Howden Clough was a big house standing in its own grounds, some two miles from the town of Brunford. Considering the vicinity, it was a very handsome place of residence. The house itself was of grey stone, and occupied a commanding position. Having been built some two hundred years before, by an old county magnate, the grounds were well matured. Indeed, Mr. Edward Wilson was envied by his fellow manufacturers for having obtained so desirable a place of residence. The very fact that he lived in a house which had been owned by the Greystones gave him a kind of position, and this, added to his being a rich man, and abundantly able to keep up the place he occupied, gave him a feeling of superiority.
Edward Wilson and his son were sitting together in the room which they called the library, although there were but few evidences of the name being deserved.
"Mr. Bolitho will be here in half an hour," said the father.
"Do you know if he is bringing Mary with him?" asked Ned.
"I am not sure," replied the father. "I have done my best for you, my lad."
"I mean to have her," said the young man. "I never really cared for a girl before, and I shall never care for another. Besides, why is the case hopeless?"
"I mean you shall have her," replied the father. "But you must remember, my lad, that these Bolithos belong to a very old family, and they don't look upon money as everything. We're not county people, and they are, although they visit us as friends. Still, I can buy up half the county people, and I've done my best to persuade him to bring Mary with him. When I was at Mr. Bolitho's house last, I inquired if she had any matrimonial engagement, but as far as I could gather she's still fancy free, so let's hope for the best, Ned."
"What time does the meeting commence?" asked the son.
"Not until nine o'clock," was the reply. "We shall have plenty of time for a smoke and a chat after dinner before those fellows come."
A little later there was a sound of wheels upon the drive. Both father and son rushed to the door, and to their delight they found not only Mr. Bolitho but his daughter as well.
"This is splendid!" cried Mr. Wilson senior. "I was afraid Miss Bolitho would not be able to come. Ah, Emily, here's your friend. We are glad to see you. I am afraid you'll think that Lancashire people are a little rough, but we yield to none in the warmth of our welcome."
Although this speech seemed correct enough, young Edward Wilson felt rather uneasy. He wondered whether those of Mr. Bolitho's class would have met him in a similar way. In spite of the fact that he declared himself deeply in love with the young lady who had now gone upstairs with his sister, he did not feel comfortable in her presence. There seemed to be always an invisible barrier between them. Still, she was there, and he meant to make the most of his opportunities; and if the plans which had been made bore fruit, he trusted that he would see a great deal of her in the future.
The party that sat round the dinner table was gay, but no reference was made to the ostensible object of Mr. Bolitho's visit. When nine o'clock came, however, it was evident that there were several new-comers, and presently the two Wilsons led the way to the library, while Mr. Bolitho followed with a half-interested, half-bored look on his face. He shook hands with a number of men who had gathered in the room. Evidently they were nearly all opulent, keen-minded, successful men, but he could not help feeling pleased at the deference which each of them paid to him. Even as they did, he realised that he was not of their class. After all, a wealthy cotton manufacturer occupies a different position from that of an eminent barrister who belongs to an old county family.
They quickly made known their business. "The truth of it is, Mr. Bolitho," said the leading spokesman, "Mr. Carcliffe is resigning, and we want someone to fight our battles. The socialistic and labour element has become very strong, and unless we are strongly led, our side will be beaten. And so we have come to the conclusion that if you will say 'Yes,' you are our best man."
It was a roughly spoken speech, but Mr. Bolitho understood perfectly, and the proposal appealed to him strongly. He had long encouraged political aspirations, and here was his opportunity. To be the Member of the important borough of Brunford, which lay at the heart of the manufacturing district, promised all sorts of scope for his ambition. Owing to his success at the Bar he had a large income, and more than one had suggested to him that if he entered Parliament he would be a most eligible candidate for the post of either Solicitor- or Attorney-General, while even higher things might be within his grasp in the future. As it was, he discussed the various pros and cons with considerable eagerness and cordiality. As far as he could see, there was every probability of success. The present Member had been elected by a clear thousand majority, and he had sufficient faith in himself to believe that he could not only maintain that majority but increase it.
"By the way," he said at length, "have the other side selected their man?"
"Well, yes and no," was the reply. "From what we hear they have not fastened upon a party man, but they have approached young Paul Stepaside."
Mr. Bolitho gave a look of astonishment. "What!" he cried. "Stepaside! the fellow who a year or two ago——" And then he stopped.
"Yes," was the reply.
"But he hasn't been long out of prison."
"No," was the rejoinder. "But he's a remarkable chap, is Stepaside, and there have been all sorts of foolish notions in the town so that he's become very popular."
"I suppose these working-men's unions will pay his expenses, then?" said Mr. Bolitho.
"I am not so sure of that," replied the chairman of the association. "You see, Stepaside started manufacturing a little more than a year ago, and he's been phenomenally successful. His partner is a very able chap, too, and they know their business. So that I fancy Stepaside will be able to pay his own expenses."
"And has he the confidence of the people?"
"He's the confidence of a certain class," was the reply, "and he would be a strong candidate."
Mr. Bolitho looked thoughtful. "This is very awkward!" he said.
"You don't mean to say," said the chairman, "that this fact will alter your decision?"
"No," he replied slowly. "I don't quite say that, but it puts a new face on the question. You see, it will be awkward for me to oppose a man in politics whom, less than two years ago, I practically sent to gaol. Still, it gives a certain piquancy to the situation. Does he know much about politics, by the way?"
"No, I don't think he does," replied the chairman of the association. "And that's where our strength will lie. He's just an agitator, just a clever speaker who can appeal to men's passions, but when he's faced with facts he will be nowhere."
There was a short silence after this. It was evident that some present did not agree with what had been said, but no one spoke a word. All seemed to be afraid lest Mr. Bolitho would fail them at this juncture, and they looked upon him as the man most likely to lead them to victory.
After they were gone Mr. Bolitho talked long and gravely with Mr. Wilson.
"I tell you," said the manufacturer, "if you fail us now, Mr. Bolitho, your conduct will be misinterpreted."
Mr. Bolitho looked at the other questioningly.
"The truth of it is," went on Mr. Wilson, "a great many foolish things have gone abroad since Stepaside's trial, and the belief is that he wasn't treated fairly. The chaps who got off easily confessed, after their imprisonment, that Stepaside had tried to dissuade them from doing what they did, and so he has been looked upon as a kind of martyr. Many have blamed us for this, and now if you refuse to fight him—well, they'll say you are afraid."
"Afraid!"
"Yes, afraid. They'll say you're afraid to face a public audience, to stand up in a public fight."
Mr. Bolitho gazed steadily on the carpet for a few seconds, and then relit his cigar, which had gone out.
"That settles it, Wilson," he said. "That settles it. I will quickly let the people of Brunford know whether I am afraid or not. You can tell your chairman that I accept."
The manufacturer caught the other man's hand with delight. "By goom," he said, lapsing into the Lancashire dialect, "that's the ticket."
"You can tell him, too," went on the barrister, and his eyes flashed as he spoke, "that I'll fight this for all I'm worth. We'll leave no stone unturned, Wilson, and I'm inclined to think at the end of this election that your man Stepaside will be no longer regarded as a hero."
The following SaturdayThe Brunford Timesannounced the fact that Mr. Bolitho, K.C., had accepted a hearty invitation to stand as their candidate for the next election, and a leading article was devoted to him, declaring that, if they had sought all over England, a worthier candidate could not have been found.
Paul had no knowledge of the true facts of the case until he sawThe Brunford Timeson the Saturday morning. He was returning from his mill when he heard a boy shouting in the street, "Bolitho accepted for Brunford," and, buying the paper, he read the news eagerly.
"Thou looks as though thou had lost a thousand pounds, Paul," said a voice.
"Nay," replied Paul. "I've not lost a thousand pounds." And he noticed that the man to whom he spoke was the chairman of the league who had visited him some time before.
"Well, what's the matter that you look so glum?" said the other.
"I've come to a serious conclusion," replied the young man between his set teeth.
"And what's your conclusion?"
"I'm going to be Member for Brunford," he replied, and walked on without another word.
"Ay, and he will, too," said the other, as he watched Paul's retreating figure. "The chap as licks Paul Stepaside will have to be a bigger man than any lawyer that ever lived!"
The consequence of this meeting in the street was that, before the day was over, all the town knew that Paul Stepaside, who had been doubtful so long as to whether he would fight the people's battle, had now made up his mind, and that he would oppose the man who had been instrumental in sending him to prison nearly two years before!
"You remember him, Mary," said Emily Wilson. "You remember the man who stopped us in the path last summer?"
"Yes, I remember him," said the girl quietly. "He struck me as a dangerous kind of man."
"He's thought to be very good-looking," said the other. "He came to Brunford a few years ago, a nobody, and now there's no man so much talked about."
"But do you think he'll succeed?" asked the girl.
"There's no telling," replied Miss Wilson. "You see, here in Brunford the working people form the great bulk of the population, and they are very determined; when they have set their minds on a thing they stop at nothing in order to obtain it. Besides, among a certain class, your father is not very much liked."
"No, I understand that," replied the other quietly. "But, of course, they must understand that, as a barrister, my father was obliged to do what he did."
"Well, you know, these working people have all sorts of foolish notions."
"I should like to hear him speak," said Mary Bolitho. "I wonder if I should be noticed if I went to one of his meetings."
"I expect not," replied the other. "But still, no meetings will be held for a little time yet. When the election comes we shall have great doings here."
At that minute they were joined by young Edward Wilson.
"We were just talking about Paul Stepaside," said his sister. "And I was saying that the people are very strongly attached to him."
"Oh, I don't fear," replied Wilson.
"Why, you said only yesterday that you greatly doubted what the result would be," replied his sister.
"Yes, but I've been thinking it all over since then," replied Wilson, "and I can see how we can beat him."
"How?" asked the two girls eagerly.
"Well, there are two things," he replied. "One of them depends upon you, Miss Bolitho."
"Upon me!" replied the girl. "How? What do you mean?"
"You really wish your father to beat this fellow?"
"Of course I do!" replied the girl. "I should be horribly ashamed if my father did not get in by a big majority."
"Well, then," said Wilson, "it can be done. You see, Stepaside's chances all depend upon the working people. Of course, we have a good many of them on our side, but he has more on his. Now I know what these factory hands are, and although they profess to be very democratic, there's no Englishman that ever lived but who is a snob at heart. If you, Miss Bolitho, will make a house-to-house visitation, you can win enough votes to put your father in, whatever the other side does."
"But that would mean my staying in the town for months!" said the girl.
"It would mean your spending a great deal of time here," said Wilson, who thought he was very clever, "but what of that? We shall always be delighted to see you at Howden Clough, and I am sure Emily, here, would be only too glad to help you."
"Why, indeed I would, Mary," replied the girl, "and, after all, it would be great fun!"
Mary Bolitho looked across at the great town which lay in the valley beneath her. She saw the hundreds of chimneys belching out black, half-consumed coals, she saw the long lines of uninteresting cottages, in which these toilers of the North lived, and she thought of the work that Wilson's suggestion would entail. She did not know why, but she had taken a strong dislike to Paul Stepaside. Perhaps it was because she remembered his words in the shop in Brunford. Perhaps because he had roused some personal antipathy. Anyhow, in her heart of hearts was the longing to see him beaten. And yet she was afraid. She did not like the idea of spending so much time at Howden Clough. She was too clear-sighted to be blind to Wilson's intentions, and she felt sure as to what his hopes were.
"What's the other thing you have in your mind, Mr. Wilson?" she said presently.
"The other thing is personal," was the reply. "After all, who is Paul Stepaside? Who is his father? Who is his mother? Who are his people? We Lancashire people may profess to be very democratic, but we've got a lot of pride in us. I have heard—well, I won't tell you what I've heard, but I'll manage that!"
A few weeks later the contest between Paul Stepaside and Mr. Bolitho commenced in the Brunford district. There were no immediate signs that an election would take place, but each knew that they must be ready when the time came. Mr. Bolitho held crowded meetings in various parts of the constituency, and, according to newspaper reports, was enthusiastically received. This, however, was to be expected. There were fifteen thousand voters on the lists, and Mr. Carcliffe, whom Mr. Bolitho sought to succeed, had at the last election obtained over a thousand majority. Paul also addressed several meetings, which were largely attended, and his supporters spoke to him very confidently about the result. But Paul was not satisfied; he could not help noticing that a subtle change was coming over the town. His experiences of a year ago, and the tremendous enthusiasm which they had raised on his behalf were practically forgotten. His imprisonment was a thing of the past, and the share which Mr. Bolitho had taken in it was no longer very seriously considered. Paul was not long in attributing this change to its real cause. For one thing, he was being constantly met with rumours about his birth. He knew that the artisans of the North, while professing advanced democratic views, were nevertheless influenced by such things. More than once he had been asked what his father did, where he lived, where his mother and father were married, and where he had been born? And presently, when it was rumoured that he had been born in a workhouse, Paul could not help feeling that a subtle force was at work. In addition to this, too, he heard that Mr. Bolitho's daughter had been visiting among the poorer streets in the town, and that on every hand she had been winning golden opinions. It seemed to him from what he had heard that there was a kind of witchcraft in her presence, and that many who had been among his great admirers, and promised supporters, now seemed to think that the other side had a great deal to say. Paul quickly discovered, too, that this girl was no ordinary canvasser. She had been able to meet the working-class politician on his own grounds, and to answer him very effectively. Everyone who has taken part in a political contest knows the influence which a young, educated, intelligent and beautiful girl can wield, and she had gone into the people's cottages and talked, not only with the women, but with the men. She had caught, too, the rough humour of the district, and had acquainted herself with the peculiar needs and desires of the people who worked in the North. More quick-witted and better informed than they, she had apparently been able to answer Paul's arguments, and had, therefore, left them in doubt.
This, too, seemed apparent to Paul. The questions asked concerning his parentage and birthplace synchronised with the advent of this girl. Never once had he met her, and yet he was constantly hearing of the converts that she was making. As may be imagined, his heart grew bitter at the thought of it, even while he grimly determined that he would win this battle. It is true that the election seemed months away, but the ground seemed slipping from under his feet, and his chances, in spite of what his supporters told him, appeared to grow less each day.
Paul called to mind the time he had met her, in the field close by Howden Clough. He remembered, too, the wild vow he made. This girl, the daughter of the author of his disgrace, one who evidently regarded him with contempt and anger, nevertheless filled his horizon. He knew that the feelings he bore towards her, feelings which no one but himself ever dreamed of, seemed to be madness, while the election that loomed ahead, and on which he had built such great hopes, seemed to divide them rather than to bring them together. If he were beaten in the fight, she would look upon him with more contempt than ever.
This feeling caused his speeches to be somewhat bitter in their tones, and, as a consequence, did not advance his interests—indeed, he felt as though his own supporters were growing half-hearted, if not indifferent, and he attributed it all to the persistent work of Mary Bolitho. Moreover, there were constant rumours about her being engaged to young Ned Wilson—and Ned Wilson, as he knew, was his enemy.
One evening, it was toward the end of September, Paul was walking in some fields beyond Howden Clough. He had been reflecting that he had as yet done nothing towards carrying out the purpose for which he had come North. He remembered that the work his mother had given him to do remained undone.
"I promised her I would go to Scotland," he reflected, "and I've not done it. I've become so wrapped up in this business that I've almost forgotten mother. She still has that cloud of disgrace hanging over her head, while I've been thinking of my own advancement and my own desires. Besides, even if I were to win, I should never be able to speak to her until this matter is cleared up. Of course, she has heard everything, and she will look upon me as——" And then Paul set his teeth together and his eyes flashed with anger.
These thoughts had scarcely passed through his mind when his heart gave a sudden leap. Coming towards him was the girl of whom he had been thinking, and she was alone! Evidently she was on another visit to the Wilsons'; no doubt, too, she was carrying out her purpose of winning voters from him. Almost without thinking he determined to speak to her.
There was no definite thought in his mind, but it seemed to him as though he must speak to her and set himself right with her. He felt it was his right to do so, and that it was her duty to hear.
He lifted his hat on her approach. "I beg your pardon, Miss Bolitho," he said, "but may I presume on your kindness a little?"
The girl looked at him in astonishment. Perhaps she was a little angry too, for the footpath on which he met her was in a somewhat lonely district.
"I know I'm very rude in stopping you in this way," went on Paul, as though he divined her feelings, "and I would not have done so had not the reason seemed to me sufficient. Besides"—and there was a touch of anger in his voice—"it seems to me that it would not only be generous on your part if you would, but just."
As he spoke she could not help reflecting on the change that had come over him since he first spoke to her on the night following his release from prison. Then he was rude, almost truculent; now, even while he seemed angry, his demeanour suggested a refinement of feeling which did not manifest itself then.
"Of course, you know who I am," he went on. "I am Paul Stepaside, and I am your father's opponent in this political contest."
"Is it about the election that you wish to speak to me?" she asked.
"Yes, and no," replied Paul. "Perhaps the contest may be called the occasion of my asking you to speak with me, but the reason lies deeper. I am sure you do not wish to be unjust?"
"I think," she replied, "if you wish to say anything about the election, that you had better seek an interview with my father. He will be in Brunford to-morrow."
"It's not to your father that I wish to speak," he replied.
"I am altogether at a loss," said Mary Bolitho, "to know what there can be that you wish to discuss with me."
He could not mistake the tones in which she spoke. He knew, instinctively, that she did not regard him as belonging to her own class. Her every word suggested to him that he was to her an outsider, one to whom she could speak only as an inferior. A thousand things which he thought he wanted to say to her had altogether escaped him, and for a few seconds he stood dumb and confused.
"Of course, it is about this election, in a way," he stammered presently. "I—I—you see, it means a great deal to me——" And then he ceased speaking again. Somehow the words would not come.
He saw the smile of contempt which passed over her face, and he thought he understood the meaning of it. Perhaps it was the best thing that could have happened to him, for now his anger was aroused, and he saw his way clearly.
"No, no, Miss Bolitho. Do not think that I have come to whine to you, or to make complaints in any way—that is about the things you are thinking of. It's not that. I am prepared to fight my battle without seeking quarter in any direction—that is, any direction that is fair. I have never had a public-school education, but I think I know the meaning of the term, 'Playing the game.'"
She looked puzzled for a minute, and then he saw a flush mount her face.
"I am afraid I do not understand you!"
"The circumstances of my life have not made me an adept in talking with young ladies," said Paul. "Doubtless you think me rude and clownish, and perhaps you are right, but I hope I have nothing but true feelings at heart. You are fighting for your father in this election, Miss Bolitho, and I do not complain in the least. You hope he will win, and you are using every legitimate means to obtain votes for him—that is right, that is fair; but, Miss Bolitho, there is something which I regard very sacred: perhaps the most sacred thing in the world to me is the love of my mother, and the thought of her good name. I will not tell you how she has suffered for me, and how she loves me, but I hope you will believe me when I say that I regard anything which will blacken her name as the greatest insult that can be offered to myself. Have I made myself understood?"
The flush on the girl's face deepened; she knew what he meant.
"I do not mind what people say about me so much," said Paul. "I am able to defend myself, at least when I have fair play. There have been times when I have not been able to do so successfully, still time has been on my side, and justice has been done to me. But can you understand, Miss Bolitho, what a man feels, when, in order to win an election, his opponents have not been ashamed to heap shame upon one of the purest women and the best mothers that ever lived?"
"I am at a loss to know why you say this to me," retorted the girl.
"I do not complain," said Paul, "at least at this juncture, that your father was my enemy years ago. Although he had no foundation for it, he pleaded that I was a dangerous man, an agitator and a leader of a gang of knaves. Through him I spent six months in gaol among felons; I wore prison clothes; I was treated like a dog; I lay there one long, cold winter, night after night, in a damp cellar. This was through your father—not because he believed I was guilty, but because he wanted to make a case against me. I say I have never complained of this, never mentioned it once in this contest. I have tried to fight fairly, on broad general principles, but, Miss Bolitho, my mother's good name is sacred to me. Can you, as a woman, understand this?"
"I do not know why I should answer you," she said, and there was hauteur in her voice. "I cannot help understanding your accusation, and although I am utterly ignorant concerning it, I will say this: never, since I have taken any interest in this contest, have I mentioned your mother's name. Perhaps you do not believe me, and perhaps the reason is that you cannot understand?"
She spoke quietly and naturally, and yet her words stung Paul like whip-cord. Although she did not say so in so many words, he felt that she despised him, and again his anger was aroused.
"You deny, then, that you have——"
"There are certain things, Mr. Stepaside, that one cannot deny, not that they are true, but because it is impossible for one to take notice of them!"
"Forgive me," he said, almost humbly, "if I have believed what I have so often been told, but if there is one person about whom I am sensitive, it is my mother. I will not detain you any longer, Miss Bolitho. Perhaps it would have been better if I had not spoken to you at all. Do not think that I complain because you are fighting against me. You can do no other—besides, I am sure"—and here he spoke bitterly—"that your father and the Wilsons will have poisoned your mind against me!"
He saw an angry flash from her eyes.
"I am afraid you are wrong there, Mr. Stepaside, as far as I know there have been no reasons why I should think of you at all; as for enmity, such a thing would be impossible!"
His heart seemed like a great hot fire as he left her. He knew he had broken all conventions, and acted like a madman; he knew that whatever she had felt towards him before, her feelings towards him now must be of utter scorn and derision, and yet he would not recall one word he had spoken, even if he could. He was glad that he had said these wild, incoherent things to her. He had spoken to her, she had spoken to him. In the future she would think of him, not as a nonentity, not as someone who could be easily passed by, but as one whose life meant something. She would never be able to forget him. He knew it and rejoiced in it! She would be reminded of him by a thousand things in the days to come. She would never be indifferent about him again, and throughout the whole of the contest that was coming on she would regard him differently from the way in which she had thought of him before. Somehow, too, he felt less jealous of Ned Wilson. He had not spoken of this man, who was said to be his rival, but he was in the background of his thoughts all the time. For weeks the stories which the gossips had bandied had wounded him, but now he felt different. After their talk this girl would never think of Ned Wilson; she could not. He did not belong to her order of beings. He breathed a different atmosphere, he spoke a different language, lived in a different world.
The next day Paul started for Scotland, to try and discover the truth concerning which his mother had told him.
When Mary Bolitho returned to Howden Clough that evening she went straight to her own room. She wanted to be alone. Under ordinary circumstances she would have, girl-like, sought out her friend, Emily Wilson, and given her a full report of what had taken place, but her desire was for silence rather than for speech. In spite of her anger she felt that there was something sacred in what this young man had said to her. There could be no doubt that he felt strongly, and she knew, by the tones of his voice and the look in his eyes, that he was greatly moved. Of course, she felt indignant that he should dare to speak to her at all, and she wondered why she had resolved to say nothing to her father about their meeting. When all allowances had been made, he had been rude in the extreme. He had stopped her in a lonely part of the countryside, and had roughly commanded her to listen to him! And Mary Bolitho was a proud girl, and was not accustomed to being dictated to. All the same, she felt much interested in what he had said, and she found herself thinking of him again and again. There was something romantic, too, in his story which, in spite of its improbability, she could not help believing, and although she felt very angry with him, she sympathised with the feelings he had expressed. Months before she had been annoyed at the thought that her father should have been opposed by one who was little removed from the working classes. She remembered him as she had first seen him, at the shop in Market Street, pale, angry, and, as it seemed to her, coarse. He spoke as one of his own class, too, and he was rough and rude. But that view had become somewhat corrected, and she had to admit to herself that Paul Stepaside was no awkward, ignorant, ill-dressed clown. Indeed, for that matter, he had the advantage of most young men of her acquaintance. His coal-black eyes and hair, his pale face and stalwart figure, would be noticed anywhere. Besides, he was well-dressed, and although he knew but little of the ways of her world, she knew that he would never be passed without notice. Besides all this, there was a suggestion of strength in nearly every word he said, in every tone of his voice, and Mary Bolitho had a great admiration for strong men. Young Edward Wilson, whose pointed attentions she could not mistake, seemed but as a pigmy compared with him. Still, she felt angry, and she rejoiced in the thought that, on his own admission, she was helping towards his defeat.
Later in the evening, Paul Stepaside became the subject of a conversation at Howden Clough, but Mary said no word as to their meeting. Indeed, she was silent whenever his name was mentioned. On the following day, young Ned Wilson was much chagrined when she declared her intention of returning home. "Why, Miss Bolitho," he said, "you told me you had arranged to canvass Long Street this week, and that will take you at least three days. Yesterday I heard that you had converted at least a dozen people, and we cannot afford to lose you now. It is all over the town, too, that Stepaside is awfully mad at your success. I think he hates you nearly as much as he hates your father."
"I don't feel like canvassing now," she replied. "And I'm anxious to get back home."
"But you will come again soon?" he urged. "The house seems like a tomb without you, and I don't know what I shall do if you go away!"
She was angered by his tones of proprietorship, and almost instinctively she compared him with the young fellow who had spoken so rudely to her the night before. Wilson was commonplace, unlettered; he had only the tastes of the ordinary common, money-making manufacturer, and for the first time a feeling amounting to revulsion came into her heart as she thought of the hopes which she knew he entertained.
That afternoon she left Brunford, in spite of the protests that were made, and found her way to London.
"Returned so soon, Mary?" said her father when she arrived. "I quite expected you to stay another week. I have heard about the success of your work in Brunford, and I imagined that you were going to win me a great many more votes before you returned. I had no idea that you would be such a valuable asset when I started this fight, and although I am awfully glad to have you back, we shall have to strain every nerve if we are to beat that fellow."
"Do you think you will beat him, father?" she asked.
"If we go on as we are doing, we shall," he replied. "I know he has a tremendous hold upon the town, and I know that a great deal of prejudice has been roused against me, but we must beat him, Mary; we must."
"Why, is there any special reason for this?" she asked, noting the tone of her father's voice.
"Of course, I want to win," was his reply. "I never like to engage in a fight without winning. I think that my success at the Bar has been mainly owing to the fact that I've always set out to win. Besides all that, I don't know how it is, but I've taken a personal dislike to that fellow. By the way, have you ever met him?"
"Yes," replied the girl.
"Of course, you've never spoken to him?"
To this she made no reply. She did not know why it was, but she felt she could not tell her father of their meeting in the fields behind Howden Clough.
"Well, I shall have to go up to Brunford myself in two or three weeks," continued Mr. Bolitho, "and, if you can, I hope you will go with me."
"Can we not stay at an hotel when we go again, father?" she asked.
"Why?" asked Mr. Bolitho, turning upon her quickly. "Have not the Wilsons always been kind to you? And do you not feel comfortable there? Besides, there is no hotel in Brunford that I care to stay at, and there's a sort of general understanding between Wilson and myself that we shall be his guests."
The girl was silent, and looked steadily on the floor.
"What is it, Mary? There's something wrong."
"Of course, I cannot be blind to young Wilson's attentions," she said, and her voice was hard as she spoke.
"Well, he's a decent fellow, and, on the whole, I like these Lancashire people. They may be a trifle rough, and, of course, the Wilsons belong tonouveaux richesclass, but young Ned cannot help that; besides, say what we will, any girl might do worse than take Ned Wilson. I know, as a fact, that his father is making an enormous income, and Ned, being the only son, will be one of the richest men in Lancashire."
"He has the mind of a navvy and the tastes of a bookmaker." And her voice was almost bitter as she spoke.
Her father laughed uneasily. "That's all nonsense, Mary!" he said. "But, tell me really, what do you think my chances are? You know the town now better than I do. Do you think I shall beat Stepaside?"
"He's not a man to be easily beaten," was her reply. "I believe that, unless——"
"Yes, unless what?"
"Unless extreme means are used, he will win."
"I will not be beaten!" said Mr. Bolitho, and his eyes flashed as he spoke. "That fellow insulted me in the Manchester Law Courts, and I was glad when he got six months. Fellows of his order need to be taught a lesson, and he shall be taught, too."
"I don't think you understand him, father," she said. "He's one of those men who will never be beaten. He'll rise above every difficulty, and move every obstacle out of his way. I don't know why it is, but I don't feel comfortable about this contest, and I feel afraid of him."
"Afraid, Mary!"
"Yes," replied the girl. "I am afraid. I know I've no reason to be, but whenever I think of him I become angry, and yet I don't know why I should be angry. In a sense, he makes me admire him. He came to Brunford a few years ago utterly poor and unknown, and now he's become quite a personality. He's just one of those strong men that always wins his way. And he hates you, too, father."
And then, without any apparent reason, the girl left the room.
Meanwhile, Paul Stepaside was in a train that carried him northward. He was doing now what he had meant to have done long months before. He had constantly been making endeavours to discover the truth about the Douglas Graham of whom his mother had spoken, but he had done so without a plan, and in a kind of haphazard way, and this was not like Paul. He felt, too, as though he had a new motive in his life. Mary Bolitho had said nothing that seemingly accounted for this, and yet he knew that her words had determined his action. A feeling of pride which he had never known before possessed him. He wanted to go to this girl with a name as good as her own. Money, he knew he could get, yes, and position, too. During the last few months he had listened to several fairly prominent Members of Parliament. He had analysed their speeches and estimated their powers, and he was not afraid of them. He was as big a man as any of them; yes, bigger, stronger, and with more will power. No, he was not afraid that he could not win position, but with this black cloud hanging over him he felt as though he were paralysed. And so, when a local train left Carlisle towards the station nearest to his mother's old home, it was with a fixed determination that he would not leave Scotland until he had discovered all that could be known. Perhaps it might end in nothing, but he must find out.
It was with a curious feeling in his heart that he presently arrived at the little farmhouse where his mother was born and reared. In spite of the fact that he was a country lad, he had never realised the meaning of loneliness as he realised it now. No other house was near; the little farmhouse was the only building in sight. As far as the eye could reach, beyond the few acres of land which had been reclaimed from the moors, there seemed to him nothing but wild desolation. Hill rose upon hill, and while the scene was almost majestic, it made him understand how lonely his mother's life must have been. He stood for several minutes looking at the house before entering. He did not know whether his grandfather was living or not, and for the first time it struck him that he might have relatives living there, to whose existence he had previously been indifferent. The day was as still as death, and it seemed to him as though the place were uninhabited. Presently, however, he heard the sound of a human voice, and, turning, he saw a rough-looking lad driving some cattle before him. The lad eyed him strangely as he came up to the little farm buildings, and seemed to wonder why he should be there. The time was evening, an evening of late summer, and Paul remembered that it was in the late summer-time when Douglas Graham, his father, had first come into the district. He called to mind, too, that he had seen his mother as she was driving home the cattle from the moors. He watched the lad almost furtively, and he wondered why it was that he was afraid to speak. It seemed to him as though some mysterious power were brooding over this lonely dwelling and forbidding him to learn the secrets that lay within.
"Does Donald Lindsay live here?" he asked presently.
The lad looked at him for a few seconds before replying, and then, in his strong Scotch accent, replied, "Nay. He's dead."
"And Mrs. Lindsay, is she alive?"
"Ay," replied the lad. "She'll be inside. She's my mother."
Paul remembered his own mother's story about this hard Scotswoman's unkindness, and felt little disposed to go into the house; yet, for the sake of learning what he had come to learn, he determined to enter. The cottage, for it was little more than a cottage, was clean, but comfortless and bare of any adornment whatever. It might seem as though no woman entered this building, for there were no marks of a woman's handicraft, none of those little suggestions of the feminine presence.
"Mother!" shouted the youth. "There's someone wants you."
A minute later Paul heard a heavy step on the uncarpeted stairway, and a tall, angular, hard-featured woman, with cold blue eyes and scanty light hair, entered the room. She looked at him steadily, as if there was something in his face that she recognised.
"And what might ye be wantin'?" she asked presently. "Ye'll not be from these parts, I fancy."
"No," said Paul. "I came from England. I was born and reared in Cornwall. Years ago, a man named Donald Lindsay came there and married into my family. I was wanting to find out something about him."
He knew it was a clumsy explanation of his appearance there, but it was the best he could think of for the moment.
"What'll you be to Donald Lindsay?" asked the woman, as she scanned him closely. "He died two years since, and it's getting on for forty years ago since he was down South. He's told me about it many a time. You're in no way related to him, are you?"
And then, giving him a second glance, she went on:
"No, no, you're no Lindsay. Donald was blue-eyed and fair-haired, and you are black-eyed and black-haired."
"But did not Donald have a daughter?" asked Paul. "You see, I've heard he married a Cornish girl, and that they had a daughter. Did you know her? Did she ever live here?"
"What's that to you?" asked the woman. "You don't mean to say that there's any siller coming to her?"
"I don't say but what there is," replied Paul, seeing that this might be the key which might help to unlock the mystery of his mother's life.
"And are you a lawyer chap?"
"Do I look like a lawyer?" he asked with a laugh. He was wanting to get the woman into a communicative mood.
"You might be," she replied. "You're just one of those keen-eyed men of the lawyer class, but I ken nothing about her, except that she's dead."
"Who's dead?" asked Paul.
"Donald's lass, Jean," was the reply. "She that was born to his first wife. And a good thing, too!" she added vindictively.
"Why a good thing?" asked the young man.
"Better dead than disgraced," replied the woman in her hard Scotch fashion. And Paul understood the fear that his mother must have had of this woman whom her father had placed in authority over her. A pain shot through his heart, and he felt like answering the woman angrily. Ever since their meeting on the Altarnun Moors Paul had been keenly sensitive about his mother's good name, and resented any approach to light words concerning her.
"I am trying to find out all about her," he said presently. "And I would be very glad if you could give me any information concerning her childhood and girlhood up here."
"Why should I?" asked the woman. "It'll not be to my advantage."
"Please don't be so sure of that," replied Paul. He knew instinctively that she was avaricious by nature, and would be likely to do anything for gain.
"You wouldn't thank me for telling," she replied.
"If you promise to tell me all you know," said Paul, "I am empowered to give you five guineas."
"And it'll get me into no trouble?" she asked, with that suggestion of Scotch caution of which Paul had so often heard.
"No," replied he, "your name need never be mentioned; but I'm anxious to find out all I can concerning the childhood and girlhood of Jean Lindsay up to the time of her marriage."
"Her marriage!" said the woman scornfully. "Weel, it may be she was married, after all, and it may be I was hard on her, and it may be, too, it was because I thought Donald cared more for her than for my children. Anyhow, she never liked me, and I don't say that I liked her. She was a good lass as lasses go, although never tractable—always stubborn. An unnatural way she had with her, too: she always wanted to be out on the moors alone, and I used to tell Donald it would never come to any good. She might have married well. Willie Fearn, who owns a farm over the moors here, would have had her, and he's worth thousands of pounds now, is Willie. But she would have nothing to say to him. One day I saw a stranger coming up the path with her, one of these handsome Southerners, and they used to meet in secret, and I suppose he courted her. Anyhow, she ran away with him, or said she did, and then came back the next day telling us that she was married."
"Yes?" said Paul eagerly. He knew all this before, but it seemed to him as though he was getting nearer the truth that he longed to learn. "And did she stay with you long?"
"Not long," replied the woman. "You see——" And a look almost of shame came into her eyes. "Well, she stayed as long as she dared."
"And have you heard what has become of her since?" he asked.
"We've heard that she died. We've no proof of it, but we saw in the papers a few weeks afterwards that a girl was found dead, and from the description given of her we concluded that it was Jean."
"But did you not try and find out?" he asked. "Surely your husband would not be so callous towards his daughter?"
"My husband did what I told him," she said. "Besides, the girl had disgraced herself, and we did not want to be dragged into it. Mind, I'm not sure, after all, but what she was properly married, and it may be I did wrong. But there it is—she's dead."
"And did you hear anything more—have you ever heard anything more about this young Southerner?"
"Well, we are not so sure about that," replied the woman. "You see, I never saw him but once before the time Jean said he married her, and so I cannot swear to him anywhere. But some time after Jean left a man came here, and, in a roundabout way, he found out what we knew about her."
"And did you tell him she was dead?"
"I told him just what I've told you," replied the woman.
"And how did he take the news?" asked Paul.
"Oh, nothing particular," replied the woman. "He just went on talking about something else, but I believe that was a bit of make-up."
"Wasn't he a friend of the Grahams at a house called 'Highlands'?" asked Paul presently.
"I believe there were some people called Graham at the time. It is said that they came there for their summer holidays, but they left before we had guessed about Jean's trouble, and so we could never find out anything about them."
"What kind of a man was he—I mean the one who came asking questions?"
"Oh, a middle-aged man, perhaps forty or fifty. He had iron-grey whiskers, and he was bald, I remember."
"And he was the only one who ever came making inquiries?" asked Paul.
"Yes, the only one."
Paul's hopes were dashed to the ground again. Still, the man must have had some reason for coming North; no one would come all the way from England to make inquiries unless something of importance lay at the back of it.
"What kind of questions did he ask?" continued the young man.
"It is a good many years since," replied the woman, "and I am afraid I did not encourage him much. But as far as I can call to mind now, he asked how long since she had left, and whether anything had happened to her."
"And did you tell him"—and Paul's voice was almost hoarse as he spoke—"did you tell him of—of what you call her disgrace?"
"No," replied the woman harshly. "I am not one of that kind. Donald Lindsay's name is a good one, and I'm proud of it myself. Besides, I thought she was dead, and so—well, I said nothing."
"And that is all you can tell me?"
"That is all."
From the little farmstead Paul went to "Highlands," but his visit seemed in vain. The people who occupied the house had lived there for some twelve years, and they had bought it from an agent as a summer residence. They had heard that the previous owner lived in Edinburgh, but they were not sure. They only knew he was in the habit of letting the house during the summer months.
"Did you know the Grahams?" Paul asked.
"No. I've heard they lived in England, in London, in fact, but we knew nothing about them. I have been told that they were a large family, and came here during the three summer months, but that's twenty years ago now, and so nothing is known."
"And they have not been here during your time?" asked Paul.
"No," was the reply.
And this was all he learnt. He asked many questions, but the answers were all vague and tentative.
From "Highlands" he went to Willie Fearn's farm. He thought perhaps his mother's one-time admirer might be able to give him some information, but Willie Fearn was a dour Scotsman, who said he knew nothing. When Paul approached the subject of Willie's former relation to Jean Lindsay and his hopes of making her his wife, the Scotsman set his lips firmly together and refused to speak. He admitted presently how he had heard "that the lass had gut into sore trouble, and then went away and died. But there's nae proof," he said, "there's nae proof. And it's a warning to Scotch lasses to have nothing to say to Southern strangers. And Jean was a good lass," he added confidentially, "and would have made a good saving wife for a sober man with a little siller. She had a grip of doctrine, too. She was well versed in the fundamentals and would have made a good elder's wife. But, ay, man, the tempter comes in many a form, and it behoves us all to be very careful."
So far, Paul's visit to his mother's old home had been entirely without result. As far as he could see, he could make not one step forward. Moreover, in spite of the looseness of thought concerning Scotch marriage, he saw that there was a doubt as to whether the wedding was legal or not. But he had not finished yet. He had from time to time read such books as came in his way bearing upon Scotch law, and in one of these was a definite statement that if a man and woman were known to take each other as husband and wife, this was proof that their marriage was legal. So, remembering his mother's words, he made his way towards the little inn where they had stayed on the night of their marriage. He took the road which she had told him of, and presently came to the spot where she and Douglas Graham had taken each other as man and wife. The woman must have described the scene with great accuracy, for he recognised it the moment he came to it. The patch of lonely pine trees, the little lake by which the road ran, the burn coming down the rocky valley, and the great wild moorlands stretching away northward. And they had stood within the shade of the pine trees while the setting sun sent its rays of light through the branches. He believed he recognised the spot on which they knelt when Douglas Graham prayed that their union might be blessed. A shiver passed through him as he stood there, and he called to mind the words they had spoken: "I, Douglas Graham, take thee, Jean Lindsay, to be my wife, and I promise to be faithful to thee as long as I live." In spite of sad memories, it seemed like holy ground, and however the marriage had appeared to the bridegroom, to him it was real and sacred.
It was late that night when he came to the inn near the Scottish border, but the innkeeper welcomed him eagerly. It had been a wet summer, and they had had but few visitors. Both the innkeeper and his wife, therefore, were glad to see Paul, and were hoping he would spend some days with them. Both of them were Scotch people, although they had lived for many years on the English side of the border.
"Have you kept this inn long?" asked Paul after supper.
"For more than thirty years," replied the man. "When we came here first it was very lonely, and there were few people who came. Just a stopping place it was for wagoners and that sort of people. But now, both English and Scotch people are realising that there's no lovelier part in the whole of the British Isles. That's why they come. You see, there's many associations around this neighbourhood too. Tammy Carlisle was born and reared not many miles from here. And then, as you know, Gretna Green is not very far away."
"But the days of Gretna Green are over?" suggested Paul.
"Ay," he replied. "But not altogether. We've had many a couple come to us directly after their marriage, and I believe that lots of them have just gone over the border for a Scotch marriage."
"By the way," asked Paul, "do you remember twenty-five years ago this very month that a young man brought his wife here? It was on the twenty-ninth of August. Think, now; do you remember it?"
"Ay, I think I do, but my wife has a better memory than I. Meg! Will you come here?"
The old lady was keenly interested in Paul's questions. "Why, of course, Angus. I've thought about them many a time since. He was fair and she was dark."
"That's it," said Paul eagerly. "That's it."
"She had black een, I remember," said the woman. "Een as black as sloes, and her hair was like the sheen of a raven's wing. And they did love each other, too, I could see that."
"And did they sign any register or anything of that sort?" said Paul. "Do you keep a register of your visitors?"
"Nay," said the woman. "We kept no register then, but we do now. People came and went then, and we thought not so much of it. All the same, they did write something."
"Both of them?" asked Paul.
"Ay, both of them. You see, I wasna so sure about them, and I wondered whether it was a runaway match. The lad introduced the lass as his wife, but they seemed mighty nervous, and the lad had been here a few weeks previously with some others, and I am sure he had nae thought of marrying then."
"Did you say he wrote his name and she wrote hers?" asked Paul eagerly.
"You seem mighty interested," said the woman. "One might think—— Ay, now I look at your face again, ye remind of the lass. Your eyes and hair are as black as hers, and ye have the same kind of face, too. It might be that she was your mother."
"Think for a moment that she is my mother," said Paul. "Let me see the writing in the book."
The woman went to the bookcase by her side and took down an encyclopaedia, and there, on the flyleaf, he saw the names, "Douglas Graham, Jean Graham, August 29th, 18—."
"And they left the next day, didn't they?" asked Paul.
"Ay, they left the next day, and they looked as though they were going to a funeral, both of them. I wondered if they had quarrelled or something, but they seemed so loving that that seemed impossible. But I've thought of them many a time since."
"Let me see," said Paul. "This is on the English side of the border, isn't it?"
"Ay," replied the woman. "It is the English side."
On leaving the next day Paul made his way to the nearest town of importance on the Scotch side, and was soon closeted with a lawyer.
"I am come to ask for information," said Paul.
The Scotsman looked at him keenly, and wondered how much he could charge him.
"Maybe you are in trouble?" he said.
"No," replied Paul; "I'm not in trouble. I only want information concerning a matter of Scotch law."
"And there's no man north of the Tweed that knows more about Scotch law." And the old lawyer stroked his chin thoughtfully. "But what phase of Scotch law are ye interested in?"
"Scotch marriage."
"Maybe you're thinking of getting wed? If ye are, take the advice of a man who has had to do with hundreds of weddings, and don't! If there's one thing for which I'm thankful to Providence, it is that I've always been strong enough to resist the lasses. Trouble came with the coming of a woman into the world, and they have been at the heart of nine-tenths of it ever since."
"No doubt your advice may be very wise," said Paul, "but it's not of that I'm thinking now. The question with me is what makes a Scotch marriage?"
"Nay, nay, man, don't try and sail as near to the rocks as ye can. If ye are going to wed, have the matter done publicly and openly."
"I'm not going to wed," said Paul. "But this is what I want to know: what is a Scotch marriage?"
"For the life of me, I can't tell you," he replied. "But ye have some case in your mind, I see. Tell it."
"Well, supposing a man and woman took each other as husband and wife according to the old ideas?"
"Ay, I follow," said the Scotsman. "No kirk, no minister, no witnesses, no anything?"
"Yes," said Paul. "Would they be married?"
"Ay, they would. But if one of them tried to back out, ye see, difficulties come in. In that case they would have to declare themselves before someone that they were married."
"Well, then," continued Paul, "suppose they went to an inn that night and the man called the woman his wife before the innkeeper and his wife?"
"Ah, then you have got something to go on," said the lawyer. "That certainly would clinch the nail. Ye're thinking of property, I expect?"
"There's another question I want to ask," said Paul, not noticing the query which the old Scotsman had interposed. "Supposing that directly they were married in Scotland they went to England, and the inn wherein the man called the woman his wife was in England. Would that make any difference?"
The old Scotsman scratched his head. "Ay, man," he said, "it might. But I'm no sure."
"Not even if both the man and the woman signed their names in a book that they were married?"
"I'm no sure," repeated the lawyer. "But I could find out for you, say, for a matter of five pounds, and I would let you know. But I would have to write to Edinburgh and, it may be, have to consult many documents."
Paul could not get beyond this, and when, at the end of three days, he returned to England, he felt that, although his visit to his mother's home and the scenes associated with their marriage were extremely interesting, he had made no real forward step. One statement of the old lawyer, however, remained in his memory, and he brooded over it during his journey back to Brunford: "If ye could find the man," said the old lawyer, "who took the lass to the inn on the English side of the border and declared her to be his wife and signed his name in the book, I think you would have such a hold on him, if ye faced him with these things, that he couldna get out of it. But beyond this I daurna go."
And so Paul felt he had moved forward in spite of himself. Somehow the marriage seemed more real, and he felt that he was nearer the day when the shame which had so long rested upon his mother's life would be lifted.
No sooner had he reached Brunford, however, than these thoughts were driven from his mind. Rumours were in the air that the Government was about to resign and that an election was imminent.
"Bolitho is coming to-morrow," said old Ezra Bradfield, the chairman of the Workmen's League. "And I hear he means to move heaven and earth to keep you out of Parliament."
"And I mean to get in," said Paul grimly.