Alick Gell, also, had travelled far.
After his temporary detention at Castletown, he had returned to
Douglas in a frenzy.
For four days everything had fed his fury. Having no housekeeper he
took his meals in a neighbouring hotel which was frequented by his
younger fellow-advocates. Sitting alone in a corner he spoke to none
of them, but they seemed to be always speaking at him. In loud
voices they praised Stowell--his eloquence, his knowledge, above all
his impartiality, his superiority to the calls of friendship.
This was gall and wormwood to Gell. He wanted to come face to face
with Stowell that he might charge him with his treachery. He knew
the police were watching him, but one day he eluded them and took the
train to Ballamoar.
It was evening when he got there. The cowman, who lived in the
lodge, told him the master was out in his car and might not return
until late. To beguile the time of waiting Gell walked in the lanes
and woods about the house. These evoked both kind and cruel
memories, the worst of them being the memory of the day when he
stammered his excuses for loving Bessie Collister, and Stowell had
said, "Good-bye and God bless you, old fellow!" What a scoundrel!
The darkness gathered. There was the last bleating of the sheep, the
last calling of the curlew (like the cry of a bird without a mate),
and then night fell, dark night, without a star, and still Stowell
did not come.
Where was he? Gell thought he knew. He was at Government House with
Fenella Stanley. They were reconciled, of course; they were kissing
and caressing, while Bessie .... but no, he dare not think of that.
What stung him most was the thought of the money he had taken from
Stowell. It had been neither more nor less than the price of
Bessie's honour. He remembered the Peel fisherman who had burnt his
boat. How he wished he had the money now that he might ram it down
Stowell's throat!
There had been rain and the frogs were croaking, but otherwise the
air was still. All at once the silence of the Curraghs was broken by
a low hum. Stowell's car was coming! Looking down the long straight
road Gell saw its two white headlights opening the darkness like a
reversed wedge. Then in a moment, unpremeditated, unprepared for,
his wild thirst for personal vengeance returned to him.
"Now, now," he thought, and he closed the gates to give himself time.
But when Stowell came up and got out of his car to open them, and his
lamps lit up his face, a mysterious wave of emotion heaved up out of
the depths of Gell's soul. Something took him by the throat and
cried "Stop! What are you doing?" and he dropped back into the
deeper darkness of some bushes behind one of the gate-posts. He must
have made a noise, for Stowell cried,
"Who's there?"
But Gell made no answer, and at the next moment Stowell was back in
his seat and gliding up the drive.
After that, horrified by the homicidal impulse which had so suddenly
taken possession of him, Gell kept to his rooms for several days,
going out only at night, with the collar of his coat up to his ears,
to eat and drink in the tap-room of a low tavern on the quay.
He had been denying himself to everybody who called at his chambers,
but one morning there came an unsteady knock, followed by a
peremptory voice, saying,
"Alick, let me in!"
It was his father, and an inherited instinct of obedience compelled
him to open the door. He was shocked to see the change in the
Speaker. His burly figure had become slack, his clothes (especially
his trousers) baggy, his long beard thinner and more white, the crown
of his head bald. Only his red eyes, with their unquenchable fire,
remained the same.
The old man sat down heavily with his stick between his knees, and
his trembling hands on its ebony handle.
"I didn't expect that I should have to come here, but Farrell says
that since that trial at Castletown you have not been responsible,
and if things go farther he'll have to put you away."
"Put me away?"
"Don't you understand?--the asylum."
"He doesn't know, father, and neither do you...."
"I don't want to know. If you had listened to me long ago this
wouldn't have happened. But I'm not here to reproach you. I'm here
to advise you to do something for your own good--mine, too,
everybody's."
"What is that, father?"
Gell had expected the usual storm and his father's emotion was moving
him deeply.
"Leave the island before anything worse happens. Look" (the Speaker
drew a stout envelope from his breast pocket), "I've just been to the
bank for you. A thousand pounds in Bank of England notes, and if
it's not enough there's more where that came from. Take it and go
away at once--to America--anywhere."
Alick drew back and his lips tightened. "This is a trick to get me
to desert Bessie," he thought.
"I can't do it," he said, and he pushed back the old man's trembling
hand.
The Speaker fixed his red eyes on his son, and said,
"Alick, I must tell you something. I've heard on good authority that
they are going to hang that girl."
"They can't. Some of them would like to, but they can't."
"They can and they will, I tell you."
"Then I'll .... I'll murder...."
"There you are! That's what Farrell says. A little more and you'll
be capable of anything. Go away, my boy. Think of me. It has taken
me forty years to get to where I am. I was born neither an
aristocrat nor a pauper, but I've got my hand on all of them. That's
just the kind of man both sorts would like to pull down. If my son
disgraced me I should have to give up everything. Go, my son, go."
"I can't, father, I can't."
The old man passed his hand over his bald head and in a low voice he
said,
"Perhaps I've not been a good father exactly, but there's your
mother. Bad as it would be for me it would be worse for her. She
has only one son--one child you might say--and since that affair at
Castletown she has never been out of doors--just creeping over the
fire with her feet in the fender. If you don't want to bring your
mother to her grave...."
Gell felt as if his heart were breaking.
"But I can't, I can't!"
"You mean you won't?"
"Very well, I won't."
The old man's voice thickened--the storm was coming.
"And for the sake of this woman who killed her brat...."
"Call her what you like. I'll stay here until she comes out of
prison, and then .... then I'll marry her."
"You fool! You damned heartless fool! God forgive me for bringing
such a fool into the world."
Struggling to his feet the old man made for the door. But having
reached it, and while tugging at the handle, he stopped and said,
"Look here, I'll give you one more chance."
He took the stout envelope out of his breast pocket again and flung
it on to Alick's desk.
"There's the money and this is Monday. If you are not off the island
by this day week I'll not leave matters to Farrell--I'll have you put
into a madhouse myself to prevent you from plunging us all into
disgrace and ruin. Idiot! Fool! Madman!"
He screamed like a sea-gull until his breath was gone, and then,
gesticulating wildly, went downstairs with heavy thudding steps like
a man walking on stilts.
A few minutes later Gell, going to the window with wet eyes, saw his
father on the opposite side of the street, looking up at the house as
if half minded to return. His stick fell from his nervous hand, and
with difficulty he picked it up. It dropped again, and a passer-by
handed it back. Then he went off in the direction of the railway
station, dragging his feet after him.