Chapter FORTY-THREE: The Dawn of Morning

"Victor! Victor!"

It was Janet's voice outside the door.

"Eh?"

"Six o'clock. Didn't you want to catch the first train in town, dear?"

"Oh yes! All right. I'll be down presently."

Stowell found it difficult to recover consciousness. He was lying on the sofa, and he looked around. There was the armchair--it was empty. But the lamp on the bureau was still burning. He must have slept, for he was feeling refreshed and even strong.

Leaping to his feet he blew out the lamp and pulled back the window curtains. It was a beautiful morning, tranquil as the sky and noiseless as the dew. Over the tops of the tall trees the bald crown of old Snaefell was bathed in sunshine.

He was like another man. Life had no terrors for him now. It was just as if a curse had fallen from him in the night. No more visions! No more spectres! He knew what he had to do and he would do it. He had a sense of immense emancipation. He felt like a slave who had broken the chain which he had dragged after him for years. He was a free man once more.

Throwing off coat and waistcoat he washed--lashing the cold water over face and head and neck as if he were diving into one of the dubs in the glen--and then went downstairs with a strong step.

Breakfast was not quite ready, so he stepped out over the piazza, to the farm-yard. The cheerful place was full of its morning activities. Cows were mooing their way to the grass of the fields before barking dogs, and milkmaids were carrying their frothing pails across to the dairy.

He saluted everybody he came upon. "Good-morning, Betty!"

"Good-morning, Mary!" The girls smiled and looked proud, but they said afterwards that the young master's voice sounded as if he were saying good-bye to them.

Unconsciously he was going about like one who was taking a last look round before setting out on a long journey. He went into the stable, and Molly, his young chestnut mare, turned her head and neighed at him. He went into the empty cow-house, and four young calves in boxes licked, with their long moist tongues, the hand he held down to them.

On the way back to the house he met Robbie Creer, who was full of another story of Mrs. Collister of Baldromma. She had taken the ground with the ebb tide, poor woman. They had put her into the asylum. The doctors said her case was incurable. She was always saying the old Dempster had come from the dead to take her Bessie out of prison.

"But what a blessed end," said Stowell. "She'll think her daughter is in heaven, so she'll always be happy."

"It's like she will, Sir," said Robbie, looking puzzled, and going indoors for his morning bowl of porridge he said to his wife,

"A mortal quare thing to say, though, and the woman in the madhouse."

Stowell ate with an appetite (Janet plying him with coffee and eggs and toasted muffins), and then young Robbie brought round the dog-cart. Janet helped him on with his light loose overcoat and went to the door with him.

He paused there, pulling on his driving-gloves and thinking what cruel pain the dear soul would suffer when she heard that night what he had done during the day. At last he threw his arms about her and kissed her, saying with a gulp,

"Good-bye, mother! God bless you!"

And then he sprang up into the cart, snatched at the reins, pulled them taut, and (after the young mare had leapt on her forelegs) darted away.

As he approached the turn of the drive where the house was hidden by the trees he turned and looked back at it--what a home to lose!

Janet, who was still at the porch, smoothing her silvery hair, thought he had looked back at her, and she waved her hand to him. Nobody had said a word to her, yet she knew he had been suffering as a result of some terrible wrong-doing. She thought she knew what it was, too, and she had wept bitter tears over it. But he had not a fault in her eyes now.

Her boy! Hers all the way up since he was a child and used to run about the lawn in pinafores. Heaven bless him! He was the best thing God had ever made.

II

The train to town was full to overflowing. The northside people, having heard of yesterday's doings, were going up to see for themselves "what them toots in Douglas" were doing.

In spite of the guard's deferential protests Stowell stepped into an open third-class carriage. It had been humming like a beehive until then, but except for a general salutation it became silent when he entered.

A draper's assistant who sat opposite handed him an English newspaper, two days old, with an article on the escape from Castle Rushen. The incident was a disgrace to the insular administration, and if the Governor could not offer a satisfactory explanation the sooner the island's Home Rule came to an end the better for Justice.

One or two of the passengers tried to draw Stowell into conversation about the article, but he said little or nothing. Then some black-coated persons (well-to-do farmers and the like) gave the talk another turn.

"Still and for all," said one, "that doesn't justify such doings as there are in Douglas!" "Chut!" said another. "It isn't justice the agitators are wanting, it's robbery." "Truth enough," said a third, "it's the land they're after, and if the Governor isn't doing something soon, there'll be not an acre left at the one of us." "Give them a pig of their own sow," said a fat farmer. "Men like Qualtrough and Baldromma ought to be taken to say and dropped overboard."

Again the passengers tried to draw Stowell into conversation, and when they found they could not get him to speak to them they spoke at him.

"Where's the big men of the island that they're not telling the people they're bringing it to wreck and ruin?"

"When a man is claver--claver uncommon--and mighty with the tongue, he ought to be showing the ignorant gommerals the way they're going."

"Yes," said a little man (he was a local preacher), "when a man has the gift it's his duty to the Lord to use it."

"He must be a right man though," said the fat farmer, "straight as a mast himself, same as some we've had at Ballamoar in the good ould days gone by."

There was silence for a moment after this, and then an old man by the opposite window was heard to whisper,

"Lave him alone, men; he knows what hour the clock is striking."

When the train reached Douglas, Stowell went off with a heavy face. It was remarked that he had not shaken hands--his father used to shake hands with everybody.

"He's his father's son for all," said the old man by the window.

Stowell took the cable-car at the bottom of the Prospect Hill which is at the foot of the town. Douglas was still in a state of agitation and the driver had as much as he could do to forge his way, without accidents, through the tumultuous throngs in the thoroughfare.

A cordon of red-coated soldiers from Castletown surrounded Government office, and a noisy crowd (including women with children) were jeering at them from the middle of the street, and shouting up at the windows, under the impression that the Governor was within.

The shops bore signs of yesterday's rioting---many having their shutters up, while the windows of others were barricaded with new boarding.

Stowell got out of the car at the terminus and made the rest of his journey afoot. At the top of the hill, where the road turns towards the Governor's house, he came upon a mass meeting. From a horseless lorry, decorated with banners, a burly old ruffian with shaggy grey hair (Qualtrough, M.H.K.) was speaking in a voice of thunder, while, on the cross-seat by his side, Dan Baldromma was sitting with the air of a martyr.

"There's a man on this platform who has gone to prison for his principles. That's what Justice in the Isle of Man is. And that's what they would like to be doing with the lot of ye, the big ones of the island. But, gentlemen and ladies, their rotten ould ship is floating on the pumps and she'll soon be sinking."

When Stowell reached the Governor's gate he paused, being out of breath and not so strong as he had imagined. From that point he could see a broad stretch of the coast, as well as the shadowy outlines of the English hills on the other side of the channel. A steamer was sailing into the bay. Perhaps she was bringing the English cavalry the Governor had sent for.

Life is sweet when death is at the door. At that last moment, although he had thought his mind was made up, Stowell found that his heart was failing him. Must he go on? Deliberately destroy himself? No outside power compelling him? The world was wide--why not leave all this wreck and ruin behind him and in some other country begin life anew?

The moment of weakness passed and he went on. Half way up the drive, where the trees broke clear and the long white façade of Government House became visible, he dropped his head. He was thinking of the last time he had been there and remembering again the stinging words with which Fenella had driven him away. But there was strength in the thought that he was about to break the chain which he had dragged after him so long, and save his people at the same time.

When the maid opened the door, he asked for the Governor.

"Yes, your Honour," said the maid, "but Miss Fenella wishes to see you first, Sir."

His heart was beating hard when he stepped into the house.