Chapter 33

THE HOME-COMING

The warder came into Paul's cell bearing his breakfast.

"There," he said. "I've got something good for you this morning. How did you sleep?"

"Scarcely at all," replied Paul quietly. "You can take away this; I shall not eat it."

"Eat it, man; it is the best breakfast you've had for many a day, and it'll help you to go through with it."

"No," replied Paul quietly; "I'll go through it without that."

There was a sad, wistful look in his eye. He knew that the dread hour had nearly come, and that he must bid good-bye to everything. During the previous evening he had been in a state of great excitement. He had listened eagerly for the coming of Mary and his father, but they never came. In a numb sort of way he wondered why. He would like to have bidden them good-bye. He longed to hold Mary in his arms once more, and longed, too, to tell his father that he forgave him. For he had to confess to himself at last that he had done this. With death knocking at the gates of life, it seemed to him he could do no other. His father had sinned, but he had done his best to atone. Of course, all was vain, and the tangled skein of life had not been straightened out. He felt that somehow life with him had begun wrong, and it had continued wrong to the end. Still, there was a quiet resignation in his heart which almost surprised him. At that moment he could have said with Tennyson, "And yet we trust that somehow good will be the final goal of ill." As for the future--well, he would soon solve its mystery. He did not want to die; rather, he longed to live--he had so much to live for in spite of everything. Of course, Mary could never be his wife, but he could love her and guard her and cherish her all the same. As for the rest----

He felt a kind of curiosity as to what the future would bring forth. He looked at his hands, so strong, nervous, vigorous, and thought that in a few hours they would be inert, lifeless. That something which men call "life" would be gone. Where would he be? For the first time in his life he felt almost certain that the essential "he" would continue to be. Where, and under what circumstances, he wondered? Well, he should know soon.

A little later he was out under a dark, gloomy sky. He saw a great black cloud hanging in the heavens. Here and there was a patch of blue where the stars peeped out. It was bitterly cold, and he felt himself shivering. Others were there, too; strange, shadowy looking figures they appeared to be, but he took very little note of them. Only one man was perfectly clear to him; that was the chaplain, who wore a gown and carried a black book in his hand. It was his duty to read the Burial Service. He heard a bell tolling, but it did not affect him as he thought it would. Of course, it was the very refinement of torture, and ought not to be allowed. No man, whatever he had done, should be made to suffer in this way. But he did not care much. He was not afraid. In the dim light he saw that a scaffold had been erected--a gaunt, ghastly thing, the very symbol of despair and shame and death. He wondered what took place next. He supposed there would be certain formulae to go through. The parson would utter a homily as well as read the miserable Burial Service.

"What's going to happen next?" he said to the warder; and he spoke rather as a spectator than as the one who was the chief figure in this terrible scene.

But before the man had time to reply there was a strange confusion. Something had happened. Excited voices were heard. The governor of the gaol said something, the purport of which did not reach Paul, but still something which seemed to change the atmosphere and made the grey dawn bright with the light of day. Another moment, and his heart thrilled. He felt soft arms around his neck, a warm face close to his, while on his lips were burning kisses.

"Paul! Paul!"

"Mary!"

He wondered what it all meant, for even yet the truth had not dawned in his mind.

"You should not have come, Mary," he said. "You see I can bear it all right."

"Paul, don't you understand?" And she laughed and sobbed at the same time. "You are not going to die. You are saved!"

"Saved?"

"Yes. She has confessed, Paul."

"No, no!" And there was agony in his voice. "No, no! Better I should die than that she should!"

"No; but, Paul, it was another--a woman named Emily Dodson. You were right, you see, in your defence. He had deceived her, wronged her, and she killed him. She confessed it last night. It's all written down and signed. Don't you understand, my love?"

"Then, then----?"

"I congratulate you, Mr. Stepaside!" It was the governor of the gaol who spoke. "Thank God, the news has come in time! Yes, my lord, of course you can speak to him."

"Paul, my son." And his heart thrilled at the sound of his father's voice. "Thank God! Thank God! Will you shake hands and forgive me?"

It seemed to Paul at that moment as though the foundations of his life were broken up.

"Oh, God, I thank Thee!" he cried, "Oh, Mary, Mary! My love!" And again he strained the young girl to his heart.

For many days Paul Stepaside's mother lay sleeping calmly in the room where sickness had confined her. Her face was tranquil, the lines which had been so deep a few weeks before had passed away. She had been unconscious ever since the day on which Mary had made known to her the terrible suspicion which filled her mind. Sometimes there had come to her minutes when the past became partially real, but those minutes were only as dream phantoms. She knew nothing of what had taken place, did not seem to realise that Mary Bolitho had been in the house with her, or that the man to whom she had given her heart long years before slept beneath the same roof. She knew nothing either of the agony through which they had passed or of their feverish endeavours to save her son. She suffered no pain. She simply lay there as though nothing mattered and as though the windows of her mind had been closed.

The nurse sat by her bedside watching her. The doctor had been that morning, and had remarked that he saw no change either one way or the other.

"I have seldom seen anything like it, nurse!" he had said. "Physically, she seems to be improving. Her pulse is quite satisfactory; she has no temperature; and her strength is well maintained. But I do not understand this long condition of coma. I wonder how it will end!"

The nurse, as she sat by the patient's bedside, was thinking of what the doctor had said, and was curiously watching her face.

The woman's eyes opened, and the nurse thought she saw the light of reason in them. She looked curiously around the room.

"Who are you?" she said.

"I'm a nurse from the hospital, Mrs. Stepaside. You haven't been very well."

"Ay, I remember being poorly. Where's Paul?"

"He's not come back yet," said the nurse.

"What do you mean? Ay, but he's near! Don't you hear them shouting?"

In spite of the fact that she still believed her patient to be unconscious, she listened, and thought she heard distant shouting.

"I know, I know! It's Paul coming home! He's cleared himself. Do you see? He's proved himself innocent! I knew he would! My own clever boy! There! There!"

Again the nurse listened, and this time she knew that something was taking place. It seemed to her like a shout of great multitudes, the roar of a mighty sea of voices, and it was coming nearer and nearer the house.

"Hurrah! Hurrah!"

"God bless ye!"

"He's saved!"

"He's innocent!"

"The truth has come out!"

She could only faintly distinguish the words, but this was what she thought she heard. It was like the roar of a great storm, the shout of a mighty multitude.

Still it came nearer and nearer, and the volume of sound ever increased.

The woman in her bed laughed. "Don't you see?" she said. "I left Manchester only yesterday, and that lassie came with me. Where is she noo? She'll be gone to meet Paul. Just think of it! I didn't think he could clear himself so soon, but she thought--ah, never mind what she thought!"

Still the roar of voices continued, ever increasing in volume and jubilancy.

"Don't you see?" went on Paul's mother. "The crowd knew he would come, and they met him at Brunford station, and they're bringing him home as he ought to be brought home. But I must not be here, in bed, I must get up!"

"No, no," said the nurse. "You're not well enough for that!"

"Not well enough! I'm all right. My Paul must not find me like a sick woman when he comes. He must find me up and dressed, ready to meet him. Quick, quick!"

She got out of bed of her own accord. "There," she said. "You say I'm not strong enough! They are at the door, do you hear? Hark how they're shouting! Ay, my own Paul, the light's come to him at last!"

She ceased speaking. Her mind seemed to be gathering up the events of the past weeks. She remembered the visit which Judge Bolitho had made to her in Dixon Street--called to mind, too, the confession he had made, and which Mary had read to her.

"And there is no stain upon his name now. No one can twit him now!" she continued, jubilantly. "There they are at the door! Now then, bring me that dressing-gown. Oh, if I'd only woke up sooner, I would have put on that new dress which Paul brought me, the one he likes so much. He said it made me look like a lassie."

The front door opened, and both of them heard the confusion of tongues beneath. Then there was a heavy tread upon the stairs. The door of her bedroom opened, and Paul entered.

He had expected to see her lying on a bed of sickness, pale and emaciated, instead of which she stood erect.

"Mother!" he said, and folded her in his arms.

"Ay, my laddie!" she cried. "You've beaten them all, then?"

He did not know what was in her mind, but he thought it best to humour her. "Yes, mother, I've beaten them all."

"I knew you would. When I left Manchester yesterday I knew you'd beat them. Why, to think of you, my Paul, doing such a thing! And that crowd I heard shouting, Paul? They came to meet you at the station, didn't they?"

"I believe hundreds of them came from Manchester," was the reply. "Then, of course, there were many at the station, too."

"That's well, my son!"

"Mother, what is it?" cried Paul, noting the change that passed over her face.

"I'm not so well, my laddie, and I'm not so strong as I thought I was. But it's all right. I think I'll lie down again."

He lifted her in his arms and placed her back in the bed, and in a few seconds she was asleep.

The crowds departed after a while, but there was little work done in Brunford that day. Never was such an excitement known before, never such joy manifested. Directly the news had become known that the real murderer had confessed, the news flashed over many wires and the Press of the whole country was flooded with the wonderful story. Throughout Lancashire it passed, from town to town, from mill to mill, from cottage to cottage, like wild-fire. People who had been certain of Paul's guilt the day before had known all along that he was innocent, and pretended to rejoice accordingly. No sooner did the news reach Brunford than all the mills in the town ceased running. The streets were filled with excited multitudes, talking over what had taken place. Paul Stepaside, for whom the scaffold had been erected and the cord made ready, had been proved innocent at the last moment, and stood before the world a free man! It would be impossible for me to describe in detail the rejoicings of the people or the demonstrations that were made. Even to this day the people in Brunford talk about it as a red-letter day in the history of the town, as a time when it was moved beyond all thought or imagination.

Meanwhile, Paul sat with Mary in his own house. The past weeks seemed like a hideous nightmare to him now. But he had awakened from his sleep, the dark clouds had rolled away. He was home again! The crime of which he had been accused was as nothing. His innocence had been proclaimed to the world. His name was without a stain. But he felt strangely restrained. It seemed as though a weight were put upon his lips, and while he grudged every moment that Mary was out of his sight, he almost feared to be alone with her.

"Paul," she said to him late that afternoon, "your mother does not seem to suffer at all because of the excitement this morning!"

"No," he said quietly. "It's very wonderful! When I was with her just now she was quite cheerful and happy. Even yet she does not know all the truth. Of course, she'll have to know it some day, but we will keep it from her as long as we can. But I do not quite understand the look in her eyes, all the same! She seemed as though she were expecting some one."

"I think I know whom she expects."

"You mean your father?" replied Paul. Even yet he was unable to speak of Judge Bolitho as his own father.

"Yes, I believe she is wondering why he has not come."

"I think I rather wonder, too," said Paul. "You see, he left us directly after I was--after--after the truth was made known, and I've heard nothing from him since. Have you, Mary?"

"No," said the girl. "I've heard nothing. I think he went to London. You see, as far as you're concerned, there are heaps of formalities to be complied with!"

"Yes, yes, I know!" said Paul almost hastily. It seemed as though he wanted to drive the whole terrible thing from his mind.

"Mary," said Paul at length, "have you ever spoken with your father about the past?"

"No," she replied, "never. I was afraid; I don't know why. Once or twice he seemed to be trying to broach the subject, but there was such an awful look in his eyes that I could not bear to hear him speak about it. Besides, I had no time to think about myself! How could I, when, when---- But you know, Paul!"

It was very wonderful to him to be sitting alone in his own house with Mary in this way. Sometimes he thought he was in a dream, and that he would wake up presently to find all the wild, ghastly realities come to him. But it was no dream. The hundreds of telegrams which came to him expressing delight at the proof of his innocence, and the innumerable messages of goodwill which constantly reached him, made all his black fancies impossible.

He was not happy in a full and complete sense of the word. Even yet he felt his life to be enshrouded in mystery. It seemed to him the problem was not yet solved, and never could be solved this side of eternity. Still, his heart was joyful, for was not Mary by his side? Was he not for ever seeing her winsome smile and the flash of her bright eyes? Was she not for ever seeking to minister to his comfort and to bring sunshine into his life?

He dared not go into the town. He feared to meet the people. He could not bear to hear their kindly words, their exclamations of delight and joy. He knew that the sight of homely faces would unman him, and that he would break down like a child. While the shadow of guilt was upon him, he could be strong even as a stoic might be strong. He could bear hard words and suspicious looks. All through the long trial he had been composed and self-reliant, but that was over now. In a way he could not understand, the hard crust of his nature had been broken up. Paul felt a new man. That black, grimy town was no longer dirty and sordid to him. It was the home of tens of thousands of kind hearts, the home of the people he loved. He saw a meaning in their life which he had never seen before. He had dreams of their future to which he was a stranger in the old days. But he could not go out and meet them, could not clasp friendly hands, could not meet smile with smile. Perhaps it was no wonder. Paul had passed far down the deep, dark Valley of the Shadow of Death, and it seemed at one time as though he would never emerge into the light again, and so it was not strange he should desire to be alone with Mary.

Night came on, and still Judge Bolitho did not come. The last train had arrived in Brunford, but there was no news of him.

"He'll be back when he's done his work," said Mary.

"What work?" asked Paul.

"I don't know," she replied. "But, Paul, you are grieving about me. Don't! I know what's in your mind, but it doesn't matter one bit, not one bit, Paul!"

"But, Mary----"

"No, Paul, not one word! There, it's time for you to go to bed. Kiss me, my love!"

He went towards her, meaning to give her a brotherly kiss, but when he came close to her he caught her in his arms again, and held her passionately to him.

"Good-night, Mary. May God bless you!"

"God?" she said, looking up into his face wonderingly, and there was almost a sob in her voice. "Do you believe in Him at last?"

"May God bless you, my--no, I can't say it. Good-night!"

When Paul went to his room that night, the first night he had slept there since the dread things which had so altered the whole of his life came to him, he sat for a long time thinking. Again he reviewed the past, tried to see its deeper meaning. Then he knelt down by his bedside. He uttered no words, formulated no prayer, but he knew he was very near to the heart of things.

Days passed, and still there was no news of Judge Bolitho. Paul's mother, as steadily she grew stronger, seemed ever to be listening and watching, but she asked no questions and spoke no word about the man of whom both Paul and Mary were sure she was thinking. Both of them rejoiced as they saw her health coming back to her, saw a new light in her eyes, a tenderer expression on her lips. All the same, each of them wondered what the future would bring forth. Neither Mary nor Paul referred again to the shadow which hung upon the former's name. Not one question did Paul ask about her mother, or about the days before they first met each other. He was afraid it would give her pain, and he would rather suffer anything than do that.

On the fourth day after his return, Paul's mother was well enough to come downstairs again. She had clothed herself in the last new dress Paul had bought her, and she blushed like a girl when he told her how young and handsome she looked.

"Nay, Paul, I'm an old woman," she protested. All the same, it was easy to see that she was pleased.

"You're just young and handsome, mother," he repeated. "There's many a lass in Brunford who'd give anything to have your good looks."

"And they say you're the very image of me, Paul! Think now, when you're praising my good looks you're just praising your own!"

In spite of their pleasantries, however, it was easy to see that she was wondering about and longing for something of which she spoke no word.

"Mother, it's eight o'clock. It's time for you to go to bed. You must not take liberties with yourself."

"No," she said. "I'm going to stay up a little longer. I'm not so weak as you think. Did I give way when--when--when I heard how near you were to----? Oh, Paul! my boy! my boy! Thank God! No wonder you love Mary. It was she who saved you! I fancied you had got yourself off by your own cleverness, but, without her----"

"Without her everything would have been impossible," said Paul, but he did not lift his eyes. He was afraid what his mother might see there.

"All the same, you'd better go to bed, mother. You'll be overtired!"

"Listen," she said, and both Mary and Paul saw her hands tremble. "There! There! Don't you hear?"

All plainly heard the sound of wheels outside, an eager step on the path, and then a knock at the door. Paul Stepaside's mother sat rigid. She seemed like one afraid; yet there was a bright light in her eyes all the time.

"Run, my lassie," she said quickly. "Run. Don't wait for one of the maids to go, perhaps it will be----"

But Mary did not hear the end of her sentence. She ran to the door, and opened it, and both mother and son heard whispering voices in the little hall.

A few seconds later Mary returned again, accompanied by Judge Bolitho. He looked from one face to another, as if uncertain of his welcome. He had evidently come from a long journey, for he looked travel-stained and weary, but each noticed how eager his face was. Paul's mother sat rigidly in her chair. She gave no word of welcome, no sign of recognition. It seemed as though the presence of the judge had placed the seal of silence upon her lips. Paul rose and held out his hand.

"No," said the judge. "I will not take your hand."

Paul looked at him in astonishment. It seemed strange to him, after what had passed at their last meeting, for him to act in this way.

"I will not take your hand, Paul, until I have told my story, until you have heard all there is for me to say," said the judge.