JUDGE BOLITHO'S CONFESSION
As Judge Bolitho spoke, Paul saw that his mother drew herself up in her
chair and fixed her eyes upon the newcomer with a look of feverish
inquiry. No word had passed between them about the past ever since his
return home. Never once had she mentioned an incident of her girlhood,
neither had she spoken to Paul about the judge's confession, or what it
had meant to them both. The servants still spoke to her as "Mrs.
Stepaside," even as they spoke of Paul as Paul Stepaside. There seemed
something strange in their relations to the judge even yet. There was
still, however, that look of continual watchfulness and inquiry in her
eyes. It seemed as though she were waiting for something, something of
which she dared not speak.
"I feel as though I had no right to sit here," went on the judge, "no
right to a welcome of any sort until I have told the truth. When I
have spoken you may drive me from your doors, but at least what there
is to be made known shall be told truthfully."
No one spoke, but it was easy to see that all were greatly moved. Mary
Bolitho, although she had not spoken a word concerning the story of her
past, even to Paul, waited with intense eagerness. Her face had become
pale and her lips were tremulous. Paul, too, felt as though the issues
of light and darkness lay within the next few minutes, while his mother
sat rigid in her chair, never moving a muscle, her eyes fixed on the
man who had just come into the room.
The judge pulled off his heavy fur-lined coat and went to the door. He
seemed afraid lest someone might be listening.
"What I have to say," he said, "is between ourselves alone. A great
deal of it is not for the ears of the world, although some of it must
perforce be made known."
Silence followed for some time, and the listeners seemed almost too
much moved to breathe, while the speaker appeared to find his task even
harder than he had imagined. There was a look which suggested fear in
his eyes, and although he constantly glanced at the woman opposite him,
he seemed unable to gaze at her steadily.
"I need not describe at length that visit to Scotland," he said
presently. "You all know practically what there is to know. I was an
orphan. On my father's side I belonged to the Scotch people, on my
mother's to Cornwall. They died when I was very young, leaving a sum
sufficient to educate me and to start me in life--at least, so they
thought. I had chosen the profession of the law, and when I took my
degree at Oxford I began reading for the Bar. I had imagined that I
had an income sufficient to keep me during the time I was passing my
examinations and while I might have to wait for briefs. It was at this
time that I went to Scotland with some companions. There I met with
you, Jean. There I fell in love with you."
The woman gave a quivering sigh as he spoke, but uttered no word. Her
eyes were fixed on him steadily. She seemed to be trying to read his
soul.
"I do not think I was a bad lad," he went on, "and I loved you truly.
I meant every word I said to you. Doubtless from the worldly-wise
man's standpoint I was foolish and acted without due thought, but I
yielded to the promptings of my heart, and--and so, at least, I can
tell you that, Jean."
He was evidently speaking to her rather than to the others. For the
moment they might not have existed at all.
"Badly as I may have treated you, you may believe that, at all events,
I loved you with all the fresh, warm affection of a boy, and meant
nothing but what was right and true."
Again he paused, as if trying to recall the scenes among the Scottish
hills.
"You know I had arranged to leave 'Highlands' that morning and to meet
you later in a lonely valley among the mountains. Naturally I was much
excited and eager to get to your side. Yet even then I was a coward.
Had I acted as I ought, I should have taken you to a minister and have
married you before witnesses, but the other way appeared easy, and you
did not seem to mind. I must confess, too, that the idea of a Scotch
marriage was, in some ways, unreal to me. It did not appear to me as
binding as a marriage service should. I expect that was why I
suggested this method of our becoming man and wife, for I can see it
now--I was a coward even then!
"Still, as I have said, I longed to get to your side, longed to make
you my wife, even although I felt I might be acting foolishly. So
excited was I that when a servant brought me a letter just as I was
leaving, I did not trouble to open it. Had I done so, our future might
have been different; I do not know; but I'm telling you this that I may
keep nothing from you, for I am determined that you shall know the
truth and the whole truth. I thought nothing of the letter through the
day; my joy at being with you was too great for that, and the
excitement of the thought that I was taking you as my wife made me
forgetful of everything else. You remember the scene, Jean? You
remember how we took each other as man and wife, there amidst the
silence and loneliness? You remember, too, how you suggested that we
should ask God to bless our union, and how we knelt side by side and
prayed? The memory of that hour has whipped me like scorpions ever
since.
"When presently we reached the inn, I thought of the letter and read
it. It was from my mother's cousin, who had charge of my affairs and
acted as a guardian to me. It seems that he loved her when they were
boy and girl, and although she married another man, his love never
died. Perhaps that was why he was fond of me. But he never liked my
father, and hated the name Graham as a consequence. In the letter he
wrote, he told me that the little property which I had thought to be
mine had all vanished. It seems that it had been invested in what were
thought to be perfectly safe securities, but which had become
worthless; therefore I, who was not yet called to the Bar, and had no
profession, was penniless. He told me it was necessary for me to
return immediately, as he had other news of the gravest import to
convey to me, but which I could not properly understand through the
medium of a letter.
"I've been reading that letter to-day," went on the judge, "and I do
not wonder at my being moved by it. It was written in the most solemn
fashion, and hinted at a great deal more than it said. It urged me in
the most impressive way to return to Cornwall immediately, and told me
that I must allow nothing to stand in the way of my coming.
"Well, Jean, you know what happened. I left you on the morning
following, telling you to return to your father, to inform him of our
marriage, assuring you that I should return very shortly."
Again the judge was silent for some time. He seemed to be fighting
with himself, seemed to be unable to express the thoughts which filled
his mind.
"My guardian's name," he went on, "was Bolitho. As I told you, he had
always been fond of me from a boy, and he was more to me than most
fathers are to their sons. When I returned to him late that night,
for, as you know, I caught an express train from Carlisle early in the
morning and travelled continuously for fourteen hours, I found him
eagerly awaiting me, and I thought he looked pale and ill. In spite of
my protests, he would not wait until the morning before telling me what
he had in his mind. Ever since he had discovered the truth about my
affairs, it seemed that he had been making plans about me, and it was
not long before I discovered them. As I told you, he hated the name of
Graham, because my father had robbed him of the woman he loved, and he
told me that he wanted me to take his name and become his son. On
condition that I would do this, he would make my future secure and
leave me what fortune he possessed. But there was something more than
this, and here comes the story of my fall."
Paul's mother moved slightly in her chair, and then, if possible, her
form became more rigid than before, but she did not speak.
"Are you sure you can bear this?" asked the judge. "Are you strong
enough?"
"I'm not strong enough to leave this room until I know," replied the
woman, and each of them realised that every nerve in her body was in
tension, and that her suffering, although not physical, defied all
description.
"He told me something else," went on the judge. "He told me that he
had lately visited his doctor, who had informed him that it was
essential to his life for him to go to some Southern land, and
suggested New Zealand or Australia, for at least two years. He said
that a lengthy sea voyage was first of all absolutely necessary, and
that then a residence for a considerable time in a suitable climate
must be a condition of his life. If he did not do this he would die.
"You can see what this meant," continued the judge, for the first time
looking at Mary and Paul, "and his words almost staggered me. But this
was not all. He had promised to care for a widowed sister's child, a
girl who was at that time about eighteen years of age; promised her,
too, the protection which she had never known from her father. She was
called Mary Tregony, and, like the Bolithos, the Tregonys are among the
oldest families in England. Of course, I had known her all her life,
and in a way looked upon her as a sister."
"'You like Mary?' said my uncle to me.
"And I had to confess that I did, although I only thought of her as a
kind of sister.
"'Douglas, my boy,' he said, 'I want you to marry Mary; not yet, for
she has not yet left school, but in, say, two years' time, when I am
well enough to return to England; then I want you to make her your
wife.'"
"It was here," said the judge, "that my cowardice first appeared. I
ought to have told Mr. Bolitho that I was already married, and that I
had only left my wife early that morning, but I did not. There was no
excuse for me, I know; all the same, although I still loved you, Jean,
or thought I did, our marriage seemed shadowy, unreal. I forgot what I
owed you, forgot my duty to you.
"Mr. Bolitho, although he loved me dearly, was a man who was stern and
unbending, a man of iron will, a man always accustomed to have his way.
For years I had looked on him with a kind of awe, and had never once
dared to disobey him. His word had always been law to me, and even
although practically I had reached man's estate, the influence of the
past was strong upon me. I dared not tell him the truth, dared not say
that I could not do what he asked. I know I was a coward, worse than a
coward, but I was silent.
"Presently, however, I made a feeble sort of opposition. I demurred
against changing my name, for one thing, and I remember saying that I
had no reason to believe that Mary cared for me. But, in his strong,
imperious way, he swept down all my opposition. The influence of the
past was strong upon me, and I forgot my present duty. Besides, as I
said, he was adamant. He grew angry even at the little opposition I
offered, and told me that if I did not care enough for him to do what
he asked, I must look to myself for my future. And I was penniless,
dependent upon him for every farthing. I had no means of earning a
living. It is true I had taken a degree at Oxford, but I had no
knowledge of any trade, no early prospect of earning money in a
profession. What could I do? Besides, I was a coward. No one can
scorn that cowardice more than I, but there it was. He appealed to my
pity, too. He told me that if I did not go with him abroad he would
have to go alone, a sick man among strangers. I soon found out, too,
that even my belief in my own property was largely a figment of my own
imagination. It is true some little money had been left to me, and had
been lost in the way I have indicated, but without him I could never
have gone to Oxford, without him I should have been practically a waif.
Besides, he was a man of strong personality, and, as I said, of iron
will."
The judge made a movement as if of impatience. "What is the use of
enlarging upon all this?" he went on presently. "I promised to do what
he asked, promised to change my name. That was not much. I knew
little and cared less about my father, but my mother was a Bolitho, and
I almost adored her memory. I was willing to be called Bolitho instead
of Graham. That cost me very little. As to the other, the thought of
travelling for two years appealed to me. It is true I was fond of my
studies, but I reflected that I could take my books with me, and
although it might delay my being called to the Bar by some year or
two--I was young, and it did not matter; and so, God forgive me, I
forgot the vows I made, forgot my honour. I was a coward! Added to
all this, the marriage on the moors became less and less reality.
Indeed, after I had been in Cornwall two or three days, it seemed
little more than a joke, an episode in a boy's life. I was forgetful
of what the consequences of such a deed might be, and I began to look
forward to coming days. Presently I wrote that letter. No wonder you
could not forgive me. No wonder Paul hated me for it. But there, I
wrote it! One thing, and one thing only may be urged in my favour.
Although I seemingly consented to the marriage with Mary Tregony, I
hoped that something would happen to make it impossible. It all lay in
the distance, and that made everything easy to an optimistic youth. I
never breathed a word concerning my marriage with Jean. Indeed, I came
to look upon it as something that was utterly illegal, and that I could
never be expected to stand by what was only, after all, a mere farcical
thing, the act of a madcap boy."
The judge wiped the perspiration from his brow before going on again.
It was evident that he was suffering greatly. It seemed as though he
had not yet reached that point of his story which was more difficult to
tell than any other, still, he plodded on his weary way, although the
words came with difficulty.
"In two years' time we returned from abroad. By this time I was
accustomed to the name of 'Bolitho.' Steps had been taken to make it
legal, and I had to a very large extent forgotten my former name. I
was Mr. Bolitho's adopted son, and I called him 'father.' During the
years we had been away together, too, his influence upon me had grown
stronger. I was afraid to do anything in opposition to his will. His
resolute, imperious nature made me almost like an obedient slave, and
not only that, I loved him too. I knew I owed everything to him, and
he was almost uniformly kind to me. Thus, while I feared him, my fear
was mingled with filial love.
"When we returned to England I started in earnest with my law studies.
I had not altogether neglected them while I had been away, and so I
went to London for my dinners, and in due time was called to the Bar,
with, it was said, a great deal of distinction. By this time my
experiences in Scotland became, to my shame, almost a shadowy memory to
me. I cared for no other woman, and there were times, too, when I
dreamed of Jean, and thought of her fondly, but only rarely. The
Scotch episode was but an episode. One thing gladdened me, Mary
Tregony seemed to care nothing for me, and in spite of Mr. Bolitho's
persuasions, there were no definite arrangements made about our
marriage. Presently, however, after I had been practising some time,
and had obtained a modicum of success, indeed, a success great enough
to promise well for the future, my adopted father wrote to me saying
that Mary had at length consented to our wedding. It was at this time
that I began to be afraid. What I had laughed at in my heart as the
Scotch episode, became real. I remember, too, that at that time I was
engaged in a bigamy trial, and I remember the terms which the judge
used concerning the man who was found guilty. Yet here was I, who had
acted as junior counsel for the prosecution of this man, contemplating
taking a woman to wife, when I had promised before God to be faithful
to another. I tried to persuade myself that the Scotch marriage was
not only informal but illegal, and could have no weight of whatever
nature, yet my heart swept away all the sophistries of my mind, and
proclaimed me to be a villain. So much moved was I by this that I at
length decided to send a man to Scotland to make inquiries. Of course,
he never dreamed of my connection with the affair, and thought that I
was only hunting up evidence for some case in which I was interested
professionally. After a time he returned with the news that Jean
Lindsay was dead, that she died some months after I had left her,
probably of a broken heart, certainly in disgrace. Need I say what I
suffered? You would not believe me if I told you! How could anyone
who had acted a coward's part as I had, suffer? Yet so it was. And
yet in my suffering was a sense of freedom. Nothing now seemed to
depend upon the possible legality or illegality of my former marriage.
The woman I had wedded was dead, at least so I was assured, and so I
believed. I went to Cornwall prepared to do my adopted father's
bidding.
"When I arrived there, I found him almost in a state of panic. Mary
was missing! What had become of her no one knew. Personally I
believed that she so hated the thought of marrying me that she had
determined to escape. More than five years had now passed away since
my visit to Scotland, and, as I said, I had been called to the Bar with
fair prospects of success. The name I bore was old and respected. It
was a passport into any society that I desired. Again I felt as though
the fates were fighting for me. After all, in spite of everything, I
should be free to live my own life, and the consequences of my
cowardice and sin would never be visited upon me. The fact that my
name had been changed from Graham to Bolitho was practically unknown,
and even those with whom I forgathered as a student had become
accustomed to my new name. It seemed natural to them, I suppose, that
I, in order to become my adopted father's heir, should also adopt his
name. Indeed, I have been described in certain handbooks as the only
son of Hugh Bolitho of Tredinnick, Cornwall.
"More than a year passed before I heard anything again of Mary Tregony,
and then I received an urgent message summoning me to the West of
England. It seems that my adopted father had at length found out where
she was, found out, too, that she had been the victim of a villain. A
wild rake, a man of no character, who had been kicked out of the army,
and who was already married, had deceived her. I need not mention his
name now, indeed it is well that I should not, and it has no real
bearing upon what I am telling you, but he was a handsome dare-devil
kind of fellow who appealed to the heart of a romantic young girl, and
she trusted him. Soon after their supposed marriage she found out what
she had done."
The judge ceased speaking for a few seconds.
"There was no one louder in his condemnation than I, no one called him
viler names than I, and yet I knew in my heart all the time that my
villainy was as great as his.
"My adopted father met me at Plymouth and led me to a low part of the
town where she had taken lodgings. It was here her child had been
born, a child she dared not own, a child to whom the stigma of disgrace
would be attached if the truth were made known. As I told you, my
adopted father loved Mary Tregony almost as he loved me, and it was the
dream of his heart that we should be man and wife. It seems almost
like a fairy story now, but at that time it was terribly real. Even
yet I can hardly believe in its truth. We found Mary lying in a
miserable room, with her child sleeping by her side--a little girl."
The judge turned, and gave a hasty glance at Mary as he spoke. It was
only for a second, but he saw that her face was blanched and set, while
in her eyes was a look of horror.
"The doctor who had been called in had said that Mary Tregony was
dying, that at most she could live only a few hours, and my adopted
father demanded that I should marry her, and thus save her name from
dishonour, and take the child as my own. I have told you of the power
he had over me, how practically all my life I had never thought of
disobeying him, and in spite of myself he persuaded me now."
During the whole of this recital Paul's mother had never uttered a
word, save in answer to the one question which Judge Bolitho had spoken
to her, but she had sat rigid in form and face, her hands clasped to
the arms of her chair, her eyes fixed on the speaker's face, never
missing a word that was uttered. Now, however, she spoke.
"And did you dare to marry her?" she said passionately. "You--you, who
had----"
"Wait a minute," said the judge. "There were certain legal formalities
to be complied with, a certain time to wait before any marriage could
be made legal. We were no longer in Scotland, as in the days when I
married you, Jean. We were in England. Yes, I decided to obey my
adopted father's command. As it seemed to me, I owed everything to him
and I could not withstand his pleadings. For he did plead, pleaded as
I never thought a man could, pleaded his love for Mary, his love for
her honour, pleaded that her child should have an honourable name--and
I yielded to him."
"Then I am not your child really?" cried Mary.
"Wait a little," said the judge. "Before the time came when Mary could
legally be made my wife, she died."
"Then you never married her?" said Paul's mother, her voice hoarse and
unnatural.
"No. I never married her."
"Then--then?" said Mary.
"Then my adopted father made me solemnly promise that I would take you
as my child, that it should be made known that I had married your
mother secretly, and that she was dead.
"I suppose I was much excited. Certain I am that my mind did not fully
comprehend the real issues of the case. Anyhow, I promised him. As
you know, Mary, I have never told you much about your mother, neither
have I since visited that part of Cornwall where she was known. All
you have heard has been that your mother died when you were born, and
you have regarded me as your father from the time you understood
anything."
There was a silence in the room for some time, save for the tick of the
clock on the mantelpiece. All seemed to be so overwhelmed by what they
had heard that for the moment they were incapable of speech.
"It is ever the same," said the judge. "Lying, cowardice are followed
by the most terrible penalties. I have felt many a time that cowardice
is the father of nearly all our crimes."
"But," cried Paul, and his voice was vibrant with strong emotion, "then
Mary is not my sister, she is--she can be---- Oh, Mary, forgive me! I
did not think! I did not remember!"
Mary did not appear to hear him. Her eyes were fixed on Judge
Bolitho's face, and she seemed to be trying to understand.
"I could say nothing about this before," went on the judge, "even when
the truth which was revealed during the trial came to me. I had sworn
to be silent. I dared not make known the truth. I dared not let this
shadow rest upon Mary's name, even although it seemed as though a
greater shadow rested upon it. You know what followed after that day
in the courts, when I confessed that Jean was my wife and that Paul was
my son. At last I had made up my mind that I would be a coward no
longer, that, whatever the consequences might be, I would walk in the
straight path. I could not tell all the truth because of my solemn
oath to my adopted father. Besides, the great thought in my mind was
to save Paul. I need not refer to that now, you know all about it!
But for Mary, here--well, thank God, Mary saved him! But for her, the
truth would never have come to light. But directly I knew that Paul
was free, I left you, determined to make the crooked places straight.
I hastened to London, and after doing what needed to be done there, I
hurried on to Cornwall. I saw my adopted father--he's an old man now,
but he's lost none of the strength of his younger manhood. I fought a
hard battle with him, but that's nothing--the result is that I am able
to tell you what I've told you."
The judge's eyes sought those of the older woman, who still sat rigidly
in her chair. He seemed to be on the point of speaking to her, but
before he could do so Paul broke in.
"Then the shame which has been attached to my name must be attached to
Mary's!" he cried.
"Never," replied the judge. "That need not be. Concerning Mary's
birth no word need be uttered. There is no need that we should deceive
anyone, nevertheless the truth is not for the world. I need only say
that Mary is not my child, but that I have simply reared her as my own.
Her mother was a pure woman, but concerning her parentage we need say
nothing."
"I would rather," cried Paul, "that my own name----"
"Stop, Paul!" said Mary. "It does not matter at all. How can it,
when--when---- Oh, Paul, Paul, my love!"
"I've always loved you like my own child," said the judge, "and under
ordinary circumstances these revelations should never have passed my
lips, but--but I--I thought, I understood----"
Paul dared not speak again. The truth was that the knowledge which had
come to him in such a strange way overwhelmed him with joy. It seemed
to him as though that dark winter night had changed into a June
morning. Everything was possible. His mind had swept aside the little
conventions of men. Mary's presence and Mary's love were all the world
to him.
The judge again looked towards Paul's mother. "I have not quite
finished yet," he said, and his voice trembled as he spoke. "And I
want to say something more. You know all now, Jean, know what a coward
I've been, know how that cowardice meant your misery and your disgrace.
I do not seek to excuse my conduct. It cannot be excused, and yet I
must speak the truth, I must----"
He hesitated a second, and then went on, "Can you forgive me, Jean?
Through all you have been pure and worthy, while I have been unworthy.
My name has been spoken of with honour, and yours has been covered with
shame through me. Can you forgive me? And more--perhaps you will
scorn me and repel me when I tell you this--but after that night when I
saw you in Manchester and knew that you still lived, all my old love
came back to me; I know that really it had never died. Jean, can you
forgive me?"
The eyes of the man and the woman met. At first hers seemed hard and
unyielding--she was evidently fighting a great battle. Then slowly,
little by little, they underwent a change, and Paul saw that the tears
were welling up.
"Jean! Jean!" said the judge, holding out his hands. "Have you no
word for me?"
"Come, Mary," said Paul. "Let us go into the other room."
And they went out, leaving the two together.