Chapter 13

HOW MARY BOLITHO RECEIVED THE NEWS

Just before Christmas Mary Bolitho returned to her father's house from London, where she had been visiting some friends. It was during this visit that the meeting between herself and Paul, which we have previously described, took place. During the rest of her stay in London she constantly thought of what he had said to her, and wondered whether, in the excitement of the moment, she had spoken foolishly. She admired Paul greatly, even in spite of the dislike which still lurked in her heart. She had an admiration for strong, capable men, and had been greatly interested in the career which she felt sure lay before him. Nevertheless, a strong feeling of antagonism possessed her. His air of masterfulness irritated her, and in her quiet hours she felt angry because he possessed a kind of fascination for her. She could not help being pleased at his evident admiration for her, and she thought of his avowal with feelings almost akin to delight, and yet she never meant to encourage him. A great gulf lay between them, and the thought of crossing it was not seriously entertained. He might be ambitious, and he might carve out a great future; but still he was of the working class, and doubtless had the instincts of his class.

On her return home she found her father much preoccupied. During the whole of the dinner hour he scarcely spoke, but presently, when the servants had left them, he seemed desirous of entering into conversation with her.

"Have you had a good time in London, Mary?" he said.

"A very interesting time indeed," was her reply. "The Scotmans were very kind."

"I suppose Stepaside's speech was talked about a good deal?"

"Yes," replied the girl. "He seems to have made a great impression. People are very much interested in him, too; and he was at the house of Sir John Sussex on the night when he gave that reception."

"Did you see him?"

"Yes," she replied.

"And speak to him?"

"It was difficult to avoid doing that. You see, I had met him once or twice, and when he came to me I had to be civil."

"The impertinent upstart!" cried Mr. Justice Bolitho, and there was almost a snarl in his tones.

"He's not looked upon in that light in London," said the girl. Somehow, she knew not why, she wanted to defend him against her father's evident dislike.

"We live in a topsy-turvy age," said the Judge. "Do you know what the fellow did? He actually had the temerity to write, asking for my consent to pay his addresses to you! You did not know of this, of course?"

"No." The word escaped her almost mechanically, but she felt a warm flush pass over her face.

"I never knew of such impertinence! Fancy the fellow whom I sent to jail only a few years ago daring to think of such a thing! Had he come to me in person, I think I should have had him horsewhipped. And he ought to be horsewhipped, too. Why----" And then he laughed harshly.

Mary Bolitho did not reply. Somehow words did not come easily to her. All the same, a feeling of hot rebellion came into her heart.

"I answered him, of course," went on the Judge. "At first I thought of returning his letter without any remark whatever. Still, I sent him a few words which I think will have a beneficial effect on his colossal cheek!"

"What did you say?" asked the girl.

"I have a copy of it here somewhere," went on the Judge. "Would you like to see it?"

He took some papers from a drawer, and, having selected one, passed it to her. Mary Bolitho's face crimsoned as she read. She knew what Paul would feel. There was an insult in every line, almost in every word, veiled by conventional politeness, it is true, but still a note which, to a proud man, would wound like a poisoned knife.

"I had to put a stop to that sort of thing, of course. Just because he has made a little money, and has become a Member of Parliament, he has dared to---- But I say, Mary, this leads me on to something else; and, as we have an hour alone, it is well to have an understanding. How old are you?"

"Nearly twenty-one," she answered.

"I don't want to lose you, of course, but the time must come when I shall have to do so, and--of course, you'll not be surprised to know Ned Wilson was here two or three days ago, and I fancy he considers the matter settled. Do you know that he has spoken to me more than once?"

"But I gave him no encouragement," said the girl. "I have promised him nothing."

"No; but you have not repulsed him."

"You did not wish me to meet his appeal with a blank refusal," said the girl. "You said you had special reasons for that. But I gave him no encouragement. I do not want to marry him."

"But you do not dislike him; in fact, you told me you felt very kindly towards him."

"But not in that way, not in that way!"

"Mary, I want to be absolutely frank with you," said the Judge. "I wish you to marry young Wilson."

"Is that a command?" said the girl, and her voice was as cold as ice.

Her father looked at her steadily for a few seconds. He seemed to be on the point of resenting her tones, but presently decided not to do so.

"Let us put it this way," he said quietly, "Your marriage with Wilson would help me out of many difficulties, and save me from many troubles."

"I don't understand, father."

"You've always looked upon me as a rich man," said Judge Bolitho. "I'm not. I have been unfortunate in my investments, and while I was practising at the Bar I made a good income; but we have always lived up to it. You see, I have had to entertain a good deal; and then my Parliamentary career, though short, was very expensive. I know I have been very foolish, but I kept on that London house when I ought not to have done so. A man who keeps up two establishments should be rich. I thought I could afford it at one time, as my investments promised well. Still, everything has gone to pieces, and I have enormous liabilities. Had I known how things would have turned out I would never have accepted the judgeship. You see, the salary is but small compared with what I could make before. Within the next few months I have to find huge sums of money; and--well, when you are Wilson's wife, it'll be easy. But, for the life of me, I do not know another man who could help me out of my troubles! There, Mary; I am sorry to have to make such a confession, but it is best for you to know."

"Then I am to be sold!" said the girl. "Sold like a bale of cotton!"

"Don't put it in that way," said the father. "It's not fair. Besides, consciously or unconsciously, you have doubtlessly encouraged Wilson. You've repeatedly gone to the house, and you have known what gossips have said."

"I have refrained from contradicting gossip for your sake," replied Mary.

"Yes, I know. But you've always seemed pleased to see him, and as far as I can judge, always found pleasure in his society. He's a good fellow, too. I have made inquiries about him. He has a blameless record, and I am sure would make you a good husband. As for position--it is true he belongs to the manufacturing classes, but trade is no longer regarded as it used to be. Why, how many men in Ned's position have, during the last few years, obtained peerages! Among all our circle of friends in London there is not one who could do for us what Ned can do; and--Mary, as far as a father can promise for his daughter, I promised for you. I knew you liked him, and Ned regards it as settled."

"Have you fixed the date, too, and decided where the wedding's to take place?" And there was a world of scorn in her voice.

"Come now, Mary. Don't be unreasonable!"

"Unreasonable!" cried the girl. "Surely I have my own life to live. If I have been friendly with the Wilsons it has been at your request. You know that, during the election, I begged of you to stay at an hotel, instead of continually accepting their hospitality. But you practically commanded it, and so I went with you. But when you promise that I shall take a man like Wilson for my husband I think it's going too far. I should loathe his presence. I should shrink from him every time he came near me."

"But, Mary," said her father, evidently determined to keep his temper, "surely this is strange. You knew his feelings towards you years ago, and you never evinced any repugnance. You liked to spend hours upon hours with him at the time of the election. You have been seen with him a great deal. And when you have known that people have coupled your name with his, you've still consented to go to Howden Clough."

"As though a girl may not think differently at twenty-one from what she thinks at nineteen!" And her voice was tremulous with anger.

"Why should you think differently?" he asked. "You've seen no one else whom you like better?"

Mary was silent.

"Perhaps you would like to marry this fellow?" And her father placed his hand upon the letter which they had been discussing.

"A thousand times rather than him!"

"Mary, Mary!"

"A thousand times rather than him!" repeated the girl. "At least, Paul Stepaside cannot be despised."

"And what is there to despise about Wilson?"

"Oh, nothing!" said the girl. "But had he been placed in Mr. Stepaside's position years ago, what would he have been?"

"Well, think it over," said the Judge, rising. "In fact, if you care anything about me, you will do what I say. Surely you've not fallen in love with that fellow?"

"No," said the girl. "I've fallen in love with no one. But, father, can't you see, can't you understand what a girl feels? Marriage is, or ought to be, the most sacred thing in life, and to think that I am sold to such a man, because--because----"

"Oh, you'll think better of it by to-morrow," said Judge Bolitho as he left the room. "I know that young girls are silly. But remember, Mary, I am older and wiser than you, and I am thinking of your future as well as of my own." He left the room as he spoke, while Mary sat for a long time thinking deeply.

Every fibre of her being revolted against her father's proposal. She hated the thought of a marriage of convenience, and her heart hotly rebelled. All the same, she loved him greatly, and she knew that he must have been in dire straits or he would not have told her of his financial troubles. For Judge Bolitho was a proud man, and did not talk freely of such matters. Had it been simply because her father wished her to marry a rich man, she would never have given the question a second thought; but when he asked her to save him from what seemed like ruin, what could she do? She knew that a judge could not afford to get into financial difficulties, and knew that his honour must be, as far as the world is concerned, stainless. How, then, could she refuse? All the same, her whole nature rose in angry rebellion against such a thing.

Again she thought of what Paul Stepaside had said to her, and wondered whether, if she had never seen him, she would have been so angry at what her father had done. For hours that night she lay sleepless, trying to think of a plan whereby what seemed to her now as a calamity, and worse than a calamity, could be avoided.

When she came down the following morning her face was pale and almost haggard. Although she did not realise it, what Paul Stepaside had said to her had altered the whole outlook of her life. A heap of letters lay on the breakfast-table, but they were all for her father. A servant moved quietly round the room, arranging for their morning meal, while she stood listlessly looking over the garden. It was now nine o'clock, and her father always came punctually to the minute.

The clock on the mantelpiece had barely ceased striking when he came into the room. He kissed her perfunctorily, and then turned to his letters.

"Nothing important, Mary. Nothing important," he said, with an evident desire to be cheerful. "I think we're going to have a nice day, too, although we are so close to Christmas. But it's really too warm for this time of year."

For several minutes he evidently tried to make conversation, with but little success. The girl made no response to anything he said, but sat silently toying with the food that was placed before her.

The meal was nearly at an end when a servant came in bearing a telegram. The Judge took it from the salver and opened it almost indifferently, but a second later his eyes were wild with terror, and his hands trembled like an autumn leaf shaken with the wind.

"My God!" he exclaimed.

"What is it, father?"

He had risen from his seat. He did not speak. He seemed unable to answer her.

"What is it, father? Is someone ill--dying--what?"

And she snatched the wisp of thin paper from her father's hand.

"Ned murdered," she read. "Found early this morning with a knife in his heart. Stabbed from the back. Stepaside apprehended for murder. We're all distracted.--WILSON."

For a moment the words seemed to swim before her eyes. She could not grasp their purport; and yet, even then, that which filled her heart with terror was not the fact that Ned Wilson was dead but that Paul Stepaside was apprehended as his murderer. She knew of the long feud that had existed between them. She had heard a garbled account of Paul's attack on Wilson on the night when he had been elected a member for Brunford. She remembered all that rumour had said during her father's political contest in Brunford, knew that it was the talk of the town that Wilson had tried to ruin him. And Paul Stepaside was not a gentle man. He was strong, passionate--a man who in his anger would stop at nothing. Had Wilson, she wondered, aroused him to some uncontrollable fury? And had Paul, in his anger, struck him down? But a knife in his back, what did it mean? Paul could never do that, and yet----

She felt her head swim. It seemed to her as though her senses were leaving her. The vision of her father standing before her, pale-faced and horror-stricken, was a blurred one. Nothing was real except that ghastly terror was everywhere.

"Of course, it can't be true!" she said, at length.

"But don't you see, it's from his father? It was sent off this morning. I wonder--no, I wonder at nothing! My God! what shall I do?"

Even at this moment he seemed to be thinking more of himself than of the agony which must be realised in Brunford. It was not Ned Wilson's death which had whitened his face and caused him to tremble so. It was the thought of his own ruin. Unless he could meet his liabilities, he, an English judge, might be disgraced. Still, no; he thought he could manage everything. It only wanted time, and perhaps--well, things might not be so bad after all.

"But it can't be true!" repeated the girl. "Paul Stepaside could never do such a thing."

Judge Bolitho had mastered himself by this time. His eager quick mind had grasped all the bearings of the case. He remembered his last interview with young Wilson, and the arrangement which had been made. Yes, things were not so bad, after all. He could manage.

"Of course he did it!" was his answer. "Who else could there be? Stepaside was Ned's only enemy."

"What will the Wilsons feel?" said the girl. "The horror of it! But surely he could not be capable of it! He could not do it!"

"He's capable of anything devilish!" replied her father. "I felt it years ago, when I got him sent to prison. Of course, his name was cleared somewhat, but he was always an incipient criminal of the worst order--clever, if you like--ambitious, undoubtedly, but he belonged to the criminal class. And yet---- There, don't you see, 'Stepaside apprehended.' I thought he was too cunning for that, anyhow. I judged that a man of his order would have done the deed in such a way that the guilt would seem to belong to someone else. However, such fellows always overreach themselves."

"But he could not do it, father. He could not do it!" cried the girl.

"A man of Stepaside's character could do anything." He was almost calm now, and able to consider the bearings of the case judicially. "The thing has been growing for years. Event after event has prepared the way for it. Stepaside has never forgiven the Wilsons for sending him to prison. As you know, too, he has always hated me for that. Besides, Stepaside has always had the belief that Wilson has been trying to ruin him financially. You know what was said during the election? There have been rumours lately to the effect that this fellow and his partner have lost a good deal of money. Very likely he tried to fasten that on Wilson; and so in the end he murdered him. But we shall see! We shall see! There will be more detailed news presently."

"But he could never have done it!" and the girl reiterated it with weary monotony. It seemed to her as though she must fight for Paul Stepaside's life, as though she were called upon to proclaim his innocence.

"Who else could have done it?" said the Judge. "Don't you see, events must have pointed to him clearly, or they would never have dared to apprehend him. Besides, Ned Wilson hadn't an enemy in Brunford besides Stepaside; no other in the world as far as I know. The Wilsons have always been kind masters, always popular with their employees. Ned was a general favourite in the town. He's always borne a good character, too. During the years we've known him, there's never been a breath against him. Yes, it's all plain enough. But I must make inquiries, and find out."

He wandered round the room for more than a minute like one demented, while the girl sat watching him with a hard, fearsome look in her eyes.

"Do you remember what he said that night when I was elected for Brunford?" said the Judge presently. "Do you remember how he defied me, and proclaimed savagely that we should meet again, and always to fight? Well, it seems as though we shall meet again, but this time it will be as judge and criminal!"

"But, father," cried the girl, "you don't mean that you would ever sit in judgment on him?"

"It seems probable that it will be so," said Mr. Bolitho, after a moment's reflection. "Yes, and I will see that he shall have justice, too, full justice. The atheistic scoundrel! You can now see the logical outcome of the opinions of such men. He has vaunted for years that he believed neither in God nor Devil. He admitted no responsibilities to a Supreme Being, and when a man occupies such an attitude, what moral standard can he have? He hated Ned--poor Ned!--and then, having no standard of right before him, having no religion to sustain him, or to rebuke him, he became, in fact, what he was at heart--a murderer! You know what I have always said, Mary, about these socialistic fellows: Atheism lies at the root of it all! When a man ceases to believe in God he can be trusted for nothing. If religion is destroyed then all is destroyed!"

Each word seemed to ring like a knell in the girl's heart. It was as though judgment were passed already, and Paul Stepaside were condemned.

"But I must find out more about it," he went on. "Particulars will be flashing over a thousand wires by this time. I must send a wire to Howden Clough, too. I must try and find out the truth, the whole truth!"

And then he went out of the room, leaving Mary bewildered.