THE HOME-COMING
The warder came into Paul's cell bearing his breakfast.
"There," he said. "I've got something good for you this morning. How
did you sleep?"
"Scarcely at all," replied Paul quietly. "You can take away this; I
shall not eat it."
"Eat it, man; it is the best breakfast you've had for many a day, and
it'll help you to go through with it."
"No," replied Paul quietly; "I'll go through it without that."
There was a sad, wistful look in his eye. He knew that the dread hour
had nearly come, and that he must bid good-bye to everything. During
the previous evening he had been in a state of great excitement. He
had listened eagerly for the coming of Mary and his father, but they
never came. In a numb sort of way he wondered why. He would like to
have bidden them good-bye. He longed to hold Mary in his arms once
more, and longed, too, to tell his father that he forgave him. For he
had to confess to himself at last that he had done this. With death
knocking at the gates of life, it seemed to him he could do no other.
His father had sinned, but he had done his best to atone. Of course,
all was vain, and the tangled skein of life had not been straightened
out. He felt that somehow life with him had begun wrong, and it had
continued wrong to the end. Still, there was a quiet resignation in
his heart which almost surprised him. At that moment he could have
said with Tennyson, "And yet we trust that somehow good will be the
final goal of ill." As for the future--well, he would soon solve its
mystery. He did not want to die; rather, he longed to live--he had so
much to live for in spite of everything. Of course, Mary could never
be his wife, but he could love her and guard her and cherish her all
the same. As for the rest----
He felt a kind of curiosity as to what the future would bring forth.
He looked at his hands, so strong, nervous, vigorous, and thought that
in a few hours they would be inert, lifeless. That something which men
call "life" would be gone. Where would he be? For the first time in
his life he felt almost certain that the essential "he" would continue
to be. Where, and under what circumstances, he wondered? Well, he
should know soon.
A little later he was out under a dark, gloomy sky. He saw a great
black cloud hanging in the heavens. Here and there was a patch of blue
where the stars peeped out. It was bitterly cold, and he felt himself
shivering. Others were there, too; strange, shadowy looking figures
they appeared to be, but he took very little note of them. Only one
man was perfectly clear to him; that was the chaplain, who wore a gown
and carried a black book in his hand. It was his duty to read the
Burial Service. He heard a bell tolling, but it did not affect him as
he thought it would. Of course, it was the very refinement of torture,
and ought not to be allowed. No man, whatever he had done, should be
made to suffer in this way. But he did not care much. He was not
afraid. In the dim light he saw that a scaffold had been erected--a
gaunt, ghastly thing, the very symbol of despair and shame and death.
He wondered what took place next. He supposed there would be certain
formulae to go through. The parson would utter a homily as well as
read the miserable Burial Service.
"What's going to happen next?" he said to the warder; and he spoke
rather as a spectator than as the one who was the chief figure in this
terrible scene.
But before the man had time to reply there was a strange confusion.
Something had happened. Excited voices were heard. The governor of
the gaol said something, the purport of which did not reach Paul, but
still something which seemed to change the atmosphere and made the grey
dawn bright with the light of day. Another moment, and his heart
thrilled. He felt soft arms around his neck, a warm face close to his,
while on his lips were burning kisses.
"Paul! Paul!"
"Mary!"
He wondered what it all meant, for even yet the truth had not dawned in
his mind.
"You should not have come, Mary," he said. "You see I can bear it all
right."
"Paul, don't you understand?" And she laughed and sobbed at the same
time. "You are not going to die. You are saved!"
"Saved?"
"Yes. She has confessed, Paul."
"No, no!" And there was agony in his voice. "No, no! Better I should
die than that she should!"
"No; but, Paul, it was another--a woman named Emily Dodson. You were
right, you see, in your defence. He had deceived her, wronged her, and
she killed him. She confessed it last night. It's all written down
and signed. Don't you understand, my love?"
"Then, then----?"
"I congratulate you, Mr. Stepaside!" It was the governor of the gaol
who spoke. "Thank God, the news has come in time! Yes, my lord, of
course you can speak to him."
"Paul, my son." And his heart thrilled at the sound of his father's
voice. "Thank God! Thank God! Will you shake hands and forgive me?"
It seemed to Paul at that moment as though the foundations of his life
were broken up.
"Oh, God, I thank Thee!" he cried, "Oh, Mary, Mary! My love!" And
again he strained the young girl to his heart.
For many days Paul Stepaside's mother lay sleeping calmly in the room
where sickness had confined her. Her face was tranquil, the lines
which had been so deep a few weeks before had passed away. She had
been unconscious ever since the day on which Mary had made known to her
the terrible suspicion which filled her mind. Sometimes there had come
to her minutes when the past became partially real, but those minutes
were only as dream phantoms. She knew nothing of what had taken place,
did not seem to realise that Mary Bolitho had been in the house with
her, or that the man to whom she had given her heart long years before
slept beneath the same roof. She knew nothing either of the agony
through which they had passed or of their feverish endeavours to save
her son. She suffered no pain. She simply lay there as though nothing
mattered and as though the windows of her mind had been closed.
The nurse sat by her bedside watching her. The doctor had been that
morning, and had remarked that he saw no change either one way or the
other.
"I have seldom seen anything like it, nurse!" he had said.
"Physically, she seems to be improving. Her pulse is quite
satisfactory; she has no temperature; and her strength is well
maintained. But I do not understand this long condition of coma. I
wonder how it will end!"
The nurse, as she sat by the patient's bedside, was thinking of what
the doctor had said, and was curiously watching her face.
The woman's eyes opened, and the nurse thought she saw the light of
reason in them. She looked curiously around the room.
"Who are you?" she said.
"I'm a nurse from the hospital, Mrs. Stepaside. You haven't been very
well."
"Ay, I remember being poorly. Where's Paul?"
"He's not come back yet," said the nurse.
"What do you mean? Ay, but he's near! Don't you hear them shouting?"
In spite of the fact that she still believed her patient to be
unconscious, she listened, and thought she heard distant shouting.
"I know, I know! It's Paul coming home! He's cleared himself. Do you
see? He's proved himself innocent! I knew he would! My own clever
boy! There! There!"
Again the nurse listened, and this time she knew that something was
taking place. It seemed to her like a shout of great multitudes, the
roar of a mighty sea of voices, and it was coming nearer and nearer the
house.
"Hurrah! Hurrah!"
"God bless ye!"
"He's saved!"
"He's innocent!"
"The truth has come out!"
She could only faintly distinguish the words, but this was what she
thought she heard. It was like the roar of a great storm, the shout of
a mighty multitude.
Still it came nearer and nearer, and the volume of sound ever increased.
The woman in her bed laughed. "Don't you see?" she said. "I left
Manchester only yesterday, and that lassie came with me. Where is she
noo? She'll be gone to meet Paul. Just think of it! I didn't think
he could clear himself so soon, but she thought--ah, never mind what
she thought!"
Still the roar of voices continued, ever increasing in volume and
jubilancy.
"Don't you see?" went on Paul's mother. "The crowd knew he would come,
and they met him at Brunford station, and they're bringing him home as
he ought to be brought home. But I must not be here, in bed, I must
get up!"
"No, no," said the nurse. "You're not well enough for that!"
"Not well enough! I'm all right. My Paul must not find me like a sick
woman when he comes. He must find me up and dressed, ready to meet
him. Quick, quick!"
She got out of bed of her own accord. "There," she said. "You say I'm
not strong enough! They are at the door, do you hear? Hark how
they're shouting! Ay, my own Paul, the light's come to him at last!"
She ceased speaking. Her mind seemed to be gathering up the events of
the past weeks. She remembered the visit which Judge Bolitho had made
to her in Dixon Street--called to mind, too, the confession he had
made, and which Mary had read to her.
"And there is no stain upon his name now. No one can twit him now!"
she continued, jubilantly. "There they are at the door! Now then,
bring me that dressing-gown. Oh, if I'd only woke up sooner, I would
have put on that new dress which Paul brought me, the one he likes so
much. He said it made me look like a lassie."
The front door opened, and both of them heard the confusion of tongues
beneath. Then there was a heavy tread upon the stairs. The door of
her bedroom opened, and Paul entered.
He had expected to see her lying on a bed of sickness, pale and
emaciated, instead of which she stood erect.
"Mother!" he said, and folded her in his arms.
"Ay, my laddie!" she cried. "You've beaten them all, then?"
He did not know what was in her mind, but he thought it best to humour
her. "Yes, mother, I've beaten them all."
"I knew you would. When I left Manchester yesterday I knew you'd beat
them. Why, to think of you, my Paul, doing such a thing! And that
crowd I heard shouting, Paul? They came to meet you at the station,
didn't they?"
"I believe hundreds of them came from Manchester," was the reply.
"Then, of course, there were many at the station, too."
"That's well, my son!"
"Mother, what is it?" cried Paul, noting the change that passed over
her face.
"I'm not so well, my laddie, and I'm not so strong as I thought I was.
But it's all right. I think I'll lie down again."
He lifted her in his arms and placed her back in the bed, and in a few
seconds she was asleep.
The crowds departed after a while, but there was little work done in
Brunford that day. Never was such an excitement known before, never
such joy manifested. Directly the news had become known that the real
murderer had confessed, the news flashed over many wires and the Press
of the whole country was flooded with the wonderful story. Throughout
Lancashire it passed, from town to town, from mill to mill, from
cottage to cottage, like wild-fire. People who had been certain of
Paul's guilt the day before had known all along that he was innocent,
and pretended to rejoice accordingly. No sooner did the news reach
Brunford than all the mills in the town ceased running. The streets
were filled with excited multitudes, talking over what had taken place.
Paul Stepaside, for whom the scaffold had been erected and the cord
made ready, had been proved innocent at the last moment, and stood
before the world a free man! It would be impossible for me to describe
in detail the rejoicings of the people or the demonstrations that were
made. Even to this day the people in Brunford talk about it as a
red-letter day in the history of the town, as a time when it was moved
beyond all thought or imagination.
Meanwhile, Paul sat with Mary in his own house. The past weeks seemed
like a hideous nightmare to him now. But he had awakened from his
sleep, the dark clouds had rolled away. He was home again! The crime
of which he had been accused was as nothing. His innocence had been
proclaimed to the world. His name was without a stain. But he felt
strangely restrained. It seemed as though a weight were put upon his
lips, and while he grudged every moment that Mary was out of his sight,
he almost feared to be alone with her.
"Paul," she said to him late that afternoon, "your mother does not seem
to suffer at all because of the excitement this morning!"
"No," he said quietly. "It's very wonderful! When I was with her just
now she was quite cheerful and happy. Even yet she does not know all
the truth. Of course, she'll have to know it some day, but we will
keep it from her as long as we can. But I do not quite understand the
look in her eyes, all the same! She seemed as though she were
expecting some one."
"I think I know whom she expects."
"You mean your father?" replied Paul. Even yet he was unable to speak
of Judge Bolitho as his own father.
"Yes, I believe she is wondering why he has not come."
"I think I rather wonder, too," said Paul. "You see, he left us
directly after I was--after--after the truth was made known, and I've
heard nothing from him since. Have you, Mary?"
"No," said the girl. "I've heard nothing. I think he went to London.
You see, as far as you're concerned, there are heaps of formalities to
be complied with!"
"Yes, yes, I know!" said Paul almost hastily. It seemed as though he
wanted to drive the whole terrible thing from his mind.
"Mary," said Paul at length, "have you ever spoken with your father
about the past?"
"No," she replied, "never. I was afraid; I don't know why. Once or
twice he seemed to be trying to broach the subject, but there was such
an awful look in his eyes that I could not bear to hear him speak about
it. Besides, I had no time to think about myself! How could I, when,
when---- But you know, Paul!"
It was very wonderful to him to be sitting alone in his own house with
Mary in this way. Sometimes he thought he was in a dream, and that he
would wake up presently to find all the wild, ghastly realities come to
him. But it was no dream. The hundreds of telegrams which came to him
expressing delight at the proof of his innocence, and the innumerable
messages of goodwill which constantly reached him, made all his black
fancies impossible.
He was not happy in a full and complete sense of the word. Even yet he
felt his life to be enshrouded in mystery. It seemed to him the
problem was not yet solved, and never could be solved this side of
eternity. Still, his heart was joyful, for was not Mary by his side?
Was he not for ever seeing her winsome smile and the flash of her
bright eyes? Was she not for ever seeking to minister to his comfort
and to bring sunshine into his life?
He dared not go into the town. He feared to meet the people. He could
not bear to hear their kindly words, their exclamations of delight and
joy. He knew that the sight of homely faces would unman him, and that
he would break down like a child. While the shadow of guilt was upon
him, he could be strong even as a stoic might be strong. He could bear
hard words and suspicious looks. All through the long trial he had
been composed and self-reliant, but that was over now. In a way he
could not understand, the hard crust of his nature had been broken up.
Paul felt a new man. That black, grimy town was no longer dirty and
sordid to him. It was the home of tens of thousands of kind hearts,
the home of the people he loved. He saw a meaning in their life which
he had never seen before. He had dreams of their future to which he
was a stranger in the old days. But he could not go out and meet them,
could not clasp friendly hands, could not meet smile with smile.
Perhaps it was no wonder. Paul had passed far down the deep, dark
Valley of the Shadow of Death, and it seemed at one time as though he
would never emerge into the light again, and so it was not strange he
should desire to be alone with Mary.
Night came on, and still Judge Bolitho did not come. The last train
had arrived in Brunford, but there was no news of him.
"He'll be back when he's done his work," said Mary.
"What work?" asked Paul.
"I don't know," she replied. "But, Paul, you are grieving about me.
Don't! I know what's in your mind, but it doesn't matter one bit, not
one bit, Paul!"
"But, Mary----"
"No, Paul, not one word! There, it's time for you to go to bed. Kiss
me, my love!"
He went towards her, meaning to give her a brotherly kiss, but when he
came close to her he caught her in his arms again, and held her
passionately to him.
"Good-night, Mary. May God bless you!"
"God?" she said, looking up into his face wonderingly, and there was
almost a sob in her voice. "Do you believe in Him at last?"
"May God bless you, my--no, I can't say it. Good-night!"
When Paul went to his room that night, the first night he had slept
there since the dread things which had so altered the whole of his life
came to him, he sat for a long time thinking. Again he reviewed the
past, tried to see its deeper meaning. Then he knelt down by his
bedside. He uttered no words, formulated no prayer, but he knew he was
very near to the heart of things.
Days passed, and still there was no news of Judge Bolitho. Paul's
mother, as steadily she grew stronger, seemed ever to be listening and
watching, but she asked no questions and spoke no word about the man of
whom both Paul and Mary were sure she was thinking. Both of them
rejoiced as they saw her health coming back to her, saw a new light in
her eyes, a tenderer expression on her lips. All the same, each of
them wondered what the future would bring forth. Neither Mary nor Paul
referred again to the shadow which hung upon the former's name. Not
one question did Paul ask about her mother, or about the days before
they first met each other. He was afraid it would give her pain, and
he would rather suffer anything than do that.
On the fourth day after his return, Paul's mother was well enough to
come downstairs again. She had clothed herself in the last new dress
Paul had bought her, and she blushed like a girl when he told her how
young and handsome she looked.
"Nay, Paul, I'm an old woman," she protested. All the same, it was
easy to see that she was pleased.
"You're just young and handsome, mother," he repeated. "There's many a
lass in Brunford who'd give anything to have your good looks."
"And they say you're the very image of me, Paul! Think now, when
you're praising my good looks you're just praising your own!"
In spite of their pleasantries, however, it was easy to see that she
was wondering about and longing for something of which she spoke no
word.
"Mother, it's eight o'clock. It's time for you to go to bed. You must
not take liberties with yourself."
"No," she said. "I'm going to stay up a little longer. I'm not so
weak as you think. Did I give way when--when--when I heard how near
you were to----? Oh, Paul! my boy! my boy! Thank God! No wonder you
love Mary. It was she who saved you! I fancied you had got yourself
off by your own cleverness, but, without her----"
"Without her everything would have been impossible," said Paul, but he
did not lift his eyes. He was afraid what his mother might see there.
"All the same, you'd better go to bed, mother. You'll be overtired!"
"Listen," she said, and both Mary and Paul saw her hands tremble.
"There! There! Don't you hear?"
All plainly heard the sound of wheels outside, an eager step on the
path, and then a knock at the door. Paul Stepaside's mother sat rigid.
She seemed like one afraid; yet there was a bright light in her eyes
all the time.
"Run, my lassie," she said quickly. "Run. Don't wait for one of the
maids to go, perhaps it will be----"
But Mary did not hear the end of her sentence. She ran to the door,
and opened it, and both mother and son heard whispering voices in the
little hall.
A few seconds later Mary returned again, accompanied by Judge Bolitho.
He looked from one face to another, as if uncertain of his welcome. He
had evidently come from a long journey, for he looked travel-stained
and weary, but each noticed how eager his face was. Paul's mother sat
rigidly in her chair. She gave no word of welcome, no sign of
recognition. It seemed as though the presence of the judge had placed
the seal of silence upon her lips. Paul rose and held out his hand.
"No," said the judge. "I will not take your hand."
Paul looked at him in astonishment. It seemed strange to him, after
what had passed at their last meeting, for him to act in this way.
"I will not take your hand, Paul, until I have told my story, until you
have heard all there is for me to say," said the judge.