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CAPT'N DAVY'S HONEYMOON 
 
BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 
 Price 3s. 6d. each. 
 
 THE SCAPEGOAT : A Romance. 
 
 Sixteenth Thousand. 
 
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 Scapegoat ' as a work of art, especially on the noble and skil- 
 fulKr drawn character of Israel." 
 
 The Times.—" In our judgment it excels in dramatic force 
 all the author's previous efforts." 
 
 Athenaeum.—" It is a delightful story to read." 
 
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 most profoundly conceived characters in modem fiction." 
 
 THE BONDMAN : A New Saga. 
 
 Twenty-first Thousand. 
 
 Mr. Gladstone. — " ' The Bondman ' is a work of which I 
 recognise the freshness, vigour, and sustained interest, no less 
 than its integrity of aim." 
 
 Standard. — " Its argument is grand, and it is sustained with 
 a power that is almost marvellous." 
 
 Academy. — "The language of 'The Bondman' is full of 
 nervous, graphic, and poetical English ; its interest never flags, 
 and its situations and descriptions are magnificent— too mag- 
 nificent, perhaps It is a splendid novel." 
 
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 attains We are, in fact, so loth to let such good work be 
 
 degraded by the title of * novel ' that we are almost tempted to 
 consider its claims to rank as a prose epic." 
 
 THE LITTLE MANX NATION. 
 
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 romance, and, treating tradition and history in the pictorial 
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 especially acceptable." 
 
 Speaker.— "A pleasant book— clever and unconventional, 
 with plenty of fancy, as well as no lack of facts. " 
 
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 with a literary charm which holds us from the first page to the 
 last." 
 
 London : WM. HEINEMANN, 21 Bedford St., W.C. 
 
. C^^iC'U^^^^'-i^^ 
 
 CAPT'N DAVY'S 
 HONEYMOON 
 
 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 THE BLIND MOTHER 
 
 By hall CAINE 
 
 LONDON 
 
 WILLIAM HEINEMANN 
 
 1893 
 
 \^All rights reserved] 
 

 To BRAM STOKER 
 
 When in dark hours and in evil humours my had angel has 
 sometimes made me think that friendship as it used to he of 
 old, friendship as we read of it in books, that friendship 
 which is not a jilt sure to desert us, hut a hrother horn to 
 adversity as well as success, is now a lost quality, a forgotten 
 virtue, a high partnership in fate degraded to a low traffic in 
 self-interest, a mere league of pleasure and business, then 
 my good angel for admonition or reproof has whispered the 
 names of a little hand of friends, whose friendship is a deep 
 stream that hiioys me up and makes no noise; and often first 
 among those names has heen your own. 
 
 Down to this day our friendship has needed no solder of 
 sweet words to hind it, and I take pleasure in showing hy 
 means of this unpretending hook that it is founded not only 
 on personal liking and much agreement, hut on some whole- 
 some difference and even a little disputation. " The Last 
 Confession'' is an attempt to solve a moral problem which we 
 have discussed from opposite poles of sympathy — the absolute 
 value and sanctity of human life, the right to fight, the right 
 to kill, the right to resist evil and to set aside at utmost need 
 
 ivi299;504 
 
the. letter of the sixth commandment. " The Blind Mother," 
 is a somewhat altered version of an episode in an early 
 romance, and it is presented afresh, with every apology, 
 because you with another friend, Theodore Watts, consider 
 it the only worthy part of an unworthy hook, and also because 
 it appears to be at all ftoints a companion to the story that 
 goes before it. Of "Capt'n Davy's Honeymoon,'' I might 
 perhaps say that it is the complement of the other two — 
 all three being stories of great and consuming love, father's, 
 mother's and husband's— but I prefer to confess that I 
 publish it because I know that if any one should smile at 
 my rough Manx comrade, doubting if such 'a man is in 
 nature and now found among men, I can always answer 
 him and say ^^ Ah, then, I am richer than you are by one 
 friend at least, — Capt'n Davy without his ruggedness and 
 without his folly, but with his simplicity, his unselfishness 
 and his honour — Bram Stoker!" 
 
 H. C. 
 
 Hawthorns, Keswick, zSgz. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON i 
 
 THE LAST CONFESSION 141 
 
 THE BLIND MOTHER ... 
 
 • 233 
 
CAPT'N DAVY'S HONEYMOON 
 
CAPT'N DAVY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 A COMEDY OF LOVE 
 
 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 
 Quiggin — 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 though ; 
 and, sink or swim, I'll darken your doors no 
 more." 
 
4 CAPTN DA VY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 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 honey- 
 moon had not yet finished its second quarter. 
 The gentleman was Captain David 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 stub- 
 born 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 re- 
 served. They loved each other to the point of 
 idolatry ; and yet they parted ten days after 
 marriage with these words of wroth and mad- 
 ness. 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 
 
CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 5 
 
 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 Method- 
 ists, 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, with the 
 immortal Tom Baynes, " 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 
 
6 CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 a heavy one ; there is the sharp crack-crack 
 of haste, and the dithering que-we-wee 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 in- 
 stant. 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 there- 
 after. The porch was dark, and so was the 
 little square lobby behind the door. On nu- 
 merous 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 threw 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 morn- 
 ing. 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, 
 
CAPTN DA VY'S HONEYMOON 7 
 
 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, 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 lowered 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 pretence 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. 
 
8 CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 ** 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 trowsis, cut down at the knees.'' 
 
 Nelly slipped out. Her mother made a noise 
 with the porridge pot. Davy was silent. Kin- 
 vig walloped his razor on the strop with terrific 
 vigour, 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 h'ould 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 some day, and then you'll be a 
 taste civiller." 
 
 *' 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. 
 
CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON g 
 
 " Good-bye, 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- 
 bye, 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 downstairs 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 shovelled upon himself 
 
 " Good-bye, 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 
 though. 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 it's all serene," said Davy, and with 
 
lo CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 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 
 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 Balla- 
 volly." '' That's Ballacry." '' 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 
 
CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON ii 
 
 was doubtful, but the love was safe enough. 
 And when he had poured out his heart in small 
 ** is" 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 mackerel 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 re- 
 ceived the news at first in silence, then with 
 satisfaction, and at length with noisy pride. 
 His boy was a bould fellow. '' None o' yer 
 rancy-tancy-tissimee-tea tied to the old 
 mawther's apron-strings about Mm. 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 all peace by correcting 
 their ''plaze" to "please," and their **mate" to 
 '* meat," and their " lave" to " leave." The third 
 time she came she was silent, and looked 
 ashamed ; and the fourth time it was to meet 
 
12 CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 her sweetheart on his return home after ten 
 years' absence. 
 
 Davy came by the Snaefell 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 every- 
 body. 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 grey 
 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 the bridge 
 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 re- 
 membering 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 
 
CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 13 
 
 had identified his fare Davy had recognised an 
 old crony, with a high, springless country 
 cart — Billiam Ballaneddan, who had come to 
 Douglas to despatch 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 twidding 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 recognised anything, and as 
 he recognised everything he shouted through- 
 out 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 your- 
 
14 CAPTN DA VY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 self? 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 storey, 
 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, and bellowed ''Hur- 
 rah ! Hurrah ! Hurrah ! '' After that he would 
 have leapt alongside to the ground and run. 
 " Hould hard!" he cried, " Pll bate the best 
 mare that's going." But Billiam pinned him 
 down ^ the seat with one hand while he 
 whipped up the horse to a gallop with the other. 
 
 They arrived at Ballavolley 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 cheer" by the 
 ingle. They wiped down a chair for Davy this 
 time. 
 
 "And Nelly," said Davy. ''Where's 
 Nelly ? " 
 
CAPTN DA Vrs HONEYMOON 15 
 
 "Shes 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, ** IVe kep' my 
 word though.'' 
 
 **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 
 Nelly's 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- 
 twlgging the rats squeaking and coorting over- 
 head, and thinking to myself. Kisses is skess 
 with you now, Davy." 
 
 The wedding came off In a week. Parson 
 Kennish officiated, and he was the only 
 man in the parish who had not gone down 
 like a flood before the tide of Davy's fortune. 
 In the vestry Davy took up his pen to sign 
 
i6 CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 his name, and the signature was clumsy and 
 indefinite. Seeing his opportunity of humiHat- 
 ing the hero, the parson cocked his eye at it 
 and said, " What's this ? Hieroglyphics ? Tut ! 
 There — make your cross after ^/laf And 
 signing the name afresh, in a rapid scrawl like 
 a shower of rain, he offered the pen back to 
 Davy. The great fellow blushed down to his 
 collar, tried to laugh, took the pen and made 
 his mark. 
 
 ** Hould hard though, parson," chuckled old 
 Kinvig on his two sticks, " it's herself will be 
 making it up for the pair of them." 
 
 Then Nelly took the pen in her turn, and to 
 everybody's surprise she made a cross under- 
 neath the cross made by Davy. 
 
 ** Chut ! What's that, woman ? " said Kinvig. 
 " And you writing a hand like the parson his- 
 self!" 
 
 "Hush," whispered Nelly. " Did you think 
 I was going to shame him ? " 
 
 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 sur- 
 rounded 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 himself in 
 advance with two pounds in sixpenny bits, 
 which made his trowsers pockets stand out 
 like a couple of cannon balls. He fired 
 
CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 17 
 
 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're 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 afterwards the landau was roll- 
 ing away towards the Castle Mona Hotel at 
 Douglas, where, by Nelly's arrangement, Capt'n 
 Davy and his bride were to spend their honey- 
 moon. 
 
II 
 
 Now it so befell that on the very day when 
 Capt'n Davy and Mrs. Quiggin quarrelled 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 Pacific coast. Mrs. Quiggin's was Jenny 
 Crow, a young lady of lively manners, whom 
 she had annexed during her four years' resi- 
 dence at Liverpool. These two had been lovers 
 five years before, had quarrelled 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 afterwards 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, promenading on the quarter-deck 
 before her, a gentleman whom she must have 
 thought she had somewhere seen before, but 
 that his gigantic black moustache was a puzzle, 
 and the little imperial on his chin was a baffling 
 difficulty. Mr. Lovibond puffed the smoke 
 
CAPTN DA FY'S HONEYMOON 19 
 
 from a colossal ciQfar, 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 puff^ pile of wool, two long crochet 
 needles, and a couple of white hands, from 
 which there flashed a diamond ring that 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 moustache, 
 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 
 
20 CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 we reach the island, Miss Crow ? " said Lovi- 
 bond. 
 
 *' With a young Manx friend lately married," 
 said Jenny. 
 
 ** That's St range ; 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 temper- 
 ament. 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 
 
CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 21 
 
 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 her- 
 self?" 
 
 '' But how did he come to accuse you of 
 marrying him for his money ? Had you asked 
 him for any ? " 
 
22 CAPTN DA Vrs HONEYMOON 
 
 '' 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 him- 
 self, 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, con- 
 tinued the recital of her wronors : 
 
 ** 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 sweet- 
 hearts — 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 to- 
 gether 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 
 
CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 23 
 
 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 your- 
 self.?" 
 
 **Oh, for the matter of that, he fixed some- 
 thing on me before the wedding — a jointure, 
 thp 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 crea- 
 tures. But let a poor woman count on it, and 
 
24 CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 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, ** Nelly, 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. 
 
CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 25 
 
 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 cannot 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- 
 heated people, both of us, and we'll quarrel." 
 
 Then Jenny's solemn manner was gone in an 
 
26 CAPTN DA Vrs HONEYMOON 
 
 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 Fort 
 Ann. On the way there he had learned 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'bie ! " 
 moaned Willie. *' Young Mistress Quiggin 
 ateing her heart out at Castle Mona, and Capt'n 
 Davy hisself at Fort 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, colouring them by the light of the 
 numerous glasses with which he had covered 
 his brain since morning. 
 
CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON rj 
 
 " ' 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 for 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 re- 
 mained 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/' 
 
28 CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 " 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-scotch in the haggard, and double- 
 my-duck agen the cow-house 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 ahum- 
 mi ng — aw, terr'ble sweet and nice. And me 
 going barefooted, 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 ?" 
 
CAPTN DA VY'S HONEYMOON 29 
 
 ** Now ? D'ye say now ? My goodness ! 
 It's always hemming and humming and a heise 
 of the neck, and her head up Hke a Cochen- 
 China with a top-knot, 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 moustache. 
 
 '' 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 aren't much of a Job neither." 
 
 " And what has made all this difference ?" 
 said Lovibond. 
 
 **Why, the money, of course. It was the 
 money that done it, bad cess 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, honour 
 bright, thinks I, Nelly's waiting for you, Davy ! 
 Always draeming of her, 'cept when the lazy 
 
30 CAPTN DA VY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 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 a-twinkling in the sky, and spotting 
 one of them, and saying to yourself quiet-like, 
 so as them niggers won't hear, ' That star is 
 a-twinkling 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 draem that I'm loving 
 nobody else till her.' But, chut ! It was myself 
 that was draeming. 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 ! " 
 
CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 31 
 
 Next day Lovibond and Jenny Crow met on 
 the pier. There they pondered the tlckHsh 
 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 Lovi- 
 bond. 
 
 "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 sepa- 
 ration. Time leaves bigger scars than claws 
 ever made. Now, couldn't we bring them to- 
 gether ?" 
 
 *' 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 Lovi- 
 bond. 
 
 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- 
 
32 CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 shell. Now if each could see the other through 
 other s eyes! " 
 
 " The very thing ! " said Lovibond. " * O, wad 
 some power the giftie gie iis ' — eh ? " 
 
 '* Then why don't you give me your arm at 
 once,, and let me think it 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. 
 
Ill 
 
 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 mor- 
 bid curiosity about their servants' sweethearts. 
 *' Seen Peggy to-day ? " 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 oppor- 
 tunity 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 Lovi- 
 bond 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 
 telHng me. The Capt'n's making the money 
 fly. Bowls and beer, and cards and betting — 
 it's terr'ble, ma'am, terr'ble. Somebody should 
 
 c 
 
34 CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 hould him. He's distracted like. Giving to 
 everybody as free as free. Parsons and preach- 
 ers and the Hke — 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 if 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 
 conduck 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 Fort 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 wispry man." 
 
CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 35 
 
 ** I suppose he helps the Captain to spend 
 his money ? " 
 
 " Never a ha'po'th, ma'am, 'deed no ; but 
 terr'ble onaisy at it, and rigging him constant. 
 But no use at all, at all. The Cap'n's intar- 
 mined 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 bril- 
 liant, 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, 
 
36 CAPTN DA VY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 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 coloured 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 boulder. So quiet up there, Nelly ; not 
 
CAPTN DA VY'S HONEYMOON 37 
 
 a sound except the squeal of the sea-birds, the 
 boo-00 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 boulder, 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 
 
 *'0h, 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." 
 
38 CAPTN DA VY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 Mrs. Quiggin looked down at her feet. ** I 
 only mean," 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 every- 
 thing." 
 
 " 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 cuts 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. 
 
CAPTN DA VY'S HONEYMOON 39 
 
 ** Where does he Hve ?" 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 
 cheque. 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 pigeon-holed between his legs. Willie 
 Quarrie sat at a table with a cheque-book 
 before him. While Davy read the letters one 
 by one he instructed Willie as to the nature of 
 
40 CAPTN DA VY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 the answer, and Willie with his head aslant, his 
 mouth awry, and his tongue in his cheek, turned 
 it into figures on the cheque-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 butcher's. 
 * Honoured Captain, we are going to erect 
 a new school in connection with Ballajora 
 chapel, and if you will honour 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 paternosterings 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 cockatoo esactly. ' Dear David, 
 owing to the la-mentable death of brother Myle- 
 chreest it has been re-solved to ask you to 
 become a member of our com-mittee. . . .'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." 
 
CAPTN DA VY'S HONEYMOON 41 
 
 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 say- 
 ing 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 scew 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 
 
42 CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 rheumatis, 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, wo- 
 man ; he's a growing lad ? ' ' Chut! take it, man,' 
 the mawther would say, and then he'd be whim- 
 pering, ' I'm keeping you long, Liza, I'm keep- 
 ing 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 boister- 
 ously, 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. 
 
CAPTN DA VY'S HONEYMOON 43 
 
 ** Who preached ?" said Davy, clasping hands 
 at the back of his head. 
 
 ** A young woman/' said Lovibond. 
 
 Davy Hfted his head out of its socket. ** My 
 goodness !" he said. 
 
 " Well, at all events," explained Lovibond, 
 " 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 ; / 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 a 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. 
 
44 CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 "Such eyes, Captn — big and full, and blue, 
 and then pale, pale blue in the whites of them, 
 too, like— like " 
 
 "/ know," said Davy; *Mike 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, Captain, her 
 voice " 
 
 " So you were speaking to her ? " said Davy. 
 
 " No, but didn't she sing ? " said Lovibond. 
 " 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 to- 
 gether — 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. 
 
CAPTN DA VTS HONEYMOON 45 
 
 ''You say true, mate," said Davy; "nor in 
 giving^ one out neither. Now, there was ould 
 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 some- 
 times 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 give out the hymn. If it was six 
 he was loud as a clarnet, and if it was one 
 his voice was like the trambones. 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 " 
 
 "/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 floats down for a good one. Give her 
 
46 CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 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 conversa- 
 tion, and in the course of the afternoon, while 
 he lay in a hazy doze 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 spy- 
 glass, 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 some- 
 wheres, 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 
 
CAPTN DAVrS HONEYMOON 47 
 
 gang, but Davy welcomed them with noisy 
 cheer. The lights were brought in, and the 
 company sat down to its accustomed amuse- 
 ments. 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 names, 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 the 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 slumbrous 
 voices of the night, and hearing at intervals the 
 louder bellowing from the room where Captain 
 
48 CAPTN DA VY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 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 Hke saying your 
 prayers to a hornpipe, thinking of her and carry- 
 ing 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 waist- 
 cot went creep, creep, creep, same as a sarpent, 
 when you first spake of her ; but it's 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 Lovi- 
 bond. 
 
 "Milk," said Davy. 
 
 " Milk ? " cried Lovibond, drawing up in their 
 walk. 
 
 " Just milk," said Davy again. " Come along, 
 and I'll tell you. It was this way. Ould Kin- 
 vig 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 
 
CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 49 
 
 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's 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 twist- 
 ing round. Then we started, and there wasn't 
 no noise in the cowhouse, 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 steal- 
 ing 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 Nelly 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 deaf- 
 ness/ 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 
 
50 CAPTN DA FY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 when he's teetotal, and the cowhouse was Hke 
 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 Lovibond. " 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 nohow. ' 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 cart-wheel. Aw, yes, though — thinking, 
 thinking, thinking constant — that's me when 
 
CAPTN DA VY'S HONEYMOON 51 
 
 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 black- 
 smith's seven-pound sledge. Good-night, mate ; 
 good-night." 
 
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 
 realise that he had not seen her somewhere 
 before. He had seen her — in his own de- 
 scription 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 mesmerised. There she 
 sat, like one for whom life had lost its savour. 
 Her great slow eyes, her pale and quivering face, 
 her long deep look as she took his hand, and 
 her slowly 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 
 
CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 53 
 
 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 lasts long enough." 
 
 " Is remonstrance quite useless, Mr. Lovi- 
 bond ? " 
 
 "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 quarrelled 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. Lovibond." 
 
 "Your husband will never blame you 
 either." 
 
 "That will hardly reconcile me to his mis- 
 fortunes." 
 
 " 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 " 
 
54 CAPTN DA FY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 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 recognised its tenderness. 
 
 "Very well," he said ; '' I'll do my best." 
 
 " Will it be wrong to deceive him, Mr. Lovi- 
 bond?" 
 
 * It will be mercy itself, Mrs. Quiggin." 
 
CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 55 
 
 " 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 hus- 
 band 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 ardour overcame his prudence. 
 ''He has told me that you were an angel once 
 — and he has wronged you, the dunce and dul- 
 bert — you are an angel still." 
 
 While Lovibond was with Mrs. Quiggin 
 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. 
 
 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 
 
56 CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 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 come 
 from, and I'll want no money there." 
 
 " Is that why you're wasting it here, Captain 
 Quiggin," said Jenny. Her gaiety was gone by 
 this time. 
 
 " No — yes ! Wasting ? Well, maybe so, 
 ma'am, maybe 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.?" 
 
CAPTN DA VTS HONEYMOON 57 
 
 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 some- 
 wheres — some quiet place — and make out some- 
 how — women's mortal clever at rigging up yarns 
 that do no harm — make out that somebody be- 
 longing 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 there and then. 
 " 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 — {g'^lp, g^^P) 
 — for your wife's welfare — {g'^^p) — 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 
 
58 CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 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 spilt 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 was- 
 trels ! What are they ? Nothing but a parcel 
 
CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 59 
 
 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 did 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 sayson, 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 decep- 
 tion which Capt'n 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 ? " 
 
V 
 
 Jenny's opportunity was a week in coming, and 
 various events of some consequence in this his- 
 tory occurred in the meantime. 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 
 trust 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. Ouiggin. 
 The remains of his possessions in the bank he 
 lost to Lovibond, who gambled with him con- 
 stantly, beginning with a sovereign, which Mrs, 
 Quiggin had given him for the purpose, and 
 going on by a process of doubling until the stakes 
 were prodigious. Every night he discharged 
 his debt by cheque 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 
 
CAPTN DA VY'S HONEYMOON 6i 
 
 passed from the offender to the offended, from 
 the strong to the weak. 
 
 Such 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 estrange- 
 ment 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 confes- 
 sion to hold off like this," said Jenny. 
 
 "Just a poor litde 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 ' " 
 
62 CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 ** 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 affairs 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 the 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 a couple of friends to pre- 
 vent them from going astray." 
 
 ** It isn't," said Lovibond. ''We're the good 
 old ganders that keep the geese together." 
 
CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 63 
 
 ** Speak for yourself, sir," said Jenny. 
 
 Then came Jenny's opportunity. She had 
 been out on one 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 of 
 a fortnight before that had been the constant 
 condition of her existence. Never going out, 
 never even going down for meals, rarely speak- 
 ing of her husband, always thinking of him, 
 and eating out her heart with pride and vexa- 
 tion, 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 dozed under a drowsy 
 heat. The boatmen and carmen, with both hands 
 in their breeches' pockets, 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 seagulls 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 : pro- 
 menade 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 Snaefellf 
 ''No, but the Ben-my-Chree — see, she has four 
 
64 CAPTN DA VY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 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 cars, the tinkling of the trams, 
 and the cries of the newsboys : " This way for 
 Castle Mona ! " '' Falcon Cliff this way ! " 
 *' Echo ! " *' Evening Express ! " " Good pas- 
 sage, John ? " " Good." '' Five hours ? " '' And 
 ten minutes." '' What news over the water ? " 
 *' They've caught him." " Never ! " " Express ! " 
 " Fort Ann here — here for Villiers." *' Com- 
 fortable 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 Ann 
 this way ! " *' Gladstone in Liverpool ? " *' Yes, 
 spoke at Hengler's last night — fearful crush." 
 " Castle Mona ! " " Evening News ! " '' Peveril ! " 
 " This way Falcon Cliff! " " Express ! " 
 
 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 mainland, with its hub-bub and hurly- 
 burly, to the island that has been four-and- 
 twenty hours cut off from it — like 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, 
 
CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 65 
 
 coming once a day, when the Httle island pul- 
 sates 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 some- 
 thing 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, monoto- 
 nously. 
 
 " My dear," said Jenny, *' he's married." 
 
 " I'm very sorry," said Mrs. Quiggin, with a 
 
hh CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOOl^ 
 
 listless look towards 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 un- 
 covering 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 
 greengrocer, of course. She had been ashamed 
 
CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 67 
 
 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 shame- 
 fully yet he loves her still." 
 
 "Why do you think so, Jenny?" said Mrs. 
 Quiggin. 
 
 " Because," said Jenny, " though he is always 
 
68 CAPTN DA VY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 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 some- 
 thing 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 consi- 
 deration, 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 " 
 
CAPTN DAVTS HONEYMOON 69 
 
 " Maintenance ! " cried Mrs. Quiggin. '* 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 cannot 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 boulders 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. 
 
70 CAPTN DA VY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 *' 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 your- 
 self 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 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, 
 /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. 
 
CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 71 
 
 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 after- 
 wards 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 deli- 
 cious 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 
 
72 CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 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 vexa- 
 tion, and they washed away every remaining 
 evil humour and left the vision clear. She had 
 been in the wrong, and 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 ? 
 
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 Davy 
 occupied with Willie Quarrie in preparation 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 grey smoke from a 
 pipe of thick twist. *' And then there's Ker- 
 ruish, 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-others in my head 
 
74 CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 already, Capt'n," groaned Willie Quarrie in 
 despair, as he struggled at the table to keep 
 pace by his slow pen with 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 
 coorts 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 invita- 
 tion. 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 
 harbour. 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, Jimmy,' says 
 the boys, looking up out of the boat ; ' what- 
 
CAPTN DA VY'S HONEYMOON 75 
 
 ever in the name of goodness are you doing 
 theer?' '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 
 towards the table where Willie Quarrie was still 
 labouring 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 come from. Pacific steamer laves 
 Liverpool by the afternoon tide, and we'll catch 
 her aisy if we take the Snaefell in the morn- 
 ing. 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 
 
76 CAPTN DAVTS HONEYMOON 
 
 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. 
 
CAPTN DA VrS HONEYMOON 77 
 
 Davy gave a prolonged whistle. ** That's 
 bad," he said. " I'm symperthising with you. 
 You've been fishing with another man's floats, 
 and losing your labour. I'm feeling for you. 
 'Deed I am though." 
 
 " It's not myself I'm thinking of," said Lovi- 
 bond. ** 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 yet a 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. Hus- 
 band 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'll lave it with you," said Davy, charging 
 his pipe afresh as a signal of his neutrality. 
 
 "He must have led her a fearful life," con- 
 tinued Lovibond. 
 
 Davy lit up, and puffed vigorously. 
 
78 CAPTN DAVTS HONEYMOON 
 
 ** It would appear," said Lovibond, ''that 
 though she is so hke 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 suck- 
 ing of lips over the pipe. 
 
 "And now," said Lovibond, "she cannot 
 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 
 
CAPTN DAVTS HONEYMOON 79 
 
 sitting pining to death indoors he is enjoying 
 himself night and day with his coarse com- 
 panions." 
 
 Davy put 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. " Don't 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 may 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 com- 
 rades." 
 
 "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. 
 
8o CAPTN DAVTS HONEYMOON 
 
 " I'm afraid you're right, Capt'n," said Lovi- 
 bond. 
 
 " 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 ad- 
 vantage. 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 tally with the crayther the day 
 she marries him. What has he brought her ? 
 His dirty, mucky, measly money, come from 
 the Lord knows where. What has s/ie brouo;ht 
 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?" 
 
CAPTN DAVrS HONEYMOON 8i 
 
 " 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 gaze ; 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 Kerruish, 
 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 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 
 
82 CAPTN DAVTS HONEYMOON 
 
 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 cut- 
 ting 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 neighbour. 
 
 '' 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 blacksmith, 
 amid general laughter from the rest. 
 
 " Aw, lave you alone for that," said Davy. 
 
CAPTN DA VTS HONEYMOON 83 
 
 " 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 leapt 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; *'butclane plates — aw, clane 
 plates though — 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 Capt'n'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. 
 
84 CAPTN DA VTS HONEYMOON 
 
 Smook up, smook up; chimleys everywhere, 
 same as Douglas at breakfast-time." 
 
 For Davy's sake Lovlbond 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 kums and Aas and that' II 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 un- 
 common." 
 
 After a while Davy heaved up and followed 
 Lovibond. He found him walking to and fro 
 on 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 
 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 
 
CAPTN DA VY'S HONEYMOON 85 
 
 rock-row rock-row of the oars in the rowlocks 
 of some unseen boat gliding into the harbour 
 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. 
 
 " E.qual 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 eighteen-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 im- 
 perant young hussey 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 neigh- 
 bours 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 night-dress saying her bits of prayers : 
 'God bless mawther and everybody,' and all 
 
86 CAPTN DAVrS HONEYMOON 
 
 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 towards 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!" 
 
CAPTN DA VTS HONEYMOON 87 
 
 '' Where's Capt'n Davy ? " " Aw, here's the 
 man himself." " Been studying the stars, 
 Capt'n?" ''Well, that's a bit of navigation, 
 though." '' 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-hum-drum as of a train in a tunnel, pierced 
 sometimes by the shrill scream as of an occa- 
 sional 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 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 Lovi- 
 
88 CAPTN DA VTS HONEYMOON 
 
 bond ; '' 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. " Haven'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 Lovi- 
 bond. " Balla — something." 
 
 "Is it is it " : Davy was speaking 
 
 very thickly : " is it Ballaugh, sir ? " 
 
 "That's it," said Lovibond. "And her 
 father's farm — I heard the name of the farm as 
 well — Balla — balla — something else — oh, Balla- 
 valley." 
 
 *' Ballavolley ? " 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. 
 
CAPTN DAVrS HONEYMOON 89 
 
 *' And the girl herself, perhaps ? " said Lovi- 
 bond. 
 
 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 Lovi- 
 bond. 
 
 " Ugh ! " Davy's laughter stopped very sud- 
 denly. 
 
 '' A fool, too — is he not ? " said Lovi- 
 bond. 
 
 " 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 — 
 
90 CAPVN DAVrS HONEYMOON 
 
 " O, Molla Char — aine, where got you your gold? 
 Lone, lone, you have le — eft me here, 
 Oh, 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 humour 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 
 
CAPTN DAVrS HONEYMOON 91 
 
 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 humour 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 shock- 
 ing ! Shillings apiece for my breakfas'es — now 
 that's what 1 call a reg'lSr 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 
 
92 CAPVN DAVrs HONEYMOON 
 
 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 pennyworth 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 armholes of 
 his waistcoat, nodded his head downwards 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 sur- 
 prise, 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 
 thousand, 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 
 Davey 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 inces- 
 santly. 
 
CAPTN DAVTS HONEYMOON 93 
 
 " 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, Capt'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'm bring- 
 ing 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 
 towards him nevertheless. Some fell to patron- 
 ising 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 
 
^4 CAPTN DAVTS HONEYMOON 
 
 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 into a stave of another wild song : 
 
 " ' I'm hunting the wren,' said Robbin to Bobbin, 
 ' I'm hunting the wren,' said Richard to Robbin, 
 ' 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 spilt 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. 
 
CAPTN DA VrS HONEYMOON 95 
 
 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 ! Ske gave it me. Yes, though, on 
 the night I sailed. My gough ! The ruch and 
 proud I was that night anyway ! I was a home- 
 less 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 
 
96 CAPTN DA VY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 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 quarrelling 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-bye, 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. 
 
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 f — 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 
 
98 CAPTN DAVY*S HONEYMOON 
 
 lay your own cloth, and clear away and wash 
 up afterwards." 
 
 '' 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 morn- 
 ing before the sun itself, when the light is that 
 cool dead grey, 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 — Oh ! it's delight- 
 ful ! " 
 
 '' Really now ! " said Jenny. 
 
 "And then the men coming downstairs, 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 yourself busy as Trap's wife lay- 
 ing 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 yourself terrible, 
 and getting breakfast over, and starting every- 
 
CAPTN DAVrS HONEYMOON 99 
 
 body away to his work in the fields — aw, there's 
 nothing Hke it in the world." 
 
 ''And do j/ou 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 dy yourself. 
 "Oh! "said Nelly. 
 
 Mrs. Ouiggin 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 ? " 
 
loo CAPTN DAVTS HONEYMOON 
 
 "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 pretence 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 
 
CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON loi 
 
 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- 
 bye ! '" 
 
 " Good-bye 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, unfeel- 
 ing, 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 
 
I02 CAPTN DA VY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 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 /las 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 to-morrow morning, 
 
CAPTN DA FY'S HONEYMOON 103 
 
 or to-morrow night, or the next night, or some- 
 time. So you see he's not going away without 
 saying good bye 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 zs another 
 woman's husband " 
 
 Nelly 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 
 zs against everything that's nice and agree- 
 able." 
 
 ''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 extra- 
 ordinary hour of nine at night. "She intends 
 to keep it," thought Jenny. 
 
104 CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 *' And now," she said, settling herself at the 
 writing-table ; *' now for the o^/ier simpleton." 
 
 ''Tell D. Q.," she wrote, addressing Lovi- 
 bond ; "that E. Q. goes home by carriage at 
 nine o'clock to-night, and that you have ap- 
 pointed 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." 
 
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 diffi- 
 culty. To tell him the truth was impossible, 
 and to concoct a further fable was beyond 
 Lovibond's invention. And so it was that when 
 Lovibond 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 !'' bethought ; and 
 not until he was already in the thick of his 
 
lo6 CAPTN DAW'S HONEYMOON 
 
 enterprise as wizard of that passion did he 
 reahse 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 the 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, trousers, 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 armfuls out of drawers and 
 wardrobes, and heaped them at his feet for in- 
 spection. 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 pro- 
 ceeding. 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. 
 
CAPTN DA VTS HONEYMOON 107 
 
 *' The idea!" 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 aristo- 
 crack out of Sawney Pope Street ! " 
 
 " No, sir, but it's easy to see where jv^^^ 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 assist- 
 ance, 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 ^ou say ? They're longing 
 
io8 CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 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 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 a 
 quarter to nine o'clock. Willie Quarrie looked 
 out at the window. The Snaefell was lying 
 by the red pier in the harbour, 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. 
 
CAPTN DA FY'S HONEYMOON 109 
 
 *' 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 — 
 here's Tommy Taubman, 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 any- 
 way." 
 
 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 pass- 
 ing 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 sarvicc 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 
 
no CAPTN DA VrS HONEYMOON 
 
 that yourself, 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 reg'lar up-and-a- 
 downer, 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 Plough Inn at 
 Ramsey. One day he was going out of it 
 middling full — not fit to walk the crank any- 
 way — when who should be coming up the street 
 from the coort-house but the Bishop ! It was 
 Bishop — Bishop — chut ! his name's gone at me — 
 but no matter, glum as a gurgoyle anyway, and 
 straight as a lamp-post — a reg'lar steeple-up-your- 
 back sort of a chap. Ould Mrs. Beatty saw 
 him, and she lays a hould of Parson Cowan and 
 starts a-whisking him back into the house, and 
 through into the parlour 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 tremen- 
 jous, 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 — /// walk!' Then away 
 
CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON iii 
 
 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 downstairs. 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 ? Daresay 
 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-bye, 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 Lovi- 
 bond. 
 
112 CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 '' 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 — d'ye 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 hack ..." 
 
 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 ferry-boat was coming over the 
 harbour. 
 
 "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 Lovibond, ''you're 
 putting her in the way of it." 
 
 "What?" 
 
CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 113 
 
 Davy was about to light his pipe, but he 
 flung away the match. 
 
 " Have you never thought of it ? " said Lovi- 
 bond. ''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 ^/za^ 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 towards 
 the ferry steps. As they walked Davy began 
 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 
 
114 CAPTN DAVrS HONEYMOON 
 
 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 Lovi- 
 bond. 
 
 " 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." 
 
CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 115 
 
 *' 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, mane while, she's telling you all her 
 sacrets." 
 
 " 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 
 
1 1.6 CAPTN DAVrS HONEYMOON 
 
 the man fooling him ? Did he know the 
 secret ? 
 
 " Good-bye, Capt'n," said Lovibond, taking 
 Davy by the hand. 
 
 *' Good-bye, mate," said Davy, absently. '' I 
 must be seeing herself/' he thought, *'this is 
 sarious.'' 
 
 ''Good luck to you and a second fortune," 
 said Lovibond. 
 
 " Damn the fortune," said Davy, under his 
 breath. '' The man's anxious to get quit of 
 me," he thought, ''but I'll see herself, though, 
 yes will I, then, before I stir a foot." 
 
 There was another whistle from the Snae- 
 fell. 
 
 " 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 harbour. " 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. 
 
CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON n; 
 
 ''Too late, I tell you," thundered Davy, 
 sternly. 
 
 Meanwhile, there was a great commotion on 
 the other side of the harbour. 
 
 "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 echo- 
 ing 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-bye ! " " Good- 
 bye ! " " Farewell, little Mona ! " '' Good-bye, 
 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 
 harbour empty. 
 
 '' She's gone ! " 
 
 Lovibond smiled behind a handkerchief, with 
 which he pretended to wipe his big moustache. 
 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 pacquet 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 in- 
 stead." 
 
 Then the three parted company, each with 
 his own reflections. 
 
ii8 CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 '' 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. 
 
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 wooden floor on which they 
 walked. The odour 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 glowed 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. 
 
I20 CAPTN DAVTS HONEYMOON 
 
 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 deli- 
 cious ! But is he coming ? " 
 
 ** Trust him," said Lovibond. 
 
 " Oh 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. 
 
CAPTN DAVrS HONEYMOON 121 
 
 *' Oh dear, oh dear ! " said Jenny. *' It's won- 
 derful 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 
 where 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 Lovi- 
 bond, inclining his head towards Jenny's averted 
 face. 
 
 *' And pray what's that.'^" said Jenny, with- 
 out 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. 
 
122 CAPTN DAVTS HONEYMOON 
 
 " Well ? " said Jenny. 
 
 '' That's ninety pounds wasted," said Lovi- 
 bond. 
 
 " IVAa^ 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 to-night, 
 there's not a soul " said ^ Jenny, sorrow- 
 fully. 
 
 '' 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 pound ! Did you say ninety ? Two 
 berths ? " said Jenny. " What a shocking waste ! 
 Couldn't somebody else use them ? " 
 
CAPTN DAVrS HONEYMOON 123 
 
 ''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 " 
 
 *' Oh, Jonathan ! " whispered Jenny. 
 
 " Oh, 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 harbour on board the 
 Irish pacquet that was to overtake the Pacific 
 steamship next morning at Belfast. The lights 
 of Castle Mona lay low on the water's edge, 
 
124 CAPVN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 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 a long good-bye." 
 
X 
 
 The life that Davy had led that day was 
 infernal. At the first shaft of Lovibond'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 lies wrecked and rotten." 
 
 He had battled 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, though — 
 
126 CAPTN DAVTS HONEYMOON 
 
 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. Towards nightfall he had drifted past 
 Castle Mona towards 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 leapt to his feet, 
 in disgust of his own simplicity. " I'm a fool/' 
 he had muttered, "a reg'lar ould bleating billy- 
 goat ; 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 towards Castle Mona. ''I'm 
 not for misdoubting my wife, though, not me ; 
 but then a man may be over certain. I'll find 
 
CAPTN DAVTS HONEYMOON 127 
 
 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 con- 
 science. 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 
 Mm," she had thought. " It's that mischief- 
 making hussy. 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 Aim — 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 
 humours 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 astonish- 
 ment 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 
 
128 CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 of being late. '' I know some one 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 1 
 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 
 recognised his dark figure among the trees. 
 " But he's alone," she thought. " Then the 
 hussy 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 
 
CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 129 
 
 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 interrup any tertertatie, " con- 
 tinued 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 yo^cr presence here is proof enough 
 agenjv^^^," said Davy. 
 
I30 CAPTN DAVTS HONEYMOON 
 
 "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 kzm.'' 
 
 '' 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 kim ? " 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 mey' 
 said Davy. *' He tould me all your sacrets — 
 that your husband had deserted you because he 
 was a brute and a blackguard." 
 
 " 1 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 your pardon, ma'am," said 
 
CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 131 
 
 Davy in a hushed whisper of wrath ; ** but 
 that's a damned He, though, who ever 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 /le tell 
 yoti' that I had appointed to meet kim ? " 
 
 "Yes, did he, though," 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 
 
132 CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 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 jj/^^ been in the habit of 
 meeting ker ? " 
 
 ** 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 go to Laxey, 
 and come home with her in the coach ? " 
 
 '' Not I," said Davy. 
 
 ** Then the stones 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 con- 
 vulse the very air around him. 
 
CAPTN DA VrS HONEYMOON 133 
 
 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 
 asundered 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 some- 
 thing in Nelly's bosom seemed to whisper, ''He 
 loves me still ; " and at the first note of Nelly's, 
 something clamoured in Davy's breast, ** She's 
 mine, she's mine ! " They turned towards 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 though.'*" 
 said Nelly. 
 
 " What does it mane at all ?" said Davy. 
 
 " It manes," said Nelly, " that our good friends 
 
134 CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 knew each other, and that he tould her, and 
 she tould him, and that to bring us to- 
 gether again, they just 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, 
 Nelly vauch ? " said Davy. 
 
 '' And you came to see a woman, Davy boy," 
 said Nelly. 
 
 They had begun to laugh again, and to walk 
 to and fro about the lawn, arm-in-arm and 
 waist-to-waistj 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 forgot." 
 
 "So had I," said Nelly, with alarm. 
 
 *' I was to have started back for Callao by the 
 Belfast pacquet." 
 
 *' 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. Lovi- 
 bond is gone with her." 
 
CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 135 
 
 " Good luck to h'm,'' 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 though ? " 
 
 *' And if you plaze, Capt'n," said Willie 
 Quarrie, stammering nervously, '' Mr. Lovi- 
 bond, 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 lave 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 re- 
 minds me of something." 
 
 "What is it?" said Nelly. 
 
 " I should have been telling you first," said 
 
136 CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 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 tay-pot. I'm broke, woman, I'm 
 broke." 
 
 Nelly laughed lightly. " Do you say so 
 now ? " 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 be after 
 giving 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, 
 and now he stepped forward and said out of 
 the darkness, "If you plaze, Capt'n, Mr. Lovi- 
 bond was telling me to give you this letter and 
 
CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 137 
 
 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 match-box, 
 and was striking a light. '* Hould up my billy- 
 cock, 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 Lovi- 
 bond had sent him. 
 
 ''A book tied up in a red tape, eh .^ " said 
 Davy. " Looks like 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, dauck, 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 for- 
 give 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 
 
138 CAPTN DAVTS HONEYMOON 
 
 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 per- 
 son 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, ner- 
 vously. 
 
 " and I send you the bank-book, to- 
 gether 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 
 
CAPTN DA VTS HONEYMOON 139 
 
 breeches pocket and grabbed at his hat. As 
 he did so a paper sh'pped 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 goosie ; your jealous little heart found out 
 who the Manx sailor was, but your wise little 
 poll never once suspected that Mr. Lovlbond 
 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- 
 bye ! What lovely stories I told you ! And 
 how you liked them ! We have borrowed your 
 husbands berths for the Pacific steamer, and 
 are going to have an Irish marriage to-morrow 
 morning at Belfast." 
 
 *' So they're a Co. consarn already," said 
 Davy. 
 
 '^ Good-bye ! 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 aware 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 say- 
 ing in a voice of melancholy sympathy. 
 
 And Peggy was answering in a doleful tone, 
 " Aw, yes, though — longing mortal." 
 
I40 CAPTN DAVY'S HONEYMOON 
 
 Becoming conscious that the eyes of her mis- 
 tress 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 LAST CONFESSION 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 I 
 
 Father, do not leave me. Wait ! only a little 
 longer. You cannot absolve me ? I am not 
 penitent ? How can I be penitent ? I do not 
 regret it ? How can I regret it ? I would do 
 it again ? How could I help but do it again ? 
 
 Yes, yes, I know, I know! Who knows it 
 so well as I ? It is written in the tables of 
 God's law : Thou shall do no murder ! But 
 was it murder ? Was it crime ? Blood ? Yes, 
 it was the spilling of blood. Blood will have 
 blood, you say. But is there no difference ? 
 Hear me out. Let me speak. It is hard to 
 remember all now — and here — lying here — but 
 listen — only listen. Then tell me if I did 
 wrong. No, tell me if God himself will not 
 justify me — ay, justify me — though I outraged 
 His edict. Blasphemy .-^ Ah, Father, do not 
 
 go ! Father ! 
 
 {Speaky my son. I will listen. It is 
 my duty. Speak.) 
 
 It is less than a year since my health broke 
 
144 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 down, but the soul lives fast, and it seems to 
 me like a lifetime. I had overworked myself 
 miserably. My life as a physician in London 
 had been a hard one, but it was not my practice 
 that had wrecked me. How to perform that 
 operation on the throat was the beginning of 
 my trouble. You know what happened. I 
 mastered my problem, and they called the 
 operation by my name. It has brought me 
 fame ; it has made me rich ; it has saved a 
 hundred lives, and will save ten thousand more, 
 and yet I — I — for taking one life — one — under 
 conditions 
 
 Father, bear with me. I will tell all. My 
 nerves are burnt out. Gloom, depression, 
 sleeplessness, prostration, sometimes collapse, a 
 consuming fire within, a paralysing frost with- 
 out — you know what it is — we call it neur- 
 asthenia. 
 
 I watched the progress of my disease and 
 gave myself the customary treatment. Hy- 
 giene, diet, drugs, electricity, I tried them all. 
 But neither dumb-bells nor Indian clubs, 
 neither walking nor riding, neither liberal food 
 nor doses of egg and brandy, neither musk nor 
 ergot nor antipyrin, neither faradisation nor 
 galvanisation availed to lift the black shades 
 that hung over me day and night, and made 
 the gift of life a mockery. I knew why. My 
 work possessed me like a fever. I could neither 
 do it to my content nor leave it undone. I was 
 drawing water in a sieve. 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION ' 145 
 
 My wife sent for Gull. Full well I knew 
 what he would advise. It was rest. I must 
 take six months' absolute holiday, and, in order 
 to cut myself off entirely from all temptations to 
 mental activity, I must leave London and go 
 abroad. Change of scene, of life, and of habit, 
 new peoples, new customs, new faiths, and a 
 new climate — these separately and together, 
 with total cessation of my usual occupations, 
 were to banish a long series of functional 
 derangements which had for their basis the 
 exhaustion of the sympathetic nervous system. 
 
 I was loth to go. Looking back upon my 
 condition, I see that my reluctance was justified. 
 To launch a creature who was all nerves into 
 the perpetual, if trifling, vexations of travel was 
 a mistake, a folly, a madness. But I did not 
 perceive this ; I was thinking only of my home 
 and the dear souls from whom I must be 
 separated. During the seven years of our 
 married life my wife had grown to be more 
 than the object of my love. That gentle sooth- 
 ing, that soft healing which the mere presence 
 of an affectionate woman, who is all strength 
 and courage, may bring to a man who is wasted 
 by work or worry, my wife's presence had long 
 brought to me, and I shrank from the thought 
 of scenes where she could no longer move about 
 me, meeting my wishes and anticipating my 
 wants. 
 
 This was weakness, and I knew it : but I 
 had another weakness which I did not know. 
 
146 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 M y boy, a little son six years of age the day 
 before I set sail, was all the world to me. 
 Paternal love may eat up all the other passions. 
 It was so in my case. The tyranny of my 
 affection for my only child was even more con- 
 stant and unrelenting than the tyranny of my 
 work. Nay, the two were one : for out of my 
 instinct as a father came my strength as a 
 doctor. The boy had suffered a throat trouble 
 from his birth. When he was a babe I de- 
 livered him from a fierce attack of it, and when 
 he was four I brought him back from the jaws 
 of death. Thus twice I had saved his life, and 
 each time that life had become dearer to me. 
 But too well I knew that the mischief was 
 beaten down, and not conquered. Some day 
 it would return with awful virulence. To meet 
 that terror I wrought by day and night. No 
 slave ever toiled so hard. I denied myself 
 rest, curtailed my sleep, and stole from tranquil 
 reflection and repose half-hours and quarter- 
 hours spent in the carriage going from patient 
 to patient. The attack might come suddenly, 
 and I must be prepared. I was working against 
 time. 
 
 You know what happened. The attack did 
 not come ; my boy continued well, but my name 
 became known and my discovery established. 
 The weakness of my own child had given the 
 bent to my studies. If I had mastered my 
 subject it was my absorbing love of my little 
 one that gave me the impulse and direction. 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 147 
 
 But I had paid my penalty. My health was 
 a wreck, and I must leave everything behind 
 me. If it had been possible to take my wife 
 and boy along with me, how different the end 
 might have been ! Should I be lying here 
 now — here on this bed — with you, father, 
 you? 
 
 We spent our boy s birthday with what cheer 
 we could command. For my wife it seemed to 
 be a day of quiet happiness, hallowed by pre- 
 cious memories — the dearest and most delicious 
 that ever a mother ever knew — of the babyhood 
 of her boy — his pretty lisp, his foolish prattle, 
 his funny little ways and sayings — and sweet- 
 ened by the anticipation of the health that was 
 to return to me as the result of rest and change. 
 The child himself was bright and gamesome, 
 and I, for my part, gave way to some reckless 
 and noisy jollity. 
 
 Thus the hours passed until bedtime, and 
 then, as I saw the little fellow tucked up in his 
 crib, it crossed my mind for a moment that he 
 looked less well than usual. Such fancies were 
 common to me, and I knew from long expe- 
 rience that it was folly to give way to them. 
 To do so at that time must have been weakness 
 too pitiful for my manhood. I had already 
 gone far enough for my own self-respect. To 
 my old colleague and fellow-student, Granville 
 Wenman, I had given elaborate instructions for 
 all possible contingencies. 
 
 If ^kts happened he was to do ^/la^ ; if ^ka^ 
 
148 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 happened he was to do ^/izs. In case of serious 
 need he was to communicate with me by the 
 swiftest means available, for neither the width 
 of the earth nor the wealth of the world, nor the 
 loss of all chances of health or yet life, should 
 keep me from hastening home if the one hope 
 of my heart was in peril. Wenman had smiled 
 a little as if in pity of the morbidity that ran out 
 to meet so many dangers. I did not heed his 
 good-natured compassion or contempt, whatever 
 it was, for I knew he had no children. I had 
 reconciled myself in some measure to my 
 absence from home, and before my little man 
 was awake in the morning I was gone from the 
 house. 
 
 It had been arranged that I should go to 
 Morocco. Wenman had suggested that country 
 out of regard to the freshness of its life and 
 people. The East in the West, the costumes 
 of Arabia, the faiths of Mohammed and of 
 Moses, a primitive form of government, and a 
 social life that might have been proper to the 
 land of Canaan in the days of Abraham — such 
 had seemed to him and others to be an atmo- 
 sphere of novelty that was likely to bring spring 
 and elasticity to the overstretched mind and 
 nerves of a victim of the civilisation of our 
 tumultuous century. But not in all. the world 
 could fate have ferreted out for me a scene 
 more certain to develop the fever and fret of 
 my natural temperament. Had the choice 
 fallen on any other place, any dead or dying 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 149 
 
 country any corner of God's earth but that 
 
 blighted and desolate land 
 
 Ah ! bear with me, bear with me. 
 
 (/ know it, my son. It is near to my 
 own country. My home is in Spain. 
 I came to your England from Seville, 
 Go on.) 
 I sailed to Gibraltar by a P. and O. steamer 
 from Tilbury, and the tender that took my wife 
 back to the railway-pier left little in my new 
 condition to interest me. You know what it is 
 to leave home in search of health. If hope is 
 before you, regret is behind. When I stood on 
 the upper deck that night, alone, and watched 
 the light of the Eddys tone dying down over 
 the dark waters, it seemed to me that success 
 had no solace, and fame no balm, and riches no 
 safety or content. One reflection alone sufficed 
 to reconcile me to where I was — the work that 
 had brought me there was done neither for 
 fame nor for riches, but at the prompting of the 
 best of all earthly passions — or what seemed to 
 be the best. 
 
 Three days passed, and beyond casual words 
 I had spoken to no one on the ship. But on 
 the fourth day, as we sailed within sight of 
 Finisterre in a calm sea, having crossed the 
 Bay with comfort, the word went round that a 
 storm-signal was hoisted on the cape. No one 
 who has gone through an experience such as 
 that is likely to forget it. Everybody on deck, 
 the blanched faces, the hushed voices, the quick 
 
I50 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 whispers, the eager glances around, the interro- 
 gations of the officers on duty, and their banter- 
 ing answers belied by their anxious looks, then 
 the darkening sky, the freshening breeze, the 
 lowering horizon, the tingling gloomy atmo- 
 sphere creeping down from the mast-heads, and 
 the air of the whole ship, above and below, 
 charged, as it were, with sudden electricity. 
 It is like nothing else in life except the bugle- 
 call in camp, telling those who lie smoking and 
 drinking about the fires that the enemy is 
 coming, and is near. 
 
 I was standing on the quarter-deck watching 
 the Lascars reefing sails, battening down the 
 hatches, tarpauling them, and making everything 
 snug, when a fellow-passenger whom I had not 
 observed before stepped up and spoke. His 
 remark was a casual one, and it has gone from 
 my memory. I think it had reference to the 
 native seamen, and was meant as a jest upon 
 their lumbering slowness, which suggested 
 pitiful thoughts to him of what their capacity 
 must be in a storm. But the air of the man 
 much more than his words aroused and arrested 
 my attention. It was that of one whose spirits 
 had been quickened by the new sense of danger. 
 He laughed, his eyes sparkled, his tongue rolled 
 out his light remarks with a visible relish. I 
 looked at the man and saw that he had the 
 soul of a war-horse. Tall, slight, dark, hand- 
 some, with bushy beard, quivering nostrils, 
 mobile mouth, and eyes of fire, alive in every 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 151 
 
 fibre, and full of unconquerable energy. He 
 appeared to be a man of thirty to thirty-five, 
 but proved to be no more than four-and-twenty. 
 I learned afterwards that he was an American, 
 and was travelling: for love of adventure. 
 
 That night we flew six hours before the storm, 
 but it overtook our ship at last. What befell 
 us then in the darkness of that rock-bound coast 
 I did not know until morning. Can you believe 
 it ? I took my usual dose of a drug prescribed 
 to me for insomnia, and lay down to sleep. 
 When I went up on deck in the late dawn of 
 the following day — the time was the spring — 
 the wind had slackened, and the ship was roll- 
 ing and swinging along in a sea that could not 
 be heard above the beat and thud of the engines. 
 Only the memory of last night's tempest lay 
 around in sullen wave and sky — only there, and 
 in the quarters down below of the native seamen 
 of our ship. 
 
 The first face I encountered was that of the 
 American. He had been on deck all night, 
 and he told me what had happened. Through 
 the dark hours the storm had been terrible, and 
 when the first dead light of dawn had crept 
 across from the east the ship had been still 
 tossing in great white billows. Just then a 
 number of Lascars had been ordered aloft on 
 some urgent duty — I know not what — and a 
 sudden gust had swept one of them from a 
 crosstree into the sea. Efforts had been made 
 to rescue him, the engines had been reversed, 
 
152 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 boats put out and life-buoys thrown into the 
 water, but all in vain. The man had been 
 swept away; he was gone and the ship had 
 steamed on. 
 
 The disaster saddened me inexpressibly. I 
 could see the Lascar fall from the rigging, 
 catch the agonising glance of the white eyes in 
 his black face as he was swept past on the 
 crest of a wave, and watch his outstretched 
 arms as he sank to his death down and down 
 and down. It seemed to me an iniquity that 
 while this had happened I had slept. Perhaps 
 the over-sensitive condition of my nerves was 
 at fault, but indeed I felt that, in his way, in his 
 degree, within the measure of his possibilities, 
 that poor fellow of another skin, another tongue, 
 with whom I had exchanged no word of greet- 
 ing, had that day given his life for my life. 
 
 How much of such emotion I expressed at 
 the time it is hard to remember now, but that 
 the American gathered the bent of my feelings 
 was clear to me by the pains he was at to show 
 that they were uncalled for, and unnatural, and 
 false. What was life ? I had set too great a 
 store by it. The modern reverence for life 
 was eating away the finest instincts of man's 
 nature. Life was not the most sacred of our 
 possessions. Duty, justice, truth, these were 
 higher things. 
 
 So he talked that day and the next until, 
 from thoughts of the loss of the Lascar, we 
 had drifted far into wider and more perilous 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 153 
 
 Speculations. The American held to his canon. 
 War was often better than peace, and open 
 massacre than corrupt tranquillity. We wanted 
 some of the robust spirit of the Middle Ages in 
 these our piping days. The talk turned on 
 the persecution of the Jews in Russia. The 
 American defended it — a stern people was 
 purging itself of an alien element which, like 
 an interminate tapeworm, had been prey- 
 ing on its vitals. The remedy was drastic but 
 necessary; life was lost, but also life was 
 saved. 
 
 Then coming to closer quarters we talked 
 of murder. The American held to the doc- 
 trine of Sterne. It was a hard case that the 
 laws of the modern world should not have 
 made any manner of difference between mur- 
 dering an honest man and only executing a 
 scoundrel. These things should always be 
 rated ad valorem. As for blood spilt in self- 
 defence, it was folly to talk of it as crime. 
 Even the laws of my own effeminate land 
 justified the man who struck down the arm 
 that was raised to kill him ; and the mind that 
 reckoned such an act as an offence was morbid 
 and diseased. 
 
 These opinions were repugnant to me, and I 
 tried to resist them. There was a sanctity 
 about human life which no man should dare to 
 outrage. God gave it, and only God should 
 take it away. As for the government of the 
 world let it be for better or for worse, it was 
 
154 t THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 in God's hands, and God required the help of 
 no man. 
 
 My resistance was useless. The American 
 held to his doctrine : it was good to take life in 
 a good cause, and if it was good for the nation, 
 it was good for the individual man. The end 
 was all. 
 
 I fenced these statements with what force I 
 could command, and I knew not then how 
 strongly my adversary had assailed me. Now, 
 I know too well that his opinions sank deep 
 into my soul. Only too well I know it now — 
 now that 
 
 We arrived at Gibraltar the following morn- 
 ing, and going up on deck in the empty void of 
 air that follows on the sudden stopping of a 
 ship's engines, I found the American, amid a 
 group of swarthy Gibraltarians, bargaining for 
 a boat to take him to the Mole. It turned out 
 that he was going to Morocco also, and we 
 hired a boat together. 
 
 The morning was clear and cold ; the great 
 broad rock looked whiter and starker and more 
 like a gigantic oyster-shell than ever against 
 the blue of the sky. There would be no 
 steamer for Tangier until the following day, 
 and we were to put up at the Spanish hotel 
 called the Calpe. 
 
 Immediately on landing I made my way to 
 the Post Office to despatch a telegram home 
 announcing my arrival, and there I found two 
 letters, which, having come overland, had arrived 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION s 155 
 
 in advance of me. One of them was from Wen- 
 man, telling me that he had called at Wimpole 
 Street the morning after my departure and 
 found all well at my house ; and also enclosing 
 a resolution of thanks and congratulation from 
 my colleagues of the College of Surgeons in 
 relation to my recent labours, which were said 
 to be '* memorable in the cause of humanity and 
 
 science." 
 
 The other letter was from my wife : a sweet, 
 affectionate little note, cheerful yet tender, 
 written on her return from Tilbury, hinting 
 that the dear old house looked just a trifle 
 empty and as if somehow it missed something, 
 but that our boy was up and happy with a new 
 toy that I had left for him as a consolation on 
 his awakening — a great elephant that worked 
 its trunk and roared. '* I have just asked our 
 darling," wrote my wife, ''what message he 
 would like to send you. ' Tell papa,' he 
 answers, ' I'm all right, and Jumbo's all right, 
 and is he all right, and will he come home werry 
 quick, and see him grunting ? ' " 
 
 That night at the Calpe I had some further 
 talk with the American. Young as he was he 
 had been a great Eastern traveller. Egypt, 
 Arabia, Syria, the Holy Land — he knew them 
 all. For his forthcoming sojourn in Morocco 
 he had prepared himself with elaborate care. 
 The literature of travel in Barbary is volumin- 
 ous, but he had gone through the best of it. 
 With the faith of Islam he had long been 
 
156 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 familiar, and of the corrupt and tyrannical 
 government of Mulai el Hassan and his kaids 
 and kadis "he had an intimate knowledge. He 
 had even studied the language of the Moorish 
 people — the Moroccan Arabic, which is a dia- 
 lect of the language of the Koran — and so that 
 he might hold intercourse with the Sephardic 
 Jews also, who people the Mellahs of Morocco, 
 he had mastered the Spanish language as 
 well. 
 
 This extensive equipment, sufficient to start 
 a crusade or to make a revolution, was meant 
 to do more than provide him with adventure. 
 His intention was to see the country and its 
 customs, to observe the manners of the people 
 and the ordinances of their religion. *' I shall 
 get into the palaces and the prisons of the 
 Kasbahs," he said ; ''yes, and the mosques and 
 the saints' houses, and the harems also." 
 
 Little as I knew then of the Moors and their 
 country, I foresaw the dangers of such an enter- 
 prise, and I warned him against it. *' You will 
 get yourself into awkward corners," I said. 
 
 " Yes," he said, ''and I shall get myself out 
 of them." 
 
 I remembered his doctrine propounded on 
 the ship, and I saw that he was a man of reso- 
 lution, but I said, " Remember, you are going 
 to the land of this people for amusement alone. 
 It is not necessity that thrusts you upon their 
 prejudice, their superstition, and their fanati- 
 cism." 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 157 
 
 ** True," he said, ''but if I get into trouble 
 among them it will not be my amusements but 
 my liberty or my life that will be in danger." 
 
 '* Then in such a case you will stick at 
 nothing to plough your way out ?" 
 
 '' Nothing." 
 
 I laughed, for my mind refused to believe 
 him, and we laughed noisily together, with 
 visions of bloody daggers before the eyes of 
 both. 
 
 Father, my /lear^ believed : silently, secretly, 
 unconsciously, it drank in the poison of his 
 thought — drank it in — ay 
 
 Next day, about noon, we sailed for Tangier. 
 Our ship was the Jackal, a little old iron steam- 
 tug, battered by time and tempest, clamped and 
 stayed at every side, and just holding together 
 as by the grace of God. The storm which we 
 had outraced from Finisterre had now doubled 
 Cape St. Vincent, and the sea was rolling heavily 
 in the Straits. We saw nothing of this until we 
 had left the bay and were standing out from 
 Tarifa ; nor would it be worthy of mention now 
 but that it gave me my first real understanding 
 of the tremendous hold that the faith or the 
 fanaticism of the Moorish people — call it what 
 you will — has upon their characters and lives. 
 
 The channel at that point is less than twenty 
 miles wide, but we were more than five hours 
 crossing it. Our little crazy craft laboured 
 terribly in the huge breakers that swept inwards 
 from the Atlantic. Pitching until the foredeck 
 
158 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 was covered, rolling until her boats dipped in 
 the water, creaking, shuddering, leaping, she 
 had enough to do to keep afloat. 
 
 With the American I occupied the bridge 
 between the paddle-boxes, which served as a 
 saloon for first-class passengers ; and below us, 
 in the open hold of the after-deck, a number of 
 Moors sat huddled together among cattle and 
 sheep and baskets of fowls. They were 
 pilgrims, Hadjes, returning from Mecca by way 
 of Gibraltar, and their behaviour during the 
 passage was marvellous in its callousness to the 
 sense of peril. They wrangled, quarrelled, 
 snarled at each other, embraced, kissed, laughed 
 together, made futile attempts to smoke their 
 keef-pipes, and quarrelled, barked, and bleated 
 again. 
 
 ''Surely," I said, ''these people are either 
 wondrously brave or they have no sense of the 
 solemnity of death." 
 
 " Neither," said the American ; " they are 
 merely fatalists by virtue of their faith. ' If it 
 iS;.now, it is to come ; if it is not to come, then 
 it is now.' " 
 
 "There is a sort of bravery in that," I 
 answered. 
 
 " And cowardice, too," said the American. 
 
 The night had closed in when we dropped 
 anchor by the ruins of the Mole at Tangier, 
 and I saw no more of the white town than I 
 had seen of it from the Straits. But if my 
 eyes failed in the darkness my other senses 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 159 
 
 served me only too well. The shrieking and 
 yelping of the boatloads of Moors and negroes 
 who clambered aboard to relieve us of our 
 luggage, the stench of the town sewers that 
 emptied into the bay — these were my first im- 
 pressions of the gateway to the home of Islam. 
 
 The American went through the turmoil with 
 composure and an air of command, and having 
 seen to my belongings as well as his own, 
 passing them through the open office at the 
 water-gate, where two solemn Moors in white 
 sat by the light of candles, in the receipt of 
 customs, he parted from me at the foot of the 
 street that begins with the Grand Mosque, and 
 is the main artery of the town, for he had 
 written for rooms to the hotel called the Villa 
 de France, and I, before leaving England, 
 had done the same to the hotel called the 
 Continental. 
 
 Thither I was led by a barefooted courier in 
 white jellab and red tarboosh, amid sights and 
 sounds of fascinating strangeness : the low 
 drone of men's voices singing their evening 
 prayers in the mosques, the tinkling of the bells 
 of men selling water out of goats' skins, the 
 *' Allah " of blind beggars crouching at the gates, 
 the *'Arrah" of the mule drivers, and the hooded 
 shapes going by in the gloom or squatting in 
 the red glare of the cafes without windows or 
 doors and open to the streets. 
 
 I met the American in the Sok — the market- 
 place — the following day, and he took me up to 
 
i6o THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 his hotel to see some native costumes which he 
 had bought by way of preparation for his enter- 
 prise. They were haiks and soolhams, jellabs, 
 kaftans, sHppers, rosaries, korans, sashes, 
 satchels, turbans, and tarbooshes — blue, white, 
 yellow, and red — all right and none too new, 
 for he had purchased them not at the bazaars, 
 but from the son of a learned Moor, a Tdleb, 
 who had been cast into a prison by a usurer 
 Jew. 
 
 " In these," said he, '' J mean to go every- 
 where, and I'll defy the devil himself to detect 
 me. 
 
 **Take care," I said, ''take care." 
 
 He laughed, and asked me what my own 
 plans were. I told him that I would remain in 
 Tangier until I received letters from home, and 
 then push on towards Fez. 
 
 '' I'll see you there," he said ; '* but if I do 
 not hail you, please do not know me. Good- 
 bye." 
 
 " Good-bye," I said, and so we parted. 
 
 I stayed ten days longer in Tangier, absorbed 
 in many reflections, of which the strangest were 
 these two : first, that the Moors were the most 
 religious people in the world, and next, that 
 they were the most wickedly irreligious and 
 basely immoral race on God's earth. I was 
 prompted to the one by observation of the 
 large part which Allah appears to play in all 
 affairs of Moorish life, and to the other by clear 
 proof of the much larger part which the devil 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION i6i 
 
 enacts in Allah's garments. On the one side 
 prayers, prayers, prayers, the moodden, the 
 moodden, the moodden, the mosque, the 
 mosque, the mosque. '' Allah " in the mouths 
 of the beggars, " Allah " from the lips of the 
 merchants, ** Mohammed" on the inscriptions 
 at the gate, the *' Koran" on the scalfs hung 
 out at the bazaars and on the satchels hawked 
 in the streets. And on the other side shameless 
 lying, cheating, usury, buying and selling of 
 justice, cruelty and inhumanity ; raw sores on 
 the backs of the asses, blood in the streets, 
 blood, blood, blood everywhere and secret cor- 
 ruption indescribable. 
 
 Nevertheless I concluded that my nervous 
 malady must have given me the dark glasses 
 through which everything looked so foul, and I 
 resolved, in the interests of health, to push on 
 towards Fez as soon as letters arrived from 
 home assuring me that all were well and happy 
 there. 
 
 But no letters came, and at the arrival of 
 every fresh mail from Cadiz and from Gibraltar 
 my impatience increased. At length I decided 
 to wait no longer, and, leaving instructions that 
 my letters should be sent on after me to the 
 capital, I called on the English Consul for such 
 official documents as were needed for my 
 journey. 
 
 When these had been procured from the 
 Kasbah, and I was equipped for travel, the 
 Consul inquired of me how I liked the Moors 
 
i62 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 and their country. I described my conflicting 
 impressions, and he said both were right in 
 their several ways. 
 
 ''The rehgion of the Moor," said he, "is 
 genuine of its kind, though it does not put an 
 end to the vilest Government on earth and the 
 most loathsome immoralities ever practised by 
 man. Islam is a sacred thing to him. He is 
 proud of it, jealous of it, and prepared to die for 
 it. Half his hatred of the unbeliever is fear 
 that the Nazarene or the Jew is eager to show 
 his faith some dishonour. And that," added 
 the Consul, '* reminds me to offer you one word 
 of warning : avoid the very shadow of offence 
 to the religion of these people ; do not pry into 
 their beliefs ; do not take note of their ordi- 
 nances ; pass their mosques and saints' houses 
 with downcast eyes, if need be ; in a word, let 
 Islam alone." 
 
 I thanked him for his counsel, and, remember- 
 ing the American, I inquired what the penalty 
 would be if a foreign subject offended the re- 
 ligion of this people. The Consul lifted his 
 eyebrows and shoulders together, with an elo- 
 quence of reply that required no words. 
 
 " But might not a stranger," I asked, *'do so 
 unwittingly ? " 
 
 " Truly," he answered, *' and so much the 
 worse for his ignorance." 
 
 " Is British life, then," I said, ''at the mercy 
 of the first ruflfian with a dagger ? Is there no 
 power in solemn treaties ? " 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 163 
 
 *' What are treaties," he said, ''against fanati- 
 cism ? Give the one a wide berth and you'll 
 have small need for the other." 
 
 After that he told me something of certain 
 claims just settled for long imprisonment in- 
 flicted by the Moorish authorities on men trad- 
 ing under the protection of the British flag. It 
 was an abject story of barbarous cruelty, broken 
 health, shattered lives, and wrecked homes, 
 atoned for after weary procrastination, in the 
 manner of all Oriental courts, by a sorry money 
 payment. The moral of it all was conveyed by 
 the Consul in the one word with which he 
 parted from me at his gate : '' Respect the 
 fanaticism of these fanatics," he said, ''as you 
 would value your liberty or your life, and keep 
 out of a Moorish prison — remember that, re- 
 member that ! " 
 
 I did remember it. Every day of my travels 
 1 remembered it. I remembered it at the most 
 awful moment of my life. If I had not remem- 
 bered it then, should I be lying here now with 
 that — with ^ka^ — behind me ! Ah, wait, wait ! 
 
 Little did I expect when I left the Consul to 
 light so soon upon a terrible illustration of his 
 words. With my guide and interpreter, a 
 Moorish soldier lent to me by the authorities in 
 return for two pesetas (one shilling and nine- 
 pence) a day, I strolled into the greater Sok, 
 the market-place outside the walls. It was 
 Friday, the holy day of the Moslems, some- 
 where between one and two o'clock in the after- 
 
i64 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 noon, when the body of the Moors having 
 newly returned from their one-hour observances 
 in the mosques, had resumed, according to their 
 wont, their usual occupations. The day was 
 fine and warm, a bright sun was shining, and 
 the Sok at the time when we entered it was a 
 various and animated scene. 
 
 Dense crowds of hooded figures, clad chiefly 
 in white — soiled or dirty white — men in jellabs, 
 women enshrouded in blankets, barefooted 
 girls, boys with shaven polls, water-carriers 
 with their tinkling bells, snake-charmers, story- 
 tellers, jugglers, preachers, and then donkeys, 
 nosing their way through the throng, mules 
 lifting their necks above the people's heads, and 
 camels munching oats and fighting — it was a 
 wilderness of writhing forms and a Babel of 
 shrieking noises. 
 
 With my loquacious Moor I pushed my way 
 along past booths and stalls until I came to a 
 whitewashed structure with a white flag floating 
 over it, that stood near the middle of the 
 market-place. It was a roofless place, about 
 fifteen feet square, and something like a little 
 sheepfold, but having higher walls. Through 
 the open doorway I saw an inner inclosure, out 
 of which a man came forward. He was a wild- 
 eyed creature in tattered garments, dirty, dis- 
 hevelled, and malevolent of face. 
 
 **See," said my guide, "see, my lord, a 
 Moorish saint's house. Look at the flag. So 
 shall my lord know a saint's house. Here rest 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 165 
 
 the bones of Sidi Gali, and that is the saint 
 that guards them. A holy man, yes, a holy, 
 man. Moslems pay him tribute. Sacred place 
 yes, sacred. No Nazarene may enter it. But 
 Muslems, yes, Muslems may fly here for 
 sanctuary. Life to the Muslem, death to the 
 Nazarene. So it is." 
 
 My soldier was rattling on in this way when 
 I saw coming in the sunlight down the hillside 
 of which the Sok is the foot a company of some 
 eight or ten men, whose dress and complexion 
 were unlike those of the people gathered there. 
 They were a band of warlike persons, swarthy, 
 tall, lithe, sinewy, with heads clean shaven save 
 for one long lock that hung from the crown, 
 each carrying a gun with barrel of prodigious 
 length upon his shoulder, and also armed with 
 a long naked Reefian knife stuck in the scarf 
 that served him for a belt. 
 
 They were Berbers, the descendants of the 
 race that peopled Barbary before the Moors set 
 foot in it, between whom and the Moors there 
 is a long-continued, suppressed, but ineradicable 
 enmity. From their mountain homes these men 
 had come to the town that day on their pleasure 
 or their business, and as they entered it they 
 were at no pains to conceal their contempt for 
 the townspeople and their doings. 
 
 Swaggering along with long strides, they 
 whooped and laughed and ploughed their way 
 through the crowd over bread and vegetables 
 spread out on the ground, and the people fell 
 
i66 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 back before them with muttered curses until 
 they were come near to the saint's house beside 
 which I myself with my guide was standing. 
 Then I saw that the keeper of the saint's house, 
 the half-distraught creature whom I had just 
 observed, was spitting out at them some bitter 
 and venomous sayings. 
 
 Clearly they all heard him, and most of them 
 laughed derisively and pushed on. But one of 
 the number — a young Berber with eyes of fire 
 — drew up suddenly and made some answer in 
 hot and rapid words. The man of the saint's 
 house spoke again, showing his teeth as he did 
 so in a horrible grin ; and at the next instant, 
 almost quicker than my eyes could follow the 
 swift movement of his hands, the Berber had 
 plucked his long knife from his belt and plunged 
 it in the keeper's breast. 
 
 I saw it all. The man fell at my feet, and 
 was dead in an instant. In another moment 
 the police of the market had laid hold of the 
 murderer, and he was being hauled off to his 
 trial. '' Come," whispered my guide, and he 
 led me by short cuts through the narrow lanes 
 to the Kasbah. 
 
 In an open alcove of the castle I found two 
 men in stainless blue jellabs and spotless white 
 turbans, squatting on rush mats at either foot of 
 the horseshoe arch. These were the judges, 
 the Kadi and his Kaleefa, sitting in session in 
 the hall of justice. 
 
 There was a tumult of many voices and of 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 167 
 
 hurrying feet ; and presently the poHce entered, 
 holding their prisoner between them, and 
 followed by a vast concourse of townspeople. 
 I held my ground in front of the alcove, the 
 Berber was brought up near to my side, and I 
 saw and heard all. 
 
 ** This man," said one of the police, ** killed 
 so-and-so, of Sidi Gali's saint's house." 
 
 *^ When? "said the Kadi. 
 
 '' This moment," said the police. 
 
 '' How ? " said the Kadi. 
 
 '* With this knife," said the police. 
 
 The knife, stained, and still wet, was handed 
 to the judge. He shook it, and asked the 
 prisoner one question : ** Why ? " 
 
 Then the Berber flung himself on his knees 
 — his shaven head brushed my hand — and 
 began to plead extenuating circumstances. " It 
 is true my lord, I killed him, but he called me 
 dog and infidel, and spat at me " 
 
 The Kadi gave back the knife and waved his 
 hand. '' Take him away," he said. 
 
 That was all, as my guide interpreted it. 
 *' Come," he whispered again, and he led me by 
 a passage into a sort of closet where a man lay on 
 a mattress. This was the porch to the prison, 
 and the man on the mattress was the jailor. In 
 one wall there was a low door, barred and 
 clamped with iron, and having a round peephole 
 grated across. 
 
 At the next instant the police brought in their 
 prisoner. The jailor rattled a big key in the 
 
i68 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 lock, the low door swung open, I saw within a 
 dark den full of ghostly figures dragging chains 
 at their ankles, a foul stench came out of it, the 
 prisoner bent his head and was pushed in, the 
 door slammed back — and that was the end. 
 Everything occurred in no more time than it 
 takes to tell it. 
 
 '' Is that all his trial ?" I asked. 
 
 *' All," said my guide. 
 
 ** How long will he lie there ? " 
 
 '^ Until death." 
 
 ' But," I said, '' I have heard that a Kadi of 
 your country may be bribed to liberate a mur- 
 derer." 
 
 " Ah, my lord is right," said my guide, "but 
 not the murderer of a saint." 
 
 Less than five minutes before I had seen the 
 stalwart young Berber swaggering down the 
 hillside in the afternoon sunshine. Now he was 
 in the gloom of the noisome dungeon, with no 
 hope of ever again looking upon the light of 
 day, doomed to drag out an existence worse 
 than death, and all for what ? For taking life ? 
 No, no, no — life in that land is cheap, cheaper 
 than 'it ever was in the Middle Ages — but for 
 doing dishonour to a superstition of the faith of 
 Islam. 
 
 I remembered the American, and shuddered 
 at the sight of this summary justice. Next 
 morning, as my tentmen and muleteers were 
 making ready to set out for Fez, my soldier 
 guide brought me a letter which had come with 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 169 
 
 the French steamer by way of Malaga. It was 
 from home — a brief note from my wife, with no 
 explanation of her prolonged silence, merely 
 saying that all was as usual at Wimpole Street, 
 and not mentioning our boy at all. The omis- 
 sion troubled me, the brevity and baldness of 
 the message filled me with vague concern, and 
 I had half a mind to delay my inland journey. 
 Would that I had done so ! Would that I had ! 
 Oh, would that I had ! 
 
 (Terrible, my son^ terrible ! A 
 blighted and desolated land. But even 
 worse than its own people are the re- 
 negades it takes from mine. Ah, I 
 knew one such long ago. An outcast, 
 a pariah, a shedder of blood, an apos- 
 tate. But go on, go on.) 
 
II 
 
 Father, what voice was it that rang in my 
 ears and cried, " Stay, do not travel ; all your 
 past from the beginning until to-day/all your 
 future from to-day until the end, hangs on your 
 action now ; go, and your past is a waste, your 
 fame a mockery, your success a reproach ; re- 
 main, and your future is peace and happiness 
 and content ! " What voice, father, what voice ? 
 I shut my ears to it, and six days afterwards 
 I arrived at Fez. My journey had impressed 
 two facts upon my mind with startling vivid- 
 ness ; first, that the Moor would stick at nothing 
 in his jealousy of the honour of his faith, and 
 next, that I was myself a changed and coarsened 
 man. I was reminded of the one when in El 
 Kassar I saw an old Jew beaten in the open 
 streets because he had not removed his slippers 
 and walked barefoot as he passed the front of a 
 mosque; and again in Wazzan, when I witnessed 
 the welcome given to the Grand Shereef on 
 his return from his home in Tangier to his 
 house in the capital of his province. The Jew 
 was the chief usurer of the town, and had half 
 the Moorish inhabitants in his toils ; yet his 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 171 
 
 commercial power had counted for nothing 
 against the honour of Islam. '' I," said he to 
 me that night in the Jewish inn, the Fondak, 
 *' I, who could clap every man of them in the 
 Kasbah, and their masters with them, for 
 moneys they owe me, I to be treated like a 
 dog by these scurvy sons of Ishmael — God of 
 Jacob ! " The Grand Shereef was a drunkard, 
 a gamester, and worse. There was no ordin- 
 ance of Mohammed which he had not openly 
 outraged, yet because he stood to the people as 
 the descendant of the Prophet and the father of 
 the faith, they grovelled on the ground before 
 him and kissed his robes, his knees, his feet, his 
 stirrups, and the big hoofs of the horse that 
 carried him. As for myself, I realised that the 
 atmosphere of the country had corrupted me, 
 when I took out from my baggage a curved 
 knife in its silver-mounted sheath, which I 
 had bought of a hawker at Tangier, and 
 fixed it prominently in the belt of my Norfolk 
 jacket. 
 
 The morning after my arrival in Fez I 
 encountered my American companion of the 
 voyage. Our meeting was a strange one. I 
 had rambled aimlessly with my guide through 
 the new town into the old until I had lighted by 
 chance upon the slave market in front of the 
 ruins of the ancient Grand Mosque, and upon a 
 human auction which was then proceeding. No 
 scene so full of shame had I ever seen before, 
 but the fascination of the spectacle held me, and 
 
172 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 I Stood and watched and listened. The slave 
 being sold was a black girl, and she was beauti- 
 ful according to the standard of her skin, bare- 
 headed, barefooted, and clad as lightly over her 
 body as decency allowed, so as to reveal the 
 utmost of her charms. 
 
 *' Now, brothers," cried the salesman, " look, 
 see " (pinching the girl's naked arms and rolling 
 his jewelled fingers from her chin downwards 
 over her bare neck on to her bosom), *' sound of 
 wind and limb, and with rosy lips, fit for the 
 kisses of a king — how much ? " 
 
 " A hundred dollars," cried a voice out of the 
 crowd. I thought I had heard the voice before, 
 and looked up to see w^ho had spoken. It was 
 a tall man with haik over his turban, and blue 
 soolham on top of a yellow kaftan. 
 
 " A hundred dollars offered," cried the sales- 
 man, ''only a hundred. Brothers, now's the 
 chance for all true believers." 
 
 " A hundred and five," cried another voice. 
 
 " A hundred and ten." 
 
 '* A hundred and fifteen." 
 
 '* A hundred and fifteen for this jewel of a 
 girl," cried the salesman. '' It's giving her 
 away, brothers. By the prophets, if you are 
 not quick I'll keep her for myself. Come, look 
 at her, Sidi. Isn't she good enough for a 
 sultan ? The Prophet (God rest him) would 
 have leapt at her. He loved sweet women as 
 much as he loved sweet odours. Now, for the 
 third and last time — how much ? Remember, 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 173 
 
 I guarantee her seventeen years of age, sound, 
 strong, plump, and sweet." 
 
 " A hundred and twenty," cried the voice I 
 had heard first. I looked up at the speaker 
 again. It was the American in his Moorish 
 costume. 
 
 I could bear no more of the sickening 
 spectacle, and as I turned aside with my inter- 
 preter I was conscious that my companion of 
 the voyage was following me. When we came 
 to some dark arcades that divide Old Fez from 
 New Fez the American spoke, and I sent my 
 interpreter ahead. 
 
 " You see I am giving myself full tether in 
 this execrable land," he said. 
 
 " Indeed you are," I answered. 
 
 *' Well, as the Romans in Rome, you know- 
 it was what I came for," he said. 
 
 " Take care," I replied. '* Take care.'* 
 
 He drew up shortly and said, '' By the way, 
 I ought to be ashamed to meet you." 
 
 I thought he ought, but for courtesy I asked 
 him why. 
 
 " Because," said he, *' I have failed to act up 
 to my principles." 
 
 *' In what .^" I inquired. 
 
 ''In saving the life of a scoundrel at the risk 
 of my own," he answered. 
 
 Then he told me his story. " I left Tangier," 
 he said, " with four men in my caravan, but it 
 did not suit me to bring them into Fez, so I 
 dismissed them a day's ride from here, paying 
 
174 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 in full for the whole journey and making a pre- 
 sent over. My generosity was a blunder. The 
 Moor cannot comprehend an act of disinterested 
 kindness, and I saw the ruffians lay their heads 
 together to find out what it could mean. Three 
 of them gave it up and went off home, but the 
 fourth determined to follow the trace. His 
 name was Larby." 
 
 (Larby f El Arby, my son f Did 
 you say El Arby f Of Tangier, too ? 
 A Moor ? Or was he a Spanish rene- 
 gade turned Muslem ? But no matter — 
 no matter^ 
 ** He was my guide," said the American, ** and 
 a most brazen hypocrite, always cheating me. 
 I let him do so, it amused me — always lying to 
 my face^ and always fumbling his beads — God 
 forgive me ! God forgive me ' — an appropriate 
 penance, you know the way of it. * Peace, 
 Sidi ! ' said the rascal : ' Farewell ! Allah send 
 we meet in Paradise.' But the devil meant 
 that we should meet before that. We have 
 met. It was a hot moment. Do you know the 
 Hamadsha Mosque .'^ It is a place in a side 
 street sacred to the preaching of a fanatical 
 follower of one Sidi Ali bin Hamdoosh, and to 
 certain wild dances executed in a glass-and-fire- 
 eating frenzy. I thought I should like to hear 
 a Moorish D. L. Moody, and one day I went 
 there. As I was going in I met a man coming 
 out. It was Larby. ^Beeba!' he whispered, 
 with a tragic start — that was his own name for 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 175 
 
 me on the journey. * Keep your tongue be- 
 tween your teeth,' I whispered back. * I was 
 Beeba yesterday, to-day I'm Sidi Moham- 
 med.' Then I entered, spread my prayer-mat, 
 chanted my first Sura, listened to a lusty ser- 
 mon, and came out. There, as I expected, in 
 the blind lane leading from the Hamadsha to 
 the town, was Larby waiting for me. * Beeba/ 
 said he, with a grin, ' you play a double hand 
 of cards.' 'Then,' said I, 'take care I don't 
 trump your trick.' The rascal had thought I 
 might bribe him, and when he knew that I 
 would not I saw murder in his face. He had 
 conceived the idea of betraying me at the next 
 opportunity. At that moment he was as surely 
 aiming at my life as if he had drawn his dagger 
 and stabbed me. It was then that I disgraced 
 my principles." 
 
 "How? how?" I said, though truly I had 
 little need to ask. 
 
 '' We were alone, I tell you, in a blind lane," 
 said the American ; '' but I remembered stones 
 the man had told me of his children. ' Little 
 Hoolia,' he called his daughter, a pretty, black- 
 eyed mite of six, who always watched for him 
 when he was away." 
 
 I was breaking into perspiration. '* Do you 
 mean," I said, "that you should have " 
 
 '' I mean that I should have killed the scoun- 
 drel there and then ! " said the American. 
 
 '* God forbid it ! " I cried, and my hair rose 
 from my scalp in horror. 
 
176 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 " Why not ? '' said the American. *' It would 
 have been an act of self-defence. The man 
 meant to kill me. He will kill me still if I give 
 him the chance. What is the difference between 
 murder in a moment and murder after five, ten, 
 fifteen, twenty days '^. Only that one is murder 
 in hot blood and haste and the other is murdef 
 in cold blood and by stealth. Is it life that you 
 think so precious ? Then, why should I value 
 his life more than I value my own f " 
 
 I shivered, and could say nothing. 
 
 '' You think me a monster," said the Ameri- 
 can, *'but remember, since we left England the 
 atmosphere has changed." 
 
 *' Remember, too," I said, ''that this man can 
 do you no harm unless you intrude yourself 
 upon his superstitions again. Leave the country 
 immediately; depend upon it, he is following 
 you." 
 
 " That's not possible," said the American, 
 **for / am following him. Until I come up 
 with him I can do nothing and my existence is 
 not worth a pin's purchase." 
 
 I shuddered, and we parted. My mind told 
 me that he was right, but my heart clamoured 
 above the voice of reason and said, '* You could 
 not do it, no, not to save a hundred lives." 
 
 Ah, father, how little we know ourselves — 
 how little, oh, how little ! When I think that 
 he shrank back — he who held life so cheap — 
 while /—I who held it so dear, so sacred, so 
 god-like 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 177 
 
 Bear with me ; I will tell all. 
 
 I met the American at intervals during the 
 next six days. We did not often speak, but as 
 we passed in the streets — he alone, I always 
 with my loquacious interpreter — I observed with 
 dread the change that the shadow of death hang- 
 ing over a man's head can bring to pass in his 
 face and manner. He grew thin and sallow and 
 wild-eyed. One day he stopped me, and said : 
 " I know now what your Buckshot Forster died 
 of," and then he went on without another word. 
 
 But about ten days after our first meeting in 
 the slave market he stopped me again, and said, 
 quite cheerfully : '* He has gone home — I'm 
 satisfied of that now." 
 
 " Thank God ! " I answered involuntarily. 
 
 ''Ah," he said, with a twinkle of the eye, 
 ''who says that a man must hang up his 
 humanity on the peg with his hat in the hospital 
 hall when he goes to be a surgeon ? If the 
 poet Keats had got over the first shock to his 
 sensibilities, he might have been the greatest 
 surgeon of his day." 
 
 " You'll be more careful in future," I said, 
 " not to cross the fanaticism of these fanatics ? " 
 
 He smiled, and asked if I knew the Karueein 
 Mosque. I told him I had seen it. 
 
 "It is the greatest in Morocco," he said. 
 " The Moors say the inner court stands on eight 
 hundred pillars. I don't believe them, and I 
 mean to see for myself." 
 
 I found it useless to protest, and he went his 
 
 M 
 
178 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 way, laughing at my blanched and bewildered 
 face. '' That man," I thought, '' is fit to be the 
 hero of a tragedy, and he is wasting himself on 
 a farce/' 
 
 Meanwhile, I had a shadow over my own 
 life which would not lift. That letter which I 
 had received from home at the moment of 
 leaving Tangier had haunted me throughout 
 the journey. Its brevity, its insufficiency, its 
 delay, and above all its conspicuous omission 
 of all mention of our boy, had given rise to 
 endless speculation. Every dark possibility 
 that fancy could devise had risen before me by 
 way of explanation. I despised myself for such 
 weakness, but self-contempt did nothing to allay 
 my vague fears. The child was ill ; I knew it ; 
 I felt it ; I could swear to it as certainly as if 
 my ears could hear the laboured breathing in 
 his throat. 
 
 Nevertheless I went on ; so much did my 
 philosophy do for me. But when I got to Fez 
 I walked straightway to the English post-office 
 to see if there was a letter awaiting me. Of 
 course there was no letter there. I had not 
 reflected that I had come direct from the port 
 through which the mails had to pass, and that 
 if the postal courier had gone by me on the 
 road I must have seen him, which I had 
 not. 
 
 I was ashamed before my own consciousness, 
 but, all the same, the post-office saw me every 
 day. Whatever the direction that I took with 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 179 
 
 my interpreter, it led towards that destination 
 in the end. And whatever the subject of his 
 ceaseless gabble — a very deluge of words — it 
 was forced to come round at last to the times 
 and seasons of the mails from England. These 
 were bi-weekly, with various possibilities of 
 casual arrivals besides. 
 
 Fez is a noble city, the largest and finest 
 Oriental city I had yet seen, fit to compare in 
 its own much different way of beauty and of 
 splendour with the great cities of the West, the 
 great cities of the earth, and of all time ; but 
 for me its attractions were overshadowed by the 
 gloom of my anxiety. The atmosphere of an 
 older world, the spirit of the East, the sense of 
 being transported to Bible times, the startling 
 interpretations which the Biblical stories were 
 receiving by the events of every day — these 
 brought me no pleasure. As for the constant 
 reminders of the presence of Islam every hour, 
 at every corner, the perpetual breath of prayer 
 and praise, which filled this land that was 
 corrupt to the core, they gave me pain more 
 poignant than disgust. The call of the mueddin 
 in the early morning was a daily agony. I slept 
 three streets from the Karueein minarets, but 
 the voice seemed to float into my room in the 
 darkness, and coil round my head and ring in 
 my ears. Always I was awakened at the first 
 sound of the stentorian " Allah-u-Kabar," or, if 
 I awoke in the silence and thought with a feel- 
 ing of relief, *' It is over, I have slept through 
 
i8o THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 it," the howling wail would suddenly break in 
 upon my thanksgiving. 
 
 There was just one fact of life in Fez that 
 gave me a kind of melancholy joy. At nearly 
 every turn of a street my ears were arrested by 
 the multitudinous cackle, the broken, various- 
 voiced sing-song of a children's school. These 
 Moorish schools interested me. They were the 
 simplest of all possible institutes, consisting 
 usually of a rush-covered cellar, two steps down 
 from the street, with the teacher, the Taleb, 
 often a half-blind old man, squatting in the 
 middle of the floor, and his pupils seated about 
 him, all reciting together some passages of 
 the Koran, the only text-book of education. 
 One such school was close under my bed-room 
 window ; I heard the drone of it as early as 
 seven o'clock every morning, and as often as I 
 went abroad I stood for a moment and looked 
 in at the open door-way. A black boy sat 
 there with a basket for the alms of passers-by. 
 He was a bright-eyed little fellow, six or seven 
 years of age, and he knew one English phrase 
 only : '' Come on," he would say, and hold up 
 the basket and smile. What pathetic interest 
 his sunny face had for me, how he would cheer 
 and touch me, with what strange memories his 
 voice and laugh would startle me, it would be 
 pitiful to tell. 
 
 Bear with me! I was far from my own 
 darling, I was in a strange land, I was a weak 
 man for all that I was thought so strong, and 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION i8i 
 
 my one besetting infirmity — more consuming 
 than a mother's love — was preyed upon by my 
 failing health, which in turn was preying upon 
 itself. 
 
 And if the sights of the streets brought me 
 pain, or pleasure that was akin to pain, what of 
 the sights, the visions, the dreams of my own 
 solitary mind ! 1 could not close my eyes in 
 the darkness but I saw my boy. His little 
 child-ghost was always with me. He never 
 appeared as 1 had oftenest seen him — laughing, 
 romping, and kicking up his legs on the hearth- 
 rug. Sometimes he came as he would do at 
 home after he had committed some childish tres- 
 pass and I had whipped him — opening the door 
 of my room and stepping one pace in, quietly, 
 nervously, half fearfully, to say good-night and 
 kiss me at his bedtime, and I would lift my eyes 
 and see, over the shade of my library lamp, his 
 little sober red-and- white face just dried of its 
 recent tears. Or, again, sometimes, I myself 
 would seem in these dumb dramas of the dark- 
 ness to go into his room when he was asleep, 
 that I might indulge my hungry foolish heart 
 with looks of fondness that the reproving parent 
 could not give, and find him sleeping with an 
 open book in his hands, which he had made 
 believe to read. And then for sheer folly of 
 love I would pick up his wee knickerbockers 
 and turn out its load at either side, to see what 
 a boy's pockets might be like, and discover a 
 curiosity shop of poor little treasures — a knife 
 
i82 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 with a broken blade, a nail, two marbles, a bit 
 of brass, some string, a screw, a crust of bread, 
 a cork, and the leg of a lobster. 
 
 While I was indulging this weakness^he con- 
 viction was deepening in my mind that my boy 
 was ill. So strong did this assurance become 
 at length, that, though I was ashamed to give 
 way to it so far as to set my face towards home, 
 being yet no better for my holiday, I sat down 
 at length to write a letter to Wenman — I had 
 written to my wife by every mail — that I might 
 relieve my pent-up feelings. I said nothing to 
 him of my misgivings, for I was loth to confess 
 to them, having no positive reasons whatever, 
 and no negative grounds except the fact that I 
 was receiving no letters. But I gave him a full 
 history of my boy's case, described each stage 
 of it in the past, foretold its probable develop- 
 ments in the future, indicated with elaborate 
 care the treatment necessary at every point, and 
 foreshadowed the contingencies under which it 
 might in the end become malignant and even 
 deadly, unless stopped by the operation that I 
 had myself, after years of labour, found the art 
 of making. 
 
 I spent an afternoon in the writing of this 
 letter, and when it was done I felt as if a burden 
 that had been on my back for ages had suddenly 
 been lifted away. Then I went out alone to 
 post it. The time was close to evening prayers, 
 and as I walked through the streets the Tdlebs 
 and tradesmen, with their prayer-mats under 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 183 
 
 their arms, were trooping into the various 
 mosques. Going by the Karueein Mosque I 
 observed that the good MusHmeen were enter- 
 ing it by hundreds. '' Some special celebration," 
 I thought. My heart was light, my eyes were 
 alert, and my step was quick. For the first 
 time since my coming to the city, Fez seemed 
 to me a beautiful place. The witchery of 
 the scenes of the streets took hold of me. 
 To be thus transported into a world of two 
 thousand years ago gave me the delight of 
 magic. 
 
 When I reached the English post-office I 
 found it shut up. On its shutters behind its 
 iron grating a notice-board was hung out, say- 
 ing that the office was temporarily closed for 
 the sorting of an incoming mail and the despatch 
 of an outgoing one. There was a little crowd 
 of people waiting in front — chiefly Moorish 
 servants of English visitors — for the window to 
 open again, and near by stood the horses of the 
 postal couriers pawing the pavement. I dropped 
 my letter into the slit in the window, and then 
 stood aside to see if the mail had brought any- 
 thing for me at last. 
 
 The window was thrown up, and two letters 
 were handed to me through the grating over 
 the heads of the Moors, who were crushing 
 underneath. I took them with a sort of fear, 
 and half wished at the first moment that they 
 might be from strangers. They were from 
 home : one was from my wife — I knew the en- 
 
i84 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 velope before looking at the handwriting — the 
 other was from Wenman. 
 
 I read Wenman's letter first. Good or bad, 
 the news must be broken to me gently. Hardly- 
 had I torn the sheet open when I saw what it 
 contained. My little Noel had been ill ; he 
 was still so, but not seriously, and I was not to 
 be alarmed. The silence on their part which I 
 had complained of so bitterly had merely been 
 due to their fear of giving me unnecessary 
 anxiety. For his part (Wenman's) he would 
 have written before, relying on my manliness 
 and good sense, but my wife had restrained 
 him, saying she knew me better. There was 
 no cause for apprehension ; the boy was going 
 along as well as could be expected, &c. &:c. 
 &c. 
 
 Not a word to indicate the nature and degree 
 of the attack. Such an insufficient epistle must 
 have disquieted the veriest nincompoop alive. 
 To send a thing like that to me — to me of all 
 men ! Was there ever so gross a mistake of 
 judgment ? 
 
 I knew in an instant what the fact must be — 
 my boy was down with that old congenital in- 
 firmity of the throat. Surely my wife had told 
 me more. She had. Not by design, but un- 
 wittingly she had revealed the truth to me. 
 Granville Wenman had written to me, she said, 
 explaining everything, and I was not to worry 
 and bother. All that was possible was being 
 done for our darling, and if I were there I could 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 185 
 
 do no more. The Illness had to have its course, 
 so I must be patient. All this in the usual 
 jargon of the surgery — I know that Wenman 
 had dictated it — and then a true line or two 
 worth all the rest from my dear girl's own 
 bleeding mother's heart. Our poor Noel was 
 this, and that, he complained of so-and so, and 
 first began to look unwell in such and such 
 ways. 
 
 It was clear as noonday. The attack of the 
 throat which I had foreseen had come. Five 
 years I had looked for it. Through five long 
 years I had waited and watched to check it. I 
 had laboured day and night that when it should 
 come I might meet it. My own health I had 
 wasted — and for what ? For fame, for wealth, 
 for humanity, for science ? No, no, no, but for 
 the life of my boy. And now when his enemy 
 was upon him at length, where was I — I who 
 alone in all this world of God could save him ? 
 I was thirteen hundred miles from home. 
 
 Oh, the irony of my fate ! My soul rose in 
 rebellion against it. Staggering back through 
 the darkening streets, the whole city seemed 
 dead and damned. 
 
 How far I walked in this state of oblivion I 
 do not know, but presently out of the vague 
 atmosphere wherein all things had been effaced 
 I became conscious, like one awakening after a 
 drug, of an unusual commotion going on around. 
 People were running past me and across me in 
 the direction of the Karueein Mosque. From 
 
1 86 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 that place a loud tumult was rising into the air. 
 The noise was increasing with every moment, 
 and rising to a Babel of human voices. 
 
 I did not very much heed the commotion. 
 What were the paltry excitements of life to me 
 now ? I was repeating to myself the last words 
 of my poor wife's letter : ^' How I miss you, and 
 wish you were with me ! " '* I will go back," I 
 was telling myself, " I will go back." 
 
 In the confusion of my mind I heard snatches 
 of words spoken by the people as they ran by 
 me. " Nazarene ! " '' Christian ! " '' Cursed 
 Jew ! " These were hissed out at each other by 
 the Moors as they were scurrying past. At 
 length I heard a Spaniard shout up to a fellow- 
 countryman who was on a housetop : " English- 
 man caught in the mosque." 
 
 At that my disordered senses recovered them- 
 selves, and suddenly I became aware that the 
 tumult was coming in my direction. The noise 
 grew deeper, louder, and more shrill at every 
 step. In another moment it had burst upon 
 me in a whirlpool of uproar. 
 
 Round the corner of the narrow lane that led 
 to the Karueein Mosque a crowd of people 
 came roaring like a torrent. They were Moors, 
 Arabs, and Berbers, and they were shouting, 
 shrieking, yelling, yelping, and uttering every 
 sound that the human voice can make. At the 
 first instant I realised no more than this, but at 
 the next I saw that the people were hunting a 
 man as hounds hunt a wolf. The man was fly- 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 187 
 
 ing before them ; he was coming towards me : 
 in the gathering darkness I could see him ; his 
 dress, which was Moorish, was torn into shreds 
 about his body ; his head was bare ; his chest 
 was bleeding ; I saw his face — it was the face 
 of the American, my companion of the voyage. 
 
 He saw me too, and at that instant he turned 
 about and faced full upon his pursuers. What 
 happened then I dare not tell. 
 
 Father, he was a brave man, and he sold his 
 life dearly. But he fell at last. He was but 
 one to a hundred. The yelping human dogs 
 trod him down like vermin. 
 
 I am a coward. I fled and left him. When 
 I got back to my lodgings I called for my guide, 
 for I was resolved to leave Fez without an 
 hour's delay. The guide was not to be found, 
 and I had to go in search of him. When I lit 
 on him, at length, he was in a dingy coffee- 
 house, squatting on the ground by the side of 
 another Moor, an evil-looking scoundrel, who 
 was reciting some brave adventure to a group 
 of admiring listeners. 
 
 I called my man out and told him of my pur- 
 pose. He lifted his hands in consternation. 
 *' Leave Fez to-night ? " he said. *' Impossible, 
 my Sultan, impossible ! My lord has not heard 
 the order ? " 
 
 *' What order ? " I asked. I was alarmed. 
 Must I be a prisoner in Morocco while my child 
 lay dying in England ? 
 
 ** That the gates be closed and no Christian 
 
i88 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 allowed to leave the city until morning. It is 
 the order of the Kaleefa, my Sultan, since the 
 outrage of the Christian in the mosque this 
 morning." 
 
 I suspected the meaning of this move in an 
 instant, and the guide's answers to my ques- 
 tions ratified my fears. One man, out of mad- 
 ness or thirst for revenge, had led the attack 
 upon the American, and a crowd of fanatics had 
 killed him — giving him no chance of retreat 
 with his life, either by circumcision or the pro- 
 fession of Islam. But cooler heads had already 
 found time to think of the penalty of shedding 
 Christian blood. That penalty was twofold : 
 first, the penalty of disgrace which would come 
 of the idea that the lives of Christians were not 
 safe in Morocco, and next, the penalty of hard 
 dollars to be paid to the American Minister at 
 Tangier. To escape from the double danger 
 the outrage was to be hushed up. Circum- 
 stances lent themselves to this artifice. True, 
 that the passage of the American across country 
 had been known in every village through which 
 he had passed ; but at the gates of Fez he had 
 himself cut off all trace of his identity. He had 
 entered the city alone, or in disguise. His 
 arrival as a stranger had not been notified at 
 any of the " clubs " or bazaars. Only one man 
 had recognised him : that man was Larby, his 
 guide. 
 
 The body was to be buried secretly, no 
 Christian being allowed to see it. Then the 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 189 
 
 report was to be given out that the dead man 
 had been a Moorish subject, that he had been 
 killed in a blood-feud, and that the rumour that 
 he was a Christian caught in the act of defiling 
 the mosque was an error, without the shadow 
 of truth in it. But until all this had been done 
 no Christian should be allowed to pass through 
 the gates. As things stood at present the first 
 impulse of a European would be to fly to his 
 Consul with the dangerous news. 
 
 I knew something of the Moors and their 
 country by this time, and I left Fez that night, 
 but it cost me fifty pounds to get out of it. 
 There was a bribe for the Kaid, a bribe for the 
 Kaleefa, and bribes for every ragged Jack 
 of the underlings down to the porter at the 
 gate. 
 
 With all my horror and the fever of my 
 anxiety, I could have laughed in the face of the 
 first of these functionaries. Between his greedy 
 desire of the present I was offering him, his 
 suspicion that I knew something of the identity 
 of the Christian who had been killed, his mis- 
 givings as to the reasons of my sudden flight, 
 and his dread that I would discover the 
 circumstances of the American's death, the 
 figure he cut was a foolish one. But why 
 should I reproach the man's duplicity ? I was 
 practising the like of it myself. Too well I 
 knew that if I betrayed any knowledge of what 
 had happened it would be impossible that I 
 should be allowed to leave Fez. So I pre- 
 
I90 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 tended to know nothing. It was a ridiculous 
 interview. 
 
 On my way back from it I crossed a little 
 company of Moors, leading, surrounding, and 
 following a donkey. The donkey was heavily 
 laden with what appeared to be two great 
 panniers of rubbish. It was dusk, but my sight 
 has always been keen, and I could not help 
 seeing that hidden under the rubbish there was 
 another burden on the donkey's back. It was 
 the body of a dead man. I had little doubt of 
 who the dead man must be ; but I hastened on 
 and did not look again. The Moors turned into 
 a garden as I passed them. I guessed what 
 they were about to do there, but my own danger 
 threatened me, and I wished to see and know 
 no more. 
 
 As I was passing out of the town in the 
 moonlight an hour before midnight, with my 
 grumbling tentmen and muleteers at my heels, 
 a man stepped out of the shadow of the gate- 
 way arch and leered in my face, and said in 
 broken English, '' So your Christian friend is 
 corrected by Allah ! " 
 
 {Moorish - Englishy my son, or 
 Spanish f) 
 
 Spanish. It was the scoundrel whom I had 
 seen in the coffee-house. I knew he must be 
 Larby, and that he had betrayed his master at 
 last. Also, I knew that he was aware that I had 
 seen all. At that moment, looking down from my 
 horse's back into the man's evil face, my whole 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 191 
 
 nature changed. I remembered the one oppor- 
 tunity which the American had lost out of a 
 wandering impulse of human tenderness — of 
 saving his own life by taking the life of him 
 that threatened it, and I said in my heart of 
 hearts, "Now God in heaven keep me from the 
 like temptation." 
 
 Ah ! father, do not shrink from me ; think of 
 it, only think of it ! I was thirteen hundred miles 
 from home, and I was going back to my dying 
 boy. 
 
 {God keep you ^ indeed, my son. Your 
 
 feet were set in a slippery place. El 
 
 A r by y you say f A man of yotcr own 
 
 age ? Dark f Sallow f It must be 
 
 the same. Long ago I knew the man 
 
 you speak of It was under another 
 
 name, and in another cotmtry. Yes, 
 
 he was all you say. God forgive hi7n, 
 
 God forgive him ! Poor wrecked and 
 
 bankrupt soul. His evil angel was 
 
 always at his hand, and his good one 
 
 far away. He brought his father to 
 
 shame, and his mother to the grave. 
 
 There was a crime and conviction^ then 
 
 banishment, and after that his father 
 
 fled from the world. But the Church 
 
 is peace ; he took refuge with her, and 
 
 now all is well. Go on.) 
 
Ill 
 
 Father, I counted it up. Every mile of the dis- 
 tance I counted it. And I reckoned every hour 
 since my wife's letter had been written against 
 the progress and period of my boy's disease. 
 So many days since the date of the letter, and 
 Noel had been ailing and ill so many days be- 
 fore that. The gross sum of those days was so 
 much, and in that time the affection, if it ran the 
 course I looked for, must have reached such and 
 such a stage. While I toiled along over the 
 broad wastes of that desolate land, I seemed to 
 know at any moment what the condition must 
 be at the utmost and best of my boy in his bed 
 at home. 
 
 Then I reckoned the future as well as the 
 past. So many days it would take me to ride 
 to Tangier, so many hours to cross from Tan- 
 gier to Cadiz, so many days and nights by rail 
 from Cadiz to London. The grand total of 
 time past since my poor Noel first became un- 
 well, and of time to come before I could reach 
 his side, would be so much. What would his 
 condition be then .'^ I knew that also. It would 
 be so-and-so. 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 193 
 
 Thus, Step by step I counted it all up. The 
 interval would be long, very long, between the 
 beginning of the attack and my getting home, 
 but not too long for my hopes. All going well 
 with me, I should still arrive in time. If the 
 disease had taken an evil turn, my boy might 
 perhaps be in its last stages. But then / would 
 be there, and I could save him. The operation 
 which I had spent five years of my life to master 
 would bring him back from the gates of death 
 itself. 
 
 Father, I had no doubt of that, and I had no 
 doubt of my calculations. Lying here now it 
 seems as if the fiends themselves must have 
 shrieked to see me in that far-off land gambling 
 like a fool in the certainty of the life I loved, 
 and reckoning nothing of the hundred poor 
 chances that might snuff it out like a candle. 
 Call it frenzy, call it madness, nevertheless 
 it kept my heart alive, and saved me from 
 despair. 
 
 But, oh ! the agony of my impatience ! If 
 anything should stop me now ! Let me be 
 one day later — only one — and what might not 
 occur! Then, how many were the dangers of 
 delay ! First, there was the possibility of ill- 
 ness overtaking me. My health was not better, 
 but worse, than when I left home. I was riding 
 from sunrise to sunset, and not sleeping at 
 nights. No matter ! I put all fear from that 
 cause away from me. Though my limbs refused 
 to bear me up, and under the affliction of my 
 
194 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 nerves my muscles lost the power to hold the 
 reins, yet if I could be slung on to the back of 
 my horse I should still go on. 
 
 But then there was the worse danger of 
 coming into collision with the fanaticism of the 
 people through whose country I had to pass. 
 I did not fear the fate of the American, for I 
 could not be guilty of his folly. But I remem- 
 bered the admission of the English Consul at 
 Tangier that a stranger might offend the super- 
 stitions of the Muslems unwittingly ; I recalled 
 his parting words of counsel, spoken half in 
 jest, *' Keep out of a Moorish prison " ; and then 
 the noisome dungeon into which the young 
 Berber had been cast arose before my mind in 
 visions of horror. 
 
 What precautions I took to avoid these 
 dangers of delay would be a long and foolish 
 story. Also, it would be a mean and abject 
 one, and I should be ashamed to tell it. How 
 I saluted every scurvy beggar on the way with 
 the salutation of his faith and country ; how I 
 dismounted as I approached a town or a village, 
 and only returned to the saddle when I had gone 
 through it ; how I uncovered my head — in ignor- 
 ance of Eastern custom — as I went by a saint's 
 house, and how at length (remembering the 
 Jewish banker who was beaten) I took off my 
 shoes and walked barefoot as I passed in front 
 of a mosque. 
 
 Yes, it was I who paid all this needless 
 homage ; I whose pride has always been my 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 195 
 
 bane ; I who could not bend the knee to be 
 made a knight ; I who have felt humility before 
 no man. Even so it was. In my eagerness, 
 my impatience, my dread of impediment on my 
 journey home to my darling who waited for me 
 there, I was studying the faces and grovelling 
 at the feet of that race of ignorant fanatics. 
 
 But the worst of my impediments were within 
 my own camp. The American was right. The 
 Moor cannot comprehend a disinterested action. 
 My foolish homage to their faith awakened the 
 suspicions of my men. When they had tried in 
 vain to fathom the meaning of it, they agreed to 
 despise me. I did not heed their contempt, but 
 I was compelled to take note of its consequences. 
 From being my servants, they became my 
 masters. When it pleased them to encamp I had 
 to rest, though my inclination was to go on, and 
 only when it suited them to set out again could I 
 resume my journey. In vain did I protest, and 
 plead, and- threaten. The Moor is often a 
 brave man, but these men were a gang of 
 white-livered poltroons, and a blow would have 
 served to subdue them. With visions of a 
 Moorish prison before my eyes I dared not 
 raise my hand. One weapon alone could I, in 
 my own cowardice, employ against them — 
 bribes, bribes, bribes. And such was the sole 
 instrument with which I combated their lazi- 
 ness, their duplicity, and their deceit. 
 
 Father, I was a pitiful sight in my weakness 
 and my impatience. We had not gone far out 
 
196 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 of Fez when I observed that the man Larby 
 was at the heels of our company. This alarmed 
 me, and I called to my guide. 
 
 ''Alee," I said, ''who is that evil-looking 
 fellow ? " 
 
 Alee threw up both hands in amazement. 
 "Evil-looking fellow!" he cried. "God be 
 gracious to my father ! Who does my lord 
 mean ? Not Larby ; no, not Larby. Larby is 
 a good man. He lives in one of the mosque 
 houses at Tangaa. The Nadir leased it to him, 
 and he keeps his shop on the Sok de Barra. 
 Allah bless Larby ! Should you want musk, 
 should you want cinnamon, Larby is the man 
 to sell to you. But sometimes he guides 
 Christians to Fez, and then his brother keeps 
 his shop for him." 
 
 " But why is the man following us ? " I asked. 
 
 " My sultan," said Alee, " am I not telling 
 you ? Larby is returning home. The Chris- 
 tian he took to Fez, where is he ? " 
 
 " Yes," I said, "where is he ? " 
 
 Alee grinned, and answered : " He is gone 
 — southwards, my lord." 
 
 " Why should you lie to me like that ? " I 
 said. " You know the Christian is dead, and 
 that this Larby was the means of killing him ! " 
 
 " Shoo ! What is my lord saying ? " cried 
 Alee, lifting his fat hands with a warning ges- 
 ture. " What did my lord tell the Basha ? 
 My lord must know nothing — nothing. It 
 would not be safe." 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 197 
 
 Then with glances of fear towards Larby, 
 and dropping his voice to a whisper, Alee added, 
 ** It is true the Christian is dead ; he died last 
 sunset. Allah corrected him. So Larby is 
 going back alone, going back to his shop, to his 
 house, to his wives, to his little daughter Hoolia. 
 Allah send Larby a safe return. Not follow- 
 ing us, Sidi. No, no ; Larby is going back the 
 same way — that is all." 
 
 The answer did not content me, but I could 
 say no more. Nevertheless, my uneasiness at 
 the man's presence increased hour by hour. I 
 could not think of him without thinking also of 
 the American and of the scene of horror near to 
 the Karueein Mosque. I could not look at him 
 but the blood down my back ran cold. So I 
 called my guide again, and said ** Send that man 
 away ; I will not have him in our company." 
 
 Alee pretended to be deeply wounded. 
 *' Sidi," he said, *' ask anything else of me. 
 What will you ask ? Will you ask me to die 
 for you ? I am ready, I am willing, I am 
 satisfied. But Larby is my friend, Larby is 
 my brother, and this thing you ask of me I 
 cannot do. Allah has not written it. Sidi, it 
 cannot be." 
 
 With such protestations— the common cant of 
 the country — I had need to be content. But 
 now the impression fixed itself upon my mind 
 that the evil-faced scoundrel who had betrayed 
 the American to his death was not only follow- 
 ing uSy but me. Oh ! the torment of that idea 
 
iqs the last confession 
 
 in the impatience of my spirit and the racking 
 fever of my nerves ! To be dogged day and 
 night as by a bloodhound, never to raise my 
 eyes without the dread of encountering the 
 man's watchful eye — the agony of the incubus 
 was unbearable ! 
 
 My first thought was merely that the rascal 
 meant robbery. However far I might ride 
 ahead of my own people in the daytime he 
 was always close behind me, and as surely as 
 I wandered away from the camp at nightfall I 
 was overtaken by him or else I met him face 
 to face. 
 
 '' Alee," I said at last, ''that man is a thief." 
 Of course Alee was horrified. " Ya Allah ! " 
 he cried. ''What is my lord saying? The 
 Moor is no thief. The Moor is true, the Moor 
 is honest. None so true and honest as the 
 Moor. Wherefore should the Moor be a thief? 
 To be a thief in Barbary is to be a fool. Say 
 I rob a Christian. Good. I kill him and take 
 all he has and bury him in a lonely place. All 
 right. What happens ? Behold, Sidi, this is 
 what happens. Your Christian Consul says, 
 ' Where is the Christian you took to Fez ? ' I 
 cannot tell. I lie, I deceive, I make excuses. 
 No use. Your Christian Consul goes to the 
 Kasbah, and says to the Basha : * Cast that 
 Moor into prison, he is a robber and a 
 murderer!' Then he goes to the Sultan at 
 Marrakesh, in the name of your Queen, who 
 lives in the country of the Nazarenes, over the 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 199 
 
 sea. * Pay me twenty thousand dollars/ he 
 says, ' for the life of my Christian who is robbed 
 and murdered.' Just so. The Sultan — Allah 
 preserve our Mulai Hassan ! — he pays the 
 dollars. Good, all right, just so. But is that 
 all, Sidi? No, Sidi, that is not all. The 
 Sultan — God prolong the life of our merciful 
 lord ! — he then comes to my people, to my 
 Basha, to my bashalic, and he says, ' Pay me 
 back my forty thousand dollars — do you hear 
 me, Sidi,/or^y thousand — for the Nazarene who 
 is dead. All right. But we cannot pay. Good. 
 The Sultan — Allah save him ! — he comes, he 
 takes all we have, he puts every man of my 
 people to the sword. We are gone, we are 
 wiped out. Did I not say, Sidi, to be a thief 
 in Barbary is to be a fool ? " 
 
 It was cold comfort. That the man Larby 
 was following me I was confident, and that he 
 meant to rob me I was at first convinced. 
 Small solace, therefore, in the thought that if 
 the worst befell me, and my boy at home died 
 for want of his father, who lay robbed and 
 murdered in those desolate wastes, my Govern- 
 ment would exact a claim in paltry dollars. 
 
 My next thought was that the man was merely 
 watching me out of the country. That he was 
 aware that I knew his secret was only too cer- 
 tain ; that he had betrayed my knowledge to 
 the authorities at the capital after I had parted 
 from them was more than probable, and it was 
 not impossible that the very men who had taken 
 
200 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 bribes of me had In their turn bribed him that 
 he might follow me and see that I did not inform 
 the Ministers and Consuls of foreign countries 
 of the murder of the American in the streets of 
 Fez. 
 
 That theory partly reconciled me to the man's 
 presence. Let him watch. His constant com- 
 pany was in its tormenting way my best security. 
 I should go to no Minister, and no Consul should 
 see me. I had too much reason to think of my 
 own living affiairs to busy myself with those of 
 the dead American. 
 
 But such poor unction as this reflection 
 brought me was dissipated by a second thought. 
 What security for the man himself, or for the 
 authorities who might have bribed him — or 
 perhaps menaced him — to watch me would lie 
 in the fact that I had passed out of the country 
 without revealing the facts of the crime which 
 I had witnessed ? Safely back in England, I 
 might tell all with safety. Once let me leave 
 Morocco with their secret in my breast, and 
 both the penalties these people dreaded might 
 be upon them. Merely to watch me was wasted 
 labour. They meant to do more, or they would 
 have done nothing. 
 
 Thinking so, another idea took possession of 
 me with a shock of terror — the man was follow- 
 ing me to kill me as the sole Christian witness 
 of the crime that had been committed. By the 
 light of that theory everything became plain. 
 When I visited the Kasbah nothing was known 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 201 
 
 of my acquaintance with the murdered man. 
 My bribes were taken, and I was allowed to 
 leave Fez in spite of public orders. But then 
 came Larby with alarming intelligence. I had 
 been a friend of the American, and had been 
 seen to speak with him in the public streets. 
 Perhaps Larby himself had seen me, or perhaps 
 my own guide, Alee, had betrayed me to his 
 friend and "brother." At that the Kaid or his 
 Kaleefa had raised their eyebrows and sworn at 
 each other for simpletons and fools. To think 
 that the very man who had intended to betray 
 them had come with an innocent face and a tale 
 of a sick child in England ! To think that they 
 had suffered him to slip through their fingers and 
 leave them some paltry bribes of fifty pounds ! 
 Fifty pounds taken by stealth against twenty 
 thousand dollars to be plumped down after the 
 Christian had told his story ! These Nazarenes 
 were so subtle, and the sons of Ishmael were so 
 simple. But diamond cut diamond. Everything 
 was not lost. One hundred and twenty-five 
 miles this Christian had still to travel before he 
 could sail from Barbary, and not another Chris- 
 tian could he encounter on that journey. Then 
 up, Larby, and after him ! God make your way 
 easy ! Remember, Larby, remember, good fel- 
 low, it is not only the pockets of the people of 
 Fez that are in danger if that Christian should 
 escape. Let him leave the Gharb alive, and your 
 own neck is in peril. You were the spy, you 
 were the informer, you were the hotheaded mad - 
 
202 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 man who led the attack that ended in the spillin^y 
 of Christian blood. If the Sultan should have 
 to pay twenty thousand dollars to the Minister 
 for America at Tangier for the life of this dead 
 dog whom we have grubbed into the earth in a 
 garden, if the Basha of Fez should have to pay 
 forty thousand dollars to the Sultan, if the people 
 should have to pay eighty thousand dollars to 
 the Basha, then you, Larby, you in your turn 
 will have to pay with your /^/^ to the people. 
 It is your life against the life of the Christian. 
 So follow him, watch him, silence him, he knows 
 your secret — away ! 
 
 Such was my notion of what had happened 
 at the Kasbah of Fez after I had passed the 
 gates of the city. It was a wild vision, but to 
 my distempered imagination it seemed to be a 
 plausible theory. And now Larby, the spy 
 upon the American, Larby, my assassin-elect, 
 Larby, who to save his own life must take mine, 
 Larby was with me, was beside me, was behind 
 me constantly ! 
 
 {God help you, my son, God help you! 
 Larby! O Larby! Again, again!) 
 
 What was I to do ? Open my heart to 
 Larby ; tell him it was a blunder ; that I meant 
 no man mischief; that I was merely hastening 
 back to my sick boy, who was dying for want 
 of me ? That was impossible ; Larby would 
 laugh in my face, and still follow me. Bribe 
 him ? That was useless ; Larby would take 
 my money and make the surer of his victim. 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 203 
 
 It was a difficult problem ; but at length I hit 
 on a solution. Father, you will pity me for a 
 fool when you hear it. I would bargain with 
 Larby as Faust bargained with the devil. He 
 should give me two weeks of life, and come 
 with me to England. I should do my work 
 here, and Larby should never leave my side. 
 My boy's life should be saved by that opera- 
 tion, which I alone knew how to perform. 
 After that Larby and I should square accounts 
 together. He should have all the money I had 
 in the world, and the passport of my name and 
 influence for his return to his own country. I 
 should write a confession of suicide, and then — 
 then — only then — at home — here in my own 
 room — Larby should kill me in order to satisfy 
 himself that his own secret and the secret of his 
 people must be safe for ever. 
 
 It was a mad dream, but what dream of dear 
 life is not mad that comes to the man whom 
 death dogs like a bloodhound ? And mad as 
 it was I tried to make it come true. The man 
 was constantly near me, and on the third morn- 
 ing of our journey I drew up sharply, and 
 said — 
 
 ''Larby!" 
 
 ** Sidi," he answered. 
 
 ''Would you not like to go on with me to 
 England?" 
 
 He looked at me with his glittering eyes, and 
 I gave an involuntary shiver. I had awakened 
 the man's suspicions in an instant. He thought 
 
204 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 I meant to entrap him. But he only smiled 
 knowingly, shrugged his shoulders, and an- 
 swered civilly : '* I have my shop in the Sok de 
 Barra, Sidi. And then there are my wives and 
 my sons and my little Hoolia — God be praised 
 for all his blessings." 
 
 ''Hoolia?" I asked. 
 
 '' My little daughter, Sidi." 
 
 '' How old is she ? " 
 
 '^ Six, Sidi, only six, but as fair as an angel." 
 
 " I daresay she misses you when you are 
 away, Larby," I said. 
 
 "You have truth, Sidi. She sits in the Sok 
 by the tents of the brassworkers and plaits 
 rushes all the day long, and looks over to where 
 the "camels come by the saints' houses on the 
 hill, and waits and watches." 
 
 " Larby," I said, ** I, too, have a child at 
 home who is waiting and watching. A boy, my 
 little Noel, six years of age, just as old as your 
 own little Hoolia. And so bright, so winsome. 
 But he is ill, he is dying, and he is all the world 
 to me. Larby, I am a surgeon, I am a doctor, 
 if I could but reach England " 
 
 It was worse than useless. I stopped, for I 
 could go no farther. The cold glitter of the 
 man's eyes passed over me like frost over flame, 
 and I knew his thought as well as if he had 
 spoken it. ''I have heard that story before," 
 he was telling him, ** I have heard it at the 
 Kasbah, and it is a lie and a trick." 
 
 My plan was folly, and I abandoned it ; but 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 205 
 
 I was more than ever convinced of my theory. 
 This man was following me to kill me. He was 
 waiting an opportunity to do his work safely, 
 secretly, and effectually. His rulers would 
 shield him in his crime, for by that crime they 
 themselves would be shielded. 
 
 Father, my theory, like my plan, was foolish- 
 ness. Only a madman would have dreamt of 
 concealing a crime whereof there was but one 
 witness, by a second crime, whereof the wit- 
 nesses must have been five hundred. The 
 American had travelled in disguise and cut off 
 the trace of his identity to all men save myself. 
 When he died at the hands of the fanatics, 
 whose faith he had outraged, I alone of all 
 Christians knew that it was Christian blood 
 that had stained the streets of Fez. But how 
 different my own death must have been. I 
 had travelled openly as a Christian and an 
 Englishman. At the consulate of Tangier I was 
 known by name and repute, and at that of Fez 
 I had registered myself My presence had been 
 notified at every town I had passed through, 
 and the men of my caravan would not have 
 dared to return to their homes without me. In 
 the case of the murder of the American the 
 chances to the Moorish authorities of claim for 
 indemnity were as one to five hundred. In the 
 case of the like catastrophe to myself they must 
 have been as five hundred to one. Thus, in 
 spite of fanaticism and the ineradicable hatred 
 of the Muslem for the Nazarene, Morocco to 
 
2o6 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 me, as to all Christian travellers, travelling 
 openly and behaving themselves properly, was 
 as safe a place as England itself. 
 
 But how can a man be hot and cold and wise 
 and foolish in a moment ? I was in no humour 
 to put the matter to myself temperately, and, 
 though I had been so cool as to persuade my- 
 self that the authorities whom I had bribed 
 could not have been madmen enough to think 
 that they could conceal the murder of the 
 American by murdering me, yet I must have 
 remained convinced that Larby himself was 
 such a madman. 
 
 As a surgeon, I had some knowledge of mad- 
 ness, and the cold, clear, steely glitter of the 
 man's eyes when he looked at me was a thing 
 that I could not mistake. I had seen it before 
 in religious monomaniacs. It was an infallible 
 and fatal sign. With that light in the eyes, like 
 the glance of a dagger, men will kill the wives 
 they love, and women will slaughter the children 
 of their bosom. When I saw it in Larby I 
 shivered with a chilly presentiment. It seemed 
 to say that I should see my home no more. I 
 Aave seen my home once more ; I am back in 
 
 England, I am here, but 
 
 {No, no, not that! Larby I Dont 
 tell ME you did that.) 
 
 Father, is my crime so dark ? That hour 
 comes back and back. How long will it haunt 
 me '^ How long ? For ever and ever. When 
 time for me is swallowed up in eternity, eternity 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 207 
 
 will be swallowed up in the memory of that 
 hour. Peace ! Do you say peace ? Ah ! yes, 
 yes ; God is merciful ! 
 
 Before I had spoken to Larby his presence 
 in our company had been only as a dark and 
 fateful shadow. Now it was a foul and hateful 
 incubus. Never in all my life until then had I 
 felt hatred for any human creature. But I 
 hated that man with all the sinews of my soul. 
 What was it to me that he was a madman ? 
 He intended to keep me from my dying boy. 
 Why should I feel tenderness towards him be- 
 cause he was the father of his little Hoolia ? By 
 killing me he would kill my little Noel. 
 
 I began to recall the doctrines of the Ameri- 
 can as he propounded them on the ship. It was 
 the life of an honest man against the life of a 
 scoundrel. These things should be rated ad 
 valorem. If the worst came to the worst, why 
 should I have more respect for this madman's 
 life than for my own ? 
 
 I looked at the man and measured his strength 
 against mine. He was a brawny fellow with 
 broad shoulders, and I was no better than a 
 weakling. I was afraid of him, but I was yet 
 more afraid of myself. Sometimes I surprised 
 my half-conscious mind in the act of taking 
 out of its silver-mounted sheath the large 
 curved knife which I had bought of the haw- 
 ker at Tangier, and now wore in the belt of 
 my Norfolk jacket. In my cowardice and 
 my weakness this terrified me. Not all my 
 
2o8 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 borrowed philosophy served to support me 
 against the fear of my own impulses. Meantime, 
 I was in an agony of suspense and dread. The 
 nights brought me no rest and the mornings no 
 freshness. 
 
 On the fourth day out of Fez we arrived at 
 Wazzan, and there, though the hour was still 
 early, my men decided to encamp for the night. 
 I protested, and they retorted ; I threatened, 
 and they excused themselves. The mules 
 wanted shoeing. I offered to pay double that 
 they might be shod immediately. The tents 
 were torn by a heavy wind of the previous 
 night. I offered to buy new ones. When their 
 trumpery excuses failed them, the men re- 
 belled openly, and declared their determination 
 not to stir out of Wazzan that night. 
 
 But they had reckoned without their host this 
 time. I found that there was an English Consul 
 at Wazzan, and I went in search of him. His 
 name was Smith, and he was a typical English- 
 man — ample, expansive, firm, resolute, domi- 
 neering, and not troubled with too much 
 sentiment. I told him of the revolt of my 
 people and of the subterfuges whereby they 
 had repeatedly extorted bribes. The good 
 fellow came to my relief He was a man of 
 purpose, and he had no dying child twelve 
 hundred miles away to make him a fool and a 
 coward. 
 
 " Men,'' he said, " you've got to start away 
 with this gentleman at sundown, and ride night 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 209 
 
 and day— do you hear me, night and day — until 
 you come to Tangier. A servant of my own 
 shall go with you, and if you stop or delay or 
 halt or go slowly he shall see that every man of 
 you is clapped into the Kasbah as a blackmailer 
 and a thief." 
 
 There was no more talk of rebellion. The 
 men protested that they had always been wil- 
 ling to travel. Sidi had been good to them, 
 and they would be good to Sidi. At sundown 
 they would be ready. 
 
 ''You will have no more trouble, sir," said 
 the Consul ; *^ but I will come back to see you 
 start." 
 
 I thanked him and we parted. It was still 
 an hour before sunset, and I turned aside to 
 look at the town. I had barely walked a dozen 
 paces when I came face to face with Larby. 
 In the turmoil of my conflict with the men I 
 had actually forgotten him for one long hour. 
 He looked at me with his glittering eyes, and 
 then his cold, clear gaze followed the Consul as 
 he passed down the street. That double glance 
 was like a shadowy warning. It gave me a 
 shock of terror. 
 
 How had I forgotten my resolve to baffle 
 suspicion by exchanging no word or look with 
 any European Minister or Consul as long as I 
 remained in Morocco ? The expression in the 
 man's face was not to be mistaken. It seemed 
 to say, *' So you have told all ; very well, Sidi, 
 we shall see.*' 
 
2IO THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 With a sense as of creeping and cringing I 
 passed on. The shadow of death seemed to 
 have fallen upon me at last. I felt myself to 
 be a doomed man. That madman would 
 surely kill me. He would watch his chance ; 
 I should never escape him ; my home would 
 see me no more ; my boy would die for want 
 of me. 
 
 A tingling noise, as of the jangling of bells, 
 was in my ears. Perhaps it was the tinkling of 
 the bells of the water-carriers, prolonged and 
 unbroken. A gauzy mist danced before my 
 eyes. Perhaps it was the palpitating haze 
 which the sun cast back from the gilded domes 
 and minarets. 
 
 Domes and minarets were everywhere in this 
 town of Wazzan. It seemed to be a place of 
 mosques and saints' houses. Where the wide 
 arch and the trough of the mosque were not, 
 there was the open door in the low whitewashed 
 wall of the saint's house, surmounted by its 
 white flag. In my dazed condition, I was 
 sometimes in danger of stumbling into such 
 places unawares. At the instant of recovered 
 consciousness I always remembered the warn- 
 ings of my guide as I stood by the house of 
 Sidi Gali at Tangier: ** Sacred place? Yes, 
 sacred. No Nazarene may enter it. But 
 Muslems, yes Muslems may fly here for sanc- 
 tuary. Life to the Muslem, death to the 
 Nazarene. So it is." 
 
 Oh, it is an awful thing to feel that death is 
 
THE LAStr CONFESSION , 211 
 
 waiting for you constantly, that at any moment, 
 at any turn, at any corner It may be upon you ! 
 Such was my state as I walked on that evening, 
 waiting for the sunset, through the streets of 
 Wazzan. At one moment I was conscious of 
 a sound in my ears above the din of traffic — 
 the Arrah of the ass-drivers, the Bdlak of the 
 men riding mules, and the general clamour of 
 tongues. It was the steady beat of a footstep 
 close behind me. I knew whose footstep it 
 was. I turned about quickly, and Larby was 
 again face to face with me. He met my gaze 
 with the same cold, glittering look. My impulse 
 was to fly at his throat, but that I dare not do. 
 I knew myself to be a coward, and I remembered 
 the Moorish prison. 
 
 *' Larby," I said, " what do you want } " 
 
 ** Nothing, SIdi, nothing," he answered. 
 
 *' Then why are you following me like this ?" 
 
 ** Following you, Sidi ?" The fellow raised 
 his eyebrows and lifted both hands in astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 " Yes, following me, dogging me, watching 
 me, tracking me down. What does it mean ? 
 Speak out plainly." 
 
 ** SIdi is jesting," he said, with a mischievous 
 smile. ** Is not this Wazzan, the holy city of 
 Wazzan } Sidi is looking at the streets, at the 
 mosques, at the saints' houses. So is Larby. 
 That is all." 
 
 One glance at the man's evil eyes would have 
 told you that he lied. 
 
212 ^ THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 '' Which way are you going ? " I asked. 
 '' This way." With a motion of the head he 
 indicated the street before him. 
 
 ''Then I am going this," I said, and I 
 walked away in the opposite direction. 
 
 I resolved to return to the English Consul, 
 to tell him everything, and claim his protection. 
 Though all the Moorish authorities in Morocco 
 were in league with this religious monoma- 
 niac, yet surely there was life and safety under 
 English power for one whose only offence 
 was that of being witness to a crime which 
 might lead to a claim for indemnity. 
 
 ( Tka^ it should come to this, and I of 
 all men should hear it I God help me ! 
 God lead me! God give me light. 
 Light, light, O God ; give me light !) 
 
IV 
 
 Full of this new purpose and of the vague 
 hope inspired by it, I was making my way back 
 to the house of the Consul, when I came upon 
 two postal couriers newly arrived from Tangier 
 on their way to Fez. They were drawn up, 
 amid a throng of the townspeople, before the 
 palace of the Grand Shereef, and with the Moor- 
 ish passion for " powder-play " they were firing 
 their matchlocks into the air as salute and signal. 
 Sight of the mail-bags slung at their sides, and 
 of the Shereef s satchel, which they had come 
 some miles out of their course to deliver, sug- 
 gested the thought that they might be carrying 
 letters for me, which could never come to my 
 hands unless they were given to me now. The 
 couriers spoke some little English. I explained 
 my case to them, and begged them to open 
 their bags and see if anything had been sent 
 forward in my name from Tangier to Fez. 
 True to the phlegmatic character of the Moor 
 in all affairs of common life, they protested that 
 they dare not do so ; the bags were tied and 
 sealed, and none dare open them. If there 
 were letters of mine inside they must go on to 
 
214 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 Fez, and then return to Tangier. But with 
 the usual results I had recourse to my old 
 expedient ; a bribe broke the seals, the bags 
 were searched, and two letters were found for 
 me. 
 
 The letters, like those that came to Fez, 
 were one from my wife and one from Wenman. 
 I could not wait till I was alone, but broke 
 open the envelopes and read my letters where 
 I stood. A little crowd of Moors had gathered 
 about me — men, youths, boys, and children — 
 the ragged inhabitants of the streets of the 
 holy city. They seemed to be chaffing and 
 laughing at my expense, but I paid no heed to 
 them. 
 
 Just as before, so now, and for the same 
 reason I read Wenman's letter first. I remem- 
 ber every word of it, for every word seemed to 
 burn into my brain like flame. 
 
 ''My dear fellow," wrote Wenman, " I think 
 it my duty to tell you that your little son is 
 seriously ill." 
 
 I knew it— I knew it ; who knew it so well 
 as I, though I was more than a thousand miles 
 away ? 
 
 ''It is a strange fact that he is down with 
 the very disease of the throat which you 
 have for so long a time made your especial 
 study. Such, at least, is our diagnosis, assisted 
 by your own discoveries. The case has now 
 reached that stage where we must contem- 
 plate the possibility of the operation which 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 215 
 
 you have performed with such amazing re- 
 sults. Our only uneasiness arises from the 
 circumstance that this operation has hitherto 
 been done by no one except yourself. We have, 
 however, your explanations and your diagrams, 
 and on these we must rely. And, even if you 
 were here, his is not a case in which your own 
 hand should be engaged. Therefore, rest as- 
 sured, my dear fellow," &c. &c. 
 
 Blockheads ! If they had not done it already 
 they must not do it at all. I would telegraph 
 from Tangier that I was coming. Not a case 
 for my hand ! Fools, fools ! It was a case for 
 my hand only. 
 
 I did not stop to read the friendly part of 
 Wenman's letter, the good soul's expression of 
 sympathy and solicitude, but in the fever of my 
 impatience, sweating at every pore and breaking 
 into loud exclamations, I tore open the letter 
 from my wife. My eyes swam over the sheet, 
 and I missed much at that first reading, but the 
 essential part of the message stood out before 
 me as if written in red. 
 
 " We ... so delighted . . . your letters. 
 . . . Glad you are having warm beautiful 
 weather . . . Trust . . . make you strong and 
 well. . . . We are having blizzards here . . . 
 snowing to-day ... I am sorry to tell you, 
 dearest, that our darling is very ill. It is his 
 throat again. This is Friday, and he has grown 
 worse every day since I wrote on Monday. 
 When he can speak he is always calling for you. 
 
2i6 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 He thinks if you were here he would soon be 
 well. He is very weak, for he can take no 
 nourishment, and he has grown so thin, poor 
 little fellow. But he looks very lovely, and 
 every night he says in his prayers, * God bless 
 papa, and bring him safely home.' ..." 
 
 I could bear no more, the page in my hands 
 was blotted out, and for the first time since I 
 became a man I broke into a flood of tears. 
 
 O Omnipotent Lord of Heaven and earth, to 
 think that this child is as life of my life and 
 soul of my soul, that he is dying, that I alone 
 of all men living can save him, and that we are 
 twelve hundred miles apart ! Wipe them out, 
 
 Lord — wipe out this accursed space divi- 
 ding us ; annihilate it. Thou canst do all, thou 
 canst remove mountains, and this is but a little 
 thing to Thee. Give me my darling under my 
 hands, and I will snatch him out of the arms of 
 death itself. 
 
 Did I utter such words aloud out of the great 
 tempest of my trouble ? I cannot say ; I do 
 not know. Only when I had lifted my eyes 
 from my wife's letter did I become conscious of 
 where I was and what was going on around me. 
 
 1 was still in the midst of the crowd of idlers, 
 and they were grinning, and laughing, and 
 jeering, and mocking at the sight of tears — 
 weak, womanish, stupid tears — on the face of a 
 strong man. 
 
 I was ashamed, but I was yet more angry, 
 and to escape from the danger of an outbreak 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 217 
 
 of my wrath I turned quickly aside, and walked 
 rapidly down a narrow alley. As I did so a 
 second paper dropped to the ground from the 
 sheet of my wife's letter. Before I had picked 
 it up I saw what it was. It was a message 
 from my boy himself, in the handwriting of his 
 nurse. 
 
 "He is brighter to-night," the good creature 
 herself wrote at the top of the page, *' and he 
 would insist on dictating this letter." 
 
 *' My dear, dear papa " 
 
 When I had read thus far I was conscious 
 again that the yelling, barking, bleating mob 
 behind were looking after me. To avoid the 
 torment of their gaze I hurried on, passed down 
 a second alley, and then turned into a narrow 
 opening which seemed to be the mouth of a 
 third. But I paid small heed to my footsteps, 
 for all my mind was with the paper which I 
 wished to read. Finding myself in a quiet 
 place at length, I read it. The words were 
 my little darlings own, and I could hear his 
 voice as if he were speaking them — 
 
 "My dear, dear papa, I am ill with my 
 throat, and sometimes I cant speak. Last 
 night the ceiling was falling down on me, and 
 the fire was coming up to the bed. But I'm 
 werry nearly all right now. We are going to 
 have a thanksgiving party soon — me, and 
 Jumbo, and Scotty, the puppy. When are you 
 coming home ? Do you live in a tent in 
 Morocco ? I have a fire in my bed-room : do 
 
2i8 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 you ? Write and send me some foreign stamps 
 from Tangier. Are the little boys black in 
 Morocco ? Nurse showed me a picture of a 
 lady who lives there, and she's all black except 
 her lips, and her mouth stands out. Have you 
 got a black servant ? Have you got a horse 
 to ride on ? Is he black ? I am tired now. 
 Good night. Mama says I must not tell you 
 to come home quick. Jumbo's all right. He 
 grunts when you shove him along. So good 
 night, papa. + + + + These kisses are all for 
 you. I am so thin. — From your little boy, 
 
 '' Noel." 
 
 Come home ! Yes, my darling, I will come 
 home. Nothing shall stop me now — nothing, 
 nothing ! The sun is almost set. Everything is 
 ready. The men must be saddling the horses 
 again. In less than half an hour I shall have 
 started afresh. I will ride all night to-night 
 and all day to-morrow, and in a week I shall be 
 standing by your side. A week! How long! 
 how long ! Lord of life and death, keep my boy 
 alive until then ! 
 
 I became conscious that I was speaking hot 
 words such as these aloud. Even agony like 
 mine has its lucidities of that kind. At the 
 same moment I heard footsteps somewhere be- 
 hind me. They were slow and steady foot- 
 steps, but I knew them too well. The blood 
 rushed to my head and back to my heart. I 
 looked up and around. Where was I ? Where ? 
 Where ? 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 219 
 
 I was in a little court surrounded by low, 
 white-washed walls. Before me there was an 
 inner compartment roofed by a rude dome. 
 From the apex of this dome there floated a 
 tiny white flag. I was in a saint's house. In 
 the confusion of my mind, and the agonising 
 disarray of all my senses, I had stumbled into 
 the sacred place unawares. 
 
 The footsteps came nearer. They seemed 
 to be sounding on the back of my neck. I 
 struggled forward a few paces. By a last 
 mechanical resource of despair I tried to con- 
 ceal myself in the inner chamber. I was too 
 late. A face appeared in the opening at which 
 I had entered. It was Larby's face, contracted 
 into a grimacing expression. 
 
 I read the thought of the man's face as by a 
 flash of light. '* Good, Sidi, good ! you have 
 done my work as well as my masters. You are 
 a dead man ; no one will know, and I need 
 never lift my hand to you." 
 
 At the next instant the face was gone. In 
 the moment following I lived a lifetime. My 
 brain did not think ; it lightened. I remem- 
 bered the death of the American in the streets 
 of Fez. I recalled the jeering crowd at the top 
 of the alley. I reflected that Larby was gone 
 to tell the mob that I had dishonoured one of 
 their sanctuaries. I saw myself dragged out, 
 trampled under foot, torn to pieces, and then 
 smuggled away in the dusk on a donkey's back 
 under panniers of filth. My horses ready, my 
 
220 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 men waiting, my boy dying for want of me, and 
 myself dead in a dunghill. 
 
 " Great Jehovah, lend me Thy strength ! " I 
 cried, as I rushed out into the alley. Larby 
 was stealing away with rapid steps. I overtook 
 him ; I laid hold of him by the hood of his 
 jellab. He turned upon me. All my soul was 
 roused to uncontrollable fury. I took the man 
 in both my arms, I threw him off his feet, I 
 lifted him by one effort high above my shoul- 
 ders and flung him to the ground. 
 
 He began to cry out, and I sprang upon him 
 again and laid hold of his throat. I knew where 
 to grip, and not a sound could he utter. We 
 were still in the alley, and I put my left hand 
 into the neck of his kaftan and drag^ored him 
 back into the saint's house. He drew his 
 dagger and lunged at me. I parried the thrust 
 with my foot and broke his arm with my heel. 
 Then there was a moment of horrible bedazzle- 
 ment. Red flames flashed before me. My head 
 grew dizzy. The whole universe seemed to reel 
 beneath my feet. The man was doubled back- 
 wards across my knee. I had drawn my knife — 
 I knew where to strike — and " For my boy, my 
 boy ! " I cried in my heart. 
 
 It was done. The man died without a groan. 
 His body collapsed in my hands, rolled from my 
 knee, and fell at my feet, doubled up, the head 
 under the neck, the broken arm under the trunk, 
 in a heap, a heap. 
 
 (O/if oh! Larby! Larby!) 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 221 
 
 Then came an awful revulsion of feeling. 
 For a moment I stood looking down, over- 
 whelmed with the horror of my act. In a sort 
 of drunken stupor I gazed at the wide-open 
 eyes, and the grimacing face now fixed in its 
 hideousness by the convulsion of death. O 
 God ! O God ! what had I done ! what had I 
 done! 
 
 But I did not cry out. In that awful moment 
 an instinct of self-preservation saved me. The 
 fatal weapon dropped from my hand, and I 
 crept out of the place. My great strength was 
 all gone now. I staggered along, and at every 
 step my limbs grew more numb and stift. 
 
 But in the alley I looked around. I knew no 
 way back to my people except that way by 
 which I came. Down the other alley and 
 through the crowd of idlers I must go. Would 
 they be there still ? If so, would they see in 
 my face what I had done ? 
 
 I was no criminal to mask my crime. In a 
 dull, stupid, drowsy, comatose state I tottered 
 down the alley and through the crowd. They 
 saw me ; they recognised me ; I knew that they 
 were jeering at me, but I knew no more. 
 " Skairi " shouted one, and " Skairi " shouted 
 another, and as I staggered away they all 
 shouted " Skairi " together. 
 
 Father, they called me a drunkard. I was a 
 drunkard indeed, but I was drunk with blood. 
 
 The sun had set by this time. Its last rays 
 were rising off the gilded top of the highest 
 
222 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 minaret In a golden mist that looked like flame 
 leaping out of a kiln. I saw that, as I saw 
 everything, through a palpitating haze. 
 
 When at length I reached the place where I 
 had left my people I found the horses saddled, 
 the mules with their burdens packed on their 
 panniers, the men waiting, and everything ready. 
 Full well I knew that I ought to leap to my 
 seat instantly and be gone without delay ; but 
 I seemed to have lost all power of prompt 
 action. I was thinking of what I wanted to do, 
 but I could not do it. The men spoke to me, 
 and I know that I looked vacantly into their 
 faces and did not answer. One said to another, 
 *' Sidi is grown deaf." The other touched his 
 forehead and grinned. 
 
 I was fumbling with the stirrup of my saddle 
 when the English Consul came up and hailed 
 me with cheerful spirits. By an effort that was 
 like a spasm I replied. 
 
 '' Allow me, doctor," he said, and he offered 
 his knee that I might mount. 
 
 **Ah, no, no," I stammered, and I scrambled 
 to my seat. 
 
 While I was fumbling with my double rein I 
 saw that he was looking at my hand. 
 
 '' You've cut your fingers, doctor," he said. 
 
 There was blood on them. The blood was 
 not mine, but a sort of mechanical cunning came 
 to my relief. I took out my handkerchief and 
 made pretence to bind it about my hand. 
 
 Alee, the guide, was at my right side settling 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 223 
 
 my lumbering foot in my stirrup. I felt him 
 touch the sheath of my knife, and then I remem- 
 bered that it must be empty. 
 
 " Sidi has lost his dagger," he said. '' Look!" 
 
 The Consul, who had been on my left, 
 wheeled round by the horse's head, glanced at 
 the useless sheath that was stuck in the belt of 
 my jacket, and then looked back into my stupid 
 face. 
 
 " Sidi is ill," he said quietly ; " ride quickly, 
 my men, lose no time, get him out of the country 
 without delay ! " 
 
 I heard Alee answer, " Right — all right ! " 
 
 Then the Consul's servant rode up — he was a 
 Berber — and took his place at the head of our 
 caravan. 
 
 " All ready ? " asked the Consul, in Arabic. 
 
 ** Ready," the men answered. 
 
 ** Then away, as if you were flying for your 
 lives ! " 
 
 The men put spurs to their mules, Alee gave 
 the lash to my horse, and we started. 
 
 "Good-bye, doctor," cried the Consul; "may 
 you find your little son better when you reach 
 home ! " 
 
 I shouted some incoherent answer in a 
 thick, loud voice, and in a few minutes more 
 we were galloping across the plain outside the 
 town. 
 
 The next two hours are a blank in my 
 memory. In a kind of drunken stupor I rode 
 on and on. The grey light deepened into the 
 
224 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 darkness of night, and the stars came out. Still 
 we rode and rode. The moon appeared in the 
 southern sky and rose into the broad whiteness 
 of the stars overhead. Then consciousness 
 came back to me, and with it came the first 
 pangs of remorse. Through the long hours of 
 that night-ride one awful sight stood up con- 
 stantly before my eyes. It was the sight of 
 that dead body stark and cold lying within that 
 little sanctuary behind me, white now with the 
 moonlight, and silent with the night. 
 
 [O Lardy, Lardy ! You shamed your 
 
 father. You drove him from the world. 
 
 You brought down your mother to the 
 
 grave. And yet, and yet — must I 
 
 absolve your murderer f ) 
 
 Father, I reached my home at last. At 
 Gibraltar I telegraphed that I was coming, and 
 at Dover I received a telegram in reply. Four 
 days had intervened between the despatch of 
 my message and the receipt of my wife's. Any- 
 thing might have happened in that time, and 
 my anxiety was feverish. Stepping on to the 
 Admiralty Pier, I saw a telegraph boy bustling 
 about among the passengers from the packet 
 with a telegram in his hand. 
 
 " What name ? " I asked. 
 
 He gave one that was not my own and yet 
 sounded like it. 
 
 I looked at the envelope. Clearly the name 
 was intended for mine. I snatched the telegram 
 out of the boy's hand. It ran — 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 225 
 
 " Welcome home ; boy very weak, but not 
 beyond hope." 
 
 I think I read the words aloud, amid all the 
 people, so tremendous was my relief, and so 
 overwhelming my joy. The messenger got a 
 gold coin for himself, and I leapt into the 
 train. 
 
 At Charing Cross I did not wait for my 
 luggage, but gave a foolish tip to a porter and 
 told him to send my things after me. Within 
 half a minute of my arrival I was driving out of 
 the station. 
 
 What I suffered during those last moments 
 of waiting before I reached my house no tongue 
 of man could tell. I read my wife's telegram 
 again, and observed for the first time that it 
 was now six hours old. Six hours ! They were 
 like six days to my tortured mind. From the 
 moment when we turned out of Oxford Street 
 until we drew up at my own door in Wimpole 
 Street I did not once draw breath. And beinof 
 here I dare hardly lift my eyes to the window 
 lest the blinds should be down. 
 
 I had my latchkey with me, and I let myself 
 in without ringing. A moment afterwards I 
 was in my darling's room. My beloved wife 
 was with our boy, and he was unconscious. That 
 djd not trouble me at all, for I saw at a glance 
 that I was not too late. Throwing off my coat, 
 I sent to the surgery for my case, dismissed my 
 dear girl with scant embraces, drew my darling's 
 cot up to the window, and tore down the curtains 
 
 p 
 
226 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 that kept out the Hght, for the spring day was 
 far spent. 
 
 Then, being alone with my daHing, I did my 
 work. I had trembled like an aspen leaf until 
 I entered his room, but when my time came my 
 hand was as firm as a rock and my pulse beat 
 like a child's. 
 
 I knew I could do it, and I did it. God had 
 spared me to come home, and I had kept my 
 vow. I had travelled ten days and nights to 
 tackle the work, but it was a short task when 
 once begun. 
 
 After I had finished I opened the door to call 
 my wife back to the room. The poor soul was 
 crouching with the boy's nurse on the threshold, 
 and they were doing their utmost to choke their 
 sobs. 
 
 '' There ! " I cried, '^ there's your boy ! He'll 
 be all right now." 
 
 The mischief was removed, and I had never a 
 doubt of the child's recovery. 
 
 My wife flung herself on my breast, and then 
 I realised the price I had paid for so much 
 nervous tension. All the nerves of organic life 
 seemed to collapse in an instant. 
 
 ** I'm dizzy ; lead me to my room," I 
 said. 
 
 My wife brought me brandy, but my hand 
 could not lift the tumbler to my mouth, and 
 when my dear girl's arms had raised my own 
 the glass rattled against my teeth. They put 
 me to bed ; I was done — done. 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 227 
 
 (God will forgive him. Why should 
 not If) 
 
 Father, that was a month ago, and I am lying 
 here still. It Is not neurasthenia of the body 
 that is killing me, but neurasthenia of the soul. 
 No doctor's drug will ever purge me of that. 
 It is here like fire in my brain, and here like 
 ice in my heart. Was my awful act justifiable 
 before God '^ Was it right in the eyes of Him 
 who has written in the tables of His law, Thotc 
 shall do no murder ? Was it murder ? Was it 
 crime ? If I outraged the letter of the holy 
 edict, did I also wrong its spirit ? 
 
 Speak, speak, for pity's sake, speak. Have 
 mercy upon me, as you hope for mercy. Think 
 where I was and what fate was before me. 
 Would I do it again in spite of all } Yes, yes, 
 a thousand, thousand times, yes. I will go to 
 God with that word on my lips, and He shall 
 judge me. 
 
 And yet I suffer these agonies of doubt. Life 
 was always a sacred thing to me. God gave 
 it, and only God should take it away. He who 
 spilt the blood of his fellow-man took the govern- 
 ment of the world out of God's hands. And 
 then — and then — Father, have I not told you 
 all.? 
 
 ( Yes, yes, Ihe Father of all Fathers 
 will pardon him.) 
 
 On the day when I arrived at Tangier from 
 Fez I had some two hours to wait for the 
 French steamer from Malaga that was to take 
 
228 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 me to Cadiz. In order to beguile my mind of 
 its impatience, I walked through the town as 
 far as the outer Sok — the Sok de Barra. It 
 was market day, Thursday, and the place was 
 the same animated and varied scene as I had 
 looked upon before. Crushing my way through 
 the throng, I came upon the saint's house near 
 the middle of the market. The sight of the 
 little white structure with its white flag brought 
 back the tragedy I saw enacted there, and the 
 thought of that horror was now made hellish to 
 my conscience by the memory of another tragedy 
 at another saint's house. 
 
 I turned quickly aside, and stepping up to 
 the elevated causeway that runs in front of the 
 tents of the brass-workers, I stood awhile and 
 watched the Jewish workmen hammering the 
 designs on their trays. Presently I became 
 aware of a little girl who was sitting on a 
 bundle of rushes and plaiting them into a chain. 
 She was a tiny thing, six years of age at the 
 utmost, but with the sober look of a matron. 
 Her sweet face was of the colour of copper, and 
 her quiet eyes were deep blue. A yellow gown 
 of some light fabric covered her body, but her 
 feet were bare. She worked at her plaiting 
 with steady industry, and as often as she stopped 
 to draw a rush from the bundle beneath her she 
 lifted her eyes and looked with a wistful gaze 
 over the feeding-ground of the camels, and 
 down the lane to the bridge, and up by the big 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 229 
 
 house on the hillside to where the sandy road 
 goes off to Fez. 
 
 The little demure figure, amid so many romp- 
 ing children, interested and touched me. This 
 was noticed by a Jewish brassworker before 
 whose open booth I stood, and he smiled and 
 nodded his head in the direction of the little 
 woman. 
 
 *' Dear little Sobersides," I said; *'does she 
 never play with other children ? " 
 
 " No," said the Jew, '* she sits here every day, 
 and all day long — that is, when her father is 
 away.'' 
 
 '* Whose child is she ? " I asked. An awful 
 thought had struck me. 
 
 ** A great rascal's," the Jew answered, 
 " though the little one is such an angel. He 
 keeps a spice shop over yonder, but he is a 
 guide as well as a merchant, and when he is out 
 on a journey the child sits here and waits and 
 watches for his coming home again. She can 
 catch the first sight of travellers from this place, 
 and she knows her father at any distance. 
 See ! — do you know where she's looking now ? 
 Over the road by El Minzah — that's the way 
 from Fez. Her father has gone there with a 
 Christian." 
 
 The sweat was bursting from my forehead. 
 , " What's his name ? " I asked. 
 
 " The Moors call him Larby," said the Jew, 
 " and the Christians nickname him Ananias. 
 
230 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 They say he is a Spanish renegade, escaped 
 from Ceuta, who witnessed to the Prophet and 
 married a Moorish wife. But he's everything 
 to the little one — bless her innocent face! 
 Look!' do you see the tiny brown dish at her 
 side ? That's for her drinking water. She 
 brings it full every day, and also a little cake of 
 bread for her dinner. She's never tired of 
 waiting, and if Larby does not come home to- 
 night she'll be here in the morning. I do 
 believe that if anything happened to Larby 
 she would wait until doomsday." 
 
 My throat was choking me, and I could not 
 speak. The Jew saw my emotion, but he 
 showed no surprise. I stepped up to the little 
 one and stroked her glossy black hair. 
 
 *' Hoolia ?" I said. 
 
 She smiled back into my face and answered, 
 " lyyeh" — yes. 
 
 1 could say no more ; I dare not look into 
 her trustful eyes and think that he whom she 
 waited for would never come again. I stooped 
 and kissed the child, and then fled away. 
 (God show me my duty. The Priest 
 or the Man — which f) 
 
 Listen ! do you hear him ? That's the foot- 
 step of my boy overhead. My darling ! He is 
 well again now. My little sunny laddie ! He 
 came into my bed-room this morning with a hop, 
 skip, and a jump — a gleam of sunshine. Poor 
 innocent, thoughtless boy. They will take him 
 into the country soon, and he will romp in the 
 
THE LAST CONFESSION 231 
 
 lanes and chase the birds in the garden. 
 My son, my son ! He has drained my Hfe 
 away ; he has taken all my strength. Do I 
 wish that I had it back ? Yes, but only — yes, 
 only that I might give it him again. Hark ! 
 That's his voice, that's his laughter. How 
 happy he is ! When I think how soon — how 
 
 very soon — when I think that I 
 
 God sees all. He is looking down on little 
 Hoolia waiting, waiting, waiting where the 
 camels come over the hill, and on my little Noel 
 laughing and prancing in the room above us. 
 
 Father, I have told you all at last. There 
 are tears in your eyes, father. You are crying. 
 Tell me, then, what hope is left ? You know 
 my sin, and you know my suffering. Did I do 
 wrong ? Did I do right ? 
 
 Jkfy son, God's law was made for 
 man, not man for His law. If the 
 spirit has been broken where the letter 
 has been kept, the spirit may be kept 
 where the letter has been broken. Your 
 earthly father dare not judge you. To 
 your Heavenly Father he must leave 
 both the deed and the circumstance. It 
 is for Him to justify or forgive. If 
 you are innocent, He will place your 
 hand in the hand of hifn who slew the 
 Egyptian and yet looked on the burning 
 bush. And if you are guilty, He will 
 not shut His ears to the cry of your 
 despair. 
 
232 THE LAST CONFESSION 
 
 He has gone. I could not tell him. 
 It would have embittered his parting 
 hour ; it would have poisoned the wine 
 of the sacrament. O, Larby ! Larby I 
 flesh of my flesh, my sorrow, my shame^ 
 my prodigal— my son. 
 
THE BLIND MOTHER 
 
THE BLIND MOTHER 
 
 I 
 
 The Vale of Newlands lay green in the morn- 
 ing sunlight ; the river that ran through its 
 lowest bed sparkled with purple and amber ; 
 the leaves prattled low in the light breeze that 
 soughed through the rushes and the long grass ; 
 the hills rose sheer and white to the smooth 
 blue lake of the sky, where only one fleecy 
 cloud floated languidly across from peak to 
 peak. Out of unseen places came the bleating 
 of sheep and the rumble of distant cataracts, 
 and above the dull thud of tumbling waters 
 far away was the thin carolling of birds over- 
 head. 
 
 But the air was alive with yet sweeter sounds. 
 On the breast of the fell that lies over against 
 Cat Bell a procession of children walked, and 
 sang, and chattered, and laughed. It was St. 
 Pete's Day, and they were rush-bearing : little 
 ones of all ages, from the comely girl of four- 
 teen (just ripening into maidenhood) who walked 
 
236 THE BLIND MOTHER 
 
 last, to the sweet boy of four in the pinafore 
 braided with epaulettes, who strode along gal- 
 lantly in front. Most of the little hands carried 
 rushes, but some were filled with ferns and 
 mosses, and flowers. They had assembled at 
 the schoolhouse, and now, on their way to the 
 church, they were making the circuit of the 
 dale. 
 
 They passed over the road that crosses the 
 river at the head of Newlands, and turned down 
 into the path that follows the bed of the valley. 
 At that angle there stands a little group of 
 cottages, deliciously cool in their whitewash, 
 nestling together under the heavy purple crag 
 from which the waters of a ghyll fall into a deep 
 basin that reaches to their walls. The last of 
 the group is a cottage with its end to the road, 
 and its open porch facing a garden shaped like 
 a wedge. As the children passed this house 
 an old man, grey and thin and much bent, 
 stood by the gate, leaning on a staff. A collie, 
 with the sheep dog's wooden bar suspended 
 from its shaggy neck, lay at his feet. The hum 
 of voices brought a young woman into the 
 porch. She was bare-headed and wore a light 
 print gown. Her face was pale and marked 
 with lines. She walked cautiously, stretching 
 one hand before her with an uncertain motion, 
 and grasping a trailing tendril of honeysuckle 
 that swept downward from the roof. Her 
 eyes, which were partly inclined upwards and 
 partly turned towards the procession, had a 
 
THE BLIND MOTHER 237 
 
 vague light in their bleached pupils. She was 
 blind. At her side, and tugging at her other 
 hand, was a child of a year and a half — a 
 chubby, sunny little fellow with ruddy cheeks, 
 blue eyes, and fair curly hair. Prattling, laugh- 
 ing, singing snatches, and waving their rushes 
 and ferns above their happy, thoughtless heads, 
 the children rattled past. When they were 
 gone the air was empty, as it is when the lark 
 stops in its song. 
 
 After the procession of children had passed 
 the little cottage at the angle of the roads, the 
 old man who leaned on his staff at the gate 
 turned about and stepped to the porch. 
 
 '* Did the boy see them ? — did he see the 
 children ? " said the young woman who held the 
 child by the hand. 
 
 " I mak' na doot," said the old man. 
 
 He stooped to the little one and held out one 
 long withered finger. The soft baby hand closed 
 on it instantly. 
 
 ^* Did he laugh ? I thought he laughed," 
 said the young woman. 
 
 A bright smile played on her lips. 
 
 *' May be so, lass." 
 
 " Ralphie has never seen the children before, 
 father. Didn't he look frightened — just a little 
 bit frightened — at first, you know ? I thought 
 he crept behind my gown." 
 
 ** Maybe, maybe." 
 
 The little one had dropped the hand of his 
 young mother, and, still holding the bony finger 
 
238 THE BLIND MOTHER 
 
 of his grandfather, he toddled beside him into 
 the house. 
 
 Very cool and sweet was the kitchen, with 
 whitewashed walls and hard earthen floor. A 
 table and a settle stood by the window, and a 
 dresser that was an armoury of bright pewter 
 dishes, trenchers, and piggins, crossed the oppo- 
 site wall. 
 
 " Nay, but sista here, laal lad," said the old 
 man, and he dived into a great pocket at his 
 side. 
 
 *' Have you brought it ? Is it the kitten ? 
 Oh, dear, let the boy see it ! " 
 
 A kitten came out of the old man's pocket, 
 and was set down on the rug at the hearth. 
 The timid creature sat dazed, then raised itself 
 on its hind legs and mewed. 
 
 " Where's Ralphie ? Is he watching it, 
 father. What is he doing ? " 
 
 The little one had dropped on hands and 
 knees before the kitten, and was gazing up into 
 its face. 
 
 The mother leaned over him" with a face that 
 would have beamed with sunshine if the sun of 
 sight had not been missing. 
 
 *' Is he looking ? Doesn't he want to coddle 
 it ? " 
 
 The little chap had pushed his nose close to 
 the nose of the kitten, and was prattling to it in 
 various inarticulate noises. 
 
 " Boo — loo — lal-la — mama." 
 
 ** Isn't he a darling, father ? " 
 
THE BLIND MOTHER 239 
 
 " It's a winsome wee thing," said the old man, 
 still standing with drooping head, over the group 
 on the hearth. 
 
 The mother's face saddened, and she turned 
 away. Then from the opposite side of the 
 kitchen, where she was making pretence to take 
 plates from a plate-rack, there came the sound 
 of suppressed weeping. The old man's eyes 
 followed her. 
 
 " Nay, lass ; let's have a sup of broth," he 
 said, in a tone that carried another message. 
 
 The young woman put plates and a bowl of 
 broth on the table. 
 
 ** To think that I can never see my own child, 
 and everybody else can see him ! " she said, and 
 then there was another bout of tears. 
 
 The charcoal-burner supped at his broth in 
 silence. A glistening bead rolled slowly down 
 his wizened cheek ; and the interview on the 
 hearth went on without interruption : 
 
 ** Mew — mew — mew. Boo — loo — lal-la — 
 mama." 
 
 The child made efforts to drag himself to his 
 feet by laying hold of the old man's trousers. 
 
 '* Nay, laddie," said the old man, '' mind my 
 claes — they'll dirty thy bran-new brat for 
 thee." 
 
 The mother took the child from her father's 
 feet, and, sitting on the sconce bench with it 
 she held a broken piece of a mirror before its 
 face, and then listened for its laugh when it saw 
 itself in the glass. 
 
240 THE BLIND MOTHER 
 
 " Is he growing, father ?" said the girl. 
 
 " Growing ? — amain." 
 
 ''And his eyes — are they changing colour? 
 — going brown ? Children's eyes do, you 
 know." 
 
 '* Maybe — I'll not be for saying nay." 
 
 *' Is he — is he very like me, father V 
 
 ** Nay — well — nay — I's fancying I see sum- 
 mat of the stranger in the laal chap at 
 whiles." 
 
 The young mother turned her head aside. 
 
 # 
 
 The old man's name was Matthew Fisher ; 
 but the folks of the country-side called him 
 Laird Fisher. This dubious dignity came of 
 the circumstance that he had been the holder 
 of an absolute royalty in a few acres of land 
 under Hindscarth. The royalty had been 
 many generations in his family. His grand- 
 father had set store by it. When the Lord of 
 the Manor had worked the copper pits at the 
 foot of the Eel Crags, he had tried to possess 
 himself of the royalties of the Fishers. But the 
 peasant family resisted the aristocrat. Luke 
 Fisher believed there was a fortune under his 
 feet, and he meant to try his luck on his holding 
 some day. That day never came. His son, 
 Mark Fisher, carried on the tradition, but made 
 no effort to unearth the fortune. They were a 
 cool, silent, slow, and stubborn race. Matthew 
 Fisher followed his father and his grandfather, 
 
THE BLIND MOTHER 241 
 
 and inherited the family pride. All these years 
 the tenders of the Lord of the Manor were 
 ignored, and the Fishers enjoyed their title of 
 courtesy or badinage. Matthew married, and 
 had one daughter called Mercy. He farmed 
 his few acres with poor results. The ground 
 was good enough, but Matthew was living 
 under the shadow of the family tradition. One 
 day — it was Sunday morning, and the sun 
 shone brightly — he was rambling by the Po 
 Beck that rises on Hindscarth, and passed 
 through his land, when his eye glanced over a 
 glittering stone that lay among the pebbles at 
 the bottom of the stream. It was ore, good 
 full ore, and on the very surface. Then the 
 Laird sank a shaft, and all his earnings with it, 
 in an attempt to procure iron or copper. The 
 dalespeople derided him, but he held silently on 
 his way. 
 
 " How dusta find the cobbles to-day — any 
 softer ? " they would say in passing. 
 
 "As soft as the hearts of most folk," he would 
 answer ; and then add in a murmur, '' and maybe 
 a vast harder nor their heads." 
 
 The undeceiving came at length, and then 
 the Laird Fisher was old and poor. His wife 
 died broken-hearted. After that the Laird 
 never rallied. The shaft was left unworked, 
 and the holding lay fallow. Laird Fisher took 
 wage from the Lord of the Manor to burn char- 
 coal in the wood. The breezy irony of the 
 dalesfolk did not spare the old man's bent head. 
 
 Q 
 
242 THE BLIND MOTHER 
 
 There was a rhyme current in the vale which 
 ran — 
 
 " There's t'auld laird, and t'young laird, and t'laird among 
 t'barns, 
 If iver there comes another laird, we'll hang him up by 
 farms." 
 
 A second man came to Matthew's abandoned 
 workings. He put money into it and skill and 
 knowledge, struck a vein, and began to realise 
 a fortune. The only thing he did for the old 
 Laird was to make him his banksman at a pound 
 a week — the only thing save one thing, and 
 that is the beginning of this story. 
 
 The man's name was Hugh Ritson. He was 
 the second son of a Cumbrian statesman in a 
 neighbouring valley, was seven-and-twenty, and 
 had been brought up as a mining engineer, first 
 at Cleaton Moor and afterwards at the College 
 in Jermyn Street. When he returned to Cum- 
 berland and bought the old Laird's holding he 
 saw something of the old Laird's daughter. He 
 remembered Mercy as a pretty prattling thing of 
 ten or eleven. She was now a girl of eighteen, 
 with a simple face, a timid manner, and an air 
 that was neither that of a woman nor of a child. 
 Her mother was lately dead, her father spent 
 most of his days on the fell (some of his nights 
 also when the charcoal was burning), and she 
 was much alone. Hugh Ritson liked her sweet 
 face, her gentle replies, and her few simple 
 questions. It is unnecessary to go farther. 
 The girl gave herself up to him with her whole 
 
THE BLIND MOTHER 243 
 
 heart and soul. Then he married another 
 woman. 
 
 The wife was the daughter of the Vicar, 
 Parson Christian. Her name was Greta : she 
 was beautiful to look upon — a girl of spirit and 
 character. Greta knew nothing of Hugh 
 Ritson's intercourse with Mercy until after he 
 had become her husband. Mercy was then in 
 the depth of her trouble, and Greta had gone 
 to comfort her. Down to that hour, though 
 idle tongues had wagged, no one had lit on 
 Mercy's lover, and not even to her father had 
 she confessed. Greta told her that it was brave 
 and beautiful to shield her friend, but he was 
 unworthy of her friendship or he would stand 
 by her side — who was he .'^ It was a trying 
 moment. Greta urged and pleaded and coaxed, 
 and Mercy trembled and stammered and was 
 silent. The truth came out at last, and from 
 that moment the love between the two women 
 was like the love of David and Jonathan. 
 Hugh Ritson was compelled to stand apart and 
 witness it. He might not recognise it ; he dare 
 not oppose it ; he could only drop his head and 
 hold his tongue. It was coals of fire on his 
 head from both sides. The women never 
 afterwards mentioned him to each other, and 
 yet somehow — by a paradox of love — he was 
 the bond between them. 
 
 A month before the birth of the child, Mercy 
 became blind. This happened suddenly and 
 without much warning. A little cold in the 
 
244 THE BLIND MOTHER 
 
 eyes, a little redness around them and then total 
 eclipse of sight. If such a disaster had befallen 
 a married wife, looking forward to a happy- 
 motherhood, death itself might have seemed a 
 doom more kind. But Mercy took it with a 
 sombre quietness. She was even heard to say 
 that it was just as well. These startling words, 
 repeated to Greta first told her something of 
 the mystery and misery of Mercy's state. But 
 their full meaning, the whole depth of the shame 
 they came from, were only revealed on the 
 morning after the night on which Mercy's child 
 was born. 
 
 They were in the room upstairs, where Mercy 
 herself had been born less than nineteen years 
 before : a little chamber with the low eaves and 
 the open roof rising to the ridge : a peaceful 
 place with its white-washed walls and the odour 
 of clean linen. On the pillow of the bed lay 
 the simple face of the girl-mother, with the fair 
 hair hanging loose and the blind eyes closed. 
 Mercy had just awakened from the first deep 
 sleep that comes after all is over, and the long 
 fingers of one of her thin hands were plucking 
 at the white counterpane. In a nervous voice 
 she began to speak. Where was Mrs. Ritson } 
 Greta answered that she was there, and the 
 baby was sleeping on her knee. Anybody else 
 there ? No, nobody else. Was it morning } Yes, 
 It was eight in the morning, and her father, who 
 had not been to bed, had eaten his breakfast, 
 and lit his pipe and gone to work. Was the 
 
THE BLIND MOTHER 245 
 
 day fine ? Very fine. And the sun shining ? 
 Yes, shining beautifully. Was the blind down ? 
 Yes, the little white blind was down. Then 
 all the room was full of that soft light ? Oh yes, 
 full of it. Except in the corner by the wash- 
 stand ? Well, except in the corner. Was the 
 washstand still there ? Why, yes, it was still 
 there. And mother's picture on the wall above 
 it 1 Oh dear, yes. And the chest of drawers 
 near the door with the bits of sparkling lead ore 
 on top ? Of course. And the texts pinned on 
 to the wall-paper : *' Come unto Me " — eh ? 
 Yes, they were all there. Then everything was 
 just the same ? Oh yes, everything the same. 
 
 " The same," cried Mercy, ^'everything the 
 same, but, O Lord Jesus, how different ! " 
 
 The child was awakened by the shrill sound 
 of her voice, and it began to whimper, and 
 Greta to hush it, swaying it on her knee, and 
 calling it by a score of pretty names. Mercy 
 raised her head a moment and listened, then 
 fell back to the pillow and said, " How glad I 
 am I'm blind?" 
 
 *'Good gracious, Mercy, what are you say- 
 ing ? " said Greta. 
 
 ** I'm glad I can't see it." 
 
 ** Mercy ! " 
 
 " Ah, you're different, Mrs. Ritson. I was 
 thinking of that last night. When your time 
 comes perhaps you'll be afraid you'll die, but 
 you'll never be afraid you'll not. And you'll 
 say to yourself, * It will be over soon, and then 
 
246 THE BLIND MOTHER 
 
 what joy ! ' That wasn't my case. When I 
 was at the worst I could only think, * It's 
 dreadful now, but oh, to-morrow all the world 
 will be different' " 
 
 One poor little day changed all this. To- 
 wards sunset the child had to be given the 
 breast for the first time. Ah ! that mystery of 
 life, that mystery of motherhood, what are the 
 accidents of social law, the big conventions 
 of virtue and vice, of honour and disgrace, 
 before the touch of the spreading fingers of 
 a babe as they fasten on the mother's breast ! 
 Mercy thought no more of her shame. She 
 had her baby for it, at all events. The world 
 was not utterly desolate. After all, God was 
 very good. 
 
 Then came a great longing for sight. She 
 only wished to see her child. That was all. 
 Wasn't it hard that a mother had never seen 
 her own baby ? In her darkness she would 
 feel its little nose as it lay asleep beside her, and 
 let her hand play around its mouth and across 
 its eyes and about its ears. Her touch passed 
 over the little one like a look. It was almost 
 as if there were sight in the tips of her fingers. 
 
 The child lived to be six months old, and 
 still Mercy had not seen him ; a year, and yet 
 she had no hope. Then Greta, in pity of the 
 yearning gaze of the blind girl-face whenever 
 she came and kissed the boy and said how 
 bonny he was, sent to Liverpool for a doctor, 
 that at least they might know for a certainty 
 
THE BLIND MOTHER 247 
 
 if Mercy's sight was gone for ever. The 
 doctor came. Yes, there was hope. The mis- 
 chief was cataract on both eyes. Sight might 
 return, but an operation would be necessary. 
 That could not, however, be performed imme- 
 diately. He would come again in a month, 
 and a colleague with him, and meantime the 
 eyes must be bathed constantly in a liquid which 
 they would send for the purpose. 
 
 At first Mercy was beside herself with delight. 
 She plucked up the boy and kissed and kissed 
 him. The whole day long she sang all over 
 the house like a liberated bird. Her face, 
 though it was blind, was like sunshine, for the 
 joyous mouth smiled like eyes. Then suddenly 
 there came a change. She plucked up the boy 
 and kissed him still, but she did not sing and 
 she did not smile. A heavy thought had come 
 to her. Ah ! if she should die under the doctor's 
 hands ! Was it not better to live in blindness 
 and keep her boy than to try to see him and so 
 lose him altogether ? Thus it was with her on 
 St. Peter's Day when the children of the dale 
 went by at their rush-bearing. 
 
 #^ -^ ^ :^ 
 
 W TV- TV- •TV- 
 
 There was the faint sound of a footstep out- 
 side. 
 
 ** Hark," said Mercy, half rising from the 
 sconce. *Mt's Mrs. Ritson's foot." 
 
 The old man listened. '* Nay, lass, there's 
 no foot," said Matthew. 
 
248 THE BLIND MOTHER 
 
 ** Yes, she's on the road," said Mercy. Her 
 face showed that pathetic tension of the other 
 senses which is peculiar to the bhnd. A mo- 
 ment later Greta stepped into the cottage, with 
 a letter in her hand. ** Good-morning, Mat- 
 thew; I have news for you, Mercy. The 
 doctors are coming to-day." 
 
 Mercy's /ace fell perceptibly. The old man's 
 head drooped lower. 
 
 " There, don't be afraid," said Greta, touch- 
 ing her hand caressingly. ''It will soon be 
 over. The doctors didn't hurt you before, did 
 they ? " 
 
 *' No, but this time it will be the operation," 
 said Mercy. There was a tremor in her 
 voice. 
 
 Greta had lifted the child from the sconce. 
 The little fellow cooed close to her ear ; and 
 babbled his inarticulate nothings. 
 
 ''Only think, when it's all over you will be 
 able to see your darling Ralphie for the first 
 time ! " 
 
 Mercy's sightless face brightened. " Oh, 
 yes," she said, ''and watch him play, and see 
 him spin his tops and chase the butterflies. Oh, 
 that will be very good ! " 
 
 " Dusta say to-day. Mistress Ritson ? " asked 
 Matthew, the big drops standing in his eyes. 
 
 "Yes, Matthew; I will stay to see it over, 
 and mind baby, and help a little." 
 
 Mercy took the little one from Greta's arms 
 and cried over it, and laughed over it, and then 
 
THE BLIND MOTHER 249 
 
 cried and laughed again. *^ Mamma and 
 Ralphie shall play together in the garden, dar- 
 ling ; and Ralphie shall see the horses — and the 
 flowers — and the birdies — and mamma — yes, 
 mamma shall ^^^ Ralphie.' 
 
II 
 
 Two hours later the doctors arrived. They 
 looked at Mercy's eyes, and were satisfied that 
 the time was ripe for the operation. At the 
 sound of their voices, Mercy trembled and 
 turned livid. By a maternal instinct she picked 
 up the child, who was toddling about the floor, 
 and clasped it to her bosom. The little one 
 opened wide his blue eyes at sight of the 
 strangers, and the prattling tongue became 
 quiet. 
 
 '' Take her to her room, and let her lie on 
 the bed," said one of the doctors to Greta. 
 
 A sudden terror seized the young mother. 
 ** No, no, no ! " she said, in an indescribable 
 accent, and the child cried a little from the 
 pressure to her breast. 
 
 ** Come, Mercy, dear, be brave for your boy's 
 sake," said Greta. 
 
 " Listen to me," said the doctor quietly but 
 firmly. " You are now quite blind, and you have 
 been in total darkness for more than a year and 
 a half. We may be able to restore your sight by 
 giving you a few minutes' pain. Will you not 
 bear it ? " 
 
THE BLIND MOTHER 251 
 
 Mercy sobbed, and kissed the child passion- 
 ately. 
 
 " Just think, it is quite certain that without 
 an operation you will never regain your sight," 
 continued the doctor. " You have nothing to 
 lose, and everything to gain. Are you satis- 
 fied ? Come, go away to your room quietly." 
 
 " Oh, oh, oh ! " sobbed Mercy. 
 
 ''Just imagine, only a few minutes' pain, and 
 even of that you will scarcely be conscious. 
 Before you know what is doing, it will be 
 done." 
 
 Mercy clung closer to her child, and kissed 
 it again and yet more fervently. 
 
 The doctors turned to each other. *' Strange 
 vanity ! " muttered the one who had not spoken 
 before. ^* Her eyes are useless, and yet she is 
 afraid she may lose them." 
 
 Mercy's quick ears caught the whispered 
 words. " It is not that," she said, passion- 
 ately. 
 
 '' No, gentlemen," said Greta, '' you have 
 mistaken her thought. Tell her she runs no 
 danger of her life.'"' 
 
 The doctors smiled and laughed a little. 
 '' Oh, that's it, eh ? Well, we can tell her that 
 with certainty." 
 
 Then there was another interchanore of half- 
 amused glances. 
 
 ** Ah, we that be men, sirs, don't know the 
 depth and tenderness of a mother's heart," said 
 old Matthew. And Mercy turned towards him 
 
252 THE BLIND MOTHER 
 
 a face that was full of gratitude. Greta took 
 the child out of her arms and hushed it to sleep 
 in another room. Then she brought it back 
 and put it in its cradle that stood in the ingle. 
 
 ''Come, Mercy," she said, ''for the sake of 
 your boy." And Mercy permitted herself to be 
 led from the kitchen. 
 
 "So there will be no danger/' she said. " I 
 shall not leave my boy. Who said that ? The 
 doctor ? Oh, good gracious, it's nothing. Only 
 think, I shall live to see him grow to be a great 
 lad." 
 
 Her whole face was now radiant. 
 
 "It will be nothing. Oh, no, it will be no- 
 thing. How silly it was to think that he would 
 live on, and grow up, and be a man, and I lie 
 cold in the churchyard — and me his mother ! 
 That was very childish, wasn't it ? But, then, 
 I have been so childish since Ralphie came." 
 
 " There, lie and be quiet, and it will soon be 
 over," said Greta. 
 
 " Let me kiss him first. Do let me kiss him ! 
 Only once. You know it's a great risk after 
 all. And if he grew up — and I wasn't here — 
 if— if " 
 
 " There, dear Mercy, you must not cry again. 
 It inflames your eyes, and that can't be good 
 for the doctors." 
 
 " No, no, I won't cry. You are very good ; 
 everybody is very good. Only let me kiss my 
 little Ralphie — ^just for the last." 
 
 Greta led her back to the side of the cot, 
 
THE BLIND MOTHER 253 
 
 and she spread herself over it with outstretched 
 arms, as the mother-bird poises with outstretched 
 wings over her brood. Then she rose, and her 
 face was peaceful and resigned. 
 
 The Laird Fisher sat down before the kitchen 
 fire, with one arm on the cradle head. 
 
 The doctors followed into the bedroom. 
 Mercy was lying tranquilly on her bed. Her 
 countenance was without expression. She was 
 busy with her own thoughts. Greta stood by 
 the bedside ; anxiety was written in every line 
 of her beautiful, brave face. 
 
 *'We must give her the gas," said one of the 
 doctors, addressing the other. 
 
 Mercy's features twitched. 
 
 *'Who said that?" she asked nervously. 
 
 *' My child, you must be quiet," said the 
 doctor in a tone of authority. 
 
 " Yes, I will be quiet, very quiet ; only don't 
 make me unconscious," she said. *' Never mind 
 me ; I will not cry. No ; if you hurt me I will 
 not cry out. I will not stir. I will do every- 
 thing you ask. And you shall say how quiet I 
 have been. Only don't let me be insensible." 
 
 The doctors consulted together aside, and in 
 whispers. 
 
 '' Who spoke about the gas ? It wasn't you, 
 Mrs. Ritson, was it } " 
 
 " You must do as the doctors wish, dear," said 
 Greta, in a caressing voice. 
 
 **0h, I will be very good. I will do every 
 little thing. Yes, and I will be so brave. I 
 
254 THE BLIND MOTHER 
 
 am a little childish sometimes, but I can be 
 brave, can't I ? " 
 
 The doctors returned to the bedside. 
 
 " Very well, we will not use the gas," said 
 one. '* You are a brave little woman, after all. 
 There, be still — very still." 
 
 One of the doctors was tearing linen into 
 strips for bandages, while the other fixed 
 Mercy's head to suit the light. 
 
 There was a faint sound from the kitchen. 
 "Wait," said Mercy. *' That is father- 
 he's crying. Tell him not to cry. Say it's 
 nothing." 
 
 She laughed a weak little laugh. 
 
 '* There, he will hear tliat ; go and say it was 
 I who laughed." 
 
 Greta left the room on tiptoe. Old Matthew 
 was still sitting over a dying fire, gently rocking 
 the sleeping child. 
 
 When Greta returned to the bedroom, Mercy 
 called her, and said, very softly, ** Let me hold 
 your hand, Greta — may I say Greta ? — there," 
 and her fingers closed on Greta's with a convul- 
 sive grasp. 
 
 The operation began. Mercy held her breath. 
 She had the stubborn north-country blood in 
 her. Once only a §igh escaped. There was a 
 dead silence. 
 
 In two or three minutes the doctor said, "Just 
 another minute, and all will be over." 
 
 At the next instant Greta felt her hand held 
 with a grasp of iron. 
 
THE BLIND MOTHER 255 
 
 " Doctor, doctor, I can see you," cried Mercy, 
 and her words came in gusts. 
 
 " Be quiet," said the doctor in a stern voice. 
 In half a minute more the Hnen bandages 
 were being wrapped tightly over Mercy's 
 eyes. 
 
 '* Doctor, dear doctor, let me see my boy ! " 
 cried Mercy. 
 
 '' Be quiet, I say," said the doctor again. 
 
 " Dear doctor, my dear doctor, only one peep 
 — one little peep. I saw your face — let me see 
 my Ralphie's." 
 
 ''Not yet, it is not safe." 
 
 '* But only for a moment. Don't put the 
 bandage on for one moment. Just think, doctor, 
 I have never seen my boy ; I've seen other 
 people's children, but never once my own, own 
 darling. Oh, dear doctor " 
 
 " You are exciting yourself. Listen to me : 
 if you don't behave yourself now you may never 
 see your child." 
 
 *'Yes, yes, I will behave myself; I will be 
 very good. Only don't shut me up in darkness 
 again until I see my boy. Greta, bring him to 
 me. Listen, I hear his breathing. Go for my 
 darling ! The kind doctor won't be angry with 
 you. Tell him that if I see my child it will cure 
 me. I know it will." 
 
 Greta's eyes were swimming in tears. 
 
 ** Rest quiet, Mercy. Everything may be 
 lost if you disturb yourself now, my dear." 
 
 The doctors were wrapping bandage over 
 
256 THE BLIND MOTHER 
 
 bandage, and fixing them firmly at the back of 
 their patient's head. 
 
 ** Now Hsten again," said one of them. " This 
 bandage must be kept over your eyes for a 
 week." 
 
 ** A week — a whole week ? Oh, doctor, you 
 might as well say for ever." 
 
 *' I say a week. And if you should ever 
 remove it " 
 
 *' Not for an instant ? Not raise it a very 
 little?" 
 
 *' If you ever remove it for an instant, or 
 raise it ever so little, you will assuredly lose 
 your sight for ever. Remember that." 
 
 ** Oh, doctor, it is terrible. Why did you 
 not tell me so before ? Oh. this is worse than 
 blindness ! Think of the temptation, and I 
 have never seen my boy ! " 
 
 The doctor had fixed the bandage, and his 
 voice was less stern, but no less resolute. 
 
 *' You must obey me," he said ; " I will come 
 again this day week, and then you shall see 
 your child, and your father, and this young 
 lady, and everybody. But mind, if you don't 
 obey me, you will never see anything. You 
 will have one glance of your little boy, and 
 then be blind for ever, or perhaps — yes, per- 
 haps die." 
 
 Mercy lay quiet for a moment. Then she 
 said, in a low voice : 
 
 '' Dear doctor, you must forgive me. I am 
 very wilful, and I promised to be so good. I 
 
THE BLIND MOTHER 257 
 
 will not touch the bandage. No, for the sake 
 of my little boy, I will never, never touch it. 
 You shall come yourself and take it off, and 
 then I shall see him." 
 
 The doctors went away. Greta remained all 
 that night in the cottage. 
 
 '' You are happy now, Mercy ? " said Greta. 
 - "Oh yes," said Mercy. ''Just think, only a 
 week ! And he must be so beautiful by this 
 time." 
 
 When Greta took the child to her at sunset, 
 there was an ineffable joy in her pale face, and 
 next morning, when Greta awoke, Mercy was 
 singing softly to herself in the sunrise. 
 
Ill 
 
 Greta stayed with Mercy until noon that day, 
 begging, entreating, and finally commanding 
 her to lie quiet in bed, while she herself dressed 
 and fed the child, and cooked and cleaned, in 
 spite of the Laird Fisher's protestations. When 
 all was done, and the old charcoal-burner had 
 gone out on the hills, Greta picked up the little 
 fellow in her arms and went to Mercy's room. 
 Mercy was alert to every sound, and in an 
 instant was sitting up in bed. Her face beamed, 
 her parted lips smiled, her delicate fingers 
 plucked nervously at the counterpane. 
 
 ** How brightsome it is to-day, Greta," she 
 said. '* I'm sure the sun must be shining." 
 
 The window- was open, and a soft breeze 
 floated through the sun's rays into the room. 
 Mercy inclined her head aside, and added, 
 "Ah, you young rogue, you; you are there, 
 are you ? Give him to me, the rascal." The 
 rogue was set down in his mother's arms, and 
 she proceeded to punish his rascality with a 
 shower of kisses. "How bonny his cheeks 
 must be ; they will be just like two ripe apples," 
 and forthwith there fell another shower of 
 
THE BLIND MOTHER 259 
 
 kisses. Then she babbled over the little one, 
 and lisped, and stammered, and nodded her 
 head in his face, and blew little puffs of breath 
 into his hair, and tickled him until he laughed 
 and crowed and rolled and threw up his legs ; 
 and then she kissed his limbs and extremities 
 in a way that mothers have, and finally impri- 
 soned one of his feet by putting it ankle-deep 
 into her mouth. ** Would you ever think a foot 
 could be so tiny, Greta ? " she said. And the 
 little one plunged about and clambered labori- 
 ously up its mother's breast, and more than 
 once plucked at the white bandage about her 
 head. ''No, no, Ralphie must not touch," said 
 Mercy with sudden gravity. **Only think, 
 Ralphie pet, one week — only one — nay, less — 
 
 only six days now, and then — oh, then ! " 
 
 A long hug, and the little fellow's boisterous 
 protest against the convulsive pressure abridged 
 the mother's prophecy. 
 
 All at once Mercy's manner changed. She 
 turned towards Greta, and said, " I will not 
 touch the bandage, no, never ; but if Ralphie 
 tugged at it, and it fell — would that be breaking 
 my promise ? " 
 
 Greta saw what was in her heart. 
 
 " I'm afraid it would, dear," she said, but 
 there was a tremor in her voice. 
 
 Mercy sighed audibly. 
 
 ** Just think, it would be only Ralphie. The 
 kind doctors could not be angry with my little 
 child. I would say, ' It was the boy,' and 
 
26o THE BLIND MOTHER 
 
 they would smile and say, *Ah, that is dif- 
 ferent.'" 
 
 *' Give me the little one," said Greta with 
 emotion. 
 
 Mercy drew the child closer, and there was a 
 pause. 
 
 " I was very wrong, Greta,'' she said in a low 
 tone. '' Oh ! you would not think what a fearful 
 thing came into my mind a minute ago. Take 
 my Ralphie. Just imagine, my own innocent 
 baby tempted me." 
 
 As Greta reached across the bed to lift the 
 child out of his mother's lap, the little fellow 
 was struggling to communicate, by help of a 
 limited vocabulary, some wondrous intelligence 
 of recent events that somewhat overshadowed 
 his brief existence. *' Puss — dat," many times 
 repeated, was further explained by one chubby 
 forefinger with its diminutive finger-nail pointed 
 to the fat back of the other hand. 
 
 "He means that the little cat has scratched 
 him," said Greta, '' but bless the mite, he is point- 
 ing to the wrong hand." 
 
 *' Puss — dat," continued the child, and peered 
 up into his mother's sightless face. Mercy was 
 all sighs in an instant. She had borne yester- 
 day's operation without a groan, but now the 
 scratch on her child's hand went to her heart 
 like a stab 
 
 " Lie quiet, Mercy," said Greta ; " it will be 
 gone to-morrow." 
 
THE BLIND MOTHER 261 
 
 ** Go-on," echoed the little chap, and pointed 
 out at the window. 
 
 *' The darling, how he picks up every word ! " 
 said Greta. 
 
 " He means the horse,'* explained Mercy. 
 
 " Go-on — man — go-on," prattled the little 
 one, with a child's indifference to all conversa- 
 tion except his own. 
 
 *' Bless the love, he must remember the 
 doctor and his horse," said Greta. 
 
 Mercy was putting her lips to the scratch on 
 the little hand. 
 
 " Oh, Greta, I am very childish ; but a 
 mother's heart melts like butter." 
 
 "■ Batter," echoed the child, and wriggled out 
 of Greta s arms to the ground, where he forth- 
 with clambered on to the stool, and possessed 
 himself of a slice- of bread which lay on the 
 table at the bedside. Then the fair curly head 
 disappeared like a glint of sunlight through the 
 door to the kitchen. 
 
 '' What shall I care li other mothers see my 
 child ? I shall see him too," said Mercy, and 
 she sighed. '' Yes," she added sofdy, " his 
 hands and his eyes and his feet, and his soft 
 hair." 
 
 **Try to sleep an hour or two, dear," said 
 Greta, '' and then perhaps you may get up this 
 afternoon — only perhaps, you know, but we'll 
 see." 
 
 ** Yes, Greta, yes. How kind you are." 
 
262 THE BLIND MOTHER 
 
 ''You will be kinder to me some day," said 
 Greta very tenderly. 
 
 " How very selfish I am. But then it is so 
 hard not to be selfish when you are a mother. 
 Only fancy, I never think of myself as Mercy 
 now. No, never. I'm just Ralphie's mamma. 
 When Ralphie came, Mercy must have died in 
 some way. That's very silly, isn't it ? Only it 
 does seem true." 
 
 " Man — go-on — batter," was heard from the 
 kitchen, mingled with the patter of tiny feet. 
 
 " Listen to him. Howtricksomehe is ! And 
 you should hear him cry ' Oh ! ' You would 
 say, ' That child has had an eye knocked out' 
 And then, in a minute, behold he is laughing 
 once more. There, I'm selfish again ; but I 
 will make up for it some day, if God is good." 
 
 *' Yes, Mercy, He ts good," said Greta. 
 
 Her arm rested on the door-jamb, and her 
 head dropped on to it ; her eyes swam. Did it 
 seem at that moment as if God had been very 
 good to these tw^o women ? 
 
 " Greta," said Mercy, and her voice fell to a 
 whisper, *' do you think Ralphie is like — any- 
 body ? " 
 
 " Yes, dear, he is like you." 
 
 There was a pause. Then Mercy's hand 
 strayed from under the bedclothes and plucked 
 at Greta's gown. 
 
 '' Do you think," she asked, in a voice all but 
 inaudible, ''that father knows who it is ?" 
 
 " I cannot say — we have never told him," 
 
THE BLIND MOTHER 263 
 
 *' Nor I — he never asked, never once — only, 
 you know, he gave up his work at the mine, 
 and went back to the charcoal-pit when Ralphie 
 came. But he never said a word.' 
 
 Greta did not answer. At that moment the 
 bedroom door was pushed open with a little 
 lordly bang, and the great wee man entered 
 with his piece of bread insecurely on one prong 
 of a fork. 
 
 ** Toas," he explained complacently, *' toas," 
 and walked up to the empty grate and stretched 
 his arm over the fender at the cold bars. 
 
 " Why, there's no fire for toast, you darling 
 goose," said Greta, catching him in her arms, 
 much to his masculine vexation. 
 
 Mercy had risen on an elbow, and her face 
 was full of the yearning of the blind. Then she 
 lay back. 
 
 " Never mind," she said to herself in a fal- 
 tering voice, *' let me lie quiet and think of all 
 his pretty ways." 
 
IV 
 
 Greta returned home towards noon, laughing 
 and crying a little to herself as she walked, for 
 she was full of a dear delicious envy. She was 
 thinking that she could take all the shame and 
 all the pain for all the joy of Mercy's mother- 
 hood. 
 
 God had given Greta no children. 
 
 Hugh Ritson came in to their early dinner 
 and she told him how things went at the cottage 
 of the old Laird Fisher. Only once before had 
 she mentioned Mercy or the child, and he looked 
 confused and awkward. After the meal was 
 over he tried to say something which had been 
 on his mind for weeks. 
 
 '' But if anything should happen after all," he 
 began, ''and Mercy should not recover — or if 
 she should ever want to go anywhere — might 
 we not take — would you mind, Greta — I mean 
 it might even help her — you see," he said, 
 breaking down utterly, " there is the child, it's a 
 sort of duty, you know — and then a good home 
 and upbringing " 
 
 '*Don't tempt me," said Greta. ''Haven't I 
 thought of it a hundred times ! " 
 
THE BLIND MOTHER 265 
 
 About five o'clock the same evening a knock 
 came to the door, and old Laird Fisher entered. 
 His manner was more than usually solemn and 
 constrained. 
 
 ** I's coom't to say as ma lass's wee thing is 
 taken badly," he said, *'and rayder sudden't." 
 
 Greta rose from her seat and put on her hat 
 and cloak. She was hastenincr down the road 
 
 o 
 
 while the charcoal-burner was still standing in 
 the middle of the floor. 
 
 When Greta reached the old charcoal-burner's 
 cottage, the little one was lying in a drowsy 
 state in Mercy's arms. Its breathing seemed 
 difficult ; sometimes it started in terror ; it was 
 feverish and suffered thirst. The mother's 
 wistful face was bent down on it with an 
 indescribable expression. There were only the 
 trembling lips to tell of the sharp struggle that 
 was going on within. But the yearning for a 
 sight of the little flushed countenance, the tear- 
 less appeal for but one glimpse of the drowsy 
 little eyes, the half-articulate cry of a mother's 
 heart against the fate that made the child she 
 had suckled at her breast a stranger, whose very 
 features she might not know — all this was written 
 in that blind face. 
 
 *' Is he pale } " said Mercy. '' Is he sleeping ? 
 He does not talk now, but only starts and cries, 
 and sometimes coughs." 
 
 " When did this begin ? " asked Greta. 
 
 ** Towards four o'clock. He had been play- 
 ing, and I noticed that he breathed heavily, and 
 
266 THE BLIND MOTHER 
 
 then he came to me to be nursed. Is he awake 
 now ? Listen." 
 
 The little one in its restless drowsiness was 
 muttering faintly, " Man — go-on — batter — toas." 
 
 " The darling is talking in his sleep, isn't he ? " 
 said Mercy. 
 
 Then there was a ringing, brassy cough. 
 
 *' It is croup," thought Greta, and she sent 
 for a doctor. 
 
 She closed the window, lit a fire, placed the 
 kettle so that the steam might enter the room, 
 then wrung flannels out of hot water, and 
 wrapped them about the child's neck. She 
 stayed all that night at the cottage, and sat up 
 with the little one and nursed it. Mercy could 
 not be persuaded to go to bed, but she was 
 very quiet. It had not yet taken hold of her 
 that the child was seriously ill. He was drowsy 
 and a little feverish, his pulse beat fast and 
 he coughed hard sometimes, but he would be 
 better in the morning. Oh yes, he would soon 
 be well again, and tearing up the flowers in 
 the garden. 
 
 Towards midnight the pulse fell rapidly, the 
 breathing became quieter, and the whole nature 
 seemed to sink. Mercy listened with her ear 
 bent down at the child's mouth, and a smile of 
 ineffable joy spread itself over her face. 
 
 " Bless him, he is sleeping so calmly," she 
 said. 
 
 Greta did not answer. 
 
 '* The 'puss ' and the * man ' don't darken 
 
THE BLIND MOTHER 267 
 
 his little life so much now," continued Mercy, 
 cheerily. 
 
 " No, dear," said Greta, in as strong a voice 
 as she could summon. 
 
 ** All will be well with my darling boy soon, 
 will it not ?" 
 
 "Yes, dear," said Greta, with a struggle. 
 The blind mother could not read the other 
 answer in her face. 
 
 Mercy had put her sensitive fingers on the 
 child's nose, and was touching him lightly about 
 the mouth. 
 
 " Greta," she said in a startled whisper, ''does 
 he look pinched ? " 
 
 " A little,'-' said Greta quietly. 
 
 '' And his skin — is it cold and clammy ? " 
 
 **We must give him another hot flannel, '^ 
 said Greta. 
 
 Mercy sat at the bedside, and said nothing 
 for an hour. Then all at once, and in a strange 
 harsh voice, she said : 
 
 " I wish God had not made Ralphie so win- 
 some." 
 
 Greta started at the words, but gave no 
 answer. 
 
 The daylight came early. As the leaden face 
 of the dawn looked in at the window, Greta 
 turned to where Mercy sat in silence. It was 
 a sad face, too, that she saw in the mingled 
 yellow light of the dying lamp and the grey of 
 early morning. 
 
 Mercy spoke again. 
 
268 THE BLIND MOTHER 
 
 ** Greta, do you remember what Mistress 
 Branthet said when her baby died last back-end 
 gone twelvemonth ? " 
 
 Greta looked up quickly at the bandaged 
 eyes. 
 
 ''What?" she asked. 
 
 *' Well, Parson Christian tried to comfort her, 
 and said, * Your baby is now an angel in Para- 
 dise,' and she turned on him with ' Shaf on your 
 angels — I want none on 'em — I want my little 
 barn; " 
 
 Mercy's voice broke into a sob. 
 
 Towards ten o'clock the doctor came. He 
 had been detained. Very sorry to disoblige 
 Mrs. Ritson, but fact was old Mr. de Broad- 
 thwaite had an attack of lumbago, complicated 
 by a bout of toothache, and everybody knew 
 he was most exacting. Young person's baby 
 ill ? Feverish, restless, starts in its sleep, and 
 cough ? — Ah, croupy cough — yes, croup, true 
 croup, not spasmodic. Let him see, how old ? 
 A year and a half? Ah, bad, very. Most 
 frequent in second year of infancy. Dangerous, 
 highly so. Forms a membrane that occludes 
 air passages. Often ends in convulsions, and 
 child suffocates. Sad, very. Let him see again. 
 How long since the attack began ? Yesterday 
 at four. Ah, far gone, far. The great man 
 soon vanished, leaving behind him a harmless 
 preparation of aconite and ipecacuanha. 
 
 Mercy had heard all, and her pent-up grief 
 broke out in sobs. 
 
THE BLIND MOTHER 269 
 
 ** Oh, to think I shall hear my Ralphie no 
 more, and to know his white cold face is looking 
 up from a coffin, while other children are play- 
 ing in the sunshine and chasing the butterflies ! 
 No, no, it cannot be ; God will not let it come 
 to pass; I will pray to Him and He will save 
 my child. Why, He can do anything, and He 
 has all the world. What is my little baby boy 
 to Him? He will not let it be taken from 
 me." 
 
 Greta's heart was too full for speech. But 
 she might weep in silence, and none there would 
 know. Mercy stretched across the bed, and, 
 tenderly folding the child in her arms, she lifted 
 him up, and then went down on her knees. 
 
 '* Merciful Father," she said in a childish voice 
 of sweet confidence, ''this is my baby, my 
 Ralphie, and I love him so dearly. You 
 would never think how much I love him. But 
 he is ill, and doctor says he may die. Oh, dear 
 Father, only think what it would be to say, 
 * His little face is gone.' And then I have 
 never seen him. You will not take him away 
 until his mother sees him. So soon, too. Only 
 five days more. Why, it is quite close. Not 
 to-morrow, nor the next day, nor the next, but 
 the day after that." 
 
 She put in many another childlike plea, and 
 then rose with a smile on her pale lips and 
 replaced the little one on his pillow. 
 
 *' How patient he is," she said. " He can't 
 say * Thank you.' but I'm sure his eyes are 
 
270 THE BLIND MOTHER 
 
 Speaking. Let me feel." She put her finger 
 lightly on the child's lids. ** No, they are shut ; 
 he must be sleeping. Oh, dear, he sleeps very 
 much. Is he gaining colour ? How quiet he 
 is. If he would only say, 'Mamma!' How I 
 wish I could see him ! " 
 
 She was very quiet for a while, and then 
 plucked at Greta's gown suddenly. 
 
 ''Greta," she said, eagerly, "something tells 
 me that if I could only see Ralphie I should 
 save him." 
 
 Greta started up in terror. '* No, no, no ; 
 you must not think of it," she said. 
 
 " But something whispered it. It must have 
 been God Himself You know we ought to 
 obey God always." 
 
 " Mercy, it was not God who said that. It 
 was your own heart. You must not heed it." 
 
 " I'm sure it was God," said Mercy. " And 
 I heard it quite plain." 
 
 " Mercy, my darling, think what you are say- 
 ing. Think what it is you wish to do. If you 
 do it you will be blind for ever." 
 
 " But I shall have saved my Ralphie." 
 
 " No, no ; you will not." 
 
 " Will he not be saved, Greta ?" 
 
 " Only our heavenly Father knows." 
 
 "Well, He whispered it in my heart. And, 
 as you say, He knows best." 
 
 The day wore slowly on, and the child sank 
 and sank. At evening the old charcoal-burner 
 returned, and went into the bedroom. He 
 
THE BLIND MOTHER 271 
 
 Stood a moment and looked down at the pinched 
 little face, and when the child's eyes opened 
 drowsily for a moment he put his withered 
 forefinger into its palm ; but there was no 
 longer a responsive clasp of the chubby hand. 
 
 The old man's lips quivered behind his white 
 beard. 
 
 " It were a winsome w^ee thing," he said 
 faintly, and then turned away. 
 
 He left his supper untouched, and went into 
 the porch. There he sat on a bench and 
 whittled a blackthorn stick. The sun was sink- 
 ing over the head of the Eel Crag ; the valley lay 
 deep in a purple haze ; only the bald top of Cat 
 Bells stood out bright in the glory of the pass- 
 ing day. A gentle breeze came up from the 
 south, and the young corn chattered with its 
 multitudinous tongues in the field below. The 
 dog lay at the charcoal-burner's feet, blinking in 
 the sun and snapping lazily at a buzzing fly. 
 
 The little life within was ebbing away. No 
 longer racked by the ringing cough, the loud 
 breathing became less frequent and more harsh. 
 Mercy lifted the child from the bed, and sat with 
 it before the fire. Greta saw its eyes open, and 
 at the same moment she saw the lips move 
 slightly, but she heard nothing. 
 
 '' He is calling his mamma," said Mercy, with 
 her ear bent towards the child's mouth. 
 
 There was a silence for a long time. Mercy 
 pressed the child to her breast ; its close pre- 
 sence seemed to soothe her. 
 
272 THE BLIND MOTHER 
 
 Greta stood and looked down ; she saw the 
 little lips move once more, but again she heard 
 no sound. 
 
 ** He is calling- his mamma," repeated Mercy 
 wistfully, **and oh, he seems such a long: way 
 off." 
 
 Once again the little lips moved. 
 
 ** He is calling me," said Mercy, listening 
 intently ; and she grew restless and excited. 
 '* He is going away. I can hear him. He is 
 far off. Ralphie, Ralphie ! " She had lifted 
 the child up to her face. " Ralphie, Ralphie ! " 
 she cried. 
 
 ** Give me the baby, Mercy," said Greta. 
 
 But the mother clung to it with a convulsive 
 grasp. 
 
 '' Ralphie, Ralphie, Ralphie . . ." 
 
 There was a sudden flash of some white 
 thing. In an instant the bandage had fallen 
 from Mercy's head, and she was peering down 
 into the child's face with wild eyes. 
 
 ''Ralphie, Ralphie! . . . Hugh!'' she cried. 
 
 The mother had seen her babe at last, and in 
 that instant she had recognised the features of 
 its father. 
 
 At the next moment the angel of God passed 
 through that troubled house, and the child lay 
 dead at the mother's breast. 
 
 Mercy saw it all, and her impassioned mood 
 left her. She rose to her feet quietly, and laid 
 the little one in the bed. There was never a 
 
THE BLIND MOTHER 273 
 
 Sigh more, never a tear. Only her face was 
 ashy pale, and her whitening lips quivered. 
 
 *' Greta," she said, very slowly, "good-bye! 
 All is over now." 
 
 She spoke of herself as if her days were 
 already ended and past ; as if her own orb of 
 life had been rounded by the brief span of the 
 little existence that lay finished on the bed. 
 
 "When they come in the morning early — 
 very early — and find us here, my boy and me, 
 don't let them take him away from me, Greta. 
 We should go together — yes, both together; 
 that's only right, with Ralphie at my bosom." 
 
 The bandage lay at her feet. Her eyes 
 were very red and heavy. Their dim light 
 seemed to come from far away. 
 
 "Only think," she said, and her voice soft- 
 ened, "my Ralphie is in heaven." 
 
 Then she hid her face in her hands, and cried 
 out loud, " But I prayed to God that I might 
 see my child on earth. Oh, how I prayed ! 
 And God heard my prayer and answered it — 
 but see ! / saza him die!' 
 
 THE END. 
 
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 Bramattc Xttetature^ 
 
 THE PLAYS OF ARTHUR W. PINERO. 
 
 With Introductory Notes by Malcolm C. Salaman. i6mo, Paper Covers, 
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