"No, it's not a matter of money," said Paul.

"You're going to plead 'Not guilty,' you say?"

"Yes."

"Then what is the line of defence you're going to offer?"

"That will be seen when the time comes."

"Come now, Stepaside, do be reasonable. I know a man, perhaps the most brilliant K.C. on the Northern Circuit. Won't you let me bring him to you?"

Paul shook his head. "No," he said. "I want to see no one."

"No one?"

"No, no one for that purpose. I shall make my own defence in my own way."

The interview which affected him most during the first weeks after he had been committed for trial was that between himself and his mother.

He had been sitting alone for hours, brooding over the terrible position in which he found himself placed, and, naturally, his mind reverted to Brunford and to its many a.s.sociations.

"She has never been to see me," he reflected. "Never once. Well, after all, perhaps it is better not. If she does come I must be very careful. I was afraid she might have been subpoenaed as a witness at the inquest, but we were both spared that. It would have been too terrible. Still, I am afraid they will insist on her being here at the a.s.sizes. I wonder, I wonder----"

A few seconds later he felt as though his heart had grown cold within him. He heard his mother's voice as she spoke to a warder; and a little later they were together. The light was very dim, but still, he could see the ravages which the last few days had made in her appearance. During the last few months Paul had reflected on his mother's looks. She had been growing young and handsome. Her face had been ruddy and free from marks of care. In spite of everything, the life with her son had renewed her youth. Her hair was still black and glossy; her form unbent. It was no wonder--she was still but young in years, and the effects of the tragedy of her girl-life had begun to wear away. Many a one in the town had remarked what a handsome woman Paul Stepaside's mother was, and she, although she professed to care nothing for her appearance, could not help being pleased. Now, however, all was changed. The last few days seemed to have added years to her life. The ruddy hue of health was gone. Her face had become almost ashen, while in her eyes was a haunted look. Paul was almost startled as he caught sight of her, although he said nothing. But he drew his own conclusions, nevertheless.

Neither of them spoke for some time. The woman's arms were round her son, and her cheek close to his, and that was all. She did not sob convulsively as one would have expected under such circ.u.mstances; she did not cry out in agony, rather she appeared like a dumb, half lifeless creature, while in her eyes was a look of mute inquiry.

"My poor boy! My poor boy!" she said presently.

"It's all right, mother."

"I thought we'd come to the end of our troubles. I thought the new day was dawning," she said. "I thought that G.o.d was in the heavens after all, and that He had used me, a poor, weak woman, instead of a strong man like you. But, oh, Paul, my boy, my boy!"

He did not understand her at all, and he fancied that her mind had become somewhat unhinged by the experiences through which she had been pa.s.sing, but he said nothing. He thought he had better not.

"What is the good of speech?" he reflected. "She loves me. I am everything to her, and I would not add to her pain for worlds!"

"I tried so hard, Paul," she said presently. "And I thought--no, never mind what I thought; besides, even now I can say nothing that would---- But oh, my dear, dear boy! When I was a la.s.s on my father's farm everything seemed hopeful--everything! Of course, I had my troubles--my stepmother was cruel to me, and she did not understand the longings and fears of a la.s.s such as I was; but still, I did not trouble. But ever since, Paul, ever since he came, it seems as though everything has added to the confusion, to the mystery, to the misery!

I don't know how it is, but it seems as though Almighty G.o.d has placed a curse upon me. Whatever I've done has turned out wrong. I don't blame you, Paul. No, I don't blame you; but to think--to think----"

"I don't understand, mother." He was obliged to say this, although he still believed his mother's mind was wandering.

"Of course, you've got your defence?" she said. "You would say nothing about it at the trials at Brunford, but I know you have something at the back of your mind. You have, my boy, haven't you?"

His voice was almost grim as he replied, "Yes; I have something at the back of my mind."

"What maddens me," she went on, "is that everything one does seems to be so futile--it ends in nothing! I thought I had done that which made everything plain for you. I thought the sun was going to shine on you continually, and that the desires of your heart should be gratified.

And now I find I'm a fool. Almighty G.o.d laughs at me--just laughs at me! I've done and suffered in vain. But, of course, you'll clear yourself?"

Again the young man looked at his mother steadily. What did she mean by this--"Of course, you'll clear yourself"?

"It will be very difficult," he could not help saying.

A look of terror came into her eyes. "But not impossible, Paul. No, I see you mean that you'll get out of it. You're so clever. You can see your way out of things which to other people would be impossible.

You've got your plans all made, haven't you?" And she looked at him with a mad light in her eyes.

"Yes," he replied with a sigh; "I have my plans all made."

"Someone told me that you refused to have anyone to defend you. Better so, Paul, better so. You're cleverer than any of these barrister men, 'King's Counsels,' I think they call themselves. If you got one of them to defend you you'd have to tell them too much, and you mustn't do that. You know what to say, what not to say, what to tell and what to keep back. It'll be very hard for you, Paul, but I can trust you.

You're my own brave, clever lad. About that knife, Paul, I think I can help you."

Still he did not understand her. She seemed to be talking riddles.

"George Preston said that no one was near your office, Paul. As you know, I was there, and I saw the knife lying on your desk. Paul, Paul, let me confess to it! After all, it doesn't matter about me. Let me confess to it, so that you can go free--I will if you like. I don't mind the shame, I don't mind the disgrace. Let people say it was his mad mother, let them say----"

"No, no, mother." His voice became harsh and almost unnatural as he spoke. "No, mother, not you. Whatever is borne, I will bear it. You needn't fear. My business affairs are all arranged satisfactorily; even while I'm lying here, money is being made. The contracts I made were good, and Preston is an honest, capable fellow; and you can live on at the old house, mother."

He hardly knew what he was saying, so great was the terror which filled his heart and life. His mother had practically confessed to him the thing he feared, but he was not angry with her. Instead, his heart was filled with a great yearning pity. Oh, what she must have suffered!

the agonies through which she must have pa.s.sed; and it was all for him, all for him. He would a thousand times rather plead "Guilty" to the crime than that one shadow of suspicion should fall upon her. Besides, he did not believe she was altogether responsible for what she had done. Even on the night of the murder, he had noticed the madness in her eyes. He remembered the look which had haunted him almost ever since. In her love for him, a love which was unreasoning, and which rendered her anger almost uncontrollable, she had done what under ordinary circ.u.mstances would never have been possible.

"Poor mother!" he reflected. "All her life she has blamed herself for having brought, as she thought, disgrace upon me. Her only object in life has been that I might find happiness, and that justice should be done to me. No thought of self ever came into any deed she has done since I have been born. She was silent for me; she suffered for me; she thought for me; she slaved for me; and now she has become---- But it was all for me. No, she shall suffer nothing that I can defend her from. But, oh, her burden must be a ghastly one! And I must try hard, too; yes, I must make her think bright thoughts."

"It's all right, mother," he said. "You needn't fear!"

"It'll all come out right," she said, and there was a kind of hysteria in her voice.

"It must," was his reply. "I have thought it all out, mother. I have gone over the ground, step by step, and you needn't fear."

"That's why you're going to defend yourself, isn't it?" and she almost laughed. "You're going to surprise them at the trial? You won't tell what your thoughts are to anyone, for fear they shall make a bungle of it? Half these barristers, I'm told, are very muddle-headed, and make all sorts of foolish admissions; and you're going to defend yourself in your own way, aren't you?"

"Yes, mother," he replied, "in my own way."

"I expect they'll bring me as a witness."

"Well, what if they do, mother? You must know nothing, absolutely nothing. Do you see? You went to bed that night in the ordinary way, don't you remember? I came home from London, and we had a long talk together, and then you asked me to go to bed, and I told you I had a great many things to think about, many plans to arrange; and, of course, you went to bed. You saw nothing, suspected nothing. That's your line, mother. Don't hazard any opinion when they ask you questions. Say 'Yes,' or 'No.' Do you see?"

"Is that what you want?" she said.

"That's what you must do."

She looked at him steadily, searchingly. "And I can trust you, Paul?"

She seemed on the point of telling him something--something which he was afraid to hear. So he went on hastily:

"Of course you can. You must fear nothing, absolutely nothing; and you have nothing to do, nothing to say. Yes, it will be awful for you, for they will be sure to bring you as a witness, but that's your line."

"Yes, I understand, Paul. You can trust me. Perhaps they will not bring me at all."

"I hope, I hope---- No, it's all right; nothing will be said."