At length, Victor Stowell's term as a student-at-law came to an end
and he was examined for the Manx bar. The examiner was the junior
Deemster of the island--Deemster Taubman, an elderly man with a
yellow and wrinkled face which put you in mind of sour cream. He was
a bachelor, notoriously hard on the offences of women, having been
jilted, so rumor said, by one of them (a well-to-do widow), on whose
person or fortune he had set his heart or expectations.
Stowell and Gell went up together, being students of the same year,
and Deemster Taubman received them at his home, two mornings running,
in his dressing-gown and slippers. Stowell's fame had gone before
him, so he got off lightly; but Gell came in for a double dose of the
examiner's severity.
"Mr. Gell," said Deemster Taubman, "if somebody consulted you in the
circumstance that he had lent five hundred pounds on a promissory
note, payable upon demand, but without security, to a rascal (say a
widow woman) who refused to pay and declared her intention of leaving
the island to-morrow and living abroad, what would you advise your
client to do for the recovery of his money?"
Alick had not the ghost of an idea, but knowing Deemster Taubman was
vain, and thinking to flatter him, he said,
"I should advise my client, your Honour, to lay the facts, in an _ex
parte_ petition before your Honour at your Honour's next Court" (it
was to be held a fortnight later) "and be perfectly satisfied with
your Honour's judgment."
"Dunce!" said Deemster Taubman, and sitting down to his desk, he
advised the Governor to admit Mr. Stowell but remand Mr. Gell for
three months' further study.
Victor telegraphed the good news to his father, packed up his
belongings in his lodging at Athol Street, and took the next train
back to Ballamoar. Young Robbie Creer met him at the station with
the dog-cart, and took up his luggage, but Victor was too excited to
ride further, so he walked home by a short cut across the Curragh.
His spirits were high, for after many a sickening heartache from hope
deferred (the harder to bear because it had to be concealed) he had
done something to justify himself. It wasn't much, it was only a
beginning, but he saw himself going to Government House one day soon
on a thrilling errand that would bring somebody back to the island
who had been too long away from it.
Of course he must speak to his own father first, and naturally he
must tell Janet. But seeing no difficulties in these quarters he
went swinging along the Curragh lane, with the bees humming in the
gold of the gorse on either side of him and the sea singing under a
silver haze beyond, until he came to the wicket gate on the west of
the tall elms and passed through to the silence inside of them.
He found the Deemster in the conservatory, re-potting geraniums, and
when he came up behind with a merry shout, his father turned with
glad eyes, a little moist, wiped his soiled fingers on his old coat
and shook hands with him (for the first time in his life) saying, in
a thick voice,
"Good--very good!"
They dined together, as usual, and when they had drawn up at opposite
cheeks of the hearth, with the peat fire between them, the Deemster
talked as Victor thought he had never heard him talk before.
It was the proper aspiration of every young advocate to become a
Judge, and there was no position of more dignity and authority.
Diplomatists, statesmen, prime ministers and even presidents might be
influenced in their conduct by fears or hopes, or questions of
policy, but the Judge alone of all men was free to do the right, as
God gave him to see the right, no matter if the sky should fall.
"But if the position of the Judge is high," said the Deemster, "still
higher is his responsibility. Woe to the Judge who permits personal
interests to pervert his judgment and thrice woe to him who commits a
crime against Justice."
Victor found it impossible to break in on that high theme with
mention of his personal matter, so, as soon as the clock on the
landing began to warn for ten he leapt up, snatched his candle, and
flew off to his bedroom in the hope of talk of quite another kind
with Janet.
But Janet was not there, and neither was his bed turned down as
usual, nor his night-gear laid out, nor his lamp lighted. He had
asked for her soon after his arrival and been told that she had gone
to her room early in the afternoon, and had not since been heard of.
"Headache," thought Victor, remembering that she was subject to this
malady, and without more thought of the matter, he tumbled into bed
and fell asleep.
But the first sight that met his eyes when he opened them in the
morning was Janet, with a face dissolved in tears, and the tray in
her hand, asking him in a muffled voice to sit up to his breakfast.
"Lord alive, Janet, what's amiss?" he asked, but she only shook her
head and called on him to eat.
"Tell me what's happened," he said, but not a word would she say
until he had taken his breakfast.
He gulped down some of the food, under protest, Janet standing over
him, and then came a tide of lamentation.
"God comfort you, my boy! God strengthen and comfort you!" said
Janet.
In the whirl of his stunned senses, Victor caught at the first
subject of his thoughts.
"Is it about Fenella?" he asked, and Janet nodded and-wiped her eyes.
"Is she--dead?"