PAUL MEETS MARY BOLITHO
There is no need to describe at length Paul's experiences during the
time he was imprisoned in Strangeways Gaol. The moral effect of prison
life is rather harmful than good. In Paul Stepaside's case, at all
events, it was so. He knew his punishment was unjust, he knew he was
guiltless of the crime which had been attributed to him; knew, too,
that for some purpose which he could not understand a case was made out
against him which had no foundation in fact. These things alone would
have had a tendency to embitter his heart and to make him rail at the
so-called justice of the land. But when we add to this the fact that
he was of a proud, sensitive nature, that he shrank from the unenviable
notoriety to which he had been exposed, and that he writhed under the
things that had been said about him, it can be easily seen that his
whole nature rose up in revolt. Everything in the gaol aroused his
antagonism, and made him bitter and revengeful. The daily routine, the
constant surveillance of the warders, the thousand indignities to which
he was subjected, made him, even while he said nothing, grind his teeth
with passion and swear to be revenged in his own time.
One thing, however, interested him during his stay there: it was his
study of the Book of Job, and he read through this old Eastern poem
which fascinated him. At first he was prejudiced against it because it
was in the Bible, but the majesty of the poem charmed him, overwhelmed
him. He had read the plays of Shakespeare; he had closely studied what
many consider to be the great dramatist's masterpiece, but "Macbeth"
seemed to him poor and small compared with the Book of Job. The
picture of Satan going to and fro on the earth, the story of Job's
calamities, of his sorrows, and of the dire extremity in which he found
himself, appealed to him and fascinated him. Yes, it was fine. The
old Eastern poet had seen into the very heart of life. He had enabled
Job to answer tellingly, brilliantly, these three wise fools who poured
out their platitudes. In spite of himself, too, he was influenced by
the conclusion of the poem. It was not only poetically just, but there
was something in it that comforted him, that gave him hope in spite of
himself, Was there, after all, he wondered, a God Who spoke out of the
whirlwind, Who laughed at men's little theories, and worked His own
will? It would be splendid if it were so. The idea possessed him; God
behind all, in all, through all, the God Who made and controlled all
the swirling worlds, and yet, in His infinite compassion, cared for
every living creature that moved. Yes, it was stupendous; and if it
were true, then---- But, again, he brooded over his wrongs, and his
heart became closed and bitter.
And so the days passed by and lengthened into weeks, and the weeks into
months, and at last Paul found himself free again. It was ten o'clock
in the morning when he was set at liberty, and he realised that during
the time he had been in prison the winter had passed away. It was
early in November when he had been committed, and now it was the
beginning of May. And so Lancashire was looking at its best. The sun,
even through the smoke-begrimed atmosphere, was shining almost
brightly, and the twitter of birds welcomed him as he left the prison a
free man. To his surprise, he found outside the prison gates a number
of men awaiting him, who, on his appearance, raised a shout of welcome.
Paul had hoped to have escaped without notice. As we have said, he was
keenly sensitive to the disgrace which he had suffered, and hated the
thought that questioning eyes would be upon him. Therefore, when he
saw that the crowd of men who had come from Brunford to give him a
welcome had also attracted a number of people in the district, he was
almost angry at their coming, and yet he could not help feeling
grateful. After all, it showed a kind spirit, and he appreciated their
presence accordingly.
"Come on, lad," said one of the men. "We'll just have a drink and then
we'll catch the train for Brunford. We've ordered a rare dinner for
thee at 'The Black Cow,' and to-night there's goin' to be a meeting in
the Primitive Methodist schoolroom in honour of thy return."
"Is the strike all over?" asked Paul.
"Ay, the strike's all over. The matter's been patched up, and we are
making fair brass i' Brunford now."
"And what has become of the other chaps?" asked Paul.
"You mean the chaps as wur tried with thee? Two on 'em are still i'
Brunford; the rest have gone to Canada. We've summat to tell thee
about that."
"What?" asked Paul.
"Weel, you see, they confessed as 'ow 'twere not thee who set 'em on to
smashing Wilson's machinery, but that thou didst thy best to stop them,
so, I tell thee this, thou art a sort of hero i' Brunford now. It's
all over th' place that thou art a sort of martyr, and that thou
suffered in their stead, instead of letting on and proving, as thou
couldst easily prove, that thou wert agin their plan. Thou just kept
quiet, so that they might get off easy, even though thou wert kept
longer in quod thysen. The papers have had articles about it, too, and
the affair has been called 'A Miscarriage of Justice.'"
"The people think I'm not disgraced, then?" said Paul, and there was a
flash of eagerness in his eyes.
"Disgraced! Nay, it's all t'other way, and I can tell thee this, that
many think that Wilson and his son Ned are disgraced for setting on
Bolitho to make it hard for thee."
"Did they do this?" asked Paul.
"Ay, they did an' all. From what we can hear, Bolitho had special
instructions to let t'other chaps down easy. It was not hard to do
this, because thou art a chap with eddication and brains, and art a bit
of a leader, while t'others were nowt but ninnies. Anyhow, the truth's
out at last, and nobody i' Brunford will look upon thee as disgraced."
In spite of himself Paul could not help being pleased, and he no longer
resented the presence of the people who had gathered round the prison
gates and who had listened eagerly to what had been said. Rather there
was a feeling of triumph in his heart as cheer after cheer was raised.
He was thought of as one who fought the battles of the working people,
and he had suffered as a consequence No one looked on him as one
disgraced, but rather as one who had suffered for their cause.
Nevertheless the marks of the prison were still upon his heart. No man
could spend six months in Strangeways Gaol as he had spent them, and
suffer as he had suffered, without being influenced thereby. The iron
had entered his soul, and even kindly words and hearty cheers could not
remove from him the fact that he had been treated unjustly, and that
his character had been blackened.
When the train arrived in Brunford, another crowd, far larger than that
which met him at Manchester, had gathered at the station, and there was
quite a triumphal march down the Liverpool Road towards the town hall.
Arrived there, Paul could not help noticing a number of the councillors
leaving the steps of this great civic building, and among others he
noticed both Mr. Wilson and his son, who were responsible for his
imprisonment.
"Sitha, Ned Wilson," shouted one of the men. "This is the chap that
thou set on Bolitho to persecute, and this is the chap that thou told
lees about."
The two men laughed uneasily and passed up the road without comment.
Evidently the tables were turned on them. As for the others, they
spoke to Paul kindly. There was no ill-will remaining because of the
strike, the relations between master and men in these manufacturing
districts being sometimes almost confidential. In many cases they
belong to the same social order, even although the one is rich and the
other comparatively poor. Many of the manufacturers, who were now
employers of labour, were themselves operatives twenty or thirty years
before, and had worked side by side with those whom they now employed.
As a consequence, it was the order of the day for a weaver to call his
employer by his Christian name; indeed, many would think it beneath
their dignity to call an employer "Mister." On one occasion the son of
a large employer of labour in Brunford was sitting in his father's
office when one of the operatives entered. He wanted to find his
employer's groom, so he said to his young master, "Arthur, canst thou
tell me where Mester Smith is?"
Paul quickly found that he lost no prestige whatever on account of his
incarceration in Strangeways Gaol. On every hand he was met with
kindness, and to his delight he found the place where he had been
working still kept open for him. The day passed away amidst
expressions of goodwill on every hand, and Paul, wellnigh worn out with
the excitement of the last few hours, was about to return to his
lodgings, when an event happened which altered the course of his life.
He was walking down the main street of the town, when, remembering that
he needed to do some shopping, he dropped in at a hosier's place of
business, the owner of which met him with great heartiness.
"Ay, Paul, lad," he said, "I'm delighted to see you. Mr. Whitman and I
were just talking about you." And he turned, as he spoke, to an old,
pale-faced, kindly man who stood by his side. Old William Whitman was
the town missionary for Brunford, and was beloved by everybody.
"Ay," assented the old man, "and we've been praying for thee too, lad.
I'm afraid your cross has been hard to bear, but, never mind, the sun
will shine again now."
"It will, too," assented the hosier. "We think none the worse of thee,
lad, for what thou hast undergone, and 'appen thou wilt find that this
strange working of Providence 'll be oal for thy good."
"I don't see much of Providence in it," said Paul, "except that it
makes me realise how kind the people here are. There seems a great
deal more of the Devil than of God."
At that moment the shopkeeper's attention was drawn away from him by
the coming of another customer, leaving him and the town missionary
together.
"Nay, but you mustn't say that, Paul lad," said the missionary.
"Happen in a few months you will get over all these things."
"I shall never get over it," said Paul. "For six months I have been
wearing prison clothes; I have been sleeping in a cold, dark cell; my
name has been taken away from me, and I have simply been known by a
number, and I have been looked upon not as a man, but as a beast.
There's not much to make one think of God in all that, Mr. Whitman!"
"Ay, it's been hard on thee," replied the old man, "and there's many a
one in Brunford who thinks something should have been done for thee. I
suppose Ned Wilson felt very bitter towards you, and when he was
instructing the counsel, he made him believe that you were the
ringleader. There's more than one who have said that Bolitho was very
unfair. However, the Lord will make everything right."
"I shall never believe that the Lord has made everything right until
Bolitho and Wilson have suffered as I have suffered," replied Paul
bitterly. "If I could see Bolitho in prison clothes; if he were known
by a number; if he had to tramp the prison yard among the scum of the
earth, as I have; if he had to lie in a cold cell with the darkness of
hell in his heart, as I have, then I could believe in Providence
perhaps. But when I remember that I was regarded as a beast and not as
a man, while he was drinking wine and faring sumptuously, there did not
seem much justice in the world."
Hearing a rustle by his side as he spoke, Paul turned and saw that the
customer who had been talking with the shopkeeper was looking straight
at him, and his heart beat violently as the eyes of the two met. It
was a young girl he saw, not more than twenty years of age, and, as far
as he knew, she was a stranger to the town. He had never seen her
before, and she appeared different from the young women with whom he
had happened to meet. He noticed, too, as their eyes met, that hers
were full of horror. She seemed to regard him as she might regard a
snarling dog. He saw her lips quiver, and he thought for a moment that
she was about to speak to him. The intensity of her gaze made him
almost beside himself, and then, acting on the impulse of the moment,
and speaking with the freedom so common to the Lancashire operative
class, he went on: "Yes, miss, and I mean it too. You, by the look of
you, belong to that class, but, remember, the time will come when men
like Bolitho will be paid for what they have done. But, there!" And
he laughed. "I suppose he had to speak to his brief, and, justice or
no justice, he had to do what his employer told him to do. 'Ten pounds
more for every extra month you get him,' would be Wilson's cry, and
Bolitho would be anxious to get the ten pounds."
The girl's eyes shone with a fierce anger, and then, without a word,
walked away.
"I say, Paul," said the shopkeeper, "that's not the way to treat my
customers!"
Paul looked ashamed of himself. "I know, I know, Mr. Sutcliffe, it was
mean of me," he said, "and I know I ought to apologise to her. But if
you had seen the look on her face, and had suffered what I have
suffered, you'd have spoken too. Why, she might think I was an adder.
But there, I dare say she knew who I was, and that I had just come out
of prison."
"As you know, I'm all on your side, Paul," said the shopkeeper, "but I
cannot afford to have my customers driven away."
"Nay, I know," said Paul; "and if she doesn't come back and pay for the
things that are on the counter there, I'll take them myself and pay for
them. But there, I must be going." And, having got the things he came
to buy, he left the shop, little realising the influence the interview
would have upon his future.
He had barely gained the street when a man, whom he had known almost
ever since he had come to Brunford, met him. "Ay, Paul," he said. "I
have just been to your lodgings, and I want to see you particular."
Paul's heart was still embittered with the scene through which he had
passed, and he met the man rather coldly. "Is it anything particular?"
he said.
"Yes, I think so," replied the man.
"Because if it isn't," said Paul, "I don't want to talk about it. I've
had a hard day, and I'm pretty well worn out."
"That's so," replied the other, "and we'll say nothing more about it if
you don't feel like talking, but I thought as 'ow you might look upon
it as good news."
"Forgive me, Preston," he said, recognising the man's kindly tone. "I
know I spoke like a brute, but my nerves are all on edge, and while
everybody is very kind to me, I'm easily upset. What is it, old man?"
"I can't tell you here," replied Preston. "It'll take me an hour,
anyhow."
"Is it so important as that?" said Paul, with a questioning look in his
eyes.
"Ay, I think so," replied the other.
George Preston was a teacher in the Hanover Sunday-school, and was some
two years older than Paul. He had more than average intelligence, and
had been known for years as a hard-working, saving fellow. They had
met at the Mechanics' Institute, where they had gone for classes, and,
while they had gone their different ways, mutual respect existed
between them.
"I expect Mrs. Dixon will have got my little room all ready," said
Paul, "so we shall be able to have a chat without interruption." And
the two threaded their way along the busy street towards Paul's
lodgings. Never did Paul realise how much he was liked until that
evening. It happened to be market day, and the streets were crowded
with people. Not only had the townspeople gathered together in the
centre of Brunford, but many had come in from a distance, and thus to a
casual visitor it might seem as though a fair were being held. Every
minute or so he was stopped by someone who came up to congratulate him
on his return, and to bid him welcome.
"Never fear, Paul lad," it was said to him again and again. "You shall
noan suffer for this, and 'appen Wilson and that lot will noan be the
happier for what they have done to thee. Art short of money, lad? If
a sovereign 'll be of any use to thee, thou can have it."
And from the ring of sincerity in their voices Paul knew that every
word was meant. For I should like to say here that, although the
Lancashire operative is rough, and sometimes a little coarse, there are
no kinder people on earth than those who live in the great
manufacturing centres of the North. In the main they are loyal to a
man, and as true as steel. Brunford is by no means an ideal place to
live in; indeed, from November to April its atmospheric conditions are
horrible beyond words. It rains nearly all the time, and, the air
being smoke-begrimed, the streets are covered with black, slimy mud,
offensive both to sight and to smell. The very conditions, too, under
which the people live must have a tendency to coarsen and to destroy
artistic feelings. The artisans know practically nothing about the
gardens common to the South-country peasant. Houses are often built
back to back, or only divided by a small paved yard, the front door is
nearly always right on to the street, and, even in cases where some
strip of garden is obtained, the flowers, which are the pride of the
South-country people, simply come up hideous and black with grime.
The writer of these lines once lived in a manufacturing town in the
North, and, there being a strip of garden to his house, he asked the
gardener to plant for him some white hyacinth bulbs, hyacinths being
one of his favourite flowers. When the spring came, the hyacinths
appeared, but alas! they were not white, but as black as the soot which
is belched forth from a hundred chimneys.
So moved was Paul by the kindness which was manifested, that a great
sob came into his throat, and his heart became full of love towards the
people. He longed, as he had never longed before, to work for them, to
live for them; and before his mind came a vision of what the future
might have in store. He knew what their life was, understood
thoroughly the hard conditions under which they laboured. Yes, he
would make some return for all this goodwill, and for the love which
they evidently bore to him. He would live for them! He would work
night and day for the betterment of their conditions! He would make
Brunford a town to rejoice in! He would remove the wrongs under which
the people suffered, and bring music and gladness into their lives!
How he was to do this he did not know; indeed, it seemed impossible for
him to commence as yet, but the time would come, and when that time
came he would not spare himself. He did not forget what he had
regarded as the chief purpose of his existence--that, at all costs,
must be performed--but he must not live wholly for that; he must live
for the people who loved him, and whom, in spite of everything, he
loved.
"Well, Preston," he said, "what is it?" when at length they reached his
lodgings, and were sitting alone in the little room which the old
couple had allotted to him.
"I was thinking," said Preston, "of what you mean to do in the future."
"I don't think I shall go to work to-morrow," said Paul. "I shall need
one day's holiday to get things straightened out a bit, but, as you
know, my place is kept open for me."
"Have you any brass?" asked Preston abruptly.
"Not much," said Paul; "but I've saved a few pounds." And then, with a
laugh, "It's cost me nothing to live during the winter, you know. All
the same, I've had to work hard for the black bread and skilly."
"Come, now," said Preston, "let's say no more about that. I know you
had a bad time, but you know by this time that no one in Brunford
thinks the worse of you because of it, and no one thinks the better of
Wilson. And it's not Christian to cherish black thoughts about them,
or about Bolitho either. As you say, he was paid for his job, and he
did it. How much money have you saved?"
"Two hundred pounds," said Paul.
"So much?" said the other in a tone of surprise. "Ay, I did not think
you had done as well as that!"
"Well, you see," replied Paul, "I have had good wages and I've lived
hard. I have spent nothing on luxuries. I have had no holidays."
"It must have cost you something for these," said Preston, looking at
the well-filled bookcases on the wall.
"Oh, I forgot them," said Paul. "Yes. But, then, you see, I needed
most of them, and books are my one extravagance. But why did you ask?"
"I want to propose a partnership," said Preston.
"Yes," said Paul. "In what?"
"In a weaving shed."
"A weaving shed? That's not my trade!"
"No, I know; but what you don't know about weaving isn't worth knowing.
Although you started in Brunford as a loom-maker, you've picked up all
there is to know about manufacturing. And you're a bit of a scientist,
too. Well, I don't know so much about that part of it, but I do know
about the buying and selling. I've not been a salesman with Robinson's
for nothing, and I worked in the mills as a boy. You've got two
hundred pounds, you say; so have I, and a bit more. It's enough for us
to start on, lad. We can hire a shed, and we can hire power, and we
can hire looms, and we can buy cotton."
Paul looked at him in astonishment. "But, man alive, Preston, four
hundred pounds is not enough."
"Four hundred pounds is enough," replied the other. "And we can make
the thing go; we will make it go, too. And I want to tell you this,
too: I've a promise of a good backer."
"Who?" asked Paul.
"Well, to-day, as you know, your home-coming has been the talk of the
town, and Ben Bierly was talking with me about you. As you know, he's
a teacher at Hanover Sunday-school, and a few years agone he was a poor
man himself, while now he's one of the biggest manufacturers in
Brunford. Well, Paul, he sympathised with you, and he admires you too,
and he told me that if you were willing to go into partnership with me
he'd back us. He believes in you, and he believes in me, and if we
want a thousand pounds, we can have it."
"You're surely not serious, Preston?"
"Ay, but I am. I mean every word of it, and I know this, too: cotton
can be bought at great advantage just now, and trade's good. What do
you think of it?"
"I have had no time to think yet," said Paul. "Give me till to-morrow
night and let me look round a bit. But tell me this, what shed can we
hire?"
"There's a shed at the back of St. James's Street," replied Preston.
"I was looking at it only to-day. It'll suit us down to the ground,
and we can get it cheap."
For an hour or more they talked, Paul asking keen, searching questions,
which could only have been thought of by one who had thoroughly
mastered the mysteries of cotton-weaving. Afterwards he went to bed,
and thought long on the experiences of the day.
The next morning the town presented a new aspect. It no longer looked
_en fête_, as on the previous evening. On every hand halt-consumed
coals and strange smelling steams were being emitted from a hundred
factories. The streets were empty save for heavy lorries and tramcars.
Presently, at twelve o'clock, the mills would belch forth thousands of
pale-faced operatives, who for long hours had been standing at the
looms, but who, at present, were immured in those great noisome,
prison-like buildings which form the main features of the town.
Paul made several visits that morning, and presently found his way to
the empty weaving shed of which Preston had spoken the previous
evening. After some difficulty he had an interview with its owner.
Preston had told him that Fletcher was anxious to let this shed. It
had been on his hands for several months, and no one seemed to want it.
To his surprise, therefore, Fletcher met him coolly. "Well, they've
let you out?" he said to Paul.
"Evidently, or I should not be here," laughed Paul.
"Well, be careful not to get up to your larks again!" said the other,
and his tones were almost surly.
Paul took notice of this gibe, but as soon as he thought wise brought
the conversation round to the object of his visit.
"I don't know that it's to let," replied Fletcher.
"No?" queried Paul. "Then I must have been misinformed."
"It wur to let," said Fletcher, "and I don't say it isn't now, but I'm
noan sure."
"Why, George Preston told me yesterday that you had practically given
him the refusal of it."
"Ay, practically, but that noan settles the business. I've had another
offer since then."
"May I ask who has made the offer?" asked Paul.
"Thou may ask, but I don't say I shall tell. However, 'appen ow of the
biggest manufacturers in the town 'll have it."
"A big manufacturer wouldn't look at it," said Paul. "It's only fit
for a man in a small way of business."
Fletcher looked at him and laughed. "Good-morning," he said. "'Appen
I can go into it further to-morrow, but not now." And then he turned
on his heel and left Paul thinking.
Before the day was out Paul heard that young Edward Wilson, the son of
the man who had prosecuted him, had hired the shed for a warehouse,
although there seemed no reason at all why he should do so.
"This settles me," said Paul to Preston that night. "It's evident that
Wilson has got his knife into me, and he, hearing what you had in your
mind, determined to make it impossible. But, never mind," and Paul's
somewhat prominent jaws became rigid and stern. "I don't know that I
was so keen about manufacturing before, but I'd like to fight Wilson,
and he shall see that I'm not easily beaten. But we must go quiet,
Preston, and we'll have to be careful. There's not the slightest doubt
about it that Wilson thinks he owes me a grudge for what happened
nearly three years ago. But for that I shouldn't have had six months
at Strangeways. Still, I'm not a chicken, neither are you."
And then the two young men talked long and seriously concerning other
alternatives.
A week later the final step was taken, and Paul and Preston had signed
a contract to hire a larger weaving shed than they had intended, and
arrangements were pushed forward to start work immediately. Indeed,
Paul's mind was so filled with the project he had in hand that almost
everything else was forgotten. Two matters, however, must be
mentioned. The one was a letter from his mother, to whom he had
written, giving an account not only of his experiences in prison and of
his home-coming, but also of the venture that he was making. "If I
succeed, mother," he said, "you must come to Brunford to live. And I
mean to succeed. In twelve months from now I am going to be a
well-to-do man. I've learnt pretty much all there is to know about
manufacturing, and I've a good partner. And I mean to get on. But
don't think I've forgotten the real purpose for which I came to the
North. I have not found out much about my father yet, although I've
tried, tried hard. I can't understand it either. I've got hold of law
books containing lists of the names of the barristers in England, and
while there are a good many Grahams, none of them seem to tally with
the descriptions you gave me. However, once let me get on with
manufacturing and I shall have more time. I mean to go up to your
father's farm and ask questions there, and you need not fear. I've got
the name in Brunford for carrying out the thing I start upon, and I've
promised you. But, as I said, as soon as I get on, you must come to
Brunford to live with me, and then we can work together."
To this his mother had replied that she could never be a burden to him.
"You don't want a woman worrying you, Paul," she had said. "I'm well
enough off down here. You want to be free and unfettered. At the
proper time I'll come to you, but not yet, and don't trouble about me."
Paul brooded long over this letter. He pictured her hard, lonely life
away down in Cornwall, a few miles from Launceston, where she earned
her living as a servant. On several occasions he had sent her money,
but each time she had returned it, and it made him sad to think of what
she must be suffering. He remembered his promise to her, and his
resolution, dark and grim as it was, remained one of the most powerful
factors in his life. "I wish she would come and live with me," he
reflected. "I think I could bring some brightness into her life, and
yet, perhaps, it's just as well she is not here with me. She would
have broken her heart during the trial; but I'll not forget--no, I'll
not forget."
A fortnight after his return from Manchester he was walking with
Preston to a village some distance from; Brunford, where they had
arranged to inspect some machinery. By this time he had practically
forgotten the meeting with the girl to whom he had spoken so rudely in
John Sutcliffe's shop. But this afternoon, even while his mind ought
to have been filled with the work he had in hand, his mind turned to
her. He remembered the look of anger in her eyes, and the scorn which
shone from them as she gazed on him. He wondered who she was, and why
she should seem so deeply moved by what he had said.
In order to reach the village of Northcroft, the place towards which
they wended, they had to cross some fields, and George Preston and he
had scarcely climbed the stile when, coming towards them, they saw two
girls. Evidently they were coming from a large house in the near
distance, and were walking towards Brunford. Paul saw in a moment that
they were not of the operative class. They were well-dressed, and it
was plainly to be seen that they were strongly differentiated from
those women whom it was his lot to meet. He had barely gone half-way
across the field, when he stood still and gazed at one of them like a
man spell-bound. He recognised her as the girl whom he had met in
Sutcliffe's shop. Scarcely knowing what he did, he stood still in the
path, thus making it impossible for them to pass him. Preston,
evidently deep in his calculations about the looms he proposed to buy,
had for the moment forgotten Paul's presence and had left him behind.
"Will you kindly stand aside?"
Paul recognised the speaker. It was the daughter of Edward Wilson, but
he paid no heed to her, he was gazing intently at the other, and he saw
the colour mount to her cheeks as their eyes met. He had taken but
little notice of her when he had first seen her. He recognised that
she belonged to a class entirely different from his own, but he
remembered little else beyond the anger which she evidently felt
towards him. That she had resented his words was evident, but to that
he had attached but little importance; now, however, all was different.
He could not understand how or why--she had not only crossed the
pathway of his life, but she had entered his life. She seemed to
arouse within him all sorts of unthought-of possibilities. His ideas
of the world became different. She made him think of the poetry and of
the romance of life, even although she still looked upon him with
scorn, if not with anger. The morning had been rainy, and the long
grass on either side of the pathway was as wet as a pond, but he did
not move aside that she might pass by, in spite of what her companion
had said. Neither did he speak, but stood looking at her. She was
utterly different from Emily Wilson, whom he had often seen; indeed,
the poles seemed to lie between them. Miss Wilson was tall and largely
made, and, in spite of the fact that her dressmaker was an artist,
seemed to look poor and shabby beside the stranger. This girl was
almost diminutive, and yet she carried herself like a queen. He could
not have described a single feature, and yet he knew he would never
forget her face. It made him think of the fields around St. Mabyn. It
caused him to remember the love song of the birds, the music of a
streamlet, as it murmured its way down a valley near his old home. It
suggested the countryside, far removed from the smoke and grime of that
northern town, a countryside that was peaceful, sweet and beautiful.
"Will you kindly move aside?"
This time he realised what he was doing, and he stepped into the wet
grass.
"I beg your pardon," he said, and then unconsciously he lifted his hat.
He knew that the girl was thinking of their former meeting, thinking of
his own rudeness, thinking, too perhaps, of the circumstances under
which he had come back to Brunford. He walked on like a man in a
dream. "I had just come out of prison," he said, "and I spoke to her
like a clown. What must she think of me?" And then a feeling of
bitterness came over his heart. "She's with that Wilson girl," he
said, "and I know what they'll say."
But why should he care? What had he in common with this young girl,
whose thoughts and feelings must be far removed from his own?
The Lancashire operatives pay little attention to caste or class
distinction. With them one man is as good as another, even although
they are greatly influenced by the fact of success and the amassing of
money. But the inwardness of the word Aristocracy has little or no
meaning to them; it is too elusive, too intangible. But at that moment
Paul realised something of what it meant. This girl belonged to a
class of which he knew nothing. She created an atmosphere utterly
different from that breathed in a Lancashire manufacturing town. He
could not put it into words, but he knew it was there, a refinement, a
suggestion of thoughts to which he was a stranger. What was she doing
there? She had nothing in common with that Wilson girl, even although
the Wilsons were the wealthiest people in Brunford. And then there was
something more, he knew not what, only somehow it made life different.
It made him feel how small his world had been, what a little thing
money-making was. It suggested a larger world, a higher life of which
hitherto he had been ignorant.
When he reached the next stile he found George Preston waiting for him.
"Been talking with Wilson's lass?" asked he with a laugh.
Paul shook his head. "Who's the other one?" he asked. "Is she not a
stranger in these parts?"
"Don't you know?" asked Preston.
"No, I don't know."
"Why, she's Miss Bolitho. She's the daughter of the man who had so
much to do in sending you to quod."
It seemed as though someone had struck him a blow. Unconsciously he
had been weaving fancies around her, unconsciously, too, something had
come into his life to which hitherto he had been a stranger. And now
to hear that she was the daughter of the man whom he could not think of
save as his enemy, almost made him reel! For a few minutes he walked
on by Preston's side without speaking, while his companion, almost
unconsciously realising that he was in no humour for speech, was
likewise silent.
"I suppose," said Preston presently, "that Bolitho and Wilson got
friendly through thy trial. Of course, Bolitho's a big man, and knows
a lot of the big people in London, still, he's allowed his daughter to
come visiting here, and I hear, too, that young Ned Wilson is sweet on
her."
Paul did not speak. His mind was dazed, but he felt sure that, for
weal or for woe, he and this girl would be associated in the future.
"Are you sure she's Bolitho's daughter?" he said to Preston a little
later.
"Oh, yes, I'm quite sure. Bolitho was staying at Wilson's house while
you were in prison. And it is said that the two families went away to
Switzerland together just after Christmas. Besides, Ned Wilson won't
be a bad catch. It is said that the firm is making fifty thousand a
year, and Ned is the only son. But there, Paul, that's not for us to
talk about. They're not in our world at all. We're just beginning,
and we shall have hard work to get on. And we must be careful of Ned
Wilson, too. But for him, as you know, we should have had Fletcher's
weaving shed, and that would have saved us twenty pounds a year in
rent."
"Yes," said Paul, and his lips were compressed as he spoke. "I fancy
the time will come when Ned Wilson and I will have a lot of old scores
to pay off, and I tell you what, Preston, when the time comes I'll not
have the worst of it."
A year from that date two events took place which need recording.
Preston and Paul had been going carefully through their books, and had
been engaged in what might be termed a kind of stocktaking.
"We have had a great year, Paul," said Preston.
"Yes, I suppose so," replied Paul.
"And I doubt if any two chaps, beginning as we did, have had such
success as we have had."
"Perhaps not," said Paul, "but we've not had enough yet. I've got a
scheme in my mind which I want to talk with you about, Preston."
"You're always full of schemes," replied the other.
"Yes but have they not turned out well?" was the answer.
"Ay, I know," was the reply. "But sometimes I've felt as though we
have been walking on eggs. I never thought, twelve months ago, that I
should have dared to launch out so! Why, man, think of our
liabilities!"
"Yes," replied Paul, "but think of our success, too; think of our
assets! As you say, we've had a big year, but we must have a bigger
next year, and big years are not got by nibbling at things. We've got
this place for three months longer. At the end of that time we must
clear out."
"Clear out!"
"Ay, clear out. A hundred looms are no use to us now. We must
multiply them by eight."
"Why, Paul, you must be mad!"
"No, I've gone into it all. Mind you, this is no speculation which I
have in my mind. It may seem like it, but I have calculated everything
to a nicety. I've made inquiries at the bank, and I know to a penny
how we stand, and what the bank will back us for. And I've been making
inquiries about Thorncliffe Mill."
Preston looked at Paul as though he had doubts about his sanity.
"Thorncliffe Mill," he replied. "Why, it's one of the biggest places
in Brunford!"
"I mean not only to have one of the biggest places, but the biggest
place," said Paul. And although he did not mention the fact to
Preston, he knew that his new-found ambition was associated with the
meeting of Mr. Bolitho's daughter a year before.
The other event, which happened that day, was entirely different. He
had moved into larger rooms, and his surroundings were now more
congenial to his taste. It was evident, too, that Paul knew the value
of a good tailor, so much so that more than one young manufacturer
declared that he was the best-dressed man in Brunford. When Paul
returned to his lodgings that night he found four men awaiting him.
Wondering as to what their visit meant, he asked them to sit down, and
then waited for them to state their business. One of these men was the
secretary of the Weavers' Union, whom we have mentioned earlier in
these pages, another was the chairman of the Working Men's League, a
powerful political body in the town.
"Well, what is it?" asked Paul, noticing that they hesitated.
"You know, I suppose, that Mr. Carcliffe is resigning? He was returned
to Parliament four years ago, but he's had enough of it, it seems."
"Yes, I heard about it," said Paul.
"Well, now's our chance," continued one of the men.
"You mean that you're going to return a working-man?" said Paul.
"Well, I don't know so much about that," was the reply. "But we want
to return a man who understands us, who can voice our needs and who has
sympathies with our struggles."
"And have you thought of anyone?"
"Ay," replied the other, "we have."
"Who?"
"His name is Paul Stepaside," was the reply. "We've had him in our
minds for months. In fact, we've thought of him ever since he went to
gaol, in Manchester, a year ago."
To say that Paul was surprised at this proposal is but to suggest the
state of his feelings. For years he had had all sorts of romantic
ideas as to what the future of his life was to be, and thoughts
concerning a parliamentary career were not strange to him. Now,
however, that an actual proposal had been made, he could scarcely
believe his own ears. Ever since he had come to Brunford he had been
interested in political questions, and had been a popular speaker,
young as he was, on many political platforms. He remembered the vision
he had on the day he came out of prison. He had determined to work and
live for these people of Brunford, to ameliorate their woes, and to
bring more sunshine into their lives. But to go into Parliament, to
take his part in the legislation of the country; to stand face to face
with men whose names he held almost in awe, was too wonderful to be
true. Still, there were the facts: these men had come to him, telling
him that Mr. Carcliffe, the present Member, had either resigned or was
going to resign, and suggested to him that when an election came he
should fight their battle.
Well, why should he not do it? He was no longer a poor man. It is
true his position in the financial world was far from being a safe one,
but he had calculated concerning the future with great care, and he
believed that in a few years' time his position would be secured. He
believed in the cause these men stood for, too, and he could fight
their battles wholeheartedly. Above and beyond all this, moreover, was
something else which he scarcely dared to put into words. He had not
seen the young girl who had so strangely affected him since their
meeting in the fields, more than a year before, but the memory of that
meeting remained with him. At the back of all his plans for the future
was the thought of her, and although he did not know it, he had made up
his mind to win her as his wife. The difficulties seemed almost
insurmountable. She belonged to a class far removed from his own, and
he knew by the look on her face that she regarded him with anger, if
not with contempt. To her he was an agitator of the worst kind, one
who had broken the laws of his country, and had outraged the feelings
of her class. Through her own father's influence he had been sent to
gaol as a criminal, and she would naturally stand by her father's
position. Even without this stain upon his life, his case seemed
hopeless: he was only a working-man who had "got on," while she was the
daughter of a man who stood high in one of the most influential
professions. He knew that the doors of the best houses in the land
were open to prominent King's Counsels like Mr. Bolitho, while he was a
nobody. And yet, with that dogged determination by which he had become
known in Brunford, he had determined to overcome all difficulties, and
to make her love him. He did not see how he was to do it, he did not
know her address in London, he did not know how he could see her again;
nevertheless, he held by his resolution. There was only one woman in
the world to him, and that was one who despised him. Indeed, Paul
Stepaside was not sure that he loved her at all. Sometimes he thought
he hated her; nevertheless, she dominated his being, she was the goal
of his hopes, and in everything he undertook her influence was felt.
Perhaps this was partly the reason why the proposal made to him had
such a strong attraction. As a struggling cotton manufacturer he was a
nobody, but as a young Member of Parliament he would have a position.
The difficulties in the way of his advancement did not daunt him, and
he felt sure he could make his name prominent among the legislators of
the land.
"Did you say that Mr. Carcliffe had definitely resigned?" he asked.
"Well, he's told the committee that he wants to resign; we know that,"
was the reply. "And there's bound to be a general election in a few
months, and he has declared definitely that he'll not stand again."
"Who is the man that the other party are going to nominate in his
place?" he asked.
"We don't know yet," was the answer. "But we hear that a meeting is
going to be held at Edward Wilson's in a few days. But never mind the
other side, Paul; if you'll stand we'll send you to Parliament. We're
not going to allow these fine-fingered gentry to have it all their own
way. You're our man, and we'll stand by you, as you have stood by us."
Paul did not give them a definite answer that night. He wanted to
think about it, he said. All the same, when he bade them "Good-night"
his mind was practically made up, although he did not know it.