A number of men were dining in the principal hotel in Manchester. They all belonged to the legal profession, and had been drawn thither by the assizes which were being held. Most of them were men who had won a position in the realm of the law, and were now visiting Manchester because their profession had called them thither. They were attached to the Northern Circuit, and were doing their best to make their stay in the smoky metropolis as pleasant as possible. A few there were who were as yet hungry for briefs and could not get them, but who deemed it a privilege and an honour to be invited to dine with their more successful brethren.
Perhaps there is no profession in the land which offer greater possibilities than that of the Bar. On the other hand, there is no calling more fraught with disappointment. Many there are who, after a brilliant University career, and having adopted the Bar as a profession, have to wait year after year without even earning the salary of a four-loom weaver. Proud, sensitive men as some of them are, to have to wait around on the chance of getting a brief must be exquisite torture. Yet such are the chances of the Bar that many undergo the ordeal in the hope that by and by success will come. There were some of these at the gathering which I have just mentioned. They had accepted the invitation to dine with their successful brethren, not without hope that some crumbs might fall from the rich man's table and be enjoyed by them. Added to this, Judge Bolitho, who had won such renown while practising as a barrister on the Northern Circuit, and now appointed judge at the High Court of Justice, was also present. Some of the younger men regarded him with a certain amount of awe, and they wondered whether the time would come when they, who now depended upon the goodwill of their friends, might aspire to the heights which he had reached. After all, it was not impossible, for the Bar, like every other profession, was a gamble.
It had been a merry gathering. They had dined well. The hotel was noted for its cuisine and for the quality of its wines, and the best which the great establishment afforded had been placed at their disposal. Many good stories were told. Those who were now at the top of the tree related incidents of their younger days, when they, like the young fellows who now listened to them so eagerly, were hungry for briefs. Mr. Bakewell, in particular, the man who that day was the counsel for the prosecution in Paul Stepaside's case, was an utterly different man from what he had been when he appeared in court. Then he was solemn, pompous, and almost lugubrious; now he cracked a joke with the best, and told humorous stories with infinite gusto. The judge, too, while naturally patronising and unable to throw aside in entirety the dignity of his office, so far unbent as to be the best of companions.
Naturally, the case which had excited the whole country loomed large on the horizon. Indeed, it gave rise to most of the stories which had been told that night. More than one barrister related incidents of some murder trial in which he had been engaged, and tried to trace connections between them and the one which was now being tried.
If the issues were not so momentous, moreover, the way they discussed the question would have been amusing. Paul's life or death was to many of them a mere secondary consideration. To them he was a case, and they judged of the merits and demerits of the case as if it were some purely imaginary or academical affair especially manufactured for their delectation. It is true the judge did not look at it in this light, but he was not in a talkative humour that night, although he added a certain share to the conversation, and his presence gave a kind of éclat to the proceedings. They had reached the stage of nuts and wine, and most of them were in great good humour.
"I am inclined to think," said one, "that Stepaside has something up his sleeve. The fellow is as sharp as a needle, and although he hasn't yet offered anything like a defence, one can't believe that he was guilty of such a thing."
"I don't know," said another. "Of course, circumstantial evidence has often been proved to be false, nevertheless, a jury has to go upon such evidence as is adduced in court, and the evidence is damning!"
"Think of the point he made this afternoon when he cross-examined Mr. Wilson."
"I make nothing of that," said Mr. Bakewell rather pompously. "Of course, he put it strongly, and for the moment made a point, but that kind of thing is not going to save him!"
"Do you think, then," asked a member of the local Bar, "that the jury will find him guilty?"
"I do indeed," said Mr. Bakewell. "Even although he had a man like Montague Williams or Russell to defend him he would stand no chance. You see, the thing is a perfect chain of reasoning, because there is a perfect chain of events."
"Yes, but how can one think of such a man as Stepaside, keen as a surgeon's knife, cool as the devil himself, as watchful as a sleuth-hound, and having everything before him in the way of a career, so far committing himself as to use the knife known to belong to him, and then to leave it in the body. Why, the thing is absurd!"
"Exactly. But then the cleverest and most daring criminals in the world have been known to have done similar things. Why, think of that Blackburn murder in which I was engaged years ago. It was almost identical with this affair, and there was not the slightest doubt that he was guilty. Why, he confessed it to the chaplain afterwards. You must remember that Stepaside was in a mad passion at the time. Besides, you see, he's never accounted for those hours between midnight and six in the morning!"
"Yes, but no prisoner charged for murder is obliged to account for his time."
"Exactly, but a jury has to give its verdict upon evidence. And remember this, too," and Mr. Bakewell would not perhaps have spoken so freely had his tongue not been unloosed by the generous wine he had been drinking. "Remember this, too, and, of course, we are all friends here, and what I say will not go beyond this room—but the evidence to-morrow will surprise you!"
"In what way?"
"Well, one of the witnesses to-morrow will swear that he saw him not half a mile from Howden Clough, in a state of excitement, about five o'clock on the morning of the murder, that is to say, about half an hour after it took place, according to the doctor's evidence. You see, we have the servants' testimony that they heard him come up to the top storey of the house; that he stood at their bedroom door and then went down again; that they, wondering what had happened, followed, and saw him go out into the night alone. Of course, on the face of it, it does seem unlikely that a clever fellow such as Stepaside undoubtedly is, with a great career possible for him, should have done the deed so clumsily. But, don't you see, everything points to him, and unless he brings some extraordinary witnesses on the other side, which he isn't trying to do, mind you, the jury have no alternative but to find him guilty."
"My own belief is that he's hiding something in his sleeve, and that if he's hanged it'll be a miscarriage of justice."
A waiter then came into the room bearing a slip of paper, which he took to Judge Bolitho. The judge received it calmly and unfolded it, talking meanwhile to his neighbour at the table. After reading a few lines, however, a puzzled expression came on to his face, which was followed by a look almost amounting to terror. More than one who watched him thought he saw his hands tremble somewhat; nevertheless, he held himself in check, like one who was trying to appear to be calm, as he read it the second time. The men who were at the bottom of the table went on with their stories, but Judge Bolitho evidently did not listen. His mind was far away. His cigar had gone out, too, but he did not seem conscious of it.
"I wonder what is in that letter?" asked a man of his neighbour, as he watched the judge's face.
"Oh, there's no knowing. Fellows in Bolitho's position are always getting queer missives."
"He looks mighty uncomfortable, anyhow."
The judge took a wineglass in his hand and began toying with it, but it was evident that he did not know what he was doing.
"I say, Bolitho"—it was a county court judge who spoke to him—"Did you notice that woman's face who fell down in a faint this morning? It was positively ghastly when she looked at you."
Evidently Judge Bolitho did not hear. He took not the slightest notice of the remark. He was still toying with the wineglass.
"I say, Bolitho, aren't you well?"
And still the judge's face was rigid, and his eyes had in them a fixed far-away look. The other caught him by the sleeve.
"Aren't you well, Bolitho?"
The judge gave a great start.
"What's that?" he asked.
"Aren't you well? You look deathly pale. Have another glass of wine, my dear fellow."
But the judge rose to his feet.
"No; I'm not very well," he said. "I think I must ask you to excuse me."
By this time the attention of all present was drawn to him, and there were general expressions of sympathy. But of these Judge Bolitho seemed unconscious.
"Good-night, gentlemen," he said. "I am sorry to be obliged to leave you, but I don't feel very well."
"There was something in that letter," was the general whisper. "Something that disturbed him!"
But the fact was almost forgotten as soon as he had left the room.
The judge found his way to his own apartment.
"Where's Mary, I wonder?" he said. But Mary was nowhere visible. He knocked at her bedroom door, but received no answer. He went into all the rooms set apart for their use, but she was nowhere to be seen.
"She did not tell me she was going out, either," he reflected. But it was evident he had very little interest in her whereabouts. He acted more like a man in a dream than one in full possession of his faculties. He threw himself into an arm-chair and again carefully read the letter which had been sent to him. When he had finished, he looked around the room as though he were afraid he were being watched.
"No; no one is here," he said. "No one knows."
For fully five minutes he sat holding the letter in his hand, staring into vacancy.
"What can it mean? What can it mean?"
He put on a heavy ulster and left the hotel. "I don't think anyone noticed who I am," he reflected. And then he made his way down past the Free Trade Hall, towards Deansgate.
"Twenty-five Dixon Street," he kept on repeating to himself—"twenty-five Dixon Street, off Dean Street."
He did not seem to know where he was going. More than once he hustled someone on the sidewalk and then passed on as if unconscious of what he had done. Presently he reached Dean Street and walked along it some little distance; then, turning, he found himself in a network of short, dark streets, evidently inhabited by a working-class community. He looked at the numbers carefully as he passed along. After some little time he stopped. He knocked at one of the doors and was immediately admitted.
A second later the light fell on the form of a woman. Her face was pale and haggard. In her eyes was a look of madness. The gaslight also shone upon Judge Bolitho's face. He had placed his hat upon the table, and his every feature was exposed.
The woman came close to him and looked at him steadily, while he, like one fascinated, fixed his eyes upon her face.
"Douglas Graham," she said, "do you know me?"
For a few seconds he did not speak, but looked steadily at her. Then, as if with difficulty, words escaped him.
"Jean!" he gasped. "Jean! Then you're not dead!"
"You know me, then, Douglas Graham? I have waited a long time for this night. Sometimes I thought it would never come. Year after year I've watched, all in vain, and then suddenly I learnt the truth!"
She did not seem like one in a passion. Her voice was low and hard. Her hands were steady. Her eyes burnt with a mad light. It seemed as though all the passion, all the hatred, all the despair of more than twenty years were expressed in them just now.
"What do you want of me, Jean?"
He did not seem to know what he was saying, and the words escaped his lips as if in spite of himself.
"Want of you? Want of you? Can you ask that? Your memory is not dead. You know, and I know—— Why, I am your wife! Do you remember that day up among the Scotch hills, when, before God, you took me, you swore you would be faithful to me? Do you remember the promise you made on the day you left me? 'I will soon come back to you,' you said, 'and make our marriage public.' And I have never seen you since, until to-day! But now my hour has come!"
Usually Judge Bolitho was a man of resource. He seldom lost possession of his power to act wisely. He was seldom taken at a disadvantage. He was cool and daring. But now he seemed to have lost thesang froidfor which he was so noted.
"Jean! Jean!" he said again and again.
"Yes, Jean," replied the woman. "The girl you deceived! The girl you married and then deserted! The woman whose life you have blighted and ruined! I had almost given up believing in God; but now—now—faith may come back to me; but it's only a faith inspired by hatred!"
"You hate me, then?" he said.
"Is it possible to do anything else?" she replied.
"Wait a minute," he said. "Let me think. I shall be able to speak connectedly presently. For a moment I've lost hold of things. Yes, yes; I don't deny anything; but wait a minute! What have you done with yourself all these years, Jean?"
"Done with myself? What could I do? I was almost without a penny. A few months after you left me my father drove me from home. I was in disgrace, and only hell seemed to gape at my feet!"
"But you're here," he said in a dazed kind of way. "You're well clothed. This cottage, though poor, shows a degree of comfort. You're not penniless, then? Have—have you married—again?"
The woman started back from him at these words, and lifted her hand as if to strike him.
"Douglas Graham," she said, "do not drive me too far!"
"But how have you been supported all these years? What have you done?"
"You know! You know!" she almost screamed.
"I know nothing," was his reply. "Where have you lived? Where do you live now? Is this your home, or are you only staying here temporarily?"
He seemed to be trying, in a confused sort of way, to understand how things stood. Evidently the shock of meeting her, after all the long years, had wellnigh unbalanced his mind.
"But don't you know? You must know! No; it may be that you don't," and the woman laughed like one in glee. "Then I will tell you," she said. "I am Paul Stepaside's mother, and Paul Stepaside is your son!"
The man gave a gasp as if for breath. His body swayed to and fro as though he found it difficult to stand upright. Then a hoarse cry escaped him:
"Paul Stepaside my son!"
"Ay, your son," replied the woman. "Yes, I have read what the man said this morning. It was in the evening paper, so I know that you know all about it. I had no name, so he was given the name of the hamlet where I was lying when they found me, thinking I was dead. They took me to the workhouse, where Paul was born, and because I refused to give them my name they called him Stepaside. But he's your son, don't you see? Your son! Your son!"
And the woman laughed harshly.
He seemed to be trying to understand the full meaning of her words.
"My son! My son!" he repeated again and again.
"Yes, your son! And he's accused of the murder of Ned Wilson, and you are the judge who is trying his own son! Truly, the ways of the Lord are as a deep sea. Yet he's a God of justice, too! I never believed in it as I believe in it now."
"But tell me more," he said presently; and his voice was hoarse and unnatural.
"What is there to tell?" replied the woman. "You deserted me, and Paul was born—born in a workhouse, reared in a workhouse, educated in a workhouse. He was called a 'workhouse brat' by the people. He lived on the rates for years—your son! And I have only to speak and all the world will know of it. Have you nothing to say for yourself?" And she turned to him just as a caged lioness might turn to a keeper with whom it was angry.
He stood with bowed head and never answered her a word. He seemed to have forgotten everything in the thought that Paul Stepaside was his son and he was accused of murder, and that he, his father, was his judge.
"Have you nothing to say for yourself?" continued the woman. "Oh, it'll be a beautiful story to tell to the world! I've been hearing many things about you through the day. I'm told you speak at great religious meetings, that you're a prominent religious leader, that you advocate sending the Gospel to the heathen, that you're very particular about attending to all religious observances. I've been reading what you said about Paul being an atheist. You declared that men who had given up faith in God were not to be trusted. When I tell my story, won't the world laugh!"
He made no answer. He still stood perfectly motionless, with bowed head. The woman's words did not seem to reach him.
"You know my Paul's story," she went on. "Therefore, I needn't repeat it. He came to Brunford, and was falsely accused in this very city, and you—because you were well paid and because I think your conscience smote you and you felt an instinctive hatred towards him—you did your best to get him a heavy punishment. Through you he was sent to Strangeways Gaol for six months, he an innocent man! Then you fought him at the election. You told all sorts of lies about him, and you besmirched my name; he your son, and I your wife, the woman you promised to love and cherish, and then deserted. Do you understand? Do you understand?"
"Yes, I understand," he said; but still it did not seem like Judge Bolitho's voice at all.
"But mind," and here her voice rose somewhat. "But mind, I'm your wife. You married me. I'm your true lawful wife. You don't deny that?"
"Jean," he said, "you don't know; you cannot know. But you'll forgive me, won't you? I do not know myself, that is—— No, of course I can't expect you to forgive me."
"Forgive you?" said the woman, and there was a world of scorn in her tones. "Forgive you, when I've suffered twenty-five years of disgrace because of you! Forgive you, when my son has been lying in gaol because of you! Forgive you, when, but for you, he might be free now! But there's a God in the heaven."
"And Paul Stepaside is my son, my son!"
The thought seemed to have a kind of fascination for him. He repeated it over again and again, as though he took a certain pleasure in doing so. He remembered all that had taken place, remembered that ever since they had first met there had seemed to be a kind of fatality which caused them to feel antagonism for each other. He remembered Paul's words: "Mr. Bolitho and I will meet again, and always to fight, always to fight!" And he was his son! He had never dreamed of this. Often during the years which had elapsed since he last saw the girl he had married, he had wondered what had become of her, but never once had he dreamed of this. It seemed to him as though the foundations of his life were taken away from him. His brain refused to act. His eyes refused to see. A great blackness fell upon everything. He who was usually so keen witted, so clear sighted, could not grasp the meaning of all he had heard, could not understand the issues. He only knew that he was enveloped in a great black cloud, and that he could not see which way to turn or what to do.
"Oh, my God, forgive me!"
The woman turned to him as he uttered these words. "God forgive you!" she cried. "How can God forgive you? I would cease to believe in Him if He did. What, you! who basely deserted me; you! who married me under a false name; you! who during the years have never taken a step to try and find out what had become of me; you! who have hunted my son as though you were a sleuthhound; you! who have dragged him to prison. God forgive you! Tell me, why did you do it?"
There seemed no logical sequence between her last cry and the words which had preceded it. She was a creature of passion, and seemed incapable of thinking coherently.
"Let me sit down," he said presently. "I think perhaps if I do I may be able to see more clearly. At present I hardly know where I am, and my mind is almost a blank; but, my God, what a blank!"
The woman looked at him grimly. "Yes, you are suffering," she said. "That's what I meant. No, I'm not going to do you any bodily harm. I needn't do that. I needn't do anything to punish you except to tell the truth!"
Judge Bolitho sat down in an arm-chair which, had been placed close to the fire and tried to understand what he had heard. He had no doubt about the truth of everything. It was impossible to fail to recognise the woman who stood before him—the very incarnation of hatred and vengeance. He knew by the look in her eyes of what she felt concerning him. There was no suggestion of tenderness in her face, no thought of pity in her heart. Well, it was no wonder. The secret which he had hidden for so long could no longer remain a secret, and his name, the name of which he had been so proud, would be blackened before all the world! How long he sat in the chair, with bowed head and aching brain, trying to understand, he did not know, but presently he was drawn to look at her. He had no thought of denying what he had done. It had never entered his mind. He had made no defence; that did not come within the realm of his calculation. He was simply stunned by what he had heard, by the revelation which had shaken his life to the very foundations. But presently he was led to look at her, to study her features, and as he did so he called to mind the face of the young girl whose heart he had won a quarter of a century before. Yes, she was beautiful still, even although her face was drawn and haggard and the hair which he remembered so well was lustreless. It needed but happiness to bring back all the winsomeness of her girlish days—happiness! Yes, he had loved her, and he had promised to cherish her. He knew he had taken her to wife as truly as if their marriage had been attended by all the pomp and ceremony which might attend the marriage of a king. She had come to him trustful and innocent, and he—he—— No, he did not attempt to deny it; he would not. What the future had in store for him he did not know, he did not care. But that was not the great thing that oppressed him, that crushed his power of thinking, that made the heavens black with the thunder of the clouds of God. It was that Paul Stepaside was his son! He had always admired him, even while he was angry with him; and he was his son! That very day he had sat in judgment upon him—that very day even he had helped to forge a chain which would bind him to the scaffold—and he was his son! Presently he spoke aloud, and his voice was almost natural again.
"And so you have lived at Brunford," he said, "and kept house for him? I've heard it is a beautiful home."
"Ay, my boy always loved me—always!"
"And, of course, you hate me, Jean?"
"How can I do otherwise?" she asked. "Nay, that word is too weak to express what I feel towards you! How can it be otherwise?"
"I quite understand," said Judge Bolitho.
"Are you going to make no defence?" said the woman. "Are you going to bring up some little tale to excuse yourself? Are you going to try and manufacture a few lies?"
"No," he replied. "None of these things. I can't think to-night, Jean. You must think my conduct very strange. I simply can't think! It will be all real to me in a few hours. You know what these Manchester fogs are, don't you? You know that sometimes you get lost in them. You cannot recognise the street in which you were born and reared. Everything is blotted out. Then presently, when the fog has rolled away—everything becomes clear. Perhaps that is what it will be with me by and by, but now I simply cannot think. I do not blame you in the slightest degree. It's just that you should hate me! It's just that I should suffer! Is there nothing more you wish to say to me?"
"Not now," said the woman.
"I do not ask you to forgive me; you cannot do that. It's not to be expected."
"But what are you going to do?" she asked.
"I do not know. I cannot tell yet. When my mind gets clear I shall understand. But I seem to be falling and falling and falling into a bottomless abyss just now."
"You don't expect me to keep quiet?"
"I expect nothing."
"You do not ask me to be merciful to you?"
"I do not ask anything. I've no right to expect anything or to ask anything. I think I will leave you now—that is, unless I can do anything for you. You do not need money, do you?"
He did not know what he was saying. His bewildered brain was expressing itself in an inconsequent sort of way. He was just a creature of impulse, and that was all.
"Money!" snarled the woman. "Money! when my son is lying in a prison cell waiting for the hangman!"
"Yes," he said, and his voice seemed as the voice of one far away. "In a prison cell, my son! my son! It is right that I should suffer, but surely he ought not to suffer!"
He rose to his feet and walked unsteadily towards the door.
"May I go now? You know where I am staying. If I can be of any service to you, let me know."
"And that's all? You have nothing more to say?"
"What can there be more?" he said. "You can do what you will; I will deny nothing."
"But what are you going to do?" she asked again.
"Do? What is there to do? I cannot tell; I am just in the dark, Jean, but perhaps a light will come presently." And then, without another word, he found his way along the narrow passage into the dark, forbidding street.
For more than an hour Judge Bolitho tramped the streets of Manchester, unheeding whither he went and as little knowing. He was vainly trying to understand what he had heard, trying to bring some order out of the chaos of his thoughts and feelings. Everything was confused, bewildering. He was like a man in a dream. The experiences through which he had passed refused to shape themselves definitely. A mist hung before the eyes of his mind, and yet he knew it was no dream. It was all real, terribly real, and presently everything would stand out before him with a ghastly clearness. Even now one thing was plain enough, one fact impressed itself upon the tablets of his brain—Paul Stepaside was his son. The interview he had had with the woman he deceived was in the background; even although past memories had been roused and the deeds of his youth had been brought before him with awful clearness, they were as nothing compared with this fact of facts. He did not know he had a son; he never dreamt of such a thing. During the long years which had elapsed since he parted with Jean at the lonely inn near the Scottish border he had often wondered what had become of her, wondered, too, whether those past days would ever be resurrected; but the thought that he had a son had never occurred to him. And now the knowledge overwhelmed everything else.
Little by little things shaped themselves in his mind. He saw them as others would see them. The events of the past few years, since he had first met Paul, began to stand out with clearness. He remembered his own impressions on the day when Paul was first brought before him, accused of rioting and of inciting others to deeds of violence. He remembered, too, that he had a kind of pleasure in obtaining a hard sentence for him. He recalled the fact that both Mr. Wilson and his son Ned had spoken of him as an evil-dispositioned fellow, who deserved the utmost penalty of the law, and he had fallen in with their ideas, and had taken a kind of grim pleasure in doing so. It was a strange business altogether. For the moment he seemed to be a kind of third party considering a curious phenomenon. He seemed to have no direct connection with it at all. But as he remembered after events, when he called to mind the fact that he fought Paul at the election and failed to condemn those who made use of slanderous gossip, then he was more than a spectator. He realised all too vividly against whom he had been fighting. And it had come to this: this man whom he had always disliked, and against whom there seemed to be always a feeling of antagonism, was revealed to him as his own son! His treatment of Jean, bad though it was, took a second place; indeed, at that time he troubled very little about it. He felt as though he could deal with it later on. Everything was centred upon the situation, which was summed up in a few words: He had a son, his son was accused of murder, and he was the judge!
Presently he found himself in Oxford Road. He did not know how he had come there. He had no recollection of passing through the streets which led him there, but as he noticed the gables of Owens College he realised where he was. He remembered some time before being an honoured visitor at this centre of education. The principal of the college had sought to do him honour. The professors made much of him. He was strangely interested in the fact. Why should it be? Owens College was nothing to him. It was simply the centre of one of the newer universities. Why, then, did it interest him? Then he remembered that Paul had been a student there. He had travelled all the way from Brunford so that he might attend certain classes—and Paul was his son!
Always this! Always this! In whichever direction his mind travelled, it always came back to this point—Paul Stepaside was his son!
Slowly he trudged back towards the city again. Presently he found himself outside Strangeways Gaol. He looked at the grim, forbidding-looking building. He thought of the creatures who lay there, some awaiting trial, others suffering the penalty of their misdoings. During the very assizes which he was now attending he had committed several to suffer there; but it was not of them he thought. What were they?—merely the off-scourings of Lancashire life. The only one who mattered was his own son, and he lay there in a dark cell, waiting for the morrow. He did not ask himself whether he was innocent or guilty. At that moment it did not seem of importance. Paul was his son! He, Judge Bolitho, was his father. He, who had never realised that he had a son, suddenly woke up to the fact that his son lay there in Strangeways Gaol, while he, his father, was the judge.
If he could only go to him, talk with him, it might help him to clear his mind, help him to understand. But he could not do that. He had been too long a servant of the law to so far transgress against the most elementary usages of the law. No judge was allowed to see a prisoner alone while his case was being tried. But if he could—if he could!
He called to mind Paul's face as he had seen it through the day. Even when he sat on the Bench he remembered being struck by it. It was so calm, so proud, so unyielding. He had felt angry that this man, accused of murder, had seemed to treat his accusers, as well as his judge and counsel, with a kind of contempt. Now he felt almost proud of him. Paul Stepaside was no ordinary man. And he was his son!
Again he looked at the gloomy, grim pile. Of what was his boy thinking? He lay in a black prison cell, with the shadow of death hanging over him. What were his feelings? During his career Judge Bolitho had been brought into contact with some of the darkest characters in the land. He knew something of what men suffered for their crimes. And at that moment he realised what Paul was suffering.
"Oh, if I could only go to him!" he repeated to himself—"if I only could!"
He did not know why it was, but he felt a change coming over him. He realised that he had a wondrous interest in this man whom he pictured lying in Strangeways Gaol. He knew that the anger and scorn which he had felt for him were passing away. A kinder feeling was coming into his heart. It seemed as though old bitternesses were being removed, and he began to long with a great longing to do something. The young girl whom he had met as a boy, and who was Paul's mother, was for the moment forgotten. That stormy interview did not possess his mind at all, only in so far as she had revealed to him the relationship between him and the prisoner. Then, suddenly, it seemed to him as though the barriers around his heart were broken down. He loved, as he never realised that he could love, the prisoner who lay waiting for the next day's trial. He wanted to go to him with words of comfort. He wanted to kneel before him and beseech his forgiveness. He wanted to tell him that all the strength of his being were given to him. It seemed to him as though he had become a new man, capable of new feelings, realising new emotions. His knowledge had swallowed up everything else. He no longer regarded the prisoner as a case, or even as one with whom he had had associations in the past. He was everything to him—his son, his only son!
But he could not go to him. Even the warders would not allow him. They knew their duty too well for that. He was the judge and Paul was the prisoner. But, oh! how his heart went out to him! How he longed to go to him!
"I wonder what he would say to me if I went to him, supposing I defied all law and all usage?" he asked himself. "Supposing I found my way into his cell, what would he say on seeing me? What would he do?"
And then into Judge Bolitho's heart came a great, haunting fear. He knew that his son must hate him, even as Jean hated him. Paul had heard her side of the story. He knew only of his mother's wrongs, her years of loneliness, the unworthy betrayal! The punishment seemed almost too hard for him to bear. Whatever Paul had suffered, whatever his mother had suffered, Judge Bolitho was sure that neither of them suffered as he did at that moment.
Slowly his mind asserted itself more and more. His vigorous intellect, strengthened by long years of training, caused him to grasp the whole situation more and more clearly. He began to take a practical view of everything, and to form plans as to what must be done in the future. And even as he did so the grimness of the tragedy faced him. Throughout the day he knew that he had, to a large extent, prejudged Paul's case. His own inherent dislike of the man had caused him to feel sure he was guilty. Of course there were difficulties, and of course a clever counsel would mercilessly riddle the evidence which had been adduced. Nevertheless, he had felt convinced that the jury would find him guilty. There was a perfect chain of circumstantial evidence, and he, with his long experience, knew what juries were. They could only judge according to evidence. He went over the points one by one—the years of enmity between Paul and the murdered man; the threats he had made; the injuries which the murdered man had persistently done to the accused; the knife which was known to belong to Paul, and which could only have been in his possession; the quarrel on the eve of the murder; the fact that Paul had left his own house at midnight and had not returned till just before dawn; Wilson found not far from his own house with Paul's knife in his heart; and the evidence which would be surely adduced that Paul had been seen not far from Howden Clough that same morning, acting in a most strange and distracted manner. Added to this was the fact that Wilson was respected in the town; that he was not known to have an enemy in the world but Paul. No, no! Unless Paul could bring evidence of the strongest nature, the jury would find him guilty.
Then the terror of it seized him. His own son would be hanged!
He lifted up his hands to heaven like a man distraught.
"Great God, forgive me and help me!" he cried. But it seemed to him even then as though his prayer were a mockery, as though the black, cloud-laden sky were filled with doom.
Almost mechanically he turned his face towards his hotel.
"I must think this out," he said to himself. "Besides—— Oh, my son! My son!"
He had not walked far towards his hotel when he suddenly stopped in the middle of the pavement. His intellect, which had wakened from its torpor, awakened something else. He began to realise his own share in this tragedy. It was not Paul who was guilty of murder at all—it was he, the judge. If long years before he had done his duty, if he had not listened to the voice of self interest, if he had been true to the pleadings of his own heart and openly confessed to having married the girl whose love he had won, then Paul would have grown up honoured, and this deed would never have been committed. He, he, Judge Bolitho, was guilty. But he could do nothing; how could he?
A few minutes later he found himself back at the entrance to the hotel, and the porter saluted him respectfully. Judge Bolitho had often spoken to this man in a friendly sort of way, and the man was proud of his notice.
"A dark, dreary night, my lord?"
"Yes; a dark, dreary night," repeated the judge.
He found his way to the suite of rooms which he had engaged, and as he divested himself of the heavy ulster he had worn he planned a kind of programme for the night. He had no thought of going to bed. During his early days at the Bar, whenever a complicated case presented itself to him, he had always written out a kind of resume, or synopsis of the whole situation, so as to have everything clear before his mind. After that he had been able to classify and to arrange with precision and accuracy. He made up his mind to do this now. But on entering the room where he intended to work he was startled to find that his daughter Mary was awaiting him.
"Not in bed, Mary?" he said. "It's very late!"
"No, father. I've been waiting for you."
"Why?" he asked; and there was something almost suspicious in his voice. He had a kind of feeling that his daughter knew something of where he had been that night.
"I could not go to bed," said the girl.
"But why, my child? By the way, did you go to the Gordons? I was glad when I heard that they had asked you, because I had to attend a dinner, and I did not like the idea of your being alone."
"No; I did not go to the Gordons'," she replied.
"What have you been doing, then?"
"I have been sitting alone all the evening, part of the time in my bedroom, part of it here."
"What have you been doing?"
"Thinking. Father, I was at the trial to-day."
"I am very sorry," he replied. "Such places are not for you."
"Why? There was no one so interested as I."
"Of course you are naturally interested in the murder of Ned Wilson," he replied. "All the same, it is unhealthy and morbid, this desire to be present at murder trials. But good-night, Mary. I want to be alone. I have a great deal to do."
"Not yet, father," she said. "I want to talk with you about this trial. Of course you do not believe him guilty?"
"Why not?"
Somehow the presence of his daughter had made him cool and collected again, and he had a kind of instinctive feeling that she must be kept in the dark concerning what had happened. He was so far able to control himself, too, that he spoke to her quite naturally.
"You do not believe him guilty, father?" she repeated.
"Don't you?" And there was something eager in his voice as he uttered the words.
"Why, father, how could he be? It is madness to suppose such a thing!"
"I cannot discuss it with you," he said; and his voice was almost harsh. "Go to bed, my child. Good-night."
She looked at him searchingly, and for the first time in her life she felt almost afraid of him. His face was drawn and haggard, and in his eyes was a look she never saw before.
"You do not believe him guilty, do you?"
"My God, I don't know," he replied hoarsely. "I would give—I would give——" And then he ceased speaking.
"I tell you he's innocent," replied the girl. "And I am going to——"
But Judge Bolitho did not hear her. "Go to bed—go to bed!" he said; and taking her by the arm he led her from the room, and, closing the door, turned the key. A moment later he had unlocked the door and called her back.
"What is that you said about—about something you were going to do?" he asked.
"Surely, father, you do not believe him guilty?" was her reply. "I know that the evidence is black against him; but he could not do it! He could not do it!"
As the judge looked at his daughter's face, a ray of hope shone into his heart. If the trial had impressed her in this way, might not the jury also be led to doubt the evidence given? He knew that many men had been hanged on circumstantial evidence, but it might be that they would refuse to accept the evidence in this case as sufficient.
"You see," persisted the girl, and he noticed that her lace was full of anguish, that her eyes shone with an unnatural light—"he could not do it, father."
"Do you mean to say that you regard the evidence as insufficient?"
It was utterly unlike him to talk with her about any trial in which he was engaged. Such things, he had always maintained, were not for women. They had neither the training nor the acumen to give an opinion worth considering. But now he caught at the girl's words like a drowning man might catch at a straw.
"Oh, I know the evidence is terrible enough," she replied. "But that doesn't convince me a bit. Father, you cannot allow them to hang him."
He stood still looking at her steadily, and as he did so the horror of the whole situation seized him more terribly than ever. He knew what she did not know. His mind was filled with thoughts of which she was in utter ignorance.
"I can do nothing, my child," he said, "nothing! It is a case for the jury. They have to hear the evidence, and then they pass judgment accordingly. If they condemn him as guilty, I must pass judgment of death, I cannot help myself. I am as helpless as the hangman. If the jury says 'Guilty,' I must pronounce death, and the hangman must do the horrible thing!"
"But, father, don't you see? He has refused to have counsel, and you would have to sum up the evidence. And when you are summing up you could say how inconclusive it was, how terrible it would be to hang a man because a set of circumstances seemed to point in a certain direction."
He was silent for a few seconds. The old numbness had come over his mind again. But he determined to let his daughter know nothing of it.
"You see, Mary," he said, "a judge can do so little, even in the way of summing up, and he must do justice. A judge sits on the bench as a representative of justice, and all he can do is to analyse the evidence. And you know what the evidence is!"
"But he could not do it," said the girl.
"Think," went on the judge, and he spoke more like a machine than a man. "Think of the terrible train of events: the long years of personal enmity between them; the injuries which the prisoner suffered at the hands of the murdered man; the blow struck on the night of the murder; and then—don't you see, Mary? Besides, there is something else, something which has never come to light, something which must never come to light. Wilson had been, as you know, spoken of as your fiancé, and you know the letter I received from Stepaside. He asked that you might be his wife, and he would be jealous of Wilson. Don't you see? Don't you see? Mind you, this must not come to light. It must not be spoken of at all. Nobody guesses that Stepaside cared anything about you. But what am I saying? Drive it out of your mind, Mary—it's of no consequence at all, and you must not consider it for a moment. Oh, my God, the horror of it! Don't you see, Mary? The horror of it!"
Evidently she did not understand altogether what he was thinking. She did not realise that Paul was her half-brother, and therefore could not altogether understand her father's cry of anguish.
For a moment the two stood together, silent, each looking into the other's face and trying to read each other's thoughts.
"Father," she said at length, "I want to tell you something. I have been to see Paul."
"Been to see Paul! Where? When?"
"I went to see him in prison."
Her father seemed to be staggered by the thought.
"You went to see the prisoner?" he said. Even yet he could not call him by the name that was so dear to him. The legal formulae were almost a habit with him.
"I went to see Paul," she said.
"Why?"
"I went to tell him that I loved him," she replied simply. "I knew what he must be suffering, and I know that he loves me, because he told me so. And I wanted to comfort him. I wanted to assure him that all would be well."
The judge started back as though someone had struck him. "You love——"
"Yes," she interrupted. "I told him so, too. I never loved Mr. Wilson, father. You know I didn't. I had not thought that I really cared for anyone until, until——"
"But you love Paul Stepaside?"
The words came from him as if mechanically. Indeed, he had no knowledge that he had uttered them.
"I do," she replied. "And when he's at liberty I shall be his wife."
For a moment the judge rocked to and fro like a drunken man, and then, staggering towards a chair, fell into it, and covered his face with his hands.
"Father!" cried the girl. "Did you not guess?"
"Oh, my God, that I should suffer this too! I never thought, I never dreamt——"
"I know that Paul is shielding someone," went on the girl presently. "He did not do this. He could not do it. He is utterly incapable of it! You see that's why I am so certain. And I'm going to find out who did it. Do you understand, father? That's why I wanted to speak to you to-night. You must give me time. You can make the case last for days, if you want, and I'm going to find out who did it. He's hiding someone."
The judge lifted his head, and in his eyes was a gleam of hope.
"You believe this, Mary?" he said.
"I am sure of it!" she replied. "You can do this to help me, can't you?"
"But, my child, don't you see the utter hopelessness of it? You must not love Paul Stepaside. You dare not! Why—why——"
"But I do dare," replied the girl. "This charge is nothing to me. He is not guilty, and I love him. Don't you see, father? And I'm going to save him. And you must give me time. Make the case drag on, father. Of course, it will be suffering for him, but I cannot help that. When I'm ready I'll let you know."
The judge sat for some minutes as though in deep thought. Confused and bewildered as his mind was by the events of the night, there was something in his daughter's demeanour that gave him hope for the future.
"I must think, Mary," he said. "I've had a trying day, and I do not think I'm very well. I want to be alone a little while, and then—well, perhaps in the morning I shall know better what I can do. Good-night, little girl!"
He rose to his feet as he spoke and kissed her. Then he led her out of the room again.
"Oh, my God!" he said. "My punishment is greater than I can bear. For that one deed of wrong, of cowardice, must I suffer this?"
He went into the dressing-room and bathed his head in cold water. It seemed to him as though his brain were on fire. A few minutes later he felt better. He could think again. He sat in an arm-chair beside the fire and reviewed the past. His mind went back to the time when he, a free-hearted lad, went on a walking tour with some other fellows among the English lakes, and then on to Scotland. He had been full of good resolutions, and his heart was light and free. He had meant no harm when he made Jean Lindsay love him, but he had never dreamt of what would follow. And then, then all the ensuing events passed before his mind in ghastly procession. What must he do?
In spite of everything, Judge Bolitho believed himself to be a religious man. He had identified himself with religious movements, had professed himself a believer in prayer. In one sense he was a man of the world, keen as far as his profession went, eager for his own advancement. But in another he had held fast to the faith of his childhood. He had had a religious training, and while both his father and mother had died when he was young, he had never forgotten their teaching, and had never been able to shake himself free from early associations.
Almost like a man in a dream, he knelt down by the chair and tried to pray. What must he do? Life was a tangle, but he entangled it yet farther himself. He, by his own act, had made everything difficult, terrible, tragic. His conscience was roused within him, and as he prayed he seemed to see, as though in a vision, the road he ought to take.
"No, not that!" he cried. "Not that! Great God, not that! I could not do it! I could not do it!"
He rose from his knees and began to pace the room. His mind was clear enough now, for God had spoken.
"But I cannot do it," he said. "If I do what seems right, I shall bring pain, disgrace on so many. No, I cannot do it! It cannot be right to do right! It cannot!"
And still he paced the room, struggling, fighting, and sometimes offering wild, inarticulate prayers.