The next day Paul started for Scotland, to try and discover the truth concerning which his mother had told him.



CHAPTER VI

PAUL GOES TO SCOTLAND

When Mary Bolitho returned to Howden Clough that evening she went straight to her own room. She wanted to be alone. Under ordinary circumstances she would have, girl-like, sought out her friend, Emily Wilson, and given her a full report of what had taken place, but her desire was for silence rather than for speech. In spite of her anger she felt that there was something sacred in what this young man had said to her. There could be no doubt that he felt strongly, and she knew, by the tones of his voice and the look in his eyes, that he was greatly moved. Of course, she felt indignant that he should dare to speak to her at all, and she wondered why she had resolved to say nothing to her father about their meeting. When all allowances had been made, he had been rude in the extreme. He had stopped her in a lonely part of the countryside, and had roughly commanded her to listen to him! And Mary Bolitho was a proud girl, and was not accustomed to being dictated to. All the same, she felt much interested in what he had said, and she found herself thinking of him again and again. There was something romantic, too, in his story which, in spite of its improbability, she could not help believing, and although she felt very angry with him, she sympathised with the feelings he had expressed. Months before she had been annoyed at the thought that her father should have been opposed by one who was little removed from the working classes. She remembered him as she had first seen him, at the shop in Market Street, pale, angry, and, as it seemed to her, coarse. He spoke as one of his own class, too, and he was rough and rude. But that view had become somewhat corrected, and she had to admit to herself that Paul Stepaside was no awkward, ignorant, ill-dressed clown. Indeed, for that matter, he had the advantage of most young men of her acquaintance. His coal-black eyes and hair, his pale face and stalwart figure, would be noticed anywhere. Besides, he was well-dressed, and although he knew but little of the ways of her world, she knew that he would never be passed without notice. Besides all this, there was a suggestion of strength in nearly every word he said, in every tone of his voice, and Mary Bolitho had a great admiration for strong men. Young Edward Wilson, whose pointed attentions she could not mistake, seemed but as a pigmy compared with him. Still, she felt angry, and she rejoiced in the thought that, on his own admission, she was helping towards his defeat.

Later in the evening, Paul Stepaside became the subject of a conversation at Howden Clough, but Mary said no word as to their meeting. Indeed, she was silent whenever his name was mentioned. On the following day, young Ned Wilson was much chagrined when she declared her intention of returning home. "Why, Miss Bolitho," he said, "you told me you had arranged to canvass Long Street this week, and that will take you at least three days. Yesterday I heard that you had converted at least a dozen people, and we cannot afford to lose you now. It is all over the town, too, that Stepaside is awfully mad at your success. I think he hates you nearly as much as he hates your father."

"I don't feel like canvassing now," she replied. "And I'm anxious to get back home."

"But you will come again soon?" he urged. "The house seems like a tomb without you, and I don't know what I shall do if you go away!"

She was angered by his tones of proprietorship, and almost instinctively she compared him with the young fellow who had spoken so rudely to her the night before. Wilson was commonplace, unlettered; he had only the tastes of the ordinary common, money-making manufacturer, and for the first time a feeling amounting to revulsion came into her heart as she thought of the hopes which she knew he entertained.

That afternoon she left Brunford, in spite of the protests that were made, and found her way to London.

"Returned so soon, Mary?" said her father when she arrived. "I quite expected you to stay another week. I have heard about the success of your work in Brunford, and I imagined that you were going to win me a great many more votes before you returned. I had no idea that you would be such a valuable asset when I started this fight, and although I am awfully glad to have you back, we shall have to strain every nerve if we are to beat that fellow."

"Do you think you will beat him, father?" she asked.

"If we go on as we are doing, we shall," he replied. "I know he has a tremendous hold upon the town, and I know that a great deal of prejudice has been roused against me, but we must beat him, Mary; we must."

"Why, is there any special reason for this?" she asked, noting the tone of her father's voice.

"Of course, I want to win," was his reply. "I never like to engage in a fight without winning. I think that my success at the Bar has been mainly owing to the fact that I've always set out to win. Besides all that, I don't know how it is, but I've taken a personal dislike to that fellow. By the way, have you ever met him?"

"Yes," replied the girl.

"Of course, you've never spoken to him?"

To this she made no reply. She did not know why it was, but she felt she could not tell her father of their meeting in the fields behind Howden Clough.

"Well, I shall have to go up to Brunford myself in two or three weeks," continued Mr. Bolitho, "and, if you can, I hope you will go with me."

"Can we not stay at an hotel when we go again, father?" she asked.

"Why?" asked Mr. Bolitho, turning upon her quickly. "Have not the Wilsons always been kind to you? And do you not feel comfortable there? Besides, there is no hotel in Brunford that I care to stay at, and there's a sort of general understanding between Wilson and myself that we shall be his guests."

The girl was silent, and looked steadily on the floor.

"What is it, Mary? There's something wrong."

"Of course, I cannot be blind to young Wilson's attentions," she said, and her voice was hard as she spoke.

"Well, he's a decent fellow, and, on the whole, I like these Lancashire people. They may be a trifle rough, and, of course, the Wilsons belong to nouveaux riches class, but young Ned cannot help that; besides, say what we will, any girl might do worse than take Ned Wilson. I know, as a fact, that his father is making an enormous income, and Ned, being the only son, will be one of the richest men in Lancashire."

"He has the mind of a navvy and the tastes of a bookmaker." And her voice was almost bitter as she spoke.

Her father laughed uneasily. "That's all nonsense, Mary!" he said. "But, tell me really, what do you think my chances are? You know the town now better than I do. Do you think I shall beat Stepaside?"

"He's not a man to be easily beaten," was her reply. "I believe that, unless——"

"Yes, unless what?"

"Unless extreme means are used, he will win."

"I will not be beaten!" said Mr. Bolitho, and his eyes flashed as he spoke. "That fellow insulted me in the Manchester Law Courts, and I was glad when he got six months. Fellows of his order need to be taught a lesson, and he shall be taught, too."

"I don't think you understand him, father," she said. "He's one of those men who will never be beaten. He'll rise above every difficulty, and move every obstacle out of his way. I don't know why it is, but I don't feel comfortable about this contest, and I feel afraid of him."

"Afraid, Mary!"

"Yes," replied the girl. "I am afraid. I know I've no reason to be, but whenever I think of him I become angry, and yet I don't know why I should be angry. In a sense, he makes me admire him. He came to Brunford a few years ago utterly poor and unknown, and now he's become quite a personality. He's just one of those strong men that always wins his way. And he hates you, too, father."

And then, without any apparent reason, the girl left the room.

Meanwhile, Paul Stepaside was in a train that carried him northward. He was doing now what he had meant to have done long months before. He had constantly been making endeavours to discover the truth about the Douglas Graham of whom his mother had spoken, but he had done so without a plan, and in a kind of haphazard way, and this was not like Paul. He felt, too, as though he had a new motive in his life. Mary Bolitho had said nothing that seemingly accounted for this, and yet he knew that her words had determined his action. A feeling of pride which he had never known before possessed him. He wanted to go to this girl with a name as good as her own. Money, he knew he could get, yes, and position, too. During the last few months he had listened to several fairly prominent Members of Parliament. He had analysed their speeches and estimated their powers, and he was not afraid of them. He was as big a man as any of them; yes, bigger, stronger, and with more will power. No, he was not afraid that he could not win position, but with this black cloud hanging over him he felt as though he were paralysed. And so, when a local train left Carlisle towards the station nearest to his mother's old home, it was with a fixed determination that he would not leave Scotland until he had discovered all that could be known. Perhaps it might end in nothing, but he must find out.

It was with a curious feeling in his heart that he presently arrived at the little farmhouse where his mother was born and reared. In spite of the fact that he was a country lad, he had never realised the meaning of loneliness as he realised it now. No other house was near; the little farmhouse was the only building in sight. As far as the eye could reach, beyond the few acres of land which had been reclaimed from the moors, there seemed to him nothing but wild desolation. Hill rose upon hill, and while the scene was almost majestic, it made him understand how lonely his mother's life must have been. He stood for several minutes looking at the house before entering. He did not know whether his grandfather was living or not, and for the first time it struck him that he might have relatives living there, to whose existence he had previously been indifferent. The day was as still as death, and it seemed to him as though the place were uninhabited. Presently, however, he heard the sound of a human voice, and, turning, he saw a rough-looking lad driving some cattle before him. The lad eyed him strangely as he came up to the little farm buildings, and seemed to wonder why he should be there. The time was evening, an evening of late summer, and Paul remembered that it was in the late summer-time when Douglas Graham, his father, had first come into the district. He called to mind, too, that he had seen his mother as she was driving home the cattle from the moors. He watched the lad almost furtively, and he wondered why it was that he was afraid to speak. It seemed to him as though some mysterious power were brooding over this lonely dwelling and forbidding him to learn the secrets that lay within.

"Does Donald Lindsay live here?" he asked presently.

The lad looked at him for a few seconds before replying, and then, in his strong Scotch accent, replied, "Nay. He's dead."

"And Mrs. Lindsay, is she alive?"

"Ay," replied the lad. "She'll be inside. She's my mother."

Paul remembered his own mother's story about this hard Scotswoman's unkindness, and felt little disposed to go into the house; yet, for the sake of learning what he had come to learn, he determined to enter. The cottage, for it was little more than a cottage, was clean, but comfortless and bare of any adornment whatever. It might seem as though no woman entered this building, for there were no marks of a woman's handicraft, none of those little suggestions of the feminine presence.

"Mother!" shouted the youth. "There's someone wants you."

A minute later Paul heard a heavy step on the uncarpeted stairway, and a tall, angular, hard-featured woman, with cold blue eyes and scanty light hair, entered the room. She looked at him steadily, as if there was something in his face that she recognised.

"And what might ye be wantin'?" she asked presently. "Ye'll not be from these parts, I fancy."

"No," said Paul. "I came from England. I was born and reared in Cornwall. Years ago, a man named Donald Lindsay came there and married into my family. I was wanting to find out something about him."

He knew it was a clumsy explanation of his appearance there, but it was the best he could think of for the moment.

"What'll you be to Donald Lindsay?" asked the woman, as she scanned him closely. "He died two years since, and it's getting on for forty years ago since he was down South. He's told me about it many a time. You're in no way related to him, are you?"

And then, giving him a second glance, she went on:

"No, no, you're no Lindsay. Donald was blue-eyed and fair-haired, and you are black-eyed and black-haired."

"But did not Donald have a daughter?" asked Paul. "You see, I've heard he married a Cornish girl, and that they had a daughter. Did you know her? Did she ever live here?"

"What's that to you?" asked the woman. "You don't mean to say that there's any siller coming to her?"

"I don't say but what there is," replied Paul, seeing that this might be the key which might help to unlock the mystery of his mother's life.

"And are you a lawyer chap?"

"Do I look like a lawyer?" he asked with a laugh. He was wanting to get the woman into a communicative mood.

"You might be," she replied. "You're just one of those keen-eyed men of the lawyer class, but I ken nothing about her, except that she's dead."

"Who's dead?" asked Paul.

"Donald's lass, Jean," was the reply. "She that was born to his first wife. And a good thing, too!" she added vindictively.

"Why a good thing?" asked the young man.

"Better dead than disgraced," replied the woman in her hard Scotch fashion. And Paul understood the fear that his mother must have had of this woman whom her father had placed in authority over her. A pain shot through his heart, and he felt like answering the woman angrily. Ever since their meeting on the Altarnun Moors Paul had been keenly sensitive about his mother's good name, and resented any approach to light words concerning her.

"I am trying to find out all about her," he said presently. "And I would be very glad if you could give me any information concerning her childhood and girlhood up here."

"Why should I?" asked the woman. "It'll not be to my advantage."

"Please don't be so sure of that," replied Paul. He knew instinctively that she was avaricious by nature, and would be likely to do anything for gain.

"You wouldn't thank me for telling," she replied.

"If you promise to tell me all you know," said Paul, "I am empowered to give you five guineas."

"And it'll get me into no trouble?" she asked, with that suggestion of Scotch caution of which Paul had so often heard.

"No," replied he, "your name need never be mentioned; but I'm anxious to find out all I can concerning the childhood and girlhood of Jean Lindsay up to the time of her marriage."

"Her marriage!" said the woman scornfully. "Weel, it may be she was married, after all, and it may be I was hard on her, and it may be, too, it was because I thought Donald cared more for her than for my children. Anyhow, she never liked me, and I don't say that I liked her. She was a good lass as lasses go, although never tractable—always stubborn. An unnatural way she had with her, too: she always wanted to be out on the moors alone, and I used to tell Donald it would never come to any good. She might have married well. Willie Fearn, who owns a farm over the moors here, would have had her, and he's worth thousands of pounds now, is Willie. But she would have nothing to say to him. One day I saw a stranger coming up the path with her, one of these handsome Southerners, and they used to meet in secret, and I suppose he courted her. Anyhow, she ran away with him, or said she did, and then came back the next day telling us that she was married."

"Yes?" said Paul eagerly. He knew all this before, but it seemed to him as though he was getting nearer the truth that he longed to learn. "And did she stay with you long?"

"Not long," replied the woman. "You see——" And a look almost of shame came into her eyes. "Well, she stayed as long as she dared."

"And have you heard what has become of her since?" he asked.

"We've heard that she died. We've no proof of it, but we saw in the papers a few weeks afterwards that a girl was found dead, and from the description given of her we concluded that it was Jean."

"But did you not try and find out?" he asked. "Surely your husband would not be so callous towards his daughter?"

"My husband did what I told him," she said. "Besides, the girl had disgraced herself, and we did not want to be dragged into it. Mind, I'm not sure, after all, but what she was properly married, and it may be I did wrong. But there it is—she's dead."

"And did you hear anything more—have you ever heard anything more about this young Southerner?"

"Well, we are not so sure about that," replied the woman. "You see, I never saw him but once before the time Jean said he married her, and so I cannot swear to him anywhere. But some time after Jean left a man came here, and, in a roundabout way, he found out what we knew about her."

"And did you tell him she was dead?"

"I told him just what I've told you," replied the woman.

"And how did he take the news?" asked Paul.

"Oh, nothing particular," replied the woman. "He just went on talking about something else, but I believe that was a bit of make-up."

"Wasn't he a friend of the Grahams at a house called 'Highlands'?" asked Paul presently.

"I believe there were some people called Graham at the time. It is said that they came there for their summer holidays, but they left before we had guessed about Jean's trouble, and so we could never find out anything about them."

"What kind of a man was he—I mean the one who came asking questions?"

"Oh, a middle-aged man, perhaps forty or fifty. He had iron-grey whiskers, and he was bald, I remember."

"And he was the only one who ever came making inquiries?" asked Paul.

"Yes, the only one."

Paul's hopes were dashed to the ground again. Still, the man must have had some reason for coming North; no one would come all the way from England to make inquiries unless something of importance lay at the back of it.

"What kind of questions did he ask?" continued the young man.

"It is a good many years since," replied the woman, "and I am afraid I did not encourage him much. But as far as I can call to mind now, he asked how long since she had left, and whether anything had happened to her."

"And did you tell him"—and Paul's voice was almost hoarse as he spoke—"did you tell him of—of what you call her disgrace?"

"No," replied the woman harshly. "I am not one of that kind. Donald Lindsay's name is a good one, and I'm proud of it myself. Besides, I thought she was dead, and so—well, I said nothing."

"And that is all you can tell me?"

"That is all."

From the little farmstead Paul went to "Highlands," but his visit seemed in vain. The people who occupied the house had lived there for some twelve years, and they had bought it from an agent as a summer residence. They had heard that the previous owner lived in Edinburgh, but they were not sure. They only knew he was in the habit of letting the house during the summer months.

"Did you know the Grahams?" Paul asked.

"No. I've heard they lived in England, in London, in fact, but we knew nothing about them. I have been told that they were a large family, and came here during the three summer months, but that's twenty years ago now, and so nothing is known."

"And they have not been here during your time?" asked Paul.

"No," was the reply.

And this was all he learnt. He asked many questions, but the answers were all vague and tentative.

From "Highlands" he went to Willie Fearn's farm. He thought perhaps his mother's one-time admirer might be able to give him some information, but Willie Fearn was a dour Scotsman, who said he knew nothing. When Paul approached the subject of Willie's former relation to Jean Lindsay and his hopes of making her his wife, the Scotsman set his lips firmly together and refused to speak. He admitted presently how he had heard "that the lass had gut into sore trouble, and then went away and died. But there's nae proof," he said, "there's nae proof. And it's a warning to Scotch lasses to have nothing to say to Southern strangers. And Jean was a good lass," he added confidentially, "and would have made a good saving wife for a sober man with a little siller. She had a grip of doctrine, too. She was well versed in the fundamentals and would have made a good elder's wife. But, ay, man, the tempter comes in many a form, and it behoves us all to be very careful."

So far, Paul's visit to his mother's old home had been entirely without result. As far as he could see, he could make not one step forward. Moreover, in spite of the looseness of thought concerning Scotch marriage, he saw that there was a doubt as to whether the wedding was legal or not. But he had not finished yet. He had from time to time read such books as came in his way bearing upon Scotch law, and in one of these was a definite statement that if a man and woman were known to take each other as husband and wife, this was proof that their marriage was legal. So, remembering his mother's words, he made his way towards the little inn where they had stayed on the night of their marriage. He took the road which she had told him of, and presently came to the spot where she and Douglas Graham had taken each other as man and wife. The woman must have described the scene with great accuracy, for he recognised it the moment he came to it. The patch of lonely pine trees, the little lake by which the road ran, the burn coming down the rocky valley, and the great wild moorlands stretching away northward. And they had stood within the shade of the pine trees while the setting sun sent its rays of light through the branches. He believed he recognised the spot on which they knelt when Douglas Graham prayed that their union might be blessed. A shiver passed through him as he stood there, and he called to mind the words they had spoken: "I, Douglas Graham, take thee, Jean Lindsay, to be my wife, and I promise to be faithful to thee as long as I live." In spite of sad memories, it seemed like holy ground, and however the marriage had appeared to the bridegroom, to him it was real and sacred.

It was late that night when he came to the inn near the Scottish border, but the innkeeper welcomed him eagerly. It had been a wet summer, and they had had but few visitors. Both the innkeeper and his wife, therefore, were glad to see Paul, and were hoping he would spend some days with them. Both of them were Scotch people, although they had lived for many years on the English side of the border.

"Have you kept this inn long?" asked Paul after supper.

"For more than thirty years," replied the man. "When we came here first it was very lonely, and there were few people who came. Just a stopping place it was for wagoners and that sort of people. But now, both English and Scotch people are realising that there's no lovelier part in the whole of the British Isles. That's why they come. You see, there's many associations around this neighbourhood too. Tammy Carlisle was born and reared not many miles from here. And then, as you know, Gretna Green is not very far away."

"But the days of Gretna Green are over?" suggested Paul.

"Ay," he replied. "But not altogether. We've had many a couple come to us directly after their marriage, and I believe that lots of them have just gone over the border for a Scotch marriage."

"By the way," asked Paul, "do you remember twenty-five years ago this very month that a young man brought his wife here? It was on the twenty-ninth of August. Think, now; do you remember it?"

"Ay, I think I do, but my wife has a better memory than I. Meg! Will you come here?"

The old lady was keenly interested in Paul's questions. "Why, of course, Angus. I've thought about them many a time since. He was fair and she was dark."

"That's it," said Paul eagerly. "That's it."

"She had black een, I remember," said the woman. "Een as black as sloes, and her hair was like the sheen of a raven's wing. And they did love each other, too, I could see that."

"And did they sign any register or anything of that sort?" said Paul. "Do you keep a register of your visitors?"

"Nay," said the woman. "We kept no register then, but we do now. People came and went then, and we thought not so much of it. All the same, they did write something."

"Both of them?" asked Paul.

"Ay, both of them. You see, I wasna so sure about them, and I wondered whether it was a runaway match. The lad introduced the lass as his wife, but they seemed mighty nervous, and the lad had been here a few weeks previously with some others, and I am sure he had nae thought of marrying then."

"Did you say he wrote his name and she wrote hers?" asked Paul eagerly.

"You seem mighty interested," said the woman. "One might think—— Ay, now I look at your face again, ye remind of the lass. Your eyes and hair are as black as hers, and ye have the same kind of face, too. It might be that she was your mother."

"Think for a moment that she is my mother," said Paul. "Let me see the writing in the book."

The woman went to the bookcase by her side and took down an encyclopaedia, and there, on the flyleaf, he saw the names, "Douglas Graham, Jean Graham, August 29th, 18—."

"And they left the next day, didn't they?" asked Paul.

"Ay, they left the next day, and they looked as though they were going to a funeral, both of them. I wondered if they had quarrelled or something, but they seemed so loving that that seemed impossible. But I've thought of them many a time since."

"Let me see," said Paul. "This is on the English side of the border, isn't it?"

"Ay," replied the woman. "It is the English side."

On leaving the next day Paul made his way to the nearest town of importance on the Scotch side, and was soon closeted with a lawyer.

"I am come to ask for information," said Paul.

The Scotsman looked at him keenly, and wondered how much he could charge him.

"Maybe you are in trouble?" he said.

"No," replied Paul; "I'm not in trouble. I only want information concerning a matter of Scotch law."

"And there's no man north of the Tweed that knows more about Scotch law." And the old lawyer stroked his chin thoughtfully. "But what phase of Scotch law are ye interested in?"

"Scotch marriage."

"Maybe you're thinking of getting wed? If ye are, take the advice of a man who has had to do with hundreds of weddings, and don't! If there's one thing for which I'm thankful to Providence, it is that I've always been strong enough to resist the lasses. Trouble came with the coming of a woman into the world, and they have been at the heart of nine-tenths of it ever since."

"No doubt your advice may be very wise," said Paul, "but it's not of that I'm thinking now. The question with me is what makes a Scotch marriage?"

"Nay, nay, man, don't try and sail as near to the rocks as ye can. If ye are going to wed, have the matter done publicly and openly."

"I'm not going to wed," said Paul. "But this is what I want to know: what is a Scotch marriage?"

"For the life of me, I can't tell you," he replied. "But ye have some case in your mind, I see. Tell it."

"Well, supposing a man and woman took each other as husband and wife according to the old ideas?"

"Ay, I follow," said the Scotsman. "No kirk, no minister, no witnesses, no anything?"

"Yes," said Paul. "Would they be married?"

"Ay, they would. But if one of them tried to back out, ye see, difficulties come in. In that case they would have to declare themselves before someone that they were married."

"Well, then," continued Paul, "suppose they went to an inn that night and the man called the woman his wife before the innkeeper and his wife?"

"Ah, then you have got something to go on," said the lawyer. "That certainly would clinch the nail. Ye're thinking of property, I expect?"

"There's another question I want to ask," said Paul, not noticing the query which the old Scotsman had interposed. "Supposing that directly they were married in Scotland they went to England, and the inn wherein the man called the woman his wife was in England. Would that make any difference?"

The old Scotsman scratched his head. "Ay, man," he said, "it might. But I'm no sure."

"Not even if both the man and the woman signed their names in a book that they were married?"

"I'm no sure," repeated the lawyer. "But I could find out for you, say, for a matter of five pounds, and I would let you know. But I would have to write to Edinburgh and, it may be, have to consult many documents."

Paul could not get beyond this, and when, at the end of three days, he returned to England, he felt that, although his visit to his mother's home and the scenes associated with their marriage were extremely interesting, he had made no real forward step. One statement of the old lawyer, however, remained in his memory, and he brooded over it during his journey back to Brunford: "If ye could find the man," said the old lawyer, "who took the lass to the inn on the English side of the border and declared her to be his wife and signed his name in the book, I think you would have such a hold on him, if ye faced him with these things, that he couldna get out of it. But beyond this I daurna go."

And so Paul felt he had moved forward in spite of himself. Somehow the marriage seemed more real, and he felt that he was nearer the day when the shame which had so long rested upon his mother's life would be lifted.

No sooner had he reached Brunford, however, than these thoughts were driven from his mind. Rumours were in the air that the Government was about to resign and that an election was imminent.

"Bolitho is coming to-morrow," said old Ezra Bradfield, the chairman of the Workmen's League. "And I hear he means to move heaven and earth to keep you out of Parliament."

"And I mean to get in," said Paul grimly.



CHAPTER VII

THE FIGHT AND THE RESULT

A little later Brunford was wild with excitement. It is true the Government had not yet resigned, and as a consequence the General Election was not yet upon them, but all felt that there was a crisis in the political situation, and that the battle would be a very keen one indeed. Mr. Bolitho was spending all the time he possibly could in Brunford, while Mary Bolitho had resumed her work of canvassing the poorer streets. More than once Paul, in going round the town, had seen her, but she never looked toward him, and seemed to be utterly regardless of his presence. All the same, Paul felt sure she had seen him, and her presence, even although she had become the fixed star of his life, strengthened his determination to get the better of her father in this fight. So entirely did he devote himself to his political work that, in the main, he left business matters to his partner.

"Things are safe in your hands, Preston," he said, "and everything is going smoothly. Now I'm on this job I mean to win."

"I'd rather you'd stick to business, Paul," said Preston. "We're walking on slippery ground just now. You know we've made our money by a speciality, and it needs a lot of watching."

"Yes," said Paul. "It was because we decided to specialise that we've been so successful. We discovered our secret and we've made the most of it."

"Yes," urged the other, "but we've a lot of stuff in our warehouse just now; as you know, we've kept it because we believed that prices would go up. If the prices were to go down now, we should be ruined."

"But they won't go down," said Paul; "they can't. We've the monopoly of it. And when winter comes everybody will be buying it."

"I should feel safer," said Preston, "if you'd give more of your time to it. But there, I'll do my best, although I don't like the look on Ned Wilson's face."

"Ned Wilson's face!" said Paul. "What do you mean, lad?"

"I mean that yesterday he met me in the reading-room of the Mechanics' Institute and he just laughed. 'How goes the speciality, Preston?' he said. 'Is it a speciality? Are you the only people who manufacture it?' And I didn't know what to say, Paul, for I know he hates us like poison, while I believe he has a special grudge against you. We can't afford to play pranks, while Ned Wilson can."

But Paul paid little attention to this. He had now fully embarked on this political fight. The town had to be canvassed. Meetings had to be addressed. Committees had to be formed. In fact, he had to devote the whole of his time to the fight which had engrossed him completely.

The whole country was at that time agog with the expectation that the Government would resign and that an election would be immediately upon them, and Paul, being fully aware of this, had determined to leave nothing to chance. He had complete confidence in Preston's business capacity, and felt that everything was safe. Thus, when one day the news flashed along a thousand wires that the Government had resigned and that a General Election was upon them, he was glad he had given himself heart and soul to this political struggle. He did not know why it was, but it seemed to him that upon it depended everything. If he could win in this fight, he was sure, although it would alienate Mary Bolitho from him, it would also open up the way to their future meetings. It would enhance her respect for him. He believed he read her like a book. She was ambitious even as he was, and she would scorn the man who was easily beaten. He felt his chances had improved; at each meeting he addressed he became more confident and spoke with more effect. The inwardness of politics, too, possessed him more fully. During his spare hours he had been reading the lives of eminent politicians. He called to mind those words of Disraeli: "Read no history, nothing but biography, for that is life without theory." He had followed this advice, and in reading the life of great politicians had laid hold of the history of the century. Everything had been made vivid to him, especially the struggles of the working classes. Moreover, in studying the lives of great men, he had grasped the principles on which they worked, and politics had become to him not a mere abstraction, not a matter of expediency, but something concrete, a great working philosophy. This fact had enriched his speeches, and thus it came about that when Mr. Bolitho read them, he discovered that he was fighting not with an ignoramus, but with a man with a powerful mind, a man who, given reasonable circumstances, would be bound to make himself felt.

Mr. Bolitho, too, realised the force of what his daughter had said to him; Paul was not a man to be easily beaten, and that, unless some extraordinary events took place, he, Mr. Bolitho, would not be able to gain the victory. He discussed this matter long and seriously with Mr. Wilson and his son Ned, and presently, when they were within a fortnight of the polling day, he began to look serious indeed. It is true Mary Bolitho had won many votes and had removed much of the personal prejudice that had been created against him; nevertheless, he saw that Paul had gripped the town in a way which he was unable to do, and because the young man had entered into the life and thoughts of the people, he was able to express their feelings in a way not possible to him.

"It would be the bitterest blow of my life if I failed," he said to young Ned Wilson and his father one night, on their return from one of their meetings. "I should never dare to put my foot in Brunford again, neither would Mary, if this young upstart got the better of us."

"Never fear!" said young Ned. "I'll promise you he shall not win this election, Mr. Bolitho."

A little later Mr. Wilson was called away to see someone, and Ned and Mr. Bolitho were left together.

"You speak with great certainty, Ned," said Mr. Bolitho, who had come to address the young manufacturer with great freedom.

"I do," replied Ned. "Mr. Bolitho, I'm a plain man, may I say something to you now?"

"Say what you will, my lad!"

"Well, then, I love your daughter, and I want to make her my wife. Will you let me have her?"

"I don't know Mary's feelings about the matter," said Mr. Bolitho.

"But supposing you win this election, will you do your best for me?" There was a kind of challenge in Ned's voice as he spoke.

"I'll promise not to oppose you, anyhow."

"No, that will not do," said Ned, and his voice became tremulous. "Look here, this is a tremendous business to me. I want you to understand that life, happiness, everything depends upon my being able to win Mary. With her I feel I could do great things. I could go into Parliament myself, ay, and make a name too. I'm not a fool, Mr. Bolitho. There are but few men who know more about Lancashire life than I do, I am intimately acquainted with every detail of Lancashire business, and although I ought not to say it, since I've been made a partner in our firm, I have more than doubled our income. I have a great deal of power, Mr. Bolitho, too, more than you think; I could cause you to lose this election, and I can make you win it."

"How?" asked the other. His voice was keen and sharp.

"I will not tell you how," replied Ned. "But I can make you win it. Perhaps there's not another man but myself that can. And you shall, too, if you'll promise to do your best for me with Mary. Is it a bargain?"

Mr. Bolitho did not speak. For the moment he was under great excitement. The fear that he would lose the seat had entered his heart, and, as he had more than once said, the desire to win in everything he undertook was a kind of passion with him. He would do a great deal, and give a great deal, to win this election, not because he thought it would add much either to his fame or to his position, but because the eagerness to be conqueror was almost like a disease.

"Come, now," repeated Ned. "Is it a bargain? If I win you this election, will you do your best for me with Mary. Of course, I don't ask you to force her—she's not a girl to be forced—but will you do your best? Mind you, I love her like my own life, and I'll devote every power I have to make her happy!"

"I'll say this," said Mr. Bolitho, still labouring under great excitement, "I'll not oppose you, and if I can make the way easy for you, I will—there!"

"Very well," cried Ned, with flashing eyes. "That's a bargain, then. You may regard the seat as safe!"

Within a week from that time there were strange rumours in Brunford. It was said that the financial position of Stepaside and Preston was not safe. They were only rumours at first, and people paid little attention to them, but they grew in volume, grew in directness of statement. Five days before the election Preston came to Paul with a white face. He looked as though he had spent a sleepless night. "Look here, Paul," he said. "You must give up this political business!"

"Give it up!" said Paul. "I cannot. We are only five days from polling, and I cannot spare a minute for anything else."

"I tell you you must give it up!" cried Preston. "And even now you must come and give me two hours right away!"

Paul shook his head. "I've got to meet my committees, my canvassers. I wouldn't lose this fight now for a thousand pounds."

"It means more than the loss of a thousand pounds, it means the loss of everything!"

"Everything!"

"Yes, everything. Look here, Paul, you know we've kept ourselves hard, and we've overdrawn at the bank, because we felt sure our stuff was going up. Well, it hasn't gone up. There's been a sudden drop in it! Look here." And he showed him that morning's newspaper. Paul looked at his watch. "I must go to these committee meetings," he said.

"But you can't," urged Preston. "I am not strong enough to deal with these things. Only you can get us out of this hole, and I doubt whether it's not too late even now! There's something at the bottom of this, Paul, and you must go into it. There's an enemy in the camp somewhere. There's no reason why our stuff should go down, the demand for it is greater than ever, but somebody's underselling us. Why, it can't be manufactured at the price mentioned there." And he pointed to the paper.

"Very well," said Paul, "you go round to the committee-rooms and tell them I can't be there to-day."

He went towards his office with a great fear in his heart. Before the day was out he realised the truth of Preston's words. He found that, unknown to them, someone else had gained the secret of the special stuff that they had been manufacturing. That, unknown to them, a large amount of it had been placed upon the market, and placed upon it at such a price that even if they sold every piece they manufactured they would have to do so at a very great loss. Indeed, it seemed to him as though ruin stared him in the face! He hurried from Brunford to Manchester, then back again—he went from mill to mill, and had various interviews with the most important people in the town, and everywhere he was met with the same difficulty.

Still, he would not give up the political fight. More than money—honour, life were at stake, and he must carry the thing through.

Three days before the election every voter in the town received, not merely their usual election literature, but an anonymous circular. It made no statements, but asked a series of questions concerning the financial obligations of Messrs. Stepaside and Preston. It showed the most minute knowledge of all Paul's liabilities, of the work he had undertaken, of the position in which he stood. Before the day was out there was not a voter in Brunford but who had read and discussed the circular which had been sent. No libellous statement had been made, and yet a hundred things had been suggested—inability, carelessness, ignorance, fraud, chicanery had all been hinted at, and hinted at cleverly. And yet no word of libel had been used, only the sting of the circular lay in the tail, and it was contained in these words: "Stepaside is the man that controls Stepaside and Preston. Is he the man whom we can trust to represent Brunford?"

A meeting of the general committee was called next night. If anything could be done, it must be done quickly. No one knew who had issued this circular—the name of the printer was not there. It had come by post from London. Who had sent it no one could tell. But here was the fact—its contents were of the most damning nature. It hinted that Paul was on the verge of bankruptcy, and that he owed his position to wild speculation, if not to fraudulent dealings. Paul's face was pale when he met the committee. "I want to face this matter fairly, gentlemen," he said. "You know that it was under pressure that I consented to fight for the seat, and to represent your interests. I did so in good faith. I believed my business was on a sound basis; nevertheless, many things in the circular are true." He then went on to tell how he stood commercially. He described his position in terms with which his hearers were familiar, but which I need not try and reproduce here. Indeed, it will be well that I should not, because the matter is still discussed in the town of Brunford. But he had no difficulty in convincing all present that he had acted honourably, and that an enemy had been at work. Still, what was he to do? He could not deny the statements made, and it was, doubtless, a fact that he stood on the verge of ruin. His supporters, moreover, were mainly of the working class, and the rich men, the employers, were supporters of Mr. Bolitho. Besides, as was natural, the bank which had backed him was anxious concerning the whole matter.

"The question is," said Paul, "what do you wish me to do? Shall I resign, now at the eleventh hour? If I do, it will be a sign of weakness. It will be a confession that every word in this circular is true. It will proclaim the fact that I am afraid to face the future."

"Can'st a face the future, Paul?" asked one.

"I believe I can," he said, "and yet it is so uncertain that I feel I must place myself in your hands."

"And let t'other side beat us?" cried an old weaver. "Nay, nay, Paul. We mun fight to the end!"

This was unanimously agreed upon, but Paul knew that a deadly blow had been struck, struck by an unseen hand, and in such a way that he had no means of parrying it. He knew, too, that nothing was so fickle as popular favour. A fortnight before, a week before, he felt sure of a clear thousand majority, but he knew that there were thousands in Brunford who would be influenced by what they had been discussing, and would as likely as not turn against him. Still, now that his committee had resolved to fight to the end, he determined he would not fail them, and during the next few days he threw himself into the fray with renewed ardour. He seemed to do ten men's work, and although the clouds hung heavily over his head, he roused his meetings to tremendous enthusiasm. At factory gates, at crossroads, in the market square and in the public halls, he proclaimed his views, and did his best to answer the thousand insulting queries which were constantly flung at him. But he fought as one who despaired. He knew he was fighting a losing battle, and even although there was ever a ring of defiance in his voice, there was never a note of victory.

At length the polling-day came, and he watched the course of events eagerly. Up to now he had never once come into personal contact with Mr. Bolitho. Perhaps he had studiously avoided meeting his opponent, and certainly Mr. Bolitho had not been anxious to meet him. They had passed each other in the streets, but neither had taken notice of the other, and Paul had never once made reference to the treatment he had received at the barrister's hands years before. Let this be said, too, as far as Mr. Bolitho was concerned, he had never, at any of his meetings, referred to the circular which had created such commotion. Whether he had kept silent as a matter of policy, or because he felt it would have been striking below the belt to do so, I cannot say, but certain it is that neither in public nor in private had he ever been known to pass any opinion on the crisis through which Paul was passing.

The polling booths closed at eight o'clock on the fourteenth of December, and then crowds moved towards the town hall, where the voting papers were to be counted. It had been announced that the figures would be known soon after eleven o'clock, and thousands of people waited outside the huge building, wondering as to the result of the day's voting. Of course, Paul and some of his supporters were in the counting chamber, and Paul noticed that Mr. Bolitho passed from table to table, talking eagerly with his friends. Evidently the voting was very close. The little heaps of voting papers were placed along the table, and it seemed as though neither had the advantage. More than once Paul was within a foot of his opponent, but neither spoke a word. It seemed as though something sealed their lips. There was something more than parties that divided them—something deeper, something personal, something that went down to the roots of life.

At length a hush came over the counting chamber. The last of the voting papers had been taken from the boxes, and the little piles of fifty were duly placed and counted. The mayor of the town was at his post, looking very pale and important. A half-sheet of paper was in his hand. "Gentlemen," he said, "I am now prepared to make known the results of the day's voting. It's been a very close fight, and there are less than two hundred votes in it." He did not know whether he was using the correct words or not. In fact he did not care. He was, perhaps, the most excited man in the room, not even excepting the two candidates. "It is as follows," he went on. "Bolitho——" He went no farther, for there was a great shout throughout the chamber. The employers looked at each other with gladness and satisfaction—their side had won! The working-men element looked grim and defiant.

"Silence!" proceeded the mayor. "Bolitho, 7,213; Stepaside, 7,080. It is my duty to declare that Mr. Bolitho is elected."

For the first time Mr. Bolitho turned towards Paul, and the young man noticed the look of triumph in his face. "You see, we've won!" he said. "In spite of everything, we've won!"

It was not the words so much, but the tone of his voice that maddened Paul. Throughout the day he had been in a state of intense excitement. It seemed to him as though his nerves were raw, and he knew that he was on the point of a breakdown. Bolitho's tones, therefore, maddened him, and he was almost beside himself. "Yes, you have won," he said. "But how?"

"How?" laughed the other, and he was ashamed of himself for speaking the words, but he, too, was strangely wrought upon. "How? By honour and fair play!"

"Gentlemen," said the mayor, "I must announce the numbers to the crowd outside. There are thousands of people who have been waiting for hours to know the results, and they will not go away until they hear them. Of course, too, they will expect a few words from Mr. Bolitho and Mr. Stepaside."

It took some minute or two to make the arrangements for this, and Paul, smarting under the sting of what his opponent had said, burst forth, "Honour and fair play! Was it honour and fair play to besmear my mother's name, to throw reflections upon my birth? Was it honour and fair play to speak of me as an atheist? Was it honour and fair play to send out a circular, unsigned and untraceable, which threw out innuendoes about my financial position? And, more than all, was it honour and fair play to seek to ruin me?"

"I never once referred to the circular!" replied Mr. Bolitho.

"You never condemned it!" cried the young man. "You allowed the poison to work, and took advantage of it! And more than that, you know as well as I that the whole thing was arranged for. In order to win this election, you stopped at nothing, even my ruin!"

Paul had barely ceased speaking when he saw that Mary Bolitho stood immediately behind her father and had heard all he said. He saw, too, that Mr. Bolitho's face had become pale as ashes, and he felt sure that his words had wounded him.

"I did nothing to ruin you," he said at length.

"But were glad when you heard of it!" replied the young man. "And you did not hesitate to drag in the religious business. That, at all events, you cannot deny!"

At this the older man's face cleared, except that the mocking smile remained on his lips.

"That, of course, was inevitable," he replied. "We had to deal with the question of education, of religious education. How could I keep, then, from dealing with personal matters? You believe in a mere secular education, and proclaim your views with no uncertain voice. I, who am convinced that a mere secular education would ruin the country, had to oppose you, and had to deal with your personal attitude to the whole matter. You cannot deny that! Have the courage of your convictions, man, and stand by them!" And Paul noted the taunt in his voice.

"I have!" he replied. "I deny nothing of what I have said, and your attitude has made me believe less in your religion than ever. Why"—and his voice became tense and bitter—"I'm willing to allow my religion to be tested by this election. I have not uttered one wrong word about you. I have done nothing to defame your character, in spite of what has passed. And yet you have sneered at my 'ignorant atheism and blatant unbelief.' Is that religion? Is that playing the game? You, who profess to be a gentleman! You, who have had all the advantages of education! You, who boast of playing the game, and not fouling the pitch! Even if you have not openly said these things, you have allowed your supporters to blacken my mother's name. You have used foul gossip as a weapon with which to fight. You have allowed a devilish circular to be sent out, and never condemned it. And you have been willing to benefit by the attempts to ruin me!"

Paul watched Mary Bolitho's face as he spoke, and he noted the vindictive anger in her eyes, he knew that he was alienating himself more completely from her by the words he used. But he did not care; he was past caring! The election was lost. He had failed in the fight. The woman he loved and hated at the same time scorned him more than ever—and ruin stared him in the face!

Mr. Bolitho shrugged his shoulders. He had been too long before the public to heed attacks of this sort. He had been hardened by many a fight in the law courts, and he knew how little such words might mean. Besides, he was naturally in a good humour. He had won the fight. He was Member for Brunford.

"Do not let us dwell on personalities, Mr. Stepaside!" he said. "After all, it's the principles of our party which have won. You have fought a good fight"—and his voice became very condescending as he spoke—"but truth and right were too strong for you, and the country is turning against you."

"Come, gentlemen," said the mayor. "We are all ready." And with that he stepped through the window on to the balcony above the entrance to the town hall, while the opponents and their supporters followed. The whole of the street outside the town hall was brilliantly lit by torches, and by the street lamps, so that the eager, upturned faces of the thousands who surged between the steps of Hanover Chapel and those of the town hall could be plainly seen. Directly they saw the mayor the people gave a great shout, and then a silence followed like the silence of death.

"Gentlemen," said the mayor, "I am here to announce the results of the election. They are as follows: Bolitho——-" At that word a roar from the people seemed to rend the heavens. With some it was a shout of victory, with others it was a cry of defeat and anger. It was easy to see the excitement on their faces. One could even tell what they were saying, so vivid was the light which fell upon them. "Bolitho's in, good!" "Stepaside is out, it's a shame!" "It's noan been a fair fight!" "We mun 'a' a petition!" "Nay, nay, it's no use now!" And so on. Only those close to the balcony heard the figures. The noise of the crowd made it impossible for the people standing near Hanover Chapel gates to bear a word which the chief magistrate had uttered.

Presently, however, a great hush came over the crowd again. The people saw Mr. Bolitho step forward, but only one sentence was heard, "Gentlemen," he said, "we have fought a good fight, and we have won it!" Of course, his supporters shouted wildly, but the cries of antagonism were stronger. Voices became more and more angry. It might seem as though a riot were possible.

Mr. Bolitho, however, continued his speech, which, although the people in the street could not hear, was plain to those who stood on the balcony. He thanked the people for supporting him. He remarked that he had come there a stranger, and was now their friend. He declared that his duty was no longer to a part but the whole of the voters, that he should recognise no difference between one section of the people and another. It was for him to represent the town as a whole, which he intended to do faithfully and loyally. He desired, also, to compliment his opponent on the spirit in which he had conducted his part of the battle, and for the straight fight which had been the consequence. He referred to a few of his most prominent supporters, and then, raising his voice so loudly that it reached to the extreme limits of the crowd, he said: "It may seem bad taste on my part to refer to one without whom I should never have won this election." At this even the most turbulent became silent again, they wanted to hear what he had to say. "I owe my victory," he said, "and you owe your victory, to my daughter, Mary." And placing his hand upon her shoulder, he drew her forward. "Here!" he cried, "is your real victor in the battle!"

There was great cheering at this, and even his bitterest opponents did not resent it. The light fell strongly upon the girl's face, and even Paul could not help reflecting how beautiful she looked. Her eyes were flashing with excitement, her lips wreathed with smiles. No wonder she had fascinated him, no wonder, in spite of the fact that he hated her father, he almost worshipped her, even while he hated her.

"Speech, speech!" yelled the crowd. "Speech from Miss Mary Bolitho!"

She looked at her father, who nodded, and then the girl stepped forward, while every ear was strained so as not to miss a word she should say. It was a picture long to be remembered. Even to this day it is talked about in Brunford. She only spoke a few words, but her voice rang out clearly in the still air.

"I am glad I ever came to Brunford," she said. "I have learnt to love the people, and—thank you!"

That was all, but the laugh on her face, the laugh in her voice, her girlish presence, her winsome manner had done a great deal to soften the hardest heart. Indeed, many believed that she had kept thousands from angry words, and perhaps from angry deeds, by her presence.

"Ay, but oo is bonnie!" "No wonder her feyther is proud on her!" "A gradely lass and a'!" was heard everywhere. And then a silence fell upon the crowd again, which was followed by another mighty shout, louder than any which had yet been heard.

Paul Stepaside came forward, his face pale to the lips, his eyes burning like coals of fire. Black rage was in his heart, for he felt himself to be ignominiously beaten, and yet, with that stubborn persistency which characterised him, and a pride which rose above everything, he would not show it. "My good friends and comrades," he said, "we've been beaten this time, but we'll win yet. If you will have me, I mean to be Member for Brunford, in spite of everything. Mr. Bolitho has won this time, but it will not be for long. He and I will meet again, for I'm not one who gives up. For the moment I'm under a cloud, but only for a moment. The stars in their courses are on the side of those who are on the side of right. And we are on the right, and I've fought a straight battle. Yes, Mr. Bolitho and I will meet again—it may be under circumstances different from these, but we shall surely meet, and always to fight! He must not think, because he has gained this victory, that he will always be victorious. If I'm not your Member to-day, I will be to-morrow. And the time will come when he will not rejoice in the victory to-day as he has rejoiced in it to-night!"

Afterwards Paul was angry with himself that he had said this. He had meant to utter no vindictive word, and yet he knew that every sentence he uttered contained a threat, a threat which at that time seemed to him to have no meaning. He felt ashamed of himself, too, and it seemed to him on reflection that he had been churlish even almost to childishness. And yet the words came to him in spite of himself, and he had flung them out eagerly, almost triumphantly. Even Mr. Bolitho felt a shiver pass through his body as Paul spoke. His speech seemed to contain a kind of prophecy. There was something ominous about it. It seemed to tell of dark days to come, of tragedy—why, he could not understand, but so it was.

It was all over at length. The crowd broke up and wended their way towards their various homes. Mr. Bolitho went to the club, supported by his followers, while Paul also resorted to the gathering-place most frequently used by the class whose cause he had hoped to represent. For hours there was speechifying and loud talking. For hours words were bandied, explanations offered, and threats made. At length, however, silence reigned in the town; and Paul was about to find his way back to his lodgings, when his partner, George Preston, came to him, accompanied by a man whom they had employed to try and find out the secret cause of the ruin which stared them in the face.

"Paul," said Preston, "you've finished now. Can I go with you to your lodgings?"

"Yes," replied Paul. "What is it?"

"Something that will keep till we are alone," replied the young man laconically. "On the whole, I'm glad we didn't know two days ago what I know now. It's best as it is, Paul. I can see you are terribly disappointed at not getting in, but, for my part, I'm glad. After all, business, with me, is more than politics. You should have waited, lad, waited till our position was safe, before you started this fight. Still, you couldn't help it. It was not your fault that the election came on this year instead of next, and the chaps meant to have you."

"But tell me, what is it?" asked Paul. His mind had become so confused by the scenes of excitement through which he had passed that he could not realise the drift of his partner's words.

"No," replied the other sternly; "let's wait until we get to your lodgings. We must be alone. I tell you, if you knew what you'll know now, when you were speaking from the balcony, there would have been a row. But, never mind, it's best as it is."

They walked on through the narrow, comparatively deserted streets, until presently they arrived at a comfortable-looking house in the Liverpool Road, where Paul's rooms were now situated.

"Now, then, tell me," said the young man, when they were seated.

"Is everybody here gone to bed?" asked Standring, the man who had accompanied them, but who had not yet spoken.

"Hours since," replied Paul. "No election ever fought would keep them out of bed after eleven o'clock."

"That's well." And he took out a bundle of papers from his pocket and laid them on the table.

"You don't expect me to read them to-night?" said Paul. "I tell you, I couldn't. My brain's too fagged."

"No," replied Standring, "they need not be read tonight, but I put them there in case you should want to refer to them. They are proofs of what I'm going to tell you." Paul noted that this young fellow's voice was set and stern; he realised that the matter he wished to discuss was serious. He was a pale-faced, quiet-looking young fellow, this Enoch Standring, not given to talking much, or to assert himself to any great degree. Up to a year before he had been a book-keeper in one of the mills, and Paul, recognising in him what others had failed to see, had given him a position of trust in his own employ. Directly the circular to which I have referred was sent out to the voters of Brunford, Paul had instructed him to discover what it meant and who was the man who was responsible for it. Enoch Standring had something of the sleuthhound in his nature. For three days and nights he had worked. Almost without sleep, and with but little food, he had laboured quietly, unobtrusively, never arousing suspicions, but always effectively. And now he was prepared to give the result of that work.

"You must cast your mind back a bit, Mr. Stepaside," he said, "and then ask yourself one thing. Is there anyone in Brunford who has a grudge against you?"

"Yes," said Paul. "It's known, is that grudge. It is well known that several years ago Ned Wilson and I had a quarrel which neither of us have forgotten."

"Yes," said Enoch, "and remember what's happened since. There was a riot, and you were dragged into it in spite of yourself."

"I know," said Paul. "But surely you don't mean——"

"I mean nothing," replied Standring. "I only ask you to bear it in mind. You were dragged into it in spite of yourself. Although you tried to dissuade the chaps who were engaged in it from doing anything rash, it seemed as though you were the ringleader. For that you were sent to Strangeways Gaol for six months. Who employed Bolitho for the prosecution? I needn't go into particulars about it; but that's one fact. Then there's something else. When you came out, you decided to start manufacturing, and you got the promise of a factory, with some looms and power, cheap. Then, without any reason, you were told you couldn't have it. Somebody else got it. Who got it? We know. I make no comment, but there it is. Presently the election came on, and nasty stories got to be afloat about your birth and parentage. It was whispered about that you were a come-by-chance child, and your mother was a bad woman. Who was responsible for that? We don't know, or, at least, we can't prove; but, put two and two together. In spite of everything you began to gain ground. People began to support you, and it looked very bad for the other side. You know that; everyone knows it. And then came this other affair. You didn't know that anyone else was manufacturing what you manufactured. You thought it was your secret; but the secret leaked out. I don't say who betrayed you, but there it is. But this I've found out: an old, disused mill was taken the other side of Manchester. Who took it? The name of the owner was kept quiet. It was said to be run by a little private company. That was some time ago now, and ever since that mill was taken there's been a kind of secret as to who owned it. But I've discovered this: they manufactured the same stuff that you manufacture. But they did not try to sell it. They kept piling it up in their warehouses. Can you see the meaning of this? It was kept quiet, mind; as quiet as death. Nobody seemed to know the stuff they were turning out. Then suddenly that stuff was pushed on the market at a price which left no margin for profits; nay, they offered it at a price less, far less, than you can manufacture it for. For months they had been piling it up in the warehouses, and they were able to flood the market. Now you know why the prices went down, and why you could not sell your stuff except at a ruinous loss!"

Paul listened to the young man with pale face and set features. He spoke no word, but it was easy to see that he grasped every detail which the young man mentioned. He saw the purport of his words too.

"I see," he said quietly. "And have you found out who the owner of that factory is?"

"Yes," replied Enoch Standring, "I have found out."

"Ned Wilson, of course," said Paul.

"Ay," replied the other laconically.

"And you have proofs?"

"Yes, I have proofs. They are all here docketed and numbered. I will go into them whenever you're ready. They are all there."

For a few seconds a silence fell upon them, and both Enoch Standring and George Preston watched Paul's face eagerly. They were wondering what he was thinking. Standring felt sure that he was planning some scheme of revenge.

"I'll be even with him for this!" said Paul presently.

Neither of them answered. They felt it was no use talking.

"But," continued Paul, "I can hardly see through it. Ned Wilson is a man capable of the riots trick. That's just the kind of thing he would do, but is he the man to lose money in order to satisfy his hatred?"

"Yes," said Standring, "the kind of hatred he has towards you. You see, he's a deeper chap than you think, is Ned Wilson. I've known him from a boy. He would carry a grudge for years. But he's been a chap who's always been noted for paying off old scores, and he's paid you off."

"You've not told me all yet, Standring," said Paul. "Ned Wilson had other motives than that of paying off an old score. I see—I see!" And he clenched his fists angrily. "Why didn't I see it before? Yes, that's it."

"What's it?" asked Preston.

"Never mind what it is; but I see it plainly. Yes, I understand, and he shall rue it."

For an hour they discussed the matter, and then, when presently the others had left him, Paul sat alone thinking. It seemed to him as though the day marked an epoch in his history. It was an end and it was a beginning. For hours he lay in his bed, sleepless. He was thinking of his plans for the future, thinking of the work he had to do.

The next morning he was up betimes. His mind was made up, for he saw his way clearly now. Knowing the enemy he had to fight, he selected the weapons that he must use, and he was no longer afraid. He went quietly to his mill, and for hours studied his position. After that he went to the bank and had a long talk with the manager. Then he paid a visit to an old manufacturer who had retired, and who had shown great friendliness towards him. After that his face cleared somewhat. The crisis was over, at least for a time. He would have six weeks in which to move, and in six weeks he believed that the complexion of everything would be changed.

"No," he said to himself, "it will not be ruin. I know my man. If I make no sign Ned Wilson is not the man who will continue to lose money for me. He thinks I'm ruined, and so he will take this opportunity of making his pile. He thinks he has a corner in this particular stuff. Well, he hasn't, and this will be my opportunity."

He was some little distance from Brunford as these thoughts passed through his mind. Old Abel Bowyer to whom he had gone, lived some three miles from the town and he was returning from his house now. Indeed he was entering the footpath where he had met Mary Bolitho long months before, and he had only gone a short distance when he saw her coming towards him.



CHAPTER VIII

THE COMING OF PAUL'S MOTHER

Mary Bolitho had returned to Howden Clough on the night of the election, her heart filled with conflicting emotions. Naturally, she had rejoiced in her father's election. No one had worked harder than she, and she felt that her father had not spoken untruthfully when he said that she had been largely responsible for his election. She had thrown herself eagerly into the work of gaining voters, and she knew she had been supremely successful. During the last three weeks a list of names had been given to her almost daily of those who seemed doubtful and undecided, and she had gone to them, and where others had failed she had secured their promises. She was naturally, therefore, elated at the result. The margin was so narrow that, but for her, both she and her father would have left the town feeling that the enemy had triumphed.

But she was not altogether satisfied. For one thing, she felt uncomfortable at the long stay she had been making at Howden Clough. Again and again she had spoken to her father, asking him to take rooms at an hotel, but Mr. Bolitho had persisted that it would offend the Wilsons deeply, and that he knew of no sufficient reason for acting upon her suggestion.

"What excuse can I give, Mary?" he said. "It was understood from the beginning that I was to make Howden Clough my home during our visits here. They have become personal friends of ours, and not only should we wound them by going to an hotel, but at this stage of the business we should cause a great deal of gossip."

Though yielding to her father's wishes, however, she was far from satisfied. It seemed to her that Ned Wilson looked on her with an air of proprietorship. He did not say this in so many words, but she couldn't help seeing what his thoughts and determinations were. Not that she disliked Ned—indeed, she had become more and more favourably impressed by him. He had more brains than she imagined, too, and had given evidence that, from the standpoint of business, he was thoroughly versed in the questions at issue. He had thrown himself with tremendous ardour into the fight, and had spared himself in no way in order to win the election, and yet she was not satisfied. There seemed something at the back of everything which she could not understand. She had seen the circular referred to in the last chapter, and, in spite of the explanations which had been made, could not help feeling that the sending out of this same circular was unfair and even base. Everyone at Howden Clough professed ignorance concerning it, and there were many surmises as to who was responsible for it. The printer's name did not appear, and it was sent from London. That of itself looked to her very suspicious. But more than this, she could not understand Ned Wilson's behaviour. She had discussed with him who had been guilty of it, and while he, like the rest, professed to know nothing, he did not appear to be at all at ease.

"But is Mr. Stepaside on the brink of ruin, as is suggested here? And will he not be able to pay his debts?" she asked.

"Oh, I daresay it's true," cried Ned. "You see, the fellow is a bounder. He started manufacturing on practically nothing, not knowing very much about it. That's why he's got into this hole. You see, he's no conscience, and his ambition oversteps everything. You should have heard him last Sunday morning haranguing his followers, as I was coming home from church. You would realise, then, what kind of a fellow he is—just a blank, blatant atheist, and, as your father has always maintained, a man who has given up faith in religion is very doubtful as to his morals."

"Then, you mean he'll become a bankrupt?"

"Most likely," replied Ned. "And serve him right, too. He's only himself to blame. But what worries me is not that he will most likely be a bankrupt, but the sufferings of the people to whom he owes money."

Mary was naturally impressed by this conversation. While she regarded Paul Stepaside with a certain amount of admiration because of his strong personality and the position he had, in spite of difficulties, obtained in Brunford, she had a certain horror of his irreligion and his apparent vindictiveness. She recalled the words he had spoken to her on the two occasions on which they had met, words which revealed the passionate nature of the man. She was sorry she had spoken to him at all. She ought to have treated him with the scorn and contempt he deserved. After all, what had she to do with a Lancashire operative who, because he was possessed of a kind of vulgar aggressiveness, had become an employer of labour?

The scene in the chamber where the votes were counted, however, strengthened the uncomfortable feelings which had hitherto possessed her. He had openly accused her father of encouraging means which he regarded as disgraceful. He had declared that Mr. Bolitho had used these methods by which to destroy him. Of course, she could not help being offended, if not angry, at Paul Stepaside's demeanour and at his almost savage attack. She reflected that he was guilty of the conduct of a clown, and attributed it not only to his own savagery, but to the instincts of his class. And yet she was impressed by his strength. She almost admired him, as he savagely proclaimed the fact that he would yet be Member for Brunford. She felt his strength, too, and saw how he moved the multitude. Yes, in spite of everything, he was a strong man, and she loved strength. He had the instincts of a leader, and she admired men who could lead. And he was right, too—he was not crushed, although he was beaten, and he would fight again.

She was very silent at Howden Clough when they all returned from the gathering at the club. Everyone was jubilant except her, and although she was interested in all that was said, there was a strange feeling at her heart which she could not understand. She had a kind of fear, too, that Ned Wilson was on the point of making an avowal of his love, and for that reason she had determined that nothing should keep her from leaving Brunford on the morrow. Her father, however, had arranged to stay in the town until late in the afternoon, and she must perforce stay with him. But she determined to be alone, and that was why she found herself out in the fields at the back of Howden Clough when Paul was returning from his visit to old Abel Bowyer. She did not mean to speak to him, and yet she instinctively walked more slowly as he approached. In spite of herself, too, she found herself admiring him. He gave no suggestion of a beaten man. His step was firm and quick, and he walked almost like a victor.

Paul, scarcely knowing what he was doing, lifted his hat as he came close to her. "Miss Bolitho," he said, "will you convey a message to your father from me?"

She had meant to pass by without speaking, but the manner in which he addressed her made this impossible.

"If you wish to send a message to my father," she answered, "would it not be well for you to write to him? Good afternoon." And she moved as if to pass on.

"No," replied Paul quietly. "I want you to take a message direct from me, and doubtless he will tell Wilson. Please inform him that I have discovered the author of the circular which was sent broadcast during the election, and that I have proofs of the plot to ruin me. Doubtless he will be interested."

Without another word he passed on. A little later, Mary Bolitho left Brunford with her father. A fairly large crowd gathered at the Brunford station to see them off, and there were all sorts of shouting and congratulations; but Mary was very silent, and during the whole of the journey to Manchester she scarcely spoke a word. She said nothing of her meeting with Paul that day. It seemed to her that something had closed her lips. She knew not why. One thing, however, gave her a feeling of gratification—she had made it impossible for Wilson to make his declaration of love. She knew she had only put it off for a time, and she dreaded the evil day.

Meanwhile, she was glad that he had not spoken to her, for Mary knew that if she accepted him, she would do so largely, if not altogether, at the wish of her father. For some reason or other Ned Wilson and he had become exceedingly friendly, and she believed, although her father had said nothing definite to her about it, that he favoured Ned's suit. And she loved her father with a great love, and would not, if she could help it, do anything to displease him. For Mary belonged to those who were held fast by old-fashioned views concerning the obedience due from children to their parents. In this respect she was a child of a past generation. She had a horror of anything like the modern woman movement, and did not claim that so-called emancipation by which they give up their superiority to men, in order to become their equals.

She determined, too, that she would go away on a long visit to a friend, giving as an excuse to her father that she was overwrought by the election and needed a rest. In this way she thought she would, for a time at all events, postpone the day of decision in relation to the suit which she knew Ned Wilson was longing to urge.

In a few days the excitement of the election had calmed down at Brunford. The jubilation of the victors spent itself, as did the disappointment of those who were vanquished. Bolitho was elected and Paul Stepaside didn't get in. And that, for the time being, was the end of it.

Meanwhile, Paul went on with his work silently, doggedly. His affairs were in a critical condition, and he needed all his energy and all his wits to put everything right. He no longer fought in the dark, however. He knew who and what had brought about the crisis which had faced him, and Paul was a man of many resources. For more than a month he had only been able to give half his mind to his business, and George Preston, while a trustworthy and reliable fellow, was not strong enough to face the problems which lay before them. Freed from the demands of the political contest, however, he threw his whole energies into the disentanglement of his affairs, and little by little he succeeded. The prices for the stuff which he had been manufacturing went up again, and although they had not reached the figures of a few months before, he was able to sell enough to help him to meet his most pressing creditors. In three months, matters had assumed their normal condition. Evidently Ned Wilson regarded him as no longer dangerous, and was not prepared to lose more money to bring about his revenge. In addition to this, Paul had worked in a way whereby Wilson had been deceived. Mind for mind, Wilson was no match for him. He was not so far-seeing, neither had he so broad a grasp of affairs. He had been able to gain an immediate advantage because of his large capital, and Paul knew that Wilson's father was too fond of money to consent to heavy and continuous losses. At the end of six months Paul's position was pretty well assured. In spite of everything he had overcome the evil circumstances, and, more than that, he had even used what seemed a disaster to the furtherance of his own ends.

All this time he had not been unmindful of the great quest of his life. He never forgot, even when the fight was at the highest, the loneliness of his mother's life and the shadow that rested upon her. Indeed he had, from the time of his returning from Scotland, made constant and continuous efforts to discover the man who had blackened her name. All his efforts, however, were unavailing. Every road seemed to be a cul-de-sac. Either Douglas Graham had given his mother a false name or else he had left the country, and thus made it impossible for him to find him; or he might be dead—it was quite possible. During the lapse of twenty-five years anything might happen. Still, he had a feeling that his father was alive, and he owed it to his mother, he owed it to himself, to penetrate the mystery. Why he should connect Mary Bolitho with all this he did not know; nevertheless, it was a fact that her face was never missing from the picture which he drew of the future. Somehow she was always connected with the efforts he was making. Often he dreamed of the time when he would be able to get her and say, "My name is as honourable as yours, as free from stain as yours. I have found my father." But the months went by and his search was unavailing, and the questions he was constantly asking were never answered.

He had never seen his mother since the day he left her on the Altarnun Moors. More than once he had suggested that she should come and live with him, but she had refused. Frequently, too, when writing to her, he had asked her whether he might come and see her, but she had persistently opposed this. "No, Paul," she said. "Your coming would only lead to questions. Here I am allowed to bury my secret in my own heart, and while my life is lonely enough, I can bear it until the day when justice is done to me."

At length, however, Paul could bear it no longer.

"MOTHER (he wrote),—I am now what you would call a rich man. I have more money than I need to spend, and I cannot bear that you should be living away in that lonely farmhouse. You say you are treated more like a housekeeper than a servant, more like a member of the family than a stranger, but that's not enough for me. You are my mother, and, although I know little of you, I love you dearly. Besides, I am very lonely. I have but few friends, neither do I wish to make any, but I want you to come to me, mother. If you can keep house for that farmer, you can keep house for me. And I want to see you constantly. I want you by my side. I want you to be here to bid me 'Good-morning' when I go out to my work and welcome me when I come home at night. I want a home of my own, and I want my mother to be at the head of it. You must do this, mother. I have my eye now upon an old-fashioned house just outside Brunford. It is hidden from the town, and was at one time, I suppose, owned by a sort of yeoman. It has a large garden, and there are old trees round it, and that, I can assure you, is something to be desired here, in a town where there are few gardens and where the trees grow with difficulty. It will give me joy to furnish this home for you, mother, and to make your life one of ease. Besides, I want your help. Ever since I came here, I've been trying to find the man of whom you spoke to me; I cannot call him 'Father,' even although he is. If you came, you could help me, and together we could think of means whereby the truth could be brought to light. Will you, mother? I know you say you are comfortable as you are, and that you don't wish to be a burden to me. You would not be a burden, but you would help me to bear mine, and so I don't ask you to come for your own sake, but for mine. I am your son, and I am lonely, and I need my mother."

Three days later he received his mother's reply:

"MY DEAR PAUL (she wrote),—I will come to you. Great fear is in my heart as I write this, but I can't resist you. You are my own flesh and blood, and although I have scarcely seen you from a child, you are the only thing I love. So, Paul, while I do not wish you to spend money for me, and while I shall be contented with a very little house, I will come as soon as ever you say you are ready for me."

A new interest came into Paul's life directly he had received this letter, and without hesitating a second he took the house he had mentioned. It was a wonder the place had been unoccupied for so long, because it was one of the best specimens of architecture in the neighbourhood. Perhaps the reason why it had not been taken was that it did not accord with the prevailing ideas in relation to houses. Of course, it was too large for an operative to think of taking, and as for the ordinary prosperous business man, he loved a more showy house, with plate-glass windows and high ceilings. This house had been built before Brunford became a manufacturing town, and was looked upon as utterly inconvenient and lacking in those characteristics which the prosperous Lancashire man loves. It was low ceiled; it looked somewhat dark. Its windows were stone-mullioned, and instead of great plate-glass windows it had small diamond-leaded lights. And so Paul was able to get it at a comparatively nominal rent, especially as the place was in shocking repair. In a few weeks, however, a transformation had been wrought. The building had been thoroughly overhauled, and by the wise expenditure of a comparatively small amount of money, modern conveniences had been installed. The old oak floors had been thoroughly cleaned, the walls distempered; the roof and windows repaired, and the sanitation made perfect. Paul took a wondrous delight in doing this. Each evening, when the day's work was over, he hastened to it, and rejoiced in the new beauties which the old place was constantly revealing. All the woodwork was of oak, and the old staircase, with its quaintly carved banisters and newels, the oak-panelled walls, which the last tenant had allowed to become dirty and damaged, appealed to his artistic nature. He loved the great oak beams which stretched across the ceilings, and rejoiced in the quaint nooks which were a characteristic of the old building. The furnishing, too, brought him constant pleasure. There happened to be a man in the town who dealt in antique furniture, and he also manufactured new furniture from old models. Why, Paul did not know, but since he had been in the habit of visiting wealthy men's residences, he had taken a great dislike to the bright, showy and costly, though very substantial, furniture which he saw. It had newness written everywhere, and utilitarianism and wealth seemed to be the great things to proclaim. But in this old dealer's warehouse he was able to resurrect things which had been bought from old manor houses, and which the Brunford people regarded as rubbish. These articles, when cleaned and repaired according to their original design, rejoiced him greatly. So that when, a few weeks after he had written to his mother, he saw them placed in his house, he felt for the first time that he had a home. One room especially attracted him—the room he meant to be sacred to his mother and to himself. Two-thirds of the wall space was covered with bookcases, while on the rest he hung some very good pictures. All these bookcases, as well as the chairs and writing-desk, made him think of the days of rest and comfort before Brunford became a scene of rush and turmoil. He pictured his mother seated by the fire, while he, after his day's work was over, would sit by her side with a pipe and a book. If he could not find his father, he could, at least, give his mother a home, and he vowed that he would make her happy. She was only a young woman even yet. It is true she looked careworn and sad when he had seen her on that day when she had told him her story, but he would smooth the lines from her face, and by his love and devotion would bring joy to her heart. He vowed, too, that Brunford should recall the words which had been uttered about her, and that the best people in the town should pay their respects to her. The time was now summer, and although it is hard to make a garden beautiful, even while two miles away from the grime and smoke of the town, he had done all that was possible in that direction.

"She will be here to-morrow night," he said to himself, as one evening he wandered from room to room. "This is her bedroom," he thought. "I hope she'll find everything comfortable. Yes, I believe she'll be happy here. It will ease her aching heart as I come to kiss her good-night, and my bedroom is close by, and she'll always know that I'm near. And then there is the kitchen, too. I must take care that everything is right there. I wonder whether she will like the servant I have got for her. At any rate, she will be able to set that right herself, if it is not right now, and I have money enough to give her every comfort. I was lucky to get such a dear old house, and she shall enjoy it; at least, I owe her that." And then, as her picture came before him as he had seen her that night when she had bidden him good-bye, the tears came into his eyes and his lips trembled. All the next day he was strangely excited, and George Preston declared that he had never known him so careless about business. "People are finely talking about your taking that house!" he said. "Some are saying you're going to get wed! Why have you been so close about it? And what makes you spend all that brass?"