Again the two men looked at each other steadily. Paul's mind was active again now.

"You know what your confession meant this morning," he said at length.

"You declared to the court that I was your son, your lawful son; that my mother was your lawful wife. But what of Mary? Tell me that. You know what I wrote to you concerning her. I asked you to allow me to try and win her as my wife, not knowing of the relations which existed between us--not knowing anything. You know, too, the cruel reply you sent to me--a reply which contained an insult in every line, in every word. But let that pa.s.s. If my mother is your lawful wife, what of Mary's mother? Will you answer me that?"

Still the judge stood with bowed head. It seemed as though he had been struck a death-blow. More than once he essayed to speak, but no words pa.s.sed his lips. It seemed an eternity to Paul before the judge spoke again.

"At least I tried to do you justice, Paul," he stammered. "I tried to do--that is, I tried to proclaim to the world that your mother was a lawful wife."

"Yes," cried the young man, and his voice was hard with anger. "And do you not see what it means? It means that Mary's name is tarnished.

For your sin and your punishment I do not care so much; but what of her? Think of the stories which gossiping tongues will be telling about her just now! Think of the sneering lies, the scornful gibes which will be uttered about her! My disgrace did not matter so much; I had become used to it. But what of her?"

"Stop, stop, Paul! In pity stop! Great G.o.d! Yes, it's true; but I did not realise this."

"Then the name of Bolitho is a.s.sumed," said Paul. "It is not your true name at all. Will you tell me the meaning of this?"

"I cannot," said the judge. "I know what you must be thinking, Paul, but I cannot do it."

"Then," cried the young man angrily, "it was cruel to her to make the confession you did this morning. I would a thousand times rather suffer myself--ay, and see my mother suffer, too--than see her suffer.

And this is what you've done. Had you not better go away and leave me alone? Had you not better recant what you said this morning, and say you spoke while your mind was unhinged?"

"Paul," said the judge, "will you let me sit down on your couch here?

I realise the truth of every word you have said, although you have spoken cruelly. Perhaps I did wrong in coming to you; but I could not help it. Believe me, my son, much as you have suffered, it is nothing to what I suffer at this moment."

There was no whine in his voice, no appeal to pity. It was a simple statement of fact, and for the first time Paul had a feeling in his heart which he could not understand. After all, the man before him was his father, and his haggard face, his bent form, his bloodshot eyes, all told of the agony through which he was pa.s.sing.

"Son," said the judge, "some time, at all events, I hope I may be able to make known the things which you have asked, but I cannot trust myself to try and do so now. Will you let me be quiet for a few minutes, my boy? I want to think. And will you try and forget this part of the story?"

The judge sat down on the couch, while Paul, leaning against the prison wall, watched him. Minute after minute pa.s.sed away, and then the judge spoke again.

"Paul," he said. "Are you guilty of this murder?"

"I would rather not discuss it with you," said Paul.

"My son," said the judge, "you do not believe what I have told you. To you my words are a mockery. But I love you like my own life. Even now, if I could die in your place I would be glad. At any rate I may be able to help you. Mary doesn't believe you are guilty. She told me so last night. I can speak freely of this now, for I am no longer the one who shall sit in judgment on you, and I want to help you."

Paul looked at his father and wondered what was pa.s.sing in his mind; wondered, too, how much he knew. He could not tell him of his suspicions, could not even hint at the fact that he believed his mother was guilty of the murder for which he was accused. He knew of Judge Bolitho's reputation; knew, too, that he would eagerly fasten upon everything he learnt and follow it to its logical sequence.

In spite of everything, however, a change seemed to be coming over their relationship. The feeling of half an hour before had somewhat pa.s.sed away. The sensations caused by their first meeting had become less powerful.

"Whatever else I can do, Paul," said the judge, "I want to help you in this. Can't you trust me?"

Paul was silent. He was afraid to answer directly, afraid lest the haunting fear in his heart would become known. Then, in a way he could not understand, he found himself talking with his father more freely, found himself telling something of his life in Brunford, until by and by he realised that he had been subjected to a close examination. It seemed to him as though it had become a battle of wits between him and his father; and although he was angry with himself afterwards, he knew he had disclosed many things which he had sworn should never pa.s.s his lips. Still, he had said nothing definite. He had never even hinted at the possibility of his mother's guilt.

"If you could only trust me!" said the judge at length. "If you would tell me exactly what happened, I might even yet be able to save you."

"Do you not believe me guilty, then?" said Paul.

"Mary does not," replied the judge.

"I know that," was Paul's answer. "And for her sake I mean to fight for my own life."

"Even although you did this thing?"

"Even _if_ I did it!"

"But have you any evidence to add that shall tell in your favour--anything that will destroy the impression which has been made?"

"Do you believe they will hang me if I don't?"

"I mean to say, as far as circ.u.mstantial evidence is concerned, the case is terribly black against you, and the jury must act upon evidence given. And, oh, Paul, Paul! Can't you realise? Can't you understand what I feel? If I must tell the truth, one of the reasons I decided to say what I did this morning in the court was that I might be free to try and save your life. Will you not tell me what is in your mind?"

Paul shook his head. "You have wormed a great many things out of me,"

he said, "which I did not mean to tell; still, I think I have been a match for you."

"Don't you realise, Paul, what your life is to me? Can't you understand what the knowledge that you are my son means to me? Don't you believe that I would give everything I possess, everything I am, to bring you happiness? Oh! I know what you feel, and I do not wonder at it. I know, too, what you must be thinking about me now, and I cannot help myself. But, Paul, if there's a possibility, let me save you.

Tell me the truth--the whole truth!"

"You would not thank me for doing so," replied Paul grimly.

For a little while there was another silence between them, then the judge seemed to change his tactics.

"I think you do wrongly, my son, not to employ counsel. I do not doubt that your brains are quite as good as anyone's you might engage to defend you; but you cannot understand the methods of cross-examination as a trained barrister can. You do not know the hundred weapons he can use in your defence."

"I think I know," replied Paul.

Both of them had become calm by this time, and each talked in an almost unrestrained manner. The judge was no longer almost overwhelmed by that through which he had been pa.s.sing, and Paul had seemingly, to a very large extent, forgotten the bitterness which he had felt at the beginning of their interview.

"May I come to see you again?" asked Judge Bolitho.

"To what end?" asked Paul.

"Because I love you, my son. Because I long to be near you. Because I want to win your love; to hear you say you forgive me. I have sinned against you; but, believe me, I have done all in my power to atone. I must go now, but I shall be thinking for you, hoping for you, working for you, praying for you."

There was something so humble and so sincere in the tones of his voice that, in spite of the past, Paul could not longer repel him.

"Won't you shake hands?" he said. "Won't you tell me that you will try to forgive me?--only _try_, Paul!"

But Paul stood as still as a statue. He felt himself yielding to his father's pleadings, and he was angry with himself because of it. And yet he could not destroy the tender feelings which were coming into his heart.

"Will nothing move you, my son--nothing?"

Still Paul did not reply. He was afraid to speak. He felt as though, if he uttered a word, it would end in a sob. They had been together more than an hour, and in the near distance a clock began to chime.

"I must go now," said the judge. "But I shall come again. I shall never cease coming until I have won your love. Paul, I cannot live without it now! Look into my eyes, my son; can you not see? Can you not understand?"

In spite of himself Paul did as his father had told him, and realised how the proud man was humbling himself. He saw the lines of pain upon his face, saw, too, the look of infinite yearning and tenderness in his eyes; and he felt that his own were filled with tears. But still he hardened himself and made no sign.

The judge threw his arms round Paul's neck.