Something had happened. Excited voices were heard. The governor of the gaol said something, the purport of which did not reach Paul, but still something which seemed to change the atmosphere and made the grey dawn bright with the light of day. Another moment, and his heart thrilled. He felt soft arms around his neck, a warm face close to his, while on his lips were burning kisses.

"Paul! Paul!"

"Mary!"

He wondered what it all meant, for even yet the truth had not dawned in his mind.

"You should not have come, Mary," he said. "You see I can bear it all right."

"Paul, don't you understand?" And she laughed and sobbed at the same time. "You are not going to die. You are saved!"

"Saved?"

"Yes. She has confessed, Paul."

"No, no!" And there was agony in his voice. "No, no! Better I should die than that she should!"

"No; but, Paul, it was another--a woman named Emily Dodson. You were right, you see, in your defence. He had deceived her, wronged her, and she killed him. She confessed it last night. It's all written down and signed. Don't you understand, my love?"

"Then, then----?"

"I congratulate you, Mr. Stepaside!" It was the governor of the gaol who spoke. "Thank G.o.d, the news has come in time! Yes, my lord, of course you can speak to him."

"Paul, my son." And his heart thrilled at the sound of his father's voice. "Thank G.o.d! Thank G.o.d! Will you shake hands and forgive me?"

It seemed to Paul at that moment as though the foundations of his life were broken up.

"Oh, G.o.d, I thank Thee!" he cried, "Oh, Mary, Mary! My love!" And again he strained the young girl to his heart.

For many days Paul Stepaside's mother lay sleeping calmly in the room where sickness had confined her. Her face was tranquil, the lines which had been so deep a few weeks before had pa.s.sed away. She had been unconscious ever since the day on which Mary had made known to her the terrible suspicion which filled her mind. Sometimes there had come to her minutes when the past became partially real, but those minutes were only as dream phantoms. She knew nothing of what had taken place, did not seem to realise that Mary Bolitho had been in the house with her, or that the man to whom she had given her heart long years before slept beneath the same roof. She knew nothing either of the agony through which they had pa.s.sed or of their feverish endeavours to save her son. She suffered no pain. She simply lay there as though nothing mattered and as though the windows of her mind had been closed.

The nurse sat by her bedside watching her. The doctor had been that morning, and had remarked that he saw no change either one way or the other.

"I have seldom seen anything like it, nurse!" he had said.

"Physically, she seems to be improving. Her pulse is quite satisfactory; she has no temperature; and her strength is well maintained. But I do not understand this long condition of coma. I wonder how it will end!"

The nurse, as she sat by the patient's bedside, was thinking of what the doctor had said, and was curiously watching her face.

The woman's eyes opened, and the nurse thought she saw the light of reason in them. She looked curiously around the room.

"Who are you?" she said.

"I'm a nurse from the hospital, Mrs. Stepaside. You haven't been very well."

"Ay, I remember being poorly. Where's Paul?"

"He's not come back yet," said the nurse.

"What do you mean? Ay, but he's near! Don't you hear them shouting?"

In spite of the fact that she still believed her patient to be unconscious, she listened, and thought she heard distant shouting.

"I know, I know! It's Paul coming home! He's cleared himself. Do you see? He's proved himself innocent! I knew he would! My own clever boy! There! There!"

Again the nurse listened, and this time she knew that something was taking place. It seemed to her like a shout of great mult.i.tudes, the roar of a mighty sea of voices, and it was coming nearer and nearer the house.

"Hurrah! Hurrah!"

"G.o.d bless ye!"

"He's saved!"

"He's innocent!"

"The truth has come out!"

She could only faintly distinguish the words, but this was what she thought she heard. It was like the roar of a great storm, the shout of a mighty mult.i.tude.

Still it came nearer and nearer, and the volume of sound ever increased.

The woman in her bed laughed. "Don't you see?" she said. "I left Manchester only yesterday, and that la.s.sie came with me. Where is she noo? She'll be gone to meet Paul. Just think of it! I didn't think he could clear himself so soon, but she thought--ah, never mind what she thought!"

Still the roar of voices continued, ever increasing in volume and jubilancy.

"Don't you see?" went on Paul's mother. "The crowd knew he would come, and they met him at Brunford station, and they're bringing him home as he ought to be brought home. But I must not be here, in bed, I must get up!"

"No, no," said the nurse. "You're not well enough for that!"

"Not well enough! I'm all right. My Paul must not find me like a sick woman when he comes. He must find me up and dressed, ready to meet him. Quick, quick!"

She got out of bed of her own accord. "There," she said. "You say I'm not strong enough! They are at the door, do you hear? Hark how they're shouting! Ay, my own Paul, the light's come to him at last!"

She ceased speaking. Her mind seemed to be gathering up the events of the past weeks. She remembered the visit which Judge Bolitho had made to her in Dixon Street--called to mind, too, the confession he had made, and which Mary had read to her.

"And there is no stain upon his name now. No one can twit him now!"

she continued, jubilantly. "There they are at the door! Now then, bring me that dressing-gown. Oh, if I'd only woke up sooner, I would have put on that new dress which Paul brought me, the one he likes so much. He said it made me look like a la.s.sie."

The front door opened, and both of them heard the confusion of tongues beneath. Then there was a heavy tread upon the stairs. The door of her bedroom opened, and Paul entered.

He had expected to see her lying on a bed of sickness, pale and emaciated, instead of which she stood erect.

"Mother!" he said, and folded her in his arms.

"Ay, my laddie!" she cried. "You've beaten them all, then?"

He did not know what was in her mind, but he thought it best to humour her. "Yes, mother, I've beaten them all."

"I knew you would. When I left Manchester yesterday I knew you'd beat them. Why, to think of you, my Paul, doing such a thing! And that crowd I heard shouting, Paul? They came to meet you at the station, didn't they?"