FATHER AND SON
Daylight was now dying, although it was only a little after three
o'clock. The sky was murky and smoke-laden, the air was utterly still.
All round the centre of the city the people still discussed the events
of the morning. Outside the Town Hall, in the Square, outside the
Hospital, all down Market Street, along Corporation Street, the people
stood in excited groups; and although the intense feeling which had
been aroused in the morning had somewhat subsided, there was only one
subject which was of paramount interest. Strange as it may seem,
however, the district round Strangeways Gaol was comparatively
deserted. The Assize Courts were no longer the centre of interest,
even although they were the source from which everything emanated.
By this time Paul Stepaside had become almost in a state of torpor. He
was suffering a reaction from the intense feeling which had possessed
him that morning. When he had at first returned to his cell his mind
was intensely alive, and a thousand plans were flashing through his
brain, a thousand questions occurred to him which demanded an answer.
Now, however, that numb, dull feeling which ever follows such
experiences possessed him. After all, what mattered? Mary Bolitho
could never be his wife, and if Fate had decided upon his death, die he
must. Indeed, he did not seem to care very much. It seemed as if, for
the time being, his nature had become almost paralysed. Of course, the
experiences through which he was passing were only transitory.
Presently his strength would assert itself again, and everything would
become vivid and vital. And so he lay in a semi-comatose condition on
the comfortless couch which had been provided for him, and the
realities of the situation seemed far away. He had been lying thus for
perhaps an hour, and was on the point of falling asleep, when there
were footsteps in the corridor outside, and the door of his cell opened.
At first he felt almost annoyed at the intrusion. Why could they not
let him rest? After all, everything was hopeless, and he did not very
much care. Still, he turned his eyes towards the door, and when he saw
that it was Judge Bolitho who entered, he started to his feet. His
nerves grew tense again, and his mind active. The judge waited while
the door was closed, and then turned to Paul. The older man looked
around the little room like one trying to take in the situation, noted
the light of the dying day as it penetrated the prison window, let his
eyes rest upon the little couch where Paul had been lying, and made a
survey of the items of the room as though it were his business to care
for the prisoner's comfort.
Neither of them spoke for some seconds. Paul was silent because, in
spite of everything, there seemed an insurmountable barrier between him
and the man who had come to visit him; the judge, because he almost
feared the son whom he had come to see.
Presently their eyes fastened upon each other's faces, and each
scrutinised every feature as if trying to read the other's mind. It
was Paul who spoke first.
"Why have you come here?" he asked.
"Surely you can guess?" was the reply. "I could not stay away. There
was but one place to which I could go."
"You must know that I have nothing to say to you, even as you have
nothing to say to me."
"You are wrong," replied the judge. "I have a great deal to say to
you. How can it be otherwise? Have you no pity, my boy?"
Paul looked at him angrily. "Pity!" he replied, and there was a world
of scorn in his voice.
The judge stood with bowed head. "Yes, I understand," and he spoke
almost in a whisper. "I understand, and I deserve your scorn. I
deserve it a thousand times over. But do not think I have not
suffered, Paul."
Paul gave an impatient shrug and took two steps across his little cell.
"I am afraid I cannot give you a welcome befitting your lordship's
position," he said. "As you will see, my _ménage_ does not suggest
very great luxury, and I think my servants are in a state of
revolution. But will you not be seated?"
"You see," he went on, "when a man is being tried for murder, even
although the English law says that every man must be regarded as
innocent until he has been proved to be guilty, it does not provide any
luxuries!"
"Paul, my boy, do you not know? Do you not understand?" said the
judge. "Yes, I have been guilty of all those things of which you are
thinking. I deserve all the contempt and all the anger you feel for
me, but I come to you as a suppliant."
"For what?"
"For your forgiveness, your love. I am no longer your judge. If I
were I could not be here. That's over now. Another will take my
place. If I can do anything to atone, my boy, I will do it, if you
will let me know what it is. Do you not see? Do you not understand?"
There was a world of pleading in his voice, while in his tired eyes was
a look of yearning and longing that Paul could not understand.
"If you will tell me what you wish," said the younger man, "if you will
explain to me your desires, perhaps--although, as you see, I am so
curiously situated--I will do what I can to meet your wishes."
His voice was still hard, and there was no look in his eyes which
suggested yielding or pity.
"I deserve nothing from you," replied the judge. "How can I? And yet
I could not help coming. After all, you are my son!"
"How did you learn it?" asked Paul.
"Last night I went to see your mother," he replied. "She is staying at
a little house not far from here. I received a letter asking me to go
to a certain number in Dixon Street. It was couched in such language
that I could not refuse. I went there, and I saw your mother. I had
thought she was dead--at least, I had no reason to believe her alive.
There I learnt everything. Since then there's been only one thought in
my mind, only one longing in my heart----"
"And that?" said Paul.
"The one thought in my mind," said the judge, "has been that you are my
son; the one longing in my heart has been that you would forgive me and
love me. It took some time to shape itself, but there it is, and I
have come. I cannot put my feelings into words properly. Words seem
so poor, so inadequate! Can't you understand?"
The picture of his mother's face rose up before Paul's eyes as his
father spoke, and with it the remembrance of the long years of pain,
sorrow, and loneliness.
"Do you not understand?" asked the judge again.
"I understand my mother's sufferings," said Paul. "I understand how,
when she was a young girl, forsaken, disgraced, she suffered agonies
which cannot be put into words. I understand how she tramped all the
way from Scotland to Cornwall, the home of her mother's people. I
understand what she felt towards the man who betrayed her, especially
when her only child was born in a workhouse, a nameless pauper! I
understand that!"
The judge stood with bowed head. He might have been stunned by some
heavy blow. He rocked to and fro, and for a moment Paul thought he was
going to fall.
"Yes," he said presently, "I deserve it all. Even the circumstances
which I might plead do not extenuate me."
"What were they?" asked Paul.
For a moment he had become interested in the past. He wanted to know
what this man had to tell him, what excuses he had to make.
"You won my mother as Douglas Graham. Whence the change of name? I
suppose you masqueraded in Scotland as Douglas Graham because you did
not wish your true name to be known? You're a villain, and you thought
if you called yourself Bolitho that villainy could not be traced. I am
not one who quotes rag-tags of religious sentiment as a rule, but there
are two sayings which occur to my mind just now. One is, 'Be sure your
sin will find you out,' and another, 'Though the mills of God grind
slowly, yet they grind exceeding small.' It may be all nonsense in
most cases, but just for the moment it seems as though there were
something in it!"
"Paul," said the judge, "as I have said, I know I deserve nothing at
your hands save the scorn and contempt which you evidently feel for me,
but is there no means whatever of bridging over this awful gulf? I
would give my life to do so!"
"No," said Paul. "I am no theologian, and yet I cannot close my eyes
to the fact that sin and penalty go together--only, the injustice of it
is that the penalty not only falls on the head of the one who sins but
on the head of the innocent."
"Then you can never forgive me?" said the judge, and there was a world
of pleading in his voice.
"If your lordship will just think a moment," said Paul. "You have
asked me to try and understand you; will you try and understand me? I
am here in a prison cell, accused of murder. Possibly I shall be
hanged--although I mean to fight for my life," this he added grimly,
with set teeth and flashing eyes. "I am twenty-five years of age, and
it is not pleasant to think that one's life shall end in such a way!
Let me remind you of something, Mr. Justice Bolitho, and, in reminding
you of it, perhaps you will see that I have no reason to play the part
of the yielding and affectionate son. I was born in a workhouse. My
only name has been the name given to me because my mother was found
lying near a little hamlet called Stepaside. I was educated a pauper.
The parish paid the expenses of my learning a trade. When I was
seventeen my mother told me the story of her life, told me of my
father's villainy. What such a story would do for most men I don't
know, but this it did for me: it robbed me of everything most dear. It
killed in me all faith. It destroyed in me all belief in God and
Providence. When I went out into the world it seemed to me that the
only legacy I had was a legacy of hatred for the man who had robbed my
mother of her youth and of her honour, and me of my boyhood and of all
the things that make youth beautiful. I need not tell you my story
since. You know it too well. But, if I am hard and bitter, you have
made me what I am. Consciously or unconsciously, yours has been the
hand that has moulded me. Do you wonder, then, that I cannot respond
to this appeal for filial affection--that I cannot clasp my arms round
your neck like a hero in a fourth-rate melodrama? When you rob a man
of his faith in human nature and God, you rob him of everything, you
dry up the fountains of tenderness."
For a moment there was a silence between them, and then Paul went on:
"But where's my mother now? You say you saw her last night. What did
she tell you? What did you tell her? Do you know what has become of
her?"
"I scarcely know what I did tell her," replied the judge. "I was so
overwhelmed when she told me that you were my son that I was scarcely
capable of thinking. Besides, she seemed in no humour for asking
questions. She felt very bitterly towards me, naturally, and my mind
was numbed; I could not think."
"Perhaps you will tell _me_?" said Paul presently.
"I will tell you everything that you ask, my boy."
"Then tell me why you masqueraded in Scotland under a false name? Tell
me why you left my mother on the day you married her."
"Douglas Graham was my name," he replied. "I had no thought of
masquerading."
"Then why have you become Bolitho?" asked Paul. "My mother told me
that on the night of your wedding day you read a letter which had been
given to you which seemed to surprise you very much. Tell me the
meaning of it."
The judge gave no answer, and again he rocked to and fro in his misery.
"Paul, my son," he said. "I cannot!"
Again the two men looked at each other steadily. Paul's mind was
active again now.
"You know what your confession meant this morning," he said at length.
"You declared to the court that I was your son, your lawful son; that
my mother was your lawful wife. But what of Mary? Tell me that. You
know what I wrote to you concerning her. I asked you to allow me to
try and win her as my wife, not knowing of the relations which existed
between us--not knowing anything. You know, too, the cruel reply you
sent to me--a reply which contained an insult in every line, in every
word. But let that pass. If my mother is your lawful wife, what of
Mary's mother? Will you answer me that?"
Still the judge stood with bowed head. It seemed as though he had been
struck a death-blow. More than once he essayed to speak, but no words
passed his lips. It seemed an eternity to Paul before the judge spoke
again.
"At least I tried to do you justice, Paul," he stammered. "I tried to
do--that is, I tried to proclaim to the world that your mother was a
lawful wife."
"Yes," cried the young man, and his voice was hard with anger. "And do
you not see what it means? It means that Mary's name is tarnished.
For your sin and your punishment I do not care so much; but what of
her? Think of the stories which gossiping tongues will be telling
about her just now! Think of the sneering lies, the scornful gibes
which will be uttered about her! My disgrace did not matter so much; I
had become used to it. But what of her?"
"Stop, stop, Paul! In pity stop! Great God! Yes, it's true; but I
did not realise this."
"Then the name of Bolitho is assumed," said Paul. "It is not your true
name at all. Will you tell me the meaning of this?"
"I cannot," said the judge. "I know what you must be thinking, Paul,
but I cannot do it."
"Then," cried the young man angrily, "it was cruel to her to make the
confession you did this morning. I would a thousand times rather
suffer myself--ay, and see my mother suffer, too--than see her suffer.
And this is what you've done. Had you not better go away and leave me
alone? Had you not better recant what you said this morning, and say
you spoke while your mind was unhinged?"
"Paul," said the judge, "will you let me sit down on your couch here?
I realise the truth of every word you have said, although you have
spoken cruelly. Perhaps I did wrong in coming to you; but I could not
help it. Believe me, my son, much as you have suffered, it is nothing
to what I suffer at this moment."
There was no whine in his voice, no appeal to pity. It was a simple
statement of fact, and for the first time Paul had a feeling in his
heart which he could not understand. After all, the man before him was
his father, and his haggard face, his bent form, his bloodshot eyes,
all told of the agony through which he was passing.
"Son," said the judge, "some time, at all events, I hope I may be able
to make known the things which you have asked, but I cannot trust
myself to try and do so now. Will you let me be quiet for a few
minutes, my boy? I want to think. And will you try and forget this
part of the story?"
The judge sat down on the couch, while Paul, leaning against the prison
wall, watched him. Minute after minute passed away, and then the judge
spoke again.
"Paul," he said. "Are you guilty of this murder?"
"I would rather not discuss it with you," said Paul.
"My son," said the judge, "you do not believe what I have told you. To
you my words are a mockery. But I love you like my own life. Even
now, if I could die in your place I would be glad. At any rate I may
be able to help you. Mary doesn't believe you are guilty. She told me
so last night. I can speak freely of this now, for I am no longer the
one who shall sit in judgment on you, and I want to help you."
Paul looked at his father and wondered what was passing in his mind;
wondered, too, how much he knew. He could not tell him of his
suspicions, could not even hint at the fact that he believed his mother
was guilty of the murder for which he was accused. He knew of Judge
Bolitho's reputation; knew, too, that he would eagerly fasten upon
everything he learnt and follow it to its logical sequence.
In spite of everything, however, a change seemed to be coming over
their relationship. The feeling of half an hour before had somewhat
passed away. The sensations caused by their first meeting had become
less powerful.
"Whatever else I can do, Paul," said the judge, "I want to help you in
this. Can't you trust me?"
Paul was silent. He was afraid to answer directly, afraid lest the
haunting fear in his heart would become known. Then, in a way he could
not understand, he found himself talking with his father more freely,
found himself telling something of his life in Brunford, until by and
by he realised that he had been subjected to a close examination. It
seemed to him as though it had become a battle of wits between him and
his father; and although he was angry with himself afterwards, he knew
he had disclosed many things which he had sworn should never pass his
lips. Still, he had said nothing definite. He had never even hinted
at the possibility of his mother's guilt.
"If you could only trust me!" said the judge at length. "If you would
tell me exactly what happened, I might even yet be able to save you."
"Do you not believe me guilty, then?" said Paul.
"Mary does not," replied the judge.
"I know that," was Paul's answer. "And for her sake I mean to fight
for my own life."
"Even although you did this thing?"
"Even _if_ I did it!"
"But have you any evidence to add that shall tell in your
favour--anything that will destroy the impression which has been made?"
"Do you believe they will hang me if I don't?"
"I mean to say, as far as circumstantial evidence is concerned, the
case is terribly black against you, and the jury must act upon evidence
given. And, oh, Paul, Paul! Can't you realise? Can't you understand
what I feel? If I must tell the truth, one of the reasons I decided to
say what I did this morning in the court was that I might be free to
try and save your life. Will you not tell me what is in your mind?"
Paul shook his head. "You have wormed a great many things out of me,"
he said, "which I did not mean to tell; still, I think I have been a
match for you."
"Don't you realise, Paul, what your life is to me? Can't you
understand what the knowledge that you are my son means to me? Don't
you believe that I would give everything I possess, everything I am, to
bring you happiness? Oh! I know what you feel, and I do not wonder at
it. I know, too, what you must be thinking about me now, and I cannot
help myself. But, Paul, if there's a possibility, let me save you.
Tell me the truth--the whole truth!"
"You would not thank me for doing so," replied Paul grimly.
For a little while there was another silence between them, then the
judge seemed to change his tactics.
"I think you do wrongly, my son, not to employ counsel. I do not doubt
that your brains are quite as good as anyone's you might engage to
defend you; but you cannot understand the methods of cross-examination
as a trained barrister can. You do not know the hundred weapons he can
use in your defence."
"I think I know," replied Paul.
Both of them had become calm by this time, and each talked in an almost
unrestrained manner. The judge was no longer almost overwhelmed by
that through which he had been passing, and Paul had seemingly, to a
very large extent, forgotten the bitterness which he had felt at the
beginning of their interview.
"May I come to see you again?" asked Judge Bolitho.
"To what end?" asked Paul.
"Because I love you, my son. Because I long to be near you. Because I
want to win your love; to hear you say you forgive me. I have sinned
against you; but, believe me, I have done all in my power to atone. I
must go now, but I shall be thinking for you, hoping for you, working
for you, praying for you."
There was something so humble and so sincere in the tones of his voice
that, in spite of the past, Paul could not longer repel him.
"Won't you shake hands?" he said. "Won't you tell me that you will try
to forgive me?--only _try_, Paul!"
But Paul stood as still as a statue. He felt himself yielding to his
father's pleadings, and he was angry with himself because of it. And
yet he could not destroy the tender feelings which were coming into his
heart.
"Will nothing move you, my son--nothing?"
Still Paul did not reply. He was afraid to speak. He felt as though,
if he uttered a word, it would end in a sob. They had been together
more than an hour, and in the near distance a clock began to chime.
"I must go now," said the judge. "But I shall come again. I shall
never cease coming until I have won your love. Paul, I cannot live
without it now! Look into my eyes, my son; can you not see? Can you
not understand?"
In spite of himself Paul did as his father had told him, and realised
how the proud man was humbling himself. He saw the lines of pain upon
his face, saw, too, the look of infinite yearning and tenderness in his
eyes; and he felt that his own were filled with tears. But still he
hardened himself and made no sign.
The judge threw his arms round Paul's neck.
"Paul, my son, my son! Forgive me!" he said, "and love me!"
And Paul did not repulse him, even although he did not yield to his
father's entreaties.
There was a sound of footsteps in the corridor, the noise of the key
turning in the lock. A minute later Judge Bolitho had left the cell;
and then Paul threw himself on the couch, while his frame shook with
mighty sobs.
Judge Bolitho left Strangeways Gaol without speaking a word. In spite
of everything he felt his visit had not been in vain. There was a joy
in his heart for which he could not account.
"Some day he will know," he said to himself. "Some day he will know,
if he lives! And I must save him. I do not believe he is guilty--he
cannot be. He is hiding something from me. He is shielding someone.
I must find out."
It was quite dark by now, and it was some time before he found a cab.
A little later, however, he was back in his hotel again. It seemed to
him as though his powers of action were coming back. He was no longer
bewildered and overwhelmed as he had been.
"Is Miss Bolitho here?" he said to a servant who answered his call.
"No, my lord. She left this morning."
"Left this morning?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Did she leave no message?"
"No, my lord."
He remembered what she had said, and began to realise.
"All right," he said. "Will you bring me a cup of tea?"
A few minutes later he was in the street again. This time he used no
conveyance, but walked rapidly towards Deansgate. Ere long he found
himself in the region where he had been on the previous night, and,
finding his way into Dixon Street, he went to the house where Paul's
mother had met him. When he knocked at the door, however, it was
answered by a stranger.
"Is Mrs. Stepaside in?"
"No; she left here to-day."
"She's coming back again, I suppose?"
"No; I do not think so."
"Did she say where she was going?"
"I think she has gone back to Brunford, but I cannot tell."
"She left no message concerning her intentions?"
"No, she left nowt."
He was about to turn away when evidently a thought struck him suddenly.
"Had she any visitors to-day?" he asked. "Has a young lady been to see
her?"
"Ay; a young woman came this morning about ten o'clock."
"Did you know her?"
"Nay, she was not from these parts. She was dressed i' furs and all
that sort of thing."
"I see," said the judge. "Thank you very much."
He returned to the hotel, and began studying a timetable.
"Yes, I think I understand," he said to himself.