Of course, the newspapers were full of the accounts of the murder of young Edward Wilson. The two Brunford papers were filled with practically nothing else. The Manchester dailies devoted several columns to it. Not only were the Wilsons an important family in Lancashire, but Paul Stepaside was a Member of Parliament, who had lately made a speech of note in the House. Even the London dailies gave a large amount of space to it; and on the morning following the coroner's inquest Mary Bolitho felt as though someone had struck her a blow, when, on the first page of the newspaper which had been sent to her father's house, she saw the staring headlines: "Brunford Murder. Coroner's Inquest. Paul Stepaside, M.P., committed for trial." She had no breakfast that day, but went straight to her room, where she spent hours reading and re-reading the reports given. Everything pointed to the fact that Paul was guilty, and yet she felt sure he was not. The shock of Ned Wilson's death, of course, had been very great, and she had written a letter of condolence to the family. But even her horror at the murder was nothing compared with her feelings as she realised that Paul Stepaside, even at that moment, lay in Strangeways Gaol. She remembered him as they spoke together the last time they had met. She called to mind her admiration of him, and reflected that, although he had been brought up among the working classes, his appearance gave no suggestion of it. Perfectly dressed, perfectly calm, and possessed of thatsavoir fairewhich seems to be innate with a certain class of people, Paul was infinitely removed from the class of men with whom one associates criminal deeds. She knew enough of law, and had talked sufficiently often with her father, to know how absolutely false circumstantial evidence may be, even although it seems absolutely conclusive; and now, despite the fact that her father seemed to have no doubt about Paul's guilt, her mind simply refused to accept it.
He had never done the deed. He simply could not! If she were asked her reason for this she could not have given one, only she knew—she was absolutely sure.
Like many others, too, she tried to think who could have been guilty of the murder. The fact that young Ned Wilson was dead was, of course, beyond doubt. Someone must have killed him. Who was it? Her father had repeatedly declared that, excepting Paul, Ned had not an enemy in the world. He had lived all his life in Brunford; he was known to the people. His father was a large employer of labour, and was regarded as a good master. Ned lived on good terms with everybody. Who, then, could have killed him? Of course, every finger pointed to Paul—the long feud, the repeated quarrels, the injuries which Wilson had often done to him, the blow on his head on the very night of the murder, and Paul's threat. Then, again, there was his refusal to give an account of his actions between midnight and six in the morning—and, last of all, the knife acknowledged to be the property of Paul, with which the deed was done. The chain seemed complete; there did not appear to be a loophole anyhow, and yet she was certain Paul had never committed the deed. Was it likely that a clever man such as he, even if he had wanted to commit murder, would have used such brutal means? Would he have left behind him the knife which must inevitably be traced to him? The thing was impossible! Paul could not have done it. Then she remembered the strong, passionate nature of the man, the flash of his eyes, his grim resolves, and her mind became torn by conflicting thoughts. Why did he persist in being silent? Was there someone whom he desired to shield, and, if so, who was it? And again and again there were the old haunting questions.
When the news was presently announced that the Brunford magistrates had committed him to the Manchester Assizes for wilful murder, her father was in the room.
"You've seen this, Mary?" he said, and he noted how pale her face was, noted, too, the dark rings round her eyes.
She nodded.
"I haven't had time to go to Lancashire," continued the Judge. "Of course, I wrote a long letter of sympathy to the Wilsons. I hope you've also done this?"
"Yes," she replied.
"Poor Ned! He was a good lad," said the Judge. "To think that such a life as his should have been cut short by that atheistic villain!"
"Are you sure it was he?" she could not help saying.
"Nothing is sure in such cases," replied the Judge. "But I have read every line of the evidence. I've had full reports sent to me from Brunford, and I have carefully weighed everything. Besides, you see, I know the history of both men, and I know the motives likely to be at work. Unless something comes out at the trial which utterly alters the impression made by what has previously taken place, nothing can save him. Any jury in the world would condemn him!"
Her heart became like lead as he spoke, but she remained silent.
"Poor Mary!" continued the Judge. "Of course, you feel Ned's death keenly, and it must be ten times harder for you to bear than if it had taken place in the natural way. Talk about not believing in capital punishment after this! Why, the people would tear him to pieces if they could get hold of him!"
"What do you mean?" asked the girl, and her voice was hoarse as she spoke.
"From what I can gather, public feeling against him is terribly strong," went on Judge Bolitho. "It seems that the news has got afloat that he had been planning this for months."
"It's a lie!" cried the girl.
"What?" asked the Judge in surprise.
"It cannot be true. I saw him only a few days before the murder. He is not capable of such a thing, father."
The Judge laughed sarcastically. "I ought to be the last man to prejudge a case," he said. "But when you talk about such a thing being impossible I cannot help being amused. Besides, no one can look at his face without realising the streak of the savage that is in him. He always looked like an incipient criminal. Anyhow, we shall see, and justice must be done."
Christmas passed away and the New Year came, and there was nothing further in the newspapers about Paul Stepaside save that he was lying in Strangeways Gaol in Manchester awaiting the coming Assizes. Early in the New Year, however, Mary noticed that her father's face looked strangely perturbed. He was very silent, and seemed very anxious.
"What is the matter?" she asked. "Aren't you well?"
"Oh, yes, quite well," he replied.
"What is it, then?"
"I don't like it," said the Judge. "As far as I can see, I shall have to try Stepaside. I thought I should have escaped it, but for some reason or other Leeson has dropped out, and I am the next on the rota. There is not sufficient reason, either, why I should raise any objection, and, after all, the jury will have to decide his guilt, not I. Besides, if I did, it would cause a certain amount of comment. Still, I don't like it." And it was easy to see, by the look on his face, that he meant what he said. Much as he had always disliked Paul Stepaside, he shrank from having to give judgment against him—and that, he seemed to believe, would be inevitable.
"It is settled," he said a day or two later. "I have to go to Lancashire next week."
"Father," said the girl, "let me go with you, will you?"
"Go with me, Mary? Surely you do not mean to say that you wish to stay at the Wilsons'?"
"Oh, no," she cried quickly. "But I should like to be near you. There are good hotels both in Manchester and Liverpool, and I dread the thought of staying here alone."
"The Gordons have invited you to go to their place. Why not accept the invitation?"
"I don't wish to," she replied, "Let me go with you."
"Come, come, Mary. I shall begin to think that you are getting morbid. This vulgar affair can be nothing to you, after all. Of course, I know you feel Wilson's death keenly, but why—why——"
"Don't ask me any questions, father. I want to go with you. I want to be near to you."
"Oh, very well," he replied. "If you can find any pleasure in being in Lancashire at this time of the year by all means come. But I think you'll repent of it."
A few days later, however, she started upon the journey northwards with her father, knowing that, according to all probability, he would be the judge who would try Paul Stepaside for murder.
Meanwhile the accused man lay in Strangeways Gaol. Up to the present he had been treated with leniency, if not kindness. First of all, according to the English law, every man is regarded as innocent until he's proved to be guilty, and as yet this had not taken place in Paul's case. He was allowed to see whom he would. If he wished lawyers to come and consult with him with regard to the method of his trial, or to arrange for counsel, it was in his power to do so. He could also see friends. Of course, he was held in strict confinement, but until the word of doom was spoken certain privileges were allowed to him which would be impossible afterwards. As a matter of fact, too, many people came to see him. An ambitious young solicitor from Brunford, a friend of Paul's, came to urge him to be defended and to offer his services. "You and I, Stepaside," he said, "have known each other for years. Won't you allow me to prepare your defence?"
"No," said Paul.
"But why?"
"Because I have none."
"Do you mean to say, then, that you're going to plead 'guilty'?"
"I don't say that—no, I shall plead 'Not guilty.'"
"Then will you allow yourself to be undefended?"
"I choose to defend myself," he replied.
"But, my dear fellow, you minimise your own chances that way!"
"Nevertheless, what defence is made on my part I shall make myself," he replied.
The young solicitor looked at him in astonishment. "You must be mad!" he said. "It isn't as though you can't afford it."
"No, it's not a matter of money," said Paul.
"You're going to plead 'Not guilty,' you say?"
"Yes."
"Then what is the line of defence you're going to offer?"
"That will be seen when the time comes."
"Come now, Stepaside, do be reasonable. I know a man, perhaps the most brilliant K.C. on the Northern Circuit. Won't you let me bring him to you?"
Paul shook his head. "No," he said. "I want to see no one."
"No one?"
"No, no one for that purpose. I shall make my own defence in my own way."
The interview which affected him most during the first weeks after he had been committed for trial was that between himself and his mother. He had been sitting alone for hours, brooding over the terrible position in which he found himself placed, and, naturally, his mind reverted to Brunford and to its many associations.
"She has never been to see me," he reflected. "Never once. Well, after all, perhaps it is better not. If she does come I must be very careful. I was afraid she might have been subpoenaed as a witness at the inquest, but we were both spared that. It would have been too terrible. Still, I am afraid they will insist on her being here at the Assizes. I wonder, I wonder——"
A few seconds later he felt as though his heart had grown cold within him. He heard his mother's voice as she spoke to a warder; and a little later they were together. The light was very dim, but still, he could see the ravages which the last few days had made in her appearance. During the last few months Paul had reflected on his mother's looks. She had been growing young and handsome. Her face had been ruddy and free from marks of care. In spite of everything, the life with her son had renewed her youth. Her hair was still black and glossy; her form unbent. It was no wonder—she was still but young in years, and the effects of the tragedy of her girl-life had begun to wear away. Many a one in the town had remarked what a handsome woman Paul Stepaside's mother was, and she, although she professed to care nothing for her appearance, could not help being pleased. Now, however, all was changed. The last few days seemed to have added years to her life. The ruddy hue of health was gone. Her face had become almost ashen, while in her eyes was a haunted look. Paul was almost startled as he caught sight of her, although he said nothing. But he drew his own conclusions, nevertheless.
Neither of them spoke for some time. The woman's arms were round her son, and her cheek close to his, and that was all. She did not sob convulsively as one would have expected under such circumstances; she did not cry out in agony, rather she appeared like a dumb, half lifeless creature, while in her eyes was a look of mute inquiry.
"My poor boy! My poor boy!" she said presently.
"It's all right, mother."
"I thought we'd come to the end of our troubles. I thought the new day was dawning," she said. "I thought that God was in the heavens after all, and that He had used me, a poor, weak woman, instead of a strong man like you. But, oh, Paul, my boy, my boy!"
He did not understand her at all, and he fancied that her mind had become somewhat unhinged by the experiences through which she had been passing, but he said nothing. He thought he had better not.
"What is the good of speech?" he reflected. "She loves me. I am everything to her, and I would not add to her pain for worlds!"
"I tried so hard, Paul," she said presently. "And I thought—no, never mind what I thought; besides, even now I can say nothing that would—— But oh, my dear, dear boy! When I was a lass on my father's farm everything seemed hopeful—everything! Of course, I had my troubles—my stepmother was cruel to me, and she did not understand the longings and fears of a lass such as I was; but still, I did not trouble. But ever since, Paul, ever since he came, it seems as though everything has added to the confusion, to the mystery, to the misery! I don't know how it is, but it seems as though Almighty God has placed a curse upon me. Whatever I've done has turned out wrong. I don't blame you, Paul. No, I don't blame you; but to think—to think——"
"I don't understand, mother." He was obliged to say this, although he still believed his mother's mind was wandering.
"Of course, you've got your defence?" she said. "You would say nothing about it at the trials at Brunford, but I know you have something at the back of your mind. You have, my boy, haven't you?"
His voice was almost grim as he replied, "Yes; I have something at the back of my mind."
"What maddens me," she went on, "is that everything one does seems to be so futile—it ends in nothing! I thought I had done that which made everything plain for you. I thought the sun was going to shine on you continually, and that the desires of your heart should be gratified. And now I find I'm a fool. Almighty God laughs at me—just laughs at me! I've done and suffered in vain. But, of course, you'll clear yourself?"
Again the young man looked at his mother steadily. What did she mean by this—"Of course, you'll clear yourself"?
"It will be very difficult," he could not help saying.
A look of terror came into her eyes. "But not impossible, Paul. No, I see you mean that you'll get out of it. You're so clever. You can see your way out of things which to other people would be impossible. You've got your plans all made, haven't you?" And she looked at him with a mad light in her eyes.
"Yes," he replied with a sigh; "I have my plans all made."
"Someone told me that you refused to have anyone to defend you. Better so, Paul, better so. You're cleverer than any of these barrister men, 'King's Counsels,' I think they call themselves. If you got one of them to defend you you'd have to tell them too much, and you mustn't do that. You know what to say, what not to say, what to tell and what to keep back. It'll be very hard for you, Paul, but I can trust you. You're my own brave, clever lad. About that knife, Paul, I think I can help you."
Still he did not understand her. She seemed to be talking riddles.
"George Preston said that no one was near your office, Paul. As you know, I was there, and I saw the knife lying on your desk. Paul, Paul, let me confess to it! After all, it doesn't matter about me. Let me confess to it, so that you can go free—I will if you like. I don't mind the shame, I don't mind the disgrace. Let people say it was his mad mother, let them say——"
"No, no, mother." His voice became harsh and almost unnatural as he spoke. "No, mother, not you. Whatever is borne, I will bear it. You needn't fear. My business affairs are all arranged satisfactorily; even while I'm lying here, money is being made. The contracts I made were good, and Preston is an honest, capable fellow; and you can live on at the old house, mother."
He hardly knew what he was saying, so great was the terror which filled his heart and life. His mother had practically confessed to him the thing he feared, but he was not angry with her. Instead, his heart was filled with a great yearning pity. Oh, what she must have suffered! the agonies through which she must have passed; and it was all for him, all for him. He would a thousand times rather plead "Guilty" to the crime than that one shadow of suspicion should fall upon her. Besides, he did not believe she was altogether responsible for what she had done. Even on the night of the murder, he had noticed the madness in her eyes. He remembered the look which had haunted him almost ever since. In her love for him, a love which was unreasoning, and which rendered her anger almost uncontrollable, she had done what under ordinary circumstances would never have been possible.
"Poor mother!" he reflected. "All her life she has blamed herself for having brought, as she thought, disgrace upon me. Her only object in life has been that I might find happiness, and that justice should be done to me. No thought of self ever came into any deed she has done since I have been born. She was silent for me; she suffered for me; she thought for me; she slaved for me; and now she has become—— But it was all for me. No, she shall suffer nothing that I can defend her from. But, oh, her burden must be a ghastly one! And I must try hard, too; yes, I must make her think bright thoughts."
"It's all right, mother," he said. "You needn't fear!"
"It'll all come out right," she said, and there was a kind of hysteria in her voice.
"It must," was his reply. "I have thought it all out, mother. I have gone over the ground, step by step, and you needn't fear."
"That's why you're going to defend yourself, isn't it?" and she almost laughed. "You're going to surprise them at the trial? You won't tell what your thoughts are to anyone, for fear they shall make a bungle of it? Half these barristers, I'm told, are very muddle-headed, and make all sorts of foolish admissions; and you're going to defend yourself in your own way, aren't you?"
"Yes, mother," he replied, "in my own way."
"I expect they'll bring me as a witness."
"Well, what if they do, mother? You must know nothing, absolutely nothing. Do you see? You went to bed that night in the ordinary way, don't you remember? I came home from London, and we had a long talk together, and then you asked me to go to bed, and I told you I had a great many things to think about, many plans to arrange; and, of course, you went to bed. You saw nothing, suspected nothing. That's your line, mother. Don't hazard any opinion when they ask you questions. Say 'Yes,' or 'No.' Do you see?"
"Is that what you want?" she said.
"That's what you must do."
She looked at him steadily, searchingly. "And I can trust you, Paul?" She seemed on the point of telling him something—something which he was afraid to hear. So he went on hastily:
"Of course you can. You must fear nothing, absolutely nothing; and you have nothing to do, nothing to say. Yes, it will be awful for you, for they will be sure to bring you as a witness, but that's your line."
"Yes, I understand, Paul. You can trust me. Perhaps they will not bring me at all."
"I hope, I hope—— No, it's all right; nothing will be said."
When they parted a little later, Paul thought his senses were leaving him. He understood nothing, except that he was in a cell in Strangeways Gaol, awaiting his trial for murder.
Presently the news came to him that the assizes had commenced, but when his own trial would come on no one seemed to know. He still refused all offers of defence. The truth was, he dared not open his heart to any lawyer. He saw that if he were to allow anyone to defend him, he must of necessity give them a certain amount of confidence. He must trust them. That he could not afford to do. He was not afraid to die, and at least he had courage enough to be silent.
Presently the news reached him that he was to be brought to the bar of judgment on the following day, but still he refused all offers of defence. He gave no reason for this; indeed, he became more and more grimly silent than ever. He simply shook his head when those who pretended to wish him well pleaded that they might be allowed to appear for his defence.
On the night before his trial, therefore, he sat in his cell alone. The day had been black and grimy, and not a shadow of sunshine penetrated the gloom. Perhaps there is no town in England which looks more grey and sordid than Manchester does in the dead of the winter. The streets are covered with black, slimy mud; the atmosphere is dank and smoke-laden; the houses are grey and enveloped in gloom; even the crowds which throng its streets seem oppressed by the grime-laden air. And Strangeways Gaol is perhaps the most forbidding place in the whole of this great northern metropolis. As someone has said; "Manchester is one of the best places in the world to get out of." Of course, there's another side to that; it is a city full of strong, clear-headed, progressive people. On the whole, too, there are but few people in the world more loyal and more kind-hearted than those in what a great divine used to call, "Dear, black, old, smoky Lancashire." But in the dead of the winter, and to a man with the shadow of the gallows resting upon him, there can be no place in the world so little to be desired. The black night of despair was resting upon Paul's heart. On the morrow the great trial would commence, and although he thought he had arranged everything perfectly, he could not help fearing the results. And then, while his thoughts were at their blackest, he heard a voice which thrilled his being and caused every nerve to quiver with delight.
"This is the one," he heard a warder say. And a minute later he was alone with Mary Bolitho.
Had anyone told Mary Bolitho, even when her father consented for her to accompany him to Lancashire, that she would have sought admission into Paul's cell, she would have repudiated the idea. Even while she could not help believing that there was some awful mistake, and that Paul was utterly incapable of such a deed, she felt that there was nothing for her to do. When she arrived in Lancashire, however, and the assizes had commenced, she realised the terrible issues at stake. If Paul were found guilty, he would be hanged. The thought was like a death-knell in her heart, and all its grim horror possessed her. Day by day passed away, and she could not shake it off. She pictured Paul lying in Strangeways Gaol, waiting his trial, and realised something of the loneliness and the terror which must have encompassed his life.
One day, while visiting a shop in Market Street, she heard some people talking. "He's said no word, I suppose?" said one man.
"I've never heard of anything."
"A curious business, isn't it?"
"Ay, very curious. It don't seem right, somehow, that a man like Paul Stepaside should do such a thing. Of course, the jury will have to go upon evidence, and the evidence is all against him. I've heard as 'ow he's refused to be defended."
"What'll that mean?"
"I don't know, but what I am thinking is, why should he take such a step?"
"Perhaps he's guilty, and wants to get it over!"
"Ah, but what if he's wanting to shield someone? Anyhow, unless something happens, he'll swing! My word, though, I wouldn't like to be in his place! Fancy lying in yon Strangeways Gaol day after day! It's not a cheerful place at any time. I've heard that when they're condemned to die, they can hear the carpenters nailing the scaffold together. Hellish, isn't it?"
"Ah, and he must be very lonely. Fancy the terror of it!"
It was only gossip, which might be expected under such circumstances, but it fired Mary Bolitho's imagination. It helped her to realise the situation more keenly even than she had yet realised it. Paul swinging on a scaffold! Paul dead! Then she knew the secret of her heart. What she had never dreamt of as possible became a tremendous reality. He was the one man in all the world for her. Without him life would be a great haggard misery. She did not know why it was, or how it was, but the man had become king of her life; and he was lying in a prison cell accused of murder!
She must do something; she must! She felt as though she were going mad; she free in the streets of Manchester, free to live her own life, to follow her desires, while he lay there alone, with the shadow of the scaffold resting upon him! And he was innocent. She was sure he was innocent. She had no more a doubt about it than of her own existence. The evidence at the Brunford Town Hall and at the coroner's inquest was nothing to her. Circumstantial evidence was nothing. The gossip which was so freely bandied was nothing. Paul was innocent, and she loved him. But what could she do? Rather, what must she do? Regardless of the consequences, she immediately took steps whereby she might be enabled to see the prisoner.
Naturally Paul had no idea of the thoughts that were surging in her mind. He never dreamed of what she intended to do. He sat alone in his cell, thinking and wondering. He had given up all hope of ever seeing Mary again. All his fond imaginings had come to nothing. The resolutions he had made were but as the wind. One day he was full of hope, full of determination; he would conquer difficulties, he would laugh at impossibilities; the next day all hope had gone; defeat, disgrace, horror blotted out everything else.
That was the greatest burden he had to bear. His life broken off in the middle? Yes, he could face that. The career which promised great things utterly destroyed—well, that did not seem to matter. The destruction of the dreams of a lifetime? Terrible as it was, he met it with a kind of grim despair. But the loss of Mary Bolitho—to feel that he would never see her again, never hear her voice again, never enter into the joy which he had promised himself should be his—that was terrible beyond words.
He had no belief in a future life, even while his heart demanded it. When the last act was over, then came a pall of eternal silence, eternal unconsciousness. Of course it was a great, grim, ghastly tragedy, but he had to accept facts as they were. There was no God, no Providence, no justice; life was a hideous mockery, a meaningless tangle. No; he would never see her again, never hear her voice again, never catch that glad flash of her eyes which he had seen during their last meeting. It seemed to him as though he had entered an inferno, over the portals of which was written: "All hope abandon, ye who enter here."
Then, suddenly, the heavens opened. It seemed as though the black night had ended in the shining of a summer morning. The blackness of his cell, the grim future of his life were as nothing. He heard her voice, and they stood face to face.
For a moment they did not speak. He looked at her like one fascinated. It was too wonderful to be true. Presently he would wake from his dream, as he had wakened from other dreams, and everything would mock him again. He passed his hand across his brow, as if to wipe away the shadows which hung between him and reality. Yes, Mary was there; she was looking at him with kind eyes, and her lips were tremulous. Then in a moment the meaning of what she had done became real to him. If there was one thing for which he had feared, it was Mary's good name. One of the great objects of his life had been to save her from being connected with the shame which surrounded his name. Little as he cared for gossip under ordinary circumstances, he dreaded it now. What would be said if it were known that she had come to see him? And people would know! Would not a thousand suspicions be aroused? Would not evil tongues wag? His own suffering he could bear, but she must not suffer.
"Why have you come?" It was not a bit what he intended to say, but the words seemed drawn from him in spite of himself.
"I came to see you," she said. "How could I help it?"
Again he looked at her wonderingly. He did not understand. He fancied that his brain must be giving way. He could not connect cause with event. He could not grasp the issues of the situation.
"Why could you not help it?"
"Paul, you know!" she said.
He thought his heart would have burst; the excitement of the moment was too great. His head whirled with a mad wonder, and yet he would not have exchanged places with a king. The prison cell seemed like a palace; that second of joy more than atoned for all he had suffered.
"Mary!" he cried, "do you mean that? You know what is in my heart. You know what for months I have been afraid to tell you. You must have known! Why, it has been like fire in my brain; it has been the great passion of my heart. You knew it when we were in London together, even before I told you, didn't you?"
She nodded her head, and Paul saw that her eyes were brimming with tears.
"And you cared enough to come and see me?" he said.
"I could not help coming, Paul," was her reply. "How could I, when I knew that you were alone, and that you needed me?"
"But you must go away," he said. "It's heaven to have you near, but you must go away. No one must know. Why, think of what the world would say!"
"As though I care what the world says," was her reply. "As a matter of fact, I obtained admission to you without difficulty, and I do not think anyone knows who I am. You see, I have means unknown to other people. But I do not care who knows. Why should I care? I came to you because I—I—— But you know, Paul! You know!"
"And you came to tell me that?" he said.
"Yes, to tell you that," she replied. "Of course, I could never have told you had things been as they were; but now—I can't help it. How can I? And I've come to save you, too!"
"To save me?"
"Yes, to save you."
"But do you know what I am accused of?" he asked, and his voice was hoarse.
"Of course I know. How can I help it? But that's nothing."
"But, Mary, you don't understand."
"I understand everything," she said. "That is, everything that matters. You and I are all the world, Paul. For days I've been fighting; perhaps I've been a little mad; I sometimes think I have. But that's all over. I have thrown fear to the wind. I don't care what the world says. I don't care though all the gossips in the world talk about me. I came to you because you needed me, and because I love you, Paul."
Her words were simple, but there was something glorious in her self-abandonment. To her the non-essentials of life did not seem to exist. She had thrown everything to the winds. The wondrousness of her womanhood had burst forth. Her heart had spoken, and she had listened to it. The ways of the world, the conventionalities of society, the gossip of tongues were no more than thistledown. The great thing in life was the love which had been born in her heart, a love which overwhelmed and submerged everything else. For that she had dared everything, and she had found her way to the cell of this man accused of murder.
"But even yet I do not think you realise," he said. "Oh, don't misunderstand me, Mary. You know how my heart rejoices in this moment—how I would gladly suffer ten times more than I have suffered for the joy of this hour. Why, the thought of your love has been life to me. It has been the inspiration of everything I've done. Ever since that day I caught the flash of your angry eyes—the day when I came out of prison, you have dominated everything. Your presence has filled everything. Even while I hated you, I loved you. Even when I steeled my heart against you, you were everything to me. I did not know you, but that did not matter. What is knowledge? Of course, I only thought that you regarded me as a thing beneath your notice, but that did not matter. You were born for me, and I swore that you should be mine, even although I went to hell to get you. And now, now that you've come to me like this, Great God, Mary, you know what it must mean to me! Words are such poor little things, aren't they? But you're here, here!"
He caught her hand as he spoke, and again looked into the depths of her eyes; while she, although she was half-afraid, stood steadily gazing at him.
"I'm accused of murder, Mary. Do you understand? Murder! I was never jealous of him, and yet men said that you and he were to be wedded. You know all about it?"
"Yes, I know," she said.
"And you believe I'm guilty, don't you?"
"Guilty!" The girl laughed as she spoke. "Guilty! I believe in my own guilt rather than yours."
"But I'm going to be hanged for it," he said. "The knife which was found in his heart, is my knife. Don't you see?"
"I see everything," she replied. "I see nothing. But you guilty!" And again she laughed.
"You don't believe it, then? You have seen what the newspapers have said? You have read every bit of damning evidence against me? You know that I have been lampooned in a thousand newspapers? You know that I have been discussed by every pothouse villain in the land? And it is said that there is not one link wanting in the chain that binds me to the scaffold."
"I don't know, I don't care about that," she replied. "You are as innocent as the angels in heaven. Why, Paul, if all the juries in the land were to condemn you; if all the newspapers in the world were to lampoon you; if your best friends told me they had seen you do it, I would not believe it."
"Then you believe me innocent?" And his voice was tremulous with joy.
"I don't believe," was her reply. "I know."
"How do you know?" He spoke like one bewildered.
"Because I know you, Paul. I've seen into your heart; and my own heart has spoken to me, and God has spoken to me. You guilty!"
He felt as though the shadow of death were lifted from his life. The great terror which had enveloped him for days had been that Mary Bolitho would look upon him as a murderer; and now, with the self-abandonment which was to him past all thought, she had come to him of her own accord, she had thrown conventions to the winds, and she had confessed, as only she could confess, that she believed in him and that she loved him.
The heart-hunger which had consumed him during the long weeks was too great to be borne. He opened his arms; and each, forgetful of where they were, forgetful of the grim prison walls, forgetful of the painful silence of the prison, held the other.
Years before Mary Bolitho had admired the words of Lovelace, the poet:
"Stone walls do not a prison make, or iron bars a cage."
But now the lines seemed poverty itself. How little it expressed the deep feeling of her life. They were not in prison. The solemn bell of doom was not tolling. She was in heaven. So great is the power of a pure love. As for Paul, at that moment everything faded but the blissful present. There was no past, there was no future. Nothing mattered but the now. He had entered into the joy of which he dreamt, and he would not think of anything else. How long they remained in that condition of untold happiness he did not know, he did not care. But presently all the grim realities came back again. He knew where he was. Mary would shortly have to leave him. He thought of the warder peering curiously into her face and making surmises as to why she came. He thought of whispering tongues; but more than all that, he thought of the terrible future which awaited him. Paul's temptation had not yet come, but the hand of the tempter was even at that moment knocking at the door of his heart.
"Now, Paul," she said, and her voice was changed, "now we must think about the future."
"Not yet, not yet, Mary. Let me remain in heaven while I can. Hell will come soon enough."
"No, Paul, you must think about the future. You must think about it at once. You are not guilty of this, and you must know who is. You must tell me. Hitherto you have refused to confide in anyone. You have maintained a silence which has been misunderstood, and which has caused so many to think of you as guilty. It must be broken, Paul. You must tell me everything, and I will save you."
It was then that he realised what he had to face. For Paul Stepaside believed that he knew who had killed Wilson. For many a weary hour he had thought over his mother's strange behaviour, thought of the flash of madness which had shot from her eyes, thought of the wild words she had uttered. He remembered, too, the sight that met his gaze on the morning of the murder. He saw her again, sitting in her bedroom, saw the look of unholy joy in her face; and in his heart of hearts he felt sure of what she had done. It was all for him. She had loved him with a mad, unreasoning frenzy; for him she was willing to sacrifice her own life. How much wonder, then, that she had been willing to sacrifice another's life. She had believed that Ned Wilson stood between him and happiness, and she had determined to move him out of life's pathway. He had seen her on the day before the murder, with the knife which had killed Ned Wilson in her hand. She, unknown to his partner, George Preston, had come to his office. He had seen her handling this murderous weapon, and he remembered the look in her eyes; remembered, too, what she had said. How could he doubt? Indeed, she had practically confessed the deed to him, and he had sworn that not a shadow of suspicion should rest upon her name. She was his mother. She had suffered for him. She had committed a crime for him. But he could not let her pay the penalty for it. No, no; he was willing to die himself, but he could not bear the thought of his mother's name being tarnished. He shuddered at the very suggestion of her being held up before the world's gaze.
"You see, Paul," went on Mary Bolitho; "I know you never did this, and I know you're hiding something. And you must clear your name, for my sake. You see, don't you?"
It seemed as though the god of silence sealed his lips. He could not speak. How could he speak, when, if he told what was in his heart, his words would be of such terrible portent? Then, like lightning, the issues became clear to him. They were written from sky to sky. If he did not speak, if he maintained the silence which he had hitherto maintained, the jury would find him guilty, and he would be hanged. But his mother's name would be saved from disgrace. She would not have to pay the penalty of the deed which she had done out of love for him. No one could associate crime with her. He had gone carefully into his business matters, and he knew that he would leave her enough to live comfortably. The hand of want would never knock at her door. Of course, it was all very terrible; but she would never be branded, and she might find some measure of peace. Anyhow, he was willing to pay the price for what happiness she could get. He would be an ingrate indeed if he were not. Had she not done everything for him? Ah! but there was the other side. Mary's coming had made everything a thousand times harder to bear. He did not mind it before, for he believed that everything had become impossible, but now that she had come to him, now that she had freely told him with her own lips of the love she bore for him, now that she was willing to link her life with his, regardless of what the world might say, now that a happiness such as he had never dreamt of was possible, how could he do it? In that moment Paul Stepaside seemed to live an eternity. Whichever way he turned, he was met by blank impossibilities. How could he enter into happiness, knowing that in order to do so he had sent his mother to the gallows? Rather a thousand times that his tongue should be paralysed than that he should utter a word to fasten the crime upon her. And yet, if he did not do so, he must lose Mary for ever. He must end his days in a way which has become a byword and a shame for every right-thinking man.
"You'll tell me what you know, and all you know, won't you? It's for my sake, Paul. It's for both our sakes, our life's happiness is at stake. You see it, don't you? Tell me, my dear, tell me?"
What would he not have given to have been able to have told her! But how could he?
"No, Mary," he said at length. "There is nothing to tell."
"You mean you will not tell?"
"There is nothing to tell," he repeated.
"Paul, you're not guilty; you know you're not guilty. You are absolutely innocent of everything with which you are charged. You know it. I don't want you to answer me. You know it, and I know it."
He looked at her with a glad light shining from his eyes, even although her words were laden with such a terrible meaning. It was heaven to know that she believed in him so—heaven to realise that her trust was so infinite.
"There is nothing to tell," he repeated with dreary monotony.
"But there is, Paul. You can save yourself if you will, you know you can." He did not speak, but sat still, looking at her with steady gaze.
"Will you leave me so?" she went on. "I will not plead with you for your own sake, or for your own happiness, but will you not for mine? Think, Paul! I love you. All that I have and am belong to you. To lose you will be losing everything. Will you not, for my sake, speak? There, Paul"—she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him—"there, Paul, I love you; I love you more than life. Will you not tell me for my life's happiness?"
He knew what temptation meant then, as he had never known it before. His heart hungered for her as even he had never thought it could hunger. His whole being cried out for her and for happiness, and if he would but speak, then everything became possible; while if he were silent——
It seemed as though his mind were giving way, as though the trial were too hard to bear. God, if there were a God at all, could never expect him to give up such a joy. He was young—only a little more than a lad in years—with life all before him, with glorious possibilities, and the love of Mary Bolitho. While she, she who stood there, was glorious in her youth and in her beauty. She, who, with the sacrifice of all that lesser women hold so dear, had come to him and besought him to enter into the joy he longed for. Oh, he could not give her up; he must speak.
He nerved himself to tell her, nerved himself to relate the story of his life, and the story of what he was sure his mother had done; but even as he did so, he saw his mother's face. He remembered her years of loneliness and disappointment and sorrow. He remembered how her life had been blackened and broken, and that she had done everything for him. No, he could not, he could not.
"There is nothing to tell." He reiterated the words as though they were some formula, and he thought indeed all was over. But to his surprise, the girl laughed again.
"Do you think I don't know you, Paul? Do you think I am going to give up our happiness without a struggle? Do you think I am going to allow you to go down to your grave without fighting for you? You will not tell me, but I'm going to find out! I know you are shielding someone. Your eyes have told me the truth, and you cannot deny what I have said. Who it is doesn't matter. But I'm going to find out. I'm going to save you, Paul. And we shall be happy in spite of everything."
"No, no." His voice was hoarse and unnatural.
"But I will," she said. "Do you think my love is something that makes me helpless? Do you think I can stand by knowing that you are innocent, and allowing you to appear guilty of such a crime? I don't love you for nothing, Paul. I love you to serve you—to save you."
Never, even in those hours when he had thought most fondly of her, had he dreamt of the depths of her nature, or thought of what she was capable. Now he realised that Mary Bolitho was no ordinary woman, that all along there had been depths in her being which he had never fathomed, knew that she meant what she said.
"No, no, Mary," he repeated, "you must not. If you love me, you will promise me this. You will promise to be silent. You will promise that you will give no hint or suggestion of what you fancied. Besides, I'm guilty, Mary. I'm guilty, Mary. That is, promise me, for the love you bear me."
There were footsteps in the stone corridor outside. It was a warder coming to tell her that her time was up, and that she must leave him.
"Promise me, Mary." He caught her and held her close to him. "Tell me you'll do nothing!" he cried.
"On one condition I will," was her answer.
"What is it?" he asked eagerly.
"That you'll tell the truth before my father and the jury."
"Your father?"
"Yes, did you not know? He is the judge who has to try the case."
"Then, then, Mary, promise me——"
The key turned in the lock, and Mary and Paul separated. Neither had made a promise.
Presently Mary Bolitho went back to her hotel, where she sat in her room alone for hours, thinking and planning; while Paul Stepaside sat in his cell, with heaven in his heart; yes, heaven, even although he suffered the torments of hell.