He did not understand her at all, and he fancied that her mind had become somewhat unhinged by the experiences through which she had been passing, but he said nothing. He thought he had better not.

"What is the good of speech?" he reflected. "She loves me. I am everything to her, and I would not add to her pain for worlds!"

"I tried so hard, Paul," she said presently. "And I thought—no, never mind what I thought; besides, even now I can say nothing that would—— But oh, my dear, dear boy! When I was a lass on my father's farm everything seemed hopeful—everything! Of course, I had my troubles—my stepmother was cruel to me, and she did not understand the longings and fears of a lass such as I was; but still, I did not trouble. But ever since, Paul, ever since he came, it seems as though everything has added to the confusion, to the mystery, to the misery! I don't know how it is, but it seems as though Almighty God has placed a curse upon me. Whatever I've done has turned out wrong. I don't blame you, Paul. No, I don't blame you; but to think—to think——"

"I don't understand, mother." He was obliged to say this, although he still believed his mother's mind was wandering.

"Of course, you've got your defence?" she said. "You would say nothing about it at the trials at Brunford, but I know you have something at the back of your mind. You have, my boy, haven't you?"

His voice was almost grim as he replied, "Yes; I have something at the back of my mind."

"What maddens me," she went on, "is that everything one does seems to be so futile—it ends in nothing! I thought I had done that which made everything plain for you. I thought the sun was going to shine on you continually, and that the desires of your heart should be gratified. And now I find I'm a fool. Almighty God laughs at me—just laughs at me! I've done and suffered in vain. But, of course, you'll clear yourself?"

Again the young man looked at his mother steadily. What did she mean by this—"Of course, you'll clear yourself"?

"It will be very difficult," he could not help saying.

A look of terror came into her eyes. "But not impossible, Paul. No, I see you mean that you'll get out of it. You're so clever. You can see your way out of things which to other people would be impossible. You've got your plans all made, haven't you?" And she looked at him with a mad light in her eyes.

"Yes," he replied with a sigh; "I have my plans all made."

"Someone told me that you refused to have anyone to defend you. Better so, Paul, better so. You're cleverer than any of these barrister men, 'King's Counsels,' I think they call themselves. If you got one of them to defend you you'd have to tell them too much, and you mustn't do that. You know what to say, what not to say, what to tell and what to keep back. It'll be very hard for you, Paul, but I can trust you. You're my own brave, clever lad. About that knife, Paul, I think I can help you."

Still he did not understand her. She seemed to be talking riddles.

"George Preston said that no one was near your office, Paul. As you know, I was there, and I saw the knife lying on your desk. Paul, Paul, let me confess to it! After all, it doesn't matter about me. Let me confess to it, so that you can go free—I will if you like. I don't mind the shame, I don't mind the disgrace. Let people say it was his mad mother, let them say——"

"No, no, mother." His voice became harsh and almost unnatural as he spoke. "No, mother, not you. Whatever is borne, I will bear it. You needn't fear. My business affairs are all arranged satisfactorily; even while I'm lying here, money is being made. The contracts I made were good, and Preston is an honest, capable fellow; and you can live on at the old house, mother."

He hardly knew what he was saying, so great was the terror which filled his heart and life. His mother had practically confessed to him the thing he feared, but he was not angry with her. Instead, his heart was filled with a great yearning pity. Oh, what she must have suffered! the agonies through which she must have passed; and it was all for him, all for him. He would a thousand times rather plead "Guilty" to the crime than that one shadow of suspicion should fall upon her. Besides, he did not believe she was altogether responsible for what she had done. Even on the night of the murder, he had noticed the madness in her eyes. He remembered the look which had haunted him almost ever since. In her love for him, a love which was unreasoning, and which rendered her anger almost uncontrollable, she had done what under ordinary circumstances would never have been possible.

"Poor mother!" he reflected. "All her life she has blamed herself for having brought, as she thought, disgrace upon me. Her only object in life has been that I might find happiness, and that justice should be done to me. No thought of self ever came into any deed she has done since I have been born. She was silent for me; she suffered for me; she thought for me; she slaved for me; and now she has become—— But it was all for me. No, she shall suffer nothing that I can defend her from. But, oh, her burden must be a ghastly one! And I must try hard, too; yes, I must make her think bright thoughts."

"It's all right, mother," he said. "You needn't fear!"

"It'll all come out right," she said, and there was a kind of hysteria in her voice.

"It must," was his reply. "I have thought it all out, mother. I have gone over the ground, step by step, and you needn't fear."

"That's why you're going to defend yourself, isn't it?" and she almost laughed. "You're going to surprise them at the trial? You won't tell what your thoughts are to anyone, for fear they shall make a bungle of it? Half these barristers, I'm told, are very muddle-headed, and make all sorts of foolish admissions; and you're going to defend yourself in your own way, aren't you?"

"Yes, mother," he replied, "in my own way."

"I expect they'll bring me as a witness."

"Well, what if they do, mother? You must know nothing, absolutely nothing. Do you see? You went to bed that night in the ordinary way, don't you remember? I came home from London, and we had a long talk together, and then you asked me to go to bed, and I told you I had a great many things to think about, many plans to arrange; and, of course, you went to bed. You saw nothing, suspected nothing. That's your line, mother. Don't hazard any opinion when they ask you questions. Say 'Yes,' or 'No.' Do you see?"

"Is that what you want?" she said.

"That's what you must do."

She looked at him steadily, searchingly. "And I can trust you, Paul?" She seemed on the point of telling him something—something which he was afraid to hear. So he went on hastily:

"Of course you can. You must fear nothing, absolutely nothing; and you have nothing to do, nothing to say. Yes, it will be awful for you, for they will be sure to bring you as a witness, but that's your line."

"Yes, I understand, Paul. You can trust me. Perhaps they will not bring me at all."

"I hope, I hope—— No, it's all right; nothing will be said."

When they parted a little later, Paul thought his senses were leaving him. He understood nothing, except that he was in a cell in Strangeways Gaol, awaiting his trial for murder.

Presently the news came to him that the assizes had commenced, but when his own trial would come on no one seemed to know. He still refused all offers of defence. The truth was, he dared not open his heart to any lawyer. He saw that if he were to allow anyone to defend him, he must of necessity give them a certain amount of confidence. He must trust them. That he could not afford to do. He was not afraid to die, and at least he had courage enough to be silent.

Presently the news reached him that he was to be brought to the bar of judgment on the following day, but still he refused all offers of defence. He gave no reason for this; indeed, he became more and more grimly silent than ever. He simply shook his head when those who pretended to wish him well pleaded that they might be allowed to appear for his defence.

On the night before his trial, therefore, he sat in his cell alone. The day had been black and grimy, and not a shadow of sunshine penetrated the gloom. Perhaps there is no town in England which looks more grey and sordid than Manchester does in the dead of the winter. The streets are covered with black, slimy mud; the atmosphere is dank and smoke-laden; the houses are grey and enveloped in gloom; even the crowds which throng its streets seem oppressed by the grime-laden air. And Strangeways Gaol is perhaps the most forbidding place in the whole of this great northern metropolis. As someone has said; "Manchester is one of the best places in the world to get out of." Of course, there's another side to that; it is a city full of strong, clear-headed, progressive people. On the whole, too, there are but few people in the world more loyal and more kind-hearted than those in what a great divine used to call, "Dear, black, old, smoky Lancashire." But in the dead of the winter, and to a man with the shadow of the gallows resting upon him, there can be no place in the world so little to be desired. The black night of despair was resting upon Paul's heart. On the morrow the great trial would commence, and although he thought he had arranged everything perfectly, he could not help fearing the results. And then, while his thoughts were at their blackest, he heard a voice which thrilled his being and caused every nerve to quiver with delight.

"This is the one," he heard a warder say. And a minute later he was alone with Mary Bolitho.



CHAPTER XVII

THE LOVERS

Had anyone told Mary Bolitho, even when her father consented for her to accompany him to Lancashire, that she would have sought admission into Paul's cell, she would have repudiated the idea. Even while she could not help believing that there was some awful mistake, and that Paul was utterly incapable of such a deed, she felt that there was nothing for her to do. When she arrived in Lancashire, however, and the assizes had commenced, she realised the terrible issues at stake. If Paul were found guilty, he would be hanged. The thought was like a death-knell in her heart, and all its grim horror possessed her. Day by day passed away, and she could not shake it off. She pictured Paul lying in Strangeways Gaol, waiting his trial, and realised something of the loneliness and the terror which must have encompassed his life.

One day, while visiting a shop in Market Street, she heard some people talking. "He's said no word, I suppose?" said one man.

"I've never heard of anything."

"A curious business, isn't it?"

"Ay, very curious. It don't seem right, somehow, that a man like Paul Stepaside should do such a thing. Of course, the jury will have to go upon evidence, and the evidence is all against him. I've heard as 'ow he's refused to be defended."

"What'll that mean?"

"I don't know, but what I am thinking is, why should he take such a step?"

"Perhaps he's guilty, and wants to get it over!"

"Ah, but what if he's wanting to shield someone? Anyhow, unless something happens, he'll swing! My word, though, I wouldn't like to be in his place! Fancy lying in yon Strangeways Gaol day after day! It's not a cheerful place at any time. I've heard that when they're condemned to die, they can hear the carpenters nailing the scaffold together. Hellish, isn't it?"

"Ah, and he must be very lonely. Fancy the terror of it!"

It was only gossip, which might be expected under such circumstances, but it fired Mary Bolitho's imagination. It helped her to realise the situation more keenly even than she had yet realised it. Paul swinging on a scaffold! Paul dead! Then she knew the secret of her heart. What she had never dreamt of as possible became a tremendous reality. He was the one man in all the world for her. Without him life would be a great haggard misery. She did not know why it was, or how it was, but the man had become king of her life; and he was lying in a prison cell accused of murder!

She must do something; she must! She felt as though she were going mad; she free in the streets of Manchester, free to live her own life, to follow her desires, while he lay there alone, with the shadow of the scaffold resting upon him! And he was innocent. She was sure he was innocent. She had no more a doubt about it than of her own existence. The evidence at the Brunford Town Hall and at the coroner's inquest was nothing to her. Circumstantial evidence was nothing. The gossip which was so freely bandied was nothing. Paul was innocent, and she loved him. But what could she do? Rather, what must she do? Regardless of the consequences, she immediately took steps whereby she might be enabled to see the prisoner.

Naturally Paul had no idea of the thoughts that were surging in her mind. He never dreamed of what she intended to do. He sat alone in his cell, thinking and wondering. He had given up all hope of ever seeing Mary again. All his fond imaginings had come to nothing. The resolutions he had made were but as the wind. One day he was full of hope, full of determination; he would conquer difficulties, he would laugh at impossibilities; the next day all hope had gone; defeat, disgrace, horror blotted out everything else.

That was the greatest burden he had to bear. His life broken off in the middle? Yes, he could face that. The career which promised great things utterly destroyed—well, that did not seem to matter. The destruction of the dreams of a lifetime? Terrible as it was, he met it with a kind of grim despair. But the loss of Mary Bolitho—to feel that he would never see her again, never hear her voice again, never enter into the joy which he had promised himself should be his—that was terrible beyond words.

He had no belief in a future life, even while his heart demanded it. When the last act was over, then came a pall of eternal silence, eternal unconsciousness. Of course it was a great, grim, ghastly tragedy, but he had to accept facts as they were. There was no God, no Providence, no justice; life was a hideous mockery, a meaningless tangle. No; he would never see her again, never hear her voice again, never catch that glad flash of her eyes which he had seen during their last meeting. It seemed to him as though he had entered an inferno, over the portals of which was written: "All hope abandon, ye who enter here."

Then, suddenly, the heavens opened. It seemed as though the black night had ended in the shining of a summer morning. The blackness of his cell, the grim future of his life were as nothing. He heard her voice, and they stood face to face.

For a moment they did not speak. He looked at her like one fascinated. It was too wonderful to be true. Presently he would wake from his dream, as he had wakened from other dreams, and everything would mock him again. He passed his hand across his brow, as if to wipe away the shadows which hung between him and reality. Yes, Mary was there; she was looking at him with kind eyes, and her lips were tremulous. Then in a moment the meaning of what she had done became real to him. If there was one thing for which he had feared, it was Mary's good name. One of the great objects of his life had been to save her from being connected with the shame which surrounded his name. Little as he cared for gossip under ordinary circumstances, he dreaded it now. What would be said if it were known that she had come to see him? And people would know! Would not a thousand suspicions be aroused? Would not evil tongues wag? His own suffering he could bear, but she must not suffer.

"Why have you come?" It was not a bit what he intended to say, but the words seemed drawn from him in spite of himself.

"I came to see you," she said. "How could I help it?"

Again he looked at her wonderingly. He did not understand. He fancied that his brain must be giving way. He could not connect cause with event. He could not grasp the issues of the situation.

"Why could you not help it?"

"Paul, you know!" she said.

He thought his heart would have burst; the excitement of the moment was too great. His head whirled with a mad wonder, and yet he would not have exchanged places with a king. The prison cell seemed like a palace; that second of joy more than atoned for all he had suffered.

"Mary!" he cried, "do you mean that? You know what is in my heart. You know what for months I have been afraid to tell you. You must have known! Why, it has been like fire in my brain; it has been the great passion of my heart. You knew it when we were in London together, even before I told you, didn't you?"

She nodded her head, and Paul saw that her eyes were brimming with tears.

"And you cared enough to come and see me?" he said.

"I could not help coming, Paul," was her reply. "How could I, when I knew that you were alone, and that you needed me?"

"But you must go away," he said. "It's heaven to have you near, but you must go away. No one must know. Why, think of what the world would say!"

"As though I care what the world says," was her reply. "As a matter of fact, I obtained admission to you without difficulty, and I do not think anyone knows who I am. You see, I have means unknown to other people. But I do not care who knows. Why should I care? I came to you because I—I—— But you know, Paul! You know!"

"And you came to tell me that?" he said.

"Yes, to tell you that," she replied. "Of course, I could never have told you had things been as they were; but now—I can't help it. How can I? And I've come to save you, too!"

"To save me?"

"Yes, to save you."

"But do you know what I am accused of?" he asked, and his voice was hoarse.

"Of course I know. How can I help it? But that's nothing."

"But, Mary, you don't understand."

"I understand everything," she said. "That is, everything that matters. You and I are all the world, Paul. For days I've been fighting; perhaps I've been a little mad; I sometimes think I have. But that's all over. I have thrown fear to the wind. I don't care what the world says. I don't care though all the gossips in the world talk about me. I came to you because you needed me, and because I love you, Paul."

Her words were simple, but there was something glorious in her self-abandonment. To her the non-essentials of life did not seem to exist. She had thrown everything to the winds. The wondrousness of her womanhood had burst forth. Her heart had spoken, and she had listened to it. The ways of the world, the conventionalities of society, the gossip of tongues were no more than thistledown. The great thing in life was the love which had been born in her heart, a love which overwhelmed and submerged everything else. For that she had dared everything, and she had found her way to the cell of this man accused of murder.

"But even yet I do not think you realise," he said. "Oh, don't misunderstand me, Mary. You know how my heart rejoices in this moment—how I would gladly suffer ten times more than I have suffered for the joy of this hour. Why, the thought of your love has been life to me. It has been the inspiration of everything I've done. Ever since that day I caught the flash of your angry eyes—the day when I came out of prison, you have dominated everything. Your presence has filled everything. Even while I hated you, I loved you. Even when I steeled my heart against you, you were everything to me. I did not know you, but that did not matter. What is knowledge? Of course, I only thought that you regarded me as a thing beneath your notice, but that did not matter. You were born for me, and I swore that you should be mine, even although I went to hell to get you. And now, now that you've come to me like this, Great God, Mary, you know what it must mean to me! Words are such poor little things, aren't they? But you're here, here!"

He caught her hand as he spoke, and again looked into the depths of her eyes; while she, although she was half-afraid, stood steadily gazing at him.

"I'm accused of murder, Mary. Do you understand? Murder! I was never jealous of him, and yet men said that you and he were to be wedded. You know all about it?"

"Yes, I know," she said.

"And you believe I'm guilty, don't you?"

"Guilty!" The girl laughed as she spoke. "Guilty! I believe in my own guilt rather than yours."

"But I'm going to be hanged for it," he said. "The knife which was found in his heart, is my knife. Don't you see?"

"I see everything," she replied. "I see nothing. But you guilty!" And again she laughed.

"You don't believe it, then? You have seen what the newspapers have said? You have read every bit of damning evidence against me? You know that I have been lampooned in a thousand newspapers? You know that I have been discussed by every pothouse villain in the land? And it is said that there is not one link wanting in the chain that binds me to the scaffold."

"I don't know, I don't care about that," she replied. "You are as innocent as the angels in heaven. Why, Paul, if all the juries in the land were to condemn you; if all the newspapers in the world were to lampoon you; if your best friends told me they had seen you do it, I would not believe it."

"Then you believe me innocent?" And his voice was tremulous with joy.

"I don't believe," was her reply. "I know."

"How do you know?" He spoke like one bewildered.

"Because I know you, Paul. I've seen into your heart; and my own heart has spoken to me, and God has spoken to me. You guilty!"

He felt as though the shadow of death were lifted from his life. The great terror which had enveloped him for days had been that Mary Bolitho would look upon him as a murderer; and now, with the self-abandonment which was to him past all thought, she had come to him of her own accord, she had thrown conventions to the winds, and she had confessed, as only she could confess, that she believed in him and that she loved him.

The heart-hunger which had consumed him during the long weeks was too great to be borne. He opened his arms; and each, forgetful of where they were, forgetful of the grim prison walls, forgetful of the painful silence of the prison, held the other.

Years before Mary Bolitho had admired the words of Lovelace, the poet:

"Stone walls do not a prison make, or iron bars a cage."

But now the lines seemed poverty itself. How little it expressed the deep feeling of her life. They were not in prison. The solemn bell of doom was not tolling. She was in heaven. So great is the power of a pure love. As for Paul, at that moment everything faded but the blissful present. There was no past, there was no future. Nothing mattered but the now. He had entered into the joy of which he dreamt, and he would not think of anything else. How long they remained in that condition of untold happiness he did not know, he did not care. But presently all the grim realities came back again. He knew where he was. Mary would shortly have to leave him. He thought of the warder peering curiously into her face and making surmises as to why she came. He thought of whispering tongues; but more than all that, he thought of the terrible future which awaited him. Paul's temptation had not yet come, but the hand of the tempter was even at that moment knocking at the door of his heart.

"Now, Paul," she said, and her voice was changed, "now we must think about the future."

"Not yet, not yet, Mary. Let me remain in heaven while I can. Hell will come soon enough."

"No, Paul, you must think about the future. You must think about it at once. You are not guilty of this, and you must know who is. You must tell me. Hitherto you have refused to confide in anyone. You have maintained a silence which has been misunderstood, and which has caused so many to think of you as guilty. It must be broken, Paul. You must tell me everything, and I will save you."

It was then that he realised what he had to face. For Paul Stepaside believed that he knew who had killed Wilson. For many a weary hour he had thought over his mother's strange behaviour, thought of the flash of madness which had shot from her eyes, thought of the wild words she had uttered. He remembered, too, the sight that met his gaze on the morning of the murder. He saw her again, sitting in her bedroom, saw the look of unholy joy in her face; and in his heart of hearts he felt sure of what she had done. It was all for him. She had loved him with a mad, unreasoning frenzy; for him she was willing to sacrifice her own life. How much wonder, then, that she had been willing to sacrifice another's life. She had believed that Ned Wilson stood between him and happiness, and she had determined to move him out of life's pathway. He had seen her on the day before the murder, with the knife which had killed Ned Wilson in her hand. She, unknown to his partner, George Preston, had come to his office. He had seen her handling this murderous weapon, and he remembered the look in her eyes; remembered, too, what she had said. How could he doubt? Indeed, she had practically confessed the deed to him, and he had sworn that not a shadow of suspicion should rest upon her name. She was his mother. She had suffered for him. She had committed a crime for him. But he could not let her pay the penalty for it. No, no; he was willing to die himself, but he could not bear the thought of his mother's name being tarnished. He shuddered at the very suggestion of her being held up before the world's gaze.

"You see, Paul," went on Mary Bolitho; "I know you never did this, and I know you're hiding something. And you must clear your name, for my sake. You see, don't you?"

It seemed as though the god of silence sealed his lips. He could not speak. How could he speak, when, if he told what was in his heart, his words would be of such terrible portent? Then, like lightning, the issues became clear to him. They were written from sky to sky. If he did not speak, if he maintained the silence which he had hitherto maintained, the jury would find him guilty, and he would be hanged. But his mother's name would be saved from disgrace. She would not have to pay the penalty of the deed which she had done out of love for him. No one could associate crime with her. He had gone carefully into his business matters, and he knew that he would leave her enough to live comfortably. The hand of want would never knock at her door. Of course, it was all very terrible; but she would never be branded, and she might find some measure of peace. Anyhow, he was willing to pay the price for what happiness she could get. He would be an ingrate indeed if he were not. Had she not done everything for him? Ah! but there was the other side. Mary's coming had made everything a thousand times harder to bear. He did not mind it before, for he believed that everything had become impossible, but now that she had come to him, now that she had freely told him with her own lips of the love she bore for him, now that she was willing to link her life with his, regardless of what the world might say, now that a happiness such as he had never dreamt of was possible, how could he do it? In that moment Paul Stepaside seemed to live an eternity. Whichever way he turned, he was met by blank impossibilities. How could he enter into happiness, knowing that in order to do so he had sent his mother to the gallows? Rather a thousand times that his tongue should be paralysed than that he should utter a word to fasten the crime upon her. And yet, if he did not do so, he must lose Mary for ever. He must end his days in a way which has become a byword and a shame for every right-thinking man.

"You'll tell me what you know, and all you know, won't you? It's for my sake, Paul. It's for both our sakes, our life's happiness is at stake. You see it, don't you? Tell me, my dear, tell me?"

What would he not have given to have been able to have told her! But how could he?

"No, Mary," he said at length. "There is nothing to tell."

"You mean you will not tell?"

"There is nothing to tell," he repeated.

"Paul, you're not guilty; you know you're not guilty. You are absolutely innocent of everything with which you are charged. You know it. I don't want you to answer me. You know it, and I know it."

He looked at her with a glad light shining from his eyes, even although her words were laden with such a terrible meaning. It was heaven to know that she believed in him so—heaven to realise that her trust was so infinite.

"There is nothing to tell," he repeated with dreary monotony.

"But there is, Paul. You can save yourself if you will, you know you can." He did not speak, but sat still, looking at her with steady gaze.

"Will you leave me so?" she went on. "I will not plead with you for your own sake, or for your own happiness, but will you not for mine? Think, Paul! I love you. All that I have and am belong to you. To lose you will be losing everything. Will you not, for my sake, speak? There, Paul"—she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him—"there, Paul, I love you; I love you more than life. Will you not tell me for my life's happiness?"

He knew what temptation meant then, as he had never known it before. His heart hungered for her as even he had never thought it could hunger. His whole being cried out for her and for happiness, and if he would but speak, then everything became possible; while if he were silent——

It seemed as though his mind were giving way, as though the trial were too hard to bear. God, if there were a God at all, could never expect him to give up such a joy. He was young—only a little more than a lad in years—with life all before him, with glorious possibilities, and the love of Mary Bolitho. While she, she who stood there, was glorious in her youth and in her beauty. She, who, with the sacrifice of all that lesser women hold so dear, had come to him and besought him to enter into the joy he longed for. Oh, he could not give her up; he must speak.

He nerved himself to tell her, nerved himself to relate the story of his life, and the story of what he was sure his mother had done; but even as he did so, he saw his mother's face. He remembered her years of loneliness and disappointment and sorrow. He remembered how her life had been blackened and broken, and that she had done everything for him. No, he could not, he could not.

"There is nothing to tell." He reiterated the words as though they were some formula, and he thought indeed all was over. But to his surprise, the girl laughed again.

"Do you think I don't know you, Paul? Do you think I am going to give up our happiness without a struggle? Do you think I am going to allow you to go down to your grave without fighting for you? You will not tell me, but I'm going to find out! I know you are shielding someone. Your eyes have told me the truth, and you cannot deny what I have said. Who it is doesn't matter. But I'm going to find out. I'm going to save you, Paul. And we shall be happy in spite of everything."

"No, no." His voice was hoarse and unnatural.

"But I will," she said. "Do you think my love is something that makes me helpless? Do you think I can stand by knowing that you are innocent, and allowing you to appear guilty of such a crime? I don't love you for nothing, Paul. I love you to serve you—to save you."

Never, even in those hours when he had thought most fondly of her, had he dreamt of the depths of her nature, or thought of what she was capable. Now he realised that Mary Bolitho was no ordinary woman, that all along there had been depths in her being which he had never fathomed, knew that she meant what she said.

"No, no, Mary," he repeated, "you must not. If you love me, you will promise me this. You will promise to be silent. You will promise that you will give no hint or suggestion of what you fancied. Besides, I'm guilty, Mary. I'm guilty, Mary. That is, promise me, for the love you bear me."

There were footsteps in the stone corridor outside. It was a warder coming to tell her that her time was up, and that she must leave him.

"Promise me, Mary." He caught her and held her close to him. "Tell me you'll do nothing!" he cried.

"On one condition I will," was her answer.

"What is it?" he asked eagerly.

"That you'll tell the truth before my father and the jury."

"Your father?"

"Yes, did you not know? He is the judge who has to try the case."

"Then, then, Mary, promise me——"

The key turned in the lock, and Mary and Paul separated. Neither had made a promise.

Presently Mary Bolitho went back to her hotel, where she sat in her room alone for hours, thinking and planning; while Paul Stepaside sat in his cell, with heaven in his heart; yes, heaven, even although he suffered the torments of hell.



CHAPTER XVIII

THE FIRST DAY OF THE TRIAL

It was the morning of the trial, and the Assize Court was crowded. Before daylight a number of people, hungry for excitement, had hung round the strangers' entrance, and as soon as the doors were opened had rushed with a kind of savage curiosity to the part of the hall where the public was admitted. Long before the trial was opened every inch of space was occupied by a seething, excited crowd. So great was the interest created that many, who might not have been expected to witness the scene, were so eager to be present that the officials were inundated with applications for admission. Long before the court began its sitting, the air was hot and tense with eager curiosity. Some, indeed, talked casually and carelessly, as though a murder trial were an everyday occurrence, but in the main the atmosphere was electric. Men's faces were set and stern, and more than one woman showed signs of hysteria. Outside, a great throng of people, who were unable to gain admission, waited as if held by a spell. The ushers found difficulty in maintaining anything like order. The hum of voices was heard everywhere.

"I wonder how he'll look," said one. "I'll warrant he'll be as pale as death."

"Nay," said another, "he's noan that soort. He'll look as proud as ever. He'll mak it seem as though we were th' murderers, and he wur innocent."

"Ay, but he must have had a terrible time!" said another. "He's been waiting there for weeks. Just think of it! I've heerd he's given in, too."

"Given in? What dost a' mean?"

"Ay, I've heerd as 'ow he's consented to have a counsel."

"Who has he got, then?"

"I don't know for certain, but it is said that young Mr. Springfield hev took on th' job."

"But he can noan clear hissen."

"I'm noan so sure. He's a rare clever chap, is Paul!"

"It would be fun to see him swing, wouldn't it? It's a shame that they hang people in private now, instead of in public like they used to."

And so on. To them it was like a scene in a theatre. Their appetites were morbid, and they had come thither to appease their hunger.

One by one the barristers found their way to their seats. Clerks were busy writing at their desks, while the reporters sat at the table allotted to them, writing descriptive articles. To them the occasion offered a fine opportunity. It was no ordinary trial. Paul Stepaside was a young member of Parliament, and had become popular throughout the whole county. He had been freely discussed as a coming man. What wonder then that tongues wagged! What wonder the crowd eagerly waited his coming!

The murdered man, too, was well known in the county. He was a big employer of labour, and had freely moved in Lancashire society.

Sitting close to the barristers' seats, ladies belonging to some of the best families in Lancashire had gathered. They, too, were eager, hungry for excitement. Some of them were educated women, delicately nurtured, and it seemed strange that they should find an interest in such gruesome proceedings. Yet, with a kind of reversion to the savage instincts of former days, they had gathered with the rest. After all, civilisation is only a veneer, and the old, elementary, savage feelings lie dormant in it all.

"Bakewell's for the prosecution, I suppose," said one young barrister to another.

"Yes; and it couldn't be in better hands. I wish Stepaside were not such a fool!"

"Why, would you like the job?"

"Like it! I should think I would! It's one of the finest opportunities since I've been called."

"But he's no defence, man!"

"Oh, a defence could easily be made. It would give a fellow a splendid chance. You see the case is the talk of the country, and the question of motive has to figure largely. Why, the evidence could be riddled! To say the least of it, one might get a verdict for manslaughter."

"You mean to say he won't give you the chance you want." And the other laughed.

"Anyhow, it seems jolly mean of him not to allow one to make the most of such an opportunity. You know Binkley, don't you? He's now making thousands a year. For years he used to hang around the courts, unable to get a brief, and then a case something like this turned up, and he acted for the prisoner."

"But he didn't get him off."

"No; but, don't you see, it gave him his chance. His cross-examination was clever, and his speech for the defence was so brilliant that it gave him a reputation. It made him! After that, briefs came in like mad. But I see time is up."

A minute later the clerk of the assizes came into the court. Then a great hush fell upon all present. From a door at the back of the hall came Mr. Justice Bolitho and took his seat. Immediately all eyes were turned towards him.

"Handsome, isn't he?"

"Yes; a striking figure of a man."

"Isn't it strange though? Only a year or two ago he and Stepaside fought for the Brunford seat. They ran neck and neck too, and he got in. Of course that was before he was made a judge. Do you know what Stepaside said when the figures were announced? He said that he and Bolitho would meet again, and always to fight; and now it's come to this!"

"Ay; and he appeared against him years ago, when he was up for the riot. Then he only got him sent to gaol for six months, and now it seems as though he'll put on the black cap and condemn him to be hanged. My word, though, I shouldn't like to be a judge!"

Judge Bolitho was indeed a striking figure as he sat there in his judicial robes and heavy wig. His features were large and commanding. His eyes had the look of authority. His mouth was set and stern. He looked every inch of what he was, a representative of the dignity of the law, a man set apart to do justice—a cultured, able man, too, with fine, almost classical features, even although they were somewhat heavy. Not a cruel man—at least he did not appear so; indeed, he was well known as one who could tell a good story and pass a timely joke. A popular man, too, with those of his own order—one who by ability and worth had risen to his present exalted position.

One of the ushers shouted "Silence" as he sat down; but there was no need for him to speak. The place was as still as death. Everyone waited for what should happen next. Then, if possible, the atmosphere became more than ever charged with the spirit of the day's trial. Distant footsteps were heard, and then, accompanied on either side by a policeman, came Paul Stepaside.

Paul had scarcely slept a wink that night; not that he feared the trial—that seemed to be in the background of his life now. Everything else was swallowed up in the interview which he had had with Mary Bolitho. Throughout the long night he had been fighting a great battle. What should he do? If he were to tell the whole truth—— But he would not think of it. Still, all the old questions recurred to him again with weary reiteration, the old battle had to be fought and re-fought. Love for his mother, love for the woman who was to him a thousand times more than his mother yet in a different way, struggling for ascendancy. What should he do? What should he do?

The chaplain came to him again that morning—as he had done once or twice before—to offer him his ministrations, but Paul was still as hard as adamant. The chaplain was an earnest, good man, narrow in his faith, but deeply in earnest. He believed in Paul's guilt, and would have given a great deal to have brought him to a state of repentance.

"If you'd only accept the consolations, the help of religion!" he had said to him.

"What consolations?" asked Paul.

"Do you not realise the need of pardon?" asked the clergyman. "Do you not need to feel the atonement made for sin?"

"I only want justice. Look, sir," said Paul. "What is the practical result of religion? Does it make men do justice and love righteousness? I will tell you something. There was once a man who betrayed a woman. He was a religious man. He partook of the sacraments. But all his religion did not keep him from forsaking the woman he betrayed and allowing her to spend her life in disgrace and misery. If religion could cause that man to come forward, confess his wrong, and atone for his guilt by doing justice to her, perhaps I could believe. But all these little theories of yours are so many parrot cries."

It was in this state of mind that Paul was led from his cell to the dock. He was still wearing his own clothes, for although he was an accused man, he was not yet proved to be guilty; and with that innate pride and that care for personal appearance which was natural to him, he had carefully dressed himself. His garments were well cut, and fitted his figure perfectly. His linen was spotless, and he stood upright, with a proud look on his face.

There was a kind of gasp when he entered the dock. He was not the kind of man whom many had expected to see. Tall, erect, muscular, pale cheeks, clear-cut features, well-shaped head, dark flashing eyes, sensitive lips and nostrils, he was a direct contrast to those who are usually associated with the crime of which he was accused. Even the judge, who looked at him with keen, penetrating eyes, could not help being impressed by the fact. He was a man capable of controlling other men, a man who could deal with large affairs. Passionate, perhaps, and vengeful, but not likely to wreak his passion like a brute.

"Handsome, isn't he?" said one lady to another. "I'd no idea!"

"Yes, terrible pity, isn't it? But still, I suppose he's had a grudge against Mr. Wilson for years. He belongs to the working classes, too, although by his cleverness he's risen above them. But it's always the same, my dear—common people are common people."

Paul looked steadily round the court. His eyes did not rest long on the judge, although he gave him a keen, searching glance. Even then he felt that the circumstances were far out of the ordinary. Only the previous evening this man's daughter had confessed her love to him. She had defied all conventions, defied the possibility of malign gossip, but of course Judge Bolitho did not know that. They met there as judge and accused, and such were the relations that they must maintain. A few weeks before, this man had written a letter to him—an insulting letter—forbidding him to approach his daughter; and now he, the judge, sat in his seat of authority, while Paul was in the dock.

His gaze swept round the room. He recognised many faces. He saw Edward Wilson, father of the murdered man, pale as ashes, and with set, stern face. He saw the Mayor of Brunford and some of the councillors. He saw men who had fought for him at the last election—men with whom he had done business. He saw people of the common orders—some of them were his own employees—who a week or two before had paid him homage in so far as any Lancashire man pays homage to his employer.

No; it was not like an ordinary trial at all, and yet the issues were tragic. The air seemed to pulsate with doom. No word had yet been spoken, and yet men's hearts were beating wildly. Even the barristers, who sat looking at the prisoner, seemed strangely moved.

The clerk of the assizes rose, arranged his wig, settled his gown.

"Order! Order!" shouted the ushers.

The clerk read the indictment in solemn and impressive tones. Few remembered the words he said, but all realised their purport. Paul Stepaside, standing there in the prisoner's dock, was indicted for the murder of Edward Wilson.

"Are you guilty or not guilty?"

"Not guilty," replied the prisoner. There was not a tremor in his voice, and many thought, as they looked at him, that he seemed to regard the question as an insult.

The jury had been sworn. This was a somewhat tedious proceeding, the swearing of the jury, and on Paul's face passed a look of contempt. It seemed so tiresome, this reading of a formula to twelve men, making them promise that they would consider the case "without fear or favour, upon the evidence given," and so on and so on. Still it was necessary, even although in many cases it might have become a mere matter of form. Certainly, too, each juryman seemed to realise the importance of his position and the seriousness of what he had to do. They were not men of great intellectual acumen, these jurymen—just kind-hearted, commonplace men who had been selected for the purpose. Still, they would do as well as others who might be got. They would hear the evidence given. They would listen attentively to the counsel's words and to the judge's summing up.

At length all was ready, and the jurymen settled in their seats, each with his note-book, and each prepared to listen attentively. No sooner had they sat down than the counsel for the prosecution rose. Mr. Bakewell was a man well known on the Northern Circuit. He had for many years appeared in the Assize Courts of Manchester, and had been spoken of as an able man. It had even been said of him that he cared more for verdicts than for justice. But this did not seem to annoy him. After all, the verdict is what a barrister has to think of. He had his reputation to maintain, his case to win, and he was the counsel for the prosecution. He had studied the case thoroughly, point by point. In this instance, too, he was more than ordinarily interested. He had met Paul Stepaside. On one occasion there had been a slight passage of arms between them, and Paul had come off best in the encounter; and ever since, Mr. Bakewell, while bearing no grudge against him, had been somewhat chagrined that this young man, who had never been trained in the law, should have got the better in their encounter.

"I am for the prosecution, my lord," he said, and sat down.

"Who is for the defence?" asked the judge.

This question was met by deathly silence.

"Have you no one to defend you?" asked the judge, turning towards Paul. And even then both of them felt the incongruity of the situation.

"No," replied Paul.

"But I advise you very seriously to accept counsel for defence."

"No," replied Paul. "I wish no one." His voice rang out clearly in the hall, even although he spoke in low tones. No one seemed to breathe. What could be the meaning of such an attitude?

Again Judge Bolitho spoke:

"I repeat," he said, and his voice was very solemn, "that you will be wise if you accept someone for defence. Mr. Langefield, now?" and he nodded towards the man who had that same morning regretted Paul's obstinacy in not securing his services.

"No," said Paul. "I must decline your lordship's suggestion. What defence is offered I will offer myself."

"Of course this is not usual," said the judge. "And I think it my duty to tell you that you will have a perfect right to cross-examine any witness who may be called."

"Thank you, my lord."

The counsel for the prosecution here rose to address the jury and to give a statement of the case. This he did in a lengthy speech, a speech which showed that he had not only thoroughly studied the facts, but had gone to some trouble to trace Paul's history.

"My lord and gentlemen," said Mr. Bakewell, "this is no common case, and the prisoner is no ordinary man. Although he came to Brunford as a poor lad, he soon rose to a distinguished position. So much ability did he show, and such was his influence in the town of his adoption, that he was at length invited to stand for Parliament in the interests of the working classes of the town. I would not mention this but for the fact that it bears upon the case we are now considering. It was during this contest that the prisoner accused the murdered man of acting against his, the prisoner's, interests, and of doing his best to ruin him. I shall also bring evidence to show that during this part of his history he repeatedly swore to be revenged on the deceased. By and by he was elected as Member of Parliament for Brunford, and immediately after that election, as I shall prove to you, a quarrel took place between him and the murdered man, during which the prisoner struck him a murderous blow, and was only kept back from a renewal of the attack by those who were standing round."

He then went on to describe the scenes immediately associated with the murder, and told in minutest detail the happenings which we have recorded in these pages.

As he went from point to point, all present could see, as if in the eye of imagination, link fastened to link, and every one was riveted with care and precision. The whole chain of evidence seemed perfect. Even Paul himself, as he listened, could not help feeling that, as far as circumstantial evidence was concerned, no stronger case could be brought to prove a man's guilt. Indeed, had a vote been taken at that moment, not only among the jury, but among all present, there would have been a general admission that Paul was guilty of the murder of Edward Wilson.

"It remains now, my lord and gentlemen, for me to call witnesses to prove the facts which I have laid before you. And it is for you, gentlemen, to judge whether those facts are not sufficient to pronounce the verdict of guilty upon the prisoner who now stands before you."

There was a rustle in the court as he sat down. It seemed as though everyone wanted to find relief from the tense excitement which had been created by his words. The judge shuffled in his chair and looked at his notes. The barristers who sat round nodded to each other and seemed to say that undoubtedly Bakewell had made a very fine speech. Many eyes were turned towards Paul, who remained perfectly calm. His face was hard and stony. Not a tremor was to be seen. He seemed to have no nerves. Then, before the first witness was called, he looked round the court and saw, for the first time, the face of Mary Bolitho. He had no idea that she would be present, and for a moment his heart became cold and heavy. Their eyes met, and she smiled. It is true her face was deadly pale, but there was no lack of confidence in the look she gave him. As plainly as words could say them she said: "Do not fear, Paul. I love you. I know you're innocent, and I will save you."

In spite of all that had taken place, his heart became light again. He still adhered to his resolution to keep his secret in his heart, but that one look changed the whole atmosphere of the place. He knew that the one, and the only one, for whom he cared, believed in his innocence and looked upon him with eyes of love.

The counsel was about to call the first witness when there was a sound of confusion. Through the crowded court a woman was making her way, and Paul, looking, saw his mother. How she got there he did not know, but got there she had. He saw how pale and haggard her face was, saw, too, that her eyes gleamed with the old light which had shone from them on the night of the murder. He thought she seemed to be making straight for him, but she presently stopped. The judge was at that moment busily making notes. Presently, however, he lifted his head as if in wonder at the counsel's delay. She looked at Paul, but only for a moment. Her eyes were fixed upon Judge Bolitho.

"It's Stepaside's mother," whispered someone to Mr. Bakewell, and many eyes were turned towards her.

Then a scream rent the air—a scream of agony, of madness, and the woman fell down in the court insensible.



CHAPTER XIX

PAUL DISCOVERS HIS FATHER

As may be imagined, the sensation in the court was very great, but it quickly died away. Paul's mother was immediately removed, and the order of the day was resumed. For some time, however, Paul was unable to give due attention to what was taking place. The sight of his mother's face, added to the stress of the scene through which he was passing, was affecting his iron nerves in spite of himself. Presently, however, when someone whispered to him, saying that his mother was quite recovered, he seemed more at ease, and was able to devote his attention to the evidence which was being elicited from the witnesses.

He did not know why it was, but he seemed to be the only man in the court who was unmoved by what was taking place. On every hand was strained attention to every word that was spoken. The most insignificant question seemed to be carefully noted, not only by the jury but by the spectators. But to Paul there was a sense of unreality in everything. All these same questions he had heard before. All these witnesses had appeared at the Coroner's inquest and before the Brunford magistrates. It seemed to him, too, that the way the counsel for the prosecution dwelt on insignificant details, details which could have nothing whatever to do with the real issues, was childish. Indeed, Mr. Bakewell appeared not only to have a positive genius for, but also a personal interest in, dragging out the case as long as possible. In a way Paul supposed it was necessary to inquire into the minutest details concerning the evidence that was given, nevertheless, it was wearying in the extreme. As far as he could judge, too, both counsel and witnesses were supremely anxious to acquit themselves in a way that should give satisfaction to the spectators. It was a matter of intellectual juggling rather than a desire to arrive at the truth. The counsel evidently hoped that his examination would be commented upon as clever and searching, while the witnesses, aware that the eyes of the many who knew them watched them closely, were eager to be spoken of as having acquitted themselves with some amount of distinction. Hours passed away, and, it seemed to him, they failed to get at the heart of the case, while such a large amount of irrelevant matter was allowed and discussed that, from the standpoint of a spectator, it seemed to the prisoner that the methods of an English law-court needed to be rigidly revised. During the afternoon sitting, however, they got nearer to the heart of things. The counsel began to ask questions which had a vital bearing upon the case, and, as a consequence, the attention of all present became more tense. It was then that Paul could not help feeling that the judge had already made up his mind. During that part of the proceedings when he had advised him to obtain counsel to defend him, and told him that he was at liberty to cross-examine the witnesses, he felt more kindly towards him. There seemed a desire to do him justice, and to give him every chance to put his own case in the best possible light. But as matters proceeded, the judge appeared to have arrived at a conclusion, and to regard the prisoner as guilty.

He renewed his determination, too, to maintain his attitude of rigid silence. Had he been free to act, he felt he could have destroyed the effect of the evidence which was given, but he could not have done so without throwing suspicion upon someone else. If he were not guilty, then someone else was. Who was that someone?

For a long time therefore he did not seek to interpose, and witness after witness left the box without any attempt on his part to cross-examine them.

Only once did he really interpose in the proceedings, and that was after a short cross-examination by the judge himself. Whether it was a mere matter of form or not, the judge had asked each witness a number of questions on the evidence which had been given, and as Paul listened to those questions, they seemed utterly unsatisfactory to him. He remembered Judge Bolitho's career, remembered, too, that when he was practising at the Bar, he was said to be one of the most severe cross-examiners on the Northern Circuit. But now his queries seemed to be trivial and unworthy. The questions he asked might have been those of a newly-fledged barrister, who had not learnt the ABC of his profession!

This, as it seemed to him, was especially noticeable when he questioned Mr. Edward Wilson, the father of the murdered man. Mr. Wilson's evidence, of course, created a great sensation. He stated that, as far as he knew, his son did not possess a single enemy in the world except the prisoner in the dock. He also went on to say that almost ever since Paul had come to Brunford he had been the sworn enemy of his son. He spoke of the prisoner as clever, ambitious, unscrupulous, a man who would adopt any means to accomplish his own purposes. He stated that his son, although a brave, strong man, had told him, his father, that he feared what the prisoner might do to him. He denied that his son had sought to ruin Paul Stepaside, although he admitted that the prisoner might have had reasons for believing that his son would not be sorry if he could be driven out of the town. And he related certain incidents which went to prove that Paul hated his son Ned with deadly hatred.

No one could help feeling when the counsel sat down after examining Mr. Edward Wilson that the case looked blacker than ever against Paul. He had supplied the motive which had caused Paul to commit this crime. It was personal hatred, personal enmity, and a desire for revenge. The gossip of years had been dragged into the court, and the picture which he drew of Paul was that of a relentless, persistent enemy of his son. When Mr. Bakewell had sat down after this examination, Judge Bolitho asked the witness certain questions, and it was at this time that Paul felt as though the judge were seeking to help the counsel for the prosecution rather than to do justice to the accused man.

"My lord," he said, when the judge had finished, "I will take advantage of what you said at the commencement of the trial and cross-examine the witness."

The judge nodded.

"Then I will ask Mr. Wilson two or three questions bearing on his evidence," said Paul. "Mr. Wilson, you have stated more than once that I have uttered threats concerning your son?"

"Yes."

"Would you mind telling me what those threats were?"

"You threatened to do him injury."

"What injury?"

The witness looked confused.

"Have I at any time in your hearing threatened your son with harm?"

"No, not in my hearing."

"Then you have been repeating gossip rather than telling of what you actually know?"

"You've threatened my son himself."

"With what?"

"Well, you have said to him, 'I'll pay you out for this.'"

"For what?"

"For certain supposed injuries."

"But I am here on the charge of murder. Did I ever threaten to murder him? Did he ever tell you that I had threatened to murder him?"

"No, not in so many words."

"That's all, my lord," said Paul. "I would not have interposed, only, since you have so kindly allowed me to cross-examine witnesses, I thought you would not mind if I mentioned such an obvious thing!"

On this the judge made no comment, and the case was proceeded with. They had made but little headway when the business of the day came to an end, and Paul was taken back to his cell.

When he again found himself alone, everything became unreal to him. It seemed to him as though he had been dreaming a horrible dream. Every actor in the grim tragedy which had been played seemed but a phantom of the brain. Everything was intangible, even although he knew how terrible the issues were. By and by, however, he was able to grasp things more clearly, and to remember the events of the day, as well as to call to mind the faces of the people who had been in the court. He knew that the evidence had been very black against him; knew, too, by the look on the faces of the twelve jurymen, that even although they might not be convinced of his guilt, circumstances were leading them in that direction. All the same, the thought of death was far away. He could not believe that he, so young and strong and vigorous, full of physical and intellectual life, would soon cease to be; could not believe that those twelve commonplace unimaginative-looking men who sat in the box could condemn him to die. It was so absurd, so foolish. Then he remembered his little passage of arms with the judge, and he wondered what Mary Bolitho would say. He did not realise her presence at the time, but now it all came back to him. His words had been polite enough, and yet his insinuation had roused a doubt concerning the judge's impartiality. What would she say? What would she think? He was sorry now he had spoken. Why could he not have remained silent? If he had roused doubts, if he had made the jury see how absurd it was to fancy that he could be guilty of this crime, the sleuthhounds of the law would set to work to find the real criminal, and that was what he wanted to avoid. Better bear anything than that the real truth should come to light.

He remembered his mother's face, too, as she came into the court, remembered the look of agony in her eyes, remembered the unearthly scream she had given. What did it mean? His mother was not a weak woman, she was not given to hysterics, rather she was cold and grim and hard to all the rest of the world. She was only tender towards him. What did she mean by coming in such a way? What led her to cry out with such intense pain? The thought had scarcely passed his mind when he heard the key of the warder in his door, and a moment later his mother came into his cell. For some time neither of them spoke. The woman came towards him slowly, and then, throwing her arms round his neck, held him close to her for a long time. Paul felt the quiver of her body, and realised the intensity of her feelings.

"Are you better, mother?" He was able to speak quite calmly by this time, and was determined that neither by look nor sign would he say anything of his suspicions concerning her.

But she did not answer him. She still held him close to her, her face pressed hard against his chest.

"I saw you come into court this morning," he said, as though the matter were the most casual thing imaginable. "You seemed frightened, mother. Why was it?"

Still she did not speak, but Paul knew by her quivering hands and by her convulsive sobs that something had aroused her to the depths of her being.

"I hope you are better now," he went on. "It was very thoughtful of you to let me know you had recovered. You mustn't trouble about me, mother. I shall be able to manage all right."

"Yes, yes," she gasped presently, "but you don't know, Paul! You don't know!"

"I think I know all that is necessary," he said, and then he stopped, for he was on the point of mentioning the ghastly thought which had been haunting him throughout the day. He believed he had read his mother's motive in coming into the court, and that, but for her falling down in a faint, she would have carried out her purpose. He felt sure she had come there that day to tell of her own guilt, and thus to save him. He imagined that she would have found it easy to gain admission by telling the officials that she was the accused man's mother, and that had she carried out her purpose he would by that time have been a free man.

"You must not give way to these feelings, mother," he said. "I am abundantly able to take care of myself, and I am afraid neither of judge nor jury."

"The papers say you asked some awfully clever questions," she said, and there was a mirthless laugh in her voice. "People are saying in the city, too, that you've got something up your sleeve, and that presently, when the right time comes, you will confound them all. But, oh, Paul, Paul, my poor boy, my dear boy! I've come to tell you something!"

"Don't tell me, mother," he said. "I'm sure it will give you pain, and there's not the slightest need. Everything is right and perhaps there's truth in what the people say."

He was still possessed with the idea that his mother was referring to her own guilt, and he determined at all hazards to keep her from making any confession. He did not quite know what the course of procedure might be during the coming days, but he knew that according to English law no prisoner accused of murder can be obliged to answer any questions before a judge and jury. He had, during his preliminary trials, evaded everything which might arouse the suspicions he feared, but if his mother told him that which he felt sure was on her lips, he did not know what he might have to do at some future period of the trial.

"But I must tell you, Paul. I must tell you. It will be terrible for you. It will drive you mad. But you must know! You must! you must!" Her voice rose almost to a shriek as she spoke, and he feared lest any warder listening at the door might hear what she should say.

"Speak low," he whispered, "or, better still, do not speak at all. No, don't speak, mother. I know all there is any need to know!"

"But you must hear. Yes, yes, I won't speak aloud, but you must know. I must tell you. Paul, Paul, I—I——"

"No, no, mother, be quiet!" His voice was low and hoarse. "I tell you nothing matters. Everything will be all right. You needn't fear for me, I'll be a match for them all!"

"But I must tell you, Paul, even although it may drive you mad. It'll alter everything, everything! I've found out something. To-day, to-day——" The tones of her voice had changed, and there was a mad intensity which he could not understand. She had grown calmer, too, and her body had become as rigid as a stone.

"Listen, Paul," she went on, "I've found your father!"

"Is that what you wanted to tell me?" And although he was excited beyond words, he also realised a great relief.

"Yes, I've found your father."

"My father! Who is he? You cannot mean it!"

"Yes. Don't you know? Can't you guess?"

His mind was bewildered, the blow was too stunning. After all these years of unavailing search for the truth, to come to him like this almost unbalanced his mind.

"No, I can't guess," he said. "How did you do it, mother? How? Where is he?"

"The judge, the judge," she said hoarsely. She stood back from him as she spoke, and the dim light of the room fell upon her face. She looked years older now than she had looked when they spent their last evening together in their home in Brunford. Her face was marked with deep lines. Her eyes were sunken. Her hair had become dull, and her hands trembled as though she had the palsy.

"The judge, the judge!" she repeated. "He's your father, Paul."

"The judge! What judge? Great God, you don't mean that—that——"

"Yes, Judge Bolitho. That was not the name he gave to me. He said he was called Douglas Graham. I expect it was only a ruse to deceive me. I don't know how it would affect my marriage, Paul. You see, Scotch marriage is so strange, and it may be that the change of name would alter everything. And yet I don't see how it could. Do you, Paul? But never mind. He married me! I told you about it, didn't I? Up there on the wild moors, in the light of the setting sun, with only God as our witness, he took me to be his wife. He promised to love and cherish me, Paul. He told me I was all the world to him, and that he would die to save me from pain. I told you about it, didn't I? And we knelt down together, too, on the heather, and it seemed as though God's angels were all around us as we knelt. And he prayed, Paul. He told me he was a man of faith and took the Communion. And I believed him. Oh, yes, we were married. And now he's your judge. My God, think of it! You the criminal and he the judge, and he your own father!"

"And he never told you his name was Bolitho?" He asked the question mechanically, as though his mind were far away.

"Never mentioned it. I never thought of it until—but never mind that. Of course, you told me about Judge Bolitho, but at that time I never thought of him as being the man I married. Why, he had been your enemy. He sent you to prison, years ago. He fought you in Brunford. Well, on the night of the—the murder, I—I—but there is no need to talk about that now. I—I went into the court, and when I saw him, I thought I was going mad. He has changed, yes, of course, he has grown older, his face is fuller, but I knew him in a second. I could take my Bible oath. I could swear a thousand oaths it is he, Paul. He is the man who married me. He is the man who is your father, the man who you swore that night on the Altarnun Moors should do me justice, the man on whom you said you'd have your revenge. It is the man whom I have hated and whom you have hated, Paul. When I saw him first, I thought I was going out of my mind. It seemed as though everything became as black as night. Only his face was plain. He did not look at me. I do not think he saw me at all, but, oh, I saw him, and then—and then—but you know what happened after that, Paul. Throughout the day I have just wandered, and wandered, and wandered, thinking and thinking. At first I thought I dared not tell you. I could not, it was too terrible. But at last my feet were dragged to you. I could not help myself. I came here and gained admission. Of course, they could not keep me out. I am your mother. Paul, Paul, what are you looking like that for? You don't hate me, do you? You understand?"

Her words brought him back to the reality of the situation. At first he seemed utterly confounded by the blow. He forgot all about the murder now. It did not seem to exist, or if it did it was somewhere far back in the background, and everything was altered. He had dreamed of the time when he would find his father for himself—thought, too, of what he would say to him, painted pictures of their first meeting. But now everything seemed shattered. Nothing was real! Everything was real, terribly real!

Even yet he could not understand the whole bearings of the case. His brain was confused. Every issue seemed involved, but he did not doubt his mother's words. It seemed to him the key of the puzzle which had been haunting him for years. Judge Bolitho his father! Yes, his treatment of him had been a part, a natural part, of the whole history. What wonder that he who had deceived and betrayed his mother should also be the enemy of his son! He understood his feelings now, understood why when he had first seen this proud, clever man he had a feeling of instinctive hatred towards him. He had been cruel to him in the examination when he was tried years before for the part he had taken in the riot. As the counsel for the prosecution he had seemed to delight in fastening all the guilt upon him, his son. He remembered the look of satisfaction upon his face when the justice committed him to six months' imprisonment in Strangeways Gaol. Yes, he had hated him then, for that matter they had hated each other. Then came the election at Brunford. Every incident of the fight came back to him. He had felt then that this man Bolitho was fighting him unfairly, using devil's tools to beat him, allowing his mother's name to be dragged in the mud, in order to gain the victory, while all the time he—he——

"Don't speak, mother, don't speak for a minute. Let me try to understand."

He walked around the cell like one demented, his face set, his eyes flashing. Again and again he dashed his hand across his forehead as if to sweep away the shadows which rested upon his brain, as if trying to untangle the skeins of his life.

Yes, he had defied him even to the very last. When the votes were counted, and when his father, his enemy, had won the victory, he had defied him. He had told him before the surging mob that they would meet again, and always to fight, yes, and they would, too. He had a new weapon in his hands now!

What would the world say if it knew? He almost felt like laughing at the thought. What would the world say if it knew that the judge and the man accused of murder were father and son? How the tongues of the gossips would wag! What headlines there would be in the newspapers! What a sensation it would create throughout the country!

He laughed aloud, a half-mad laugh. His brain reeled at what his mother had told him. Even yet he did not realise fully the issues of her momentous communication. That would come later! The thing which appealed to him now was that he had found his father, and his father was the man who was sitting in judgment on him!

Never did he hate him as he did at that moment. This man had deceived his mother, blackened her life, allowed her to remain in loneliness, misery and disgrace. Because of him a shadow had rested upon his own life, a shadow which nothing had been able to lift. Yes, he hated him. He thought of the cross-examination that day. This man at the beginning of the trial had pretended to act as his friend, had advised him to accept counsel, had told him that he might defend himself and ask questions. And, utilising the power which he possessed as a judge, had himself asked the witnesses questions, on the pretence that he was trying to do the prisoner justice!

And what questions! To his excited and poisoned mind he had simply supplied the deficiencies of the counsel for the prosecution. Every word he had uttered was only meant as another nail in his scaffold. He was glad he had said what he had said now. He had made both jury and court feel that the judge was unjust because of his prejudice against him. But that was nothing to what he could do, nothing to what he would do. Why, supposing on the next day—yes, and he could do it, too—supposing on the next day of the trial he, the prisoner, were to proclaim before the court, before the twelve jurymen, before the eager counsel, before the gaping, excited crowd, that this Judge Bolitho, this man who assumed an immaculate air, was one of the most damnable villains that ever crawled upon the earth, that this man, who looked so virtuous and spoke of the majesty of justice, had foully deceived a poor, ignorant, innocent girl, dragged her name in the mire, left her to die, as far as he was concerned, in disgrace! He, the judge, had done this, and all the world should know it. Yes, all the world. This man should be pilloried before all England, and every healthy, clean-minded man in the nation would shudder at his name.

Yes, he saw his revenge now.

"No, mother, do not speak yet," he cried, as he stamped around the cell. "Do not speak yet. I've got it!"

He hugged himself with delight, for at that moment Paul Stepaside was possessed of the devil. He was filled with unholy joy. "It makes one believe, after all, that there's a God in the heaven. 'Vengeance is Mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.' Yes, I've heard a man read that in the old chapel down at St. Mabyn, in Cornwall. 'Vengeance is Mine; I will repay.' And I will repay too."

Never had he realised that such vengeance would be possible. Why, it some mighty wizard had been scheming to place a weapon in his hands whereby he could avenge his mother's wrongs, avenge his own wrongs, and punish the man who had been his enemy even before he was born, he could not have placed a more powerful weapon than this. He seemed to possess the very genius of victory. He did not care one iota about the murder now, did not trouble as to what verdict any jury might find. The evidence which might be adduced against him was as nothing. He held in his hands the sword of justice, which should surely fall on the head of the man who had that day sat as judge.

He laughed aloud again. "Thank you, mother," he said. "You did right in coming to me. Yes, it makes everything right—everything, everything. And to-morrow I'll do it. To-morrow shall be my day of victory. Dead or alive, it shall be my day of victory. Right shall be done, justice shall be done, and this scheming, hypocritical villain shall be dragged in the dust and disgrace and infamy!"

The words had scarcely passed his lips when he came to a sudden stop, and he gave a low, terrible cry.

"What is it, Paul?" The mother was startled by the look in his eyes, by the mad agony expressed in his face.

"Mary!" he said.

Oh, the world of sorrow, of defeat, of terror, which seemed to be expressed in that one word. Yes, he would rejoice, rejoice beyond words at his father's ignominy and shame. But what of her, the woman who believed in him, trusted in him against all evidence, the woman who had defied all conventions in coming to see him, the woman whom he had held to his heart, and whom he loved more than life? Every blow struck at her father was also struck at her. His shame would be her shame, his ignominy would be her ignominy.

It seemed as though the foundations of his life were being broken up. Why, then, too, if that marriage up on the Scotch hill-side were legal, as he believed it was, and thus all stain were wiped away from his name, what of Mary's name? If Judge Bolitho had married another woman while his mother was alive, then he would not only be a bigamist, but Mary's name would be tarnished—Mary, whose happiness was to him the most precious thing in the world. But even that was not all. He understood now what his mother meant when she said he would be driven mad, understood why she was afraid to tell him. Mary was his own sister! His sister!

"Forgive me, Paul, for telling you;" and his mother looked at him with hungry, beseeching eyes. "Forgive me, I could not help it. You see—well, it was necessary that you should know."

"And I for the moment felt like believing in God," he said, like one talking to himself. He thought he was going to fall on the hard stone floor. His head was whirling, his limbs were trembling. He seemed to have lost all control over himself.

"My sister!" he said. "Great God! My sister! And I love her as a man loves his wife!" A new passion, a new force had entered his life now. His longing for revenge was conquered by another feeling, a nobler feeling. Love for Mary Bolitho was stronger than a desire to be revenged on his father. At all hazards she must not suffer. But—but—— No, he could not grasp it. His brain refused to fasten upon the real issues of the case. His thoughts were as elusive as a mist cloud. His brain swam. Everything was real, terribly real, but nothing was real! What could he do?

Never, surely, was man placed in such a horrible position. He had thought a few nights before, when he had fought his battle between love for his own mother and the desire to keep disgrace and death from her, and the love for his own life, a life which could be made bright and beautiful, that the great struggle was over. It seemed to him then that he had fought his last battle and had won it. Duty had overcome self-love. But it seemed as nothing compared with the issues which now stared him in the face.

"My sister! My sister!" he repeated. "The same father, although not the same mother. Do I love her the less? Does my heart cry out for her one whit the less because we are children of the same father?"

No. Why, he could not understand, but she seemed even more to him than ever. The new link which bound them together seemed also, if possible, to strengthen his love and to make him more than ever long for her happiness.

"He's your father; you believe that?" said the woman, who had been looking at him as though she would read his very soul.

"Yes," he replied.

"And she is your sister."

"Yes."

"Then if your birth is honourable, hers is base," said the mother passionately. Even at that moment the longing to do justice to her son was uppermost in her mind and heart. "I am his true wife; remember that! He married me. I can't be robbed of that, Paul, can I?"

He saw what her questions meant, knew the thought that was burning in her brain, realised her mad desire to proclaim her right as a wife and as an honourable mother.

Paul Stepaside loved his mother, and never more than then. All those feelings of filial affection which had been aroused in his heart by the remembrance of her sad story were intensified at that moment. Yes, she was his mother, and she must have her rights. But if she had them?

That was the question, the supreme question. His desire for revenge had lost its power now. A new motive force was at work, a new set of circumstances clamoured for recognition.

Oh, what a muddle life was! Who could explain its mystery? Who could unravel the entanglement?

The steps of the warder were heard in the corridor outside, and Paul knew that his mother's visit must come to an end.

"What will you do? What will you do?" she asked.

"I must wait—I must think," was his reply. "Of course, you have told nothing to anyone else?"

"No, Paul. How could I?"

"And that man has no suspicion?"

"No; he did not see me."

He could not see a ray of light in the darkness anyhow. He saw no means whereby he could solve this great puzzle. Everything was mad confusion.

He heard the key turning in the lock.

"I must wait; I must think, think, mother. Meanwhile, do nothing."

The door opened, and a moment later his mother left the cell, leaving Paul alone.



CHAPTER XX

MAN AND WIFE

A number of men were dining in the principal hotel in Manchester. They all belonged to the legal profession, and had been drawn thither by the assizes which were being held. Most of them were men who had won a position in the realm of the law, and were now visiting Manchester because their profession had called them thither. They were attached to the Northern Circuit, and were doing their best to make their stay in the smoky metropolis as pleasant as possible. A few there were who were as yet hungry for briefs and could not get them, but who deemed it a privilege and an honour to be invited to dine with their more successful brethren.

Perhaps there is no profession in the land which offer greater possibilities than that of the Bar. On the other hand, there is no calling more fraught with disappointment. Many there are who, after a brilliant University career, and having adopted the Bar as a profession, have to wait year after year without even earning the salary of a four-loom weaver. Proud, sensitive men as some of them are, to have to wait around on the chance of getting a brief must be exquisite torture. Yet such are the chances of the Bar that many undergo the ordeal in the hope that by and by success will come. There were some of these at the gathering which I have just mentioned. They had accepted the invitation to dine with their successful brethren, not without hope that some crumbs might fall from the rich man's table and be enjoyed by them. Added to this, Judge Bolitho, who had won such renown while practising as a barrister on the Northern Circuit, and now appointed judge at the High Court of Justice, was also present. Some of the younger men regarded him with a certain amount of awe, and they wondered whether the time would come when they, who now depended upon the goodwill of their friends, might aspire to the heights which he had reached. After all, it was not impossible, for the Bar, like every other profession, was a gamble.

It had been a merry gathering. They had dined well. The hotel was noted for its cuisine and for the quality of its wines, and the best which the great establishment afforded had been placed at their disposal. Many good stories were told. Those who were now at the top of the tree related incidents of their younger days, when they, like the young fellows who now listened to them so eagerly, were hungry for briefs. Mr. Bakewell, in particular, the man who that day was the counsel for the prosecution in Paul Stepaside's case, was an utterly different man from what he had been when he appeared in court. Then he was solemn, pompous, and almost lugubrious; now he cracked a joke with the best, and told humorous stories with infinite gusto. The judge, too, while naturally patronising and unable to throw aside in entirety the dignity of his office, so far unbent as to be the best of companions.

Naturally, the case which had excited the whole country loomed large on the horizon. Indeed, it gave rise to most of the stories which had been told that night. More than one barrister related incidents of some murder trial in which he had been engaged, and tried to trace connections between them and the one which was now being tried.

If the issues were not so momentous, moreover, the way they discussed the question would have been amusing. Paul's life or death was to many of them a mere secondary consideration. To them he was a case, and they judged of the merits and demerits of the case as if it were some purely imaginary or academical affair especially manufactured for their delectation. It is true the judge did not look at it in this light, but he was not in a talkative humour that night, although he added a certain share to the conversation, and his presence gave a kind of eclat to the proceedings. They had reached the stage of nuts and wine, and most of them were in great good humour.

"I am inclined to think," said one, "that Stepaside has something up his sleeve. The fellow is as sharp as a needle, and although he hasn't yet offered anything like a defence, one can't believe that he was guilty of such a thing."

"I don't know," said another. "Of course, circumstantial evidence has often been proved to be false, nevertheless, a jury has to go upon such evidence as is adduced in court, and the evidence is damning!"

"Think of the point he made this afternoon when he cross-examined Mr. Wilson."

"I make nothing of that," said Mr. Bakewell rather pompously. "Of course, he put it strongly, and for the moment made a point, but that kind of thing is not going to save him!"

"Do you think, then," asked a member of the local Bar, "that the jury will find him guilty?"

"I do indeed," said Mr. Bakewell. "Even although he had a man like Montague Williams or Russell to defend him he would stand no chance. You see, the thing is a perfect chain of reasoning, because there is a perfect chain of events."

"Yes, but how can one think of such a man as Stepaside, keen as a surgeon's knife, cool as the devil himself, as watchful as a sleuth-hound, and having everything before him in the way of a career, so far committing himself as to use the knife known to belong to him, and then to leave it in the body. Why, the thing is absurd!"

"Exactly. But then the cleverest and most daring criminals in the world have been known to have done similar things. Why, think of that Blackburn murder in which I was engaged years ago. It was almost identical with this affair, and there was not the slightest doubt that he was guilty. Why, he confessed it to the chaplain afterwards. You must remember that Stepaside was in a mad passion at the time. Besides, you see, he's never accounted for those hours between midnight and six in the morning!"

"Yes, but no prisoner charged for murder is obliged to account for his time."

"Exactly, but a jury has to give its verdict upon evidence. And remember this, too," and Mr. Bakewell would not perhaps have spoken so freely had his tongue not been unloosed by the generous wine he had been drinking. "Remember this, too, and, of course, we are all friends here, and what I say will not go beyond this room—but the evidence to-morrow will surprise you!"

"In what way?"

"Well, one of the witnesses to-morrow will swear that he saw him not half a mile from Howden Clough, in a state of excitement, about five o'clock on the morning of the murder, that is to say, about half an hour after it took place, according to the doctor's evidence. You see, we have the servants' testimony that they heard him come up to the top storey of the house; that he stood at their bedroom door and then went down again; that they, wondering what had happened, followed, and saw him go out into the night alone. Of course, on the face of it, it does seem unlikely that a clever fellow such as Stepaside undoubtedly is, with a great career possible for him, should have done the deed so clumsily. But, don't you see, everything points to him, and unless he brings some extraordinary witnesses on the other side, which he isn't trying to do, mind you, the jury have no alternative but to find him guilty."

"My own belief is that he's hiding something in his sleeve, and that if he's hanged it'll be a miscarriage of justice."

A waiter then came into the room bearing a slip of paper, which he took to Judge Bolitho. The judge received it calmly and unfolded it, talking meanwhile to his neighbour at the table. After reading a few lines, however, a puzzled expression came on to his face, which was followed by a look almost amounting to terror. More than one who watched him thought he saw his hands tremble somewhat; nevertheless, he held himself in check, like one who was trying to appear to be calm, as he read it the second time. The men who were at the bottom of the table went on with their stories, but Judge Bolitho evidently did not listen. His mind was far away. His cigar had gone out, too, but he did not seem conscious of it.

"I wonder what is in that letter?" asked a man of his neighbour, as he watched the judge's face.

"Oh, there's no knowing. Fellows in Bolitho's position are always getting queer missives."

"He looks mighty uncomfortable, anyhow."

The judge took a wineglass in his hand and began toying with it, but it was evident that he did not know what he was doing.

"I say, Bolitho"—it was a county court judge who spoke to him—"Did you notice that woman's face who fell down in a faint this morning? It was positively ghastly when she looked at you."

Evidently Judge Bolitho did not hear. He took not the slightest notice of the remark. He was still toying with the wineglass.

"I say, Bolitho, aren't you well?"

And still the judge's face was rigid, and his eyes had in them a fixed far-away look. The other caught him by the sleeve.

"Aren't you well, Bolitho?"

The judge gave a great start.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Aren't you well? You look deathly pale. Have another glass of wine, my dear fellow."

But the judge rose to his feet.

"No; I'm not very well," he said. "I think I must ask you to excuse me."

By this time the attention of all present was drawn to him, and there were general expressions of sympathy. But of these Judge Bolitho seemed unconscious.

"Good-night, gentlemen," he said. "I am sorry to be obliged to leave you, but I don't feel very well."

"There was something in that letter," was the general whisper. "Something that disturbed him!"

But the fact was almost forgotten as soon as he had left the room.

The judge found his way to his own apartment.

"Where's Mary, I wonder?" he said. But Mary was nowhere visible. He knocked at her bedroom door, but received no answer. He went into all the rooms set apart for their use, but she was nowhere to be seen.

"She did not tell me she was going out, either," he reflected. But it was evident he had very little interest in her whereabouts. He acted more like a man in a dream than one in full possession of his faculties. He threw himself into an arm-chair and again carefully read the letter which had been sent to him. When he had finished, he looked around the room as though he were afraid he were being watched.

"No; no one is here," he said. "No one knows."

For fully five minutes he sat holding the letter in his hand, staring into vacancy.

"What can it mean? What can it mean?"

He put on a heavy ulster and left the hotel. "I don't think anyone noticed who I am," he reflected. And then he made his way down past the Free Trade Hall, towards Deansgate.

"Twenty-five Dixon Street," he kept on repeating to himself—"twenty-five Dixon Street, off Dean Street."

He did not seem to know where he was going. More than once he hustled someone on the sidewalk and then passed on as if unconscious of what he had done. Presently he reached Dean Street and walked along it some little distance; then, turning, he found himself in a network of short, dark streets, evidently inhabited by a working-class community. He looked at the numbers carefully as he passed along. After some little time he stopped. He knocked at one of the doors and was immediately admitted.

A second later the light fell on the form of a woman. Her face was pale and haggard. In her eyes was a look of madness. The gaslight also shone upon Judge Bolitho's face. He had placed his hat upon the table, and his every feature was exposed.

The woman came close to him and looked at him steadily, while he, like one fascinated, fixed his eyes upon her face.

"Douglas Graham," she said, "do you know me?"

For a few seconds he did not speak, but looked steadily at her. Then, as if with difficulty, words escaped him.

"Jean!" he gasped. "Jean! Then you're not dead!"

"You know me, then, Douglas Graham? I have waited a long time for this night. Sometimes I thought it would never come. Year after year I've watched, all in vain, and then suddenly I learnt the truth!"

She did not seem like one in a passion. Her voice was low and hard. Her hands were steady. Her eyes burnt with a mad light. It seemed as though all the passion, all the hatred, all the despair of more than twenty years were expressed in them just now.

"What do you want of me, Jean?"

He did not seem to know what he was saying, and the words escaped his lips as if in spite of himself.

"Want of you? Want of you? Can you ask that? Your memory is not dead. You know, and I know—— Why, I am your wife! Do you remember that day up among the Scotch hills, when, before God, you took me, you swore you would be faithful to me? Do you remember the promise you made on the day you left me? 'I will soon come back to you,' you said, 'and make our marriage public.' And I have never seen you since, until to-day! But now my hour has come!"

Usually Judge Bolitho was a man of resource. He seldom lost possession of his power to act wisely. He was seldom taken at a disadvantage. He was cool and daring. But now he seemed to have lost the sang froid for which he was so noted.

"Jean! Jean!" he said again and again.

"Yes, Jean," replied the woman. "The girl you deceived! The girl you married and then deserted! The woman whose life you have blighted and ruined! I had almost given up believing in God; but now—now—faith may come back to me; but it's only a faith inspired by hatred!"

"You hate me, then?" he said.

"Is it possible to do anything else?" she replied.

"Wait a minute," he said. "Let me think. I shall be able to speak connectedly presently. For a moment I've lost hold of things. Yes, yes; I don't deny anything; but wait a minute! What have you done with yourself all these years, Jean?"

"Done with myself? What could I do? I was almost without a penny. A few months after you left me my father drove me from home. I was in disgrace, and only hell seemed to gape at my feet!"