Victor Stowell left the island for London at nine o'clock next
morning. The first bell of the steamer had been rung, the mails were
aboard, and the more tardy of the passengers were hurrying to the
gangway, with their porters behind them, when the Governor's carriage
drew up and Stowell leapt out of it.
A large company of the younger advocates (all former members of the
"Ellan Vannin") were waiting for him.
"Come to see me off? Yes? Jolly good of you," said Stowell, and he
stood talking to them at the top of the pier steps till the second
bell had been rung.
Down to that moment nobody had said a word about the object of his
journey, although every eye betrayed knowledge of it. But just as he
was crossing the gangway to the steamer one of the advocates (a
little fat man with the reputation of a wag) cried, with a broad
smatch of the Anglo-Manx,
"Bring it back in your bres' pockat, boy"--meaning the King's
commission for the Deemstership.
"You go bail," said Stowell, and there was general laughter.
He was settling himself with his portmanteau in the deck cabin that
had been reserved for him when somebody darkened the doorway.
"Helloa!"
It was Gell. His cheeks were white, his face looked troubled, and he
was breathing rapidly as if he had been running.
"What's amiss?" said Stowell. "Something has happened to you. What
is it?"
Gell stepped into the cabin, and with a suspicion of tears both in
his eyes and voice, told his story.
It was Bessie again. He didn't know what had come over the girl.
She had been holding off all winter. First one excuse, then another.
"I've done all I can think of. Taken a house in Athol Street and
furnished it beautifully (thanks to you, old fellow), but it's no
use, seemingly."
"When did you see her last?"
"Yesterday, and I thought I had settled everything at last. She
wouldn't be called in church, so I arranged that I was to go down to
Derby Haven this morning, as soon as your boat sailed, and we were to
come up to the Registrar's to sign for a Bishop's license. And now,
by the first post .... this."
With a trembling hand Gell took out of his pocket the letter which
Bessie had written the night before and handed it to Stowell.
With a momentary uneasiness Stowell read the letter.
"Reason? What is it likely to be, think you?"
"I don't know. I can't say. It's a mystery. I've racked my brains
and can only think of one thing now."
"And what's that?"
"That she finds out at last that she doesn't care enough for me to
marry me."
"Nonsense, old fellow."
"What else can it be? There can be nothing else, can there?"