"DEAR JEAN,—It cannot be helped now, and of course we were never really married. It was only a joke.—DOUGLAS."
"And that was all?" said the youth.
"That was all, God helping me, that was all."
"And you have heard nothing from him since?"
"Never a word since the morning he bid me good-bye at the station, and told me to go back to my father, saying he would write to me at once, and come to me soon. No, I have never seen nor heard of him since."
The eyes of the youth became red with anger. His hands clenched and unclenched themselves passionately, but he did not speak. It seemed as if he could not. Then an oath escaped him, and his voice was hoarse.
"But, mother," he cried presently, "tell me more. There must be more than this. What about this marriage? Were there no witnesses? Have you no marriage lines?"
"Things are different in Scotland, my boy," was her answer. "There many people just take each other as man and wife, and that is all, and the marriage is legal. Do you know"—and her voice trembled with passion—"that on the afternoon when he took me as his wife we knelt down by the roadside, and he prayed with me that God would help us to be true man and wife to each other?"
"But, but——" he cried, and he was trembling with emotion, "and he treated you like that?"
The woman did not reply, but looked away across the moors with a hard, stony stare.
"My mother, my poor, poor mother!" He seemed incapable of saying more, and for two or three minutes there was a silence between them.
"And then, mother?" he went on presently.
"Months later," she went on, "I was driven from home. I had no friends, no relatives, no one to whom I could go, and I thought I should go mad!"
"And what did you do?" he asked.
"There seemed to me only one thing I could do," she said. "I could not stay near my old home, I was ashamed—besides, my father and stepmother drove me away with a curse. They said I had disgraced the name of Lindsay. I always hated Scotland, and as my heart turned to my mother's home, I determined I would go to Cornwall. I had just three pounds, and with that I commenced my journey."
"You came by train?" he asked.
"No, I walked. I wanted to hoard my money. You see it was very little."
"You walked all the way to Cornwall from Scotland?"
"Every step," she said. "It was winter time, too, and it often rained, but somehow I felt as though Cornwall would give me a home, a welcome. It took me weeks to do it, but I got there at last. Often I slept in a farmer's barn; more than once I walked all through the night." And into her eyes came a far-away look, while her lips quivered as if with pain.
"And did you find a home and welcome?" he asked.
She shook her head. "How could I? I went straight to St. Ives, but everyone had forgotten my mother, and her people were dead. You see, I looked like a vagrant, my clothes were weather-stained, my boots were worn out, I had no money, and no one wanted me. More than once I thought I should have died of starvation."
"And what did you do?" he asked.
"I did not know what to do. I went from place to place. Here and there I got a day's work, but I never begged. I would rather have died than have done that."
A kind of grim satisfaction settled in the youth's face as he heard this, but it was easy to see that the pain which lay in his mother's heart also passed into his. He was not pleasant to look at at that moment, and if murder can ever be seen in a man's eyes, it could be seen in his at that moment.
"Well, mother?" he said at length, "and what afterwards?"
"I began to tramp northward again," she said. "I hoped that surely, surely, someone would help me. And then one day I fell down by the roadside. It was spring time now but terribly cold, and I thought, 'Now I shall die, and all will be over.' I think I went to sleep, because I knew nothing of what happened. A great darkness fell upon everything, and then, when I woke again, I found myself in a workhouse. I knew it was a workhouse by the clothes the people wore and by the way they talked; but I did not care much—I had got beyond that." She hesitated, like one who did not know how to continue her story. Her teeth became set, her lips quivered, her eyes were hard. "Oh, my boy, my boy!" she said, "I could not help it, I thought I did what was right!"
The youth took hold of her hand almost awkwardly. He wanted to try and comfort her, but knew not how. Perhaps the affectionate action, even although accompanied by no words, was the best thing he could have done to ease her aching heart. She laid her head upon his chest as though she were tired. And then she sobbed convulsively. "There you were born, my boy."
"They always called me a workhouse brat," he said; "but never mind, mother, never mind; what then?"
"They never thought I would live, I suppose," she replied. "For weeks I lay between life and death. I believe I should have died, but presently I came to know that you were alive, and that you were a great, strong, handsome boy. But you are not like him, thank God! He had blue eyes and light hair, but your eyes are black, your hair is black, and you are like me. They christened you in the workhouse, unknown to me. The chaplain gave you a name. If I had had the choosing of it, I should have called you Ishmael or Esau, but they called you Paul. They wanted me to tell them my surname, but I would not—I could not—so they called you Stepaside, the name of the little hamlet where I fell down, as I thought, to die."
"Well, I know everything after that," he replied.
"Very nearly," was her answer. "You were brought up in the workhouse, while I, as soon as I was strong enough, had to go away into service. On the whole, I suppose, they did as well as one could expect for you. They gave you good schooling, and taught you a trade, and now you are beginning to earn your own living."
"Yes, mother," he replied. "I have got a job as a blacksmith in the Pencarrow Mines. Soon I shall be getting a pound a week, and later on you must come and live with me."
She shook her head. "No, Paul. While I am not with you, people will not insult you. Now that you are away from the place where you were born and reared, no one knows your history. No one knows that you were born in a workhouse and that your mother does not know where your father is."
"But you were married, mother?"
"Yes," she cried eagerly, "and that is why I have told you everything to-day. When you were seventeen, I said to myself, 'Directly I can get to him we will meet, and I will tell him, tell him with my own lips.' Paul, that man has covered your mother with black shame. If he is alive you must find him. The day he wrote me that letter he killed all the love I had for him. The last feeling I had, when I lay down and thought I was going to die on the roadside, was a feeling of hatred for him. When I first saw you, although my heart went out to you with a great love, I hated your father. For seventeen long years I have hated him, and I hate him still."
She looked like a savage, and there was a snarl in her voice as she spoke. "But for him, but for him——" And then she stopped. "Paul, find him out, wherever he is. Find him out!"
The passion which burned in the mother's eyes passed into those of the youth. She need not have told him what was in her heart. Paul Stepaside hated his father from that day.
"Yes, I will," he said grimly. "I will find him. An eye for an eye; a tooth for a tooth; disgrace for disgrace; misery for misery. Mother, all you have suffered he shall suffer, and a thousand times more. Wherever he is, whatever he is, I will find him." His eyes turned away towards the dreary moors. Router and Brown Willy stood like grim sentinels watching over the scene. A slight wind had arisen, which soughed its way across the great silent spaces, dispelling the mists. The black tors in the near distance became visible again; frogs croaked in the marshes near by.
"But tell me more, mother. I know nothing yet. Who is he? What is he? Tell me all you know of him."
"There is little I can tell," said the mother. "He told me his name was Douglas Graham. I believe that to be true. I found out that from the people at 'Highlands,' the big house close by my father's farm."
"Ah, they can tell us," he cried.
"Nay," replied the mother. "They only had the house for a short time, and then left. They are gone, I know not whither, and I, fool that I was, was too ignorant to find out in those days more about him. But he was called Douglas Graham, there is no doubt about that."
"And is that all?"
"Only this," replied the mother, "he is a lawyer—what they call an English barrister. I have heard that books are kept, containing a list of such people. I expect they'll be in London; but these barrister men go around the country, some of them. Anyhow, that is for you to find out."
He nodded his head. "Yes, I will find out," he said; "but the thing will be difficult, mother. I see what you mean now, and why you cannot live with me. I must go to London, or to one of the other big places where I can find out the truth about such things. Oh, I shall know, and I will not spare him. Don't be afraid, mother, you shall be avenged for all he's done to you."
A kind of evil joy flashed from the woman's eyes. "Yes, Paul," she said presently, "and you are clever, you were the cleverest lad in the workhouse school. I found out that. You were always ahead with your lessons, and you are quick with your brains and you are strong. But remember, he is clever and strong too, and he has much book-learning, and he knows all about the law, English law especially. You must be able to meet him on equal terms. You must learn, my boy—you must know everything. You need not fear for me. I have a place now where I can live comfortably; but remember, I shall never be happy until either he sets me and you right before the world, or I have made him suffer all I have suffered and all you have suffered."
For half an hour more they stood talking, he asking questions, she answering and explaining. Night had fallen now, but the moon had risen and made darkness impossible. The mists had cleared away, too, and patches of blue were to be seen in the sky. Here and there a star peeped out.
"Good night, Paul," she said at length. "You will write me often, won't you? Remember, you are the only thing I love on earth."
"You know what I will do," he replied. "Good night, mother."
For a few seconds he held her like a man might hold the maid he loved, and then, turning, he walked slowly back towards Bodmin, from which town he intended to take the train to the place where he lived. Mile after mile he walked, seeming to take no notice of his surroundings. It might be day, it might be night; it might be summer, it might be winter, for all he cared. The iron had entered his soul, the poison of hatred had filled his heart. He loved his mother with a kind of savage, passionate love, but the man who was his father he hated, and on him he swore to be revenged. "That is my work in life," he said to himself; "that is the purpose for which I shall live, and I will do it—yes, I will do it."
In some senses Paul Stepaside had suffered but little because of his being a pauper. His education was quite equal to that of the lads who had gone to the elementary school in the district. He had passed what was called the sixth standard, and although this meant very little more than a knowledge of the three "r's," he was considered by the workhouse schoolmaster as his cleverest pupil. After leaving school at the age of fourteen he was apprenticed to a local blacksmith, with whom it was arranged he should remain for four years. John Tresidder, the blacksmith, however, died two years after Paul's apprenticeship, and so at sixteen, with his trade half learned, he found himself homeless and friendless. But that did not trouble him much. He knew, or, at least, he thought he knew, practically all that Tresidder could teach him, and he was eager to start life on his own account. During the two years he had been an apprentice, moreover, he had attended a night-school, and had studied subjects which were beyond the range of the curriculum in the ordinary day-schools. He had some knowledge of geometry, and had mastered the first book of Euclid. He also knew a little of history, and the schoolmaster, having some acquaintance with chemistry, and finding Paul an apt pupil, had given him some lessons in that science. Being a strong, healthy lad, he had no difficulty in finding work in the blacksmith's shop at the Pencarrow Mines, where he was called an Improver. He had been working here for a year, and, as he had told his mother, his wages had just been raised to one pound a week.
Paul was not popular among his companions. The Cornish people are extremely proud, and have a proper scorn for those who have been reared on charity. Moreover, a shadow rested upon his name, and he was often insulted as a consequence. Epithets were constantly hurled at him, which aroused black rage in the boy's heart. Being of an exceedingly sensitive disposition, he resented the things that were said even while he made no reply; many, as they caught the flash of his eyes, realised something of the passion that lay smouldering in his heart. Still, he was respected as a well-behaved, although uncompanionable lad. Like all other youths in the district, he attended the Methodist chapel, and seemed to listen attentively to the teachings enunciated there, but no apparent impression was made upon him. Revival services were frequently held, but no one could induce Paul to find his way to the penitent form. Many looked upon him as an unbeliever. On more than one occasion the evangelist, who was appointed to the St. Mabyn circuit, had tried to get into conversation with him, but found his task extremely difficult. Paul would listen in silence, but would make no response whatever to the minister's eager questionings.
On his return to St. Mabyn, after his meeting with his mother on the Altarnun Moors, he seemed more grim and taciturn than ever. Silently he went to his work, and silently he continued the whole day, paying but little heed to the gibes of the miners, and never laughing at their elementary jokes. During his evenings he read eagerly concerning life in the big towns, of the means of education there, and of opportunities for obtaining knowledge, but he said nothing about it to the cottagers with whom he lived. He never uttered a word concerning what his mother had told him. The secret lay deep in his heart, and his purposes must be made known to none.
In truth, a new passion had entered his heart: a greater bitterness than he had yet known completely possessed him. Hitherto, while he had resented the insults which had been heaped upon him by those who sneered at the place of his birth and upbringing, he never seemed to think of himself as hardly treated; now he pondered deeply over the black shadow that lay upon his life. What had he done that he should be treated so? Why should he be homeless and friendless while other lads were situated so differently? What was the good of the minister talking about a kind Providence and the love of God? He remembered the previous Sunday evening sermon on the "Duty of forgiving one's enemies." What did the preacher know about it? He called to mind the look on his mother's face, the agony of her voice; he realised the bitter years she had spent in silence and misery, and remembered who was responsible for it all. Thus Paul became a kind of atheist. He was not yet old enough to think deeply about it, but incipient unbelief was in the boy's mind and heart. It darkened his thoughts and gave a sombre hue to life. In any case he was not going to trouble about religion. He remembered the vow he had made after he had left his mother, and he determined that nothing should stop him from carrying out his purposes.
As chance would have it, too, events seemed to shape his course quickly. A few weeks after his journey to Altarnun Moors, a young fellow who was commonly called Jacker, a kind of half-gipsy lad who worked at the mines, and who was looked upon as the champion boxer in that district, made a dead set on Paul. Jacker had often sought his friendship, and Paul had as often repulsed his advances. Jacker's own parentage lay under a cloud, and he felt angry that Paul, whom he regarded as in a like predicament, should refuse to be friendly with him. One evening, therefore, when Paul seemed less inclined than ever to be sociable, Jacker determined to have it out with him. He was passing through what is called the Church Town, when a number of youths, among whom Jacker was conspicuous, asked him to go into the public house. Paul refused. On being asked his reason for his refusal, he replied that he was on his way to the night-school. A few minutes later there was an uproar. Things were said about Paul's parentage that roused the young fellow beyond the pitch of endurance. "I have borne with you a long time," he said, "but, remember, if you say that again you shall pay for it."
"Iss, and I be willing to pay for it!" cried Jacker, who was eager for a fight. The youths had often accused him of being afraid of Paul, and Jacker, true to his nature, wanted to prove his superiority to any youth in the district. A little later the group of lads had adjourned to a field, and Paul and Jacker appeared as combatants. The result of it was that Paul, in a mad passion, nearly killed his opponent, and was that same evening apprehended by the police as drunk and disorderly. He was taken to the nearest lock-up, and detained there until the next sittings of the magistrate. The landlord at the inn, being Jacker's friend, had appeared as a witness on his behalf, and had declared that Jacker was always a quiet, well-behaved youth, while Paul was a surly villain, with whom it was impossible for quiet lads to live in peace. Of course the truth presently came out, and, while Paul suffered no imprisonment, he had to pay a fine for what had taken place, and was bound over to keep the peace.
This incident, although seemingly unimportant, bore fruit in Paul's life. It determined him to leave the neighbourhood at once. But where should he go? He hated Cornwall, hated the Pencarrow Mines, and longed to get away where he could begin what he regarded as his life's work. As it happened, a man, whose father had left Cornwall several years before, paid a visit to St. Mabyn, and declared that there was always good work for men in Lancashire. When Paul heard of it he made his way to this man. "Peter Wadge," he said, "you have come from Lancashire, I am told?"
Wadge admitted that he had.
"Where do you live?" he asked.
"Brunford," replied Wadge; "and Brunford is the place for a chap like you. No questions will be asked about you there, and the wage is double what it is here!"
"You see," continued Wadge, "the working man has a chance in Lancashire, and we stand no nonsense with the masters."
Paul looked at him questioningly.
"You don't believe me?" said Wadge. "Why, think. Lately, owing to the change in the price of cotton, the manufacturers were making money hand over fist. Well, what did the weavers do? They just went to them and demanded more wages. The manufacturers refused; they were having a big harvest, and did not mean to allow the weavers to have a share in it. But you see we are organised there, and a meeting of the Weavers' Union was called, and the next thing was that they all went on strike. Of course the manufacturers could do nothing without them, and so there was an increase of wage right away. That's the way we deal with them up there. Why, I knew a chap who was sacked because one of the manufacturer's sons didn't like him. Do you think we stood it? Not we! We sent a deputation to the master, and told him that unless the chap were taken back we should all 'come out.'"
"And was he taken back?" asked Paul.
"I should think he was," was the reply. "Why, we working people are somebody up there. We have our representatives on the town council and on the board of guardians. Down here it is the parson and squire that do everything; up there we are alive, and there's a chance for a chap who's got brains. Why, a fellow like you up in Brunford, with your education and gifts, could be a big man in a few years."
Paul thought quietly for a few minutes. There was something in what Wadge said that appealed to him. He longed to put his finger on the pulse of the great busy life of the world, but he remembered the object for which he lived. He longed to get on, but only for that purpose, and he remembered that the man whom he had determined to punish was educated and had a high position.
"And are there any chances," he asked, "for a poor man to be educated? I mean to be educated in the higher things—to learn law and government and that sort of thing?"
"Chances? I should think there are!" replied Wadge. "Why, think of our Mechanics' Institute. We have more than a thousand students there. They all come of an evening, after work, and they pay next to nothing for their lessons; but I've known lots of them who have got on so well that they have been able to go to Owens College at Manchester—even taken degrees. And there is no end to the possibilities for the chap who has taken a degree."
Paul had only a vague idea of what this might mean, but he knew it meant something of importance, and his heart beat quickly at the thought of it. Still, the idea of Lancashire did not appeal to him. He felt sure that Douglas Graham would be in London, and, after all, London was the great heart of things. It was there all these big men went, and it was there, he felt sure, his work lay. Nevertheless, he went on asking Wadge many questions about life in the big towns of Lancashire, and more and more became enamoured by the thought of going there.
"Look here," continued Wadge presently, "I have got a copy of theBrunford Mercurywhere I am staying, and I'll lend it you. You can see then what's going on."
A few hours later Paul was perusing the journal he had been promised. At first he was disappointed. After all, there did not seem to be anything much more attractive going on in Brunford than in Cornwall. TheWest Britonwas, as far as he could see, a more interesting paper. Presently, however, his heart gave a leap. He saw that a law case of some sort had been going on in Manchester, and as the counsel for one of the parties, he saw the name of "G. D. Graham." At first he could scarcely believe his own eyes. He did not realise that there might be hundreds of Grahams, many of whom might be barristers. With his small parochial ideas, there could be only one Graham who could occupy such a position—and Manchester was only a few miles from Brunford. Of course all the barristers could not live in London. There must be many all over the country, and Graham lived there. A strange feeling filled his heart; he felt sure he had found his father, the man who had wronged his mother, who had blighted her life. Again the picture of her as he saw her last flashed back to his mind, the care-worn, tired, sad-looking woman whom he loved as his mother; and she was going back to servitude, to misery, and all this because of the man who had deceived her, ruined her life. He had taken her as his wife, and then written her that cruel, insulting letter, and left her to the scorn and mercilessness of a hard world. And he would see him. If he lived in Manchester he would be employed for other cases. It would be easy to find out all about them, and he could go there and watch. He realised that he could do nothing while he was ignorant. Perhaps this G. D. Graham was a great man by now, and he would deny all knowledge of what he had done; therefore he must find out, he must prepare himself, and he could only do that through getting a knowledge of the world, a knowledge of law, a knowledge of men.
This decided him. He remembered what Wadge had said about the Mechanics' Institute, and about working-lad students belonging to Owens College and obtaining University degrees. Of course that must mean knowledge, and knowledge was power. So much he had learnt, at all events, at the night-school where he had attended.
He counted up his money, of which he had been very saving, and determined to leave Cornwall at once, and shortly after Christmas he found himself in the train bearing him northward. He had never been out of Cornwall before, and his heart beat high with hope. New scenes, new experiences, new modes of life and thought, a new world—and he was going to enter it! It was on a Monday morning that he started on his journey, and it was dark when he left the little village of St. Mabyn, carrying in his hand a portmanteau which contained all his earthly possessions. It was several miles to the nearest railway station, but that did not trouble him at all. Young and strong as he was, a five-mile walk was nothing, and he found it no hardship to get up in the cold, dark morning in order to catch the first train, northward. He did not arrive in Manchester until late that night, and then found that the last train for Brunford had left some time before he came. Like all lads country-reared, he had heard about the dangers of big towns, of thieves, of midnight murder—and Manchester frightened him. He could not understand it at all, and in his ignorance and fear he shrunk from asking questions.
"You'll go to some pub., I suppose?" said a porter who had told him about the last train to Brunford.
"I don't know," said Paul.
"But you must, man. You can't stay out all night. It's cold, too. Will you have a cab?"
"I don't know where to go," said Paul. "Can you tell me of a respectable place?"
But before the porter could answer, someone else claimed his attention, and Paul was left alone. He took his bag and looked around, then, seeing the notice, "Left Luggage Office," he acted upon impulse, and left his portmanteau there, after which he went out into the streets. He had missed the connection at Bristol, and, the later train having been delayed, it was now past ten o'clock. He had bought some sandwiches on his way, so he did not feel hungry. But he was terribly depressed and lonely. The traffic of the city was subsiding somewhat, but still the rush and roar of the great northern metropolis stunned and bewildered him. Presently he came to the Town Hall, which stood in a great square not far from the station. Around him were trams, cabs, and a hurrying multitude of people. This was life—life in a great city! It was utterly different from what he had expected; and it was bitterly cold. A damp fog hung over the city, the air was depressing, and the streets were black with slimy mud. Still, the thought that more than half a million of people were around him was wonderful to him. He was in the heart of the manufacturing North, where poor friendless boys had risen to position and power. That Town Hall stood for something—stood for the government of this great metropolis. It seemed to him that London could be nothing compared with this, and in his ignorance he felt as though Manchester were the centre of the world. He wandered on and on, passing through St. Anne's Square until he came to Market Street. Here all was a blaze of light, even although the crowd had largely departed. It was all fascinating, bewildering. He felt strangely afraid, and he did not know what to do. A tram stopped just in front of him, and he noticed the words, "Rusholme, Oxford Road." And, again acting on impulse, he entered the tram. A few minutes later the conductor came to him.
"Where do you want to go?" he asked.
Paul had not the slightest idea, and looked at him in a kind of dazed way.
"Where do you want to get out?" went on the conductor. "We only go as far as the tramway shed at Rusholme. Do you want to go as far as that, or where?"
"I don't know," said Paul. "Where do we pass?"
"Why, we go up Oxford Road, and pass Owens College."
"That's it," cried Paul eagerly; "I want to get out at Owens College."
The conductor eyed him curiously, but he was a man of large experience, and took very little notice of the vagaries of his passengers.
"Here you are," he said at length, as the tram stopped. "This is Owens College."
Paul got out, and the tram went on. He looked at the great building like one spell-bound. He had heard, in a vague sort of way, that this was the head-quarters of the Victoria University. He did not know much as to what this meant, but it appealed to him, captivated him. It was the centre of learning—knowledge. Here men taught the knowledge that meant power, progress, achievement. It was not quite so foggy here as in the heart of the city, and the moon did its best to pierce the clouds, and in its pale light Paul could see something of the proportions of this great centre of learning. He wandered around it, and noted what he supposed were the various departments of education. He almost forgot where he was; he did not heed the lapse of time. This was Owens College! It seemed to him the heart of the universe, the centre of the world of knowledge, and he would go there some day, he would learn things; and before his eyes flashed a vision of a brilliant future. What others had done he could do. It meant work; but what of that? He loved it. It meant suffering; but then he had never known anything else.
Presently he found himself in Oxford Road again, and then, like one in a dream, he tramped back to the centre of the city. He had been travelling from early morning, but he felt no weariness. Manchester was the city of dreams. By the time he had got back to Market Street again the streets were deserted, save for a few late stragglers. The trams had ceased running, the theatres had emptied themselves while he had been away, and only an occasional vehicle passed him. All through the night he wandered through the dark, murky streets, and as he did so the mystery of it all, the wonder of it all, filled his heart. Yes, he was in a new world, and in this new world were new thoughts, new modes of life. In after-years Paul recalled the experiences of that night; it seemed to him that it marked a new era in his life. Especially did he feel this as again and again he came to the Town Hall. The place had a strong attraction for him, because it was here he believed that the G. D. Graham of whom he had read had defended the man who, as it appeared to him, was guilty of a crime. More than one policeman noticed him as he stood there looking at its lofty towers and listening for the deep tones of the bell which told of the passing time. But no one molested him; he was respectably dressed, and did not appear to be a suspicious character. Strange to say, the squalor, the misery, the poverty did not impress him: it was the size, the wondrousness, and the vast avenues of life, which the city suggested, that appealed to his mind.
Early in the morning he found himself at the Central Station again, where, having obtained his bag, he made his way towards Victoria Station and caught the early train for Brunford.
By the time he had reached Haslingden the grey light of morning revealed the dreary scenes through which he passed. He wished he had stayed in Manchester. The district through which he passed seemed nothing but a procession of dreary houses, built apparently without thought of order or architecture. He saw stunted men and pale-faced girls with shawls over their heads as if on their way to their work. He heard the clatter of their iron-ringed clogs on the hard paving-stones. Here was a new life indeed, but there was no romance. It was all sordid, grimy. Still he must go on, and presently, when the porter shouted the word, "Brunford," he got out of the train feeling that his new life had really commenced.
The next few years of Paul Stepaside's life must be described somewhat briefly, although they were not without importance. They were the formative period of the young man's history and naturally shaped his whole future. Habits of thought were formed, and the tendencies of his boyhood were hardened and fashioned by the circumstances which surrounded him. Consequently, the passing from youth to manhood, with all its shaping, moulding forces, is doubtless the most vital in the life of any man. Nevertheless there is not much to say about them, as only a few outstanding events happened to him. The development of his character went on, but that development was silent and almost unnoticed by those with whom he came into contact. Still, there were certain things of which cognisance must be taken, because not only did they affect his future but they formed a part of the chain of events which led to the tragic issues which presently evolved.
His first few days in Brunford were not happy ones. The life of a busy manufacturing town was utterly different from that of St. Mabyn. The long rows of ugly houses, the black, slimy streets, the smoke-begrimed atmosphere, the roar of machinery, and the life of the operatives, all made him feel that here was a new world indeed! It seemed to him harsh, sordid, ugly, and more than once he longed for the clear skies, the green fields, and the quiet restfulness of his old Cornish home. Nevertheless it had its compensations. He was at the heart of a great, busy, manufacturing centre, and the life there could not help but be educational in the highest degree. He had no difficulty in finding work. A loom manufacturer took him on for a few days to give him a trial, and then, finding that Paul was skilful with his blacksmithing tools, he engaged him as one of his permanent hands. He obtained lodgings near the centre of the town, with an old couple who took quite an interest in him. They were Methodists, and, learning that Paul was acquainted with a minister who had formerly been in the Brunford circuit, felt quite at home with him. This led, moreover, to his being visited by the minister of Hanover Chapel, who took a great interest in him, notwithstanding Paul's unconcealed contempt for anything like religious influences. The legacy which his mother had left him seemed to close up all those avenues of life and thought. His programme was clearly marked out, and in order to carry it through, everything must become subservient to it. His trade, the earning of wages, were merely means to an end, and that end he constantly kept before his eyes. First he must become educated; he must have knowledge—knowledge sufficient to enable him to fulfil the purpose which was born in his mind on the night he met his mother on the Altarnun Moors. If he could satisfy his ambitions, so much the better; but he determined that nothing should stand in the way of his carrying out the grim resolution which was the great purpose for which he lived.
He had not been in Brunford many months when he saw in theManchester Guardianan account of a trial which was being conducted in that city, and noticed that the leading counsel was G. D. Graham, the name which had determined him to come to Brunford. He had made up his mind that this man was his father. He knew he had very insufficient data on which to go; nevertheless, it became a sort of fixed idea with him. But he determined to make sure, and so, obtaining leave from his work, he started one morning to Manchester, in order to be present at the trial which was attracting some notice in the county. It was with a grim sort of feeling in his heart that he entered the Manchester Law Courts and climbed the steps leading to the room wherein the trial was being held.
"I shall know him," he said to himself, "know him among a thousand!"
He did not seem to consider that this visit would lead to anything; he only wanted to see the man who had blackened his mother's life. The justice chamber was very full as he entered it, and he could not help being impressed by the scene before him. The judge, with his legal robes and his formidable-looking wig, sitting grave and stern on his seat of eminence; the eager faces of the barristers; the watchful eyes of the solicitors; the important look on the faces of the twelve jurymen who sat huddled in a kind of square box; the anxious face of the man who stood in the witness-box giving evidence; all appealed to the young fellow's imagination, and caused his pulses to throb violently. So great was the impression made upon him that for the moment he almost forgot the purpose for which he came. This was life indeed, and the work of making looms appeared to him as a kind of sordid drudgery. The ambitions which had lain smouldering in his heart for a long time sprang into flame again, and he determined that, while he saw no chance of his being a judge, or even like one of the barristers who sat around the table beneath the judge's bench, he at least could become prominent in the great busy life of the world. The case itself, too, cast a kind of spell upon him; he listened eagerly to the questions that were being asked, and as he caught the meaning of the things for which these men were fighting, the picture of his mother's sorrows became less real and less vital. But this was not for long. Presently one of the counsel rose to address the jury, and there was a kind of flutter among the spectators as he did so.
"Yon's Graham," he heard a man say by his side, and then the purport of his coming to Manchester laid hold of him.
"Which is Graham?" he asked of the man.
"Yon man who has just got on his feet," was the reply. "He's a rare 'un, is Graham. I wouldn't like 'im to cross-examine me! You'll see, he'll tear t'other chap's case all to flitters!"
Paul turned his eyes towards the barrister in question, and then, he could not tell why, but his heart became like lead. This was not the man he had come to see. It was true he could not see the colour of his hair, because It was hidden by his barrister's wig, but the face was different from any he had ever seen in his dreams. The eyes were dark and piercing, the features were almost classical. No, this was not the man who had robbed his mother of her youth and of her beauty. After this he took only an academical interest in the proceedings. He still remained interested in the case, but only as a case; and the man Graham was only a name to him. This fact altered his outlook for a time. Hitherto he had fancied he knew where he might find the man whom he called his enemy, but now he did not know; and, as a consequence, everything became different. Not that he troubled much. He never meant to try to do anything until he was ready. Somehow he knew that when he set himself to struggle against the man he hated, the battle would be long and hard; therefore he must be prepared; and he was not ready yet—he had only just begun. That was why he did not trouble to find him. When the time came he would surely have no difficulty in discovering his whereabouts. Still, the visit to Manchester was not without its effects. He saw a new vision of life, and that vision made him discontented with being a mere operative. He would not, in the future, be one who was led—he would be a leader.
When he returned to Brunford, therefore, he worked harder than ever. He took classes at the Mechanics' Institute, and spent all his spare time in study. By the time he was twenty Paul Stepaside could have matriculated at the London University; but he never thought of doing so. After all, what was passing examinations? It was a mere knowledge of certain specified subjects, and he felt that these would not enable him to perform the great work which he had set himself to do.
Paul was naturally greatly influenced by the life of the town in which he lived. Brunford was a huge manufacturing centre, and was typical of its class. The minds of the people were keenly alive, especially to those questions which, as they believed, affected their welfare. All sorts of socialistic schemes were discussed eagerly, and before long Paul was keenly interested in them. He found that the town was a very Mecca of revolutionary thoughts concerning the accepted order of things. There were many who were of the "down-with-everything" order. They did not believe in kings or governments, and although their anarchism was of a mild order, there were some who proclaimed it with such enthusiasm that Paul for a time was influenced by it. Others there were who did not believe in private ownership of property, and advocated that everything should be taken over by the State. There were also several atheistic societies in the town, and before long Paul found himself standing at street corners listening to orators who proclaimed that there was no God, that man had no soul, that there was no future life, and that Christianity was a great organised fraud. In opposition to this, on the other hand, there were many who held the wildest opinions about religion. Every conceivable sect seemed to be represented in the town. Seventh-Day Adventists, Spiritualists, Theosophists, Christadelphians, and innumerable others, claimed to have the exclusive possession of the Truth.
For a time he was influenced by all these contradictory views, but presently his strong common sense asserted itself, and he began to laugh at the fallacies which first of all fascinated him. Nevertheless the life of Brunford influenced him greatly, and his whole intellectual outlook was coloured by what he saw and heard. As a working man he naturally allied himself with the working classes, even although he did not share many of their views, and by the time he was a little over one-and-twenty he began to be regarded as a leader. He became an adept in public speaking too, and the announcement that he was to be present at a meeting was almost sure to draw a crowd. He ceased attending any place of worship, and indeed the incipient atheism of his earlier years seemed to settle into a kind of general unbelief in anything spiritual or supernatural.
One evening the minister of the Hanover Chapel called at the house in which he was lodging, and, seeing him deeply engrossed in his books, complimented him upon his studious habits. "I hear you are becoming quite a scholar, Mr. Stepaside," he said.
Paul shook his head.
"Why, but it's becoming well known in the town," persisted the minister. "I noticed that you took a lot of prizes on prize-giving day in the Mechanics' Institute, and all sorts of complimentary things were said about you in the papers. I am sorry, however, that I've not seen you at chapel lately."
Paul remained silent.
"You've not forgotten the advice which the wise man gave in the last chapter of Ecclesiastes, I hope?" said the minister.
"What advice?" asked Paul.
"'Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth,'" replied the minister. "I hope you have not forgotten that."
"Where is He—what is He?" asked Paul. "Who can tell?"
"Why," asked the minister, "do you not believe that there is a God in the heavens—a God Who is at once our Father and our Judge?"
"I see little signs of either," he replied. "It is easier to believe in the Devil than to believe in God! All we know is that we are here, and we have to fight our battles and do our work."
"But do you mean to say," asked the minister, "that you feel no responsibility towards God?"
"Look here, sir," replied Paul, "this world in which we live is not a very big affair, and it's one of millions upon millions of other worlds. Now I put it to you: What do you think the God Who made all this—if there is a God at all—Who made all these millions of worlds swirling through space, cares about little insects like you and me, who just crawl upon the face of this tiny globe. Still, as I said, we have our life to live and our work to do, and we must act according to the instincts of our being."
"But if the instincts of your being lead you to do something wrong?" said the minister.
"What is right, and what is wrong?" asked Paul. "All I know is that I have my own plans of life. I have my programme marked out, and I mean to carry the programme through."
The minister did not quite understand what he meant. "But what about your relations with your fellow-men, my young friend?" he asked.
"What of them?" asked Paul. "I was reading the other day the life of Napoleon, who said that if a million men stood between him and the objects he desired to obtain he would sacrifice those million men."
The minister, a simple-minded man, who thought but little outside the narrow groove in which he worked, was somewhat aghast at this statement.
"And do you mean to say that is your sentiment?" he said.
For the moment the spirit of mischief entered Paul's heart. It seemed pleasant to him to shock this godly man and to make him feel that he had no sympathy with the conventional morality he preached.
"It seems to me," said Paul, "that, if there is a God, He helps those who help themselves. The battle is to the strong, and the race to the swift. If you do not win, somebody else does. Well, I don't mean to be beaten in the battle, and if there is someone who stands in my way of getting to the goal I desire to reach, that someone has got to be swept out of the way."
One event we must mention which was destined to have a marked influence on Paul's life. It need not be described at length, but it is necessary that it be referred to briefly. A certain manufacturer had a son some few years older than Paul. This manufacturer was named Wilson. He was one of the largest employers in the town, and his son Ned was looked upon as one who would one day be one of the most important men in Brunford. He was a fellow of some intelligence, and, while essentially of the manufacturing class, he had, perhaps owing to his education, ambitions to be associated with the older families of the county. He was strongly opposed to the democratic feeling which prevailed among the working classes, and, on more than one occasion strongly resented the expression of certain opinions by his father's employees. When Paul was about twenty years of age a quarrel sprang up between him and young Ned Wilson. Paul, burning with enthusiasm for the class whose fortunes he had espoused, spoke at a public gathering, and exposed the ill-treatment of one of Wilson's employees. Wilson appeared at the gathering and denied the statement which Paul made, and hurled many offensive epithets at him. It was a sordid affair altogether, and the matter would not have been mentioned but for its influence on Paul's after-life. The result of the quarrel was that Paul was discharged from the position he had held ever since he came to Brunford, and was, as a consequence, for some time out of work. Moreover, lying stories were set afloat, which, while they did not harm him greatly, caused him to feel bitterly towards the man who had maligned him.
When Paul had been in Brunford about five years a strike took place which convulsed the whole town. Like many another of these manufacturing disturbances, the cause seemed trivial in the extreme. Nevertheless, it spread from mill to mill, and from trade to trade, in such a way that practically the whole of the operatives had ceased working. As all the world knows by this time, the unions of the North of England are so closely connected as to form them into one homogeneous body. In this case, two people, a man and his wife, became at cross purposes with what was called the tackler. This tackler, or foreman, had insisted upon something which to the man and his wife was utterly unfair. Eventually they were discharged, and on their appeal to the secretary of the union to which they belonged, the whole case was taken up seriously and discussed with a great deal of warmth. The employer in question supported his foreman and refused to take the couple back. Thereupon the union threatened to call out all their members if they were not reinstated. This led to a pitched battle between the operatives and the employers. The masters naturally supported their own class, while the operatives, feeling that their position was endangered, stood to their guns. As a consequence, therefore, the trade of the whole town was in a state of stagnation. The employers declared that they refused to be dictated to by the people to whom they paid wages; and the operatives, feeling that their liberties and rights were in danger, would concede nothing to them. As is ordinary in such cases, a great deal of unruly behaviour was witnessed, the public-houses reaped a rich harvest, and acts of violence became general. In this case, a number of youths, utterly foolish and irresponsible, conceived a plot to "pay out," as they call it, the employers, and, in order to carry it out, held secret meetings, the purport of which, unknown to them, gradually leaked out. Into this plot Paul found himself drawn, but instead of encouraging the youths in their design, he did his best to dissuade them. This, as may be imagined, did not please them. To those who have studied the history of strikes in the northern manufacturing towns, it is well known that nothing appeals to a certain element of the population more strongly than acts of violence, and Paul found that his well-meant efforts met with great disfavour. Still, a kind of loyalty held him to them, even while he refused to participate in what they proposed to do. One night a number of these lads found their way to a certain mill, with the intention of destroying some new machinery that Mr. Wilson, who has already been mentioned, had lately bought at great cost. When Paul heard of it he also hastened thither, in order to do his best to put an end to the mischief. As I have said, the designs of these lads had leaked out, and, as a consequence, the owner of the mill was prepared. A number of policemen had ambushed themselves, together with some of the foremen. The result was that when the lads were making their way towards this machinery they were stopped, and an endeavour was made to make them prisoners. This led to a pitched battle between the youths on one side and the representatives of the employers on the other, and Paul, in spite of himself, was found on the side of the youths. In the struggle which followed two policemen and one of the foremen were badly injured, while several of the lads bore marks which they would carry to their graves.
That same night Paul found himself, with nearly all the others, in Brunford police-station, in order to await his trial. The case was regarded so seriously that bail was not allowed; and therefore Paul, with the others, had to remain in durance vile until the case could be publicly tried.
During the time he lay in prison he felt himself deeply humiliated and vastly ashamed. He called himself a fool for having been led into such a false position. While sympathising with the attitude which the operatives, as a whole, had taken, he utterly disapproved of the foolish plot into which he had been drawn, and yet here he was, not only regarded as equally culpable with the rest, but as a kind of leader; he, who had always prided himself upon his respectability, and upon appealing to the intelligence of the people instead of to brute force, was guilty of mixing himself up in this vulgar squabble which had led to such an ignominious end. The disgrace of it, too, was hard to bear; keenly sensitive as he was, and with an abhorrence of anything like brawls of any sort, he felt as though he was dragged through mire. Of course the unions took up their case and promised to defend them. They had a large amount of money at their disposal in the union funds, and they promised that the best legal advice obtainable should be employed in their behalf. As I have said, feeling ran very high in the town, and the magistrates before whom the case was brought in the first instance, being in the main manufacturers, and therefore strongly prejudiced in favour of their class, were not likely to regard the action of Paul and of others from a favourable standpoint. They accordingly committed the accused for trial at the Quarter Sessions in Manchester. The secretary of one of the unions visited Paul before the trial.
"It's a serious business, Stepaside," he said, "and I am afraid it will go hard with you!"
"But no one was seriously hurt," said Paul.
"I doan't know so much about that," replied the secretary. "One of th' bobbies has been i' bed ever since. Wilson's tackler is said to be i' queer street. His head was bashed in, and one of his arms broken. I tell thee, it was a bad thing for us all. You see it's turned public opinion agin us, and we weavers are lost when that's the case. Still, we mun fight it out."
"I don't want to back out from anything," said Paul; "but, as a matter of fact, I did my best to keep the chaps from going up to Wilson's mill."
"That may be," replied the secretary, "but the general opinion is that thou wert the leader of th' gang, and we shall have rare hard job to get thee off, whatever happens to the rest. Still, we think none the worse of thee, lad, and if thou hast got to go to quod, thou shalt have a rare big home-coming when thou comes out. We'll have bands of music and a big feed, and all that sort of thing."
"Who have you got to defend us?" said Paul.
"Eh, well, we have got Sutcliffe, our own lawyer, and he's briefed Robson, the barrister."
"Is Robson a good man?" asked Paul.
"Good! why he's got off more of our chaps than any other man. Still, it looks black, because the case is clear agin us. There is no doubt the chaps were up to mischief, they got into Wilson's mill, and there'll be some turncoats in the town who'll say as 'ow they knaw that they meant to break the machinery. Then there's the two bobbies and Wilson's tackler, all of them i' bed, and the doctor'll be there to give evidence. There's no getting out of that."
When he had gone, Paul thought over the whole case very seriously. What part should he play? He knew he could bring witnesses to prove that he had done his best to dissuade the lads from their act of violence, but, by so doing, should he be playing the game? He wanted to be loyal to his companions, even while he was innocent of willingly acting with them. It was rather a delicate point. If he failed to speak he would be regarded as a kind of ringleader of the gang. If, on the other hand, he told the truth, and brought witnesses to attest to what he had to say, he would be looked upon as a kind of sneak.
When the day of trial came, therefore, he was not in an enviable frame of mind. He knew that hundreds of eyes would be upon him, and that he would have a very undesirable publicity. Only a few weeks before the strike he had been spoken of as a possible candidate for the town council, and he, young as he was, had rejoiced in the thought. He had pictured himself speaking at public meetings and receiving the votes of the townspeople; he saw himself, too, elected at the head of the poll, and having a seat in the council chamber among the most prominent men in the town. But now his publicity would be of an entirely different nature. He was spoken of as the leader of a gang of roughs who attempted to break up machinery, and who had half-killed three men who represented peace and order. Still, he set his teeth together and thought of his plan of action.
"I suppose Wilson will be well represented," he said to the secretary of the union, to whom he had spoken before.
"Ay, he's got Bolitho for th' senior and Jordan for th' junior."
"Bolitho!" said Paul, "I never heard of him."
"Where have you lived?" asked the secretary. "'E's the smartest chap in the Northern Circuit, and there's many as ses he's makin' several thousand a year. I have 'eard as 'ow Wilson 'ad a 'ard job to get him, 'e's that thronged with work, and when they 'ad got him, he said as 'ow it meant six months more to every one of you."
"What sort of a chap is he?" asked Paul.
"Eh, one of those smooth-spoken fellows. You think when he's cross-examining you 'e's on your side, and all the time 'e's worming out the most damning things against you. He's a kind of oily voice, too, and he makes people believe in him, whether they will or no. You must be careful about that, for directly he comes to address the jury he takes the meanest advantages of what he has dragged out of the witnesses."
Presently Paul found himself and the others in the same room wherein he had watched the trial of some months before. He thought of the G. D. Graham about whom he had such strange fancies, and remembered the shock he had received when he discovered that he was altogether mistaken. He little thought then that he would be here to-day as a dangerous character, and as one who had committed a grave offence against the public weal. Presently he was able to take note of his surroundings. The lofty chamber; the solemn-looking magistrates; the barristers at their benches; the jury in their box; the prisoners standing sullen and defiant, yet wondering how they would acquit themselves in the trial; and as many of the public as could gain admission into the room, eager, and wondering what the upshot would be.
Evidently the case was going to be a long one. The counsel for the prosecution opened it with a long and vigorous speech. He described the history of the strike, told of the excitable condition of the people, and related how difficult it had been for the police to keep order in the town. After this he went on, with more or less accuracy, to tell of the plot of the prisoners who had been brought there that day, and of the charges that were brought against them.
"Is that Mr. Bolitho?" asked Paul of the secretary of the union, who was allowed to stand near him.
"Nay," was the reply, "yon's Jordan, the junior. Bolitho's not here yet. I wish summat would happen to him on the way. I tell yo' I'm feared of him. This chap is but a beginner, so to speak—a sort of John the Baptist, that prepares the way for t'other; but Bolitho's a fair terror and no mistake."
Somehow the name had a familiar sound with it.
"Bolitho, Bolitho, why it's a Cornish name!" said Paul. "I've heard it many a time down in St. Mabyn. Perhaps when he knows I am a Cornishman—that is, if he is Cornish, too—he may not be so hard on me."
Still, this was only a passing thought, and he steeled his heart against the worst. When the case had dragged on for some time, Paul noticed that there was a flutter in the court. A man he had not hitherto seen came in and took his place beside the junior counsel for the prosecution. He heard a whisper go round the court, "There's Bolitho." And Paul's eyes were drawn to him as if by magic. There was something in the face that held his attention, fascinated him. He found his heart beating faster than was its wont and his muscles contracting as if he were about to meet an enemy. For the moment he forgot the reason why he was brought there, so keenly intent was he on examining the face of the barrister who had just come in. And yet it was not a face to be feared. It was somewhat florid, and certainly pleasant to look upon. His eyes were blue and had a somewhat dreamy expression in them, while the features suggested gentleness rather than harshness. A handsome man was this Mr. Bolitho, a man who looked as though he might have many friends. The counsel all round smiled at him, while the magistrate nodded benignly. He seemed to create an air of pleasantness. He relieved the somewhat sordid atmosphere which pervaded the chamber. How much time he had given to the case it was impossible to say, but, certainly, when he rose to cross-examine, he seemed to know every detail of it.
Presently the examination came to an end, and Mr. Bolitho rose to address the jury for the prosecution. In a way which Paul could not quite comprehend, and yet which seemed perfectly reasonable as he did it, he laid the whole blame for the trouble at Paul's door. It was his that had been the master mind. It was he who was guilty of inciting these ignorant, thoughtless youths to the act which had ended almost fatally for three men. He dragged in the quarrel which Paul had had with the son of Mr. Wilson, the owner of the mill, and insinuated that it was a matter of personal revenge which had inspired him to commit this outrage. In a few minutes it seemed to Paul that there was no blacker criminal in England than himself. This man Bolitho had created a new atmosphere in the court; his suave, almost smiling, features had changed. When he was examining he pretended to be kind and assumed a confidential and almost friendly manner. In this way he had wormed statements out of men which Paul knew to be diametrically opposed to the truth—he had even obtained the admission, from some of the youths whom he had tried to dissuade from their deed of violence, that he, Paul, had incited them rather than otherwise.
And now, in addressing the jury, this Mr. Bolitho had laid special emphasis upon it. Paul was perfectly sure that the man did not believe all he said, but he wanted to make a case, and he had fastened upon himself as the chief culprit.
"Gentlemen," said Mr. Bolitho, "I wish you to pay special attention to this man, young in years, apparently respectable, well educated, especially for his class, and intelligent beyond the ordinary; but I want to point out to you that he is of that class of which agitators are made, and, as such, he is a danger to the community. In the eyes of the law all these men are equally guilty, all of them were engaged in this wild, lawless deed, which has ended almost fatally for three men, two of them trustworthy officers of the law, and one a respected townsman of Brunford, and a man holding a position of trust under his employer. But think, gentlemen—these other youths were simply led by this stronger personality of Paul Stepaside. He, inspired by personal enmity towards Mr. Wilson, determined to be revenged on him for some fancied wrong done to him years before, has taken the opportunity to perpetrate this awful outrage. It is true he has not definitely said so, but he has insinuated that he tried to dissuade the others from taking part in this crime. But can such a thing be believed? The others were never capable of this plot, and, without a leader, would never have thought of participating in it. On several occasions, too, since he has been in Brunford he has made public speeches. Extracts from those speeches I will now read to you."
On this, Mr. Bolitho read certain statements which Paul was reported to have made—statements from which it would appear that he hated the class of employers who were prosecuting him that day.
"I am urging these things, gentlemen," continued Mr. Bolitho, "because I wish the guilt to be fastened where it ought to be fastened. It has been clearly proved that all these men were guilty of the charges of which they are accused, but surely it should be borne in mind that more guilt should be attached to the leader and the inspirer of these outrageous deeds than to those thoughtless and almost irresponsible fellows who were led like sheep to the slaughter."
Paul listened like one bewildered, and presently his heart became filled with black rage. He realised now the meaning of what the secretary of the union had said to him. He could not understand why it was that this clever counsel had tried to make him a scapegoat for all the rest; but now he saw it was really so. The others, who were really guilty of a thing which he himself condemned, were made to appear as almost innocent, while he, who had done his best to dissuade them from their mad act, was condemned as one who had acted like a devil. Once, during Mr. Bolitho's speech, Paul lost control over himself. "Liar!" he exclaimed. And his voice rang out above that of the counsel. A wave of excitement swept over the crowd. The judge looked at him with stern eyes, but before he had time to speak Paul persisted, "I say he is a liar, my lord. He has said things that are not true. He has twisted things out of their true meaning. He has made inferences appear like facts!"
He was unable to proceed further after this, owing to the action of the presiding magistrate—indeed it was a wonder that he had been allowed to say so much—but the intensity of his voice for the moment startled this grave man, and this caused him to allow what under ordinary circumstances would never have been possible.
As may be imagined, Mr. Bolitho made the most of this interruption. For some reason or other, he seemed to have taken a personal dislike to the young man before him, and now he used the interruption to emphasise what he had hitherto said.
"I ask you, gentlemen," he insisted, "to consider the evidence of these men"—and from the way he spoke it might seem as though he were acting as counsel for the others—"and then think of who is likely to be really guilty. These youths are just ordinary, ignorant, irresponsible fellows, waiting to be led, but incapable of leading—without education, and with no more than ordinary intelligence. But here is this Stepaside, regarded as a leader among a certain class in the town, an agitator, a dangerous man."
And so on, until at length his speech came to a close, and all felt that, whatever might happen to the others, the jury would regard Paul as the one who was responsible for what had taken place, and who, if either of the three injured men should die, would be regarded as guilty of not only outrage, but perhaps of manslaughter. Presently the judge summed up the case, and then waited while the jury left their box to consider their verdict.
By this time Paul was almost careless as to results. He felt perfectly sure that the punishment meted out to him would not be a light one; but he did not care. He was past that. His mind and heart were filled with rage against the man who had blackened his name. He fell to studying him while he waited, and again he was fascinated. While he had addressed the jury his eyes had shone with apparently righteous indignation; he was eager, almost passionate, in his denunciation of crime. But now it might seem as though his interest in the matter had gone. He chatted and laughed with the other barristers, and accepted their congratulations upon his speech. As Paul listened, too, he heard him accept an invitation to go with one of them to dinner that night, and afterwards accompany them to a place of amusement. And this was the man who had so ruthlessly, so cruelly, and so untruthfully defamed his own character.
Presently the jurymen returned, and the court awaited their verdict. A little later Paul knew that the others were committed to one month's imprisonment, while he himself was condemned to six months' hard labour. The young man's face never moved a muscle. He stood perfectly rigid, perfectly silent, as the judge pronounced the sentence, and then, when all was over, he turned towards the barristers' table, and his eyes met those of the man who, he knew, was practically responsible for the extreme punishment meted out to him. Mr. Bolitho smiled, and then, turning, left the court, while a policeman laid hold of Paul's arm and led him away to his cell.