"My son! My son!" he repeated again and again.

"Yes, your son! And he's accused of the murder of Ned Wilson, and you are the judge who is trying his own son! Truly, the ways of the Lord are as a deep sea. Yet he's a G.o.d of justice, too! I never believed in it as I believe in it now."

"But tell me more," he said presently; and his voice was hoa.r.s.e and unnatural.

"What is there to tell?" replied the woman. "You deserted me, and Paul was born--born in a workhouse, reared in a workhouse, educated in a workhouse. He was called a 'workhouse brat' by the people. He lived on the rates for years--your son! And I have only to speak and all the world will know of it. Have you nothing to say for yourself?" And she turned to him just as a caged lioness might turn to a keeper with whom it was angry.

He stood with bowed head and never answered her a word. He seemed to have forgotten everything in the thought that Paul Stepaside was his son and he was accused of murder, and that he, his father, was his judge.

"Have you nothing to say for yourself?" continued the woman. "Oh, it'll be a beautiful story to tell to the world! I've been hearing many things about you through the day. I'm told you speak at great religious meetings, that you're a prominent religious leader, that you advocate sending the Gospel to the heathen, that you're very particular about attending to all religious observances. I've been reading what you said about Paul being an atheist. You declared that men who had given up faith in G.o.d were not to be trusted. When I tell my story, won't the world laugh!"

He made no answer. He still stood perfectly motionless, with bowed head. The woman's words did not seem to reach him.

"You know my Paul's story," she went on. "Therefore, I needn't repeat it. He came to Brunford, and was falsely accused in this very city, and you--because you were well paid and because I think your conscience smote you and you felt an instinctive hatred towards him--you did your best to get him a heavy punishment. Through you he was sent to Strangeways Gaol for six months, he an innocent man! Then you fought him at the election. You told all sorts of lies about him, and you besmirched my name; he your son, and I your wife, the woman you promised to love and cherish, and then deserted. Do you understand?

Do you understand?"

"Yes, I understand," he said; but still it did not seem like Judge Bolitho's voice at all.

"But mind," and here her voice rose somewhat. "But mind, I'm your wife. You married me. I'm your true lawful wife. You don't deny that?"

"Jean," he said, "you don't know; you cannot know. But you'll forgive me, won't you? I do not know myself, that is---- No, of course I can't expect you to forgive me."

"Forgive you?" said the woman, and there was a world of scorn in her tones. "Forgive you, when I've suffered twenty-five years of disgrace because of you! Forgive you, when my son has been lying in gaol because of you! Forgive you, when, but for you, he might be free now!

But there's a G.o.d in the heaven."

"And Paul Stepaside is my son, my son!"

The thought seemed to have a kind of fascination for him. He repeated it over again and again, as though he took a certain pleasure in doing so. He remembered all that had taken place, remembered that ever since they had first met there had seemed to be a kind of fatality which caused them to feel antagonism for each other. He remembered Paul's words: "Mr. Bolitho and I will meet again, and always to fight, always to fight!" And he was his son! He had never dreamed of this. Often during the years which had elapsed since he last saw the girl he had married, he had wondered what had become of her, but never once had he dreamed of this. It seemed to him as though the foundations of his life were taken away from him. His brain refused to act. His eyes refused to see. A great blackness fell upon everything. He who was usually so keen witted, so clear sighted, could not grasp the meaning of all he had heard, could not understand the issues. He only knew that he was enveloped in a great black cloud, and that he could not see which way to turn or what to do.

"Oh, my G.o.d, forgive me!"

The woman turned to him as he uttered these words. "G.o.d forgive you!"

she cried. "How can G.o.d forgive you? I would cease to believe in Him if He did. What, you! who basely deserted me; you! who married me under a false name; you! who during the years have never taken a step to try and find out what had become of me; you! who have hunted my son as though you were a sleuthhound; you! who have dragged him to prison.

G.o.d forgive you! Tell me, why did you do it?"

There seemed no logical sequence between her last cry and the words which had preceded it. She was a creature of pa.s.sion, and seemed incapable of thinking coherently.

"Let me sit down," he said presently. "I think perhaps if I do I may be able to see more clearly. At present I hardly know where I am, and my mind is almost a blank; but, my G.o.d, what a blank!"

The woman looked at him grimly. "Yes, you are suffering," she said.

"That's what I meant. No, I'm not going to do you any bodily harm. I needn't do that. I needn't do anything to punish you except to tell the truth!"

Judge Bolitho sat down in an arm-chair which, had been placed close to the fire and tried to understand what he had heard. He had no doubt about the truth of everything. It was impossible to fail to recognise the woman who stood before him--the very incarnation of hatred and vengeance. He knew by the look in her eyes of what she felt concerning him. There was no suggestion of tenderness in her face, no thought of pity in her heart. Well, it was no wonder. The secret which he had hidden for so long could no longer remain a secret, and his name, the name of which he had been so proud, would be blackened before all the world! How long he sat in the chair, with bowed head and aching brain, trying to understand, he did not know, but presently he was drawn to look at her. He had no thought of denying what he had done. It had never entered his mind. He had made no defence; that did not come within the realm of his calculation. He was simply stunned by what he had heard, by the revelation which had shaken his life to the very foundations. But presently he was led to look at her, to study her features, and as he did so he called to mind the face of the young girl whose heart he had won a quarter of a century before. Yes, she was beautiful still, even although her face was drawn and haggard and the hair which he remembered so well was l.u.s.treless. It needed but happiness to bring back all the winsomeness of her girlish days--happiness! Yes, he had loved her, and he had promised to cherish her. He knew he had taken her to wife as truly as if their marriage had been attended by all the pomp and ceremony which might attend the marriage of a king. She had come to him trustful and innocent, and he--he---- No, he did not attempt to deny it; he would not. What the future had in store for him he did not know, he did not care. But that was not the great thing that oppressed him, that crushed his power of thinking, that made the heavens black with the thunder of the clouds of G.o.d. It was that Paul Stepaside was his son! He had always admired him, even while he was angry with him; and he was his son! That very day he had sat in judgment upon him--that very day even he had helped to forge a chain which would bind him to the scaffold--and he was his son! Presently he spoke aloud, and his voice was almost natural again.

"And so you have lived at Brunford," he said, "and kept house for him?

I've heard it is a beautiful home."

"Ay, my boy always loved me--always!"

"And, of course, you hate me, Jean?"

"How can I do otherwise?" she asked. "Nay, that word is too weak to express what I feel towards you! How can it be otherwise?"

"I quite understand," said Judge Bolitho.

"Are you going to make no defence?" said the woman. "Are you going to bring up some little tale to excuse yourself? Are you going to try and manufacture a few lies?"

"No," he replied. "None of these things. I can't think to-night, Jean. You must think my conduct very strange. I simply can't think!

It will be all real to me in a few hours. You know what these Manchester fogs are, don't you? You know that sometimes you get lost in them. You cannot recognise the street in which you were born and reared. Everything is blotted out. Then presently, when the fog has rolled away--everything becomes clear. Perhaps that is what it will be with me by and by, but now I simply cannot think. I do not blame you in the slightest degree. It's just that you should hate me! It's just that I should suffer! Is there nothing more you wish to say to me?"

"Not now," said the woman.

"I do not ask you to forgive me; you cannot do that. It's not to be expected."

"But what are you going to do?" she asked.

"I do not know. I cannot tell yet. When my mind gets clear I shall understand. But I seem to be falling and falling and falling into a bottomless abyss just now."

"You don't expect me to keep quiet?"

"I expect nothing."

"You do not ask me to be merciful to you?"

"I do not ask anything. I've no right to expect anything or to ask anything. I think I will leave you now--that is, unless I can do anything for you. You do not need money, do you?"

He did not know what he was saying. His bewildered brain was expressing itself in an inconsequent sort of way. He was just a creature of impulse, and that was all.

"Money!" snarled the woman. "Money! when my son is lying in a prison cell waiting for the hangman!"

"Yes," he said, and his voice seemed as the voice of one far away. "In a prison cell, my son! my son! It is right that I should suffer, but surely he ought not to suffer!"

He rose to his feet and walked unsteadily towards the door.

"May I go now? You know where I am staying. If I can be of any service to you, let me know."

"And that's all? You have nothing more to say?"

"What can there be more?" he said. "You can do what you will; I will deny nothing."

"But what are you going to do?" she asked again.

"Do? What is there to do? I cannot tell; I am just in the dark, Jean, but perhaps a light will come presently." And then, without another word, he found his way along the narrow pa.s.sage into the dark, forbidding street.

CHAPTER XXI