PAUL GOES TO SCOTLAND
When Mary Bolitho returned to Howden Clough that evening she went
straight to her own room. She wanted to be alone. Under ordinary
circumstances she would have, girl-like, sought out her friend, Emily
Wilson, and given her a full report of what had taken place, but her
desire was for silence rather than for speech. In spite of her anger she
felt that there was something sacred in what this young man had said to
her. There could be no doubt that he felt strongly, and she knew, by the
tones of his voice and the look in his eyes, that he was greatly moved.
Of course, she felt indignant that he should dare to speak to her at all,
and she wondered why she had resolved to say nothing to her father about
their meeting. When all allowances had been made, he had been rude in
the extreme. He had stopped her in a lonely part of the countryside, and
had roughly commanded her to listen to him! And Mary Bolitho was a proud
girl, and was not accustomed to being dictated to. All the same, she
felt much interested in what he had said, and she found herself thinking
of him again and again. There was something romantic, too, in his story
which, in spite of its improbability, she could not help believing, and
although she felt very angry with him, she sympathised with the feelings
he had expressed. Months before she had been annoyed at the thought that
her father should have been opposed by one who was little removed from
the working classes. She remembered him as she had first seen him, at
the shop in Market Street, pale, angry, and, as it seemed to her, coarse.
He spoke as one of his own class, too, and he was rough and rude. But
that view had become somewhat corrected, and she had to admit to herself
that Paul Stepaside was no awkward, ignorant, ill-dressed clown. Indeed,
for that matter, he had the advantage of most young men of her
acquaintance. His coal-black eyes and hair, his pale face and stalwart
figure, would be noticed anywhere. Besides, he was well-dressed, and
although he knew but little of the ways of her world, she knew that he
would never be passed without notice. Besides all this, there was a
suggestion of strength in nearly every word he said, in every tone of his
voice, and Mary Bolitho had a great admiration for strong men. Young
Edward Wilson, whose pointed attentions she could not mistake, seemed but
as a pigmy compared with him. Still, she felt angry, and she rejoiced in
the thought that, on his own admission, she was helping towards his
defeat.
Later in the evening, Paul Stepaside became the subject of a conversation
at Howden Clough, but Mary said no word as to their meeting. Indeed, she
was silent whenever his name was mentioned. On the following day, young
Ned Wilson was much chagrined when she declared her intention of
returning home. "Why, Miss Bolitho," he said, "you told me you had
arranged to canvass Long Street this week, and that will take you at
least three days. Yesterday I heard that you had converted at least a
dozen people, and we cannot afford to lose you now. It is all over the
town, too, that Stepaside is awfully mad at your success. I think he
hates you nearly as much as he hates your father."
"I don't feel like canvassing now," she replied. "And I'm anxious to get
back home."
"But you will come again soon?" he urged. "The house seems like a tomb
without you, and I don't know what I shall do if you go away!"
She was angered by his tones of proprietorship, and almost instinctively
she compared him with the young fellow who had spoken so rudely to her
the night before. Wilson was commonplace, unlettered; he had only the
tastes of the ordinary common, money-making manufacturer, and for the
first time a feeling amounting to revulsion came into her heart as she
thought of the hopes which she knew he entertained.
That afternoon she left Brunford, in spite of the protests that were
made, and found her way to London.
"Returned so soon, Mary?" said her father when she arrived. "I quite
expected you to stay another week. I have heard about the success of
your work in Brunford, and I imagined that you were going to win me a
great many more votes before you returned. I had no idea that you would
be such a valuable asset when I started this fight, and although I am
awfully glad to have you back, we shall have to strain every nerve if we
are to beat that fellow."
"Do you think you will beat him, father?" she asked.
"If we go on as we are doing, we shall," he replied. "I know he has a
tremendous hold upon the town, and I know that a great deal of prejudice
has been roused against me, but we must beat him, Mary; we must."
"Why, is there any special reason for this?" she asked, noting the tone
of her father's voice.
"Of course, I want to win," was his reply. "I never like to engage in a
fight without winning. I think that my success at the Bar has been
mainly owing to the fact that I've always set out to win. Besides all
that, I don't know how it is, but I've taken a personal dislike to that
fellow. By the way, have you ever met him?"
"Yes," replied the girl.
"Of course, you've never spoken to him?"
To this she made no reply. She did not know why it was, but she felt she
could not tell her father of their meeting in the fields behind Howden
Clough.
"Well, I shall have to go up to Brunford myself in two or three weeks,"
continued Mr. Bolitho, "and, if you can, I hope you will go with me."
"Can we not stay at an hotel when we go again, father?" she asked.
"Why?" asked Mr. Bolitho, turning upon her quickly. "Have not the
Wilsons always been kind to you? And do you not feel comfortable there?
Besides, there is no hotel in Brunford that I care to stay at, and
there's a sort of general understanding between Wilson and myself that we
shall be his guests."
The girl was silent, and looked steadily on the floor.
"What is it, Mary? There's something wrong."
"Of course, I cannot be blind to young Wilson's attentions," she said,
and her voice was hard as she spoke.
"Well, he's a decent fellow, and, on the whole, I like these Lancashire
people. They may be a trifle rough, and, of course, the Wilsons belong
to _nouveaux riches_ class, but young Ned cannot help that; besides, say
what we will, any girl might do worse than take Ned Wilson. I know, as a
fact, that his father is making an enormous income, and Ned, being the
only son, will be one of the richest men in Lancashire."
"He has the mind of a navvy and the tastes of a bookmaker." And her
voice was almost bitter as she spoke.
Her father laughed uneasily. "That's all nonsense, Mary!" he said.
"But, tell me really, what do you think my chances are? You know the
town now better than I do. Do you think I shall beat Stepaside?"
"He's not a man to be easily beaten," was her reply. "I believe that,
unless----"
"Yes, unless what?"
"Unless extreme means are used, he will win."
"I will not be beaten!" said Mr. Bolitho, and his eyes flashed as he
spoke. "That fellow insulted me in the Manchester Law Courts, and I was
glad when he got six months. Fellows of his order need to be taught a
lesson, and he shall be taught, too."
"I don't think you understand him, father," she said. "He's one of those
men who will never be beaten. He'll rise above every difficulty, and
move every obstacle out of his way. I don't know why it is, but I don't
feel comfortable about this contest, and I feel afraid of him."
"Afraid, Mary!"
"Yes," replied the girl. "I am afraid. I know I've no reason to be, but
whenever I think of him I become angry, and yet I don't know why I should
be angry. In a sense, he makes me admire him. He came to Brunford a few
years ago utterly poor and unknown, and now he's become quite a
personality. He's just one of those strong men that always wins his way.
And he hates you, too, father."
And then, without any apparent reason, the girl left the room.
Meanwhile, Paul Stepaside was in a train that carried him northward. He
was doing now what he had meant to have done long months before. He had
constantly been making endeavours to discover the truth about the Douglas
Graham of whom his mother had spoken, but he had done so without a plan,
and in a kind of haphazard way, and this was not like Paul. He felt,
too, as though he had a new motive in his life. Mary Bolitho had said
nothing that seemingly accounted for this, and yet he knew that her words
had determined his action. A feeling of pride which he had never known
before possessed him. He wanted to go to this girl with a name as good
as her own. Money, he knew he could get, yes, and position, too. During
the last few months he had listened to several fairly prominent Members
of Parliament. He had analysed their speeches and estimated their
powers, and he was not afraid of them. He was as big a man as any of
them; yes, bigger, stronger, and with more will power. No, he was not
afraid that he could not win position, but with this black cloud hanging
over him he felt as though he were paralysed. And so, when a local train
left Carlisle towards the station nearest to his mother's old home, it
was with a fixed determination that he would not leave Scotland until he
had discovered all that could be known. Perhaps it might end in nothing,
but he must find out.
It was with a curious feeling in his heart that he presently arrived at
the little farmhouse where his mother was born and reared. In spite of
the fact that he was a country lad, he had never realised the meaning of
loneliness as he realised it now. No other house was near; the little
farmhouse was the only building in sight. As far as the eye could reach,
beyond the few acres of land which had been reclaimed from the moors,
there seemed to him nothing but wild desolation. Hill rose upon hill,
and while the scene was almost majestic, it made him understand how
lonely his mother's life must have been. He stood for several minutes
looking at the house before entering. He did not know whether his
grandfather was living or not, and for the first time it struck him that
he might have relatives living there, to whose existence he had
previously been indifferent. The day was as still as death, and it
seemed to him as though the place were uninhabited. Presently, however,
he heard the sound of a human voice, and, turning, he saw a rough-looking
lad driving some cattle before him. The lad eyed him strangely as he
came up to the little farm buildings, and seemed to wonder why he should
be there. The time was evening, an evening of late summer, and Paul
remembered that it was in the late summer-time when Douglas Graham, his
father, had first come into the district. He called to mind, too, that
he had seen his mother as she was driving home the cattle from the moors.
He watched the lad almost furtively, and he wondered why it was that he
was afraid to speak. It seemed to him as though some mysterious power
were brooding over this lonely dwelling and forbidding him to learn the
secrets that lay within.
"Does Donald Lindsay live here?" he asked presently.
The lad looked at him for a few seconds before replying, and then, in his
strong Scotch accent, replied, "Nay. He's dead."
"And Mrs. Lindsay, is she alive?"
"Ay," replied the lad. "She'll be inside. She's my mother."
Paul remembered his own mother's story about this hard Scotswoman's
unkindness, and felt little disposed to go into the house; yet, for the
sake of learning what he had come to learn, he determined to enter. The
cottage, for it was little more than a cottage, was clean, but
comfortless and bare of any adornment whatever. It might seem as though
no woman entered this building, for there were no marks of a woman's
handicraft, none of those little suggestions of the feminine presence.
"Mother!" shouted the youth. "There's someone wants you."
A minute later Paul heard a heavy step on the uncarpeted stairway, and a
tall, angular, hard-featured woman, with cold blue eyes and scanty light
hair, entered the room. She looked at him steadily, as if there was
something in his face that she recognised.
"And what might ye be wantin'?" she asked presently. "Ye'll not be from
these parts, I fancy."
"No," said Paul. "I came from England. I was born and reared in
Cornwall. Years ago, a man named Donald Lindsay came there and married
into my family. I was wanting to find out something about him."
He knew it was a clumsy explanation of his appearance there, but it was
the best he could think of for the moment.
"What'll you be to Donald Lindsay?" asked the woman, as she scanned him
closely. "He died two years since, and it's getting on for forty years
ago since he was down South. He's told me about it many a time. You're
in no way related to him, are you?"
And then, giving him a second glance, she went on:
"No, no, you're no Lindsay. Donald was blue-eyed and fair-haired, and
you are black-eyed and black-haired."
"But did not Donald have a daughter?" asked Paul. "You see, I've heard
he married a Cornish girl, and that they had a daughter. Did you know
her? Did she ever live here?"
"What's that to you?" asked the woman. "You don't mean to say that
there's any siller coming to her?"
"I don't say but what there is," replied Paul, seeing that this might be
the key which might help to unlock the mystery of his mother's life.
"And are you a lawyer chap?"
"Do I look like a lawyer?" he asked with a laugh. He was wanting to get
the woman into a communicative mood.
"You might be," she replied. "You're just one of those keen-eyed men of
the lawyer class, but I ken nothing about her, except that she's dead."
"Who's dead?" asked Paul.
"Donald's lass, Jean," was the reply. "She that was born to his first
wife. And a good thing, too!" she added vindictively.
"Why a good thing?" asked the young man.
"Better dead than disgraced," replied the woman in her hard Scotch
fashion. And Paul understood the fear that his mother must have had of
this woman whom her father had placed in authority over her. A pain shot
through his heart, and he felt like answering the woman angrily. Ever
since their meeting on the Altarnun Moors Paul had been keenly sensitive
about his mother's good name, and resented any approach to light words
concerning her.
"I am trying to find out all about her," he said presently. "And I would
be very glad if you could give me any information concerning her
childhood and girlhood up here."
"Why should I?" asked the woman. "It'll not be to my advantage."
"Please don't be so sure of that," replied Paul. He knew instinctively
that she was avaricious by nature, and would be likely to do anything for
gain.
"You wouldn't thank me for telling," she replied.
"If you promise to tell me all you know," said Paul, "I am empowered to
give you five guineas."
"And it'll get me into no trouble?" she asked, with that suggestion of
Scotch caution of which Paul had so often heard.
"No," replied he, "your name need never be mentioned; but I'm anxious to
find out all I can concerning the childhood and girlhood of Jean Lindsay
up to the time of her marriage."
"Her marriage!" said the woman scornfully. "Weel, it may be she was
married, after all, and it may be I was hard on her, and it may be, too,
it was because I thought Donald cared more for her than for my children.
Anyhow, she never liked me, and I don't say that I liked her. She was a
good lass as lasses go, although never tractable--always stubborn. An
unnatural way she had with her, too: she always wanted to be out on the
moors alone, and I used to tell Donald it would never come to any good.
She might have married well. Willie Fearn, who owns a farm over the
moors here, would have had her, and he's worth thousands of pounds now,
is Willie. But she would have nothing to say to him. One day I saw a
stranger coming up the path with her, one of these handsome Southerners,
and they used to meet in secret, and I suppose he courted her. Anyhow,
she ran away with him, or said she did, and then came back the next day
telling us that she was married."
"Yes?" said Paul eagerly. He knew all this before, but it seemed to him
as though he was getting nearer the truth that he longed to learn. "And
did she stay with you long?"
"Not long," replied the woman. "You see----" And a look almost of shame
came into her eyes. "Well, she stayed as long as she dared."
"And have you heard what has become of her since?" he asked.
"We've heard that she died. We've no proof of it, but we saw in the
papers a few weeks afterwards that a girl was found dead, and from the
description given of her we concluded that it was Jean."
"But did you not try and find out?" he asked. "Surely your husband would
not be so callous towards his daughter?"
"My husband did what I told him," she said. "Besides, the girl had
disgraced herself, and we did not want to be dragged into it. Mind, I'm
not sure, after all, but what she was properly married, and it may be I
did wrong. But there it is--she's dead."
"And did you hear anything more--have you ever heard anything more about
this young Southerner?"
"Well, we are not so sure about that," replied the woman. "You see, I
never saw him but once before the time Jean said he married her, and so I
cannot swear to him anywhere. But some time after Jean left a man came
here, and, in a roundabout way, he found out what we knew about her."
"And did you tell him she was dead?"
"I told him just what I've told you," replied the woman.
"And how did he take the news?" asked Paul.
"Oh, nothing particular," replied the woman. "He just went on talking
about something else, but I believe that was a bit of make-up."
"Wasn't he a friend of the Grahams at a house called 'Highlands'?" asked
Paul presently.
"I believe there were some people called Graham at the time. It is said
that they came there for their summer holidays, but they left before we
had guessed about Jean's trouble, and so we could never find out anything
about them."
"What kind of a man was he--I mean the one who came asking questions?"
"Oh, a middle-aged man, perhaps forty or fifty. He had iron-grey
whiskers, and he was bald, I remember."
"And he was the only one who ever came making inquiries?" asked Paul.
"Yes, the only one."
Paul's hopes were dashed to the ground again. Still, the man must have
had some reason for coming North; no one would come all the way from
England to make inquiries unless something of importance lay at the back
of it.
"What kind of questions did he ask?" continued the young man.
"It is a good many years since," replied the woman, "and I am afraid I
did not encourage him much. But as far as I can call to mind now, he
asked how long since she had left, and whether anything had happened to
her."
"And did you tell him"--and Paul's voice was almost hoarse as he
spoke--"did you tell him of--of what you call her disgrace?"
"No," replied the woman harshly. "I am not one of that kind. Donald
Lindsay's name is a good one, and I'm proud of it myself. Besides, I
thought she was dead, and so--well, I said nothing."
"And that is all you can tell me?"
"That is all."
From the little farmstead Paul went to "Highlands," but his visit seemed
in vain. The people who occupied the house had lived there for some
twelve years, and they had bought it from an agent as a summer residence.
They had heard that the previous owner lived in Edinburgh, but they were
not sure. They only knew he was in the habit of letting the house during
the summer months.
"Did you know the Grahams?" Paul asked.
"No. I've heard they lived in England, in London, in fact, but we knew
nothing about them. I have been told that they were a large family, and
came here during the three summer months, but that's twenty years ago
now, and so nothing is known."
"And they have not been here during your time?" asked Paul.
"No," was the reply.
And this was all he learnt. He asked many questions, but the answers
were all vague and tentative.
From "Highlands" he went to Willie Fearn's farm. He thought perhaps his
mother's one-time admirer might be able to give him some information, but
Willie Fearn was a dour Scotsman, who said he knew nothing. When Paul
approached the subject of Willie's former relation to Jean Lindsay and
his hopes of making her his wife, the Scotsman set his lips firmly
together and refused to speak. He admitted presently how he had heard
"that the lass had gut into sore trouble, and then went away and died.
But there's nae proof," he said, "there's nae proof. And it's a warning
to Scotch lasses to have nothing to say to Southern strangers. And Jean
was a good lass," he added confidentially, "and would have made a good
saving wife for a sober man with a little siller. She had a grip of
doctrine, too. She was well versed in the fundamentals and would have
made a good elder's wife. But, ay, man, the tempter comes in many a
form, and it behoves us all to be very careful."
So far, Paul's visit to his mother's old home had been entirely without
result. As far as he could see, he could make not one step forward.
Moreover, in spite of the looseness of thought concerning Scotch
marriage, he saw that there was a doubt as to whether the wedding was
legal or not. But he had not finished yet. He had from time to time
read such books as came in his way bearing upon Scotch law, and in one of
these was a definite statement that if a man and woman were known to take
each other as husband and wife, this was proof that their marriage was
legal. So, remembering his mother's words, he made his way towards the
little inn where they had stayed on the night of their marriage. He took
the road which she had told him of, and presently came to the spot where
she and Douglas Graham had taken each other as man and wife. The woman
must have described the scene with great accuracy, for he recognised it
the moment he came to it. The patch of lonely pine trees, the little
lake by which the road ran, the burn coming down the rocky valley, and
the great wild moorlands stretching away northward. And they had stood
within the shade of the pine trees while the setting sun sent its rays of
light through the branches. He believed he recognised the spot on which
they knelt when Douglas Graham prayed that their union might be blessed.
A shiver passed through him as he stood there, and he called to mind the
words they had spoken: "I, Douglas Graham, take thee, Jean Lindsay, to be
my wife, and I promise to be faithful to thee as long as I live." In
spite of sad memories, it seemed like holy ground, and however the
marriage had appeared to the bridegroom, to him it was real and sacred.
It was late that night when he came to the inn near the Scottish border,
but the innkeeper welcomed him eagerly. It had been a wet summer, and
they had had but few visitors. Both the innkeeper and his wife,
therefore, were glad to see Paul, and were hoping he would spend some
days with them. Both of them were Scotch people, although they had lived
for many years on the English side of the border.
"Have you kept this inn long?" asked Paul after supper.
"For more than thirty years," replied the man. "When we came here first
it was very lonely, and there were few people who came. Just a stopping
place it was for wagoners and that sort of people. But now, both English
and Scotch people are realising that there's no lovelier part in the
whole of the British Isles. That's why they come. You see, there's many
associations around this neighbourhood too. Tammy Carlisle was born and
reared not many miles from here. And then, as you know, Gretna Green is
not very far away."
"But the days of Gretna Green are over?" suggested Paul.
"Ay," he replied. "But not altogether. We've had many a couple come to
us directly after their marriage, and I believe that lots of them have
just gone over the border for a Scotch marriage."
"By the way," asked Paul, "do you remember twenty-five years ago this
very month that a young man brought his wife here? It was on the
twenty-ninth of August. Think, now; do you remember it?"
"Ay, I think I do, but my wife has a better memory than I. Meg! Will
you come here?"
The old lady was keenly interested in Paul's questions. "Why, of course,
Angus. I've thought about them many a time since. He was fair and she
was dark."
"That's it," said Paul eagerly. "That's it."
"She had black een, I remember," said the woman. "Een as black as sloes,
and her hair was like the sheen of a raven's wing. And they did love
each other, too, I could see that."
"And did they sign any register or anything of that sort?" said Paul.
"Do you keep a register of your visitors?"
"Nay," said the woman. "We kept no register then, but we do now. People
came and went then, and we thought not so much of it. All the same, they
did write something."
"Both of them?" asked Paul.
"Ay, both of them. You see, I wasna so sure about them, and I wondered
whether it was a runaway match. The lad introduced the lass as his wife,
but they seemed mighty nervous, and the lad had been here a few weeks
previously with some others, and I am sure he had nae thought of marrying
then."
"Did you say he wrote his name and she wrote hers?" asked Paul eagerly.
"You seem mighty interested," said the woman. "One might think---- Ay,
now I look at your face again, ye remind of the lass. Your eyes and hair
are as black as hers, and ye have the same kind of face, too. It might
be that she was your mother."
"Think for a moment that she is my mother," said Paul. "Let me see the
writing in the book."
The woman went to the bookcase by her side and took down an
encyclopaedia, and there, on the flyleaf, he saw the names, "Douglas
Graham, Jean Graham, August 29th, 18--."
"And they left the next day, didn't they?" asked Paul.
"Ay, they left the next day, and they looked as though they were going to
a funeral, both of them. I wondered if they had quarrelled or something,
but they seemed so loving that that seemed impossible. But I've thought
of them many a time since."
"Let me see," said Paul. "This is on the English side of the border,
isn't it?"
"Ay," replied the woman. "It is the English side."
On leaving the next day Paul made his way to the nearest town of
importance on the Scotch side, and was soon closeted with a lawyer.
"I am come to ask for information," said Paul.
The Scotsman looked at him keenly, and wondered how much he could charge
him.
"Maybe you are in trouble?" he said.
"No," replied Paul; "I'm not in trouble. I only want information
concerning a matter of Scotch law."
"And there's no man north of the Tweed that knows more about Scotch law."
And the old lawyer stroked his chin thoughtfully. "But what phase of
Scotch law are ye interested in?"
"Scotch marriage."
"Maybe you're thinking of getting wed? If ye are, take the advice of a
man who has had to do with hundreds of weddings, and don't! If there's
one thing for which I'm thankful to Providence, it is that I've always
been strong enough to resist the lasses. Trouble came with the coming of
a woman into the world, and they have been at the heart of nine-tenths of
it ever since."
"No doubt your advice may be very wise," said Paul, "but it's not of that
I'm thinking now. The question with me is what makes a Scotch marriage?"
"Nay, nay, man, don't try and sail as near to the rocks as ye can. If ye
are going to wed, have the matter done publicly and openly."
"I'm not going to wed," said Paul. "But this is what I want to know:
what is a Scotch marriage?"
"For the life of me, I can't tell you," he replied. "But ye have some
case in your mind, I see. Tell it."
"Well, supposing a man and woman took each other as husband and wife
according to the old ideas?"
"Ay, I follow," said the Scotsman. "No kirk, no minister, no witnesses,
no anything?"
"Yes," said Paul. "Would they be married?"
"Ay, they would. But if one of them tried to back out, ye see,
difficulties come in. In that case they would have to declare themselves
before someone that they were married."
"Well, then," continued Paul, "suppose they went to an inn that night and
the man called the woman his wife before the innkeeper and his wife?"
"Ah, then you have got something to go on," said the lawyer. "That
certainly would clinch the nail. Ye're thinking of property, I expect?"
"There's another question I want to ask," said Paul, not noticing the
query which the old Scotsman had interposed. "Supposing that directly
they were married in Scotland they went to England, and the inn wherein
the man called the woman his wife was in England. Would that make any
difference?"
The old Scotsman scratched his head. "Ay, man," he said, "it might. But
I'm no sure."
"Not even if both the man and the woman signed their names in a book that
they were married?"
"I'm no sure," repeated the lawyer. "But I could find out for you, say,
for a matter of five pounds, and I would let you know. But I would have
to write to Edinburgh and, it may be, have to consult many documents."
Paul could not get beyond this, and when, at the end of three days, he
returned to England, he felt that, although his visit to his mother's
home and the scenes associated with their marriage were extremely
interesting, he had made no real forward step. One statement of the old
lawyer, however, remained in his memory, and he brooded over it during
his journey back to Brunford: "If ye could find the man," said the old
lawyer, "who took the lass to the inn on the English side of the border
and declared her to be his wife and signed his name in the book, I think
you would have such a hold on him, if ye faced him with these things,
that he couldna get out of it. But beyond this I daurna go."
And so Paul felt he had moved forward in spite of himself. Somehow the
marriage seemed more real, and he felt that he was nearer the day when
the shame which had so long rested upon his mother's life would be lifted.
No sooner had he reached Brunford, however, than these thoughts were
driven from his mind. Rumours were in the air that the Government was
about to resign and that an election was imminent.
"Bolitho is coming to-morrow," said old Ezra Bradfield, the chairman of
the Workmen's League. "And I hear he means to move heaven and earth to
keep you out of Parliament."
"And I mean to get in," said Paul grimly.