"If you will tell me the points on which you are disagreed," said the judge at length, "I may be able to throw some light upon them, and also, perhaps, advise you."
"The points are these," said the foreman of the jury. "First of all, some among us are far from being convinced that the prisoner, if he were the murderer, would be likely to leave the knife in the murdered man's body. If he had struck the blow in a passion, and had then, overcome by panic, run away for fear of the consequences of what he had done, we could have understood it. But as we are dealing with circumstantial evidence, it seems utterly unlikely that a man who had premeditated a murder should have run away leaving a weapon which could be easily traced to him. That, at least, is the feeling of some members of the jury, and is one of the points which causes us to be divided.
"The second is this: there are some among us who feel very strongly the point of the prisoner's remarks concerning the probability of his knowing where the deceased was at the time of the murder. As he has stated, he would probably have been in bed at the time when he was actually killed. If the murder was premeditated, there are some who feel the utter unlikelihood of the prisoner going out alone at midnight on the chance of finding his victim.
"These are the points, my lord, on which we are not agreed, and unless further light is thrown upon them, there is no likelihood of agreement."
The juryman spoke in a hesitating fashion. He was evidently labouring under a very strong emotion, and was unable to control his voice or to express his thoughts with anything like clearness. Still, what we have just stated conveys a rough idea of the difficulties which faced them.
Again an intense silence pervaded the court as the foreman of the jury sat down. The suspense seemed almost too horrible to be borne. There was not a man in the court who was not pale to the lips, and whose nerves were not quivering with painful excitement. Again the reporters almost forgot their duty. In their eagerness to know what would be said they forgot to write. Suppressed sobbing was heard almost everywhere. Even the judge looked exceedingly grave, and for the moment seemed unable to decide what to say.
As for Paul, it seemed to him as though his fate hung on a delicately poised balance. The weight of a hair in either scale might decide either his life or his death. It was one of those tragic moments which seldom occur in any man's life, and it was only by a tremendous effort that he remained outwardly calm. But pride came to his aid even now. He had not shown weakness yet, and he would not show it now. He would not break down before this gaping, excited crowd, but retain quiet dignity even to the last. In spite of the intense excitement, too, he was becoming almost callous. Nature has its own way of alleviating pain, and the way she chose now to help Paul to continue to bear the dreadful strain was to numb his feelings, and to make him almost indifferent concerning what should take place. For the past few hours every nerve had been at full tension, and so greatly had he been wrought upon that he could not have remained in such a condition much longer. And so kindly Nature had lessened the pangs he was suffering, and made him able to bear to the end by her own anaesthetics.
"I quite understand your position, gentlemen," said the judge, "and I will do my best to help you. We will take the points in the order in which you mention them. First, there is the question of the knife, and in order to fully understand the sequence of this, we will again consider it from the very beginning. We must remember that the prisoner was very careful about locking his office. No one was allowed to enter it when he was absent. He kept the key in his own pocket. We have to remember, too, that his own partner declared that he knew of no one who entered the prisoner's office that day, and even if anyone entered the office, there was no one who, as far as he knew, would dare to take that knife from the prisoner's desk. The fact remains, however—and it is facts we must consider, gentlemen, and give them their due significance—the fact remains that the murdered man was found with this knife in his heart. Now, gentlemen, it is for you to decide how that knife could have left the prisoner's office. Was there someone who could have entered the office, and, with set purpose, take it away without the prisoner's knowledge, and use it in the way mentioned? Or, did the prisoner take it away himself and use it as has been described by the counsel for the prosecution? I say you must decide on this question because it is most vital. You have heard all the evidence in relation to this matter, and it is for you to decide now first whether any outsider obtained entrance into the prisoner's office and took away that knife and used it for the purpose of murder, or whether the prisoner himself took it away in the way described? That is the first point to be considered in relation to the knife. Now with regard to the ostensible difficulty which appears to you. From one standpoint, it seems utterly unlikely that a man of the prisoner's evident intellectual acumen should have used this knife, known to be his, for the purpose of murdering an enemy, and then have left it in his body in such a way that it would be inevitably traced to him. I understand your difficulty, gentlemen, and I appreciate it, and it is a point that you must keep clearly before your mind. There is, however, another side which you must also keep just as clearly in view. It is this. If the prisoner had made up his mind to do this, would not a clever man, such as he undoubtedly is, probably come to the conclusion that it would seem so absurd that he should leave the knife in the body of his victim that he might do so as a mere matter of bluff? A clever man, a far-seeing man will sometimes do things which a duller man would not do, and it is for you to decide whether these things might not have been in the mind of the prisoner when he decided to act in this way.
"You have also to consider this. It is true it has been urged that the murderous deed was uninterrupted, but we cannot be sure of this. Might not the one who struck the blow have heard approaching footsteps at the time, and then in a state of panic have rushed away? These things you must carefully consider. But the real point at issue, the vital point which you have to consider is: could anyone else have become possessed of the knife in the first place? Did anyone else become possessed of that knife? If not, then the difficulty in your minds is easy to explain.
"That is the first point. Now for the second. What you urge, and most rightly urge, too—and I fully appreciate the evident thought and care which you have bestowed upon it—is the unlikelihood of the prisoner going out at midnight to commit murder, when he had no knowledge whatever that the murdered man would not be in his own home. You say that some of you feel that his going out under such circumstances, and depending on chance as to whether he should meet him, was altogether unnatural. I will admit that you have to consider this point carefully, remembering that a man's life or death depends upon the decision at which you arrive. But there is another thought which you must keep clearly before your minds. You have no knowledge that the prisoner was not aware of the murdered man's whereabouts. They had a quarrel the previous evening. How do we know that the murdered man did not tell the prisoner something of his plans, or where he intended to be? He has not submitted himself to cross-examination, and therefore we have not been able to hear from him. Consequently, we have no knowledge that the murdered man did not, during the excited conversation, say something of his intentions, or let fall some hint whereby a man with the quick perception of the prisoner, might find out what he intended to do. If this were the case—and while there is no proof that it is so, it is not at all improbable—it would remove your difficulty. If they met, it is probable that another quarrel ensued, and then in the heat of passion the prisoner might have struck the blow which resulted in his victim's death, and then rushed away and uttered the words which the man Ashley overhead. This is all I can say on these points, gentlemen, and you have to consider, in the light of the evidence to which you have listened, whether this might be the case. As has been repeatedly said, the whole case rests upon circumstantial evidence, and it is for you carefully to consider the matter again, and may Almighty God guide you in your momentous deliberations!"
Again it was evident that the judge tried to be fair, but again his elucidation of the points at issue was deadly, as far as the prisoner was concerned. Rightly or wrongly, more than one felt that the judge had made up his mind as to the guilt of Paul Stepaside, and speaking as he did, in cold, calculated words, yet with all the authority of his position behind him, many felt that each sentence strengthened the chain of evidence which would hang the prisoner.
Paul listened without moving a muscle or uttering a sound, nevertheless his eyes were fixed upon the judge with a kind of stony stare. It seemed to him that there was a kind of malignant cunning in the judge's words, that the man was conjuring up possibilities in support of the evidence which seemed to point to him.
Again the jury retired, and a solemn silence reigned. This time there was not even the sound of whispered consultations as to what the verdict might be. It was a kind of ghastly waiting for the jurymen to return. Slowly the clock ticked on, and it seemed to be numbering the seconds of Paul Stepaside's life. And yet there were many who simply could not believe that any jury could find him guilty. Standing there alone in the dock, tall, erect, calm, his features refined by the long weeks of suffering through which he had passed, thin and pale as a consequence of his confinement and anxiety, many felt that it was impossible he should be guilty of such a bloodthirsty deed. And yet in face of the judge's summing up, in face of the terrible speech which Mr. Bakewell had delivered, it seemed as if the gallows would surely claim their victim.
Minute after minute passed, until the waiting seemed unbearable. At length, however, the door of the room in which the jury sat opened, and one by one they returned. With strained eyes, all looked at their faces, trying to read there what their decision was. It seemed almost grotesque that these twelve, commonplace, unimaginative men, with no ability out of the common order, with little or no knowledge of the law, with minds unfitted to grasp the inwardness of the evidence which had been given, should have to pronounce the verdict of life or death upon the young man who stood in the dock. Under ordinary circumstances Paul's voice, Paul's opinion, would have weighed more than all theirs put together. Yet such was the case. They held in their hands the issues of life and death. What they had decided upon would be final.
"Gentlemen, are you agreed as to your verdict?" And as the listeners heard the question asked it seemed as though their heart-strings were strained, and as though they could not bear to hear the answer.
"Yes."
"Do you find the prisoner guilty, or not guilty?"
"Guilty!"
It seemed like a knell of doom in the court. The pent-up feelings of the crowded spectators burst forth in a mighty sob. More than one gasped, "No, no." The utmost confusion prevailed, and more than one had to be carried out of the court, overcome by emotion. The jurymen sat each in his place pale and evidently moved. The verdict had been according to the best of their abilities. Perhaps had the judge's summing up been different they would have given the alternative finding, but the feeling was that the judge, who was far wiser than they, believed in the prisoner's guilt, and they, carried away by his weight and authority, and by his cold, yet telling, words, pronounced the verdict of "Guilty."
Paul, when he heard the verdict, reeled for a moment, and felt as though his limbs were giving way under him; but only for a moment. His resolution and his pride, which had borne him through the rest of the trial, should bear him through this. He would not show any weakness. His face was blanched, and his lips were white, but his eyes still burned with a steady light, and in a few seconds he again stood erect and calm, and looked at the judge's face.
The judge communicated for a moment with the Clerk of Arraigns, who went through the usual formula, and then the clerk, addressing the prisoner in the dock, said to him:
"Paul Stepaside, you have been found guilty of the wilful murder of Edward Wilson. Have you anything to say why sentence of death should not be passed upon you in due form?"
Paul hesitated a moment as if undecided whether he should speak—everything seemed to be pure mockery now. The end of all things had come. He knew that when a jury pronounced a verdict of guilty of wilful murder, especially as there were no extenuating circumstances sufficient in any way to lessen the guilt, all hope was gone. And yet he felt as though he must say something. It seemed like allowing himself to be led as a lamb to a butcher if he uttered no word of protest.
"My lord and gentlemen of the jury," he said, "I feel impelled to say a few words, even although I realise their uselessness. I have no complaint to make concerning the motives which inspired the jury. I have no doubt that each one has tried to do his duty. Neither do I complain of the action of the counsel for the prosecution in doing his utmost to fasten the guilt upon me. I suppose it was his duty so to do, and he has done it. Neither, I suppose, ought I to complain of your lordship's summing up, although it struck me as more like another speech by the counsel for prosecution than the judicial analysis of evidence by an impartial judge. But then my position has been of such a nature that perhaps my own judgment is warped. Be that as it may, however, and knowing that, whatever I may say, I cannot alter anything that has been done, I wish to repeat that I am utterly and wholly guiltless concerning this murder. My hand never struck the blow that killed Edward Wilson, and I have no knowledge whatever concerning the murder. In the course of events, I suppose I shall be hanged, but, my lord and gentlemen, you will hang an innocent man, and by your finding to-day, you will send a man into eternity who is not only altogether innocent of the murder, but altogether unconnected with it! I shall go into the great silence, into the land of forgetfulness, but of this I am sure, you, my lord, and you, gentlemen of the jury, must for ever be haunted by the thought that you have sent an innocent man to an unmerited doom."
The tones of his voice gathered in strength and condemnatory intonation as he proceeded, and when he had finished it seemed to many as though he were the judge and those to whom he spoke were criminals. More than one of the jury, who had been unconvinced, but who had given way to the opinions of others, felt as though his words were true. They shuddered as he spoke, and it seemed to them that they were guilty, even as he said they were.
But the word had gone forth and could not be recalled. When once a jury, after careful deliberation, has uttered the verdict of "Guilty," that verdict is final. Even although the judge were convinced of Paul's innocence, he could only pronounce sentence of death. In that respect he was no more responsible than the hangman who had to fasten the rope around his neck. Each would play his part in the grim tragedy, and each would have to do so, because he had accepted the responsibilities of his office.
It was evident that the judge was greatly wrought upon. His hands trembled, his face was haggard, and in his eyes was an expression that looked like fear. He turned for a moment and saw that the chaplain was standing behind him, a pale, cadaverous-looking man indeed, a veritable death's-head.
The judge put on the black cap.
"Paul Stepaside," he said, "you have this day been found guilty of wilful murder. The jury have, upon the evidence given, passed that verdict upon you," he stopped. He had seemed on the point of saying something else, but was unable to do so. Perhaps, as is often the case, he was going to preach him a homily upon a wasted life, or upon a career cut off in the middle, destroyed by an act of brutal passion, but he did not do so. Perhaps there was something in Paul's face which forbade him. Perhaps he almost feared the scornful smile which was on Paul's lips, and the steady look in his eyes.
A painful silence followed, a silence of nearly a minute, and then the judge pronounced his sentence.
"You will be taken from this place to the place from whence you came, and from there to the place of execution, and there you will be hanged by the neck until you are dead, and your body will be buried in the precincts of the prison where you will have been confined after your conviction, and may the Lord have mercy on your soul."
He spoke the words in slow, measured tones, and with deathly impressiveness. Although he was a little man, his voice was deep, almost sonorous, and thus when the chaplain followed him with a thin, piping voice, "Amen!" there was something so incongruous in the contrast that many who had been wrought up to a high state of excitement felt like giving way to hysterical laughter. Nevertheless, the utmost silence prevailed, until Paul spoke again.
"Thank you, my lord," he said. "I am an innocent man, and when my time comes, I will meet death as an innocent man should!"
For a moment he looked around the court, scanned the faces of those present with an expression almost like curiosity. It seemed as if he realised he was looking at them for the last time. It was a look of farewell. He was no longer a prisoner, he was a condemned man. He nodded to some of the people whom he had known in Brunford, and then, with a proud smile, he left the box, under the vigilance of two policemen, who led him to the condemned cell.
When Mary Bolitho left her father on the night following the first day of the trial, she was naturally much excited. She could not understand the great change which had come over him. Never before had she known him to be so much moved by any case with which he had to do. She wondered why it was, and in the solitude of her room began to think of reasons. Had he learnt something about Paul of which she was ignorant? Had he discovered the real murderer? She had sat throughout the day's trial, and no word had fallen, no argument of whatever sort had been urged, that in the slightest degree shook her faith in the man she loved.
She quickly dismissed this from her mind, however. Whatever her father's conduct might mean, she saw no sign that he believed in Paul's innocence. Still, her conversation with him caused all sorts of fancies to flash through her brain, and, sitting down before her fire, she, for the thousandth time, tried to think of means whereby she could save him.
"I must save him; I must!" she said to herself. "Paul knows of something which he refuses to tell me. He is shielding someone."
Naturally she knew nothing of what her father had learnt that night, had no suspicion of the revelations which, when they became known to her, would destroy the thousand fancies which she had cherished and revolutionise her life. The one dominant thought in her mind was that the man whom, in spite of herself, she had learnt to love, was charged with murder, and that unless something was done to nullify the evidence which had been brought to court that day he would have to pay the penalty with his life. Paul, for some reason unknown to her, would not use the means she was sure he had in his power in order to save his life. Of course it was pure surmise on her part, but she was perfectly certain of it; and what he would not do she must do.
Throughout the evening she had been reading the Brunford papers, in which the whole story had been described. Paul's first appearance before the magistrates; the coroner's inquest; and, again, the second appearance before the local justices; and his final committal. No detail of these reports had escaped her notice, and now, after her talk with her father, she again set herself to consider the whole question, determined, at whatever hazards, to save her lover.
Finally her mind fastened upon two or three thoughts, and these thoughts became the centre around which everything revolved. To begin with, Ned Wilson was murdered. Next, Paul Stepaside, who was being tried for that murder, was guiltless of it; that also was a settled conviction in her mind. Who, then, was guilty? Someone must have done the deed, but who? In whatever light murder could be considered, it was something ghastly beyond words. The person who had driven Paul's knife into the murdered man's heart must have had a terrible motive. What could that motive have been? Who would be likely to do it? Who had a motive sufficiently strong to commit such a crime? She thought of one person after another, realising all the time that her imaginings were vain. Yet she knew that it was in this direction that the truth, if it were to be discovered, must be found.
She went over the whole story of the knife, and remembered the deadly words which the counsel for the prosecution had uttered about it. The knife was known to belong to Paul. It was lying in his office, an office which he always locked when he left it. She remembered that Paul's partner had sworn that he knew of no one who would be likely to, or, indeed, could, enter the office and take it away without Paul's knowledge and consent. And yet someone must have done so, for she was still certain that Paul had never done the deed.
Presently she began to think of the question from another standpoint. She had told Paul that he was trying to shield someone. She did not attach much importance to it at the time, but now its consequence became very real. If her surmise were true, then Paul would rather suffer death himself than tell what he knew. She had pleaded with him, only as a woman moved by a great love could plead. With her arms round his neck and her eyes fastened on his she had besought him to tell the truth, and he had been silent. Only the strongest of all reasons could have kept him silent.
Her heart gave a great leap. With that swift intuition of which only a woman is capable her mind leapt to its conclusion. There was only one person in the world besides herself whom Paul loved dearly, and that was his mother.
Like lightning she began to connect the evidence, and it seemed to her that at last she had found the key to unlock the mystery. It was for his mother's sake that Paul was bearing the shame and was suffering the torments of a man accused of murder. She felt sure she had found the truth, and she was at last in a position to save his life. Everything fitted in with the thought which had so suddenly flashed into her mind. Who would have free access to Paul's office? His mother. Why should he refuse to engage a counsel to defend him? Because he feared to incriminate his mother. Again she read the evidence at the coroner's inquest, and noted each point. And she saw, or thought she saw, evidence in every word he had uttered of his endeavour to keep all thoughts from being directed to her.
Presently, however, difficulties began to appear before her mind. What motive could she have had to do this deed? Again her mind worked swiftly. She was, according to all she had heard of her, a passionate woman. She loved Paul with all the strength of her being. For him she had toiled. For him she had suffered. And it was the gossip of the town that Paul's mother loved her son with a wild and almost unreasoning love. She knew of Ned Wilson's enmity towards Paul, knew how he had persecuted him through the years. Possibly, probably, she knew of her son's love for herself, Mary Bolitho; knew, too, that gossip had connected her own name with that of Ned Wilson. Of course, a great deal of it was surmise, but everything pointed to the one fact. Besides, Paul, on his return home after his quarrel with Wilson, would probably tell her about it. He would not be able to hide his wounded forehead. The blood would be trickling down his face, and she would ask him questions about it. Would not a vindictive, passionate woman such as she was said to be, seek to avenge her son? And, of course, Paul would discover everything. The evidence of the servants had proved that Paul had left the house during the night. Why? Yes, that was it. Of course, he would do everything to keep even a shadow of suspicion from resting upon her. It would be like him to do so. Paul's mother had come back, and he had discovered what she had done. That would explain the mystery of the knife. Paul, even though he might have so far yielded to the spirit of revenge as to kill his enemy, would never leave a knife in his victim's body known to be his, and which could be identified and traced to him. But a woman was different, especially such a woman as Paul's mother. Of course, there were motives which she could not understand, thoughts in her mind which were yet hidden from her; but this was the key, this would unlock the door of the mystery, and this would save her lover's life. No, no; much as Paul might love his mother, much as he owed to her, she could not allow him to suffer death in his mother's stead. It was too horrible.
She called to mind the scene she had witnessed that morning. She remembered being startled by the face of the woman who found her way into the court. She had seen the look of madness in her eyes as she looked first at Paul and then at her father. After which she uttered the scream of a maniac and then fell to the ground.
Another thought struck her. Was Paul's mother sane? Would not this account for the difficulties which, in spite of everything, she could not explain away? If she were mad, and carried away by the passion which had been aroused by Wilson's attack on her son, would she not, regardless of consequences, commit this deed of which Paul was accused?
Again and again she considered the circumstances, pondered over each fact, weighed every scrap of evidence which had been adduced; and the more she thought about it the more she was convinced that she had arrived at the truth. By and by, however, the terror of the whole tragic scene came home to her. What would Paul think of her if she were instrumental in bringing his mother to the gallows? Even his love could not bear that test. But she would do it. Rather than see Paul die a thousand should die; for while a woman's love is the most beautiful and the most holy thing on earth, it is also the most merciless and the most pitiless. And at that moment no pity for others entered the heart of Mary Bolitho. Her one thought was of Paul.
No thought of sleep was possible. Every faculty was awake, every nerve in tension. During the years in which she had been interested in her father's work she had, out of pure curiosity, and because of her love of intellectual problems, studied the cases with which he had been connected, and her knowledge of the intricacies of the law and of the value of evidence came to her aid now. All she had was laid at Paul's feet. It was for him she must think, for him she must work.
But she must do something. She must test her theories. Surmises, however true they might be, would not save the man she loved; and save him she would, at whatever cost.
Her mind was made up at length. She saw her course of action, and she believed, too, that she saw a way whereby the truth might be demonstrated.
"Paul, Paul, my love!" she cried. "Do not fear. I will save you, in spite of everything."
She threw herself beside her bed and prayed for wisdom, prayed for strength. She cared nothing for the sacrifices she might be called upon to make, or the sufferings which she might have to endure. She only asked God to help her to save the man she loved.
The following morning Mary Bolitho left the hotel and found her way to the assize courts. Early as it was, she found some of the officials present. One of them, who had seen her the day before and had been informed who she was, touched his hat respectfully.
"I've been wondering," said Mary, smiling at the man, "whether you could help me?"
"I'm sure I will if I can, miss," he replied.
"You were here at the courts all day yesterday?" she asked.
"Yes, miss, I was, and a sad business it was too, wasn't it? Ah, miss, it's not all fun being a judge, as I've no doubt you know very well. I was saying to my missis only last night as 'ow I wouldn't like to be in your father's place. T'other day, afore th' assizes were opened, and people saw his lordship coming into the city, they thought what a grand thing it were, but they don't realise what he's got to do."
The man was of a friendly, garrulous disposition, and seemed pleased at the opportunity of talking to his fair visitor.
"Are you interested in this case?" she asked.
"Ay, miss, who isn't? I heard Mr. Stepaside speak in the Free Trade Hall here once, and I cannot believe he is a murderer. It were a grand speech he gave. There were a Cabinet Minister who spoke before he did, and people thought he were doing grandly, but when young Stepaside got up he took the wind out of his sails completely. As the manner of saying is, he made the people stand on their heads. It's noan for the likes of me to pass opinions, but I can never believe as 'ow Mr. Stepaside is guilty."
"Did you notice the woman who came into the court yesterday morning?"
"What, the one as fainted? Ay, but that were Mr. Stepaside's mother. She fair made me shiver. Well, it was no wonder. Fancy a mother seeing her son in the dock. I heerd as 'ow she was going to be called to give evidence."
"Is she staying here in Manchester, do you know?"
"Ay, she is. I hear as 'ow she's been here a week, waiting for her son's trial to begin. I know where she's staying, too—25 Dixon Street, just off Strangeways. An old man and an old woman live there, and th' old man is very deaf. I hear she's practically got the house to hersen."
This was what Mary had come to find out, and she was glad that she had been able to obtain her information without ostensibly asking for it. A little later she found her way towards Dixon Street, and with a trembling hand knocked at the door of the house which had been mentioned. As she heard footsteps in the passage her heart almost failed her, for she realised the object which she had in mind, and she believed that she would soon be face to face with the murderer of Ned Wilson. Still, she was not to be shaken in her purpose, as she had determined the night before, no matter who might suffer, Paul must not suffer. A pale, near-sighted old woman opened the door to her.
"Is Mrs. Stepaside in?" asked Mary.
"Ay, she is."
"I would like to see her, if I may."
"Who might you be?"
"If you will take me to her I will tell her who I am."
The woman looked at her suspiciously.
"Has it got anything to do with the murder?" she said; and then added: "Nay, the likes of you can have nowt to do with that!"
"Will you please take me to her?" said Mary.
"I don't know. She's noan so well this morning. Last night I left her i' th' house alone. Me and my old man went over to Crumpsall to see our lass. She said as 'ow she didn't mind being left alone, and so we were away several hours. But I was sorry afterwards that we went, for she was in a fair way when we come back. She looked just like a corpse. You see, she's brooding over her son. Ay, but it's a terrible business!"
"Will you please tell her a young lady wishes to see her?" urged Mary.
"She's in the little room behind, having her breakfast," said the woman. "Ay, I s'pose I may as well."
She led the way and Mary followed her, and a minute later entered the room where Paul's mother was.
"Here's a young woman come to see you."
Paul's mother rose as the woman spoke, and looked at Mary intently.
"I've something to say to you," said Mary, "something very important."
"What is it about?"
"I'll tell you when we are alone," was Mary's reply. And then, at a nod from Paul's mother, the owner of the cottage left them together.
For a few seconds there was a silence between them, as each looked steadily at each other. In Mary's eyes were wonder and a sense of horror. She was speaking to Paul's mother, the mother of the man to whom she had given her heart. She was speaking, too, to the woman whom she believed guilty of the crime for which Paul would be again tried that day. The other met her gaze steadily, and looked at her searchingly. She seemed to be trying to read her thoughts, trying to understand her heart, for she knew, as if by instinct, who Mary was—knew that she was looking at the maid whom Paul loved. She did not know that Mary had been to see her son, knew nothing of what had passed between them, knew nothing of what Mary had confessed. For the moment she seemed to think of her only as the girl to whom Paul had given his heart.
"Do you know who I am?" asked Mary.
"Yes, I know. Why have you come here?"
The girl was silent. She could not answer the question. Determined to save Paul as she was, she could not, at such a moment, make the reply which she longed to make.
"Has your father told you anything?"
"Told me anything? I do not understand."
"Ah!" replied the older woman, and she knew that Mary knew nothing of what had taken place between her and Judge Bolitho in that very room the night before.
"Let me look at you," she said presently. "Come here to the light," and taking hold of Mary's arm, she led her to the window, and scrutinised her face slowly.
"You're the lass that my Paul loves," she said, after some seconds. "You know he loves you, don't you? Of course you do. He told me about it himself. Oh, my laddie, my laddie!"
Mary did not speak. She seemed to be fascinated by something in the woman's eyes, while the tones of her voice thrilled her. She felt now how she loved her son, realised how deep was the passion which filled her whole being.
"He's in prison, accused of murder—you know that? He's to be tried again to-day."
Still Mary was silent. There seemed nothing for her to say.
"You love my lad, don't you? Ay, I see you do. Trust a mother to know. Yes, you love him, and he would die for you, willingly. Do you know that?"
"Yes," said Mary.
The interview was turning out altogether differently from what she had expected. This woman was leading her into paths she had not dreamt of.
"I'm his mother," went on the older woman, "and he's everything to me, everything! And I would stop at nothing to make him happy. I'd lay down my life, willingly, to bring joy into his heart. But do you understand? Do you know the truth?"
"What truth?" asked Mary. "I do not quite understand you. Do I believe Paul guilty? No, I don't. He could never do such a thing. He's too great, too noble."
"Do you say that? You?"
"Yes," replied Mary. "I am sure he never did such a thing. He's simply incapable of it. You know it, too, don't you? Of course you do."
"Then you take no notice of the evidence?"
"What's evidence?" asked the girl. "The one thing I'm sure of is that Paul never did what he is accused of. He simply couldn't."
"And you'rehischild!" said Paul's mother. "Hischild. Let me look at you again." She scrutinised Mary's face feature by feature. She seemed to be looking for something.
"You're a good lass," she said presently. "And you love Paul, don't you?"
"Yes," replied the girl, "I do." There seemed nothing incongruous in the confession, nothing strange in making it to the woman to whom she was speaking for the first time. And yet the interview was bewildering. Her thoughts, as she found her way along the grimy street, were clear enough. Now they were being scattered to the winds. Neither could she adhere to her resolution. How could she accuse this woman of such a terrible deed?
"What have you come here for?" asked Paul's mother presently.
"Need you ask?" asked Mary. "I've come to you because we must save Paul."
"Do you think Paul needs our help?" asked the other. "When the time comes Paul will clear himself. You do not know what a clever lad he is. I know what is being said about him. I read it all in the papers, but I don't fear. Paul is cleverer than all of them put together, and, of course, he never did it; he'll surely come triumphant out of this. Oh, I know it's terrible for him; but it's not that that makes me fear, it's something else!"
Again Mary's eyes met those of the other, and she was sure she detected a look of madness. The woman's mind was unhinged. She was not altogether responsible for what she was saying.
"No, it's not that," continued Paul's mother. "It's not that. Paul is so clever that he will beat them all."
"Not unless the real murderer confesses," replied Mary. "You see, I know what Law Courts are, and what juries are, and I've read every word of the evidence, and unless the real murderer is found, I am afraid—terribly afraid!"
"You mean that they will hang him?"
Mary was silent. She felt she could not utter the words that hung upon her lips.
"That's why I've come to you," said Mary. For the moment she felt like uttering the thoughts which had been haunting her throughout the night, but it seemed as though something sealed her lips.
"Will you not help me?" she said. "We must work together."
For a moment Mary had made the other feel what she felt herself—that Paul's life was really in danger—but only for a moment.
"No, no," she cried. "They'll never hang him when they know what I know!"
"What do you know? Tell me," cried Mary, feeling that she was nearing the object after which she strove.
"Yes, you must know. The truth must come out. After last night it cannot be hidden long."
"My father, as you know, is the judge," said Mary. "And he must do his duty. It's not he who's responsible; it is the jury, you know."
There was something unreal in her words, and they seemed to pass her lips without any effort on her own part. Paul's mother almost laughed.
"Why is it I feel so tender towards you?" she said, "when you are his child? I expect it is because I know that Paul loves you and that you love him. I ought to hate you. I can't understand why I don't. And then everything is so tangled too."
Mary was sure now that she was talking to a mad woman. Her words were meaningless. They were simply the ravings of a disordered mind.
"Can a man condemn his own son to death?" continued the older woman. "Now that he knows the truth, can he send him to be hanged?"
Mary began to be afraid. The woman's wild, unreasoning words and the strange look in her eyes almost frightened her.
"I do not think you realise what you are saying."
"Not realise?" was the reply. "Oh, my lass, my lass! Yes, I see you think I'm mad. It would be no wonder if I were. I've gone through enough to unhinge any woman's mind; but, no, I am not mad. Yes, I may as well tell you, for you must know sooner or later, that judge—Judge Bolitho as you call him—your father, is Paul's father too, and my husband. Paul has told you about it, hasn't he? He married me when I was a girl up among the Scotch hills, and he's Paul's father, and he's your father too. Don't you see?"
For a moment Mary was almost stunned. In spite of the wild words which she heard, she could not help being convinced of their truth. Her mind fled to the interview she had had with her father on the previous night, and what the woman had said seemed to explain the terror in his eyes and the mystery of his words.
"My father, Paul's father!"
"Yes; he courted me as Douglas Graham. How he changed his name I don't know yet; that will come, I suppose. He is my husband and Paul's father. I told him so last night, so he knows—knows everything. Why didn't he tell you? But—don't you see?—he cannot condemn Paul to death. How can a father condemn his own son?"
The two stood close by the window, and Paul's mother still had her hand upon Mary Bolitho's shoulder, and was looking into her face. Mary felt the hand tremble, and saw the strong woman reel to and fro.
"You are ill, Mrs. Stepaside," cried Mary; and then, scarcely knowing what she was doing, she led her to a chair.
"My lass," said the woman, "take me home. Take me to the home Paul gave me. I cannot think here. I cannot stay any longer. Will you?"
"You mean that you wish me to go to Brunford with you?" asked Mary.
"Ay, if you will, my lassie. I think I am going to be ill. I feel as though I have borne all I am able to bear, and I want to get home—to the home which Paul gave me. Will you come with me?"
Mary was almost overwhelmed by what she had heard during the last few minutes. She was not sure that the woman's story was true, and yet she felt it might be, that it probably was. She wanted to be alone to think. If her father were Paul's father, then, then——
The thought was staggering, overwhelming, but above and beyond everything, Paul's safety, Paul's salvation was her great and paramount thought. She quickly made up her mind what to do. She could do no good in Manchester, and if she accompanied this woman to Brunford she might be able to find proofs to confirm her convictions.
"Yes; I will go with you," she said.
"Thank you, my lassie. Ay, but you're a good child, and you're bonnie, too. No wonder my Paul loves you better than he loves his mother!"
"Are you sure you are well enough to travel?" asked Mary.
"Yes, I am sure I'm well enough to get home."
"Then excuse me for a little while," said Mary. "I will go back to the hotel and pack a few things, and come for you with a cab. In half an hour I will be here. Can you get ready in that time?"
"Ay, I'll be ready; you need not fear."
A few minutes later Mary was back at the hotel again. When she arrived there she found that her father had gone. It was still early for the assize courts, but she paid no attention to it. There was doubtless sufficient reason for her father's early departure. Perhaps, perhaps—— But she could not formulate the thoughts which one after another flashed through her mind. Seizing a piece of paper, she scribbled a hasty note and gave it to the hall porter.
"This is for Judge Bolitho," she said, and then, entering the cab which waited for her, she drove quickly to Dixon Street. Arriving there she found Paul's mother was ready for her, and ere long they were in the train bound for Brunford.
During the journey scarcely a word passed between them. Mary was busy with her own thoughts. She was trying to bring some order out of the confusion of the events which had been narrated to her. Everything was altered. If what the woman had told her was true—and in spite of everything she believed it was—then Paul was her half-brother; and if Paul were her half-brother and his mother were still alive, then, then——
But she would not trouble about this, bewildering as it was. What mattered her own future? What mattered what the world might say? Her first business was to save Paul, and save him she would, at all hazards. She looked at her companion, who sat near to her staring into vacancy. Mary's excited imagination began to conjure up wild fancies as she looked. She thought of what Paul's mother must have been twenty-five years before, tried to picture her as a girl. Yes, she must have been very beautiful, and might easily have attracted such a young man as her father was at the time. She fancied the two up among the bare Scottish hills, saw the flash of the young girl's eyes when the stranger told her he loved her, realised the throbbing of her heart, the joy, the wonder which must have possessed her when she promised to be his wife. For the moment all the grim realities of the present seemed to retire to the background. She lived in the world of fancy, of imagination, and the poetry and the romance of the past became very beautiful to her. Strange to say, her own part in the affair did not for the moment trouble her. The terrible logic of events were not yet real to her. By and by they would appear to her in all their ghastly nakedness, but now they did not seem to matter.
"If I am going to be ill," said Paul's mother, "you'll stay with me, won't you?"
"Yes," she replied, not realising what the words might mean.
"You see I shall be all alone. I have no friends in Brunford. Many would have liked to be friends with me for Paul's sake, but I kept them all at a distance. You see I waited until my name was cleared, and it will soon be cleared now."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, he knows, he knows everything—I mean your father. He's afraid of Paul, I know he is; he always has been. It's strange that Paul is not anything like him, isn't it? Paul has black hair and black eyes, just as I have. He's my boy, my boy! Thank God for that! And they can't harm him, can they? You are sure of that."
Mary was silent. The meaning of the work she had to do became real to her now. She, too, believed that no harm could come to Paul, but she realised the cost of his salvation. Paul could never be saved until the true murderer was found and proved to be the murderer.
"I am afraid I am going to be ill," went on the older woman. "These last few weeks have been too much for me. And you've promised to stay with me, haven't you?"
"Yes," replied Mary eagerly. "I'll stay with you, and you must tell me everything."
"Everything? What do you mean?"
"Oh, everything," replied Mary, and into her heart came the determination to wring the confession from her at whatever cost.
Presently the smoky chimneys of Brunford appeared, and Mary looked out of the carriage window over the great, ugly town; but somehow it did not seem ugly to her—the grey sky, the long rows of cottages, the hundreds of chimneys belching out half-consumed coals did not repel her. This was Paul's town. He was member of Parliament for it. It was here he had made his position. It was here, too, she had first seen him, and here he had learnt to love her.
"You've never seen the home Paul has given me?" she heard her companion say. "It is the prettiest home in Brunford. Paul did it all for me. You won't think you're in Brunford when you get there. It's quiet and clean up there. The birds sing in the springtime, and the smoke doesn't blow that way as a rule. I never saw another house like it. Oh! I would gladly die there. All I want now is to see my Paul happy. As for the other man——"
She ceased speaking here, and Mary noted the angry flash of her eyes, watched the quivering lips, and wondered of what she was thinking.
"There will be no servants in the house," went on Paul's mother presently. "They are in Manchester. They have been summoned for witnesses. But I told Mrs. Bradshaw to keep everything bright and clean, as I might come home any minute. I thought that before now Paul and I would be back together, and so she'll be expecting us. You're not hungry, are you?"
"No," said Mary.
"I expect he'll be acquitted to-day," she went on. "That man can't sit in judgment on him any longer now, and the people will be glad. Won't there be shouting when my Paul comes home?"
When they arrived at Brunford station, Mary noted how the porters looked curiously at them and spoke one to another in whispers. She knew that before an hour was over the whole town would be talking about them. They would be wondering why she, the judge's daughter, should accompany the mother of the man who was accused of murder. But she did not trouble about it. She called a cab, and a few minutes later they were on their way to Paul's home.
Mary began to get excited. Once in Paul's house she would be able to examine everything, and would perhaps discover things that would lead the woman by her side to make her confession. She felt sure that she was on the track of discovery, felt convinced that before long the truth would come to light.
When they arrived at the house Mary found the door standing open, and a motherly-looking woman waiting to receive them.
"I've done as yo' told me, Mrs. Stepaside," said Mrs. Bradshaw the woman. "There's a fire in the kitchen range, and another in the study, and everything is clean and nice."
"Mrs. Stepaside is not very well," said Mary quietly. "I've come with her from Manchester. But she will be all right with me."
"And who might yo' be?" asked Mrs. Bradshaw suspiciously.
"I'm Mrs. Stepaside's friend," she replied. "Will you lead the way to the room where the fire is?"
A few minutes later they were in the house alone. Mrs. Bradshaw had brought a cup of tea, and then, saying she'd be back again presently, had left them.
"Somehow I don't feel a bit lonely now you're here. Why is it, I wonder?" and the older woman looked into Mary's face curiously.
"I'm glad you're not lonely," said Mary. "Are you well enough to talk?"
"Ay, I'm feeling ever so much better. I wonder why it is?"
"Did you sleep last night?" asked Mary.
"Nay, I couldn't sleep. Was it any wonder? You see we met after all those long years, and I told him the truth. Ay; but he's suffering—he's suffering! And it's right he should, too. Ay, and I'm suffering, too, my lassie. I feel strange. I think I'll go to bed if you'll help me."
As Mary helped her upstairs she felt like one in a dream. Everything was intangible, unreal. What was she doing in this house? What right had she to be waiting on this woman so carefully and tenderly, when she was guilty of the awful deed which threatened to bring Paul to the gallows? But she spoke no word.
A little later they were in the bedroom together, and Mary was ministering to her with almost tender solicitude.
"Sit by me while I sleep, won't you? I don't know how long it is since sleep came to me, but I feel now as though I could rest. Ay, lass, but you are bonnie! It's no wonder that my Paul loves you."
Her overwrought powers had doubtless given way. The scenes through which she had passed had made her incapable of realising the true consequences of everything. Mother Nature had come to her aid, and in her own way was applying healing balm.
A little later she was sleeping like a child.
Mary sat almost motionless by her side for some time. Things were turning out altogether differently from what she had expected. Up to the present she had made no accusation. She had not even suggested what she was sure was the truth. She wondered why it was. All the same, she waited, feeling sure that her time would come.
Presently, noting that Paul's mother was not likely to wake, she left the room; and then, led by a strange curiosity, wandered round the house. She went into Paul's bedroom. She knew it was his by a thousand things. Here he had dreamed his dreams and made his plans. He had dreamed of her, doubtless, not knowing that she was his sister—his sister! She could not realise it. Her brain, her heart, refused to accept it as a fact, and yet she felt sure it was so. Again she went into the study, the little den which Paul had taken so much care to furnish. She looked lovingly at his books and noted those which he had evidently used most. She went to the writing-table where he had done his work, and noted the various pictures which hung around the room. It was not like the ordinary Lancashire manufacturer's house at all. It suggested the student, the man of letters, the lover of art. And how silent it was! Away in the distance was the hum of the busy town, but here, sheltered by the great hills which sloped away behind, all was peace. After sitting for a time, she went into Paul's mother's bedroom again, and watched her as she lay asleep. Could what she had dreamt of be true? Could this woman who lay sleeping as peacefully as a child be guilty of the terrible crime of which she had accused her? In her sleep she looked almost like a girl. The lines had somehow left her face, as though an angel's hand had wiped them out. A smile was upon her lips. In her sleep she did not suggest a strong, passionate woman, but the girl whom any lad might love.
She left the room again and wandered aimlessly around. She found a strange interest in being in Paul's home. She felt, too, as though she had a right there; and why should she not have that right, since Paul was her brother? More than once she looked toward the garden gate as if expecting that he would come in. She did not think of him as being tried for his life in the assize courts at Manchester. But she had strange fancies of what was happening there. What would her father say? What would he do?
Presently she heard shrill cries in the road not far distant. She listened attentively.
"Wonderful confession at Manchester!" It was a boy's voice she heard, and every word reached her clearly.
"Strange confession by the judge! Paul Stepaside's father!"
Heedless of what she was doing, she rushed down the garden path, and found her way into the street in the near distance. A boy was selling newspapers. She bought one, and hurried back to the house. She had no idea of the lapse of time, did not realise that it was now three o'clock in the afternoon. She had come by a slow train from Manchester, and Paul's mother had been sleeping for hours.
Eagerly she opened the paper, and there, great staring headlines met her gaze. For a long time she was absorbed by what she read. There, in cold, plain words, was her father's confession. It was true, then; every word of it was true. She did not know why she did it, but, taking the paper in her hand, she hurried upstairs to the bedroom where she had left Paul's mother asleep. The town hall clock was chiming in the distance. She looked at her own watch, and saw that it was half-past four. She had been reading the paper for an hour. As she entered the woman on the bed awoke.
"Something's happened, my lassie. What is it?"
"It's all here," said Mary. "It's all here. Shall I read it to you?"