When they parted a little later, Paul thought his senses were leaving him. He understood nothing, except that he was in a cell in Strangeways Gaol, awaiting his trial for murder.

Presently the news came to him that the a.s.sizes had commenced, but when his own trial would come on no one seemed to know. He still refused all offers of defence. The truth was, he dared not open his heart to any lawyer. He saw that if he were to allow anyone to defend him, he must of necessity give them a certain amount of confidence. He must trust them. That he could not afford to do. He was not afraid to die, and at least he had courage enough to be silent.

Presently the news reached him that he was to be brought to the bar of judgment on the following day, but still he refused all offers of defence. He gave no reason for this; indeed, he became more and more grimly silent than ever. He simply shook his head when those who pretended to wish him well pleaded that they might be allowed to appear for his defence.

On the night before his trial, therefore, he sat in his cell alone.

The day had been black and grimy, and not a shadow of sunshine penetrated the gloom. Perhaps there is no town in England which looks more grey and sordid than Manchester does in the dead of the winter.

The streets are covered with black, slimy mud; the atmosphere is dank and smoke-laden; the houses are grey and enveloped in gloom; even the crowds which throng its streets seem oppressed by the grime-laden air.

And Strangeways Gaol is perhaps the most forbidding place in the whole of this great northern metropolis. As someone has said; "Manchester is one of the best places in the world to get out of." Of course, there's another side to that; it is a city full of strong, clear-headed, progressive people. On the whole, too, there are but few people in the world more loyal and more kind-hearted than those in what a great divine used to call, "Dear, black, old, smoky Lancashire." But in the dead of the winter, and to a man with the shadow of the gallows resting upon him, there can be no place in the world so little to be desired.

The black night of despair was resting upon Paul's heart. On the morrow the great trial would commence, and although he thought he had arranged everything perfectly, he could not help fearing the results.

And then, while his thoughts were at their blackest, he heard a voice which thrilled his being and caused every nerve to quiver with delight.

"This is the one," he heard a warder say. And a minute later he was alone with Mary Bolitho.

CHAPTER XVII

THE LOVERS

Had anyone told Mary Bolitho, even when her father consented for her to accompany him to Lancashire, that she would have sought admission into Paul's cell, she would have repudiated the idea. Even while she could not help believing that there was some awful mistake, and that Paul was utterly incapable of such a deed, she felt that there was nothing for her to do. When she arrived in Lancashire, however, and the a.s.sizes had commenced, she realised the terrible issues at stake. If Paul were found guilty, he would be hanged. The thought was like a death-knell in her heart, and all its grim horror possessed her. Day by day pa.s.sed away, and she could not shake it off. She pictured Paul lying in Strangeways Gaol, waiting his trial, and realised something of the loneliness and the terror which must have encompa.s.sed his life.

One day, while visiting a shop in Market Street, she heard some people talking. "He's said no word, I suppose?" said one man.

"I've never heard of anything."

"A curious business, isn't it?"

"Ay, very curious. It don't seem right, somehow, that a man like Paul Stepaside should do such a thing. Of course, the jury will have to go upon evidence, and the evidence is all against him. I've heard as 'ow he's refused to be defended."

"What'll that mean?"

"I don't know, but what I am thinking is, why should he take such a step?"

"Perhaps he's guilty, and wants to get it over!"

"Ah, but what if he's wanting to shield someone? Anyhow, unless something happens, he'll swing! My word, though, I wouldn't like to be in his place! Fancy lying in yon Strangeways Gaol day after day! It's not a cheerful place at any time. I've heard that when they're condemned to die, they can hear the carpenters nailing the scaffold together. h.e.l.lish, isn't it?"

"Ah, and he must be very lonely. Fancy the terror of it!"

It was only gossip, which might be expected under such circ.u.mstances, but it fired Mary Bolitho's imagination. It helped her to realise the situation more keenly even than she had yet realised it. Paul swinging on a scaffold! Paul dead! Then she knew the secret of her heart.

What she had never dreamt of as possible became a tremendous reality.

He was the one man in all the world for her. Without him life would be a great haggard misery. She did not know why it was, or how it was, but the man had become king of her life; and he was lying in a prison cell accused of murder!

She must do something; she must! She felt as though she were going mad; she free in the streets of Manchester, free to live her own life, to follow her desires, while he lay there alone, with the shadow of the scaffold resting upon him! And he was innocent. She was sure he was innocent. She had no more a doubt about it than of her own existence.

The evidence at the Brunford Town Hall and at the coroner's inquest was nothing to her. Circ.u.mstantial evidence was nothing. The gossip which was so freely bandied was nothing. Paul was innocent, and she loved him. But what could she do? Rather, what must she do? Regardless of the consequences, she immediately took steps whereby she might be enabled to see the prisoner.

Naturally Paul had no idea of the thoughts that were surging in her mind. He never dreamed of what she intended to do. He sat alone in his cell, thinking and wondering. He had given up all hope of ever seeing Mary again. All his fond imaginings had come to nothing. The resolutions he had made were but as the wind. One day he was full of hope, full of determination; he would conquer difficulties, he would laugh at impossibilities; the next day all hope had gone; defeat, disgrace, horror blotted out everything else.

That was the greatest burden he had to bear. His life broken off in the middle? Yes, he could face that. The career which promised great things utterly destroyed--well, that did not seem to matter. The destruction of the dreams of a lifetime? Terrible as it was, he met it with a kind of grim despair. But the loss of Mary Bolitho--to feel that he would never see her again, never hear her voice again, never enter into the joy which he had promised himself should be his--that was terrible beyond words.

He had no belief in a future life, even while his heart demanded it.

When the last act was over, then came a pall of eternal silence, eternal unconsciousness. Of course it was a great, grim, ghastly tragedy, but he had to accept facts as they were. There was no G.o.d, no Providence, no justice; life was a hideous mockery, a meaningless tangle. No; he would never see her again, never hear her voice again, never catch that glad flash of her eyes which he had seen during their last meeting. It seemed to him as though he had entered an inferno, over the portals of which was written: "All hope abandon, ye who enter here."

Then, suddenly, the heavens opened. It seemed as though the black night had ended in the shining of a summer morning. The blackness of his cell, the grim future of his life were as nothing. He heard her voice, and they stood face to face.

For a moment they did not speak. He looked at her like one fascinated.

It was too wonderful to be true. Presently he would wake from his dream, as he had wakened from other dreams, and everything would mock him again. He pa.s.sed his hand across his brow, as if to wipe away the shadows which hung between him and reality. Yes, Mary was there; she was looking at him with kind eyes, and her lips were tremulous. Then in a moment the meaning of what she had done became real to him. If there was one thing for which he had feared, it was Mary's good name.

One of the great objects of his life had been to save her from being connected with the shame which surrounded his name. Little as he cared for gossip under ordinary circ.u.mstances, he dreaded it now. What would be said if it were known that she had come to see him? And people would know! Would not a thousand suspicions be aroused? Would not evil tongues wag? His own suffering he could bear, but she must not suffer.

"Why have you come?" It was not a bit what he intended to say, but the words seemed drawn from him in spite of himself.

"I came to see you," she said. "How could I help it?"

Again he looked at her wonderingly. He did not understand. He fancied that his brain must be giving way. He could not connect cause with event. He could not grasp the issues of the situation.

"Why could you not help it?"

"Paul, you know!" she said.

He thought his heart would have burst; the excitement of the moment was too great. His head whirled with a mad wonder, and yet he would not have exchanged places with a king. The prison cell seemed like a palace; that second of joy more than atoned for all he had suffered.

"Mary!" he cried, "do you mean that? You know what is in my heart.

You know what for months I have been afraid to tell you. You must have known! Why, it has been like fire in my brain; it has been the great pa.s.sion of my heart. You knew it when we were in London together, even before I told you, didn't you?"

She nodded her head, and Paul saw that her eyes were br.i.m.m.i.n.g with tears.

"And you cared enough to come and see me?" he said.

"I could not help coming, Paul," was her reply. "How could I, when I knew that you were alone, and that you needed me?"

"But you must go away," he said. "It's heaven to have you near, but you must go away. No one must know. Why, think of what the world would say!"

"As though I care what the world says," was her reply. "As a matter of fact, I obtained admission to you without difficulty, and I do not think anyone knows who I am. You see, I have means unknown to other people. But I do not care who knows. Why should I care? I came to you because I--I---- But you know, Paul! You know!"

"And you came to tell me that?" he said.

"Yes, to tell you that," she replied. "Of course, I could never have told you had things been as they were; but now--I can't help it. How can I? And I've come to save you, too!"

"To save me?"

"Yes, to save you."

"But do you know what I am accused of?" he asked, and his voice was hoa.r.s.e.

"Of course I know. How can I help it? But that's nothing."

"But, Mary, you don't understand."