Chapter FIFTEEN: The Woman's Secret

When Stowell awoke next morning at Ballamoar a flock of sheep, liberated from a barn, were bleating before a barking dog. He had passed a restless night. All his soul revolted against the renunciation he had imposed upon himself. It was like life-long imprisonment. Yet what was he to do? He must decide and decide quickly.

Suddenly he thought of the Governor. The strong sense and practical wisdom of the Governor might help him to a decision. But Fenella's father! How could he tell his story to Fenella's father?

At last an idea came to him whereby he could obtain the Governor's counsel without betraying his secret. He was at the crisis. On what he did now the future of his life depended. And not his own life, only, but Fenella's also, perhaps, and .... Bessie Collister's.

At three o'clock he was at the Government offices in Douglas. Police inspectors were at the door and moving about in the corridors. One of them took him up to the Governor's room--a large chamber overlooking the street and noisy from the tram-cars that ran under the windows. The Governor's iron-grey head was bent over a desk-table.

"Sit down--I shall not be long."

Stowell felt his heart sink in advance. Never would he be able to say what he had come to say.

"Well, you gave us the slip nicely, didn't you?" said the Governor, raising his head from his papers.

"I'm sorry, Sir," said Stowell (he felt his lip trembling). "It was an important matter, and I've come to town to-day to ask your advice on it."

"Something you've been consulted about?"

"Well .... yes."

"I'm no authority on law, you know."

"It's not so much a matter of law, Sir, as of morality--what an honourable man ought to do under difficult circumstances."

The Governor looked up sharply. Stowell struggled on.

"A client .... I should say a friend .... engaged himself to a young woman awhile ago, and now, owing to circumstances which have arisen since, he finds it difficult to decide whether it is his duty to marry her."

"Manxman?"

"Yes."

"What class?"

Stowell felt his voice as well as his lips trembling. "Oh, good enough class, I think."

The Governor picked up his pipe from the table, charged it, lighted it, turned his chair towards the fireplace, threw his leg over the rail-fender and said:

"Fire away."

Then trembling and ashamed, but making a strong call on his resolution, Stowell told his own story--as if it had been that of another man.

When he had come to an end there was a long silence. The Governor pulled hard at his pipe and there was no other sound in the room except the rattle of the tram-cars in the street.

Stowell felt hot, his lips felt dry, and pushing back his black hair, he found sweat on his forehead.

"It was a shocking blunder, of course," he said. "My man doesn't defend himself. Still he thinks the circumstances...."

"You mean it wasn't deliberate?"

"Good Lord, no!"

"In fact a kind of accident?"

"One might say so."

"Any harm done?"

"Harm?" Stowell turned white and began to stammer. "I .... no, that is to say .... no, I've never heard...."

"And yet he promised to marry the girl?"

"He felt responsible for her. He couldn't be a scoundrel."

"Did he care for her--love her?"

"I can't say that, Sir. He might have thought he did."

"And now he loves another woman?"

"With all his heart and soul, Sir."

"But" (the Governor was puffing placidly) "he has promised to marry the little farm girl, and she's away somewhere educating herself to become his wife?"

"That's it, Sir," said Stowell (his head was down), "and now he is asking himself what it is his duty to do. I have told him it is his duty as a man of honour to carry out his promise--to marry the girl, whatever the consequences to himself. Am I right, Sir?"

There was another moment of silence, and then the Governor, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and bringing his open palm down on the table, said:

"No!"

"No?"

"It would be marrying the wrong woman, wouldn't it?"

"Well .... yes, one might say that, Sir."

"Then it would be a crime."

"A crime?"

"A three-fold crime."

The Governor rose, crossed the floor, then drew up in front of Stowell and spoke with sudden energy.

"First, against the girl herself. She's an attractive young person, I suppose, eh?"

Stowell nodded.

"But uneducated, illiterate, out of another world, as they say?"

Stowell nodded again.

"Then does your man suppose that by sending her to school for a few months he will bridge the gulf between them? Is that how he expects to make her happy? Ten to one the girl will be a miserable outsider in her husband's house to the last day of her life. But that's not the worst, by a long way."

"No?"

"If he marries her it will out of a sense of duty will it not?"

"Ye-es."

"Well, what woman on God's earth wants to be married out of a sense of duty? And if he loves another woman do you think his wife will not find it out some day? Of course she will! And when she does what do you think will happen? I'll tell you what will happen. If she's one of the sensitive kind she'll feel herself crushed, superfluous, and pine away and die of grief and shame, or perhaps take a dose of something .... we've heard of such happenings, haven't we? And if she's a woman of the other sort she'll go farther."

"You mean...."

"Suspicion, jealousy, envy! She may not care a brass farthing about her husband, but her pride as a wife will be wounded. She won't give him a day's peace, or herself either. He'll never be an hour out of her sight but she'll think he's with the other woman. And then--what's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander! If he has another woman as likely as not she'll have another man--we've heard of that, too, haven't we?"

Stowell dropped his head. His heart was beating high, and he was afraid his face was betraying it. The Governor touched him on the shoulder, and continued,

"In the next place, it would be a crime against the man himself. He's a young fellow of some prospects, I suppose?"

"I .... I think so."

"And the girl has some family, hasn't she?"

"Yes."

"They may be good and worthy folk of whom he would have no reason to be ashamed. But isn't it just as likely that they are people of quite another kidney? Sisters and brothers and cousins to the tenth degree? Some vulgar and rapacious old father, perhaps, who hasn't taken too much trouble to keep the girl out of temptation while she has been at home, but freezes on to her fast enough after she has made a good marriage. Possible, isn't it?"

"Quite possible, sir."

"Well, what are your man's own friends going to do with him with a menagerie like that at his heels? No, he has fettered himself for life to failure as well as misery, and while his wife is railing at him about the other woman he is reproaching her with standing in his light. So the end of his noble endeavour is that he has set up a little private hell for himself in the house he calls his home."

Stowell was wincing at every word, but all the same he knew that his eyes were shining. The Governor looked sharply up at him for a moment, lit his pipe afresh and said,

"Then there's the other woman. I suppose her case is worthy of some consideration?"

"Indeed, yes."

"If she cares for the man...."

"I can't say that, Sir."

"Well, if she does, she too will suffer, will she not? And what has she done to deserve suffering? Nothing at all! She's the innocent scapegoat, isn't she?"

"That's true."

"Fine woman, I suppose?"

"The finest woman in the world, Sir."

"Just so! But your man would doom her to renunciation--a solitary life of sorrow and regret. And so the only result of his praiseworthy principles, his sense of duty, as you say, and all the rest of it, is that he will have ruined three lives--the life of the woman he marries and does not love, the life of the woman he loves and does not marry, and his own life also."

"Then you think, Sir .... you think he should stop even yet?"

"Even at the church door, at the altar-steps--if there's no harm done, and he is sure she is the wrong woman."

Stowell felt as if the vapours which had clouded his brain so long had been swept away as by a mountain breeze, but he thought it necessary to keep up the disguise.

"I feel you must be right, sir," rising to go. "At all events I cannot argue against you. But I think you'll agree that .... that if my man can wipe out this bad passage in his life without injury to anybody and without scandal .... I think you will agree that his first duty is to tell the woman he loves...."

"Eh? What the deuce .... Good heavens, no!"

"But surely he couldn't ask a pure-minded girl...."

"To take the other woman's leavings? Certainly he couldn't if she knew anything about it. But why should she? Why should a pure-minded girl, as you say, be told about something that happened before she came on to the scene?"

Stowell's scruples were overcome. He had argued against himself, but he knew well that he had wished to be beaten. He was going off when the Governor, following him to the door, laid a hand on his shoulder and said,

"When a man has done wrong the thing he has got to do next is to say nothing about it. That's what your man has got to do now. It's the woman secret, isn't it? Very well, he must never reveal it to anybody--never, under any circumstances--never in this world!"

II

Next day, at Ballamoar, after many fruitless efforts to begin, Stowell was writing to Bessie Collister.

"DEAR BESSIE,--I am sorry to send you this letter and it is very
painful for me to write it. But I cannot allow you to look
forward any longer to something which can never happen.

"The truth is--I must tell you the truth, Bessie--since you went
to Derby Haven I have found that I do not love you as I ought, to
become your husband. That being so, I cannot do you the great
wrong of marrying you. It would not be either for your good or
for mine. And since I cannot marry you I feel that we must part.
I am miserable when I say this, but I see that in justice to you,
as well as to myself, nothing else can be...."

He could go no further. A wave of tenderness towards Bessie came over him. He had visions of the girl receiving and reading his letter. It would be at night in her little bedroom, perhaps--the room in which she burnt her candle to learn her lessons.

No, it would be too cruel, too cowardly. He would not write--he would go to Derby Haven and break the news to the girl himself.

But that evoked other and more fearful visions. They would be walking along the sandy path at Langness with the stark white lighthouse at the end of it. "Bessie," he would be saying, "We must part; it will be better for both of us. It has all been my fault. You have nothing to reproach yourself with. But you must try to forget me, and if there is anything else I can do...." And then the reproaches, the recriminations, the tears, the supplications, the appeals: "Don't throw me over! You promised to stand up for me, you know. I will be good."

It would be terrible. It would make his heart bleed. Nevertheless he must bear it. It was a part of his punishment.

He had torn up his letter and was putting his hand on the bell to order the dog-cart to be brought round to take him to the railway station, when a servant came into the room and said,

"Mr. Alick Gell to see you, sir."

Gell came in with a gloomy and half-shamefaced look. His tall figure was bent, his fair hair was disordered, and his voice trembled as he said,

"Can't we take a walk in the wood, old fellow? I have something to say."

"I don't know how to tell you," he began. They were crossing the lawn towards the plantation. "Its about Bessie."

"Bessie?"

"I .... I'm madly in love with her."

Stowell stopped and looked without speaking into Gell's twitching face.

"I knew you wouldn't be able to believe it, but don't look at me like that."

"Tell me," said Stowell.

And then, stammering and trembling, Gell told his story. He didn't know how it began. Perhaps it was pity. He had been sorry for the girl, over there in that lonely place, so he went down at first just to cheer her up. Then he had found himself going frequently, buying her presents and taking her out for walks. When he had realised how things were he had tried to pull up, but it was too late. He had struggled to be loyal--to strengthen himself by talking of Stowell--praising him to the girl, excusing him for not coming to see her--but it was useless. His pity had developed into love, and before he had known what he was doing Bessie was in his arms. At the next instant he had felt like a traitor. He was frantically happy and yet he wanted to kill himself.

"It was terrible," he said. "I couldn't sleep at night for thinking of it. Bessie wanted you to be told. In fact she wrote you a letter, saying we couldn't help loving each other, and asking you to release her. But I couldn't let her go that far. 'Then go to Ballamoar and tell him yourself,' she said. And at last I've come. And now .... now you know."

Stowell listened in silence. His first feeling was one of wounded pride. He had really been a great fool about the girl! What fathomless depths of conceit had led him to think she would break her heart if he gave her up? And then the long struggle between his love and his duty--what a mountebank Fate seemed to have made of him! But his next feeling was one of relief--boundless, inexpressible relief. The iron chain he had been dragging after him had been broken. He was free!

Gell, who was breathing hard, was watching Stowell from under his cap, which was pulled down over his forehead. They were walking in a path that was thick with fallen leaves, and there was no sound for some moments but that of the rustling under their feet.

"Why don't you speak, old fellow? I've behaved like a cad, I know. But for God's sake, don't torture me. Strike me in the face with your fist. I would rather that--upon my soul, I would."

"Alick," said Stowell, putting his arm through Gell's. "I'm going to tell you something."

"What?"

"Do you know what I was on the point of doing when you came? Going down to Derby Haven to ask Bessie to let me off."

"Is that true? You're not saying it merely to .... But why?"

"Because what's happened to her has happened to me also--I love somebody else."

"No? Really? .... But who .... who is the other girl? .... Is it .... It's Fenella, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"How splendid! I'm glad! And of course I congratulate you .... No? .... You've not asked her yet? But that will be all right--of course it will!"

Taking off his cap to fan himself with, Gell broke into fits of half hysterical laughter. Then he said:

"You don't mind my saying something now that it's all over? No? Well, to tell you the truth I could never believe you really cared for Bessie. I thought you were only marrying her as a sort of duty, having got her into trouble with Dan Baldromma. And it was so--partly so--wasn't it? That didn't excuse me, though, did it? Lord, what a relief! I feel as if you had lifted ten tons off my head."

A dark memory came to Stowell. "Has she told him?"

"Bessie will be relieved, too, and just as glad as I am. Do you know, there's a heart of gold in that girl. She's never had a dog's chance yet. Not much education, I admit, but such spirit, such character! Such a woman too--you said so yourself, remember."

A still darker memory of something the Governor had said came to Stowell. "Didn't you say Bessie had written to me?" he asked.

"Yes, she did, yesterday; but I destroyed her letter."

"Do you know, I wrote to Bessie to-day, and I destroyed my letter also."

"No? What fun if your letters had crossed in the post," said Gell, and tossing his cap into the air, he broke into still louder peals of laughter.

Again Stowell felt immense relief. It was impossible that Bessie could have told him. And if she hadn't, why should he? Why injure the girl in Gell's eyes? Why tarnish his faith in her? It was the woman's secret, therefore he must never reveal it--never in this world.

They were walking on. Gell with a high step was kicking up the withered leaves.

"What about your people?" asked Stowell.

"Ah, that's what I've got to find out. I'm going home now to tell them. My mother is always advising me to marry and settle down, but of course she'll jib at Bessie, and the sisters will follow suit. As for my father, he has only one son, as he says, and I must have a better allowance. He cut it down after that affair in the Courts, you know."

They were at the gate to the road, and pulling it open, Gell said:

"Phew! How different I feel from what I did when I was coming in here half an hour ago! I thought you would kick me out the minute I had told you. But now we're going to be better friends than ever, aren't we?"

"Good-bye and good luck, old fellow," said Stowell.

"Good-bye, and God bless you, old chap," said Gell.

Stowell stood at the gate and watched him going off with long strides, his shoulders working vigorously.

"Never again! We can never be the same friends again," thought Stowell, as he turned back to the house.

He was feeling like a man who in a moment of passion has secretly wronged his life-long friend and can never look straight into his eyes again.

But the sense of a barrier between Gell and himself was soon wiped out by the memory of Fenella. He was free to love her at last! No more hypocrisy! No more self-denial! No more struggles between passion and duty! The past was dead. Life from that day forward was beginning again for all of them.

"Was that Alick Gell in the wood with you?" asked Janet, who had come to the door to call Stowell in to tea.

"Yes."

"Goodness me! He must be a happy boy. He was laughing enough, anyway."

III

Stowell went to bed early that night, slept soundly and was up with the coming of light in the morning.

The farm lads were not yet astir, but going round to the stable he saddled a horse for himself (a young chestnut mare that had been born on one of his own birthdays) and set off for a ride to relieve the intoxication of his spirits.

The air was keen, but both he and his horse sniffed it with delight. As they passed out of Ballamoar the sun rose and played among the red and yellow leaves of the plantation, for the summer was going out in a blaze of glory. They crossed the Curragh, dipped into the glen, and climbed the corkscrew path to the mountain.

Stowell thought he had never felt so well. And the little mare, catching the contagion of his high spirits, snorted and swung her head at every stride and dug her feet into the ringing ground.

"Helloa, Molly, here we are at the top!"

Looking hack he saw the flat plain below, dotted over with farms, each with its little farmhouse surrounded by its clump of sheltering trees. God, how good to think that every one of them was a home of love! Love! That was the great uniter, the great comforter, the great liberator, the great redeemer!

And to think that all this had been going on since the beginning of the world! That generation after generation some boy had come up this lovely glen to court his girl! Lord, what a glorious place the world was, after all!

His eyes were beaming like the sunshine, and to make his joy complete he galloped over the mountain-tops until he came to a point at which he could look down on Douglas and catch a glimpse of Fenella's home in the midst of its trees.

"_Peace in her chamber, wheresoe'er it be,
A holy place...._"

Then back to Ballamoar at a brisk canter, with the air musical with the calls of cattle, the bleating of sheep and the songs of birds. And then breakfast for a hungry man--cowrie and eggs and fresh butter and honey and junket, which the Manx called pinjean.

At three o'clock in the afternoon he was on his way to Government House, and by that time the intoxication of his high spirits had suffered a check.

What had Fenella thought of his flight from the yacht? Had she believed his excuse for it? What interpretation had she put upon his intention of calling at Government Offices the following day? And the Governor--had he seen through the thin disguise of that story?

But the cruellest question of all, and the hardest to answer, was whether after all, even now that he was free, he had any right to ask Fenella to become his wife? He, a sin-soiled man, and she a stainless woman!

He felt as if he ought to purge his soul by telling Fenella everything. Yet how could he do that without inflicting an incurable wound on her faith in him? And then what had the Governor said? "Never under any circumstances."

As he walked up the carriage drive to Government House he saw the Governor's tall figure, and the Attorney-General's short one, through the windows of the smoking-room. The Governor came to the door to meet him.

"The very man we were talking about. Come in! Sit down. We have something to propose to you."

The Governor was going up to London on urgent business at the Home Office and the Attorney had to go with him. In these circumstances it had been necessary to arrange that the Court of General Gaol Delivery (interrupted by the Deemster's death, but now summoned to resume) should sit without the Governor, and the Attorney had been suggesting that Stowell should represent him in an important case.

"What is it, Sir?" asked Stowell.

"Murder again, my boy; but of a different kind this time."

A Peel fisherman had killed his wife with shocking brutality, yet everybody seemed to sympathise with him, and there was a danger that a Manx jury might let him off.

"Splendid opportunity to uphold law and order! You'll take the case?"

"With pleasure!"

"Good! The Attorney will send you the papers. And now, I suppose, you would like to see Fenella?"

"May I?"

"Why not? You'll find her in the drawing-room."

On his way to the drawing-room Stowell met Miss Green coming out of it. She smiled at him, and said, in a half-whisper,

"I think you are expected."

When he opened the door he saw Fenella sitting with her back to him at a little desk on one side of the bay window, with a glint of its light on her bronze-brown hair.

"Who is it?" she said as he entered. But at the next moment she seemed to know, and, rising, she turned round to him and smiled.

He thought she had never looked so beautiful. He wanted to crush her in his arms, and at the same time to fall at her feet and kiss the hem of her dress.

There was a moment of passionate silence. He stepped towards her but stopped when two or three paces away. A riot of conflicting emotions were going on within him. He felt strong, he felt weak, he felt brave, he felt cowardly, he felt proud, he felt ashamed.

Still nothing was said by either of them. Her eyes were glistening, she was breathing quickly and her bosom was heaving. He saw her moving towards him. Her hand was trailing along the desk. He felt as if she were drawing him to her, and by a nervous, but irresistible impulse he held out his arms.

"Fenella," he said, hardly audibly.

At the next moment, as in a flash of light, she sprang upon his breast, and at the next her arms were about his neck, his own were around her waist, her mouth was to his mouth, and the world had melted away.

Ten minutes later, with faces aflame, they went, hand in hand, into the smoking-room. The Governor wheeled about on his revolving chair to look at them.

"Well," he said, "it's easy to see what you two have come about. But not for six months! I won't agree to a day less, remember."