The Day of Judgment
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Title: The Day of Judgment
Author: Joseph Hocking
Release date: May 13, 2008 [eBook #25463]
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Language: English
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THE DAY OF JUDGMENT
by
JOSEPH HOCKING
With Frontispiece by Charles B. Buchel
[Frontispiece: "The two knelt . . . in the silence of the evening"
(_see page_ 12).]
Cassell and Company, Ltd
London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne
1915
_DEDICATION_
To T. HARTLEY ROBERTS, Esq., J.P.
_MY DEAR FRIEND,_
_I am dedicating this book to you, partly because when you read it in
MS. you told me you liked it better than any story I have ever written;
but more because, although words are at best utterly inadequate, I want
to tell you that one of the things I value most in life is your
friendship._
_JOSEPH HOCKING._
PRIOR'S CORNER,
TOTTERIDGE.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
PROLOGUE
1. A LEGACY OF HATE
2. PAUL BEGINS HIS WORK
3. PAUL IS SENT TO PRISON
4. PAUL MEETS MARY BOLITHO
5. PAUL'S MADNESS
6. PAUL GOES TO SCOTLAND
7. THE FIGHT AND THE RESULT
8. THE COMING OF PAUL'S MOTHER
9. THE SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS
10. THE NEW MEMBER FOR BRUNFORD
11. PAUL'S DARING
12. A NIGHT OF DOOM
13. HOW MARY BOLITHO RECEIVED THE NEWS
14. PAUL IS APPREHENDED FOR MURDER
15. THE CORONER'S INQUEST
16. AWAITING THE TRIAL
17. THE LOVERS
18. THE FIRST DAY OF THE TRIAL
19. PAUL DISCOVERS HIS FATHER
20. MAN AND WIFE
21. TRAVAIL
22. THE DAY OF JUDGMENT
23. THE DAY OF JUDGMENT (_continued_)
24. FATHER AND SON
25. MR. JUSTICE BRANSCOMBE
26. PAUL'S DEFENCE
27. THE VERDICT
28. PAUL'S MOTHER AND MARY
29. MARY'S ACCUSATION
30. THE TESTIMONY OF ARCHIE FEARN
31. EZEKIEL ASHWORTH, HERBALIST
32. IN THE CONDEMNED CELL
33. THE HOME-COMING
34. JUDGE BOLITHO'S CONFESSION
THE DAY OF JUDGMENT
PROLOGUE
Three young men sat in an old inn not far from the borderline which
divides England from Scotland. They were out on a holiday, and for
more than two weeks had been tramping northward. Beginning at the
Windermere Lakes, they had been roaming amidst the wild mountainous
scenery which is the pride and joy of all lovers of beauty who dwell in
that district. For two of them the holiday had practically come to an
end, and now, smoking their pipes after dinner in the old inn, they
were reviewing their experiences.
"I envy you, Douglas," said one whose holiday was practically finished.
"We have to get back to work but you have yet nearly three weeks before
getting into harness again. It must be glorious, too, this going into
Scotland."
"Yes," said the other, "and somehow Scotland is different from England.
I believe, if I knew nothing about the geography of the district, that
directly I put my foot on Scottish soil I should know it. Everything
is different there: the outlook on life, the customs, the laws and the
prevailing sentiments of the people. Why, we cannot be far from Gretna
Green now--think of the scenes which took place around here a few years
ago!"
"Have the laws changed much in relation to marriage?" asked the first
speaker. "You are studying for the Bar, Douglas, you ought to know."
The young man who had not yet spoken was different from the others. He
was cast in a more intellectual mould, and, although bronzed by the sun
and wind of the Cumberland Hills, his demeanour suggested the student.
"I really don't know much about Scottish laws," he replied, "they are
so different from those of England. It is wonderful how people living
so close together could have framed laws so entirely dissimilar. Of
course, marriage laws have been a curious business both in England and
Scotland. Before Lord Hardwicke's Act the marriage arrangements in
England were very peculiar, but with that Act things took a different
course. In Scotland, however, I believe they remained pretty nearly
the same as before. As a matter of fact, marriage in Scotland is very
difficult to define."
"In what way?"
"Well, I believe, even now, a marriage is valid even although there are
no witnesses, no minister, no religious ceremony, and no formula
whatever."
"But, my dear fellow," said one of the others, "that is surely
impossible."
"I think not," replied the young man called Douglas. "I was talking
with an old Scotch lawyer only a few months ago, and he was telling me
that even yet Scotch marriages are about as loose as they can possibly
be. He explained to me that Scotch marriage is a contract constituted
by custom alone, and although generally of a well-attested nature, a
marriage may be completed by a solemn and deliberate consent of the
parties to take each other for husband and wife, and that such a
marriage is absolutely binding. No writing or witnesses are necessary.
He also explained to me that a marriage could be legally constituted in
Scotland by a _promise_ to marry followed by the parties living
together for a few hours. By the way, I wonder whether in this old inn
there is an encyclopaedia of some sort. Yes, here is one; evidently it
has not been opened for years. Here we are, 'Marriage,' yes, 'Scotch
Marriage':
"A marriage will also be constituted by declarations
made by the man and the woman that they presently do
take each other for husband and wife. These declarations
may be emitted on any day, at any time, and without the
presence of witnesses, and either by writing or orally, or
by signs of any nature which is clearly an expression of
intention. Such a marriage is as effective to all intents
and purposes as a public marriage. The children of it
would be legitimate, and the parties to it would have all
the rights in the property of each other given by the law
of Scotland to husband and wife."
"But if there are no documents, how can anything be proved?"
"I cannot say," replied Douglas, "but there it is. Of course, at
Gretna Green, which, as you say, is not far away, the blacksmith used
to witness marriages, although his presence was unnecessary. Old
stories have it that the contracting parties jumped a broomstick or a
pair of tongs, or something of that sort, but whether there were any
signatures I really do not know. Anyhow, the law in Scotland, as I
have been informed, is that if a man and a girl agree to take each
other as husband and wife, a marriage is legally performed, and is as
binding as if it took place in Westminster Abbey and was performed by
the Archbishop of Canterbury."
There was silence for a few minutes, then one exclaimed, "I wonder we
do not hear more of divorces and marriage difficulties in Scottish law
courts."
"Oh, these Scotch are canny people and wonderfully logical. They seem
to regard present arrangements as inevitable, and act upon them. After
all, what is marriage when one comes to think about it? It is really
the promise of the man and the woman to take each other as husband and
wife. All the rest, Church services and legal documents, are mere
attestations to the fact. Marriage, true marriage, is simply a matter
for the parties in question who have determined upon union."
"Evidently you are not a High Churchman," remarked one of the others.
From this the conversation drifted on to other matters, and presently
dwindled down to mere snatches, freely punctuated by yawns. Then the
young men, having finished their pipes, retired to rest.
Two days later, Douglas Graham found himself alone. He had made
arrangements to pay a visit to a house near the borders of Scotland.
He was of Scotch descent on his father's side, while his mother's
family had always lived in the South of England. For that matter the
Grahams had lived in the South for three generations, so that, while he
was greatly interested in Scotland, he always called himself an
Englishman. The characteristics of both countries were clearly
expressed in both his mind and character. The Scotch side of him was
intellectual, practical, with, perhaps, a suggestion of hardness; but
to counteract this, he had inherited the gentleness and the softer
elements which appertain to the Southern peoples. He was only just
three and twenty; he had taken a good degree at Oxford, and then set
himself to qualify for the Bar. His personal appearance likewise
indicated a mixture of races--tall and well-knit, he suggested a strong
and determined nature; on the other hand, there was something almost
effeminate in the regularity of his features, and his lips were
somewhat sensuous. A passing stranger would be immediately attracted
by him. Blue eyes, brown hair, and well-formed features, together with
a sunny and kind-hearted disposition, had made him a popular man.
While very ambitious, he also possessed a happy disposition which made
him the best of companions. He was now on his way to visit a distant
relative on his father's side, and looked forward with exceeding
interest to spending the last weeks of his holiday in an old Scottish
stone mansion, situated among the wild hills.
As a lover of beauty, he could not help being charmed by the scenery
through which he passed: the purple heather, which was now in its
glory, made the wild moorlands wondrous for their beauty, while the
valleys through which the rushing streams passed simply enchanted him.
Presently he came to a lonely valley in a district which seemed almost
entirely uninhabited. Not a soul was in sight, and scarcely a sound
disturbed the silence. On each side of him, great heather-covered
hills sloped up to the sky, while at his feet a stream coiled its way
down the valley. Tramping along the narrow road which skirted the
stream, he presently saw some cattle rushing wildly around, and he
judged by the cries he heard that someone was greatly distressed. It
was not long before he saw what this meant. A young girl was trying to
keep some cattle together, but they, being in a turbulent mood, refused
to go the way she wished. Vainly she went hither and thither, seeking
to guide them into a path which led over the hills. For two or three
minutes Douglas Graham watched her, and then, seeing her dilemma, went
up to her.
She was evidently a Scotch peasant girl, as indicated by the clothes
she wore and by her hard, toilworn hands. Nevertheless, at first sight
of her Douglas was attracted, and for good reason--the face of the
girl, once seen, was not soon forgotten. During the time he had been
in Scotland it had seemed to him that the Scotch women were
hard-featured, uninteresting, and altogether unlovely; but this girl
was different. There was something of the savage in her, and yet she
possessed a charm which fascinated the young man. Her black hair hung
in curling and tangled tresses over her shoulders; her eyes were almost
as black as her hair and shone brightly. A kind of gipsy beauty she
possessed, and her eyes, her sensitive mouth, her square chin spoke of
a nature out of the ordinary.
"If you will tell me what you wish," he said, "I will help you."
She looked at him with a start of surprise, and for a moment he thought
she shrank from him. She seemed as shy as a young colt, and was
apparently frightened at his sudden appearance. As she looked at him,
however, her confidence came back. He was different from the raw
Scottish youths to whom she was accustomed. His pleasant smile and
laughing eyes reassured her. "I am trying to take the kine home," she
said, "but I think the witches have got hold of them. I never saw them
like this before." She spoke with a strong Scotch accent, and was
evidently what she seemed, either a servant at a farmhouse or, perhaps,
the daughter of some small tenant farmer who lived in the district.
"We'll see if we can't destroy the witches' power," laughed Douglas,
and set to work to gather the cattle. It took some little time, but
the feat was accomplished at last. Then the two walked side by side,
driving the beasts before them.
The romance in the young man's nature was aroused. There, amidst the
wild moorland scenery and in the light of the setting sun, it was
vastly pleasant to be walking beside this young creature, so instinct
with life.
"Is your home far away?" he asked.
"It must be more than two miles," she replied.
"And do you know the house called 'Highlands'?"
"It will be where Mr. Graham lives, I expect."
"Yes," he said.
"Then it will be only a mile beyond my father's farm," was her reply.
"Oh, that is capital!" laughed Graham. "I shall get there before dark,
and be able to help you with the cattle at the same time."
"But you are not the son at 'Highlands,'" she said, looking at him
curiously.
"Oh, no," he replied. "The Grahams are distant relatives of mine, that
is all. There is just a little Scotch in me, that is why I love
Scotland so. Of course, you love Scotland too?"
A far-away look came into her eyes. "I don't know," she said.
"Not know if you love your own country?" And he laughed as he spoke.
"I am not sure that it is my own country," was her reply. "You
see----" And then she stopped. "It will be nothing to you," she added
after a minute, and for some time they walked along together in silence.
"It must be just lovely to live amid such surroundings as these; still,
I should find it lonely sometimes," he ventured at length.
"You would, if--if--" And then the girl looked at him curiously. "But
I expect you'll not be understanding what I mean," she added.
Again they walked on in silence, Douglas longing to ask her what she
meant, and yet shrinking from taking what he felt might be a liberty,
for there was something about the girl that kept him from speaking
freely. Dressed like a peasant as she was, he instinctively felt that
here was no ordinary farmer's drudge. She had uttered nothing beyond
commonplaces, but the look in her eyes, the tremor of her lips
suggested romance and mystery and poetry.
"You see," she said a minute later, as if talking to herself, "I have
no mother. I never saw her; at least, I cannot remember ever seeing
her, and she was not Scotch."
"No?" said Douglas. "Then we have something in common: my people on my
father's side were Scotch, but all my mother's people belong to the
South."
"And mine, too," said the girl. "But what can it be to you?" And
again she seemed to be thinking of something far away.
"Do you know," said the young man, "you are the first person I have
spoken to since morning? I have been on the tramp all the day. I had
my lunch by the side of a stream, and I have kept away from every
house. I wanted to be alone. I expect that is why I want you to tell
me why you don't seem happy."
Again the girl looked at him curiously. "I think I should go mad
sometimes," she said, "if I did not think my dead mother was near me.
I do not mean when I am out here alone on the moors, but it's home that
makes it so hard."
"Tell me," said the young fellow. It did not seem to him as though he
were talking to a stranger at all. The girl did not belong to his
class, and evidently her associations and education removed her far
from him, yet he had an instinctive sympathy with her. After all, I
suppose every young fellow is attracted by a young pretty face, wild,
longing eyes, and beautiful features suggestive of romance and poetry
and unsatisfied yearnings.
"You see," said the girl, "my father was a fisherman. Years ago, when
he was a young man, he sailed down the West of England, and his boat
harboured at a little Cornish village called St. Ives. There he met my
mother, and I have heard him say that she had Spanish blood in her
veins. Anyhow, they fell in love with each other and got married.
"I suppose her father and mother were very angry, and so he took her
away from St. Ives altogether, and came back here to Scotland. Just at
that time his father died, and left our farm to him. So my father gave
up fishing, and brought mother here, but I had not been born long
before mother died, so you see I never knew her. My father did not
remain unmarried long: the second time he married a Scotswoman, and I
hate the Scotch."
"Why?" asked Graham.
"Oh, well, my father says that the Cornish people are wild and
imaginative, and my stepmother hasn't any imagination. Years ago I
used to read Burns's poems and Sir Walter Scott's stories, but mother
took the books from me. She says a farmer's daughter has no time for
poetry and romance, but I love it all the same. That is why I am only
happy when I am out on the moors alone."
A few minutes later a lonely farmhouse appeared to view. It was little
more than a cottage, and Graham judged that the farm consisted of only
about fifty acres of stony and barren land.
"Good night," she said presently, "and thank you for helping me with
the kine."
"Perhaps I shall be seeing you again," said the young man. "I am sure
I shall come round this way in the hope that you may be visible." And
he laughed almost nervously as he spoke. The girl had appealed to him.
She seemed to him like a flower in the wilderness, and aroused all the
romance of his nature.
She shook her head. "No," she said, "you will never see me again."
"At least you will tell me your name?" said Graham; "why, do you know,
we have been nearly an hour together? I am called Douglas Graham."
"And my name is Jean Lindsay," she said, looking at him shyly; "not
that it matters much, for if you are staying with the Grahams you will
be a gentleman."
"And do you go to fetch the cattle home every night?" he asked eagerly;
but she did not answer him. A hard-featured woman came up to the
farmyard gate as he spoke, while Jean silently, and with an almost
sullen look on her face, drove the cattle into the yard. He lifted his
cap and passed on.
"Who is yon?" asked the woman in a harsh, strident voice.
"I do not know," replied the girl; "he helped me with the cattle, that
is all."
Douglas Graham climbed the hill which lay between him and his
relative's house with a strange feeling at his heart. Somehow life
seemed different, and the picture of this black-eyed girl remained with
him. "I should like to see her again," he said, as presently he came
up to the gates which led to the house; "yes, and I will, too!"
During the next two days he made no attempt to see Jean Lindsay. He
found among his relatives at "Highlands" several young people, who not
only gave him a warm welcome, but entirely claimed his companionship,
and amidst the entertainments provided he almost forgot the meeting on
the moors. The third day, however, found him wandering away by himself
towards the lonely farmhouse. Had he tried to analyse his feelings, he
would have told himself that Jean Lindsay was only a chance
acquaintance, who was vastly interesting, but nothing more. But he
could not altogether drive her picture from his mind; the black,
speaking eyes, the strange longings which were revealed in the girl's
half-uttered sentences, filled his mind with unaccustomed thoughts.
That was why he found himself near the farmhouse, wondering whether he
should see her again. But he found no one there: the place might have
been forsaken. Wandering down the valley, however, he thought he heard
someone sobbing, and quickly discovered Jean Lindsay sitting by a
brook, crying as though her heart would break.
"What is the matter?" he asked.
For a moment the girl gave no reply. She seemed to resent his
presence, to be angry that he should have seen her in this frame of
mind.
"I am sure you must be in trouble," he went on; "tell me about it."
"She struck me," was her almost sullen reply.
"Struck you! Who?"
"My stepmother," she replied, "and I will not stand it, I will run
away; besides----" And then she stopped suddenly.
A little later her passion seemed to have subsided, and she was able to
speak more freely. For more than an hour they talked, and when they
parted she told him that on the following day she had to go to a
village some four miles distant.
That evening, at "Highlands," Douglas Graham was not an interesting
companion. The young people joked him about his solemn appearance, and
wondered why he looked so troubled.
"Anyone would think you were crossed in love, Douglas," said one.
"Tell us all about it now; has she run away with her father's coachman,
or has she jilted you for a handsomer man?"
But while Douglas replied to their good-tempered raillery in laughing
tones, it was easy to see that his mind was far away. For hours he lay
in bed that night without being able to sleep. The picture of the
dark-eyed sobbing girl remained with him, and all sorts of longings
filled his heart. It seemed as though the Scotch side of his nature
was altogether repressed. He was no longer cautious and calculating,
his mind and heart were full of the half savage beauty of the young
girl of the moors.
The next day he left his friends at "Highlands" without any excuse
whatever, and again wandered away alone. Near the village Jean Lindsay
had mentioned he saw her returning with a basket on her arm, and again
he entered into eager conversation with her. He forgot the foolishness
of his action, forgot the wrong he was doing to the girl by filling her
mind with thoughts about himself--for he could see that she was
attracted by him. To her he seemed some knight-errant like those she
had read about in the stories which her stepmother had forbidden her to
read. His mode of speech, his appearance, his sunny laugh, all made
her realise that there was a world hitherto unknown to her, but which
she now longed to enter.
This meeting led to others, until Douglas's friends began to wonder why
he so often desired to leave them and wander away alone. A few days
before the time when his visit to "Highlands" was to come to an end he
found Jean strangely perturbed. She was overwhelmed by some great
emotion, but she would not speak to him concerning it. At length,
however, with much hesitation, she confessed to him that she was
troubled greatly. "I have to be married," she said.
"Married, Jean!" he cried; "to whom--why?"
"To Willie Fearn," was her reply. "Father told me so last night."
"But why? Do you love him?" he asked.
"Nay, I hate him," was the reply, "especially since----" And then she
ceased speaking, her face becoming crimson. "Father says I shall never
get such a good chance again," she went on presently. "He has the best
farm hereabouts, and could give me a good home, and my stepmother, she
wants to get rid of me--but I hate him, I hate him!"
"Then you will not marry him?" said Douglas.
"What can I do?" replied the girl; "for more than a year they have been
trying to persuade me, and father owes him money, too, and Willie says
he will forgive him ever paying if I will marry him." And the girl
burst out sobbing.
Douglas was young and romantic. The Scotch side of his nature told him
that the resolution born in his mind was utterly mad, but this was
utterly destroyed by feelings of pity, and what to him was greater than
pity--a wild passion for the girl at his side. So, not thinking of
what his determination might mean, nor dreaming of what the future had
in store for him, he told Jean that she must never think of marrying
the farmer.
"But how can I help it?" she asked. "They never let me rest, and,
while I hate him, how can I dare disobey my father and my mother?
Besides, when the minister came to tea at our house last week, he spoke
of it as a thing settled, and said that Willie would soon be made an
elder of the kirk. He thought it would be a grand thing for me, I
suppose, to be an elder's wife--but how can I--how can I?"
I need not describe at length what followed. The young fellow casting
caution to the winds, mapped out his plan, and before parting they
arranged to meet again the next day.
On his way back to "Highlands" the conversation which took place
between himself and his companions came back to him. He remembered
what he had read in the old Encyclopaedia about Scotch marriages, and
it possessed him strongly. He believed himself to be in love with this
peasant girl. To him she was a creature apart from all the rest of the
world--young, romantic, beautiful with a kind of beauty he had never
seen in any other. He felt he could not live his life apart from her.
He wanted to take her away from this barren farm among the hills and
make her life happy. And yet the madness of his thought appealed to
him too. How could he make her his wife? How could he introduce her
to his friends? Beautiful she might be, but was it not the beauty of a
savage? The Poles lay between her and the women into whose society he
would be cast in coming days. He was very ambitious for his own
future. He dreamed of becoming a popular barrister, of winning fame
and renown, of gaining a name throughout the country as a brilliant
lawyer and a pleader of eloquence and power. Like every other young
law student he had read of famous lawyers who had risen from obscurity
to renown, from poverty to wealth. His career at the University had
assured him that he had more than average abilities, while his speeches
at the Oxford Union had been received with so much applause that he
knew he had the gift of public speech in no ordinary degree. What then
should hinder him from attaining to high position in the world he had
chosen as his sphere? But all this seemed as nothing in comparison
with the mad passion which had been aroused in his heart by this
beauteous being of the moors. What was law, what was fame, what were
riches in comparison with the joy which her presence gave him?
Besides, it did not seem to him that the marriage he had in his mind
was the same as that in the English churches. It might be legal, but
there was something unreal, unstable about it, and who need know? A
Scotch marriage! It appealed to him almost as a joke, while at the
same time he knew it would satisfy this young girl's conscience. It
would make her his wife. And so, although he had many doubts, he made
his plans.
All through the night he lay thinking. He wished he had some of his
law books with him, so that he could study the matter carefully, for he
was strangely ignorant. No minister, no church, no documents, no
witnesses--simply taking each other by the hand and declaring that he
took her as his wife. It seemed so easy, and surely, surely----
He was not a bad young fellow, this Douglas Graham. Some spoke of him
as a kind of dual personality, strong and weak at the same time--but he
had never been known to do anything dishonourable, and his career at
Oxford had been an unblemished one. To an extent he was cast in a
religious mould, and was susceptible to religious influences. He had
indeed been a communicant at a Presbyterian church, and thus, while
determined to carve out for himself a great career, he always dreamed
of acting honourably and conscientiously, and he would do so now,
only---- And then he thought out the whole matter again. Yes, it did
seem different from a marriage in an English church, but it would
satisfy Jean, and it would be a real marriage.
Two days later he left the "Highlands," to walk to Carlisle, he said,
and take the train from there. So, packing in his knapsack the
absolute necessities of life, he took his departure from his relatives.
He did not tell them what he had in his mind--did not give a hint that
that afternoon he was to meet Jean Lindsay alone on the moors. He
tried to appear calm, but his mind was full of the plans he had made,
full of what Jean would say when he met her. Just as he was leaving
"Highlands" a servant brought him a letter, but he was too excited to
read it; he simply put it in his pocket with the thought that it could
wait, and then, bidding his relatives farewell, he started on his walk.
Two hours later Jean and he were walking side by side away from her
father's farm. "You are sure it is all right, Douglas?"
"Yes, sure."
"And you love me?"
"I love you more than my own life," he said, and into the girl's eyes
came a look of infinite trust and infinite joy. She had no qualms
about the Scotch marriage. She had heard of them again and again, and
they were mere commonplaces to her. It did seem strange, walking away
with him alone, but she had given him her heart's love, and she had a
perfection of trust in him.
It was a strange experience, and Douglas Graham felt awed, as presently
they took each other by the hand, and he said, "Jean Lindsay, I do here
take you as my wife, and, God helping me, I will be a good and faithful
husband to you."
The girl's eyes burned brightly with joy as she heard the words.
"Douglas Graham," she said, "I, Jean Lindsay, do take you as my
husband, and, God helping me, I will love you and obey you and be
faithful to you till death."
The sun was just setting, and the whole of the Western sky was ablaze
with glory. The hills, heather-covered, were enveloped in a purple
haze. The evening was windless; not a sound was heard; not a bird
chirped; and no one was near. He kissed the girl fondly.
"There, Jean," he said, "I kiss you as my wife."
The girl sobbed for joy.
"I never knew what happiness meant before," she said; "but, but----"
"What?" he asked eagerly.
"Must there not be a word of prayer?" she said, and her voice shook
with emotion.
The two knelt down by the roadside, and in the silence of the evening
they asked fervently for God's blessing on their union.
When night came, they found themselves in the inn across the border
where Douglas had parted from his companions, and then he remembered
the letter which the servant had given him at "Highlands" just before
he parted from the family. He had read only a few lines when he
started and changed colour.
"What is it, Douglas?" asked the girl.
"It is all right," he said, but his voice was hoarse and troubled.
The following morning Douglas Graham parted from his newly-made wife at
a railway station some distance from the inn.
"You are sure you must go?" she asked, and her voice was trembling.
"I simply must, Jean!" he replied. "But do not be afraid. I will be
back in a few days. You can tell your father everything. In a month
from now you shall be publicly proclaimed as my wife."
"I don't like letting you go!" sobbed the girl.
"I would give anything if I could stay, but I simply dare not--my whole
future depends upon my going!"
The train swept into the station.
"Good-bye, Douglas, my husband!" she said. "You'll soon be back?"
"Good-bye, Jean, my wife! May God bless you! Yes, I'll soon be back."
CHAPTER I
A LEGACY OF HATE
Their meeting-place was on the Altarnun Moors, eight miles from the
town of Bodmin, perhaps as many from the rugged peaks--the highest
peaks in Cornwall--Router and Brown Willy. Almost as far as the eye
could reach was bare moorland. A white streak, the road which ran
between Altarnun and Bodmin, was the most striking thing seen. On
either side of the road were only bare, uncultivated, uninteresting
moors; and yet, perhaps, I do the district injustice. Here and there
was a rugged tor, and again a few fields taken in from the moorland by
some enterprising labourer who wanted to earn a living by farming.
Near this road, too, is the famous Dozmary Pool, known to all those who
love folk-lore and are acquainted with the legends of the most Western
county in England--a dismal piece of water, black as ink, and, so the
old stories have it, bottomless. It was here that Tregellas, of
Cornish myth, was set by the Devil to scoop out its water by means of a
limpet-shell. Here, too, in old times, coaches were robbed and dark
deeds done. At the time of which I am writing, however, it was simply
one of the most unattractive and bleak districts in what is otherwise
perhaps the most beautiful county in England. The woman had walked all
the way from Launceston, a distance of not less than a dozen miles.
The youth had come from Bodmin, and he had covered nearly the same
length of road. The afternoon was drawing to a close as they met. It
was a November day, and darkness would be upon them by five o'clock.
No one was near, for since the days of stage-coaches the traffic on
this road has been small. Occasionally a farmer's cart passes along,
or again a vehicle of more ornamental description, used by those who
wish to travel either to Bodmin or to Launceston. There is no railway
station within ten miles of that drear region, and it seemed a fitting
meeting-place for the couple who came there that day. The woman was
perhaps thirty-five years of age, and suggested the fact that in her
girlhood she must have been strangely beautiful. Even yet there were
times when one would have spoken of her as one possessing more than
ordinary attraction. That was when her eyes became soft, and her
features relaxed into a smile, but these times were very rare. As she
trudged along the dreary road her face was set and stern, her lips were
compressed, her eyes hard and relentless. As she passed through Five
Lanes and asked for a cup of tea at a cottage there, the villagers
remarked upon her and wondered who she was. "She might be a witch,"
said one.
"No, too young for that," said another.
"But where can she be goin'? She is a straanger in thaise paarts."
"Up to no good, I reckon."
But the woman gave no confidences. Evidently her purpose was clear
before her mind, and after she had obtained her cup of tea she stepped
forward with the same resolution in her eyes, turning neither to the
right nor to the left. She seemed as little impressed by the
suggestion of beauty contained in the valley where the old Altarnun
Church stands, as she was by the bleak moors on to which she presently
entered. She might be looking into her own soul rather than on the
vast sweep of hill and dale which presently stretched out before her.
Now and then she muttered like one talking to herself, but she never
faltered on her way. She seemed to know no weariness. Firmly and
resolutely she went her way, her mind evidently set upon some grim
purpose. It was two o'clock when she left Five Lanes, and considerably
past three when she saw a dark object in the road in front of her. "It
must be he," she said to herself, and her lips quivered and her eyes
shone with a new light. As they drew nearer she quickened her
footsteps.
"My boy!" she said; "what will he say--what will he do? But he must
know, for his own sake and for mine. He must know that his mother is
an honest woman and tried to do right."
The day was dark and drear. Clouds hung heavily in the sky and the
moorland was wrapt in a fine mist so peculiar to that district. The
roads were heavy, and one could hear the silt crush beneath her feet as
she walked.
A little later the two met, and the relationship was evident at the
first glance. They were mother and son. The youth was about seventeen
years of age, tall and muscular. He wore the dress of a mechanic, and
there was in his appearance a suggestion of capability and of resolute
resolve. Strangely handsome he was, and yet no one seemed attracted by
him. During his journey from Bodmin a labourer would pass the time of
day, but he seemed to take no notice. And once the driver of a
farmer's cart offered to give him a lift, but he only shook his head
and trudged on. There was an eager questioning look in his eyes, and
he seemed to be wondering greatly as to the result of his journey. Two
days before he had received a letter, urging him to come to a certain
spot on Altarnun Moors, and promising him that he should hear of things
concerning which he had long been anxious to know. The letter had no
signature, but the address given was "Lancroft, near Launceston." Who
the writer of the letter was the youth had not the slightest idea, but
he never thought of refusing the request made. Almost ever since he
could remember he had wondered concerning his father and mother, and
now he felt sure that the time of revelation was come.
Presently the two met, and each looked steadily into the other's face,
as if wondering who the other might be.
"You received a letter two days ago?" said the woman.
"Yes," was his reply.
"I wrote it." Simple as the words were, they were uttered with a sob.
He saw that she was under very strong emotion, and noted the yearning
look in her eyes.
"You have wondered all your life who your father and mother are?" and
the woman controlled her voice with difficulty. "I know you have. You
want to know all about them, don't you?"
"I shouldn't have come here if I hadn't!" was his reply.
"I'm your mother!" said the woman.
He looked at her curiously. He had been thinking, ever since they had
met, whether this might not be so; nevertheless the news came to him as
a kind of shock. A woman with sad eyes and an expression of
unsatisfied yearning in her face; yet handsome withal.
"Do you not believe it?" she asked. "My boy! my boy! I'm your mother,
and, if I have kept silent about it, it has been for love of you!"
And she held out her hands towards him.
It seemed as though something touched his heart, as though his whole
being thrilled with a recognition of the truth, and, in a way he could
not understand, a great love for this lonely woman sprang suddenly into
his heart.
"Yes, I believe you are my mother."
"I have come to tell you everything, Paul," she said. "It's a sad
story, but I believe you'll understand."
"Yes," he replied, "I shall understand!"
The woman looked at him, still with the same expression of tender
yearning in her eyes.
"It's a hard question to ask," she said, "but can you feel towards me
as a laddie should feel to his mother?"
"Yes," he replied, "I do."
"Then call me 'Mother,' and kiss me!" she cried passionately.
"Mother!" he said, and held her close to him.
A few minutes later she began to tell him the things which for years he
had been longing to know, and concerning which gossip had been rife.
"I want to know, mother," he said, "who my father is, where I was born,
and why the truth has been so long kept from me."
"Born," she said, and her face became hard; "you were born in a
workhouse, and your father would call himself a gentleman, and we were
married in Scotland!"
A bright light came into the youth's eyes at the last part of the
sentence. "But is my father alive?" he asked eagerly.
"I do not know," she replied; "I think he must be. I feel sure he is,
but I cannot tell. Listen. I was reared in Scotland, not far beyond
the English border. My name was Jean Lindsay. My father had been a
fisherman as a young man, but came to Cornwall for his wife, and soon
after he brought her to Scotland and I was born, she died. He had a
farm in Scotland, and there I lived with my stepmother and stepbrothers
and sisters, who made life a misery for me until I was eighteen, and
then one day I met a gentleman. Oh, my lad, it was no wonder I loved
him; he was different from all the lads I had met in those parts,
young, handsome, laughter-loving, just the man to captivate a lassie's
heart. He married me, Scottish fashion, and on the day we were wed he
told me he had received a letter which urged him to go back to his home
at once. We were married secretly, my boy, because I was afraid for my
father and stepmother to know. They wanted me to wed a young farmer,
and would have forced me to do so but for him, and I could not--how
could I when I loved him and he loved me? And I believed in him too;
he was all the world to me. No one knew but he and me. But when we
were married and he came to the inn, he told the landlady I was his
wife."
The boy nodded. "And the letter, mother?" he said, "the letter, what
of that?"
"It urged him to go to his home," she replied. "You must remember, my
boy, that I was young and ignorant. I knew nothing of the ways of the
world, nothing of men, but I loved him devotedly. He was my king, my
life! When he had read the letter, he said he must leave the following
morning, and urged me to go back to my home and wait until he could
come and fetch me. I was to tell them, he said, that we were married,
and that thus I was free from the attentions of Willie Fearn, the
farmer they wanted me to wed."
The youth did not seem to understand her, but looked at her with wild
wonder in his eyes, trying to comprehend the story she was telling. It
seemed utterly unreal to him. He wondered whether she fully realised
what she was saying.
"Yes, mother," he said at length, "go on."
"What could I do but obey him?" she said. "I had promised before God
that I would, and I did. I went back to my father--he had wondered
where I had gone--and told him I had wedded a young Englishman named
Douglas Graham. I think my father thought that all was right, for,
while he spoke harsh words to me, he seemed presently to settle down to
the conviction that my husband would soon come to me, and that I should
be a lady. But my stepmother said awful things. I will not tell you
what! Even now her words cut me like a knife."
"Well," said the youth, "and what then?"
"Day after day I waited for a letter from him," she replied. "At first
I hadn't a doubt; he had promised me and I believed him. But when one
month had gone, and then two, I grew desperate."
"And he never wrote to you at all?" asked the youth.
"At the end of three months," she replied, "I got a letter."
"Yes"--and his voice was eager--"what did he say?"
"Here it is," she replied, and she passed him a crumpled piece of
paper. The envelope was stamped with a London post-mark, but the paper
within had no address of any sort. It simply contained the words:
"DEAR JEAN,--It cannot be helped now, and
of course we were never really married. It
was only a joke.--DOUGLAS."
"And that was all?" said the youth.
"That was all, God helping me, that was all."
"And you have heard nothing from him since?"
"Never a word since the morning he bid me good-bye at the station, and
told me to go back to my father, saying he would write to me at once,
and come to me soon. No, I have never seen nor heard of him since."
The eyes of the youth became red with anger. His hands clenched and
unclenched themselves passionately, but he did not speak. It seemed as
if he could not. Then an oath escaped him, and his voice was hoarse.
"But, mother," he cried presently, "tell me more. There must be more
than this. What about this marriage? Were there no witnesses? Have
you no marriage lines?"
"Things are different in Scotland, my boy," was her answer. "There
many people just take each other as man and wife, and that is all, and
the marriage is legal. Do you know"--and her voice trembled with
passion--"that on the afternoon when he took me as his wife we knelt
down by the roadside, and he prayed with me that God would help us to
be true man and wife to each other?"
"But, but----" he cried, and he was trembling with emotion, "and he
treated you like that?"
The woman did not reply, but looked away across the moors with a hard,
stony stare.
"My mother, my poor, poor mother!" He seemed incapable of saying more,
and for two or three minutes there was a silence between them.
"And then, mother?" he went on presently.
"Months later," she went on, "I was driven from home. I had no
friends, no relatives, no one to whom I could go, and I thought I
should go mad!"
"And what did you do?" he asked.
"There seemed to me only one thing I could do," she said. "I could not
stay near my old home, I was ashamed--besides, my father and stepmother
drove me away with a curse. They said I had disgraced the name of
Lindsay. I always hated Scotland, and as my heart turned to my
mother's home, I determined I would go to Cornwall. I had just three
pounds, and with that I commenced my journey."
"You came by train?" he asked.
"No, I walked. I wanted to hoard my money. You see it was very
little."
"You walked all the way to Cornwall from Scotland?"
"Every step," she said. "It was winter time, too, and it often rained,
but somehow I felt as though Cornwall would give me a home, a welcome.
It took me weeks to do it, but I got there at last. Often I slept in a
farmer's barn; more than once I walked all through the night." And
into her eyes came a far-away look, while her lips quivered as if with
pain.
"And did you find a home and welcome?" he asked.
She shook her head. "How could I? I went straight to St. Ives, but
everyone had forgotten my mother, and her people were dead. You see, I
looked like a vagrant, my clothes were weather-stained, my boots were
worn out, I had no money, and no one wanted me. More than once I
thought I should have died of starvation."
"And what did you do?" he asked.
"I did not know what to do. I went from place to place. Here and
there I got a day's work, but I never begged. I would rather have died
than have done that."
A kind of grim satisfaction settled in the youth's face as he heard
this, but it was easy to see that the pain which lay in his mother's
heart also passed into his. He was not pleasant to look at at that
moment, and if murder can ever be seen in a man's eyes, it could be
seen in his at that moment.
"Well, mother?" he said at length, "and what afterwards?"
"I began to tramp northward again," she said. "I hoped that surely,
surely, someone would help me. And then one day I fell down by the
roadside. It was spring time now but terribly cold, and I thought,
'Now I shall die, and all will be over.' I think I went to sleep,
because I knew nothing of what happened. A great darkness fell upon
everything, and then, when I woke again, I found myself in a workhouse.
I knew it was a workhouse by the clothes the people wore and by the way
they talked; but I did not care much--I had got beyond that." She
hesitated, like one who did not know how to continue her story. Her
teeth became set, her lips quivered, her eyes were hard. "Oh, my boy,
my boy!" she said, "I could not help it, I thought I did what was
right!"
The youth took hold of her hand almost awkwardly. He wanted to try and
comfort her, but knew not how. Perhaps the affectionate action, even
although accompanied by no words, was the best thing he could have done
to ease her aching heart. She laid her head upon his chest as though
she were tired. And then she sobbed convulsively. "There you were
born, my boy."
"They always called me a workhouse brat," he said; "but never mind,
mother, never mind; what then?"
"They never thought I would live, I suppose," she replied. "For weeks
I lay between life and death. I believe I should have died, but
presently I came to know that you were alive, and that you were a
great, strong, handsome boy. But you are not like him, thank God! He
had blue eyes and light hair, but your eyes are black, your hair is
black, and you are like me. They christened you in the workhouse,
unknown to me. The chaplain gave you a name. If I had had the
choosing of it, I should have called you Ishmael or Esau, but they
called you Paul. They wanted me to tell them my surname, but I would
not--I could not--so they called you Stepaside, the name of the little
hamlet where I fell down, as I thought, to die."
"Well, I know everything after that," he replied.
"Very nearly," was her answer. "You were brought up in the workhouse,
while I, as soon as I was strong enough, had to go away into service.
On the whole, I suppose, they did as well as one could expect for you.
They gave you good schooling, and taught you a trade, and now you are
beginning to earn your own living."
"Yes, mother," he replied. "I have got a job as a blacksmith in the
Pencarrow Mines. Soon I shall be getting a pound a week, and later on
you must come and live with me."
She shook her head. "No, Paul. While I am not with you, people will
not insult you. Now that you are away from the place where you were
born and reared, no one knows your history. No one knows that you were
born in a workhouse and that your mother does not know where your
father is."
"But you were married, mother?"
"Yes," she cried eagerly, "and that is why I have told you everything
to-day. When you were seventeen, I said to myself, 'Directly I can get
to him we will meet, and I will tell him, tell him with my own lips.'
Paul, that man has covered your mother with black shame. If he is
alive you must find him. The day he wrote me that letter he killed all
the love I had for him. The last feeling I had, when I lay down and
thought I was going to die on the roadside, was a feeling of hatred for
him. When I first saw you, although my heart went out to you with a
great love, I hated your father. For seventeen long years I have hated
him, and I hate him still."
She looked like a savage, and there was a snarl in her voice as she
spoke. "But for him, but for him----" And then she stopped. "Paul,
find him out, wherever he is. Find him out!"
The passion which burned in the mother's eyes passed into those of the
youth. She need not have told him what was in her heart. Paul
Stepaside hated his father from that day.
"Yes, I will," he said grimly. "I will find him. An eye for an eye; a
tooth for a tooth; disgrace for disgrace; misery for misery. Mother,
all you have suffered he shall suffer, and a thousand times more.
Wherever he is, whatever he is, I will find him." His eyes turned away
towards the dreary moors. Router and Brown Willy stood like grim
sentinels watching over the scene. A slight wind had arisen, which
soughed its way across the great silent spaces, dispelling the mists.
The black tors in the near distance became visible again; frogs croaked
in the marshes near by.
"But tell me more, mother. I know nothing yet. Who is he? What is
he? Tell me all you know of him."
"There is little I can tell," said the mother. "He told me his name
was Douglas Graham. I believe that to be true. I found out that from
the people at 'Highlands,' the big house close by my father's farm."
"Ah, they can tell us," he cried.
"Nay," replied the mother. "They only had the house for a short time,
and then left. They are gone, I know not whither, and I, fool that I
was, was too ignorant to find out in those days more about him. But he
was called Douglas Graham, there is no doubt about that."
"And is that all?"
"Only this," replied the mother, "he is a lawyer--what they call an
English barrister. I have heard that books are kept, containing a list
of such people. I expect they'll be in London; but these barrister men
go around the country, some of them. Anyhow, that is for you to find
out."
He nodded his head. "Yes, I will find out," he said; "but the thing
will be difficult, mother. I see what you mean now, and why you cannot
live with me. I must go to London, or to one of the other big places
where I can find out the truth about such things. Oh, I shall know,
and I will not spare him. Don't be afraid, mother, you shall be
avenged for all he's done to you."
A kind of evil joy flashed from the woman's eyes. "Yes, Paul," she
said presently, "and you are clever, you were the cleverest lad in the
workhouse school. I found out that. You were always ahead with your
lessons, and you are quick with your brains and you are strong. But
remember, he is clever and strong too, and he has much book-learning,
and he knows all about the law, English law especially. You must be
able to meet him on equal terms. You must learn, my boy--you must know
everything. You need not fear for me. I have a place now where I can
live comfortably; but remember, I shall never be happy until either he
sets me and you right before the world, or I have made him suffer all I
have suffered and all you have suffered."
For half an hour more they stood talking, he asking questions, she
answering and explaining. Night had fallen now, but the moon had risen
and made darkness impossible. The mists had cleared away, too, and
patches of blue were to be seen in the sky. Here and there a star
peeped out.
"Good night, Paul," she said at length. "You will write me often,
won't you? Remember, you are the only thing I love on earth."
"You know what I will do," he replied. "Good night, mother."
For a few seconds he held her like a man might hold the maid he loved,
and then, turning, he walked slowly back towards Bodmin, from which
town he intended to take the train to the place where he lived. Mile
after mile he walked, seeming to take no notice of his surroundings.
It might be day, it might be night; it might be summer, it might be
winter, for all he cared. The iron had entered his soul, the poison of
hatred had filled his heart. He loved his mother with a kind of
savage, passionate love, but the man who was his father he hated, and
on him he swore to be revenged. "That is my work in life," he said to
himself; "that is the purpose for which I shall live, and I will do
it--yes, I will do it."
CHAPTER II
PAUL BEGINS HIS WORK
In some senses Paul Stepaside had suffered but little because of his
being a pauper. His education was quite equal to that of the lads who
had gone to the elementary school in the district. He had passed what
was called the sixth standard, and although this meant very little more
than a knowledge of the three "r's," he was considered by the workhouse
schoolmaster as his cleverest pupil. After leaving school at the age
of fourteen he was apprenticed to a local blacksmith, with whom it was
arranged he should remain for four years. John Tresidder, the
blacksmith, however, died two years after Paul's apprenticeship, and so
at sixteen, with his trade half learned, he found himself homeless and
friendless. But that did not trouble him much. He knew, or, at least,
he thought he knew, practically all that Tresidder could teach him, and
he was eager to start life on his own account. During the two years he
had been an apprentice, moreover, he had attended a night-school, and
had studied subjects which were beyond the range of the curriculum in
the ordinary day-schools. He had some knowledge of geometry, and had
mastered the first book of Euclid. He also knew a little of history,
and the schoolmaster, having some acquaintance with chemistry, and
finding Paul an apt pupil, had given him some lessons in that science.
Being a strong, healthy lad, he had no difficulty in finding work in
the blacksmith's shop at the Pencarrow Mines, where he was called an
Improver. He had been working here for a year, and, as he had told his
mother, his wages had just been raised to one pound a week.
Paul was not popular among his companions. The Cornish people are
extremely proud, and have a proper scorn for those who have been reared
on charity. Moreover, a shadow rested upon his name, and he was often
insulted as a consequence. Epithets were constantly hurled at him,
which aroused black rage in the boy's heart. Being of an exceedingly
sensitive disposition, he resented the things that were said even while
he made no reply; many, as they caught the flash of his eyes, realised
something of the passion that lay smouldering in his heart. Still, he
was respected as a well-behaved, although uncompanionable lad. Like
all other youths in the district, he attended the Methodist chapel, and
seemed to listen attentively to the teachings enunciated there, but no
apparent impression was made upon him. Revival services were
frequently held, but no one could induce Paul to find his way to the
penitent form. Many looked upon him as an unbeliever. On more than
one occasion the evangelist, who was appointed to the St. Mabyn
circuit, had tried to get into conversation with him, but found his
task extremely difficult. Paul would listen in silence, but would make
no response whatever to the minister's eager questionings.
On his return to St. Mabyn, after his meeting with his mother on the
Altarnun Moors, he seemed more grim and taciturn than ever. Silently
he went to his work, and silently he continued the whole day, paying
but little heed to the gibes of the miners, and never laughing at their
elementary jokes. During his evenings he read eagerly concerning life
in the big towns, of the means of education there, and of opportunities
for obtaining knowledge, but he said nothing about it to the cottagers
with whom he lived. He never uttered a word concerning what his mother
had told him. The secret lay deep in his heart, and his purposes must
be made known to none.
In truth, a new passion had entered his heart: a greater bitterness
than he had yet known completely possessed him. Hitherto, while he had
resented the insults which had been heaped upon him by those who
sneered at the place of his birth and upbringing, he never seemed to
think of himself as hardly treated; now he pondered deeply over the
black shadow that lay upon his life. What had he done that he should
be treated so? Why should he be homeless and friendless while other
lads were situated so differently? What was the good of the minister
talking about a kind Providence and the love of God? He remembered the
previous Sunday evening sermon on the "Duty of forgiving one's
enemies." What did the preacher know about it? He called to mind the
look on his mother's face, the agony of her voice; he realised the
bitter years she had spent in silence and misery, and remembered who
was responsible for it all. Thus Paul became a kind of atheist. He
was not yet old enough to think deeply about it, but incipient unbelief
was in the boy's mind and heart. It darkened his thoughts and gave a
sombre hue to life. In any case he was not going to trouble about
religion. He remembered the vow he had made after he had left his
mother, and he determined that nothing should stop him from carrying
out his purposes.
As chance would have it, too, events seemed to shape his course
quickly. A few weeks after his journey to Altarnun Moors, a young
fellow who was commonly called Jacker, a kind of half-gipsy lad who
worked at the mines, and who was looked upon as the champion boxer in
that district, made a dead set on Paul. Jacker had often sought his
friendship, and Paul had as often repulsed his advances. Jacker's own
parentage lay under a cloud, and he felt angry that Paul, whom he
regarded as in a like predicament, should refuse to be friendly with
him. One evening, therefore, when Paul seemed less inclined than ever
to be sociable, Jacker determined to have it out with him. He was
passing through what is called the Church Town, when a number of
youths, among whom Jacker was conspicuous, asked him to go into the
public house. Paul refused. On being asked his reason for his
refusal, he replied that he was on his way to the night-school. A few
minutes later there was an uproar. Things were said about Paul's
parentage that roused the young fellow beyond the pitch of endurance.
"I have borne with you a long time," he said, "but, remember, if you
say that again you shall pay for it."
"Iss, and I be willing to pay for it!" cried Jacker, who was eager for
a fight. The youths had often accused him of being afraid of Paul, and
Jacker, true to his nature, wanted to prove his superiority to any
youth in the district. A little later the group of lads had adjourned
to a field, and Paul and Jacker appeared as combatants. The result of
it was that Paul, in a mad passion, nearly killed his opponent, and was
that same evening apprehended by the police as drunk and disorderly.
He was taken to the nearest lock-up, and detained there until the next
sittings of the magistrate. The landlord at the inn, being Jacker's
friend, had appeared as a witness on his behalf, and had declared that
Jacker was always a quiet, well-behaved youth, while Paul was a surly
villain, with whom it was impossible for quiet lads to live in peace.
Of course the truth presently came out, and, while Paul suffered no
imprisonment, he had to pay a fine for what had taken place, and was
bound over to keep the peace.
This incident, although seemingly unimportant, bore fruit in Paul's
life. It determined him to leave the neighbourhood at once. But where
should he go? He hated Cornwall, hated the Pencarrow Mines, and longed
to get away where he could begin what he regarded as his life's work.
As it happened, a man, whose father had left Cornwall several years
before, paid a visit to St. Mabyn, and declared that there was always
good work for men in Lancashire. When Paul heard of it he made his way
to this man. "Peter Wadge," he said, "you have come from Lancashire, I
am told?"
Wadge admitted that he had.
"Where do you live?" he asked.
"Brunford," replied Wadge; "and Brunford is the place for a chap like
you. No questions will be asked about you there, and the wage is
double what it is here!"
"You see," continued Wadge, "the working man has a chance in
Lancashire, and we stand no nonsense with the masters."
Paul looked at him questioningly.
"You don't believe me?" said Wadge. "Why, think. Lately, owing to the
change in the price of cotton, the manufacturers were making money hand
over fist. Well, what did the weavers do? They just went to them and
demanded more wages. The manufacturers refused; they were having a big
harvest, and did not mean to allow the weavers to have a share in it.
But you see we are organised there, and a meeting of the Weavers' Union
was called, and the next thing was that they all went on strike. Of
course the manufacturers could do nothing without them, and so there
was an increase of wage right away. That's the way we deal with them
up there. Why, I knew a chap who was sacked because one of the
manufacturer's sons didn't like him. Do you think we stood it? Not
we! We sent a deputation to the master, and told him that unless the
chap were taken back we should all 'come out.'"
"And was he taken back?" asked Paul.
"I should think he was," was the reply. "Why, we working people are
somebody up there. We have our representatives on the town council and
on the board of guardians. Down here it is the parson and squire that
do everything; up there we are alive, and there's a chance for a chap
who's got brains. Why, a fellow like you up in Brunford, with your
education and gifts, could be a big man in a few years."
Paul thought quietly for a few minutes. There was something in what
Wadge said that appealed to him. He longed to put his finger on the
pulse of the great busy life of the world, but he remembered the object
for which he lived. He longed to get on, but only for that purpose,
and he remembered that the man whom he had determined to punish was
educated and had a high position.
"And are there any chances," he asked, "for a poor man to be educated?
I mean to be educated in the higher things--to learn law and government
and that sort of thing?"
"Chances? I should think there are!" replied Wadge. "Why, think of
our Mechanics' Institute. We have more than a thousand students there.
They all come of an evening, after work, and they pay next to nothing
for their lessons; but I've known lots of them who have got on so well
that they have been able to go to Owens College at Manchester--even
taken degrees. And there is no end to the possibilities for the chap
who has taken a degree."
Paul had only a vague idea of what this might mean, but he knew it
meant something of importance, and his heart beat quickly at the
thought of it. Still, the idea of Lancashire did not appeal to him.
He felt sure that Douglas Graham would be in London, and, after all,
London was the great heart of things. It was there all these big men
went, and it was there, he felt sure, his work lay. Nevertheless, he
went on asking Wadge many questions about life in the big towns of
Lancashire, and more and more became enamoured by the thought of going
there.
"Look here," continued Wadge presently, "I have got a copy of the
_Brunford Mercury_ where I am staying, and I'll lend it you. You can
see then what's going on."
A few hours later Paul was perusing the journal he had been promised.
At first he was disappointed. After all, there did not seem to be
anything much more attractive going on in Brunford than in Cornwall.
The _West Briton_ was, as far as he could see, a more interesting
paper. Presently, however, his heart gave a leap. He saw that a law
case of some sort had been going on in Manchester, and as the counsel
for one of the parties, he saw the name of "G. D. Graham." At first he
could scarcely believe his own eyes. He did not realise that there
might be hundreds of Grahams, many of whom might be barristers. With
his small parochial ideas, there could be only one Graham who could
occupy such a position--and Manchester was only a few miles from
Brunford. Of course all the barristers could not live in London.
There must be many all over the country, and Graham lived there. A
strange feeling filled his heart; he felt sure he had found his father,
the man who had wronged his mother, who had blighted her life. Again
the picture of her as he saw her last flashed back to his mind, the
care-worn, tired, sad-looking woman whom he loved as his mother; and
she was going back to servitude, to misery, and all this because of the
man who had deceived her, ruined her life. He had taken her as his
wife, and then written her that cruel, insulting letter, and left her
to the scorn and mercilessness of a hard world. And he would see him.
If he lived in Manchester he would be employed for other cases. It
would be easy to find out all about them, and he could go there and
watch. He realised that he could do nothing while he was ignorant.
Perhaps this G. D. Graham was a great man by now, and he would deny all
knowledge of what he had done; therefore he must find out, he must
prepare himself, and he could only do that through getting a knowledge
of the world, a knowledge of law, a knowledge of men.
This decided him. He remembered what Wadge had said about the
Mechanics' Institute, and about working-lad students belonging to Owens
College and obtaining University degrees. Of course that must mean
knowledge, and knowledge was power. So much he had learnt, at all
events, at the night-school where he had attended.
He counted up his money, of which he had been very saving, and
determined to leave Cornwall at once, and shortly after Christmas he
found himself in the train bearing him northward. He had never been
out of Cornwall before, and his heart beat high with hope. New scenes,
new experiences, new modes of life and thought, a new world--and he was
going to enter it! It was on a Monday morning that he started on his
journey, and it was dark when he left the little village of St. Mabyn,
carrying in his hand a portmanteau which contained all his earthly
possessions. It was several miles to the nearest railway station, but
that did not trouble him at all. Young and strong as he was, a
five-mile walk was nothing, and he found it no hardship to get up in
the cold, dark morning in order to catch the first train, northward.
He did not arrive in Manchester until late that night, and then found
that the last train for Brunford had left some time before he came.
Like all lads country-reared, he had heard about the dangers of big
towns, of thieves, of midnight murder--and Manchester frightened him.
He could not understand it at all, and in his ignorance and fear he
shrunk from asking questions.
"You'll go to some pub., I suppose?" said a porter who had told him
about the last train to Brunford.
"I don't know," said Paul.
"But you must, man. You can't stay out all night. It's cold, too.
Will you have a cab?"
"I don't know where to go," said Paul. "Can you tell me of a
respectable place?"
But before the porter could answer, someone else claimed his attention,
and Paul was left alone. He took his bag and looked around, then,
seeing the notice, "Left Luggage Office," he acted upon impulse, and
left his portmanteau there, after which he went out into the streets.
He had missed the connection at Bristol, and, the later train having
been delayed, it was now past ten o'clock. He had bought some
sandwiches on his way, so he did not feel hungry. But he was terribly
depressed and lonely. The traffic of the city was subsiding somewhat,
but still the rush and roar of the great northern metropolis stunned
and bewildered him. Presently he came to the Town Hall, which stood in
a great square not far from the station. Around him were trams, cabs,
and a hurrying multitude of people. This was life--life in a great
city! It was utterly different from what he had expected; and it was
bitterly cold. A damp fog hung over the city, the air was depressing,
and the streets were black with slimy mud. Still, the thought that
more than half a million of people were around him was wonderful to
him. He was in the heart of the manufacturing North, where poor
friendless boys had risen to position and power. That Town Hall stood
for something--stood for the government of this great metropolis. It
seemed to him that London could be nothing compared with this, and in
his ignorance he felt as though Manchester were the centre of the
world. He wandered on and on, passing through St. Anne's Square until
he came to Market Street. Here all was a blaze of light, even although
the crowd had largely departed. It was all fascinating, bewildering.
He felt strangely afraid, and he did not know what to do. A tram
stopped just in front of him, and he noticed the words, "Rusholme,
Oxford Road." And, again acting on impulse, he entered the tram. A
few minutes later the conductor came to him.
"Where do you want to go?" he asked.
Paul had not the slightest idea, and looked at him in a kind of dazed
way.
"Where do you want to get out?" went on the conductor. "We only go as
far as the tramway shed at Rusholme. Do you want to go as far as that,
or where?"
"I don't know," said Paul. "Where do we pass?"
"Why, we go up Oxford Road, and pass Owens College."
"That's it," cried Paul eagerly; "I want to get out at Owens College."
The conductor eyed him curiously, but he was a man of large experience,
and took very little notice of the vagaries of his passengers.
"Here you are," he said at length, as the tram stopped. "This is Owens
College."
Paul got out, and the tram went on. He looked at the great building
like one spell-bound. He had heard, in a vague sort of way, that this
was the head-quarters of the Victoria University. He did not know much
as to what this meant, but it appealed to him, captivated him. It was
the centre of learning--knowledge. Here men taught the knowledge that
meant power, progress, achievement. It was not quite so foggy here as
in the heart of the city, and the moon did its best to pierce the
clouds, and in its pale light Paul could see something of the
proportions of this great centre of learning. He wandered around it,
and noted what he supposed were the various departments of education.
He almost forgot where he was; he did not heed the lapse of time. This
was Owens College! It seemed to him the heart of the universe, the
centre of the world of knowledge, and he would go there some day, he
would learn things; and before his eyes flashed a vision of a brilliant
future. What others had done he could do. It meant work; but what of
that? He loved it. It meant suffering; but then he had never known
anything else.
Presently he found himself in Oxford Road again, and then, like one in
a dream, he tramped back to the centre of the city. He had been
travelling from early morning, but he felt no weariness. Manchester
was the city of dreams. By the time he had got back to Market Street
again the streets were deserted, save for a few late stragglers. The
trams had ceased running, the theatres had emptied themselves while he
had been away, and only an occasional vehicle passed him. All through
the night he wandered through the dark, murky streets, and as he did so
the mystery of it all, the wonder of it all, filled his heart. Yes, he
was in a new world, and in this new world were new thoughts, new modes
of life. In after-years Paul recalled the experiences of that night;
it seemed to him that it marked a new era in his life. Especially did
he feel this as again and again he came to the Town Hall. The place
had a strong attraction for him, because it was here he believed that
the G. D. Graham of whom he had read had defended the man who, as it
appeared to him, was guilty of a crime. More than one policeman
noticed him as he stood there looking at its lofty towers and listening
for the deep tones of the bell which told of the passing time. But no
one molested him; he was respectably dressed, and did not appear to be
a suspicious character. Strange to say, the squalor, the misery, the
poverty did not impress him: it was the size, the wondrousness, and the
vast avenues of life, which the city suggested, that appealed to his
mind.
Early in the morning he found himself at the Central Station again,
where, having obtained his bag, he made his way towards Victoria
Station and caught the early train for Brunford.
By the time he had reached Haslingden the grey light of morning
revealed the dreary scenes through which he passed. He wished he had
stayed in Manchester. The district through which he passed seemed
nothing but a procession of dreary houses, built apparently without
thought of order or architecture. He saw stunted men and pale-faced
girls with shawls over their heads as if on their way to their work.
He heard the clatter of their iron-ringed clogs on the hard
paving-stones. Here was a new life indeed, but there was no romance.
It was all sordid, grimy. Still he must go on, and presently, when the
porter shouted the word, "Brunford," he got out of the train feeling
that his new life had really commenced.
CHAPTER III
PAUL IS SENT TO PRISON
The next few years of Paul Stepaside's life must be described somewhat
briefly, although they were not without importance. They were the
formative period of the young man's history and naturally shaped his
whole future. Habits of thought were formed, and the tendencies of his
boyhood were hardened and fashioned by the circumstances which
surrounded him. Consequently, the passing from youth to manhood, with
all its shaping, moulding forces, is doubtless the most vital in the
life of any man. Nevertheless there is not much to say about them, as
only a few outstanding events happened to him. The development of his
character went on, but that development was silent and almost unnoticed
by those with whom he came into contact. Still, there were certain
things of which cognisance must be taken, because not only did they
affect his future but they formed a part of the chain of events which
led to the tragic issues which presently evolved.
His first few days in Brunford were not happy ones. The life of a busy
manufacturing town was utterly different from that of St. Mabyn. The
long rows of ugly houses, the black, slimy streets, the smoke-begrimed
atmosphere, the roar of machinery, and the life of the operatives, all
made him feel that here was a new world indeed! It seemed to him
harsh, sordid, ugly, and more than once he longed for the clear skies,
the green fields, and the quiet restfulness of his old Cornish home.
Nevertheless it had its compensations. He was at the heart of a great,
busy, manufacturing centre, and the life there could not help but be
educational in the highest degree. He had no difficulty in finding
work. A loom manufacturer took him on for a few days to give him a
trial, and then, finding that Paul was skilful with his blacksmithing
tools, he engaged him as one of his permanent hands. He obtained
lodgings near the centre of the town, with an old couple who took quite
an interest in him. They were Methodists, and, learning that Paul was
acquainted with a minister who had formerly been in the Brunford
circuit, felt quite at home with him. This led, moreover, to his being
visited by the minister of Hanover Chapel, who took a great interest in
him, notwithstanding Paul's unconcealed contempt for anything like
religious influences. The legacy which his mother had left him seemed
to close up all those avenues of life and thought. His programme was
clearly marked out, and in order to carry it through, everything must
become subservient to it. His trade, the earning of wages, were merely
means to an end, and that end he constantly kept before his eyes.
First he must become educated; he must have knowledge--knowledge
sufficient to enable him to fulfil the purpose which was born in his
mind on the night he met his mother on the Altarnun Moors. If he could
satisfy his ambitions, so much the better; but he determined that
nothing should stand in the way of his carrying out the grim resolution
which was the great purpose for which he lived.
He had not been in Brunford many months when he saw in the _Manchester
Guardian_ an account of a trial which was being conducted in that city,
and noticed that the leading counsel was G. D. Graham, the name which
had determined him to come to Brunford. He had made up his mind that
this man was his father. He knew he had very insufficient data on
which to go; nevertheless, it became a sort of fixed idea with him.
But he determined to make sure, and so, obtaining leave from his work,
he started one morning to Manchester, in order to be present at the
trial which was attracting some notice in the county. It was with a
grim sort of feeling in his heart that he entered the Manchester Law
Courts and climbed the steps leading to the room wherein the trial was
being held.
"I shall know him," he said to himself, "know him among a thousand!"
He did not seem to consider that this visit would lead to anything; he
only wanted to see the man who had blackened his mother's life. The
justice chamber was very full as he entered it, and he could not help
being impressed by the scene before him. The judge, with his legal
robes and his formidable-looking wig, sitting grave and stern on his
seat of eminence; the eager faces of the barristers; the watchful eyes
of the solicitors; the important look on the faces of the twelve
jurymen who sat huddled in a kind of square box; the anxious face of
the man who stood in the witness-box giving evidence; all appealed to
the young fellow's imagination, and caused his pulses to throb
violently. So great was the impression made upon him that for the
moment he almost forgot the purpose for which he came. This was life
indeed, and the work of making looms appeared to him as a kind of
sordid drudgery. The ambitions which had lain smouldering in his heart
for a long time sprang into flame again, and he determined that, while
he saw no chance of his being a judge, or even like one of the
barristers who sat around the table beneath the judge's bench, he at
least could become prominent in the great busy life of the world. The
case itself, too, cast a kind of spell upon him; he listened eagerly to
the questions that were being asked, and as he caught the meaning of
the things for which these men were fighting, the picture of his
mother's sorrows became less real and less vital. But this was not for
long. Presently one of the counsel rose to address the jury, and there
was a kind of flutter among the spectators as he did so.
"Yon's Graham," he heard a man say by his side, and then the purport of
his coming to Manchester laid hold of him.
"Which is Graham?" he asked of the man.
"Yon man who has just got on his feet," was the reply. "He's a rare
'un, is Graham. I wouldn't like 'im to cross-examine me! You'll see,
he'll tear t'other chap's case all to flitters!"
Paul turned his eyes towards the barrister in question, and then, he
could not tell why, but his heart became like lead. This was not the
man he had come to see. It was true he could not see the colour of his
hair, because It was hidden by his barrister's wig, but the face was
different from any he had ever seen in his dreams. The eyes were dark
and piercing, the features were almost classical. No, this was not the
man who had robbed his mother of her youth and of her beauty. After
this he took only an academical interest in the proceedings. He still
remained interested in the case, but only as a case; and the man Graham
was only a name to him. This fact altered his outlook for a time.
Hitherto he had fancied he knew where he might find the man whom he
called his enemy, but now he did not know; and, as a consequence,
everything became different. Not that he troubled much. He never
meant to try to do anything until he was ready. Somehow he knew that
when he set himself to struggle against the man he hated, the battle
would be long and hard; therefore he must be prepared; and he was not
ready yet--he had only just begun. That was why he did not trouble to
find him. When the time came he would surely have no difficulty in
discovering his whereabouts. Still, the visit to Manchester was not
without its effects. He saw a new vision of life, and that vision made
him discontented with being a mere operative. He would not, in the
future, be one who was led--he would be a leader.
When he returned to Brunford, therefore, he worked harder than ever.
He took classes at the Mechanics' Institute, and spent all his spare
time in study. By the time he was twenty Paul Stepaside could have
matriculated at the London University; but he never thought of doing
so. After all, what was passing examinations? It was a mere knowledge
of certain specified subjects, and he felt that these would not enable
him to perform the great work which he had set himself to do.
Paul was naturally greatly influenced by the life of the town in which
he lived. Brunford was a huge manufacturing centre, and was typical of
its class. The minds of the people were keenly alive, especially to
those questions which, as they believed, affected their welfare. All
sorts of socialistic schemes were discussed eagerly, and before long
Paul was keenly interested in them. He found that the town was a very
Mecca of revolutionary thoughts concerning the accepted order of
things. There were many who were of the "down-with-everything" order.
They did not believe in kings or governments, and although their
anarchism was of a mild order, there were some who proclaimed it with
such enthusiasm that Paul for a time was influenced by it. Others
there were who did not believe in private ownership of property, and
advocated that everything should be taken over by the State. There
were also several atheistic societies in the town, and before long Paul
found himself standing at street corners listening to orators who
proclaimed that there was no God, that man had no soul, that there was
no future life, and that Christianity was a great organised fraud. In
opposition to this, on the other hand, there were many who held the
wildest opinions about religion. Every conceivable sect seemed to be
represented in the town. Seventh-Day Adventists, Spiritualists,
Theosophists, Christadelphians, and innumerable others, claimed to have
the exclusive possession of the Truth.
For a time he was influenced by all these contradictory views, but
presently his strong common sense asserted itself, and he began to
laugh at the fallacies which first of all fascinated him. Nevertheless
the life of Brunford influenced him greatly, and his whole intellectual
outlook was coloured by what he saw and heard. As a working man he
naturally allied himself with the working classes, even although he did
not share many of their views, and by the time he was a little over
one-and-twenty he began to be regarded as a leader. He became an adept
in public speaking too, and the announcement that he was to be present
at a meeting was almost sure to draw a crowd. He ceased attending any
place of worship, and indeed the incipient atheism of his earlier years
seemed to settle into a kind of general unbelief in anything spiritual
or supernatural.
One evening the minister of the Hanover Chapel called at the house in
which he was lodging, and, seeing him deeply engrossed in his books,
complimented him upon his studious habits. "I hear you are becoming
quite a scholar, Mr. Stepaside," he said.
Paul shook his head.
"Why, but it's becoming well known in the town," persisted the
minister. "I noticed that you took a lot of prizes on prize-giving day
in the Mechanics' Institute, and all sorts of complimentary things were
said about you in the papers. I am sorry, however, that I've not seen
you at chapel lately."
Paul remained silent.
"You've not forgotten the advice which the wise man gave in the last
chapter of Ecclesiastes, I hope?" said the minister.
"What advice?" asked Paul.
"'Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth,'" replied the
minister. "I hope you have not forgotten that."
"Where is He--what is He?" asked Paul. "Who can tell?"
"Why," asked the minister, "do you not believe that there is a God in
the heavens--a God Who is at once our Father and our Judge?"
"I see little signs of either," he replied. "It is easier to believe
in the Devil than to believe in God! All we know is that we are here,
and we have to fight our battles and do our work."
"But do you mean to say," asked the minister, "that you feel no
responsibility towards God?"
"Look here, sir," replied Paul, "this world in which we live is not a
very big affair, and it's one of millions upon millions of other
worlds. Now I put it to you: What do you think the God Who made all
this--if there is a God at all--Who made all these millions of worlds
swirling through space, cares about little insects like you and me, who
just crawl upon the face of this tiny globe. Still, as I said, we have
our life to live and our work to do, and we must act according to the
instincts of our being."
"But if the instincts of your being lead you to do something wrong?"
said the minister.
"What is right, and what is wrong?" asked Paul. "All I know is that I
have my own plans of life. I have my programme marked out, and I mean
to carry the programme through."
The minister did not quite understand what he meant. "But what about
your relations with your fellow-men, my young friend?" he asked.
"What of them?" asked Paul. "I was reading the other day the life of
Napoleon, who said that if a million men stood between him and the
objects he desired to obtain he would sacrifice those million men."
The minister, a simple-minded man, who thought but little outside the
narrow groove in which he worked, was somewhat aghast at this statement.
"And do you mean to say that is your sentiment?" he said.
For the moment the spirit of mischief entered Paul's heart. It seemed
pleasant to him to shock this godly man and to make him feel that he
had no sympathy with the conventional morality he preached.
"It seems to me," said Paul, "that, if there is a God, He helps those
who help themselves. The battle is to the strong, and the race to the
swift. If you do not win, somebody else does. Well, I don't mean to
be beaten in the battle, and if there is someone who stands in my way
of getting to the goal I desire to reach, that someone has got to be
swept out of the way."
One event we must mention which was destined to have a marked influence
on Paul's life. It need not be described at length, but it is
necessary that it be referred to briefly. A certain manufacturer had a
son some few years older than Paul. This manufacturer was named
Wilson. He was one of the largest employers in the town, and his son
Ned was looked upon as one who would one day be one of the most
important men in Brunford. He was a fellow of some intelligence, and,
while essentially of the manufacturing class, he had, perhaps owing to
his education, ambitions to be associated with the older families of
the county. He was strongly opposed to the democratic feeling which
prevailed among the working classes, and, on more than one occasion
strongly resented the expression of certain opinions by his father's
employees. When Paul was about twenty years of age a quarrel sprang up
between him and young Ned Wilson. Paul, burning with enthusiasm for
the class whose fortunes he had espoused, spoke at a public gathering,
and exposed the ill-treatment of one of Wilson's employees. Wilson
appeared at the gathering and denied the statement which Paul made, and
hurled many offensive epithets at him. It was a sordid affair
altogether, and the matter would not have been mentioned but for its
influence on Paul's after-life. The result of the quarrel was that
Paul was discharged from the position he had held ever since he came to
Brunford, and was, as a consequence, for some time out of work.
Moreover, lying stories were set afloat, which, while they did not harm
him greatly, caused him to feel bitterly towards the man who had
maligned him.
When Paul had been in Brunford about five years a strike took place
which convulsed the whole town. Like many another of these
manufacturing disturbances, the cause seemed trivial in the extreme.
Nevertheless, it spread from mill to mill, and from trade to trade, in
such a way that practically the whole of the operatives had ceased
working. As all the world knows by this time, the unions of the North
of England are so closely connected as to form them into one
homogeneous body. In this case, two people, a man and his wife, became
at cross purposes with what was called the tackler. This tackler, or
foreman, had insisted upon something which to the man and his wife was
utterly unfair. Eventually they were discharged, and on their appeal
to the secretary of the union to which they belonged, the whole case
was taken up seriously and discussed with a great deal of warmth. The
employer in question supported his foreman and refused to take the
couple back. Thereupon the union threatened to call out all their
members if they were not reinstated. This led to a pitched battle
between the operatives and the employers. The masters naturally
supported their own class, while the operatives, feeling that their
position was endangered, stood to their guns. As a consequence,
therefore, the trade of the whole town was in a state of stagnation.
The employers declared that they refused to be dictated to by the
people to whom they paid wages; and the operatives, feeling that their
liberties and rights were in danger, would concede nothing to them. As
is ordinary in such cases, a great deal of unruly behaviour was
witnessed, the public-houses reaped a rich harvest, and acts of
violence became general. In this case, a number of youths, utterly
foolish and irresponsible, conceived a plot to "pay out," as they call
it, the employers, and, in order to carry it out, held secret meetings,
the purport of which, unknown to them, gradually leaked out. Into this
plot Paul found himself drawn, but instead of encouraging the youths in
their design, he did his best to dissuade them. This, as may be
imagined, did not please them. To those who have studied the history
of strikes in the northern manufacturing towns, it is well known that
nothing appeals to a certain element of the population more strongly
than acts of violence, and Paul found that his well-meant efforts met
with great disfavour. Still, a kind of loyalty held him to them, even
while he refused to participate in what they proposed to do. One night
a number of these lads found their way to a certain mill, with the
intention of destroying some new machinery that Mr. Wilson, who has
already been mentioned, had lately bought at great cost. When Paul
heard of it he also hastened thither, in order to do his best to put an
end to the mischief. As I have said, the designs of these lads had
leaked out, and, as a consequence, the owner of the mill was prepared.
A number of policemen had ambushed themselves, together with some of
the foremen. The result was that when the lads were making their way
towards this machinery they were stopped, and an endeavour was made to
make them prisoners. This led to a pitched battle between the youths
on one side and the representatives of the employers on the other, and
Paul, in spite of himself, was found on the side of the youths. In the
struggle which followed two policemen and one of the foremen were badly
injured, while several of the lads bore marks which they would carry to
their graves.
That same night Paul found himself, with nearly all the others, in
Brunford police-station, in order to await his trial. The case was
regarded so seriously that bail was not allowed; and therefore Paul,
with the others, had to remain in durance vile until the case could be
publicly tried.
During the time he lay in prison he felt himself deeply humiliated and
vastly ashamed. He called himself a fool for having been led into such
a false position. While sympathising with the attitude which the
operatives, as a whole, had taken, he utterly disapproved of the
foolish plot into which he had been drawn, and yet here he was, not
only regarded as equally culpable with the rest, but as a kind of
leader; he, who had always prided himself upon his respectability, and
upon appealing to the intelligence of the people instead of to brute
force, was guilty of mixing himself up in this vulgar squabble which
had led to such an ignominious end. The disgrace of it, too, was hard
to bear; keenly sensitive as he was, and with an abhorrence of anything
like brawls of any sort, he felt as though he was dragged through mire.
Of course the unions took up their case and promised to defend them.
They had a large amount of money at their disposal in the union funds,
and they promised that the best legal advice obtainable should be
employed in their behalf. As I have said, feeling ran very high in the
town, and the magistrates before whom the case was brought in the first
instance, being in the main manufacturers, and therefore strongly
prejudiced in favour of their class, were not likely to regard the
action of Paul and of others from a favourable standpoint. They
accordingly committed the accused for trial at the Quarter Sessions in
Manchester. The secretary of one of the unions visited Paul before the
trial.
"It's a serious business, Stepaside," he said, "and I am afraid it will
go hard with you!"
"But no one was seriously hurt," said Paul.
"I doan't know so much about that," replied the secretary. "One of th'
bobbies has been i' bed ever since. Wilson's tackler is said to be i'
queer street. His head was bashed in, and one of his arms broken. I
tell thee, it was a bad thing for us all. You see it's turned public
opinion agin us, and we weavers are lost when that's the case. Still,
we mun fight it out."
"I don't want to back out from anything," said Paul; "but, as a matter
of fact, I did my best to keep the chaps from going up to Wilson's
mill."
"That may be," replied the secretary, "but the general opinion is that
thou wert the leader of th' gang, and we shall have rare hard job to
get thee off, whatever happens to the rest. Still, we think none the
worse of thee, lad, and if thou hast got to go to quod, thou shalt have
a rare big home-coming when thou comes out. We'll have bands of music
and a big feed, and all that sort of thing."
"Who have you got to defend us?" said Paul.
"Eh, well, we have got Sutcliffe, our own lawyer, and he's briefed
Robson, the barrister."
"Is Robson a good man?" asked Paul.
"Good! why he's got off more of our chaps than any other man. Still,
it looks black, because the case is clear agin us. There is no doubt
the chaps were up to mischief, they got into Wilson's mill, and
there'll be some turncoats in the town who'll say as 'ow they knaw that
they meant to break the machinery. Then there's the two bobbies and
Wilson's tackler, all of them i' bed, and the doctor'll be there to
give evidence. There's no getting out of that."
When he had gone, Paul thought over the whole case very seriously.
What part should he play? He knew he could bring witnesses to prove
that he had done his best to dissuade the lads from their act of
violence, but, by so doing, should he be playing the game? He wanted
to be loyal to his companions, even while he was innocent of willingly
acting with them. It was rather a delicate point. If he failed to
speak he would be regarded as a kind of ringleader of the gang. If, on
the other hand, he told the truth, and brought witnesses to attest to
what he had to say, he would be looked upon as a kind of sneak.
When the day of trial came, therefore, he was not in an enviable frame
of mind. He knew that hundreds of eyes would be upon him, and that he
would have a very undesirable publicity. Only a few weeks before the
strike he had been spoken of as a possible candidate for the town
council, and he, young as he was, had rejoiced in the thought. He had
pictured himself speaking at public meetings and receiving the votes of
the townspeople; he saw himself, too, elected at the head of the poll,
and having a seat in the council chamber among the most prominent men
in the town. But now his publicity would be of an entirely different
nature. He was spoken of as the leader of a gang of roughs who
attempted to break up machinery, and who had half-killed three men who
represented peace and order. Still, he set his teeth together and
thought of his plan of action.
"I suppose Wilson will be well represented," he said to the secretary
of the union, to whom he had spoken before.
"Ay, he's got Bolitho for th' senior and Jordan for th' junior."
"Bolitho!" said Paul, "I never heard of him."
"Where have you lived?" asked the secretary. "'E's the smartest chap
in the Northern Circuit, and there's many as ses he's makin' several
thousand a year. I have 'eard as 'ow Wilson 'ad a 'ard job to get him,
'e's that thronged with work, and when they 'ad got him, he said as 'ow
it meant six months more to every one of you."
"What sort of a chap is he?" asked Paul.
"Eh, one of those smooth-spoken fellows. You think when he's
cross-examining you 'e's on your side, and all the time 'e's worming
out the most damning things against you. He's a kind of oily voice,
too, and he makes people believe in him, whether they will or no. You
must be careful about that, for directly he comes to address the jury
he takes the meanest advantages of what he has dragged out of the
witnesses."
Presently Paul found himself and the others in the same room wherein he
had watched the trial of some months before. He thought of the G. D.
Graham about whom he had such strange fancies, and remembered the shock
he had received when he discovered that he was altogether mistaken. He
little thought then that he would be here to-day as a dangerous
character, and as one who had committed a grave offence against the
public weal. Presently he was able to take note of his surroundings.
The lofty chamber; the solemn-looking magistrates; the barristers at
their benches; the jury in their box; the prisoners standing sullen and
defiant, yet wondering how they would acquit themselves in the trial;
and as many of the public as could gain admission into the room, eager,
and wondering what the upshot would be.
Evidently the case was going to be a long one. The counsel for the
prosecution opened it with a long and vigorous speech. He described
the history of the strike, told of the excitable condition of the
people, and related how difficult it had been for the police to keep
order in the town. After this he went on, with more or less accuracy,
to tell of the plot of the prisoners who had been brought there that
day, and of the charges that were brought against them.
"Is that Mr. Bolitho?" asked Paul of the secretary of the union, who
was allowed to stand near him.
"Nay," was the reply, "yon's Jordan, the junior. Bolitho's not here
yet. I wish summat would happen to him on the way. I tell yo' I'm
feared of him. This chap is but a beginner, so to speak--a sort of
John the Baptist, that prepares the way for t'other; but Bolitho's a
fair terror and no mistake."
Somehow the name had a familiar sound with it.
"Bolitho, Bolitho, why it's a Cornish name!" said Paul. "I've heard it
many a time down in St. Mabyn. Perhaps when he knows I am a
Cornishman--that is, if he is Cornish, too--he may not be so hard on
me."
Still, this was only a passing thought, and he steeled his heart
against the worst. When the case had dragged on for some time, Paul
noticed that there was a flutter in the court. A man he had not
hitherto seen came in and took his place beside the junior counsel for
the prosecution. He heard a whisper go round the court, "There's
Bolitho." And Paul's eyes were drawn to him as if by magic. There was
something in the face that held his attention, fascinated him. He
found his heart beating faster than was its wont and his muscles
contracting as if he were about to meet an enemy. For the moment he
forgot the reason why he was brought there, so keenly intent was he on
examining the face of the barrister who had just come in. And yet it
was not a face to be feared. It was somewhat florid, and certainly
pleasant to look upon. His eyes were blue and had a somewhat dreamy
expression in them, while the features suggested gentleness rather than
harshness. A handsome man was this Mr. Bolitho, a man who looked as
though he might have many friends. The counsel all round smiled at
him, while the magistrate nodded benignly. He seemed to create an air
of pleasantness. He relieved the somewhat sordid atmosphere which
pervaded the chamber. How much time he had given to the case it was
impossible to say, but, certainly, when he rose to cross-examine, he
seemed to know every detail of it.
Presently the examination came to an end, and Mr. Bolitho rose to
address the jury for the prosecution. In a way which Paul could not
quite comprehend, and yet which seemed perfectly reasonable as he did
it, he laid the whole blame for the trouble at Paul's door. It was his
that had been the master mind. It was he who was guilty of inciting
these ignorant, thoughtless youths to the act which had ended almost
fatally for three men. He dragged in the quarrel which Paul had had
with the son of Mr. Wilson, the owner of the mill, and insinuated that
it was a matter of personal revenge which had inspired him to commit
this outrage. In a few minutes it seemed to Paul that there was no
blacker criminal in England than himself. This man Bolitho had created
a new atmosphere in the court; his suave, almost smiling, features had
changed. When he was examining he pretended to be kind and assumed a
confidential and almost friendly manner. In this way he had wormed
statements out of men which Paul knew to be diametrically opposed to
the truth--he had even obtained the admission, from some of the youths
whom he had tried to dissuade from their deed of violence, that he,
Paul, had incited them rather than otherwise.
And now, in addressing the jury, this Mr. Bolitho had laid special
emphasis upon it. Paul was perfectly sure that the man did not believe
all he said, but he wanted to make a case, and he had fastened upon
himself as the chief culprit.
"Gentlemen," said Mr. Bolitho, "I wish you to pay special attention to
this man, young in years, apparently respectable, well educated,
especially for his class, and intelligent beyond the ordinary; but I
want to point out to you that he is of that class of which agitators
are made, and, as such, he is a danger to the community. In the eyes
of the law all these men are equally guilty, all of them were engaged
in this wild, lawless deed, which has ended almost fatally for three
men, two of them trustworthy officers of the law, and one a respected
townsman of Brunford, and a man holding a position of trust under his
employer. But think, gentlemen--these other youths were simply led by
this stronger personality of Paul Stepaside. He, inspired by personal
enmity towards Mr. Wilson, determined to be revenged on him for some
fancied wrong done to him years before, has taken the opportunity to
perpetrate this awful outrage. It is true he has not definitely said
so, but he has insinuated that he tried to dissuade the others from
taking part in this crime. But can such a thing be believed? The
others were never capable of this plot, and, without a leader, would
never have thought of participating in it. On several occasions, too,
since he has been in Brunford he has made public speeches. Extracts
from those speeches I will now read to you."
On this, Mr. Bolitho read certain statements which Paul was reported to
have made--statements from which it would appear that he hated the
class of employers who were prosecuting him that day.
"I am urging these things, gentlemen," continued Mr. Bolitho, "because
I wish the guilt to be fastened where it ought to be fastened. It has
been clearly proved that all these men were guilty of the charges of
which they are accused, but surely it should be borne in mind that more
guilt should be attached to the leader and the inspirer of these
outrageous deeds than to those thoughtless and almost irresponsible
fellows who were led like sheep to the slaughter."
Paul listened like one bewildered, and presently his heart became
filled with black rage. He realised now the meaning of what the
secretary of the union had said to him. He could not understand why it
was that this clever counsel had tried to make him a scapegoat for all
the rest; but now he saw it was really so. The others, who were really
guilty of a thing which he himself condemned, were made to appear as
almost innocent, while he, who had done his best to dissuade them from
their mad act, was condemned as one who had acted like a devil. Once,
during Mr. Bolitho's speech, Paul lost control over himself. "Liar!"
he exclaimed. And his voice rang out above that of the counsel. A
wave of excitement swept over the crowd. The judge looked at him with
stern eyes, but before he had time to speak Paul persisted, "I say he
is a liar, my lord. He has said things that are not true. He has
twisted things out of their true meaning. He has made inferences
appear like facts!"
He was unable to proceed further after this, owing to the action of the
presiding magistrate--indeed it was a wonder that he had been allowed
to say so much--but the intensity of his voice for the moment startled
this grave man, and this caused him to allow what under ordinary
circumstances would never have been possible.
As may be imagined, Mr. Bolitho made the most of this interruption.
For some reason or other, he seemed to have taken a personal dislike to
the young man before him, and now he used the interruption to emphasise
what he had hitherto said.
"I ask you, gentlemen," he insisted, "to consider the evidence of these
men"--and from the way he spoke it might seem as though he were acting
as counsel for the others--"and then think of who is likely to be
really guilty. These youths are just ordinary, ignorant, irresponsible
fellows, waiting to be led, but incapable of leading--without
education, and with no more than ordinary intelligence. But here is
this Stepaside, regarded as a leader among a certain class in the town,
an agitator, a dangerous man."
And so on, until at length his speech came to a close, and all felt
that, whatever might happen to the others, the jury would regard Paul
as the one who was responsible for what had taken place, and who, if
either of the three injured men should die, would be regarded as guilty
of not only outrage, but perhaps of manslaughter. Presently the judge
summed up the case, and then waited while the jury left their box to
consider their verdict.
By this time Paul was almost careless as to results. He felt perfectly
sure that the punishment meted out to him would not be a light one; but
he did not care. He was past that. His mind and heart were filled
with rage against the man who had blackened his name. He fell to
studying him while he waited, and again he was fascinated. While he
had addressed the jury his eyes had shone with apparently righteous
indignation; he was eager, almost passionate, in his denunciation of
crime. But now it might seem as though his interest in the matter had
gone. He chatted and laughed with the other barristers, and accepted
their congratulations upon his speech. As Paul listened, too, he heard
him accept an invitation to go with one of them to dinner that night,
and afterwards accompany them to a place of amusement. And this was
the man who had so ruthlessly, so cruelly, and so untruthfully defamed
his own character.
Presently the jurymen returned, and the court awaited their verdict. A
little later Paul knew that the others were committed to one month's
imprisonment, while he himself was condemned to six months' hard
labour. The young man's face never moved a muscle. He stood perfectly
rigid, perfectly silent, as the judge pronounced the sentence, and
then, when all was over, he turned towards the barristers' table, and
his eyes met those of the man who, he knew, was practically responsible
for the extreme punishment meted out to him. Mr. Bolitho smiled, and
then, turning, left the court, while a policeman laid hold of Paul's
arm and led him away to his cell.
CHAPTER IV
PAUL MEETS MARY BOLITHO
There is no need to describe at length Paul's experiences during the
time he was imprisoned in Strangeways Gaol. The moral effect of prison
life is rather harmful than good. In Paul Stepaside's case, at all
events, it was so. He knew his punishment was unjust, he knew he was
guiltless of the crime which had been attributed to him; knew, too,
that for some purpose which he could not understand a case was made out
against him which had no foundation in fact. These things alone would
have had a tendency to embitter his heart and to make him rail at the
so-called justice of the land. But when we add to this the fact that
he was of a proud, sensitive nature, that he shrank from the unenviable
notoriety to which he had been exposed, and that he writhed under the
things that had been said about him, it can be easily seen that his
whole nature rose up in revolt. Everything in the gaol aroused his
antagonism, and made him bitter and revengeful. The daily routine, the
constant surveillance of the warders, the thousand indignities to which
he was subjected, made him, even while he said nothing, grind his teeth
with passion and swear to be revenged in his own time.
One thing, however, interested him during his stay there: it was his
study of the Book of Job, and he read through this old Eastern poem
which fascinated him. At first he was prejudiced against it because it
was in the Bible, but the majesty of the poem charmed him, overwhelmed
him. He had read the plays of Shakespeare; he had closely studied what
many consider to be the great dramatist's masterpiece, but "Macbeth"
seemed to him poor and small compared with the Book of Job. The
picture of Satan going to and fro on the earth, the story of Job's
calamities, of his sorrows, and of the dire extremity in which he found
himself, appealed to him and fascinated him. Yes, it was fine. The
old Eastern poet had seen into the very heart of life. He had enabled
Job to answer tellingly, brilliantly, these three wise fools who poured
out their platitudes. In spite of himself, too, he was influenced by
the conclusion of the poem. It was not only poetically just, but there
was something in it that comforted him, that gave him hope in spite of
himself, Was there, after all, he wondered, a God Who spoke out of the
whirlwind, Who laughed at men's little theories, and worked His own
will? It would be splendid if it were so. The idea possessed him; God
behind all, in all, through all, the God Who made and controlled all
the swirling worlds, and yet, in His infinite compassion, cared for
every living creature that moved. Yes, it was stupendous; and if it
were true, then---- But, again, he brooded over his wrongs, and his
heart became closed and bitter.
And so the days passed by and lengthened into weeks, and the weeks into
months, and at last Paul found himself free again. It was ten o'clock
in the morning when he was set at liberty, and he realised that during
the time he had been in prison the winter had passed away. It was
early in November when he had been committed, and now it was the
beginning of May. And so Lancashire was looking at its best. The sun,
even through the smoke-begrimed atmosphere, was shining almost
brightly, and the twitter of birds welcomed him as he left the prison a
free man. To his surprise, he found outside the prison gates a number
of men awaiting him, who, on his appearance, raised a shout of welcome.
Paul had hoped to have escaped without notice. As we have said, he was
keenly sensitive to the disgrace which he had suffered, and hated the
thought that questioning eyes would be upon him. Therefore, when he
saw that the crowd of men who had come from Brunford to give him a
welcome had also attracted a number of people in the district, he was
almost angry at their coming, and yet he could not help feeling
grateful. After all, it showed a kind spirit, and he appreciated their
presence accordingly.
"Come on, lad," said one of the men. "We'll just have a drink and then
we'll catch the train for Brunford. We've ordered a rare dinner for
thee at 'The Black Cow,' and to-night there's goin' to be a meeting in
the Primitive Methodist schoolroom in honour of thy return."
"Is the strike all over?" asked Paul.
"Ay, the strike's all over. The matter's been patched up, and we are
making fair brass i' Brunford now."
"And what has become of the other chaps?" asked Paul.
"You mean the chaps as wur tried with thee? Two on 'em are still i'
Brunford; the rest have gone to Canada. We've summat to tell thee
about that."
"What?" asked Paul.
"Weel, you see, they confessed as 'ow 'twere not thee who set 'em on to
smashing Wilson's machinery, but that thou didst thy best to stop them,
so, I tell thee this, thou art a sort of hero i' Brunford now. It's
all over th' place that thou art a sort of martyr, and that thou
suffered in their stead, instead of letting on and proving, as thou
couldst easily prove, that thou wert agin their plan. Thou just kept
quiet, so that they might get off easy, even though thou wert kept
longer in quod thysen. The papers have had articles about it, too, and
the affair has been called 'A Miscarriage of Justice.'"
"The people think I'm not disgraced, then?" said Paul, and there was a
flash of eagerness in his eyes.
"Disgraced! Nay, it's all t'other way, and I can tell thee this, that
many think that Wilson and his son Ned are disgraced for setting on
Bolitho to make it hard for thee."
"Did they do this?" asked Paul.
"Ay, they did an' all. From what we can hear, Bolitho had special
instructions to let t'other chaps down easy. It was not hard to do
this, because thou art a chap with eddication and brains, and art a bit
of a leader, while t'others were nowt but ninnies. Anyhow, the truth's
out at last, and nobody i' Brunford will look upon thee as disgraced."
In spite of himself Paul could not help being pleased, and he no longer
resented the presence of the people who had gathered round the prison
gates and who had listened eagerly to what had been said. Rather there
was a feeling of triumph in his heart as cheer after cheer was raised.
He was thought of as one who fought the battles of the working people,
and he had suffered as a consequence No one looked on him as one
disgraced, but rather as one who had suffered for their cause.
Nevertheless the marks of the prison were still upon his heart. No man
could spend six months in Strangeways Gaol as he had spent them, and
suffer as he had suffered, without being influenced thereby. The iron
had entered his soul, and even kindly words and hearty cheers could not
remove from him the fact that he had been treated unjustly, and that
his character had been blackened.
When the train arrived in Brunford, another crowd, far larger than that
which met him at Manchester, had gathered at the station, and there was
quite a triumphal march down the Liverpool Road towards the town hall.
Arrived there, Paul could not help noticing a number of the councillors
leaving the steps of this great civic building, and among others he
noticed both Mr. Wilson and his son, who were responsible for his
imprisonment.
"Sitha, Ned Wilson," shouted one of the men. "This is the chap that
thou set on Bolitho to persecute, and this is the chap that thou told
lees about."
The two men laughed uneasily and passed up the road without comment.
Evidently the tables were turned on them. As for the others, they
spoke to Paul kindly. There was no ill-will remaining because of the
strike, the relations between master and men in these manufacturing
districts being sometimes almost confidential. In many cases they
belong to the same social order, even although the one is rich and the
other comparatively poor. Many of the manufacturers, who were now
employers of labour, were themselves operatives twenty or thirty years
before, and had worked side by side with those whom they now employed.
As a consequence, it was the order of the day for a weaver to call his
employer by his Christian name; indeed, many would think it beneath
their dignity to call an employer "Mister." On one occasion the son of
a large employer of labour in Brunford was sitting in his father's
office when one of the operatives entered. He wanted to find his
employer's groom, so he said to his young master, "Arthur, canst thou
tell me where Mester Smith is?"
Paul quickly found that he lost no prestige whatever on account of his
incarceration in Strangeways Gaol. On every hand he was met with
kindness, and to his delight he found the place where he had been
working still kept open for him. The day passed away amidst
expressions of goodwill on every hand, and Paul, wellnigh worn out with
the excitement of the last few hours, was about to return to his
lodgings, when an event happened which altered the course of his life.
He was walking down the main street of the town, when, remembering that
he needed to do some shopping, he dropped in at a hosier's place of
business, the owner of which met him with great heartiness.
"Ay, Paul, lad," he said, "I'm delighted to see you. Mr. Whitman and I
were just talking about you." And he turned, as he spoke, to an old,
pale-faced, kindly man who stood by his side. Old William Whitman was
the town missionary for Brunford, and was beloved by everybody.
"Ay," assented the old man, "and we've been praying for thee too, lad.
I'm afraid your cross has been hard to bear, but, never mind, the sun
will shine again now."
"It will, too," assented the hosier. "We think none the worse of thee,
lad, for what thou hast undergone, and 'appen thou wilt find that this
strange working of Providence 'll be oal for thy good."
"I don't see much of Providence in it," said Paul, "except that it
makes me realise how kind the people here are. There seems a great
deal more of the Devil than of God."
At that moment the shopkeeper's attention was drawn away from him by
the coming of another customer, leaving him and the town missionary
together.
"Nay, but you mustn't say that, Paul lad," said the missionary.
"Happen in a few months you will get over all these things."
"I shall never get over it," said Paul. "For six months I have been
wearing prison clothes; I have been sleeping in a cold, dark cell; my
name has been taken away from me, and I have simply been known by a
number, and I have been looked upon not as a man, but as a beast.
There's not much to make one think of God in all that, Mr. Whitman!"
"Ay, it's been hard on thee," replied the old man, "and there's many a
one in Brunford who thinks something should have been done for thee. I
suppose Ned Wilson felt very bitter towards you, and when he was
instructing the counsel, he made him believe that you were the
ringleader. There's more than one who have said that Bolitho was very
unfair. However, the Lord will make everything right."
"I shall never believe that the Lord has made everything right until
Bolitho and Wilson have suffered as I have suffered," replied Paul
bitterly. "If I could see Bolitho in prison clothes; if he were known
by a number; if he had to tramp the prison yard among the scum of the
earth, as I have; if he had to lie in a cold cell with the darkness of
hell in his heart, as I have, then I could believe in Providence
perhaps. But when I remember that I was regarded as a beast and not as
a man, while he was drinking wine and faring sumptuously, there did not
seem much justice in the world."
Hearing a rustle by his side as he spoke, Paul turned and saw that the
customer who had been talking with the shopkeeper was looking straight
at him, and his heart beat violently as the eyes of the two met. It
was a young girl he saw, not more than twenty years of age, and, as far
as he knew, she was a stranger to the town. He had never seen her
before, and she appeared different from the young women with whom he
had happened to meet. He noticed, too, as their eyes met, that hers
were full of horror. She seemed to regard him as she might regard a
snarling dog. He saw her lips quiver, and he thought for a moment that
she was about to speak to him. The intensity of her gaze made him
almost beside himself, and then, acting on the impulse of the moment,
and speaking with the freedom so common to the Lancashire operative
class, he went on: "Yes, miss, and I mean it too. You, by the look of
you, belong to that class, but, remember, the time will come when men
like Bolitho will be paid for what they have done. But, there!" And
he laughed. "I suppose he had to speak to his brief, and, justice or
no justice, he had to do what his employer told him to do. 'Ten pounds
more for every extra month you get him,' would be Wilson's cry, and
Bolitho would be anxious to get the ten pounds."
The girl's eyes shone with a fierce anger, and then, without a word,
walked away.
"I say, Paul," said the shopkeeper, "that's not the way to treat my
customers!"
Paul looked ashamed of himself. "I know, I know, Mr. Sutcliffe, it was
mean of me," he said, "and I know I ought to apologise to her. But if
you had seen the look on her face, and had suffered what I have
suffered, you'd have spoken too. Why, she might think I was an adder.
But there, I dare say she knew who I was, and that I had just come out
of prison."
"As you know, I'm all on your side, Paul," said the shopkeeper, "but I
cannot afford to have my customers driven away."
"Nay, I know," said Paul; "and if she doesn't come back and pay for the
things that are on the counter there, I'll take them myself and pay for
them. But there, I must be going." And, having got the things he came
to buy, he left the shop, little realising the influence the interview
would have upon his future.
He had barely gained the street when a man, whom he had known almost
ever since he had come to Brunford, met him. "Ay, Paul," he said. "I
have just been to your lodgings, and I want to see you particular."
Paul's heart was still embittered with the scene through which he had
passed, and he met the man rather coldly. "Is it anything particular?"
he said.
"Yes, I think so," replied the man.
"Because if it isn't," said Paul, "I don't want to talk about it. I've
had a hard day, and I'm pretty well worn out."
"That's so," replied the other, "and we'll say nothing more about it if
you don't feel like talking, but I thought as 'ow you might look upon
it as good news."
"Forgive me, Preston," he said, recognising the man's kindly tone. "I
know I spoke like a brute, but my nerves are all on edge, and while
everybody is very kind to me, I'm easily upset. What is it, old man?"
"I can't tell you here," replied Preston. "It'll take me an hour,
anyhow."
"Is it so important as that?" said Paul, with a questioning look in his
eyes.
"Ay, I think so," replied the other.
George Preston was a teacher in the Hanover Sunday-school, and was some
two years older than Paul. He had more than average intelligence, and
had been known for years as a hard-working, saving fellow. They had
met at the Mechanics' Institute, where they had gone for classes, and,
while they had gone their different ways, mutual respect existed
between them.
"I expect Mrs. Dixon will have got my little room all ready," said
Paul, "so we shall be able to have a chat without interruption." And
the two threaded their way along the busy street towards Paul's
lodgings. Never did Paul realise how much he was liked until that
evening. It happened to be market day, and the streets were crowded
with people. Not only had the townspeople gathered together in the
centre of Brunford, but many had come in from a distance, and thus to a
casual visitor it might seem as though a fair were being held. Every
minute or so he was stopped by someone who came up to congratulate him
on his return, and to bid him welcome.
"Never fear, Paul lad," it was said to him again and again. "You shall
noan suffer for this, and 'appen Wilson and that lot will noan be the
happier for what they have done to thee. Art short of money, lad? If
a sovereign 'll be of any use to thee, thou can have it."
And from the ring of sincerity in their voices Paul knew that every
word was meant. For I should like to say here that, although the
Lancashire operative is rough, and sometimes a little coarse, there are
no kinder people on earth than those who live in the great
manufacturing centres of the North. In the main they are loyal to a
man, and as true as steel. Brunford is by no means an ideal place to
live in; indeed, from November to April its atmospheric conditions are
horrible beyond words. It rains nearly all the time, and, the air
being smoke-begrimed, the streets are covered with black, slimy mud,
offensive both to sight and to smell. The very conditions, too, under
which the people live must have a tendency to coarsen and to destroy
artistic feelings. The artisans know practically nothing about the
gardens common to the South-country peasant. Houses are often built
back to back, or only divided by a small paved yard, the front door is
nearly always right on to the street, and, even in cases where some
strip of garden is obtained, the flowers, which are the pride of the
South-country people, simply come up hideous and black with grime.
The writer of these lines once lived in a manufacturing town in the
North, and, there being a strip of garden to his house, he asked the
gardener to plant for him some white hyacinth bulbs, hyacinths being
one of his favourite flowers. When the spring came, the hyacinths
appeared, but alas! they were not white, but as black as the soot which
is belched forth from a hundred chimneys.
So moved was Paul by the kindness which was manifested, that a great
sob came into his throat, and his heart became full of love towards the
people. He longed, as he had never longed before, to work for them, to
live for them; and before his mind came a vision of what the future
might have in store. He knew what their life was, understood
thoroughly the hard conditions under which they laboured. Yes, he
would make some return for all this goodwill, and for the love which
they evidently bore to him. He would live for them! He would work
night and day for the betterment of their conditions! He would make
Brunford a town to rejoice in! He would remove the wrongs under which
the people suffered, and bring music and gladness into their lives!
How he was to do this he did not know; indeed, it seemed impossible for
him to commence as yet, but the time would come, and when that time
came he would not spare himself. He did not forget what he had
regarded as the chief purpose of his existence--that, at all costs,
must be performed--but he must not live wholly for that; he must live
for the people who loved him, and whom, in spite of everything, he
loved.
"Well, Preston," he said, "what is it?" when at length they reached his
lodgings, and were sitting alone in the little room which the old
couple had allotted to him.
"I was thinking," said Preston, "of what you mean to do in the future."
"I don't think I shall go to work to-morrow," said Paul. "I shall need
one day's holiday to get things straightened out a bit, but, as you
know, my place is kept open for me."
"Have you any brass?" asked Preston abruptly.
"Not much," said Paul; "but I've saved a few pounds." And then, with a
laugh, "It's cost me nothing to live during the winter, you know. All
the same, I've had to work hard for the black bread and skilly."
"Come, now," said Preston, "let's say no more about that. I know you
had a bad time, but you know by this time that no one in Brunford
thinks the worse of you because of it, and no one thinks the better of
Wilson. And it's not Christian to cherish black thoughts about them,
or about Bolitho either. As you say, he was paid for his job, and he
did it. How much money have you saved?"
"Two hundred pounds," said Paul.
"So much?" said the other in a tone of surprise. "Ay, I did not think
you had done as well as that!"
"Well, you see," replied Paul, "I have had good wages and I've lived
hard. I have spent nothing on luxuries. I have had no holidays."
"It must have cost you something for these," said Preston, looking at
the well-filled bookcases on the wall.
"Oh, I forgot them," said Paul. "Yes. But, then, you see, I needed
most of them, and books are my one extravagance. But why did you ask?"
"I want to propose a partnership," said Preston.
"Yes," said Paul. "In what?"
"In a weaving shed."
"A weaving shed? That's not my trade!"
"No, I know; but what you don't know about weaving isn't worth knowing.
Although you started in Brunford as a loom-maker, you've picked up all
there is to know about manufacturing. And you're a bit of a scientist,
too. Well, I don't know so much about that part of it, but I do know
about the buying and selling. I've not been a salesman with Robinson's
for nothing, and I worked in the mills as a boy. You've got two
hundred pounds, you say; so have I, and a bit more. It's enough for us
to start on, lad. We can hire a shed, and we can hire power, and we
can hire looms, and we can buy cotton."
Paul looked at him in astonishment. "But, man alive, Preston, four
hundred pounds is not enough."
"Four hundred pounds is enough," replied the other. "And we can make
the thing go; we will make it go, too. And I want to tell you this,
too: I've a promise of a good backer."
"Who?" asked Paul.
"Well, to-day, as you know, your home-coming has been the talk of the
town, and Ben Bierly was talking with me about you. As you know, he's
a teacher at Hanover Sunday-school, and a few years agone he was a poor
man himself, while now he's one of the biggest manufacturers in
Brunford. Well, Paul, he sympathised with you, and he admires you too,
and he told me that if you were willing to go into partnership with me
he'd back us. He believes in you, and he believes in me, and if we
want a thousand pounds, we can have it."
"You're surely not serious, Preston?"
"Ay, but I am. I mean every word of it, and I know this, too: cotton
can be bought at great advantage just now, and trade's good. What do
you think of it?"
"I have had no time to think yet," said Paul. "Give me till to-morrow
night and let me look round a bit. But tell me this, what shed can we
hire?"
"There's a shed at the back of St. James's Street," replied Preston.
"I was looking at it only to-day. It'll suit us down to the ground,
and we can get it cheap."
For an hour or more they talked, Paul asking keen, searching questions,
which could only have been thought of by one who had thoroughly
mastered the mysteries of cotton-weaving. Afterwards he went to bed,
and thought long on the experiences of the day.
The next morning the town presented a new aspect. It no longer looked
_en fête_, as on the previous evening. On every hand halt-consumed
coals and strange smelling steams were being emitted from a hundred
factories. The streets were empty save for heavy lorries and tramcars.
Presently, at twelve o'clock, the mills would belch forth thousands of
pale-faced operatives, who for long hours had been standing at the
looms, but who, at present, were immured in those great noisome,
prison-like buildings which form the main features of the town.
Paul made several visits that morning, and presently found his way to
the empty weaving shed of which Preston had spoken the previous
evening. After some difficulty he had an interview with its owner.
Preston had told him that Fletcher was anxious to let this shed. It
had been on his hands for several months, and no one seemed to want it.
To his surprise, therefore, Fletcher met him coolly. "Well, they've
let you out?" he said to Paul.
"Evidently, or I should not be here," laughed Paul.
"Well, be careful not to get up to your larks again!" said the other,
and his tones were almost surly.
Paul took notice of this gibe, but as soon as he thought wise brought
the conversation round to the object of his visit.
"I don't know that it's to let," replied Fletcher.
"No?" queried Paul. "Then I must have been misinformed."
"It wur to let," said Fletcher, "and I don't say it isn't now, but I'm
noan sure."
"Why, George Preston told me yesterday that you had practically given
him the refusal of it."
"Ay, practically, but that noan settles the business. I've had another
offer since then."
"May I ask who has made the offer?" asked Paul.
"Thou may ask, but I don't say I shall tell. However, 'appen ow of the
biggest manufacturers in the town 'll have it."
"A big manufacturer wouldn't look at it," said Paul. "It's only fit
for a man in a small way of business."
Fletcher looked at him and laughed. "Good-morning," he said. "'Appen
I can go into it further to-morrow, but not now." And then he turned
on his heel and left Paul thinking.
Before the day was out Paul heard that young Edward Wilson, the son of
the man who had prosecuted him, had hired the shed for a warehouse,
although there seemed no reason at all why he should do so.
"This settles me," said Paul to Preston that night. "It's evident that
Wilson has got his knife into me, and he, hearing what you had in your
mind, determined to make it impossible. But, never mind," and Paul's
somewhat prominent jaws became rigid and stern. "I don't know that I
was so keen about manufacturing before, but I'd like to fight Wilson,
and he shall see that I'm not easily beaten. But we must go quiet,
Preston, and we'll have to be careful. There's not the slightest doubt
about it that Wilson thinks he owes me a grudge for what happened
nearly three years ago. But for that I shouldn't have had six months
at Strangeways. Still, I'm not a chicken, neither are you."
And then the two young men talked long and seriously concerning other
alternatives.
A week later the final step was taken, and Paul and Preston had signed
a contract to hire a larger weaving shed than they had intended, and
arrangements were pushed forward to start work immediately. Indeed,
Paul's mind was so filled with the project he had in hand that almost
everything else was forgotten. Two matters, however, must be
mentioned. The one was a letter from his mother, to whom he had
written, giving an account not only of his experiences in prison and of
his home-coming, but also of the venture that he was making. "If I
succeed, mother," he said, "you must come to Brunford to live. And I
mean to succeed. In twelve months from now I am going to be a
well-to-do man. I've learnt pretty much all there is to know about
manufacturing, and I've a good partner. And I mean to get on. But
don't think I've forgotten the real purpose for which I came to the
North. I have not found out much about my father yet, although I've
tried, tried hard. I can't understand it either. I've got hold of law
books containing lists of the names of the barristers in England, and
while there are a good many Grahams, none of them seem to tally with
the descriptions you gave me. However, once let me get on with
manufacturing and I shall have more time. I mean to go up to your
father's farm and ask questions there, and you need not fear. I've got
the name in Brunford for carrying out the thing I start upon, and I've
promised you. But, as I said, as soon as I get on, you must come to
Brunford to live with me, and then we can work together."
To this his mother had replied that she could never be a burden to him.
"You don't want a woman worrying you, Paul," she had said. "I'm well
enough off down here. You want to be free and unfettered. At the
proper time I'll come to you, but not yet, and don't trouble about me."
Paul brooded long over this letter. He pictured her hard, lonely life
away down in Cornwall, a few miles from Launceston, where she earned
her living as a servant. On several occasions he had sent her money,
but each time she had returned it, and it made him sad to think of what
she must be suffering. He remembered his promise to her, and his
resolution, dark and grim as it was, remained one of the most powerful
factors in his life. "I wish she would come and live with me," he
reflected. "I think I could bring some brightness into her life, and
yet, perhaps, it's just as well she is not here with me. She would
have broken her heart during the trial; but I'll not forget--no, I'll
not forget."
A fortnight after his return from Manchester he was walking with
Preston to a village some distance from; Brunford, where they had
arranged to inspect some machinery. By this time he had practically
forgotten the meeting with the girl to whom he had spoken so rudely in
John Sutcliffe's shop. But this afternoon, even while his mind ought
to have been filled with the work he had in hand, his mind turned to
her. He remembered the look of anger in her eyes, and the scorn which
shone from them as she gazed on him. He wondered who she was, and why
she should seem so deeply moved by what he had said.
In order to reach the village of Northcroft, the place towards which
they wended, they had to cross some fields, and George Preston and he
had scarcely climbed the stile when, coming towards them, they saw two
girls. Evidently they were coming from a large house in the near
distance, and were walking towards Brunford. Paul saw in a moment that
they were not of the operative class. They were well-dressed, and it
was plainly to be seen that they were strongly differentiated from
those women whom it was his lot to meet. He had barely gone half-way
across the field, when he stood still and gazed at one of them like a
man spell-bound. He recognised her as the girl whom he had met in
Sutcliffe's shop. Scarcely knowing what he did, he stood still in the
path, thus making it impossible for them to pass him. Preston,
evidently deep in his calculations about the looms he proposed to buy,
had for the moment forgotten Paul's presence and had left him behind.
"Will you kindly stand aside?"
Paul recognised the speaker. It was the daughter of Edward Wilson, but
he paid no heed to her, he was gazing intently at the other, and he saw
the colour mount to her cheeks as their eyes met. He had taken but
little notice of her when he had first seen her. He recognised that
she belonged to a class entirely different from his own, but he
remembered little else beyond the anger which she evidently felt
towards him. That she had resented his words was evident, but to that
he had attached but little importance; now, however, all was different.
He could not understand how or why--she had not only crossed the
pathway of his life, but she had entered his life. She seemed to
arouse within him all sorts of unthought-of possibilities. His ideas
of the world became different. She made him think of the poetry and of
the romance of life, even although she still looked upon him with
scorn, if not with anger. The morning had been rainy, and the long
grass on either side of the pathway was as wet as a pond, but he did
not move aside that she might pass by, in spite of what her companion
had said. Neither did he speak, but stood looking at her. She was
utterly different from Emily Wilson, whom he had often seen; indeed,
the poles seemed to lie between them. Miss Wilson was tall and largely
made, and, in spite of the fact that her dressmaker was an artist,
seemed to look poor and shabby beside the stranger. This girl was
almost diminutive, and yet she carried herself like a queen. He could
not have described a single feature, and yet he knew he would never
forget her face. It made him think of the fields around St. Mabyn. It
caused him to remember the love song of the birds, the music of a
streamlet, as it murmured its way down a valley near his old home. It
suggested the countryside, far removed from the smoke and grime of that
northern town, a countryside that was peaceful, sweet and beautiful.
"Will you kindly move aside?"
This time he realised what he was doing, and he stepped into the wet
grass.
"I beg your pardon," he said, and then unconsciously he lifted his hat.
He knew that the girl was thinking of their former meeting, thinking of
his own rudeness, thinking, too perhaps, of the circumstances under
which he had come back to Brunford. He walked on like a man in a
dream. "I had just come out of prison," he said, "and I spoke to her
like a clown. What must she think of me?" And then a feeling of
bitterness came over his heart. "She's with that Wilson girl," he
said, "and I know what they'll say."
But why should he care? What had he in common with this young girl,
whose thoughts and feelings must be far removed from his own?
The Lancashire operatives pay little attention to caste or class
distinction. With them one man is as good as another, even although
they are greatly influenced by the fact of success and the amassing of
money. But the inwardness of the word Aristocracy has little or no
meaning to them; it is too elusive, too intangible. But at that moment
Paul realised something of what it meant. This girl belonged to a
class of which he knew nothing. She created an atmosphere utterly
different from that breathed in a Lancashire manufacturing town. He
could not put it into words, but he knew it was there, a refinement, a
suggestion of thoughts to which he was a stranger. What was she doing
there? She had nothing in common with that Wilson girl, even although
the Wilsons were the wealthiest people in Brunford. And then there was
something more, he knew not what, only somehow it made life different.
It made him feel how small his world had been, what a little thing
money-making was. It suggested a larger world, a higher life of which
hitherto he had been ignorant.
When he reached the next stile he found George Preston waiting for him.
"Been talking with Wilson's lass?" asked he with a laugh.
Paul shook his head. "Who's the other one?" he asked. "Is she not a
stranger in these parts?"
"Don't you know?" asked Preston.
"No, I don't know."
"Why, she's Miss Bolitho. She's the daughter of the man who had so
much to do in sending you to quod."
It seemed as though someone had struck him a blow. Unconsciously he
had been weaving fancies around her, unconsciously, too, something had
come into his life to which hitherto he had been a stranger. And now
to hear that she was the daughter of the man whom he could not think of
save as his enemy, almost made him reel! For a few minutes he walked
on by Preston's side without speaking, while his companion, almost
unconsciously realising that he was in no humour for speech, was
likewise silent.
"I suppose," said Preston presently, "that Bolitho and Wilson got
friendly through thy trial. Of course, Bolitho's a big man, and knows
a lot of the big people in London, still, he's allowed his daughter to
come visiting here, and I hear, too, that young Ned Wilson is sweet on
her."
Paul did not speak. His mind was dazed, but he felt sure that, for
weal or for woe, he and this girl would be associated in the future.
"Are you sure she's Bolitho's daughter?" he said to Preston a little
later.
"Oh, yes, I'm quite sure. Bolitho was staying at Wilson's house while
you were in prison. And it is said that the two families went away to
Switzerland together just after Christmas. Besides, Ned Wilson won't
be a bad catch. It is said that the firm is making fifty thousand a
year, and Ned is the only son. But there, Paul, that's not for us to
talk about. They're not in our world at all. We're just beginning,
and we shall have hard work to get on. And we must be careful of Ned
Wilson, too. But for him, as you know, we should have had Fletcher's
weaving shed, and that would have saved us twenty pounds a year in
rent."
"Yes," said Paul, and his lips were compressed as he spoke. "I fancy
the time will come when Ned Wilson and I will have a lot of old scores
to pay off, and I tell you what, Preston, when the time comes I'll not
have the worst of it."
A year from that date two events took place which need recording.
Preston and Paul had been going carefully through their books, and had
been engaged in what might be termed a kind of stocktaking.
"We have had a great year, Paul," said Preston.
"Yes, I suppose so," replied Paul.
"And I doubt if any two chaps, beginning as we did, have had such
success as we have had."
"Perhaps not," said Paul, "but we've not had enough yet. I've got a
scheme in my mind which I want to talk with you about, Preston."
"You're always full of schemes," replied the other.
"Yes but have they not turned out well?" was the answer.
"Ay, I know," was the reply. "But sometimes I've felt as though we
have been walking on eggs. I never thought, twelve months ago, that I
should have dared to launch out so! Why, man, think of our
liabilities!"
"Yes," replied Paul, "but think of our success, too; think of our
assets! As you say, we've had a big year, but we must have a bigger
next year, and big years are not got by nibbling at things. We've got
this place for three months longer. At the end of that time we must
clear out."
"Clear out!"
"Ay, clear out. A hundred looms are no use to us now. We must
multiply them by eight."
"Why, Paul, you must be mad!"
"No, I've gone into it all. Mind you, this is no speculation which I
have in my mind. It may seem like it, but I have calculated everything
to a nicety. I've made inquiries at the bank, and I know to a penny
how we stand, and what the bank will back us for. And I've been making
inquiries about Thorncliffe Mill."
Preston looked at Paul as though he had doubts about his sanity.
"Thorncliffe Mill," he replied. "Why, it's one of the biggest places
in Brunford!"
"I mean not only to have one of the biggest places, but the biggest
place," said Paul. And although he did not mention the fact to
Preston, he knew that his new-found ambition was associated with the
meeting of Mr. Bolitho's daughter a year before.
The other event, which happened that day, was entirely different. He
had moved into larger rooms, and his surroundings were now more
congenial to his taste. It was evident, too, that Paul knew the value
of a good tailor, so much so that more than one young manufacturer
declared that he was the best-dressed man in Brunford. When Paul
returned to his lodgings that night he found four men awaiting him.
Wondering as to what their visit meant, he asked them to sit down, and
then waited for them to state their business. One of these men was the
secretary of the Weavers' Union, whom we have mentioned earlier in
these pages, another was the chairman of the Working Men's League, a
powerful political body in the town.
"Well, what is it?" asked Paul, noticing that they hesitated.
"You know, I suppose, that Mr. Carcliffe is resigning? He was returned
to Parliament four years ago, but he's had enough of it, it seems."
"Yes, I heard about it," said Paul.
"Well, now's our chance," continued one of the men.
"You mean that you're going to return a working-man?" said Paul.
"Well, I don't know so much about that," was the reply. "But we want
to return a man who understands us, who can voice our needs and who has
sympathies with our struggles."
"And have you thought of anyone?"
"Ay," replied the other, "we have."
"Who?"
"His name is Paul Stepaside," was the reply. "We've had him in our
minds for months. In fact, we've thought of him ever since he went to
gaol, in Manchester, a year ago."
To say that Paul was surprised at this proposal is but to suggest the
state of his feelings. For years he had had all sorts of romantic
ideas as to what the future of his life was to be, and thoughts
concerning a parliamentary career were not strange to him. Now,
however, that an actual proposal had been made, he could scarcely
believe his own ears. Ever since he had come to Brunford he had been
interested in political questions, and had been a popular speaker,
young as he was, on many political platforms. He remembered the vision
he had on the day he came out of prison. He had determined to work and
live for these people of Brunford, to ameliorate their woes, and to
bring more sunshine into their lives. But to go into Parliament, to
take his part in the legislation of the country; to stand face to face
with men whose names he held almost in awe, was too wonderful to be
true. Still, there were the facts: these men had come to him, telling
him that Mr. Carcliffe, the present Member, had either resigned or was
going to resign, and suggested to him that when an election came he
should fight their battle.
Well, why should he not do it? He was no longer a poor man. It is
true his position in the financial world was far from being a safe one,
but he had calculated concerning the future with great care, and he
believed that in a few years' time his position would be secured. He
believed in the cause these men stood for, too, and he could fight
their battles wholeheartedly. Above and beyond all this, moreover, was
something else which he scarcely dared to put into words. He had not
seen the young girl who had so strangely affected him since their
meeting in the fields, more than a year before, but the memory of that
meeting remained with him. At the back of all his plans for the future
was the thought of her, and although he did not know it, he had made up
his mind to win her as his wife. The difficulties seemed almost
insurmountable. She belonged to a class far removed from his own, and
he knew by the look on her face that she regarded him with anger, if
not with contempt. To her he was an agitator of the worst kind, one
who had broken the laws of his country, and had outraged the feelings
of her class. Through her own father's influence he had been sent to
gaol as a criminal, and she would naturally stand by her father's
position. Even without this stain upon his life, his case seemed
hopeless: he was only a working-man who had "got on," while she was the
daughter of a man who stood high in one of the most influential
professions. He knew that the doors of the best houses in the land
were open to prominent King's Counsels like Mr. Bolitho, while he was a
nobody. And yet, with that dogged determination by which he had become
known in Brunford, he had determined to overcome all difficulties, and
to make her love him. He did not see how he was to do it, he did not
know her address in London, he did not know how he could see her again;
nevertheless, he held by his resolution. There was only one woman in
the world to him, and that was one who despised him. Indeed, Paul
Stepaside was not sure that he loved her at all. Sometimes he thought
he hated her; nevertheless, she dominated his being, she was the goal
of his hopes, and in everything he undertook her influence was felt.
Perhaps this was partly the reason why the proposal made to him had
such a strong attraction. As a struggling cotton manufacturer he was a
nobody, but as a young Member of Parliament he would have a position.
The difficulties in the way of his advancement did not daunt him, and
he felt sure he could make his name prominent among the legislators of
the land.
"Did you say that Mr. Carcliffe had definitely resigned?" he asked.
"Well, he's told the committee that he wants to resign; we know that,"
was the reply. "And there's bound to be a general election in a few
months, and he has declared definitely that he'll not stand again."
"Who is the man that the other party are going to nominate in his
place?" he asked.
"We don't know yet," was the answer. "But we hear that a meeting is
going to be held at Edward Wilson's in a few days. But never mind the
other side, Paul; if you'll stand we'll send you to Parliament. We're
not going to allow these fine-fingered gentry to have it all their own
way. You're our man, and we'll stand by you, as you have stood by us."
Paul did not give them a definite answer that night. He wanted to
think about it, he said. All the same, when he bade them "Good-night"
his mind was practically made up, although he did not know it.
CHAPTER V
PAUL'S MADNESS
Howden Clough was a big house standing in its own grounds, some two
miles from the town of Brunford. Considering the vicinity, it was a
very handsome place of residence. The house itself was of grey stone,
and occupied a commanding position. Having been built some two hundred
years before, by an old county magnate, the grounds were well matured.
Indeed, Mr. Edward Wilson was envied by his fellow manufacturers for
having obtained so desirable a place of residence. The very fact that
he lived in a house which had been owned by the Greystones gave him a
kind of position, and this, added to his being a rich man, and
abundantly able to keep up the place he occupied, gave him a feeling of
superiority.
Edward Wilson and his son were sitting together in the room which they
called the library, although there were but few evidences of the name
being deserved.
"Mr. Bolitho will be here in half an hour," said the father.
"Do you know if he is bringing Mary with him?" asked Ned.
"I am not sure," replied the father. "I have done my best for you, my
lad."
"I mean to have her," said the young man. "I never really cared for a
girl before, and I shall never care for another. Besides, why is the
case hopeless?"
"I mean you shall have her," replied the father. "But you must
remember, my lad, that these Bolithos belong to a very old family, and
they don't look upon money as everything. We're not county people, and
they are, although they visit us as friends. Still, I can buy up half
the county people, and I've done my best to persuade him to bring Mary
with him. When I was at Mr. Bolitho's house last, I inquired if she
had any matrimonial engagement, but as far as I could gather she's
still fancy free, so let's hope for the best, Ned."
"What time does the meeting commence?" asked the son.
"Not until nine o'clock," was the reply. "We shall have plenty of time
for a smoke and a chat after dinner before those fellows come."
A little later there was a sound of wheels upon the drive. Both father
and son rushed to the door, and to their delight they found not only
Mr. Bolitho but his daughter as well.
"This is splendid!" cried Mr. Wilson senior. "I was afraid Miss
Bolitho would not be able to come. Ah, Emily, here's your friend. We
are glad to see you. I am afraid you'll think that Lancashire people
are a little rough, but we yield to none in the warmth of our welcome."
Although this speech seemed correct enough, young Edward Wilson felt
rather uneasy. He wondered whether those of Mr. Bolitho's class would
have met him in a similar way. In spite of the fact that he declared
himself deeply in love with the young lady who had now gone upstairs
with his sister, he did not feel comfortable in her presence. There
seemed to be always an invisible barrier between them. Still, she was
there, and he meant to make the most of his opportunities; and if the
plans which had been made bore fruit, he trusted that he would see a
great deal of her in the future.
The party that sat round the dinner table was gay, but no reference was
made to the ostensible object of Mr. Bolitho's visit. When nine
o'clock came, however, it was evident that there were several
new-comers, and presently the two Wilsons led the way to the library,
while Mr. Bolitho followed with a half-interested, half-bored look on
his face. He shook hands with a number of men who had gathered in the
room. Evidently they were nearly all opulent, keen-minded, successful
men, but he could not help feeling pleased at the deference which each
of them paid to him. Even as they did, he realised that he was not of
their class. After all, a wealthy cotton manufacturer occupies a
different position from that of an eminent barrister who belongs to an
old county family.
They quickly made known their business. "The truth of it is, Mr.
Bolitho," said the leading spokesman, "Mr. Carcliffe is resigning, and
we want someone to fight our battles. The socialistic and labour
element has become very strong, and unless we are strongly led, our
side will be beaten. And so we have come to the conclusion that if you
will say 'Yes,' you are our best man."
It was a roughly spoken speech, but Mr. Bolitho understood perfectly,
and the proposal appealed to him strongly. He had long encouraged
political aspirations, and here was his opportunity. To be the Member
of the important borough of Brunford, which lay at the heart of the
manufacturing district, promised all sorts of scope for his ambition.
Owing to his success at the Bar he had a large income, and more than
one had suggested to him that if he entered Parliament he would be a
most eligible candidate for the post of either Solicitor- or
Attorney-General, while even higher things might be within his grasp in
the future. As it was, he discussed the various pros and cons with
considerable eagerness and cordiality. As far as he could see, there
was every probability of success. The present Member had been elected
by a clear thousand majority, and he had sufficient faith in himself to
believe that he could not only maintain that majority but increase it.
"By the way," he said at length, "have the other side selected their
man?"
"Well, yes and no," was the reply. "From what we hear they have not
fastened upon a party man, but they have approached young Paul
Stepaside."
Mr. Bolitho gave a look of astonishment. "What!" he cried.
"Stepaside! the fellow who a year or two ago----" And then he stopped.
"Yes," was the reply.
"But he hasn't been long out of prison."
"No," was the rejoinder. "But he's a remarkable chap, is Stepaside,
and there have been all sorts of foolish notions in the town so that
he's become very popular."
"I suppose these working-men's unions will pay his expenses, then?"
said Mr. Bolitho.
"I am not so sure of that," replied the chairman of the association.
"You see, Stepaside started manufacturing a little more than a year
ago, and he's been phenomenally successful. His partner is a very able
chap, too, and they know their business. So that I fancy Stepaside
will be able to pay his own expenses."
"And has he the confidence of the people?"
"He's the confidence of a certain class," was the reply, "and he would
be a strong candidate."
Mr. Bolitho looked thoughtful. "This is very awkward!" he said.
"You don't mean to say," said the chairman, "that this fact will alter
your decision?"
"No," he replied slowly. "I don't quite say that, but it puts a new
face on the question. You see, it will be awkward for me to oppose a
man in politics whom, less than two years ago, I practically sent to
gaol. Still, it gives a certain piquancy to the situation. Does he
know much about politics, by the way?"
"No, I don't think he does," replied the chairman of the association.
"And that's where our strength will lie. He's just an agitator, just a
clever speaker who can appeal to men's passions, but when he's faced
with facts he will be nowhere."
There was a short silence after this. It was evident that some present
did not agree with what had been said, but no one spoke a word. All
seemed to be afraid lest Mr. Bolitho would fail them at this juncture,
and they looked upon him as the man most likely to lead them to victory.
After they were gone Mr. Bolitho talked long and gravely with Mr.
Wilson.
"I tell you," said the manufacturer, "if you fail us now, Mr. Bolitho,
your conduct will be misinterpreted."
Mr. Bolitho looked at the other questioningly.
"The truth of it is," went on Mr. Wilson, "a great many foolish things
have gone abroad since Stepaside's trial, and the belief is that he
wasn't treated fairly. The chaps who got off easily confessed, after
their imprisonment, that Stepaside had tried to dissuade them from
doing what they did, and so he has been looked upon as a kind of
martyr. Many have blamed us for this, and now if you refuse to fight
him--well, they'll say you are afraid."
"Afraid!"
"Yes, afraid. They'll say you're afraid to face a public audience, to
stand up in a public fight."
Mr. Bolitho gazed steadily on the carpet for a few seconds, and then
relit his cigar, which had gone out.
"That settles it, Wilson," he said. "That settles it. I will quickly
let the people of Brunford know whether I am afraid or not. You can
tell your chairman that I accept."
The manufacturer caught the other man's hand with delight. "By goom,"
he said, lapsing into the Lancashire dialect, "that's the ticket."
"You can tell him, too," went on the barrister, and his eyes flashed as
he spoke, "that I'll fight this for all I'm worth. We'll leave no
stone unturned, Wilson, and I'm inclined to think at the end of this
election that your man Stepaside will be no longer regarded as a hero."
The following Saturday _The Brunford Times_ announced the fact that Mr.
Bolitho, K.C., had accepted a hearty invitation to stand as their
candidate for the next election, and a leading article was devoted to
him, declaring that, if they had sought all over England, a worthier
candidate could not have been found.
Paul had no knowledge of the true facts of the case until he saw _The
Brunford Times_ on the Saturday morning. He was returning from his
mill when he heard a boy shouting in the street, "Bolitho accepted for
Brunford," and, buying the paper, he read the news eagerly.
"Thou looks as though thou had lost a thousand pounds, Paul," said a
voice.
"Nay," replied Paul. "I've not lost a thousand pounds." And he
noticed that the man to whom he spoke was the chairman of the league
who had visited him some time before.
"Well, what's the matter that you look so glum?" said the other.
"I've come to a serious conclusion," replied the young man between his
set teeth.
"And what's your conclusion?"
"I'm going to be Member for Brunford," he replied, and walked on
without another word.
"Ay, and he will, too," said the other, as he watched Paul's retreating
figure. "The chap as licks Paul Stepaside will have to be a bigger man
than any lawyer that ever lived!"
The consequence of this meeting in the street was that, before the day
was over, all the town knew that Paul Stepaside, who had been doubtful
so long as to whether he would fight the people's battle, had now made
up his mind, and that he would oppose the man who had been instrumental
in sending him to prison nearly two years before!
"You remember him, Mary," said Emily Wilson. "You remember the man who
stopped us in the path last summer?"
"Yes, I remember him," said the girl quietly. "He struck me as a
dangerous kind of man."
"He's thought to be very good-looking," said the other. "He came to
Brunford a few years ago, a nobody, and now there's no man so much
talked about."
"But do you think he'll succeed?" asked the girl.
"There's no telling," replied Miss Wilson. "You see, here in Brunford
the working people form the great bulk of the population, and they are
very determined; when they have set their minds on a thing they stop at
nothing in order to obtain it. Besides, among a certain class, your
father is not very much liked."
"No, I understand that," replied the other quietly. "But, of course,
they must understand that, as a barrister, my father was obliged to do
what he did."
"Well, you know, these working people have all sorts of foolish
notions."
"I should like to hear him speak," said Mary Bolitho. "I wonder if I
should be noticed if I went to one of his meetings."
"I expect not," replied the other. "But still, no meetings will be
held for a little time yet. When the election comes we shall have great
doings here."
At that minute they were joined by young Edward Wilson.
"We were just talking about Paul Stepaside," said his sister. "And I
was saying that the people are very strongly attached to him."
"Oh, I don't fear," replied Wilson.
"Why, you said only yesterday that you greatly doubted what the result
would be," replied his sister.
"Yes, but I've been thinking it all over since then," replied Wilson,
"and I can see how we can beat him."
"How?" asked the two girls eagerly.
"Well, there are two things," he replied. "One of them depends upon
you, Miss Bolitho."
"Upon me!" replied the girl. "How? What do you mean?"
"You really wish your father to beat this fellow?"
"Of course I do!" replied the girl. "I should be horribly ashamed if
my father did not get in by a big majority."
"Well, then," said Wilson, "it can be done. You see, Stepaside's
chances all depend upon the working people. Of course, we have a good
many of them on our side, but he has more on his. Now I know what
these factory hands are, and although they profess to be very
democratic, there's no Englishman that ever lived but who is a snob at
heart. If you, Miss Bolitho, will make a house-to-house visitation,
you can win enough votes to put your father in, whatever the other side
does."
"But that would mean my staying in the town for months!" said the girl.
"It would mean your spending a great deal of time here," said Wilson,
who thought he was very clever, "but what of that? We shall always be
delighted to see you at Howden Clough, and I am sure Emily, here, would
be only too glad to help you."
"Why, indeed I would, Mary," replied the girl, "and, after all, it
would be great fun!"
Mary Bolitho looked across at the great town which lay in the valley
beneath her. She saw the hundreds of chimneys belching out black,
half-consumed coals, she saw the long lines of uninteresting cottages,
in which these toilers of the North lived, and she thought of the work
that Wilson's suggestion would entail. She did not know why, but she
had taken a strong dislike to Paul Stepaside. Perhaps it was because
she remembered his words in the shop in Brunford. Perhaps because he
had roused some personal antipathy. Anyhow, in her heart of hearts was
the longing to see him beaten. And yet she was afraid. She did not
like the idea of spending so much time at Howden Clough. She was too
clear-sighted to be blind to Wilson's intentions, and she felt sure as
to what his hopes were.
"What's the other thing you have in your mind, Mr. Wilson?" she said
presently.
"The other thing is personal," was the reply. "After all, who is Paul
Stepaside? Who is his father? Who is his mother? Who are his people?
We Lancashire people may profess to be very democratic, but we've got a
lot of pride in us. I have heard--well, I won't tell you what I've
heard, but I'll manage that!"
A few weeks later the contest between Paul Stepaside and Mr. Bolitho
commenced in the Brunford district. There were no immediate signs that
an election would take place, but each knew that they must be ready
when the time came. Mr. Bolitho held crowded meetings in various parts
of the constituency, and, according to newspaper reports, was
enthusiastically received. This, however, was to be expected. There
were fifteen thousand voters on the lists, and Mr. Carcliffe, whom Mr.
Bolitho sought to succeed, had at the last election obtained over a
thousand majority. Paul also addressed several meetings, which were
largely attended, and his supporters spoke to him very confidently
about the result. But Paul was not satisfied; he could not help
noticing that a subtle change was coming over the town. His
experiences of a year ago, and the tremendous enthusiasm which they had
raised on his behalf were practically forgotten. His imprisonment was
a thing of the past, and the share which Mr. Bolitho had taken in it
was no longer very seriously considered. Paul was not long in
attributing this change to its real cause. For one thing, he was being
constantly met with rumours about his birth. He knew that the artisans
of the North, while professing advanced democratic views, were
nevertheless influenced by such things. More than once he had been
asked what his father did, where he lived, where his mother and father
were married, and where he had been born? And presently, when it was
rumoured that he had been born in a workhouse, Paul could not help
feeling that a subtle force was at work. In addition to this, too, he
heard that Mr. Bolitho's daughter had been visiting among the poorer
streets in the town, and that on every hand she had been winning golden
opinions. It seemed to him from what he had heard that there was a
kind of witchcraft in her presence, and that many who had been among
his great admirers, and promised supporters, now seemed to think that
the other side had a great deal to say. Paul quickly discovered, too,
that this girl was no ordinary canvasser. She had been able to meet
the working-class politician on his own grounds, and to answer him very
effectively. Everyone who has taken part in a political contest knows
the influence which a young, educated, intelligent and beautiful girl
can wield, and she had gone into the people's cottages and talked, not
only with the women, but with the men. She had caught, too, the rough
humour of the district, and had acquainted herself with the peculiar
needs and desires of the people who worked in the North. More
quick-witted and better informed than they, she had apparently been
able to answer Paul's arguments, and had, therefore, left them in doubt.
This, too, seemed apparent to Paul. The questions asked concerning his
parentage and birthplace synchronised with the advent of this girl.
Never once had he met her, and yet he was constantly hearing of the
converts that she was making. As may be imagined, his heart grew
bitter at the thought of it, even while he grimly determined that he
would win this battle. It is true that the election seemed months
away, but the ground seemed slipping from under his feet, and his
chances, in spite of what his supporters told him, appeared to grow
less each day.
Paul called to mind the time he had met her, in the field close by
Howden Clough. He remembered, too, the wild vow he made. This girl,
the daughter of the author of his disgrace, one who evidently regarded
him with contempt and anger, nevertheless filled his horizon. He knew
that the feelings he bore towards her, feelings which no one but
himself ever dreamed of, seemed to be madness, while the election that
loomed ahead, and on which he had built such great hopes, seemed to
divide them rather than to bring them together. If he were beaten in
the fight, she would look upon him with more contempt than ever.
This feeling caused his speeches to be somewhat bitter in their tones,
and, as a consequence, did not advance his interests--indeed, he felt
as though his own supporters were growing half-hearted, if not
indifferent, and he attributed it all to the persistent work of Mary
Bolitho. Moreover, there were constant rumours about her being engaged
to young Ned Wilson--and Ned Wilson, as he knew, was his enemy.
One evening, it was toward the end of September, Paul was walking in
some fields beyond Howden Clough. He had been reflecting that he had
as yet done nothing towards carrying out the purpose for which he had
come North. He remembered that the work his mother had given him to do
remained undone.
"I promised her I would go to Scotland," he reflected, "and I've not
done it. I've become so wrapped up in this business that I've almost
forgotten mother. She still has that cloud of disgrace hanging over
her head, while I've been thinking of my own advancement and my own
desires. Besides, even if I were to win, I should never be able to
speak to her until this matter is cleared up. Of course, she has heard
everything, and she will look upon me as----" And then Paul set his
teeth together and his eyes flashed with anger.
These thoughts had scarcely passed through his mind when his heart gave
a sudden leap. Coming towards him was the girl of whom he had been
thinking, and she was alone! Evidently she was on another visit to the
Wilsons'; no doubt, too, she was carrying out her purpose of winning
voters from him. Almost without thinking he determined to speak to her.
There was no definite thought in his mind, but it seemed to him as
though he must speak to her and set himself right with her. He felt it
was his right to do so, and that it was her duty to hear.
He lifted his hat on her approach. "I beg your pardon, Miss Bolitho,"
he said, "but may I presume on your kindness a little?"
The girl looked at him in astonishment. Perhaps she was a little angry
too, for the footpath on which he met her was in a somewhat lonely
district.
"I know I'm very rude in stopping you in this way," went on Paul, as
though he divined her feelings, "and I would not have done so had not
the reason seemed to me sufficient. Besides"--and there was a touch of
anger in his voice--"it seems to me that it would not only be generous
on your part if you would, but just."
As he spoke she could not help reflecting on the change that had come
over him since he first spoke to her on the night following his release
from prison. Then he was rude, almost truculent; now, even while he
seemed angry, his demeanour suggested a refinement of feeling which did
not manifest itself then.
"Of course, you know who I am," he went on. "I am Paul Stepaside, and
I am your father's opponent in this political contest."
"Is it about the election that you wish to speak to me?" she asked.
"Yes, and no," replied Paul. "Perhaps the contest may be called the
occasion of my asking you to speak with me, but the reason lies deeper.
I am sure you do not wish to be unjust?"
"I think," she replied, "if you wish to say anything about the
election, that you had better seek an interview with my father. He
will be in Brunford to-morrow."
"It's not to your father that I wish to speak," he replied.
"I am altogether at a loss," said Mary Bolitho, "to know what there can
be that you wish to discuss with me."
He could not mistake the tones in which she spoke. He knew,
instinctively, that she did not regard him as belonging to her own
class. Her every word suggested to him that he was to her an outsider,
one to whom she could speak only as an inferior. A thousand things
which he thought he wanted to say to her had altogether escaped him,
and for a few seconds he stood dumb and confused.
"Of course, it is about this election, in a way," he stammered
presently. "I--I--you see, it means a great deal to me----" And then
he ceased speaking again. Somehow the words would not come.
He saw the smile of contempt which passed over her face, and he thought
he understood the meaning of it. Perhaps it was the best thing that
could have happened to him, for now his anger was aroused, and he saw
his way clearly.
"No, no, Miss Bolitho. Do not think that I have come to whine to you,
or to make complaints in any way--that is about the things you are
thinking of. It's not that. I am prepared to fight my battle without
seeking quarter in any direction--that is, any direction that is fair.
I have never had a public-school education, but I think I know the
meaning of the term, 'Playing the game.'"
She looked puzzled for a minute, and then he saw a flush mount her face.
"I am afraid I do not understand you!"
"The circumstances of my life have not made me an adept in talking with
young ladies," said Paul. "Doubtless you think me rude and clownish,
and perhaps you are right, but I hope I have nothing but true feelings
at heart. You are fighting for your father in this election, Miss
Bolitho, and I do not complain in the least. You hope he will win, and
you are using every legitimate means to obtain votes for him--that is
right, that is fair; but, Miss Bolitho, there is something which I
regard very sacred: perhaps the most sacred thing in the world to me is
the love of my mother, and the thought of her good name. I will not
tell you how she has suffered for me, and how she loves me, but I hope
you will believe me when I say that I regard anything which will
blacken her name as the greatest insult that can be offered to myself.
Have I made myself understood?"
The flush on the girl's face deepened; she knew what he meant.
"I do not mind what people say about me so much," said Paul. "I am
able to defend myself, at least when I have fair play. There have been
times when I have not been able to do so successfully, still time has
been on my side, and justice has been done to me. But can you
understand, Miss Bolitho, what a man feels, when, in order to win an
election, his opponents have not been ashamed to heap shame upon one of
the purest women and the best mothers that ever lived?"
"I am at a loss to know why you say this to me," retorted the girl.
"I do not complain," said Paul, "at least at this juncture, that your
father was my enemy years ago. Although he had no foundation for it,
he pleaded that I was a dangerous man, an agitator and a leader of a
gang of knaves. Through him I spent six months in gaol among felons; I
wore prison clothes; I was treated like a dog; I lay there one long,
cold winter, night after night, in a damp cellar. This was through
your father--not because he believed I was guilty, but because he
wanted to make a case against me. I say I have never complained of
this, never mentioned it once in this contest. I have tried to fight
fairly, on broad general principles, but, Miss Bolitho, my mother's
good name is sacred to me. Can you, as a woman, understand this?"
"I do not know why I should answer you," she said, and there was
hauteur in her voice. "I cannot help understanding your accusation,
and although I am utterly ignorant concerning it, I will say this:
never, since I have taken any interest in this contest, have I
mentioned your mother's name. Perhaps you do not believe me, and
perhaps the reason is that you cannot understand?"
She spoke quietly and naturally, and yet her words stung Paul like
whip-cord. Although she did not say so in so many words, he felt that
she despised him, and again his anger was aroused.
"You deny, then, that you have----"
"There are certain things, Mr. Stepaside, that one cannot deny, not
that they are true, but because it is impossible for one to take notice
of them!"
"Forgive me," he said, almost humbly, "if I have believed what I have
so often been told, but if there is one person about whom I am
sensitive, it is my mother. I will not detain you any longer, Miss
Bolitho. Perhaps it would have been better if I had not spoken to you
at all. Do not think that I complain because you are fighting against
me. You can do no other--besides, I am sure"--and here he spoke
bitterly--"that your father and the Wilsons will have poisoned your
mind against me!"
He saw an angry flash from her eyes.
"I am afraid you are wrong there, Mr. Stepaside, as far as I know there
have been no reasons why I should think of you at all; as for enmity,
such a thing would be impossible!"
His heart seemed like a great hot fire as he left her. He knew he had
broken all conventions, and acted like a madman; he knew that whatever
she had felt towards him before, her feelings towards him now must be
of utter scorn and derision, and yet he would not recall one word he
had spoken, even if he could. He was glad that he had said these wild,
incoherent things to her. He had spoken to her, she had spoken to him.
In the future she would think of him, not as a nonentity, not as
someone who could be easily passed by, but as one whose life meant
something. She would never be able to forget him. He knew it and
rejoiced in it! She would be reminded of him by a thousand things in
the days to come. She would never be indifferent about him again, and
throughout the whole of the contest that was coming on she would regard
him differently from the way in which she had thought of him before.
Somehow, too, he felt less jealous of Ned Wilson. He had not spoken of
this man, who was said to be his rival, but he was in the background of
his thoughts all the time. For weeks the stories which the gossips had
bandied had wounded him, but now he felt different. After their talk
this girl would never think of Ned Wilson; she could not. He did not
belong to her order of beings. He breathed a different atmosphere, he
spoke a different language, lived in a different world.
The next day Paul started for Scotland, to try and discover the truth
concerning which his mother had told him.
CHAPTER VI
PAUL GOES TO SCOTLAND
When Mary Bolitho returned to Howden Clough that evening she went
straight to her own room. She wanted to be alone. Under ordinary
circumstances she would have, girl-like, sought out her friend, Emily
Wilson, and given her a full report of what had taken place, but her
desire was for silence rather than for speech. In spite of her anger she
felt that there was something sacred in what this young man had said to
her. There could be no doubt that he felt strongly, and she knew, by the
tones of his voice and the look in his eyes, that he was greatly moved.
Of course, she felt indignant that he should dare to speak to her at all,
and she wondered why she had resolved to say nothing to her father about
their meeting. When all allowances had been made, he had been rude in
the extreme. He had stopped her in a lonely part of the countryside, and
had roughly commanded her to listen to him! And Mary Bolitho was a proud
girl, and was not accustomed to being dictated to. All the same, she
felt much interested in what he had said, and she found herself thinking
of him again and again. There was something romantic, too, in his story
which, in spite of its improbability, she could not help believing, and
although she felt very angry with him, she sympathised with the feelings
he had expressed. Months before she had been annoyed at the thought that
her father should have been opposed by one who was little removed from
the working classes. She remembered him as she had first seen him, at
the shop in Market Street, pale, angry, and, as it seemed to her, coarse.
He spoke as one of his own class, too, and he was rough and rude. But
that view had become somewhat corrected, and she had to admit to herself
that Paul Stepaside was no awkward, ignorant, ill-dressed clown. Indeed,
for that matter, he had the advantage of most young men of her
acquaintance. His coal-black eyes and hair, his pale face and stalwart
figure, would be noticed anywhere. Besides, he was well-dressed, and
although he knew but little of the ways of her world, she knew that he
would never be passed without notice. Besides all this, there was a
suggestion of strength in nearly every word he said, in every tone of his
voice, and Mary Bolitho had a great admiration for strong men. Young
Edward Wilson, whose pointed attentions she could not mistake, seemed but
as a pigmy compared with him. Still, she felt angry, and she rejoiced in
the thought that, on his own admission, she was helping towards his
defeat.
Later in the evening, Paul Stepaside became the subject of a conversation
at Howden Clough, but Mary said no word as to their meeting. Indeed, she
was silent whenever his name was mentioned. On the following day, young
Ned Wilson was much chagrined when she declared her intention of
returning home. "Why, Miss Bolitho," he said, "you told me you had
arranged to canvass Long Street this week, and that will take you at
least three days. Yesterday I heard that you had converted at least a
dozen people, and we cannot afford to lose you now. It is all over the
town, too, that Stepaside is awfully mad at your success. I think he
hates you nearly as much as he hates your father."
"I don't feel like canvassing now," she replied. "And I'm anxious to get
back home."
"But you will come again soon?" he urged. "The house seems like a tomb
without you, and I don't know what I shall do if you go away!"
She was angered by his tones of proprietorship, and almost instinctively
she compared him with the young fellow who had spoken so rudely to her
the night before. Wilson was commonplace, unlettered; he had only the
tastes of the ordinary common, money-making manufacturer, and for the
first time a feeling amounting to revulsion came into her heart as she
thought of the hopes which she knew he entertained.
That afternoon she left Brunford, in spite of the protests that were
made, and found her way to London.
"Returned so soon, Mary?" said her father when she arrived. "I quite
expected you to stay another week. I have heard about the success of
your work in Brunford, and I imagined that you were going to win me a
great many more votes before you returned. I had no idea that you would
be such a valuable asset when I started this fight, and although I am
awfully glad to have you back, we shall have to strain every nerve if we
are to beat that fellow."
"Do you think you will beat him, father?" she asked.
"If we go on as we are doing, we shall," he replied. "I know he has a
tremendous hold upon the town, and I know that a great deal of prejudice
has been roused against me, but we must beat him, Mary; we must."
"Why, is there any special reason for this?" she asked, noting the tone
of her father's voice.
"Of course, I want to win," was his reply. "I never like to engage in a
fight without winning. I think that my success at the Bar has been
mainly owing to the fact that I've always set out to win. Besides all
that, I don't know how it is, but I've taken a personal dislike to that
fellow. By the way, have you ever met him?"
"Yes," replied the girl.
"Of course, you've never spoken to him?"
To this she made no reply. She did not know why it was, but she felt she
could not tell her father of their meeting in the fields behind Howden
Clough.
"Well, I shall have to go up to Brunford myself in two or three weeks,"
continued Mr. Bolitho, "and, if you can, I hope you will go with me."
"Can we not stay at an hotel when we go again, father?" she asked.
"Why?" asked Mr. Bolitho, turning upon her quickly. "Have not the
Wilsons always been kind to you? And do you not feel comfortable there?
Besides, there is no hotel in Brunford that I care to stay at, and
there's a sort of general understanding between Wilson and myself that we
shall be his guests."
The girl was silent, and looked steadily on the floor.
"What is it, Mary? There's something wrong."
"Of course, I cannot be blind to young Wilson's attentions," she said,
and her voice was hard as she spoke.
"Well, he's a decent fellow, and, on the whole, I like these Lancashire
people. They may be a trifle rough, and, of course, the Wilsons belong
to _nouveaux riches_ class, but young Ned cannot help that; besides, say
what we will, any girl might do worse than take Ned Wilson. I know, as a
fact, that his father is making an enormous income, and Ned, being the
only son, will be one of the richest men in Lancashire."
"He has the mind of a navvy and the tastes of a bookmaker." And her
voice was almost bitter as she spoke.
Her father laughed uneasily. "That's all nonsense, Mary!" he said.
"But, tell me really, what do you think my chances are? You know the
town now better than I do. Do you think I shall beat Stepaside?"
"He's not a man to be easily beaten," was her reply. "I believe that,
unless----"
"Yes, unless what?"
"Unless extreme means are used, he will win."
"I will not be beaten!" said Mr. Bolitho, and his eyes flashed as he
spoke. "That fellow insulted me in the Manchester Law Courts, and I was
glad when he got six months. Fellows of his order need to be taught a
lesson, and he shall be taught, too."
"I don't think you understand him, father," she said. "He's one of those
men who will never be beaten. He'll rise above every difficulty, and
move every obstacle out of his way. I don't know why it is, but I don't
feel comfortable about this contest, and I feel afraid of him."
"Afraid, Mary!"
"Yes," replied the girl. "I am afraid. I know I've no reason to be, but
whenever I think of him I become angry, and yet I don't know why I should
be angry. In a sense, he makes me admire him. He came to Brunford a few
years ago utterly poor and unknown, and now he's become quite a
personality. He's just one of those strong men that always wins his way.
And he hates you, too, father."
And then, without any apparent reason, the girl left the room.
Meanwhile, Paul Stepaside was in a train that carried him northward. He
was doing now what he had meant to have done long months before. He had
constantly been making endeavours to discover the truth about the Douglas
Graham of whom his mother had spoken, but he had done so without a plan,
and in a kind of haphazard way, and this was not like Paul. He felt,
too, as though he had a new motive in his life. Mary Bolitho had said
nothing that seemingly accounted for this, and yet he knew that her words
had determined his action. A feeling of pride which he had never known
before possessed him. He wanted to go to this girl with a name as good
as her own. Money, he knew he could get, yes, and position, too. During
the last few months he had listened to several fairly prominent Members
of Parliament. He had analysed their speeches and estimated their
powers, and he was not afraid of them. He was as big a man as any of
them; yes, bigger, stronger, and with more will power. No, he was not
afraid that he could not win position, but with this black cloud hanging
over him he felt as though he were paralysed. And so, when a local train
left Carlisle towards the station nearest to his mother's old home, it
was with a fixed determination that he would not leave Scotland until he
had discovered all that could be known. Perhaps it might end in nothing,
but he must find out.
It was with a curious feeling in his heart that he presently arrived at
the little farmhouse where his mother was born and reared. In spite of
the fact that he was a country lad, he had never realised the meaning of
loneliness as he realised it now. No other house was near; the little
farmhouse was the only building in sight. As far as the eye could reach,
beyond the few acres of land which had been reclaimed from the moors,
there seemed to him nothing but wild desolation. Hill rose upon hill,
and while the scene was almost majestic, it made him understand how
lonely his mother's life must have been. He stood for several minutes
looking at the house before entering. He did not know whether his
grandfather was living or not, and for the first time it struck him that
he might have relatives living there, to whose existence he had
previously been indifferent. The day was as still as death, and it
seemed to him as though the place were uninhabited. Presently, however,
he heard the sound of a human voice, and, turning, he saw a rough-looking
lad driving some cattle before him. The lad eyed him strangely as he
came up to the little farm buildings, and seemed to wonder why he should
be there. The time was evening, an evening of late summer, and Paul
remembered that it was in the late summer-time when Douglas Graham, his
father, had first come into the district. He called to mind, too, that
he had seen his mother as she was driving home the cattle from the moors.
He watched the lad almost furtively, and he wondered why it was that he
was afraid to speak. It seemed to him as though some mysterious power
were brooding over this lonely dwelling and forbidding him to learn the
secrets that lay within.
"Does Donald Lindsay live here?" he asked presently.
The lad looked at him for a few seconds before replying, and then, in his
strong Scotch accent, replied, "Nay. He's dead."
"And Mrs. Lindsay, is she alive?"
"Ay," replied the lad. "She'll be inside. She's my mother."
Paul remembered his own mother's story about this hard Scotswoman's
unkindness, and felt little disposed to go into the house; yet, for the
sake of learning what he had come to learn, he determined to enter. The
cottage, for it was little more than a cottage, was clean, but
comfortless and bare of any adornment whatever. It might seem as though
no woman entered this building, for there were no marks of a woman's
handicraft, none of those little suggestions of the feminine presence.
"Mother!" shouted the youth. "There's someone wants you."
A minute later Paul heard a heavy step on the uncarpeted stairway, and a
tall, angular, hard-featured woman, with cold blue eyes and scanty light
hair, entered the room. She looked at him steadily, as if there was
something in his face that she recognised.
"And what might ye be wantin'?" she asked presently. "Ye'll not be from
these parts, I fancy."
"No," said Paul. "I came from England. I was born and reared in
Cornwall. Years ago, a man named Donald Lindsay came there and married
into my family. I was wanting to find out something about him."
He knew it was a clumsy explanation of his appearance there, but it was
the best he could think of for the moment.
"What'll you be to Donald Lindsay?" asked the woman, as she scanned him
closely. "He died two years since, and it's getting on for forty years
ago since he was down South. He's told me about it many a time. You're
in no way related to him, are you?"
And then, giving him a second glance, she went on:
"No, no, you're no Lindsay. Donald was blue-eyed and fair-haired, and
you are black-eyed and black-haired."
"But did not Donald have a daughter?" asked Paul. "You see, I've heard
he married a Cornish girl, and that they had a daughter. Did you know
her? Did she ever live here?"
"What's that to you?" asked the woman. "You don't mean to say that
there's any siller coming to her?"
"I don't say but what there is," replied Paul, seeing that this might be
the key which might help to unlock the mystery of his mother's life.
"And are you a lawyer chap?"
"Do I look like a lawyer?" he asked with a laugh. He was wanting to get
the woman into a communicative mood.
"You might be," she replied. "You're just one of those keen-eyed men of
the lawyer class, but I ken nothing about her, except that she's dead."
"Who's dead?" asked Paul.
"Donald's lass, Jean," was the reply. "She that was born to his first
wife. And a good thing, too!" she added vindictively.
"Why a good thing?" asked the young man.
"Better dead than disgraced," replied the woman in her hard Scotch
fashion. And Paul understood the fear that his mother must have had of
this woman whom her father had placed in authority over her. A pain shot
through his heart, and he felt like answering the woman angrily. Ever
since their meeting on the Altarnun Moors Paul had been keenly sensitive
about his mother's good name, and resented any approach to light words
concerning her.
"I am trying to find out all about her," he said presently. "And I would
be very glad if you could give me any information concerning her
childhood and girlhood up here."
"Why should I?" asked the woman. "It'll not be to my advantage."
"Please don't be so sure of that," replied Paul. He knew instinctively
that she was avaricious by nature, and would be likely to do anything for
gain.
"You wouldn't thank me for telling," she replied.
"If you promise to tell me all you know," said Paul, "I am empowered to
give you five guineas."
"And it'll get me into no trouble?" she asked, with that suggestion of
Scotch caution of which Paul had so often heard.
"No," replied he, "your name need never be mentioned; but I'm anxious to
find out all I can concerning the childhood and girlhood of Jean Lindsay
up to the time of her marriage."
"Her marriage!" said the woman scornfully. "Weel, it may be she was
married, after all, and it may be I was hard on her, and it may be, too,
it was because I thought Donald cared more for her than for my children.
Anyhow, she never liked me, and I don't say that I liked her. She was a
good lass as lasses go, although never tractable--always stubborn. An
unnatural way she had with her, too: she always wanted to be out on the
moors alone, and I used to tell Donald it would never come to any good.
She might have married well. Willie Fearn, who owns a farm over the
moors here, would have had her, and he's worth thousands of pounds now,
is Willie. But she would have nothing to say to him. One day I saw a
stranger coming up the path with her, one of these handsome Southerners,
and they used to meet in secret, and I suppose he courted her. Anyhow,
she ran away with him, or said she did, and then came back the next day
telling us that she was married."
"Yes?" said Paul eagerly. He knew all this before, but it seemed to him
as though he was getting nearer the truth that he longed to learn. "And
did she stay with you long?"
"Not long," replied the woman. "You see----" And a look almost of shame
came into her eyes. "Well, she stayed as long as she dared."
"And have you heard what has become of her since?" he asked.
"We've heard that she died. We've no proof of it, but we saw in the
papers a few weeks afterwards that a girl was found dead, and from the
description given of her we concluded that it was Jean."
"But did you not try and find out?" he asked. "Surely your husband would
not be s
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