II

When Gell reached the railway-station he found the carriages waiting

at the platform, half-full of impatient passengers. A trial, which

was going on in the Castle, was nearing its close, and the

station-master had received orders that the last train to town was to

be kept back for the Judges and advocates.

"The Peel fisherman," thought Gell. And, remembering that this was

the case in which Stowell was to represent the Attorney-General, he

walked over to the Court-house, whose lantern-light was showing like

a hazy white cloud above the Castle walls.

The little place was thick with sea mist, hot with the acid odour of

perspiration, and densely crowded but breathlessly silent. The trial

was over, the prisoner had been found guilty, and the Deemster (it

was Deemster Taubman, sitting with the Clerk of the Rolls as Acting

Governor) was beginning to pronounce sentence:

"Prisoner at the bar, it will be my duty to communicate to the proper

quarter the Jury's recommendation to mercy, but I can hold out no

hope that it will be of any avail. You have been found guilty of the

wilful murder of your wife, therefore I bid you prepare...."

And then followed those dread words in that dead stillness, which

bring thoughts of the day of doom.

Gell caught one glimpse of the prisoner, as he stood in the dock, in

his fisherman's guernsey, looking steadfastly into the face of his

Judge, and another glimpse as a way was cleared through the

spectators and he walked with a strong step to the door leading to

the cells.

Then the court-house cleared to a low rumble that was like the

muffled murmuring that is heard after a funeral.

Gell asked for Stowell, and was told that his friend had gone down to

the Deemster's room with one of the advocates for the defence to draw

up the terms of the recommendation. Therefore he returned to the

station with a group of his fellow advocates, and on the way back he

heard the story of the trial--little knowing how close it was to come

to him.

The prisoner (his name was Morrison) had married the murdered woman

in the winter. She had been a comely girl who had always borne a

good character. On their wedding morning they had received many

presents, one of them being a fishing-boat. This had been the gift

of a distant relation of the bride's, a middle-aged man who had since

married a rich widow.

At Easter, Morrison had gone off with the fleet to the mackerel

fishing at Kinsale, and while there he had received an anonymous

letter. It told him that his young wife had given birth, less than

six months after their marriage, to a still-born child.

Morrison had said nothing about the letter, but he had made inquiries

about the man who had given him the boat, and been told that he had

borne a bad reputation.

At the end of the mackerel season Morrison had returned to the island

with the rest of the fleet, and for everybody else there had been the

usual joyful homecoming.

It had been late at night on the first of June, when the stars were

out and the moon was in its first quarter. As soon as the boats had

been sighted outside the Castle Rock the sound signal had gone up

from the Rocket House, and within five minutes the fishermen's wives

had come flying down to the quay, with their little shawls thrown

over their heads and pinned under their chins.

Then, as the boats had come gliding into harbour, there had been the

shrill questions of the women ashore and the deep-toned answers of

the man afloat:

"Are you there, Bill?" "Is it yourself, Nancy?"

Some of the younger women, who had had babies born while their

husbands had been away, had brought them down with them, and one

young wife, holding up her little one for her man to see, by the

light of the moon and the harbour-master's lantern, had cried:

"Here he is, boy! What do you think of him?"

Almost before the boats could be brought to their moorings the

fishermen had leapt ashore in their long boots and gone off home with

their wives, laughing and talking.

Morrison had not gone. His wife had not been down to meet him.

Somebody had shouted from the quay that she was still keeping her bed

and was waiting at home for him. But he had been in no hurry to go

to her. When everything was quiet he had shouldered his boat to the

top of the harbour, unstepped her mast, and run her ashore on the dry

bank above the bridge.

Then going back to the quay, which was now deserted, he had broken

the padlock of an open yard for ship's stores, taken possession of a

barrel of pitch, rolled it down to the bank by the bridge, fixed it

under his boat, pulled out its plug, applied a match to it, and then

waited until both barrel and boat were afire and burning fiercely.

After that he had walked home through the little sleeping town to his

house in the middle of a cobweb of streets at the back of the beach.

Opening the door (it had been left on the latch for him) he had

bolted it on the inside, and then going to the bedroom and finding

his young wife in bed, with a frightened look under a timid smile, he

had charged her with her unchastity, compelled her to confess to it,

and then strangled her to death with his big hands--the marks of his

broad thumbs, black with tar, being on her throat and bosom.

In the middle of the night the fishermen who lived in the streets

nearest to the harbour, awakened by a red glow in their bedrooms, had

said to their wives:

"What for are they burning the gorse on Peel hill at this time of the

year?"

But others, who were neighbours of Morrison's, having heard cries

from his house in the night, had gathered in front of his door in the

morning, and, getting no answer to their knocking, had burst it open

and found the woman lying dead on the bed and the man huddled up on

the floor at the foot of it. And when they had pushed him and roused

him he had lifted his haggard face and said,

"I've killed my sweetheart."

Such was the fisherman's story, and when the defence had concluded

their case, asking for an acquittal on the ground of unbearable moral

provocation, and saying that never could there have been better

grounds for the application of the unwritten law, the Jury was

obviously impressed, and somebody at the back of the court was saying,

"If they hang him for that they'll hang a man for anything."

Against this sympathy for the accused, Stowell had risen to make his

reply for the Crown.

He did not deny the dead woman's transgression. It was true that she

must have known when she married the prisoner that she was about to

become the mother of a child by another man. But if that moral fact

could be urged against the wife, was there nothing of the same kind

that could be advanced in her favour?

She had been cruelly betrayed and abandoned. Looking to the future

she had seen the contempt of her little world before her. What had

happened? In the dark hour of her desertion the prisoner had come

with the offer of his love and protection. It was in evidence that

for a time she had held back and that he had pressed himself upon

her. None could know the secret of the dead woman's soul, but was it

unreasonable to think that standing between the two fires of public

scorn and the prisoner's affection she had said to herself, as poor

misguided women in like cases did every day: "He loves me so much

that he will forgive me whatever happens."

But had he forgiven her? No, he had killed her, wilfully, cruelly,

brutally, not in the heat of blood, but after long deliberation--he,

the big powerful brute and she the weak, helpless, half-naked

woman--the woman who had been faithful to him since the day he

married her, the woman he had sworn to love and cherish until death

parted them.

No, the plea of moral justification was rotten to the heart's core,

and had nothing to say for itself in a Court of Law. The defence had

urged that it was founded on the laws of nature--that marriage

implied chastity on the woman's part, and this woman had come to her

husband unchaste. On the contrary, it was founded on the barbarous

law of man--the infamous theory that a wife was the property of her

husband and he was at liberty to do as he liked with her.

A wife was not the property of her husband. He was not at liberty to

do as he liked with her. There was no such thing as the unwritten

law. What was not written was not law. And if, as the result of the

verdict in that court, it should go forth that any man had a right to

kill his wife in any circumstances--to be judge and jury and accuser

and executioner over her--the reign of law and order in this island

would be at an end, no woman's life would be secure, the daughter of

no member of that jury would any longer be safe, and human society

would dissolve into a welter of civilised savagery--the worst

savagery of all.

The effect of Stowell's reply had been overwhelming. The jury had

either been frightened or convinced, and even the prisoner himself,

during the more intimate passages, had held down his head as if he

felt himself to be the vilest scoundrel on earth.

Among the advocates (they had reached the station by this time, got

into their carriages, and lit up their pipes) opinion was more

divided. The younger men were enthusiastic, but some of the older

ones thought the closing speech for the Crown had been false in logic

and bad in law.

One of the latter, with a special cock of the hat, (it was old

Hudgeon, the young men called him "Fanny" now), sat with his shaven

chin on the top of his stick and said:

"Well, it's a big gospel the young man has got to live up to, with

all his tall talk about women. But we'll see! We'll see!"

Gell, who was wildly excited by his friend's success, was walking to

and fro on the platform waiting for Stowell's arrival. When he came

(he was the last to come) he had a graver look on his face than Gell

had ever seen there before, except once, and he seemed to be

painfully preoccupied.

"Ah, is it you?" he had said, when Gell laid hold of him--he had

started as if he had seen a ghost.

They got into the train together and had a carriage to themselves.

Gell began with his congratulations, but Stowell brushed them aside,

and said:

"What happened with your father?"

Gell told his story as he had told it at Derby Haven--that the

Speaker had cut up badly and turned him out of the house.

"But what do I care? Not a ha'porth! Best thing that ever happened

to me, perhaps."

"And Bessie?"

"Oh, Bessie? Well, that's all right now. A bit troubled at first

about my being cut off by the family and losing my income. Just like

a woman! So unselfish!"

There was silence for some time after that save for the rumble of the

carriage wheels. Then Gell said he was sorry he had told Bessie

about the loss of the income. She would always be thinking he would

regret the sacrifice he had made for her. If he could only find some

way of showing her it didn't matter, because he could always get

plenty of money....

"And why can't you?" said Stowell.

"How?"

"It's two pounds a week you draw on me for Miss Brown, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll make it ten on condition that you don't pay me back a

penny until I ask for it."

"What a good chap...." But Gell could get no farther--his eyes were

full and his throat was hurting him.

On arriving at Douglas he saw Stowell across the platform to the

northern train, and just as it was about to start, he said:

"By the way, old man, you don't mind my saying something?"

"Not a bit! What is it?"

"You've hanged that poor devil of a Peel fisherman, and I suppose he

deserved it. But I caught a glimpse of him as he was going down to

the cells, and I thought he looked a fine fellow."

"He _is_ a fine fellow."

"Do _you_ say that? He made a big mistake in killing the wife,

though, didn't he? If I had been in his place do you know what _I_

should have done?"

"What?"

"_Killed the other man._"

Stowell drew back in his seat and at the next moment the train

started.

As it ran into the country a black thought, a vague shadow of

something, was swirling like a bat in the darkness of Stowell's

brain. That was not the first time it had come to him. It had come

to him in Court, while he was speaking, startling him, stifling him,

almost compelling him to sit down.

"But Bessie's case was different," he thought. "She was not

deserted. She sent Alick to me herself. Therefore it's impossible,

quite impossible."

Nevertheless, he slept badly that night, and as often as he awoke he

had the sense of a red glow in his bedroom and of being blinded by

the fierce glare from a burning boat.