PAUL DISCOVERS HIS FATHER
As may be imagined, the sensation in the court was very great, but it
quickly died away. Paul's mother was immediately removed, and the
order of the day was resumed. For some time, however, Paul was unable
to give due attention to what was taking place. The sight of his
mother's face, added to the stress of the scene through which he was
passing, was affecting his iron nerves in spite of himself. Presently,
however, when someone whispered to him, saying that his mother was
quite recovered, he seemed more at ease, and was able to devote his
attention to the evidence which was being elicited from the witnesses.
He did not know why it was, but he seemed to be the only man in the
court who was unmoved by what was taking place. On every hand was
strained attention to every word that was spoken. The most
insignificant question seemed to be carefully noted, not only by the
jury but by the spectators. But to Paul there was a sense of unreality
in everything. All these same questions he had heard before. All
these witnesses had appeared at the Coroner's inquest and before the
Brunford magistrates. It seemed to him, too, that the way the counsel
for the prosecution dwelt on insignificant details, details which could
have nothing whatever to do with the real issues, was childish.
Indeed, Mr. Bakewell appeared not only to have a positive genius for,
but also a personal interest in, dragging out the case as long as
possible. In a way Paul supposed it was necessary to inquire into the
minutest details concerning the evidence that was given, nevertheless,
it was wearying in the extreme. As far as he could judge, too, both
counsel and witnesses were supremely anxious to acquit themselves in a
way that should give satisfaction to the spectators. It was a matter
of intellectual juggling rather than a desire to arrive at the truth.
The counsel evidently hoped that his examination would be commented
upon as clever and searching, while the witnesses, aware that the eyes
of the many who knew them watched them closely, were eager to be spoken
of as having acquitted themselves with some amount of distinction.
Hours passed away, and, it seemed to him, they failed to get at the
heart of the case, while such a large amount of irrelevant matter was
allowed and discussed that, from the standpoint of a spectator, it
seemed to the prisoner that the methods of an English law-court needed
to be rigidly revised. During the afternoon sitting, however, they got
nearer to the heart of things. The counsel began to ask questions
which had a vital bearing upon the case, and, as a consequence, the
attention of all present became more tense. It was then that Paul
could not help feeling that the judge had already made up his mind.
During that part of the proceedings when he had advised him to obtain
counsel to defend him, and told him that he was at liberty to
cross-examine the witnesses, he felt more kindly towards him. There
seemed a desire to do him justice, and to give him every chance to put
his own case in the best possible light. But as matters proceeded, the
judge appeared to have arrived at a conclusion, and to regard the
prisoner as guilty.
He renewed his determination, too, to maintain his attitude of rigid
silence. Had he been free to act, he felt he could have destroyed the
effect of the evidence which was given, but he could not have done so
without throwing suspicion upon someone else. If he were not guilty,
then someone else was. Who was that someone?
For a long time therefore he did not seek to interpose, and witness
after witness left the box without any attempt on his part to
cross-examine them.
Only once did he really interpose in the proceedings, and that was
after a short cross-examination by the judge himself. Whether it was a
mere matter of form or not, the judge had asked each witness a number
of questions on the evidence which had been given, and as Paul listened
to those questions, they seemed utterly unsatisfactory to him. He
remembered Judge Bolitho's career, remembered, too, that when he was
practising at the Bar, he was said to be one of the most severe
cross-examiners on the Northern Circuit. But now his queries seemed to
be trivial and unworthy. The questions he asked might have been those
of a newly-fledged barrister, who had not learnt the ABC of his
profession!
This, as it seemed to him, was especially noticeable when he questioned
Mr. Edward Wilson, the father of the murdered man. Mr. Wilson's
evidence, of course, created a great sensation. He stated that, as far
as he knew, his son did not possess a single enemy in the world except
the prisoner in the dock. He also went on to say that almost ever
since Paul had come to Brunford he had been the sworn enemy of his son.
He spoke of the prisoner as clever, ambitious, unscrupulous, a man who
would adopt any means to accomplish his own purposes. He stated that
his son, although a brave, strong man, had told him, his father, that
he feared what the prisoner might do to him. He denied that his son
had sought to ruin Paul Stepaside, although he admitted that the
prisoner might have had reasons for believing that his son would not be
sorry if he could be driven out of the town. And he related certain
incidents which went to prove that Paul hated his son Ned with deadly
hatred.
No one could help feeling when the counsel sat down after examining Mr.
Edward Wilson that the case looked blacker than ever against Paul. He
had supplied the motive which had caused Paul to commit this crime. It
was personal hatred, personal enmity, and a desire for revenge. The
gossip of years had been dragged into the court, and the picture which
he drew of Paul was that of a relentless, persistent enemy of his son.
When Mr. Bakewell had sat down after this examination, Judge Bolitho
asked the witness certain questions, and it was at this time that Paul
felt as though the judge were seeking to help the counsel for the
prosecution rather than to do justice to the accused man.
"My lord," he said, when the judge had finished, "I will take advantage
of what you said at the commencement of the trial and cross-examine the
witness."
The judge nodded.
"Then I will ask Mr. Wilson two or three questions bearing on his
evidence," said Paul. "Mr. Wilson, you have stated more than once that
I have uttered threats concerning your son?"
"Yes."
"Would you mind telling me what those threats were?"
"You threatened to do him injury."
"What injury?"
The witness looked confused.
"Have I at any time in your hearing threatened your son with harm?"
"No, not in my hearing."
"Then you have been repeating gossip rather than telling of what you
actually know?"
"You've threatened my son himself."
"With what?"
"Well, you have said to him, 'I'll pay you out for this.'"
"For what?"
"For certain supposed injuries."
"But I am here on the charge of murder. Did I ever threaten to murder
him? Did he ever tell you that I had threatened to murder him?"
"No, not in so many words."
"That's all, my lord," said Paul. "I would not have interposed, only,
since you have so kindly allowed me to cross-examine witnesses, I
thought you would not mind if I mentioned such an obvious thing!"
On this the judge made no comment, and the case was proceeded with.
They had made but little headway when the business of the day came to
an end, and Paul was taken back to his cell.
When he again found himself alone, everything became unreal to him. It
seemed to him as though he had been dreaming a horrible dream. Every
actor in the grim tragedy which had been played seemed but a phantom of
the brain. Everything was intangible, even although he knew how
terrible the issues were. By and by, however, he was able to grasp
things more clearly, and to remember the events of the day, as well as
to call to mind the faces of the people who had been in the court. He
knew that the evidence had been very black against him; knew, too, by
the look on the faces of the twelve jurymen, that even although they
might not be convinced of his guilt, circumstances were leading them in
that direction. All the same, the thought of death was far away. He
could not believe that he, so young and strong and vigorous, full of
physical and intellectual life, would soon cease to be; could not
believe that those twelve commonplace unimaginative-looking men who sat
in the box could condemn him to die. It was so absurd, so foolish.
Then he remembered his little passage of arms with the judge, and he
wondered what Mary Bolitho would say. He did not realise her presence
at the time, but now it all came back to him. His words had been
polite enough, and yet his insinuation had roused a doubt concerning
the judge's impartiality. What would she say? What would she think?
He was sorry now he had spoken. Why could he not have remained silent?
If he had roused doubts, if he had made the jury see how absurd it was
to fancy that he could be guilty of this crime, the sleuthhounds of the
law would set to work to find the real criminal, and that was what he
wanted to avoid. Better bear anything than that the real truth should
come to light.
He remembered his mother's face, too, as she came into the court,
remembered the look of agony in her eyes, remembered the unearthly
scream she had given. What did it mean? His mother was not a weak
woman, she was not given to hysterics, rather she was cold and grim and
hard to all the rest of the world. She was only tender towards him.
What did she mean by coming in such a way? What led her to cry out
with such intense pain? The thought had scarcely passed his mind when
he heard the key of the warder in his door, and a moment later his
mother came into his cell. For some time neither of them spoke. The
woman came towards him slowly, and then, throwing her arms round his
neck, held him close to her for a long time. Paul felt the quiver of
her body, and realised the intensity of her feelings.
"Are you better, mother?" He was able to speak quite calmly by this
time, and was determined that neither by look nor sign would he say
anything of his suspicions concerning her.
But she did not answer him. She still held him close to her, her face
pressed hard against his chest.
"I saw you come into court this morning," he said, as though the matter
were the most casual thing imaginable. "You seemed frightened, mother.
Why was it?"
Still she did not speak, but Paul knew by her quivering hands and by
her convulsive sobs that something had aroused her to the depths of her
being.
"I hope you are better now," he went on. "It was very thoughtful of
you to let me know you had recovered. You mustn't trouble about me,
mother. I shall be able to manage all right."
"Yes, yes," she gasped presently, "but you don't know, Paul! You don't
know!"
"I think I know all that is necessary," he said, and then he stopped,
for he was on the point of mentioning the ghastly thought which had
been haunting him throughout the day. He believed he had read his
mother's motive in coming into the court, and that, but for her falling
down in a faint, she would have carried out her purpose. He felt sure
she had come there that day to tell of her own guilt, and thus to save
him. He imagined that she would have found it easy to gain admission
by telling the officials that she was the accused man's mother, and
that had she carried out her purpose he would by that time have been a
free man.
"You must not give way to these feelings, mother," he said. "I am
abundantly able to take care of myself, and I am afraid neither of
judge nor jury."
"The papers say you asked some awfully clever questions," she said, and
there was a mirthless laugh in her voice. "People are saying in the
city, too, that you've got something up your sleeve, and that
presently, when the right time comes, you will confound them all. But,
oh, Paul, Paul, my poor boy, my dear boy! I've come to tell you
something!"
"Don't tell me, mother," he said. "I'm sure it will give you pain, and
there's not the slightest need. Everything is right and perhaps
there's truth in what the people say."
He was still possessed with the idea that his mother was referring to
her own guilt, and he determined at all hazards to keep her from making
any confession. He did not quite know what the course of procedure
might be during the coming days, but he knew that according to English
law no prisoner accused of murder can be obliged to answer any
questions before a judge and jury. He had, during his preliminary
trials, evaded everything which might arouse the suspicions he feared,
but if his mother told him that which he felt sure was on her lips, he
did not know what he might have to do at some future period of the
trial.
"But I must tell you, Paul. I must tell you. It will be terrible for
you. It will drive you mad. But you must know! You must! you must!"
Her voice rose almost to a shriek as she spoke, and he feared lest any
warder listening at the door might hear what she should say.
"Speak low," he whispered, "or, better still, do not speak at all. No,
don't speak, mother. I know all there is any need to know!"
"But you must hear. Yes, yes, I won't speak aloud, but you must know.
I must tell you. Paul, Paul, I--I----"
"No, no, mother, be quiet!" His voice was low and hoarse. "I tell you
nothing matters. Everything will be all right. You needn't fear for
me, I'll be a match for them all!"
"But I must tell you, Paul, even although it may drive you mad. It'll
alter everything, everything! I've found out something. To-day,
to-day----" The tones of her voice had changed, and there was a mad
intensity which he could not understand. She had grown calmer, too,
and her body had become as rigid as a stone.
"Listen, Paul," she went on, "I've found your father!"
"Is that what you wanted to tell me?" And although he was excited
beyond words, he also realised a great relief.
"Yes, I've found your father."
"My father! Who is he? You cannot mean it!"
"Yes. Don't you know? Can't you guess?"
His mind was bewildered, the blow was too stunning. After all these
years of unavailing search for the truth, to come to him like this
almost unbalanced his mind.
"No, I can't guess," he said. "How did you do it, mother? How? Where
is he?"
"The judge, the judge," she said hoarsely. She stood back from him as
she spoke, and the dim light of the room fell upon her face. She
looked years older now than she had looked when they spent their last
evening together in their home in Brunford. Her face was marked with
deep lines. Her eyes were sunken. Her hair had become dull, and her
hands trembled as though she had the palsy.
"The judge, the judge!" she repeated. "He's your father, Paul."
"The judge! What judge? Great God, you don't mean that--that----"
"Yes, Judge Bolitho. That was not the name he gave to me. He said he
was called Douglas Graham. I expect it was only a ruse to deceive me.
I don't know how it would affect my marriage, Paul. You see, Scotch
marriage is so strange, and it may be that the change of name would
alter everything. And yet I don't see how it could. Do you, Paul?
But never mind. He married me! I told you about it, didn't I? Up
there on the wild moors, in the light of the setting sun, with only God
as our witness, he took me to be his wife. He promised to love and
cherish me, Paul. He told me I was all the world to him, and that he
would die to save me from pain. I told you about it, didn't I? And we
knelt down together, too, on the heather, and it seemed as though God's
angels were all around us as we knelt. And he prayed, Paul. He told
me he was a man of faith and took the Communion. And I believed him.
Oh, yes, we were married. And now he's your judge. My God, think of
it! You the criminal and he the judge, and he your own father!"
"And he never told you his name was Bolitho?" He asked the question
mechanically, as though his mind were far away.
"Never mentioned it. I never thought of it until--but never mind that.
Of course, you told me about Judge Bolitho, but at that time I never
thought of him as being the man I married. Why, he had been your
enemy. He sent you to prison, years ago. He fought you in Brunford.
Well, on the night of the--the murder, I--I--but there is no need to
talk about that now. I--I went into the court, and when I saw him, I
thought I was going mad. He has changed, yes, of course, he has grown
older, his face is fuller, but I knew him in a second. I could take my
Bible oath. I could swear a thousand oaths it is he, Paul. He is the
man who married me. He is the man who is your father, the man who you
swore that night on the Altarnun Moors should do me justice, the man on
whom you said you'd have your revenge. It is the man whom I have hated
and whom you have hated, Paul. When I saw him first, I thought I was
going out of my mind. It seemed as though everything became as black
as night. Only his face was plain. He did not look at me. I do not
think he saw me at all, but, oh, I saw him, and then--and then--but you
know what happened after that, Paul. Throughout the day I have just
wandered, and wandered, and wandered, thinking and thinking. At first
I thought I dared not tell you. I could not, it was too terrible. But
at last my feet were dragged to you. I could not help myself. I came
here and gained admission. Of course, they could not keep me out. I
am your mother. Paul, Paul, what are you looking like that for? You
don't hate me, do you? You understand?"
Her words brought him back to the reality of the situation. At first
he seemed utterly confounded by the blow. He forgot all about the
murder now. It did not seem to exist, or if it did it was somewhere
far back in the background, and everything was altered. He had dreamed
of the time when he would find his father for himself--thought, too, of
what he would say to him, painted pictures of their first meeting. But
now everything seemed shattered. Nothing was real! Everything was
real, terribly real!
Even yet he could not understand the whole bearings of the case. His
brain was confused. Every issue seemed involved, but he did not doubt
his mother's words. It seemed to him the key of the puzzle which had
been haunting him for years. Judge Bolitho his father! Yes, his
treatment of him had been a part, a natural part, of the whole history.
What wonder that he who had deceived and betrayed his mother should
also be the enemy of his son! He understood his feelings now,
understood why when he had first seen this proud, clever man he had a
feeling of instinctive hatred towards him. He had been cruel to him in
the examination when he was tried years before for the part he had
taken in the riot. As the counsel for the prosecution he had seemed to
delight in fastening all the guilt upon him, his son. He remembered
the look of satisfaction upon his face when the justice committed him
to six months' imprisonment in Strangeways Gaol. Yes, he had hated him
then, for that matter they had hated each other. Then came the
election at Brunford. Every incident of the fight came back to him.
He had felt then that this man Bolitho was fighting him unfairly, using
devil's tools to beat him, allowing his mother's name to be dragged in
the mud, in order to gain the victory, while all the time he--he----
"Don't speak, mother, don't speak for a minute. Let me try to
understand."
He walked around the cell like one demented, his face set, his eyes
flashing. Again and again he dashed his hand across his forehead as if
to sweep away the shadows which rested upon his brain, as if trying to
untangle the skeins of his life.
Yes, he had defied him even to the very last. When the votes were
counted, and when his father, his enemy, had won the victory, he had
defied him. He had told him before the surging mob that they would
meet again, and always to fight, yes, and they would, too. He had a
new weapon in his hands now!
What would the world say if it knew? He almost felt like laughing at
the thought. What would the world say if it knew that the judge and
the man accused of murder were father and son? How the tongues of the
gossips would wag! What headlines there would be in the newspapers!
What a sensation it would create throughout the country!
He laughed aloud, a half-mad laugh. His brain reeled at what his
mother had told him. Even yet he did not realise fully the issues of
her momentous communication. That would come later! The thing which
appealed to him now was that he had found his father, and his father
was the man who was sitting in judgment on him!
Never did he hate him as he did at that moment. This man had deceived
his mother, blackened her life, allowed her to remain in loneliness,
misery and disgrace. Because of him a shadow had rested upon his own
life, a shadow which nothing had been able to lift. Yes, he hated him.
He thought of the cross-examination that day. This man at the
beginning of the trial had pretended to act as his friend, had advised
him to accept counsel, had told him that he might defend himself and
ask questions. And, utilising the power which he possessed as a judge,
had himself asked the witnesses questions, on the pretence that he was
trying to do the prisoner justice!
And what questions! To his excited and poisoned mind he had simply
supplied the deficiencies of the counsel for the prosecution. Every
word he had uttered was only meant as another nail in his scaffold. He
was glad he had said what he had said now. He had made both jury and
court feel that the judge was unjust because of his prejudice against
him. But that was nothing to what he could do, nothing to what he
would do. Why, supposing on the next day--yes, and he could do it,
too--supposing on the next day of the trial he, the prisoner, were to
proclaim before the court, before the twelve jurymen, before the eager
counsel, before the gaping, excited crowd, that this Judge Bolitho,
this man who assumed an immaculate air, was one of the most damnable
villains that ever crawled upon the earth, that this man, who looked so
virtuous and spoke of the majesty of justice, had foully deceived a
poor, ignorant, innocent girl, dragged her name in the mire, left her
to die, as far as he was concerned, in disgrace! He, the judge, had
done this, and all the world should know it. Yes, all the world. This
man should be pilloried before all England, and every healthy,
clean-minded man in the nation would shudder at his name.
Yes, he saw his revenge now.
"No, mother, do not speak yet," he cried, as he stamped around the
cell. "Do not speak yet. I've got it!"
He hugged himself with delight, for at that moment Paul Stepaside was
possessed of the devil. He was filled with unholy joy. "It makes one
believe, after all, that there's a God in the heaven. 'Vengeance is
Mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.' Yes, I've heard a man read that
in the old chapel down at St. Mabyn, in Cornwall. 'Vengeance is Mine;
I will repay.' And I will repay too."
Never had he realised that such vengeance would be possible. Why, it
some mighty wizard had been scheming to place a weapon in his hands
whereby he could avenge his mother's wrongs, avenge his own wrongs, and
punish the man who had been his enemy even before he was born, he could
not have placed a more powerful weapon than this. He seemed to possess
the very genius of victory. He did not care one iota about the murder
now, did not trouble as to what verdict any jury might find. The
evidence which might be adduced against him was as nothing. He held in
his hands the sword of justice, which should surely fall on the head of
the man who had that day sat as judge.
He laughed aloud again. "Thank you, mother," he said. "You did right
in coming to me. Yes, it makes everything right--everything,
everything. And to-morrow I'll do it. To-morrow shall be my day of
victory. Dead or alive, it shall be my day of victory. Right shall be
done, justice shall be done, and this scheming, hypocritical villain
shall be dragged in the dust and disgrace and infamy!"
The words had scarcely passed his lips when he came to a sudden stop,
and he gave a low, terrible cry.
"What is it, Paul?" The mother was startled by the look in his eyes,
by the mad agony expressed in his face.
"Mary!" he said.
Oh, the world of sorrow, of defeat, of terror, which seemed to be
expressed in that one word. Yes, he would rejoice, rejoice beyond
words at his father's ignominy and shame. But what of her, the woman
who believed in him, trusted in him against all evidence, the woman who
had defied all conventions in coming to see him, the woman whom he had
held to his heart, and whom he loved more than life? Every blow struck
at her father was also struck at her. His shame would be her shame,
his ignominy would be her ignominy.
It seemed as though the foundations of his life were being broken up.
Why, then, too, if that marriage up on the Scotch hill-side were legal,
as he believed it was, and thus all stain were wiped away from his
name, what of Mary's name? If Judge Bolitho had married another woman
while his mother was alive, then he would not only be a bigamist, but
Mary's name would be tarnished--Mary, whose happiness was to him the
most precious thing in the world. But even that was not all. He
understood now what his mother meant when she said he would be driven
mad, understood why she was afraid to tell him. Mary was his own
sister! His sister!
"Forgive me, Paul, for telling you;" and his mother looked at him with
hungry, beseeching eyes. "Forgive me, I could not help it. You
see--well, it was necessary that you should know."
"And I for the moment felt like believing in God," he said, like one
talking to himself. He thought he was going to fall on the hard stone
floor. His head was whirling, his limbs were trembling. He seemed to
have lost all control over himself.
"My sister!" he said. "Great God! My sister! And I love her as a man
loves his wife!" A new passion, a new force had entered his life now.
His longing for revenge was conquered by another feeling, a nobler
feeling. Love for Mary Bolitho was stronger than a desire to be
revenged on his father. At all hazards she must not suffer.
But--but---- No, he could not grasp it. His brain refused to fasten
upon the real issues of the case. His thoughts were as elusive as a
mist cloud. His brain swam. Everything was real, terribly real, but
nothing was real! What could he do?
Never, surely, was man placed in such a horrible position. He had
thought a few nights before, when he had fought his battle between love
for his own mother and the desire to keep disgrace and death from her,
and the love for his own life, a life which could be made bright and
beautiful, that the great struggle was over. It seemed to him then
that he had fought his last battle and had won it. Duty had overcome
self-love. But it seemed as nothing compared with the issues which now
stared him in the face.
"My sister! My sister!" he repeated. "The same father, although not
the same mother. Do I love her the less? Does my heart cry out for
her one whit the less because we are children of the same father?"
No. Why, he could not understand, but she seemed even more to him than
ever. The new link which bound them together seemed also, if possible,
to strengthen his love and to make him more than ever long for her
happiness.
"He's your father; you believe that?" said the woman, who had been
looking at him as though she would read his very soul.
"Yes," he replied.
"And she is your sister."
"Yes."
"Then if your birth is honourable, hers is base," said the mother
passionately. Even at that moment the longing to do justice to her son
was uppermost in her mind and heart. "I am his true wife; remember
that! He married me. I can't be robbed of that, Paul, can I?"
He saw what her questions meant, knew the thought that was burning in
her brain, realised her mad desire to proclaim her right as a wife and
as an honourable mother.
Paul Stepaside loved his mother, and never more than then. All those
feelings of filial affection which had been aroused in his heart by the
remembrance of her sad story were intensified at that moment. Yes, she
was his mother, and she must have her rights. But if she had them?
That was the question, the supreme question. His desire for revenge
had lost its power now. A new motive force was at work, a new set of
circumstances clamoured for recognition.
Oh, what a muddle life was! Who could explain its mystery? Who could
unravel the entanglement?
The steps of the warder were heard in the corridor outside, and Paul
knew that his mother's visit must come to an end.
"What will you do? What will you do?" she asked.
"I must wait--I must think," was his reply. "Of course, you have told
nothing to anyone else?"
"No, Paul. How could I?"
"And that man has no suspicion?"
"No; he did not see me."
He could not see a ray of light in the darkness anyhow. He saw no
means whereby he could solve this great puzzle. Everything was mad
confusion.
He heard the key turning in the lock.
"I must wait; I must think, think, mother. Meanwhile, do nothing."
The door opened, and a moment later his mother left the cell, leaving
Paul alone.