"Are you not glad, my la.s.sie? Does it not rejoice your heart? Think of it! Think of it!"

But Mary was silent. Naturally, the happenings of the day had bewildered her, almost unhinged her own mind. She thought, too, of what her father had suffered. No one knew better than she what a proud man he was and what it must have cost him to have made this confession.

But more than all this she realised Paul's danger. Although she was greatly moved by the revelations which had been made, although her being had been aroused to its very depths and her life become revolutionised, the thought which was above every other thought was Paul's safety. She knew what her father's confession would mean. If he could no longer be the judge, then another would be appointed; and as she read her father's words she seemed to feel that he believed his son to be guilty of the deed of which he was accused. And if her father believed this, would not the judge who would try the case anew believe it also? And if the judge believed it, would not the jury believe it, and condemn him?

"What is the matter, my la.s.sie? You don't look glad. You are pale.

What do you fear?"

Even then Paul's mother did not think of what it might mean to Mary.

Nothing mattered but her own son.

"But what of Paul?" Mary said. "We must save him!"

"Paul, Paul? What do you mean?"

"I am afraid," said Mary. "Do you not see what my father said? 'If Paul Stepaside is guilty of the murder of Edward Wilson----' Oh, don't you see--don't you see?"

"But they cannot harm my Paul--they cannot, they cannot!"

"But we must save him!" cried Mary. "Do you know of anything? You do, don't you? Paul never committed this murder. He couldn't do it. But unless the real murderer is found he will have to die. Don't you understand?"

"Paul die? Paul die?"

"Yes; they will condemn him unless the real murderer appears. Everyone says so. And you know who did it, don't you?"

"Do you mean to say that you think my Paul cannot get himself off?"

"Oh, don't you realise?" cried Mary. "Jurymen are stupid. They only look at the surface of things. Of course I know he didn't do it. I know he couldn't! But unless the truth comes to light, the jury will condemn him, and then, no matter who is judge, he will be hanged!

Don't you see--don't you see?"

"Do you believe this?"

"I can't help believing it," replied the girl. "I've heard my father discuss law cases again and again, and I know what will happen. Won't you tell what you know? Won't you confess? For you do know, don't you?"

"But do you mean that you, who love my Paul, who believe in him, who know how clever he is, and who are sure he's innocent, do you believe that he can't clear himself?"

"How can he, when the evidence all points to him? Someone killed Ned Wilson. Someone struck the blow with Paul's knife. Don't you see?

Who did it? You know!"

"I know?"

"Yes, you know. Paul is trying to shield someone; you know he is. Who is he trying to shield? He's giving his life for someone. Who would he give his life for? He's refused to go into the witness-box, refused to confide in anyone. Don't you see the meaning of it? Who is there in Brunford or anywhere else that Paul would be willing to die for?--for that is what it means. Why is he silent? You know; tell me."

The girl was wrought up to such a pitch of excitement now that she did not care what she said; neither had she any pity in her heart. She felt almost angry, too, that this woman should be so rejoiced because of what she had read to her when all the time Paul was in danger of death. What mattered name, what mattered honour, what mattered anything if Paul were p.r.o.nounced guilty?

"_I_ know, my la.s.sie. _I_ know," cried the woman.

"Of course you know--you _must_ know. Who is Paul trying to shield, tell me that? Who went into Paul's office and got the knife? Paul did not kill Ned Wilson. Who did? Tell me that!"

She fixed her eyes on the elder woman, and there was such intensity in her look, such pa.s.sion in the words she had spoken, that at length Paul Stepaside's mother guessed what was in her heart.

"You believe that Paul is shielding me?" she said quietly. "You believe that I murdered him?" and her voice was hard and stern.

"It was not Paul who did it," said Mary. "Although a thousand men were to swear they saw him do it, I would not believe them. Who did it, then?"

"And you believe that?"

"Who is Paul trying to shield?" repeated the girl, with almost monotonous iteration.

For a few seconds a painful silence fell between them, and it was evident by the look on the face of the elder woman that she was thinking deeply.

"Do you believe," and her voice was almost hoa.r.s.e, "do you believe, my la.s.sie, that Paul is lying in that gaol charged with murder because he wants to shield me?"

"What else can I believe?" cried Mary. "Tell me the truth. You say you love your son; if your love is worth anything, you will confess to the truth!"

Again a painful silence fell between them. The elder woman, who sat up in bed, seemed to be trying to realise the meaning of the other's words. She might have been living over the night of the murder again.

Presently she fixed her gaze upon Mary, and the girl saw that the old mad light was coming back into her eyes again.

"You believe that--that!" she gasped. Her body swayed to and fro for a moment, and then she fell back on the bed like one dead.

A great fear came into Mary's heart. She believed that Paul's mother, stricken to the heart by her accusation, and realising the terrible import of her silence, had been killed by her words. For a moment she did not know what to do, but, soon overcoming her weakness, she tried to restore her to life. She put her ear over the heart of the prostrate form on the bed, and gave a cry of satisfaction. "No; she's not dead, she's not dead!"

But what could she do? She was there alone in the house with this unconscious woman. She had little or no knowledge of nursing, and she did not know how to obtain help. But help she must obtain. This woman must not die--at least, before she had made her full confession. Even yet Paul's safety was the great thought in her mind. Nothing seemed to matter beside that.

There was a sound of footsteps, and she heard Mrs. Bradshaw's voice asking whether she could do anything. It seemed like Providence that the woman should have entered at this moment, and eagerly she rushed to her.

"Mrs. Stepaside is worse!" she cried. "She ought to have a doctor.

Could you run and fetch one?"

"My boy's at home," said Mrs. Bradshaw. "I'll send him up to Dr.

White's house at once. He's the best man in Brunford, and he's friendly with Paul, too."

"Does he live far away?"

"No, not so far. There are one or two others who live nearer, but I don't reckon much on 'em."

"Run, then, quick!" said Mary. "There's no time to be lost."

"Ay, and after I've sent Peter Matthew I'll come in again and get you something to eat. You must be fair pined."

Mary returned to the room again, and waited what seemed to her an interminable length of time, looking anxiously at the sick woman the whole time. She lay very still, almost motionless in fact, but Mary was sure she was not dead, and she prayed as she had never prayed before that she might live. As it seemed to her, it was not Paul's mother's life that hung in the balance, but Paul's.

At length Dr. White came, and went quickly into the bedroom. Dr. White was a tall, spare man, between forty and fifty years of age. He was one of those doctors who loved his profession with a love almost amounting to pa.s.sion, and he had worked himself almost to a skeleton.

People said that he ought to be a very rich man, but he was not. A great part of the service he rendered was a labour of love. Scores of people in Brunford wondered why he never sent a bill to them, and when he was asked the reasons for his remissness, he always put the inquirers off with a laugh. "Oh, you'll be getting it some day." The truth was he hated sending bills to poor people, and his great delight was not in receiving cheques or payment for his services, but in seeing his patients restored to health and strength again. He was almost worshipped in the town, and, indeed, no one worked so hard for the good of the people as he did in his own way.

When he entered the room he looked at Mary rather wonderingly, but asked no questions. He went straight to the patient's bedside, and examined her carefully. When he had completed his examination he turned to the young girl, who was watching him with wide, staring eyes.

"When did this happen?" he said.