A NIGHT OF DOOM
Paul found his way back to his home, thinking over what had taken
place. He was still half-dazed by the blow he had received, and his
heart was filled with black rage. Perhaps, too, he was the more angry
because he found it difficult to perform what he had threatened. In
spite of himself he shrank from writing to the paper contradicting the
engagement. He had no right to do so. For all he knew, the engagement
might be an actual fact. He did not believe that Mary Bolitho had
consented of her own free will to marry Wilson, and yet he did not
know. Rumour had it that her father was not a wealthy man; and, after
all, Wilson was one of the richest men in Lancashire, the home of huge
fortunes. It might be, therefore, that Judge Bolitho had persuaded her
against her will to marry this man. It would relieve him of all
financial worries. From some standpoints it would be a brilliant
match. It was true, Wilson was not a man who would shine in Mary
Bolitho's circle, but money can do a great deal, and here he was almost
all-powerful. But that was not all. Brunford, like all provincial
towns, was noted for its gossip, and if he contradicted the engagement,
all sorts of wild rumours would be afloat. Mary Bolitho's name would
be discussed by all sorts of people, and things would be said which
would madden both him and her. Still, she must know the truth. If he
told her certain things he knew about Wilson, he believed he could save
her from him. But even here difficulties presented themselves. Could
he prove these facts in such a way that Mary Bolitho would be
convinced? And should he not, by so doing, make himself appear to her
a spy and an informer? He did not know much about such matters, but it
was not a dignified rôle to play. In a way it would be striking below
the belt. He would not be playing the game. And the thought was
hateful to him. "But she must know, she must know!" he said to
himself, as he trudged along the road. "And I'll not be beaten,
especially by a man like that." And then he remembered the blow which
had been struck. "Yes, he shall pay for it!" he said grimly, as he
wiped the blood away from his face. "He shall pay for it to the
uttermost farthing!"
When he reached his home it was dark, and he was still undecided as to
the exact course he should pursue. He opened the door with his
latch-key, and switched on the electric light. As he did so his mother
came into the hall. "Paul," she said, "what is the matter?"
"Nothing," he replied, trying to evade her gaze.
"But your face is bleeding. There's an ugly wound in your temple!"
"It's nothing," he replied. "Just a slight scratch, that's all."
"It's no scratch," said the mother. "Tell me, what is it, Paul? I
must know!" And she caught him by the arm.
"It's no use telling you, mother," he said, facing her. "And you
needn't trouble; I am not hurt very much."
The woman looked searchingly at his face, and knew by its extreme
pallor and the tremor of his lips that he was much wrought upon.
"Paul," she said. "This is Wilson's doing!"
"Is it?" he said, with an uneasy laugh. "Well, he shall pay for it,
anyhow!"
"I was right, then. It's true. Has he beaten you?"
"No, mother," he said. "I'm not to be beaten by Wilson."
"You shall not! You shall not!" And her voice was hoarse. "Tell me,
Paul, tell me. What is it? I must know--I will know!"
"Very well," he said. "If you will know, come into my study." And
then he described the scene which had taken place.
The woman fixed her eyes upon him, and kept them fixed all the time he
was speaking. Her face never moved a muscle, although her hands
clenched and unclenched themselves nervously. "And you'll pay him out
for this?" she said at length, when he had finished his story.
"Yes," he said, "he shall be paid out."
"But how? Tell me, Paul?"
"I have not quite made up my mind yet, mother. I must sleep on it."
"Sleep on it!" And there was an intensity in her tones which almost
frightened him. "Sleep on it--sleep on it! Will you let a man like
that get the better of you? Will you have a wound like that--a wound,
the marks of which you'll carry to your grave, and then say you'll
sleep on it? Paul, you're chicken-hearted."
"No," he replied. "I'm not chicken-hearted; but whatever is done,
mother, I must save Mary Bolitho's name from being dragged into the
mire. But you need not fear."
For an hour or more they talked, the woman asking questions, and Paul
answering them.
"Come," said his mother presently, "you'll be wanting some supper!"
"No," he said. "I want no supper, but I think I want to be alone,
mother. I have a great deal to think about."
"I wish you'd let me do your thinking for you, Paul." And Paul almost
shuddered as he saw the look in her eyes. "You think I'm a weak
woman," she went on. "You think I know nothing, and can do nothing.
But you're mistaken, my boy. I know a great deal, and can do a great
deal."
She reached towards him, and put her arms round his neck. "Oh, my lad,
my lad!" she said. "You're the only thing I love. All through those
long years in Cornwall I had nothing to brighten my life but the
thought of you. I had only one thing to live for and to hope for, and
that was your happiness; and you shall have it. All that you hope for,
Paul--all that you hope for shall come to pass. Sometimes a weak,
ignorant woman can do more than a clever man; and you're clever. Oh,
yes, you are! You've got into Parliament, and you'll make a name in
the world; but you haven't found the things you started out to find.
You haven't got your rightful name. But you shall have everything,
Paul: you shall have revenge, and you shall have love; and I, your
mother, will give it you. As for that man Wilson, never fear, Paul,
you shall have your revenge!"
"What do you mean, mother?"
"I mean all I say, Paul; never fear. But you want to be alone now, so
I'll go and leave you."
As she went towards the door, he heard her muttering something about
Howden Clough, but he did not pay much attention to her; his mind was
too full of other things.
She closed the door behind her, and left him to his thoughts. He went
into the lavatory and bathed his face, and as he looked at the wound on
his temple a curious smile played around his lips. Presently he went
back to his study again, and sat for hours brooding and planning,
Murder was in his heart. "And they talk of God," he said. "They talk
of a beneficent Providence that controls all and arranges all! A man
has to be his own Providence. He has to shape his own destiny. He has
to fight his own battles."
It was nearly midnight when at length he rose to his feet. His mind
seemed to be made up as to what he intended to do. His course was
mapped out. "Why, it's nearly twelve o'clock," he said. "And mother
has not come to bid me 'Good-night.' I wonder why." He left the room,
and found that the house was in absolute silence. All the lights were
turned out; the ticking of an eight-day clock in the hall sounded
clearly in the silence of the night. "I'll go up into her room," he
said. Forthwith he went noiselessly up the thickly carpeted stairway,
and knocked at her bedroom door. There was no answer. "Mother," he
said, "mother. I want to speak to you." But there was no reply. All
was silent.
He opened the door and went in. The room was empty, and the bed was
unruffled. A strange feeling possessed him; he did not know what it
was. It seemed as though something terrible had happened, but he could
see nothing. Almost mechanically he opened some of the cupboards in
the room, and saw his mother's dresses hanging--the dresses which he
had bought for her with a great love in his heart. "I wonder where she
is," he said. "I think I will go up to the top floor, and rouse the
servants." Suiting the action to the thought, he went up the next
flight of stairs. He stood for a moment and listened. He thought he
heard the servants breathing heavily. Evidently they were fast asleep,
and would know nothing about his mother. "I should only start them
talking if I asked them where she is," he thought to himself.
"Perhaps, after all, she is in one of the other rooms!"
Feeling almost like a thief, he visited every part of the house, but no
one was there, and everything was as silent as death. "I can't go to
bed and not know where she is," he reflected. "I wonder what she meant
when she talked to me so strangely--what she had in her mind! I must
know, I must know!" He opened the door, and went out into the night.
The sky was moonless, but for a wonder it was resplendent with stars.
All the factory fires were low, and the air was no longer smoke-sodden.
The wind came from the sea, and he breathed deeply. It seemed as
though a great healing power passed over his heart. He went into the
little garden upon which he had bestowed such care, and stood still,
listening. Not a sound broke the silence. Not a footstep was to be
heard. A thought struck him, and he hurried back to the house again.
The bonnet and boots which his mother usually wore when she went out
were missing, and, as he noticed it, a great fear entered his heart.
He looked at his watch; it was nearly midnight. "I wonder--I wonder!"
he said to himself. A minute later he had closed the door, and was
walking in the direction of Howden Clough.
It was six o'clock in the morning when he returned; but the month being
December, darkness still reigned supreme. Black clouds now covered the
sky, and a wailing wind passed round the house. He turned up the
electric light, and saw that his mother's boots were placed ready for
cleaning. They were covered with mud. Evidently she had had a long
tramp.
"At any rate, she has returned," he said to himself. He went into all
the downstairs rooms, but she was nowhere visible. Then he climbed the
stairs again, and stood at his mother's bedroom door. He opened it and
went in. The bed had not been used at all, but sitting in an armchair,
just under the electric light, was his mother, her face buried in her
hands.
"Mother," he said, "where have you been?"
She took no notice; perhaps she did not hear him. He came up to her
side and touched her, upon which she started to her feet. "Mother," he
repeated, "where have you been?" And he could not help noticing a kind
of unholy triumph in her face. "Why are you not in bed?" he asked.
"It is six o'clock in the morning, and your bed has not been slept on."
"It's all right, Paul," she said. "It's all right. Never mind; you
needn't fear. I've found out something. I've done something!"
"Found out something! Done something! What?"
"I am not going to tell you," she said, and the look on her face
frightened him. It might be that some long-desired thing had been
given to her--some great object attained, some unholy desire gratified.
For the look on her face was not one that a man loves to see in the
face of his mother.
"All you hoped for shall come to pass, Paul. Yes, all--all, my boy;
don't be afraid. I've done it!"
Her words sounded like a knell in his soul. It seemed to him that they
had a dark, ominous meaning. He was not a nervous man, rather he was
strong, determined, not easily moved; but it seemed as though something
had gripped him, and he was afraid.
"I never dreamt when I went out," she said, "that I should do such a
good night's work--never dreamt that everything would come so easily."
And then she laughed.
"Tell me what you mean, mother."
"No, Paul, nothing. But you'll have a surprise--yes, you'll have a
surprise!"
She might have been mad. Her face was strange, her words were strange,
the look on her face was such as he had never seen before.
"Go to bed," she said. "Go to bed quickly. The maids will be up soon,
and they must suspect nothing. Sleep in peace, my boy; your debts
shall be paid, paid to the utmost farthing!"
He stooped to kiss her, and she threw her arms wildly round his neck.
"Oh, my lad, my lad!" she said; "morning is coming, the morning is
coming. There's a God in the Heavens after all! And yet, and yet----
Oh, Paul, I forgot, I forgot! Did I tell you that everything could be?
Nothing can be, my boy, nothing! I forgot! I forgot!"
And her voice almost rose to a scream.
"What is it, mother?"
She walked round the room like one demented. "I did not think of
that," she said. "I did not think of that. I thought I had made
everything plain. I thought, I thought, and now----"
"Tell me, mother, tell me!"
"No, I can't tell you. It would kill you--kill you; and I thought
there was a God in the heavens. And there isn't, Paul. There isn't.
Only the Devil lives. Oh, my boy! my boy! But leave me, leave me. I
must think, I must think. There, go away. Don't trouble about me,
Paul. I'm all right, I'm all right. But go away! Go away!" She
pushed him out of the room as she spoke, and locked the door behind him.
"She's right in one thing, at all events," said Paul. "I can do no
good by staying with her, and I had better go to bed. The servants
will be talking, else, and they must know nothing." He threw himself
on the bed, and tried to understand all that had taken place. It
seemed as though something terrible had happened, some dire calamity
had taken place. The world seemed a different place from what it had
been a few hours before. Since meeting with Ned Wilson, that had
happened which had altered the whole course of his life. The very air
seemed laden with terror, the skies were black with doom. It seemed to
him as though ravens were croaking, and the church bell tolling for the
dead; and then, while trying to drive the black scenes of the night
from his mind, it seemed as though his senses became dulled.
Everything became unreal. The past might have been blotted out, even
those years at St. Mabyn were like a dream, while all the events since
were just as a tale that is told. It was simply Nature taking him into
her arms, and rocking him on her broad bosom. His strength had given
way. The events of the night, his home-coming, his mother's strange
behaviour, and the excitement which it all meant had simply worn him
out, and now Nature was trying to restore him. He fell into a deep,
dreamless sleep, and lay like a log upon his bed. How long he slept he
did not know, but presently he heard a sharp knock at the door.
"It's half-past eight o'clock, sir. Are yo noan gettin' up?"
"What?" he cried, half asleep.
"Half-past eight o'clock, sir. Are yo noan gettin' up? And summat
terrible has happened!"
"What's happened?" he asked.
"Mr. Ned Wilson is dead. He's been murdered! He was found this
mornin'."
He did not reply. It seemed as though he had lost the power of speech.
Mechanically he looked out of the window, and saw the murky,
smoke-laden air. It seemed to him as though the roar of a thousand
looms reached his ears. He pictured the weavers standing in their
weaving sheds. He did not know why he did this; in fact, it did not
seem to matter. Nothing mattered. Mechanically he dressed himself.
There seemed no reason why he should go downstairs, but he was merely a
creature of habit. "I wonder where she is!" he said to himself again
and again. "I wonder where she is. I wonder, too----" Again a knock
came at his door.
"Well?" he said. "What is it?"
"A sergeant of the police and two constables are at the door. They
want to see you particular," said the servant.
"All right," he said. "I shall be down in a minute."
He remembered tying his necktie with great care, and then went down
into the hall. No sooner had he done so than the sergeant came
forward, and put his hand upon his shoulder.
"Paul Stepaside," he said, "I apprehend you for the murder of Mr.
Edward Wilson."