As for the other man----"

She ceased speaking here, and Mary noted the angry flash of her eyes, watched the quivering lips, and wondered of what she was thinking.

"There will be no servants in the house," went on Paul's mother presently. "They are in Manchester. They have been summoned for witnesses. But I told Mrs. Bradshaw to keep everything bright and clean, as I might come home any minute. I thought that before now Paul and I would be back together, and so she'll be expecting us. You're not hungry, are you?"

"No," said Mary.

"I expect he'll be acquitted to-day," she went on. "That man can't sit in judgment on him any longer now, and the people will be glad. Won't there be shouting when my Paul comes home?"

When they arrived at Brunford station, Mary noted how the porters looked curiously at them and spoke one to another in whispers. She knew that before an hour was over the whole town would be talking about them. They would be wondering why she, the judge's daughter, should accompany the mother of the man who was accused of murder. But she did not trouble about it. She called a cab, and a few minutes later they were on their way to Paul's home.

Mary began to get excited. Once in Paul's house she would be able to examine everything, and would perhaps discover things that would lead the woman by her side to make her confession. She felt sure that she was on the track of discovery, felt convinced that before long the truth would come to light.

When they arrived at the house Mary found the door standing open, and a motherly-looking woman waiting to receive them.

"I've done as yo' told me, Mrs. Stepaside," said Mrs. Bradshaw the woman. "There's a fire in the kitchen range, and another in the study, and everything is clean and nice."

"Mrs. Stepaside is not very well," said Mary quietly. "I've come with her from Manchester. But she will be all right with me."

"And who might yo' be?" asked Mrs. Bradshaw suspiciously.

"I'm Mrs. Stepaside's friend," she replied. "Will you lead the way to the room where the fire is?"

A few minutes later they were in the house alone. Mrs. Bradshaw had brought a cup of tea, and then, saying she'd be back again presently, had left them.

"Somehow I don't feel a bit lonely now you're here. Why is it, I wonder?" and the older woman looked into Mary's face curiously.

"I'm glad you're not lonely," said Mary. "Are you well enough to talk?"

"Ay, I'm feeling ever so much better. I wonder why it is?"

"Did you sleep last night?" asked Mary.

"Nay, I couldn't sleep. Was it any wonder? You see we met after all those long years, and I told him the truth. Ay; but he's suffering--he's suffering! And it's right he should, too. Ay, and I'm suffering, too, my la.s.sie. I feel strange. I think I'll go to bed if you'll help me."

As Mary helped her upstairs she felt like one in a dream. Everything was intangible, unreal. What was she doing in this house? What right had she to be waiting on this woman so carefully and tenderly, when she was guilty of the awful deed which threatened to bring Paul to the gallows? But she spoke no word.

A little later they were in the bedroom together, and Mary was ministering to her with almost tender solicitude.

"Sit by me while I sleep, won't you? I don't know how long it is since sleep came to me, but I feel now as though I could rest. Ay, la.s.s, but you are bonnie! It's no wonder that my Paul loves you."

Her overwrought powers had doubtless given way. The scenes through which she had pa.s.sed had made her incapable of realising the true consequences of everything. Mother Nature had come to her aid, and in her own way was applying healing balm.

A little later she was sleeping like a child.

Mary sat almost motionless by her side for some time. Things were turning out altogether differently from what she had expected. Up to the present she had made no accusation. She had not even suggested what she was sure was the truth. She wondered why it was. All the same, she waited, feeling sure that her time would come.

Presently, noting that Paul's mother was not likely to wake, she left the room; and then, led by a strange curiosity, wandered round the house. She went into Paul's bedroom. She knew it was his by a thousand things. Here he had dreamed his dreams and made his plans.

He had dreamed of her, doubtless, not knowing that she was his sister--his sister! She could not realise it. Her brain, her heart, refused to accept it as a fact, and yet she felt sure it was so. Again she went into the study, the little den which Paul had taken so much care to furnish. She looked lovingly at his books and noted those which he had evidently used most. She went to the writing-table where he had done his work, and noted the various pictures which hung around the room. It was not like the ordinary Lancashire manufacturer's house at all. It suggested the student, the man of letters, the lover of art. And how silent it was! Away in the distance was the hum of the busy town, but here, sheltered by the great hills which sloped away behind, all was peace. After sitting for a time, she went into Paul's mother's bedroom again, and watched her as she lay asleep. Could what she had dreamt of be true? Could this woman who lay sleeping as peacefully as a child be guilty of the terrible crime of which she had accused her? In her sleep she looked almost like a girl. The lines had somehow left her face, as though an angel's hand had wiped them out. A smile was upon her lips. In her sleep she did not suggest a strong, pa.s.sionate woman, but the girl whom any lad might love.

She left the room again and wandered aimlessly around. She found a strange interest in being in Paul's home. She felt, too, as though she had a right there; and why should she not have that right, since Paul was her brother? More than once she looked toward the garden gate as if expecting that he would come in. She did not think of him as being tried for his life in the a.s.size courts at Manchester. But she had strange fancies of what was happening there. What would her father say? What would he do?

Presently she heard shrill cries in the road not far distant. She listened attentively.

"Wonderful confession at Manchester!" It was a boy's voice she heard, and every word reached her clearly.

"Strange confession by the judge! Paul Stepaside's father!"

Heedless of what she was doing, she rushed down the garden path, and found her way into the street in the near distance. A boy was selling newspapers. She bought one, and hurried back to the house. She had no idea of the lapse of time, did not realise that it was now three o'clock in the afternoon. She had come by a slow train from Manchester, and Paul's mother had been sleeping for hours.

Eagerly she opened the paper, and there, great staring headlines met her gaze. For a long time she was absorbed by what she read. There, in cold, plain words, was her father's confession. It was true, then; every word of it was true. She did not know why she did it, but, taking the paper in her hand, she hurried upstairs to the bedroom where she had left Paul's mother asleep. The town hall clock was chiming in the distance. She looked at her own watch, and saw that it was half-past four. She had been reading the paper for an hour. As she entered the woman on the bed awoke.

"Something's happened, my la.s.sie. What is it?"

"It's all here," said Mary. "It's all here. Shall I read it to you?"

CHAPTER XXIX

MARY'S ACCUSATION

As Mary looked at Paul's mother she noted the improvement in her looks.

The wild, mad expression of her eyes had gone. She appeared more human, more womanly.

"Yes, read it to me," she said. "It's something about Paul, isn't it?

Have they acquitted him?"

"Listen!" said Mary. "A wonderful thing's happened. What you told me was true. My father has made a confession before the court. Oh! what it must have cost him!"

"Confession? Read it! Read it!"

And Mary read, while the woman lay still and silent.

The paper which she had obtained was one of the princ.i.p.al Manchester evening journals. The members of its staff had, immediately after Judge Bolitho's confession, rushed eagerly to the office with their copy. Perhaps it was one of the most graphic descriptions of the scene which appeared in any journal, and caught more truly the inwardness of the event which set all Lancashire talking, than any other. Mary read the whole story from beginning to end; read the description of Paul's entrance into the prisoner's dock, the great excitement which pervaded the court as all present waited for the judge; read the description of how his lordship looked, and of the tremendous emotion under which he was labouring. It was a fine piece of journalism, done by a man who afterwards occupied a high position on one of the great London dailies.

He made the scene live, made everything so real and vivid that these women, who were so terribly interested in the story, saw everything as he saw.

Paul's mother lay rigid as Mary read the judge's words, until finally she came to the confession. "This I do wish to say, here in the presence of those who have gathered together to witness this trial.

Paul Stepaside is my lawful son, and, unknowingly, I have sinned against him grievously and greatly; his mother is my lawful wife. He is my lawful son, and I do here and now confess the wrong which I have done to him, and I do it because my conscience commands me to do so, and because I wish to ask my son's forgiveness."

As Mary read these words the woman rose in her bed and gave a cry of joy.

"At last! At last!" she said. "But I never thought he would do this.

No, no; I never dreamed of it. He's confessed it before everyone.

Don't you see, my la.s.sie? He's confessed it there in the open court that I'm his lawful wife and that Paul is his lawful son! There's no stain upon his name now--and no stain on mine either!"

She sat up in the bed, her eyes aglow. She was radiant. She did not think of what this might mean to Mary, did not realise that the vindication of her own honour might mean Mary's shame. That never entered into her mind. All her thought was of Paul; and even her joy that all disgrace was taken away from her was because thereby Paul's name would be honoured. She looked years younger. It seemed as though a great weight had rolled from her mind, as though the dark skies had been made clear and the sun were shining.