When the day of trial came, therefore, he was not in an enviable frame of mind. He knew that hundreds of eyes would be upon him, and that he would have a very undesirable publicity. Only a few weeks before the strike he had been spoken of as a possible candidate for the town council, and he, young as he was, had rejoiced in the thought. He had pictured himself speaking at public meetings and receiving the votes of the townspeople; he saw himself, too, elected at the head of the poll, and having a seat in the council chamber among the most prominent men in the town. But now his publicity would be of an entirely different nature. He was spoken of as the leader of a gang of roughs who attempted to break up machinery, and who had half-killed three men who represented peace and order. Still, he set his teeth together and thought of his plan of action.

"I suppose Wilson will be well represented," he said to the secretary of the union, to whom he had spoken before.

"Ay, he's got Bolitho for th' senior and Jordan for th' junior."

"Bolitho!" said Paul, "I never heard of him."

"Where have you lived?" asked the secretary. "'E's the smartest chap in the Northern Circuit, and there's many as ses he's makin' several thousand a year. I have 'eard as 'ow Wilson 'ad a 'ard job to get him, 'e's that thronged with work, and when they 'ad got him, he said as 'ow it meant six months more to every one of you."

"What sort of a chap is he?" asked Paul.

"Eh, one of those smooth-spoken fellows. You think when he's cross-examining you 'e's on your side, and all the time 'e's worming out the most damning things against you. He's a kind of oily voice, too, and he makes people believe in him, whether they will or no. You must be careful about that, for directly he comes to address the jury he takes the meanest advantages of what he has dragged out of the witnesses."

Presently Paul found himself and the others in the same room wherein he had watched the trial of some months before. He thought of the G. D. Graham about whom he had such strange fancies, and remembered the shock he had received when he discovered that he was altogether mistaken. He little thought then that he would be here to-day as a dangerous character, and as one who had committed a grave offence against the public weal. Presently he was able to take note of his surroundings. The lofty chamber; the solemn-looking magistrates; the barristers at their benches; the jury in their box; the prisoners standing sullen and defiant, yet wondering how they would acquit themselves in the trial; and as many of the public as could gain admission into the room, eager, and wondering what the upshot would be.

Evidently the case was going to be a long one. The counsel for the prosecution opened it with a long and vigorous speech. He described the history of the strike, told of the excitable condition of the people, and related how difficult it had been for the police to keep order in the town. After this he went on, with more or less accuracy, to tell of the plot of the prisoners who had been brought there that day, and of the charges that were brought against them.

"Is that Mr. Bolitho?" asked Paul of the secretary of the union, who was allowed to stand near him.

"Nay," was the reply, "yon's Jordan, the junior. Bolitho's not here yet. I wish summat would happen to him on the way. I tell yo' I'm feared of him. This chap is but a beginner, so to speak—a sort of John the Baptist, that prepares the way for t'other; but Bolitho's a fair terror and no mistake."

Somehow the name had a familiar sound with it.

"Bolitho, Bolitho, why it's a Cornish name!" said Paul. "I've heard it many a time down in St. Mabyn. Perhaps when he knows I am a Cornishman—that is, if he is Cornish, too—he may not be so hard on me."

Still, this was only a passing thought, and he steeled his heart against the worst. When the case had dragged on for some time, Paul noticed that there was a flutter in the court. A man he had not hitherto seen came in and took his place beside the junior counsel for the prosecution. He heard a whisper go round the court, "There's Bolitho." And Paul's eyes were drawn to him as if by magic. There was something in the face that held his attention, fascinated him. He found his heart beating faster than was its wont and his muscles contracting as if he were about to meet an enemy. For the moment he forgot the reason why he was brought there, so keenly intent was he on examining the face of the barrister who had just come in. And yet it was not a face to be feared. It was somewhat florid, and certainly pleasant to look upon. His eyes were blue and had a somewhat dreamy expression in them, while the features suggested gentleness rather than harshness. A handsome man was this Mr. Bolitho, a man who looked as though he might have many friends. The counsel all round smiled at him, while the magistrate nodded benignly. He seemed to create an air of pleasantness. He relieved the somewhat sordid atmosphere which pervaded the chamber. How much time he had given to the case it was impossible to say, but, certainly, when he rose to cross-examine, he seemed to know every detail of it.

Presently the examination came to an end, and Mr. Bolitho rose to address the jury for the prosecution. In a way which Paul could not quite comprehend, and yet which seemed perfectly reasonable as he did it, he laid the whole blame for the trouble at Paul's door. It was his that had been the master mind. It was he who was guilty of inciting these ignorant, thoughtless youths to the act which had ended almost fatally for three men. He dragged in the quarrel which Paul had had with the son of Mr. Wilson, the owner of the mill, and insinuated that it was a matter of personal revenge which had inspired him to commit this outrage. In a few minutes it seemed to Paul that there was no blacker criminal in England than himself. This man Bolitho had created a new atmosphere in the court; his suave, almost smiling, features had changed. When he was examining he pretended to be kind and assumed a confidential and almost friendly manner. In this way he had wormed statements out of men which Paul knew to be diametrically opposed to the truth—he had even obtained the admission, from some of the youths whom he had tried to dissuade from their deed of violence, that he, Paul, had incited them rather than otherwise.

And now, in addressing the jury, this Mr. Bolitho had laid special emphasis upon it. Paul was perfectly sure that the man did not believe all he said, but he wanted to make a case, and he had fastened upon himself as the chief culprit.

"Gentlemen," said Mr. Bolitho, "I wish you to pay special attention to this man, young in years, apparently respectable, well educated, especially for his class, and intelligent beyond the ordinary; but I want to point out to you that he is of that class of which agitators are made, and, as such, he is a danger to the community. In the eyes of the law all these men are equally guilty, all of them were engaged in this wild, lawless deed, which has ended almost fatally for three men, two of them trustworthy officers of the law, and one a respected townsman of Brunford, and a man holding a position of trust under his employer. But think, gentlemen—these other youths were simply led by this stronger personality of Paul Stepaside. He, inspired by personal enmity towards Mr. Wilson, determined to be revenged on him for some fancied wrong done to him years before, has taken the opportunity to perpetrate this awful outrage. It is true he has not definitely said so, but he has insinuated that he tried to dissuade the others from taking part in this crime. But can such a thing be believed? The others were never capable of this plot, and, without a leader, would never have thought of participating in it. On several occasions, too, since he has been in Brunford he has made public speeches. Extracts from those speeches I will now read to you."

On this, Mr. Bolitho read certain statements which Paul was reported to have made—statements from which it would appear that he hated the class of employers who were prosecuting him that day.

"I am urging these things, gentlemen," continued Mr. Bolitho, "because I wish the guilt to be fastened where it ought to be fastened. It has been clearly proved that all these men were guilty of the charges of which they are accused, but surely it should be borne in mind that more guilt should be attached to the leader and the inspirer of these outrageous deeds than to those thoughtless and almost irresponsible fellows who were led like sheep to the slaughter."

Paul listened like one bewildered, and presently his heart became filled with black rage. He realised now the meaning of what the secretary of the union had said to him. He could not understand why it was that this clever counsel had tried to make him a scapegoat for all the rest; but now he saw it was really so. The others, who were really guilty of a thing which he himself condemned, were made to appear as almost innocent, while he, who had done his best to dissuade them from their mad act, was condemned as one who had acted like a devil. Once, during Mr. Bolitho's speech, Paul lost control over himself. "Liar!" he exclaimed. And his voice rang out above that of the counsel. A wave of excitement swept over the crowd. The judge looked at him with stern eyes, but before he had time to speak Paul persisted, "I say he is a liar, my lord. He has said things that are not true. He has twisted things out of their true meaning. He has made inferences appear like facts!"

He was unable to proceed further after this, owing to the action of the presiding magistrate—indeed it was a wonder that he had been allowed to say so much—but the intensity of his voice for the moment startled this grave man, and this caused him to allow what under ordinary circumstances would never have been possible.

As may be imagined, Mr. Bolitho made the most of this interruption. For some reason or other, he seemed to have taken a personal dislike to the young man before him, and now he used the interruption to emphasise what he had hitherto said.

"I ask you, gentlemen," he insisted, "to consider the evidence of these men"—and from the way he spoke it might seem as though he were acting as counsel for the others—"and then think of who is likely to be really guilty. These youths are just ordinary, ignorant, irresponsible fellows, waiting to be led, but incapable of leading—without education, and with no more than ordinary intelligence. But here is this Stepaside, regarded as a leader among a certain class in the town, an agitator, a dangerous man."

And so on, until at length his speech came to a close, and all felt that, whatever might happen to the others, the jury would regard Paul as the one who was responsible for what had taken place, and who, if either of the three injured men should die, would be regarded as guilty of not only outrage, but perhaps of manslaughter. Presently the judge summed up the case, and then waited while the jury left their box to consider their verdict.

By this time Paul was almost careless as to results. He felt perfectly sure that the punishment meted out to him would not be a light one; but he did not care. He was past that. His mind and heart were filled with rage against the man who had blackened his name. He fell to studying him while he waited, and again he was fascinated. While he had addressed the jury his eyes had shone with apparently righteous indignation; he was eager, almost passionate, in his denunciation of crime. But now it might seem as though his interest in the matter had gone. He chatted and laughed with the other barristers, and accepted their congratulations upon his speech. As Paul listened, too, he heard him accept an invitation to go with one of them to dinner that night, and afterwards accompany them to a place of amusement. And this was the man who had so ruthlessly, so cruelly, and so untruthfully defamed his own character.

Presently the jurymen returned, and the court awaited their verdict. A little later Paul knew that the others were committed to one month's imprisonment, while he himself was condemned to six months' hard labour. The young man's face never moved a muscle. He stood perfectly rigid, perfectly silent, as the judge pronounced the sentence, and then, when all was over, he turned towards the barristers' table, and his eyes met those of the man who, he knew, was practically responsible for the extreme punishment meted out to him. Mr. Bolitho smiled, and then, turning, left the court, while a policeman laid hold of Paul's arm and led him away to his cell.



CHAPTER IV

PAUL MEETS MARY BOLITHO

There is no need to describe at length Paul's experiences during the time he was imprisoned in Strangeways Gaol. The moral effect of prison life is rather harmful than good. In Paul Stepaside's case, at all events, it was so. He knew his punishment was unjust, he knew he was guiltless of the crime which had been attributed to him; knew, too, that for some purpose which he could not understand a case was made out against him which had no foundation in fact. These things alone would have had a tendency to embitter his heart and to make him rail at the so-called justice of the land. But when we add to this the fact that he was of a proud, sensitive nature, that he shrank from the unenviable notoriety to which he had been exposed, and that he writhed under the things that had been said about him, it can be easily seen that his whole nature rose up in revolt. Everything in the gaol aroused his antagonism, and made him bitter and revengeful. The daily routine, the constant surveillance of the warders, the thousand indignities to which he was subjected, made him, even while he said nothing, grind his teeth with passion and swear to be revenged in his own time.

One thing, however, interested him during his stay there: it was his study of the Book of Job, and he read through this old Eastern poem which fascinated him. At first he was prejudiced against it because it was in the Bible, but the majesty of the poem charmed him, overwhelmed him. He had read the plays of Shakespeare; he had closely studied what many consider to be the great dramatist's masterpiece, but "Macbeth" seemed to him poor and small compared with the Book of Job. The picture of Satan going to and fro on the earth, the story of Job's calamities, of his sorrows, and of the dire extremity in which he found himself, appealed to him and fascinated him. Yes, it was fine. The old Eastern poet had seen into the very heart of life. He had enabled Job to answer tellingly, brilliantly, these three wise fools who poured out their platitudes. In spite of himself, too, he was influenced by the conclusion of the poem. It was not only poetically just, but there was something in it that comforted him, that gave him hope in spite of himself, Was there, after all, he wondered, a God Who spoke out of the whirlwind, Who laughed at men's little theories, and worked His own will? It would be splendid if it were so. The idea possessed him; God behind all, in all, through all, the God Who made and controlled all the swirling worlds, and yet, in His infinite compassion, cared for every living creature that moved. Yes, it was stupendous; and if it were true, then—— But, again, he brooded over his wrongs, and his heart became closed and bitter.

And so the days passed by and lengthened into weeks, and the weeks into months, and at last Paul found himself free again. It was ten o'clock in the morning when he was set at liberty, and he realised that during the time he had been in prison the winter had passed away. It was early in November when he had been committed, and now it was the beginning of May. And so Lancashire was looking at its best. The sun, even through the smoke-begrimed atmosphere, was shining almost brightly, and the twitter of birds welcomed him as he left the prison a free man. To his surprise, he found outside the prison gates a number of men awaiting him, who, on his appearance, raised a shout of welcome. Paul had hoped to have escaped without notice. As we have said, he was keenly sensitive to the disgrace which he had suffered, and hated the thought that questioning eyes would be upon him. Therefore, when he saw that the crowd of men who had come from Brunford to give him a welcome had also attracted a number of people in the district, he was almost angry at their coming, and yet he could not help feeling grateful. After all, it showed a kind spirit, and he appreciated their presence accordingly.

"Come on, lad," said one of the men. "We'll just have a drink and then we'll catch the train for Brunford. We've ordered a rare dinner for thee at 'The Black Cow,' and to-night there's goin' to be a meeting in the Primitive Methodist schoolroom in honour of thy return."

"Is the strike all over?" asked Paul.

"Ay, the strike's all over. The matter's been patched up, and we are making fair brass i' Brunford now."

"And what has become of the other chaps?" asked Paul.

"You mean the chaps as wur tried with thee? Two on 'em are still i' Brunford; the rest have gone to Canada. We've summat to tell thee about that."

"What?" asked Paul.

"Weel, you see, they confessed as 'ow 'twere not thee who set 'em on to smashing Wilson's machinery, but that thou didst thy best to stop them, so, I tell thee this, thou art a sort of hero i' Brunford now. It's all over th' place that thou art a sort of martyr, and that thou suffered in their stead, instead of letting on and proving, as thou couldst easily prove, that thou wert agin their plan. Thou just kept quiet, so that they might get off easy, even though thou wert kept longer in quod thysen. The papers have had articles about it, too, and the affair has been called 'A Miscarriage of Justice.'"

"The people think I'm not disgraced, then?" said Paul, and there was a flash of eagerness in his eyes.

"Disgraced! Nay, it's all t'other way, and I can tell thee this, that many think that Wilson and his son Ned are disgraced for setting on Bolitho to make it hard for thee."

"Did they do this?" asked Paul.

"Ay, they did an' all. From what we can hear, Bolitho had special instructions to let t'other chaps down easy. It was not hard to do this, because thou art a chap with eddication and brains, and art a bit of a leader, while t'others were nowt but ninnies. Anyhow, the truth's out at last, and nobody i' Brunford will look upon thee as disgraced."

In spite of himself Paul could not help being pleased, and he no longer resented the presence of the people who had gathered round the prison gates and who had listened eagerly to what had been said. Rather there was a feeling of triumph in his heart as cheer after cheer was raised. He was thought of as one who fought the battles of the working people, and he had suffered as a consequence No one looked on him as one disgraced, but rather as one who had suffered for their cause.

Nevertheless the marks of the prison were still upon his heart. No man could spend six months in Strangeways Gaol as he had spent them, and suffer as he had suffered, without being influenced thereby. The iron had entered his soul, and even kindly words and hearty cheers could not remove from him the fact that he had been treated unjustly, and that his character had been blackened.

When the train arrived in Brunford, another crowd, far larger than that which met him at Manchester, had gathered at the station, and there was quite a triumphal march down the Liverpool Road towards the town hall. Arrived there, Paul could not help noticing a number of the councillors leaving the steps of this great civic building, and among others he noticed both Mr. Wilson and his son, who were responsible for his imprisonment.

"Sitha, Ned Wilson," shouted one of the men. "This is the chap that thou set on Bolitho to persecute, and this is the chap that thou told lees about."

The two men laughed uneasily and passed up the road without comment. Evidently the tables were turned on them. As for the others, they spoke to Paul kindly. There was no ill-will remaining because of the strike, the relations between master and men in these manufacturing districts being sometimes almost confidential. In many cases they belong to the same social order, even although the one is rich and the other comparatively poor. Many of the manufacturers, who were now employers of labour, were themselves operatives twenty or thirty years before, and had worked side by side with those whom they now employed. As a consequence, it was the order of the day for a weaver to call his employer by his Christian name; indeed, many would think it beneath their dignity to call an employer "Mister." On one occasion the son of a large employer of labour in Brunford was sitting in his father's office when one of the operatives entered. He wanted to find his employer's groom, so he said to his young master, "Arthur, canst thou tell me where Mester Smith is?"

Paul quickly found that he lost no prestige whatever on account of his incarceration in Strangeways Gaol. On every hand he was met with kindness, and to his delight he found the place where he had been working still kept open for him. The day passed away amidst expressions of goodwill on every hand, and Paul, wellnigh worn out with the excitement of the last few hours, was about to return to his lodgings, when an event happened which altered the course of his life.

He was walking down the main street of the town, when, remembering that he needed to do some shopping, he dropped in at a hosier's place of business, the owner of which met him with great heartiness.

"Ay, Paul, lad," he said, "I'm delighted to see you. Mr. Whitman and I were just talking about you." And he turned, as he spoke, to an old, pale-faced, kindly man who stood by his side. Old William Whitman was the town missionary for Brunford, and was beloved by everybody.

"Ay," assented the old man, "and we've been praying for thee too, lad. I'm afraid your cross has been hard to bear, but, never mind, the sun will shine again now."

"It will, too," assented the hosier. "We think none the worse of thee, lad, for what thou hast undergone, and 'appen thou wilt find that this strange working of Providence 'll be oal for thy good."

"I don't see much of Providence in it," said Paul, "except that it makes me realise how kind the people here are. There seems a great deal more of the Devil than of God."

At that moment the shopkeeper's attention was drawn away from him by the coming of another customer, leaving him and the town missionary together.

"Nay, but you mustn't say that, Paul lad," said the missionary. "Happen in a few months you will get over all these things."

"I shall never get over it," said Paul. "For six months I have been wearing prison clothes; I have been sleeping in a cold, dark cell; my name has been taken away from me, and I have simply been known by a number, and I have been looked upon not as a man, but as a beast. There's not much to make one think of God in all that, Mr. Whitman!"

"Ay, it's been hard on thee," replied the old man, "and there's many a one in Brunford who thinks something should have been done for thee. I suppose Ned Wilson felt very bitter towards you, and when he was instructing the counsel, he made him believe that you were the ringleader. There's more than one who have said that Bolitho was very unfair. However, the Lord will make everything right."

"I shall never believe that the Lord has made everything right until Bolitho and Wilson have suffered as I have suffered," replied Paul bitterly. "If I could see Bolitho in prison clothes; if he were known by a number; if he had to tramp the prison yard among the scum of the earth, as I have; if he had to lie in a cold cell with the darkness of hell in his heart, as I have, then I could believe in Providence perhaps. But when I remember that I was regarded as a beast and not as a man, while he was drinking wine and faring sumptuously, there did not seem much justice in the world."

Hearing a rustle by his side as he spoke, Paul turned and saw that the customer who had been talking with the shopkeeper was looking straight at him, and his heart beat violently as the eyes of the two met. It was a young girl he saw, not more than twenty years of age, and, as far as he knew, she was a stranger to the town. He had never seen her before, and she appeared different from the young women with whom he had happened to meet. He noticed, too, as their eyes met, that hers were full of horror. She seemed to regard him as she might regard a snarling dog. He saw her lips quiver, and he thought for a moment that she was about to speak to him. The intensity of her gaze made him almost beside himself, and then, acting on the impulse of the moment, and speaking with the freedom so common to the Lancashire operative class, he went on: "Yes, miss, and I mean it too. You, by the look of you, belong to that class, but, remember, the time will come when men like Bolitho will be paid for what they have done. But, there!" And he laughed. "I suppose he had to speak to his brief, and, justice or no justice, he had to do what his employer told him to do. 'Ten pounds more for every extra month you get him,' would be Wilson's cry, and Bolitho would be anxious to get the ten pounds."

The girl's eyes shone with a fierce anger, and then, without a word, walked away.

"I say, Paul," said the shopkeeper, "that's not the way to treat my customers!"

Paul looked ashamed of himself. "I know, I know, Mr. Sutcliffe, it was mean of me," he said, "and I know I ought to apologise to her. But if you had seen the look on her face, and had suffered what I have suffered, you'd have spoken too. Why, she might think I was an adder. But there, I dare say she knew who I was, and that I had just come out of prison."

"As you know, I'm all on your side, Paul," said the shopkeeper, "but I cannot afford to have my customers driven away."

"Nay, I know," said Paul; "and if she doesn't come back and pay for the things that are on the counter there, I'll take them myself and pay for them. But there, I must be going." And, having got the things he came to buy, he left the shop, little realising the influence the interview would have upon his future.

He had barely gained the street when a man, whom he had known almost ever since he had come to Brunford, met him. "Ay, Paul," he said. "I have just been to your lodgings, and I want to see you particular."

Paul's heart was still embittered with the scene through which he had passed, and he met the man rather coldly. "Is it anything particular?" he said.

"Yes, I think so," replied the man.

"Because if it isn't," said Paul, "I don't want to talk about it. I've had a hard day, and I'm pretty well worn out."

"That's so," replied the other, "and we'll say nothing more about it if you don't feel like talking, but I thought as 'ow you might look upon it as good news."

"Forgive me, Preston," he said, recognising the man's kindly tone. "I know I spoke like a brute, but my nerves are all on edge, and while everybody is very kind to me, I'm easily upset. What is it, old man?"

"I can't tell you here," replied Preston. "It'll take me an hour, anyhow."

"Is it so important as that?" said Paul, with a questioning look in his eyes.

"Ay, I think so," replied the other.

George Preston was a teacher in the Hanover Sunday-school, and was some two years older than Paul. He had more than average intelligence, and had been known for years as a hard-working, saving fellow. They had met at the Mechanics' Institute, where they had gone for classes, and, while they had gone their different ways, mutual respect existed between them.

"I expect Mrs. Dixon will have got my little room all ready," said Paul, "so we shall be able to have a chat without interruption." And the two threaded their way along the busy street towards Paul's lodgings. Never did Paul realise how much he was liked until that evening. It happened to be market day, and the streets were crowded with people. Not only had the townspeople gathered together in the centre of Brunford, but many had come in from a distance, and thus to a casual visitor it might seem as though a fair were being held. Every minute or so he was stopped by someone who came up to congratulate him on his return, and to bid him welcome.

"Never fear, Paul lad," it was said to him again and again. "You shall noan suffer for this, and 'appen Wilson and that lot will noan be the happier for what they have done to thee. Art short of money, lad? If a sovereign 'll be of any use to thee, thou can have it."

And from the ring of sincerity in their voices Paul knew that every word was meant. For I should like to say here that, although the Lancashire operative is rough, and sometimes a little coarse, there are no kinder people on earth than those who live in the great manufacturing centres of the North. In the main they are loyal to a man, and as true as steel. Brunford is by no means an ideal place to live in; indeed, from November to April its atmospheric conditions are horrible beyond words. It rains nearly all the time, and, the air being smoke-begrimed, the streets are covered with black, slimy mud, offensive both to sight and to smell. The very conditions, too, under which the people live must have a tendency to coarsen and to destroy artistic feelings. The artisans know practically nothing about the gardens common to the South-country peasant. Houses are often built back to back, or only divided by a small paved yard, the front door is nearly always right on to the street, and, even in cases where some strip of garden is obtained, the flowers, which are the pride of the South-country people, simply come up hideous and black with grime.

The writer of these lines once lived in a manufacturing town in the North, and, there being a strip of garden to his house, he asked the gardener to plant for him some white hyacinth bulbs, hyacinths being one of his favourite flowers. When the spring came, the hyacinths appeared, but alas! they were not white, but as black as the soot which is belched forth from a hundred chimneys.

So moved was Paul by the kindness which was manifested, that a great sob came into his throat, and his heart became full of love towards the people. He longed, as he had never longed before, to work for them, to live for them; and before his mind came a vision of what the future might have in store. He knew what their life was, understood thoroughly the hard conditions under which they laboured. Yes, he would make some return for all this goodwill, and for the love which they evidently bore to him. He would live for them! He would work night and day for the betterment of their conditions! He would make Brunford a town to rejoice in! He would remove the wrongs under which the people suffered, and bring music and gladness into their lives! How he was to do this he did not know; indeed, it seemed impossible for him to commence as yet, but the time would come, and when that time came he would not spare himself. He did not forget what he had regarded as the chief purpose of his existence—that, at all costs, must be performed—but he must not live wholly for that; he must live for the people who loved him, and whom, in spite of everything, he loved.

"Well, Preston," he said, "what is it?" when at length they reached his lodgings, and were sitting alone in the little room which the old couple had allotted to him.

"I was thinking," said Preston, "of what you mean to do in the future."

"I don't think I shall go to work to-morrow," said Paul. "I shall need one day's holiday to get things straightened out a bit, but, as you know, my place is kept open for me."

"Have you any brass?" asked Preston abruptly.

"Not much," said Paul; "but I've saved a few pounds." And then, with a laugh, "It's cost me nothing to live during the winter, you know. All the same, I've had to work hard for the black bread and skilly."

"Come, now," said Preston, "let's say no more about that. I know you had a bad time, but you know by this time that no one in Brunford thinks the worse of you because of it, and no one thinks the better of Wilson. And it's not Christian to cherish black thoughts about them, or about Bolitho either. As you say, he was paid for his job, and he did it. How much money have you saved?"

"Two hundred pounds," said Paul.

"So much?" said the other in a tone of surprise. "Ay, I did not think you had done as well as that!"

"Well, you see," replied Paul, "I have had good wages and I've lived hard. I have spent nothing on luxuries. I have had no holidays."

"It must have cost you something for these," said Preston, looking at the well-filled bookcases on the wall.

"Oh, I forgot them," said Paul. "Yes. But, then, you see, I needed most of them, and books are my one extravagance. But why did you ask?"

"I want to propose a partnership," said Preston.

"Yes," said Paul. "In what?"

"In a weaving shed."

"A weaving shed? That's not my trade!"

"No, I know; but what you don't know about weaving isn't worth knowing. Although you started in Brunford as a loom-maker, you've picked up all there is to know about manufacturing. And you're a bit of a scientist, too. Well, I don't know so much about that part of it, but I do know about the buying and selling. I've not been a salesman with Robinson's for nothing, and I worked in the mills as a boy. You've got two hundred pounds, you say; so have I, and a bit more. It's enough for us to start on, lad. We can hire a shed, and we can hire power, and we can hire looms, and we can buy cotton."

Paul looked at him in astonishment. "But, man alive, Preston, four hundred pounds is not enough."

"Four hundred pounds is enough," replied the other. "And we can make the thing go; we will make it go, too. And I want to tell you this, too: I've a promise of a good backer."

"Who?" asked Paul.

"Well, to-day, as you know, your home-coming has been the talk of the town, and Ben Bierly was talking with me about you. As you know, he's a teacher at Hanover Sunday-school, and a few years agone he was a poor man himself, while now he's one of the biggest manufacturers in Brunford. Well, Paul, he sympathised with you, and he admires you too, and he told me that if you were willing to go into partnership with me he'd back us. He believes in you, and he believes in me, and if we want a thousand pounds, we can have it."

"You're surely not serious, Preston?"

"Ay, but I am. I mean every word of it, and I know this, too: cotton can be bought at great advantage just now, and trade's good. What do you think of it?"

"I have had no time to think yet," said Paul. "Give me till to-morrow night and let me look round a bit. But tell me this, what shed can we hire?"

"There's a shed at the back of St. James's Street," replied Preston. "I was looking at it only to-day. It'll suit us down to the ground, and we can get it cheap."

For an hour or more they talked, Paul asking keen, searching questions, which could only have been thought of by one who had thoroughly mastered the mysteries of cotton-weaving. Afterwards he went to bed, and thought long on the experiences of the day.

The next morning the town presented a new aspect. It no longer looked en fete, as on the previous evening. On every hand halt-consumed coals and strange smelling steams were being emitted from a hundred factories. The streets were empty save for heavy lorries and tramcars. Presently, at twelve o'clock, the mills would belch forth thousands of pale-faced operatives, who for long hours had been standing at the looms, but who, at present, were immured in those great noisome, prison-like buildings which form the main features of the town.

Paul made several visits that morning, and presently found his way to the empty weaving shed of which Preston had spoken the previous evening. After some difficulty he had an interview with its owner. Preston had told him that Fletcher was anxious to let this shed. It had been on his hands for several months, and no one seemed to want it. To his surprise, therefore, Fletcher met him coolly. "Well, they've let you out?" he said to Paul.

"Evidently, or I should not be here," laughed Paul.

"Well, be careful not to get up to your larks again!" said the other, and his tones were almost surly.

Paul took notice of this gibe, but as soon as he thought wise brought the conversation round to the object of his visit.

"I don't know that it's to let," replied Fletcher.

"No?" queried Paul. "Then I must have been misinformed."

"It wur to let," said Fletcher, "and I don't say it isn't now, but I'm noan sure."

"Why, George Preston told me yesterday that you had practically given him the refusal of it."

"Ay, practically, but that noan settles the business. I've had another offer since then."

"May I ask who has made the offer?" asked Paul.

"Thou may ask, but I don't say I shall tell. However, 'appen ow of the biggest manufacturers in the town 'll have it."

"A big manufacturer wouldn't look at it," said Paul. "It's only fit for a man in a small way of business."

Fletcher looked at him and laughed. "Good-morning," he said. "'Appen I can go into it further to-morrow, but not now." And then he turned on his heel and left Paul thinking.

Before the day was out Paul heard that young Edward Wilson, the son of the man who had prosecuted him, had hired the shed for a warehouse, although there seemed no reason at all why he should do so.

"This settles me," said Paul to Preston that night. "It's evident that Wilson has got his knife into me, and he, hearing what you had in your mind, determined to make it impossible. But, never mind," and Paul's somewhat prominent jaws became rigid and stern. "I don't know that I was so keen about manufacturing before, but I'd like to fight Wilson, and he shall see that I'm not easily beaten. But we must go quiet, Preston, and we'll have to be careful. There's not the slightest doubt about it that Wilson thinks he owes me a grudge for what happened nearly three years ago. But for that I shouldn't have had six months at Strangeways. Still, I'm not a chicken, neither are you."

And then the two young men talked long and seriously concerning other alternatives.

A week later the final step was taken, and Paul and Preston had signed a contract to hire a larger weaving shed than they had intended, and arrangements were pushed forward to start work immediately. Indeed, Paul's mind was so filled with the project he had in hand that almost everything else was forgotten. Two matters, however, must be mentioned. The one was a letter from his mother, to whom he had written, giving an account not only of his experiences in prison and of his home-coming, but also of the venture that he was making. "If I succeed, mother," he said, "you must come to Brunford to live. And I mean to succeed. In twelve months from now I am going to be a well-to-do man. I've learnt pretty much all there is to know about manufacturing, and I've a good partner. And I mean to get on. But don't think I've forgotten the real purpose for which I came to the North. I have not found out much about my father yet, although I've tried, tried hard. I can't understand it either. I've got hold of law books containing lists of the names of the barristers in England, and while there are a good many Grahams, none of them seem to tally with the descriptions you gave me. However, once let me get on with manufacturing and I shall have more time. I mean to go up to your father's farm and ask questions there, and you need not fear. I've got the name in Brunford for carrying out the thing I start upon, and I've promised you. But, as I said, as soon as I get on, you must come to Brunford to live with me, and then we can work together."

To this his mother had replied that she could never be a burden to him. "You don't want a woman worrying you, Paul," she had said. "I'm well enough off down here. You want to be free and unfettered. At the proper time I'll come to you, but not yet, and don't trouble about me."

Paul brooded long over this letter. He pictured her hard, lonely life away down in Cornwall, a few miles from Launceston, where she earned her living as a servant. On several occasions he had sent her money, but each time she had returned it, and it made him sad to think of what she must be suffering. He remembered his promise to her, and his resolution, dark and grim as it was, remained one of the most powerful factors in his life. "I wish she would come and live with me," he reflected. "I think I could bring some brightness into her life, and yet, perhaps, it's just as well she is not here with me. She would have broken her heart during the trial; but I'll not forget—no, I'll not forget."

A fortnight after his return from Manchester he was walking with Preston to a village some distance from; Brunford, where they had arranged to inspect some machinery. By this time he had practically forgotten the meeting with the girl to whom he had spoken so rudely in John Sutcliffe's shop. But this afternoon, even while his mind ought to have been filled with the work he had in hand, his mind turned to her. He remembered the look of anger in her eyes, and the scorn which shone from them as she gazed on him. He wondered who she was, and why she should seem so deeply moved by what he had said.

In order to reach the village of Northcroft, the place towards which they wended, they had to cross some fields, and George Preston and he had scarcely climbed the stile when, coming towards them, they saw two girls. Evidently they were coming from a large house in the near distance, and were walking towards Brunford. Paul saw in a moment that they were not of the operative class. They were well-dressed, and it was plainly to be seen that they were strongly differentiated from those women whom it was his lot to meet. He had barely gone half-way across the field, when he stood still and gazed at one of them like a man spell-bound. He recognised her as the girl whom he had met in Sutcliffe's shop. Scarcely knowing what he did, he stood still in the path, thus making it impossible for them to pass him. Preston, evidently deep in his calculations about the looms he proposed to buy, had for the moment forgotten Paul's presence and had left him behind.

"Will you kindly stand aside?"

Paul recognised the speaker. It was the daughter of Edward Wilson, but he paid no heed to her, he was gazing intently at the other, and he saw the colour mount to her cheeks as their eyes met. He had taken but little notice of her when he had first seen her. He recognised that she belonged to a class entirely different from his own, but he remembered little else beyond the anger which she evidently felt towards him. That she had resented his words was evident, but to that he had attached but little importance; now, however, all was different. He could not understand how or why—she had not only crossed the pathway of his life, but she had entered his life. She seemed to arouse within him all sorts of unthought-of possibilities. His ideas of the world became different. She made him think of the poetry and of the romance of life, even although she still looked upon him with scorn, if not with anger. The morning had been rainy, and the long grass on either side of the pathway was as wet as a pond, but he did not move aside that she might pass by, in spite of what her companion had said. Neither did he speak, but stood looking at her. She was utterly different from Emily Wilson, whom he had often seen; indeed, the poles seemed to lie between them. Miss Wilson was tall and largely made, and, in spite of the fact that her dressmaker was an artist, seemed to look poor and shabby beside the stranger. This girl was almost diminutive, and yet she carried herself like a queen. He could not have described a single feature, and yet he knew he would never forget her face. It made him think of the fields around St. Mabyn. It caused him to remember the love song of the birds, the music of a streamlet, as it murmured its way down a valley near his old home. It suggested the countryside, far removed from the smoke and grime of that northern town, a countryside that was peaceful, sweet and beautiful.

"Will you kindly move aside?"

This time he realised what he was doing, and he stepped into the wet grass.

"I beg your pardon," he said, and then unconsciously he lifted his hat. He knew that the girl was thinking of their former meeting, thinking of his own rudeness, thinking, too perhaps, of the circumstances under which he had come back to Brunford. He walked on like a man in a dream. "I had just come out of prison," he said, "and I spoke to her like a clown. What must she think of me?" And then a feeling of bitterness came over his heart. "She's with that Wilson girl," he said, "and I know what they'll say."

But why should he care? What had he in common with this young girl, whose thoughts and feelings must be far removed from his own?

The Lancashire operatives pay little attention to caste or class distinction. With them one man is as good as another, even although they are greatly influenced by the fact of success and the amassing of money. But the inwardness of the word Aristocracy has little or no meaning to them; it is too elusive, too intangible. But at that moment Paul realised something of what it meant. This girl belonged to a class of which he knew nothing. She created an atmosphere utterly different from that breathed in a Lancashire manufacturing town. He could not put it into words, but he knew it was there, a refinement, a suggestion of thoughts to which he was a stranger. What was she doing there? She had nothing in common with that Wilson girl, even although the Wilsons were the wealthiest people in Brunford. And then there was something more, he knew not what, only somehow it made life different. It made him feel how small his world had been, what a little thing money-making was. It suggested a larger world, a higher life of which hitherto he had been ignorant.

When he reached the next stile he found George Preston waiting for him. "Been talking with Wilson's lass?" asked he with a laugh.

Paul shook his head. "Who's the other one?" he asked. "Is she not a stranger in these parts?"

"Don't you know?" asked Preston.

"No, I don't know."

"Why, she's Miss Bolitho. She's the daughter of the man who had so much to do in sending you to quod."

It seemed as though someone had struck him a blow. Unconsciously he had been weaving fancies around her, unconsciously, too, something had come into his life to which hitherto he had been a stranger. And now to hear that she was the daughter of the man whom he could not think of save as his enemy, almost made him reel! For a few minutes he walked on by Preston's side without speaking, while his companion, almost unconsciously realising that he was in no humour for speech, was likewise silent.

"I suppose," said Preston presently, "that Bolitho and Wilson got friendly through thy trial. Of course, Bolitho's a big man, and knows a lot of the big people in London, still, he's allowed his daughter to come visiting here, and I hear, too, that young Ned Wilson is sweet on her."

Paul did not speak. His mind was dazed, but he felt sure that, for weal or for woe, he and this girl would be associated in the future.

"Are you sure she's Bolitho's daughter?" he said to Preston a little later.

"Oh, yes, I'm quite sure. Bolitho was staying at Wilson's house while you were in prison. And it is said that the two families went away to Switzerland together just after Christmas. Besides, Ned Wilson won't be a bad catch. It is said that the firm is making fifty thousand a year, and Ned is the only son. But there, Paul, that's not for us to talk about. They're not in our world at all. We're just beginning, and we shall have hard work to get on. And we must be careful of Ned Wilson, too. But for him, as you know, we should have had Fletcher's weaving shed, and that would have saved us twenty pounds a year in rent."

"Yes," said Paul, and his lips were compressed as he spoke. "I fancy the time will come when Ned Wilson and I will have a lot of old scores to pay off, and I tell you what, Preston, when the time comes I'll not have the worst of it."

A year from that date two events took place which need recording. Preston and Paul had been going carefully through their books, and had been engaged in what might be termed a kind of stocktaking.

"We have had a great year, Paul," said Preston.

"Yes, I suppose so," replied Paul.

"And I doubt if any two chaps, beginning as we did, have had such success as we have had."

"Perhaps not," said Paul, "but we've not had enough yet. I've got a scheme in my mind which I want to talk with you about, Preston."

"You're always full of schemes," replied the other.

"Yes but have they not turned out well?" was the answer.

"Ay, I know," was the reply. "But sometimes I've felt as though we have been walking on eggs. I never thought, twelve months ago, that I should have dared to launch out so! Why, man, think of our liabilities!"

"Yes," replied Paul, "but think of our success, too; think of our assets! As you say, we've had a big year, but we must have a bigger next year, and big years are not got by nibbling at things. We've got this place for three months longer. At the end of that time we must clear out."

"Clear out!"

"Ay, clear out. A hundred looms are no use to us now. We must multiply them by eight."

"Why, Paul, you must be mad!"

"No, I've gone into it all. Mind you, this is no speculation which I have in my mind. It may seem like it, but I have calculated everything to a nicety. I've made inquiries at the bank, and I know to a penny how we stand, and what the bank will back us for. And I've been making inquiries about Thorncliffe Mill."

Preston looked at Paul as though he had doubts about his sanity. "Thorncliffe Mill," he replied. "Why, it's one of the biggest places in Brunford!"

"I mean not only to have one of the biggest places, but the biggest place," said Paul. And although he did not mention the fact to Preston, he knew that his new-found ambition was associated with the meeting of Mr. Bolitho's daughter a year before.

The other event, which happened that day, was entirely different. He had moved into larger rooms, and his surroundings were now more congenial to his taste. It was evident, too, that Paul knew the value of a good tailor, so much so that more than one young manufacturer declared that he was the best-dressed man in Brunford. When Paul returned to his lodgings that night he found four men awaiting him. Wondering as to what their visit meant, he asked them to sit down, and then waited for them to state their business. One of these men was the secretary of the Weavers' Union, whom we have mentioned earlier in these pages, another was the chairman of the Working Men's League, a powerful political body in the town.

"Well, what is it?" asked Paul, noticing that they hesitated.

"You know, I suppose, that Mr. Carcliffe is resigning? He was returned to Parliament four years ago, but he's had enough of it, it seems."

"Yes, I heard about it," said Paul.

"Well, now's our chance," continued one of the men.

"You mean that you're going to return a working-man?" said Paul.

"Well, I don't know so much about that," was the reply. "But we want to return a man who understands us, who can voice our needs and who has sympathies with our struggles."

"And have you thought of anyone?"

"Ay," replied the other, "we have."

"Who?"

"His name is Paul Stepaside," was the reply. "We've had him in our minds for months. In fact, we've thought of him ever since he went to gaol, in Manchester, a year ago."

To say that Paul was surprised at this proposal is but to suggest the state of his feelings. For years he had had all sorts of romantic ideas as to what the future of his life was to be, and thoughts concerning a parliamentary career were not strange to him. Now, however, that an actual proposal had been made, he could scarcely believe his own ears. Ever since he had come to Brunford he had been interested in political questions, and had been a popular speaker, young as he was, on many political platforms. He remembered the vision he had on the day he came out of prison. He had determined to work and live for these people of Brunford, to ameliorate their woes, and to bring more sunshine into their lives. But to go into Parliament, to take his part in the legislation of the country; to stand face to face with men whose names he held almost in awe, was too wonderful to be true. Still, there were the facts: these men had come to him, telling him that Mr. Carcliffe, the present Member, had either resigned or was going to resign, and suggested to him that when an election came he should fight their battle.

Well, why should he not do it? He was no longer a poor man. It is true his position in the financial world was far from being a safe one, but he had calculated concerning the future with great care, and he believed that in a few years' time his position would be secured. He believed in the cause these men stood for, too, and he could fight their battles wholeheartedly. Above and beyond all this, moreover, was something else which he scarcely dared to put into words. He had not seen the young girl who had so strangely affected him since their meeting in the fields, more than a year before, but the memory of that meeting remained with him. At the back of all his plans for the future was the thought of her, and although he did not know it, he had made up his mind to win her as his wife. The difficulties seemed almost insurmountable. She belonged to a class far removed from his own, and he knew by the look on her face that she regarded him with anger, if not with contempt. To her he was an agitator of the worst kind, one who had broken the laws of his country, and had outraged the feelings of her class. Through her own father's influence he had been sent to gaol as a criminal, and she would naturally stand by her father's position. Even without this stain upon his life, his case seemed hopeless: he was only a working-man who had "got on," while she was the daughter of a man who stood high in one of the most influential professions. He knew that the doors of the best houses in the land were open to prominent King's Counsels like Mr. Bolitho, while he was a nobody. And yet, with that dogged determination by which he had become known in Brunford, he had determined to overcome all difficulties, and to make her love him. He did not see how he was to do it, he did not know her address in London, he did not know how he could see her again; nevertheless, he held by his resolution. There was only one woman in the world to him, and that was one who despised him. Indeed, Paul Stepaside was not sure that he loved her at all. Sometimes he thought he hated her; nevertheless, she dominated his being, she was the goal of his hopes, and in everything he undertook her influence was felt.

Perhaps this was partly the reason why the proposal made to him had such a strong attraction. As a struggling cotton manufacturer he was a nobody, but as a young Member of Parliament he would have a position. The difficulties in the way of his advancement did not daunt him, and he felt sure he could make his name prominent among the legislators of the land.

"Did you say that Mr. Carcliffe had definitely resigned?" he asked.

"Well, he's told the committee that he wants to resign; we know that," was the reply. "And there's bound to be a general election in a few months, and he has declared definitely that he'll not stand again."

"Who is the man that the other party are going to nominate in his place?" he asked.

"We don't know yet," was the answer. "But we hear that a meeting is going to be held at Edward Wilson's in a few days. But never mind the other side, Paul; if you'll stand we'll send you to Parliament. We're not going to allow these fine-fingered gentry to have it all their own way. You're our man, and we'll stand by you, as you have stood by us."

Paul did not give them a definite answer that night. He wanted to think about it, he said. All the same, when he bade them "Good-night" his mind was practically made up, although he did not know it.



CHAPTER V

PAUL'S MADNESS

Howden Clough was a big house standing in its own grounds, some two miles from the town of Brunford. Considering the vicinity, it was a very handsome place of residence. The house itself was of grey stone, and occupied a commanding position. Having been built some two hundred years before, by an old county magnate, the grounds were well matured. Indeed, Mr. Edward Wilson was envied by his fellow manufacturers for having obtained so desirable a place of residence. The very fact that he lived in a house which had been owned by the Greystones gave him a kind of position, and this, added to his being a rich man, and abundantly able to keep up the place he occupied, gave him a feeling of superiority.

Edward Wilson and his son were sitting together in the room which they called the library, although there were but few evidences of the name being deserved.

"Mr. Bolitho will be here in half an hour," said the father.

"Do you know if he is bringing Mary with him?" asked Ned.

"I am not sure," replied the father. "I have done my best for you, my lad."

"I mean to have her," said the young man. "I never really cared for a girl before, and I shall never care for another. Besides, why is the case hopeless?"

"I mean you shall have her," replied the father. "But you must remember, my lad, that these Bolithos belong to a very old family, and they don't look upon money as everything. We're not county people, and they are, although they visit us as friends. Still, I can buy up half the county people, and I've done my best to persuade him to bring Mary with him. When I was at Mr. Bolitho's house last, I inquired if she had any matrimonial engagement, but as far as I could gather she's still fancy free, so let's hope for the best, Ned."

"What time does the meeting commence?" asked the son.

"Not until nine o'clock," was the reply. "We shall have plenty of time for a smoke and a chat after dinner before those fellows come."

A little later there was a sound of wheels upon the drive. Both father and son rushed to the door, and to their delight they found not only Mr. Bolitho but his daughter as well.

"This is splendid!" cried Mr. Wilson senior. "I was afraid Miss Bolitho would not be able to come. Ah, Emily, here's your friend. We are glad to see you. I am afraid you'll think that Lancashire people are a little rough, but we yield to none in the warmth of our welcome."

Although this speech seemed correct enough, young Edward Wilson felt rather uneasy. He wondered whether those of Mr. Bolitho's class would have met him in a similar way. In spite of the fact that he declared himself deeply in love with the young lady who had now gone upstairs with his sister, he did not feel comfortable in her presence. There seemed to be always an invisible barrier between them. Still, she was there, and he meant to make the most of his opportunities; and if the plans which had been made bore fruit, he trusted that he would see a great deal of her in the future.

The party that sat round the dinner table was gay, but no reference was made to the ostensible object of Mr. Bolitho's visit. When nine o'clock came, however, it was evident that there were several new-comers, and presently the two Wilsons led the way to the library, while Mr. Bolitho followed with a half-interested, half-bored look on his face. He shook hands with a number of men who had gathered in the room. Evidently they were nearly all opulent, keen-minded, successful men, but he could not help feeling pleased at the deference which each of them paid to him. Even as they did, he realised that he was not of their class. After all, a wealthy cotton manufacturer occupies a different position from that of an eminent barrister who belongs to an old county family.

They quickly made known their business. "The truth of it is, Mr. Bolitho," said the leading spokesman, "Mr. Carcliffe is resigning, and we want someone to fight our battles. The socialistic and labour element has become very strong, and unless we are strongly led, our side will be beaten. And so we have come to the conclusion that if you will say 'Yes,' you are our best man."

It was a roughly spoken speech, but Mr. Bolitho understood perfectly, and the proposal appealed to him strongly. He had long encouraged political aspirations, and here was his opportunity. To be the Member of the important borough of Brunford, which lay at the heart of the manufacturing district, promised all sorts of scope for his ambition. Owing to his success at the Bar he had a large income, and more than one had suggested to him that if he entered Parliament he would be a most eligible candidate for the post of either Solicitor- or Attorney-General, while even higher things might be within his grasp in the future. As it was, he discussed the various pros and cons with considerable eagerness and cordiality. As far as he could see, there was every probability of success. The present Member had been elected by a clear thousand majority, and he had sufficient faith in himself to believe that he could not only maintain that majority but increase it.

"By the way," he said at length, "have the other side selected their man?"

"Well, yes and no," was the reply. "From what we hear they have not fastened upon a party man, but they have approached young Paul Stepaside."

Mr. Bolitho gave a look of astonishment. "What!" he cried. "Stepaside! the fellow who a year or two ago——" And then he stopped.

"Yes," was the reply.

"But he hasn't been long out of prison."

"No," was the rejoinder. "But he's a remarkable chap, is Stepaside, and there have been all sorts of foolish notions in the town so that he's become very popular."

"I suppose these working-men's unions will pay his expenses, then?" said Mr. Bolitho.

"I am not so sure of that," replied the chairman of the association. "You see, Stepaside started manufacturing a little more than a year ago, and he's been phenomenally successful. His partner is a very able chap, too, and they know their business. So that I fancy Stepaside will be able to pay his own expenses."

"And has he the confidence of the people?"

"He's the confidence of a certain class," was the reply, "and he would be a strong candidate."

Mr. Bolitho looked thoughtful. "This is very awkward!" he said.

"You don't mean to say," said the chairman, "that this fact will alter your decision?"

"No," he replied slowly. "I don't quite say that, but it puts a new face on the question. You see, it will be awkward for me to oppose a man in politics whom, less than two years ago, I practically sent to gaol. Still, it gives a certain piquancy to the situation. Does he know much about politics, by the way?"

"No, I don't think he does," replied the chairman of the association. "And that's where our strength will lie. He's just an agitator, just a clever speaker who can appeal to men's passions, but when he's faced with facts he will be nowhere."

There was a short silence after this. It was evident that some present did not agree with what had been said, but no one spoke a word. All seemed to be afraid lest Mr. Bolitho would fail them at this juncture, and they looked upon him as the man most likely to lead them to victory.

After they were gone Mr. Bolitho talked long and gravely with Mr. Wilson.

"I tell you," said the manufacturer, "if you fail us now, Mr. Bolitho, your conduct will be misinterpreted."

Mr. Bolitho looked at the other questioningly.

"The truth of it is," went on Mr. Wilson, "a great many foolish things have gone abroad since Stepaside's trial, and the belief is that he wasn't treated fairly. The chaps who got off easily confessed, after their imprisonment, that Stepaside had tried to dissuade them from doing what they did, and so he has been looked upon as a kind of martyr. Many have blamed us for this, and now if you refuse to fight him—well, they'll say you are afraid."

"Afraid!"

"Yes, afraid. They'll say you're afraid to face a public audience, to stand up in a public fight."

Mr. Bolitho gazed steadily on the carpet for a few seconds, and then relit his cigar, which had gone out.

"That settles it, Wilson," he said. "That settles it. I will quickly let the people of Brunford know whether I am afraid or not. You can tell your chairman that I accept."

The manufacturer caught the other man's hand with delight. "By goom," he said, lapsing into the Lancashire dialect, "that's the ticket."

"You can tell him, too," went on the barrister, and his eyes flashed as he spoke, "that I'll fight this for all I'm worth. We'll leave no stone unturned, Wilson, and I'm inclined to think at the end of this election that your man Stepaside will be no longer regarded as a hero."

The following Saturday The Brunford Times announced the fact that Mr. Bolitho, K.C., had accepted a hearty invitation to stand as their candidate for the next election, and a leading article was devoted to him, declaring that, if they had sought all over England, a worthier candidate could not have been found.

Paul had no knowledge of the true facts of the case until he saw The Brunford Times on the Saturday morning. He was returning from his mill when he heard a boy shouting in the street, "Bolitho accepted for Brunford," and, buying the paper, he read the news eagerly.

"Thou looks as though thou had lost a thousand pounds, Paul," said a voice.

"Nay," replied Paul. "I've not lost a thousand pounds." And he noticed that the man to whom he spoke was the chairman of the league who had visited him some time before.

"Well, what's the matter that you look so glum?" said the other.

"I've come to a serious conclusion," replied the young man between his set teeth.

"And what's your conclusion?"

"I'm going to be Member for Brunford," he replied, and walked on without another word.

"Ay, and he will, too," said the other, as he watched Paul's retreating figure. "The chap as licks Paul Stepaside will have to be a bigger man than any lawyer that ever lived!"

The consequence of this meeting in the street was that, before the day was over, all the town knew that Paul Stepaside, who had been doubtful so long as to whether he would fight the people's battle, had now made up his mind, and that he would oppose the man who had been instrumental in sending him to prison nearly two years before!

"You remember him, Mary," said Emily Wilson. "You remember the man who stopped us in the path last summer?"

"Yes, I remember him," said the girl quietly. "He struck me as a dangerous kind of man."

"He's thought to be very good-looking," said the other. "He came to Brunford a few years ago, a nobody, and now there's no man so much talked about."

"But do you think he'll succeed?" asked the girl.

"There's no telling," replied Miss Wilson. "You see, here in Brunford the working people form the great bulk of the population, and they are very determined; when they have set their minds on a thing they stop at nothing in order to obtain it. Besides, among a certain class, your father is not very much liked."

"No, I understand that," replied the other quietly. "But, of course, they must understand that, as a barrister, my father was obliged to do what he did."

"Well, you know, these working people have all sorts of foolish notions."

"I should like to hear him speak," said Mary Bolitho. "I wonder if I should be noticed if I went to one of his meetings."

"I expect not," replied the other. "But still, no meetings will be held for a little time yet. When the election comes we shall have great doings here."

At that minute they were joined by young Edward Wilson.

"We were just talking about Paul Stepaside," said his sister. "And I was saying that the people are very strongly attached to him."

"Oh, I don't fear," replied Wilson.

"Why, you said only yesterday that you greatly doubted what the result would be," replied his sister.

"Yes, but I've been thinking it all over since then," replied Wilson, "and I can see how we can beat him."

"How?" asked the two girls eagerly.

"Well, there are two things," he replied. "One of them depends upon you, Miss Bolitho."

"Upon me!" replied the girl. "How? What do you mean?"

"You really wish your father to beat this fellow?"

"Of course I do!" replied the girl. "I should be horribly ashamed if my father did not get in by a big majority."

"Well, then," said Wilson, "it can be done. You see, Stepaside's chances all depend upon the working people. Of course, we have a good many of them on our side, but he has more on his. Now I know what these factory hands are, and although they profess to be very democratic, there's no Englishman that ever lived but who is a snob at heart. If you, Miss Bolitho, will make a house-to-house visitation, you can win enough votes to put your father in, whatever the other side does."

"But that would mean my staying in the town for months!" said the girl.

"It would mean your spending a great deal of time here," said Wilson, who thought he was very clever, "but what of that? We shall always be delighted to see you at Howden Clough, and I am sure Emily, here, would be only too glad to help you."

"Why, indeed I would, Mary," replied the girl, "and, after all, it would be great fun!"

Mary Bolitho looked across at the great town which lay in the valley beneath her. She saw the hundreds of chimneys belching out black, half-consumed coals, she saw the long lines of uninteresting cottages, in which these toilers of the North lived, and she thought of the work that Wilson's suggestion would entail. She did not know why, but she had taken a strong dislike to Paul Stepaside. Perhaps it was because she remembered his words in the shop in Brunford. Perhaps because he had roused some personal antipathy. Anyhow, in her heart of hearts was the longing to see him beaten. And yet she was afraid. She did not like the idea of spending so much time at Howden Clough. She was too clear-sighted to be blind to Wilson's intentions, and she felt sure as to what his hopes were.

"What's the other thing you have in your mind, Mr. Wilson?" she said presently.

"The other thing is personal," was the reply. "After all, who is Paul Stepaside? Who is his father? Who is his mother? Who are his people? We Lancashire people may profess to be very democratic, but we've got a lot of pride in us. I have heard—well, I won't tell you what I've heard, but I'll manage that!"

A few weeks later the contest between Paul Stepaside and Mr. Bolitho commenced in the Brunford district. There were no immediate signs that an election would take place, but each knew that they must be ready when the time came. Mr. Bolitho held crowded meetings in various parts of the constituency, and, according to newspaper reports, was enthusiastically received. This, however, was to be expected. There were fifteen thousand voters on the lists, and Mr. Carcliffe, whom Mr. Bolitho sought to succeed, had at the last election obtained over a thousand majority. Paul also addressed several meetings, which were largely attended, and his supporters spoke to him very confidently about the result. But Paul was not satisfied; he could not help noticing that a subtle change was coming over the town. His experiences of a year ago, and the tremendous enthusiasm which they had raised on his behalf were practically forgotten. His imprisonment was a thing of the past, and the share which Mr. Bolitho had taken in it was no longer very seriously considered. Paul was not long in attributing this change to its real cause. For one thing, he was being constantly met with rumours about his birth. He knew that the artisans of the North, while professing advanced democratic views, were nevertheless influenced by such things. More than once he had been asked what his father did, where he lived, where his mother and father were married, and where he had been born? And presently, when it was rumoured that he had been born in a workhouse, Paul could not help feeling that a subtle force was at work. In addition to this, too, he heard that Mr. Bolitho's daughter had been visiting among the poorer streets in the town, and that on every hand she had been winning golden opinions. It seemed to him from what he had heard that there was a kind of witchcraft in her presence, and that many who had been among his great admirers, and promised supporters, now seemed to think that the other side had a great deal to say. Paul quickly discovered, too, that this girl was no ordinary canvasser. She had been able to meet the working-class politician on his own grounds, and to answer him very effectively. Everyone who has taken part in a political contest knows the influence which a young, educated, intelligent and beautiful girl can wield, and she had gone into the people's cottages and talked, not only with the women, but with the men. She had caught, too, the rough humour of the district, and had acquainted herself with the peculiar needs and desires of the people who worked in the North. More quick-witted and better informed than they, she had apparently been able to answer Paul's arguments, and had, therefore, left them in doubt.

This, too, seemed apparent to Paul. The questions asked concerning his parentage and birthplace synchronised with the advent of this girl. Never once had he met her, and yet he was constantly hearing of the converts that she was making. As may be imagined, his heart grew bitter at the thought of it, even while he grimly determined that he would win this battle. It is true that the election seemed months away, but the ground seemed slipping from under his feet, and his chances, in spite of what his supporters told him, appeared to grow less each day.

Paul called to mind the time he had met her, in the field close by Howden Clough. He remembered, too, the wild vow he made. This girl, the daughter of the author of his disgrace, one who evidently regarded him with contempt and anger, nevertheless filled his horizon. He knew that the feelings he bore towards her, feelings which no one but himself ever dreamed of, seemed to be madness, while the election that loomed ahead, and on which he had built such great hopes, seemed to divide them rather than to bring them together. If he were beaten in the fight, she would look upon him with more contempt than ever.

This feeling caused his speeches to be somewhat bitter in their tones, and, as a consequence, did not advance his interests—indeed, he felt as though his own supporters were growing half-hearted, if not indifferent, and he attributed it all to the persistent work of Mary Bolitho. Moreover, there were constant rumours about her being engaged to young Ned Wilson—and Ned Wilson, as he knew, was his enemy.

One evening, it was toward the end of September, Paul was walking in some fields beyond Howden Clough. He had been reflecting that he had as yet done nothing towards carrying out the purpose for which he had come North. He remembered that the work his mother had given him to do remained undone.

"I promised her I would go to Scotland," he reflected, "and I've not done it. I've become so wrapped up in this business that I've almost forgotten mother. She still has that cloud of disgrace hanging over her head, while I've been thinking of my own advancement and my own desires. Besides, even if I were to win, I should never be able to speak to her until this matter is cleared up. Of course, she has heard everything, and she will look upon me as——" And then Paul set his teeth together and his eyes flashed with anger.

These thoughts had scarcely passed through his mind when his heart gave a sudden leap. Coming towards him was the girl of whom he had been thinking, and she was alone! Evidently she was on another visit to the Wilsons'; no doubt, too, she was carrying out her purpose of winning voters from him. Almost without thinking he determined to speak to her.

There was no definite thought in his mind, but it seemed to him as though he must speak to her and set himself right with her. He felt it was his right to do so, and that it was her duty to hear.

He lifted his hat on her approach. "I beg your pardon, Miss Bolitho," he said, "but may I presume on your kindness a little?"

The girl looked at him in astonishment. Perhaps she was a little angry too, for the footpath on which he met her was in a somewhat lonely district.

"I know I'm very rude in stopping you in this way," went on Paul, as though he divined her feelings, "and I would not have done so had not the reason seemed to me sufficient. Besides"—and there was a touch of anger in his voice—"it seems to me that it would not only be generous on your part if you would, but just."

As he spoke she could not help reflecting on the change that had come over him since he first spoke to her on the night following his release from prison. Then he was rude, almost truculent; now, even while he seemed angry, his demeanour suggested a refinement of feeling which did not manifest itself then.

"Of course, you know who I am," he went on. "I am Paul Stepaside, and I am your father's opponent in this political contest."

"Is it about the election that you wish to speak to me?" she asked.

"Yes, and no," replied Paul. "Perhaps the contest may be called the occasion of my asking you to speak with me, but the reason lies deeper. I am sure you do not wish to be unjust?"

"I think," she replied, "if you wish to say anything about the election, that you had better seek an interview with my father. He will be in Brunford to-morrow."

"It's not to your father that I wish to speak," he replied.

"I am altogether at a loss," said Mary Bolitho, "to know what there can be that you wish to discuss with me."

He could not mistake the tones in which she spoke. He knew, instinctively, that she did not regard him as belonging to her own class. Her every word suggested to him that he was to her an outsider, one to whom she could speak only as an inferior. A thousand things which he thought he wanted to say to her had altogether escaped him, and for a few seconds he stood dumb and confused.

"Of course, it is about this election, in a way," he stammered presently. "I—I—you see, it means a great deal to me——" And then he ceased speaking again. Somehow the words would not come.

He saw the smile of contempt which passed over her face, and he thought he understood the meaning of it. Perhaps it was the best thing that could have happened to him, for now his anger was aroused, and he saw his way clearly.

"No, no, Miss Bolitho. Do not think that I have come to whine to you, or to make complaints in any way—that is about the things you are thinking of. It's not that. I am prepared to fight my battle without seeking quarter in any direction—that is, any direction that is fair. I have never had a public-school education, but I think I know the meaning of the term, 'Playing the game.'"

She looked puzzled for a minute, and then he saw a flush mount her face.

"I am afraid I do not understand you!"

"The circumstances of my life have not made me an adept in talking with young ladies," said Paul. "Doubtless you think me rude and clownish, and perhaps you are right, but I hope I have nothing but true feelings at heart. You are fighting for your father in this election, Miss Bolitho, and I do not complain in the least. You hope he will win, and you are using every legitimate means to obtain votes for him—that is right, that is fair; but, Miss Bolitho, there is something which I regard very sacred: perhaps the most sacred thing in the world to me is the love of my mother, and the thought of her good name. I will not tell you how she has suffered for me, and how she loves me, but I hope you will believe me when I say that I regard anything which will blacken her name as the greatest insult that can be offered to myself. Have I made myself understood?"

The flush on the girl's face deepened; she knew what he meant.

"I do not mind what people say about me so much," said Paul. "I am able to defend myself, at least when I have fair play. There have been times when I have not been able to do so successfully, still time has been on my side, and justice has been done to me. But can you understand, Miss Bolitho, what a man feels, when, in order to win an election, his opponents have not been ashamed to heap shame upon one of the purest women and the best mothers that ever lived?"

"I am at a loss to know why you say this to me," retorted the girl.

"I do not complain," said Paul, "at least at this juncture, that your father was my enemy years ago. Although he had no foundation for it, he pleaded that I was a dangerous man, an agitator and a leader of a gang of knaves. Through him I spent six months in gaol among felons; I wore prison clothes; I was treated like a dog; I lay there one long, cold winter, night after night, in a damp cellar. This was through your father—not because he believed I was guilty, but because he wanted to make a case against me. I say I have never complained of this, never mentioned it once in this contest. I have tried to fight fairly, on broad general principles, but, Miss Bolitho, my mother's good name is sacred to me. Can you, as a woman, understand this?"

"I do not know why I should answer you," she said, and there was hauteur in her voice. "I cannot help understanding your accusation, and although I am utterly ignorant concerning it, I will say this: never, since I have taken any interest in this contest, have I mentioned your mother's name. Perhaps you do not believe me, and perhaps the reason is that you cannot understand?"

She spoke quietly and naturally, and yet her words stung Paul like whip-cord. Although she did not say so in so many words, he felt that she despised him, and again his anger was aroused.

"You deny, then, that you have——"

"There are certain things, Mr. Stepaside, that one cannot deny, not that they are true, but because it is impossible for one to take notice of them!"

"Forgive me," he said, almost humbly, "if I have believed what I have so often been told, but if there is one person about whom I am sensitive, it is my mother. I will not detain you any longer, Miss Bolitho. Perhaps it would have been better if I had not spoken to you at all. Do not think that I complain because you are fighting against me. You can do no other—besides, I am sure"—and here he spoke bitterly—"that your father and the Wilsons will have poisoned your mind against me!"

He saw an angry flash from her eyes.

"I am afraid you are wrong there, Mr. Stepaside, as far as I know there have been no reasons why I should think of you at all; as for enmity, such a thing would be impossible!"

His heart seemed like a great hot fire as he left her. He knew he had broken all conventions, and acted like a madman; he knew that whatever she had felt towards him before, her feelings towards him now must be of utter scorn and derision, and yet he would not recall one word he had spoken, even if he could. He was glad that he had said these wild, incoherent things to her. He had spoken to her, she had spoken to him. In the future she would think of him, not as a nonentity, not as someone who could be easily passed by, but as one whose life meant something. She would never be able to forget him. He knew it and rejoiced in it! She would be reminded of him by a thousand things in the days to come. She would never be indifferent about him again, and throughout the whole of the contest that was coming on she would regard him differently from the way in which she had thought of him before. Somehow, too, he felt less jealous of Ned Wilson. He had not spoken of this man, who was said to be his rival, but he was in the background of his thoughts all the time. For weeks the stories which the gossips had bandied had wounded him, but now he felt different. After their talk this girl would never think of Ned Wilson; she could not. He did not belong to her order of beings. He breathed a different atmosphere, he spoke a different language, lived in a different world.