PAUL'S MOTHER AND MARY
When Mary Bolitho left her father on the night following the first day
of the trial, she was naturally much excited. She could not understand
the great change which had come over him. Never before had she known
him to be so much moved by any case with which he had to do. She
wondered why it was, and in the solitude of her room began to think of
reasons. Had he learnt something about Paul of which she was ignorant?
Had he discovered the real murderer? She had sat throughout the day's
trial, and no word had fallen, no argument of whatever sort had been
urged, that in the slightest degree shook her faith in the man she
loved.
She quickly dismissed this from her mind, however. Whatever her
father's conduct might mean, she saw no sign that he believed in Paul's
innocence. Still, her conversation with him caused all sorts of
fancies to flash through her brain, and, sitting down before her fire,
she, for the thousandth time, tried to think of means whereby she could
save him.
"I must save him; I must!" she said to herself. "Paul knows of
something which he refuses to tell me. He is shielding someone."
Naturally she knew nothing of what her father had learnt that night,
had no suspicion of the revelations which, when they became known to
her, would destroy the thousand fancies which she had cherished and
revolutionise her life. The one dominant thought in her mind was that
the man whom, in spite of herself, she had learnt to love, was charged
with murder, and that unless something was done to nullify the evidence
which had been brought to court that day he would have to pay the
penalty with his life. Paul, for some reason unknown to her, would not
use the means she was sure he had in his power in order to save his
life. Of course it was pure surmise on her part, but she was perfectly
certain of it; and what he would not do she must do.
Throughout the evening she had been reading the Brunford papers, in
which the whole story had been described. Paul's first appearance
before the magistrates; the coroner's inquest; and, again, the second
appearance before the local justices; and his final committal. No
detail of these reports had escaped her notice, and now, after her talk
with her father, she again set herself to consider the whole question,
determined, at whatever hazards, to save her lover.
Finally her mind fastened upon two or three thoughts, and these
thoughts became the centre around which everything revolved. To begin
with, Ned Wilson was murdered. Next, Paul Stepaside, who was being
tried for that murder, was guiltless of it; that also was a settled
conviction in her mind. Who, then, was guilty? Someone must have done
the deed, but who? In whatever light murder could be considered, it
was something ghastly beyond words. The person who had driven Paul's
knife into the murdered man's heart must have had a terrible motive.
What could that motive have been? Who would be likely to do it? Who
had a motive sufficiently strong to commit such a crime? She thought
of one person after another, realising all the time that her imaginings
were vain. Yet she knew that it was in this direction that the truth,
if it were to be discovered, must be found.
She went over the whole story of the knife, and remembered the deadly
words which the counsel for the prosecution had uttered about it. The
knife was known to belong to Paul. It was lying in his office, an
office which he always locked when he left it. She remembered that
Paul's partner had sworn that he knew of no one who would be likely to,
or, indeed, could, enter the office and take it away without Paul's
knowledge and consent. And yet someone must have done so, for she was
still certain that Paul had never done the deed.
Presently she began to think of the question from another standpoint.
She had told Paul that he was trying to shield someone. She did not
attach much importance to it at the time, but now its consequence
became very real. If her surmise were true, then Paul would rather
suffer death himself than tell what he knew. She had pleaded with him,
only as a woman moved by a great love could plead. With her arms round
his neck and her eyes fastened on his she had besought him to tell the
truth, and he had been silent. Only the strongest of all reasons could
have kept him silent.
Her heart gave a great leap. With that swift intuition of which only a
woman is capable her mind leapt to its conclusion. There was only one
person in the world besides herself whom Paul loved dearly, and that
was his mother.
Like lightning she began to connect the evidence, and it seemed to her
that at last she had found the key to unlock the mystery. It was for
his mother's sake that Paul was bearing the shame and was suffering the
torments of a man accused of murder. She felt sure she had found the
truth, and she was at last in a position to save his life. Everything
fitted in with the thought which had so suddenly flashed into her mind.
Who would have free access to Paul's office? His mother. Why should
he refuse to engage a counsel to defend him? Because he feared to
incriminate his mother. Again she read the evidence at the coroner's
inquest, and noted each point. And she saw, or thought she saw,
evidence in every word he had uttered of his endeavour to keep all
thoughts from being directed to her.
Presently, however, difficulties began to appear before her mind. What
motive could she have had to do this deed? Again her mind worked
swiftly. She was, according to all she had heard of her, a passionate
woman. She loved Paul with all the strength of her being. For him she
had toiled. For him she had suffered. And it was the gossip of the
town that Paul's mother loved her son with a wild and almost
unreasoning love. She knew of Ned Wilson's enmity towards Paul, knew
how he had persecuted him through the years. Possibly, probably, she
knew of her son's love for herself, Mary Bolitho; knew, too, that
gossip had connected her own name with that of Ned Wilson. Of course,
a great deal of it was surmise, but everything pointed to the one fact.
Besides, Paul, on his return home after his quarrel with Wilson, would
probably tell her about it. He would not be able to hide his wounded
forehead. The blood would be trickling down his face, and she would
ask him questions about it. Would not a vindictive, passionate woman
such as she was said to be, seek to avenge her son? And, of course,
Paul would discover everything. The evidence of the servants had
proved that Paul had left the house during the night. Why? Yes, that
was it. Of course, he would do everything to keep even a shadow of
suspicion from resting upon her. It would be like him to do so.
Paul's mother had come back, and he had discovered what she had done.
That would explain the mystery of the knife. Paul, even though he
might have so far yielded to the spirit of revenge as to kill his
enemy, would never leave a knife in his victim's body known to be his,
and which could be identified and traced to him. But a woman was
different, especially such a woman as Paul's mother. Of course, there
were motives which she could not understand, thoughts in her mind which
were yet hidden from her; but this was the key, this would unlock the
door of the mystery, and this would save her lover's life. No, no;
much as Paul might love his mother, much as he owed to her, she could
not allow him to suffer death in his mother's stead. It was too
horrible.
She called to mind the scene she had witnessed that morning. She
remembered being startled by the face of the woman who found her way
into the court. She had seen the look of madness in her eyes as she
looked first at Paul and then at her father. After which she uttered
the scream of a maniac and then fell to the ground.
Another thought struck her. Was Paul's mother sane? Would not this
account for the difficulties which, in spite of everything, she could
not explain away? If she were mad, and carried away by the passion
which had been aroused by Wilson's attack on her son, would she not,
regardless of consequences, commit this deed of which Paul was accused?
Again and again she considered the circumstances, pondered over each
fact, weighed every scrap of evidence which had been adduced; and the
more she thought about it the more she was convinced that she had
arrived at the truth. By and by, however, the terror of the whole
tragic scene came home to her. What would Paul think of her if she
were instrumental in bringing his mother to the gallows? Even his love
could not bear that test. But she would do it. Rather than see Paul
die a thousand should die; for while a woman's love is the most
beautiful and the most holy thing on earth, it is also the most
merciless and the most pitiless. And at that moment no pity for others
entered the heart of Mary Bolitho. Her one thought was of Paul.
No thought of sleep was possible. Every faculty was awake, every nerve
in tension. During the years in which she had been interested in her
father's work she had, out of pure curiosity, and because of her love
of intellectual problems, studied the cases with which he had been
connected, and her knowledge of the intricacies of the law and of the
value of evidence came to her aid now. All she had was laid at Paul's
feet. It was for him she must think, for him she must work.
But she must do something. She must test her theories. Surmises,
however true they might be, would not save the man she loved; and save
him she would, at whatever cost.
Her mind was made up at length. She saw her course of action, and she
believed, too, that she saw a way whereby the truth might be
demonstrated.
"Paul, Paul, my love!" she cried. "Do not fear. I will save you, in
spite of everything."
She threw herself beside her bed and prayed for wisdom, prayed for
strength. She cared nothing for the sacrifices she might be called
upon to make, or the sufferings which she might have to endure. She
only asked God to help her to save the man she loved.
The following morning Mary Bolitho left the hotel and found her way to
the assize courts. Early as it was, she found some of the officials
present. One of them, who had seen her the day before and had been
informed who she was, touched his hat respectfully.
"I've been wondering," said Mary, smiling at the man, "whether you
could help me?"
"I'm sure I will if I can, miss," he replied.
"You were here at the courts all day yesterday?" she asked.
"Yes, miss, I was, and a sad business it was too, wasn't it? Ah, miss,
it's not all fun being a judge, as I've no doubt you know very well. I
was saying to my missis only last night as 'ow I wouldn't like to be in
your father's place. T'other day, afore th' assizes were opened, and
people saw his lordship coming into the city, they thought what a grand
thing it were, but they don't realise what he's got to do."
The man was of a friendly, garrulous disposition, and seemed pleased at
the opportunity of talking to his fair visitor.
"Are you interested in this case?" she asked.
"Ay, miss, who isn't? I heard Mr. Stepaside speak in the Free Trade
Hall here once, and I cannot believe he is a murderer. It were a grand
speech he gave. There were a Cabinet Minister who spoke before he did,
and people thought he were doing grandly, but when young Stepaside got
up he took the wind out of his sails completely. As the manner of
saying is, he made the people stand on their heads. It's noan for the
likes of me to pass opinions, but I can never believe as 'ow Mr.
Stepaside is guilty."
"Did you notice the woman who came into the court yesterday morning?"
"What, the one as fainted? Ay, but that were Mr. Stepaside's mother.
She fair made me shiver. Well, it was no wonder. Fancy a mother
seeing her son in the dock. I heerd as 'ow she was going to be called
to give evidence."
"Is she staying here in Manchester, do you know?"
"Ay, she is. I hear as 'ow she's been here a week, waiting for her
son's trial to begin. I know where she's staying, too--25 Dixon
Street, just off Strangeways. An old man and an old woman live there,
and th' old man is very deaf. I hear she's practically got the house
to hersen."
This was what Mary had come to find out, and she was glad that she had
been able to obtain her information without ostensibly asking for it.
A little later she found her way towards Dixon Street, and with a
trembling hand knocked at the door of the house which had been
mentioned. As she heard footsteps in the passage her heart almost
failed her, for she realised the object which she had in mind, and she
believed that she would soon be face to face with the murderer of Ned
Wilson. Still, she was not to be shaken in her purpose, as she had
determined the night before, no matter who might suffer, Paul must not
suffer. A pale, near-sighted old woman opened the door to her.
"Is Mrs. Stepaside in?" asked Mary.
"Ay, she is."
"I would like to see her, if I may."
"Who might you be?"
"If you will take me to her I will tell her who I am."
The woman looked at her suspiciously.
"Has it got anything to do with the murder?" she said; and then added:
"Nay, the likes of you can have nowt to do with that!"
"Will you please take me to her?" said Mary.
"I don't know. She's noan so well this morning. Last night I left her
i' th' house alone. Me and my old man went over to Crumpsall to see
our lass. She said as 'ow she didn't mind being left alone, and so we
were away several hours. But I was sorry afterwards that we went, for
she was in a fair way when we come back. She looked just like a
corpse. You see, she's brooding over her son. Ay, but it's a terrible
business!"
"Will you please tell her a young lady wishes to see her?" urged Mary.
"She's in the little room behind, having her breakfast," said the
woman. "Ay, I s'pose I may as well."
She led the way and Mary followed her, and a minute later entered the
room where Paul's mother was.
"Here's a young woman come to see you."
Paul's mother rose as the woman spoke, and looked at Mary intently.
"I've something to say to you," said Mary, "something very important."
"What is it about?"
"I'll tell you when we are alone," was Mary's reply. And then, at a
nod from Paul's mother, the owner of the cottage left them together.
For a few seconds there was a silence between them, as each looked
steadily at each other. In Mary's eyes were wonder and a sense of
horror. She was speaking to Paul's mother, the mother of the man to
whom she had given her heart. She was speaking, too, to the woman whom
she believed guilty of the crime for which Paul would be again tried
that day. The other met her gaze steadily, and looked at her
searchingly. She seemed to be trying to read her thoughts, trying to
understand her heart, for she knew, as if by instinct, who Mary
was--knew that she was looking at the maid whom Paul loved. She did
not know that Mary had been to see her son, knew nothing of what had
passed between them, knew nothing of what Mary had confessed. For the
moment she seemed to think of her only as the girl to whom Paul had
given his heart.
"Do you know who I am?" asked Mary.
"Yes, I know. Why have you come here?"
The girl was silent. She could not answer the question. Determined to
save Paul as she was, she could not, at such a moment, make the reply
which she longed to make.
"Has your father told you anything?"
"Told me anything? I do not understand."
"Ah!" replied the older woman, and she knew that Mary knew nothing of
what had taken place between her and Judge Bolitho in that very room
the night before.
"Let me look at you," she said presently. "Come here to the light,"
and taking hold of Mary's arm, she led her to the window, and
scrutinised her face slowly.
"You're the lass that my Paul loves," she said, after some seconds.
"You know he loves you, don't you? Of course you do. He told me about
it himself. Oh, my laddie, my laddie!"
Mary did not speak. She seemed to be fascinated by something in the
woman's eyes, while the tones of her voice thrilled her. She felt now
how she loved her son, realised how deep was the passion which filled
her whole being.
"He's in prison, accused of murder--you know that? He's to be tried
again to-day."
Still Mary was silent. There seemed nothing for her to say.
"You love my lad, don't you? Ay, I see you do. Trust a mother to
know. Yes, you love him, and he would die for you, willingly. Do you
know that?"
"Yes," said Mary.
The interview was turning out altogether differently from what she had
expected. This woman was leading her into paths she had not dreamt of.
"I'm his mother," went on the older woman, "and he's everything to me,
everything! And I would stop at nothing to make him happy. I'd lay
down my life, willingly, to bring joy into his heart. But do you
understand? Do you know the truth?"
"What truth?" asked Mary. "I do not quite understand you. Do I
believe Paul guilty? No, I don't. He could never do such a thing.
He's too great, too noble."
"Do you say that? You?"
"Yes," replied Mary. "I am sure he never did such a thing. He's
simply incapable of it. You know it, too, don't you? Of course you
do."
"Then you take no notice of the evidence?"
"What's evidence?" asked the girl. "The one thing I'm sure of is that
Paul never did what he is accused of. He simply couldn't."
"And you're _his_ child!" said Paul's mother. "_His_ child. Let me
look at you again." She scrutinised Mary's face feature by feature.
She seemed to be looking for something.
"You're a good lass," she said presently. "And you love Paul, don't
you?"
"Yes," replied the girl, "I do." There seemed nothing incongruous in
the confession, nothing strange in making it to the woman to whom she
was speaking for the first time. And yet the interview was
bewildering. Her thoughts, as she found her way along the grimy
street, were clear enough. Now they were being scattered to the winds.
Neither could she adhere to her resolution. How could she accuse this
woman of such a terrible deed?
"What have you come here for?" asked Paul's mother presently.
"Need you ask?" asked Mary. "I've come to you because we must save
Paul."
"Do you think Paul needs our help?" asked the other. "When the time
comes Paul will clear himself. You do not know what a clever lad he
is. I know what is being said about him. I read it all in the papers,
but I don't fear. Paul is cleverer than all of them put together, and,
of course, he never did it; he'll surely come triumphant out of this.
Oh, I know it's terrible for him; but it's not that that makes me fear,
it's something else!"
Again Mary's eyes met those of the other, and she was sure she detected
a look of madness. The woman's mind was unhinged. She was not
altogether responsible for what she was saying.
"No, it's not that," continued Paul's mother. "It's not that. Paul is
so clever that he will beat them all."
"Not unless the real murderer confesses," replied Mary. "You see, I
know what Law Courts are, and what juries are, and I've read every word
of the evidence, and unless the real murderer is found, I am
afraid--terribly afraid!"
"You mean that they will hang him?"
Mary was silent. She felt she could not utter the words that hung upon
her lips.
"That's why I've come to you," said Mary. For the moment she felt like
uttering the thoughts which had been haunting her throughout the night,
but it seemed as though something sealed her lips.
"Will you not help me?" she said. "We must work together."
For a moment Mary had made the other feel what she felt herself--that
Paul's life was really in danger--but only for a moment.
"No, no," she cried. "They'll never hang him when they know what I
know!"
"What do you know? Tell me," cried Mary, feeling that she was nearing
the object after which she strove.
"Yes, you must know. The truth must come out. After last night it
cannot be hidden long."
"My father, as you know, is the judge," said Mary. "And he must do his
duty. It's not he who's responsible; it is the jury, you know."
There was something unreal in her words, and they seemed to pass her
lips without any effort on her own part. Paul's mother almost laughed.
"Why is it I feel so tender towards you?" she said, "when you are his
child? I expect it is because I know that Paul loves you and that you
love him. I ought to hate you. I can't understand why I don't. And
then everything is so tangled too."
Mary was sure now that she was talking to a mad woman. Her words were
meaningless. They were simply the ravings of a disordered mind.
"Can a man condemn his own son to death?" continued the older woman.
"Now that he knows the truth, can he send him to be hanged?"
Mary began to be afraid. The woman's wild, unreasoning words and the
strange look in her eyes almost frightened her.
"I do not think you realise what you are saying."
"Not realise?" was the reply. "Oh, my lass, my lass! Yes, I see you
think I'm mad. It would be no wonder if I were. I've gone through
enough to unhinge any woman's mind; but, no, I am not mad. Yes, I may
as well tell you, for you must know sooner or later, that judge--Judge
Bolitho as you call him--your father, is Paul's father too, and my
husband. Paul has told you about it, hasn't he? He married me when I
was a girl up among the Scotch hills, and he's Paul's father, and he's
your father too. Don't you see?"
For a moment Mary was almost stunned. In spite of the wild words which
she heard, she could not help being convinced of their truth. Her mind
fled to the interview she had had with her father on the previous
night, and what the woman had said seemed to explain the terror in his
eyes and the mystery of his words.
"My father, Paul's father!"
"Yes; he courted me as Douglas Graham. How he changed his name I don't
know yet; that will come, I suppose. He is my husband and Paul's
father. I told him so last night, so he knows--knows everything. Why
didn't he tell you? But--don't you see?--he cannot condemn Paul to
death. How can a father condemn his own son?"
The two stood close by the window, and Paul's mother still had her hand
upon Mary Bolitho's shoulder, and was looking into her face. Mary felt
the hand tremble, and saw the strong woman reel to and fro.
"You are ill, Mrs. Stepaside," cried Mary; and then, scarcely knowing
what she was doing, she led her to a chair.
"My lass," said the woman, "take me home. Take me to the home Paul
gave me. I cannot think here. I cannot stay any longer. Will you?"
"You mean that you wish me to go to Brunford with you?" asked Mary.
"Ay, if you will, my lassie. I think I am going to be ill. I feel as
though I have borne all I am able to bear, and I want to get home--to
the home which Paul gave me. Will you come with me?"
Mary was almost overwhelmed by what she had heard during the last few
minutes. She was not sure that the woman's story was true, and yet she
felt it might be, that it probably was. She wanted to be alone to
think. If her father were Paul's father, then, then----
The thought was staggering, overwhelming, but above and beyond
everything, Paul's safety, Paul's salvation was her great and paramount
thought. She quickly made up her mind what to do. She could do no
good in Manchester, and if she accompanied this woman to Brunford she
might be able to find proofs to confirm her convictions.
"Yes; I will go with you," she said.
"Thank you, my lassie. Ay, but you're a good child, and you're bonnie,
too. No wonder my Paul loves you better than he loves his mother!"
"Are you sure you are well enough to travel?" asked Mary.
"Yes, I am sure I'm well enough to get home."
"Then excuse me for a little while," said Mary. "I will go back to the
hotel and pack a few things, and come for you with a cab. In half an
hour I will be here. Can you get ready in that time?"
"Ay, I'll be ready; you need not fear."
A few minutes later Mary was back at the hotel again. When she arrived
there she found that her father had gone. It was still early for the
assize courts, but she paid no attention to it. There was doubtless
sufficient reason for her father's early departure. Perhaps,
perhaps---- But she could not formulate the thoughts which one after
another flashed through her mind. Seizing a piece of paper, she
scribbled a hasty note and gave it to the hall porter.
"This is for Judge Bolitho," she said, and then, entering the cab which
waited for her, she drove quickly to Dixon Street. Arriving there she
found Paul's mother was ready for her, and ere long they were in the
train bound for Brunford.
During the journey scarcely a word passed between them. Mary was busy
with her own thoughts. She was trying to bring some order out of the
confusion of the events which had been narrated to her. Everything was
altered. If what the woman had told her was true--and in spite of
everything she believed it was--then Paul was her half-brother; and if
Paul were her half-brother and his mother were still alive, then,
then----
But she would not trouble about this, bewildering as it was. What
mattered her own future? What mattered what the world might say? Her
first business was to save Paul, and save him she would, at all
hazards. She looked at her companion, who sat near to her staring into
vacancy. Mary's excited imagination began to conjure up wild fancies
as she looked. She thought of what Paul's mother must have been
twenty-five years before, tried to picture her as a girl. Yes, she
must have been very beautiful, and might easily have attracted such a
young man as her father was at the time. She fancied the two up among
the bare Scottish hills, saw the flash of the young girl's eyes when
the stranger told her he loved her, realised the throbbing of her
heart, the joy, the wonder which must have possessed her when she
promised to be his wife. For the moment all the grim realities of the
present seemed to retire to the background. She lived in the world of
fancy, of imagination, and the poetry and the romance of the past
became very beautiful to her. Strange to say, her own part in the
affair did not for the moment trouble her. The terrible logic of
events were not yet real to her. By and by they would appear to her in
all their ghastly nakedness, but now they did not seem to matter.
"If I am going to be ill," said Paul's mother, "you'll stay with me,
won't you?"
"Yes," she replied, not realising what the words might mean.
"You see I shall be all alone. I have no friends in Brunford. Many
would have liked to be friends with me for Paul's sake, but I kept them
all at a distance. You see I waited until my name was cleared, and it
will soon be cleared now."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, he knows, he knows everything--I mean your father. He's afraid
of Paul, I know he is; he always has been. It's strange that Paul is
not anything like him, isn't it? Paul has black hair and black eyes,
just as I have. He's my boy, my boy! Thank God for that! And they
can't harm him, can they? You are sure of that."
Mary was silent. The meaning of the work she had to do became real to
her now. She, too, believed that no harm could come to Paul, but she
realised the cost of his salvation. Paul could never be saved until
the true murderer was found and proved to be the murderer.
"I am afraid I am going to be ill," went on the older woman. "These
last few weeks have been too much for me. And you've promised to stay
with me, haven't you?"
"Yes," replied Mary eagerly. "I'll stay with you, and you must tell me
everything."
"Everything? What do you mean?"
"Oh, everything," replied Mary, and into her heart came the
determination to wring the confession from her at whatever cost.
Presently the smoky chimneys of Brunford appeared, and Mary looked out
of the carriage window over the great, ugly town; but somehow it did
not seem ugly to her--the grey sky, the long rows of cottages, the
hundreds of chimneys belching out half-consumed coals did not repel
her. This was Paul's town. He was member of Parliament for it. It
was here he had made his position. It was here, too, she had first
seen him, and here he had learnt to love her.
"You've never seen the home Paul has given me?" she heard her companion
say. "It is the prettiest home in Brunford. Paul did it all for me.
You won't think you're in Brunford when you get there. It's quiet and
clean up there. The birds sing in the springtime, and the smoke
doesn't blow that way as a rule. I never saw another house like it.
Oh! I would gladly die there. All I want now is to see my Paul happy.
As for the other man----"
She ceased speaking here, and Mary noted the angry flash of her eyes,
watched the quivering lips, and wondered of what she was thinking.
"There will be no servants in the house," went on Paul's mother
presently. "They are in Manchester. They have been summoned for
witnesses. But I told Mrs. Bradshaw to keep everything bright and
clean, as I might come home any minute. I thought that before now Paul
and I would be back together, and so she'll be expecting us. You're
not hungry, are you?"
"No," said Mary.
"I expect he'll be acquitted to-day," she went on. "That man can't sit
in judgment on him any longer now, and the people will be glad. Won't
there be shouting when my Paul comes home?"
When they arrived at Brunford station, Mary noted how the porters
looked curiously at them and spoke one to another in whispers. She
knew that before an hour was over the whole town would be talking about
them. They would be wondering why she, the judge's daughter, should
accompany the mother of the man who was accused of murder. But she did
not trouble about it. She called a cab, and a few minutes later they
were on their way to Paul's home.
Mary began to get excited. Once in Paul's house she would be able to
examine everything, and would perhaps discover things that would lead
the woman by her side to make her confession. She felt sure that she
was on the track of discovery, felt convinced that before long the
truth would come to light.
When they arrived at the house Mary found the door standing open, and a
motherly-looking woman waiting to receive them.
"I've done as yo' told me, Mrs. Stepaside," said Mrs. Bradshaw the
woman. "There's a fire in the kitchen range, and another in the study,
and everything is clean and nice."
"Mrs. Stepaside is not very well," said Mary quietly. "I've come with
her from Manchester. But she will be all right with me."
"And who might yo' be?" asked Mrs. Bradshaw suspiciously.
"I'm Mrs. Stepaside's friend," she replied. "Will you lead the way to
the room where the fire is?"
A few minutes later they were in the house alone. Mrs. Bradshaw had
brought a cup of tea, and then, saying she'd be back again presently,
had left them.
"Somehow I don't feel a bit lonely now you're here. Why is it, I
wonder?" and the older woman looked into Mary's face curiously.
"I'm glad you're not lonely," said Mary. "Are you well enough to talk?"
"Ay, I'm feeling ever so much better. I wonder why it is?"
"Did you sleep last night?" asked Mary.
"Nay, I couldn't sleep. Was it any wonder? You see we met after all
those long years, and I told him the truth. Ay; but he's
suffering--he's suffering! And it's right he should, too. Ay, and I'm
suffering, too, my lassie. I feel strange. I think I'll go to bed if
you'll help me."
As Mary helped her upstairs she felt like one in a dream. Everything
was intangible, unreal. What was she doing in this house? What right
had she to be waiting on this woman so carefully and tenderly, when she
was guilty of the awful deed which threatened to bring Paul to the
gallows? But she spoke no word.
A little later they were in the bedroom together, and Mary was
ministering to her with almost tender solicitude.
"Sit by me while I sleep, won't you? I don't know how long it is since
sleep came to me, but I feel now as though I could rest. Ay, lass, but
you are bonnie! It's no wonder that my Paul loves you."
Her overwrought powers had doubtless given way. The scenes through
which she had passed had made her incapable of realising the true
consequences of everything. Mother Nature had come to her aid, and in
her own way was applying healing balm.
A little later she was sleeping like a child.
Mary sat almost motionless by her side for some time. Things were
turning out altogether differently from what she had expected. Up to
the present she had made no accusation. She had not even suggested
what she was sure was the truth. She wondered why it was. All the
same, she waited, feeling sure that her time would come.
Presently, noting that Paul's mother was not likely to wake, she left
the room; and then, led by a strange curiosity, wandered round the
house. She went into Paul's bedroom. She knew it was his by a
thousand things. Here he had dreamed his dreams and made his plans.
He had dreamed of her, doubtless, not knowing that she was his
sister--his sister! She could not realise it. Her brain, her heart,
refused to accept it as a fact, and yet she felt sure it was so. Again
she went into the study, the little den which Paul had taken so much
care to furnish. She looked lovingly at his books and noted those
which he had evidently used most. She went to the writing-table where
he had done his work, and noted the various pictures which hung around
the room. It was not like the ordinary Lancashire manufacturer's house
at all. It suggested the student, the man of letters, the lover of
art. And how silent it was! Away in the distance was the hum of the
busy town, but here, sheltered by the great hills which sloped away
behind, all was peace. After sitting for a time, she went into Paul's
mother's bedroom again, and watched her as she lay asleep. Could what
she had dreamt of be true? Could this woman who lay sleeping as
peacefully as a child be guilty of the terrible crime of which she had
accused her? In her sleep she looked almost like a girl. The lines
had somehow left her face, as though an angel's hand had wiped them
out. A smile was upon her lips. In her sleep she did not suggest a
strong, passionate woman, but the girl whom any lad might love.
She left the room again and wandered aimlessly around. She found a
strange interest in being in Paul's home. She felt, too, as though she
had a right there; and why should she not have that right, since Paul
was her brother? More than once she looked toward the garden gate as
if expecting that he would come in. She did not think of him as being
tried for his life in the assize courts at Manchester. But she had
strange fancies of what was happening there. What would her father
say? What would he do?
Presently she heard shrill cries in the road not far distant. She
listened attentively.
"Wonderful confession at Manchester!" It was a boy's voice she heard,
and every word reached her clearly.
"Strange confession by the judge! Paul Stepaside's father!"
Heedless of what she was doing, she rushed down the garden path, and
found her way into the street in the near distance. A boy was selling
newspapers. She bought one, and hurried back to the house. She had no
idea of the lapse of time, did not realise that it was now three
o'clock in the afternoon. She had come by a slow train from
Manchester, and Paul's mother had been sleeping for hours.
Eagerly she opened the paper, and there, great staring headlines met
her gaze. For a long time she was absorbed by what she read. There,
in cold, plain words, was her father's confession. It was true, then;
every word of it was true. She did not know why she did it, but,
taking the paper in her hand, she hurried upstairs to the bedroom where
she had left Paul's mother asleep. The town hall clock was chiming in
the distance. She looked at her own watch, and saw that it was
half-past four. She had been reading the paper for an hour. As she
entered the woman on the bed awoke.
"Something's happened, my lassie. What is it?"
"It's all here," said Mary. "It's all here. Shall I read it to you?"