Deemster Stowell was the only surviving member of an old Manx family.
They had lived for years beyond memory at Ballamoar (the Great Place)
an estate of nearly a thousand acres on the seaward angle of the
Curragh lands which lie along the north-west of the island. The
fishermen say the great gulf-stream which sweeps across the Atlantic
strikes the Manx coast at that elbow. Hence the tropical plants
which grow in the open at Ballamoar, and also the clouds of
snow-white mist which too often hang over it, hiding the house, and
the lands around, and making the tower of Jurby Church on the edge of
the cliff look like a lighthouse far out at sea.
The mansion house, in the Deemster's day, was a ramshackle old place
which bore signs of having been altered and added to by many
generations of his family. It stood back to the sea and facing a
broad and undulating lawn, which was bordered by lofty elms that were
inhabited by undisturbed colonies of rooks. From a terrace behind,
opening out of the dining-room, there was a far view on clear days of
the Mull of Galloway to the north, and of the Morne Mountains to the
west. People used to say--
"The Stowells have caught a smatch of the Irish and the Scotch in
their Manx blood."
The Deemster was sixty years of age at that time. A large, spare man
with an almost Jovian white head, clean-shaven face, powerful yet
melancholy eyes, bold yet sensitive features and long yet delicate
hands--a strong, silent, dignified, rather solemn personality.
He was a man of the highest integrity. Occupying an office too often
associated, in his time, with various forms of corruption, the breath
of scandal never touched him. He was a legislator, as well as a
Judge, being _ex officio_ a member of the little Manx Parliament, but
in his double capacity (so liable to abuse) nobody with a doubtful
scheme would have dared to approach him.
"What does the old Deemster say?"--the answer to that question often
settled a dispute, for nobody thought of appealing against his
judgment.
"Justice is the strongest and most sacred thing on earth"--that was
his motto, and he lived up to it.
His private life had been saddened by a great sorrow. He married,
rather late in life, a young Englishwoman, out of Cumberland--a
gentle creature with a kind of moonlight beauty. She died four or
five years afterwards and the Manx people knew little about her. To
the last they called her the "Stranger."
The Deemster bore his loss in characteristic silence. Nobody
intruded on his sorrow, or even entered his house, but on the day of
the funeral half "the north" lined the long grass-grown road from the
back gates of Ballamoar to the little wind-swept churchyard over
against the sea. He thanked none of them and saluted none, but his
head was low as his coach passed through.
Next day he took his Court as usual, and from that day onward nobody
saw any difference in him. But long afterwards, Janet Curphey, the
lady housekeeper at Ballamoar, was heard to say in the village
post-office, which was also the grocer's shop, that every morning
after breakfast the Deemster had put a vase of fresh-cut flowers on
the writing-desk in his library under his young wife's portrait,
until it was now a white-haired man who was making his daily offering
to the picture of a young woman.
"Aw, yes, Mrs. Clucas, yes! And what did it matter to the woman to
be a stranger when she was loved like that?"
The "Stranger" had left a child, and this had been at once the
tragedy and the triumph of her existence. Although an ancient family
of exceptional longevity the Stowells had carried on their race by a
very thin line. One child, rarely two, never three, and only one son
at any time--that had been all that had stood from generation to
generation between the family name and extinction. After three years
of childlessness the Deemster's wife had realised the peril, and, for
her husband's sake, begun to pray for a son. With all her soul she
prayed for him. The fervour of her prayers made her a devoutly
religious woman. When her hope looked like a certainty her joy was
that of an angel rejoicing in the goodness and greatness and glory of
God. But by that time the sword had almost worn out its scabbard.
She had fought a great fight and under the fire of her spirit her
body had begun to fail.
The Deemster had sent for famous physicians and some of them had
shaken their heads.
"She may get through it; but we must take care, your Honour, we must
take care."
Beneath his calm exterior the Deemster had been torn by the red
strife of conflicting hopes, but his wife had only had one desire.
When her dread hour came she met it with a shining face. Her son was
born and he was to live, but she was dying. At the last moment she
asked for her husband, and drew his head down to her.
"Call him Victor," she said--she had conquered.