Chapter THIRTEEN: The Saving of Kate Kinkade

The Governor was waiting for Stowell at the side gate to Ballamoar.

"You look ill, my boy, and no wonder," he said. "Fenella and I are to take a short cruise in the yacht before the autumn ends. You must come along with us."

For the farmers and fishermen who had travelled long distances a meal had been provided in the barn--a kind of robustious after-wake for the Deemster, presided over by the elder and younger Robbie Creers.

Alick Gell alone returned with Stowell to the house. In his black frock coat and tall silk hat he had walked back from the Church by Stowell's side, snuffling audibly but saying nothing. To Stowell's relief he was still silent through luncheon and for several hours afterwards. It was not until they were in the porch, and Gell was on the point of going, that anything of consequence was said.

"What about Bessie?" asked Stowell.

"Oh, Bessie?" said Gell (he looked a little confused) "Bessie's all right, I think. But there's trouble coming in that quarter, I'm afraid."

"What trouble?"

"As we were walking along Langness yesterday--I went down to tell her about the Deemster--we met Cæsar Qualtrough coming from the farm."

"Qualtrough?"

"You know--father of the young scoundrel who got us into that scrape at King William's."

"I remember."

"He's a friend of Dan Baldromma's, and Dan is a tenant of my father's and .... But good Lord, what matter! I've worse things than that to worry about."

As Gell was going out of the gate, the night was falling and the stars were out, and he was saying to himself, "Does he really care for the girl, or is it only a sense of duty?"

And Stowell, as he closed the door and went back into the house (empty and vault-like now, as a house is on the first night after the being who has been the soul of it has been left outside) was thinking, "I can't allow Alick to be my scapegoat any longer."

But at the next moment he was thinking of Fenella. With mingled shame and joy he was asking himself what was being thought of the incident in the churchyard--by Fenella herself, by the Governor, by everybody.

Next day the Attorney-General came with the will. Except for a few legacies to servants, the Deemster had left everything to his son.

"So, with your mother's fortune, you are one of the rich men of the island, now, Victor. A great responsibility, my boy! I pray God you may choose the right partner. But" (with a meaning smile) "that will be all right, I think."

During the next days Stowell occupied himself with Joshua Scarff, the Deemster's clerk (a tall, thin, elderly man wearing dark spectacles) in paying-off the legacies. Only one of these gave him any anxiety. This was Janet's, and it was accompanied by a pension, in case Victor should decide to superannuate her. Against doing so all his heart cried out, but something whispered that if Janet were gone it might be the easier for Bessie.

Janet was in floods of tears at the possibility.

"I couldn't have believed it of the Deemster!" she said. "I really couldn't! You can keep the legacy, dear. I have no use for it except to give it back to you. But I won't leave Ballamoar. 'Deed, I won't! Not until another woman comes to be mistress in it, and wants me to go. And she never will, the darling--I'll trust her for that, anyway."

A day or two later Stowell was in his father's room, when he came upon an envelope inscribed: "_To be opened by my son._" It contained a ring, a beautiful and valuable gem, with a note saying:

"_This was your mother's engagement ring. I wish you to give it to Fenella Stanley. Take it yourself._"

Stowell was stupefied. Struggling with a sense of his duty to the girl whom he had sent to Derby Haven he had been telling himself that he must never see Fenella again. But here was a sacred command from the dead.

For three days he thought he could not possibly go to Government House. On the fourth day he went.

The beauty and charm of the atmosphere of Fenella's home were heart-breaking. And Fenella herself, in a soft tea-gown, was almost more than he could bear to look upon.

She, too, seemed embarrassed, and when Miss Green (an English counterpart of Janet) left them alone with each other, and he gave her the ring, saying what his father had told him to do with it, her embarrassment increased.

She held it in her fingers, turned it over and looked at it, and said, "How lovely! How good of him!" And then, trembling and tingling, and with a slightly heightened colour, she looked at Stowell.

Suddenly a thought flashed upon him. Why had his father told him to take the ring to her himself? The answer was speaking in Fenella's eyes--that, at the topmost moment of their love, he should put it on.

At the next instant the Governor entered the drawing-room, and Fenella, holding up her hand (she had put the ring on for herself by this time) cried:

"See what the Deemster has left to me!"

"Beautiful!" said the Governor, and then he looked from Stowell to his daughter.

Stowell rose to go. He had the sense of flying from the house. Fenella must have thought him a fool. The Governor must have thought him a fool. But better be a fool than a traitor!

A week passed and then an idea came to him. He would tell the truth to Bessie's people--the whole truth if necessary. That would commit him once for all to the line of honour. Having taken that public plunge there could be no looking back, and the bitter struggle between his passion and his duty would then be over.

With a certain pride at the thought of being about to do an heroic thing he set out one day for Ramsey, intending to return by Baldromma. But on entering his outer office his young clerk told him that Mr. Daniel Collister was in his private room, that he had been waiting there for two hours, and refusing to go away.

Dan, with his short, gross figure, was standing astride on the hearthrug, and without so much as a bow he plunged into his business.

A respectable man's house was in disgrace. His step-daughter had run away. Been carried off by a scoundrel--there couldn't be a doubt of it. A month gone and not the whisper of a word from her. The mother was broken-hearted, so he had been traipsing the island over to find the girl.

"I belave I'm on the track of her at last though. She's down Castletown way, and the man that's been the cause of her trouble isn't far off, I'm thinking."

"And whom do you say it is, Mr. Collister?"

"Somebody that's middling close to yourself, sir--Mr. Alick Gell, the son of the Spaker."

"No, no, no!"

"Who else then?"

Stowell tried to speak but could not.

"Wasn't he the cause of her disgrace at the High Bailiff's? And hasn't he been keeping up his bad character ever since--standing by the side of disorderly walkers in the Douglas Coorts, they're saying?"

He must have promised to marry the girl. But he hadn't. He (Dan) had been to the Registrar's at Douglas and found that out.

"The toot! The boght! The booby! I was warning her enough. The man that takes advantage of a dacent girl isn't much for marrying her afterwards."

Remembering Dan's share in the catastrophe, Stowell was feeling the vertigo of a temptation to take the gross creature by the neck and fling him through the window.

"Why do you come to me?" he asked.

"To ask you to tell your friend that he's got to make an honest woman of the girl."

"Is that all you are thinking about?"

Dan drew a quick breath, then dug both hands into the upright pockets of his trousers, thrust forward his thick neck, with a gesture peculiar to the bull, and answered:

"No, I'm thinking of myself as well, and what for shouldn't I? I'm going to stand up for my own rights, too. The man that treats my girl like that has got to marry her, and I'm not going to be satisfied with nothing less."

Then picking up his billycock hat and making for the door he said:

"I lave it with you, Mr. Stowell, Sir. If the Dempster was the grand gentleman people are saying, his son will be seeing justice done to me and mine. If not, the island will be too hot for the guilty man, I'm thinking."

When Dan had gone Stowell felt sick and dizzy, and as if he were drawing back from the edge of a precipice. His heroic act of self-sacrifice had dwindled to a ridiculous weakness.

This man, with his blatant vulgarity of mind and soul, at Ballamoar! His father-in-law! A member of his family! Riding over him with a degrading tyranny! In the dining-room, with his broad buttocks to the fire--never, never, never!

Hardly had Dan's footsteps ceased on the stair when the young clerk came from the outer office in great excitement.

"His Excellency is here. He's coming upstairs, Sir."

II

"Helloa, I've found you."

The Governor was in yachting costume.

"Well, the yacht is lying outside, and Fenella and I are doing a little circumnavigating of the island, so come along."

Stowell tried to excuse himself, but the Governor would listen to no excuses.

"Everybody says you are looking like a ghost these days, and so you are. Therefore come, let's get a breath of sea-air into you."

"But your Excellency...."

"I've brought one of the ship's boys ashore for your bag, so pack it quick...."

"But really...."

"Where's your bedroom and I'll pack it myself."

"No, no! But if I must...."

"That's better! I'll smoke a pipe and wait for you."

"After all, why not?" thought Stowell, as he packed his bag and put on flannels and a blue jacket. This flying away from Fenella was unworthy of a man. It was cowardly, contemptible. He must learn to resist temptation.

Half an hour later he was riding with the Governor in a dinghy over the fresh waters of the bay towards a large white yacht, "The Fenella," with the red ensign fluttering over her. The gangway was open and as Stowell stepped on to the spotless deck of the ship, her namesake, also in yachting costume, was waiting to receive him.

The mainsail, mizzen and jib being set, the grey-bearded captain, in blue with brass buttons, called on his boys to swing the dinghy up to the davits and haul in the anchor. In a few minutes more, to the hiss and simmer of the sea, the yacht was running free before the wind, leaving the town to the south behind it.

The bell rang for luncheon, and with the Governor and Fenella, Stowell crossed to the companion and went down to the saloon. Books and field-glasses were lying about the sofas and the table was glistening with silver and glass. Blue silk curtains, with the sunlight shining through them, were fluttering over the skylight and the port-holes. How fresh! How charming!

When they came up on deck an hour afterwards they were doubling the Point of Ayre, and the lighthouse at the northernmost end of it was looking like a marble column with a glittering eye. Towards six o'clock they cast anchor for the night off Peel.

The sun was then setting, and the herring fleet (a hundred boats) going out for the night were passing in front of the red sky like a flight of black birds. By the time dinner was over the drowsy spirit of the sunset had died over the waters behind them, the twilight had deepened to a ghostly grey, and the moon had risen over the little fishing town in front and the gaunt walls of the ruined Peel Castle which stands on an island rock.

The Governor, who had sent ashore for the day's newspapers, remained in the cabin to read them. But Stowell and Fenella sat on deck under the moon and the stars. The air had become very quiet. There was no sound anywhere except the tranquil wash of the waves against the yacht and the whispering of the sea outside.

Fenella talked and laughed. Stowell laughed and talked. They found it so easy to talk to each other.

The night wore on. The moon going westward made the broken walls of the Castle stand up black above the shore, with its empty window-sockets like eyes looking from the lighter sky.

Stowell talked of the old ruin and its legendary and historical associations--St. Patrick, the spectre hound (_the Mauthe Doa_), the ecclesiastical prison and the graves in the roofless Cathedral.

"But I'll tell you a story that beats all that," he said.

"About a woman of course?" said Fenella.

"Yes--a fallen woman."

"Ah!"

"Her name was Kate Kinrade. She gave birth to an illegitimate child, and the Bishop--he was a saint--thinking that her conduct tended to the dishonour of the Christian name, ordered that, for the saving of her soul, she should be dragged after a boat across the bay of Peel on the fair of St. Patrick at the height of the market."

"And was she?"

"The fishermen refused at first to carry out the censure, and then excused themselves on the ground that St. Patrick's day was too tempestuous. But being threatened with fines, they did it at last--in the depth of winter."

Fenella's gaiety had gone. Stowell gazed at her face in the moonlight. It was quivering and her bosom was heaving.

"And the Bishop was a saint, you say?"

"If ever there was one."

"He ordered the woman to be dragged through the sea at the tail of a boat?"

"Yes."

"And what did he do to _the man_?"

Stowell gasped. There was silence for a moment, and then the Governor's voice came from the skylight of the cabin:

"Are you people never going to turn in?"

"Presently."

"I am, anyway."

It was late. The lights of the little town had blinked out one by one. Only the red light on the stone pier was burning.

Fenella recovered her gaiety after a while, shouted for echoes to the Castle rock, and then took Stowell's arm to go down the companion.

On reaching the darkened saloon she stepped on tiptoe and dropped her voice under pretence of not disturbing her father, who would be asleep. At the door of her cabin she ceased laughing and said,

"Hush! I'm going to say something."

"What?"

"I don't know if you're aware of it, but ever since I came home you've been calling me 'Miss Stanley,' and I've been calling you--anything."

"Well?"

"We used to call each other by our Christian names before. Couldn't we go back to that?"

"Would you like to?"

There was a pause, and then, in a whisper,

"Victor!"

"Fenella!"

"Good-night!"

It had been like a kiss.

Stowell went to his cabin in rapture, in pain, with a delicious thrill and a sense of stifling hypocrisy. What a hypocrite he had been! It was not to resist temptation but to dally with it that he had come on this cruise.

He was there under false pretences. He had pledged himself to the girl at Derby Haven, and yet....

Thank God, he had gone no farther! There was only one way of escape from the perpetual fire of temptation--to hasten his marriage with Bessie Collister. He must see her as soon as possible and suggest that they should marry immediately. It was heart-breaking, but there was no help for it, if he was to stand upright as an honourable man.

Dan Baldromma? Well, what of him? He could shut the door on Dan--of course he could!

Next morning Stowell was the first on deck. The air was salt and chill; the day had not yet opened its eyes; there was a whirring of wings and a calling of sea-birds; and through a sleepy white mist, that might have been the smoke of the moon, the herring fleet were coming like pale ghosts back to harbour.

A fresh breeze sprang up with the sunrise and the Captain lifted anchor and stood out towards the south. Sheep were bleating on the head-land of Contrary, and as they opened the broad bay of the Niarbyl the thatched cottages under the cliffs were smoking for breakfast.

When they reached Port Erin the Governor came up and ordered anchor to be cast again, saying they would lie there and go out with the herring fleet in the evening.

Seeing his opportunity, Stowell said he would like to go ashore for a few hours--a little business.

"Mind you're back by four o'clock then--we'll sail at high-water."

As Stowell was being sculled ashore in the dinghy he was saying to himself:

"No Kate Kinrade for me--never, never!"

III

An hour later Stowell was in Derby Haven, a little fishing village, smelling of sea-wrack and echoing with the cry of gulls.

The Misses Brown, in their oiled ringlets and faded satin dresses, received him, in their old maids' sitting-room, with much ceremony, and he speedily realised that Gell, in trying to shield him, had gone farther than he expected.

"You wish to see Miss Collister? Well, since you are such a close friend of Mr. Gell there can be no objection.... Bessie! A gentleman to see you."

Stowell heard Bessie coming downstairs with great alacrity, but on seeing him she drew up with a certain embarrassment.

"Oh, it's you?"

She was shorter than he had thought, and the impression made by her photograph of something common in her beauty was deepened by the reality.

"Should we take a walk?" he said.

She hesitated for a moment, then went upstairs and returned presently in a round hat and a close-fitting costume which sat awkwardly upon her. What a change! Where was the free, warm, natural, full-bosomed girl with bare neck and sunburnt arms who had fascinated him in the glen?

They took the unfrequented path on the western side of Langness--a long serpentine tongue of land which protruded from the open mouth of the sea. He tried to begin upon the subject of his errand but found it impossible to do so.

"Bye and bye," he thought, "bye and bye."

Bessie kept step with him, but was almost silent. He asked if she was comfortable in her new quarters, and she said they were lonesome after the farm, but old Miss Brown was a dear and Miss Ethel a "dozey duck."

The common expression humiliated him. He inquired if she had been able to relieve her mother's anxiety, and she answered no, how could she, without letting her stepfather know where she was?

"They're telling me he's travelling the island over looking for me, but I don't know why. He was always dead nuts on me when I was at home."

Again he felt ashamed. He found it impossible to keep up a conversation with the girl. To attempt to do so was like throwing a stone into the sand--no echo, no response.

Only once did Bessie say anything for herself. She was walking on the landward side of the path, and seeing an old man, with a pair of horses, grubbing a hungry-looking field, with a cloud of sea-gulls swirling behind him, she said it was dirty land, full of scutch, and the farmer was laying it open to the frosts of winter.

Stowell was feeling the sweat on his forehead. How was it possible to lift up a girl like this? She would be the farm girl to the last. Good Lord, what magic was there in marriage to change people and ensure their happiness?

Ballamoar? That lonesome place inside the tall trees! He might shut out her family, but would not she--illiterate, uninteresting, inadequate--shut out his friends? And then, he and she together there, with nothing in common, alone, in the long nights of winter .... Oh God!

Ashamed of thinking like that of the girl, and having reached the lighthouse by this time, he drew her arm through his and turned to go back. The warmth of the contact revived a little of the former thrill, and he laughed and talked.

The voice of the sea was low that day, and across the bay came shouts and cheers in fresh young voices--the boys of King William's were playing football. That brought memories to both of them and he began to talk about Gell.

"Dear old Alick, he's such a good fellow, isn't he?"

"'Deed he is," said Bessie.

"By the way, he's a sort of old flame of yours, I believe," said Stowell, looking sideways at the girl, and Bessie blushed and laughed, but made no answer.

Those black eyes, those full red lips. Yes, this was the girl who....

But the idea of a marriage founded on the passion which had brought them together revolted him now, and he let Bessie's arm fall to his side.

When they got back to the old maid's cottage he had still said nothing of what he had come to say. "Later on," he was telling himself, but a secret voice inside was whispering, "Never! It is impossible!"

The elder of the Miss Browns followed him to the gate to ask if he did not see a great improvement in her charge, and when he said that Bessie seemed to be a little subdued, she cried:

"Bessie? Oh dear no, not generally! Ask Mr. Gell."

Perhaps the girl was not well to-day--they had thought she had not been very well lately.

"And how is she getting on with...." (the word stuck in his throat) "with her lessons?"

"Wonderfully! Of course she has long arrears to make up, but the way she works to fit herself for her new station .... well, it's enough to make a person cry, really."

Stowell felt as if something were taking him by the throat.

"In fact my sister and I used to wonder and wonder what she did with her bedroom candles until we found out she was sitting up after everybody had gone to sleep to learn her grammar and spelling."

Stowell felt as if something had struck him in the face. Every hard thought about Bessie seemed to be wiped out of his mind in a moment.

Going back to Port Erin (he walked all the way) he could think of nothing but that girl sitting up in her bedroom to educate herself, in her poor little way, that she might become worthy to be his wife.

If he disappointed her now what would become of her? Would she kill herself? Would the world kill her? Kate Kinrade? The days of the Bishop and the woman were not over yet.

No, he must keep his pledge, and make no more wry faces about it. If it had been his duty before it was more than ever his duty now.

But Fenella?

He must put her out of his mind for ever. He would be the most unhappy man alive, but then his own happiness was not the only thing he had to think about. He could not live any longer under false pretences. He must find some way of telling Fenella that he had engaged himself while she was away--that he was a pledged man.

But what then? There would be nothing more between them as long as they lived--not a smile or the clasp of a hand! She whom he had loved so long, never having loved anybody else! It would be like signing his death-warrant.

The dead leaves from the roadside were driving over his feet; his eyes ached and his throat throbbed, but he gulped down his emotion. After all he would be the only sufferer! Thank God for that anyway!

As he reached Port Erin, he saw the white sails of the yacht against the blue sea and sky.

"Yes, I must tell Fenella--I must tell her to-night," he thought.