On the morning of the second day of the trial Paul Stepaside woke from a troubled sleep. Throughout the night he had been living again in his dreams the scenes of the trial. They had been confused and bewildered; but one fact dominated everything else: the man who was his judge was his father! When he woke, that was the first thought that appeared clear in his mental horizon. Before he had gone to sleep he realised that he hated his father with a more intense hatred than when his mother had told her story on the Altarnun Moors. No thought of tenderness came into his mind. No feeling of affection entered his heart. It seemed to him as though all the darkness of his life, all the pain he had ever suffered, all the wrongs he had ever endured, were because of the man who, his mother declared, was his father. And he hated him! It was through him he lay in prison. It was through him the shadow of the gallows rested upon him. He realised, too, even although his heart refused to assent to the finding of his brain, that he must no longer love the woman who was dearer to him than his own life. His sister? His heart made mockery of the thought! No man loved a sister as he loved Mary Bolitho. Only a half-sister, it is true, but they were both children of the same father. Oh, the bitter mockery, the terrible irony of it! And this man, who stood for justice, who represented the majesty of the law, who had risen to one of the highest places in the realm of the law, had been in reality a criminal ever since he came to manhood. And this man had made it, as it seemed to him, a sin for him to love the woman who was all the world to him. His sister! His sister! He had some idea that the English law did not forbid a man marrying his own stepsister, but something in his heart revolted against that. And yet, and yet—— But what did it all matter? He lay there in Strangeways Gaol charged with murder. The first day of the trial had gone black against him, and, although he knew no more as to who murdered Ned Wilson than the veriest stranger, he realised that he stood in the most imminent danger. And the man who was really responsible for everything, the man who was at the heart of it all, was the judge! What should he do? If he did what was in his heart, he could make him a byword and a hissing through the whole country; but that, again, meant disgrace for Mary, and he had sworn that she must suffer nothing. The warder brought him his morning meal, which he ate silently. He was thinking what the day would bring forth. He wondered how long the trial would last, and what the jury would say. He could not see his way through the tangle of his life. But as he thought of everything a grim resolve mastered him. He would not die; he simply would not! He would fight to the very last. He would tear the evidence which had been adduced in fragments. He would proclaim his innocence, and not only proclaim it, but prove it. He was sadly handicapped, for whatever else he must do he must see to it that no suspicion would attach to his mother. But without allowing anyone to think of her in such a relation, he would make it impossible for the jury to condemn him.
When breakfast was over, he tramped his little cell, thinking, thinking, considering a score of plans, and discarding them, yet all the time fighting his way towards his course of action.
He laughed as he reflected on the irony of the situation. The judge would not know what he knew, but sitting there in all his stately dignity, arrayed in his robes of office, he would not realise that the man charged with murder was his son. He wondered how he could let him know it, wondered how he could bring his own villainy home to him. He had not one tender thought for his father, not one—only scorn, contempt, hatred was in his heart when he thought of him. And yet he was his own father—father, too, of the woman he loved, the woman whom he had held in his arms and who had expressed her infinite faith in him.
Not long before the hour of the trial the chaplain again paid him a visit. But Paul was in no humour to receive him.
"I am afraid you only waste your time coming to me," he said. "I appreciate the fact that you are a kind-hearted man, but see, I haven't an atom of faith, not an atom. I do not believe in the value of your religion. I am an atheist."
"You believe nothing?" said the chaplain.
"Nothing as far as your profession is concerned," said Paul, "nothing."
"Would nothing convince you?" said the chaplain.
"Nothing," replied Paul grimly. And then he laughed. "I am wrong, though," he added. "Yes, I think one thing would convince me. You remember the story I told you yesterday—or shall we call it an incident, and not a story?"
"I remember. I suppose it had something to do with your own life?"
"You have heard the miserable stories, then?" said Paul.
"I have heard a great many things about you," replied the chaplain.
"Well, then," said Paul. "Let me say this to you: I think this would convince me that there might be something in religion if my father confessed his wrong, publicly confessed it, mind you, and sought to do right; if he proclaimed his ill-deeds before the world, and did all in his power to rectify the wrong he had done. Then I might believe."
"And nothing else would convince you?" said the chaplain.
"Nothing else," said Paul.
"But who is your father? Where is he?"
"Ah," said Paul. "But it's no use thinking of it any more. The whole thing is hopeless, and life is just a great mockery."
The chaplain left him with a sad heart. He was a kind man, and sought to do his duty, and Paul had interested him strangely.
The court that day was, if possible, more crowded than ever. The morning papers had been filled with reports of the previous day's trial. The wildest of rumours had been afloat. Descriptive articles had been written about the young Member of Parliament who was accused of such a terrible crime. His every word had been commented on. His appearance had been discussed. The evidence given had been the subject of thousands of gossiping tongues. And so the court that day was simply thronged with an intense, eager crowd. Moreover, the inwardness of the trial had seized upon the imaginations of the people. It was more real, more vivid to them than it had been the day before. And when Paul entered the dock, accompanied by two policemen, a great silence fell upon the court, while every eye was fixed upon him.
"He looks as hard and proud as ever!"
"Yes, there's not much sign of repentance!"
"I wonder if the trial will close to-day?"
"There's no knowing. I've heard as 'ow several witnesses will be brought into court which was never thought of at the beginning. Will Ashley says as 'ow he saw Paul about half-past five on the morning of the murder not far from Howden Clough. Will says as 'ow there was a look in his eyes like the eyes of a madman."
"But Will never appeared before the coroner's inquest?"
"No; I suppose he wanted to be kept out of it. But he 'appened to tell his missis, and his missis told it to somebody else, who told it to one of the policemen, and that's 'ow it came about."
In another part of the court, not far from the barristers' seats, two ladies discussed Paul. They, too, had been brought there by morbid curiosity aroused by this trial.
"Did you know that Judge Bolitho's daughter was here yesterday?"
"No. Was she?"
"Yes. I watched her face during the trial. It was as pale as death. I wonder how she dared to come."
"Why, what do you mean?"
"Oh, you know she was engaged to young Wilson."
"I've heard that was denied."
"Well, anyhow, there's something about it in one of the Brunford papers, and there's no doubt Wilson was in love with her."
"Then no wonder she was pale."
"Mrs. Jackson told me she saw her smile on the prisoner."
"She must have been mistaken. It's terribly interesting, isn't it?"
"I wonder when they will commence. It's five minutes past time."
This was true. Five minutes had passed away since Paul had been led to the dock, and still the trial had not commenced. The reason for this was evident—the judge had not yet appeared. The jurymen were in their places, conversing in low whispers one with another. More than one was anxious and pale. A number of barristers were also present, eager for the commencement of the day's trial. They were wondering what new factor would be at work that day. To most of them it was a case that was deeply interesting, one which they wished to study and which might help them in days to come. Newspaper reporters sat busily writing. Each was trying to vie with the other to produce a sensational description. Presently, as if by magic, a great silence fell upon the court. It was now ten minutes past the time when the trial should commence, and still the judge had not appeared. Each seemed to be wondering what was the matter. The air was tense with excitement. Could anything have happened? What did the judge mean by being late? And still they waited and watched, until at last the silence became almost painful.
Presently a deep sigh rose from the crowded seats. It seemed as if the spectators wanted to give vent to their feelings. A curtain at the back of the hall was drawn aside, and Judge Bolitho, with bowed head and staggering footsteps, found his way to his accustomed seat.
The attention of all present, which had been directed towards Paul, was now diverted to the judge. It seemed for the moment as though Paul were no longer the centre of interest, nor indeed did he occupy the chief place in the great drama of life which was played before him. It was no longer Hamlet who held the stage, but the King.
There was little wonder at this. He fell into his chair as if he were unable to support himself, and everyone saw at a glance that something of terrible import must have happened to him. His eyes were bloodshot; his face, usually so healthful looking and florid, was pale and haggard; his cheeks were baggy; and he was bowed down as if by some great calamity. Everyone felt this, although no one spoke. All eyes were riveted upon him; everyone took note of his slightest movement.
For a few seconds he sat with bowed head, apparently looking at the papers before him, but really seeing nothing. He seemed to be pondering what to do, what to say. More than one noticed that his hands trembled. The clerk of the assizes mentioned something to him, but the judge took no notice; the man might not have spoken at all.
At length he seemed to gather himself up as if by a great effort. Twice he essayed to speak, and twice he failed. It might appear as though the power of language were gone.
If the silence had been intense when he had entered the court, it was more than ever so now. People seemed afraid to breathe. The jurymen looked towards him in wonder, and barristers who werehabituésof courts of law, and who had grown callous even with regard to the most interesting cases, watched him with an eagerness that they had never known before, while the spectators seemed to be afraid to breathe.
And yet nothing had been said. From the casual observer's point of view the case was to recommence in the ordinary way, save that the judge was a few minutes late. But everyone knew something was about to happen. The very air they breathed was tense with emotion.
"Gentlemen," said the judge presently—and it did not seem like his voice at all, it was so hoarse and unnatural—"Gentlemen, I wish to make a statement which is of the utmost importance. I wish to say that I can no longer sit in judgment on this case, and that therefore, to all intents and purposes, the court is dismissed."
No one moved or made a sound, save that the reporters at their desks were busily writing. Their pencils, as they swept over their note-books, made quite a noise, so tense was the silence which prevailed. More than one of these reporters declared afterwards that they did not know what they were writing. They were simply like automata, acting according to custom.
Although the judge had dismissed the court, no one moved. As if by instinct, all felt that there was something more to be said. What had prompted Judge Bolitho to make this statement they did not know, they could not conceive; but they felt rather than thought that something tremendous was at stake. Old, habitual theatre-goers declared to each other in talking about the matter afterwards that no drama they had ever witnessed had ever been so exciting as the scene that day. But nothing had depended upon what was said. The words of the judge were few and simple, but the very place seemed laden with doom.
"In abandoning all associations with this case," went on the judge, and his voice was more natural now, "I wish to make a further statement. Perhaps there seems no sufficient reason why I should do so, nevertheless I must. I can no longer sit in judgment upon the prisoner for the gravest of all reasons——" Again he stopped. He did not know how to proceed. Perhaps such a thing was almost unprecedented in the history of trials. Up to that moment Paul had been like a man in a dream. On entering the dock and finding that the judge was not present he fell to wondering at the reason of his lateness, and presently could not help being affected by the influences which surrounded him. He, too, felt there was something in the air which, to say the least of it, was not usual. He had come there with his heart full of bitter hatred, with a feeling that the man who was to sit in judgment upon him, even although he were his father, was his enemy. In a vague way he wondered what would happen through the day, wondered whether he should be able to keep his knowledge to himself, wondered whether, at some moment when the judge manifested some particular injustice to him, he might not yield to the passion of the moment and proclaim the relationship. Outwardly he was still cool and collected, although his face was very pale and his eyes burned like coals of fire.
When the judge entered the court he, too, was much moved by his appearance. He saw that he had been suffering terribly, and into his heart came a kind of savage joy. There seemed something like poetical justice in the thought of this man's suffering, and he wondered whether he had in some way learned the truth.
When Judge Bolitho opened his mouth to speak, Paul's heart seemed to stop. So intense was his interest in what he would say that, for the moment, he forgot his own position. The shadow of death was somehow removed from him; that grimness and the horror of the trial had lost their meaning. That "Gentlemen, I wish to make a statement which is of the utmost importance. I wish to say that I can no longer sit in judgment on this case …"—what did it mean? A thousand wild fancies flashed through his mind. He wondered whether Mary Bolitho had been at work, whether this was the first step in her endeavours to prove him innocent. He did not know how it could be, but, like lightning, his mind and heart flew to her.
He gave a quick glance around the court and turned towards the spot where he had seen her on the previous day. Even then he realised that all attention was turned from him to the judge, realised that everyone waited with breathless interest for the next words that should fall from his lips. But he could not see Mary. Again his eyes swept over the crowded benches which held the spectators, but she was not there. He wondered why. In a sense he was glad. At least she no longer looked upon his ignominy and shame. And yet he felt the loss of her presence. The day before she had cheered him in spite of himself, strengthened him to bear the brunt of the battle; but now he was alone.
Again the judge spoke, and Paul listened to every word that passed his lips. Like the other spectators, he was eager to know what would follow.
"I cannot continue to sit in judgment upon the prisoner," went on the judge; and every word was clearly enunciated. "And my reason for this is all-sufficient—I cannot sit in judgment upon him because I have learnt that he is my own son!"
Paul's heart gave a leap as he heard the words. It seemed to him as though the atmosphere of the court changed as if by magic. There was something electric in it, something that seemed to alter the whole state of affairs and change the current of events. His heart beat with a new hope and burned with a strange joy. He had not yet grasped what it meant. He could not yet read the thoughts that were passing in the judge's mind, but he felt their consequence, felt that, in spite of everything, the sky was becoming brighter.
The effect on the court, as may be imagined, was tremendous. The barristers sat in their seats open-mouthed. Never in all their experience had they witnessed such an event. The jury seemed incapable of moving, but many of the spectators, unable to restrain their emotions, sobbed hysterically.
"I wish to say," went on the judge, "that I have had no communication in any form with the prisoner, neither did he know of what was in my mind as I came here to-day. I have not seen him during the trial except in this court. Realising our relations as judge and prisoner this was impossible. But no sooner did I learn of the relationship which existed between us than I realised the impossibility of my continuing to sit on this case."
For the moment he stopped, as if he had said all that he intended to say. Perhaps he felt that it was not for the jurymen to know, or for that gaping crowd to know the real thoughts that were in his heart. But no one made a movement as if to go. Men and women sat there, hungry to hear more, eager for the continuance of the exciting scene which had aroused them to the very depths of their nature. One man who was there has told me since that he forgot, just as others had forgotten, that Paul Stepaside was being tried for murder. It was rather some great drama of life which was being acted for their benefit, and which held them all spellbound as if by some magician's power. They could not understand the why and the wherefore. Their minds were too bewildered and excited to realise what lay behind it all, but all felt that there was something momentous, tragic.
Presently the judge lifted his head as if to speak again. That he was suffering terribly, and undoubtedly that he was under the influence of mighty emotions all were sure. Many there were who, forgetful of all else, pitied him. But the prevailing feeling was that of wonder and eager expectation of what might come next.
"I need not say," went on the judge, "that the proceedings of yesterday are nullified by my action to-day. I need not say that another of his Majesty's judges will have to sit in my place, that a new jury will have to be sworn, and the case will have to be re-tried from the beginning. But with that I have nothing to do, and for the moment, although it is not in accordance with any law or usage, I want to say what is in my heart. It was only late last night that I learnt of the relationship between the man who is known as Paul Stepaside and myself, and therefore I could not make known my intentions before; but this I do wish to say, here, in the presence of all who have gathered together to witness this trial—Paul Stepaside is my lawful son, and, unknowingly, I have sinned against him grievously and greatly. His mother is my lawful wife—how and where she became so it is not for me to tell you or for you to know—but such is the truth. Concerning the fact itself, however, I wish it to be made known—as it will be made known—that his mother is my lawful wife, and that he is my lawful son, and that I do here and now confess the wrong which I have done to him, even although that wrong was to me largely unknown. In a sense there is no need that I should make this explanation in this way; but I do it because my conscience compels me to do so and because I wish here and now to ask my son's forgiveness."
He still spoke in the same slow, measured tones, his voice somewhat husky, but every word reaching the ears of all present. And as he spoke, Paul seemed to feel as though the foundations of the world were slipping away from under his feet. His thoughts of revenge were being scattered to the winds. He had never dreamt of this; never in the wildest of his imaginings had he thought Judge Bolitho would have made such a confession. Even now he could not understand it, much less realise it; but he felt it to be the most tragic moment of his life. He felt as if the world could never be the same to him again. And yet he hated the judge. Why it was he could not tell; but even as he spoke, even as he made this most momentous confession, his heart steeled against his father. In spite of his humility, in spite of his suffering, in spite of what it must have cost him to have spoken the words to which he had just listened, he still hated him. The man had wrecked his mother's life, robbed her of her girlhood, sent her away into loneliness and sorrow, allowed her to bear her disgrace in solitude. He had robbed him also of his boyhood, of his name. He had ever been his enemy. From the first time they had met he had sought to crush him; and he wondered, even now, with a mad wonder, whether there were not some kind of ulterior motive prompting him to say these things.
The effect, however, upon the spectators, was entirely different. Although his words seemed commonplace enough, there was something pathetic in them. All present realised something of the inwardness of that to which they had just been listening. Although it was no distinct thought in their minds, all realised what it must have cost him to make such a confession. When he said that he had made it in order to ask his son's forgiveness, a great sobbing sigh swept like a wave over the court.
Still the judge spoke on in the same slow, measured tones, although all felt that he was a man in agony.
"Of the rights and wrongs of this trial," he went on, "it is for me to say nothing. Whether I believe Paul Stepaside, my son, to be guilty of the murder of the late Edward Wilson I must not say. It will be for another to listen to the evidence. It will be for another to advise the jury concerning their verdict. I am simply the judge who has been, and therefore can say nothing except this—that if Paul Stepaside is guilty of the murder of Edward Wilson, I am not innocent. If he struck him the blow which has been described, a measure of the guilt belongs to me. If I had done my duty to him as a child, as a youth, and as a young man, he would, in all probability, not have been here. And therefore, although technically and legally I know nothing of the murder, if he is guilty I must share in his guilt. This I say that the truth may be understood and realised."
Again he ceased speaking. It seemed now as if he had said all he intended to say—much more than any of the spectators thought a man in his position could have said; but still they sat in silence, except for an occasional sob, or the hoarse breathing of some woman who could not control her excitement. The pencils of the reporters were still. They were waiting eagerly for the next word that should fall from the judge's lips should he speak further. They realised by now the tremendous possibilities of the case. No murder trial on record ever gave such an opportunity for a descriptive journalist as this, and they knew what effect their report would have upon the excited public.
The judge rose to his feet.
"That is all I think I need say," he said.
He turned as if to leave the court, then paused, and his eyes moved towards his son. For a moment the two men stood looking at each other. Paul, pale, erect, tense, almost overwhelmed by what he had heard, yet strong in his mastery over himself and wondering what it all might mean; the judge bowed, haggard, with bloodshot eyes and trembling limbs. For several seconds they stood looking at each other, while the crowd, forgetful of where they were, sat watching, waiting, listening.
"Paul, my son, can you forgive me!" said the judge.
But Paul made no sign, and then Judge Bolitho, like a man who had received his death warrant, staggered out of the court.
Immediately the whole place was in confusion. So affected was everyone by what had taken place that they even forgot the presence of the prisoner. Each talked excitedly with his neighbour concerning the revelation which had been made. No attempt at keeping order was made. Ushers, barristers, jurymen, spectators were all eagerly discussing what they had heard.
"Never heerd owt like it!" said one weaver to another. He had come all the way from Brunford that morning to be present at the trial. "They can never hang him after this!"
"Nay," said the other. "But, after all, it's got nowt to do with th' murder. Either Paul killed him or he didn't; and if he killed him he'll be hanged for it."
"I'm noan so sure," was the reply. "Why, the king would interfere. I've heerd as 'ow Judge Bolitho is very friendly with his Majesty, and he would never let his son get hanged."
"Nay, king or no king, people'll cry out for justice. If Paul Stepaside killed Ned Wilson, no matter if he is the son of a thousand Judge Bolithos, he'll swing."
"But did'st ever hear owt like it? I wouldn't have missed it for a month's wage. Just think on it! The judge gets up and says as 'ow he canna go ony further 'cause the murderer is his son!"
"I never liked th' chap before," was the response, "but I canna 'elp liking him now, a bit 't ony rate. It must have cost him summat to get up in t' court like that."
"But just think on 't!" said the other. "If what he says is true, the woman as we have known as Mrs. Stepaside is Judge Bolitho's wife! Weel then, canst a' see? Judge Bolitho must be a bigamist. His daughter is in the town at this very time, and he must have married her mother while Paul's mother was alive. I tell thee, there'll be rare doings."
"Ay," replied the other; "but I expect they'll patch it up. These lawyer chaps can do onything. I heerd one on 'em say once that all law was a matter of interpretation, and you may be sure that they'll interpret it to suit theirsen."
"Nay; I'm noan so sure," replied the other. "But it's a rare business. By goom! All t' preachers i' Lancashire will have this affair for a text!"
In another part of the court the two ladies who had been discussing Paul on the previous day were now discussing his father.
"Did you ever dream of such a thing?"
"Well," was the reply. "When I come to think of it, there is a resemblance between them."
"How can you say that? The prisoner is tall, dark; he has black hair and black eyes, while Judge Bolitho is florid and has light hair."
"No; but their features are the same. Do you know, after all, there's something in blood. No one can help seeing that Stepaside is a gentleman."
"Why, I thought you said before that his common blood showed itself."
"My dear, you misunderstood me. See the way he has risen in the world. I am told that Judge Bolitho comes from one of the oldest families in the West of England, and family tells, my dear, family tells!"
"But just think of it! Would you have believed that a proud man like Judge Bolitho would have stood up and made such a revelation to a gaping crowd like this?"
"Conscience, my dear, conscience!"
"Yes; but what about his conscience during the years? I tell you we've not seen the end of this business yet. Can't you see the complications?"
"Do you know, I've often been tempted to invite Stepaside to my house. I wish I had now; he must be an interesting man."
"They'll never hang him after this. Do you think so?"
"I don't know. If these things had come to light a few days ago, before the trial commenced, they might have hushed it up; but I don't see how they can now."
"But wasn't it tremendously exciting. I wouldn't have missed it for anything. I felt a shiver down my back all the time the judge was speaking. What a splendid scene for a play!"
And so they continued talking. The real deep issues of the case were as nothing. To them it was an event which interested them beyond words. It fed their love for excitement, and promised to be a subject of conversation for many days to come.
Meanwhile the barristers had gathered together in excited groups. They discussed the matter in an entirely different way. To them the case was everything, and they fastened upon all the legal difficulties which might arise. More than one wondered, too, whether out of such a maelstrom of events work would not be bound to fall to them.
"Who will be appointed judge, I wonder?" said one.
"Oh, Branscombe, I expect."
"I wonder whether Stepaside had some inkling of the truth. Perhaps that was the reason he refused to engage counsel."
"Do you think Stepaside knew all the time?"
"There's no knowing; he's such a secretive fellow. Did you notice the expression on his face all day yesterday when he looked at the judge? And this morning I couldn't help noticing it. I tell you, Stepaside knew a great deal more than we imagined, and he's had something up his sleeve the whole time. There'll be an interestingdénouementto all this."
"Will he be hanged, think you?"
"Ask me another! As far as circumstantial evidence goes, the man's dead already, unless he has something to fire forth at the last."
"I see now," said another. "That was the reason Bolitho was so excited last night. Don't you remember how he trembled when that note was brought to him, and how he left the room like a man in a dream? That's it. There was some hint of this in the letter he received. Then he went out and made certain."
"But how could he do that?"
"Who knows? The fact remains that he didn't know till last night. He said as much just now. Anyone can see he didn't have a wink of sleep last night."
"Yes, that was plain enough. He must have suffered the torments of the damned!"
"All the same, it was a plucky thing to do! Would you have done it if you had been in his place?"
"A man doesn't know what he would do under such circumstances. All the same, we can't help admiring him. You see, Bolitho always had a strain of religion in him, and although he was as hard as nails in many respects, he possessed the remains of an old conscience."
Slowly the court emptied itself, and the people found their way into the street, still eagerly discussing every phase of the question, still asking and answering questions.
"I tell thee what," a rough collier was heard to say. "God Almighty's been to work, and when God Almighty gets to work wonderful things happen! When I get back to Brunford I'm going to our minister straight away and ask him to call a meeting for prayer. We mun pray, I tell you. We mun!"
During this time Paul was led back to his cell. The warders would far rather have remained in the court and talked the matter over with the others, but still the influence of discipline was upon them, and they had to do their duty. As a consequence, Paul was soon away from the noise of the excited crowd, and a few minutes later was alone in his cell. As may be imagined, if the scene that morning had caused such excitement among the spectators, it had aroused his nature to the very depths. Everything was so unexpected, so unthought of. In all his calculations Paul had never thought of this. He had wondered in what way Judge Bolitho, whenever the truth became known to him, would meet the difficulties which arose, but he had never dreamt he would stand up in a crowded court like that and make such a confession. Paul knew him to be a proud man, knew, too, that he was sensitive to the least approach of shame, knew that he valued the name he owned—one of the oldest in England. One part of the judge's speech remained in his memory. He repeated the words over again and again to himself as if trying to understand their inwardness: "In a sense there is no need that I should make this explanation in this way, but I do it because my conscience binds me to do so and because I wish, here and now, to ask my son's forgiveness."
In spite of himself he was moved. He realised what it must have cost the judge to utter such words; realised, too, the battle which he had fought during the night, before he had decided to make such a statement. "Because I wish, here and now, to ask my son's forgiveness."
Even yet he hated his father, and fought against the kinder feelings which surged up in his heart. He could not forget the dastardly deed which the man had committed before he was born: the base betrayal, the almost baser desertion, and those long years when his mother suffered in silence and solitude. For himself he did not care so much, but his mother he loved with all the strength of his nature. And a few lachrymose words could not atone for the misery of a lifetime. Still, they had their effect upon him. He called to mind, too, the look in the judge's eyes as he left the court, the simple words he had spoken: "Paul, my son, can you forgive me?"
He wanted to forgive him. A thousand forces which he could not understand seemed to be pleading with him. All the same, his heart remained adamant. The shadow of the gallows was still upon him, the weary weeks he had been lying in a dark cell, covered with ignominy and shame. His portrait had appeared in almost every scurrilous rag in the country. His name and history had been debated among those who always fastened upon every foul bit of garbage they could find. And in a way Paul traced everything to this man, Judge Bolitho; why, he did not know, but he could not help it.
Still, the happenings of that morning impressed him. They seemed to change his intellectual and spiritual whereabouts. They broke the hard crust of his nature. They appealed to him in a way which he thought impossible, and he wondered with a great wonder.
Everything was bewildering, staggering! Where was his mother? he wondered, and, more than all, where was Mary? The thought of the relationship between them almost drove him mad. He could not bear to think that he and Mary were children of the same father. It outraged something in his heart and mocked the dreams which he still dared to dream. Somehow, the battle for his own life which he had determined to fight more passionately than ever had sunk in the background now. It was not the only issue at stake. Other forces were liberated, other interests overwhelmed him.
Still, as he sat there, brooding and planning and dreaming, one thing became clear to his mind and heart—he would not die! He would not betray his mother, but he would fight for his own life. He was a prisoner, and he had refused, and would still refuse, to engage counsel to defend him or lawyers to gather evidence. He knew too well the danger of that. No, no, whatever happened to him, no breath of suspicion should fall upon his mother; but he would fight for his own life step by step, inch by inch. He would tear the circumstantial evidence to pieces. He would convince the jury that it was impossible to condemn him. Whatever else must be done, that must be done—he owed it to Mary.
Directly he thought of her his heart grew warm and tender. She believed in him. She had declared her faith in his innocence in spite of circumstantial evidence. She had laughed at it; she would laugh at it; and he would prove himself worthy of her faith. That at length became the dominant thought in his mind, the great motive power of his life.
Outside, the city of Manchester was stirred to its depths. Like lightning the news had passed from one lip to another of what had taken place that morning, while the reporters rushed to their various offices to transcribe their notes and to prepare copy for the papers. In an almost incredibly quick time the evening newspapers appeared. Newsboys were rushing through the streets shouting excitedly, and there was a mad scramble among the people to buy. The printing presses could not turn them out fast enough; the machinery was insufficient to meet the demands of the excited crowd. "Great murder trial!" shouted the boys. "Wonderful revelations!" "Judge Bolitho confesses that he is the prisoner's father!" "Tremendous excitement in court! Many women fainted!" and so on and so on. Factories became emptied as if by magic. At every corner crowds gathered. Business was at a standstill. The members of the Manchester Exchange had forgotten to think of the rise or fall of cotton. Everything was swallowed up in the news of the day.
Every telegraph office, too, was filled with eager people, and the means of communication from one part of the country to another was taxed to its utmost. Some few months before the Prime Minister of the country had come to Manchester to speak on a question which was exciting not only England but the whole Empire, but even then the telegraph wires had never been so congested with news as on that morning. In a little over an hour after the judge had left the court the London papers were full of it. Stirring headlines were on the placards of all the evening papers, and people bought them with almost the same avidity as they had bought them in Manchester. In a sense there seemed no reason why so much interest should have been aroused, but in another there was. Such a confession on the part of the judge was almost unprecedented, and as both Judge Bolitho and Paul Stepaside were so largely in the public eye, their sayings and doings seemed of the utmost importance. There was something romantic in it, too. A father sitting in judgment upon his own son, and not knowing until a few hours before that he was his son!
But Judge Bolitho was unconscious of all this. He never thought of it. When he left the court that morning he retired for a few minutes into the judge's room; but he could not remain there—he was too excited, too overwhelmed. He must do something. For now that he had made his confession the whole case appeared to him in a different way from what it had appeared to the public. They, in their wonder at the revelation of the facts which Judge Bolitho had made known, had almost ceased to think of the possible doom of the prisoner. But that became of supreme importance to him. In a way which no man can explain, his heart had gone out to his son. Nature had asserted itself. Years had become as nothing, past events seemed to lose their force, in the thought that Paul Stepaside was his son; and he feared for his future, he was in danger of his life. When the new judge was appointed, whoever it might be, he knew that he would consider this case impartially on the evidence given. Young Edward Wilson was murdered, there could be no doubt about that, and all the evidence pointed to Paul Stepaside.
When he reached the street he got into a cab, and was driven to his hotel, and there he thought out the whole case again. On the previous night, during the long hours when he was sleepless, it was a difficult battle he had to fight. It was then for him to make known his son to the world. Perhaps it had been a quixotic, almost a mad thing to do; but, although the suffering it entailed was horrible, he could not help doing it. He had fought a long battle over what he conceived to be his duty, and duty had won. Now that was over, and he had done his duty, the other problem faced him: how could he save his son? But again his mind refused to work. Nothing seemed clear and definite to him. The great feeling in his heart was hunger for his boy. He wanted to be by his side—nay, he wanted to kneel at his feet, to plead with him, to beg for his love.
He had not been long in his room before a look of determination came into his eyes. He had yielded to the overmastering feeling in his heart, and a few minutes later he was in the street again, on his way to Strangeways Gaol.
Daylight was now dying, although it was only a little after three o'clock. The sky was murky and smoke-laden, the air was utterly still. All round the centre of the city the people still discussed the events of the morning. Outside the Town Hall, in the Square, outside the Hospital, all down Market Street, along Corporation Street, the people stood in excited groups; and although the intense feeling which had been aroused in the morning had somewhat subsided, there was only one subject which was of paramount interest. Strange as it may seem, however, the district round Strangeways Gaol was comparatively deserted. The Assize Courts were no longer the centre of interest, even although they were the source from which everything emanated.
By this time Paul Stepaside had become almost in a state of torpor. He was suffering a reaction from the intense feeling which had possessed him that morning. When he had at first returned to his cell his mind was intensely alive, and a thousand plans were flashing through his brain, a thousand questions occurred to him which demanded an answer. Now, however, that numb, dull feeling which ever follows such experiences possessed him. After all, what mattered? Mary Bolitho could never be his wife, and if Fate had decided upon his death, die he must. Indeed, he did not seem to care very much. It seemed as if, for the time being, his nature had become almost paralysed. Of course, the experiences through which he was passing were only transitory. Presently his strength would assert itself again, and everything would become vivid and vital. And so he lay in a semi-comatose condition on the comfortless couch which had been provided for him, and the realities of the situation seemed far away. He had been lying thus for perhaps an hour, and was on the point of falling asleep, when there were footsteps in the corridor outside, and the door of his cell opened.
At first he felt almost annoyed at the intrusion. Why could they not let him rest? After all, everything was hopeless, and he did not very much care. Still, he turned his eyes towards the door, and when he saw that it was Judge Bolitho who entered, he started to his feet. His nerves grew tense again, and his mind active. The judge waited while the door was closed, and then turned to Paul. The older man looked around the little room like one trying to take in the situation, noted the light of the dying day as it penetrated the prison window, let his eyes rest upon the little couch where Paul had been lying, and made a survey of the items of the room as though it were his business to care for the prisoner's comfort.
Neither of them spoke for some seconds. Paul was silent because, in spite of everything, there seemed an insurmountable barrier between him and the man who had come to visit him; the judge, because he almost feared the son whom he had come to see.
Presently their eyes fastened upon each other's faces, and each scrutinised every feature as if trying to read the other's mind. It was Paul who spoke first.
"Why have you come here?" he asked.
"Surely you can guess?" was the reply. "I could not stay away. There was but one place to which I could go."
"You must know that I have nothing to say to you, even as you have nothing to say to me."
"You are wrong," replied the judge. "I have a great deal to say to you. How can it be otherwise? Have you no pity, my boy?"
Paul looked at him angrily. "Pity!" he replied, and there was a world of scorn in his voice.
The judge stood with bowed head. "Yes, I understand," and he spoke almost in a whisper. "I understand, and I deserve your scorn. I deserve it a thousand times over. But do not think I have not suffered, Paul."
Paul gave an impatient shrug and took two steps across his little cell.
"I am afraid I cannot give you a welcome befitting your lordship's position," he said. "As you will see, myménagedoes not suggest very great luxury, and I think my servants are in a state of revolution. But will you not be seated?"
"You see," he went on, "when a man is being tried for murder, even although the English law says that every man must be regarded as innocent until he has been proved to be guilty, it does not provide any luxuries!"
"Paul, my boy, do you not know? Do you not understand?" said the judge. "Yes, I have been guilty of all those things of which you are thinking. I deserve all the contempt and all the anger you feel for me, but I come to you as a suppliant."
"For what?"
"For your forgiveness, your love. I am no longer your judge. If I were I could not be here. That's over now. Another will take my place. If I can do anything to atone, my boy, I will do it, if you will let me know what it is. Do you not see? Do you not understand?"
There was a world of pleading in his voice, while in his tired eyes was a look of yearning and longing that Paul could not understand.
"If you will tell me what you wish," said the younger man, "if you will explain to me your desires, perhaps—although, as you see, I am so curiously situated—I will do what I can to meet your wishes."
His voice was still hard, and there was no look in his eyes which suggested yielding or pity.
"I deserve nothing from you," replied the judge. "How can I? And yet I could not help coming. After all, you are my son!"
"How did you learn it?" asked Paul.
"Last night I went to see your mother," he replied. "She is staying at a little house not far from here. I received a letter asking me to go to a certain number in Dixon Street. It was couched in such language that I could not refuse. I went there, and I saw your mother. I had thought she was dead—at least, I had no reason to believe her alive. There I learnt everything. Since then there's been only one thought in my mind, only one longing in my heart——"
"And that?" said Paul.
"The one thought in my mind," said the judge, "has been that you are my son; the one longing in my heart has been that you would forgive me and love me. It took some time to shape itself, but there it is, and I have come. I cannot put my feelings into words properly. Words seem so poor, so inadequate! Can't you understand?"
The picture of his mother's face rose up before Paul's eyes as his father spoke, and with it the remembrance of the long years of pain, sorrow, and loneliness.
"Do you not understand?" asked the judge again.
"I understand my mother's sufferings," said Paul. "I understand how, when she was a young girl, forsaken, disgraced, she suffered agonies which cannot be put into words. I understand how she tramped all the way from Scotland to Cornwall, the home of her mother's people. I understand what she felt towards the man who betrayed her, especially when her only child was born in a workhouse, a nameless pauper! I understand that!"
The judge stood with bowed head. He might have been stunned by some heavy blow. He rocked to and fro, and for a moment Paul thought he was going to fall.
"Yes," he said presently, "I deserve it all. Even the circumstances which I might plead do not extenuate me."
"What were they?" asked Paul.
For a moment he had become interested in the past. He wanted to know what this man had to tell him, what excuses he had to make.
"You won my mother as Douglas Graham. Whence the change of name? I suppose you masqueraded in Scotland as Douglas Graham because you did not wish your true name to be known? You're a villain, and you thought if you called yourself Bolitho that villainy could not be traced. I am not one who quotes rag-tags of religious sentiment as a rule, but there are two sayings which occur to my mind just now. One is, 'Be sure your sin will find you out,' and another, 'Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small.' It may be all nonsense in most cases, but just for the moment it seems as though there were something in it!"
"Paul," said the judge, "as I have said, I know I deserve nothing at your hands save the scorn and contempt which you evidently feel for me, but is there no means whatever of bridging over this awful gulf? I would give my life to do so!"
"No," said Paul. "I am no theologian, and yet I cannot close my eyes to the fact that sin and penalty go together—only, the injustice of it is that the penalty not only falls on the head of the one who sins but on the head of the innocent."
"Then you can never forgive me?" said the judge, and there was a world of pleading in his voice.
"If your lordship will just think a moment," said Paul. "You have asked me to try and understand you; will you try and understand me? I am here in a prison cell, accused of murder. Possibly I shall be hanged—although I mean to fight for my life," this he added grimly, with set teeth and flashing eyes. "I am twenty-five years of age, and it is not pleasant to think that one's life shall end in such a way! Let me remind you of something, Mr. Justice Bolitho, and, in reminding you of it, perhaps you will see that I have no reason to play the part of the yielding and affectionate son. I was born in a workhouse. My only name has been the name given to me because my mother was found lying near a little hamlet called Stepaside. I was educated a pauper. The parish paid the expenses of my learning a trade. When I was seventeen my mother told me the story of her life, told me of my father's villainy. What such a story would do for most men I don't know, but this it did for me: it robbed me of everything most dear. It killed in me all faith. It destroyed in me all belief in God and Providence. When I went out into the world it seemed to me that the only legacy I had was a legacy of hatred for the man who had robbed my mother of her youth and of her honour, and me of my boyhood and of all the things that make youth beautiful. I need not tell you my story since. You know it too well. But, if I am hard and bitter, you have made me what I am. Consciously or unconsciously, yours has been the hand that has moulded me. Do you wonder, then, that I cannot respond to this appeal for filial affection—that I cannot clasp my arms round your neck like a hero in a fourth-rate melodrama? When you rob a man of his faith in human nature and God, you rob him of everything, you dry up the fountains of tenderness."
For a moment there was a silence between them, and then Paul went on: "But where's my mother now? You say you saw her last night. What did she tell you? What did you tell her? Do you know what has become of her?"
"I scarcely know what I did tell her," replied the judge. "I was so overwhelmed when she told me that you were my son that I was scarcely capable of thinking. Besides, she seemed in no humour for asking questions. She felt very bitterly towards me, naturally, and my mind was numbed; I could not think."
"Perhaps you will tellme?" said Paul presently.
"I will tell you everything that you ask, my boy."
"Then tell me why you masqueraded in Scotland under a false name? Tell me why you left my mother on the day you married her."
"Douglas Graham was my name," he replied. "I had no thought of masquerading."
"Then why have you become Bolitho?" asked Paul. "My mother told me that on the night of your wedding day you read a letter which had been given to you which seemed to surprise you very much. Tell me the meaning of it."
The judge gave no answer, and again he rocked to and fro in his misery. "Paul, my son," he said. "I cannot!"
Again the two men looked at each other steadily. Paul's mind was active again now.
"You know what your confession meant this morning," he said at length. "You declared to the court that I was your son, your lawful son; that my mother was your lawful wife. But what of Mary? Tell me that. You know what I wrote to you concerning her. I asked you to allow me to try and win her as my wife, not knowing of the relations which existed between us—not knowing anything. You know, too, the cruel reply you sent to me—a reply which contained an insult in every line, in every word. But let that pass. If my mother is your lawful wife, what of Mary's mother? Will you answer me that?"
Still the judge stood with bowed head. It seemed as though he had been struck a death-blow. More than once he essayed to speak, but no words passed his lips. It seemed an eternity to Paul before the judge spoke again.
"At least I tried to do you justice, Paul," he stammered. "I tried to do—that is, I tried to proclaim to the world that your mother was a lawful wife."
"Yes," cried the young man, and his voice was hard with anger. "And do you not see what it means? It means that Mary's name is tarnished. For your sin and your punishment I do not care so much; but what of her? Think of the stories which gossiping tongues will be telling about her just now! Think of the sneering lies, the scornful gibes which will be uttered about her! My disgrace did not matter so much; I had become used to it. But what of her?"
"Stop, stop, Paul! In pity stop! Great God! Yes, it's true; but I did not realise this."
"Then the name of Bolitho is assumed," said Paul. "It is not your true name at all. Will you tell me the meaning of this?"
"I cannot," said the judge. "I know what you must be thinking, Paul, but I cannot do it."
"Then," cried the young man angrily, "it was cruel to her to make the confession you did this morning. I would a thousand times rather suffer myself—ay, and see my mother suffer, too—than see her suffer. And this is what you've done. Had you not better go away and leave me alone? Had you not better recant what you said this morning, and say you spoke while your mind was unhinged?"
"Paul," said the judge, "will you let me sit down on your couch here? I realise the truth of every word you have said, although you have spoken cruelly. Perhaps I did wrong in coming to you; but I could not help it. Believe me, my son, much as you have suffered, it is nothing to what I suffer at this moment."
There was no whine in his voice, no appeal to pity. It was a simple statement of fact, and for the first time Paul had a feeling in his heart which he could not understand. After all, the man before him was his father, and his haggard face, his bent form, his bloodshot eyes, all told of the agony through which he was passing.
"Son," said the judge, "some time, at all events, I hope I may be able to make known the things which you have asked, but I cannot trust myself to try and do so now. Will you let me be quiet for a few minutes, my boy? I want to think. And will you try and forget this part of the story?"
The judge sat down on the couch, while Paul, leaning against the prison wall, watched him. Minute after minute passed away, and then the judge spoke again.
"Paul," he said. "Are you guilty of this murder?"
"I would rather not discuss it with you," said Paul.
"My son," said the judge, "you do not believe what I have told you. To you my words are a mockery. But I love you like my own life. Even now, if I could die in your place I would be glad. At any rate I may be able to help you. Mary doesn't believe you are guilty. She told me so last night. I can speak freely of this now, for I am no longer the one who shall sit in judgment on you, and I want to help you."
Paul looked at his father and wondered what was passing in his mind; wondered, too, how much he knew. He could not tell him of his suspicions, could not even hint at the fact that he believed his mother was guilty of the murder for which he was accused. He knew of Judge Bolitho's reputation; knew, too, that he would eagerly fasten upon everything he learnt and follow it to its logical sequence.
In spite of everything, however, a change seemed to be coming over their relationship. The feeling of half an hour before had somewhat passed away. The sensations caused by their first meeting had become less powerful.
"Whatever else I can do, Paul," said the judge, "I want to help you in this. Can't you trust me?"
Paul was silent. He was afraid to answer directly, afraid lest the haunting fear in his heart would become known. Then, in a way he could not understand, he found himself talking with his father more freely, found himself telling something of his life in Brunford, until by and by he realised that he had been subjected to a close examination. It seemed to him as though it had become a battle of wits between him and his father; and although he was angry with himself afterwards, he knew he had disclosed many things which he had sworn should never pass his lips. Still, he had said nothing definite. He had never even hinted at the possibility of his mother's guilt.
"If you could only trust me!" said the judge at length. "If you would tell me exactly what happened, I might even yet be able to save you."
"Do you not believe me guilty, then?" said Paul.
"Mary does not," replied the judge.
"I know that," was Paul's answer. "And for her sake I mean to fight for my own life."
"Even although you did this thing?"
"EvenifI did it!"
"But have you any evidence to add that shall tell in your favour—anything that will destroy the impression which has been made?"
"Do you believe they will hang me if I don't?"
"I mean to say, as far as circumstantial evidence is concerned, the case is terribly black against you, and the jury must act upon evidence given. And, oh, Paul, Paul! Can't you realise? Can't you understand what I feel? If I must tell the truth, one of the reasons I decided to say what I did this morning in the court was that I might be free to try and save your life. Will you not tell me what is in your mind?"
Paul shook his head. "You have wormed a great many things out of me," he said, "which I did not mean to tell; still, I think I have been a match for you."
"Don't you realise, Paul, what your life is to me? Can't you understand what the knowledge that you are my son means to me? Don't you believe that I would give everything I possess, everything I am, to bring you happiness? Oh! I know what you feel, and I do not wonder at it. I know, too, what you must be thinking about me now, and I cannot help myself. But, Paul, if there's a possibility, let me save you. Tell me the truth—the whole truth!"
"You would not thank me for doing so," replied Paul grimly.
For a little while there was another silence between them, then the judge seemed to change his tactics.
"I think you do wrongly, my son, not to employ counsel. I do not doubt that your brains are quite as good as anyone's you might engage to defend you; but you cannot understand the methods of cross-examination as a trained barrister can. You do not know the hundred weapons he can use in your defence."
"I think I know," replied Paul.
Both of them had become calm by this time, and each talked in an almost unrestrained manner. The judge was no longer almost overwhelmed by that through which he had been passing, and Paul had seemingly, to a very large extent, forgotten the bitterness which he had felt at the beginning of their interview.
"May I come to see you again?" asked Judge Bolitho.
"To what end?" asked Paul.
"Because I love you, my son. Because I long to be near you. Because I want to win your love; to hear you say you forgive me. I have sinned against you; but, believe me, I have done all in my power to atone. I must go now, but I shall be thinking for you, hoping for you, working for you, praying for you."
There was something so humble and so sincere in the tones of his voice that, in spite of the past, Paul could not longer repel him.
"Won't you shake hands?" he said. "Won't you tell me that you will try to forgive me?—onlytry, Paul!"
But Paul stood as still as a statue. He felt himself yielding to his father's pleadings, and he was angry with himself because of it. And yet he could not destroy the tender feelings which were coming into his heart.
"Will nothing move you, my son—nothing?"
Still Paul did not reply. He was afraid to speak. He felt as though, if he uttered a word, it would end in a sob. They had been together more than an hour, and in the near distance a clock began to chime.
"I must go now," said the judge. "But I shall come again. I shall never cease coming until I have won your love. Paul, I cannot live without it now! Look into my eyes, my son; can you not see? Can you not understand?"
In spite of himself Paul did as his father had told him, and realised how the proud man was humbling himself. He saw the lines of pain upon his face, saw, too, the look of infinite yearning and tenderness in his eyes; and he felt that his own were filled with tears. But still he hardened himself and made no sign.
The judge threw his arms round Paul's neck.
"Paul, my son, my son! Forgive me!" he said, "and love me!"
And Paul did not repulse him, even although he did not yield to his father's entreaties.
There was a sound of footsteps in the corridor, the noise of the key turning in the lock. A minute later Judge Bolitho had left the cell; and then Paul threw himself on the couch, while his frame shook with mighty sobs.
Judge Bolitho left Strangeways Gaol without speaking a word. In spite of everything he felt his visit had not been in vain. There was a joy in his heart for which he could not account.
"Some day he will know," he said to himself. "Some day he will know, if he lives! And I must save him. I do not believe he is guilty—he cannot be. He is hiding something from me. He is shielding someone. I must find out."
It was quite dark by now, and it was some time before he found a cab. A little later, however, he was back in his hotel again. It seemed to him as though his powers of action were coming back. He was no longer bewildered and overwhelmed as he had been.
"Is Miss Bolitho here?" he said to a servant who answered his call.
"No, my lord. She left this morning."
"Left this morning?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Did she leave no message?"
"No, my lord."
He remembered what she had said, and began to realise.
"All right," he said. "Will you bring me a cup of tea?"
A few minutes later he was in the street again. This time he used no conveyance, but walked rapidly towards Deansgate. Ere long he found himself in the region where he had been on the previous night, and, finding his way into Dixon Street, he went to the house where Paul's mother had met him. When he knocked at the door, however, it was answered by a stranger.
"Is Mrs. Stepaside in?"
"No; she left here to-day."
"She's coming back again, I suppose?"
"No; I do not think so."
"Did she say where she was going?"
"I think she has gone back to Brunford, but I cannot tell."
"She left no message concerning her intentions?"
"No, she left nowt."
He was about to turn away when evidently a thought struck him suddenly.
"Had she any visitors to-day?" he asked. "Has a young lady been to see her?"
"Ay; a young woman came this morning about ten o'clock."
"Did you know her?"
"Nay, she was not from these parts. She was dressed i' furs and all that sort of thing."
"I see," said the judge. "Thank you very much."
He returned to the hotel, and began studying a timetable.
"Yes, I think I understand," he said to himself.