Chapter 29

MARY'S ACCUSATION

As Mary looked at Paul's mother she noted the improvement in her looks. The wild, mad expression of her eyes had gone. She appeared more human, more womanly.

"Yes, read it to me," she said. "It's something about Paul, isn't it? Have they acquitted him?"

"Listen!" said Mary. "A wonderful thing's happened. What you told me was true. My father has made a confession before the court. Oh! what it must have cost him!"

"Confession? Read it! Read it!"

And Mary read, while the woman lay still and silent.

The paper which she had obtained was one of the principal Manchester evening journals. The members of its staff had, immediately after Judge Bolitho's confession, rushed eagerly to the office with their copy. Perhaps it was one of the most graphic descriptions of the scene which appeared in any journal, and caught more truly the inwardness of the event which set all Lancashire talking, than any other. Mary read the whole story from beginning to end; read the description of Paul's entrance into the prisoner's dock, the great excitement which pervaded the court as all present waited for the judge; read the description of how his lordship looked, and of the tremendous emotion under which he was labouring. It was a fine piece of journalism, done by a man who afterwards occupied a high position on one of the great London dailies. He made the scene live, made everything so real and vivid that these women, who were so terribly interested in the story, saw everything as he saw.

Paul's mother lay rigid as Mary read the judge's words, until finally she came to the confession. "This I do wish to say, here in the presence of those who have gathered together to witness this trial. Paul Stepaside is my lawful son, and, unknowingly, I have sinned against him grievously and greatly; his mother is my lawful wife. He is my lawful son, and I do here and now confess the wrong which I have done to him, and I do it because my conscience commands me to do so, and because I wish to ask my son's forgiveness."

As Mary read these words the woman rose in her bed and gave a cry of joy.

"At last! At last!" she said. "But I never thought he would do this. No, no; I never dreamed of it. He's confessed it before everyone. Don't you see, my lassie? He's confessed it there in the open court that I'm his lawful wife and that Paul is his lawful son! There's no stain upon his name now--and no stain on mine either!"

She sat up in the bed, her eyes aglow. She was radiant. She did not think of what this might mean to Mary, did not realise that the vindication of her own honour might mean Mary's shame. That never entered into her mind. All her thought was of Paul; and even her joy that all disgrace was taken away from her was because thereby Paul's name would be honoured. She looked years younger. It seemed as though a great weight had rolled from her mind, as though the dark skies had been made clear and the sun were shining.

"Are you not glad, my lassie? Does it not rejoice your heart? Think of it! Think of it!"

But Mary was silent. Naturally, the happenings of the day had bewildered her, almost unhinged her own mind. She thought, too, of what her father had suffered. No one knew better than she what a proud man he was and what it must have cost him to have made this confession. But more than all this she realised Paul's danger. Although she was greatly moved by the revelations which had been made, although her being had been aroused to its very depths and her life become revolutionised, the thought which was above every other thought was Paul's safety. She knew what her father's confession would mean. If he could no longer be the judge, then another would be appointed; and as she read her father's words she seemed to feel that he believed his son to be guilty of the deed of which he was accused. And if her father believed this, would not the judge who would try the case anew believe it also? And if the judge believed it, would not the jury believe it, and condemn him?

"What is the matter, my lassie? You don't look glad. You are pale. What do you fear?"

Even then Paul's mother did not think of what it might mean to Mary. Nothing mattered but her own son.

"But what of Paul?" Mary said. "We must save him!"

"Paul, Paul? What do you mean?"

"I am afraid," said Mary. "Do you not see what my father said? 'If Paul Stepaside is guilty of the murder of Edward Wilson----' Oh, don't you see--don't you see?"

"But they cannot harm my Paul--they cannot, they cannot!"

"But we must save him!" cried Mary. "Do you know of anything? You do, don't you? Paul never committed this murder. He couldn't do it. But unless the real murderer is found he will have to die. Don't you understand?"

"Paul die? Paul die?"

"Yes; they will condemn him unless the real murderer appears. Everyone says so. And you know who did it, don't you?"

"Do you mean to say that you think my Paul cannot get himself off?"

"Oh, don't you realise?" cried Mary. "Jurymen are stupid. They only look at the surface of things. Of course I know he didn't do it. I know he couldn't! But unless the truth comes to light, the jury will condemn him, and then, no matter who is judge, he will be hanged! Don't you see--don't you see?"

"Do you believe this?"

"I can't help believing it," replied the girl. "I've heard my father discuss law cases again and again, and I know what will happen. Won't you tell what you know? Won't you confess? For you do know, don't you?"

"But do you mean that you, who love my Paul, who believe in him, who know how clever he is, and who are sure he's innocent, do you believe that he can't clear himself?"

"How can he, when the evidence all points to him? Someone killed Ned Wilson. Someone struck the blow with Paul's knife. Don't you see? Who did it? You know!"

"I know?"

"Yes, you know. Paul is trying to shield someone; you know he is. Who is he trying to shield? He's giving his life for someone. Who would he give his life for? He's refused to go into the witness-box, refused to confide in anyone. Don't you see the meaning of it? Who is there in Brunford or anywhere else that Paul would be willing to die for?--for that is what it means. Why is he silent? You know; tell me."

The girl was wrought up to such a pitch of excitement now that she did not care what she said; neither had she any pity in her heart. She felt almost angry, too, that this woman should be so rejoiced because of what she had read to her when all the time Paul was in danger of death. What mattered name, what mattered honour, what mattered anything if Paul were pronounced guilty?

"_I_ know, my lassie. _I_ know," cried the woman.

"Of course you know--you _must_ know. Who is Paul trying to shield, tell me that? Who went into Paul's office and got the knife? Paul did not kill Ned Wilson. Who did? Tell me that!"

She fixed her eyes on the elder woman, and there was such intensity in her look, such passion in the words she had spoken, that at length Paul Stepaside's mother guessed what was in her heart.

"You believe that Paul is shielding me?" she said quietly. "You believe that I murdered him?" and her voice was hard and stern.

"It was not Paul who did it," said Mary. "Although a thousand men were to swear they saw him do it, I would not believe them. Who did it, then?"

"And you believe that?"

"Who is Paul trying to shield?" repeated the girl, with almost monotonous iteration.

For a few seconds a painful silence fell between them, and it was evident by the look on the face of the elder woman that she was thinking deeply.

"Do you believe," and her voice was almost hoarse, "do you believe, my lassie, that Paul is lying in that gaol charged with murder because he wants to shield me?"

"What else can I believe?" cried Mary. "Tell me the truth. You say you love your son; if your love is worth anything, you will confess to the truth!"

Again a painful silence fell between them. The elder woman, who sat up in bed, seemed to be trying to realise the meaning of the other's words. She might have been living over the night of the murder again.

Presently she fixed her gaze upon Mary, and the girl saw that the old mad light was coming back into her eyes again.

"You believe that--that!" she gasped. Her body swayed to and fro for a moment, and then she fell back on the bed like one dead.

A great fear came into Mary's heart. She believed that Paul's mother, stricken to the heart by her accusation, and realising the terrible import of her silence, had been killed by her words. For a moment she did not know what to do, but, soon overcoming her weakness, she tried to restore her to life. She put her ear over the heart of the prostrate form on the bed, and gave a cry of satisfaction. "No; she's not dead, she's not dead!"

But what could she do? She was there alone in the house with this unconscious woman. She had little or no knowledge of nursing, and she did not know how to obtain help. But help she must obtain. This woman must not die--at least, before she had made her full confession. Even yet Paul's safety was the great thought in her mind. Nothing seemed to matter beside that.

There was a sound of footsteps, and she heard Mrs. Bradshaw's voice asking whether she could do anything. It seemed like Providence that the woman should have entered at this moment, and eagerly she rushed to her.

"Mrs. Stepaside is worse!" she cried. "She ought to have a doctor. Could you run and fetch one?"

"My boy's at home," said Mrs. Bradshaw. "I'll send him up to Dr. White's house at once. He's the best man in Brunford, and he's friendly with Paul, too."

"Does he live far away?"

"No, not so far. There are one or two others who live nearer, but I don't reckon much on 'em."

"Run, then, quick!" said Mary. "There's no time to be lost."

"Ay, and after I've sent Peter Matthew I'll come in again and get you something to eat. You must be fair pined."

Mary returned to the room again, and waited what seemed to her an interminable length of time, looking anxiously at the sick woman the whole time. She lay very still, almost motionless in fact, but Mary was sure she was not dead, and she prayed as she had never prayed before that she might live. As it seemed to her, it was not Paul's mother's life that hung in the balance, but Paul's.

At length Dr. White came, and went quickly into the bedroom. Dr. White was a tall, spare man, between forty and fifty years of age. He was one of those doctors who loved his profession with a love almost amounting to passion, and he had worked himself almost to a skeleton. People said that he ought to be a very rich man, but he was not. A great part of the service he rendered was a labour of love. Scores of people in Brunford wondered why he never sent a bill to them, and when he was asked the reasons for his remissness, he always put the inquirers off with a laugh. "Oh, you'll be getting it some day." The truth was he hated sending bills to poor people, and his great delight was not in receiving cheques or payment for his services, but in seeing his patients restored to health and strength again. He was almost worshipped in the town, and, indeed, no one worked so hard for the good of the people as he did in his own way.

When he entered the room he looked at Mary rather wonderingly, but asked no questions. He went straight to the patient's bedside, and examined her carefully. When he had completed his examination he turned to the young girl, who was watching him with wide, staring eyes.

"When did this happen?" he said.

Mary began to explain Mrs. Stepaside's relationship to the accused man in Manchester and of the sufferings through which she had gone.

"I know all about that," said the doctor. "But tell me the immediate cause of this."

As may be imagined, this was a difficult task, but Mary's ready wit helped her through with it.

"I brought her from Manchester this morning," she said. "She did not seem very well then, and she asked me to come with her. Then, then----" And her eyes rested upon the newspaper which she had been reading.

"Oh, I see," said the doctor. "It was a sudden shock. Yes; it's quite understandable--long weeks of suspense and agony, and then this on the top of it!" He did not ask any further questions, for Dr. White was a wise man. He knew the whole circumstances of Paul's arrest, and was therefore able to estimate the truth.

"Mrs. Stepaside has had a great shock. Of course, I need not repeat that, and she may lie like this for some days. One cannot tell the developments which will take place."

"Do you think she will die?" asked Mary anxiously.

"She's had enough to kill her, anyhow!" replied the doctor, "but she may pull through. We'll do our best. Whatever happens, nothing must be said or done to agitate her--you understand that? I fancy she will have fleeting periods of consciousness, but she must be always met with a smile. I am sure you understand this?"

"But how long will it be before--before she is allowed to talk?"

"Weeks!" replied the doctor shortly; and the word seemed like a knell of death. If Paul's mother were not allowed to speak, if she could not make her confession, then Paul might die! The thought was horrible, yet what could she do? Even if she became strong enough to speak and to make her confession, it would not be of any value. Any judge or jury would regard it as the ravings of a disordered mind.

"You're here alone," went on the doctor. "Of course I understand why you came with her," and again he looked at the newspaper which Mary had been reading.

The girl did not reply, and the doctor went on. "But you must have help. It would be madness for you to remain here alone. Of course the servants are in Manchester. They have been summoned as witnesses. But do not trouble; I'll help you. I'll send a nurse at once, and I think I can manage about the servants, too--that's the best of knowing everyone, Miss Bolitho. I'll call again in a couple of hours. Good-day."

To Mary the man's conduct seemed utterly brutal. He uttered no word of comfort. The few words he spoke were curt, almost harsh; and yet she knew he was a kind man. She continued to sit by the bed, looking at the sick woman's face, her heart filled with a great dread. She could do nothing. She must only remain there and wait and watch.

In about an hour Dr. White returned. This time there was a nurse with him. Mary did not know that he had, on leaving her, driven to the hospital at a speed which endangered the community, obtained the services of a nurse, and then came back at the same headlong pace. She did not know, either, that he had set means on foot whereby a capable woman would be secured to look after the house. Dr. White was not a man who talked much, but he did a great deal. He seemed to be pleased with the patient's condition on his return. As far as he could judge there were no evil signs.

"Now, Miss Bolitho," he said as he went away, "I want you to understand that Paul Stepaside's mother is not the only patient I have. You are another. You must go to bed immediately."

"I could not--I could not!" she cried.

"Very well, then," said the doctor. "I noticed as I came up that there was a fire in Stepaside's study. There's a comfortable sofa there. Go and lie down."

"I could not lie down!"

"But I say you can, and you must!" said the doctor. "Here, I've brought something for you."

He poured a powder into a glass of water, and bade Mary drink it. The girl obeyed him.

"Now," he said. "Come down at once."

He led her downstairs by the arm into Paul's study, and having arranged the cushions on the sofa, he insisted on her lying down. Seizing a rug, he wrapped her up in it just as a father might.

"I'm not going to have you ill," he said. "Remember that! I'll call again to-night, but not before ten o'clock. I've a busy evening before me. In less than half an hour you'll be asleep, and you'll sleep for at least three hours; then you'll wake up better. By that time some dinner will be ready for you. What a grand thing it is to have a meddling fellow who takes everything out of your hands, isn't it?" and he gave the ghost of a laugh.

A few minutes later Mary felt a sense of drowsiness creeping over her, and then became unconscious.

When she awoke again it was to find her father sitting by her side.

She started up from the couch, for the moment unable to realise the situation. At first she thought she was back in the hotel in Manchester, but in a few seconds she realised the truth.

"Father!" she exclaimed.

"Yes, Mary. I felt sure you'd come here. Directly I could get away I came as fast as I could, but the trains are terribly slow. I've only been here a few minutes."

For a few seconds there was a silence between them. Each seemed to know all that the other was thinking.

"I felt I must have a talk with you, Mary," said Judge Bolitho at length. "There are so many things to say, and so many things to do. Could I stay here to-night, I wonder? I must go back to Manchester again to-morrow morning."

"Why, father?"

"Of course you have read the newspapers. You know what took place in Manchester this morning?"

He spoke calmly and collectedly now. In one sense it seemed as though a great burden had been lifted from his mind. From the way he spoke, too, he might regard his confession as of little import.

"Father," cried the girl, "it's so bewildering, so terrible!"

"Yes, yes; I know. I've a great deal to tell you some time, Mary, but not now. You see I've passed through a great deal during the last twenty-four hours. All life has changed. What the future may bring forth God only knows. But I've done the right thing now. I sometimes think, Mary, that one of the greatest sins in life, the sin which leads the way to more than any other, is that of cowardice; and I was a coward. My God! what a coward I was! And I'm paying for it now. But for that I might have been a happy man; I might have had----"

He rose to his feet as he spoke and walked across the room. He seemed to be pondering deeply.

"Of course you despise me, Mary," he said. "You cannot help it. Everyone despises me. It's right and natural. I needn't tell you any further about it now, need I? You've read what is in the paper? You understand?"

"Yes, I think, I--I--I think I understand. But, father, we must save Paul! Whatever happens, we must save Paul!"

"If it is possible," said the judge. "For, oh! God helping me---- Yes, I should die! It would kill me if--if the worst comes to the worst! That's why I came, Mary. I must have another talk with her. I think after to-morrow I shall be free; but I must go to Manchester then, perhaps to London. There are so many formalities to be complied with. But never mind, formalities or no formalities, nothing must stand in the way of his salvation."

"He's not guilty, father; you know that? He's been shielding someone all the time. That's why he would have no one to defend him. That's why he confided in no one. I'm sure of it!"

The judge nodded his head. He, too, had been thinking deeply, and his trained mind had gone farther into the matter than that of Mary.

"Yes; I've been thinking of that," was his reply. "In fact, I felt almost sure of it when I went to see him to-day."

"You've, been to see him to-day? What? Since what you said in the court? What did he say? How did he look? Did he--did he----"

"The thing that troubles me," said the judge, interrupting, "is this--who is Paul trying to shield?"

The girl looked anxiously around the room, then went to the door and peered into the passage outside.

"Can't you think, father? Whom would he be likely to shield? I accused her of it this afternoon. I could not help it. The doctor doesn't know, but that's why she's so ill now. When she realised what I meant, she seemed like one struck down by a blow."

"You mean to say," he gasped, "that you believe Jean--that is, his mother--was----" He did not finish the sentence. It seemed too horrible, too terrible.

"No, Mary," he continued at length. "That's not it."

"But it must be, father."

"No; that's not it. Now then, tell me everything you know. You went to Dixon Street this morning; the woman told me all about it. You brought her here. You had a talk with her. Tell me everything that has taken place. You went to see Paul before the trial, too. Tell me everything."

Half an hour later Judge Bolitho was in possession, not only of all that Mary knew, but of all her suspicions and her reasons for those suspicions. He had submitted her to a very thorough cross-examination. His mind had fastened upon a hundred things of which she had taken no cognisance. He saw through the fallacies of her reasoning, and drew his conclusions accordingly. His mind was quick and active now. It seemed as though his freedom from the responsibilities of his judgeship gave him a sense of liberty. The fact that he had work to do had done something to lessen the remorse which was gnawing at his heart.

"I must go over this whole business again, Mary," he said. "Did you say that you had those Brunford papers here with you?"

"Yes, father; every one."

"And I have all the other facts since. Oh, my boy, my boy!"

"You believe you can save him?"

"I will, I will!" he cried. "I have sinned, but God will never allow me to suffer this. He could not. One thing my confession to-day will do, too--it will give me time. There's sure to be some delay before another judge is appointed, and the whole case will have to be tried again. Meanwhile I must be up and doing."

"Oh, if she were only conscious!" said Mary. "But the doctor says that perhaps she will be unconscious for weeks, and under no circumstances must she be questioned."

"Did she speak of me?" asked the judge.

"Only indirectly."

"Did she seem to despise me--hate me?"

The girl was silent, and the judge understood what her silence meant.

"It's just," he said. "It's just. But I must save Paul!"

A knock came to the door, and the woman whom Dr. White had obtained told them there was food in the dining-room.

"Thank you," said the judge. "Yes, we must eat, Mary; it seems like waste of time, but we must. And after we have had some dinner I'll read through everything again. There must be a way out. Are you well enough to run upstairs, Mary, and ask how--how--she is?"

There was a strange, yearning look in his eyes as he spoke. He might have been ashamed, too--there was indeed a change in Judge Bolitho.

"She's no worse," said Mary, coming down a few minutes later. "The nurse says she is sleeping peacefully. The doctor will be here in a little while now. He seems a very hard-hearted man, but he admires Paul greatly, and he's very clever."

During the meal both of them were silent. Each, of them had much food for thought, and there are times when words are vain.

"To think," said the judge, when they had finished their dinner, "that I should be here in this way, in my son's house, and that his mother---- Mary, bring me those papers, will you?"

A little later he was deeply immersed in the early history of the trial, noting each detail, fastening upon every weakness of the charge and the difficulties of defence. It seemed to him as though he were practising at the bar again, and he were preparing his case for the defence of the prisoner. But this time he had an interest never known to him before. It was for him to fight for the life of his own son.

Presently he heard the doctor's step on the stairs. He had been in the sick-room, and when he had finished his visit, Mary had led him to the room where her father was. Dr. White looked at the judge curiously. At each house he had called that afternoon there was but one subject of discussion. No one knew that Judge Bolitho was in Brunford; had they done so, excitement would have exceeded all bounds; but as it was, the confession which he had made had set the whole town talking.

"Will you tell me how my wife is?" asked the judge.

"Your wife?" queried the doctor.

"Yes, my wife. Will you tell me how she is?"

The doctor gave a significant glance at Mary, which the judge was not slow to interpret; but he made no sign. Now that he had made his confession and told the truth, he was the same proud man who, not long before, had been Member of Parliament for that town.

"She's very ill," said the doctor.

"But she will not die, will she?"

"Of course, that's impossible to say. She's a strong woman, but she's had--well, you know what she's had to bear."

The judge nodded. "But will she get better?"

"I do not think she will die just yet."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I think it is possible her body may recover."

"But her mind?" said the judge, noting the significance of the doctor's words.

"Concerning her mind I can promise nothing," said the doctor. "The strain she has borne for so long has been enough to drive one of her sensitive nature mad."

The judge was silent for a few seconds, then he spoke in his old, almost authoritative tones.

"Let nothing be left undone, doctor," he said. "Engage any help you think may be of value to you. You know the best man in your profession. Get into communication with him at once. We must fight, man; we must fight!"

There was a ring of defiance in his voice, and even then Mary thought how different he was from the preceding night, when she had parted from him in Manchester.

"Have you made up your mind what to do, father?" she asked, when the doctor had gone.

"Yes, I have. By the way, Mary, I know you must be longing to ask questions about yourself, but----"

"Don't trouble about me now, father. I know what you are thinking of. But my name, my future, are nothing compared with---- Oh, father, we must save Paul!"

"If it is within the realm of human possibility we will, Mary."

"And you believe it is?"

"Give me three days," said the father, "and then perhaps I can tell you."