Nearly three hours later Stowell was at the Point of Ayre, where the
head of the island looks into the sea. Leaving his car at the end of
the last paved road he walked over the bent-strewn plain to where the
tall, white, brown-belted light-house stands up against sea and sky.
The light-houseman, who had just put out the light, seeing the
Deemster approach, went down to meet him.
"May I go up to your lantern, Light-houseman? I've always wanted to
see the sun rise from there."
"With pleasure, your Honour," said the Light-houseman, and he led the
way up the circular stone stairway, through the eye of the
light-house, with its glistening columns of bevelled glass, to the
iron-railed gallery that ran like a scalf round its neck.
For a long half-hour Stowell walked to and fro there. He felt as if
he were on the prow of some mighty ship, with the sea racing in white
foam along the rocks on either side. Far below were the booming
waves; the sea-fowl were calling in the midway air; the sky to the
east was reddening; the day was striding over the waters and driving
the trailing garments of the night before it, and the sea was singing
the great song of the dawn.
At last, straining his sight to the south, he saw what he had come to
see--a steamer with a red and black funnel. Kept back during the
dark hours by the fog on the coast, she was now coming on at
full-speed.
There was a pang in thinking that this was the last he was to see of
the two who were aboard of her, but there was a boundless joy in it
also. They were united; they were happy; they were safe; he had
wiped out his offence against them.
He watched the vessel as she passed. She lurched a little as she
went through the cross-current of the Point. But now she was out in
the Channel; now she was heading towards the Mull of Galloway; now
she was fading into the northern mist and seemed to be dropping off
into another planet.
At half-past three Stowell was back in his car. He could go home now
with a cleaner heart, a surer conscience. It was a beautiful
morning. The sun had risen. It was slanting over his shoulder as he
drove along the grass-grown road on the north-west coast, with the
sea singing and dancing by his side over a stretch of yellow sand.
The lambs were bleating in the fields and the larks were loud in the
sky.
What relief! What joy! His car was bounding on--past the Lhen, the
Nappin, the old Jurby church with its four-square tower on the edge
of the cliff--going faster than he knew, faster and still faster,
like a winged creature, parting the way as it went, making the road
itself to fly open, and the hedges, the trees, and the sleeping
farm-houses to slant off on either side, and coming round at last, as
with the heart of a bride, to the big gates of Ballamoar.
Home once more!
As he slackened speed and slid up the drive the rooks were calling in
the tall elms and the song-birds in the bushes were singing. As
silently as possible he ran his car into the garage and crept into
the house.
The blinds were down and the rooms were dull with a yellow light,
like sunshine behind closed eyelids. The grandfather's clock on the
landing was striking four. Only four hours since he had left
Castletown!
The servants were not yet stirring, and he stepped upstairs on
tiptoe, hoping to reach his room unheard, but as he passed Janet's
door she called to him.
"Is that you, Victor?"