MAN AND WIFE
A number of men were dining in the principal hotel in Manchester. They
all belonged to the legal profession, and had been drawn thither by the
assizes which were being held. Most of them were men who had won a
position in the realm of the law, and were now visiting Manchester
because their profession had called them thither. They were attached
to the Northern Circuit, and were doing their best to make their stay
in the smoky metropolis as pleasant as possible. A few there were who
were as yet hungry for briefs and could not get them, but who deemed it
a privilege and an honour to be invited to dine with their more
successful brethren.
Perhaps there is no profession in the land which offer greater
possibilities than that of the Bar. On the other hand, there is no
calling more fraught with disappointment. Many there are who, after a
brilliant University career, and having adopted the Bar as a
profession, have to wait year after year without even earning the
salary of a four-loom weaver. Proud, sensitive men as some of them
are, to have to wait around on the chance of getting a brief must be
exquisite torture. Yet such are the chances of the Bar that many
undergo the ordeal in the hope that by and by success will come. There
were some of these at the gathering which I have just mentioned. They
had accepted the invitation to dine with their successful brethren, not
without hope that some crumbs might fall from the rich man's table and
be enjoyed by them. Added to this, Judge Bolitho, who had won such
renown while practising as a barrister on the Northern Circuit, and now
appointed judge at the High Court of Justice, was also present. Some
of the younger men regarded him with a certain amount of awe, and they
wondered whether the time would come when they, who now depended upon
the goodwill of their friends, might aspire to the heights which he had
reached. After all, it was not impossible, for the Bar, like every
other profession, was a gamble.
It had been a merry gathering. They had dined well. The hotel was
noted for its cuisine and for the quality of its wines, and the best
which the great establishment afforded had been placed at their
disposal. Many good stories were told. Those who were now at the top
of the tree related incidents of their younger days, when they, like
the young fellows who now listened to them so eagerly, were hungry for
briefs. Mr. Bakewell, in particular, the man who that day was the
counsel for the prosecution in Paul Stepaside's case, was an utterly
different man from what he had been when he appeared in court. Then he
was solemn, pompous, and almost lugubrious; now he cracked a joke with
the best, and told humorous stories with infinite gusto. The judge,
too, while naturally patronising and unable to throw aside in entirety
the dignity of his office, so far unbent as to be the best of
companions.
Naturally, the case which had excited the whole country loomed large on
the horizon. Indeed, it gave rise to most of the stories which had
been told that night. More than one barrister related incidents of
some murder trial in which he had been engaged, and tried to trace
connections between them and the one which was now being tried.
If the issues were not so momentous, moreover, the way they discussed
the question would have been amusing. Paul's life or death was to many
of them a mere secondary consideration. To them he was a case, and
they judged of the merits and demerits of the case as if it were some
purely imaginary or academical affair especially manufactured for their
delectation. It is true the judge did not look at it in this light,
but he was not in a talkative humour that night, although he added a
certain share to the conversation, and his presence gave a kind of
éclat to the proceedings. They had reached the stage of nuts and wine,
and most of them were in great good humour.
"I am inclined to think," said one, "that Stepaside has something up
his sleeve. The fellow is as sharp as a needle, and although he hasn't
yet offered anything like a defence, one can't believe that he was
guilty of such a thing."
"I don't know," said another. "Of course, circumstantial evidence has
often been proved to be false, nevertheless, a jury has to go upon such
evidence as is adduced in court, and the evidence is damning!"
"Think of the point he made this afternoon when he cross-examined Mr.
Wilson."
"I make nothing of that," said Mr. Bakewell rather pompously. "Of
course, he put it strongly, and for the moment made a point, but that
kind of thing is not going to save him!"
"Do you think, then," asked a member of the local Bar, "that the jury
will find him guilty?"
"I do indeed," said Mr. Bakewell. "Even although he had a man like
Montague Williams or Russell to defend him he would stand no chance.
You see, the thing is a perfect chain of reasoning, because there is a
perfect chain of events."
"Yes, but how can one think of such a man as Stepaside, keen as a
surgeon's knife, cool as the devil himself, as watchful as a
sleuth-hound, and having everything before him in the way of a career,
so far committing himself as to use the knife known to belong to him,
and then to leave it in the body. Why, the thing is absurd!"
"Exactly. But then the cleverest and most daring criminals in the
world have been known to have done similar things. Why, think of that
Blackburn murder in which I was engaged years ago. It was almost
identical with this affair, and there was not the slightest doubt that
he was guilty. Why, he confessed it to the chaplain afterwards. You
must remember that Stepaside was in a mad passion at the time.
Besides, you see, he's never accounted for those hours between midnight
and six in the morning!"
"Yes, but no prisoner charged for murder is obliged to account for his
time."
"Exactly, but a jury has to give its verdict upon evidence. And
remember this, too," and Mr. Bakewell would not perhaps have spoken so
freely had his tongue not been unloosed by the generous wine he had
been drinking. "Remember this, too, and, of course, we are all friends
here, and what I say will not go beyond this room--but the evidence
to-morrow will surprise you!"
"In what way?"
"Well, one of the witnesses to-morrow will swear that he saw him not
half a mile from Howden Clough, in a state of excitement, about five
o'clock on the morning of the murder, that is to say, about half an
hour after it took place, according to the doctor's evidence. You see,
we have the servants' testimony that they heard him come up to the top
storey of the house; that he stood at their bedroom door and then went
down again; that they, wondering what had happened, followed, and saw
him go out into the night alone. Of course, on the face of it, it does
seem unlikely that a clever fellow such as Stepaside undoubtedly is,
with a great career possible for him, should have done the deed so
clumsily. But, don't you see, everything points to him, and unless he
brings some extraordinary witnesses on the other side, which he isn't
trying to do, mind you, the jury have no alternative but to find him
guilty."
"My own belief is that he's hiding something in his sleeve, and that if
he's hanged it'll be a miscarriage of justice."
A waiter then came into the room bearing a slip of paper, which he took
to Judge Bolitho. The judge received it calmly and unfolded it,
talking meanwhile to his neighbour at the table. After reading a few
lines, however, a puzzled expression came on to his face, which was
followed by a look almost amounting to terror. More than one who
watched him thought he saw his hands tremble somewhat; nevertheless, he
held himself in check, like one who was trying to appear to be calm, as
he read it the second time. The men who were at the bottom of the
table went on with their stories, but Judge Bolitho evidently did not
listen. His mind was far away. His cigar had gone out, too, but he
did not seem conscious of it.
"I wonder what is in that letter?" asked a man of his neighbour, as he
watched the judge's face.
"Oh, there's no knowing. Fellows in Bolitho's position are always
getting queer missives."
"He looks mighty uncomfortable, anyhow."
The judge took a wineglass in his hand and began toying with it, but it
was evident that he did not know what he was doing.
"I say, Bolitho"--it was a county court judge who spoke to him--"Did
you notice that woman's face who fell down in a faint this morning? It
was positively ghastly when she looked at you."
Evidently Judge Bolitho did not hear. He took not the slightest notice
of the remark. He was still toying with the wineglass.
"I say, Bolitho, aren't you well?"
And still the judge's face was rigid, and his eyes had in them a fixed
far-away look. The other caught him by the sleeve.
"Aren't you well, Bolitho?"
The judge gave a great start.
"What's that?" he asked.
"Aren't you well? You look deathly pale. Have another glass of wine,
my dear fellow."
But the judge rose to his feet.
"No; I'm not very well," he said. "I think I must ask you to excuse
me."
By this time the attention of all present was drawn to him, and there
were general expressions of sympathy. But of these Judge Bolitho
seemed unconscious.
"Good-night, gentlemen," he said. "I am sorry to be obliged to leave
you, but I don't feel very well."
"There was something in that letter," was the general whisper.
"Something that disturbed him!"
But the fact was almost forgotten as soon as he had left the room.
The judge found his way to his own apartment.
"Where's Mary, I wonder?" he said. But Mary was nowhere visible. He
knocked at her bedroom door, but received no answer. He went into all
the rooms set apart for their use, but she was nowhere to be seen.
"She did not tell me she was going out, either," he reflected. But it
was evident he had very little interest in her whereabouts. He acted
more like a man in a dream than one in full possession of his
faculties. He threw himself into an arm-chair and again carefully read
the letter which had been sent to him. When he had finished, he looked
around the room as though he were afraid he were being watched.
"No; no one is here," he said. "No one knows."
For fully five minutes he sat holding the letter in his hand, staring
into vacancy.
"What can it mean? What can it mean?"
He put on a heavy ulster and left the hotel. "I don't think anyone
noticed who I am," he reflected. And then he made his way down past
the Free Trade Hall, towards Deansgate.
"Twenty-five Dixon Street," he kept on repeating to
himself--"twenty-five Dixon Street, off Dean Street."
He did not seem to know where he was going. More than once he hustled
someone on the sidewalk and then passed on as if unconscious of what he
had done. Presently he reached Dean Street and walked along it some
little distance; then, turning, he found himself in a network of short,
dark streets, evidently inhabited by a working-class community. He
looked at the numbers carefully as he passed along. After some little
time he stopped. He knocked at one of the doors and was immediately
admitted.
A second later the light fell on the form of a woman. Her face was
pale and haggard. In her eyes was a look of madness. The gaslight
also shone upon Judge Bolitho's face. He had placed his hat upon the
table, and his every feature was exposed.
The woman came close to him and looked at him steadily, while he, like
one fascinated, fixed his eyes upon her face.
"Douglas Graham," she said, "do you know me?"
For a few seconds he did not speak, but looked steadily at her. Then,
as if with difficulty, words escaped him.
"Jean!" he gasped. "Jean! Then you're not dead!"
"You know me, then, Douglas Graham? I have waited a long time for this
night. Sometimes I thought it would never come. Year after year I've
watched, all in vain, and then suddenly I learnt the truth!"
She did not seem like one in a passion. Her voice was low and hard.
Her hands were steady. Her eyes burnt with a mad light. It seemed as
though all the passion, all the hatred, all the despair of more than
twenty years were expressed in them just now.
"What do you want of me, Jean?"
He did not seem to know what he was saying, and the words escaped his
lips as if in spite of himself.
"Want of you? Want of you? Can you ask that? Your memory is not
dead. You know, and I know---- Why, I am your wife! Do you remember
that day up among the Scotch hills, when, before God, you took me, you
swore you would be faithful to me? Do you remember the promise you
made on the day you left me? 'I will soon come back to you,' you said,
'and make our marriage public.' And I have never seen you since, until
to-day! But now my hour has come!"
Usually Judge Bolitho was a man of resource. He seldom lost possession
of his power to act wisely. He was seldom taken at a disadvantage. He
was cool and daring. But now he seemed to have lost the _sang froid_
for which he was so noted.
"Jean! Jean!" he said again and again.
"Yes, Jean," replied the woman. "The girl you deceived! The girl you
married and then deserted! The woman whose life you have blighted and
ruined! I had almost given up believing in God; but now--now--faith
may come back to me; but it's only a faith inspired by hatred!"
"You hate me, then?" he said.
"Is it possible to do anything else?" she replied.
"Wait a minute," he said. "Let me think. I shall be able to speak
connectedly presently. For a moment I've lost hold of things. Yes,
yes; I don't deny anything; but wait a minute! What have you done with
yourself all these years, Jean?"
"Done with myself? What could I do? I was almost without a penny. A
few months after you left me my father drove me from home. I was in
disgrace, and only hell seemed to gape at my feet!"
"But you're here," he said in a dazed kind of way. "You're well
clothed. This cottage, though poor, shows a degree of comfort. You're
not penniless, then? Have--have you married--again?"
The woman started back from him at these words, and lifted her hand as
if to strike him.
"Douglas Graham," she said, "do not drive me too far!"
"But how have you been supported all these years? What have you done?"
"You know! You know!" she almost screamed.
"I know nothing," was his reply. "Where have you lived? Where do you
live now? Is this your home, or are you only staying here temporarily?"
He seemed to be trying, in a confused sort of way, to understand how
things stood. Evidently the shock of meeting her, after all the long
years, had wellnigh unbalanced his mind.
"But don't you know? You must know! No; it may be that you don't,"
and the woman laughed like one in glee. "Then I will tell you," she
said. "I am Paul Stepaside's mother, and Paul Stepaside is your son!"
The man gave a gasp as if for breath. His body swayed to and fro as
though he found it difficult to stand upright. Then a hoarse cry
escaped him:
"Paul Stepaside my son!"
"Ay, your son," replied the woman. "Yes, I have read what the man said
this morning. It was in the evening paper, so I know that you know all
about it. I had no name, so he was given the name of the hamlet where
I was lying when they found me, thinking I was dead. They took me to
the workhouse, where Paul was born, and because I refused to give them
my name they called him Stepaside. But he's your son, don't you see?
Your son! Your son!"
And the woman laughed harshly.
He seemed to be trying to understand the full meaning of her words.
"My son! My son!" he repeated again and again.
"Yes, your son! And he's accused of the murder of Ned Wilson, and you
are the judge who is trying his own son! Truly, the ways of the Lord
are as a deep sea. Yet he's a God of justice, too! I never believed
in it as I believe in it now."
"But tell me more," he said presently; and his voice was hoarse and
unnatural.
"What is there to tell?" replied the woman. "You deserted me, and Paul
was born--born in a workhouse, reared in a workhouse, educated in a
workhouse. He was called a 'workhouse brat' by the people. He lived
on the rates for years--your son! And I have only to speak and all the
world will know of it. Have you nothing to say for yourself?" And she
turned to him just as a caged lioness might turn to a keeper with whom
it was angry.
He stood with bowed head and never answered her a word. He seemed to
have forgotten everything in the thought that Paul Stepaside was his
son and he was accused of murder, and that he, his father, was his
judge.
"Have you nothing to say for yourself?" continued the woman. "Oh,
it'll be a beautiful story to tell to the world! I've been hearing
many things about you through the day. I'm told you speak at great
religious meetings, that you're a prominent religious leader, that you
advocate sending the Gospel to the heathen, that you're very particular
about attending to all religious observances. I've been reading what
you said about Paul being an atheist. You declared that men who had
given up faith in God were not to be trusted. When I tell my story,
won't the world laugh!"
He made no answer. He still stood perfectly motionless, with bowed
head. The woman's words did not seem to reach him.
"You know my Paul's story," she went on. "Therefore, I needn't repeat
it. He came to Brunford, and was falsely accused in this very city,
and you--because you were well paid and because I think your conscience
smote you and you felt an instinctive hatred towards him--you did your
best to get him a heavy punishment. Through you he was sent to
Strangeways Gaol for six months, he an innocent man! Then you fought
him at the election. You told all sorts of lies about him, and you
besmirched my name; he your son, and I your wife, the woman you
promised to love and cherish, and then deserted. Do you understand?
Do you understand?"
"Yes, I understand," he said; but still it did not seem like Judge
Bolitho's voice at all.
"But mind," and here her voice rose somewhat. "But mind, I'm your
wife. You married me. I'm your true lawful wife. You don't deny
that?"
"Jean," he said, "you don't know; you cannot know. But you'll forgive
me, won't you? I do not know myself, that is---- No, of course I
can't expect you to forgive me."
"Forgive you?" said the woman, and there was a world of scorn in her
tones. "Forgive you, when I've suffered twenty-five years of disgrace
because of you! Forgive you, when my son has been lying in gaol
because of you! Forgive you, when, but for you, he might be free now!
But there's a God in the heaven."
"And Paul Stepaside is my son, my son!"
The thought seemed to have a kind of fascination for him. He repeated
it over again and again, as though he took a certain pleasure in doing
so. He remembered all that had taken place, remembered that ever since
they had first met there had seemed to be a kind of fatality which
caused them to feel antagonism for each other. He remembered Paul's
words: "Mr. Bolitho and I will meet again, and always to fight, always
to fight!" And he was his son! He had never dreamed of this. Often
during the years which had elapsed since he last saw the girl he had
married, he had wondered what had become of her, but never once had he
dreamed of this. It seemed to him as though the foundations of his
life were taken away from him. His brain refused to act. His eyes
refused to see. A great blackness fell upon everything. He who was
usually so keen witted, so clear sighted, could not grasp the meaning
of all he had heard, could not understand the issues. He only knew
that he was enveloped in a great black cloud, and that he could not see
which way to turn or what to do.
"Oh, my God, forgive me!"
The woman turned to him as he uttered these words. "God forgive you!"
she cried. "How can God forgive you? I would cease to believe in Him
if He did. What, you! who basely deserted me; you! who married me
under a false name; you! who during the years have never taken a step
to try and find out what had become of me; you! who have hunted my son
as though you were a sleuthhound; you! who have dragged him to prison.
God forgive you! Tell me, why did you do it?"
There seemed no logical sequence between her last cry and the words
which had preceded it. She was a creature of passion, and seemed
incapable of thinking coherently.
"Let me sit down," he said presently. "I think perhaps if I do I may
be able to see more clearly. At present I hardly know where I am, and
my mind is almost a blank; but, my God, what a blank!"
The woman looked at him grimly. "Yes, you are suffering," she said.
"That's what I meant. No, I'm not going to do you any bodily harm. I
needn't do that. I needn't do anything to punish you except to tell
the truth!"
Judge Bolitho sat down in an arm-chair which, had been placed close to
the fire and tried to understand what he had heard. He had no doubt
about the truth of everything. It was impossible to fail to recognise
the woman who stood before him--the very incarnation of hatred and
vengeance. He knew by the look in her eyes of what she felt concerning
him. There was no suggestion of tenderness in her face, no thought of
pity in her heart. Well, it was no wonder. The secret which he had
hidden for so long could no longer remain a secret, and his name, the
name of which he had been so proud, would be blackened before all the
world! How long he sat in the chair, with bowed head and aching brain,
trying to understand, he did not know, but presently he was drawn to
look at her. He had no thought of denying what he had done. It had
never entered his mind. He had made no defence; that did not come
within the realm of his calculation. He was simply stunned by what he
had heard, by the revelation which had shaken his life to the very
foundations. But presently he was led to look at her, to study her
features, and as he did so he called to mind the face of the young girl
whose heart he had won a quarter of a century before. Yes, she was
beautiful still, even although her face was drawn and haggard and the
hair which he remembered so well was lustreless. It needed but
happiness to bring back all the winsomeness of her girlish
days--happiness! Yes, he had loved her, and he had promised to cherish
her. He knew he had taken her to wife as truly as if their marriage
had been attended by all the pomp and ceremony which might attend the
marriage of a king. She had come to him trustful and innocent, and
he--he---- No, he did not attempt to deny it; he would not. What the
future had in store for him he did not know, he did not care. But that
was not the great thing that oppressed him, that crushed his power of
thinking, that made the heavens black with the thunder of the clouds of
God. It was that Paul Stepaside was his son! He had always admired
him, even while he was angry with him; and he was his son! That very
day he had sat in judgment upon him--that very day even he had helped
to forge a chain which would bind him to the scaffold--and he was his
son! Presently he spoke aloud, and his voice was almost natural again.
"And so you have lived at Brunford," he said, "and kept house for him?
I've heard it is a beautiful home."
"Ay, my boy always loved me--always!"
"And, of course, you hate me, Jean?"
"How can I do otherwise?" she asked. "Nay, that word is too weak to
express what I feel towards you! How can it be otherwise?"
"I quite understand," said Judge Bolitho.
"Are you going to make no defence?" said the woman. "Are you going to
bring up some little tale to excuse yourself? Are you going to try and
manufacture a few lies?"
"No," he replied. "None of these things. I can't think to-night,
Jean. You must think my conduct very strange. I simply can't think!
It will be all real to me in a few hours. You know what these
Manchester fogs are, don't you? You know that sometimes you get lost
in them. You cannot recognise the street in which you were born and
reared. Everything is blotted out. Then presently, when the fog has
rolled away--everything becomes clear. Perhaps that is what it will be
with me by and by, but now I simply cannot think. I do not blame you
in the slightest degree. It's just that you should hate me! It's just
that I should suffer! Is there nothing more you wish to say to me?"
"Not now," said the woman.
"I do not ask you to forgive me; you cannot do that. It's not to be
expected."
"But what are you going to do?" she asked.
"I do not know. I cannot tell yet. When my mind gets clear I shall
understand. But I seem to be falling and falling and falling into a
bottomless abyss just now."
"You don't expect me to keep quiet?"
"I expect nothing."
"You do not ask me to be merciful to you?"
"I do not ask anything. I've no right to expect anything or to ask
anything. I think I will leave you now--that is, unless I can do
anything for you. You do not need money, do you?"
He did not know what he was saying. His bewildered brain was
expressing itself in an inconsequent sort of way. He was just a
creature of impulse, and that was all.
"Money!" snarled the woman. "Money! when my son is lying in a prison
cell waiting for the hangman!"
"Yes," he said, and his voice seemed as the voice of one far away. "In
a prison cell, my son! my son! It is right that I should suffer, but
surely he ought not to suffer!"
He rose to his feet and walked unsteadily towards the door.
"May I go now? You know where I am staying. If I can be of any
service to you, let me know."
"And that's all? You have nothing more to say?"
"What can there be more?" he said. "You can do what you will; I will
deny nothing."
"But what are you going to do?" she asked again.
"Do? What is there to do? I cannot tell; I am just in the dark, Jean,
but perhaps a light will come presently." And then, without another
word, he found his way along the narrow passage into the dark,
forbidding street.