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<h2> V. </h2>
<p>Katherine Cregeen, Pete's champion at school, had been his companion at
home as well. She was two years younger than Pete. Her hair was a black as
a gipsy's, and her face as brown as a berry. In summer she liked best to
wear a red frock without sleeves, no boots and no stockings, no collar and
no bonnet, not even a sun-bonnet. From constant exposure to the sun and
rain her arms and legs were as ruddy as her cheeks, and covered with a
soft silken down. So often did you see her teeth that you would have said
she was always laughing. Her laugh was a little saucy trill given out with
head aside and eyes aslant, like that of a squirrel when he is at a safe
height above your head, and has a nut in his open jaws.</p>
<p>Pete had seen her first at school, and there he had tried to draw the eyes
of the maiden upon himself by methods known only to heroes, to savages,
and to boys. He had prowled around her in the playground with the wild
vigour of a young colt, tossing his head, swinging his arms, screwing his
body, kicking up his legs, walking on his hands, lunging out at every lad
that was twice as big as himself, and then bringing himself down at length
with a whoop and a crash on his hindmost parts just in front of where she
stood. For these tremendous efforts to show what a fellow he could be if
he tried, he had won no applause from the boys, and Katherine herself had
given no sign, though Pete had watched her out of the corners of his eyes.
But in other scenes the children came together.</p>
<p>After Philip had gone to King William's, Pete and Katherine had become
bosom friends. Instead of going home after school to cool his heels in the
road until his mother came from the fields, he found it neighbourly to go
up to Ballajora and round by the network of paths to Cornaa. That was a
long detour, but C�sar's mill stood there. It nestled down in the low bed
of the river that runs through the glen called Ballaglass.</p>
<p>Song-birds built about it in the spring of the year, and C�sar's little
human songster sang there always.</p>
<p>When Pete went that way home, what times the girl had of it! Wading up the
river, clambering over the stones, playing female Blondin on the fallen
tree-trunks that spanned the chasm, slipping, falling, holding on any way
up (legs or arms) by the rotten branches below, then calling for Pete's
help in a voice between a laugh and a cry, flinging chips into the foaming
back-wash of the mill-wheel, and chasing them down stream, racing among
the gorse, and then lying full length like a lamb, without a thought of
shame, while Pete took the thorns out of her bleeding feet. She was a wild
duck in the glen where she lived, and Pete was a great lumbering tame duck
waddling behind her.</p>
<p>But the glorious, happy, make-believe days too soon came to an end. The
swinging cane of the great John Thomas Corlett, and the rod of a yet more
relentless tyrant, darkened the sunshine of both the children. Pete was
banished from school, and Catherine's father removed from Cornaa.</p>
<p>When C�sar had taken a wife, he had married Betsy, the daughter of the
owner of the inn at Sulby. After that he had "got religion," and he held
that persons in the household of faith were not to drink, or to buy or to
sell drink. But Grannie's father died and left his house, "The Manx
Fairy," and his farm, Glenmooar, to her and her husband. About the same
time the miller at Sulby also died, and the best mill in the island cried
out for a tenant. C�sar took the mill and the farm, and Grannie took the
inn, being brought up to such profanities and no way bound by principle.
From that time forward, C�sar pinned all envious cavillers with the text
which says, "Not that which goeth into the mouth of a man defileth him,
but that which cometh out."</p>
<p>Nevertheless, C�sar's principles grew more and more puritanical year by
year. There were no half measures with C�sar. Either a man was a saved
soul, or he was in the very belly of hell, though the pit might not have
shut its mouth on him. If a man was saved he knew it, and if he felt the
manifestations of the Spirit he could live without sin. His cardinal
principles were three—instantaneous regeneration, assurance, and
sinless perfection. He always said—he had said it a thousand times—that
he was converted in Douglas marketplace, a piece off the west door of ould
St. Matthew's, at five-and-twenty minutes past six on a Sabbath evening in
July, when he was two-and-twenty for harvest.</p>
<p>While at Cornaa, C�sar had been a "local" on the preachers' plan, a class
leader, and a chapel steward; but at Sulby he outgrew the Union and set up
a "body" of his own. He called them "The Christians." a title that was at
once a name, a challenge, and a protest. They worshipped in the long barn
over C�sar's mill, and held strong views on conduct. A saved soul must not
wear gold or costly apparel, or give way to softness or bodily indulgence,
or go to fairs for sake of sport, or appear in the show-tents of
play-actors, or sing songs, or read books, or take any diversion that did
not tend to the knowledge of God. As for carnal transgression, if any were
guilty of it, they were to be cut off from the body of believers, for the
souls of the righteous must be delivered.</p>
<p>"The religion that's going among the Primitives these days is just
Popery," said C�sar. "Let's go back to the warm ould Methodism and put out
the Romans."</p>
<p>When Pete turned his face from Ballawhaine, he thought first of C�sar and
his mill. It would be more exact to say he thought of Katherine and
Grannie. He was homeless as well as penniless. The cottage by the
water-trough was no longer possible to him, now that the mother was gone
who had stood between his threatened shoulders and Black Tom. Philip was
at home for a few weeks only in the year, and Ballure had lost its
attraction. So Pete made his way to Sulby, offered himself to C�sar for
service at the mill, and was taken on straightway at eighteenpence a week
and his board.</p>
<p>It was a curious household he entered into. First there was C�sar himself,
in a moleskin waistcoat with sleeves open three buttons up, knee-breeches
usually unlaced, stockings of undyed wool, and slippers with the tongues
hanging out—a grim soul, with whiskers like a hoop about his face,
and a shaven upper lip as heavy as a moustache, for, when religion like
C�sar's lays hold of a man, it takes him first by the mouth. Then Grannie,
a comfortable body in a cap, with an outlook on life that was all
motherhood, a simple, tender, peaceable soul, agreeing with everybody and
everything, and seeming to say nothing but "Poor thing! Poor thing!" and
"Dear heart! Dear heart!" Then there was Nancy Cain, getting the name of
Nancy Joe, the servant in name but the mistress in fact, a niece of
Grannie's, a bit of a Pagan, an early riser, a tireless worker, with a
plain face, a rooted disbelief in all men, a good heart, an ugly tongue,
and a vixenish temper. Last of all, there was Katherine, now grown to be a
great girl, with her gipsy hair done up in a red ribbon and wearing a
black pinafore bordered with white braid.</p>
<p>Pete got on steadily at the mill. He began by lighting the kiln fire and
cleaning out the pit-wheel, and then on to the opening the flood-gates in
the morning and regulating the action of the water-wheel according to the
work of the day. In two years' time he was a sound miller, safe to trust
with rough stuff for cattle or fine flour for white loaf-bread. C�sar
trusted him. He would take evangelising journeys to Peel or Douglas and
leave Pete in charge.</p>
<p>That led to the end of the beginning. Pete could grind the farmers' corn,
but he could not make their reckonings. He kept his counts in chalk on the
back of the mill-house door, a down line for every stone weight up to
eight stones, and a line across for every hundredweight. Then, once a day,
while the father was abroad, Katherine came over from the inn to the desk
at the little window of the mill, and turned Pete's lines into ledger
accounts. These financial councils were full of delicious discomfiture.
Pete always enjoyed them—after they were over.</p>
<p>"John Robert—Molleycarane—did you say Molleycarane, Pete? Oh,
Mylecharane—Myle-c-h-a-r-a-i-n-e, Molleycarane; ten stones—did
you say ten? Oh, eight—e-i-g-h-t—no, eight; oatmeal, Pete? Oh,
barley-male—meal, I mean—m-e-a-l."</p>
<p>In the middle of the night Pete remembered all these entries. They were
very precious to his memory after Katherine had spoken them. They sang in
his heart the same as song-birds then. They were like hymns and tunes and
pieces of poetry.</p>
<p>C�sar returned home from a preaching tour with a great and sudden thought.
He had been calling on strangers to flee from the wrath to come, and yet
there were those of his own house whose faces were not turned Zionwards.
That evening he held an all-night prayer-meeting for the conversion of
Katherine and Pete. Through six long hours he called on God in lusty
tones, until his throat cracked and his forehead streamed. The young were
thoughtless, they had the root of evil in them, they flew into frivolity
from contrariness. Draw the harrow over their souls, plough the fallows of
their hearts, grind the chaff out of their household, let not the sweet
apple and the crabs grow on the same bough together, give them a Melliah,
let not a sheaf be forgotten, grant them the soul of this girl for a
harvest-home, and of this boy for a last stook.</p>
<p>C�sar was dissatisfied with the results. He was used to groaning and
trembling and fainting fits.</p>
<p>"Don't you feel the love?" he cried. "I do—here, under the
watch-pocket of my waistcoat."</p>
<p>Towards midnight Katherine began to fail. "Chain the devil,", cried C�sar.
"Once I was down in the pit with the devil myself, but now I'm up in the
loft, seeing angels through the thatch. Can't you feel the workings of the
Spirit?"</p>
<p>As the clock was warning to strike two Katherine thought she could, and
from that day forward she led the singing of the women in the choir among
"The Christians."</p>
<p>Pete remained among the unregenerate; but nevertheless "The Christians"
saw him constantly. He sat on the back form and kept his eyes fixed on the
"singing seat." Observing his regularity, C�sar laid a hand on his head
and told him the Spirit was working in his soul at last. Sometimes Pete
thought it was, and that was when he shut his eyes and listened to
Katherine's voice floating up, up, up, like an angel's, into the sky. But
sometimes he knew it was not; and that was when he caught himself in the
middle of C�sar's mightiest prayers crooking his neck past the pitching
bald pate of Johnny Niplightly, the constable, that he might get a glimpse
of the top of Katherine's bonnet when her eyes were down.</p>
<p>Pete fell into a melancholy, and once more took to music as a comforter.
It was not a home-made whistle now, but a fiddle bought out of his wages.
On this he played in the cowhouse on winter evenings, and from the top of
the midden outside in summer. When C�sar heard of it his wrath was
fearful. What was a fiddler? He was a servant of corruption, holding a
candle to disorderly walkers and happy sinners on their way into the
devil's pinfold. And what for was fiddles? Fiddles was for play-actors and
theaytres. "And theaytres is <i>there</i>," said C�sar, indicating with
his foot one flag on the kitchen-floor, "and hell flames is <i>there</i>,"
he added, rolling his toe over to the joint of the next one.</p>
<p>Grannie began to plead. What was a fiddle if you played the right tunes on
it? Didn't they read in the ould Book of King David himself playing on
harps and timbrels and such things? And what was harps but fiddles in a
way of spak-ing? Then warn't they all looking to be playing harps in
heaven? 'Deed, yes, though the Lord would have to be teaching her how to
play hers!</p>
<p>C�sar was shaken. "Well, of course, certainly," he said, "if there's a
power in fiddling to bring souls out of bondage, and if there's going to
be fiddling and the like in Abraham's bosom—why, then, of course—well,
why not?—let's have the lad's fiddle up at 'The Christians.'"</p>
<p>Nothing could have suited Pete so well. From that time forward he went out
no more at nights to the cowhouse, but stayed indoors to practise hymns
with Katherine. Oh, the terrible rapture of those nightly "practices!"
They brought people to the inn to hear them, and so C�sar found them good
for profit both ways.</p>
<p>There was something in C�sar's definition, nevertheless. It was found that
among the saints there were certain weaker brethren who did not want a
hymn to their ale. One of these was Johnny Niplightly, the rural
constable, who was the complement of Katherine in the choir, being leader
of the singing among the men. He was a tall man with a long nose, which
seemed to have a perpetual cold. Making his rounds one night, he turned in
at "The Manx Fairy," when C�sar and Grannie were both from home, and Nancy
Joe was in charge, and Pete and Katherine were practising a revival
chorus.</p>
<p>"Where's C�sar, dough?" he snuffled.</p>
<p>"At Peel, buying the stock," snapped Nancy.</p>
<p>"Dank de Lord! I mean—where's Grannie?"</p>
<p>"Nursing Mistress Quiggin."</p>
<p>Niplightly eased the strap of his beaver, liberated his lips, took a deep
draught of ale, and then turned to Pete, with apologetic smiles, and
suggested a change in the music.</p>
<p>At that Katherine leapt up as light as laughter. "A dance," she cried, "a
dance!"</p>
<p>"Good sakes alive?" said Nancy Joe. "Listen to the girl? Is it the moon,
Kitty, or what is it that's doing on you?"</p>
<p>"Shut your eyes, Nancy," said Katherine, "just for once, now won't you?"</p>
<p>"You can do what you like with me, with your coaxing and woaxing," said
Nancy. "Enjoy yourself to the full, girl, but don't make a noise above the
singing of the kettle."</p>
<p>Pete tuned his strings, and Katherine pinned up the tail of her skirt, and
threw herself into position.</p>
<p>At the sound of the livelier preludings there came thronging out of the
road into the parlour certain fellows of the baser sort, and behind them
came one who was not of that denomination—a fair young man with a
fine face under an Alpine hat. Heeding nothing of this audience, the girl
gave a little rakish toss of her head and called on Pete to strike up.</p>
<p>Then Pete plunged into one of the profaner tunes which he had practised in
the days of the cowhouse, and off went Katherine with a whoop. The boys
stood back for her, bending down on their haunches as at a fight of
gamecocks, and encouraging her with shouts of applause.</p>
<p>"Beautiful! Look at that now! Fine, though, fine! Clane done, aw, clane!
Done to a dot! There's leaping for you, boys! Guy heng, did you ever see
the like? Hommer the floor, girl—higher a piece! higher, then!
Whoop, did ye ever see such a nate pair of ankles?"</p>
<p>"Hould your dirty tongue, you gobmouthed omathaun!" cried Nancy Joe. She
had tried to keep her eyes away, but could not. "My goodness grayshers!"
she cried. "Did you ever see the like, though? Screwing like the windmill
on the schoolhouse! Well, well, Kitty, woman! Aw, Kirry, Kirry! Wherever
did she get it, then? Goodsakes, the girl's twisting herself into knots!"</p>
<p>Pete was pulling away at the fiddle with both hands, like a bottom sawyer,
his eyes dancing, his lips quivering, the whole soul of the lad lifted out
of himself in an instant.</p>
<p>"Hould on still, Kate, hould on, girl!" he shouted. "Ma-chree! Machree!
The darling's dancing like a drumstick!"</p>
<p>"Faster!" cried Kate. "Faster!"</p>
<p>The red ribbon had fallen from her head, and the wavy black hair was
tumbling about her face. She was holding up her skirt with one hand, and
the other arm was akimbo at her waist. Guggling, chuckling, crowing,
panting, boiling, and bubbling with the animal life which all her days had
been suppressed, and famished and starved into moans and groans, she was
carried away by her own fire, gave herself up to it, and danced on the
flags of the kitchen which had served C�sar for his practical typology,
like a creature intoxicated with new breath.</p>
<p>Meantime C�sar himself, coming home in his chapel hat (his tall black
beaver) from Peel, where he had been buying the year's stock of herrings
at the boat's side, had overtaken, on the road, the venerable parson of
his parish, Parson Quiggin of Lezayre. Drawing up the gig with a "Woa!" he
had invited the old clergyman to a lift by his side on the gig's seat,
which was cushioned with a sack of hay. The parson had accepted the
invitation, and with a preliminary "Aisy! Your legs a taste higher, sir,
just to keep the pickle off your trousers," a "Gee up!" and a touch of the
whip, they were away together, with the light of the gig-lamp on the
hind-quarters of the mare, as they bobbed and screwed like a mill-race
under the splash-hoard.</p>
<p>It was C�sar's chance, and he took it. Having pinned one of the heads of
the Church, he gave him his views on the Romans, and on the general
encroachment of Popery. The parson listened complacently. He was a
tolerant old soul, with a round face, expressive of perpetual happiness,
though he was always blinking his little eyes and declaring, with the
Preacher, that all earthly things were vain. Hence he was nicknamed Old
Vanity of Vanities.</p>
<p>The gig had swept past Sulby Chapel when C�sar began to ask for the
parson's opinion of certain texts.</p>
<p>"And may I presume, Pazon Quiggin, what d'ye think of the text—'Praise
the Lord. O my soul, and all that is within me praise His Holy Name?'"</p>
<p>"A very good text after meat, Mr. Cregeen," said the parson, blinking his
little eyes in the dark.</p>
<p>It was C�sar's favourite text, and his fire was kindled at the parson's
praise. "Man alive," he cried, his hot breath tickling the parson's neck,
"I've praiched on that text, pazon, till it's wet me through to the
waistcoat."</p>
<p>They were near to "The Manx Fairy" by this time.</p>
<p>"And talking of praise," said C�sar, "I hear them there at their
practices. Asking pardon now—it's proud I'd be, sir—perhaps
you'd not be thinking mane to come in and hear the way we do 'Crown Him!'"</p>
<p>"So the saints use the fiddle," said the parson, as the gig drew up at the
porch of the inn.</p>
<p>Half a minute afterwards the door of the parlour flew open with a bang,
and C�sar stood and glared on the threshold with the parson's ruddy face
behind him. There was a moment's silence. The uplifted toe of Katherine
trailed back to the ground, the fiddle of Pete slithered to his farther
side, and the smacking lips of Niplightly transfixed themselves agape.
Then the voice of the parson was heard to say, "Vanity, vanity, all is
vanity!" and suddenly C�sar, still on the threshold, went down on his
knees to pray.</p>
<p>C�sar's prayer was only a short one. His mortified pride called for
quicker solace. Rising to his feet with as much dignity as he could
command under the twinkling eyes of the parson, he stuttered, "The capers!
Making a dacent house into a theaytre! Respectable person, too—one
of the first that's going! So," facing the spectators, "just help
yourselves home the pack of you! As for these ones," turning on Kate,
Pete, and the constable, "there'll be no more of your practices. I'll do
without the music of three saints like you. In future I'll have three
sinners to raise my singing. These polices, too!" he said with a withering
smile. (Niplightly was worming his way out at the back of Parson Quiggin.)</p>
<p>"Who began it?" shouted C�sar, looking at Katherine.</p>
<p>From the moment that C�sar dropped on his knees at the door, Pete had been
well-nigh choked by an impulse to laugh aloud. But now he bit his lip and
said, "I did!"</p>
<p>"Behould ye now, as imperent as a goat!" said C�sar, working his eyebrows
vigorously. "You've mistaken your profession, boy. It's a play-actorer
they ought to be making of you. You're wasting your time with a plain,
respectable man like me. You must lave me. Away to the loft for your
chiss, boy! And just give sheet, my lad, and don't lay to till you've
fetched up at another lodgings."</p>
<p>Pete, with his eye on the parson's face, could control himself no longer,
and he laughed so loud that the room rang.</p>
<p>"Right's the word, ould Nebucannezzar," he cried, and heaved up to his
feet. "So long, Kitty, woman! S'long! We'll finish it another night
though, and then the ould man himself will be houlding the candle."</p>
<p>Outside in the road somebody touched him on the shoulder. It was the young
man in the Alpine hat.</p>
<p>"My gough! What? Phil!" cried Pete, and he laid hold of him with both
hands at once.</p>
<p>"I've just finished at King William's and bought a boat," said Philip,
"and I came up to ask you to join me—congers and cods, you know—good
fun anyway. Are you willing?"</p>
<p>"Willing!" cried Pete. "Am I jumping for joy?"</p>
<p>And away they went down the road, swinging their legs together with a
lively step.</p>
<p>"That's a nice girl, though—Kitty, Kate, what do you call her?" said
Phil.</p>
<p>"Were you in then? So you saw her dancing?" said Pete eagerly. "Aw, yes,
nice," he said warmly, "nice uncommon," he added absently, and then with a
touch of sadness, "shocking nice!"</p>
<p>Presently they heard the pattering of light feet in the darkness behind
them, and a voice like a broken cry calling "Pete!"</p>
<p>It was Kate. She came up panting and catching her breath in hiccoughs,
took Pete's face in both her hands, drew it down to her own face, kissed
it on the mouth, and was gone again without a word.</p>
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