IN THE CONDEMNED CELL
Paul Stepaside was alone in his condemned cell. He was no longer
merely a prisoner waiting his trial for the most terrible deed a man
can commit; he was condemned for that deed, and his whole circumstances
were altered accordingly. No one could see him except in the presence
of a warder, and he was under the most rigorous inspection. Care was
taken that no means were offered him whereby he could take his own
life. Thus, grim and horrible as had been his previous conditions,
they were far worse now. The days of hope were gone, because the days
of action were gone. Nothing he could say or do now promised a
possibility of escape from the terrible doom which had been pronounced.
For many hours he had been thinking over his fate, and wondering what
had become of those he loved. Vague rumours had reached him that his
mother was not well, but he had no definite knowledge of anything
concerning her. A short letter from Mary had also reached him. It was
only a few words, but it had been his great source of solace and
comfort. But that, too, had lost much of its meaning. It was written
before his sentence had been pronounced. It had told him to hope, and
it had expressed the undying faith and love of the writer. But even in
this short letter he seemed to see a change. It was like the letter of
a sister rather than the outpourings of the woman whom he had hoped to
make his wife. Of course it was right and natural that this should be
so. She had discovered their relationship, and believing herself to be
his half-sister, she could no longer think of him as on that night of
their meeting in the prison. Then they had met as lovers, and she had
promised him that when he was free--as she felt sure he soon would
be--to be his wife. But that was all over now. Even although he had
been set at liberty, all his hopes would have been in vain. It seemed
as though the facts of his life had mocked every hope, as though a grim
destiny had fore-ordained that everything he longed for and believed in
should mock him.
Since the last hour of the trial, when the judge had pronounced the
dread words which made his name a by-word and a shame, and held him up
for ever to the reproach of the world, he had been practically alone.
He knew nothing of the heart-pangs of others; nothing of great
determinations which alternated with wild despair; nothing of agonised
prayers, of sleepless nights, and of vain endeavours to prove his
innocence. He was a condemned man, alone in a condemned cell, waiting
for the last hour. For the first few hours after the final words had
been spoken he had a sort of gruesome pleasure in thinking of the
future. He fancied that some few days would elapse, during which his
case would be considered by the Home Secretary; and then this
highly-placed official, having no reason for showing him any special
mercy, would go through the formula necessary to his death. Then would
come the erecting of the scaffold, the symbol of disgrace and shame.
What the cross had been to the old Romans the scaffold was to the
modern Englishman. After that, under the grey, murky sky, he would be
led out, and the dread formula would be gone through. He would be
asked whether he had anything to say before the fatal act was
committed, after which the hangman would do his work.
Well, well, he would go through that as he had gone through all the
rest. It was a ghastly tragedy, a grim mockery, but he would bear it
like a stoic.
Presently, however, his feelings underwent a change. Memories of his
early days came back to him--his life in the workhouse, his schooldays,
when he took his place among the rest of the pauper boys, the learning
of a trade, and his work in the mine. Always his life had been
overhung with shadow, and yet he had enjoyed it. He had found pleasure
in fighting with difficulty, in overcoming what seemed insuperable
obstacles. He remembered the visits of the minister of Hanover Chapel,
and of what he had said to him. Yes, the incipient atheism of his
boyhood had become more pronounced as the years went by. His unbelief
had become more settled, and yet, and yet----
He called to mind the hour he had first seen Mary. How wonderful she
had been to him. She had brought something new, something nobler into
his life. How, in spite of his anger, he had loved her! Ay, and he
loved her still. He thought of his dream of going into Parliament, of
fighting for the rights of the working people of the town in which he
lived and for the class to which he had belonged. Yes, above and
beyond his ambition to be a noted man he had a great consuming desire
to do something for the betterment of the condition of the people whom
he loved, a great passion to advance their rights. And, to a degree,
he had done it. Brunford was the better, and not the worse, because he
had lived. If it had been his fate to live, he would have continued to
work for the toiling masses of the people. He thought of the dreams
which had been born in his brain and heart, and which he hoped to
translate into reality; of the Bills he had framed, and which he had
meant one day to bring before Parliament, Bills which he had hoped
would become Acts, and which would have a beneficent influence on the
life of the nation.
But this was all over now. The end of all things had come. His doom
had been pronounced. What a ghastly mockery life was--and men talked
about God! He, an innocent man, was about to end his days in the most
shameful way imaginable because he had been found guilty of a crime of
which he knew nothing. But at least he had saved his mother. There
was something in that. No shadow of shame or disgrace rested upon her
name. Whether her days were many or few, nothing evil could be
associated with the life of his mother. How it all flashed back to
him. That night in the cell, when she had told him her story, told him
that the man who had sat in judgment upon him was his father and her
husband! Then came that great day in the court, when Judge Bolitho had
made his confession. How still people were. The court was almost as
silent as the cell in which he now lay. After all, his father could
not have been a villain. It is true he had steeled his heart against
him even after that confession. Had he been right? He remembered the
visit of Judge Bolitho on the evening of his confession; how he had
pleaded with him; how he had sought his love. It is true he would
explain nothing of the mysteries which he, Paul, desired to learn. He
was dumb when he had questioned him concerning the shame in which
Mary's name lay. Nevertheless he had to confess in his heart that his
father had tried to do his duty by him and his mother.
He recalled the words which he had spoken to the chaplain who had
visited him one day. He had told this man that if his father would
confess his evil deeds and seek to make atonement, he might believe in
God, in Providence. It was a poor thing to say after all. God, if
there was a God, must not be judged by poor little paltry standards.
The God Who made all the worlds, who controlled the infinite universe,
Who was behind all things, before all things, in all things, through
all things--that God must have ways beyond his poor little
comprehension. But was there such a Being? Or was everything the
result of a blind fate, a great mysterious something which was unknown
and unknowable, a force that had no feeling, no thought, no care for
the creatures who crawled upon the face of this tiny world?
Then the great Future stared him in the face. Was this life the end
and the end-all? Could it be that he, who could think and feel, who
had such infinite hope and longings and yearnings, would die when he
left the body? After all, was not Epictetus, the old Greek slave,
right when he said that the body was only something which he carried
around with him, and that his soul was something eternal which the
world could never touch. If that were so, there must be a great
spiritual realm into which he had never entered.
He thought of the opening words of the Old Testament: "In the beginning
God----" It was one of the most majestic sentences in the literature
of the world, sublime, almost infinite in its grandeur. Then he
remembered the words of Jesus. Years had passed since he had given
attention to these things, yet the memory of the words he had learnt as
a boy was with him now. What a wonderful story it was! What a Life,
too! The mind of Jesus had pierced the night like stars. He had torn
to pieces the flimsy sophistries of the age in which He had lived, and
looked into the very heart of things. What a great compassion He had
for the poor, how tender He was to the sinning. Yes, He understood, He
understood. And what a death He had died, too. He might have escaped
death, but He had died believing that by dying He would enrich, glorify
the life of the world. In a sense it was illogical, but there was a
deeper logic which he eventually saw. After all, it was the death of
Jesus that made Him live in the minds and hearts of untold millions
during nineteen centuries. According to the standards of man, His
death was unjust, and He knew it to be unjust, but He never flinched or
faltered. "Father, forgive them; they know not what they do," He had
said when the ignorant rabble had railed at Him. "Father, into Thy
hands I commend My spirit," He had said, and then gave up the ghost.
It was wonderful!
In that hour Paul Stepaside realised that he had been less than an
infant crying for the light, and with no language but a cry. He had
shut out the light by a poor little conceit of his own. He had dared
to judge life by paltry little standards. He had dared to say what was
and what was not--he! He knew less than nothing!
After all, that which had embittered him more than anything else, that
which he said had robbed him of his faith--even in that he had been
proved to be wrong. It was a great thing his father had done. Of
course he had sinned, of course his life had been unworthy. His
treatment of his mother was the act of a dastardly coward--the base
betrayal, the long absence, the marrying another woman--oh! it was all
poor and mean and contemptible! Nothing but a coward, ay, a villain,
could have done it. And yet there was something noble in his
atonement. Of course sin must be followed by suffering and by hell.
He saw that plain enough. He saw, too, that not only the sinner
suffered, but others suffered. Yet who was he to judge? His father--a
proud man, proud of his family name, proud of the position he had
obtained, one of the highest in the realm of law--had, in face of a
crowd hungry for sensation, eager to fasten upon any garbage of gossip
which might come in its way, confessed the truth, even although that
truth had made his name the subject of gossip for millions of tongues.
Yes; there was something noble in it, and Paul felt his heart soften as
he thought and remembered. Whatever else it had done, it had made his
own fate easier to bear.
He thought of the look on Judge Bolitho's face as he came to his cell
on the day of the confession, remembered the pleading tones: "Paul, my
son, I want your forgiveness, your love."
Perhaps it was because his heart was so weighed down with grief, and
his life was unutterably lonely, that he cried out like one whose life
was filled with a great yearning: "Father, father!"
He heard a sound at the door of the cell. The warder entered, followed
by the form of a woman. His heart gave a great bound.
"Mary!" he cried.
He had not expected this. It had become a sort of settled conviction
in his mind that he would have to die alone and uncomforted. He had a
vague idea that people would be allowed to see him, but no definite
hopes had ever come into his mind. Perhaps he had wondered why he had
been left so long alone, but he had never doubted Mary's love.
Regardless of the fact that the warder stood there, the man who, as it
seemed to him, was coarse and almost brutal, watching his every action,
listening to his every word, he threw open his arms: "Mary, my love!"
A minute later she was sobbing out her grief on his shoulder.
"I wanted to come before, Paul," she said; "but father did not think it
best."
"No, no; I understand. Oh, Mary, it's heaven to me to see you, to hear
you speak, to hold you like this; but I almost wish you had not come.
Why should you suffer?"
"I have come, Paul, because I could not help it, and because---- Oh, I
want to tell you something. Must this man stay?"
"Can you not go and leave us alone?" said Paul to the man.
The warder shook his head. "Against rules!"
"But surely you need not listen to what--to what--my--that is, this
young lady has to say to me."
The man did not speak. Perhaps he had some glimmering of
understanding, perhaps he realised the position better than they
thought.
"Whisper it, Mary," said Paul, still holding her to his heart.
"Paul, you are innocent."
"Yes," he said. "I am innocent. I fought for my life as hard as I
could; but law is not justice, Mary. It's a huge legal machine."
"And Paul," she whispered, "you have believed all along that someone
else was guilty. You have believed it was your mother."
She felt him shudder as she spoke the words.
"_I_ believed it, too. It came to me one day that you were trying to
shield her, and that was why you have allowed yourself to be here. You
could have cleared yourself else, couldn't you?"
She knew by the deep sigh that escaped him how her words moved him.
"On the day when my father made that confession," she went on, "I found
out where your mother was, and went to see her. I had made up my mind
to obtain a confession of guilt from her. Oh, Paul, it's terribly hard
to tell you this, and I know that you'll hardly be able to forgive me;
but it was all for you! You believe that, don't you?"
"Go on, Mary. Tell me what it is."
"I went back to Brunford with her. You see she knew who I was by this
time, and I think she liked me. She said she was ill and was afraid to
stay in Manchester any longer, and she asked me to go back to Brunford
with her."
"Yes, and you did, Mary."
"Yes, I did. And then I begged her to tell me the truth. I made her
see who I suspected."
"Yes, and then----" he whispered.
"I don't know what it was, whether it was the shock of my words, or
whether it was because she could no longer stand the strain she had
been suffering, but her senses forsook her, and--oh, Paul! forgive
me--but she's been ill ever since. She's had no knowledge of anything
that's been going on."
He was silent a moment, then he said: "It's best so, Mary. If she does
not know she cannot suffer, and no shame can attach to her name now."
"No, Paul; but I haven't told you all yet. It wasn't she who did it!
She was as ignorant of the crime as I was!"
"How? Tell me!" he almost gasped.
She related the story of what took place between her father and the man
Archie Fearn, while he, with hoarse whispers, besieged her with
questions.
"Thank God!" he said at length. It seemed as though a great burden had
gone from his life, and as though the only way in which he could
express his feelings was by thanking the Being in Whom he had said he
had no belief.
"Paul, could you have saved yourself if you had known this?"
"I don't know," he replied. "I might--that is--no, I don't know. I
went out that night to seek her, Mary. When I had told her of my
quarrel with Wilson, you remember, on the night of the murder, she
acted as though she were mad. She promised me I should be revenged,
that I should have justice. She said things which, when I began to
think about them afterwards, made me afraid. I thought she had gone to
bed, and I sat in my study for hours, alone, thinking and wondering.
Then, when I went to her room to bid her good night, I found she was
gone, and I went out to seek her. Undoubtedly it was a senseless thing
to do, because I had no knowledge of the direction in which she had
gone. She had, however, uttered one sentence which guided me: 'I am
going to Howden Clough,' she said. 'It's near there I shall see him.'"
For a long time they spoke in whispers, the warder standing as far away
from them as possible, and seemingly taking no notice.
"It's just as well, Mary," he said. "Perhaps I couldn't have saved
myself if I'd known; and it might be--yes, it might be that if I had
said what was in my heart---- No, it's just as well! It's just as
well!"
"Time's up!" said the warder.
"Let me stay a little longer," pleaded Mary.
"Against rules!" was the reply. "Time's up!"
"Paul, lean down your head again."
She kissed him passionately, and then whispered in his ear: "All hope's
not gone even yet, Paul."
"I want no King's Pardon," said Paul almost bitterly. "I wouldn't have
it!"
"It's not that. I have been trying and trying, and my father has been
trying----"
"You mean----"
"I mean that he's with us at Brunford, Paul. He's at your house. He
has been working night and day, and, and----"
The warder opened the door. "This way, please, Miss!"
"Don't give up, Paul!" she cried. "And remember this, I'm working and
praying for you, and father is working and praying for you. It
may--oh! it may end in nothing; and I dare not say more, but Paul,
Paul----"
Again Paul was alone. Mary's kisses were still warm upon his lips. He
felt her breath upon his face. Her presence pervaded the room even
although she was gone--Mary, whom he loved like his own life! It was
not as though his sister had been to see him at all. It was still
Mary, the woman he loved as his wife!
Day followed day, and no further news reached him. Eagerly he had
listened to every echoing footstep in the corridor. Feverishly he had
watched the face of the warder who had brought him food. Like one who
had hoped against hope, he had at stated times scanned the faces of
other prisoners when he had been allowed to go for exercise into the
prison yard. But he heard nothing, saw nothing which could give him
hope.
One night the chaplain entered his cell, and Paul saw, from the look on
the man's face, of what he was thinking.
"It's to be to-morrow, isn't it?" he said.
The chaplain nodded and was silent.
"What o'clock is it now?"
"Half-past three."
"And what time to-morrow?"
"Early. I don't know the exact hour."
"Is it known outside--I mean, does the world know?"
"I don't know; I expect so."
"Ah," said Paul. "She will come to-night; so will he. But mother
cannot come--no, of course she cannot come; but I am glad she knows
nothing."
"My brother," said the chaplain, "may I not speak to you about higher
things? Remember that in a few hours----"
"Stop!" said Paul. "It's good of you to come, and I'm afraid that in
the past I've sometimes spoken rudely to you. I have regarded you as
one who has done his duty, just as the warders have done theirs; and
just as they are paid to lock the door upon me and bring me food at
stated intervals, so you've been paid to utter your shibboleths and to
say your prayers. But perhaps you've meant all right. Still, nothing
that you can say would help me. I have no confession to make to you,
not a word, except that I adhere to what I said in the courts: I am
absolutely innocent of this murder. There's no crime on my soul!"
"But are you ready to meet your God?" said the chaplain.
"Pardon me," said Paul, and his voice quivered with emotion, "but
that's a subject too sacred to talk about. Hark! what's that?"
There was a sound of hammering outside.
"Does it mean--that?"
Again the chaplain nodded. "Think, my brother----"
"No, no," said Paul. "If I am soon to meet God face to face, as you
say, well then--no, I'm neither ashamed nor afraid; that is, as you're
regarding it. I am ashamed--but, there, you could not understand.
Please leave me, will you?"
Again there was a dull sound of the impact of the head of a hammer upon
the head of a nail outside.
Silence reigned over Brunford, and for a wonder the night was clear.
Overhead unnumbered stars shone brightly. The wind came from the sea,
and more than one declared that they felt the salt upon their lips. In
spite of this, however, gloom rested upon the town. It had gone forth,
that, on the following morning Paul Stepaside was to be hanged, and
hundreds, as they trod the granite pavements of the streets, seemed to
be trying to walk noiselessly. At almost every corner groups of men
were to be seen evidently discussing the news they had heard.
"He was a rare fine lad, after all, ay, he wur. I canna think, in
spite of everything, as 'ow he did it. He wur noan that sort."
"Ay, but the judge and jury, after hearing all th' evidence, and after
hearing one of the grandest speeches ever made in Manchester, found him
guilty. Ay, and it wur a grand speech, too; I heerd every word on it,
and I shall never forgeet it to my dying day. When he finished I said,
'He's saved hissen!' I thowt as no judge and jury in the warld would
ever condemn a man after that. It seemed to me as though he had
knocked Bakewell's legs from right under him, and I nearly shouted out
loud."
"Ah, but he could not get over th' judge; nay, the judge seemed to have
made up his mind, and his summing up were just terrible. Mark you,
I've heard a lot of complaints about it. You know what Paul said after
he were condemned? He said as 'ow the judge's summing up might have
been another speech by the counsel for the prosecution; and I watched
the judge's face when he said it, and I tell you he went as white as a
sheet. But theer, 'tis done, and tomorrow morning he'll have to stand
afore the Judgment Seat of God!"
"'Twould be terrible, wouldn't it, if he didn't do it after all?
S'posing it should turn out that someone else did it!"
"But how could it be, man? 'Twere that knife. Who could ha' got it?
Paul never allowed onybody to get into the office. The door was
locked, the window was locked. No, no! Ay, but it's terrible!"
"Haaf-past seven, as I've heerd, it's going to take place," said
another.
"Nay, haaf-past eight."
"I wonder if he's made his peace with God?"
"Perhaps; we shall never know. Paul was never a chap to say much about
that kind of thing."
"I've just come from a prayer-meeting at Hanover Chapel. Never was
there such a prayer-meeting before. Paul never went to chapel, but,
but there----"
"Well, God Almighty knows if he's innocent," said another.
"Yes," was the reply. "And it's a good thing, too, that his mother'll
know nothing about it. I've heerd as 'ow Dr. White says that even if
she lives her mind'll never come back to her again."
"I suppose Judge Bolitho's still in th' town?"
"Ay; I hear he's been writing to th' Home Secretary. I know he's been
to London more nor once."
"The nurse up at Paul's house say as 'ow he hasn't slept for three
nights, and he's acted fair and strange, too. I wonder if there's
onything in his mind?"
"I never thowt," said another, "as 'ow they would have ever hanged him
when it coom to be known that Paul's feyther was a judge. I wonder 'ow
it'll turn out."
And so they gossiped. Even in the public-houses a kind of solemn awe
was present. No jokes were passed, even among those who were drunken.
It seemed as though the Angel of Death were hovering over the town in
which Paul had lived for so many years.
When midnight came, a messenger went from Brunclough Lane to Dr.
Wilson's house. It was a neighbour of Mrs. Dodson's, who had been
aroused from his sleep, and who had been requested to fetch the doctor,
as her daughter was worse.
There was a communication by means of a tube between the front door and
the doctor's bedroom.
"Hallo, Dr. White!"
"Yes, who are you?"
"I'm Amos Gregson. I come fro' Mrs. Dodson. She says as 'ow Emily's
worse, and you must come at once."
"Very well; I'll be on in a few minutes."
The doctor might not have retired at all, for he was out in the street
fully dressed a very few seconds after the man had left. With long,
rapid strides he made his way to Paul's house, which stood in the near
distance, and from one of the windows of which a light was burning. He
knocked at the door, which was opened by Judge Bolitho.
"I told you to wait," he said. "I knew the crisis would come to-night."
"Has she sent for you?" asked the judge hoarsely.
"Yes, the man left my door not ten minutes ago. You have Crashawe with
you?"
"Yes; he's been with me all the evening, and he's now lying on the sofa
asleep."
"Come, then."
A few seconds later three men left the house and made their way rapidly
towards Brunclough Lane. Presently they stopped at the door of number
twenty-seven and knocked. It was immediately opened by a neighbour,
who looked suspiciously at Dr. White's two companions.
"Mrs. Dodson is up in th' room," she said.
"And Emily?" said the doctor.
"She says she mun see you."
"Remain here," said Dr. White to the others, and went straight
upstairs. Evidently he had been there many times, and knew his way
perfectly.
He entered a room which was lit by a cheap, common lamp, and which
threw a sickly light upon the bed. A girl lay there who must have been
extremely beautiful when in health; even although the hand of death was
upon her now, she gave evidence of that beauty. Her eyes were
coal-black, her face was a perfect oval, and every feature was striking
and handsome. Her hair was raven-black and lay in great waving tresses
upon the pillow.
When the doctor entered, she looked towards him eagerly.
"Mother," she said, "go out!" for her mother sat by the bedside.
"Why mun I go, Emily?"
"I want to tell th' doctor something," she said.
"And why may I not hear it? I suppose I can guess, can't I?"
The woman spoke angrily even then.
"Don't thee be white-livered, Emily, or say owt for which you'll be
sorry afterwards."
The doctor noted the look on the girl's face. Even then there was
something strong and defiant about her. She had a Juno-like appearance
which would have attracted notice anywhere, and her firm, square chin
denoted a nature which could withstand almost any opposition.
"Go, mother," she said; and the woman sullenly left the room.
"Doctor," said the girl, and although the death dews were even then
upon her forehead and she spoke between sobbing gasps of breath, there
was a kind of defiance in her tone. "Doctor, you've been trying for
days to wheedle summat out of me--you know you have."
The doctor did not speak.
"While I thought I was going to live," went on the girl, "I would say
nowt. Nay, if the king on his throne and all the judges and juries in
the land were to try and drag from me what I'm going to say I wouldn't
have said it. Ay, but I'm afear'd to die, doctor! Am I going to die?"
"Yes, you're going to die, Emily."
"How long can I live?"
"Perhaps a few hours, perhaps not so long."
For some seconds the girl lay silently. Even yet she seemed to be
fighting some great battle.
"Mrs. Cronkshaw was up here a little while ago, and she said as 'ow
Paul Stepaside was to be hanged to-morrow morning. Is that true?"
"Yes, that is what I've heard," said the doctor.
"Ay; you've tried to get out of me if I know summat about it," said the
girl. "Ay; but you've tried hard, doctor!" and there was almost a
triumphant tone in her voice. "But have I said a word? Nay, not a
word! While I thought I should live I wouldn't speak for onybody. And
you've believed I knowed summat about it."
"And I was right," said the doctor, "wasn't I?"
"You're sure, now?" and the girl's tone was almost angry. "You're sure
I can't live?"
"You can live but a few hours, Emily."
"And can onybody do owt to me if I tell you summat now?"
"No; no one can do anything."
"Weel, then, look 'ere--I killed Ned Wilson!"
Although Dr. White expected this, the words made him shudder.
"I've ne'er said a word to onybody," went on the girl. "I believe my
mother guessed, but she's noan one to talk, is mother. Besides, I've
been very poorly. But I've ne'er said a word to onybody, although I
could see by yar questions that you thought I knowed summat about it.
I'm going to tell you everything now. I don't want Mr. Paul Stepaside
to die when it can do no good. If I were going to live, I'd ha' let
him die, no matter what happened; but now---- It wur like this
'ere----"
"Wait," said the doctor. "I want someone to come and listen to what
you have to say."
"Nay, nay; I'll tell no one but you."
"But you must!" said the doctor. "If you don't, your confession will
be of no use. There must be witnesses."
"You mean that I couldn't save him from hanging if I only told it to
you?"
"Yes, I mean that," replied the doctor.
"Who do you want to come up?" said the girl presently. "Nay, I don't
care who comes now. I did it, and there'll soon be an end to it. Let
'em come, whoever they may be!"
In a few seconds Judge Bolitho and the other man came into the room.
The doctor whispered to the judge.
"There must be someone else," said the judge. "I am afraid my evidence
would be valueless, although I want to be here. You see, I'm Paul's
father."
"Wait a minute," said the doctor, and he ran quickly downstairs. "Mrs.
Cronkshaw," he said. "Come into the bedroom at once!"
The girl who lay upon the bed looked from one face to another, as if
wondering what was happening.
"Give me some strengthening stuff," she said, "or I shall noan be able
to speak."
While the doctor poured some liquid into a glass, the judge passed
round to the other side of the bed, while the lawyer--Crashawe by
name--sat under the light with writing materials to hand. The woman
who went by the name of Cronkshaw eagerly watched the proceedings, and
looked like one vastly curious.
"It wur like this 'ere," said the dying girl. "Ned Wilson courted me,
and he promised me that he'd marry me. He did it on the quiet, nobody
knew, and I, like a fool, trusted him. Ay, but I wur fond on him. You
see, well, I knowed I wur a good-looking lass, but I wur always a bit
rough, and it seemed wonderful to me that a great gentleman like he
should have cared owt for me. And when we had met two or three times,
and he told me that he loved me, I wur ready to worship the very ground
he walked on! As I told you, he promised to marry me; ay, and it were
his duty to do so, too, for I wur i' trouble. Then he tried to get me
out of Brunford, but I wouldn't go. I tried to make him stand by his
word. As you know, people said as 'ow he wur going to marry Miss
Bolitho, but I wouldn't believe that. Ned had promised me fair. He
swore to me by the God above us that he'd marry me. Then I saw in the
Brunford paper it wur arranged that he should marry Miss Bolitho. For
a day or two I think I wur mad, and he kept out o' the way o' me. Then
I axed him about it, and he laughed at me. He said he wur only joking
when he promised to marry me, and that a lass like I couldn't expect
him to throw away his life by marrying a mill girl. He offered me
brass to leave the town--a good deal on it, too--but I wur noan going
to be treated like that. I said, 'No.' Give me some more stuff,
doctor."
The doctor raised the girl and placed another pillow under her head,
while she eagerly drank what remained in the glass. The room was in
intense silence, save for the scratch of the lawyer's pen, who was
taking down what the girl was saying, word by word.
"I 'eerd as 'ow Paul Stepaside had come back from London," she went on,
"and I thought to myself, 'He'd help me. I'll tell him all about it.
He's very clever, and he doesn't like Ned Wilson,' for by this time a
fair hate got hold of me, and I thought to myself, 'I'll see him on the
quiet.' I saw him go to his office that morning. I wur just walking
across the mill yard; but as he wur talking with someone I just waited
a bit. I didn't want no one to see me. Presently I see his mother
come, I don't think onybody else saw her, because she came in by a side
way, and as you know, Paul's office is shut off from the mill. So I
waited around, and after a bit I saw his mother go out, and I said to
myself, 'Now's my time.' So I went up a little passage, and no one
could see me; but just as I wur coming up close to the door he came out
quickly. I think he wanted to speak to his mother about something.
Anyhow, he left th' office door open, and I said to myself, 'I'll go in
there now, and wait till he comes back.' Well, I did; and I waited
perhaps two minutes, but he didn't come. And then I seed the knife on
th' table, and I got 'andlin' it, and all sorts of black thoughts came
into my mind. And I said to myself, 'I'll say nowt to Mr. Stepaside at
all.' I can't explain why it was, but I took 'old o' th' knife and
come away. When I got home for dinner, I just wrote a letter to Ned
Wilson, and I told him I must see him that night late. It wur
something very particular. And I told him that, as it was the last
time I should ask him to do onything for me, he mustn't refuse."
"Well," said the doctor. "What then?"
"Weel, I wur at the place I told him about, and he coom'd. It wur very
late. You see I made the hour late, 'cause I know'd if it wur early,
and he wur likely to be seen with me, he wouldn't come. So I made it
late, and I told him, too, that if he didn't come I'm make everything
known. I never said owt to anybody, but I kept t' knife with me. Give
me some more stuff, doctor; I feel as though my head is all swimming!"
The doctor did as the girl desired, and made her pillow more
comfortable.
"Ay, that's better," she said. "Weel, we met, and I begged him again,
begged him as I thought I should never beg onybody to do anything--for
I am a proud lass--to marry me. But he wouldn't. He said he wur going
to marry Miss Bolitho, if only out of spite to Paul Stepaside. So I
said to him, 'What has Paul Stepaside to do with it?' And he laughed.
So then I axed him what I wur to do, and he told me that I might go to
Manchester and get my living as best I could. And after that hell got
hold of me, but I kept quiet. And I said, 'Good-night, Ned,' and he
said, 'Good-night, Emily. Be a sensible lass.' And then he turned
round to go back home, and then I up with the knife and stabbed him in
the back. I thought my heart was going to leap into my mouth when I
saw him fall on his face without a word and without a sound, and I
never stayed a minute, but I run all the way home."
The scratch of the lawyer's pen continued some seconds after the girl
had ceased speaking.
"That's all," she said. "I'm glad I've told you. A've been i' 'ell
for mony a week, and, and--but there, it's all over now!"
"Just a minute," said the lawyer. "Let me read through what you have
said."
"I can noan bear it; my head's swimmin' again!"
Dr. White administered another dose of powerful stimulant, and the girl
breathed more easily.
"You can bear it now, Emily," he said kindly. "And you've been a brave
lass."
"I know I ought not to have killed him," said the girl, "but he treated
me bad, and he said things to me which no man ought ever to say to ony
lass. But theer----"
The lawyer came close to the bed and read the girl's confession aloud.
"Ay, that's right," she said when he had finished. "It's all true,
every word, so help me God!"
"Will you sign your name here?" said the lawyer.
They propped her up in bed, and a pen was placed in her hand. Judge
Bolitho was afraid for the moment that she would never have strength
enough to perform the task of writing her name; but the girl, almost by
a superhuman effort, conquered her weakness. She seized the pen and
wrote her name.
"Thank you," he said. "That will do."
The girl lay back on her pillow, panting for her very life. A minute
later the document was witnessed by the others in the room.
Two hours later Emily Dodson was dead.