Next day the Deemster drove to Douglas to meet his son coming back.
The weather was cold, he had to leave home in the grey of morning,
and he was driving in an open dog-cart, but the Deemster knew what he
was doing. Ten minutes before the train came in from Castletown he
had drawn up in the station yard. The passengers came through from
the platform and saw him there, and he sainted some of them. Cæsar
Qualtrough was among them, a gross-bodied and dark-faced man, darker
than ever that day with a look of animosity and scorn.
When, at the tail of the crowd, Victor came, in the sour silence of
the disgraced, no longer wearing his college cap, and with his
discoloured college trunk being trundled behind him, the Deemster
said nothing, but he indicated the seat by his side, and the boy
climbed up to it. Then with his white head erect and his strong eyes
shining he drove out of the station yard.
It was still early morning and he was in no hurry to return home.
For half an hour he passed slowly through the principal thoroughfares
of the town, bowing to everybody he knew and speaking to many. It
was market day and he made for the open space about the old church on
the quay, where the farmers' wives were standing in rows with their
baskets of butter and eggs, the farmers' sons with their tipped-up
carts of vegetables, and the smaller of the farmers themselves, from
all parts of the island, with their carcases of sheep and oxen.
Without leaving his seat the Deemster bought of several of them and
had his purchases packed about the college trunk behind him.
It was office hours by this time and he began to call on his friends,
leaving Victor outside to take care of the horse and dog-cart. His
first call was on the Attorney-General, Donald Wattleworth, who had
been an old school-fellow of his own at King William's, where forty
odd years ago he had saved him from many troubles.
The Attorney was now a small, dapper, very correct and rather
religious old gentleman (he had all his life worn a white tie and
elastic side-boots), with the round and wrinkled face that is
oftenest seen in a good old woman. For a quarter of an hour the
Deemster talked with him on general subjects, his Courts and
forthcoming cases, without saying a word about the business which had
brought him to Douglas. But the Attorney divined it. From his chair
at his desk on the upper story he could see Victor, with his pale
face, in the dog-cart below, twiddling the slack of the reins in his
nervous fingers, and when the Deemster rose to go he followed him
downstairs to the street, and whispered to the boy from behind, as
his father was taking his seat in front,
"Cheer up, my lad! Many a good case has a bad start, you know."
The Deemster's last call was at Government House, and again Victor,
to his relief, was left outside. But when, ten minutes later, the
Governor, with his briar-root pipe in his hand, came into the porch
to see the Deemster off, and found Victor in the dog-cart, looking
cold and miserable, with his overcoat buttoned up to his throat, he
stepped out bareheaded, with the wind in his grey hair, and shook
hands with him, and said,
"Glad to see you again, my boy. You remember my girl, Fenella? Yes?
Well, she's at college now, but she'll be home for her holiday one of
these days--and then I must bring her over to see you. Good-bye!"
The Deemster was satisfied. Not a syllable had he said from first to
last about the bad story that had come from Castletown, but before he
left Douglas that day, it was dead and done for.
"Now we'll go home," he said, and for two hours thereafter, father
and son, sitting side by side, and never speaking except on
indifferent subjects, followed the high mountain road, with its far
view of Ireland and Scotland, like vanishing ghosts across a broken
sea, the deep declivity of the glen, with Dan Baldromma's flour mill
at the foot of it, and the turfy lanes of the Curraghs, where the
curlews were crying, until they came to the big gates of Ballamoar,
with the tall elms and the great silence inside of them, broken only
by the loud cawing of the startled rooks, and then to Janet, in her
lace cap, at the open door of the house, waiting for her boy and
scarcely knowing whether to laugh or cry over him.