Chapter 19

PAUL DISCOVERS HIS FATHER

As may be imagined, the sensation in the court was very great, but it quickly died away. Paul's mother was immediately removed, and the order of the day was resumed. For some time, however, Paul was unable to give due attention to what was taking place. The sight of his mother's face, added to the stress of the scene through which he was passing, was affecting his iron nerves in spite of himself. Presently, however, when someone whispered to him, saying that his mother was quite recovered, he seemed more at ease, and was able to devote his attention to the evidence which was being elicited from the witnesses.

He did not know why it was, but he seemed to be the only man in the court who was unmoved by what was taking place. On every hand was strained attention to every word that was spoken. The most insignificant question seemed to be carefully noted, not only by the jury but by the spectators. But to Paul there was a sense of unreality in everything. All these same questions he had heard before. All these witnesses had appeared at the Coroner's inquest and before the Brunford magistrates. It seemed to him, too, that the way the counsel for the prosecution dwelt on insignificant details, details which could have nothing whatever to do with the real issues, was childish. Indeed, Mr. Bakewell appeared not only to have a positive genius for, but also a personal interest in, dragging out the case as long as possible. In a way Paul supposed it was necessary to inquire into the minutest details concerning the evidence that was given, nevertheless, it was wearying in the extreme. As far as he could judge, too, both counsel and witnesses were supremely anxious to acquit themselves in a way that should give satisfaction to the spectators. It was a matter of intellectual juggling rather than a desire to arrive at the truth. The counsel evidently hoped that his examination would be commented upon as clever and searching, while the witnesses, aware that the eyes of the many who knew them watched them closely, were eager to be spoken of as having acquitted themselves with some amount of distinction. Hours passed away, and, it seemed to him, they failed to get at the heart of the case, while such a large amount of irrelevant matter was allowed and discussed that, from the standpoint of a spectator, it seemed to the prisoner that the methods of an English law-court needed to be rigidly revised. During the afternoon sitting, however, they got nearer to the heart of things. The counsel began to ask questions which had a vital bearing upon the case, and, as a consequence, the attention of all present became more tense. It was then that Paul could not help feeling that the judge had already made up his mind. During that part of the proceedings when he had advised him to obtain counsel to defend him, and told him that he was at liberty to cross-examine the witnesses, he felt more kindly towards him. There seemed a desire to do him justice, and to give him every chance to put his own case in the best possible light. But as matters proceeded, the judge appeared to have arrived at a conclusion, and to regard the prisoner as guilty.

He renewed his determination, too, to maintain his attitude of rigid silence. Had he been free to act, he felt he could have destroyed the effect of the evidence which was given, but he could not have done so without throwing suspicion upon someone else. If he were not guilty, then someone else was. Who was that someone?

For a long time therefore he did not seek to interpose, and witness after witness left the box without any attempt on his part to cross-examine them.

Only once did he really interpose in the proceedings, and that was after a short cross-examination by the judge himself. Whether it was a mere matter of form or not, the judge had asked each witness a number of questions on the evidence which had been given, and as Paul listened to those questions, they seemed utterly unsatisfactory to him. He remembered Judge Bolitho's career, remembered, too, that when he was practising at the Bar, he was said to be one of the most severe cross-examiners on the Northern Circuit. But now his queries seemed to be trivial and unworthy. The questions he asked might have been those of a newly-fledged barrister, who had not learnt the ABC of his profession!

This, as it seemed to him, was especially noticeable when he questioned Mr. Edward Wilson, the father of the murdered man. Mr. Wilson's evidence, of course, created a great sensation. He stated that, as far as he knew, his son did not possess a single enemy in the world except the prisoner in the dock. He also went on to say that almost ever since Paul had come to Brunford he had been the sworn enemy of his son. He spoke of the prisoner as clever, ambitious, unscrupulous, a man who would adopt any means to accomplish his own purposes. He stated that his son, although a brave, strong man, had told him, his father, that he feared what the prisoner might do to him. He denied that his son had sought to ruin Paul Stepaside, although he admitted that the prisoner might have had reasons for believing that his son would not be sorry if he could be driven out of the town. And he related certain incidents which went to prove that Paul hated his son Ned with deadly hatred.

No one could help feeling when the counsel sat down after examining Mr. Edward Wilson that the case looked blacker than ever against Paul. He had supplied the motive which had caused Paul to commit this crime. It was personal hatred, personal enmity, and a desire for revenge. The gossip of years had been dragged into the court, and the picture which he drew of Paul was that of a relentless, persistent enemy of his son. When Mr. Bakewell had sat down after this examination, Judge Bolitho asked the witness certain questions, and it was at this time that Paul felt as though the judge were seeking to help the counsel for the prosecution rather than to do justice to the accused man.

"My lord," he said, when the judge had finished, "I will take advantage of what you said at the commencement of the trial and cross-examine the witness."

The judge nodded.

"Then I will ask Mr. Wilson two or three questions bearing on his evidence," said Paul. "Mr. Wilson, you have stated more than once that I have uttered threats concerning your son?"

"Yes."

"Would you mind telling me what those threats were?"

"You threatened to do him injury."

"What injury?"

The witness looked confused.

"Have I at any time in your hearing threatened your son with harm?"

"No, not in my hearing."

"Then you have been repeating gossip rather than telling of what you actually know?"

"You've threatened my son himself."

"With what?"

"Well, you have said to him, 'I'll pay you out for this.'"

"For what?"

"For certain supposed injuries."

"But I am here on the charge of murder. Did I ever threaten to murder him? Did he ever tell you that I had threatened to murder him?"

"No, not in so many words."

"That's all, my lord," said Paul. "I would not have interposed, only, since you have so kindly allowed me to cross-examine witnesses, I thought you would not mind if I mentioned such an obvious thing!"

On this the judge made no comment, and the case was proceeded with. They had made but little headway when the business of the day came to an end, and Paul was taken back to his cell.

When he again found himself alone, everything became unreal to him. It seemed to him as though he had been dreaming a horrible dream. Every actor in the grim tragedy which had been played seemed but a phantom of the brain. Everything was intangible, even although he knew how terrible the issues were. By and by, however, he was able to grasp things more clearly, and to remember the events of the day, as well as to call to mind the faces of the people who had been in the court. He knew that the evidence had been very black against him; knew, too, by the look on the faces of the twelve jurymen, that even although they might not be convinced of his guilt, circumstances were leading them in that direction. All the same, the thought of death was far away. He could not believe that he, so young and strong and vigorous, full of physical and intellectual life, would soon cease to be; could not believe that those twelve commonplace unimaginative-looking men who sat in the box could condemn him to die. It was so absurd, so foolish. Then he remembered his little passage of arms with the judge, and he wondered what Mary Bolitho would say. He did not realise her presence at the time, but now it all came back to him. His words had been polite enough, and yet his insinuation had roused a doubt concerning the judge's impartiality. What would she say? What would she think? He was sorry now he had spoken. Why could he not have remained silent? If he had roused doubts, if he had made the jury see how absurd it was to fancy that he could be guilty of this crime, the sleuthhounds of the law would set to work to find the real criminal, and that was what he wanted to avoid. Better bear anything than that the real truth should come to light.

He remembered his mother's face, too, as she came into the court, remembered the look of agony in her eyes, remembered the unearthly scream she had given. What did it mean? His mother was not a weak woman, she was not given to hysterics, rather she was cold and grim and hard to all the rest of the world. She was only tender towards him. What did she mean by coming in such a way? What led her to cry out with such intense pain? The thought had scarcely passed his mind when he heard the key of the warder in his door, and a moment later his mother came into his cell. For some time neither of them spoke. The woman came towards him slowly, and then, throwing her arms round his neck, held him close to her for a long time. Paul felt the quiver of her body, and realised the intensity of her feelings.

"Are you better, mother?" He was able to speak quite calmly by this time, and was determined that neither by look nor sign would he say anything of his suspicions concerning her.

But she did not answer him. She still held him close to her, her face pressed hard against his chest.

"I saw you come into court this morning," he said, as though the matter were the most casual thing imaginable. "You seemed frightened, mother. Why was it?"

Still she did not speak, but Paul knew by her quivering hands and by her convulsive sobs that something had aroused her to the depths of her being.

"I hope you are better now," he went on. "It was very thoughtful of you to let me know you had recovered. You mustn't trouble about me, mother. I shall be able to manage all right."

"Yes, yes," she gasped presently, "but you don't know, Paul! You don't know!"

"I think I know all that is necessary," he said, and then he stopped, for he was on the point of mentioning the ghastly thought which had been haunting him throughout the day. He believed he had read his mother's motive in coming into the court, and that, but for her falling down in a faint, she would have carried out her purpose. He felt sure she had come there that day to tell of her own guilt, and thus to save him. He imagined that she would have found it easy to gain admission by telling the officials that she was the accused man's mother, and that had she carried out her purpose he would by that time have been a free man.

"You must not give way to these feelings, mother," he said. "I am abundantly able to take care of myself, and I am afraid neither of judge nor jury."

"The papers say you asked some awfully clever questions," she said, and there was a mirthless laugh in her voice. "People are saying in the city, too, that you've got something up your sleeve, and that presently, when the right time comes, you will confound them all. But, oh, Paul, Paul, my poor boy, my dear boy! I've come to tell you something!"

"Don't tell me, mother," he said. "I'm sure it will give you pain, and there's not the slightest need. Everything is right and perhaps there's truth in what the people say."

He was still possessed with the idea that his mother was referring to her own guilt, and he determined at all hazards to keep her from making any confession. He did not quite know what the course of procedure might be during the coming days, but he knew that according to English law no prisoner accused of murder can be obliged to answer any questions before a judge and jury. He had, during his preliminary trials, evaded everything which might arouse the suspicions he feared, but if his mother told him that which he felt sure was on her lips, he did not know what he might have to do at some future period of the trial.

"But I must tell you, Paul. I must tell you. It will be terrible for you. It will drive you mad. But you must know! You must! you must!" Her voice rose almost to a shriek as she spoke, and he feared lest any warder listening at the door might hear what she should say.

"Speak low," he whispered, "or, better still, do not speak at all. No, don't speak, mother. I know all there is any need to know!"

"But you must hear. Yes, yes, I won't speak aloud, but you must know. I must tell you. Paul, Paul, I--I----"

"No, no, mother, be quiet!" His voice was low and hoarse. "I tell you nothing matters. Everything will be all right. You needn't fear for me, I'll be a match for them all!"

"But I must tell you, Paul, even although it may drive you mad. It'll alter everything, everything! I've found out something. To-day, to-day----" The tones of her voice had changed, and there was a mad intensity which he could not understand. She had grown calmer, too, and her body had become as rigid as a stone.

"Listen, Paul," she went on, "I've found your father!"

"Is that what you wanted to tell me?" And although he was excited beyond words, he also realised a great relief.

"Yes, I've found your father."

"My father! Who is he? You cannot mean it!"

"Yes. Don't you know? Can't you guess?"

His mind was bewildered, the blow was too stunning. After all these years of unavailing search for the truth, to come to him like this almost unbalanced his mind.

"No, I can't guess," he said. "How did you do it, mother? How? Where is he?"

"The judge, the judge," she said hoarsely. She stood back from him as she spoke, and the dim light of the room fell upon her face. She looked years older now than she had looked when they spent their last evening together in their home in Brunford. Her face was marked with deep lines. Her eyes were sunken. Her hair had become dull, and her hands trembled as though she had the palsy.

"The judge, the judge!" she repeated. "He's your father, Paul."

"The judge! What judge? Great God, you don't mean that--that----"

"Yes, Judge Bolitho. That was not the name he gave to me. He said he was called Douglas Graham. I expect it was only a ruse to deceive me. I don't know how it would affect my marriage, Paul. You see, Scotch marriage is so strange, and it may be that the change of name would alter everything. And yet I don't see how it could. Do you, Paul? But never mind. He married me! I told you about it, didn't I? Up there on the wild moors, in the light of the setting sun, with only God as our witness, he took me to be his wife. He promised to love and cherish me, Paul. He told me I was all the world to him, and that he would die to save me from pain. I told you about it, didn't I? And we knelt down together, too, on the heather, and it seemed as though God's angels were all around us as we knelt. And he prayed, Paul. He told me he was a man of faith and took the Communion. And I believed him. Oh, yes, we were married. And now he's your judge. My God, think of it! You the criminal and he the judge, and he your own father!"

"And he never told you his name was Bolitho?" He asked the question mechanically, as though his mind were far away.

"Never mentioned it. I never thought of it until--but never mind that. Of course, you told me about Judge Bolitho, but at that time I never thought of him as being the man I married. Why, he had been your enemy. He sent you to prison, years ago. He fought you in Brunford. Well, on the night of the--the murder, I--I--but there is no need to talk about that now. I--I went into the court, and when I saw him, I thought I was going mad. He has changed, yes, of course, he has grown older, his face is fuller, but I knew him in a second. I could take my Bible oath. I could swear a thousand oaths it is he, Paul. He is the man who married me. He is the man who is your father, the man who you swore that night on the Altarnun Moors should do me justice, the man on whom you said you'd have your revenge. It is the man whom I have hated and whom you have hated, Paul. When I saw him first, I thought I was going out of my mind. It seemed as though everything became as black as night. Only his face was plain. He did not look at me. I do not think he saw me at all, but, oh, I saw him, and then--and then--but you know what happened after that, Paul. Throughout the day I have just wandered, and wandered, and wandered, thinking and thinking. At first I thought I dared not tell you. I could not, it was too terrible. But at last my feet were dragged to you. I could not help myself. I came here and gained admission. Of course, they could not keep me out. I am your mother. Paul, Paul, what are you looking like that for? You don't hate me, do you? You understand?"

Her words brought him back to the reality of the situation. At first he seemed utterly confounded by the blow. He forgot all about the murder now. It did not seem to exist, or if it did it was somewhere far back in the background, and everything was altered. He had dreamed of the time when he would find his father for himself--thought, too, of what he would say to him, painted pictures of their first meeting. But now everything seemed shattered. Nothing was real! Everything was real, terribly real!

Even yet he could not understand the whole bearings of the case. His brain was confused. Every issue seemed involved, but he did not doubt his mother's words. It seemed to him the key of the puzzle which had been haunting him for years. Judge Bolitho his father! Yes, his treatment of him had been a part, a natural part, of the whole history. What wonder that he who had deceived and betrayed his mother should also be the enemy of his son! He understood his feelings now, understood why when he had first seen this proud, clever man he had a feeling of instinctive hatred towards him. He had been cruel to him in the examination when he was tried years before for the part he had taken in the riot. As the counsel for the prosecution he had seemed to delight in fastening all the guilt upon him, his son. He remembered the look of satisfaction upon his face when the justice committed him to six months' imprisonment in Strangeways Gaol. Yes, he had hated him then, for that matter they had hated each other. Then came the election at Brunford. Every incident of the fight came back to him. He had felt then that this man Bolitho was fighting him unfairly, using devil's tools to beat him, allowing his mother's name to be dragged in the mud, in order to gain the victory, while all the time he--he----

"Don't speak, mother, don't speak for a minute. Let me try to understand."

He walked around the cell like one demented, his face set, his eyes flashing. Again and again he dashed his hand across his forehead as if to sweep away the shadows which rested upon his brain, as if trying to untangle the skeins of his life.

Yes, he had defied him even to the very last. When the votes were counted, and when his father, his enemy, had won the victory, he had defied him. He had told him before the surging mob that they would meet again, and always to fight, yes, and they would, too. He had a new weapon in his hands now!

What would the world say if it knew? He almost felt like laughing at the thought. What would the world say if it knew that the judge and the man accused of murder were father and son? How the tongues of the gossips would wag! What headlines there would be in the newspapers! What a sensation it would create throughout the country!

He laughed aloud, a half-mad laugh. His brain reeled at what his mother had told him. Even yet he did not realise fully the issues of her momentous communication. That would come later! The thing which appealed to him now was that he had found his father, and his father was the man who was sitting in judgment on him!

Never did he hate him as he did at that moment. This man had deceived his mother, blackened her life, allowed her to remain in loneliness, misery and disgrace. Because of him a shadow had rested upon his own life, a shadow which nothing had been able to lift. Yes, he hated him. He thought of the cross-examination that day. This man at the beginning of the trial had pretended to act as his friend, had advised him to accept counsel, had told him that he might defend himself and ask questions. And, utilising the power which he possessed as a judge, had himself asked the witnesses questions, on the pretence that he was trying to do the prisoner justice!

And what questions! To his excited and poisoned mind he had simply supplied the deficiencies of the counsel for the prosecution. Every word he had uttered was only meant as another nail in his scaffold. He was glad he had said what he had said now. He had made both jury and court feel that the judge was unjust because of his prejudice against him. But that was nothing to what he could do, nothing to what he would do. Why, supposing on the next day--yes, and he could do it, too--supposing on the next day of the trial he, the prisoner, were to proclaim before the court, before the twelve jurymen, before the eager counsel, before the gaping, excited crowd, that this Judge Bolitho, this man who assumed an immaculate air, was one of the most damnable villains that ever crawled upon the earth, that this man, who looked so virtuous and spoke of the majesty of justice, had foully deceived a poor, ignorant, innocent girl, dragged her name in the mire, left her to die, as far as he was concerned, in disgrace! He, the judge, had done this, and all the world should know it. Yes, all the world. This man should be pilloried before all England, and every healthy, clean-minded man in the nation would shudder at his name.

Yes, he saw his revenge now.

"No, mother, do not speak yet," he cried, as he stamped around the cell. "Do not speak yet. I've got it!"

He hugged himself with delight, for at that moment Paul Stepaside was possessed of the devil. He was filled with unholy joy. "It makes one believe, after all, that there's a God in the heaven. 'Vengeance is Mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.' Yes, I've heard a man read that in the old chapel down at St. Mabyn, in Cornwall. 'Vengeance is Mine; I will repay.' And I will repay too."

Never had he realised that such vengeance would be possible. Why, it some mighty wizard had been scheming to place a weapon in his hands whereby he could avenge his mother's wrongs, avenge his own wrongs, and punish the man who had been his enemy even before he was born, he could not have placed a more powerful weapon than this. He seemed to possess the very genius of victory. He did not care one iota about the murder now, did not trouble as to what verdict any jury might find. The evidence which might be adduced against him was as nothing. He held in his hands the sword of justice, which should surely fall on the head of the man who had that day sat as judge.

He laughed aloud again. "Thank you, mother," he said. "You did right in coming to me. Yes, it makes everything right--everything, everything. And to-morrow I'll do it. To-morrow shall be my day of victory. Dead or alive, it shall be my day of victory. Right shall be done, justice shall be done, and this scheming, hypocritical villain shall be dragged in the dust and disgrace and infamy!"

The words had scarcely passed his lips when he came to a sudden stop, and he gave a low, terrible cry.

"What is it, Paul?" The mother was startled by the look in his eyes, by the mad agony expressed in his face.

"Mary!" he said.

Oh, the world of sorrow, of defeat, of terror, which seemed to be expressed in that one word. Yes, he would rejoice, rejoice beyond words at his father's ignominy and shame. But what of her, the woman who believed in him, trusted in him against all evidence, the woman who had defied all conventions in coming to see him, the woman whom he had held to his heart, and whom he loved more than life? Every blow struck at her father was also struck at her. His shame would be her shame, his ignominy would be her ignominy.

It seemed as though the foundations of his life were being broken up. Why, then, too, if that marriage up on the Scotch hill-side were legal, as he believed it was, and thus all stain were wiped away from his name, what of Mary's name? If Judge Bolitho had married another woman while his mother was alive, then he would not only be a bigamist, but Mary's name would be tarnished--Mary, whose happiness was to him the most precious thing in the world. But even that was not all. He understood now what his mother meant when she said he would be driven mad, understood why she was afraid to tell him. Mary was his own sister! His sister!

"Forgive me, Paul, for telling you;" and his mother looked at him with hungry, beseeching eyes. "Forgive me, I could not help it. You see--well, it was necessary that you should know."

"And I for the moment felt like believing in God," he said, like one talking to himself. He thought he was going to fall on the hard stone floor. His head was whirling, his limbs were trembling. He seemed to have lost all control over himself.

"My sister!" he said. "Great God! My sister! And I love her as a man loves his wife!" A new passion, a new force had entered his life now. His longing for revenge was conquered by another feeling, a nobler feeling. Love for Mary Bolitho was stronger than a desire to be revenged on his father. At all hazards she must not suffer. But--but---- No, he could not grasp it. His brain refused to fasten upon the real issues of the case. His thoughts were as elusive as a mist cloud. His brain swam. Everything was real, terribly real, but nothing was real! What could he do?

Never, surely, was man placed in such a horrible position. He had thought a few nights before, when he had fought his battle between love for his own mother and the desire to keep disgrace and death from her, and the love for his own life, a life which could be made bright and beautiful, that the great struggle was over. It seemed to him then that he had fought his last battle and had won it. Duty had overcome self-love. But it seemed as nothing compared with the issues which now stared him in the face.

"My sister! My sister!" he repeated. "The same father, although not the same mother. Do I love her the less? Does my heart cry out for her one whit the less because we are children of the same father?"

No. Why, he could not understand, but she seemed even more to him than ever. The new link which bound them together seemed also, if possible, to strengthen his love and to make him more than ever long for her happiness.

"He's your father; you believe that?" said the woman, who had been looking at him as though she would read his very soul.

"Yes," he replied.

"And she is your sister."

"Yes."

"Then if your birth is honourable, hers is base," said the mother passionately. Even at that moment the longing to do justice to her son was uppermost in her mind and heart. "I am his true wife; remember that! He married me. I can't be robbed of that, Paul, can I?"

He saw what her questions meant, knew the thought that was burning in her brain, realised her mad desire to proclaim her right as a wife and as an honourable mother.

Paul Stepaside loved his mother, and never more than then. All those feelings of filial affection which had been aroused in his heart by the remembrance of her sad story were intensified at that moment. Yes, she was his mother, and she must have her rights. But if she had them?

That was the question, the supreme question. His desire for revenge had lost its power now. A new motive force was at work, a new set of circumstances clamoured for recognition.

Oh, what a muddle life was! Who could explain its mystery? Who could unravel the entanglement?

The steps of the warder were heard in the corridor outside, and Paul knew that his mother's visit must come to an end.

"What will you do? What will you do?" she asked.

"I must wait--I must think," was his reply. "Of course, you have told nothing to anyone else?"

"No, Paul. How could I?"

"And that man has no suspicion?"

"No; he did not see me."

He could not see a ray of light in the darkness anyhow. He saw no means whereby he could solve this great puzzle. Everything was mad confusion.

He heard the key turning in the lock.

"I must wait; I must think, think, mother. Meanwhile, do nothing."

The door opened, and a moment later his mother left the cell, leaving Paul alone.