The judge wiped the perspiration from his brow before going on again. It was evident that he was suffering greatly. It seemed as though he had not yet reached that point of his story which was more difficult to tell than any other, still, he plodded on his weary way, although the words came with difficulty.

"In two years' time we returned from abroad. By this time I was accustomed to the name of 'Bolitho.' Steps had been taken to make it legal, and I had to a very large extent forgotten my former name. I was Mr. Bolitho's adopted son, and I called him 'father.' During the years we had been away together, too, his influence upon me had grown stronger. I was afraid to do anything in opposition to his will. His resolute, imperious nature made me almost like an obedient slave, and not only that, I loved him too. I knew I owed everything to him, and he was almost uniformly kind to me. Thus, while I feared him, my fear was mingled with filial love.

"When we returned to England I started in earnest with my law studies. I had not altogether neglected them while I had been away, and so I went to London for my dinners, and in due time was called to the Bar, with, it was said, a great deal of distinction. By this time my experiences in Scotland became, to my shame, almost a shadowy memory to me. I cared for no other woman, and there were times, too, when I dreamed of Jean, and thought of her fondly, but only rarely. The Scotch episode was but an episode. One thing gladdened me, Mary Tregony seemed to care nothing for me, and in spite of Mr. Bolitho's persuasions, there were no definite arrangements made about our marriage. Presently, however, after I had been practising some time, and had obtained a modicum of success, indeed, a success great enough to promise well for the future, my adopted father wrote to me saying that Mary had at length consented to our wedding. It was at this time that I began to be afraid. What I had laughed at in my heart as the Scotch episode, became real. I remember, too, that at that time I was engaged in a bigamy trial, and I remember the terms which the judge used concerning the man who was found guilty. Yet here was I, who had acted as junior counsel for the prosecution of this man, contemplating taking a woman to wife, when I had promised before God to be faithful to another. I tried to persuade myself that the Scotch marriage was not only informal but illegal, and could have no weight of whatever nature, yet my heart swept away all the sophistries of my mind, and proclaimed me to be a villain. So much moved was I by this that I at length decided to send a man to Scotland to make inquiries. Of course, he never dreamed of my connection with the affair, and thought that I was only hunting up evidence for some case in which I was interested professionally. After a time he returned with the news that Jean Lindsay was dead, that she died some months after I had left her, probably of a broken heart, certainly in disgrace. Need I say what I suffered? You would not believe me if I told you! How could anyone who had acted a coward's part as I had, suffer? Yet so it was. And yet in my suffering was a sense of freedom. Nothing now seemed to depend upon the possible legality or illegality of my former marriage. The woman I had wedded was dead, at least so I was assured, and so I believed. I went to Cornwall prepared to do my adopted father's bidding.

"When I arrived there, I found him almost in a state of panic. Mary was missing! What had become of her no one knew. Personally I believed that she so hated the thought of marrying me that she had determined to escape. More than five years had now passed away since my visit to Scotland, and, as I said, I had been called to the Bar with fair prospects of success. The name I bore was old and respected. It was a passport into any society that I desired. Again I felt as though the fates were fighting for me. After all, in spite of everything, I should be free to live my own life, and the consequences of my cowardice and sin would never be visited upon me. The fact that my name had been changed from Graham to Bolitho was practically unknown, and even those with whom I forgathered as a student had become accustomed to my new name. It seemed natural to them, I suppose, that I, in order to become my adopted father's heir, should also adopt his name. Indeed, I have been described in certain handbooks as the only son of Hugh Bolitho of Tredinnick, Cornwall.

"More than a year passed before I heard anything again of Mary Tregony, and then I received an urgent message summoning me to the West of England. It seems that my adopted father had at length found out where she was, found out, too, that she had been the victim of a villain. A wild rake, a man of no character, who had been kicked out of the army, and who was already married, had deceived her. I need not mention his name now, indeed it is well that I should not, and it has no real bearing upon what I am telling you, but he was a handsome dare-devil kind of fellow who appealed to the heart of a romantic young girl, and she trusted him. Soon after their supposed marriage she found out what she had done."

The judge ceased speaking for a few seconds.

"There was no one louder in his condemnation than I, no one called him viler names than I, and yet I knew in my heart all the time that my villainy was as great as his.

"My adopted father met me at Plymouth and led me to a low part of the town where she had taken lodgings. It was here her child had been born, a child she dared not own, a child to whom the stigma of disgrace would be attached if the truth were made known. As I told you, my adopted father loved Mary Tregony almost as he loved me, and it was the dream of his heart that we should be man and wife. It seems almost like a fairy story now, but at that time it was terribly real. Even yet I can hardly believe in its truth. We found Mary lying in a miserable room, with her child sleeping by her side—a little girl."

The judge turned, and gave a hasty glance at Mary as he spoke. It was only for a second, but he saw that her face was blanched and set, while in her eyes was a look of horror.

"The doctor who had been called in had said that Mary Tregony was dying, that at most she could live only a few hours, and my adopted father demanded that I should marry her, and thus save her name from dishonour, and take the child as my own. I have told you of the power he had over me, how practically all my life I had never thought of disobeying him, and in spite of myself he persuaded me now."

During the whole of this recital Paul's mother had never uttered a word, save in answer to the one question which Judge Bolitho had spoken to her, but she had sat rigid in form and face, her hands clasped to the arms of her chair, her eyes fixed on the speaker's face, never missing a word that was uttered. Now, however, she spoke.

"And did you dare to marry her?" she said passionately. "You—you, who had——"

"Wait a minute," said the judge. "There were certain legal formalities to be complied with, a certain time to wait before any marriage could be made legal. We were no longer in Scotland, as in the days when I married you, Jean. We were in England. Yes, I decided to obey my adopted father's command. As it seemed to me, I owed everything to him and I could not withstand his pleadings. For he did plead, pleaded as I never thought a man could, pleaded his love for Mary, his love for her honour, pleaded that her child should have an honourable name—and I yielded to him."

"Then I am not your child really?" cried Mary.

"Wait a little," said the judge. "Before the time came when Mary could legally be made my wife, she died."

"Then you never married her?" said Paul's mother, her voice hoarse and unnatural.

"No. I never married her."

"Then—then?" said Mary.

"Then my adopted father made me solemnly promise that I would take you as my child, that it should be made known that I had married your mother secretly, and that she was dead.

"I suppose I was much excited. Certain I am that my mind did not fully comprehend the real issues of the case. Anyhow, I promised him. As you know, Mary, I have never told you much about your mother, neither have I since visited that part of Cornwall where she was known. All you have heard has been that your mother died when you were born, and you have regarded me as your father from the time you understood anything."

There was a silence in the room for some time, save for the tick of the clock on the mantelpiece. All seemed to be so overwhelmed by what they had heard that for the moment they were incapable of speech.

"It is ever the same," said the judge. "Lying, cowardice are followed by the most terrible penalties. I have felt many a time that cowardice is the father of nearly all our crimes."

"But," cried Paul, and his voice was vibrant with strong emotion, "then Mary is not my sister, she is—she can be—— Oh, Mary, forgive me! I did not think! I did not remember!"

Mary did not appear to hear him. Her eyes were fixed on Judge Bolitho's face, and she seemed to be trying to understand.

"I could say nothing about this before," went on the judge, "even when the truth which was revealed during the trial came to me. I had sworn to be silent. I dared not make known the truth. I dared not let this shadow rest upon Mary's name, even although it seemed as though a greater shadow rested upon it. You know what followed after that day in the courts, when I confessed that Jean was my wife and that Paul was my son. At last I had made up my mind that I would be a coward no longer, that, whatever the consequences might be, I would walk in the straight path. I could not tell all the truth because of my solemn oath to my adopted father. Besides, the great thought in my mind was to save Paul. I need not refer to that now, you know all about it! But for Mary, here—well, thank God, Mary saved him! But for her, the truth would never have come to light. But directly I knew that Paul was free, I left you, determined to make the crooked places straight. I hastened to London, and after doing what needed to be done there, I hurried on to Cornwall. I saw my adopted father—he's an old man now, but he's lost none of the strength of his younger manhood. I fought a hard battle with him, but that's nothing—the result is that I am able to tell you what I've told you."

The judge's eyes sought those of the older woman, who still sat rigidly in her chair. He seemed to be on the point of speaking to her, but before he could do so Paul broke in.

"Then the shame which has been attached to my name must be attached to Mary's!" he cried.

"Never," replied the judge. "That need not be. Concerning Mary's birth no word need be uttered. There is no need that we should deceive anyone, nevertheless the truth is not for the world. I need only say that Mary is not my child, but that I have simply reared her as my own. Her mother was a pure woman, but concerning her parentage we need say nothing."

"I would rather," cried Paul, "that my own name——"

"Stop, Paul!" said Mary. "It does not matter at all. How can it, when—when—— Oh, Paul, Paul, my love!"

"I've always loved you like my own child," said the judge, "and under ordinary circumstances these revelations should never have passed my lips, but—but I—I thought, I understood——"

Paul dared not speak again. The truth was that the knowledge which had come to him in such a strange way overwhelmed him with joy. It seemed to him as though that dark winter night had changed into a June morning. Everything was possible. His mind had swept aside the little conventions of men. Mary's presence and Mary's love were all the world to him.

The judge again looked towards Paul's mother. "I have not quite finished yet," he said, and his voice trembled as he spoke. "And I want to say something more. You know all now, Jean, know what a coward I've been, know how that cowardice meant your misery and your disgrace. I do not seek to excuse my conduct. It cannot be excused, and yet I must speak the truth, I must——"

He hesitated a second, and then went on, "Can you forgive me, Jean? Through all you have been pure and worthy, while I have been unworthy. My name has been spoken of with honour, and yours has been covered with shame through me. Can you forgive me? And more—perhaps you will scorn me and repel me when I tell you this—but after that night when I saw you in Manchester and knew that you still lived, all my old love came back to me; I know that really it had never died. Jean, can you forgive me?"

The eyes of the man and the woman met. At first hers seemed hard and unyielding—she was evidently fighting a great battle. Then slowly, little by little, they underwent a change, and Paul saw that the tears were welling up.

"Jean! Jean!" said the judge, holding out his hands. "Have you no word for me?"

"Come, Mary," said Paul. "Let us go into the other room."

And they went out, leaving the two together.

THE END