new ideas
about woman and marriage, new theories concerning religion (always
re-christened superstition), the usual barnacles of young vessels fresh
from unknown waters; but the old man was no shipwright in harbour who
has learnt the art of removing them without injury to the hull. The
Deemster knew these notions when he met with them in the English
newspapers. There was something awesome in their effect on his
stay-at-home imagination, as of vices confusing and difficult to true
men that walk steadily; but, above all, very far off, over the mountains
and across the sea, like distant cities of Sodom, only waiting for
Sodom's doom. And yet, lo! here they were in a twinkling, shunted and
shot into his own house and his own stackyard.

"I suppose now," he said, with a knowing look, "you think Jack as good
as his master?"

"No, sir," said his son gravely; "generally much better."

Iron Christian altered his will. To his elder son he left only a
life-interest in Ballawhaine. "That boy will be doing something," he
said, and thus he guarded against consequences. He could not help it; he
was ashamed, but he could not conquer his shame--the fiery old man began
to nurse a grievance against his son.

The two sons of the Deemster were like the inside and outside of a bowl,
and that bowl was the Deemster himself. If Thomas Wilson the elder
had his father's inside fire and softness, Peter, the younger, had his
father's outside ice and iron. Peter was little and almost misshapen,
with a pair of shoulders that seemed to be trying to meet over a hollow
chest and limbs that splayed away into vacancy. And if Nature had been
grudging with him, his father was not more kind. He had been brought up
to no profession, and his expectations were limited to a yearly charge
out of his brother's property. His talk was bitter, his voice cold,
he laughed little, and had never been known to cry. He had many things
against him.

Besides these sons, Deemster Christian had a girl in his household, but
to his own consciousness the fact was only a kind of peradventure. She
was his niece, the child of his only brother, who had died in early
manhood. Her name was Ann Charlotte de la Tremouille, called after
the lady of Rushen, for the family of Christian had their share of the
heroic that is in all men. She had fine eyes, a weak mouth, and great
timidity. Gentle airs floated always about her, and a sort of nervous
brightness twinkled over her, as of a