Her words sounded like a knell in his soul. It seemed to him that they had a dark, ominous meaning. He was not a nervous man, rather he was strong, determined, not easily moved; but it seemed as though something had gripped him, and he was afraid.

"I never dreamt when I went out," she said, "that I should do such a good night's work--never dreamt that everything would come so easily."

And then she laughed.

"Tell me what you mean, mother."

"No, Paul, nothing. But you'll have a surprise--yes, you'll have a surprise!"

She might have been mad. Her face was strange, her words were strange, the look on her face was such as he had never seen before.

"Go to bed," she said. "Go to bed quickly. The maids will be up soon, and they must suspect nothing. Sleep in peace, my boy; your debts shall be paid, paid to the utmost farthing!"

He stooped to kiss her, and she threw her arms wildly round his neck.

"Oh, my lad, my lad!" she said; "morning is coming, the morning is coming. There's a G.o.d in the Heavens after all! And yet, and yet---- Oh, Paul, I forgot, I forgot! Did I tell you that everything could be?

Nothing can be, my boy, nothing! I forgot! I forgot!"

And her voice almost rose to a scream.

"What is it, mother?"

She walked round the room like one demented. "I did not think of that," she said. "I did not think of that. I thought I had made everything plain. I thought, I thought, and now----"

"Tell me, mother, tell me!"

"No, I can't tell you. It would kill you--kill you; and I thought there was a G.o.d in the heavens. And there isn't, Paul. There isn't.

Only the Devil lives. Oh, my boy! my boy! But leave me, leave me. I must think, I must think. There, go away. Don't trouble about me, Paul. I'm all right, I'm all right. But go away! Go away!" She pushed him out of the room as she spoke, and locked the door behind him.

"She's right in one thing, at all events," said Paul. "I can do no good by staying with her, and I had better go to bed. The servants will be talking, else, and they must know nothing." He threw himself on the bed, and tried to understand all that had taken place. It seemed as though something terrible had happened, some dire calamity had taken place. The world seemed a different place from what it had been a few hours before. Since meeting with Ned Wilson, that had happened which had altered the whole course of his life. The very air seemed laden with terror, the skies were black with doom. It seemed to him as though ravens were croaking, and the church bell tolling for the dead; and then, while trying to drive the black scenes of the night from his mind, it seemed as though his senses became dulled.

Everything became unreal. The past might have been blotted out, even those years at St. Mabyn were like a dream, while all the events since were just as a tale that is told. It was simply Nature taking him into her arms, and rocking him on her broad bosom. His strength had given way. The events of the night, his home-coming, his mother's strange behaviour, and the excitement which it all meant had simply worn him out, and now Nature was trying to restore him. He fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, and lay like a log upon his bed. How long he slept he did not know, but presently he heard a sharp knock at the door.

"It's half-past eight o'clock, sir. Are yo noan gettin' up?"

"What?" he cried, half asleep.

"Half-past eight o'clock, sir. Are yo noan gettin' up? And summat terrible has happened!"

"What's happened?" he asked.

"Mr. Ned Wilson is dead. He's been murdered! He was found this mornin'."

He did not reply. It seemed as though he had lost the power of speech.

Mechanically he looked out of the window, and saw the murky, smoke-laden air. It seemed to him as though the roar of a thousand looms reached his ears. He pictured the weavers standing in their weaving sheds. He did not know why he did this; in fact, it did not seem to matter. Nothing mattered. Mechanically he dressed himself.

There seemed no reason why he should go downstairs, but he was merely a creature of habit. "I wonder where she is!" he said to himself again and again. "I wonder where she is. I wonder, too----" Again a knock came at his door.

"Well?" he said. "What is it?"

"A sergeant of the police and two constables are at the door. They want to see you particular," said the servant.

"All right," he said. "I shall be down in a minute."

He remembered tying his necktie with great care, and then went down into the hall. No sooner had he done so than the sergeant came forward, and put his hand upon his shoulder.

"Paul Stepaside," he said, "I apprehend you for the murder of Mr.

Edward Wilson."

CHAPTER XIII

HOW MARY BOLITHO RECEIVED THE NEWS

Just before Christmas Mary Bolitho returned to her father's house from London, where she had been visiting some friends. It was during this visit that the meeting between herself and Paul, which we have previously described, took place. During the rest of her stay in London she constantly thought of what he had said to her, and wondered whether, in the excitement of the moment, she had spoken foolishly.

She admired Paul greatly, even in spite of the dislike which still lurked in her heart. She had an admiration for strong, capable men, and had been greatly interested in the career which she felt sure lay before him. Nevertheless, a strong feeling of antagonism possessed her. His air of masterfulness irritated her, and in her quiet hours she felt angry because he possessed a kind of fascination for her. She could not help being pleased at his evident admiration for her, and she thought of his avowal with feelings almost akin to delight, and yet she never meant to encourage him. A great gulf lay between them, and the thought of crossing it was not seriously entertained. He might be ambitious, and he might carve out a great future; but still he was of the working cla.s.s, and doubtless had the instincts of his cla.s.s.

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

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

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

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

"Yes," replied the girl. "He seems to have made a great impression.

People are very much interested in him, too; and he was at the house of Sir John Suss.e.x on the night when he gave that reception."

"Did you see him?"

"Yes," she replied.

"And speak to him?"

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

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

"He's not looked upon in that light in London," said the girl.

Somehow, she knew not why, she wanted to defend him against her father's evident dislike.

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

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

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

Mary Bolitho did not reply. Somehow words did not come easily to her.

All the same, a feeling of hot rebellion came into her heart.