THE NEW MEMBER FOR BRUNFORD
The day following the meeting at the railway station Paul saw Miss
Bolitho in the streets of Brunford and to his delight she greeted him
with a frank smile.
"Have you begun your work of canvassing?" he said, with a laugh.
"Not yet," she replied. "Indeed, I doubt whether I shall take any part
in this contest. I have been engaged in a far more feminine
occupation!"
"Shopping?" asked Paul.
She laughed in assent. "But I've finished now," she said. "I am just
returning to Howden Clough."
"Are you staying in Brunford long?"
"No, I leave to-morrow."
"May I walk back with you?" he asked, wondering at his own temerity.
They went together some little distance without Paul speaking a word.
He felt he had much to say to her, and yet, now that the opportunity
had come, he was speechless. He noticed, too, that the people in the
street were watching them, and doubtless many were commenting on the
fact that he, who had no reason to be friendly with Mr. Bolitho, should
be walking with his daughter. Once or twice he looked shyly towards
her, and could not help thinking how utterly different she was from the
girls of her own age who lived in Brunford. She seemed to have no
connection with the town at all. Everything there was smoky and grimy
and harsh. She seemed more like a country girl than a denizen of a
town or city. Sometimes, when he had watched people in the market
square selling violets, the incongruity had struck him. The violets
brought in fresh from the country seemed utterly out of place in the
grimy hands of these Northern people. As he looked at the young girl
by his side he could not help thinking of the violets.
"I want to apologise to you," he said at length. "I was rude to you
when I met you in the fields near Howden Clough, and I've been angry
with myself ever since. It is very good of you to forgive me. I don't
deserve it."
For the first time Mary Bolitho realised what she was doing. In a
moment of thoughtlessness she had yielded to his suggestion that he
should walk to Howden Clough with her, and she felt angry with herself.
Had anyone told her that morning that she would have allowed him to
walk by her side through the public street she would have laughed at
the idea. It is true she had been interested in him ever since she had
first seen him. There was something masterful in his presence. His
political campaign had been marked by incidents which appealed to her
imagination, and she felt she could never forget the look on his face
when he had flung out his defiance to her father on the day of the
election. She felt there was something morose and sullen, if not
savage, in his nature, and even while she spoke pleasantly to him in
her father's presence, the thought of being alone with him in such a
way would have been deemed impossible. Directly he had suggested
walking home with her, however, she felt she must fall in with his
desire. There was something in him that interested her and almost
mastered her.
"You thought I was rude, didn't you?" he continued. "Well, I
apologise, humbly and sincerely. But perhaps there was some excuse for
me. Your father treated me badly, and, naturally, I associated you
with him."
"You mistake my father," she said. "He would never treat anyone badly."
"He was unjust to me," said Paul. "I know that barristers are supposed
to do their best for their employers, but through him I suffered unjust
imprisonment. He did not try to arrive at the truth. He only tried to
win his case, and, in so doing, he stopped at nothing to make it hard
for me. I am thinking now of that riot trouble. Of course, you heard
that I was innocent of the affair?"
"Yes, I have," she replied. "I am very sorry. But surely you
understand my father's position?"
"I can never understand injustice," he replied. "Still, it was not
your fault, and I acted to you like a brute. Besides all that, you
were a friend of the Wilsons, and Ned Wilson hates me."
"Why should he hate you?" asked the girl.
"I will not tell you that," replied Paul. "That would be stabbing a
man in the back, and I will not be guilty of that. Anyhow, years ago,
I incurred Ned Wilson's enmity by telling him certain home truths. He
has never forgiven me. But for the stories he set afloat and his
action towards me I should have won the last election. All this made
me bitter towards you."
"I wonder," she replied, "if you feel so angry towards me, that you
should care to make these explanations." And she did not understand at
all why she spoke. They were some little distance from the roar of the
traffic now, and could hear each other plainly.
"I want you to think well of me," he said.
"Why should you?" she asked.
"I cannot tell you now," replied Paul. "But some day I should like to.
You wish me good luck in this fight, don't you?"
"How can I," she asked, "when I look at things so differently? I think
I admire your pluck, and if I were in your place I should be proud of
the influence you have over the working-men; but, then, I think your
policy is a dangerous one."
"Let me explain that to you," he replied eagerly. "I think you do not
understand how the working classes feel, and I, even although my father
did not belong to that class, I--well, I have been a working-man. And
there is a shadow over my name, too, and over my mother's life. I
should like to tell you about that."
"Really, Mr. Stepaside, I have no right to hear."
"But I want you to," he urged, and his voice was tremulous. "You
really do not know, Miss Bolitho, all I have been thinking, and how I
long for you to know the truth. You must know it, too. You have had
harsh thoughts about me. Yes, you have been unjust to me, and it's my
right that you should know the truth. I wish you knew my mother, too.
If you did----"
His speech was here broken off by the advent of Ned Wilson, who came
from a side street. He seemed utterly surprised at seeing her and Paul
together, but, without taking any notice of Paul, he exclaimed, "Oh,
this is luck, Miss Bolitho! I am just returning home, and I shall have
the pleasure of walking back with you. Or, if you like, we will go
back to the mill together. There's a conveyance there."
"No, thank you," she replied. "I'd rather walk. Good-afternoon, Mr.
Stepaside. I hope you will--that is----" And then, without finishing
her sentence, she walked away by Ned Wilson's side, leaving Paul alone.
"Well, of all the impudence!" said Wilson angrily. His tone did not
please the girl. She was vexed with herself for allowing Paul to
accompany her, especially as she did not know why she should have done
such an unprecedented thing, but she resented Wilson's remark,
nevertheless. It seemed to suggest proprietorship.
"How in the world did you allow him to walk with you? Really, Miss
Bolitho, I cannot allow it!" And his voice was hot with anger.
"I am afraid I do not understand!" And Wilson saw that he had gone too
far.
"I mean, you do not know him. He's a low-bred clown, a fellow
who--well, who should not be seen walking with you, Miss Bolitho.
Besides, people will talk; they do not understand."
She did not know why it was, but she felt it was for her to defend
Paul, and, without thinking, she burst out, almost angrily, "I think
he's a magnificent fellow, and I do hope he'll win!"
"You hope he'll win?" cried Ned.
"Yes. You see, I like strong men--that is, I like men who will never
be beaten, who know what they want, and who never rest until they get
it; men with great purposes, great ambitions. And he's a man who will
surely be heard of. Nothing can stop him. I hear he's becoming a rich
man, but that will not content him. He's ambitious to take a great
place in life. I should not be at all surprised if some day he won a
national reputation!"
"Nonsense!" cried Ned. "National reputation, indeed! He might have a
national reputation for some great crime, but for nothing else. He has
the instincts of his class, Miss Bolitho, and I am sorry you were seen
walking with him. If I were to tell your father, he'd be angry, too."
Ned knew he was doing himself harm by saying these things, but at that
moment his hatred of Paul was increased. He had never dreamt that Mary
Bolitho could think of him in such a way. He believed she was
interested in him, and that somehow Paul had fascinated her by his
presence. Jealousy of him, therefore, was added to the old grudge.
"I am afraid you do not understand, Mr. Wilson. Oh, here's a tram,
which will take me a long way towards the house." And without taking
any further notice of him, she walked towards the conveyance.
Three weeks later Brunford was again on the tiptoe of excitement.
Again a great crowd had gathered around the town hall, again there was
the excitement of counting votes, and this time Paul, to his great
delight, found himself Member for Brunford by a big majority. That he
was gratified goes without saying. He felt, somehow, that the day
brought him nearer the things he longed for. All things seemed
possible to him now, and his heart beat high with joy. It is true, Ned
Wilson bad done his best to defeat him, but this time he had been
powerless. He was unable to use the methods he had used on the
previous occasion, and while he had resurrected the old stories
concerning Paul's parentage, they had apparently done the young man no
harm. Paul was delighted, too, with the conduct of his opponent. The
Honourable Stephen Boston had been true to his word. He had fought the
battle fairly and with a sportsman's spirit, and when the results were
announced no man in Brunford was more cordial towards the new Member
than the defeated candidate.
"I did my best to lick you, Stepaside," he said, when all the noise and
excitement was over. "But you were too strong for me. All the same, I
congratulate you. You have fought a good fight, and you'll be heard
about in the country yet. When you come to London, I hope we shall see
more of each other, and it may be I can introduce you to some people
whom you would like to know."
It was long after midnight at this time, and they had met with a number
of men at a kind of social club which had no political bias. The
leading people of the town were there, and Paul also noticed that Ned
Wilson was among them. He fancied he had been drinking heavily. His
eyes were bloodshot, and his voice was loud and truculent.
"It's good of you to say so," said Paul. "And never do I want to fight
with a fairer opponent. I hope that neither of us will ever be able to
think of this election with a shadow of regret."
"Yes, but Brunford will!" interposed Wilson.
"Nay, nay, Ned," remarked someone near. "Hold your tongue. It's no
use probing old wounds now."
"I say Brunford will!" shouted Ned, heedless of the other's warning.
"The time will come when it will be ashamed of what it's done to-day.
For my own part, I think I will move out of the town. Politics have
become a dirty business now, when a nameless vagrant can become a
Member of Parliament. Still, we know the old adage, 'Give a beggar a
horse----'"
Paul did not speak. For one thing, he was in a great good humour. He
had been victorious and could afford to forgive Wilson for all he had
done. Besides, he remembered the last quarrel they had had in a public
place, and he did not want another scene now. But Wilson was evidently
bent upon a quarrel. He was deeply chagrined at the other's victory,
and this, added to the whisky he had been drinking, made him more than
ordinarily quarrelsome.
"If I had my way," he went on, "none but those of honourable birth, and
whose parentage was respectable, should legislate for a country like
this. As for this fellow's parentage----" And then he gave a sneering
laugh.
"Be quiet, now, Ned! Do be quiet! You'll get into trouble presently.
"Trouble!" cried the other. "I'm going to say my say. Why, if the
fellow had any sense of shame, he would at least have kept his mother
out of the town." And then he uttered words which I will not write
down--words which, had Paul's mother heard them, would have made her
long to fly the town.
This proved too much for Paul. Insults hurled at himself he did not
mind, but for such words to be uttered about his mother in a place like
this was beyond endurance. With a face as pale as ashes, and a voice
hoarse with passion, he strode towards Wilson. "You dare not repeat
those words!" he said, scarcely knowing what was passing his lips.
"Repeat!" said Wilson. "I shall repeat what I like, and scum like you
shall never stop me. Who are you that you should dare to be here among
gentlemen? You may have been elected by the riff-raff of the town, but
that does not hinder you from being what you are--a workhouse brat. It
does not hinder your mother from being----" And again he uttered words
which I will not write down.
Paul forgot where he was now. The day's election, his longing to keep
away from vulgar quarrels, all his ambitions became forgotten in the
passion of the moment. A second later Ned Wilson was lying on the
floor, blood flowing from his mouth. A blow from Paul had laid him
prostrate, almost senseless. What Paul would have done to him, I do
not know, but he was held back by many strong arms. "No, no,
Stepaside," men said. "This is a bad beginning for your new career.
If this gets out in the town, and it's almost bound to----"
"I don't care," interrupted Paul. "No man could hear what he has said
without resenting it. Let me go, I tell you!"
By this time Wilson had risen. The blow, while it had partially
stunned him, had also to some extent sobered him. For a few seconds
the two men looked at each other, each with great passion in his eyes.
"Remember," said Wilson, "I'll pay you out for this! By God! I'll pay
you for this! You and I have had our knives in each other for a long
time, and I have always got the better of you, and I will again, in
spite of this!" And he left the club with a look of murder in his eyes.
Paul also left immediately after. In spite of his day's victory, he
was heartily ashamed of what he had done, and yet the mad anger in his
heart caused by what Wilson had said kept him from regretting the blow
he had struck.
"He is right," said one of the men who had witnessed the affair.
"He'll pay thee out for this, Paul. Ned Wilson is a chap that never
forgives, never forgets."
"If it comes to paying out," said Paul, "I've a bigger score than he
has, and he'll always find me ready."
"It serves him jolly well right," said the Honourable Stephen Boston.
"I wonder Stepaside did not kill him! I know I would if anyone said
such a thing to me! All the same, I am sorry it has taken place. Had
I known Wilson was here I would not have asked Stepaside to join us."
When Paul reached his home he found his mother sitting up for him. She
met him with a look of joy in her eyes. "Paul," she said, "they've
brought me the news."
"What news, mother?" he asked.
"The news of your victory, my son. It's glorious! I little thought
when I saw you first that I should ever live to see such an hour as
this. But what's the matter with you?"
"What should be the matter?" he asked.
"You're as pale as ashes, and you do not look like one who has won a
great victory. What has happened?"
"Oh, never mind," he replied.
"But I must mind, Paul. Something has taken place that has upset you.
Tell me what it is."
Even yet Paul was scarcely master of himself. The words he had heard
still rang in his ears and rankled in his heart. He felt as though all
the joy of the day had been destroyed by what Wilson had said. He
knew, too, that it would become public property by the morrow. There
were those who witnessed the affair who would not be slow in making it
known. Perhaps, too, it would come to his mother's ears in a garbled
fashion, and would wound her more than if he told her himself.
"Has the man Bolitho done anything?" she said. "Or is it your
opponent? Was he terribly cut up because you beat him, Paul?"
"No," he replied. "I've never heard of Bolitho, and as for Boston,
he's a splendid fellow. He took his beating like a man and offered me
his friendship afterwards."
"Then what is it? Is the news I've heard, that Wilson is engaged to
Miss Bolitho, true?"
"Have you heard that?"
"Yes; I have heard it only to-day."
"I wish I had killed him!" he said, and his voice was hoarse and
unnatural.
"What do you mean, Paul? Tell me what has happened."
Had he not been excited beyond measure, he would have told the story in
such a way as to take away the sting from it. As it was, never
dreaming of the results, he related what had taken place, and repeated
the words Wilson had said. No sooner had he spoken, however, than he
was mad with himself for being so unguarded. His mother's face became
drawn with agony. Her eyes shone with a strange light, and he saw her
clench and unclench her hands like one in great pain.
"Did he say that?" she cried. "Did he say that?" And he scarcely
recognised her voice.
"Anyhow, he's suffering for it," said Paul. "Ay, and he shall suffer
for it, too."
"He shall! He shall!" And her voice almost rose to a shriek. "I have
violent blood in my veins, Paul. Back in the old days my people would
have only been content to wipe out such an insult in blood, and I will
make him suffer for it!"
"I am sorry I told you, mother," said Paul. "I was a fool to do so;
but I did not think, I did not remember!"
"I am glad you have told me!" was her reply. "I know now what I have
to do. I have been so happy that I was almost forgetting; but I will
not forget now! And that man is your enemy, too. He means to marry
Mary Bolitho, and he will, too, unless, unless--Paul, you needn't fear!
I tell you, you needn't fear." And after that she would not speak
another word.
For a long time Paul lay thinking of what his mother had said and of
the strange look in her eyes. It seemed as though he had roused
something evil in her nature, and for a time he wondered whether her
brain had not been unhinged. He knew she was a proud woman, and that
she was jealous beyond words of her good name. The thought of Wilson's
words being bandied around the town must be worse than death to her,
and yet what could he do? He blamed himself more than he could say for
having told her the truth so brutally. Had he not himself been so
overwrought he would have acted with more deliberation. He remembered,
too, what his mother had said when they had first met, and he wondered
whether Wilson had proposed marriage to Mary Bolitho before she had
left Brunford, and whether she had accepted him. It might be so. And
then all the joy of his winning the election would be as nothing.
For the last three weeks he had been looking forward to this day with
great anticipation. He felt sure he would win from the beginning, and
he had wondered whether Mary would send him some word of
congratulation. He did not expect she would, but she would hear of his
victory, and perhaps their next meeting would be under more favourable
circumstances. He knew that, in spite of the fact that he had been
elected for Brunford, the sky of his life was black again. The words
he had heard had filled him with black shame and feelings of deadly
anger, while the look on his mother's face aroused in him an unnameable
fear.
When morning came, however, he felt better. A few hours' sleep had
restored him to something like normal health. The excitement of the
last few weeks had told upon him, and the strain upon his nerves had
been tremendous. Now that the fight was over, however his splendid
constitution stood him in good stead, and he felt strong and vigorous.
That which had appeared black at night assumed less sombre colours in
the light of day. After all, he had won a great victory. He had
received nearly a thousand votes more than his opponent. He had
wrested a seat for the cause in which he believed, and he was member
for Brunford!
He slept until nearly nine o'clock, and when he came downstairs he
found, to his delight, a heap of congratulatory messages lying upon the
table. After all, it was delightful to be a victor, delightful to have
won in the battle of life! He noticed, too, that his mother had become
like her old self again. She spoke in her natural voice, and made no
reference whatever to what had taken place the night before.
"I shall have to go to London, to-day or to-morrow, mother," he said.
"I hope you won't be lonely while I'm away."
"Oh, never fear for me, Paul, my son!" she replied. "I shall be all
right."
"I do not like the idea of your being alone, though," said Paul. "And
I shall have to be away from Brunford a great deal when Parliament
meets. I think I shall have to take you to London with me!"
"No," she replied. "I would rather stay here. I should only be in
your way if I went to London, besides increasing your expenses--and
that I must not do."
"Why not, mother? I can afford it very well. We're having a specially
good run of luck just now, and the extra expense would not bother me at
all. Besides, I want you to be near me!"
"No, Paul. I would rather remain in Brunford. I have my work to do."
"Your work, mother! What do you mean?"
She did not reply, and Paul could not understand the look on her face.
"Tell me, mother," he said, "what do you mean by having your work to
do?"
"There's only one work for me now, Paul--only one thing I care
about--and that is to give you your rightful name, and to make you
happy!"
"I have thought lately he's dead," said Paul.
"No," she replied, "he is not dead. I feel it in every fibre of my
body. He is not dead! And I am going to find him. And I must not
leave Brunford--something has told me I must not. And I must watch
Wilson, too."
"I have been thinking about that, mother," he said; "and, after all,
it's not so bad. The man was drunk, or he would not have said such a
thing!"
"Drunk or sober," was her reply, "he shall pay for those words. But do
not trouble, Paul. You shall be happy. And you shall have your
rightful name, in spite of everything."
A week or two later, Paul had forgotten almost everything in the new
life which he led. He had journeyed to London to take his seat in the
House of Commons, and, amidst the excitement of his new experiences,
even the incidents of the election faded away. It was wonderful to
him, the nameless lad who had come to Brunford a few years before, to
be one of the legislators in the greatest Empire of the world. Even
yet he was little more than a youth, and he had practically no
experience of life. Thus London, with all its excitement, and the
world of possibilities which it revealed, made everything new to him.
Never had he realised the meaning of history until now. Never had the
greatness of his country so impressed him. Hitherto he had not
realised what his ambitions meant. Now they became clear. The House
of Commons became the pivot of the world, and it seemed to him as
though he had his hand upon the pulse of humanity. London was the
great heart of the Empire, sending out its streams of life-blood
through the length and breadth of the world. And the heart of London
was the great pile of buildings on the banks of the Thames. He was no
one as yet--just one of the unknown men among nearly seven hundred who
gathered there. He had an obscure seat in the House, and, unlike many
of the other men with whom he came into contact, he had few friends.
Still, he rejoiced in his isolation, and dreamed dreams of the time
when he would emerge from his comparative obscurity, and when his voice
would be heard in the councils of the Empire. No one was more regular
than he in his attendance at the House, and he took a supreme delight
in wandering through the buildings, and in trying to understand their
significance. Westminster Hall, especially, attracted him. He thought
of the scenes which had taken place in that historic building, and
remembered how it had stood there through the centuries. The greater
part of the parliament houses was comparatively new, but this remained
almost unchanged by the ravages of time and of fire. Here great trials
had taken place. Here great battles had been won--battles which had
changed the destinies of the nation. Brunford, which had seemed so
important to him a few years ago, was now only an insignificant
manufacturing town. It had but little history, little meaning; but
London--London was everything. There, in Westminster Abbey, close by
him, kings had been crowned and monarchs were buried. There, too, the
great ones of the world had come. Men whose names were imperishable
were buried in that mausoleum of the illustrious dead! And he--well,
he was nothing now, but men should hear of him in the future. While
keenly observant of the procedure of the House, he sometimes found
himself dreaming dreams. He thought of the time when Disraeli was
refused a hearing in that historic assembly, remembered how the Irish,
led by the great Daniel O'Connell, refused to listen to him, and how,
when at length he had sat down, after trying to make a speech, he shook
his fist in the faces of the excited crowd, and cried: "You will not
hear me now, but one day you'll be glad to hear me!" Well, why not he?
It is true Disraeli was a man of genius, but he was handicapped on
every hand. He was a Jew, and when he commenced his career the
prejudice against Jews was stronger even than it was to-day. He was in
debt, too, and was hampered on every hand, and yet he had broken down
all opposition. He had conquered prejudice, had mastered one of the
greatest prime ministers of the age, and was for years the central
figure of the Government of the Empire. It just showed what one strong
man could do; and he would do it. But at the back of everything was
the face of Mary Bolitho. It was for her he was going to win fame and
renown. It was at her feet that he would lay all he could win.
Of course many will feel like smiling at these dreams of youth. All
the same, the young man who does not dream impossible dreams and
determine to win impossible battles will never do much. It is these
things which keep the world young and eternally hopeful. Sad will it
be for the youth of England when they cease to be!
Fleet Street, too, fascinated him beyond words. Next to the Houses of
Parliament, he loved to walk along this busy thoroughfare. Sometimes
he would stand there and watch the crowd as it went hurrying
by--perhaps the most interesting crowd in the world. Here nameless
vagrants rubbed shoulder to shoulder with men who were influencing the
thought of the nation. This was the home of one of the greatest
estates of the land. It was from here that millions of newspapers were
sent, containing the hopes, the aspirations, the life of the people.
None of these papers mentioned his name as yet, for he had never dared
to try to catch the Speaker's eye, but the time would come when he
would. Leading articles should be written about him, and his views of
life and politics should be discussed.
In spite of all these things, however, the session came to an end
without Paul Stepaside having tried to speak a word in the British
House of Commons. His time had not come yet, but it was coming, and he
knew how to wait. Those months were to him months of education. He
was accustoming himself to his surroundings and preparing for the
future. He was studying the methods of the men whose words carried
weight. He was seeing the inwardness of this great parliamentary game
which was being played, and he was learning to understand how he could
use his knowledge, not simply as a means of self-aggrandisement, but
for the betterment of the people he loved.
Three times during the session he had gone to Brunford on matters of
business, but nothing had happened worthy of recording. His mother had
inquired eagerly concerning his doings in London, and had stored within
her memory every incident which he had related to her.
"I'm glad you have not spoken in the House yet, Paul," she said, again
and again. "When you speak it must be on something which is near and
dear to you--something which has gripped your life. Then you will make
them feel what you feel. Ay, and you will, too, my boy! It's coming!
I can see it!"
"Yes," replied Paul. "I'm going to do it, mother. I'm going to make
the name of Stepaside honoured."
"Nay, but you're going to have another name, Paul--your own!"
"Have you found out anything yet?" he asked repeatedly. But at this
she would shake her head, as if all her efforts had been in vain, and
yet Paul felt assured that she knew more than she cared to tell him.
During the second session Paul made his first speech. As he thought of
it afterwards, he was terribly disappointed. It seemed to him that he
had not said the things he wanted to say, while the things he had said
seemed crude and unimportant. The atmosphere of the House of Commons
was so utterly different from that of any assembly he had ever
addressed, and he knew that he was speaking to what was perhaps one of
the most critical audiences in the world. As fortune would have it,
too, the House was full when he spoke, and a great deal of interest was
attached to the Bill that was being discussed. That was why he was so
disappointed that his language, especially during the first few
minutes, was so poor and stilted. He imagined, too, that he had been
listened to respectfully, and even cordially, because it was his maiden
speech. As a matter of fact, however, Paul had made a great
impression. Something of his history was known, and his striking
appearance told in his favour. Indeed, it was remarked freely that his
speech was one of the most promising that had been heard for years from
a new and untried member. Consequently, when Paul returned to Brunford
the next time, he was met with congratulations on every hand. He was
beginning to fulfil the promises he had made, and many prophesied a
great career for him.
And Paul was greatly elated. Indeed, so much was he carried away by
visions of the future that he never dreamed of the dark, ominous clouds
that were filling his horizon.