THE LOVERS
Had anyone told Mary Bolitho, even when her father consented for her to
accompany him to Lancashire, that she would have sought admission into
Paul's cell, she would have repudiated the idea. Even while she could
not help believing that there was some awful mistake, and that Paul was
utterly incapable of such a deed, she felt that there was nothing for
her to do. When she arrived in Lancashire, however, and the assizes
had commenced, she realised the terrible issues at stake. If Paul were
found guilty, he would be hanged. The thought was like a death-knell
in her heart, and all its grim horror possessed her. Day by day passed
away, and she could not shake it off. She pictured Paul lying in
Strangeways Gaol, waiting his trial, and realised something of the
loneliness and the terror which must have encompassed his life.
One day, while visiting a shop in Market Street, she heard some people
talking. "He's said no word, I suppose?" said one man.
"I've never heard of anything."
"A curious business, isn't it?"
"Ay, very curious. It don't seem right, somehow, that a man like Paul
Stepaside should do such a thing. Of course, the jury will have to go
upon evidence, and the evidence is all against him. I've heard as 'ow
he's refused to be defended."
"What'll that mean?"
"I don't know, but what I am thinking is, why should he take such a
step?"
"Perhaps he's guilty, and wants to get it over!"
"Ah, but what if he's wanting to shield someone? Anyhow, unless
something happens, he'll swing! My word, though, I wouldn't like to be
in his place! Fancy lying in yon Strangeways Gaol day after day! It's
not a cheerful place at any time. I've heard that when they're
condemned to die, they can hear the carpenters nailing the scaffold
together. Hellish, isn't it?"
"Ah, and he must be very lonely. Fancy the terror of it!"
It was only gossip, which might be expected under such circumstances,
but it fired Mary Bolitho's imagination. It helped her to realise the
situation more keenly even than she had yet realised it. Paul swinging
on a scaffold! Paul dead! Then she knew the secret of her heart.
What she had never dreamt of as possible became a tremendous reality.
He was the one man in all the world for her. Without him life would be
a great haggard misery. She did not know why it was, or how it was,
but the man had become king of her life; and he was lying in a prison
cell accused of murder!
She must do something; she must! She felt as though she were going
mad; she free in the streets of Manchester, free to live her own life,
to follow her desires, while he lay there alone, with the shadow of the
scaffold resting upon him! And he was innocent. She was sure he was
innocent. She had no more a doubt about it than of her own existence.
The evidence at the Brunford Town Hall and at the coroner's inquest was
nothing to her. Circumstantial evidence was nothing. The gossip which
was so freely bandied was nothing. Paul was innocent, and she loved
him. But what could she do? Rather, what must she do? Regardless of
the consequences, she immediately took steps whereby she might be
enabled to see the prisoner.
Naturally Paul had no idea of the thoughts that were surging in her
mind. He never dreamed of what she intended to do. He sat alone in
his cell, thinking and wondering. He had given up all hope of ever
seeing Mary again. All his fond imaginings had come to nothing. The
resolutions he had made were but as the wind. One day he was full of
hope, full of determination; he would conquer difficulties, he would
laugh at impossibilities; the next day all hope had gone; defeat,
disgrace, horror blotted out everything else.
That was the greatest burden he had to bear. His life broken off in
the middle? Yes, he could face that. The career which promised great
things utterly destroyed--well, that did not seem to matter. The
destruction of the dreams of a lifetime? Terrible as it was, he met it
with a kind of grim despair. But the loss of Mary Bolitho--to feel
that he would never see her again, never hear her voice again, never
enter into the joy which he had promised himself should be his--that
was terrible beyond words.
He had no belief in a future life, even while his heart demanded it.
When the last act was over, then came a pall of eternal silence,
eternal unconsciousness. Of course it was a great, grim, ghastly
tragedy, but he had to accept facts as they were. There was no God, no
Providence, no justice; life was a hideous mockery, a meaningless
tangle. No; he would never see her again, never hear her voice again,
never catch that glad flash of her eyes which he had seen during their
last meeting. It seemed to him as though he had entered an inferno,
over the portals of which was written: "All hope abandon, ye who enter
here."
Then, suddenly, the heavens opened. It seemed as though the black
night had ended in the shining of a summer morning. The blackness of
his cell, the grim future of his life were as nothing. He heard her
voice, and they stood face to face.
For a moment they did not speak. He looked at her like one fascinated.
It was too wonderful to be true. Presently he would wake from his
dream, as he had wakened from other dreams, and everything would mock
him again. He passed his hand across his brow, as if to wipe away the
shadows which hung between him and reality. Yes, Mary was there; she
was looking at him with kind eyes, and her lips were tremulous. Then
in a moment the meaning of what she had done became real to him. If
there was one thing for which he had feared, it was Mary's good name.
One of the great objects of his life had been to save her from being
connected with the shame which surrounded his name. Little as he cared
for gossip under ordinary circumstances, he dreaded it now. What would
be said if it were known that she had come to see him? And people
would know! Would not a thousand suspicions be aroused? Would not
evil tongues wag? His own suffering he could bear, but she must not
suffer.
"Why have you come?" It was not a bit what he intended to say, but the
words seemed drawn from him in spite of himself.
"I came to see you," she said. "How could I help it?"
Again he looked at her wonderingly. He did not understand. He fancied
that his brain must be giving way. He could not connect cause with
event. He could not grasp the issues of the situation.
"Why could you not help it?"
"Paul, you know!" she said.
He thought his heart would have burst; the excitement of the moment was
too great. His head whirled with a mad wonder, and yet he would not
have exchanged places with a king. The prison cell seemed like a
palace; that second of joy more than atoned for all he had suffered.
"Mary!" he cried, "do you mean that? You know what is in my heart.
You know what for months I have been afraid to tell you. You must have
known! Why, it has been like fire in my brain; it has been the great
passion of my heart. You knew it when we were in London together, even
before I told you, didn't you?"
She nodded her head, and Paul saw that her eyes were brimming with
tears.
"And you cared enough to come and see me?" he said.
"I could not help coming, Paul," was her reply. "How could I, when I
knew that you were alone, and that you needed me?"
"But you must go away," he said. "It's heaven to have you near, but
you must go away. No one must know. Why, think of what the world
would say!"
"As though I care what the world says," was her reply. "As a matter of
fact, I obtained admission to you without difficulty, and I do not
think anyone knows who I am. You see, I have means unknown to other
people. But I do not care who knows. Why should I care? I came to
you because I--I---- But you know, Paul! You know!"
"And you came to tell me that?" he said.
"Yes, to tell you that," she replied. "Of course, I could never have
told you had things been as they were; but now--I can't help it. How
can I? And I've come to save you, too!"
"To save me?"
"Yes, to save you."
"But do you know what I am accused of?" he asked, and his voice was
hoarse.
"Of course I know. How can I help it? But that's nothing."
"But, Mary, you don't understand."
"I understand everything," she said. "That is, everything that
matters. You and I are all the world, Paul. For days I've been
fighting; perhaps I've been a little mad; I sometimes think I have.
But that's all over. I have thrown fear to the wind. I don't care
what the world says. I don't care though all the gossips in the world
talk about me. I came to you because you needed me, and because I love
you, Paul."
Her words were simple, but there was something glorious in her
self-abandonment. To her the non-essentials of life did not seem to
exist. She had thrown everything to the winds. The wondrousness of
her womanhood had burst forth. Her heart had spoken, and she had
listened to it. The ways of the world, the conventionalities of
society, the gossip of tongues were no more than thistledown. The
great thing in life was the love which had been born in her heart, a
love which overwhelmed and submerged everything else. For that she had
dared everything, and she had found her way to the cell of this man
accused of murder.
"But even yet I do not think you realise," he said. "Oh, don't
misunderstand me, Mary. You know how my heart rejoices in this
moment--how I would gladly suffer ten times more than I have suffered
for the joy of this hour. Why, the thought of your love has been life
to me. It has been the inspiration of everything I've done. Ever
since that day I caught the flash of your angry eyes--the day when I
came out of prison, you have dominated everything. Your presence has
filled everything. Even while I hated you, I loved you. Even when I
steeled my heart against you, you were everything to me. I did not
know you, but that did not matter. What is knowledge? Of course, I
only thought that you regarded me as a thing beneath your notice, but
that did not matter. You were born for me, and I swore that you should
be mine, even although I went to hell to get you. And now, now that
you've come to me like this, Great God, Mary, you know what it must
mean to me! Words are such poor little things, aren't they? But
you're here, here!"
He caught her hand as he spoke, and again looked into the depths of her
eyes; while she, although she was half-afraid, stood steadily gazing at
him.
"I'm accused of murder, Mary. Do you understand? Murder! I was never
jealous of him, and yet men said that you and he were to be wedded.
You know all about it?"
"Yes, I know," she said.
"And you believe I'm guilty, don't you?"
"Guilty!" The girl laughed as she spoke. "Guilty! I believe in my
own guilt rather than yours."
"But I'm going to be hanged for it," he said. "The knife which was
found in his heart, is my knife. Don't you see?"
"I see everything," she replied. "I see nothing. But you guilty!"
And again she laughed.
"You don't believe it, then? You have seen what the newspapers have
said? You have read every bit of damning evidence against me? You
know that I have been lampooned in a thousand newspapers? You know
that I have been discussed by every pothouse villain in the land? And
it is said that there is not one link wanting in the chain that binds
me to the scaffold."
"I don't know, I don't care about that," she replied. "You are as
innocent as the angels in heaven. Why, Paul, if all the juries in the
land were to condemn you; if all the newspapers in the world were to
lampoon you; if your best friends told me they had seen you do it, I
would not believe it."
"Then you believe me innocent?" And his voice was tremulous with joy.
"I don't believe," was her reply. "I know."
"How do you know?" He spoke like one bewildered.
"Because I know you, Paul. I've seen into your heart; and my own heart
has spoken to me, and God has spoken to me. You guilty!"
He felt as though the shadow of death were lifted from his life. The
great terror which had enveloped him for days had been that Mary
Bolitho would look upon him as a murderer; and now, with the
self-abandonment which was to him past all thought, she had come to him
of her own accord, she had thrown conventions to the winds, and she had
confessed, as only she could confess, that she believed in him and that
she loved him.
The heart-hunger which had consumed him during the long weeks was too
great to be borne. He opened his arms; and each, forgetful of where
they were, forgetful of the grim prison walls, forgetful of the painful
silence of the prison, held the other.
Years before Mary Bolitho had admired the words of Lovelace, the poet:
"Stone walls do not a prison make, or iron bars a cage."
But now the lines seemed poverty itself. How little it expressed the
deep feeling of her life. They were not in prison. The solemn bell of
doom was not tolling. She was in heaven. So great is the power of a
pure love. As for Paul, at that moment everything faded but the
blissful present. There was no past, there was no future. Nothing
mattered but the now. He had entered into the joy of which he dreamt,
and he would not think of anything else. How long they remained in
that condition of untold happiness he did not know, he did not care.
But presently all the grim realities came back again. He knew where he
was. Mary would shortly have to leave him. He thought of the warder
peering curiously into her face and making surmises as to why she came.
He thought of whispering tongues; but more than all that, he thought of
the terrible future which awaited him. Paul's temptation had not yet
come, but the hand of the tempter was even at that moment knocking at
the door of his heart.
"Now, Paul," she said, and her voice was changed, "now we must think
about the future."
"Not yet, not yet, Mary. Let me remain in heaven while I can. Hell
will come soon enough."
"No, Paul, you must think about the future. You must think about it at
once. You are not guilty of this, and you must know who is. You must
tell me. Hitherto you have refused to confide in anyone. You have
maintained a silence which has been misunderstood, and which has caused
so many to think of you as guilty. It must be broken, Paul. You must
tell me everything, and I will save you."
It was then that he realised what he had to face. For Paul Stepaside
believed that he knew who had killed Wilson. For many a weary hour he
had thought over his mother's strange behaviour, thought of the flash
of madness which had shot from her eyes, thought of the wild words she
had uttered. He remembered, too, the sight that met his gaze on the
morning of the murder. He saw her again, sitting in her bedroom, saw
the look of unholy joy in her face; and in his heart of hearts he felt
sure of what she had done. It was all for him. She had loved him with
a mad, unreasoning frenzy; for him she was willing to sacrifice her own
life. How much wonder, then, that she had been willing to sacrifice
another's life. She had believed that Ned Wilson stood between him and
happiness, and she had determined to move him out of life's pathway.
He had seen her on the day before the murder, with the knife which had
killed Ned Wilson in her hand. She, unknown to his partner, George
Preston, had come to his office. He had seen her handling this
murderous weapon, and he remembered the look in her eyes; remembered,
too, what she had said. How could he doubt? Indeed, she had
practically confessed the deed to him, and he had sworn that not a
shadow of suspicion should rest upon her name. She was his mother.
She had suffered for him. She had committed a crime for him. But he
could not let her pay the penalty for it. No, no; he was willing to
die himself, but he could not bear the thought of his mother's name
being tarnished. He shuddered at the very suggestion of her being held
up before the world's gaze.
"You see, Paul," went on Mary Bolitho; "I know you never did this, and
I know you're hiding something. And you must clear your name, for my
sake. You see, don't you?"
It seemed as though the god of silence sealed his lips. He could not
speak. How could he speak, when, if he told what was in his heart, his
words would be of such terrible portent? Then, like lightning, the
issues became clear to him. They were written from sky to sky. If he
did not speak, if he maintained the silence which he had hitherto
maintained, the jury would find him guilty, and he would be hanged.
But his mother's name would be saved from disgrace. She would not have
to pay the penalty of the deed which she had done out of love for him.
No one could associate crime with her. He had gone carefully into his
business matters, and he knew that he would leave her enough to live
comfortably. The hand of want would never knock at her door. Of
course, it was all very terrible; but she would never be branded, and
she might find some measure of peace. Anyhow, he was willing to pay
the price for what happiness she could get. He would be an ingrate
indeed if he were not. Had she not done everything for him? Ah! but
there was the other side. Mary's coming had made everything a thousand
times harder to bear. He did not mind it before, for he believed that
everything had become impossible, but now that she had come to him, now
that she had freely told him with her own lips of the love she bore for
him, now that she was willing to link her life with his, regardless of
what the world might say, now that a happiness such as he had never
dreamt of was possible, how could he do it? In that moment Paul
Stepaside seemed to live an eternity. Whichever way he turned, he was
met by blank impossibilities. How could he enter into happiness,
knowing that in order to do so he had sent his mother to the gallows?
Rather a thousand times that his tongue should be paralysed than that
he should utter a word to fasten the crime upon her. And yet, if he
did not do so, he must lose Mary for ever. He must end his days in a
way which has become a byword and a shame for every right-thinking man.
"You'll tell me what you know, and all you know, won't you? It's for
my sake, Paul. It's for both our sakes, our life's happiness is at
stake. You see it, don't you? Tell me, my dear, tell me?"
What would he not have given to have been able to have told her! But
how could he?
"No, Mary," he said at length. "There is nothing to tell."
"You mean you will not tell?"
"There is nothing to tell," he repeated.
"Paul, you're not guilty; you know you're not guilty. You are
absolutely innocent of everything with which you are charged. You know
it. I don't want you to answer me. You know it, and I know it."
He looked at her with a glad light shining from his eyes, even although
her words were laden with such a terrible meaning. It was heaven to
know that she believed in him so--heaven to realise that her trust was
so infinite.
"There is nothing to tell," he repeated with dreary monotony.
"But there is, Paul. You can save yourself if you will, you know you
can." He did not speak, but sat still, looking at her with steady gaze.
"Will you leave me so?" she went on. "I will not plead with you for
your own sake, or for your own happiness, but will you not for mine?
Think, Paul! I love you. All that I have and am belong to you. To
lose you will be losing everything. Will you not, for my sake, speak?
There, Paul"--she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him--"there,
Paul, I love you; I love you more than life. Will you not tell me for
my life's happiness?"
He knew what temptation meant then, as he had never known it before.
His heart hungered for her as even he had never thought it could
hunger. His whole being cried out for her and for happiness, and if he
would but speak, then everything became possible; while if he were
silent----
It seemed as though his mind were giving way, as though the trial were
too hard to bear. God, if there were a God at all, could never expect
him to give up such a joy. He was young--only a little more than a lad
in years--with life all before him, with glorious possibilities, and
the love of Mary Bolitho. While she, she who stood there, was glorious
in her youth and in her beauty. She, who, with the sacrifice of all
that lesser women hold so dear, had come to him and besought him to
enter into the joy he longed for. Oh, he could not give her up; he
must speak.
He nerved himself to tell her, nerved himself to relate the story of
his life, and the story of what he was sure his mother had done; but
even as he did so, he saw his mother's face. He remembered her years
of loneliness and disappointment and sorrow. He remembered how her
life had been blackened and broken, and that she had done everything
for him. No, he could not, he could not.
"There is nothing to tell." He reiterated the words as though they
were some formula, and he thought indeed all was over. But to his
surprise, the girl laughed again.
"Do you think I don't know you, Paul? Do you think I am going to give
up our happiness without a struggle? Do you think I am going to allow
you to go down to your grave without fighting for you? You will not
tell me, but I'm going to find out! I know you are shielding someone.
Your eyes have told me the truth, and you cannot deny what I have said.
Who it is doesn't matter. But I'm going to find out. I'm going to
save you, Paul. And we shall be happy in spite of everything."
"No, no." His voice was hoarse and unnatural.
"But I will," she said. "Do you think my love is something that makes
me helpless? Do you think I can stand by knowing that you are
innocent, and allowing you to appear guilty of such a crime? I don't
love you for nothing, Paul. I love you to serve you--to save you."
Never, even in those hours when he had thought most fondly of her, had
he dreamt of the depths of her nature, or thought of what she was
capable. Now he realised that Mary Bolitho was no ordinary woman, that
all along there had been depths in her being which he had never
fathomed, knew that she meant what she said.
"No, no, Mary," he repeated, "you must not. If you love me, you will
promise me this. You will promise to be silent. You will promise that
you will give no hint or suggestion of what you fancied. Besides, I'm
guilty, Mary. I'm guilty, Mary. That is, promise me, for the love you
bear me."
There were footsteps in the stone corridor outside. It was a warder
coming to tell her that her time was up, and that she must leave him.
"Promise me, Mary." He caught her and held her close to him. "Tell me
you'll do nothing!" he cried.
"On one condition I will," was her answer.
"What is it?" he asked eagerly.
"That you'll tell the truth before my father and the jury."
"Your father?"
"Yes, did you not know? He is the judge who has to try the case."
"Then, then, Mary, promise me----"
The key turned in the lock, and Mary and Paul separated. Neither had
made a promise.
Presently Mary Bolitho went back to her hotel, where she sat in her
room alone for hours, thinking and planning; while Paul Stepaside sat
in his cell, with heaven in his heart; yes, heaven, even although he
suffered the torments of hell.