Chapter 10

THE NEW MEMBER FOR BRUNFORD

The day following the meeting at the railway station Paul saw Miss Bolitho in the streets of Brunford and to his delight she greeted him with a frank smile.

"Have you begun your work of canvassing?" he said, with a laugh.

"Not yet," she replied. "Indeed, I doubt whether I shall take any part in this contest. I have been engaged in a far more feminine occupation!"

"Shopping?" asked Paul.

She laughed in assent. "But I've finished now," she said. "I am just returning to Howden Clough."

"Are you staying in Brunford long?"

"No, I leave to-morrow."

"May I walk back with you?" he asked, wondering at his own temerity. They went together some little distance without Paul speaking a word. He felt he had much to say to her, and yet, now that the opportunity had come, he was speechless. He noticed, too, that the people in the street were watching them, and doubtless many were commenting on the fact that he, who had no reason to be friendly with Mr. Bolitho, should be walking with his daughter. Once or twice he looked shyly towards her, and could not help thinking how utterly different she was from the girls of her own age who lived in Brunford. She seemed to have no connection with the town at all. Everything there was smoky and grimy and harsh. She seemed more like a country girl than a denizen of a town or city. Sometimes, when he had watched people in the market square selling violets, the incongruity had struck him. The violets brought in fresh from the country seemed utterly out of place in the grimy hands of these Northern people. As he looked at the young girl by his side he could not help thinking of the violets.

"I want to apologise to you," he said at length. "I was rude to you when I met you in the fields near Howden Clough, and I've been angry with myself ever since. It is very good of you to forgive me. I don't deserve it."

For the first time Mary Bolitho realised what she was doing. In a moment of thoughtlessness she had yielded to his suggestion that he should walk to Howden Clough with her, and she felt angry with herself. Had anyone told her that morning that she would have allowed him to walk by her side through the public street she would have laughed at the idea. It is true she had been interested in him ever since she had first seen him. There was something masterful in his presence. His political campaign had been marked by incidents which appealed to her imagination, and she felt she could never forget the look on his face when he had flung out his defiance to her father on the day of the election. She felt there was something morose and sullen, if not savage, in his nature, and even while she spoke pleasantly to him in her father's presence, the thought of being alone with him in such a way would have been deemed impossible. Directly he had suggested walking home with her, however, she felt she must fall in with his desire. There was something in him that interested her and almost mastered her.

"You thought I was rude, didn't you?" he continued. "Well, I apologise, humbly and sincerely. But perhaps there was some excuse for me. Your father treated me badly, and, naturally, I associated you with him."

"You mistake my father," she said. "He would never treat anyone badly."

"He was unjust to me," said Paul. "I know that barristers are supposed to do their best for their employers, but through him I suffered unjust imprisonment. He did not try to arrive at the truth. He only tried to win his case, and, in so doing, he stopped at nothing to make it hard for me. I am thinking now of that riot trouble. Of course, you heard that I was innocent of the affair?"

"Yes, I have," she replied. "I am very sorry. But surely you understand my father's position?"

"I can never understand injustice," he replied. "Still, it was not your fault, and I acted to you like a brute. Besides all that, you were a friend of the Wilsons, and Ned Wilson hates me."

"Why should he hate you?" asked the girl.

"I will not tell you that," replied Paul. "That would be stabbing a man in the back, and I will not be guilty of that. Anyhow, years ago, I incurred Ned Wilson's enmity by telling him certain home truths. He has never forgiven me. But for the stories he set afloat and his action towards me I should have won the last election. All this made me bitter towards you."

"I wonder," she replied, "if you feel so angry towards me, that you should care to make these explanations." And she did not understand at all why she spoke. They were some little distance from the roar of the traffic now, and could hear each other plainly.

"I want you to think well of me," he said.

"Why should you?" she asked.

"I cannot tell you now," replied Paul. "But some day I should like to. You wish me good luck in this fight, don't you?"

"How can I," she asked, "when I look at things so differently? I think I admire your pluck, and if I were in your place I should be proud of the influence you have over the working-men; but, then, I think your policy is a dangerous one."

"Let me explain that to you," he replied eagerly. "I think you do not understand how the working classes feel, and I, even although my father did not belong to that class, I--well, I have been a working-man. And there is a shadow over my name, too, and over my mother's life. I should like to tell you about that."

"Really, Mr. Stepaside, I have no right to hear."

"But I want you to," he urged, and his voice was tremulous. "You really do not know, Miss Bolitho, all I have been thinking, and how I long for you to know the truth. You must know it, too. You have had harsh thoughts about me. Yes, you have been unjust to me, and it's my right that you should know the truth. I wish you knew my mother, too. If you did----"

His speech was here broken off by the advent of Ned Wilson, who came from a side street. He seemed utterly surprised at seeing her and Paul together, but, without taking any notice of Paul, he exclaimed, "Oh, this is luck, Miss Bolitho! I am just returning home, and I shall have the pleasure of walking back with you. Or, if you like, we will go back to the mill together. There's a conveyance there."

"No, thank you," she replied. "I'd rather walk. Good-afternoon, Mr. Stepaside. I hope you will--that is----" And then, without finishing her sentence, she walked away by Ned Wilson's side, leaving Paul alone.

"Well, of all the impudence!" said Wilson angrily. His tone did not please the girl. She was vexed with herself for allowing Paul to accompany her, especially as she did not know why she should have done such an unprecedented thing, but she resented Wilson's remark, nevertheless. It seemed to suggest proprietorship.

"How in the world did you allow him to walk with you? Really, Miss Bolitho, I cannot allow it!" And his voice was hot with anger.

"I am afraid I do not understand!" And Wilson saw that he had gone too far.

"I mean, you do not know him. He's a low-bred clown, a fellow who--well, who should not be seen walking with you, Miss Bolitho. Besides, people will talk; they do not understand."

She did not know why it was, but she felt it was for her to defend Paul, and, without thinking, she burst out, almost angrily, "I think he's a magnificent fellow, and I do hope he'll win!"

"You hope he'll win?" cried Ned.

"Yes. You see, I like strong men--that is, I like men who will never be beaten, who know what they want, and who never rest until they get it; men with great purposes, great ambitions. And he's a man who will surely be heard of. Nothing can stop him. I hear he's becoming a rich man, but that will not content him. He's ambitious to take a great place in life. I should not be at all surprised if some day he won a national reputation!"

"Nonsense!" cried Ned. "National reputation, indeed! He might have a national reputation for some great crime, but for nothing else. He has the instincts of his class, Miss Bolitho, and I am sorry you were seen walking with him. If I were to tell your father, he'd be angry, too."

Ned knew he was doing himself harm by saying these things, but at that moment his hatred of Paul was increased. He had never dreamt that Mary Bolitho could think of him in such a way. He believed she was interested in him, and that somehow Paul had fascinated her by his presence. Jealousy of him, therefore, was added to the old grudge.

"I am afraid you do not understand, Mr. Wilson. Oh, here's a tram, which will take me a long way towards the house." And without taking any further notice of him, she walked towards the conveyance.

Three weeks later Brunford was again on the tiptoe of excitement. Again a great crowd had gathered around the town hall, again there was the excitement of counting votes, and this time Paul, to his great delight, found himself Member for Brunford by a big majority. That he was gratified goes without saying. He felt, somehow, that the day brought him nearer the things he longed for. All things seemed possible to him now, and his heart beat high with joy. It is true, Ned Wilson bad done his best to defeat him, but this time he had been powerless. He was unable to use the methods he had used on the previous occasion, and while he had resurrected the old stories concerning Paul's parentage, they had apparently done the young man no harm. Paul was delighted, too, with the conduct of his opponent. The Honourable Stephen Boston had been true to his word. He had fought the battle fairly and with a sportsman's spirit, and when the results were announced no man in Brunford was more cordial towards the new Member than the defeated candidate.

"I did my best to lick you, Stepaside," he said, when all the noise and excitement was over. "But you were too strong for me. All the same, I congratulate you. You have fought a good fight, and you'll be heard about in the country yet. When you come to London, I hope we shall see more of each other, and it may be I can introduce you to some people whom you would like to know."

It was long after midnight at this time, and they had met with a number of men at a kind of social club which had no political bias. The leading people of the town were there, and Paul also noticed that Ned Wilson was among them. He fancied he had been drinking heavily. His eyes were bloodshot, and his voice was loud and truculent.

"It's good of you to say so," said Paul. "And never do I want to fight with a fairer opponent. I hope that neither of us will ever be able to think of this election with a shadow of regret."

"Yes, but Brunford will!" interposed Wilson.

"Nay, nay, Ned," remarked someone near. "Hold your tongue. It's no use probing old wounds now."

"I say Brunford will!" shouted Ned, heedless of the other's warning. "The time will come when it will be ashamed of what it's done to-day. For my own part, I think I will move out of the town. Politics have become a dirty business now, when a nameless vagrant can become a Member of Parliament. Still, we know the old adage, 'Give a beggar a horse----'"

Paul did not speak. For one thing, he was in a great good humour. He had been victorious and could afford to forgive Wilson for all he had done. Besides, he remembered the last quarrel they had had in a public place, and he did not want another scene now. But Wilson was evidently bent upon a quarrel. He was deeply chagrined at the other's victory, and this, added to the whisky he had been drinking, made him more than ordinarily quarrelsome.

"If I had my way," he went on, "none but those of honourable birth, and whose parentage was respectable, should legislate for a country like this. As for this fellow's parentage----" And then he gave a sneering laugh.

"Be quiet, now, Ned! Do be quiet! You'll get into trouble presently.

"Trouble!" cried the other. "I'm going to say my say. Why, if the fellow had any sense of shame, he would at least have kept his mother out of the town." And then he uttered words which I will not write down--words which, had Paul's mother heard them, would have made her long to fly the town.

This proved too much for Paul. Insults hurled at himself he did not mind, but for such words to be uttered about his mother in a place like this was beyond endurance. With a face as pale as ashes, and a voice hoarse with passion, he strode towards Wilson. "You dare not repeat those words!" he said, scarcely knowing what was passing his lips.

"Repeat!" said Wilson. "I shall repeat what I like, and scum like you shall never stop me. Who are you that you should dare to be here among gentlemen? You may have been elected by the riff-raff of the town, but that does not hinder you from being what you are--a workhouse brat. It does not hinder your mother from being----" And again he uttered words which I will not write down.

Paul forgot where he was now. The day's election, his longing to keep away from vulgar quarrels, all his ambitions became forgotten in the passion of the moment. A second later Ned Wilson was lying on the floor, blood flowing from his mouth. A blow from Paul had laid him prostrate, almost senseless. What Paul would have done to him, I do not know, but he was held back by many strong arms. "No, no, Stepaside," men said. "This is a bad beginning for your new career. If this gets out in the town, and it's almost bound to----"

"I don't care," interrupted Paul. "No man could hear what he has said without resenting it. Let me go, I tell you!"

By this time Wilson had risen. The blow, while it had partially stunned him, had also to some extent sobered him. For a few seconds the two men looked at each other, each with great passion in his eyes.

"Remember," said Wilson, "I'll pay you out for this! By God! I'll pay you for this! You and I have had our knives in each other for a long time, and I have always got the better of you, and I will again, in spite of this!" And he left the club with a look of murder in his eyes.

Paul also left immediately after. In spite of his day's victory, he was heartily ashamed of what he had done, and yet the mad anger in his heart caused by what Wilson had said kept him from regretting the blow he had struck.

"He is right," said one of the men who had witnessed the affair. "He'll pay thee out for this, Paul. Ned Wilson is a chap that never forgives, never forgets."

"If it comes to paying out," said Paul, "I've a bigger score than he has, and he'll always find me ready."

"It serves him jolly well right," said the Honourable Stephen Boston. "I wonder Stepaside did not kill him! I know I would if anyone said such a thing to me! All the same, I am sorry it has taken place. Had I known Wilson was here I would not have asked Stepaside to join us."

When Paul reached his home he found his mother sitting up for him. She met him with a look of joy in her eyes. "Paul," she said, "they've brought me the news."

"What news, mother?" he asked.

"The news of your victory, my son. It's glorious! I little thought when I saw you first that I should ever live to see such an hour as this. But what's the matter with you?"

"What should be the matter?" he asked.

"You're as pale as ashes, and you do not look like one who has won a great victory. What has happened?"

"Oh, never mind," he replied.

"But I must mind, Paul. Something has taken place that has upset you. Tell me what it is."

Even yet Paul was scarcely master of himself. The words he had heard still rang in his ears and rankled in his heart. He felt as though all the joy of the day had been destroyed by what Wilson had said. He knew, too, that it would become public property by the morrow. There were those who witnessed the affair who would not be slow in making it known. Perhaps, too, it would come to his mother's ears in a garbled fashion, and would wound her more than if he told her himself.

"Has the man Bolitho done anything?" she said. "Or is it your opponent? Was he terribly cut up because you beat him, Paul?"

"No," he replied. "I've never heard of Bolitho, and as for Boston, he's a splendid fellow. He took his beating like a man and offered me his friendship afterwards."

"Then what is it? Is the news I've heard, that Wilson is engaged to Miss Bolitho, true?"

"Have you heard that?"

"Yes; I have heard it only to-day."

"I wish I had killed him!" he said, and his voice was hoarse and unnatural.

"What do you mean, Paul? Tell me what has happened."

Had he not been excited beyond measure, he would have told the story in such a way as to take away the sting from it. As it was, never dreaming of the results, he related what had taken place, and repeated the words Wilson had said. No sooner had he spoken, however, than he was mad with himself for being so unguarded. His mother's face became drawn with agony. Her eyes shone with a strange light, and he saw her clench and unclench her hands like one in great pain.

"Did he say that?" she cried. "Did he say that?" And he scarcely recognised her voice.

"Anyhow, he's suffering for it," said Paul. "Ay, and he shall suffer for it, too."

"He shall! He shall!" And her voice almost rose to a shriek. "I have violent blood in my veins, Paul. Back in the old days my people would have only been content to wipe out such an insult in blood, and I will make him suffer for it!"

"I am sorry I told you, mother," said Paul. "I was a fool to do so; but I did not think, I did not remember!"

"I am glad you have told me!" was her reply. "I know now what I have to do. I have been so happy that I was almost forgetting; but I will not forget now! And that man is your enemy, too. He means to marry Mary Bolitho, and he will, too, unless, unless--Paul, you needn't fear! I tell you, you needn't fear." And after that she would not speak another word.

For a long time Paul lay thinking of what his mother had said and of the strange look in her eyes. It seemed as though he had roused something evil in her nature, and for a time he wondered whether her brain had not been unhinged. He knew she was a proud woman, and that she was jealous beyond words of her good name. The thought of Wilson's words being bandied around the town must be worse than death to her, and yet what could he do? He blamed himself more than he could say for having told her the truth so brutally. Had he not himself been so overwrought he would have acted with more deliberation. He remembered, too, what his mother had said when they had first met, and he wondered whether Wilson had proposed marriage to Mary Bolitho before she had left Brunford, and whether she had accepted him. It might be so. And then all the joy of his winning the election would be as nothing.

For the last three weeks he had been looking forward to this day with great anticipation. He felt sure he would win from the beginning, and he had wondered whether Mary would send him some word of congratulation. He did not expect she would, but she would hear of his victory, and perhaps their next meeting would be under more favourable circumstances. He knew that, in spite of the fact that he had been elected for Brunford, the sky of his life was black again. The words he had heard had filled him with black shame and feelings of deadly anger, while the look on his mother's face aroused in him an unnameable fear.

When morning came, however, he felt better. A few hours' sleep had restored him to something like normal health. The excitement of the last few weeks had told upon him, and the strain upon his nerves had been tremendous. Now that the fight was over, however his splendid constitution stood him in good stead, and he felt strong and vigorous. That which had appeared black at night assumed less sombre colours in the light of day. After all, he had won a great victory. He had received nearly a thousand votes more than his opponent. He had wrested a seat for the cause in which he believed, and he was member for Brunford!

He slept until nearly nine o'clock, and when he came downstairs he found, to his delight, a heap of congratulatory messages lying upon the table. After all, it was delightful to be a victor, delightful to have won in the battle of life! He noticed, too, that his mother had become like her old self again. She spoke in her natural voice, and made no reference whatever to what had taken place the night before.

"I shall have to go to London, to-day or to-morrow, mother," he said. "I hope you won't be lonely while I'm away."

"Oh, never fear for me, Paul, my son!" she replied. "I shall be all right."

"I do not like the idea of your being alone, though," said Paul. "And I shall have to be away from Brunford a great deal when Parliament meets. I think I shall have to take you to London with me!"

"No," she replied. "I would rather stay here. I should only be in your way if I went to London, besides increasing your expenses--and that I must not do."

"Why not, mother? I can afford it very well. We're having a specially good run of luck just now, and the extra expense would not bother me at all. Besides, I want you to be near me!"

"No, Paul. I would rather remain in Brunford. I have my work to do."

"Your work, mother! What do you mean?"

She did not reply, and Paul could not understand the look on her face.

"Tell me, mother," he said, "what do you mean by having your work to do?"

"There's only one work for me now, Paul--only one thing I care about--and that is to give you your rightful name, and to make you happy!"

"I have thought lately he's dead," said Paul.

"No," she replied, "he is not dead. I feel it in every fibre of my body. He is not dead! And I am going to find him. And I must not leave Brunford--something has told me I must not. And I must watch Wilson, too."

"I have been thinking about that, mother," he said; "and, after all, it's not so bad. The man was drunk, or he would not have said such a thing!"

"Drunk or sober," was her reply, "he shall pay for those words. But do not trouble, Paul. You shall be happy. And you shall have your rightful name, in spite of everything."

A week or two later, Paul had forgotten almost everything in the new life which he led. He had journeyed to London to take his seat in the House of Commons, and, amidst the excitement of his new experiences, even the incidents of the election faded away. It was wonderful to him, the nameless lad who had come to Brunford a few years before, to be one of the legislators in the greatest Empire of the world. Even yet he was little more than a youth, and he had practically no experience of life. Thus London, with all its excitement, and the world of possibilities which it revealed, made everything new to him. Never had he realised the meaning of history until now. Never had the greatness of his country so impressed him. Hitherto he had not realised what his ambitions meant. Now they became clear. The House of Commons became the pivot of the world, and it seemed to him as though he had his hand upon the pulse of humanity. London was the great heart of the Empire, sending out its streams of life-blood through the length and breadth of the world. And the heart of London was the great pile of buildings on the banks of the Thames. He was no one as yet--just one of the unknown men among nearly seven hundred who gathered there. He had an obscure seat in the House, and, unlike many of the other men with whom he came into contact, he had few friends. Still, he rejoiced in his isolation, and dreamed dreams of the time when he would emerge from his comparative obscurity, and when his voice would be heard in the councils of the Empire. No one was more regular than he in his attendance at the House, and he took a supreme delight in wandering through the buildings, and in trying to understand their significance. Westminster Hall, especially, attracted him. He thought of the scenes which had taken place in that historic building, and remembered how it had stood there through the centuries. The greater part of the parliament houses was comparatively new, but this remained almost unchanged by the ravages of time and of fire. Here great trials had taken place. Here great battles had been won--battles which had changed the destinies of the nation. Brunford, which had seemed so important to him a few years ago, was now only an insignificant manufacturing town. It had but little history, little meaning; but London--London was everything. There, in Westminster Abbey, close by him, kings had been crowned and monarchs were buried. There, too, the great ones of the world had come. Men whose names were imperishable were buried in that mausoleum of the illustrious dead! And he--well, he was nothing now, but men should hear of him in the future. While keenly observant of the procedure of the House, he sometimes found himself dreaming dreams. He thought of the time when Disraeli was refused a hearing in that historic assembly, remembered how the Irish, led by the great Daniel O'Connell, refused to listen to him, and how, when at length he had sat down, after trying to make a speech, he shook his fist in the faces of the excited crowd, and cried: "You will not hear me now, but one day you'll be glad to hear me!" Well, why not he? It is true Disraeli was a man of genius, but he was handicapped on every hand. He was a Jew, and when he commenced his career the prejudice against Jews was stronger even than it was to-day. He was in debt, too, and was hampered on every hand, and yet he had broken down all opposition. He had conquered prejudice, had mastered one of the greatest prime ministers of the age, and was for years the central figure of the Government of the Empire. It just showed what one strong man could do; and he would do it. But at the back of everything was the face of Mary Bolitho. It was for her he was going to win fame and renown. It was at her feet that he would lay all he could win.

Of course many will feel like smiling at these dreams of youth. All the same, the young man who does not dream impossible dreams and determine to win impossible battles will never do much. It is these things which keep the world young and eternally hopeful. Sad will it be for the youth of England when they cease to be!

Fleet Street, too, fascinated him beyond words. Next to the Houses of Parliament, he loved to walk along this busy thoroughfare. Sometimes he would stand there and watch the crowd as it went hurrying by--perhaps the most interesting crowd in the world. Here nameless vagrants rubbed shoulder to shoulder with men who were influencing the thought of the nation. This was the home of one of the greatest estates of the land. It was from here that millions of newspapers were sent, containing the hopes, the aspirations, the life of the people. None of these papers mentioned his name as yet, for he had never dared to try to catch the Speaker's eye, but the time would come when he would. Leading articles should be written about him, and his views of life and politics should be discussed.

In spite of all these things, however, the session came to an end without Paul Stepaside having tried to speak a word in the British House of Commons. His time had not come yet, but it was coming, and he knew how to wait. Those months were to him months of education. He was accustoming himself to his surroundings and preparing for the future. He was studying the methods of the men whose words carried weight. He was seeing the inwardness of this great parliamentary game which was being played, and he was learning to understand how he could use his knowledge, not simply as a means of self-aggrandisement, but for the betterment of the people he loved.

Three times during the session he had gone to Brunford on matters of business, but nothing had happened worthy of recording. His mother had inquired eagerly concerning his doings in London, and had stored within her memory every incident which he had related to her.

"I'm glad you have not spoken in the House yet, Paul," she said, again and again. "When you speak it must be on something which is near and dear to you--something which has gripped your life. Then you will make them feel what you feel. Ay, and you will, too, my boy! It's coming! I can see it!"

"Yes," replied Paul. "I'm going to do it, mother. I'm going to make the name of Stepaside honoured."

"Nay, but you're going to have another name, Paul--your own!"

"Have you found out anything yet?" he asked repeatedly. But at this she would shake her head, as if all her efforts had been in vain, and yet Paul felt assured that she knew more than she cared to tell him.

During the second session Paul made his first speech. As he thought of it afterwards, he was terribly disappointed. It seemed to him that he had not said the things he wanted to say, while the things he had said seemed crude and unimportant. The atmosphere of the House of Commons was so utterly different from that of any assembly he had ever addressed, and he knew that he was speaking to what was perhaps one of the most critical audiences in the world. As fortune would have it, too, the House was full when he spoke, and a great deal of interest was attached to the Bill that was being discussed. That was why he was so disappointed that his language, especially during the first few minutes, was so poor and stilted. He imagined, too, that he had been listened to respectfully, and even cordially, because it was his maiden speech. As a matter of fact, however, Paul had made a great impression. Something of his history was known, and his striking appearance told in his favour. Indeed, it was remarked freely that his speech was one of the most promising that had been heard for years from a new and untried member. Consequently, when Paul returned to Brunford the next time, he was met with congratulations on every hand. He was beginning to fulfil the promises he had made, and many prophesied a great career for him.

And Paul was greatly elated. Indeed, so much was he carried away by visions of the future that he never dreamed of the dark, ominous clouds that were filling his horizon.