E-text prepared by Al Haines
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustration.
See 25463-h.htm or 25463-h.zip:
(https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/5/4/6/25463/25463-h/25463-h.htm)
or
(https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/5/4/6/25463/25463-h.zip)
THE DAY OF JUDGMENT
by
JOSEPH HOCKING
With Frontispiece by Charles B. Buchel
[Frontispiece: "The two knelt . . . in the silence of the evening"
(_see page_ 12).]
Cassell and Company, Ltd
London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne
1915
_DEDICATION_
To T. HARTLEY ROBERTS, Esq., J.P.
_MY DEAR FRIEND,_
_I am dedicating this book to you, partly because when you read it in
MS. you told me you liked it better than any story I have ever written;
but more because, although words are at best utterly inadequate, I want
to tell you that one of the things I value most in life is your
friendship._
_JOSEPH HOCKING._
PRIOR'S CORNER,
TOTTERIDGE.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
PROLOGUE
1. A LEGACY OF HATE
2. PAUL BEGINS HIS WORK
3. PAUL IS SENT TO PRISON
4. PAUL MEETS MARY BOLITHO
5. PAUL'S MADNESS
6. PAUL GOES TO SCOTLAND
7. THE FIGHT AND THE RESULT
8. THE COMING OF PAUL'S MOTHER
9. THE SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS
10. THE NEW MEMBER FOR BRUNFORD
11. PAUL'S DARING
12. A NIGHT OF DOOM
13. HOW MARY BOLITHO RECEIVED THE NEWS
14. PAUL IS APPREHENDED FOR MURDER
15. THE CORONER'S INQUEST
16. AWAITING THE TRIAL
17. THE LOVERS
18. THE FIRST DAY OF THE TRIAL
19. PAUL DISCOVERS HIS FATHER
20. MAN AND WIFE
21. TRAVAIL
22. THE DAY OF JUDGMENT
23. THE DAY OF JUDGMENT (_continued_)
24. FATHER AND SON
25. MR. JUSTICE BRANSCOMBE
26. PAUL'S DEFENCE
27. THE VERDICT
28. PAUL'S MOTHER AND MARY
29. MARY'S ACCUSATION
30. THE TESTIMONY OF ARCHIE FEARN
31. EZEKIEL ASHWORTH, HERBALIST
32. IN THE CONDEMNED CELL
33. THE HOME-COMING
34. JUDGE BOLITHO'S CONFESSION
THE DAY OF JUDGMENT
PROLOGUE
Three young men sat in an old inn not far from the borderline which
divides England from Scotland. They were out on a holiday, and for
more than two weeks had been tramping northward. Beginning at the
Windermere Lakes, they had been roaming amidst the wild mountainous
scenery which is the pride and joy of all lovers of beauty who dwell in
that district. For two of them the holiday had practically come to an
end, and now, smoking their pipes after dinner in the old inn, they
were reviewing their experiences.
"I envy you, Douglas," said one whose holiday was practically finished.
"We have to get back to work but you have yet nearly three weeks before
getting into harness again. It must be glorious, too, this going into
Scotland."
"Yes," said the other, "and somehow Scotland is different from England.
I believe, if I knew nothing about the geography of the district, that
directly I put my foot on Scottish soil I should know it. Everything
is different there: the outlook on life, the customs, the laws and the
prevailing sentiments of the people. Why, we cannot be far from Gretna
Green now--think of the scenes which took place around here a few years
ago!"
"Have the laws changed much in relation to marriage?" asked the first
speaker. "You are studying for the Bar, Douglas, you ought to know."
The young man who had not yet spoken was different from the others. He
was cast in a more intellectual mould, and, although bronzed by the sun
and wind of the Cumberland Hills, his demeanour suggested the student.
"I really don't know much about Scottish laws," he replied, "they are
so different from those of England. It is wonderful how people living
so close together could have framed laws so entirely dissimilar. Of
course, marriage laws have been a curious business both in England and
Scotland. Before Lord Hardwicke's Act the marriage arrangements in
England were very peculiar, but with that Act things took a different
course. In Scotland, however, I believe they remained pretty nearly
the same as before. As a matter of fact, marriage in Scotland is very
difficult to define."
"In what way?"
"Well, I believe, even now, a marriage is valid even although there are
no witnesses, no minister, no religious ceremony, and no formula
whatever."
"But, my dear fellow," said one of the others, "that is surely
impossible."
"I think not," replied the young man called Douglas. "I was talking
with an old Scotch lawyer only a few months ago, and he was telling me
that even yet Scotch marriages are about as loose as they can possibly
be. He explained to me that Scotch marriage is a contract constituted
by custom alone, and although generally of a well-attested nature, a
marriage may be completed by a solemn and deliberate consent of the
parties to take each other for husband and wife, and that such a
marriage is absolutely binding. No writing or witnesses are necessary.
He also explained to me that a marriage could be legally constituted in
Scotland by a _promise_ to marry followed by the parties living
together for a few hours. By the way, I wonder whether in this old inn
there is an encyclopaedia of some sort. Yes, here is one; evidently it
has not been opened for years. Here we are, 'Marriage,' yes, 'Scotch
Marriage':
"A marriage will also be constituted by declarations
made by the man and the woman that they presently do
take each other for husband and wife. These declarations
may be emitted on any day, at any time, and without the
presence of witnesses, and either by writing or orally, or
by signs of any nature which is clearly an expression of
intention. Such a marriage is as effective to all intents
and purposes as a public marriage. The children of it
would be legitimate, and the parties to it would have all
the rights in the property of each other given by the law
of Scotland to husband and wife."
"But if there are no documents, how can anything be proved?"
"I cannot say," replied Douglas, "but there it is. Of course, at
Gretna Green, which, as you say, is not far away, the blacksmith used
to witness marriages, although his presence was unnecessary. Old
stories have it that the contracting parties jumped a broomstick or a
pair of tongs, or something of that sort, but whether there were any
signatures I really do not know. Anyhow, the law in Scotland, as I
have been informed, is that if a man and a girl agree to take each
other as husband and wife, a marriage is legally performed, and is as
binding as if it took place in Westminster Abbey and was performed by
the Archbishop of Canterbury."
There was silence for a few minutes, then one exclaimed, "I wonder we
do not hear more of divorces and marriage difficulties in Scottish law
courts."
"Oh, these Scotch are canny people and wonderfully logical. They seem
to regard present arrangements as inevitable, and act upon them. After
all, what is marriage when one comes to think about it? It is really
the promise of the man and the woman to take each other as husband and
wife. All the rest, Church services and legal documents, are mere
attestations to the fact. Marriage, true marriage, is simply a matter
for the parties in question who have determined upon union."
"Evidently you are not a High Churchman," remarked one of the others.
From this the conversation drifted on to other matters, and presently
dwindled down to mere snatches, freely punctuated by yawns. Then the
young men, having finished their pipes, retired to rest.
Two days later, Douglas Graham found himself alone. He had made
arrangements to pay a visit to a house near the borders of Scotland.
He was of Scotch descent on his father's side, while his mother's
family had always lived in the South of England. For that matter the
Grahams had lived in the South for three generations, so that, while he
was greatly interested in Scotland, he always called himself an
Englishman. The characteristics of both countries were clearly
expressed in both his mind and character. The Scotch side of him was
intellectual, practical, with, perhaps, a suggestion of hardness; but
to counteract this, he had inherited the gentleness and the softer
elements which appertain to the Southern peoples. He was only just
three and twenty; he had taken a good degree at Oxford, and then set
himself to qualify for the Bar. His personal appearance likewise
indicated a mixture of races--tall and well-knit, he suggested a strong
and determined nature; on the other hand, there was something almost
effeminate in the regularity of his features, and his lips were
somewhat sensuous. A passing stranger would be immediately attracted
by him. Blue eyes, brown hair, and well-formed features, together with
a sunny and kind-hearted disposition, had made him a popular man.
While very ambitious, he also possessed a happy disposition which made
him the best of companions. He was now on his way to visit a distant
relative on his father's side, and looked forward with exceeding
interest to spending the last weeks of his holiday in an old Scottish
stone mansion, situated among the wild hills.
As a lover of beauty, he could not help being charmed by the scenery
through which he passed: the purple heather, which was now in its
glory, made the wild moorlands wondrous for their beauty, while the
valleys through which the rushing streams passed simply enchanted him.
Presently he came to a lonely valley in a district which seemed almost
entirely uninhabited. Not a soul was in sight, and scarcely a sound
disturbed the silence. On each side of him, great heather-covered
hills sloped up to the sky, while at his feet a stream coiled its way
down the valley. Tramping along the narrow road which skirted the
stream, he presently saw some cattle rushing wildly around, and he
judged by the cries he heard that someone was greatly distressed. It
was not long before he saw what this meant. A young girl was trying to
keep some cattle together, but they, being in a turbulent mood, refused
to go the way she wished. Vainly she went hither and thither, seeking
to guide them into a path which led over the hills. For two or three
minutes Douglas Graham watched her, and then, seeing her dilemma, went
up to her.
She was evidently a Scotch peasant girl, as indicated by the clothes
she wore and by her hard, toilworn hands. Nevertheless, at first sight
of her Douglas was attracted, and for good reason--the face of the
girl, once seen, was not soon forgotten. During the time he had been
in Scotland it had seemed to him that the Scotch women were
hard-featured, uninteresting, and altogether unlovely; but this girl
was different. There was something of the savage in her, and yet she
possessed a charm which fascinated the young man. Her black hair hung
in curling and tangled tresses over her shoulders; her eyes were almost
as black as her hair and shone brightly. A kind of gipsy beauty she
possessed, and her eyes, her sensitive mouth, her square chin spoke of
a nature out of the ordinary.
"If you will tell me what you wish," he said, "I will help you."
She looked at him with a start of surprise, and for a moment he thought
she shrank from him. She seemed as shy as a young colt, and was
apparently frightened at his sudden appearance. As she looked at him,
however, her confidence came back. He was different from the raw
Scottish youths to whom she was accustomed. His pleasant smile and
laughing eyes reassured her. "I am trying to take the kine home," she
said, "but I think the witches have got hold of them. I never saw them
like this before." She spoke with a strong Scotch accent, and was
evidently what she seemed, either a servant at a farmhouse or, perhaps,
the daughter of some small tenant farmer who lived in the district.
"We'll see if we can't destroy the witches' power," laughed Douglas,
and set to work to gather the cattle. It took some little time, but
the feat was accomplished at last. Then the two walked side by side,
driving the beasts before them.
The romance in the young man's nature was aroused. There, amidst the
wild moorland scenery and in the light of the setting sun, it was
vastly pleasant to be walking beside this young creature, so instinct
with life.
"Is your home far away?" he asked.
"It must be more than two miles," she replied.
"And do you know the house called 'Highlands'?"
"It will be where Mr. Graham lives, I expect."
"Yes," he said.
"Then it will be only a mile beyond my father's farm," was her reply.
"Oh, that is capital!" laughed Graham. "I shall get there before dark,
and be able to help you with the cattle at the same time."
"But you are not the son at 'Highlands,'" she said, looking at him
curiously.
"Oh, no," he replied. "The Grahams are distant relatives of mine, that
is all. There is just a little Scotch in me, that is why I love
Scotland so. Of course, you love Scotland too?"
A far-away look came into her eyes. "I don't know," she said.
"Not know if you love your own country?" And he laughed as he spoke.
"I am not sure that it is my own country," was her reply. "You
see----" And then she stopped. "It will be nothing to you," she added
after a minute, and for some time they walked along together in silence.
"It must be just lovely to live amid such surroundings as these; still,
I should find it lonely sometimes," he ventured at length.
"You would, if--if--" And then the girl looked at him curiously. "But
I expect you'll not be understanding what I mean," she added.
Again they walked on in silence, Douglas longing to ask her what she
meant, and yet shrinking from taking what he felt might be a liberty,
for there was something about the girl that kept him from speaking
freely. Dressed like a peasant as she was, he instinctively felt that
here was no ordinary farmer's drudge. She had uttered nothing beyond
commonplaces, but the look in her eyes, the tremor of her lips
suggested romance and mystery and poetry.
"You see," she said a minute later, as if talking to herself, "I have
no mother. I never saw her; at least, I cannot remember ever seeing
her, and she was not Scotch."
"No?" said Douglas. "Then we have something in common: my people on my
father's side were Scotch, but all my mother's people belong to the
South."
"And mine, too," said the girl. "But what can it be to you?" And
again she seemed to be thinking of something far away.
"Do you know," said the young man, "you are the first person I have
spoken to since morning? I have been on the tramp all the day. I had
my lunch by the side of a stream, and I have kept away from every
house. I wanted to be alone. I expect that is why I want you to tell
me why you don't seem happy."
Again the girl looked at him curiously. "I think I should go mad
sometimes," she said, "if I did not think my dead mother was near me.
I do not mean when I am out here alone on the moors, but it's home that
makes it so hard."
"Tell me," said the young fellow. It did not seem to him as though he
were talking to a stranger at all. The girl did not belong to his
class, and evidently her associations and education removed her far
from him, yet he had an instinctive sympathy with her. After all, I
suppose every young fellow is attracted by a young pretty face, wild,
longing eyes, and beautiful features suggestive of romance and poetry
and unsatisfied yearnings.
"You see," said the girl, "my father was a fisherman. Years ago, when
he was a young man, he sailed down the West of England, and his boat
harboured at a little Cornish village called St. Ives. There he met my
mother, and I have heard him say that she had Spanish blood in her
veins. Anyhow, they fell in love with each other and got married.
"I suppose her father and mother were very angry, and so he took her
away from St. Ives altogether, and came back here to Scotland. Just at
that time his father died, and left our farm to him. So my father gave
up fishing, and brought mother here, but I had not been born long
before mother died, so you see I never knew her. My father did not
remain unmarried long: the second time he married a Scotswoman, and I
hate the Scotch."
"Why?" asked Graham.
"Oh, well, my father says that the Cornish people are wild and
imaginative, and my stepmother hasn't any imagination. Years ago I
used to read Burns's poems and Sir Walter Scott's stories, but mother
took the books from me. She says a farmer's daughter has no time for
poetry and romance, but I love it all the same. That is why I am only
happy when I am out on the moors alone."
A few minutes later a lonely farmhouse appeared to view. It was little
more than a cottage, and Graham judged that the farm consisted of only
about fifty acres of stony and barren land.
"Good night," she said presently, "and thank you for helping me with
the kine."
"Perhaps I shall be seeing you again," said the young man. "I am sure
I shall come round this way in the hope that you may be visible." And
he laughed almost nervously as he spoke. The girl had appealed to him.
She seemed to him like a flower in the wilderness, and aroused all the
romance of his nature.
She shook her head. "No," she said, "you will never see me again."
"At least you will tell me your name?" said Graham; "why, do you know,
we have been nearly an hour together? I am called Douglas Graham."
"And my name is Jean Lindsay," she said, looking at him shyly; "not
that it matters much, for if you are staying with the Grahams you will
be a gentleman."
"And do you go to fetch the cattle home every night?" he asked eagerly;
but she did not answer him. A hard-featured woman came up to the
farmyard gate as he spoke, while Jean silently, and with an almost
sullen look on her face, drove the cattle into the yard. He lifted his
cap and passed on.
"Who is yon?" asked the woman in a harsh, strident voice.
"I do not know," replied the girl; "he helped me with the cattle, that
is all."
Douglas Graham climbed the hill which lay between him and his
relative's house with a strange feeling at his heart. Somehow life
seemed different, and the picture of this black-eyed girl remained with
him. "I should like to see her again," he said, as presently he came
up to the gates which led to the house; "yes, and I will, too!"
During the next two days he made no attempt to see Jean Lindsay. He
found among his relatives at "Highlands" several young people, who not
only gave him a warm welcome, but entirely claimed his companionship,
and amidst the entertainments provided he almost forgot the meeting on
the moors. The third day, however, found him wandering away by himself
towards the lonely farmhouse. Had he tried to analyse his feelings, he
would have told himself that Jean Lindsay was only a chance
acquaintance, who was vastly interesting, but nothing more. But he
could not altogether drive her picture from his mind; the black,
speaking eyes, the strange longings which were revealed in the girl's
half-uttered sentences, filled his mind with unaccustomed thoughts.
That was why he found himself near the farmhouse, wondering whether he
should see her again. But he found no one there: the place might have
been forsaken. Wandering down the valley, however, he thought he heard
someone sobbing, and quickly discovered Jean Lindsay sitting by a
brook, crying as though her heart would break.
"What is the matter?" he asked.
For a moment the girl gave no reply. She seemed to resent his
presence, to be angry that he should have seen her in this frame of
mind.
"I am sure you must be in trouble," he went on; "tell me about it."
"She struck me," was her almost sullen reply.
"Struck you! Who?"
"My stepmother," she replied, "and I will not stand it, I will run
away; besides----" And then she stopped suddenly.
A little later her passion seemed to have subsided, and she was able to
speak more freely. For more than an hour they talked, and when they
parted she told him that on the following day she had to go to a
village some four miles distant.
That evening, at "Highlands," Douglas Graham was not an interesting
companion. The young people joked him about his solemn appearance, and
wondered why he looked so troubled.
"Anyone would think you were crossed in love, Douglas," said one.
"Tell us all about it now; has she run away with her father's coachman,
or has she jilted you for a handsomer man?"
But while Douglas replied to their good-tempered raillery in laughing
tones, it was easy to see that his mind was far away. For hours he lay
in bed that night without being able to sleep. The picture of the
dark-eyed sobbing girl remained with him, and all sorts of longings
filled his heart. It seemed as though the Scotch side of his nature
was altogether repressed. He was no longer cautious and calculating,
his mind and heart were full of the half savage beauty of the young
girl of the moors.
The next day he left his friends at "Highlands" without any excuse
whatever, and again wandered away alone. Near the village Jean Lindsay
had mentioned he saw her returning with a basket on her arm, and again
he entered into eager conversation with her. He forgot the foolishness
of his action, forgot the wrong he was doing to the girl by filling her
mind with thoughts about himself--for he could see that she was
attracted by him. To her he seemed some knight-errant like those she
had read about in the stories which her stepmother had forbidden her to
read. His mode of speech, his appearance, his sunny laugh, all made
her realise that there was a world hitherto unknown to her, but which
she now longed to enter.
This meeting led to others, until Douglas's friends began to wonder why
he so often desired to leave them and wander away alone. A few days
before the time when his visit to "Highlands" was to come to an end he
found Jean strangely perturbed. She was overwhelmed by some great
emotion, but she would not speak to him concerning it. At length,
however, with much hesitation, she confessed to him that she was
troubled greatly. "I have to be married," she said.
"Married, Jean!" he cried; "to whom--why?"
"To Willie Fearn," was her reply. "Father told me so last night."
"But why? Do you love him?" he asked.
"Nay, I hate him," was the reply, "especially since----" And then she
ceased speaking, her face becoming crimson. "Father says I shall never
get such a good chance again," she went on presently. "He has the best
farm hereabouts, and could give me a good home, and my stepmother, she
wants to get rid of me--but I hate him, I hate him!"
"Then you will not marry him?" said Douglas.
"What can I do?" replied the girl; "for more than a year they have been
trying to persuade me, and father owes him money, too, and Willie says
he will forgive him ever paying if I will marry him." And the girl
burst out sobbing.
Douglas was young and romantic. The Scotch side of his nature told him
that the resolution born in his mind was utterly mad, but this was
utterly destroyed by feelings of pity, and what to him was greater than
pity--a wild passion for the girl at his side. So, not thinking of
what his determination might mean, nor dreaming of what the future had
in store for him, he told Jean that she must never think of marrying
the farmer.
"But how can I help it?" she asked. "They never let me rest, and,
while I hate him, how can I dare disobey my father and my mother?
Besides, when the minister came to tea at our house last week, he spoke
of it as a thing settled, and said that Willie would soon be made an
elder of the kirk. He thought it would be a grand thing for me, I
suppose, to be an elder's wife--but how can I--how can I?"
I need not describe at length what followed. The young fellow casting
caution to the winds, mapped out his plan, and before parting they
arranged to meet again the next day.
On his way back to "Highlands" the conversation which took place
between himself and his companions came back to him. He remembered
what he had read in the old Encyclopaedia about Scotch marriages, and
it possessed him strongly. He believed himself to be in love with this
peasant girl. To him she was a creature apart from all the rest of the
world--young, romantic, beautiful with a kind of beauty he had never
seen in any other. He felt he could not live his life apart from her.
He wanted to take her away from this barren farm among the hills and
make her life happy. And yet the madness of his thought appealed to
him too. How could he make her his wife? How could he introduce her
to his friends? Beautiful she might be, but was it not the beauty of a
savage? The Poles lay between her and the women into whose society he
would be cast in coming days. He was very ambitious for his own
future. He dreamed of becoming a popular barrister, of winning fame
and renown, of gaining a name throughout the country as a brilliant
lawyer and a pleader of eloquence and power. Like every other young
law student he had read of famous lawyers who had risen from obscurity
to renown, from poverty to wealth. His career at the University had
assured him that he had more than average abilities, while his speeches
at the Oxford Union had been received with so much applause that he
knew he had the gift of public speech in no ordinary degree. What then
should hinder him from attaining to high position in the world he had
chosen as his sphere? But all this seemed as nothing in comparison
with the mad passion which had been aroused in his heart by this
beauteous being of the moors. What was law, what was fame, what were
riches in comparison with the joy which her presence gave him?
Besides, it did not seem to him that the marriage he had in his mind
was the same as that in the English churches. It might be legal, but
there was something unreal, unstable about it, and who need know? A
Scotch marriage! It appealed to him almost as a joke, while at the
same time he knew it would satisfy this young girl's conscience. It
would make her his wife. And so, although he had many doubts, he made
his plans.
All through the night he lay thinking. He wished he had some of his
law books with him, so that he could study the matter carefully, for he
was strangely ignorant. No minister, no church, no documents, no
witnesses--simply taking each other by the hand and declaring that he
took her as his wife. It seemed so easy, and surely, surely----
He was not a bad young fellow, this Douglas Graham. Some spoke of him
as a kind of dual personality, strong and weak at the same time--but he
had never been known to do anything dishonourable, and his career at
Oxford had been an unblemished one. To an extent he was cast in a
religious mould, and was susceptible to religious influences. He had
indeed been a communicant at a Presbyterian church, and thus, while
determined to carve out for himself a great career, he always dreamed
of acting honourably and conscientiously, and he would do so now,
only---- And then he thought out the whole matter again. Yes, it did
seem different from a marriage in an English church, but it would
satisfy Jean, and it would be a real marriage.
Two days later he left the "Highlands," to walk to Carlisle, he said,
and take the train from there. So, packing in his knapsack the
absolute necessities of life, he took his departure from his relatives.
He did not tell them what he had in his mind--did not give a hint that
that afternoon he was to meet Jean Lindsay alone on the moors. He
tried to appear calm, but his mind was full of the plans he had made,
full of what Jean would say when he met her. Just as he was leaving
"Highlands" a servant brought him a letter, but he was too excited to
read it; he simply put it in his pocket with the thought that it could
wait, and then, bidding his relatives farewell, he started on his walk.
Two hours later Jean and he were walking side by side away from her
father's farm. "You are sure it is all right, Douglas?"
"Yes, sure."
"And you love me?"
"I love you more than my own life," he said, and into the girl's eyes
came a look of infinite trust and infinite joy. She had no qualms
about the Scotch marriage. She had heard of them again and again, and
they were mere commonplaces to her. It did seem strange, walking away
with him alone, but she had given him her heart's love, and she had a
perfection of trust in him.
It was a strange experience, and Douglas Graham felt awed, as presently
they took each other by the hand, and he said, "Jean Lindsay, I do here
take you as my wife, and, God helping me, I will be a good and faithful
husband to you."
The girl's eyes burned brightly with joy as she heard the words.
"Douglas Graham," she said, "I, Jean Lindsay, do take you as my
husband, and, God helping me, I will love you and obey you and be
faithful to you till death."
The sun was just setting, and the whole of the Western sky was ablaze
with glory. The hills, heather-covered, were enveloped in a purple
haze. The evening was windless; not a sound was heard; not a bird
chirped; and no one was near. He kissed the girl fondly.
"There, Jean," he said, "I kiss you as my wife."
The girl sobbed for joy.
"I never knew what happiness meant before," she said; "but, but----"
"What?" he asked eagerly.
"Must there not be a word of prayer?" she said, and her voice shook
with emotion.
The two knelt down by the roadside, and in the silence of the evening
they asked fervently for God's blessing on their union.
When night came, they found themselves in the inn across the border
where Douglas had parted from his companions, and then he remembered
the letter which the servant had given him at "Highlands" just before
he parted from the family. He had read only a few lines when he
started and changed colour.
"What is it, Douglas?" asked the girl.
"It is all right," he said, but his voice was hoarse and troubled.
The following morning Douglas Graham parted from his newly-made wife at
a railway station some distance from the inn.
"You are sure you must go?" she asked, and her voice was trembling.
"I simply must, Jean!" he replied. "But do not be afraid. I will be
back in a few days. You can tell your father everything. In a month
from now you shall be publicly proclaimed as my wife."
"I don't like letting you go!" sobbed the girl.
"I would give anything if I could stay, but I simply dare not--my whole
future depends upon my going!"
The train swept into the station.
"Good-bye, Douglas, my husband!" she said. "You'll soon be back?"
"Good-bye, Jean, my wife! May God bless you! Yes, I'll soon be back."
CHAPTER I
A LEGACY OF HATE
Their meeting-place was on the Altarnun Moors, eight miles from the
town of Bodmin, perhaps as many from the rugged peaks--the highest
peaks in Cornwall--Router and Brown Willy. Almost as far as the eye
could reach was bare moorland. A white streak, the road which ran
between Altarnun and Bodmin, was the most striking thing seen. On
either side of the road were only bare, uncultivated, uninteresting
moors; and yet, perhaps, I do the district injustice. Here and there
was a rugged tor, and again a few fields taken in from the moorland by
some enterprising labourer who wanted to earn a living by farming.
Near this road, too, is the famous Dozmary Pool, known to all those who
love folk-lore and are acquainted with the legends of the most Western
county in England--a dismal piece of water, black as ink, and, so the
old stories have it, bottomless. It was here that Tregellas, of
Cornish myth, was set by the Devil to scoop out its water by means of a
limpet-shell. Here, too, in old times, coaches were robbed and dark
deeds done. At the time of which I am writing, however, it was simply
one of the most unattractive and bleak districts in what is otherwise
perhaps the most beautiful county in England. The woman had walked all
the way from Launceston, a distance of not less than a dozen miles.
The youth had come from Bodmin, and he had covered nearly the same
length of road. The afternoon was drawing to a close as they met. It
was a November day, and darkness would be upon them by five o'clock.
No one was near, for since the days of stage-coaches the traffic on
this road has been small. Occasionally a farmer's cart passes along,
or again a vehicle of more ornamental description, used by those who
wish to travel either to Bodmin or to Launceston. There is no railway
station within ten miles of that drear region, and it seemed a fitting
meeting-place for the couple who came there that day. The woman was
perhaps thirty-five years of age, and suggested the fact that in her
girlhood she must have been strangely beautiful. Even yet there were
times when one would have spoken of her as one possessing more than
ordinary attraction. That was when her eyes became soft, and her
features relaxed into a smile, but these times were very rare. As she
trudged along the dreary road her face was set and stern, her lips were
compressed, her eyes hard and relentless. As she passed through Five
Lanes and asked for a cup of tea at a cottage there, the villagers
remarked upon her and wondered who she was. "She might be a witch,"
said one.
"No, too young for that," said another.
"But where can she be goin'? She is a straanger in thaise paarts."
"Up to no good, I reckon."
But the woman gave no confidences. Evidently her purpose was clear
before her mind, and after she had obtained her cup of tea she stepped
forward with the same resolution in her eyes, turning neither to the
right nor to the left. She seemed as little impressed by the
suggestion of beauty contained in the valley where the old Altarnun
Church stands, as she was by the bleak moors on to which she presently
entered. She might be looking into her own soul rather than on the
vast sweep of hill and dale which presently stretched out before her.
Now and then she muttered like one talking to herself, but she never
faltered on her way. She seemed to know no weariness. Firmly and
resolutely she went her way, her mind evidently set upon some grim
purpose. It was two o'clock when she left Five Lanes, and considerably
past three when she saw a dark object in the road in front of her. "It
must be he," she said to herself, and her lips quivered and her eyes
shone with a new light. As they drew nearer she quickened her
footsteps.
"My boy!" she said; "what will he say--what will he do? But he must
know, for his own sake and for mine. He must know that his mother is
an honest woman and tried to do right."
The day was dark and drear. Clouds hung heavily in the sky and the
moorland was wrapt in a fine mist so peculiar to that district. The
roads were heavy, and one could hear the silt crush beneath her feet as
she walked.
A little later the two met, and the relationship was evident at the
first glance. They were mother and son. The youth was about seventeen
years of age, tall and muscular. He wore the dress of a mechanic, and
there was in his appearance a suggestion of capability and of resolute
resolve. Strangely handsome he was, and yet no one seemed attracted by
him. During his journey from Bodmin a labourer would pass the time of
day, but he seemed to take no notice. And once the driver of a
farmer's cart offered to give him a lift, but he only shook his head
and trudged on. There was an eager questioning look in his eyes, and
he seemed to be wondering greatly as to the result of his journey. Two
days before he had received a letter, urging him to come to a certain
spot on Altarnun Moors, and promising him that he should hear of things
concerning which he had long been anxious to know. The letter had no
signature, but the address given was "Lancroft, near Launceston." Who
the writer of the letter was the youth had not the slightest idea, but
he never thought of refusing the request made. Almost ever since he
could remember he had wondered concerning his father and mother, and
now he felt sure that the time of revelation was come.
Presently the two met, and each looked steadily into the other's face,
as if wondering who the other might be.
"You received a letter two days ago?" said the woman.
"Yes," was his reply.
"I wrote it." Simple as the words were, they were uttered with a sob.
He saw that she was under very strong emotion, and noted the yearning
look in her eyes.
"You have wondered all your life who your father and mother are?" and
the woman controlled her voice with difficulty. "I know you have. You
want to know all about them, don't you?"
"I shouldn't have come here if I hadn't!" was his reply.
"I'm your mother!" said the woman.
He looked at her curiously. He had been thinking, ever since they had
met, whether this might not be so; nevertheless the news came to him as
a kind of shock. A woman with sad eyes and an expression of
unsatisfied yearning in her face; yet handsome withal.
"Do you not believe it?" she asked. "My boy! my boy! I'm your mother,
and, if I have kept silent about it, it has been for love of you!"
And she held out her hands towards him.
It seemed as though something touched his heart, as though his whole
being thrilled with a recognition of the truth, and, in a way he could
not understand, a great love for this lonely woman sprang suddenly into
his heart.
"Yes, I believe you are my mother."
"I have come to tell you everything, Paul," she said. "It's a sad
story, but I believe you'll understand."
"Yes," he replied, "I shall understand!"
The woman looked at him, still with the same expression of tender
yearning in her eyes.
"It's a hard question to ask," she said, "but can you feel towards me
as a laddie should feel to his mother?"
"Yes," he replied, "I do."
"Then call me 'Mother,' and kiss me!" she cried passionately.
"Mother!" he said, and held her close to him.
A few minutes later she began to tell him the things which for years he
had been longing to know, and concerning which gossip had been rife.
"I want to know, mother," he said, "who my father is, where I was born,
and why the truth has been so long kept from me."
"Born," she said, and her face became hard; "you were born in a
workhouse, and your father would call himself a gentleman, and we were
married in Scotland!"
A bright light came into the youth's eyes at the last part of the
sentence. "But is my father alive?" he asked eagerly.
"I do not know," she replied; "I think he must be. I feel sure he is,
but I cannot tell. Listen. I was reared in Scotland, not far beyond
the English border. My name was Jean Lindsay. My father had been a
fisherman as a young man, but came to Cornwall for his wife, and soon
after he brought her to Scotland and I was born, she died. He had a
farm in Scotland, and there I lived with my stepmother and stepbrothers
and sisters, who made life a misery for me until I was eighteen, and
then one day I met a gentleman. Oh, my lad, it was no wonder I loved
him; he was different from all the lads I had met in those parts,
young, handsome, laughter-loving, just the man to captivate a lassie's
heart. He married me, Scottish fashion, and on the day we were wed he
told me he had received a letter which urged him to go back to his home
at once. We were married secretly, my boy, because I was afraid for my
father and stepmother to know. They wanted me to wed a young farmer,
and would have forced me to do so but for him, and I could not--how
could I when I loved him and he loved me? And I believed in him too;
he was all the world to me. No one knew but he and me. But when we
were married and he came to the inn, he told the landlady I was his
wife."
The boy nodded. "And the letter, mother?" he said, "the letter, what
of that?"
"It urged him to go to his home," she replied. "You must remember, my
boy, that I was young and ignorant. I knew nothing of the ways of the
world, nothing of men, but I loved him devotedly. He was my king, my
life! When he had read the letter, he said he must leave the following
morning, and urged me to go back to my home and wait until he could
come and fetch me. I was to tell them, he said, that we were married,
and that thus I was free from the attentions of Willie Fearn, the
farmer they wanted me to wed."
The youth did not seem to understand her, but looked at her with wild
wonder in his eyes, trying to comprehend the story she was telling. It
seemed utterly unreal to him. He wondered whether she fully realised
what she was saying.
"Yes, mother," he said at length, "go on."
"What could I do but obey him?" she said. "I had promised before God
that I would, and I did. I went back to my father--he had wondered
where I had gone--and told him I had wedded a young Englishman named
Douglas Graham. I think my father thought that all was right, for,
while he spoke harsh words to me, he seemed presently to settle down to
the conviction that my husband would soon come to me, and that I should
be a lady. But my stepmother said awful things. I will not tell you
what! Even now her words cut me like a knife."
"Well," said the youth, "and what then?"
"Day after day I waited for a letter from him," she replied. "At first
I hadn't a doubt; he had promised me and I believed him. But when one
month had gone, and then two, I grew desperate."
"And he never wrote to you at all?" asked the youth.
"At the end of three months," she replied, "I got a letter."
"Yes"--and his voice was eager--"what did he say?"
"Here it is," she replied, and she passed him a crumpled piece of
paper. The envelope was stamped with a London post-mark, but the paper
within had no address of any sort. It simply contained the words:
"DEAR JEAN,--It cannot be helped now, and
of course we were never really married. It
was only a joke.--DOUGLAS."
"And that was all?" said the youth.
"That was all, God helping me, that was all."
"And you have heard nothing from him since?"
"Never a word since the morning he bid me good-bye at the station, and
told me to go back to my father, saying he would write to me at once,
and come to me soon. No, I have never seen nor heard of him since."
The eyes of the youth became red with anger. His hands clenched and
unclenched themselves passionately, but he did not speak. It seemed as
if he could not. Then an oath escaped him, and his voice was hoarse.
"But, mother," he cried presently, "tell me more. There must be more
than this. What about this marriage? Were there no witnesses? Have
you no marriage lines?"
"Things are different in Scotland, my boy," was her answer. "There
many people just take each other as man and wife, and that is all, and
the marriage is legal. Do you know"--and her voice trembled with
passion--"that on the afternoon when he took me as his wife we knelt
down by the roadside, and he prayed with me that God would help us to
be true man and wife to each other?"
"But, but----" he cried, and he was trembling with emotion, "and he
treated you like that?"
The woman did not reply, but looked away across the moors with a hard,
stony stare.
"My mother, my poor, poor mother!" He seemed incapable of saying more,
and for two or three minutes there was a silence between them.
"And then, mother?" he went on presently.
"Months later," she went on, "I was driven from home. I had no
friends, no relatives, no one to whom I could go, and I thought I
should go mad!"
"And what did you do?" he asked.
"There seemed to me only one thing I could do," she said. "I could not
stay near my old home, I was ashamed--besides, my father and stepmother
drove me away with a curse. They said I had disgraced the name of
Lindsay. I always hated Scotland, and as my heart turned to my
mother's home, I determined I would go to Cornwall. I had just three
pounds, and with that I commenced my journey."
"You came by train?" he asked.
"No, I walked. I wanted to hoard my money. You see it was very
little."
"You walked all the way to Cornwall from Scotland?"
"Every step," she said. "It was winter time, too, and it often rained,
but somehow I felt as though Cornwall would give me a home, a welcome.
It took me weeks to do it, but I got there at last. Often I slept in a
farmer's barn; more than once I walked all through the night." And
into her eyes came a far-away look, while her lips quivered as if with
pain.
"And did you find a home and welcome?" he asked.
She shook her head. "How could I? I went straight to St. Ives, but
everyone had forgotten my mother, and her people were dead. You see, I
looked like a vagrant, my clothes were weather-stained, my boots were
worn out, I had no money, and no one wanted me. More than once I
thought I should have died of starvation."
"And what did you do?" he asked.
"I did not know what to do. I went from place to place. Here and
there I got a day's work, but I never begged. I would rather have died
than have done that."
A kind of grim satisfaction settled in the youth's face as he heard
this, but it was easy to see that the pain which lay in his mother's
heart also passed into his. He was not pleasant to look at at that
moment, and if murder can ever be seen in a man's eyes, it could be
seen in his at that moment.
"Well, mother?" he said at length, "and what afterwards?"
"I began to tramp northward again," she said. "I hoped that surely,
surely, someone would help me. And then one day I fell down by the
roadside. It was spring time now but terribly cold, and I thought,
'Now I shall die, and all will be over.' I think I went to sleep,
because I knew nothing of what happened. A great darkness fell upon
everything, and then, when I woke again, I found myself in a workhouse.
I knew it was a workhouse by the clothes the people wore and by the way
they talked; but I did not care much--I had got beyond that." She
hesitated, like one who did not know how to continue her story. Her
teeth became set, her lips quivered, her eyes were hard. "Oh, my boy,
my boy!" she said, "I could not help it, I thought I did what was
right!"
The youth took hold of her hand almost awkwardly. He wanted to try and
comfort her, but knew not how. Perhaps the affectionate action, even
although accompanied by no words, was the best thing he could have done
to ease her aching heart. She laid her head upon his chest as though
she were tired. And then she sobbed convulsively. "There you were
born, my boy."
"They always called me a workhouse brat," he said; "but never mind,
mother, never mind; what then?"
"They never thought I would live, I suppose," she replied. "For weeks
I lay between life and death. I believe I should have died, but
presently I came to know that you were alive, and that you were a
great, strong, handsome boy. But you are not like him, thank God! He
had blue eyes and light hair, but your eyes are black, your hair is
black, and you are like me. They christened you in the workhouse,
unknown to me. The chaplain gave you a name. If I had had the
choosing of it, I should have called you Ishmael or Esau, but they
called you Paul. They wanted me to tell them my surname, but I would
not--I could not--so they called you Stepaside, the name of the little
hamlet where I fell down, as I thought, to die."
"Well, I know everything after that," he replied.
"Very nearly," was her answer. "You were brought up in the workhouse,
while I, as soon as I was strong enough, had to go away into service.
On the whole, I suppose, they did as well as one could expect for you.
They gave you good schooling, and taught you a trade, and now you are
beginning to earn your own living."
"Yes, mother," he replied. "I have got a job as a blacksmith in the
Pencarrow Mines. Soon I shall be getting a pound a week, and later on
you must come and live with me."
She shook her head. "No, Paul. While I am not with you, people will
not insult you. Now that you are away from the place where you were
born and reared, no one knows your history. No one knows that you were
born in a workhouse and that your mother does not know where your
father is."
"But you were married, mother?"
"Yes," she cried eagerly, "and that is why I have told you everything
to-day. When you were seventeen, I said to myself, 'Directly I can get
to him we will meet, and I will tell him, tell him with my own lips.'
Paul, that man has covered your mother with black shame. If he is
alive you must find him. The day he wrote me that letter he killed all
the love I had for him. The last feeling I had, when I lay down and
thought I was going to die on the roadside, was a feeling of hatred for
him. When I first saw you, although my heart went out to you with a
great love, I hated your father. For seventeen long years I have hated
him, and I hate him still."
She looked like a savage, and there was a snarl in her voice as she
spoke. "But for him, but for him----" And then she stopped. "Paul,
find him out, wherever he is. Find him out!"
The passion which burned in the mother's eyes passed into those of the
youth. She need not have told him what was in her heart. Paul
Stepaside hated his father from that day.
"Yes, I will," he said grimly. "I will find him. An eye for an eye; a
tooth for a tooth; disgrace for disgrace; misery for misery. Mother,
all you have suffered he shall suffer, and a thousand times more.
Wherever he is, whatever he is, I will find him." His eyes turned away
towards the dreary moors. Router and Brown Willy stood like grim
sentinels watching over the scene. A slight wind had arisen, which
soughed its way across the great silent spaces, dispelling the mists.
The black tors in the near distance became visible again; frogs croaked
in the marshes near by.
"But tell me more, mother. I know nothing yet. Who is he? What is
he? Tell me all you know of him."
"There is little I can tell," said the mother. "He told me his name
was Douglas Graham. I believe that to be true. I found out that from
the people at 'Highlands,' the big house close by my father's farm."
"Ah, they can tell us," he cried.
"Nay," replied the mother. "They only had the house for a short time,
and then left. They are gone, I know not whither, and I, fool that I
was, was too ignorant to find out in those days more about him. But he
was called Douglas Graham, there is no doubt about that."
"And is that all?"
"Only this," replied the mother, "he is a lawyer--what they call an
English barrister. I have heard that books are kept, containing a list
of such people. I expect they'll be in London; but these barrister men
go around the country, some of them. Anyhow, that is for you to find
out."
He nodded his head. "Yes, I will find out," he said; "but the thing
will be difficult, mother. I see what you mean now, and why you cannot
live with me. I must go to London, or to one of the other big places
where I can find out the truth about such things. Oh, I shall know,
and I will not spare him. Don't be afraid, mother, you shall be
avenged for all he's done to you."
A kind of evil joy flashed from the woman's eyes. "Yes, Paul," she
said presently, "and you are clever, you were the cleverest lad in the
workhouse school. I found out that. You were always ahead with your
lessons, and you are quick with your brains and you are strong. But
remember, he is clever and strong too, and he has much book-learning,
and he knows all about the law, English law especially. You must be
able to meet him on equal terms. You must learn, my boy--you must know
everything. You need not fear for me. I have a place now where I can
live comfortably; but remember, I shall never be happy until either he
sets me and you right before the world, or I have made him suffer all I
have suffered and all you have suffered."
For half an hour more they stood talking, he asking questions, she
answering and explaining. Night had fallen now, but the moon had risen
and made darkness impossible. The mists had cleared away, too, and
patches of blue were to be seen in the sky. Here and there a star
peeped out.
"Good night, Paul," she said at length. "You will write me often,
won't you? Remember, you are the only thing I love on earth."
"You know what I will do," he replied. "Good night, mother."
For a few seconds he held her like a man might hold the maid he loved,
and then, turning, he walked slowly back towards Bodmin, from which
town he intended to take the train to the place where he lived. Mile
after mile he walked, seeming to take no notice of his surroundings.
It might be day, it might be night; it might be summer, it might be
winter, for all he cared. The iron had entered his soul, the poison of
hatred had filled his heart. He loved his mother with a kind of
savage, passionate love, but the man who was his father he hated, and
on him he swore to be revenged. "That is my work in life," he said to
himself; "that is the purpose for which I shall live, and I will do
it--yes, I will do it."