THE COMING OF PAUL'S MOTHER
Mary Bolitho had returned to Howden Clough on the night of the
election, her heart filled with conflicting emotions. Naturally, she
had rejoiced in her father's election. No one had worked harder than
she, and she felt that her father had not spoken untruthfully when he
said that she had been largely responsible for his election. She had
thrown herself eagerly into the work of gaining voters, and she knew
she had been supremely successful. During the last three weeks a list
of names had been given to her almost daily of those who seemed
doubtful and undecided, and she had gone to them, and where others had
failed she had secured their promises. She was naturally, therefore,
elated at the result. The margin was so narrow that, but for her, both
she and her father would have left the town feeling that the enemy had
triumphed.
But she was not altogether satisfied. For one thing, she felt
uncomfortable at the long stay she had been making at Howden Clough.
Again and again she had spoken to her father, asking him to take rooms
at an hotel, but Mr. Bolitho had persisted that it would offend the
Wilsons deeply, and that he knew of no sufficient reason for acting
upon her suggestion.
"What excuse can I give, Mary?" he said. "It was understood from the
beginning that I was to make Howden Clough my home during our visits
here. They have become personal friends of ours, and not only should
we wound them by going to an hotel, but at this stage of the business
we should cause a great deal of gossip."
Though yielding to her father's wishes, however, she was far from
satisfied. It seemed to her that Ned Wilson looked on her with an air
of proprietorship. He did not say this in so many words, but she
couldn't help seeing what his thoughts and determinations were. Not
that she disliked Ned--indeed, she had become more and more favourably
impressed by him. He had more brains than she imagined, too, and had
given evidence that, from the standpoint of business, he was thoroughly
versed in the questions at issue. He had thrown himself with
tremendous ardour into the fight, and had spared himself in no way in
order to win the election, and yet she was not satisfied. There seemed
something at the back of everything which she could not understand.
She had seen the circular referred to in the last chapter, and, in
spite of the explanations which had been made, could not help feeling
that the sending out of this same circular was unfair and even base.
Everyone at Howden Clough professed ignorance concerning it, and there
were many surmises as to who was responsible for it. The printer's
name did not appear, and it was sent from London. That of itself
looked to her very suspicious. But more than this, she could not
understand Ned Wilson's behaviour. She had discussed with him who had
been guilty of it, and while he, like the rest, professed to know
nothing, he did not appear to be at all at ease.
"But is Mr. Stepaside on the brink of ruin, as is suggested here? And
will he not be able to pay his debts?" she asked.
"Oh, I daresay it's true," cried Ned. "You see, the fellow is a
bounder. He started manufacturing on practically nothing, not knowing
very much about it. That's why he's got into this hole. You see, he's
no conscience, and his ambition oversteps everything. You should have
heard him last Sunday morning haranguing his followers, as I was coming
home from church. You would realise, then, what kind of a fellow he
is--just a blank, blatant atheist, and, as your father has always
maintained, a man who has given up faith in religion is very doubtful
as to his morals."
"Then, you mean he'll become a bankrupt?"
"Most likely," replied Ned. "And serve him right, too. He's only
himself to blame. But what worries me is not that he will most likely
be a bankrupt, but the sufferings of the people to whom he owes money."
Mary was naturally impressed by this conversation. While she regarded
Paul Stepaside with a certain amount of admiration because of his
strong personality and the position he had, in spite of difficulties,
obtained in Brunford, she had a certain horror of his irreligion and
his apparent vindictiveness. She recalled the words he had spoken to
her on the two occasions on which they had met, words which revealed
the passionate nature of the man. She was sorry she had spoken to him
at all. She ought to have treated him with the scorn and contempt he
deserved. After all, what had she to do with a Lancashire operative
who, because he was possessed of a kind of vulgar aggressiveness, had
become an employer of labour?
The scene in the chamber where the votes were counted, however,
strengthened the uncomfortable feelings which had hitherto possessed
her. He had openly accused her father of encouraging means which he
regarded as disgraceful. He had declared that Mr. Bolitho had used
these methods by which to destroy him. Of course, she could not help
being offended, if not angry, at Paul Stepaside's demeanour and at his
almost savage attack. She reflected that he was guilty of the conduct
of a clown, and attributed it not only to his own savagery, but to the
instincts of his class. And yet she was impressed by his strength.
She almost admired him, as he savagely proclaimed the fact that he
would yet be Member for Brunford. She felt his strength, too, and saw
how he moved the multitude. Yes, in spite of everything, he was a
strong man, and she loved strength. He had the instincts of a leader,
and she admired men who could lead. And he was right, too--he was not
crushed, although he was beaten, and he would fight again.
She was very silent at Howden Clough when they all returned from the
gathering at the club. Everyone was jubilant except her, and although
she was interested in all that was said, there was a strange feeling at
her heart which she could not understand. She had a kind of fear, too,
that Ned Wilson was on the point of making an avowal of his love, and
for that reason she had determined that nothing should keep her from
leaving Brunford on the morrow. Her father, however, had arranged to
stay in the town until late in the afternoon, and she must perforce
stay with him. But she determined to be alone, and that was why she
found herself out in the fields at the back of Howden Clough when Paul
was returning from his visit to old Abel Bowyer. She did not mean to
speak to him, and yet she instinctively walked more slowly as he
approached. In spite of herself, too, she found herself admiring him.
He gave no suggestion of a beaten man. His step was firm and quick,
and he walked almost like a victor.
Paul, scarcely knowing what he was doing, lifted his hat as he came
close to her. "Miss Bolitho," he said, "will you convey a message to
your father from me?"
She had meant to pass by without speaking, but the manner in which he
addressed her made this impossible.
"If you wish to send a message to my father," she answered, "would it
not be well for you to write to him? Good afternoon." And she moved
as if to pass on.
"No," replied Paul quietly. "I want you to take a message direct from
me, and doubtless he will tell Wilson. Please inform him that I have
discovered the author of the circular which was sent broadcast during
the election, and that I have proofs of the plot to ruin me. Doubtless
he will be interested."
Without another word he passed on. A little later, Mary Bolitho left
Brunford with her father. A fairly large crowd gathered at the
Brunford station to see them off, and there were all sorts of shouting
and congratulations; but Mary was very silent, and during the whole of
the journey to Manchester she scarcely spoke a word. She said nothing
of her meeting with Paul that day. It seemed to her that something had
closed her lips. She knew not why. One thing, however, gave her a
feeling of gratification--she had made it impossible for Wilson to make
his declaration of love. She knew she had only put it off for a time,
and she dreaded the evil day.
Meanwhile, she was glad that he had not spoken to her, for Mary knew
that if she accepted him, she would do so largely, if not altogether,
at the wish of her father. For some reason or other Ned Wilson and he
had become exceedingly friendly, and she believed, although her father
had said nothing definite to her about it, that he favoured Ned's suit.
And she loved her father with a great love, and would not, if she could
help it, do anything to displease him. For Mary belonged to those who
were held fast by old-fashioned views concerning the obedience due from
children to their parents. In this respect she was a child of a past
generation. She had a horror of anything like the modern woman
movement, and did not claim that so-called emancipation by which they
give up their superiority to men, in order to become their equals.
She determined, too, that she would go away on a long visit to a
friend, giving as an excuse to her father that she was overwrought by
the election and needed a rest. In this way she thought she would, for
a time at all events, postpone the day of decision in relation to the
suit which she knew Ned Wilson was longing to urge.
In a few days the excitement of the election had calmed down at
Brunford. The jubilation of the victors spent itself, as did the
disappointment of those who were vanquished. Bolitho was elected and
Paul Stepaside didn't get in. And that, for the time being, was the
end of it.
Meanwhile, Paul went on with his work silently, doggedly. His affairs
were in a critical condition, and he needed all his energy and all his
wits to put everything right. He no longer fought in the dark,
however. He knew who and what had brought about the crisis which had
faced him, and Paul was a man of many resources. For more than a month
he had only been able to give half his mind to his business, and George
Preston, while a trustworthy and reliable fellow, was not strong enough
to face the problems which lay before them. Freed from the demands of
the political contest, however, he threw his whole energies into the
disentanglement of his affairs, and little by little he succeeded. The
prices for the stuff which he had been manufacturing went up again, and
although they had not reached the figures of a few months before, he
was able to sell enough to help him to meet his most pressing
creditors. In three months, matters had assumed their normal
condition. Evidently Ned Wilson regarded him as no longer dangerous,
and was not prepared to lose more money to bring about his revenge. In
addition to this, Paul had worked in a way whereby Wilson had been
deceived. Mind for mind, Wilson was no match for him. He was not so
far-seeing, neither had he so broad a grasp of affairs. He had been
able to gain an immediate advantage because of his large capital, and
Paul knew that Wilson's father was too fond of money to consent to
heavy and continuous losses. At the end of six months Paul's position
was pretty well assured. In spite of everything he had overcome the
evil circumstances, and, more than that, he had even used what seemed a
disaster to the furtherance of his own ends.
All this time he had not been unmindful of the great quest of his life.
He never forgot, even when the fight was at the highest, the loneliness
of his mother's life and the shadow that rested upon her. Indeed he
had, from the time of his returning from Scotland, made constant and
continuous efforts to discover the man who had blackened her name. All
his efforts, however, were unavailing. Every road seemed to be a
cul-de-sac. Either Douglas Graham had given his mother a false name or
else he had left the country, and thus made it impossible for him to
find him; or he might be dead--it was quite possible. During the lapse
of twenty-five years anything might happen. Still, he had a feeling
that his father was alive, and he owed it to his mother, he owed it to
himself, to penetrate the mystery. Why he should connect Mary Bolitho
with all this he did not know; nevertheless, it was a fact that her
face was never missing from the picture which he drew of the future.
Somehow she was always connected with the efforts he was making. Often
he dreamed of the time when he would be able to get her and say, "My
name is as honourable as yours, as free from stain as yours. I have
found my father." But the months went by and his search was
unavailing, and the questions he was constantly asking were never
answered.
He had never seen his mother since the day he left her on the Altarnun
Moors. More than once he had suggested that she should come and live
with him, but she had refused. Frequently, too, when writing to her,
he had asked her whether he might come and see her, but she had
persistently opposed this. "No, Paul," she said. "Your coming would
only lead to questions. Here I am allowed to bury my secret in my own
heart, and while my life is lonely enough, I can bear it until the day
when justice is done to me."
At length, however, Paul could bear it no longer.
"MOTHER (he wrote),--I am now what you would call a rich man. I have
more money than I need to spend, and I cannot bear that you should be
living away in that lonely farmhouse. You say you are treated more
like a housekeeper than a servant, more like a member of the family
than a stranger, but that's not enough for me. You are my mother, and,
although I know little of you, I love you dearly. Besides, I am very
lonely. I have but few friends, neither do I wish to make any, but I
want you to come to me, mother. If you can keep house for that farmer,
you can keep house for me. And I want to see you constantly. I want
you by my side. I want you to be here to bid me 'Good-morning' when I
go out to my work and welcome me when I come home at night. I want a
home of my own, and I want my mother to be at the head of it. You must
do this, mother. I have my eye now upon an old-fashioned house just
outside Brunford. It is hidden from the town, and was at one time, I
suppose, owned by a sort of yeoman. It has a large garden, and there
are old trees round it, and that, I can assure you, is something to be
desired here, in a town where there are few gardens and where the trees
grow with difficulty. It will give me joy to furnish this home for
you, mother, and to make your life one of ease. Besides, I want your
help. Ever since I came here, I've been trying to find the man of whom
you spoke to me; I cannot call him 'Father,' even although he is. If
you came, you could help me, and together we could think of means
whereby the truth could be brought to light. Will you, mother? I know
you say you are comfortable as you are, and that you don't wish to be a
burden to me. You would not be a burden, but you would help me to bear
mine, and so I don't ask you to come for your own sake, but for mine.
I am your son, and I am lonely, and I need my mother."
Three days later he received his mother's reply:
"MY DEAR PAUL (she wrote),--I will come to you. Great fear is in my
heart as I write this, but I can't resist you. You are my own flesh
and blood, and although I have scarcely seen you from a child, you are
the only thing I love. So, Paul, while I do not wish you to spend
money for me, and while I shall be contented with a very little house,
I will come as soon as ever you say you are ready for me."
A new interest came into Paul's life directly he had received this
letter, and without hesitating a second he took the house he had
mentioned. It was a wonder the place had been unoccupied for so long,
because it was one of the best specimens of architecture in the
neighbourhood. Perhaps the reason why it had not been taken was that
it did not accord with the prevailing ideas in relation to houses. Of
course, it was too large for an operative to think of taking, and as
for the ordinary prosperous business man, he loved a more showy house,
with plate-glass windows and high ceilings. This house had been built
before Brunford became a manufacturing town, and was looked upon as
utterly inconvenient and lacking in those characteristics which the
prosperous Lancashire man loves. It was low ceiled; it looked somewhat
dark. Its windows were stone-mullioned, and instead of great
plate-glass windows it had small diamond-leaded lights. And so Paul
was able to get it at a comparatively nominal rent, especially as the
place was in shocking repair. In a few weeks, however, a
transformation had been wrought. The building had been thoroughly
overhauled, and by the wise expenditure of a comparatively small amount
of money, modern conveniences had been installed. The old oak floors
had been thoroughly cleaned, the walls distempered; the roof and
windows repaired, and the sanitation made perfect. Paul took a
wondrous delight in doing this. Each evening, when the day's work was
over, he hastened to it, and rejoiced in the new beauties which the old
place was constantly revealing. All the woodwork was of oak, and the
old staircase, with its quaintly carved banisters and newels, the
oak-panelled walls, which the last tenant had allowed to become dirty
and damaged, appealed to his artistic nature. He loved the great oak
beams which stretched across the ceilings, and rejoiced in the quaint
nooks which were a characteristic of the old building. The furnishing,
too, brought him constant pleasure. There happened to be a man in the
town who dealt in antique furniture, and he also manufactured new
furniture from old models. Why, Paul did not know, but since he had
been in the habit of visiting wealthy men's residences, he had taken a
great dislike to the bright, showy and costly, though very substantial,
furniture which he saw. It had newness written everywhere, and
utilitarianism and wealth seemed to be the great things to proclaim.
But in this old dealer's warehouse he was able to resurrect things
which had been bought from old manor houses, and which the Brunford
people regarded as rubbish. These articles, when cleaned and repaired
according to their original design, rejoiced him greatly. So that
when, a few weeks after he had written to his mother, he saw them
placed in his house, he felt for the first time that he had a home.
One room especially attracted him--the room he meant to be sacred to
his mother and to himself. Two-thirds of the wall space was covered
with bookcases, while on the rest he hung some very good pictures. All
these bookcases, as well as the chairs and writing-desk, made him think
of the days of rest and comfort before Brunford became a scene of rush
and turmoil. He pictured his mother seated by the fire, while he,
after his day's work was over, would sit by her side with a pipe and a
book. If he could not find his father, he could, at least, give his
mother a home, and he vowed that he would make her happy. She was only
a young woman even yet. It is true she looked careworn and sad when he
had seen her on that day when she had told him her story, but he would
smooth the lines from her face, and by his love and devotion would
bring joy to her heart. He vowed, too, that Brunford should recall the
words which had been uttered about her, and that the best people in the
town should pay their respects to her. The time was now summer, and
although it is hard to make a garden beautiful, even while two miles
away from the grime and smoke of the town, he had done all that was
possible in that direction.
"She will be here to-morrow night," he said to himself, as one evening
he wandered from room to room. "This is her bedroom," he thought. "I
hope she'll find everything comfortable. Yes, I believe she'll be
happy here. It will ease her aching heart as I come to kiss her
good-night, and my bedroom is close by, and she'll always know that I'm
near. And then there is the kitchen, too. I must take care that
everything is right there. I wonder whether she will like the servant
I have got for her. At any rate, she will be able to set that right
herself, if it is not right now, and I have money enough to give her
every comfort. I was lucky to get such a dear old house, and she shall
enjoy it; at least, I owe her that." And then, as her picture came
before him as he had seen her that night when she had bidden him
good-bye, the tears came into his eyes and his lips trembled. All the
next day he was strangely excited, and George Preston declared that he
had never known him so careless about business. "People are finely
talking about your taking that house!" he said. "Some are saying
you're going to get wed! Why have you been so close about it? And
what makes you spend all that brass?"
"My mother is coming to live with me," said Paul; "coming to-day."
"You don't mean it!" said the other. "Why, you looked as though you
might be expecting your sweetheart!"
"I am," replied Paul with a laugh. And, indeed, he felt as though he
were; for Paul was more happy than he had ever known himself to be
before. The clouds somehow seemed to have lifted, and brightness came
into his heart in spite of himself.
"She'll be very tired," he reflected, as that night he wended his way
to the station. "She will have been travelling all day. She left
Launceston early this morning, and it will have been a rush for her."
So he was careful to engage a cab some time before the train was due,
and then walked up and down the station with a fast-beating heart.
Yes, life was becoming new to him in, a way that he could not
understand. He felt less bitter towards the world, less bitter towards
Mr. Bolitho, less angry at what had happened to him. The six months in
Strangeways Gaol seemed but a horrible dream. The struggles of the
past were far behind. He, while yet but a youth, had succeeded beyond
all expectations, and, added to all this, his mother was coming to live
with him; and for the first time in his life he would have a home!
No youth waiting for his sweetheart was ever more impatient than Paul.
He was angry that the train was late, and wondered why the porters
could be so indifferent about it. He had all sorts of fears, too,
concerning his mother's welfare. Had she been able to catch the
connection at Bristol and Manchester? Had some accident happened?
Presently the signal fell, and a little later the train swept into the
station. There were but few people present, because it was late, and
it happened to be a wet day. Eagerly he looked at the carriage
windows, and then suddenly he felt as though his heart were too great
for his bosom. He saw a lonely, tired-looking woman step from the
carriage and look expectantly round. "Mother!" he cried. "My dear,
dear mother!" And then the sad-eyed, weary woman laid her head on his
broad shoulder and sobbed for very joy.
A little later Paul and his mother were riding through the now silent
streets of Brunford towards his new home. A strange feeling possessed
his heart, for while he knew that the woman who sat by his side was his
mother, she was a stranger to him. His heart had gone out to her with
a great rush of pity and love when she first stepped from the train,
but now that they were alone in the darkness it seemed as though his
lips were sealed. He had nothing to say to her, and she, wellnigh
overcome by her long, weary journey and her new experiences, seemed
almost afraid. This was no wonder, for the situation was strange. She
had left her boy at the workhouse when he was but an infant in arms.
It had almost broken her heart to do this, but she felt that for Paul's
sake it would be better for her to go away, better that he should not
know of the sadness of his mother's life. And for seventeen years she
had kept away from him. It is true she had made inquiries concerning
his life at St. Mabyn, but very little more. Paul had grown up with
the idea that he was fatherless and motherless, or even if that were
not the case he knew nothing about either of them. Then, presently,
when the time came for her to tell him the miserable story of the past,
she had written asking him to meet her on the lonely moors, and after
that she had gone away again in silence. So they were strangers to
each other, even although the ties that bound them were so strong that
only death could break them. The woman was almost startled when,
stepping from the train, she saw the tall, well-dressed fellow rushing
towards her. But her heart had claimed her son, and for the moment
that was enough. Now, however, that they were alone in the cab,
everything seemed in darkness again. She could not recall a feature of
her boy's face. He might be an absolute stranger to her. Ere long the
cab drew up to the door of a house, and when once ushered into bright
and cheerful surroundings everything became changed. For the moment
she did not pay any attention to the room, she looked only at him. She
put her hands upon his shoulders and scanned his face, feature by
feature. Her own face was a study as she did this. She seemed to be
looking for something in him. She might be trying to read his heart.
Her own eyes almost grew young again as she looked, and her lips were
tremulous with a great emotion.
"My mother's a beautiful woman," said Paul to himself. "She looks
terribly sad under the great sorrow in her life, but when she's happy,
as I will make her happy, I shall be proud of her."
But for a time neither of them spoke. Each seemed to be trying to
realise the situation, trying to understand that they were mother and
son. At length the woman spoke.
"Thank God," she said. "You are nothing like him! You are my
child--black hair, black eyes, dark-skinned, strong, resolute. No, you
are nothing like him. You are my laddie, all mine! Kiss me again, my
boy!"
Paul, nothing loth, enfolded her in his arms as a lover might his lass.
"I have tried to make things nice for you, mother. How do you like the
house?" he said at length.
She looked round the room and her eyes were full of wonder. "Why,
Paul," she said, "this is a gentleman's house!"
"Of course," he said. "Come, let me show you the other rooms. And
then the maid shall take you up to your own room. I am sure you must
want something to eat badly."
He led her around the house, his heart full of pride. It was easy to
see she was pleased, easy to see that she wondered at all the luxuries
he had provided for her.
"Are you sure you ought to have done this, Paul?" she said at length.
"Why, mother?"
"Why, these things must have cost you such a lot of money. I don't
need them. I have lived in poverty all my life, and you're making a
lady of me!"
"Of course I am, mother!" And he laughed a glad laugh. "Of course I
am! Everyone in the town shall respect and love you."
"And you've done all this for me?"
"All because I wanted to see you with me, mother. All because I wanted
you to be happy. I've only you and you've only me. And don't fear
about the money. In spite of everything I've been very successful, and
I can afford all I've bought, aye, and more. I've only got one servant
for you, mother, but, of course, you'll want others. Only I didn't
know how to choose them, and I thought you might like to do it
yourself."
"I want no servants, Paul!" she said. "I want to do everything for you
with my own hands. I want to cook for you, and scrub for you, and wash
for you, and live for you!"
"Yes, mother. But I don't wish to make you a slave, and so, whatever
you say, you must have help to do all the hard work. I am going to
make you very happy here. Do you like the house?"
"Like it!" she replied. "It's a paradise, my boy! Just a paradise!"
He called the servant to him, and told her to take his mother to her
room, and then to have the evening meal ready.
A little later they sat in the dining-room, and for the first time Paul
broke down. He was not an emotional man, nor one who gave way to
weakness, but when he sat there in his own house with his mother by his
side, and realised that they would be able to live together, that he
would have a companion for the lonely evenings, and that he would be
able to brighten his mother's life, the great deeps of his nature were
aroused. It seemed to him as though something, which had been long
dead in his being, had burst forth into life.
"I'm too happy to eat!" she said at length. "I will put away these
things and then we can talk."
"Oh, no, mother," he said. "You're tired, and the maid is here for the
purpose of doing that. Come into our little snuggery here." And he
led the way into the room on which he had bestowed so much thought.
"Paul, my boy," she sobbed. "I'm proud of you, I'm proud of you! Aye,
even although I cursed the day that you were born, and cursed God in
the bitterness of my heart for the sorrow that came upon me, I'm proud
of you! You are my own laddie! And now tell me everything, my lad!"
"No, mother, you're too tired and my story will take a long time!"
"No, I'm not tired," she said. "I feel as though I should never be
tired again. It's all so wonderful--this beautiful home, given to me
by my son! Oh, my lad, my lad!"
They sat down side by side, Paul holding his mother's hand in his.
"To-morrow," he thought, "or as soon as she is well enough, I'll take
her to Manchester, and she shall have the best clothes that money can
buy! And when she's dressed as she ought to be, she will look young
and handsome!"
And so, as they sat alone, he told the story of the past few years.
Told of his struggles, of his fightings, and of his failures and
successes, and how, little by little, he had obtained an education.
Then he described the strike in the town, and the trial which ended in
his imprisonment, and of his homecoming and his business life, and then
of the election.
"But you'll win yet, Paul!" And her eyes flashed eagerly as she spoke.
"My boy, you'll win yet!"
"Yes, I believe I shall win yet," he said. "Ay, I will, I must!"
"And what kind of a man is this Bolitho?" she asked. And Paul told
her. He described the long duel he had had, and how up to the present
Mr. Bolitho was the victor.
"And he's the Member of Parliament now?" said his mother.
"Yes," he replied. "He's Member of Parliament now."
"But never mind," was her reply. "It's coming, Paul. It's coming!"
And then, looking straight into his eyes, she said, "You've not told me
all yet, my lad."
"What can there be more to tell?" he said.
"Ay, Paul. I'm a woman, I'm a woman, and I know how laddies feel.
There's a lass somewhere. Tell me about her. Nay, I'm not jealous. I
know it must be so, it ought to be so, because each lad must have his
lass. Only tell me about her!"
"It's a poor story, mother," he said. "And I think I hate my lassie as
much as I love her. And I've scarcely ever spoken to her. Besides----"
"Besides what, Paul?"
"Well, you see," he replied, "she's the daughter of Mr. Bolitho, the
man who's worsted me in everything. It was he who sent me to
Strangeways Gaol. It was he who blackened my name. It was he who beat
me in the fight! And I love her and hate her at the same time!"
There was a silence for some time and Paul saw that her face was dark
with anger.
"And have you ever spoken to her?" she asked. "Does she know what you
feel? Forgive me for asking, Paul, but I've been thinking about all
these things through the years, and wondering about them down there in
the lonely farm. For I've had scarcely anyone to speak to. My one
thought and my one comfort has been you! And I've said to myself,
'He's a young man now, and, like all young men, he'll love his lass.'
I'm your mother, Paul, and I think I can see into your heart. Have you
ever spoken to her?"
It seemed as though all the barriers of the past were broken down. He
had thought never to mention his secret to anyone, and yet he found
himself speaking freely.
"Scarcely, mother," he said. And then he told her of the times they
had met, and of what he had said and what she had said. He told her,
too, of the rumours concerning Ned Wilson, and of his hopes to make her
his wife.
"And he's your enemy, too?"
Paul nodded, and his eyes became dark with anger as he thought of the
past.
"Paul," she said at length. "I live only for you now, only for you!
Your enemies are my enemies; your friends are my friends! Those you
love, I love; and those you hate, I hate! Whether you're right or
whether you're wrong, my laddie, I love you!"
"Who ever I love, mother," he said, "it makes no difference between me
and you, and my home must ever be yours."
"Ay, I dinna ken about that," she replied, lapsing into the speech of
her girlhood. "But that doesna matter. Paul, I must see thy lass.
You must find out when next she comes to Brunford, and I must see her.
And you shall have her, too; whatever stands in the way must be
removed!"
A little later he kissed her good-night at her bedroom door, and her
words seemed to him like a prophecy.