Chapter 34

JUDGE BOLITHO'S CONFESSION

As Judge Bolitho spoke, Paul saw that his mother drew herself up in her chair and fixed her eyes upon the newcomer with a look of feverish inquiry. No word had passed between them about the past ever since his return home. Never once had she mentioned an incident of her girlhood, neither had she spoken to Paul about the judge's confession, or what it had meant to them both. The servants still spoke to her as "Mrs. Stepaside," even as they spoke of Paul as Paul Stepaside. There seemed something strange in their relations to the judge even yet. There was still, however, that look of continual watchfulness and inquiry in her eyes. It seemed as though she were waiting for something, something of which she dared not speak.

"I feel as though I had no right to sit here," went on the judge, "no right to a welcome of any sort until I have told the truth. When I have spoken you may drive me from your doors, but at least what there is to be made known shall be told truthfully."

No one spoke, but it was easy to see that all were greatly moved. Mary Bolitho, although she had not spoken a word concerning the story of her past, even to Paul, waited with intense eagerness. Her face had become pale and her lips were tremulous. Paul, too, felt as though the issues of light and darkness lay within the next few minutes, while his mother sat rigid in her chair, never moving a muscle, her eyes fixed on the man who had just come into the room.

The judge pulled off his heavy fur-lined coat and went to the door. He seemed afraid lest someone might be listening.

"What I have to say," he said, "is between ourselves alone. A great deal of it is not for the ears of the world, although some of it must perforce be made known."

Silence followed for some time, and the listeners seemed almost too much moved to breathe, while the speaker appeared to find his task even harder than he had imagined. There was a look which suggested fear in his eyes, and although he constantly glanced at the woman opposite him, he seemed unable to gaze at her steadily.

"I need not describe at length that visit to Scotland," he said presently. "You all know practically what there is to know. I was an orphan. On my father's side I belonged to the Scotch people, on my mother's to Cornwall. They died when I was very young, leaving a sum sufficient to educate me and to start me in life--at least, so they thought. I had chosen the profession of the law, and when I took my degree at Oxford I began reading for the Bar. I had imagined that I had an income sufficient to keep me during the time I was passing my examinations and while I might have to wait for briefs. It was at this time that I went to Scotland with some companions. There I met with you, Jean. There I fell in love with you."

The woman gave a quivering sigh as he spoke, but uttered no word. Her eyes were fixed on him steadily. She seemed to be trying to read his soul.

"I do not think I was a bad lad," he went on, "and I loved you truly. I meant every word I said to you. Doubtless from the worldly-wise man's standpoint I was foolish and acted without due thought, but I yielded to the promptings of my heart, and--and so, at least, I can tell you that, Jean."

He was evidently speaking to her rather than to the others. For the moment they might not have existed at all.

"Badly as I may have treated you, you may believe that, at all events, I loved you with all the fresh, warm affection of a boy, and meant nothing but what was right and true."

Again he paused, as if trying to recall the scenes among the Scottish hills.

"You know I had arranged to leave 'Highlands' that morning and to meet you later in a lonely valley among the mountains. Naturally I was much excited and eager to get to your side. Yet even then I was a coward. Had I acted as I ought, I should have taken you to a minister and have married you before witnesses, but the other way appeared easy, and you did not seem to mind. I must confess, too, that the idea of a Scotch marriage was, in some ways, unreal to me. It did not appear to me as binding as a marriage service should. I expect that was why I suggested this method of our becoming man and wife, for I can see it now--I was a coward even then!

"Still, as I have said, I longed to get to your side, longed to make you my wife, even although I felt I might be acting foolishly. So excited was I that when a servant brought me a letter just as I was leaving, I did not trouble to open it. Had I done so, our future might have been different; I do not know; but I'm telling you this that I may keep nothing from you, for I am determined that you shall know the truth and the whole truth. I thought nothing of the letter through the day; my joy at being with you was too great for that, and the excitement of the thought that I was taking you as my wife made me forgetful of everything else. You remember the scene, Jean? You remember how we took each other as man and wife, there amidst the silence and loneliness? You remember, too, how you suggested that we should ask God to bless our union, and how we knelt side by side and prayed? The memory of that hour has whipped me like scorpions ever since.

"When presently we reached the inn, I thought of the letter and read it. It was from my mother's cousin, who had charge of my affairs and acted as a guardian to me. It seems that he loved her when they were boy and girl, and although she married another man, his love never died. Perhaps that was why he was fond of me. But he never liked my father, and hated the name Graham as a consequence. In the letter he wrote, he told me that the little property which I had thought to be mine had all vanished. It seems that it had been invested in what were thought to be perfectly safe securities, but which had become worthless; therefore I, who was not yet called to the Bar, and had no profession, was penniless. He told me it was necessary for me to return immediately, as he had other news of the gravest import to convey to me, but which I could not properly understand through the medium of a letter.

"I've been reading that letter to-day," went on the judge, "and I do not wonder at my being moved by it. It was written in the most solemn fashion, and hinted at a great deal more than it said. It urged me in the most impressive way to return to Cornwall immediately, and told me that I must allow nothing to stand in the way of my coming.

"Well, Jean, you know what happened. I left you on the morning following, telling you to return to your father, to inform him of our marriage, assuring you that I should return very shortly."

Again the judge was silent for some time. He seemed to be fighting with himself, seemed to be unable to express the thoughts which filled his mind.

"My guardian's name," he went on, "was Bolitho. As I told you, he had always been fond of me from a boy, and he was more to me than most fathers are to their sons. When I returned to him late that night, for, as you know, I caught an express train from Carlisle early in the morning and travelled continuously for fourteen hours, I found him eagerly awaiting me, and I thought he looked pale and ill. In spite of my protests, he would not wait until the morning before telling me what he had in his mind. Ever since he had discovered the truth about my affairs, it seemed that he had been making plans about me, and it was not long before I discovered them. As I told you, he hated the name of Graham, because my father had robbed him of the woman he loved, and he told me that he wanted me to take his name and become his son. On condition that I would do this, he would make my future secure and leave me what fortune he possessed. But there was something more than this, and here comes the story of my fall."

Paul's mother moved slightly in her chair, and then, if possible, her form became more rigid than before, but she did not speak.

"Are you sure you can bear this?" asked the judge. "Are you strong enough?"

"I'm not strong enough to leave this room until I know," replied the woman, and each of them realised that every nerve in her body was in tension, and that her suffering, although not physical, defied all description.

"He told me something else," went on the judge. "He told me that he had lately visited his doctor, who had informed him that it was essential to his life for him to go to some Southern land, and suggested New Zealand or Australia, for at least two years. He said that a lengthy sea voyage was first of all absolutely necessary, and that then a residence for a considerable time in a suitable climate must be a condition of his life. If he did not do this he would die.

"You can see what this meant," continued the judge, for the first time looking at Mary and Paul, "and his words almost staggered me. But this was not all. He had promised to care for a widowed sister's child, a girl who was at that time about eighteen years of age; promised her, too, the protection which she had never known from her father. She was called Mary Tregony, and, like the Bolithos, the Tregonys are among the oldest families in England. Of course, I had known her all her life, and in a way looked upon her as a sister."

"'You like Mary?' said my uncle to me.

"And I had to confess that I did, although I only thought of her as a kind of sister.

"'Douglas, my boy,' he said, 'I want you to marry Mary; not yet, for she has not yet left school, but in, say, two years' time, when I am well enough to return to England; then I want you to make her your wife.'"

"It was here," said the judge, "that my cowardice first appeared. I ought to have told Mr. Bolitho that I was already married, and that I had only left my wife early that morning, but I did not. There was no excuse for me, I know; all the same, although I still loved you, Jean, or thought I did, our marriage seemed shadowy, unreal. I forgot what I owed you, forgot my duty to you.

"Mr. Bolitho, although he loved me dearly, was a man who was stern and unbending, a man of iron will, a man always accustomed to have his way. For years I had looked on him with a kind of awe, and had never once dared to disobey him. His word had always been law to me, and even although practically I had reached man's estate, the influence of the past was strong upon me. I dared not tell him the truth, dared not say that I could not do what he asked. I know I was a coward, worse than a coward, but I was silent.

"Presently, however, I made a feeble sort of opposition. I demurred against changing my name, for one thing, and I remember saying that I had no reason to believe that Mary cared for me. But, in his strong, imperious way, he swept down all my opposition. The influence of the past was strong upon me, and I forgot my present duty. Besides, as I said, he was adamant. He grew angry even at the little opposition I offered, and told me that if I did not care enough for him to do what he asked, I must look to myself for my future. And I was penniless, dependent upon him for every farthing. I had no means of earning a living. It is true I had taken a degree at Oxford, but I had no knowledge of any trade, no early prospect of earning money in a profession. What could I do? Besides, I was a coward. No one can scorn that cowardice more than I, but there it was. He appealed to my pity, too. He told me that if I did not go with him abroad he would have to go alone, a sick man among strangers. I soon found out, too, that even my belief in my own property was largely a figment of my own imagination. It is true some little money had been left to me, and had been lost in the way I have indicated, but without him I could never have gone to Oxford, without him I should have been practically a waif. Besides, he was a man of strong personality, and, as I said, of iron will."

The judge made a movement as if of impatience. "What is the use of enlarging upon all this?" he went on presently. "I promised to do what he asked, promised to change my name. That was not much. I knew little and cared less about my father, but my mother was a Bolitho, and I almost adored her memory. I was willing to be called Bolitho instead of Graham. That cost me very little. As to the other, the thought of travelling for two years appealed to me. It is true I was fond of my studies, but I reflected that I could take my books with me, and although it might delay my being called to the Bar by some year or two--I was young, and it did not matter; and so, God forgive me, I forgot the vows I made, forgot my honour. I was a coward! Added to all this, the marriage on the moors became less and less reality. Indeed, after I had been in Cornwall two or three days, it seemed little more than a joke, an episode in a boy's life. I was forgetful of what the consequences of such a deed might be, and I began to look forward to coming days. Presently I wrote that letter. No wonder you could not forgive me. No wonder Paul hated me for it. But there, I wrote it! One thing, and one thing only may be urged in my favour. Although I seemingly consented to the marriage with Mary Tregony, I hoped that something would happen to make it impossible. It all lay in the distance, and that made everything easy to an optimistic youth. I never breathed a word concerning my marriage with Jean. Indeed, I came to look upon it as something that was utterly illegal, and that I could never be expected to stand by what was only, after all, a mere farcical thing, the act of a madcap boy."

The judge wiped the perspiration from his brow before going on again. It was evident that he was suffering greatly. It seemed as though he had not yet reached that point of his story which was more difficult to tell than any other, still, he plodded on his weary way, although the words came with difficulty.

"In two years' time we returned from abroad. By this time I was accustomed to the name of 'Bolitho.' Steps had been taken to make it legal, and I had to a very large extent forgotten my former name. I was Mr. Bolitho's adopted son, and I called him 'father.' During the years we had been away together, too, his influence upon me had grown stronger. I was afraid to do anything in opposition to his will. His resolute, imperious nature made me almost like an obedient slave, and not only that, I loved him too. I knew I owed everything to him, and he was almost uniformly kind to me. Thus, while I feared him, my fear was mingled with filial love.

"When we returned to England I started in earnest with my law studies. I had not altogether neglected them while I had been away, and so I went to London for my dinners, and in due time was called to the Bar, with, it was said, a great deal of distinction. By this time my experiences in Scotland became, to my shame, almost a shadowy memory to me. I cared for no other woman, and there were times, too, when I dreamed of Jean, and thought of her fondly, but only rarely. The Scotch episode was but an episode. One thing gladdened me, Mary Tregony seemed to care nothing for me, and in spite of Mr. Bolitho's persuasions, there were no definite arrangements made about our marriage. Presently, however, after I had been practising some time, and had obtained a modicum of success, indeed, a success great enough to promise well for the future, my adopted father wrote to me saying that Mary had at length consented to our wedding. It was at this time that I began to be afraid. What I had laughed at in my heart as the Scotch episode, became real. I remember, too, that at that time I was engaged in a bigamy trial, and I remember the terms which the judge used concerning the man who was found guilty. Yet here was I, who had acted as junior counsel for the prosecution of this man, contemplating taking a woman to wife, when I had promised before God to be faithful to another. I tried to persuade myself that the Scotch marriage was not only informal but illegal, and could have no weight of whatever nature, yet my heart swept away all the sophistries of my mind, and proclaimed me to be a villain. So much moved was I by this that I at length decided to send a man to Scotland to make inquiries. Of course, he never dreamed of my connection with the affair, and thought that I was only hunting up evidence for some case in which I was interested professionally. After a time he returned with the news that Jean Lindsay was dead, that she died some months after I had left her, probably of a broken heart, certainly in disgrace. Need I say what I suffered? You would not believe me if I told you! How could anyone who had acted a coward's part as I had, suffer? Yet so it was. And yet in my suffering was a sense of freedom. Nothing now seemed to depend upon the possible legality or illegality of my former marriage. The woman I had wedded was dead, at least so I was assured, and so I believed. I went to Cornwall prepared to do my adopted father's bidding.

"When I arrived there, I found him almost in a state of panic. Mary was missing! What had become of her no one knew. Personally I believed that she so hated the thought of marrying me that she had determined to escape. More than five years had now passed away since my visit to Scotland, and, as I said, I had been called to the Bar with fair prospects of success. The name I bore was old and respected. It was a passport into any society that I desired. Again I felt as though the fates were fighting for me. After all, in spite of everything, I should be free to live my own life, and the consequences of my cowardice and sin would never be visited upon me. The fact that my name had been changed from Graham to Bolitho was practically unknown, and even those with whom I forgathered as a student had become accustomed to my new name. It seemed natural to them, I suppose, that I, in order to become my adopted father's heir, should also adopt his name. Indeed, I have been described in certain handbooks as the only son of Hugh Bolitho of Tredinnick, Cornwall.

"More than a year passed before I heard anything again of Mary Tregony, and then I received an urgent message summoning me to the West of England. It seems that my adopted father had at length found out where she was, found out, too, that she had been the victim of a villain. A wild rake, a man of no character, who had been kicked out of the army, and who was already married, had deceived her. I need not mention his name now, indeed it is well that I should not, and it has no real bearing upon what I am telling you, but he was a handsome dare-devil kind of fellow who appealed to the heart of a romantic young girl, and she trusted him. Soon after their supposed marriage she found out what she had done."

The judge ceased speaking for a few seconds.

"There was no one louder in his condemnation than I, no one called him viler names than I, and yet I knew in my heart all the time that my villainy was as great as his.

"My adopted father met me at Plymouth and led me to a low part of the town where she had taken lodgings. It was here her child had been born, a child she dared not own, a child to whom the stigma of disgrace would be attached if the truth were made known. As I told you, my adopted father loved Mary Tregony almost as he loved me, and it was the dream of his heart that we should be man and wife. It seems almost like a fairy story now, but at that time it was terribly real. Even yet I can hardly believe in its truth. We found Mary lying in a miserable room, with her child sleeping by her side--a little girl."

The judge turned, and gave a hasty glance at Mary as he spoke. It was only for a second, but he saw that her face was blanched and set, while in her eyes was a look of horror.

"The doctor who had been called in had said that Mary Tregony was dying, that at most she could live only a few hours, and my adopted father demanded that I should marry her, and thus save her name from dishonour, and take the child as my own. I have told you of the power he had over me, how practically all my life I had never thought of disobeying him, and in spite of myself he persuaded me now."

During the whole of this recital Paul's mother had never uttered a word, save in answer to the one question which Judge Bolitho had spoken to her, but she had sat rigid in form and face, her hands clasped to the arms of her chair, her eyes fixed on the speaker's face, never missing a word that was uttered. Now, however, she spoke.

"And did you dare to marry her?" she said passionately. "You--you, who had----"

"Wait a minute," said the judge. "There were certain legal formalities to be complied with, a certain time to wait before any marriage could be made legal. We were no longer in Scotland, as in the days when I married you, Jean. We were in England. Yes, I decided to obey my adopted father's command. As it seemed to me, I owed everything to him and I could not withstand his pleadings. For he did plead, pleaded as I never thought a man could, pleaded his love for Mary, his love for her honour, pleaded that her child should have an honourable name--and I yielded to him."

"Then I am not your child really?" cried Mary.

"Wait a little," said the judge. "Before the time came when Mary could legally be made my wife, she died."

"Then you never married her?" said Paul's mother, her voice hoarse and unnatural.

"No. I never married her."

"Then--then?" said Mary.

"Then my adopted father made me solemnly promise that I would take you as my child, that it should be made known that I had married your mother secretly, and that she was dead.

"I suppose I was much excited. Certain I am that my mind did not fully comprehend the real issues of the case. Anyhow, I promised him. As you know, Mary, I have never told you much about your mother, neither have I since visited that part of Cornwall where she was known. All you have heard has been that your mother died when you were born, and you have regarded me as your father from the time you understood anything."

There was a silence in the room for some time, save for the tick of the clock on the mantelpiece. All seemed to be so overwhelmed by what they had heard that for the moment they were incapable of speech.

"It is ever the same," said the judge. "Lying, cowardice are followed by the most terrible penalties. I have felt many a time that cowardice is the father of nearly all our crimes."

"But," cried Paul, and his voice was vibrant with strong emotion, "then Mary is not my sister, she is--she can be---- Oh, Mary, forgive me! I did not think! I did not remember!"

Mary did not appear to hear him. Her eyes were fixed on Judge Bolitho's face, and she seemed to be trying to understand.

"I could say nothing about this before," went on the judge, "even when the truth which was revealed during the trial came to me. I had sworn to be silent. I dared not make known the truth. I dared not let this shadow rest upon Mary's name, even although it seemed as though a greater shadow rested upon it. You know what followed after that day in the courts, when I confessed that Jean was my wife and that Paul was my son. At last I had made up my mind that I would be a coward no longer, that, whatever the consequences might be, I would walk in the straight path. I could not tell all the truth because of my solemn oath to my adopted father. Besides, the great thought in my mind was to save Paul. I need not refer to that now, you know all about it! But for Mary, here--well, thank God, Mary saved him! But for her, the truth would never have come to light. But directly I knew that Paul was free, I left you, determined to make the crooked places straight. I hastened to London, and after doing what needed to be done there, I hurried on to Cornwall. I saw my adopted father--he's an old man now, but he's lost none of the strength of his younger manhood. I fought a hard battle with him, but that's nothing--the result is that I am able to tell you what I've told you."

The judge's eyes sought those of the older woman, who still sat rigidly in her chair. He seemed to be on the point of speaking to her, but before he could do so Paul broke in.

"Then the shame which has been attached to my name must be attached to Mary's!" he cried.

"Never," replied the judge. "That need not be. Concerning Mary's birth no word need be uttered. There is no need that we should deceive anyone, nevertheless the truth is not for the world. I need only say that Mary is not my child, but that I have simply reared her as my own. Her mother was a pure woman, but concerning her parentage we need say nothing."

"I would rather," cried Paul, "that my own name----"

"Stop, Paul!" said Mary. "It does not matter at all. How can it, when--when---- Oh, Paul, Paul, my love!"

"I've always loved you like my own child," said the judge, "and under ordinary circumstances these revelations should never have passed my lips, but--but I--I thought, I understood----"

Paul dared not speak again. The truth was that the knowledge which had come to him in such a strange way overwhelmed him with joy. It seemed to him as though that dark winter night had changed into a June morning. Everything was possible. His mind had swept aside the little conventions of men. Mary's presence and Mary's love were all the world to him.

The judge again looked towards Paul's mother. "I have not quite finished yet," he said, and his voice trembled as he spoke. "And I want to say something more. You know all now, Jean, know what a coward I've been, know how that cowardice meant your misery and your disgrace. I do not seek to excuse my conduct. It cannot be excused, and yet I must speak the truth, I must----"

He hesitated a second, and then went on, "Can you forgive me, Jean? Through all you have been pure and worthy, while I have been unworthy. My name has been spoken of with honour, and yours has been covered with shame through me. Can you forgive me? And more--perhaps you will scorn me and repel me when I tell you this--but after that night when I saw you in Manchester and knew that you still lived, all my old love came back to me; I know that really it had never died. Jean, can you forgive me?"

The eyes of the man and the woman met. At first hers seemed hard and unyielding--she was evidently fighting a great battle. Then slowly, little by little, they underwent a change, and Paul saw that the tears were welling up.

"Jean! Jean!" said the judge, holding out his hands. "Have you no word for me?"

"Come, Mary," said Paul. "Let us go into the other room."

And they went out, leaving the two together.