PAUL'S DARING
One of the results of Paul's success was entirely unexpected by him.
He suddenly found himself made much of by what is called Society.
Hitherto he had been altogether unnoticed in this direction. While he
was scarcely looked upon as a Labour Member, he was regarded by many as
belonging to that class. Moreover, he had done nothing to bring
himself into notice, and so, having no advantages of birth, and no
circle of acquaintances in London, he had been comparatively neglected.
Suddenly, however, he had become a public man. His speech was not only
talked about in the Members' Lobby, but it was discussed by a number of
society women who professed to be interested in politics. More than
one paper devoted articles to him, and many spoke of him as a coming
man. This meant that Paul received invitations to society functions
which hitherto had been unknown to him.
The wife of a Cabinet Minister gave a reception, and Paul was among the
invited guests. "It's a risk!" said that lady to her husband, when the
invitations had been sent out, "but, as you know, I love risks, and
these things are usually so tame! Will he come in his working-clothes,
do you think?"
"Everything is possible!" laughed her husband. "Still, I don't think
you need be afraid!"
"I do hope he'll do something shocking!" said the lady. "From what
I've heard, he's young and handsome, and if he does something
outrageous it'll make the thing go!"
"I should not be surprised if he does not appear in good clothes," said
the Cabinet Minister.
"Let's hope they'll be badly fitting, anyhow!" said the wife.
Paul felt very strange as he joined the gay throng. It was his first
experience of that sort, and he had not the slightest idea as to what
would be expected of him. He had always refused to go to the social
functions in Brunford, and now to be ushered suddenly into what he had
heard was to be one of the most brilliant political gatherings of the
season was staggering. With a fast-beating heart he saw conveyance
after conveyance arrive at the scene of gaiety, and men in immaculate
evening clothes and ladies in gay attire emerging from them. But Paul
quickly gained the mastery over himself. "After all, what does it
matter?" he said. "I don't care about this kind of life. These
chattering, overfed women have no attraction for me! Still, it may be
interesting."
It was a large gathering, and he noticed that many of the most
prominent people in the country were present. When he heard his name
mentioned to the host and hostess he saw a look of surprise on the
latter's face. Evidently she was altogether disappointed, although she
was much interested.
"Mr. Paul Stepaside!" said a man in a loud voice, and Paul was shaking
hands with one of the leaders of London society.
"So glad to see you," said the lady. "Did I catch your name
aright--Mr. Stepaside?"
Paul bowed, uttered a few commonplaces, and passed on.
"I thought you told me he was a working-man?" said the lady to her
husband. "I hoped he would come in his working-clothes. This fellow
is immaculate!"
"He's a fine figure of a man, anyhow," said the Cabinet Minister.
"The most striking-looking man in the room!" was the lady's answer.
And then her attention and smiles were given to the next comers.
Paul was not long left alone, and quickly found himself quite a centre
of interest. More than one Member of Parliament brought his lady
friends to see the new star. Indeed, he was so much monopolised that
for a time he had little opportunity to take notice of the guests as a
whole. By and by, however, he managed to get away by himself, and to
take the part of a spectator.
It was all very strange to him, this gay throng--and he was not very
favourably impressed. If this was Society, he did not want it!
Everyone seemed blasé and satiated with pleasure. The conversation was
clever, but superficial. It seemed to him as though almost everyone
lacked earnestness--lacked reality.
"I am glad you are interesting!" said one lady to him during the
evening. Paul had been with her some time, and had given expression to
some very unconventional opinions. "The greatest sin I know of is to
be dull, and you can't be dull."
"No?" said Paul. "I think I'm a fairly good actor."
"No, you have a good deal of the devil in you, and I like a man of your
sort. Do you know I saw a criticism of a book the other day of which
you remind me?"
"And of course you've read the book?"
"Oh no! The critique said that the only bad book was the book which
was badly written, no matter what its morals might be, and this book,
although excellently intentioned, was not well written. You know I
have a similar feeling about men. The greatest crime in the calendar
is to be dull. Men may break all the other commandments if they like,
but he who breaks that is impossible. And I find you so interesting!"
"And I feel myself so dull," said Paul. "I don't follow your simile a
bit."
"Ah, but you're not conventional. The great charm of a man is that
he's always going off the beaten tracks. When he gets back to those he
is impossible! Do you know, I hoped you would come in your
working-clothes. Our hostess told me you were coming, and I quite
looked forward to seeing you."
"My working-clothes are very shabby," said Paul. "Still, if I had
thought you wanted to see them, I would have brought them."
The lady laughed good-humouredly. "Oh, but do remain unconventional!"
she said. "Don't become a polished Society man. If you are to be
interesting, always keep off the beaten tracks."
"Even at the expense of politeness?" said Paul.
The lady looked at him quizzically. "Yes, even at the expense of
politeness."
"Then I'll run away. There's someone over here I want to speak to," he
said.
The truth was, at that moment he had caught sight of a face which had
set his heart beating wildly, for he felt sure it was that of Mary
Bolitho. "Oh, I wonder, after all, whether it can be!" he said to
himself.
Regardless of passing faces, he found his way toward the spot where he
thought he had seen her, and to his delight he discovered that he had
not made a mistake. Their eyes met as he came up, and she held out her
hand with a smile.
"This is splendid!" he said. "It's so pleasant to see a face that one
knows amid a crowd of strangers!"
"But surely you must know hosts of people here," was her response.
"No, I know very few," replied Paul. "Some of the men I have met in
the Members' Lobby, but nearly everyone is a stranger to me."
"And yet I find that many people are talking about you!" was her reply.
"You are quite the lion of the evening. It must be very gratifying to
you."
"Do you know," replied Paul, "that I am not so unsophisticated as not
to know the value of these things?"
She looked at him inquiringly.
"I can see how much a moment's popularity is worth," he said, almost
bitterly. "A lifetime of good work is passed by unnoticed, but if one
happens to make a speech that causes a certain amount of discussion, no
matter how silly it may be, one gets noticed until someone else
appears. And my speech was a very poor one! I feel ashamed every time
I am complimented on it!"
There was something in the way he spoke that annoyed her, why she could
not tell. "Then I will not add to your shame," she said.
"No," he replied eagerly. "But I do want you to think well of it even
although I know it was a failure. I have been wondering lately if I
should meet you, and I was afraid once or twice lest I had seen you."
"I do not quite understand."
"I am comparatively new to this sort of function," said Paul. "And, to
tell you the truth, I have been very weary of it all."
"How disappointed your hostess would be if she knew!"
"No," said Paul, "I don't deserve that. But I suppose it's because I
have not been brought up in this world. I am a plain, humble fellow,
and have had to work my way through the grimy and sordid things of
life. Still, there's something real in it, something healthy, too,
compared with this--at least, some of it. The other night I was at a
banquet, and I was afraid I saw you. You see, I have all sorts of
old-fashioned ideas. I'm a Puritan of a sort, and am what these people
would call bourgeois."
"What in the world do you mean?"
"I saw a girl who looked like you smoking a cigarette. She had the
same coloured hair, and bore such a strong resemblance to you that my
heart became as heavy as lead. A little later I saw the same girl, or
someone very much like her, drinking a liqueur. Of course, it seemed
quite the order of the day, and I ought not to be shocked, but had it
been you I should have been very sad."
"Why, what is there so terrible in a cigarette or a liqueur?" asked
Mary Bolitho.
"I don't know, I'm sure," he replied.
"You'd have taken no notice if a man smoked a cigarette or drank a
liqueur. Is a woman different from a man?"
"She ought to be," said Paul. "At least, so it seems to me; but then,
as I tell you, I am altogether out of place among that kind of people.
I have all sorts of old-fashioned ideas about women. I know they are
unpopular. They are thought to be bourgeois, and entertained only by
the middle classes. But there you are--I am bourgeois; or perhaps I
belong to a lower class even than that. I'm a working man."
"Can you find a chair for me somewhere?" asked the girl. "Of course I
don't agree with you in the least, but it's rather interesting to hear
you."
He found a chair for her and stood by her side. "I'm so glad it wasn't
you."
"How do you know it wasn't I?" she asked.
"Because you're not that sort! You don't drink liqueurs. You don't
smoke cigarettes!"
"Why not?"
"I don't know," replied Paul; "but you don't. If you did--well, it
would be wrong somehow. I can't explain it, but it feels to me
something like--well, what I think a Roman Catholic would feel if he
found someone trying to caricature the Virgin Mary." His voice was so
earnest and sincere that she could not be offended.
"I am not like all these men here," went on Paul. "I was brought up
among the working-classes, and I have, in spite of everything,
idealised women. I expect it is because I love my mother. And when I
see a girl drinking liqueurs, smoking cigarettes, and doing things like
that, I feel that somehow my ideal is, well, besmirched somehow. I
believe less in the modesty of women, and I think it's a bad thing for
any man to lower his ideals concerning women! Yes, I am so glad it
wasn't you!"
"Still I don't understand why."
"Because you are the most sacred thing in my life!" he answered. "I
have tried to tell you that before now, only somehow I haven't been
able. You are the most wonderful thing in the world to me, and you
hate these things too, don't you?"
"Why should you think so? There are many better girls than I who smoke
and drink liqueurs."
"No," said Paul. "No. Do you know that, although I have hated you,
you've been the one dream of my life, and that you've made everything
possible to me? You're angry with me, aren't you?"
"No," she replied, "not angry. But still, you must not speak to me
like that!"
"I cannot help it," he replied. "Do you know that but for you I should
not have been a Member of Parliament now?"
"But for me?"
"Yes," said Paul. "From the first time I saw you, just after I came
out of Strangeways Jail, you've always inspired me, even while you
angered me, and have determined me to win when otherwise I should have
lost. Tell me honestly now, do you think I shall ever overcome life's
handicap?"
"Does it not depend what the handicap is?"
"My handicap is that I'm nameless," he replied. "I told you the story,
didn't I? At least, I tried to. Miss Bolitho, am I mad?"
"You are certainly talking very strangely."
"I hate your father," went on Paul, and his voice, although very quiet,
was very intense. "The first time I saw him I hated him. No, no one
is listening, you need not fear. I believed he was the tool of the
Wilsons. I believe it still! I don't think he fought me fairly
either. I think he dislikes me, too. But, but--shall I tell you
something?"
"I think you had better not," she replied. Even although she was
surrounded by a crowd of people, and their voices were wellnigh lost in
the hum of conversation, she was afraid.
"I do not think I can help myself. Miss Bolitho, I have been sustained
in all the work of my life by one thought--I want to win you for my
wife! Do you think it's possible?" And then, without waiting for her
reply, he went on: "It must be possible. It shall be possible! I will
make it so."
"I must ask you to excuse me. I have some friends over here wishing to
speak to me."
"Not yet," he said. "You must forgive my rudeness, but when a man
feels as I feel, and have felt for years, niceties of behaviour don't
count. You, in spite of everything, have become the one thing in life
worth living for, and yet I ought to be ashamed of speaking to you now.
I have no right!"
She looked at him wonderingly, as if not understanding what he meant.
"You see, I have no name," he said. "I don't know who my father is or
where he is. I only know that he and my mother were married in
Scotland, and he left her the day after the wedding. She, in her
trouble, went to her mother's old home in Cornwall, and was looked upon
as a poor outcast thing. She lay down on a bank near a little hamlet
called Stepaside, and thought she was going to die. From there she was
taken to a workhouse, where I was born. She would not tell her name,
and that was why I was called Stepaside. It's a terrible handicap,
isn't it? No father, no name! Ned Wilson made the most of that at the
election; but there, I've fought it down so far. Will you promise me
something? I hope you will, I think you will. I don't think I'm
altogether a clown, and I feel sometimes as though I can do great
things if you---- You see, you are everything to me, everything!
Promise me this: If I find out who my father is, may I speak to you
again? Do you think--do you think it is possible for you----?"
At that moment some acquaintances came up, and Mary Bolitho turned as
if to leave him.
"But give me an answer before you go!" he said eagerly. "Is there any
possibility--in spite of my handicap?" And then he felt that his heart
had, for a moment, ceased to beat. He forgot where he was. The
chatter of the crowd was nothing to him; it did not exist.
"Everything is possible to a man who doesn't know when he's beaten!"
she said with a radiant smile, and then turned towards her friends.
Paul remembered little of what took place after that, and he soon found
himself walking near Hyde Park alone. It was very wonderful to him--so
wonderful that he could not altogether realise it. She had seemed to
promise him so much, even though she had said so little. He felt as
though the sky had become higher, the world bigger. He had never dared
to hope for so much, never dreamt she would speak to him so kindly.
They belonged to different worlds, were reared amidst different
associations, and yet she had not treated him with scorn. Yes,
everything was possible! And he would translate that possibility into
the actual. He would win her a name and a position that even she might
be proud of. For he had idealised her. To him she was far removed
from all the others that he had ever met, and he must do something
worthy of her. For hours he walked around the Park alone, wondering
how he should begin to carry out the object nearest and dearest to his
heart. Poor Paul, he knew little of the ways of the world, especially
of the world in which Mary Bolitho lived. Among the lads and lasses in
Brunford courtship and marriage were very simple. The boy met his girl
there, and they married each other without difficulty. But Paul knew
that there were certain formalities that had to be complied with in the
class to which Mary Bolitho belonged. She was a judge's daughter, and
he, although he had succeeded beyond his hopes, was still looked upon
as little more than a working man. One thing, he knew he ought to ask
Judge Bolitho for his permission to seek his daughter's hand. He had
no right to pay her attentions otherwise. It was a frank and
honourable course of action, too, and appealed to him strongly, and if
he succeeded, then the way was made plain. Not that he liked the idea
altogether, for he had still an instinctive hatred of the man who had
treated him, as he believed, so unfairly. But he must destroy that
hatred now. He must think kindly of the father of the woman who was
all the world to him.
Before the night was over he wrote Judge Bolitho a letter, asking for
his permission to try and win Mary Bolitho for his wife. He did not
refer to the shadow that rested upon his name, told him nothing of what
he had said to Mary. He only told him of his hopes and ambitions, and
of his undying love.
Three days later the answer came, and when Paul read it his heart was
filled with black rage. It contained only a few words, but they seemed
to blot out the sun from his horizon. Without saying so in so many
words, Judge Bolitho treated the proposal made in his letter with
thinly veiled scorn and contempt. He made him feel, although he did
not say so, that what he had said was an impertinence. It was true the
letter was couched in terms of politeness, and yet it might have been
written to a groom who had the temerity to seek his mistress's hand,
and it contained a command that he must never dare to speak to her
again.
Paul was scarcely master of himself as he read, and every evil passion
of his nature was aroused. This man had added insult to injury. Ever
since the day of his trial he had been his enemy, and now he had sent
him this! "But I will speak to her again," he vowed. "I will win her
in spite of everything; by fair means or foul she shall be mine!"
Shortly afterwards he returned to Brunford for the Christmas vacation.
Only a few days were allowed by the leader of the Government, because
much and important business had to be transacted; but those few days
were destined to change the course of Paul Stepaside's life. His
mother met him when he returned to Brunford with unusual manifestations
of affection. He had sent her a copy of the _Times_, wherein was a
full report of his speech. He had also forwarded to her a number of
other papers which had spoken kindly of him, and she was elated beyond
measure at his success. To her Paul was everything, the one object of
her love, the one hope of her life. For him she would brave
everything, suffer everything. In her inmost heart there was only one
thing she desired, and that was Paul's happiness. She had stifled all
thoughts of jealousy when she had learnt that Paul loved the daughter
of the man who had treated him so badly. She would have loved to have
had him all to herself, so that they might have been all in all to each
other, but she had seen into his heart, and knew that he loved this
girl. And he must have her, and whatever stood in his way must be
removed. For that she lived and thought and planned.
The day before his home-coming she had seen that which grieved her
sorely, and angered her beyond words. A local newspaper had it that
Ned Wilson and Mary Bolitho were engaged, and she wondered how she
could break the news to her boy. That the engagement should be broken
she had fully made up her mind--no matter what happened Paul must have
the woman of his choice!
After dinner they sat alone in the little room on which Paul had
bestowed so much attention, and she wondered whether he had beard the
news which bad brought her so much pain.
"It was a great speech you made, Paul!" she said, when they had been
sitting quietly for some time.
"Nonsense, mother!" was his reply. "Nonsense; it was a failure!"
"No, no. I read every word, Paul, and it was not a failure. You're
going to be a great man, my son!"
He laughed bitterly. He remembered the letter which Judge Bolitho had
written to him. "I feel as though I don't care about anything!" he
went on at length. "What's the good of success? What are we in the
House of Commons, after all, but a lot of voting machines? What does
it matter which party is in power?"
"Nay, nay, Paul. That's not like you to talk so!"
"I'm tired of it--tired of everything!" he went on.
"You're thinking about that lass!" said his mother, and although he
made no reply, she knew she was right.
"Have you ever seen her?" she asked at length.
He nodded.
"And done nothing, I expect?"
"I wrote to her father," was his reply. "I asked him in a
straightforward, honourable manner to let me try and win her for my
wife."
The woman's eyes shone bright with excitement. "And, and----?" she
said.
"Here's his letter!" he replied. "I carry it around with me to tell
myself what a fool I've been. You can read it if you like! You can
see it's written in the third person, and evidently typed by his
secretary. That of itself is an insult, when one bears in mind the
kind of letter I wrote to him!"
The woman read it carefully, word by word. She could not help seeing
the insult contained in every line, could not help realising that Judge
Bolitho regarded Paul's request as an unpardonable piece of
impertinence.
"Can't you be happy without her?" she asked at length.
"Never!" he replied. "Everything I may get in life could be but Dead
Sea fruit now! Oh, mother, if only I had a name, if we could find out
the truth!"
He was sorry he had spoken the moment the words passed his lips. He
saw that her face became hard and set, that her eyes burnt with deadly
anger. "Do you know that she is engaged to young Wilson?" she asked at
length.
"What!"
"It's all over the town, Paul; there can be no doubt about it! It's in
the newspaper."
"She does not care for him!" he cried. "She cannot!"
"But he'll be one of the richest men in Lancashire, Paul!"
"But she could not! She could not!"
"Perhaps it explains this letter," said his mother. "Judge Bolitho has
doubtless set his heart upon his daughter marrying a rich man, and her
feelings are not considered. But don't give up hope, Paul. Don't give
up hope. Ned Wilson shall never have her!"
"But what can we do, mother?"
"Are you a son of mine to talk like that?" she asked. "Can you, a
strong man, give up tamely?"
"No," cried Paul. "I'll not give up tamely; but of course her father
is against me, and he has chosen Ned Wilson for her. As you say, he'll
be one of the richest men in Lancashire, and now that Mr. Bolitho has
become a judge, his income will not be so much as it was. However,
I'll put a stop to it; I can and I will!"
"How can you do it?" asked the mother.
"Never mind," replied Paul. "But it shall be done." That same night
he wrote a letter to Ned Wilson.
"Dear Sir," he wrote.
"Circumstances necessitate that I shall have an interview with you
immediately on a very important matter. Will you kindly let me have a
note by return of post when and where I can see you? I may add that
the matter is of such importance that you must not think of refusing
me."
The next day he received a type-written letter from Wilson, in the
third person:
"Mr. Edward Wilson is sorry that he cannot see Mr. Paul Stepaside, as
there is no conceivable matter on which he could think of granting him
an interview."
Paul read this curt note with a grim smile upon his lips and an almost
murderous look in his eyes. But he made no comment.
Before many hours were over he had discovered Wilson's whereabouts, and
had determined to waylay him. They met in a lane not far from Howden
Clough.
"Mr. Wilson," said Paul. "Just a word, please."
Ned looked at him with great hauteur, and then was about to pass by
without further notice.
"No," said Paul, "That will not do. You received my letter."
"And you received mine."
"That was why I followed you here," said Paul. "I told you that the
matter on which I wished to see you was of the utmost importance."
"I do not transact any business with you," said Wilson. "And there is
no other matter in which we can be mutually interested. Let me pass,
please."
"You cannot pass until you have heard what I have said to you. I am
sorry to have to meet you in this way----"
"Not so sorry as I am!" interrupted Wilson. "Still, I will hear you.
What is it?" He spoke as though Paul were a persistent beggar, and
seemed to regard him as a millionaire might regard a pauper.
"It's this," said Paul. "I noticed in the _Brunford Gazette_ this
morning that you are engaged to marry Miss Mary Bolitho."
"And what then?" said the other. "I do not discuss such matters with
men of your class."
"It must be contradicted immediately," said Paul quietly. Wilson
looked at Paul in astonishment. "I think you must be out of your
mind!" he said.
"No, no; I am sane enough. Will you write a letter to the editor,
denying this rumour, or must I?"
"In Heaven's name, why should I?"
"I know it's not true"--and Paul still spoke quietly--"that is why this
paragraph must be contradicted at once."
Wilson laughed as though he were enjoying a joke, but it was easy to
see that he was far from comfortable. He did not like Paul's quiet way
of talking. He did not understand the tone of his voice.
"Of course," said Wilson, at length. "I cannot discuss these matters
with you. I would sooner discuss them with one of our grooms.
Whatever be the truth of the report, it cannot have anything to do with
such as you. Still, I will humour you. What's the matter?"
"This is the matter," replied Paul. "You are not fit to associate with
such as she."
"Come, come, my good fellow. I have borne a good deal, and I am nearly
at the end of my patience. Besides, I cannot allow Miss Bolitho's name
to be bandied about by such as you."
"Will you kindly deny that statement which appears in the _Brunford
Gazette_?" persisted Paul, still quietly.
"Certainly not!"
"Then I must make you," said Paul.
"Make me! You!"
"Yes, I!"
"And how, pray?"
"Simply that I shall tell Miss Bolitho the truth about you if you
don't."
"The truth about me?"
"The truth about you. You see, I happen to know a good deal about you.
Oh, you needn't start. I have all particulars and proofs to the
minutest detail. If you do not wish Miss Bolitho to know exactly the
kind of man you are, what your responsibilities are, and your duties
are, you must send a note to the editor, signed by yourself, declaring
that there is no truth whatever in the announcement."
"You spy! You sneaking hound!" said the other, quite losing control
over himself.
"Spy, if you like," said Paul. "Sneaking hound also comes well from
such as you; but, as it happens, I have had my reasons for a long time
for forming certain impressions about you; and as Miss Bolitho is a
friend of mine--naturally, I take an interest."
"A friend of yours!" said Wilson.
"Of mine," said Paul. "Now then, will you do what I tell you?"
Neither of them knew that they were being watched, and neither of them
knew that, although their conversation was not overheard, two men could
hear angry voices, and were wondering what it could be about. These
two men knew of the feud which existed between them, and knew that each
hated the other.
"Will you write that letter, and give up all thoughts of such a thing
for all time?"
Wilson answered in language which I will not set down. This time his
words were loud enough for the two men to hear--words which were
calculated to rouse anger in the heart of the mildest of men, and Paul
was not a mild man. They saw Paul look towards the other with murder
in his eyes, saw his hand uplifted as if to strike, then they saw him
master himself.
"Very well, then," he said. "I shall do what I say," and turned on his
heel to walk away.
He had not gone six steps, however, before Wilson, blind with rage and
the pent-up fury of years burning in his heart, rushed after him, and
with all the strength that he possessed struck Paul on the head with an
ivory-handled walking stick. The young man fell to the ground with a
thud, for the moment stunned, while Wilson stood over him trembling
with passion, and as if waiting for an attack.
Paul quickly recovered himself, and rose to his feet. He wiped the
blood from his face, and then seemed undecided what to do. He struck
no blow, but spoke in tones loud enough for the watchers to hear him
plainly. "I might have expected this," he said. "It was a coward's
blow, the kind of blow such as you always strike. But, remember, I
always pay my debts--always, even to the uttermost farthing." Then he
walked away without another word.