"My mother is coming to live with me," said Paul; "coming to-day."

"You don't mean it!" said the other. "Why, you looked as though you might be expecting your sweetheart!"

"I am," replied Paul with a laugh. And, indeed, he felt as though he were; for Paul was more happy than he had ever known himself to be before. The clouds somehow seemed to have lifted, and brightness came into his heart in spite of himself.

"She'll be very tired," he reflected, as that night he wended his way to the station. "She will have been travelling all day. She left Launceston early this morning, and it will have been a rush for her." So he was careful to engage a cab some time before the train was due, and then walked up and down the station with a fast-beating heart. Yes, life was becoming new to him in, a way that he could not understand. He felt less bitter towards the world, less bitter towards Mr. Bolitho, less angry at what had happened to him. The six months in Strangeways Gaol seemed but a horrible dream. The struggles of the past were far behind. He, while yet but a youth, had succeeded beyond all expectations, and, added to all this, his mother was coming to live with him; and for the first time in his life he would have a home!

No youth waiting for his sweetheart was ever more impatient than Paul. He was angry that the train was late, and wondered why the porters could be so indifferent about it. He had all sorts of fears, too, concerning his mother's welfare. Had she been able to catch the connection at Bristol and Manchester? Had some accident happened? Presently the signal fell, and a little later the train swept into the station. There were but few people present, because it was late, and it happened to be a wet day. Eagerly he looked at the carriage windows, and then suddenly he felt as though his heart were too great for his bosom. He saw a lonely, tired-looking woman step from the carriage and look expectantly round. "Mother!" he cried. "My dear, dear mother!" And then the sad-eyed, weary woman laid her head on his broad shoulder and sobbed for very joy.

A little later Paul and his mother were riding through the now silent streets of Brunford towards his new home. A strange feeling possessed his heart, for while he knew that the woman who sat by his side was his mother, she was a stranger to him. His heart had gone out to her with a great rush of pity and love when she first stepped from the train, but now that they were alone in the darkness it seemed as though his lips were sealed. He had nothing to say to her, and she, wellnigh overcome by her long, weary journey and her new experiences, seemed almost afraid. This was no wonder, for the situation was strange. She had left her boy at the workhouse when he was but an infant in arms. It had almost broken her heart to do this, but she felt that for Paul's sake it would be better for her to go away, better that he should not know of the sadness of his mother's life. And for seventeen years she had kept away from him. It is true she had made inquiries concerning his life at St. Mabyn, but very little more. Paul had grown up with the idea that he was fatherless and motherless, or even if that were not the case he knew nothing about either of them. Then, presently, when the time came for her to tell him the miserable story of the past, she had written asking him to meet her on the lonely moors, and after that she had gone away again in silence. So they were strangers to each other, even although the ties that bound them were so strong that only death could break them. The woman was almost startled when, stepping from the train, she saw the tall, well-dressed fellow rushing towards her. But her heart had claimed her son, and for the moment that was enough. Now, however, that they were alone in the cab, everything seemed in darkness again. She could not recall a feature of her boy's face. He might be an absolute stranger to her. Ere long the cab drew up to the door of a house, and when once ushered into bright and cheerful surroundings everything became changed. For the moment she did not pay any attention to the room, she looked only at him. She put her hands upon his shoulders and scanned his face, feature by feature. Her own face was a study as she did this. She seemed to be looking for something in him. She might be trying to read his heart. Her own eyes almost grew young again as she looked, and her lips were tremulous with a great emotion.

"My mother's a beautiful woman," said Paul to himself. "She looks terribly sad under the great sorrow in her life, but when she's happy, as I will make her happy, I shall be proud of her."

But for a time neither of them spoke. Each seemed to be trying to realise the situation, trying to understand that they were mother and son. At length the woman spoke.

"Thank God," she said. "You are nothing like him! You are my child—black hair, black eyes, dark-skinned, strong, resolute. No, you are nothing like him. You are my laddie, all mine! Kiss me again, my boy!"

Paul, nothing loth, enfolded her in his arms as a lover might his lass. "I have tried to make things nice for you, mother. How do you like the house?" he said at length.

She looked round the room and her eyes were full of wonder. "Why, Paul," she said, "this is a gentleman's house!"

"Of course," he said. "Come, let me show you the other rooms. And then the maid shall take you up to your own room. I am sure you must want something to eat badly."

He led her around the house, his heart full of pride. It was easy to see she was pleased, easy to see that she wondered at all the luxuries he had provided for her.

"Are you sure you ought to have done this, Paul?" she said at length.

"Why, mother?"

"Why, these things must have cost you such a lot of money. I don't need them. I have lived in poverty all my life, and you're making a lady of me!"

"Of course I am, mother!" And he laughed a glad laugh. "Of course I am! Everyone in the town shall respect and love you."

"And you've done all this for me?"

"All because I wanted to see you with me, mother. All because I wanted you to be happy. I've only you and you've only me. And don't fear about the money. In spite of everything I've been very successful, and I can afford all I've bought, aye, and more. I've only got one servant for you, mother, but, of course, you'll want others. Only I didn't know how to choose them, and I thought you might like to do it yourself."

"I want no servants, Paul!" she said. "I want to do everything for you with my own hands. I want to cook for you, and scrub for you, and wash for you, and live for you!"

"Yes, mother. But I don't wish to make you a slave, and so, whatever you say, you must have help to do all the hard work. I am going to make you very happy here. Do you like the house?"

"Like it!" she replied. "It's a paradise, my boy! Just a paradise!"

He called the servant to him, and told her to take his mother to her room, and then to have the evening meal ready.

A little later they sat in the dining-room, and for the first time Paul broke down. He was not an emotional man, nor one who gave way to weakness, but when he sat there in his own house with his mother by his side, and realised that they would be able to live together, that he would have a companion for the lonely evenings, and that he would be able to brighten his mother's life, the great deeps of his nature were aroused. It seemed to him as though something, which had been long dead in his being, had burst forth into life.

"I'm too happy to eat!" she said at length. "I will put away these things and then we can talk."

"Oh, no, mother," he said. "You're tired, and the maid is here for the purpose of doing that. Come into our little snuggery here." And he led the way into the room on which he had bestowed so much thought.

"Paul, my boy," she sobbed. "I'm proud of you, I'm proud of you! Aye, even although I cursed the day that you were born, and cursed God in the bitterness of my heart for the sorrow that came upon me, I'm proud of you! You are my own laddie! And now tell me everything, my lad!"

"No, mother, you're too tired and my story will take a long time!"

"No, I'm not tired," she said. "I feel as though I should never be tired again. It's all so wonderful—this beautiful home, given to me by my son! Oh, my lad, my lad!"

They sat down side by side, Paul holding his mother's hand in his. "To-morrow," he thought, "or as soon as she is well enough, I'll take her to Manchester, and she shall have the best clothes that money can buy! And when she's dressed as she ought to be, she will look young and handsome!"

And so, as they sat alone, he told the story of the past few years. Told of his struggles, of his fightings, and of his failures and successes, and how, little by little, he had obtained an education. Then he described the strike in the town, and the trial which ended in his imprisonment, and of his homecoming and his business life, and then of the election.

"But you'll win yet, Paul!" And her eyes flashed eagerly as she spoke. "My boy, you'll win yet!"

"Yes, I believe I shall win yet," he said. "Ay, I will, I must!"

"And what kind of a man is this Bolitho?" she asked. And Paul told her. He described the long duel he had had, and how up to the present Mr. Bolitho was the victor.

"And he's the Member of Parliament now?" said his mother.

"Yes," he replied. "He's Member of Parliament now."

"But never mind," was her reply. "It's coming, Paul. It's coming!" And then, looking straight into his eyes, she said, "You've not told me all yet, my lad."

"What can there be more to tell?" he said.

"Ay, Paul. I'm a woman, I'm a woman, and I know how laddies feel. There's a lass somewhere. Tell me about her. Nay, I'm not jealous. I know it must be so, it ought to be so, because each lad must have his lass. Only tell me about her!"

"It's a poor story, mother," he said. "And I think I hate my lassie as much as I love her. And I've scarcely ever spoken to her. Besides——"

"Besides what, Paul?"

"Well, you see," he replied, "she's the daughter of Mr. Bolitho, the man who's worsted me in everything. It was he who sent me to Strangeways Gaol. It was he who blackened my name. It was he who beat me in the fight! And I love her and hate her at the same time!"

There was a silence for some time and Paul saw that her face was dark with anger.

"And have you ever spoken to her?" she asked. "Does she know what you feel? Forgive me for asking, Paul, but I've been thinking about all these things through the years, and wondering about them down there in the lonely farm. For I've had scarcely anyone to speak to. My one thought and my one comfort has been you! And I've said to myself, 'He's a young man now, and, like all young men, he'll love his lass.' I'm your mother, Paul, and I think I can see into your heart. Have you ever spoken to her?"

It seemed as though all the barriers of the past were broken down. He had thought never to mention his secret to anyone, and yet he found himself speaking freely.

"Scarcely, mother," he said. And then he told her of the times they had met, and of what he had said and what she had said. He told her, too, of the rumours concerning Ned Wilson, and of his hopes to make her his wife.

"And he's your enemy, too?"

Paul nodded, and his eyes became dark with anger as he thought of the past.

"Paul," she said at length. "I live only for you now, only for you! Your enemies are my enemies; your friends are my friends! Those you love, I love; and those you hate, I hate! Whether you're right or whether you're wrong, my laddie, I love you!"

"Who ever I love, mother," he said, "it makes no difference between me and you, and my home must ever be yours."

"Ay, I dinna ken about that," she replied, lapsing into the speech of her girlhood. "But that doesna matter. Paul, I must see thy lass. You must find out when next she comes to Brunford, and I must see her. And you shall have her, too; whatever stands in the way must be removed!"

A little later he kissed her good-night at her bedroom door, and her words seemed to him like a prophecy.



CHAPTER IX

THE SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS

For the next few weeks Paul's life was utterly changed. The coming of his mother had wrought a transformation, and in a very real sense old things had passed away, and all things had become new. Each morning he went to his work with a glad heart, and when the time for returning came he looked forward to meeting her with a joy unknown to him before. He had insisted on taking her to Manchester, and, in spite of many protests, had bought her what she called finery only fit for a lass. But Paul had taken a peculiar pleasure in this. He loved to see her eyes sparkle at some unexpected act of kindness on his part, and as day by day passed away and he marked the improvement in her looks, saw the lines of care wiped out and an expression of contentment come on her face, more genial feelings filled his life. As he repeated to himself often, "I have a home and a mother now," and the fact made even the dirty town in which he lived seem like a paradise. He was glad, too, to take business friends to his new home, and noticed with the keenest pleasure that they regarded his mother with cordiality and respect. So great was the change that came over him that for a time he grew careless about discovering the man who had caused such a dark shadow to fall upon her life long years before. It seemed for a time as though the past were obliterated, and that he had begun a new chapter of his life. His business prospered, and all anxiety in that direction seemed to be removed far from him.

In spite of all this, however, there was still a dull ache in his heart, a feeling that something was wanting in his life. He had not forgotten Mary Bolitho. He knew he never should. Never since the day after the election had he seen her in Brunford, and he often wondered what this might mean. Whether Ned Wilson ever saw her or not he had no idea, but, from the fact that Ned was often away from home, he feared that such was the case. Never, since he had discovered who was responsible for the circular issued at the time of the election, had he made any remarks about it. It was never referred to even between himself and his partner. Paul remembered it, however, and there were those in the town who, when they learnt the truth, said one to another, "Ay, Stepaside will pay Wilson out for that! He's noan the chap to let a thing like that bide!"

Mr. Bolitho himself had visited the town only once since the election. He had on this occasion accompanied a Cabinet Minister, who spoke on the political situation, in the biggest hall in the town—but Paul had not gone to hear him. He heard that the new Member was not accompanied by his daughter, and then all interest in his visit had ceased. And so the months passed away, until more than a year had elapsed since the counting of the votes in the Town Hall.

Meanwhile, Paul constantly appeared in the town with his mother, and to his delight she received invitations from some of the most important people in Brunford. Not that she accepted these invitations, but Paul's joy was very great, nevertheless, because he saw it gave her satisfaction, and because he felt that it eased the burden of her life.

To Ned Wilson he never spoke. They met in various ways and at various places, but they ignored each other completely. This was naturally remarked upon by the people in the town, and many prophesied that the time would come when an open rupture would take place between these two men.

"You see," said one old weaver, when the matter was being discussed, "Paul's noan religious. He believes i' nowt—not but what he's a good lad, but his heart is closed to faith. He has no anchor anywhere, and when a man has noan of the grace of God in his heart he's hard. Onything may happen."

The autumn that his mother came he was invited to stand as a councillor for one of the wards in the borough. But this he declined. He was glad he had received this invitation, because it gave his mother joy, but the memory of his failure during the political contest still remained with him. He felt he could not be satisfied with the lesser when he had been refused the greater.

"No, mother," he said when he told her what had happened. "I'm not going to do this. I mean to be Member for Brunford, and if I take on this work it would stand in my way."

"You've never forgotten that lass, Paul?" said his mother.

"No, and I never shall!"

"You're not much of a lover," she said, looking towards him with a wistful smile.

"What do you mean, mother?"

"I mean," she said, "that if I were a lad and had made up my mind to win a lass, I would do it. I wouldn't stay away from her! If you love her, Paul, tell her so. She'll think none the less of you!"

"How can I?" he asked. "I don't know where she lives."

"And have never taken the trouble to find out!" was his mother's retort. "I tell you, my boy, no lass that ever lived thinks more of a lad for staying in the background. You don't know what Wilson's doing!"

"No," replied Paul. "But I do not think she has promised him anything; in fact, I am sure she has not. I saw him only to-day, and if she had promised him, he would not look as he did look! All the same, I feel as though my lips were sealed, mother! If I went to her now she would scorn me, and I couldn't bear that. No, I must wait my time, and when that time comes neither Wilson nor anyone else shall stand in my way!"

"If she could see you two together," replied his mother fondly, "there's not the slightest doubt as to which she would choose!"

"Nonsense, mother!" said Paul with a laugh, and yet her words cheered him in spite of himself.

"I'm not so old, my boy, but what I know what a lass feels, and what she likes!"

"I'm nobody yet," said Paul. "I'm only just a beginner, and Wilson is one of the richest men in Brunford."

"If she is worth having, Paul, she won't think so much about that! I went to the kirk last Sunday where Wilson goes, and I saw him. I tell you he is not one that a lass would take to if she knew you cared for her. But if you don't speak, well, there——"

"I hear she's coming to Brunford soon," said Paul presently.

His mother looked up eagerly. "Coming to Brunford?" she asked.

"Yes," replied Paul. "She's coming on a visit to the Wilsons'. My partner, George Preston, told me. It seems that his mother's servant is friendly with one of the maids up at Howden Clough. That's how he got to know."

The mother looked at her son for a few seconds with a strange expression in her eyes. It was easy to see how she loved him, and how her heart went out in strong desire to bring him happiness. She did not seem at all jealous that he should love anyone beside her, her one thought seemed to be how to bring him joy.

"You must meet her, Paul!" she said. "You must meet her!"

"Ay, that's very likely," he laughed bitterly. "But what's the good? She would never think of me, I am nameless!"

He was sorry the moment he had spoken, for he knew he had not only wounded his mother, he had aroused in her heart feelings which he had hoped were dying out.

"You have heard nothing more?" she said, and her voice was hard and almost hoarse.

"No, mother," he replied. "I seem to be met by a blank wall everywhere. I have made every inquiry in my power, and, as I told you, I went to Scotland in the hope that I should be able to get at the truth, but I learnt nothing—nothing! If he's alive he's somewhere in hiding; he's afraid of what will take place—because the marriage is clear enough, at least, in my mind."

"But in the eyes of the law, Paul?" she asked eagerly.

"Ay, even in the eyes of the law," he replied. "If I could find him, I could face him with what you both wrote in that book in the old inn. Both the man and the woman are still alive, and they had no doubt about it. But I cannot find him. I've tried, and, as these Lancashire people say, 'better tried.' I sometimes think we'll have to give it up!"

The woman rose to her feet and came towards him like one in anger. "Paul," she said, "never hint at such a thing again. For myself it doesn't matter. Everyone here calls me Mrs. Stepaside, and there are but few who ask questions about my marriage, although I know it's been talked about. But there is you to consider. Stepaside is not your real name. It is the name of a hamlet, the place where I fell down, thinking and hoping and almost praying that I should die. It's a name of disgrace. It was given to you because the workhouse master could think of nothing else. And I should never rest in my grave thinking that you did not possess your rights! We must find him, Paul. We must make him do you justice, ay, and make him suffer, too, as I have suffered!"

"Have you not forgotten or forgiven yet?" he asked, almost startled by the look on his mother's face.

"Forgotten, forgiven!" And it did not seem to be like her voice at all. "Never, while I have a brain to think or a heart to feel! Forgiven! As I said, for myself it does not matter, although for many a month I was in hell! But I can never forget the injury he has done to you—you who were branded in the village where you were reared as a come-by-chance child, a workhouse brat, reared, upon the rates, a burden to the parish! Can I forgive that, while perhaps he—he may have married again."

"Perhaps he did not," said Paul. "Perhaps he sent that man to your old home to inquire because, after all, he was caring for you!"

"What's that?" cried the woman angrily. "To send to inquire! Did he follow the steps I took? If he cared for me, if he were faithful to his promise, he would have traced me to Cornwall. He would never give up seeking for me until he had found me or discovered the truth about me. No, Paul, we must make him pay for it, we must! And don't ever hint about giving it up again. I've had a feeling lately that I'm going to find him, and when I do—when I do——"

And Paul saw that his mother's eyes burned red. She seemed to have lost control over herself entirely. "I have plans even now," she went on presently.

"What plans?" he asked.

"I am not going to tell you," she replied. "But I've not been thinking all these years for nothing! Directly you wrote me the account of your visit to Scotland it all came back to me again. I've been thinking it over week after week and month after month. And I have a feeling that I shall find him. I must, for your sake, Paul! You love that lass, and you must marry her. I know that you are dreaming of her night and day. I know that you'll never be happy without her!"

He opened his mouth as if to contradict her, but could not. The woman had spoken the truth. Proud and self-contained as he was, he knew that nothing would ever satisfy him until he had won her love. And yet how could he? What chance was there?

"If she comes to Brunford, as you say, Paul, I am going to see her!" went on his mother. "I shall know if she's worthy of you, and if she is, you needn't fear, Paul—trust a woman! I'll bring you together somehow!"

"I have been thinking it over," he replied. "Months agone I made a vow that I would compel her to love me. People in Brunford say that I'm the kind of man who gets his way, and I vowed that by sheer strength I would conquer her, but I know it won't do now! I remember the look in her eyes when last we met. She's not the kind of woman whose love can be forced!"

"No woman's love can be forced," replied his mother. "It must always be won! Still, a lass loves a strong man and despises a weakling. Trust to me, Paul, trust to me!"

"I'll trust to myself, too," he said grimly. "But you're right, mother. I want a name to offer her, not only the name I've made, but the name I've inherited—or ought to inherit—and when I've got that, neither Ned Wilson nor any other man shall stand in my way!"

A few days later Paul entered the Mechanics' Institute, and, standing in the entrance hall, he saw a number of men he knew. One of them was young Wilson. Paul was about to pass into the reading-room, without speaking, when one of them called to him. "Ay, Stepaside," he said, "hast a' heard the news?"

"What news?"

"It seems that we may have another election on us," replied the man.

"Another election! What kind of an election?"

"Why, Parliamentary, of course. There are rumours that they are going to make a judge of Bolitho, and if they do, he'll have to resign his seat. A judge, you know, is supposed to be non-political. So it seems as though there'll be another fight. What do you feel about it?"

"I must know if the gossip is true first," replied Paul.

"There's not so much doubt about it," replied the other. "Ned Wilson here is bound to be in the know. Perhaps," added the man with a laugh, "Ned'll sign your nomination papers!"

"Or send out a circular without signing it!" said Paul. And everyone laughed as he spoke, because it was fully known what he meant.

"My dear fellow," retorted Wilson, "what you and your party do is nothing to me! If there is another election I shall have nothing to do with it. I am as fond of a fight as any man, and under certain circumstances I would even fight a man of your calibre, but there is no necessity for it now!"

Paul's face was pale to the lips. He hated a scene, hated the thought that his private affairs were being discussed in such a place. He could not help feeling that there was something vulgar about it all, and he in a moment of forgetfulness had yielded to what, had he been calmer, he would have resisted to the utmost. Still, his anger was aroused, and he saw that those who stood around were enjoying the situation.

"That's a matter of opinion," he replied. "At any rate, my name has never been associated with sending out a lying circular. And I have never been ashamed to put my name to any document I wrote! I never hired a barrister to tell lies about anyone, and I never stabbed a man in the back!"

"What do you mean?" asked Wilson. "Why should I stab a man in the back?"

"Because you're afraid to meet him face to face!"

"By God! you shall pay for that," said Wilson, and his voice quivered with rage.

It was the first time Paul had spoken to Wilson for many a long day. As we have said, he had, ever since the election especially, refrained from having any intercourse with him, and he would have given anything to have recalled the words he had uttered. He had fought with the weapons of a clown. He had bandied words with a man who was openly his enemy, and he felt ashamed of himself. Still, nothing could be done now, and, on the whole, he did not think he had had the worst of the encounter. All the same, he knew that if Wilson had hated him before, he hated him more now. And he was sure that if he were able to harm him in any way, he would stop at nothing to carry out his purposes. As to Paul's financial position, he did not so much fear. He was on safer ground now, and was able to meet any ordinary difficulty; but there were other things. He wondered whether Wilson ever guessed the secret of his heart, wondered whether he knew that he was a would-be rival. That Wilson was enamoured of Mary Bolitho was universally believed, but whether she in any way returned his affection no one was able to guess.

A fortnight later that which had been rumoured concerning Mr. Bolitho's resignation actually took place. He had been made a judge, and, as a consequence, could no longer remain Member for Brunford. The result of it was that the deputation who had come to Paul before, again made their appeal to him.

"Paul," said old Abel Bowyer, "now is thy chance. Thou'lt be Member for Brunford after all. Thou art noan a Lancashire lad, but we're proud on thee all the same. Thou hast made thy money in Brunford, and all thy interests are here, and while I don't agree with you in all your views, you're our lad! Thou mun go to Parliament. Wilt a' fight?"

"Yes," said Paul, "I will. But who have I got to fight against?"

"I don't know yet, but that'll noan matter. If you had been treated fairly last time you'd have got in, and this time there'll be no doubt about it. I'm not sure but what it'll be the better for thee, too. Thou'lt be the talk of the country. At a General Election individuals are noan taken notice of. It's just a fight for the party, and when every borough has its election, particular cases are taken no notice of. But at by-elections the chap that gets in makes a bit of a stir. Anyhow, we can set to work."

"Yes," said Paul. "We must set to work, and we must arrange our committees right away."

"I hear," went on old Abel, "that Bolitho's coming here to say 'Good-bye' to us. You see, he's noan taken on the job of judge yet, and until he does he'll be free to speak for his party. So I'm told that he's just coming to pay us a last visit, in order to advise the people to accept a sort of nominee of his as his successor. 'Appen thou'lt see him then."

During the last few weeks Paul had been expecting to hear that Mary Bolitho had come to pay her promised visit to Howden Clough, but no news of her had arrived. Presently, however, gossip had it that both the new-made judge and his daughter were to be guests at Howden Clough when his opponent made his first appearance. A few days later huge placards were posted over the town to the effect that the Honourable Stephen Boston would speak in the Industrial Hall, and that the chair would be taken by Mr. Bolitho.

"Would you like to go and hear him?" asked Paul of his mother.

"Hear who?" she asked.

"Why, the man who beat me at the last election," said Paul. "You see, he's coming to take the chair for the new candidate."

"No," she replied. "I've no interest in him. I should like to see her, though."

"I am afraid there's no chance of that," said Paul. "Unless you happen to be in town when she's driving round."

"I'll see her somehow. And, my boy, I'll bring you both together!" And there was a far-away look in her eyes.

On the afternoon of the meeting Paul was at the railway station when the train from Manchester came in, and as he watched the passengers alight his heart throbbed violently, for, descending from the train, he saw not only Mr. Bolitho, but Mary, accompanied by a young fellow who, he judged, would be the Honourable Stephen Boston.

"Oh, Stepaside," said Mr. Bolitho, going up to him with outstretched hand, as though nothing but pleasantries had ever passed between them, "I'm glad to see you. Of course, you know what's happened?"

"Yes," said Paul. "I suppose I ought to congratulate you!" The words were curtly spoken, and Bolitho was not slow to recognise his tone's, but he decided to take no notice of it.

"I hear you're to be the candidate on the other side again," he went on. "Allow me to introduce to you your opponent. I am sure you'll have a good, honest, straight fight!"

"I hope so," said Paul quietly, at the same time holding out his hand to Mr. Boston.

"We shall not fight on equal terms, I am afraid," said the young man with a laugh; "that is"—and he corrected himself—"I shall be altogether at a disadvantage. You know these people, and I don't. I am afraid, too, that many of them regard the land-owning class with disfavour; still I'll put up the best fight I'm able, and I am sure we shall have a jolly good time! I am glad to meet you, Mr. Stepaside, and I hope, whatever the result of the election is, we shall part good friends."

"It shall not be my fault if we do not," said Paul heartily. "But I warn you that I'm going to beat you!" And he laughed almost merrily.

"Well, you know what Randolph Churchill used to say about an Englishman who could not stand a licking!" laughed the other. "And if I'm licked I hope I shall take it in good part. But I don't mean to be. I am trying to persuade Miss Bolitho here to canvass for me as she did for her father!"

"And will you?" asked Paul, turning towards her.

"Would you be very angry with me if I did?" she asked laughingly.

"No," said Paul. "But I'd give a great deal to have you on my side!"

"If you had," said Boston pleasantly, "I should stand no chance at all. But if she works for me she will more than counterbalance the fact that I am a stranger to the town. Well, we must be going, Bolitho. Of course, Wilson is not expecting us by this train, or no doubt he would have been here to meet us. But as I have to get back to Manchester to-night, we must say what we have to say to him at once. Good afternoon, Mr. Stepaside. I have no doubt we shall meet often during the next few weeks."

"Of course, I can't wish you luck, Stepaside," said Mr. Bolitho cordially. "You see, you're on the other side. All the same, as far as you and I are concerned, we have decided to let bygones be bygones, haven't we?"

But Paul did not speak. He would have given anything to have spoken to Mr. Bolitho in the same spirit in which he had spoken, but for the life of him he could not. A weight seemed to be upon his tongue.

"Perhaps we shall also meet again," he said, turning to Mary Bolitho. "Do you know, I sometimes think you do not understand me! And I should like to have half an hour's chat with you. It might alter your views concerning me and the class I represent." He spoke almost humbly, and even her father did not resent his words. Ordinarily he would probably have been angry that a man of Paul's status should have dared to have spoken to his daughter in such a fashion—now there seemed nothing wrong in it.

"I should love to," laughed the girl. "Perhaps you do not understand my father either. I am sure I could convince you that he's right!" And with a pleasant smile she left him alone on the platform.

Only a few words had passed between them, and if an outsider had been listening to them, he would have regarded them as of no import whatever, but Paul felt that they had changed everything. In a way he could not understand, the old antagonism had gone, and, stranger to her as he still was, it seemed to him that a bond of sympathy had been formed. On previous occasions when he had met her it had seemed to him as though he were meeting an enemy, even although she had filled the whole of his horizon. But now the very atmosphere was changed, and he was sure that when they met again he could make her understand him, and that they would be able to speak on equal terms.

When he returned home that night his mother wondered why his eyes were so bright and his voice so cheerful.

"Have you heard good news, my boy?" she asked.

"I feel that I'm going to win, mother," was his reply, and his words meant a great deal more to him than to her.



CHAPTER X

THE NEW MEMBER FOR BRUNFORD

The day following the meeting at the railway station Paul saw Miss Bolitho in the streets of Brunford and to his delight she greeted him with a frank smile.

"Have you begun your work of canvassing?" he said, with a laugh.

"Not yet," she replied. "Indeed, I doubt whether I shall take any part in this contest. I have been engaged in a far more feminine occupation!"

"Shopping?" asked Paul.

She laughed in assent. "But I've finished now," she said. "I am just returning to Howden Clough."

"Are you staying in Brunford long?"

"No, I leave to-morrow."

"May I walk back with you?" he asked, wondering at his own temerity. They went together some little distance without Paul speaking a word. He felt he had much to say to her, and yet, now that the opportunity had come, he was speechless. He noticed, too, that the people in the street were watching them, and doubtless many were commenting on the fact that he, who had no reason to be friendly with Mr. Bolitho, should be walking with his daughter. Once or twice he looked shyly towards her, and could not help thinking how utterly different she was from the girls of her own age who lived in Brunford. She seemed to have no connection with the town at all. Everything there was smoky and grimy and harsh. She seemed more like a country girl than a denizen of a town or city. Sometimes, when he had watched people in the market square selling violets, the incongruity had struck him. The violets brought in fresh from the country seemed utterly out of place in the grimy hands of these Northern people. As he looked at the young girl by his side he could not help thinking of the violets.

"I want to apologise to you," he said at length. "I was rude to you when I met you in the fields near Howden Clough, and I've been angry with myself ever since. It is very good of you to forgive me. I don't deserve it."

For the first time Mary Bolitho realised what she was doing. In a moment of thoughtlessness she had yielded to his suggestion that he should walk to Howden Clough with her, and she felt angry with herself. Had anyone told her that morning that she would have allowed him to walk by her side through the public street she would have laughed at the idea. It is true she had been interested in him ever since she had first seen him. There was something masterful in his presence. His political campaign had been marked by incidents which appealed to her imagination, and she felt she could never forget the look on his face when he had flung out his defiance to her father on the day of the election. She felt there was something morose and sullen, if not savage, in his nature, and even while she spoke pleasantly to him in her father's presence, the thought of being alone with him in such a way would have been deemed impossible. Directly he had suggested walking home with her, however, she felt she must fall in with his desire. There was something in him that interested her and almost mastered her.

"You thought I was rude, didn't you?" he continued. "Well, I apologise, humbly and sincerely. But perhaps there was some excuse for me. Your father treated me badly, and, naturally, I associated you with him."

"You mistake my father," she said. "He would never treat anyone badly."

"He was unjust to me," said Paul. "I know that barristers are supposed to do their best for their employers, but through him I suffered unjust imprisonment. He did not try to arrive at the truth. He only tried to win his case, and, in so doing, he stopped at nothing to make it hard for me. I am thinking now of that riot trouble. Of course, you heard that I was innocent of the affair?"

"Yes, I have," she replied. "I am very sorry. But surely you understand my father's position?"

"I can never understand injustice," he replied. "Still, it was not your fault, and I acted to you like a brute. Besides all that, you were a friend of the Wilsons, and Ned Wilson hates me."

"Why should he hate you?" asked the girl.

"I will not tell you that," replied Paul. "That would be stabbing a man in the back, and I will not be guilty of that. Anyhow, years ago, I incurred Ned Wilson's enmity by telling him certain home truths. He has never forgiven me. But for the stories he set afloat and his action towards me I should have won the last election. All this made me bitter towards you."

"I wonder," she replied, "if you feel so angry towards me, that you should care to make these explanations." And she did not understand at all why she spoke. They were some little distance from the roar of the traffic now, and could hear each other plainly.

"I want you to think well of me," he said.

"Why should you?" she asked.

"I cannot tell you now," replied Paul. "But some day I should like to. You wish me good luck in this fight, don't you?"

"How can I," she asked, "when I look at things so differently? I think I admire your pluck, and if I were in your place I should be proud of the influence you have over the working-men; but, then, I think your policy is a dangerous one."

"Let me explain that to you," he replied eagerly. "I think you do not understand how the working classes feel, and I, even although my father did not belong to that class, I—well, I have been a working-man. And there is a shadow over my name, too, and over my mother's life. I should like to tell you about that."

"Really, Mr. Stepaside, I have no right to hear."

"But I want you to," he urged, and his voice was tremulous. "You really do not know, Miss Bolitho, all I have been thinking, and how I long for you to know the truth. You must know it, too. You have had harsh thoughts about me. Yes, you have been unjust to me, and it's my right that you should know the truth. I wish you knew my mother, too. If you did——"

His speech was here broken off by the advent of Ned Wilson, who came from a side street. He seemed utterly surprised at seeing her and Paul together, but, without taking any notice of Paul, he exclaimed, "Oh, this is luck, Miss Bolitho! I am just returning home, and I shall have the pleasure of walking back with you. Or, if you like, we will go back to the mill together. There's a conveyance there."

"No, thank you," she replied. "I'd rather walk. Good-afternoon, Mr. Stepaside. I hope you will—that is——" And then, without finishing her sentence, she walked away by Ned Wilson's side, leaving Paul alone.

"Well, of all the impudence!" said Wilson angrily. His tone did not please the girl. She was vexed with herself for allowing Paul to accompany her, especially as she did not know why she should have done such an unprecedented thing, but she resented Wilson's remark, nevertheless. It seemed to suggest proprietorship.

"How in the world did you allow him to walk with you? Really, Miss Bolitho, I cannot allow it!" And his voice was hot with anger.

"I am afraid I do not understand!" And Wilson saw that he had gone too far.

"I mean, you do not know him. He's a low-bred clown, a fellow who—well, who should not be seen walking with you, Miss Bolitho. Besides, people will talk; they do not understand."

She did not know why it was, but she felt it was for her to defend Paul, and, without thinking, she burst out, almost angrily, "I think he's a magnificent fellow, and I do hope he'll win!"

"You hope he'll win?" cried Ned.

"Yes. You see, I like strong men—that is, I like men who will never be beaten, who know what they want, and who never rest until they get it; men with great purposes, great ambitions. And he's a man who will surely be heard of. Nothing can stop him. I hear he's becoming a rich man, but that will not content him. He's ambitious to take a great place in life. I should not be at all surprised if some day he won a national reputation!"

"Nonsense!" cried Ned. "National reputation, indeed! He might have a national reputation for some great crime, but for nothing else. He has the instincts of his class, Miss Bolitho, and I am sorry you were seen walking with him. If I were to tell your father, he'd be angry, too."

Ned knew he was doing himself harm by saying these things, but at that moment his hatred of Paul was increased. He had never dreamt that Mary Bolitho could think of him in such a way. He believed she was interested in him, and that somehow Paul had fascinated her by his presence. Jealousy of him, therefore, was added to the old grudge.

"I am afraid you do not understand, Mr. Wilson. Oh, here's a tram, which will take me a long way towards the house." And without taking any further notice of him, she walked towards the conveyance.

Three weeks later Brunford was again on the tiptoe of excitement. Again a great crowd had gathered around the town hall, again there was the excitement of counting votes, and this time Paul, to his great delight, found himself Member for Brunford by a big majority. That he was gratified goes without saying. He felt, somehow, that the day brought him nearer the things he longed for. All things seemed possible to him now, and his heart beat high with joy. It is true, Ned Wilson bad done his best to defeat him, but this time he had been powerless. He was unable to use the methods he had used on the previous occasion, and while he had resurrected the old stories concerning Paul's parentage, they had apparently done the young man no harm. Paul was delighted, too, with the conduct of his opponent. The Honourable Stephen Boston had been true to his word. He had fought the battle fairly and with a sportsman's spirit, and when the results were announced no man in Brunford was more cordial towards the new Member than the defeated candidate.

"I did my best to lick you, Stepaside," he said, when all the noise and excitement was over. "But you were too strong for me. All the same, I congratulate you. You have fought a good fight, and you'll be heard about in the country yet. When you come to London, I hope we shall see more of each other, and it may be I can introduce you to some people whom you would like to know."

It was long after midnight at this time, and they had met with a number of men at a kind of social club which had no political bias. The leading people of the town were there, and Paul also noticed that Ned Wilson was among them. He fancied he had been drinking heavily. His eyes were bloodshot, and his voice was loud and truculent.

"It's good of you to say so," said Paul. "And never do I want to fight with a fairer opponent. I hope that neither of us will ever be able to think of this election with a shadow of regret."

"Yes, but Brunford will!" interposed Wilson.

"Nay, nay, Ned," remarked someone near. "Hold your tongue. It's no use probing old wounds now."

"I say Brunford will!" shouted Ned, heedless of the other's warning. "The time will come when it will be ashamed of what it's done to-day. For my own part, I think I will move out of the town. Politics have become a dirty business now, when a nameless vagrant can become a Member of Parliament. Still, we know the old adage, 'Give a beggar a horse——'"

Paul did not speak. For one thing, he was in a great good humour. He had been victorious and could afford to forgive Wilson for all he had done. Besides, he remembered the last quarrel they had had in a public place, and he did not want another scene now. But Wilson was evidently bent upon a quarrel. He was deeply chagrined at the other's victory, and this, added to the whisky he had been drinking, made him more than ordinarily quarrelsome.

"If I had my way," he went on, "none but those of honourable birth, and whose parentage was respectable, should legislate for a country like this. As for this fellow's parentage——" And then he gave a sneering laugh.

"Be quiet, now, Ned! Do be quiet! You'll get into trouble presently.

"Trouble!" cried the other. "I'm going to say my say. Why, if the fellow had any sense of shame, he would at least have kept his mother out of the town." And then he uttered words which I will not write down—words which, had Paul's mother heard them, would have made her long to fly the town.

This proved too much for Paul. Insults hurled at himself he did not mind, but for such words to be uttered about his mother in a place like this was beyond endurance. With a face as pale as ashes, and a voice hoarse with passion, he strode towards Wilson. "You dare not repeat those words!" he said, scarcely knowing what was passing his lips.

"Repeat!" said Wilson. "I shall repeat what I like, and scum like you shall never stop me. Who are you that you should dare to be here among gentlemen? You may have been elected by the riff-raff of the town, but that does not hinder you from being what you are—a workhouse brat. It does not hinder your mother from being——" And again he uttered words which I will not write down.

Paul forgot where he was now. The day's election, his longing to keep away from vulgar quarrels, all his ambitions became forgotten in the passion of the moment. A second later Ned Wilson was lying on the floor, blood flowing from his mouth. A blow from Paul had laid him prostrate, almost senseless. What Paul would have done to him, I do not know, but he was held back by many strong arms. "No, no, Stepaside," men said. "This is a bad beginning for your new career. If this gets out in the town, and it's almost bound to——"

"I don't care," interrupted Paul. "No man could hear what he has said without resenting it. Let me go, I tell you!"

By this time Wilson had risen. The blow, while it had partially stunned him, had also to some extent sobered him. For a few seconds the two men looked at each other, each with great passion in his eyes.

"Remember," said Wilson, "I'll pay you out for this! By God! I'll pay you for this! You and I have had our knives in each other for a long time, and I have always got the better of you, and I will again, in spite of this!" And he left the club with a look of murder in his eyes.

Paul also left immediately after. In spite of his day's victory, he was heartily ashamed of what he had done, and yet the mad anger in his heart caused by what Wilson had said kept him from regretting the blow he had struck.

"He is right," said one of the men who had witnessed the affair. "He'll pay thee out for this, Paul. Ned Wilson is a chap that never forgives, never forgets."

"If it comes to paying out," said Paul, "I've a bigger score than he has, and he'll always find me ready."

"It serves him jolly well right," said the Honourable Stephen Boston. "I wonder Stepaside did not kill him! I know I would if anyone said such a thing to me! All the same, I am sorry it has taken place. Had I known Wilson was here I would not have asked Stepaside to join us."

When Paul reached his home he found his mother sitting up for him. She met him with a look of joy in her eyes. "Paul," she said, "they've brought me the news."

"What news, mother?" he asked.

"The news of your victory, my son. It's glorious! I little thought when I saw you first that I should ever live to see such an hour as this. But what's the matter with you?"

"What should be the matter?" he asked.

"You're as pale as ashes, and you do not look like one who has won a great victory. What has happened?"

"Oh, never mind," he replied.

"But I must mind, Paul. Something has taken place that has upset you. Tell me what it is."

Even yet Paul was scarcely master of himself. The words he had heard still rang in his ears and rankled in his heart. He felt as though all the joy of the day had been destroyed by what Wilson had said. He knew, too, that it would become public property by the morrow. There were those who witnessed the affair who would not be slow in making it known. Perhaps, too, it would come to his mother's ears in a garbled fashion, and would wound her more than if he told her himself.

"Has the man Bolitho done anything?" she said. "Or is it your opponent? Was he terribly cut up because you beat him, Paul?"

"No," he replied. "I've never heard of Bolitho, and as for Boston, he's a splendid fellow. He took his beating like a man and offered me his friendship afterwards."

"Then what is it? Is the news I've heard, that Wilson is engaged to Miss Bolitho, true?"

"Have you heard that?"

"Yes; I have heard it only to-day."

"I wish I had killed him!" he said, and his voice was hoarse and unnatural.

"What do you mean, Paul? Tell me what has happened."

Had he not been excited beyond measure, he would have told the story in such a way as to take away the sting from it. As it was, never dreaming of the results, he related what had taken place, and repeated the words Wilson had said. No sooner had he spoken, however, than he was mad with himself for being so unguarded. His mother's face became drawn with agony. Her eyes shone with a strange light, and he saw her clench and unclench her hands like one in great pain.

"Did he say that?" she cried. "Did he say that?" And he scarcely recognised her voice.

"Anyhow, he's suffering for it," said Paul. "Ay, and he shall suffer for it, too."

"He shall! He shall!" And her voice almost rose to a shriek. "I have violent blood in my veins, Paul. Back in the old days my people would have only been content to wipe out such an insult in blood, and I will make him suffer for it!"

"I am sorry I told you, mother," said Paul. "I was a fool to do so; but I did not think, I did not remember!"

"I am glad you have told me!" was her reply. "I know now what I have to do. I have been so happy that I was almost forgetting; but I will not forget now! And that man is your enemy, too. He means to marry Mary Bolitho, and he will, too, unless, unless—Paul, you needn't fear! I tell you, you needn't fear." And after that she would not speak another word.

For a long time Paul lay thinking of what his mother had said and of the strange look in her eyes. It seemed as though he had roused something evil in her nature, and for a time he wondered whether her brain had not been unhinged. He knew she was a proud woman, and that she was jealous beyond words of her good name. The thought of Wilson's words being bandied around the town must be worse than death to her, and yet what could he do? He blamed himself more than he could say for having told her the truth so brutally. Had he not himself been so overwrought he would have acted with more deliberation. He remembered, too, what his mother had said when they had first met, and he wondered whether Wilson had proposed marriage to Mary Bolitho before she had left Brunford, and whether she had accepted him. It might be so. And then all the joy of his winning the election would be as nothing.

For the last three weeks he had been looking forward to this day with great anticipation. He felt sure he would win from the beginning, and he had wondered whether Mary would send him some word of congratulation. He did not expect she would, but she would hear of his victory, and perhaps their next meeting would be under more favourable circumstances. He knew that, in spite of the fact that he had been elected for Brunford, the sky of his life was black again. The words he had heard had filled him with black shame and feelings of deadly anger, while the look on his mother's face aroused in him an unnameable fear.

When morning came, however, he felt better. A few hours' sleep had restored him to something like normal health. The excitement of the last few weeks had told upon him, and the strain upon his nerves had been tremendous. Now that the fight was over, however his splendid constitution stood him in good stead, and he felt strong and vigorous. That which had appeared black at night assumed less sombre colours in the light of day. After all, he had won a great victory. He had received nearly a thousand votes more than his opponent. He had wrested a seat for the cause in which he believed, and he was member for Brunford!

He slept until nearly nine o'clock, and when he came downstairs he found, to his delight, a heap of congratulatory messages lying upon the table. After all, it was delightful to be a victor, delightful to have won in the battle of life! He noticed, too, that his mother had become like her old self again. She spoke in her natural voice, and made no reference whatever to what had taken place the night before.

"I shall have to go to London, to-day or to-morrow, mother," he said. "I hope you won't be lonely while I'm away."

"Oh, never fear for me, Paul, my son!" she replied. "I shall be all right."

"I do not like the idea of your being alone, though," said Paul. "And I shall have to be away from Brunford a great deal when Parliament meets. I think I shall have to take you to London with me!"

"No," she replied. "I would rather stay here. I should only be in your way if I went to London, besides increasing your expenses—and that I must not do."

"Why not, mother? I can afford it very well. We're having a specially good run of luck just now, and the extra expense would not bother me at all. Besides, I want you to be near me!"

"No, Paul. I would rather remain in Brunford. I have my work to do."

"Your work, mother! What do you mean?"

She did not reply, and Paul could not understand the look on her face.

"Tell me, mother," he said, "what do you mean by having your work to do?"

"There's only one work for me now, Paul—only one thing I care about—and that is to give you your rightful name, and to make you happy!"

"I have thought lately he's dead," said Paul.

"No," she replied, "he is not dead. I feel it in every fibre of my body. He is not dead! And I am going to find him. And I must not leave Brunford—something has told me I must not. And I must watch Wilson, too."

"I have been thinking about that, mother," he said; "and, after all, it's not so bad. The man was drunk, or he would not have said such a thing!"

"Drunk or sober," was her reply, "he shall pay for those words. But do not trouble, Paul. You shall be happy. And you shall have your rightful name, in spite of everything."

A week or two later, Paul had forgotten almost everything in the new life which he led. He had journeyed to London to take his seat in the House of Commons, and, amidst the excitement of his new experiences, even the incidents of the election faded away. It was wonderful to him, the nameless lad who had come to Brunford a few years before, to be one of the legislators in the greatest Empire of the world. Even yet he was little more than a youth, and he had practically no experience of life. Thus London, with all its excitement, and the world of possibilities which it revealed, made everything new to him. Never had he realised the meaning of history until now. Never had the greatness of his country so impressed him. Hitherto he had not realised what his ambitions meant. Now they became clear. The House of Commons became the pivot of the world, and it seemed to him as though he had his hand upon the pulse of humanity. London was the great heart of the Empire, sending out its streams of life-blood through the length and breadth of the world. And the heart of London was the great pile of buildings on the banks of the Thames. He was no one as yet—just one of the unknown men among nearly seven hundred who gathered there. He had an obscure seat in the House, and, unlike many of the other men with whom he came into contact, he had few friends. Still, he rejoiced in his isolation, and dreamed dreams of the time when he would emerge from his comparative obscurity, and when his voice would be heard in the councils of the Empire. No one was more regular than he in his attendance at the House, and he took a supreme delight in wandering through the buildings, and in trying to understand their significance. Westminster Hall, especially, attracted him. He thought of the scenes which had taken place in that historic building, and remembered how it had stood there through the centuries. The greater part of the parliament houses was comparatively new, but this remained almost unchanged by the ravages of time and of fire. Here great trials had taken place. Here great battles had been won—battles which had changed the destinies of the nation. Brunford, which had seemed so important to him a few years ago, was now only an insignificant manufacturing town. It had but little history, little meaning; but London—London was everything. There, in Westminster Abbey, close by him, kings had been crowned and monarchs were buried. There, too, the great ones of the world had come. Men whose names were imperishable were buried in that mausoleum of the illustrious dead! And he—well, he was nothing now, but men should hear of him in the future. While keenly observant of the procedure of the House, he sometimes found himself dreaming dreams. He thought of the time when Disraeli was refused a hearing in that historic assembly, remembered how the Irish, led by the great Daniel O'Connell, refused to listen to him, and how, when at length he had sat down, after trying to make a speech, he shook his fist in the faces of the excited crowd, and cried: "You will not hear me now, but one day you'll be glad to hear me!" Well, why not he? It is true Disraeli was a man of genius, but he was handicapped on every hand. He was a Jew, and when he commenced his career the prejudice against Jews was stronger even than it was to-day. He was in debt, too, and was hampered on every hand, and yet he had broken down all opposition. He had conquered prejudice, had mastered one of the greatest prime ministers of the age, and was for years the central figure of the Government of the Empire. It just showed what one strong man could do; and he would do it. But at the back of everything was the face of Mary Bolitho. It was for her he was going to win fame and renown. It was at her feet that he would lay all he could win.

Of course many will feel like smiling at these dreams of youth. All the same, the young man who does not dream impossible dreams and determine to win impossible battles will never do much. It is these things which keep the world young and eternally hopeful. Sad will it be for the youth of England when they cease to be!

Fleet Street, too, fascinated him beyond words. Next to the Houses of Parliament, he loved to walk along this busy thoroughfare. Sometimes he would stand there and watch the crowd as it went hurrying by—perhaps the most interesting crowd in the world. Here nameless vagrants rubbed shoulder to shoulder with men who were influencing the thought of the nation. This was the home of one of the greatest estates of the land. It was from here that millions of newspapers were sent, containing the hopes, the aspirations, the life of the people. None of these papers mentioned his name as yet, for he had never dared to try to catch the Speaker's eye, but the time would come when he would. Leading articles should be written about him, and his views of life and politics should be discussed.

In spite of all these things, however, the session came to an end without Paul Stepaside having tried to speak a word in the British House of Commons. His time had not come yet, but it was coming, and he knew how to wait. Those months were to him months of education. He was accustoming himself to his surroundings and preparing for the future. He was studying the methods of the men whose words carried weight. He was seeing the inwardness of this great parliamentary game which was being played, and he was learning to understand how he could use his knowledge, not simply as a means of self-aggrandisement, but for the betterment of the people he loved.

Three times during the session he had gone to Brunford on matters of business, but nothing had happened worthy of recording. His mother had inquired eagerly concerning his doings in London, and had stored within her memory every incident which he had related to her.

"I'm glad you have not spoken in the House yet, Paul," she said, again and again. "When you speak it must be on something which is near and dear to you—something which has gripped your life. Then you will make them feel what you feel. Ay, and you will, too, my boy! It's coming! I can see it!"

"Yes," replied Paul. "I'm going to do it, mother. I'm going to make the name of Stepaside honoured."

"Nay, but you're going to have another name, Paul—your own!"

"Have you found out anything yet?" he asked repeatedly. But at this she would shake her head, as if all her efforts had been in vain, and yet Paul felt assured that she knew more than she cared to tell him.

During the second session Paul made his first speech. As he thought of it afterwards, he was terribly disappointed. It seemed to him that he had not said the things he wanted to say, while the things he had said seemed crude and unimportant. The atmosphere of the House of Commons was so utterly different from that of any assembly he had ever addressed, and he knew that he was speaking to what was perhaps one of the most critical audiences in the world. As fortune would have it, too, the House was full when he spoke, and a great deal of interest was attached to the Bill that was being discussed. That was why he was so disappointed that his language, especially during the first few minutes, was so poor and stilted. He imagined, too, that he had been listened to respectfully, and even cordially, because it was his maiden speech. As a matter of fact, however, Paul had made a great impression. Something of his history was known, and his striking appearance told in his favour. Indeed, it was remarked freely that his speech was one of the most promising that had been heard for years from a new and untried member. Consequently, when Paul returned to Brunford the next time, he was met with congratulations on every hand. He was beginning to fulfil the promises he had made, and many prophesied a great career for him.

And Paul was greatly elated. Indeed, so much was he carried away by visions of the future that he never dreamed of the dark, ominous clouds that were filling his horizon.



CHAPTER XI

PAUL'S DARING

One of the results of Paul's success was entirely unexpected by him. He suddenly found himself made much of by what is called Society. Hitherto he had been altogether unnoticed in this direction. While he was scarcely looked upon as a Labour Member, he was regarded by many as belonging to that class. Moreover, he had done nothing to bring himself into notice, and so, having no advantages of birth, and no circle of acquaintances in London, he had been comparatively neglected. Suddenly, however, he had become a public man. His speech was not only talked about in the Members' Lobby, but it was discussed by a number of society women who professed to be interested in politics. More than one paper devoted articles to him, and many spoke of him as a coming man. This meant that Paul received invitations to society functions which hitherto had been unknown to him.

The wife of a Cabinet Minister gave a reception, and Paul was among the invited guests. "It's a risk!" said that lady to her husband, when the invitations had been sent out, "but, as you know, I love risks, and these things are usually so tame! Will he come in his working-clothes, do you think?"

"Everything is possible!" laughed her husband. "Still, I don't think you need be afraid!"

"I do hope he'll do something shocking!" said the lady. "From what I've heard, he's young and handsome, and if he does something outrageous it'll make the thing go!"

"I should not be surprised if he does not appear in good clothes," said the Cabinet Minister.

"Let's hope they'll be badly fitting, anyhow!" said the wife.

Paul felt very strange as he joined the gay throng. It was his first experience of that sort, and he had not the slightest idea as to what would be expected of him. He had always refused to go to the social functions in Brunford, and now to be ushered suddenly into what he had heard was to be one of the most brilliant political gatherings of the season was staggering. With a fast-beating heart he saw conveyance after conveyance arrive at the scene of gaiety, and men in immaculate evening clothes and ladies in gay attire emerging from them. But Paul quickly gained the mastery over himself. "After all, what does it matter?" he said. "I don't care about this kind of life. These chattering, overfed women have no attraction for me! Still, it may be interesting."

It was a large gathering, and he noticed that many of the most prominent people in the country were present. When he heard his name mentioned to the host and hostess he saw a look of surprise on the latter's face. Evidently she was altogether disappointed, although she was much interested.

"Mr. Paul Stepaside!" said a man in a loud voice, and Paul was shaking hands with one of the leaders of London society.

"So glad to see you," said the lady. "Did I catch your name aright—Mr. Stepaside?"

Paul bowed, uttered a few commonplaces, and passed on.

"I thought you told me he was a working-man?" said the lady to her husband. "I hoped he would come in his working-clothes. This fellow is immaculate!"

"He's a fine figure of a man, anyhow," said the Cabinet Minister.

"The most striking-looking man in the room!" was the lady's answer. And then her attention and smiles were given to the next comers.

Paul was not long left alone, and quickly found himself quite a centre of interest. More than one Member of Parliament brought his lady friends to see the new star. Indeed, he was so much monopolised that for a time he had little opportunity to take notice of the guests as a whole. By and by, however, he managed to get away by himself, and to take the part of a spectator.

It was all very strange to him, this gay throng—and he was not very favourably impressed. If this was Society, he did not want it! Everyone seemed blase and satiated with pleasure. The conversation was clever, but superficial. It seemed to him as though almost everyone lacked earnestness—lacked reality.

"I am glad you are interesting!" said one lady to him during the evening. Paul had been with her some time, and had given expression to some very unconventional opinions. "The greatest sin I know of is to be dull, and you can't be dull."

"No?" said Paul. "I think I'm a fairly good actor."

"No, you have a good deal of the devil in you, and I like a man of your sort. Do you know I saw a criticism of a book the other day of which you remind me?"

"And of course you've read the book?"

"Oh no! The critique said that the only bad book was the book which was badly written, no matter what its morals might be, and this book, although excellently intentioned, was not well written. You know I have a similar feeling about men. The greatest crime in the calendar is to be dull. Men may break all the other commandments if they like, but he who breaks that is impossible. And I find you so interesting!"

"And I feel myself so dull," said Paul. "I don't follow your simile a bit."

"Ah, but you're not conventional. The great charm of a man is that he's always going off the beaten tracks. When he gets back to those he is impossible! Do you know, I hoped you would come in your working-clothes. Our hostess told me you were coming, and I quite looked forward to seeing you."

"My working-clothes are very shabby," said Paul. "Still, if I had thought you wanted to see them, I would have brought them."

The lady laughed good-humouredly. "Oh, but do remain unconventional!" she said. "Don't become a polished Society man. If you are to be interesting, always keep off the beaten tracks."

"Even at the expense of politeness?" said Paul.

The lady looked at him quizzically. "Yes, even at the expense of politeness."

"Then I'll run away. There's someone over here I want to speak to," he said.

The truth was, at that moment he had caught sight of a face which had set his heart beating wildly, for he felt sure it was that of Mary Bolitho. "Oh, I wonder, after all, whether it can be!" he said to himself.

Regardless of passing faces, he found his way toward the spot where he thought he had seen her, and to his delight he discovered that he had not made a mistake. Their eyes met as he came up, and she held out her hand with a smile.

"This is splendid!" he said. "It's so pleasant to see a face that one knows amid a crowd of strangers!"

"But surely you must know hosts of people here," was her response.

"No, I know very few," replied Paul. "Some of the men I have met in the Members' Lobby, but nearly everyone is a stranger to me."

"And yet I find that many people are talking about you!" was her reply. "You are quite the lion of the evening. It must be very gratifying to you."

"Do you know," replied Paul, "that I am not so unsophisticated as not to know the value of these things?"

She looked at him inquiringly.

"I can see how much a moment's popularity is worth," he said, almost bitterly. "A lifetime of good work is passed by unnoticed, but if one happens to make a speech that causes a certain amount of discussion, no matter how silly it may be, one gets noticed until someone else appears. And my speech was a very poor one! I feel ashamed every time I am complimented on it!"

There was something in the way he spoke that annoyed her, why she could not tell. "Then I will not add to your shame," she said.

"No," he replied eagerly. "But I do want you to think well of it even although I know it was a failure. I have been wondering lately if I should meet you, and I was afraid once or twice lest I had seen you."

"I do not quite understand."

"I am comparatively new to this sort of function," said Paul. "And, to tell you the truth, I have been very weary of it all."

"How disappointed your hostess would be if she knew!"

"No," said Paul, "I don't deserve that. But I suppose it's because I have not been brought up in this world. I am a plain, humble fellow, and have had to work my way through the grimy and sordid things of life. Still, there's something real in it, something healthy, too, compared with this—at least, some of it. The other night I was at a banquet, and I was afraid I saw you. You see, I have all sorts of old-fashioned ideas. I'm a Puritan of a sort, and am what these people would call bourgeois."

"What in the world do you mean?"

"I saw a girl who looked like you smoking a cigarette. She had the same coloured hair, and bore such a strong resemblance to you that my heart became as heavy as lead. A little later I saw the same girl, or someone very much like her, drinking a liqueur. Of course, it seemed quite the order of the day, and I ought not to be shocked, but had it been you I should have been very sad."

"Why, what is there so terrible in a cigarette or a liqueur?" asked Mary Bolitho.

"I don't know, I'm sure," he replied.

"You'd have taken no notice if a man smoked a cigarette or drank a liqueur. Is a woman different from a man?"

"She ought to be," said Paul. "At least, so it seems to me; but then, as I tell you, I am altogether out of place among that kind of people. I have all sorts of old-fashioned ideas about women. I know they are unpopular. They are thought to be bourgeois, and entertained only by the middle classes. But there you are—I am bourgeois; or perhaps I belong to a lower class even than that. I'm a working man."

"Can you find a chair for me somewhere?" asked the girl. "Of course I don't agree with you in the least, but it's rather interesting to hear you."

He found a chair for her and stood by her side. "I'm so glad it wasn't you."

"How do you know it wasn't I?" she asked.

"Because you're not that sort! You don't drink liqueurs. You don't smoke cigarettes!"

"Why not?"

"I don't know," replied Paul; "but you don't. If you did—well, it would be wrong somehow. I can't explain it, but it feels to me something like—well, what I think a Roman Catholic would feel if he found someone trying to caricature the Virgin Mary." His voice was so earnest and sincere that she could not be offended.

"I am not like all these men here," went on Paul. "I was brought up among the working-classes, and I have, in spite of everything, idealised women. I expect it is because I love my mother. And when I see a girl drinking liqueurs, smoking cigarettes, and doing things like that, I feel that somehow my ideal is, well, besmirched somehow. I believe less in the modesty of women, and I think it's a bad thing for any man to lower his ideals concerning women! Yes, I am so glad it wasn't you!"

"Still I don't understand why."

"Because you are the most sacred thing in my life!" he answered. "I have tried to tell you that before now, only somehow I haven't been able. You are the most wonderful thing in the world to me, and you hate these things too, don't you?"

"Why should you think so? There are many better girls than I who smoke and drink liqueurs."

"No," said Paul. "No. Do you know that, although I have hated you, you've been the one dream of my life, and that you've made everything possible to me? You're angry with me, aren't you?"

"No," she replied, "not angry. But still, you must not speak to me like that!"

"I cannot help it," he replied. "Do you know that but for you I should not have been a Member of Parliament now?"

"But for me?"

"Yes," said Paul. "From the first time I saw you, just after I came out of Strangeways Jail, you've always inspired me, even while you angered me, and have determined me to win when otherwise I should have lost. Tell me honestly now, do you think I shall ever overcome life's handicap?"

"Does it not depend what the handicap is?"

"My handicap is that I'm nameless," he replied. "I told you the story, didn't I? At least, I tried to. Miss Bolitho, am I mad?"

"You are certainly talking very strangely."

"I hate your father," went on Paul, and his voice, although very quiet, was very intense. "The first time I saw him I hated him. No, no one is listening, you need not fear. I believed he was the tool of the Wilsons. I believe it still! I don't think he fought me fairly either. I think he dislikes me, too. But, but—shall I tell you something?"

"I think you had better not," she replied. Even although she was surrounded by a crowd of people, and their voices were wellnigh lost in the hum of conversation, she was afraid.

"I do not think I can help myself. Miss Bolitho, I have been sustained in all the work of my life by one thought—I want to win you for my wife! Do you think it's possible?" And then, without waiting for her reply, he went on: "It must be possible. It shall be possible! I will make it so."

"I must ask you to excuse me. I have some friends over here wishing to speak to me."

"Not yet," he said. "You must forgive my rudeness, but when a man feels as I feel, and have felt for years, niceties of behaviour don't count. You, in spite of everything, have become the one thing in life worth living for, and yet I ought to be ashamed of speaking to you now. I have no right!"

She looked at him wonderingly, as if not understanding what he meant.

"You see, I have no name," he said. "I don't know who my father is or where he is. I only know that he and my mother were married in Scotland, and he left her the day after the wedding. She, in her trouble, went to her mother's old home in Cornwall, and was looked upon as a poor outcast thing. She lay down on a bank near a little hamlet called Stepaside, and thought she was going to die. From there she was taken to a workhouse, where I was born. She would not tell her name, and that was why I was called Stepaside. It's a terrible handicap, isn't it? No father, no name! Ned Wilson made the most of that at the election; but there, I've fought it down so far. Will you promise me something? I hope you will, I think you will. I don't think I'm altogether a clown, and I feel sometimes as though I can do great things if you—— You see, you are everything to me, everything! Promise me this: If I find out who my father is, may I speak to you again? Do you think—do you think it is possible for you——?"

At that moment some acquaintances came up, and Mary Bolitho turned as if to leave him.

"But give me an answer before you go!" he said eagerly. "Is there any possibility—in spite of my handicap?" And then he felt that his heart had, for a moment, ceased to beat. He forgot where he was. The chatter of the crowd was nothing to him; it did not exist.

"Everything is possible to a man who doesn't know when he's beaten!" she said with a radiant smile, and then turned towards her friends.

Paul remembered little of what took place after that, and he soon found himself walking near Hyde Park alone. It was very wonderful to him—so wonderful that he could not altogether realise it. She had seemed to promise him so much, even though she had said so little. He felt as though the sky had become higher, the world bigger. He had never dared to hope for so much, never dreamt she would speak to him so kindly. They belonged to different worlds, were reared amidst different associations, and yet she had not treated him with scorn. Yes, everything was possible! And he would translate that possibility into the actual. He would win her a name and a position that even she might be proud of. For he had idealised her. To him she was far removed from all the others that he had ever met, and he must do something worthy of her. For hours he walked around the Park alone, wondering how he should begin to carry out the object nearest and dearest to his heart. Poor Paul, he knew little of the ways of the world, especially of the world in which Mary Bolitho lived. Among the lads and lasses in Brunford courtship and marriage were very simple. The boy met his girl there, and they married each other without difficulty. But Paul knew that there were certain formalities that had to be complied with in the class to which Mary Bolitho belonged. She was a judge's daughter, and he, although he had succeeded beyond his hopes, was still looked upon as little more than a working man. One thing, he knew he ought to ask Judge Bolitho for his permission to seek his daughter's hand. He had no right to pay her attentions otherwise. It was a frank and honourable course of action, too, and appealed to him strongly, and if he succeeded, then the way was made plain. Not that he liked the idea altogether, for he had still an instinctive hatred of the man who had treated him, as he believed, so unfairly. But he must destroy that hatred now. He must think kindly of the father of the woman who was all the world to him.

Before the night was over he wrote Judge Bolitho a letter, asking for his permission to try and win Mary Bolitho for his wife. He did not refer to the shadow that rested upon his name, told him nothing of what he had said to Mary. He only told him of his hopes and ambitions, and of his undying love.

Three days later the answer came, and when Paul read it his heart was filled with black rage. It contained only a few words, but they seemed to blot out the sun from his horizon. Without saying so in so many words, Judge Bolitho treated the proposal made in his letter with thinly veiled scorn and contempt. He made him feel, although he did not say so, that what he had said was an impertinence. It was true the letter was couched in terms of politeness, and yet it might have been written to a groom who had the temerity to seek his mistress's hand, and it contained a command that he must never dare to speak to her again.

Paul was scarcely master of himself as he read, and every evil passion of his nature was aroused. This man had added insult to injury. Ever since the day of his trial he had been his enemy, and now he had sent him this! "But I will speak to her again," he vowed. "I will win her in spite of everything; by fair means or foul she shall be mine!"

Shortly afterwards he returned to Brunford for the Christmas vacation. Only a few days were allowed by the leader of the Government, because much and important business had to be transacted; but those few days were destined to change the course of Paul Stepaside's life. His mother met him when he returned to Brunford with unusual manifestations of affection. He had sent her a copy of the Times, wherein was a full report of his speech. He had also forwarded to her a number of other papers which had spoken kindly of him, and she was elated beyond measure at his success. To her Paul was everything, the one object of her love, the one hope of her life. For him she would brave everything, suffer everything. In her inmost heart there was only one thing she desired, and that was Paul's happiness. She had stifled all thoughts of jealousy when she had learnt that Paul loved the daughter of the man who had treated him so badly. She would have loved to have had him all to herself, so that they might have been all in all to each other, but she had seen into his heart, and knew that he loved this girl. And he must have her, and whatever stood in his way must be removed. For that she lived and thought and planned.

The day before his home-coming she had seen that which grieved her sorely, and angered her beyond words. A local newspaper had it that Ned Wilson and Mary Bolitho were engaged, and she wondered how she could break the news to her boy. That the engagement should be broken she had fully made up her mind—no matter what happened Paul must have the woman of his choice!

After dinner they sat alone in the little room on which Paul had bestowed so much attention, and she wondered whether he had beard the news which bad brought her so much pain.

"It was a great speech you made, Paul!" she said, when they had been sitting quietly for some time.

"Nonsense, mother!" was his reply. "Nonsense; it was a failure!"

"No, no. I read every word, Paul, and it was not a failure. You're going to be a great man, my son!"

He laughed bitterly. He remembered the letter which Judge Bolitho had written to him. "I feel as though I don't care about anything!" he went on at length. "What's the good of success? What are we in the House of Commons, after all, but a lot of voting machines? What does it matter which party is in power?"

"Nay, nay, Paul. That's not like you to talk so!"

"I'm tired of it—tired of everything!" he went on.

"You're thinking about that lass!" said his mother, and although he made no reply, she knew she was right.

"Have you ever seen her?" she asked at length.

He nodded.

"And done nothing, I expect?"

"I wrote to her father," was his reply. "I asked him in a straightforward, honourable manner to let me try and win her for my wife."

The woman's eyes shone bright with excitement. "And, and——?" she said.

"Here's his letter!" he replied. "I carry it around with me to tell myself what a fool I've been. You can read it if you like! You can see it's written in the third person, and evidently typed by his secretary. That of itself is an insult, when one bears in mind the kind of letter I wrote to him!"

The woman read it carefully, word by word. She could not help seeing the insult contained in every line, could not help realising that Judge Bolitho regarded Paul's request as an unpardonable piece of impertinence.

"Can't you be happy without her?" she asked at length.

"Never!" he replied. "Everything I may get in life could be but Dead Sea fruit now! Oh, mother, if only I had a name, if we could find out the truth!"

He was sorry he had spoken the moment the words passed his lips. He saw that her face became hard and set, that her eyes burnt with deadly anger. "Do you know that she is engaged to young Wilson?" she asked at length.

"What!"

"It's all over the town, Paul; there can be no doubt about it! It's in the newspaper."

"She does not care for him!" he cried. "She cannot!"

"But he'll be one of the richest men in Lancashire, Paul!"

"But she could not! She could not!"

"Perhaps it explains this letter," said his mother. "Judge Bolitho has doubtless set his heart upon his daughter marrying a rich man, and her feelings are not considered. But don't give up hope, Paul. Don't give up hope. Ned Wilson shall never have her!"

"But what can we do, mother?"

"Are you a son of mine to talk like that?" she asked. "Can you, a strong man, give up tamely?"

"No," cried Paul. "I'll not give up tamely; but of course her father is against me, and he has chosen Ned Wilson for her. As you say, he'll be one of the richest men in Lancashire, and now that Mr. Bolitho has become a judge, his income will not be so much as it was. However, I'll put a stop to it; I can and I will!"

"How can you do it?" asked the mother.

"Never mind," replied Paul. "But it shall be done." That same night he wrote a letter to Ned Wilson.

"Dear Sir," he wrote.

"Circumstances necessitate that I shall have an interview with you immediately on a very important matter. Will you kindly let me have a note by return of post when and where I can see you? I may add that the matter is of such importance that you must not think of refusing me."

The next day he received a type-written letter from Wilson, in the third person:

"Mr. Edward Wilson is sorry that he cannot see Mr. Paul Stepaside, as there is no conceivable matter on which he could think of granting him an interview."

Paul read this curt note with a grim smile upon his lips and an almost murderous look in his eyes. But he made no comment.

Before many hours were over he had discovered Wilson's whereabouts, and had determined to waylay him. They met in a lane not far from Howden Clough.

"Mr. Wilson," said Paul. "Just a word, please."

Ned looked at him with great hauteur, and then was about to pass by without further notice.

"No," said Paul, "That will not do. You received my letter."

"And you received mine."

"That was why I followed you here," said Paul. "I told you that the matter on which I wished to see you was of the utmost importance."

"I do not transact any business with you," said Wilson. "And there is no other matter in which we can be mutually interested. Let me pass, please."

"You cannot pass until you have heard what I have said to you. I am sorry to have to meet you in this way——"

"Not so sorry as I am!" interrupted Wilson. "Still, I will hear you. What is it?" He spoke as though Paul were a persistent beggar, and seemed to regard him as a millionaire might regard a pauper.

"It's this," said Paul. "I noticed in the Brunford Gazette this morning that you are engaged to marry Miss Mary Bolitho."

"And what then?" said the other. "I do not discuss such matters with men of your class."

"It must be contradicted immediately," said Paul quietly. Wilson looked at Paul in astonishment. "I think you must be out of your mind!" he said.

"No, no; I am sane enough. Will you write a letter to the editor, denying this rumour, or must I?"

"In Heaven's name, why should I?"

"I know it's not true"—and Paul still spoke quietly—"that is why this paragraph must be contradicted at once."

Wilson laughed as though he were enjoying a joke, but it was easy to see that he was far from comfortable. He did not like Paul's quiet way of talking. He did not understand the tone of his voice.

"Of course," said Wilson, at length. "I cannot discuss these matters with you. I would sooner discuss them with one of our grooms. Whatever be the truth of the report, it cannot have anything to do with such as you. Still, I will humour you. What's the matter?"

"This is the matter," replied Paul. "You are not fit to associate with such as she."

"Come, come, my good fellow. I have borne a good deal, and I am nearly at the end of my patience. Besides, I cannot allow Miss Bolitho's name to be bandied about by such as you."

"Will you kindly deny that statement which appears in the Brunford Gazette?" persisted Paul, still quietly.

"Certainly not!"

"Then I must make you," said Paul.

"Make me! You!"

"Yes, I!"

"And how, pray?"

"Simply that I shall tell Miss Bolitho the truth about you if you don't."

"The truth about me?"

"The truth about you. You see, I happen to know a good deal about you. Oh, you needn't start. I have all particulars and proofs to the minutest detail. If you do not wish Miss Bolitho to know exactly the kind of man you are, what your responsibilities are, and your duties are, you must send a note to the editor, signed by yourself, declaring that there is no truth whatever in the announcement."

"You spy! You sneaking hound!" said the other, quite losing control over himself.

"Spy, if you like," said Paul. "Sneaking hound also comes well from such as you; but, as it happens, I have had my reasons for a long time for forming certain impressions about you; and as Miss Bolitho is a friend of mine—naturally, I take an interest."

"A friend of yours!" said Wilson.

"Of mine," said Paul. "Now then, will you do what I tell you?"

Neither of them knew that they were being watched, and neither of them knew that, although their conversation was not overheard, two men could hear angry voices, and were wondering what it could be about. These two men knew of the feud which existed between them, and knew that each hated the other.