HOW MARY BOLITHO RECEIVED THE NEWS
Just before Christmas Mary Bolitho returned to her father's house from
London, where she had been visiting some friends. It was during this
visit that the meeting between herself and Paul, which we have
previously described, took place. During the rest of her stay in
London she constantly thought of what he had said to her, and wondered
whether, in the excitement of the moment, she had spoken foolishly.
She admired Paul greatly, even in spite of the dislike which still
lurked in her heart. She had an admiration for strong, capable men,
and had been greatly interested in the career which she felt sure lay
before him. Nevertheless, a strong feeling of antagonism possessed
her. His air of masterfulness irritated her, and in her quiet hours
she felt angry because he possessed a kind of fascination for her. She
could not help being pleased at his evident admiration for her, and she
thought of his avowal with feelings almost akin to delight, and yet she
never meant to encourage him. A great gulf lay between them, and the
thought of crossing it was not seriously entertained. He might be
ambitious, and he might carve out a great future; but still he was of
the working class, and doubtless had the instincts of his class.
On her return home she found her father much preoccupied. During the
whole of the dinner hour he scarcely spoke, but presently, when the
servants had left them, he seemed desirous of entering into
conversation with her.
"Have you had a good time in London, Mary?" he said.
"A very interesting time indeed," was her reply. "The Scotmans were
very kind."
"I suppose Stepaside's speech was talked about a good deal?"
"Yes," replied the girl. "He seems to have made a great impression.
People are very much interested in him, too; and he was at the house of
Sir John Sussex on the night when he gave that reception."
"Did you see him?"
"Yes," she replied.
"And speak to him?"
"It was difficult to avoid doing that. You see, I had met him once or
twice, and when he came to me I had to be civil."
"The impertinent upstart!" cried Mr. Justice Bolitho, and there was
almost a snarl in his tones.
"He's not looked upon in that light in London," said the girl.
Somehow, she knew not why, she wanted to defend him against her
father's evident dislike.
"We live in a topsy-turvy age," said the Judge. "Do you know what the
fellow did? He actually had the temerity to write, asking for my
consent to pay his addresses to you! You did not know of this, of
course?"
"No." The word escaped her almost mechanically, but she felt a warm
flush pass over her face.
"I never knew of such impertinence! Fancy the fellow whom I sent to
jail only a few years ago daring to think of such a thing! Had he come
to me in person, I think I should have had him horsewhipped. And he
ought to be horsewhipped, too. Why----" And then he laughed harshly.
Mary Bolitho did not reply. Somehow words did not come easily to her.
All the same, a feeling of hot rebellion came into her heart.
"I answered him, of course," went on the Judge. "At first I thought of
returning his letter without any remark whatever. Still, I sent him a
few words which I think will have a beneficial effect on his colossal
cheek!"
"What did you say?" asked the girl.
"I have a copy of it here somewhere," went on the Judge. "Would you
like to see it?"
He took some papers from a drawer, and, having selected one, passed it
to her. Mary Bolitho's face crimsoned as she read. She knew what Paul
would feel. There was an insult in every line, almost in every word,
veiled by conventional politeness, it is true, but still a note which,
to a proud man, would wound like a poisoned knife.
"I had to put a stop to that sort of thing, of course. Just because he
has made a little money, and has become a Member of Parliament, he has
dared to---- But I say, Mary, this leads me on to something else; and,
as we have an hour alone, it is well to have an understanding. How old
are you?"
"Nearly twenty-one," she answered.
"I don't want to lose you, of course, but the time must come when I
shall have to do so, and--of course, you'll not be surprised to know
Ned Wilson was here two or three days ago, and I fancy he considers the
matter settled. Do you know that he has spoken to me more than once?"
"But I gave him no encouragement," said the girl. "I have promised him
nothing."
"No; but you have not repulsed him."
"You did not wish me to meet his appeal with a blank refusal," said the
girl. "You said you had special reasons for that. But I gave him no
encouragement. I do not want to marry him."
"But you do not dislike him; in fact, you told me you felt very kindly
towards him."
"But not in that way, not in that way!"
"Mary, I want to be absolutely frank with you," said the Judge. "I
wish you to marry young Wilson."
"Is that a command?" said the girl, and her voice was as cold as ice.
Her father looked at her steadily for a few seconds. He seemed to be
on the point of resenting her tones, but presently decided not to do so.
"Let us put it this way," he said quietly, "Your marriage with Wilson
would help me out of many difficulties, and save me from many troubles."
"I don't understand, father."
"You've always looked upon me as a rich man," said Judge Bolitho. "I'm
not. I have been unfortunate in my investments, and while I was
practising at the Bar I made a good income; but we have always lived up
to it. You see, I have had to entertain a good deal; and then my
Parliamentary career, though short, was very expensive. I know I have
been very foolish, but I kept on that London house when I ought not to
have done so. A man who keeps up two establishments should be rich. I
thought I could afford it at one time, as my investments promised well.
Still, everything has gone to pieces, and I have enormous liabilities.
Had I known how things would have turned out I would never have
accepted the judgeship. You see, the salary is but small compared with
what I could make before. Within the next few months I have to find
huge sums of money; and--well, when you are Wilson's wife, it'll be
easy. But, for the life of me, I do not know another man who could
help me out of my troubles! There, Mary; I am sorry to have to make
such a confession, but it is best for you to know."
"Then I am to be sold!" said the girl. "Sold like a bale of cotton!"
"Don't put it in that way," said the father. "It's not fair. Besides,
consciously or unconsciously, you have doubtlessly encouraged Wilson.
You've repeatedly gone to the house, and you have known what gossips
have said."
"I have refrained from contradicting gossip for your sake," replied
Mary.
"Yes, I know. But you've always seemed pleased to see him, and as far
as I can judge, always found pleasure in his society. He's a good
fellow, too. I have made inquiries about him. He has a blameless
record, and I am sure would make you a good husband. As for
position--it is true he belongs to the manufacturing classes, but trade
is no longer regarded as it used to be. Why, how many men in Ned's
position have, during the last few years, obtained peerages! Among all
our circle of friends in London there is not one who could do for us
what Ned can do; and--Mary, as far as a father can promise for his
daughter, I promised for you. I knew you liked him, and Ned regards it
as settled."
"Have you fixed the date, too, and decided where the wedding's to take
place?" And there was a world of scorn in her voice.
"Come now, Mary. Don't be unreasonable!"
"Unreasonable!" cried the girl. "Surely I have my own life to live.
If I have been friendly with the Wilsons it has been at your request.
You know that, during the election, I begged of you to stay at an
hotel, instead of continually accepting their hospitality. But you
practically commanded it, and so I went with you. But when you promise
that I shall take a man like Wilson for my husband I think it's going
too far. I should loathe his presence. I should shrink from him every
time he came near me."
"But, Mary," said her father, evidently determined to keep his temper,
"surely this is strange. You knew his feelings towards you years ago,
and you never evinced any repugnance. You liked to spend hours upon
hours with him at the time of the election. You have been seen with
him a great deal. And when you have known that people have coupled
your name with his, you've still consented to go to Howden Clough."
"As though a girl may not think differently at twenty-one from what she
thinks at nineteen!" And her voice was tremulous with anger.
"Why should you think differently?" he asked. "You've seen no one else
whom you like better?"
Mary was silent.
"Perhaps you would like to marry this fellow?" And her father placed
his hand upon the letter which they had been discussing.
"A thousand times rather than him!"
"Mary, Mary!"
"A thousand times rather than him!" repeated the girl. "At least, Paul
Stepaside cannot be despised."
"And what is there to despise about Wilson?"
"Oh, nothing!" said the girl. "But had he been placed in Mr.
Stepaside's position years ago, what would he have been?"
"Well, think it over," said the Judge, rising. "In fact, if you care
anything about me, you will do what I say. Surely you've not fallen in
love with that fellow?"
"No," said the girl. "I've fallen in love with no one. But, father,
can't you see, can't you understand what a girl feels? Marriage is, or
ought to be, the most sacred thing in life, and to think that I am sold
to such a man, because--because----"
"Oh, you'll think better of it by to-morrow," said Judge Bolitho as he
left the room. "I know that young girls are silly. But remember,
Mary, I am older and wiser than you, and I am thinking of your future
as well as of my own." He left the room as he spoke, while Mary sat
for a long time thinking deeply.
Every fibre of her being revolted against her father's proposal. She
hated the thought of a marriage of convenience, and her heart hotly
rebelled. All the same, she loved him greatly, and she knew that he
must have been in dire straits or he would not have told her of his
financial troubles. For Judge Bolitho was a proud man, and did not
talk freely of such matters. Had it been simply because her father
wished her to marry a rich man, she would never have given the question
a second thought; but when he asked her to save him from what seemed
like ruin, what could she do? She knew that a judge could not afford
to get into financial difficulties, and knew that his honour must be,
as far as the world is concerned, stainless. How, then, could she
refuse? All the same, her whole nature rose in angry rebellion against
such a thing.
Again she thought of what Paul Stepaside had said to her, and wondered
whether, if she had never seen him, she would have been so angry at
what her father had done. For hours that night she lay sleepless,
trying to think of a plan whereby what seemed to her now as a calamity,
and worse than a calamity, could be avoided.
When she came down the following morning her face was pale and almost
haggard. Although she did not realise it, what Paul Stepaside had said
to her had altered the whole outlook of her life. A heap of letters
lay on the breakfast-table, but they were all for her father. A
servant moved quietly round the room, arranging for their morning meal,
while she stood listlessly looking over the garden. It was now nine
o'clock, and her father always came punctually to the minute.
The clock on the mantelpiece had barely ceased striking when he came
into the room. He kissed her perfunctorily, and then turned to his
letters.
"Nothing important, Mary. Nothing important," he said, with an evident
desire to be cheerful. "I think we're going to have a nice day, too,
although we are so close to Christmas. But it's really too warm for
this time of year."
For several minutes he evidently tried to make conversation, with but
little success. The girl made no response to anything he said, but sat
silently toying with the food that was placed before her.
The meal was nearly at an end when a servant came in bearing a
telegram. The Judge took it from the salver and opened it almost
indifferently, but a second later his eyes were wild with terror, and
his hands trembled like an autumn leaf shaken with the wind.
"My God!" he exclaimed.
"What is it, father?"
He had risen from his seat. He did not speak. He seemed unable to
answer her.
"What is it, father? Is someone ill--dying--what?"
And she snatched the wisp of thin paper from her father's hand.
"Ned murdered," she read. "Found early this morning with a knife in
his heart. Stabbed from the back. Stepaside apprehended for murder.
We're all distracted.--WILSON."
For a moment the words seemed to swim before her eyes. She could not
grasp their purport; and yet, even then, that which filled her heart
with terror was not the fact that Ned Wilson was dead but that Paul
Stepaside was apprehended as his murderer. She knew of the long feud
that had existed between them. She had heard a garbled account of
Paul's attack on Wilson on the night when he had been elected a member
for Brunford. She remembered all that rumour had said during her
father's political contest in Brunford, knew that it was the talk of
the town that Wilson had tried to ruin him. And Paul Stepaside was not
a gentle man. He was strong, passionate--a man who in his anger would
stop at nothing. Had Wilson, she wondered, aroused him to some
uncontrollable fury? And had Paul, in his anger, struck him down? But
a knife in his back, what did it mean? Paul could never do that, and
yet----
She felt her head swim. It seemed to her as though her senses were
leaving her. The vision of her father standing before her, pale-faced
and horror-stricken, was a blurred one. Nothing was real except that
ghastly terror was everywhere.
"Of course, it can't be true!" she said, at length.
"But don't you see, it's from his father? It was sent off this
morning. I wonder--no, I wonder at nothing! My God! what shall I do?"
Even at this moment he seemed to be thinking more of himself than of
the agony which must be realised in Brunford. It was not Ned Wilson's
death which had whitened his face and caused him to tremble so. It was
the thought of his own ruin. Unless he could meet his liabilities, he,
an English judge, might be disgraced. Still, no; he thought he could
manage everything. It only wanted time, and perhaps--well, things
might not be so bad after all.
"But it can't be true!" repeated the girl. "Paul Stepaside could never
do such a thing."
Judge Bolitho had mastered himself by this time. His eager quick mind
had grasped all the bearings of the case. He remembered his last
interview with young Wilson, and the arrangement which had been made.
Yes, things were not so bad, after all. He could manage.
"Of course he did it!" was his answer. "Who else could there be?
Stepaside was Ned's only enemy."
"What will the Wilsons feel?" said the girl. "The horror of it! But
surely he could not be capable of it! He could not do it!"
"He's capable of anything devilish!" replied her father. "I felt it
years ago, when I got him sent to prison. Of course, his name was
cleared somewhat, but he was always an incipient criminal of the worst
order--clever, if you like--ambitious, undoubtedly, but he belonged to
the criminal class. And yet---- There, don't you see, 'Stepaside
apprehended.' I thought he was too cunning for that, anyhow. I judged
that a man of his order would have done the deed in such a way that the
guilt would seem to belong to someone else. However, such fellows
always overreach themselves."
"But he could not do it, father. He could not do it!" cried the girl.
"A man of Stepaside's character could do anything." He was almost calm
now, and able to consider the bearings of the case judicially. "The
thing has been growing for years. Event after event has prepared the
way for it. Stepaside has never forgiven the Wilsons for sending him
to prison. As you know, too, he has always hated me for that.
Besides, Stepaside has always had the belief that Wilson has been
trying to ruin him financially. You know what was said during the
election? There have been rumours lately to the effect that this
fellow and his partner have lost a good deal of money. Very likely he
tried to fasten that on Wilson; and so in the end he murdered him. But
we shall see! We shall see! There will be more detailed news
presently."
"But he could never have done it!" and the girl reiterated it with
weary monotony. It seemed to her as though she must fight for Paul
Stepaside's life, as though she were called upon to proclaim his
innocence.
"Who else could have done it?" said the Judge. "Don't you see, events
must have pointed to him clearly, or they would never have dared to
apprehend him. Besides, Ned Wilson hadn't an enemy in Brunford besides
Stepaside; no other in the world as far as I know. The Wilsons have
always been kind masters, always popular with their employees. Ned was
a general favourite in the town. He's always borne a good character,
too. During the years we've known him, there's never been a breath
against him. Yes, it's all plain enough. But I must make inquiries,
and find out."
He wandered round the room for more than a minute like one demented,
while the girl sat watching him with a hard, fearsome look in her eyes.
"Do you remember what he said that night when I was elected for
Brunford?" said the Judge presently. "Do you remember how he defied
me, and proclaimed savagely that we should meet again, and always to
fight? Well, it seems as though we shall meet again, but this time it
will be as judge and criminal!"
"But, father," cried the girl, "you don't mean that you would ever sit
in judgment on him?"
"It seems probable that it will be so," said Mr. Bolitho, after a
moment's reflection. "Yes, and I will see that he shall have justice,
too, full justice. The atheistic scoundrel! You can now see the
logical outcome of the opinions of such men. He has vaunted for years
that he believed neither in God nor Devil. He admitted no
responsibilities to a Supreme Being, and when a man occupies such an
attitude, what moral standard can he have? He hated Ned--poor
Ned!--and then, having no standard of right before him, having no
religion to sustain him, or to rebuke him, he became, in fact, what he
was at heart--a murderer! You know what I have always said, Mary,
about these socialistic fellows: Atheism lies at the root of it all!
When a man ceases to believe in God he can be trusted for nothing. If
religion is destroyed then all is destroyed!"
Each word seemed to ring like a knell in the girl's heart. It was as
though judgment were passed already, and Paul Stepaside were condemned.
"But I must find out more about it," he went on. "Particulars will be
flashing over a thousand wires by this time. I must send a wire to
Howden Clough, too. I must try and find out the truth, the whole
truth!"
And then he went out of the room, leaving Mary bewildered.