The old Court-house at Castle Rushen was full to overflowing. Nearly
all the great people of the island were there--the Legislative
Council, the Keys, the leaders of the Bar, the more prominent members
of the clergy, the long line of insular officials, with their wives
and daughters.
A pale shaft of spring sunshine from the lantern light was on the new
portrait of the Deemster, which had been hung on the eastern wall and
was still covered by a white sheet.
The time of waiting for the proceedings to begin was passed in a low
buzz of conversation, chiefly on one subject. "Is it true that he is
to follow his father?" "So they say." "So young and with so many
before him--I call it shocking." "So do I, but then he's the son of
the old Deemster, and is to marry the daughter of the Governor."
At the last moment Stowell and Fenella arrived and were shown into
seats reserved for them at the end of the Jury-box. Then the
conversation (among the women at least) took another turn. "Well,
they're a lovely pair--I will say that for them."
The Governor, accompanied by the Bishop and the Attorney-General,
stepped on to the crimson-covered dais, and the proceedings commenced.
The Governor's own speech was a short one. They had gathered to do
honour to the memory of one of the most honoured of their countrymen.
The memory of its great men was a nation's greatest inheritance. If
that was true of the larger communities it was no less true of the
little realm of Man.
"Hence the island," said the Governor, "is doing a service to itself
in setting up in this Court-house, the scene of his principal
activities, the memorial to its great Deemster which I have now the
honour to unveil."
When the Governor pulled a cord and the white sheet fell from the
face of the picture there was a gasp of astonishment. The impression
of reality was startling. The Deemster had been painted in wig and
gown and as if sitting on the bench in that very Court-house. The
powerful yet melancholy eyes, the drawn yet firm-set mouth, the
suggestion of suffering yet strength--it was just as he had been seen
there last, summing up after the trial of the woman who had killed
her husband.
As soon as the spectators, who had risen, had resumed their seats,
the Governor called on the Attorney-General.
The old man was deeply moved. The Deemster had been his oldest and
dearest friend. It was difficult for him to remember a time when
they had not been friends and impossible to recall an hour in which
their friendship had been darkened by so much as a cloud. If it was
true that the memory of its great men was a nation's greatest
inheritage, the island had a great heritage in the memory of Deemster
Stowell. He had been great as a lawyer, great as a judge, great as a
gentleman, as a friend, as a lover, as a husband, and (with a glance
in the direction of the jury-box) as a father also.
"I pray and believe," said the Attorney, "that this memorial to our
great Deemster may be a stimulus and an inspiration to all our young
men whatsoever, particularly to such as are in the profession of the
Bar, and especially to one who bears his name, has inherited many of
his splendid talents, and may yet be called, please God, to fill his
place and follow in his footsteps."
When the old man sat down there was general applause, a little
damped, perhaps, by the last of his references, and then followed the
event of the afternoon.
By the blind instinct that animates a crowd, all eyes turned in the
direction of Victor Stowell. He sat by Fenella's side, breathing
audibly with head down and hands clasped tightly about one of his
knees.
There was a pause and then a low stamping of feet and Fenella
whispered,
"They want you to speak, dear."
But Stowell did not seem to hear, and at length the Governor called
on him by name.
When he rose he looked pale and much older, and bore a resemblance to
the picture of his father on the opposite wall which few had observed
before.
He began in a low tense voice, thanking His Excellency for asking him
to speak, but saying he would have given a great deal not to do so.
"The only excuse I can have for standing here to-day," he said, "is
that I may thank you, Sir, and this company, and my countrymen and
countrywomen generally, in the name of one whose voice, so often
heard within these walls, must now be silent."
After that he paused, as if not quite sure that he ought to go
further, and then continued,
"If my father was a great Judge, it was chiefly because he was a
great lover of Justice. Justice was the most sacred thing on earth
to him, and no man ever held higher the dignity and duty of a Judge.
Woe to the Judge who permitted personal motives to pervert his
judgment, and thrice woe to him who committed a crime against
justice. Therefore, if I know my father's heart and have any right
to speak for him, I will say that what you have done this afternoon
is not so much to perpetuate the memory of Douglas Stowell, Deemster
of Man, as to set up in this old Court-house, which has witnessed so
many tragic scenes, an altar to the spirit of Justice, so that no
Judge, following him in his place, may ever forget that his first and
last and only duty is to be just and fear not."
He paused again and seemed to be about to stop, but, in a voice so
low as to be scarcely audible, he said,
"As for myself I hardly dare to speak at all. What my dear master
has said of me makes it difficult to say anything. Some people seem
to think it is a great advantage to a young man to be the son of a
great father. But if it is a great help it is also a great
responsibility and may sometimes be the source of a great sorrow. I
never knew what my father had been to me until I lost him. I had
always been proud of him, but I had rarely or never given him reason
to be proud of me. That is a fault I cannot repair now. But there
is one thing I can do and one thing only. I can take my solemn
vow--and here and now I do so--that whatever the capacity in which my
duty calls me to this place, I will never wilfully do anything in the
future, with my father's face on the wall in front of me, that shall
be unworthy of my father's son."
There were husky cheers and some clapping of hands when Stowell sat
down, but most of the men were clearing their throats and wiping the
mist off their spectacles, and nearly all of the women were coughing
and drying their eyes.
Others were to have spoken but the Governor closed up the proceedings
quickly, and then there was a general conversazione.
The officials were talking in groups:--"Wonderful! The Governor and
the old Attorney were grand, but the young man was wonderful!" "We
might go farther and fare worse." "Like his father, you say?" (it
was the Attorney-General) "so like what his father was at his age
that sometimes when I look at him I think I'm a young man myself
again, and then it's a shock to go home and see an old man's face in
the glass."
A group of old ladies had gathered about Fenella, whose great eyes
were ablaze.
"It was beautiful, my dear, but there was just one other person who
ought to have been here to hear it."
"Who?"
"The old Deemster himself, dear."
"But he was," said Fenella.
The Governor drew Stowell aside. "It's all right, my boy! Must have
been instinct, but you touched your people on their tenderest place.
Pretty hard on you, perhaps, but I knew what I was doing. The
opposition in the island is as dead as a door nail already. Get into
the saddle in London and you'll never hear another word about it."
There were only two dissentients.
"Aw well, we'll see, we'll see," said the Speaker--he was going out
of the Castle (head down and his big beard on his breast), with old
Hudgeon the advocate.
As he passed through the outer gate his son Alick came running
hotfoot up to it.
It was a cruel moment.