-massy, Jemmy,' says the boys, looking up +out of the boat; 'whatever in the name of goodness are you doing there?' +'They're telling me,' says Jemmy, bobbing the gin-bottle up and down +constant, flip-a-flop, flip-a-flop atop of the water; 'they're telling +me,' says he, 'that poor ould Hughie is down yonder, and I'm thinking +there isn't nothing in the island that'll fetch him up quicker till +this.'" + +"But what is going on here, Capt'n?" said Lovibond, with an inclination +of his head toward the table where Willie Quarrie was still laboring +with his invitations. + +"It's railly wuss till ever, sir," groaned Willie from behind his pen. + +"What does it mean?" said Lovibond. + +"It manes that I'm sailing to-morrow," said Davy. + +"Sailing!" cried Lovibond. + +"That's so," said Davy. "Back to the ould oven we came from. Pacific +steamer laves Liverpool by the afternoon tide, and we'll catch her aisy +if we take the 'Snaefell' in the morning. Fixed a couple of berths +by telegraph, and paid through Dumbell's. Only ninety pounds the +two--for'ard passage--but nearly claned out at that. What's the odds +though? Enough left to give the boys a blow-out to-night, and then, +heigho! stone broke, cut your stick and get out of it." + +"A couple of berths? Did you say two?" said Lovibond. + +"I'm taking Willie along with me," said Davy; "and he's that joyful at +the thought of it that you can't get a word out of him for hallelujahs." + +Willie's joy expressed itself at that moment in a moan, as he rose from +the table with a woe-begone countenance, and went out on his errand of +invitation. + +"But you'll stay on," said Davy, "Eh?" + +"No," said Lovibond, in a melancholy voice. + +"Why not, then?" said Davy. + +Lovibond did not answer at once, and Davy heaved up to a sitting posture +that he might look into his face. + +"Why, man; what's this--what's this?" said Davy. "You're looking as down +as ould Kinvig at the camp meeting, when the preacher afore him had used +up all his tex'es. What's going doing?" + +Lovibond settled himself on the sofa beside Davy, and drew a deep +breath. "I've seen her again, Capt'n," he said, solemnly. + +"The sweet little lily in the church, sir?" said Davy. + +"Yes," said Lovibond; and, after another deep breath, "I've spoken to +her." + +"Out with it, sir; out with it," said Davy, and then, putting one hand +on Lovibond's knee caressingly, "I've seen trouble in my time, mate; you +may trust me--go on, what is it?" + +"She's married," said Lovibond. + +Davy gave a prolonged whistle. "That's bad," he said. "I'm symperthizing +with you. You've been fishing with another man's floats and losing your +labor. I'm feeling for you. 'Deed I am." + +"It's not myself I'm thinking of," said Lovibond. "It's that angel of a +woman. She's not only married, but married to a brute." + +"That's wuss still," said Davy. + +"And not only married to a brute," said Lovibond, "but parted from him." + +Davy gave a yet longer whistle. "O-ho, O-ho! A quarrel is it?" he cried. +"Husband and wife, eh? Aw, take care, sir, take care. Women is 'cute. +Extraordinary wayses they've at them of touching a man up under the +watch-pocket of the weskit till you'd never think nothing but they're +angels fresh down from heaven, and you could work at the docks to keep +them; but maybe cunning as ould Harry all the time, and playing the +divil with some poor man. It's me for knowing them. Husband and wife? +That'll do, that'll do. Lave them alone, mate, lave them alone." + +"Ah, the sweet creature has had a terrible time of it!" said Lovibond, +lying back and looking up at the ceiling. + +"I lave it with you," said Davy, charging his pipe afresh as a signal of +his neutrality. + +"He must have led her a fearful life," continued Lovibond. + +Davy lit up, and puffed vigorously. + +"It would appear," said Lovibond, "that though she is so like a lady, +she is entirely dependent upon her husband." + +"Well, well," said Davy, between puff and puff. + +"He didn't forget that either, for he seems to have taunted her with her +poverty." + +A growl, like an oath half smothered by smoke, came from Davy. + +"Indeed, that was the cause of quarrel." + +"She did well to lave him," said Davy, watching the coils of his smoke +going upward. + +"Nay, it was he who left her." + +"The villain!" said Davy. But after Davy had delivered himself so there +was nothing to be heard for the next ten seconds but the sucking of lips +over the pipe. + +"And now," said Lovibond, "she can not stir out of doors but she finds +herself the gossip of the island, and the gaze of every passer-by." + +"Poor thing, poor thing!" said Davy. + +"He must be a low, vulgar fellow," said Lovibond; "and yet--would you +believe it?--she wouldn't hear a word against him." + +"The sweet woman!" said Davy. + +"It's my firm belief that she loves the fellow still," said Lovibond. + +"I wouldn't trust," said Davy. "That's the ways of women, sir; I've seen +it myself. Aw, women is quare, sir, wonderful quare." + +"And yet," said Lovibond, "while she is sitting pining to death indoors +he is enjoying himself night and day with his coarse companions." + +Davy put up his pipe on the mantelpiece. "Now the man that does the like +of that is a scoundrel," he said, warmly. + +"I agree with you, Capt'n," said Lovibond. + +"He's a brute!" said Davy, more loudly. + +"Of course we've only heard one side of the story," said Lovibond. + +"No matter; he's a brute and a scoundrel," said Davy. "Dont you hould +with me there, mate?" + +"I do," said Lovibond. "But still--who knows? She may--I say she may--be +one of those women who want their own way." + +"All women wants it," said Davy. "It's mawther's milk to them--Mawther +Eve's milk, as you might say." + +"True, true!" said Lovibond; "but though she looks so sweet she may have +a temper." + +"And what for shouldn't she?" said Davy, "D'ye think God A'mighty meant +it all for the men?" + +"Perhaps," said Lovibond, "she turned up her nose at his coarse ways and +rough comrades." + +"And right, too," said Davy. "Let him keep his dirty trousses to +hisself. Who is he?" + +"She didn't tell me that," said Lovibond. + +"Whoever he is he's a wastrel," said Davy. + +"I'm afraid you're right, Capt'n," said Lovibond. + +"Women is priv'leged where money goes," said Davy. "If they haven't got +it by heirship they can't make it by industry, and to accuse them of +being without it is taking a mane advantage. It's hitting below the +belt, sir. Accuse a man if you like--ten to one he's lazy--but a +woman--never, sir, never, never!" + +Davy was tramping the room by this time, and making it ring with the +voice as of a lion, and the foot as of an elephant. + +"More till that, sir," he said. "A good girl with nothing at her who +takes a bad man with a million cries talley with the crayther the day +she marries him. What has he brought her? His dirty, mucky, measley +money, come from the Lord knows where. What has _she_ brought him? +Herself, and everything she is and will be, stand or fall, sink or swim, +blow high, blow low--to sail by his side till they cast anchor together +at last Don't you hould with me there, sir?" + +"I do, Capt'n, I do," said Lovibond. + +"And the ruch man that goes bearing up alongside a girl that's sweet and +honest, and then twitting her with being poorer till hisself, is a dirt +and divil, and ought to be walloped out of the company of dacent men." + +"But, Capt'n," said Lovibond, falteringly! "Capt'n...." + +"What?" + +"Wasn't Mrs. Quiggin a poor girl when you married her?" + +At that word Davy looked like a man newly awakened from a trance. His +voice, which had rung out like a horn, seemed to wheeze back like a +whistle; his eyes, which had begun to blaze, took a fixed and stupid +look; his lips parted; his head dropped forward; his chest fell inward; +and his big shoulders seemed to shrink. He looked about him vacantly, +put one hand up to his forehead and said in a broken underbreath, +"Lord-a-massy! What am I doing? What am I saying?" + +The painful moment was broken by the arrival of the first of the guests. +It was Keruish, the churchwarden, a very-secular person, deep in the +dumps over a horse which he had bought at Castletown fair the week +before (with money cheated out of Davy), and lost by an attack of the +worms that morning. "Butts in the stomach, sir," he moaned; "they're +bad, sir, aw, they're bad." + +"Nothing wuss," said Davy. "I know them. Ate all the goodness out of +you and lave you without bowels. Men has them as well as horses--only we +call (them) friends instead." + +The other guests arrived one by one--the blacksmith, the crier, the +brewer, the lodging-house keeper, and the two secretaries of the +charitable societies (whose names were "spells" too big for Davy), and +the keeper of a home for lost dogs. + +They were a various and motley company of the riff-raff and raggabash of +the island,--young and elderly, silent and glib--rough as a pigskin, and +smooth as their sleeves at the elbow; with just one feature common to +the whole pack of pick-thanks, and that was a look of shallow cunning. + +Davy received them with noisy welcomes and equal cheer, but he had +the measure of every man of them all, down to the bottom of their fob +pockets. The cloth was laid, the supper was served, and down they sat at +the table. + +"Anywhere, anywhere!" cried Davy, as they took their places. "The mate +is the same at every seat." + +"Ay, ay," they laughed, and then fell to without ceremony. + +"Only wait till I've done the carving, and we'll all start fair," said +Davy. + +"Coorse, coorse," they answered, from mouths half full already. + +"That's what Kinvig said when he was cutting up his sermon into firstly, +secondly, thirdly, and fourteenthly." + +"Ha, ha! Kinvig! I'd drink the ould man's health if I had anything," +cried the blacksmith, with a wink at his opposite neighbor. + +"No liquor?" said Davy, looking up to sharpen the carving knife on the +steel. "Am I laving you dry like herrings in the hould?" + +"Season us, capt'n," cried the black-smith, amid general laughter from +the rest. + +"Aw, lave you alone for that," said Davy. "If you're like myself you're +in pickle enough already." + +Then there were more winks and louder laughter. + +"Mate!" shouted Davy over his shoulder to the waiter behind him, "a +gallon to every gentleman." + +"Ay, ay," from all sides of the table in various tones of satisfaction. + +"Yes, sir--of course, sir; beg pardon, sir, here, sir," said the waiter. + +"Boys, healths apiece!" cried Davy. + +"Healths apiece, Capt'n!" answered numerous thick voices, and up leaped +a line of yellow glasses. + +"Ate, drink--there's plenty, boys; there's plenty," said Davy. + +"Aw, plenty, capt'n--plenty." + +"Come again, boys, come again," said Davy, from time to time; "but clane +plates--aw, clane plates--I hould with being nice at your males for all, +and no pigging." + +Thus the supper went on for an hour, and then Davy by way of grace said, +"Praise the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me, praise His holy +name." + +"A 'propriate tex', too," said the church-warden. "Aw, it's wonderful +the scriptural the Captn's getting when he's a bit crooked," he +whispered behind the back of his hand. + +After that Davy stretched back in his chair and cried, "Your pipes +in your faces, boys. Smook up, smook up; chimleys everywhere, same as +Douglas at breakfast time." + +For Davy's sake Lovibond had sat at table with the guests, though their +voracity had almost turned his stomach. At sight of the green light of +greed in their eyes he had said to himself, "Davy is a rough fellow, but +a born Christian. These creatures are hogs. Why doesn't his gorge +rise at them?" When the supper was done, and while the cloth was being +removed, amid the clatter of dishes and the striking of lights, Lovibond +rose and slipped out of the room. + +Davy saw him go, and from that moment he became constrained and silent. +Sucking at his pipe and devoting himself steadily to the drink, he +answered in _hum's and ha's and that'll do's_ to the questions put to +him, and his laughter came out of him at intervals in jumps and jerks +like water from the neck of a bottle. + +"What's agate of the Capt'n?" the men whispered. "He's quiet +to-night--quiet uncommon." + +After a while Davy heaved up and followed Lovibond. He found him walking +too and fro in the soft turf outside the window. The night was calm and +beautiful. In the sky a sea of stars and a great full moon; on the +land a line of gas jets, and on the dark bay a point here and there of +rolling light. No sound but the distant hum of traffic in the town, +the inarticulate shout of a sailor on one of the ships outside, and +the rock-row rock-row of the oars in the rol-locks of some unseen boat +gliding into the harbor below. + +Davy drew a long breath. "So you think," said he, "that the sweet woman +in the church is loving her husband in spite of all?" + +"Fear she is, poor fool," said Lovibond. + +"Bless her!" said Davy, beneath his breath. "D'ye think, now," said he, +"that all women are like that?" + +"Many are--too many," said Lovibond. + +"Equal to forgiving and forgetting, eh?" said Davy. + +"Yes--the sweet simpletons--and taking the men back as well," said +Lovibond. + +"Extraordinary!" said Davy. "Aw, matey, matey, men's only muck where +women comes. Women is reg'lar eight-teen-carat goold. It's me to know +it too. There was the mawther herself now. My father was a bit of a +rip--God forgive his son for saying it--and once he went trapsing after +a girl and got her into trouble. An imperent young hussy anyway, but no +matter. Coorse the mawther wouldn't have no truck with her; but one day +she died sudden, and then the child hadn't nobody but the neighbors to +look to it. 'Go for it, Davy,' says the mawther to me. It was evening, +middling late after the herrings, and when I got to the kitchen windey +there was the little one atop of the bed in her nightdress saying her +bits of prayers; 'God bless mawther, and everybody,' and all to that. +She couldn't get out of the 'mawther' yet, being always used of it, and +there never was no 'father' in her little tex'es. Poor thing! she come +along with me, bless you, like a lammie that you'd pick out of the snow. +Just hitched her hands round my neck and fell asleep in my arms +going back, with her putty face looking up at the stars same as an +angel's--soft and woolly to your lips like milk straight from the cow, +and her little body smelling sweet and damp, same as the breath of a +calf. And when the mawther saw me she smoothed her brat and dried her +hands, and catched at the little one, and chuckled over her, and clucked +at her and kissed her, with her own face slushed like rain, till yer'd +have thought nothing but it was one of her own that had been lost and +was found agen. Aw, women for your life, mate, for forgiveness.'" + +Lovibond did not speak, and Davy began to laugh in a husky voice. + +"Bless me, the talk a man will put out when he's a bit over the rope and +thinking of ould times," he said. + +"Sign that I'm thirsty," he added; and then walked toward the window. +"But the father could never forgive hisself," he said, as he was +stepping through, "and if I done wrong to a woman neither could I--I've +that much of the ould man in me anyway." + +When he got back to the room the air was dense with tobacco-smoke, and +his guests were shouting for his company. "Capt'n Davy!" "Where's Capt'n +Davy?" "Aw, here's the man himself?" "Been studying the stars, Capt'n?" +"Well, that's a bit of navigation." "Navigation by starlight--I know the +sort. Navigating up alongside a pretty girl, eh, Capt'n?" + +There were rough jokes, and strange stories, and more liquor and loud +laughter, and for a time Davy took his part in everything. But after a +while he grew quiet again, and absent in manner, and he glanced up at +intervals in the direction of the window, A new thought had come to him. +It made the sweat to break out at the top of his forehead, and then he +heard no more of the clatter around him than the rum-humdrum as of +a train in a tunnel, pierced sometimes by the shrill scream as of an +occasional whistle. Presently he rolled up again, and went out once more +to Lovibond. + +The thought that had seized him was agony, and he could not broach it at +once. So he beat about it for a moment, and then came down on it with a +crash. + +"Sitting alone, is she, poor thing?" he said. + +"Alone," said Lovibond. + +"I know, I know," said Davy. "Like a bird on a bough calling mournful +for her mate; but he's gone, he's down, maybe worse, but lost anyway. +Yet if he should ever come back now--eh?" + +"He'll have to be quick then," said Lovibond; "for she intends to go +home to her people soon." + +"Did you say she was for going home?" said Davy, eagerly. "Home +where--where to--to England?" + +"No," said Lovibond. "Havn't I told you she's a Manx woman?" + +"A Manx woman, is she?" said Davy. "What's her name?" + +"I didn't ask her that," said Lovibond. + +"Then where's her home?" said Davy. + +"I forget the name of the place," said Lovibond. "Balla--something." + +"Is it---- is it----" Davy was speaking very quickly--"is it Ballaugh, +sir?" + +"That's it," and Lovibond. "And her father's farm--I heard the name of +the farm as well--Balla--balla--something else--oh, Ballavalley." + +"Ballavolly?" said Davy. + +"Exactly," said Lovibond. + +Davy breathed heavily, swayed slightly, and rolled against Lovibond as +they walked side by side. + +"Then you know the place, Capt'n," said Lovibond. + +Davy laughed noisily. "Ay, I know it," he said. + +"And the girl's father, too, I suppose?" said Lovibond. + +Davy laughed bitterly. "Ay, and the girl's father too," he said. + +"And the girl herself perhaps?" said Lovibond. + +Davy laughed almost fiercely, "Ay, and the girl herself," he said. + +Lovibond did not spare him. "Then," said he, in an innocent way, "you +must know her husband also." + +Davy laughed wildly. "I wouldn't trust," he said. + +"He's a brute--isn't he?" said Lovibond. + +"Ugh!" Davy's laughter stopped very suddenly. + +"A fool, too--is he not?" said Lovibond. + +"Ay--a damned fool!" said Davy out of the depths of his throat, and then +he laughed and reeled again, and gripped at Lovibond's sleeve to keep +himself erect. + +"Helloa!" he cried, in another voice; "I'm rocking full like a ship with +a rolling cargo and my head is as thick as Taubman's brewery on boiling +day." + +He was a changed man from that instant onward. An angel of God that had +been breathing on his soul was driven out by a devil of despair. The +conviction had settled on him that he was a dastard. Lovibond remembered +the story of his father? and trembled for what he had done. + +Davy stumbled back through the window into the room, singing lustily-- + + O, Molla Char--aine, where got you your gold? + Lone, lone, you have le--eft me here, + O, not in the Curragh, deep under the mo--old, + Lone, lo--one, and void of cheer, + Lone, lo--one, and void of cheer. + +His cronies received him with shouts of welcome. "You'll be walking +the crank yet, Capt'n," said they, in mockery of his unsteady gait. His +altered humor suited them. "Cards," they cried; "cards--a game for good +luck." + +"Hould hard," said Davy. "Fair do's. Send for the landlord first." + +"What for?" they asked. "To stop us? He'll do that quick enough." + +"You'll see," said Davy. "Willie," he shouted, "bring up the skipper." + +Willie Quarrie went out on his errand, and Davy called for a song. The +Crier gave one line three times, and broke down as often. "I linger +round this very spot--I linger round this ve--ery spot--I linger round +this very--" + +"Don't do it any longer, mate," cried Davy. "Your song is like Kinvig's +first sermon. The ould man couldn't get no farther till his tex', so he +gave it out three times--'I am the Light of the World--I am the Light of +the World--I am the Light--' 'Maybe so, brother,' says ould Kennish, in +the pew below; 'but you want snuffing. Come down out of that.'"-- + +Loud peals of wild laughter followed, and Davy's own laughter rang out +wildest and maddest of all. Then up came the landlord with his round +face smiling. What was the Captain's pleasure? + +"Landlord," cried Davy, "tell your men to fill up these glasses, and +then send me your bill for all I owe you, and make it cover everything +I'll want till to-morrow morning." + +"To-morrow will do for the bill, Captain," said the landlord. "I'm not +afraid that you'll cut your country." + +"Aren't you, though? Then the more fool you," said Davy. "Send it up, my +shining sunflower; send it up." + +"Very well, Captain, just to humor you," said the landlord, backing +himself out with his head in his chest. + +"Why, where are you going to, Capt'n?" cried many voices at once. + +"Wherever there's a big cabbage growing, boys," said Davy. + +The bill came up, and Willie Quarrie examined it. "Shocking!" cried +Willie; "it's really shocking! Shillings apiece for my breakfas'es--now +that's what I call a reg'lar piece of ambition." + +Davy turned out his pockets on to the table. The pockets were many, +and were hidden away, back and front and side, in every slack and tight +place in his clothes. Gold, silver, and copper came mixed and loose from +all of them, and he piled up the money in a little heap before him. When +all was out he picked five sovereigns from the haggis of coin and put +them back into his waistcoat pocket, while he screwed up one eye into +the semblance of a wink, and said to Willie, "That'll see us over." Then +he called for a sight of the bill, glanced at the total and proceeded to +count out the amount of it. This being done, he rolled the money in the +paper, screwed it up like a penny worth of lozenges, and sent it down +to the landlord with his bes' respec's. After that he straightened his +chest, stuck his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat, nodded his +head downward at the money remaining on the table and said, "Men, see +that? It's every ha'penny I'm worth in the world, A month ago I came +home with a nice warm fortune at me. That's what's left, and when it's +gone I'm up the spout." + +The men looked at each other in blank surprise, and began to mutter +among themselves, "What game is he agate of now?" "Aw, it's true." "True +enough, you go bail." "I wouldn't trust, he's been so reckless." "Twenty +thousands, they're saying." "Aw, he's been helped--there's that Mister +Loviboy, a power of money the craythur must have had out of him." "Well, +sarve him right; fools and their money is rightly parted." + +Thus they croaked and crowed, and though Davy was devoting himself to +the drink he heard them. + +A wild light shot into his eyes, but he only laughed more noisily and +talked more incessantly. + +"Come, lay down, d'ye hear," he cried. "Do you think I care for the +fortune? I care nothing, not I. I've had a bigger loss till that in my +time." + +"Lord save us, Capt'n--when?" cried one. + +"Never mind when--not long ago, any way," said Davy. + +"And you had heart to start afresh, Cap'n, eh?" cried another. + +"Heart, you say? Maybe so, maybe no," said Davy. "But stow this jaw. +Here's my harvest home, boys, my Melliah, only I am bringing back the +tares--who's game to toss for it? Equal stakes, sudden death!" + +The brewer tossed with him and won. Davy brushed the money across the +table, and laughed more madly than ever. "I care nothing, not I, say +what you like," he cried again and again, though no one disputed his +protestation. + +But the manner of the cronies changed toward him nevertheless. Some fell +to patronizing him, some to advising him, and some to sneering at the +hubbub he was making. + +"Well, well," he cried, "One glass and a toast, anyway, and part friends +for all." "Aisy there! silence! Hush? Chink up! (Hear, hear?) Are +you ready? Here goes, boys? The biggest blockit in the island, bar +none--Capt'n Davy Quiggin." + +At that the raggabash who had been clinking glasses pretended to be +mightily offended in their dignity. They looked about for their hats, +and began to shuffle out. + +"Lave me, then; lave me," cried Davy. "Lave me, now, you Noah's ark of +creeping things. Lave me, I'm stone broke. Ay, lave me, you dogs with +your noses in the snow. I'm done, I'm done." + +As the rascals who had cheated and robbed him trooped out like men +aggrieved, Davy broke out into a stave of another wild song: + + "I'm hunting the wren," said Bobbin to Bobbin, + "I'm hunting the wren," said Richard to Rob-bin, + "I'm hunting the wren," said Jack of the Lhen, + "I'm hunting the wren," said every one. + +When the men were gone Lovibond came back by the window. The room was +dense with the fumes of dead smoke, and foul with the smell of stale +liquor. Broken pipes lay on the table amid the refuse of spilled beer, +and a candle, at which the pipes had been lighted, still stood there +burning. + +Davy was reeling about madly, and singing and laughing in gust on gust. +His face was afire with the drink that he had taken, and his throat was +guggling and sputtering. + +"I care nothing, not I--say what you like; I've had worse losses in my +time," he cried. + +He plunged his right hand into his breast and drew out something. + +"See, that, mate?" he said, and held it up under the glass chandelier. + +It was a little curl of brown hair, tied across the middle with a piece +of faded blue ribbon. + +"See it?" he cried in a husky gurgle. "It's all I've got left in the +world." + +He held it up to the light and looked at it, and laughed until the glass +pendants of the chandelier swung and jingled with the vibration of his +voice. + +"The gorse under the ling, eh? There you are then! _She_ gave it me. +Yes, though, on the night I sailed. My gough! The ruch and proud I was +that night anyway! I was a homeless beggar, but I might have owned the +stars, for, by God, I was walking on them going away." + +He reeled again, and laughed as if in mockery of himself, and then said, +"That's ten year ago, mate, and I've kep' it ever since. I have though, +here in my breast, and it's druv out wuss things. When I've been far +away foreign, and losing heart a bit, and down with the fever, maybe, in +that ould hell, and never looking to see herself again, no, never, I've +been touching it gentle and saying to myself, soft and low, like a sort +of an angel's whisper, 'Nelly is with you, Davy. She isn't so very far +away, boy; she's here for all.' And when I've been going into some dirt +of a place that a dacent man shouldn't, it's been cutting at my ribs, +same as a knife, and crying like mad, 'Hould hard, Davy; you can't take +Nelly in theer?' When I've been hot it's been keeping me cool, and when +I've been cold it's been keeping me warm, better till any comforter. +D'ye see it, sir? We're ould comrades, it and me, the best that's going, +and never no quarreling and no words neither. Ten years together, sir; +blow high, blow low. But we're going to part at last." + +Then he picked up the candle in his left hand, still holding the lock of +hair in his right. + +"Good-by, ould friend!" he cried, in a shrill voice, rolling his head to +look at the curl, and holding it over the candle. "We're parting company +to-night. I'm going where I can't take you along with me--I'm going to +the divil. So long! S'long! I'll never strook you, nor smooth you, nor +kiss you no more! S'long!" + +He put the curl to his lips, holding it tremblingly between his great +fingers and thumb. Then he clutched it in his palm, reeled a step +backward, swung the candle about and dashed it on to the floor. + +"I can't, I can't," he cried, "God A'mighty, I can't. It's +Nelly--Nelly--my Nelly--my little Nell!" + +The curl went back into his breast. He sank into a chair, covered his +face with his hands, and wept aloud as little children do. + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +When Mrs. Quiggin came down to breakfast next morning, a change both in +her appearance and in her manner caught the eye and ear of Jenny Crow. +Her fringe was combed back from her forehead, and her speech, even in +the first salutation, gave a delicate hint of the broad Manx accent. +"Ho, ho! what's this?" thought Jenny, and she had not long to wait for +an answer. + +An English waiter, who affected the ways of a French one, was fussing +around with needless inquiries--_would Madame have this; would Madame +do that?_--and when this person had scraped himself out of the room Mrs. +Quiggin drew a long breath and said, "I don't think I care so very much +for this sort of thing after all, Jenny." + +"What sort of thing, Nelly?" + +"Waiters and servants, and hotels and things," said Nelly. + +"Really!" said Jenny. + +"It's wonderful how much happier you are when you can be your own +servant, and boil your own kettle and mash your own tea, and lay your +own cloth, and clear away and wash up afterward." + +"Do you say so, Nelly?" + +"Deed I do, though, Jenny. There's some life in the like of that--seeing +to yourself and such like. And what are the pleasures of towns and +streets and hotels and servants, and such botherations to those of a +sweet old farm that is all your own somewhere? And, to think--to think, +Jenny, getting up in the summer morning before the sun itself, when the +light is that cool dead gray, and the last stars are dying off, and the +first birds are calling to their mates that are still asleep, and +then going round to the cowhouse in the clear, crisp, ringing air, +and startling the rabbits and the hares that are hopping about in the +haggard--O! it's delightful!" + +"Really now!" said Jenny. + +"And then the men coming down stairs, half awake and yawning, in their +shirt sleeves and their stocking feet, and pushing on their boots +and clattering out to the stable, and shouting to the horses that are +stamping in their stalls; and then you yoursef busy as Thop's wife +laying the cups and saucers, and sending the boys to the well for water, +and filling the big crock to the brim, and hanging the kettle on the +hook, and setting somebody to blow the fire while the gorse flames and +crackles, and bustling here and bustling there, and stirring yoursef +terr'ble, and getting breakfast over, and starting everybody away to his +work in the fields--aw, there's nothing like it in the world." + +"And do _you_ think that, Nelly?" said Jenny. + +"Why, yes; why shouldn't I?" said Nelly. + +"Well, well," said Jenny. "'There's nowt so queer as folk,' as they say +in Manchester. + +"What do you mean, Jenny Crow?" + +"I fancy I see you," said Jenny, "bowling off to Balla--what d'ye call +it?--and doing all that _by yourself_." + +"Oh!" said Nelly. + +Mrs. Quiggin had begun to speak in a voice that was something between a +shrill laugh and a cry, and she ended with a smothered gurgle, such as +comes from the throat of a pea-hen. After breakfast Peggy Quine came +chirping around with a hundred inquiries about the packing of luggage +which was then proceeding, with a view to the carriage that had been +ordered for eleven o'clock. Mrs. Quiggin betrayed only the most languid +interest in these hurrying operations, and settled herself with her +needlework in a chair near to Jenny Crow. Jenny watched her, and +thought, "Now, wouldn't she jump at a good excuse for not going at all?" + +Presently Mrs. Quiggin said, in a tone of well-acted unconcern, "And +so you say that the poor man you tell me of is still loving his wife in +spite of all she has done to him?" + +"Yes, Nelly. All men are like that--more fools they," said Jenny. + +Nelly's face brightened over the needles in her hand, and her parted +lips seemed to whisper, "Bless them!" But in a note of delicious +insincerity she only said aloud, "Not all, Jenny; surely not all." + +"Yes, all," said Jenny, with emphasis. "Do you think I don't know the +men better than you do?" + +Nelly dropped her needles and raised her face. "Why, Jenny," she said, +"however can that be?--you've never even been married." + +"That's why, my dear," said Jenny. + +Nelly laughed; then returning to the attack, she said, with a +poor pretense at a yawn, "So you think a man may love a woman even +after--after she has turned him out of doors, as you say?" + +"Yes, but that isn't to say that he'll ever come back to her," said +Jenny. + +The needles dropped to the lap again. "No? Why shouldn't he then?" + +"Why? Because men are never good at the bended knee business," said +Jenny. "A man on his knees is ridiculous. It must be his legs that look +so silly. If I had done anything to a man, and he went down on his knees +to me, I would----" + +"What, Jenny?" + +Jenny lifted her skirt an inch or two, and showed a dainty foot swinging +to and fro. "Kick him," she answered. + +Nelly laughed again, and said, "And if you were a man, and a woman did +so, what then?" + +"Why lift her up and kiss her, and forgive her, of course," said Jenny. + +Nelly tingled with delight, and burned to ask Jenny if she should not at +least let Captain Davy know that she was leaving Douglas and going home. +But being a true woman, she asked something else instead. + +"So you think, Jenny," she said, "that your poor friend will never go +back to his wife?" + +"I'm sure he won't," said Jenny. "Didn't I tell you?" she added, +straightening up. + +"What?" said Nelly, with a quiver of alarm. + +"That he's going back to sea," said Jenny. + +"To sea!" cried Nelly, dropping her needles entirely. "Back to sea?" she +said, in a shrill voice. "And without even saying 'good-by!'" + +"Good-by to whom, my dear?" said Jenny. "To me?" + +"To his wife, of course," said Nelly, huskily. + +"Well, we don't know that, do we?" said Jenny. "And, besides, why should +he?" + +"If he doesn't he's a cruel, heartless, unfeeling, unforgiving monster," +said Nelly. + +And then Jenny burned in her turn to ask if Nelly herself had not +intended to do as much by Captain Davy, but, being a true woman as well +as her adversary, she found a crooked way to the plain question. "Is it +at eleven," she said, "that the carriage is to come for you?" + +Mrs. Quiggin had recovered herself in a moment, and then there was a +delicate bout of thrust and parry. "I'm so sorry for your sake, Jenny," +she said, in the old tone of delicious insincerity, "that the poor +fellow is married." + +"Gracious me, for my sake? Why?" said Jenny. + +"I thought you were half in love with him, you know," said Nelly. + +"Half?" cried Jenny. "I'm over head and ears in love with him." + +"That's a pity," said Nelly; "for, of course, you'll give him up now +that you know he has a wife." + +"What of that? If he _has_ a wife I have no husband--so it's as broad as +it's long," said Jenny. + +"Jenny!" cried Nelly. + +"And, oh!" said Jenny, "there is one thing I didn't tell you. But you'll +keep it secret? Promise me you'll keep it secret. I'm to meet him again +by appointment this very night." + +"But, Jenny!" + +"Yes, in the garden of this house--by the waterfall at eight o'clock. +I'll slip out after dinner in my cloak with the hood to it." + +"Jenny Crow!" + +"It's our last chance, it seems. The poor fellow sails at midnight, or +tomorrow morning, or to-morrow night, or the next night, or sometime. +So you see he's not going away without saying good-by to somebody. I +couldn't help telling you, Nelly. It's nice to share a secret with a +friend one can trust, and if he _is_ another woman's husband--" + +Nell had risen to her feet with her face aflame. + +"But you mustn't do it," she cried. "It's shocking, it's +horrible--common morality is against it." + +Jenny looked wondrous grave. "That's it, you see," she said. "Common +morality always _is_ against everything that's nice and agreeable." + +"I'm ashamed of you, Jenny Crow. I am; indeed, I am. I could never have +believed it of you; indeed, I couldn't. And the man you speak of is no +better than you are, and all his talk of loving the wife is hypocrisy +and deceit; and the poor woman herself should know of it, and come down +on you both and shame you--indeed, she should," cried Nelly, and she +flounced out of the room in a fury. + +Jenny watched her go and thought to herself. "She'll keep that +appointment for me at eight o'clock to-night by the waterfall." +Presently she heard Mrs. Quiggin with a servant of the hotel +countermanding the order for the carriage at eleven, and engaging it +instead for the extraordinary hour of nine at night. "She intends to +keep it," thought Jenny. + +"And now," she said, settling herself at the writing-table; "now for the +_other_ simpleton." + +"Tell D. Q.," she wrote, addressing Lovibond; "that E. Q. goes home by +carriage at nine o'clock to-night, and that you have appointed to meet +her for a last farewell at eight by the waterfall in the gardens of +Castle Mona. Then meet _me_ on the pier at seven-thirty." + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +Lovibond received this message while sitting at breakfast, and he caught +the idea of it in an instant. Since the supper of the night before he +had been pestered by many misgivings, and troubled by some remorse. +Capt'n Davy was bent on going away. Overwhelmed by a sense of what he +took to be his dastardly conduct he was in that worst position of the +man who can forgive neither himself nor the person he has injured. +So much had Lovibond done for him by the fine scheme that had brought +matters to such a pass. But having gone so far, Lovibond had found +himself at a stand. His next step he could not see. Capt'n Davy must not +be allowed to leave the island, but how to keep him from going away was +a bewildering difficulty. To tell him the truth was impossible, and to +concoct a further fable was beyond Lovibond's invention. And so it was +that when Lovi-bond received the letter from Jenny Crow, he rose to the +cue it offered like a drowning man to a life-buoy. + +"Jealousy--the very thing!" he thought; and not until he was already +in the thick of his enterprise as wizard of that passion did he realize +that if it was an effectual instrument to his end it was also a cruel +one. + +He found Capt'n Davy in the midst of the final preparations for their +journey. These consisted of the packing of clothes into trunks, bags, +sacks, and hampers. On the floor of the sitting-room lay a various +assortment of coats, waistcoats, trowsers, great-coats, billycock hats +and sou'-westers, together with countless shirts and collars, scarfs +and handkerchiefs. At Davy's order Willie Quarrie had gathered up the +garments in armsful out of drawers and wardrobes, and heaped them at his +feet for inspection. This process they were undergoing with a view to +the selection of such as were suitable to the climate in which it +was intended that they should be worn. The hour was 8.30 a.m., the +"Snaefell" was announced to sail for Liverpool at nine. + +But, as Lovibond entered the room, a scene of yet more primitive +interest was actively proceeding. A waiter of the hotel was strutting +across the floor and sputtering out protests against this unseemly use +of the sitting-room. The person was the same who the night before had +haunted Davy's elbow with his obsequious "Yes, sirs," "No, sirs," and +"Beg pardon, sirs"; but the morning had brought him knowledge of Davy's +penury, and with that wisdom had come impudence if not dignity. + +"The ideal!" he cried. "Turnin' a 'otel drawrin'-room into a charwoman's +laundry!" + +"Make it a rag shop at once," said Davy, as he went on quietly with his +work. + +"A rag shop it is, and I'll 'ave no more of it," said the waiter +loftily. "Who ever 'eard of such a thing?" + +"No?" said Davy. "Well, well, now! Who'd have thought it? You never +did? A rael Liverpool gentleman, eh? A reg'lar aristocrack out of Sawney +Pope-street!" + +"No, sir, but it's easy to see where _you_ came from," said the waiter, +with withering scorn. + +"You say true, boy," said Davy, "but it's aisier still to see where you +are going to. Ever seen the black man on the beach at all? No? Him with +the performing birds? You know--jacks and ravens and owls and such like. +Well, he's been wanting something like you this long time. Wouldn't +trust, but he'd give twopence-halfpenny for you--and drinks all round. +You'd make his fortune as a cockatoo." + +The waiter in fury called downstairs for assistance, and when two of +his fellow servants had arrived in the room they made some poor show of +working their will by force. Then Davy paused from his work, scratched +the under part of his chin with the nail of his forefinger, and said, +"Friends, some of us four is interrupting the play, and they're wanting +us at the pay box to give us back the fare. I'm thinking it's you's +fellows--what do _you_ say? They're longing for you downstairs--won't +you go? No? you'll not though? Then where d'ye keep the slack of your +trowsis?" + +Saying this Davy rose to his feet, hitched his left hand into the collar +of the first waiter, and his right into the depths under his coat tails, +and ran him out of the room. Returning for the other two waiters he did +much the same by each of them, and then came back with a look of awe, +and said-- + +"My gough! they must have been Manxmen after all--they rowled downstairs +as if they'd been all legs together." + +Lovibond looked grave. "That's going too far, Capt'n," he said. "For +your own sake it's risking too much." + +"Risking too much?" said Davy. "There's only three of them." + +The first bell rang on the steamer; it was quarter to nine o'clock. +Willie Quarrie looked out at the window. The "Snaefell" was lying by the +red pier in the harbor, getting up steam, and sending clouds of smoke +over the old "Imperial." Cars were rattling up the quay, passengers +were making for the gangways, and already the decks, fore and aft, were +thronged with people. + +"Come along, my lad; look slippy," cried Davy, "only two bells more, +and three hampers still to pack. Tumble them in--here goes." + +"Capt'n!" said Willie, still looking out. + +"What?" said Davy. + +"Don't cross by the ferry, Capt'n." + +"Why not?" + +"They're all waiting for you," said Willie, "every dirt of them all is +waiting by the steps--there's Tommy Tubman, and Billy Balla-Slieau, and +that wastrel of a churchwarden--yes, and there's ould Kennish--they're +all there. Deng my buttons, all of them. They're thinking to crow over +us, Capt'n. Don't cross by the ferry. Let me run for a car. Then we'll +slip up by the bridge yonder, and down the quay like a mill race, and up +to the gangway like smook, and abooard in a jiffy. That's it--yes, I'll +be off immadient, and we'll bate the blackguards anyway." + +Willie was seizing his cap to carry out his intention of going for a +cab in order that his master might be spared the humiliation of passing +through the line of false friends who had gathered at the ferry steps to +see the last of him; but Davy shouted "Stop," and pointed to the hampers +still unpacked. + +"I'm broke," said he, "and what matter who knows it? Reminds me, sir," +said Davy to Lovibond, "of Parson Cowan. The ould man lived up Andreas +way, and after sarvice he'd be saying, 'Boys let's put a sight on the +Methodees,' and they'd be taking a slieu round to the chapel door. +Then as the people came out he'd be offering his snuff-boxes all about. +'William, how do? have a pinch?' 'Ah, Robbie, fine evening; take a +sneeze?' 'Is that you, Tommy? I haven't another box in my clothes, +but if you'll put your finger and thumb into my waistcoat pocket here, +you'll find some dust.' Aw, yes, a reglar up-and-a-down-er, Parson +Cowan, as aisy, as aisy, and no pride at all. But he had his wakeness +same as a common man, and it was the Plow Inn at Ramsey. One day he was +going out of it middling full--not fit to walk the crank anyway--when +who should be coming up the street from the court-house but the Bishop! +It was Bishop--Bishop--chut, his name's gone at me--but no matter, +glum as a gur-goyle anyway, and straight as a lamppost--a reglar +steeple-up-your-back sort of a chap. Ould Mrs. Beatty saw him, and she +lays a hould of Parson Cowan and starts awkisking him back into the +house, and through into the parlor where the chiney cups is. 'You +mustn't go out yet,' the ould woman was whispering. 'It's the Bishop. +And him that sevare--it's shocking! He'll surspend you! And think what +they'll be saying! A parson, too! Hush, sir hush! Don't spake! You'll be +waiting till it's dark, and then going home with John in the bottom of +the cart, and nice clane straw to lie on, and nobody knowing nothing.' +But the ould man wouldn't listen. He drew hisself up on the ould woman +tremenjous, and studdied hisself agen the door, and 'No,' says he; 'I'm +drunk,' says he, 'God knows it,' says he, 'and for what man knows I +don't care a damn--_I'll walk!_' Then away he went down the street past +the Bishop, with his hat a-one side, and his hair all through-others, +tacking a bit with romps in the fetlock joints, but driving on like +mad."-- + +The second bell rang on the steamer. It was seven minutes to nine, and +the last of the luggage was packed. On the floor there still lay a pile +of clothing, which was to be left as oil for the wounded joints of the +gentlemen who had been flung down stairs. Willie Quarrie bustled about +to get the trunks and hampers to the ferry steps. Davy, who had been in +his shirt-sleeves, drew on his coat, and Lovibond, who had been waiting +twenty torturing minutes for some opportunity to begin, plunged into the +business of his visit at last. + +"So you're determined to go, Capt'n?" he said. + +"I am," said Davy. + +"No message for Mrs. Quiggin? Dare say I could find her at Castle Mona." + +"No! Wait--yes--tell her--say I'm--if ever I--Chut! what's the odds? No, +no message." + +"Not even good-by, Capt'n?" + +"She sent none to me--no." + +"Not a word?" + +"Not a word." + +Davy was pawing up the carpet with the toe of his boot, and filling his +pipe from his pouch. + +"Going back to Callao, Capt'n?" said Lovibond. + +"God knows, mate," said Davy. "I'm like the seeding grass, blown here +and there, and the Lord knows where; but maybe I'll find land at last." + +"Capt'n, about the money?--dy'e owe me any grudge about that?" said +Lovibond. + +"Lord-a-massy! Grudge, is it?" said Davy. "Aw, no, man, no. The money +was my mischief. It's gone, and good luck to it." + +"But if I could show you a way to get it all back again, Capt'n----" + +"Chut! I wouldn't have it, and I wouldn't stay. But, matey, if you could +show me how to get back... the money isn't the loss I'm... if I was as +poor as ould Chalse-a-killey, and had to work my flesh.... I'd stay if I +could get back...." + +The whistle sounded from the funnel of the "Snaefell," and the loud +throbs of escaping steam echoed from the Head. Willie Quarrie ran in to +say that the luggage was down at the ferry steps, and the ferryboat was +coming over the harbor. + +"Capt'n," said Lovibond, "she must have injured you badly----" + +"Injured _me?_" said Davy. "Wish she had! I wouldn't go off to the +world's end if that was all betwixt us." + +"If she hasn't, Capt'n," said Lovi-bond, "you're putting her in the way +of it." + +"What?" + +Davy was about to light his pipe, but he flung away the match. + +"Have you never thought of it?" said Lovibond, "That when a husband +deserts his wife like this he throws her in the way of--" + +"Not Nelly, no," said Davy, promptly. "I'll lave _that_ with her, +anyway. Any other woman perhaps, but Nelly--never! She's as pure as new +milk, and no beast milk neither. Nelly going wrong, eh? Well, well! I'd +like to see the man that would... I may have treated her bad... but I'd +like to see the man, I say..." + +Then there was another shrieking whistle from the steamer. Willie +Quarrie called up at the window and gesticulated wildly from the lawn +outside. + +"Coming, boy, coming," Davy shouted back, and looking at his watch, he +said, "Four minutes and a half--time enough yet." + +Then they left the hotel and moved toward the ferry steps. As they +walked Davy begun to laugh. "Well, well!" he said, and he laughed again. +"Aw, to think, to think!" he said, and he laughed once more. But +with every fresh outbreak of his laughter the note of his voice lost +freshness. + +Lovibond saw his opportunity, and yet could not lay hold of it, so cruel +at that moment seemed the only weapon that would be effectual. But Davy +himself thrust in between him and his timid spirit. With another hollow +laugh, as if half ashamed of keeping up the deception to the last, yet +convinced that he alone could see through it, he said, "No news of the +girl in the church, mate, eh? Gone home, I suppose?" + +"Not yet," said Lovibond. + +"No?" said Davy. + +"The fact is--but you'll be secret?" + +"Coorse." + +"It isn't a thing I'd tell everybody--" + +"What?" + +"You see, if her husband has treated her like a brute, she's his wife, +after all." + +Davy drew up on the path. "What is it?" he said. + +"I'm to meet her to-night, alone," said Lovibond. + +"No!" + +"Yes; in the grounds of Castle Mona, by the waterfall, after dark--at +eight o'clock, in fact. + +"Castle Mona--by the waterfall--eight o'clock--that's a--now, that must +be a--" + +Davy had lifted his pipe hand to give emphasis to the protest on his +lips, when he stopped and laughed, and said, "Amazing thick, eh?" + +"Why not," said Lovibond? "Who wouldn't be with a sweet woman like that? +If the fool that's left her doesn't know her worth, so much the better +for somebody else." + +"Then you're for making it up there?" said Davy, clearing his throat. + +"It'll not be my fault if I don't," said Lovibond. "I'm not one of the +wise asses that talk big about God's law and man's law; and if I were, +man's law has tied this sweet little woman to a brute, and God's law +draws her to me--that's all." + +"And she's willing, eh?" said Davy. + +"Give her time, Capt'n," said Lovibond. + +"But didn't you say she was loving this--this brute of a husband?" said +Davy. + +"Time, Capt'n, time," said Lovibond. "That will mend with time." + +"And, manewhile, she's tellin' you all her secrets." + +"I leave you to judge, Capt'n." + +"After dark, you say--that's middling tidy to begin with, eh, mate--eh?" + +Lovibond laughed: Capt'n Davy laughed. They laughed together. + +Willie Quarrie, standing by the boat at the bottom of the steps, with +the luggage piled up at the bow, shouted that there was not a minute to +spare. The throbbing of the steam in the funnel had ceased, one of the +two gangways had been run ashore, and the captain was on the bridge. + +"Now, then, Capt'n," cried Willie. + +But Davy did not hear. He was watching Lovibond's face with eyes of +suspicion. Was the man fooling him? Did he know the secret? + +"Good-by Capt'n," said Lovibond, taking Davy by the hand. + +"Good-by, mate," said Davy, absently. + +"Good luck to you and a second fortune," said Lovibond. + +"Damn the fortune," said Davy, under his breath. + +Then there was another whistle from the "Snaefell." + +"Capt'n Davy! Capt'n Davy!" cried Willie Quarrie. + +"Coming," answered Davy. But still he stood at the top of the ferry +steps, holding Lovibond's hand, and looking into his face. + +Then there came a loud voice from the bridge of the steamer--"Steam up!" + +"Capt'n! Capt'n!" cried Willie from the bottom of the steps. + +Davy dropped Lovibond's hand and turned to look across the harbor. "Too +late," he said quietly. + +"Not if you'll come quick, Capt'n. See, the last gangway is up yet," +cried Willie. + +"Too late," repeated Davy, more loudly. + +"Just time to do it by the skin of your teeth, Capt'n," shouted the +ferryman. + +"Too late, I tell you," thundered Davy, sternly. + +Meanwhile there was a great commotion on the other side of the harbor. + +"Out of the way there!" "All ashore!" "Ready?" "Ready!" "Steam +up--slow!" The last bell rang. The first stroke of nine was struck by +the clock of the tower; one echoing blast came from the steam whistle, +and the "Snaefell" began to move slowly from the quay. Then there were +shouts from the deck and adieus from the shore. "Good-by!" "Good-by!" +"Farewell, little Mona!" "Good-by, dear Elian Vannin!" Handkerchiefs +waving on the steamer; handkerchiefs waving on the quay; seagulls +wheeling over the stern; white churning water in the wake; flag down; +and harbor empty. + +"She's gone!" + +Lovibond smiled behind a handkerchief, with which he pretended to wipe +his big mustache. Willie Quarrie looked helplessly up the ferry steps. +Davy gnashed his teeth at the top of them. + +After a moment Davy said, "No matter; we can take the Irish packet at +nine, and catch the Pacific boat at Belfast. Willie," he shouted, "put +the luggage in the shed for the Belfast steamer. We'll sail to-night +instead." + +Then the three parted company, each with his own reflections. + +"The Capt'n done that a-purpose," thought Willie. + +"He'll keep my engagement for me at eight o'clock," thought Lovibond. + +"I wouldn't have believed it of her if the Dempster himself had swore to +it," thought Davy. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +At half-past seven that night the iron pier was a varied and animated +scene. A band was playing a waltz on the circle at the end; young people +were dancing, other young people of both sexes were promenading, lines +of yet younger people, chiefly girls in short frocks, but with the +wagging heads and sparkling eyes of one type of budding maidenhood, +were skipping along arm-in-arm, singing snatches of the words set to +the waltz, and beating a half-dancing time with an alternate scrape and +stroke of the soles of their shoes upon the wood floor on which they +walked. The odor of the brine came up from below and mingled with the +whiffs of Mona Bouquet that swept after the young girls as they passed, +and with the puffs of tobacco smoke that enveloped the young men as +they dawdled on. Sometimes the revolving light of the lightship in the +channel could be seen above the flash and flare of the pier lamps, and +sometimes the dark water under foot gleamed and glinted between the open +timbers of the pier pavement, and sometimes the deep rumble of the sea +could be heard over the clash and clang of the pier band. + +Lovibond was there, walking to and fro, feeling himself for the first +time to be an old fellow among so many younger folks, watching the +clock, counting the minutes, and scanning every female form that +came alone with the crink-crank-crick through the round stile of the +pay-gate. + +Not until five minutes to eight did the right one appear, but she made +up for the tardiness of her coming by the animation of her spirits. + +"I couldn't get away sooner," whispered Jenny. "She watched me like a +cat. She'll be out in the grounds by this time. It's delicious! But is +he coming!" + +"Trust him," said Lovibond. + +"O, dear, what a meeting it will be!" said Jenny. + +"I'd love to be there," said Lovibond. + +"Umph! Would you? Two's company, three's none--you're just as well where +you are," said Jenny. + +"Better," said Lovibond. + +The clock struck eight in the tower. + +"Eight o'clock," said Lovibond, "They'll be flying at each other's eyes +by this time." + +"Eight o'clock, twenty seconds!" said Jenny. "And they'll be lying in +each other's arms by now." + +"Did she suspect?" said Lovibond. + +"Of course she did!" said Jenny. "Did he?" + +"Certainly!" said Lovibond. + +"O dear, O dear!" said Jenny. "It's wonderful how far you can fool +people when it's to their interest to be fooled." + +"Wonderful!" said Lovibond. + +They had walked to the end of the pier; the band was playing-- + + "Ben-my-chree! + Sweet Ben-my-chree, + I love but thee, sweet Mona." + +"So our little drama is over, eh?" said. Jenny. + +"Yes; it's over," said Lovibond. + +Jenny sighed; Lovibond sighed; they looked at each other and sighed +together. + +"And these good people have no further use for us," said Jenny. + +"None," said Lovibond. + +"Then I suppose we've no further use for each other?" moaned Jenny. + +"Eh?" said Lovibond. + +"Tut!" said Jenny, and she swung aside. + + "Mona, sweet Mona, + I love but thee, sweet Mona.' + +"There's only one thing I regret," said Lovibond, inclining his head +toward Jenny's averted face. + +"And pray, what's that?" said Jenny, without turning about. + +"Didn't I tell you that Capt'n Davy had taken two berths in the Pacific +steamer to the west coast?" said Lovibond. + +"Well?" said Jenny. + +"That's ninety pounds wasted," said Lovibond. + +"_What_ a pity!" sighed Jenny. + +"Isn't it?" said Lovibond--his left hand was fumbling for her right. + +"If she were any other woman, she might be glad to go still," said +Jenny. + +"And if he were any other man he would be proud to take her," said +Lovibond. + +"Some woman without kith or kin to miss her--" began Jenny. + +"Yes, or some man without anybody in the world--" began Lovibond. + +"Now, if it had been _my_ case--" said Jenny, wearily. + +"Or mine," said Lovibond, sadly. + +Each drew a long breath. + +"Do you know, if I disappeared tonight, there's not a soul--" said +Jenny, sorrowfully. + +"That's just my case, too," interrupted Lovibond. + +"Ah!" they said together. + +They looked into each other's eyes with a mournful expression, and +sighed again. Also their hands touched as their arms hung by their +sides. + +"Ninety pounds! Did you say ninety? Two berths?" said Jenny. "What a +shocking waste! Couldn't somebody else use them?" + +"Just what I was thinking," said Lovibond; and he linked the lady's arm +through his own. + +"Hadn't you better get the tickets from Capt'n Davy, and--and give them +to somebody before it is too late?" said Jenny. + +"I've got them already--his boy Quarrie was keeping them," said +Lovibond. + +"How thoughtful of you, Jona--I mean, Mr. Lovi--" + +"Je--Jen--" + +"Ben-my-chree! Sweet Ben-my-chree, I love but thee--" + +"O, Jonathan!" whispered Jenny. + +"O, Jenny!" gasped Jonathan. + +They were on the dark side of the round house; the band was playing +behind them, the sea was rumbling in front; there was a shuffle of feet, +a sudden rustle of a dress; the lady glanced to the right, the gentleman +looked to the left, and then for a fraction of an instant they were +locked in each other's arms. + +"Will you go back with me, Jenny?" + +"Well," whispered Jenny. "Just to keep the tickets from wasting--" + +"Just that," whispered Lovibond. + +Three quarters of an hour later they were sailing out of Douglas harbor +on board the Irish packet that was to overtake the Pacific steamship +next morning at Belfast. The lights of Castle Mona lay low on the +water's edge, and from the iron pier as they passed came the faint sound +of the music of the band: + + "Mona, sweet Mona, + Fairest isle beneath the sky, + Mona, sweet Mona, + We bid thee now good-by." + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +The life that Davy had led that day-was infernal At the first shaft of +Lovi-bond's insinuation against Mrs. Quiggin's fidelity he had turned +sick at heart. "When he said it," Davy had thought, "the blood went from +me like the tide out of the Ragged Mouth, where the ships lie wrecked +and rotten." + +He had baffled with his bemuddled brain, to recall the conversation he +had held with his wife since his return home to marry her, and every +innocent word she had uttered in jest had seemed guilty and foul. +"You've been nothing but a fool, Davy," he told himself. "You've been +tooken in." + +Then he had reproached himself for his hasty judgment. "Hould hard, boy, +hould hard; aisy for all, though, aisy, aisy!" He had remembered how +modest his wife had been in the old days--how simple and how natural. +"She was as pure as the mountain turf," he had thought, "and quiet +extraordinary." Yet there was the ugly fact that she had appointed to +meet a strange man in the gardens of Castle Mona, that night, alone. +"Some charm is put on her--some charm or the like," he had thought +again. + +That had been the utmost and best he could make of it, and he had +suffered the torments of the damned. During the earlier part of the day +he had rambled through the town, drinking freely, and his face had been +a piteous sight to see. Toward nightfall he had drifted past Castle +Mona toward Onchan Head, and stretched himself on the beach before Derby +Castle. There he had reviewed the case afresh, and asked himself what he +ought to do. + +"It's not for me to go sneaking after her," he had thought. "She's true, +I'll swear to it. The man's lying... Very well, then, Davy, boy, don't +you take rest till you're proving it." + +The autumn day had begun to close in, and the first stars to come out. +"Other women are like yonder," he had thought; "just common stars in the +sky, where there's millions and millions of them. But Nelly is like the +moon--the moon, bless her--" + +At that thought Davy had leaped to his feet, in disgust of his own +simplicity. "I'm a fool," he had muttered, "a reg'lar ould bleating +billygoat; talking pieces of poethry to myself, like a stupid, gawky +Tommy Big Eyes." + +He had looked at his watch. It was a quarter to eight o'clock. +Unconsciously he had begun to walk toward Castle Mona. "I'm not for +misdoubting my wife, not me; but then a man may be over certain. I'll +find out for myself; and if it's true, if she's there, if she meets +him.... Well, well, be aisy for all, Davy; be aisy, boy, be aisy! If the +worst comes to the worst, and you've got to cut your stick, you'll be +doing it without a heart-ache anyway. She'll not be worth it, and you'll +be selling yourself to the Divil with a clane conscience. So it's all +serene either way, Davy, my man, and here goes for it." + +Meanwhile Mrs. Quiggin had been going through similar torments. "I don't +blame _him_," she had thought. "It's that mischief-making huzzy. Why did +I ask her? I wonder what in the world I ever saw in her. If I were not +going away myself she should pack out of the house in the morning. The +sly thing! How clever she thinks herself, too! But she'll be surprised +when I come down on her. I'll watch her; she sha'n't escape me. And as +for _him_--well, we'll see, Mr. David, we'll see!" + +As the clock in the hall in Castle Mona was striking eight these +good souls in these wise humors were making their several ways to the +waterfall under the cliff, in the darkest part of the hotel grounds. + +Davy got there first, going in by the gate at the Onchan end. It struck +him with astonishment that Lovibond was not there already. "The man +bragged of coming, but I don't see him," he thought. He felt half +inclined to be wroth with Lovibond for daring to run the risk of being +late. "I know someone who would have been early enough if he had been +coming to meet with somebody," he thought. + +Presently he saw a female form approaching from the thick darkness at +the Douglas end of the house. It was a tall figure in a long cloak, with +the hood drawn over the head. Through the opening of the cloak in front +a light dress beneath gleamed and glinted in the brightening starlight. +"It's herself," Davy muttered, under his breath. "She's like the silvery +fir tree with her little dark head agen the sky. Trust me for knowing +her! I'd be doing that if I was blind. Yes, would I though, if I was +only the grass under her feet, and she walked on me. She's coming! My +God, then, it's true! It's true, Davy! Hould hard, boy! She's a woman +for all! She's here! She sees me! She thinks I'm the man?" + +In the strange mood of the moment he was half sorry to take her by +surprise. + +Davy was right that Mrs. Quiggin saw him. While still in the shadow +of the house she recognized his dark figure among the trees. "But he's +alone," she thought. "Then the huzzy must have gone back to her room +when I thought she slipped out at the porch. He's waiting for her. +Should I wait, too? No! That he is there is enough. He sees me. He is +coming. He thinks I am she. Umph! Now to astonish him!" + +Thus thinking, and both trembling with rage and indignation, and both +quivering with love and fear, the two came face to face. + +But neither betrayed the least surprise. + +"I'm sorry, ma'am, if I'm not the man------" faltered Davy. + +"It's a pity, sir, if I'm not the woman------" stammered Nelly. + +"Hope I don't interrupt any terterta-tie," continued Davy. + +"I trust you won't allow _me_----" began Nelly. + +And then, having launched these shafts of impotent irony in vain, they +came to a stand with an uneasy feeling that something unlooked for was +amiss. + +"What d'ye mane, ma'am?" said Davy. + +"What do _you_ mean, sir?" said Nelly. + +"I mane, that you're here to meet with a man," said Davy. + +"I!" cried Nelly. "I? Did you say that I was here to meet----" + +"Don't go to deny it, ma'am," said Davy. + +"I do deny it," said Nelly. "And what's more, sir, I know why you are +here. You are here to meet with a woman." + +"Me! To meet with a woman! Me?" cried Davy. + +"Oh, _you_ needn't deny it, sir," said Nelly. "Your presence here is +proof enough against you." + +"And _your_ presence here is proof enough agen you," said Davy. + +"You had to meet her at eight," said Nelly. + +"That's a reg'lar bluff, ma'am," said Davy, "for it was at eight you had +to meet with _him_? + +"How dare you say so?" cried Nelly. + +"I had it from the man himself," said Davy. + +"It's false, sir, for there _is_ no man; but I had it from the woman," +said Nelly. + +"And did you believe her?" said Davy. + +"Did _you_ believe _him?_" said Nelly. "Were you simple enough to trust +a man who told you that he was going to meet your own wife?" + +"He wasn't for knowing it was my own wife," said Davy. "But were _you_ +simple enough to trust the woman who was telling you she was going to +meet your own husband?" + +"She didn't know it was my own husband," said Nelly. "But that wasn't +the only thing she told me." + +"And it wasn't the only thing _he_ tould _me_." said Davy. "He tould me +all your secrets--that your husband had deserted you because he was a +brute and a blackguard." + +"I have never said so," cried Nelly. "Who dares to say I have? I +have never opened my lips to any living man against you. But you are +measuring me by your own yard, sir; for you led _her_ to believe that I +was a cat and a shrew and a nagger, and a thankless wretch who ought to +be put down by the law just as it puts down biting dogs." + +"Now, begging you pardon, ma'am," said Davy; "but that's a damned lie, +whoever made it." + +After this burst there was a pause and a hush, and then Nelly said, +"It's easy to say that when she isn't here to contradict you; but wait, +sir, only wait." + +"And it's aisy for you to say yonder," said Davy, "when he isn't come to +deny it--but take your time, ma'am, take your time." + +"Who is it?" said Nelly. + +"No matter," said Davy. + +"Who is the man," demanded Nelly. + +"My friend Lovibond," answered Davy. + +"Lovibond!" cried Nelly. + +"The same," groaned Davy. + +"Mr. Lovibond!" cried Nelly again. + +"Aw--keep it up, ma'am; keep it up!" said Davy. "And, manewhile, if you +plaze, who is the woman?" + +"My friend Jenny Crow," said Nelly. + +Then there was another pause. + +"And did she tell you that I had agreed to meet her?" said Davy. + +"She did," said Nelly. "And did _he_ tell _you_ that I had appointed to +meet _him?_" + +"Yes, did he," said Davy. "At eight o'clock, did she say?" + +"Yes, eight o'clock," said Nelly. "Did _he_ say eight?" + +"He did," said Davy. + +The loud voices of a moment before had suddenly dropped to broken +whispers. Davy made a prolonged whistle. + +"Stop," said he; "haven't you been in the habit of meeting him?" + +"I have never seen him but once," said Nelly. "But haven't _you_ been in +the habit of meeting _her?_" + +"Never set eyes on the little skute but twice altogether," said Davy. +"But didn't he see you first in St. Thomas's, and didn't you speak with +him on the shore--" + +"I've never been in St. Thomas's in my life!" said Nelly. "But didn't +you meet her first on the Head above Port Soderick, and to go to Laxey, +and come home with her in the coach?" + +"Not I," said Davy. + +"Then the stories she told me of the Manx sailor were all imagination, +were they?" said Nelly. + +"And the yarns _he_ tould _me_ of the girl in the church were all +make-ups, eh?" said Davy. + +"Dear me, what a pair of deceitful people!" said Nelly. + +"My gough! what a couple of cuffers!" said Davy. + +There was another pause, and then Davy began to laugh. First came a +low gurgle like that of suppressed bubbles in a fountain, then a sharp, +crackling breaker of sound, and then a long, deep roar of liberated +mirth that seemed to shake and heave the whole man, and to convulse the +very air around him. + +Davy's laughter was contagious. As the truth began to dawn on her Mrs. +Quiggin first chuckled, then tittered, then laughed outright; and +at last her voice rose behind her husband's in clear trills of +uncontrollable merriment. + +Laughter was the good genie that drew their assundered hearts together. +It broke down the barrier that divided them; it melted the frozen places +where love might not pass. They could not resist it. Their anger fled +before it like evil creatures of the night. + +At the first sound of Davy's laughter something in Nelly's bosom seemed +to whisper "He loves me still;" and at the first note of Nelly's, +something clamored in Davy's breast, "She's mine, she's mine!" They +turned toward each other in the darkness with a yearning cry. + +"Nelly!" cried Davy, and he opened his arms to her. + +"Davy!" cried Nelly, and she leaped to his embrace. + +And so ended in laughter and kisses their little foolish comedy of love. + +As soon as Davy had recovered his breath he said, with what gravity he +could command, "Seems to me, Nelly Vauch, begging your pardon, darling, +that we've been a couple of fools." + +"Whoever could have believed it?" said Nelly. + +"What does it mane at all, said Davy. + +"It means," said Nelly, "that our good friends knew each other, and that +he told her, and she told him, and that to bring us together again they +played a trick on our jealousy." + +"Then we _were_ jealous?" said Davy. + +"Why else are we here?" said Nelly. + +"So you _did_ come to see a man, after all?" said Davy. + +"And _you_ came to see a woman," said Nelly. + +They had began to laugh again, and to walk to and fro about the lawn, +arm-inarm and waist-to-waist, vowing that they would never part--no, +never, never, never--and that nothing on earth should separate them, +when they heard a step on the grass behind. + +"Who's there?" said Davy. + +And a voice from the darkness answered, "It's Willie Quarrie, Capt'n." + +Davy caught his breath. "Lord-a-massy me!" said he. "I'd clane +forgotten." + +"So had I," said Nelly, with alarm. + +"I was to have started back for Cajlao by the Belfast packet." + +"And I was to have gone home by carriage." + +"If you plaze, Capt'n," said Willie Quarrie, coming up. "I've been +looking for you high and low--the pacquet's gone." + +Davy drew a long breath of relief. "Good luck to her," said he, with a +shout. + +"And, if you plaze," said Willie, "Mr. Lovibond is gone with her." + +"Good luck to _him_," said Davy. + +"And Miss Crows has gone, too," said Willie. + +"Good luck to her as well," said Davy; and Nelly whispered at his side, +"There--what did I tell you?" + +"And if you plaze, Capt'n," said Willie Quarrie, stammering nervously, +"Mr. Lovibond, sir, he has borrowed our--our tickets and--and taken them +away with him." + +"He's welcome, boy, he's welcome," cried Davy, promptly. "We're going +home instead. Home!" he said again--this time to Nelly, and in a tone +of delight, as if the word rolled on his tongue like a lozenge--"that +sounds better, doesn't it? Middling tidy, isn't it. Not so dusty, eh?" + +"We'll never leave it again," said Nelly. + +"Never!" said Davy. "Not for a Dempster's palace. Just a piece of a +croft and a bit of a thatch cottage on the lea of ould Orrisdale, and +we'll lie ashore and take the sun like the goats." + +"That reminds me of something," whispered Nelly. "Listen! I've had a +letter from father. It made me cry this morning, but it's all right +now--Ballamooar is to let!" + +"Ballamooar!" repeated Davy, but in another voice. "Aw, no, woman, no! +And that reminds _me_ of something." + +"What is it," said Nelly. + +"I should have been telling you first," said Davy, with downcast head, +and in a tone of humiliation. + +"Then what?" whispered Nelly. + +"There's never no money at a dirty ould swiper that drinks and gambles +everything. I'm on the ebby tide, Nelly, and my boat is on the rocks +like a taypot. I'm broke, woman, I'm broke." + +Nelly laughed lightly. "Do you say so?" she said with mock solemnity. + +"It's only an ould shirt I'm bringing you to patch, Nelly," said Davy; +"but here I am, what's left of me, to take me or lave me, and not much +choice either ways." + +"Then I take you, sir," said Nelly. "And as for the money," she +whispered in a meaning voice, "I'll take Ballamooar myself and give you +trust." + +With a cry of joy Davy caught her to his breast and held her there as +in a vice. "Then kiss me on it again and swear to it," he cried, "Again! +Again! Don't be in a hurry woman! Aw, kissing is mortal hasty work! Take +your time, girl! Once more! Shocking, is it? It's like the bags of the +bees that we were stealing when we were boys! Another! Then half a one, +and I'm done!" + +Since they had spoken to Willie Quarrie they had given no further +thought to him, when he stepped forward and said out of the darkness: +"If you plaze, capt'n, Mr. Lovibond was telling me to give you this +lether and this other thing," giving a letter and a book to Davy. + +"Hould hard, though; what's doing now?" said Davy, turning them over in +his hand. + +"Let us go into the house and look," said Nelly. + +But Davy had brought out his matchbox, and was striking a light. "Hould +up my billycock, boy," said he; and in another moment Willie Quarrie was +holding Davy's hat on end to shield from the breeze the burning match +which Nelly held inside of it. Then Davy, bareheaded, proceeded to +examine what Lovibond had sent him. + +"A book tied up in a red tape, eh?" said Davy. "Must be the one he +was writing in constant, morning and evening, telling hisself and God +A'mighty what he was doing and wasn't doing, and where he was going to +and when he was going to go. Aw, yes, he always kep' a diarrhea." + +"A diary, Davy," said Nelly. + +"Have it as you like, _Vauch_, and don't burn your little fingers," +said Davy; and then he opened the letter, and with many interjections +proceeded to read it. + +"'Dear Captain. How can I ask you to forgive me for the trick I have +played upon you? '(Forgive, is it?)' I have never had an appointment +with the Manx lady; I have never had an intention of carrying her off +from her husband; I have never seen her in church, and the story I have +told you has been a lie from beginning to end.'" + +Davy lifted his head and laughed. + +"Another match, Willie," he cried. And while the boy was striking a +fresh one Davy stamped out the burning end that Nelly dropped on to +the grass, and said: "A lie! Well, it was an' it wasn't. A sort of a +scriptural parable, eh?" + +"Go on, Davy," said Nelly, impatiently, and Davy began again: + +"'You know the object of that trick by this time' (Wouldn't trust), 'but +you have been the victim of another' (Holy sailor!), 'to which I must +also confess. In the gambling by which I won a large part of your money' +(True for you!) 'I was not playing for my own hand. It was for one who +wished to save you from yourself.' (Lord a massy!) 'That person was your +wife' (Goodness me!), 'and all my earnings belong to her.' (Good thing, +too!) 'They are deposited at Dumbell's in her name' (Right!), 'and---'" + +"There--that will do," said Nelly, nervously. + +"'And I send you the bank-book, together with the dock bonds,... which +you transferred for Mrs. Quiggin's benefit... to the name... of her +friend...'" + +Davy's lusty voice died off to a whisper. + +"What is that?" said Nelly, eagerly. + +"Nothin'," said Davy, very thick about the throat; and he rammed the +letter into his breeches' pocket and grabbed at his hat. As he did so, +a paper slipped to the ground. Nelly caught it up and held it on the +breezy side of the flickering match. + +It was a note from Jenny Crow: "'You dear old goosy; your jealous little +heart found out who the Manx sailor was, but your wise little poll never +once suspected that Mr. Lovibond could be anything to anybody, although +I must have told you twenty times in the old days of the sweetheart from +whom I parted. Good thing, too. Glad you were so stupid, my dear, for +by helping you to make up your quarrel we have contrived to patch up our +own. Good-by! What lovely stories I told you! And how you liked them! +We have borrowed your husband's berths for the Pacific steamer, and are +going to have an Irish marriage tomorrow morning at Belfast--'" + +"So they're a Co. consarn already," said Davy. + +"'Good-by! Give your Manx sailor one kiss for me--'" + +"Do it!" cried Davy. "Do it! What you've got to do only once you ought +to do it well." + +Then they became conscious that a smaller and dumpier figure was +standing in the darkness by the side of Willie. It was Peggy Quine. + +"Are you longing, Peggy?" Willie was saying in a voice of melancholy +sympathy. + +And Peggy was answering in a doleful tone, "Aw, yes, though--longing +mortal." + +Becoming conscious that the eyes of her mistress were on her, Peggy +stepped out and said, "If you plaze, ma'am, the carriage is waiting this +half-hour." + +"Then send it away again," said Davy. + +"But the boxes is packed, sir----" + +"Send it away," repeated Davy. + +"No, no," said Nelly; "we must go home to-night." + +"To-morrow morning," shouted Davy, with a stamp of his foot and a laugh. + +"But I have paid the bill," said Nelly, "and everything is arranged, and +we are all ready." + +"To-morrow morning," thundered Davy, with another stamp of the foot and +a peal of laughter. + +And Davy had his way. + + + THE END. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Capt'n Davy's Honeymoon, by Hall Caine + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAPT'N DAVY'S HONEYMOON *** + +***** This file should be named 25572.txt or 25572.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/5/5/7/25572/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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