Meanwhile Kate, overwhelmed with shame, humiliation, self-reproach, horror of herself, and dread of everything, lay with cheeks ablaze and her head buried in the bedclothes. She had no longer any need to pretend to be sick; she was now sick in reality. Fate had threatened her. She had challenged it. They were gambling together. The stake was her love, her life, her doom.

By the next day she had worked herself into a nervous fever. Dr.

Mylechreest came to see her, unbidden of the family. He was one of those tall, bashful men who, in their eagerness to be gone, seem always to have urgent business somewhere else. After a single glance at her and a few muttered syllables, he went off hurriedly, as if some one were waiting for him round the corner. But on going downstairs he met Caesar, who asked him how he found her.

"Feverish, very; keep her in bed," he answered. "As for this marriage, it must be put off. She's exciting herself, and I won't answer for the consequences. The thing has fallen too suddenly. To tell you the truth--this way, Mr. Cregeen--I am afraid of a malady of the brain."

"Tut, tut, doctor," said Caesar.

"Very well, if you know better. Good-day! But let the wedding wait.

_Traa dy liooar_--time enough, Mr. Cregeen. A right good Manx maxim for once. Put it off--put it off!"

"It's not my putting off, doctor. What can you do with a man that's wanting to be married? You can't bridle a horse with pincers."

But when the doctor was gone, Caesar said to Grannie, "Cut out the bridesmaids and the wedding-cakes and the fiddles and the foolery, and let the girl be married immadiently."

"Dear heart alive, father, what's all the hurry?" said Grannie.

"And Lord bless my soul, what's all the fuss?" said Caesar. "First one objecting this, then another objecting that, as if everybody was intarmined to stop the thing. It's going on, I'm telling you; d'ye hear me? There's many a slip--but no matter. What's written with the pen can't be cut out with the axe, so lave it alone, the lot of you."

Kate was in an ecstasy of exultation. The doctor had been sent by Philip. It was Philip who was trying to stop the marriage. He would never be able to bear it; he would claim her soon. It might be to-day, it might be to-morrow, it might be the next day. The odds were with her.

Fate was being worsted. Thus she clung to her blind faith that Philip would intervene.

That was Monday, and on Tuesday morning Philip came again. He was very quiet, but the heart has ears, and Kate heard him. Pete's letter had reached him, and she could see his white face. After a few words of commonplace conversation, he drew Pete out of the house. What had he got to say? Was he thinking that Pete must be stopped at all hazards? Was he about to make a clean breast of it? Was he going to tell all?

Impossible! He could not; he dared not; it was _her_ secret.

Pete came back to the house alone, looking serious and even sad. Kate heard him exchange a few words with her father as they pa.s.sed through the lobby to the kitchen. Caesar was saying--

"Stand on your own head, sir, that's my advice to you."

In the intensity of her torment she could not rest. She sent for Pete.

"What about Philip?" she said. "Is he coming? What has he been telling you?"

"Bad news, Kate--very bad," said Pete.

There was a fearful silence for a moment. It was like the awful hush at the instant when the tide turns, and you feel as if something has happened to the world. Then Kate hardened her face and said, "What is it?"

"He's ill, and wants to go away in a week. He can't come to the wedding,'' said Pete.

"Is that all?" said Kate. Her heart leapt for joy. She could not help it--she laughed. She saw through Philip's excuse. It was only his subterfuge--he thought Pete would not marry without him.

"Aw, but you never seen the like, though, Kirry," said Pete; "he was that white and wake and narvous. Work and worry, that's the size of it.

There's nothing done in this world without paying the price of it, and that's as true as gospel. 'The sea's calling me, Pete,' says he, and then he laughed, but it was the same as if a ghost itself was grinning."

In the selfishness of her enfeebled spirit, Kate still rejoiced. Philip was suffering. It was another a.s.surance that he would come to her relief.

"When does he go?" she asked.

"On Tuesday," answered Pete.

"Isn't there a way of getting a Bishop's license to marry in a week?"

said Kate.

"But will you, though?" said Pete, with a shout of joy.

"Ask Philip first. No use changing if Philip can't come."

"He shall--he must. I won't take No."

"You may kiss me now," said Kate, and Pete plucked her up into his arms and kissed her.

She was heart-dead to him yet, from the wound that Philip had dealt her, but at the touch of his lips a feeling of horror seemed to cramp all her limbs. With a shudder she crept down in the bed and hid her face, hating herself, loathing herself, wishing herself dead.

He stood a moment by her side, crying like a big boy in his great happiness. "I don't know in the world what she sees in me to be so fond of me, but that's the way with the women always, G.o.d bless them!"

She did not lift her face, and he stepped quietly to the door. Half-way through he turned about and raised one arm over his head. "G.o.d's rest and G.o.d's peace be with you, and may the man that gets you keep a clane heart and a clane hand, and be fit for the good woman he's won for his wife."

At the next minute he went tearing down the stairs, and the kitchen rang with his laughter.

XVI.

Fate scored one. Kate had been telling herself that Philip was tired of her, that he did not love her any longer, that having taken all he could take he desired to be done with her, that he was trying to forget her, and that she was a drag upon him, when suddenly she remembered the tholthan, and bethought herself for the first time of a possible contingency. Why had she not thought of it before? Why had _he_ never thought of it? _If_ it should come to pa.s.s! The prospect did not appal her; it did not overwhelm her with confusion or oppress her with shame; it did not threaten to fall like a thunderbolt; the thought of it came down like an angel's whisper.

She was not afraid. It was only an idea, only a possibility, only a dream of consequences, but at one bound it brought her so much nearer to Philip. It gave her a right to him. How dare he make her suffer so? She would not permit him to leave her. He was her husband, and he must cling to her, come what would. Across the void that had divided them a mysterious power drew them together. She was he, and he was she, and they were one, for--who knows?--who could say?--perhaps Nature herself had willed it.

Thus the first effect of the new thought upon Kate was frenzied exultation. She had only one thing to do now. She had only to go to Philip as Bathsheba went to David. True, she could not say what Bathsheba said. She had no certainty, but her case was no less strong.

"Have you never thought of what may possibly occur?" This is what she would say now to Philip. And Philip would say to her, "Dearest, I have never thought of that. Where was my head that I never reflected?" Then, in spite of his plans, in spite of his pledge to Pete, in spite of the world, in spite of himself--yea, in spite of his own soul if it stood between them--he would cling to her; she was sure of it--she could swear to it--he could not resist.

"He will believe whatever I tell him," she thought, and she would say, "Come to me, Philip; I am frightened." In the torture of her palpitating heart she would have rejoiced at that moment if she could have been sure that she was in the position of what the world calls a shameful woman.

With that for her claim she could see herself going to Philip and telling him, her head on his breast, whispering sweetly the great secret--the wondrous news. And then the joy, the rapture, the long kiss of love! "Mine, mine, mine! he is mine at last!"

That could not be quite so; she was not so happy as Bathsheba; she was not sure, but her right was the same for all that. Oh, it was joyful, it was delicious!

The little cunning arts of her s.e.x, the small deceits in which she had disguised herself fell away from her now. She said to herself, "I will stop the nonsense about the marriage with Pete." It was mean, it was foolish, it was miserable trifling, it was wicked, it was a waste of life--above all, it was doing a great, great wrong to her love of Philip! How could she ever have thought of it?

Next morning she was up and was dressing when Grannie came into the room with a cup of tea. "I feel so much better," she said "that I think I'll go to Douglas by the coach today, mother."

"Do, bogh," said Grannie cheerfully, "and Pete shall go with you."

"Oh, no; I must be quite alone, mother."

"Aw, aw! A lil errand, maybe! Shopping is it? Presents, eh? Take your tay, then." And Grannie rolled the blind, saying, "A beautiful morning you'll have for it, too. I can see the spire as plain as plain." Then, turning about, "Did you hear the bells this morning, Kitty?"

"Why, what bells, mammy?" said Kate, through a mouthful of bread and b.u.t.ter.

"The bells for Christian Killip. Her old sweetheart took her to church at last. He wouldn't get rest at your father till he did--and her baby two years for Christmas. But what d'ye think, now? Robbie left her at the church door, and he's off by the Ramsey packet for England. Aw, dear, he did, though. 'You can make me marry her,' said he, 'but you can't make me live with her,' he said, and he was away down the road like the dust."