Chapter 11

PAUL'S DARING

One of the results of Paul's success was entirely unexpected by him. He suddenly found himself made much of by what is called Society. Hitherto he had been altogether unnoticed in this direction. While he was scarcely looked upon as a Labour Member, he was regarded by many as belonging to that class. Moreover, he had done nothing to bring himself into notice, and so, having no advantages of birth, and no circle of acquaintances in London, he had been comparatively neglected. Suddenly, however, he had become a public man. His speech was not only talked about in the Members' Lobby, but it was discussed by a number of society women who professed to be interested in politics. More than one paper devoted articles to him, and many spoke of him as a coming man. This meant that Paul received invitations to society functions which hitherto had been unknown to him.

The wife of a Cabinet Minister gave a reception, and Paul was among the invited guests. "It's a risk!" said that lady to her husband, when the invitations had been sent out, "but, as you know, I love risks, and these things are usually so tame! Will he come in his working-clothes, do you think?"

"Everything is possible!" laughed her husband. "Still, I don't think you need be afraid!"

"I do hope he'll do something shocking!" said the lady. "From what I've heard, he's young and handsome, and if he does something outrageous it'll make the thing go!"

"I should not be surprised if he does not appear in good clothes," said the Cabinet Minister.

"Let's hope they'll be badly fitting, anyhow!" said the wife.

Paul felt very strange as he joined the gay throng. It was his first experience of that sort, and he had not the slightest idea as to what would be expected of him. He had always refused to go to the social functions in Brunford, and now to be ushered suddenly into what he had heard was to be one of the most brilliant political gatherings of the season was staggering. With a fast-beating heart he saw conveyance after conveyance arrive at the scene of gaiety, and men in immaculate evening clothes and ladies in gay attire emerging from them. But Paul quickly gained the mastery over himself. "After all, what does it matter?" he said. "I don't care about this kind of life. These chattering, overfed women have no attraction for me! Still, it may be interesting."

It was a large gathering, and he noticed that many of the most prominent people in the country were present. When he heard his name mentioned to the host and hostess he saw a look of surprise on the latter's face. Evidently she was altogether disappointed, although she was much interested.

"Mr. Paul Stepaside!" said a man in a loud voice, and Paul was shaking hands with one of the leaders of London society.

"So glad to see you," said the lady. "Did I catch your name aright--Mr. Stepaside?"

Paul bowed, uttered a few commonplaces, and passed on.

"I thought you told me he was a working-man?" said the lady to her husband. "I hoped he would come in his working-clothes. This fellow is immaculate!"

"He's a fine figure of a man, anyhow," said the Cabinet Minister.

"The most striking-looking man in the room!" was the lady's answer. And then her attention and smiles were given to the next comers.

Paul was not long left alone, and quickly found himself quite a centre of interest. More than one Member of Parliament brought his lady friends to see the new star. Indeed, he was so much monopolised that for a time he had little opportunity to take notice of the guests as a whole. By and by, however, he managed to get away by himself, and to take the part of a spectator.

It was all very strange to him, this gay throng--and he was not very favourably impressed. If this was Society, he did not want it! Everyone seemed blasé and satiated with pleasure. The conversation was clever, but superficial. It seemed to him as though almost everyone lacked earnestness--lacked reality.

"I am glad you are interesting!" said one lady to him during the evening. Paul had been with her some time, and had given expression to some very unconventional opinions. "The greatest sin I know of is to be dull, and you can't be dull."

"No?" said Paul. "I think I'm a fairly good actor."

"No, you have a good deal of the devil in you, and I like a man of your sort. Do you know I saw a criticism of a book the other day of which you remind me?"

"And of course you've read the book?"

"Oh no! The critique said that the only bad book was the book which was badly written, no matter what its morals might be, and this book, although excellently intentioned, was not well written. You know I have a similar feeling about men. The greatest crime in the calendar is to be dull. Men may break all the other commandments if they like, but he who breaks that is impossible. And I find you so interesting!"

"And I feel myself so dull," said Paul. "I don't follow your simile a bit."

"Ah, but you're not conventional. The great charm of a man is that he's always going off the beaten tracks. When he gets back to those he is impossible! Do you know, I hoped you would come in your working-clothes. Our hostess told me you were coming, and I quite looked forward to seeing you."

"My working-clothes are very shabby," said Paul. "Still, if I had thought you wanted to see them, I would have brought them."

The lady laughed good-humouredly. "Oh, but do remain unconventional!" she said. "Don't become a polished Society man. If you are to be interesting, always keep off the beaten tracks."

"Even at the expense of politeness?" said Paul.

The lady looked at him quizzically. "Yes, even at the expense of politeness."

"Then I'll run away. There's someone over here I want to speak to," he said.

The truth was, at that moment he had caught sight of a face which had set his heart beating wildly, for he felt sure it was that of Mary Bolitho. "Oh, I wonder, after all, whether it can be!" he said to himself.

Regardless of passing faces, he found his way toward the spot where he thought he had seen her, and to his delight he discovered that he had not made a mistake. Their eyes met as he came up, and she held out her hand with a smile.

"This is splendid!" he said. "It's so pleasant to see a face that one knows amid a crowd of strangers!"

"But surely you must know hosts of people here," was her response.

"No, I know very few," replied Paul. "Some of the men I have met in the Members' Lobby, but nearly everyone is a stranger to me."

"And yet I find that many people are talking about you!" was her reply. "You are quite the lion of the evening. It must be very gratifying to you."

"Do you know," replied Paul, "that I am not so unsophisticated as not to know the value of these things?"

She looked at him inquiringly.

"I can see how much a moment's popularity is worth," he said, almost bitterly. "A lifetime of good work is passed by unnoticed, but if one happens to make a speech that causes a certain amount of discussion, no matter how silly it may be, one gets noticed until someone else appears. And my speech was a very poor one! I feel ashamed every time I am complimented on it!"

There was something in the way he spoke that annoyed her, why she could not tell. "Then I will not add to your shame," she said.

"No," he replied eagerly. "But I do want you to think well of it even although I know it was a failure. I have been wondering lately if I should meet you, and I was afraid once or twice lest I had seen you."

"I do not quite understand."

"I am comparatively new to this sort of function," said Paul. "And, to tell you the truth, I have been very weary of it all."

"How disappointed your hostess would be if she knew!"

"No," said Paul, "I don't deserve that. But I suppose it's because I have not been brought up in this world. I am a plain, humble fellow, and have had to work my way through the grimy and sordid things of life. Still, there's something real in it, something healthy, too, compared with this--at least, some of it. The other night I was at a banquet, and I was afraid I saw you. You see, I have all sorts of old-fashioned ideas. I'm a Puritan of a sort, and am what these people would call bourgeois."

"What in the world do you mean?"

"I saw a girl who looked like you smoking a cigarette. She had the same coloured hair, and bore such a strong resemblance to you that my heart became as heavy as lead. A little later I saw the same girl, or someone very much like her, drinking a liqueur. Of course, it seemed quite the order of the day, and I ought not to be shocked, but had it been you I should have been very sad."

"Why, what is there so terrible in a cigarette or a liqueur?" asked Mary Bolitho.

"I don't know, I'm sure," he replied.

"You'd have taken no notice if a man smoked a cigarette or drank a liqueur. Is a woman different from a man?"

"She ought to be," said Paul. "At least, so it seems to me; but then, as I tell you, I am altogether out of place among that kind of people. I have all sorts of old-fashioned ideas about women. I know they are unpopular. They are thought to be bourgeois, and entertained only by the middle classes. But there you are--I am bourgeois; or perhaps I belong to a lower class even than that. I'm a working man."

"Can you find a chair for me somewhere?" asked the girl. "Of course I don't agree with you in the least, but it's rather interesting to hear you."

He found a chair for her and stood by her side. "I'm so glad it wasn't you."

"How do you know it wasn't I?" she asked.

"Because you're not that sort! You don't drink liqueurs. You don't smoke cigarettes!"

"Why not?"

"I don't know," replied Paul; "but you don't. If you did--well, it would be wrong somehow. I can't explain it, but it feels to me something like--well, what I think a Roman Catholic would feel if he found someone trying to caricature the Virgin Mary." His voice was so earnest and sincere that she could not be offended.

"I am not like all these men here," went on Paul. "I was brought up among the working-classes, and I have, in spite of everything, idealised women. I expect it is because I love my mother. And when I see a girl drinking liqueurs, smoking cigarettes, and doing things like that, I feel that somehow my ideal is, well, besmirched somehow. I believe less in the modesty of women, and I think it's a bad thing for any man to lower his ideals concerning women! Yes, I am so glad it wasn't you!"

"Still I don't understand why."

"Because you are the most sacred thing in my life!" he answered. "I have tried to tell you that before now, only somehow I haven't been able. You are the most wonderful thing in the world to me, and you hate these things too, don't you?"

"Why should you think so? There are many better girls than I who smoke and drink liqueurs."

"No," said Paul. "No. Do you know that, although I have hated you, you've been the one dream of my life, and that you've made everything possible to me? You're angry with me, aren't you?"

"No," she replied, "not angry. But still, you must not speak to me like that!"

"I cannot help it," he replied. "Do you know that but for you I should not have been a Member of Parliament now?"

"But for me?"

"Yes," said Paul. "From the first time I saw you, just after I came out of Strangeways Jail, you've always inspired me, even while you angered me, and have determined me to win when otherwise I should have lost. Tell me honestly now, do you think I shall ever overcome life's handicap?"

"Does it not depend what the handicap is?"

"My handicap is that I'm nameless," he replied. "I told you the story, didn't I? At least, I tried to. Miss Bolitho, am I mad?"

"You are certainly talking very strangely."

"I hate your father," went on Paul, and his voice, although very quiet, was very intense. "The first time I saw him I hated him. No, no one is listening, you need not fear. I believed he was the tool of the Wilsons. I believe it still! I don't think he fought me fairly either. I think he dislikes me, too. But, but--shall I tell you something?"

"I think you had better not," she replied. Even although she was surrounded by a crowd of people, and their voices were wellnigh lost in the hum of conversation, she was afraid.

"I do not think I can help myself. Miss Bolitho, I have been sustained in all the work of my life by one thought--I want to win you for my wife! Do you think it's possible?" And then, without waiting for her reply, he went on: "It must be possible. It shall be possible! I will make it so."

"I must ask you to excuse me. I have some friends over here wishing to speak to me."

"Not yet," he said. "You must forgive my rudeness, but when a man feels as I feel, and have felt for years, niceties of behaviour don't count. You, in spite of everything, have become the one thing in life worth living for, and yet I ought to be ashamed of speaking to you now. I have no right!"

She looked at him wonderingly, as if not understanding what he meant.

"You see, I have no name," he said. "I don't know who my father is or where he is. I only know that he and my mother were married in Scotland, and he left her the day after the wedding. She, in her trouble, went to her mother's old home in Cornwall, and was looked upon as a poor outcast thing. She lay down on a bank near a little hamlet called Stepaside, and thought she was going to die. From there she was taken to a workhouse, where I was born. She would not tell her name, and that was why I was called Stepaside. It's a terrible handicap, isn't it? No father, no name! Ned Wilson made the most of that at the election; but there, I've fought it down so far. Will you promise me something? I hope you will, I think you will. I don't think I'm altogether a clown, and I feel sometimes as though I can do great things if you---- You see, you are everything to me, everything! Promise me this: If I find out who my father is, may I speak to you again? Do you think--do you think it is possible for you----?"

At that moment some acquaintances came up, and Mary Bolitho turned as if to leave him.

"But give me an answer before you go!" he said eagerly. "Is there any possibility--in spite of my handicap?" And then he felt that his heart had, for a moment, ceased to beat. He forgot where he was. The chatter of the crowd was nothing to him; it did not exist.

"Everything is possible to a man who doesn't know when he's beaten!" she said with a radiant smile, and then turned towards her friends.

Paul remembered little of what took place after that, and he soon found himself walking near Hyde Park alone. It was very wonderful to him--so wonderful that he could not altogether realise it. She had seemed to promise him so much, even though she had said so little. He felt as though the sky had become higher, the world bigger. He had never dared to hope for so much, never dreamt she would speak to him so kindly. They belonged to different worlds, were reared amidst different associations, and yet she had not treated him with scorn. Yes, everything was possible! And he would translate that possibility into the actual. He would win her a name and a position that even she might be proud of. For he had idealised her. To him she was far removed from all the others that he had ever met, and he must do something worthy of her. For hours he walked around the Park alone, wondering how he should begin to carry out the object nearest and dearest to his heart. Poor Paul, he knew little of the ways of the world, especially of the world in which Mary Bolitho lived. Among the lads and lasses in Brunford courtship and marriage were very simple. The boy met his girl there, and they married each other without difficulty. But Paul knew that there were certain formalities that had to be complied with in the class to which Mary Bolitho belonged. She was a judge's daughter, and he, although he had succeeded beyond his hopes, was still looked upon as little more than a working man. One thing, he knew he ought to ask Judge Bolitho for his permission to seek his daughter's hand. He had no right to pay her attentions otherwise. It was a frank and honourable course of action, too, and appealed to him strongly, and if he succeeded, then the way was made plain. Not that he liked the idea altogether, for he had still an instinctive hatred of the man who had treated him, as he believed, so unfairly. But he must destroy that hatred now. He must think kindly of the father of the woman who was all the world to him.

Before the night was over he wrote Judge Bolitho a letter, asking for his permission to try and win Mary Bolitho for his wife. He did not refer to the shadow that rested upon his name, told him nothing of what he had said to Mary. He only told him of his hopes and ambitions, and of his undying love.

Three days later the answer came, and when Paul read it his heart was filled with black rage. It contained only a few words, but they seemed to blot out the sun from his horizon. Without saying so in so many words, Judge Bolitho treated the proposal made in his letter with thinly veiled scorn and contempt. He made him feel, although he did not say so, that what he had said was an impertinence. It was true the letter was couched in terms of politeness, and yet it might have been written to a groom who had the temerity to seek his mistress's hand, and it contained a command that he must never dare to speak to her again.

Paul was scarcely master of himself as he read, and every evil passion of his nature was aroused. This man had added insult to injury. Ever since the day of his trial he had been his enemy, and now he had sent him this! "But I will speak to her again," he vowed. "I will win her in spite of everything; by fair means or foul she shall be mine!"

Shortly afterwards he returned to Brunford for the Christmas vacation. Only a few days were allowed by the leader of the Government, because much and important business had to be transacted; but those few days were destined to change the course of Paul Stepaside's life. His mother met him when he returned to Brunford with unusual manifestations of affection. He had sent her a copy of the _Times_, wherein was a full report of his speech. He had also forwarded to her a number of other papers which had spoken kindly of him, and she was elated beyond measure at his success. To her Paul was everything, the one object of her love, the one hope of her life. For him she would brave everything, suffer everything. In her inmost heart there was only one thing she desired, and that was Paul's happiness. She had stifled all thoughts of jealousy when she had learnt that Paul loved the daughter of the man who had treated him so badly. She would have loved to have had him all to herself, so that they might have been all in all to each other, but she had seen into his heart, and knew that he loved this girl. And he must have her, and whatever stood in his way must be removed. For that she lived and thought and planned.

The day before his home-coming she had seen that which grieved her sorely, and angered her beyond words. A local newspaper had it that Ned Wilson and Mary Bolitho were engaged, and she wondered how she could break the news to her boy. That the engagement should be broken she had fully made up her mind--no matter what happened Paul must have the woman of his choice!

After dinner they sat alone in the little room on which Paul had bestowed so much attention, and she wondered whether he had beard the news which bad brought her so much pain.

"It was a great speech you made, Paul!" she said, when they had been sitting quietly for some time.

"Nonsense, mother!" was his reply. "Nonsense; it was a failure!"

"No, no. I read every word, Paul, and it was not a failure. You're going to be a great man, my son!"

He laughed bitterly. He remembered the letter which Judge Bolitho had written to him. "I feel as though I don't care about anything!" he went on at length. "What's the good of success? What are we in the House of Commons, after all, but a lot of voting machines? What does it matter which party is in power?"

"Nay, nay, Paul. That's not like you to talk so!"

"I'm tired of it--tired of everything!" he went on.

"You're thinking about that lass!" said his mother, and although he made no reply, she knew she was right.

"Have you ever seen her?" she asked at length.

He nodded.

"And done nothing, I expect?"

"I wrote to her father," was his reply. "I asked him in a straightforward, honourable manner to let me try and win her for my wife."

The woman's eyes shone bright with excitement. "And, and----?" she said.

"Here's his letter!" he replied. "I carry it around with me to tell myself what a fool I've been. You can read it if you like! You can see it's written in the third person, and evidently typed by his secretary. That of itself is an insult, when one bears in mind the kind of letter I wrote to him!"

The woman read it carefully, word by word. She could not help seeing the insult contained in every line, could not help realising that Judge Bolitho regarded Paul's request as an unpardonable piece of impertinence.

"Can't you be happy without her?" she asked at length.

"Never!" he replied. "Everything I may get in life could be but Dead Sea fruit now! Oh, mother, if only I had a name, if we could find out the truth!"

He was sorry he had spoken the moment the words passed his lips. He saw that her face became hard and set, that her eyes burnt with deadly anger. "Do you know that she is engaged to young Wilson?" she asked at length.

"What!"

"It's all over the town, Paul; there can be no doubt about it! It's in the newspaper."

"She does not care for him!" he cried. "She cannot!"

"But he'll be one of the richest men in Lancashire, Paul!"

"But she could not! She could not!"

"Perhaps it explains this letter," said his mother. "Judge Bolitho has doubtless set his heart upon his daughter marrying a rich man, and her feelings are not considered. But don't give up hope, Paul. Don't give up hope. Ned Wilson shall never have her!"

"But what can we do, mother?"

"Are you a son of mine to talk like that?" she asked. "Can you, a strong man, give up tamely?"

"No," cried Paul. "I'll not give up tamely; but of course her father is against me, and he has chosen Ned Wilson for her. As you say, he'll be one of the richest men in Lancashire, and now that Mr. Bolitho has become a judge, his income will not be so much as it was. However, I'll put a stop to it; I can and I will!"

"How can you do it?" asked the mother.

"Never mind," replied Paul. "But it shall be done." That same night he wrote a letter to Ned Wilson.

"Dear Sir," he wrote.

"Circumstances necessitate that I shall have an interview with you immediately on a very important matter. Will you kindly let me have a note by return of post when and where I can see you? I may add that the matter is of such importance that you must not think of refusing me."

The next day he received a type-written letter from Wilson, in the third person:

"Mr. Edward Wilson is sorry that he cannot see Mr. Paul Stepaside, as there is no conceivable matter on which he could think of granting him an interview."

Paul read this curt note with a grim smile upon his lips and an almost murderous look in his eyes. But he made no comment.

Before many hours were over he had discovered Wilson's whereabouts, and had determined to waylay him. They met in a lane not far from Howden Clough.

"Mr. Wilson," said Paul. "Just a word, please."

Ned looked at him with great hauteur, and then was about to pass by without further notice.

"No," said Paul, "That will not do. You received my letter."

"And you received mine."

"That was why I followed you here," said Paul. "I told you that the matter on which I wished to see you was of the utmost importance."

"I do not transact any business with you," said Wilson. "And there is no other matter in which we can be mutually interested. Let me pass, please."

"You cannot pass until you have heard what I have said to you. I am sorry to have to meet you in this way----"

"Not so sorry as I am!" interrupted Wilson. "Still, I will hear you. What is it?" He spoke as though Paul were a persistent beggar, and seemed to regard him as a millionaire might regard a pauper.

"It's this," said Paul. "I noticed in the _Brunford Gazette_ this morning that you are engaged to marry Miss Mary Bolitho."

"And what then?" said the other. "I do not discuss such matters with men of your class."

"It must be contradicted immediately," said Paul quietly. Wilson looked at Paul in astonishment. "I think you must be out of your mind!" he said.

"No, no; I am sane enough. Will you write a letter to the editor, denying this rumour, or must I?"

"In Heaven's name, why should I?"

"I know it's not true"--and Paul still spoke quietly--"that is why this paragraph must be contradicted at once."

Wilson laughed as though he were enjoying a joke, but it was easy to see that he was far from comfortable. He did not like Paul's quiet way of talking. He did not understand the tone of his voice.

"Of course," said Wilson, at length. "I cannot discuss these matters with you. I would sooner discuss them with one of our grooms. Whatever be the truth of the report, it cannot have anything to do with such as you. Still, I will humour you. What's the matter?"

"This is the matter," replied Paul. "You are not fit to associate with such as she."

"Come, come, my good fellow. I have borne a good deal, and I am nearly at the end of my patience. Besides, I cannot allow Miss Bolitho's name to be bandied about by such as you."

"Will you kindly deny that statement which appears in the _Brunford Gazette_?" persisted Paul, still quietly.

"Certainly not!"

"Then I must make you," said Paul.

"Make me! You!"

"Yes, I!"

"And how, pray?"

"Simply that I shall tell Miss Bolitho the truth about you if you don't."

"The truth about me?"

"The truth about you. You see, I happen to know a good deal about you. Oh, you needn't start. I have all particulars and proofs to the minutest detail. If you do not wish Miss Bolitho to know exactly the kind of man you are, what your responsibilities are, and your duties are, you must send a note to the editor, signed by yourself, declaring that there is no truth whatever in the announcement."

"You spy! You sneaking hound!" said the other, quite losing control over himself.

"Spy, if you like," said Paul. "Sneaking hound also comes well from such as you; but, as it happens, I have had my reasons for a long time for forming certain impressions about you; and as Miss Bolitho is a friend of mine--naturally, I take an interest."

"A friend of yours!" said Wilson.

"Of mine," said Paul. "Now then, will you do what I tell you?"

Neither of them knew that they were being watched, and neither of them knew that, although their conversation was not overheard, two men could hear angry voices, and were wondering what it could be about. These two men knew of the feud which existed between them, and knew that each hated the other.

"Will you write that letter, and give up all thoughts of such a thing for all time?"

Wilson answered in language which I will not set down. This time his words were loud enough for the two men to hear--words which were calculated to rouse anger in the heart of the mildest of men, and Paul was not a mild man. They saw Paul look towards the other with murder in his eyes, saw his hand uplifted as if to strike, then they saw him master himself.

"Very well, then," he said. "I shall do what I say," and turned on his heel to walk away.

He had not gone six steps, however, before Wilson, blind with rage and the pent-up fury of years burning in his heart, rushed after him, and with all the strength that he possessed struck Paul on the head with an ivory-handled walking stick. The young man fell to the ground with a thud, for the moment stunned, while Wilson stood over him trembling with passion, and as if waiting for an attack.

Paul quickly recovered himself, and rose to his feet. He wiped the blood from his face, and then seemed undecided what to do. He struck no blow, but spoke in tones loud enough for the watchers to hear him plainly. "I might have expected this," he said. "It was a coward's blow, the kind of blow such as you always strike. But, remember, I always pay my debts--always, even to the uttermost farthing." Then he walked away without another word.