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18. "But as for hunting down the guilty man, that (don't you think so?) is
perhaps another matter. If it has to be done at all it is only a woman—a pure
and stainless woman—who has a right to do it. No man who knows himself,
and how near every mother's son of us has been to the verge of the pit, will
be the first to throw a stone. You remember—'But for the grace of God
there goes John Wesley.' Oh, my darling, how can I ever be grateful enough
for what you have done for me....
* * * * * * *
"Helloa! The page boy has just been up with a letter from the Home
Secretary. 'I have the pleasure to inform you that the King has been pleased
to approve of your appointment to the position of the Deemster of the Isle
of Man....'
"How glorious! Here I have been all day saying to myself, 'Who, in
God's name, are you that you should be Judge over anybody?' and now I'm
glad—damned glad, there is no other word for it.
"I shall telegraph the news to you in a few minutes, but I feel as if I want
to take the first boat home and become my own messenger. That is
impossible, for I have to call on the Lord Chancellor to-morrow about my
Commission. And then I have to see to the transport of my car, and the
purchase of my Judge's wig and gown. But wait, only wait! Three days
more I shall have you in my arms.
"My respectful greetings to the Governor. Say I know how much I owe
to him for this unprecedented appointment. Say, too, I shall hold myself in
readiness for the ceremony of the swearing-in, whenever he desires it to
take place; also for the next Court of General Gaol Delivery if Deemster
Taubman is still down with his rheumatism.
"And now bless you again, dearest, for all your beautiful faith in me.
God helping me, I'll do my best to deserve it. But you must be my guardian
watcher, my sentinel, my star.
"What a dear old world it is, darling! It seems as if there ought to be no
suffering of any kind in it now—now that the sky is so bright for you and
19. me.
"VICTOR."
"P.S. Important. Don't forget to employ Gell in that case of the girl who
killed her baby. Alick's her man. Mind you, though—he must compel her to
tell him everything."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
ALICK GELL
For ten days Alick Gell had been searching for Bessie Collister. When he
first read her letter on reaching Derby Haven (he read it a hundred times
afterwards) he remembered something his father had said in taunting him
—"You'll not be the first by a long way!" Then he recalled the case of the
Peel fisherman and a black thought came hurtling down on him. At the next
moment he hated himself for it.
"What devil out of hell made me think of that?" he asked himself.
But why had Bessie run away from him? The only explanation he could
find was the one Stowell had given on the steamboat—women had illnesses
which men knew nothing about, and in the throes of their mania they
sometimes hid themselves, like sick animals, from their friends—most of
all from those they loved. Were not the newspapers full of such cases?
"That's it! That's it! My poor girl!"
Having arrived at this explanation of Bessie's flight, he had no
compunction about going in search of her. Her malady might be only
temporary, but, while it lasted, Heaven alone knew what dangers she might
expose herself to.
20. At first it occurred to him to call in the assistance of the police. But no,
that would lead to publicity, and publicity to misunderstanding. Bessie
would get better; he must keep her name clear of scandal. His voice shook
and his lip trembled as he told the Misses Brown to say nothing to anybody.
His warning was unnecessary. The terrified old maids, who had at length
begun to scent the truth, had decided to keep their own counsel.
Within half an hour Alick was on the road. He had no doubt of
overtaking Bessie—she was only half an hour gone. But which way would
she go? It was easier to say which way she would not go. She would not go
to the north of the island where she would be known to nearly everybody.
Above all, she would not go home—the home of Dan Baldromma.
All that day he wandered through Castletown—every street and alley. At
nightfall he was back at Derby Haven. Had Bessie returned? No! Had
anything been heard of her? Nothing!
Next day he set out on a wider journey—all the towns and villages of the
south, Port St. Mary, Port Erin, Fleswick, Ballasalla, Colby, Ballabeg and
Cregneash. He walked from daylight to dark, and asked no questions, but at
every open door he paused and listened. When he saw a farm-house that
stood back from the high road he made excuse to go up to it—a drink of
milk or water.
Day followed day without result. His heart was sinking. More than once
he met somebody whom he knew and had to make excuse for his rambling.
Wonderful what a walking tour did to blow the cobwebs from a fellow's
brain after he had been shut up too long in an office! His friends looked
after him with a strange expression. He had been something of a dandy, but
his hair was uncombed and his linen was becoming soiled and even dirty.
At length he became a prey to illusions. He always slept in the last house
he came to, and one night, in a fisherman's cottage near Fleswick, he was
awakened by the wind blowing over the thatch. He thought it sounded like
the voice of Bessie, and that she was wandering over the highway in the
darkness, alone and distraught.
21. Next day he began to inquire if anything had been seen of such a person.
He was told of a young woman who, found walking barefoot on the lonely
road to Dreamlang, had been taken to the asylum, and he hurried there to
inquire. No, it was not Bessie. Some poor young wife who (only six months
married and beginning to be happy in the prospect of a child) had lost her
husband in an accident at the mines at Foxdale.
The dread of suicide took hold of him. One day a fish-cadger on the road
told him that a young woman's body had been washed ashore at Peel. Again
it was nothing—nothing to him. The wife of the captain of a Norwegian
schooner which had been wrecked off Contrary—with her eyes open and
her baby locked in her rigid arms.
Alick's heart was failing him. Do what he would to keep down evil
thoughts they were getting the better of him. Sometimes he rested on the
seat that usually stands outside the whitewashed porch of a Manx cottage,
and although he thought he said so little he found that the women
(especially such of them as were mothers of grown-up girls) seemed to
divine the object of his journey.
"Aw, yes, that's the way with them, the boghs, especially when there's a
man bothering them. Was there any man, now...."
But Alick was up and gone before they could finish their question.
Thus ten days passed. Absorbed in his search, perplexed and tortured, he
had seen no newspaper and heard nothing of what was happening in the
island. Suddenly it occurred to him that Bessie could not have left him so
long without news of her. She could not be so cruel; she must have written,
and her letter must be lying at his office.
People who knew him, and saw him return to Douglas, could scarcely
recognise him in the pale, unwashed, unshaven man who climbed the steps
from the station, looking like a drunkard who had been sleeping out in the
fields.
His chambers, when he turned the key (he had no clerk now), were
stuffy and cheerless. The ashes of his last fire were on the hearth, and his
22. desk was covered with dust. Behind the door (he had no letter-box) a
number of circulars and bills lay on the ground, but, running his trembling
fingers through them, he found no letter from Bessie.
There was a large and bulky envelope, though, with the seal of
Government House, and marked "Immediate." What could it be? On the top
of a thick body of folio paper he found a letter. It was from Fenella Stanley.
"DEAR MR. GELL,—At the suggestion of Mr. Stowell, who is
still in London, I am writing on behalf of the Women's Protection
League, to ask you if you can undertake the defence of the young
woman in the north of the island who is to be charged with the
murder of her new-born child."
Alick paused a moment to draw breath.
"You will see by the report of the High Bailiff's inquiry and the
copy of the Depositions which I enclose that the girl denies
everything, and that her mother supports her, but the evidence is
only too sadly against her—particularly that of the doctors and of
two neighbours who live higher up the glen."
Alick felt his heart stop and his whole body grew cold.
"Her step-father...."
The letter almost dropped from his fingers.
"Her step-father has not been asked by the prosecution to depose,
and it is doubtful if the defence ought to call him."
23. He was becoming dizzy. The lines of the letter were running into each
other.
"Innocent or guilty, the girl has suffered terribly. She has been
several days in hospital at Ramsey, but she was to be removed to
Castle Rushen this morning. Her case is to come on next week at the
Court of General Gaol Delivery, so perhaps you will send me a
telegram immediately saying if you can take up the defence.
"As you see the poor creature is herself an illegitimate child—the
name by which she is commonly known being Bessie Collister."
Alick shrieked. He had seen the blow coming, but when it came it fell on
him like a thunderbolt.
It was all a lie—a damned lie! Nobody would make him believe it.
Bessie arrested for the murder of her child! She had never had a child.
He leapt to his feet and tramped the room on stiffened limbs and with a
heart throbbing with anger. Then, half afraid, but doing his best to compose
himself, he took the report and the Depositions out of the big envelope, and,
sitting before the dead hearth with his shaking feet on the fender, and
holding the folio pages in his dead-cold hands, he read the evidence.
As he did so he shrieked again, but this time with laughter. What a tissue
of manifest lies! The Skillicornes and their quarrel with Dan Baldromma—
what a malicious conspiracy! Lord, what blind fools the police could be!
And the Attorney, had he come to his second childhood?
Again and again Alick thumped the desk with his fist and filled the air of
the room with the dust that rose in the sunshine which was now pouring
through the windows.
There was a photograph of Bessie on the mantelpiece—a copy of the
same that she had sent to Stowell. He snatched it up and kissed it. Never
had Bessie been so dear to him as now—now when she was in prison under
24. a false accusation. And the best of it was that he was to get her off. He must
see her at once, though.
"My poor girl! In Castle Rushen!"
The first thing to do was to wash and change (he cut himself badly in
shaving), but in less than half-an-hour he was at the Post-office telegraphing
to Fenella.
"Gladly."
Brief as the message was, the clerk at the counter could hardly decipher
the agitated handwriting.
A few minutes later he was at the Police-office, asking the Chief
Constable for an order to allow him, as Bessie's advocate, to see her alone
in her cell.
At two o'clock he was back at the railway-station, taking the train for
Castletown. As he stepped into his carriage the newsboys were calling the
contents of the evening paper:
Victor Stowell appointed Deemster.
Glorious! Bessie would have a human being on the bench. Thank God
for that anyway!
II
"I don't know what you are talking about—I really don't. You make me
laugh. Whatever will you say next! I was ill and I came home to have my
mother nurse me, and that was all I knew until Cain, the constable, came to
bring me here."
It was Bessie before the High Bailiff. Her face was thin and pale, and she
was clutching the rail of the dock in an effort to keep herself erect, while
25. her shrill voice echoed to the roof.
The magistrate was about to commit her to prison when Dr. Clucas rose
in the body of the Court-house.
"Your worship," he said (his voice was husky and his eyes had a look of
tears), "the defendant is suffering from the temporary mania which is not
unusual in such cases. I suggest that she should be sent to the hospital."
Bessie fainted. The next thing she knew was that she was in bed in a
hospital ward, and that another doctor (a younger man with thin hair and a
large pugnacious mouth) was leaning over her, and laying his hand on her
breast. She pushed it off, and then he said, in an authoritative tone,
"My good woman, if you are innocent, as you say, the best proof you can
give is that of a medical examination."
At this Bessie broke into fierce wrath.
"If you touch me again," she cried, "I'll tear your eyes out!"
Then she fainted once more, and for two days lay in a strong delirium.
When she came to herself a nurse with a kind face was by her side, saying
"Hush!" and doing something at her breast with a glass instrument.
She knew she had been delirious (having a vague memory of crying
"Alick! Alick!" as she returned to consciousness) and was in fear of what
she might have said.
"Is it morning?" she asked.
"Yes, dear."
"Then it's the next day?"
"The next but one."
"Have I been wandering?"
26. "A little."
"Did I call for anybody?"
"Yes."
She dare not ask whom, but lay wondering if Alick knew where she was
and what had happened to her. After a while she said,
"Is it in the papers?"
The nurse nodded, and after a moment, with her eyes down, Bessie said,
"Has anybody been here to ask for me?"
"Yes, your mother—she comes night and morning."
"Nobody else?"
"Nobody."
Bessie broke into sobs and turned her face to the wall. Alick knew! He
had given her up! She had lost him!
When she recovered from an agony of tears her eyes were glittering and
her heart was bitter. What did she care what became of her now? They
might do what they liked with her. Deny? What was the good? She would
deny no longer. She would tell the truth about everything.
Then Fenella Stanley came. Bessie thought she liked Miss Stanley better
than any woman, except her mother, she had ever known. But that only
made it the harder to hold to her resolution, for if she told the truth she
would surely hurt Fenella. "Oh, why do you come to torture me?" she cried,
when Fenella asked who was her "friend." And not another word would she
say.
Two days later, before breakfast, Cain, the constable, came with a
sergeant of police to take her to Castle Rushen. She did not care! Why
27. should she? But as she was leaving the hospital the nurse with the kind face
whispered,
"Good-bye, dear. You're all right now. I'm going away and will say
nothing."
It was a cruelly beautiful morning, with a golden shimmer from the
rising sun upon a tranquil sea. The railway station was full of townspeople
going up to Douglas (it was market day there), so Bessie was hurried into
the last compartment.
When the train ran into the country a flood of memories swept over her
and she found it hard to keep back her tears. The young lambs were
skipping on the hill-sides; the sheep were bleating; girls in sun bonnets
were coming from the whitewashed outhouses to drive the cattle into the
fields.
When they drew up at the station for the glen the shingly platform was
crowded with passengers waiting for the train—rosy-faced women with
broad open baskets of butter and eggs, and elderly farmers smoking their
strong thick twist and surrounded by their panting dogs. Bessie knew them
all. At the last moment a young woman in a low cut blouse ran up—it was
Susie Stephen.
Bessie crept into a corner of the carriage and closed her eyes. But she
could not shut out everything. Over the rumble of the wheels, when the
train started again, she heard shrieks of laughter from the compartment in
front. The elderly men were jesting in their free way with the girls, and the
girls, nothing loth, were answering them back.
At the junction of St. John's, the train had to stop for carriages from Peel
to be linked on to it, and while the coupling was going on one of the
passengers strolled along the platform. It was Willie Teare, who had wanted
to marry Bessie, and he saw her behind the constables. At the next moment
a throng of girls gathered outside her window, but the constables pulled
down the blinds.
"Take your seats! Take your seats!"
28. The train went on. There was no more laughter from the passengers in
the compartment in front. Bessie understood—they were whispering about
her.
Her heart was becoming hard. Sitting in the darkened carriage, with
spears of sunlight flashing from the flapping blinds, she heard the
constables talking about Mr. Stowell. It was reported that he had been made
Deemster. He would make a good Deemster, too.
"A taste young, maybe, but clever—clever uncommon."
On reaching Douglas, where they had to change into the train for
Castletown, Bessie was being hustled across the platform, between the
constables, when she became aware of a crowd of women and girls who
were crushing up to stare at her. There was a whispering and muttering.
"There she is!" "Serve her right, I say!"
Half-an-hour later she was in Castle Rushen. The darkness within was
blinding after the sunshine without. A woman with short and difficult
breathing was moving about her. It was Mrs. Mylrea, the female warder.
She took off Bessie's cloak and hat, and, leaving her a brown blanket and a
hard pillow, went away without speaking a word.
But then came Vondy, the head jailer, with words enough for both of
them. Bessie did not know she was crying until the old man, in his
blundering way, began to comfort her.
"Tut, tut, gel! They're not for hanging you yet at all. While there's life
there's hope!"
Left alone at last, and her eyes accustomed to the darkness, she saw
where she was—in a stone vault that had a small grill in the door (behind
which a candle was burning) and a barred and deeply-recessed window,
near the ceiling, through which a dull ray of borrowed light was coming, for
the prison overlooked the harbour on the west of the Castle.
29. By this time her tears were turned to gall. A frightful revulsion had come
over her soul. What had she done to deserve all this? The injustice of it, the
cruelty, the barbarity, the hypocrisy!
Men were all alike. Go on, she knew what men were! A man only
wanted one thing of a girl, and when he got that he forgot all about her.
Alick Gell was the best of them, yet even he had forsaken her now that she
was in trouble.
She had never intended to do harm to anybody, and yet there she was,
and would remain, until they came to take her to the Court-house on the
other side of the Castle-yard. Then hundreds of eyes would be on her
(women's eyes too) and when she raised her own she would see Mr. Stowell
on the bench.
What a mockery! Mr. Stowell her judge! What would he do? His "duty"
of course. All right, let him do it! Only she, too, would do something. After
he had tried her and sentenced her and finished with her, she would tell him
something. Why shouldn't she? And what did she care what happened to
anybody else? Fenella Stanley was nothing to her.
Suddenly she thought again about Alick Gell. If she did what she
intended to do (tell everything) Alick also would be disgraced. The shame
of her misfortune would follow him to the last day of his life. Even his own
father would cast it up to him. Hadn't she done enough harm to Alick
already? If he had deserted her, she had deceived him. And yet she had
deceived him only because she loved him.
"Alick! Alick! Alick!"
Her heart was crying. She was wishing she were dead.
She had flung herself down on her plank bed, with her face to the blank
wall, when she heard the dead beating of footsteps in the corridor outside.
At the next moment the door of her cell was opened and Tommy Vondy, the
jailer, was saying,
"Mr. Alexander Gell, the advocate, to see you alone."
30. III
"Bessie!"
The jailer had gone. Alick was breathing quickly in the darkness by the
door, and Bessie was huddled up on the bed, with the dull ray of reflected
light upon her from the wall above.
"Bessie!"
His voice was low and full of tears. At first she did not answer.
"It's Alick. Won't you speak to me?"
"Go away!"
He could hear that she was crying.
"You won't send me away, Bessie. I have been looking for you all over
the island. It was only to-day I heard where you were and what had
happened. I have come to help you—to save you."
He saw the dark form rising on the bed.
"Do you know what they say I did?"
"Yes, I know everything."
"And you don't believe it?"
"Not one word of it."
"You think I am innocent?"
"I am sure you are."
31. "Alick!"
With a great sob that shook her whole body she rose to her feet and flung
herself upon him. For a long time they stood clasped in each other's arms,
and crying like children. Then they sat down side by side on the plank bed.
His arm was about her, and her head was on his shoulder.
He was trying to make his voice cheerful, though it cracked sorely, while
he reproved her for her tears. She would soon be free to leave that place.
There was really nothing against her. Never had there been such a trumped-
up case. The police must be crazy.
She clung to him with a frightened tenderness while he told her of the
letter from Fenella Stanley asking him to take up the defence on behalf of
the Society.
"Of course I should have taken it up in any case, you know. And now
you must authorise me to defend you."
She was startled. In the half darkness he saw her pale face (so pale and
so thin) raised to his with a frightened look.
"You?"
"Why not, dear? I'm an advocate. You don't suppose I'm going to leave
your defence to anybody else, do you?"
"No, no! You must not!"
"But why? Can't you trust me, Bess?"
"It isn't that."
"What then?"
Bessie did not answer him, and he went on talking, though his voice was
breaking again. He knew he was not a born lawyer and a great speaker like
Stowell, but the facts were so clear that he had only to state them and they
would speak for themselves.
32. A fierce struggle was going on in Bessie's soul. He whom she had
wronged (never having wronged anybody else), he for whom she had
committed her crime, wanted her to authorise him to stand up in Court and
say she had not committed it. She had deceived him once—could she
deceive him again?
"No, no, no! I cannot!"
Alick was puzzled. "What do you mean, Bessie? Why shouldn't I be
your advocate?"
"I don't want any advocate."
"But you must have one. It isn't enough to be not guilty—we must prove
you're not. Why shouldn't I do so?"
At length she was forced to make some explanation. The police were
determined to have her condemned; therefore he would lose his case and
that would go against him.
"Good gracious, girl, what nonsense! Anybody may lose a case. The
greatest lawyers have lost cases. But it's impossible that I should lose this
one. And even if I lose it—do you know what I shall do?"
"What?"
"Wait outside the prison door until you come out and marry you the
same day to show that I believe in you still."
At that Bessie was in floods of tears again. And again they cried in each
other's arms like children.
Then Alick, after drying his eyes in the darkness, put on a brave air, and
told her what she had to do.
"Listen to me now. This is a low conspiracy, but if we are to defeat it,
you must stick to your story. I shall have to put you in the box, for you must
leave the Court without a stain on your character. First of all you must
say...."
33. And then sitting by Bessie's side in the dark cell, with only the candle
looking in on them from the outside ledge of the grill, he rehearsed the facts
as they were to be given in Court—how by the cruelty of her step-father she
had been shut out of the house late at night and had had to go elsewhere;
how she had returned, being unwell, and wishing her mother to nurse her,
and how she had been put to bed and had never left it until the constables
came to take her away.
Bessie listened in silence, gazing before her like a captured sheep, and
answering only by a nodding of her head.
"If the Attorney asks you anything else—no matter what—you must say
you know nothing about it—-do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Say it after me then—'I know nothing about it.'"
Bessie repeated the words like a woman talking in her sleep—-"'I know
nothing about it.'"
"That's all right. Leave the rest to me."
"You think I shall get off?"
"I'm sure of it. If the General Gaol is held next week, we'll be married
the week after."
"But, Alick?"
"Yes."
"Your father and sisters, will they not always cast it up at you that your
wife has been tried for...."
"Let them! If they do the Isle of Man will be dead to me for ever. We'll
go abroad—to America perhaps—and leave everything and everybody
behind us."
34. Bessie was crying once more, and Alick, to conceal his own tears, was
going off with great bustle.
"Good-bye! I'll be here again to-morrow. And oh, what do you think,
Bess? Great news! Stowell has been made Deemster. So if the good Lord in
Heaven will only keep that damned old Taubman in bed a little longer with
his rheumatism, Stowell will be on the bench and you'll have a fair trial at
all events. Good-bye!"
For the next half-hour Bessie sobbed with joy. Tell the truth and destroy
Alick's faith in her? Never! Never in this world!
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE DEEMSTER'S OATH
It was the morning of the day of the swearing-in of the new Deemster at
Castle Rushen. The Bishop had asked permission to solemnise the
ceremony with a religious service—a custom long unobserved.
The service was held in a groined chamber of moderate size within walls
thirty feet thick, once the banqueting-hall of the Kings of Man, now the jail
chapel, with an atmosphere that seemed to be compounded equally of the
intoxicated laughter of the old revellers and the moans of the condemned
prisoners.
For the event of the day the chill place had been suitably decorated.
Flags hung on the tarred walls, red cushions from the neighbouring church
had been laid on the bare benches; a carpet had been stretched down the
aisle of the flagged floor; a white embroidered altar-cloth covered the plain
communion table, from which the light of four candles in silver
candlesticks flickered on the faces of the small congregation—chiefly
officials, with their wives and daughters.
35. Shortly before eleven, the hour fixed for the service, Stowell entered,
wearing for the first time the wig and gown of a judge, and he was led to
one of three arm-chairs at the front. A little later there came through the
thick walls the sound of soldiery clashing arms outside the Castle, and at
the next moment the Governor arrived in General's uniform of red and gold,
with Fenella behind him in a large spring hat (her face glowing with
animation), and they took the two remaining chairs. Then the Bishop in his
scarlet robes came in, preceded by his crozier, and the service began.
It was short but solemn. First a psalm of David ("He shall judge thy
people with righteousness and thy poor with judgment"); then an epistle to
the Romans ("Owe no man anything"); and then an improvised prayer by
the Bishop, asking the Almighty to grant His strength and wisdom to His
servant who was shortly to take the solemn oath of his great office, that he
might deliver the poor and needy, deal faithfully with all men, and show
mercy to such as had erred and sinned. Then came the hymn "Thou Judge
of quick and dead," and finally the Benediction.
Stowell was strongly affected. He knelt at the prayer, and when the
service was at an end and it was time to go, Fenella had to touch his
shoulder.
The sun was bright outside, and they blinked their eyes as they crossed
the courtyard to the Court-house.
The stately little chamber was full, save for the seats that had been
reserved for the officials. There was a flash of faces, a waft of perfume, a
flutter of handkerchiefs and a hum of whispering as the Governor stepped
up to the scarlet dais, with Stowell following him and taking for the first
time the seat of the Judge.
People who had been talking of the youth of the new Deemster were
heard to say that in his judge's wig he seemed older than they had expected
and so like the portrait on the wall that one could almost fancy that his
father was looking through the windows of his eyes.
The proceedings began with the Governor calling upon Stowell for his
Commission, and then reading it aloud—"Our trusty and well-beloved
36. Victor Stowell to be Deemster of this isle."
After that everybody stood while the new Judge took the oath of fealty to
the King. Then the Deemster's clerk, Joshua Scarff, in his coloured
spectacles, handed up a quarto copy of the Bible and a deep hush fell on the
assembly, for the time had come for the Deemster's oath.
The Governor and Stowell rose again, but all others remained seated.
Each laid one hand on the open Book, and the Governor read the oath,
clause by clause in loud, strong tones that seemed to smite the walls as with
blows. And, clause by clause, Stowell repeated it after him in a lower voice
that was sometimes barely audible:
"By this Book and the holy contents thereof...."
"By this Book and the holy contents thereof...."
"And by all the wonderful works which God hath miraculously wrought
in heaven and on the earth beneath in six days and seven nights, I, Victor
Christian Stowell...."
"I, Victor Christian Stowell, do swear that I will, without respect or fear
or friendship, love or gain, consanguinity or affinity, envy or malice,
execute the laws of this isle justly betwixt our Sovereign Lord the King and
his subjects within the isle, and betwixt party and party, man and man, man
and woman...."
".... man and woman ...."
".... as indifferently as the herring bone doth lie down the middle of the
fish."
There was a deep silence until the oath was ended and then a general
drawing of breath.
The Governor and the new Deemster sat and the Clerk of the Rolls
handed up the Liber Juramentorum, the Book of Oaths, a large volume in
faded leather with leaves of discoloured parchment.
37. It was observed, and afterwards remarked upon, that when Stowell took
up the pen to sign he hesitated for a moment, and then wrote his name
rapidly and nervously, and that, in the silence, a diamond ring which he
wore on his right hand (it was a present from Fenella) clashed with a
discordant sound against the glass tray as he threw the pen back.
The business being over, the Bishop gave out the hymn that is sung at
the close of nearly all Manx festivals, "O God, our help," and all rose and
sang.
Stowell rose with the rest, but he did not sing. He was no longer
conscious of the eyes that were on him. The emotion which he had been
struggling to repress had at length conquered his self-control. While the
Court-house throbbed with the singing he was thinking of the Judges who
had stood in the same place and taken that oath before him. There had been
a thousand years of them.
He turned to the eastern wall and his father's melancholy eyes seemed to
look at him. "Yes, you too," they seemed to say, "must now do the right,
whatever it may cost you. You are no longer yourself only. The souls of all
your predecessors have this day entered into your soul. You must consider
yourself no more. You must be just—or perish."
The hymn came to an end and there was a shuffling of feet like the
pattering of water in the harbour at the top of the tide. The next thing
Stowell knew was that he was unrobed and going down the Deemster's
private staircase to the Court-yard of the Castle.
A large company was there waiting to congratulate him. Janet (he had
ordered that a front seat should be reserved for her) was holding a little
court of elderly ladies, to whom she was relating wonderful stories of his
childhood. She broke away from them to kiss him. And then she kissed
Fenella also and whispered,
"Don't forget to send him home in time, dear."
"I'll not forget," said Fenella.
38. And then she, on her part, with a face aflame, whispered something to
the Governor, who, shaking hands all round, was making ready to go.
"What? You want to return in the automobile? Very well, off you go! The
Attorney will take pity on your forsaken father."
Outside the gate there was a great crowd, behind a regiment of red-
coated soldiers, and when the Governor and the Attorney-General drove off
they broke into a cheer which drowned the clash of steel and the first bars
of the National Anthem.
But that was as nothing compared with the demonstration when Stowell
went off in his car, sitting at the wheel, with Fenella beside him.
"Long live the new Deemster—hip, hip—hip!"
The great shout, the mighty roar of voices, brought a surging to Stowell's
throat and a tightening to his breast. It followed his car, going off in the
sunshine, until it shot over the bridge that crossed the harbour, and there
Fenella turned back her glistening wet eyes and bowed.
* * * * * * *
Others heard it. The prisoners in their dark cells, rising from their plank
beds and hunching their shoulders in the chill air, listened to the joyous
sounds from without, which broke the usual silence of their gloomy walls,
and said to themselves,
"What are they doing now, I wonder?"
There were seven prisoners in the Castle that day. One of them was
Bessie Collister.
II
"Addio! See you at supper!"
39. Fenella was waving to the Governor and the Attorney, and laughing at
their slow speed, as she and Stowell shot past them before they had left the
town.
The morning was beautiful, the sky blue, the sea glistening under a fresh
breeze. They were running, bounding, leaping along the roads, and talking
loudly above the hum of the car. Stowell had caught the contagion of
Fenella's high spirits and awakened from his long trance.
"Well, what did you think of it?"
"The ceremony? Lovely!"
"But you were crying all the time!"
"It must have been through looking at you, then. There was everybody
doing you honour, and you looked like a man going to execution."
He laughed; she laughed; they laughed together, but they had their
serious moments for all that. One of them came when she spoke of the
Oath, saying how quaint and amusing it was.
"A little frightening, though," said Stowell.
"Frightening?"
"Well, yes, I thought so. Made one feel as if old Job had had something
to say for himself. Who was I to judge others, having done wrong myself?"
"Really! You wicked fellow! I wasn't aware you had so many sins to
answer for. But I know!"
And then, in flash after flash, each sparkling like a diamond, came
pictures of his predecessors. The solemn judge; the jesting judge; the judge
who suspected all men of lying; the judge who believed everybody told the
truth; the sour, dour, swearing and hanging judge, who served Justice as if
she had been a Juggernaut, and the gay Judge who bought and sold her as
he did his mistresses.
40. "What a procession! And the question was, which kind were you going
to belong to—eh?"
Again he laughed; they both laughed; and the car flew on. Another
serious moment came. He mentioned the Book of Oaths, saying that while
turning over its leaves with their faded ink he had been seized with a
sudden fear of writing his name, whereupon Fenella, with a mischievous
look of gravity, cried again,
"I know. You thought you were signing your death-warrant."
Yet another serious moment came when she asked him if he had not been
proud of the send-off his countrymen had given him at the Castle gate. He
replied that he would have been so but for the wretched thought that if
anything happened to him their love would as suddenly turn to hate, and
they would howl as loudly as they had cheered.
"But what nonsense!" cried Fenella. "Love—what I call love—is not like
that. It never dies and never changes."
"Never?"
"Never! If I loved anybody and anything happened, I should fight the
world for him."
"Even if he were in the wrong?"
"Goodness yes! Where would be the merit of fighting for him if he were
in the right?"
"Darling!" cried Stowell, and, the road being clear, and nobody in sight,
he had to slow down the car to kiss her.
After that he threw off the solemnity of the ceremony and gave himself
up to the intoxication of love. With Fenella by his side, looking up at him
with her beaming eyes, and laughing with her gay raillery, what else could
he think about? A few miles out of Castletown he said,
"Let us take the old road back—it's longer."
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