The judge ceased speaking for a few seconds.

"There was no one louder in his condemnation than I, no one called him viler names than I, and yet I knew in my heart all the time that my villainy was as great as his.

"My adopted father met me at Plymouth and led me to a low part of the town where she had taken lodgings. It was here her child had been born, a child she dared not own, a child to whom the stigma of disgrace would be attached if the truth were made known. As I told you, my adopted father loved Mary Tregony almost as he loved me, and it was the dream of his heart that we should be man and wife. It seems almost like a fairy story now, but at that time it was terribly real. Even yet I can hardly believe in its truth. We found Mary lying in a miserable room, with her child sleeping by her side--a little girl."

The judge turned, and gave a hasty glance at Mary as he spoke. It was only for a second, but he saw that her face was blanched and set, while in her eyes was a look of horror.

"The doctor who had been called in had said that Mary Tregony was dying, that at most she could live only a few hours, and my adopted father demanded that I should marry her, and thus save her name from dishonour, and take the child as my own. I have told you of the power he had over me, how practically all my life I had never thought of disobeying him, and in spite of myself he persuaded me now."

During the whole of this recital Paul's mother had never uttered a word, save in answer to the one question which Judge Bolitho had spoken to her, but she had sat rigid in form and face, her hands clasped to the arms of her chair, her eyes fixed on the speaker's face, never missing a word that was uttered. Now, however, she spoke.

"And did you dare to marry her?" she said pa.s.sionately. "You--you, who had----"

"Wait a minute," said the judge. "There were certain legal formalities to be complied with, a certain time to wait before any marriage could be made legal. We were no longer in Scotland, as in the days when I married you, Jean. We were in England. Yes, I decided to obey my adopted father's command. As it seemed to me, I owed everything to him and I could not withstand his pleadings. For he did plead, pleaded as I never thought a man could, pleaded his love for Mary, his love for her honour, pleaded that her child should have an honourable name--and I yielded to him."

"Then I am not your child really?" cried Mary.

"Wait a little," said the judge. "Before the time came when Mary could legally be made my wife, she died."

"Then you never married her?" said Paul's mother, her voice hoa.r.s.e and unnatural.

"No. I never married her."

"Then--then?" said Mary.

"Then my adopted father made me solemnly promise that I would take you as my child, that it should be made known that I had married your mother secretly, and that she was dead.

"I suppose I was much excited. Certain I am that my mind did not fully comprehend the real issues of the case. Anyhow, I promised him. As you know, Mary, I have never told you much about your mother, neither have I since visited that part of Cornwall where she was known. All you have heard has been that your mother died when you were born, and you have regarded me as your father from the time you understood anything."

There was a silence in the room for some time, save for the tick of the clock on the mantelpiece. All seemed to be so overwhelmed by what they had heard that for the moment they were incapable of speech.

"It is ever the same," said the judge. "Lying, cowardice are followed by the most terrible penalties. I have felt many a time that cowardice is the father of nearly all our crimes."

"But," cried Paul, and his voice was vibrant with strong emotion, "then Mary is not my sister, she is--she can be---- Oh, Mary, forgive me! I did not think! I did not remember!"

Mary did not appear to hear him. Her eyes were fixed on Judge Bolitho's face, and she seemed to be trying to understand.

"I could say nothing about this before," went on the judge, "even when the truth which was revealed during the trial came to me. I had sworn to be silent. I dared not make known the truth. I dared not let this shadow rest upon Mary's name, even although it seemed as though a greater shadow rested upon it. You know what followed after that day in the courts, when I confessed that Jean was my wife and that Paul was my son. At last I had made up my mind that I would be a coward no longer, that, whatever the consequences might be, I would walk in the straight path. I could not tell all the truth because of my solemn oath to my adopted father. Besides, the great thought in my mind was to save Paul. I need not refer to that now, you know all about it!

But for Mary, here--well, thank G.o.d, Mary saved him! But for her, the truth would never have come to light. But directly I knew that Paul was free, I left you, determined to make the crooked places straight.

I hastened to London, and after doing what needed to be done there, I hurried on to Cornwall. I saw my adopted father--he's an old man now, but he's lost none of the strength of his younger manhood. I fought a hard battle with him, but that's nothing--the result is that I am able to tell you what I've told you."

The judge's eyes sought those of the older woman, who still sat rigidly in her chair. He seemed to be on the point of speaking to her, but before he could do so Paul broke in.

"Then the shame which has been attached to my name must be attached to Mary's!" he cried.

"Never," replied the judge. "That need not be. Concerning Mary's birth no word need be uttered. There is no need that we should deceive anyone, nevertheless the truth is not for the world. I need only say that Mary is not my child, but that I have simply reared her as my own.

Her mother was a pure woman, but concerning her parentage we need say nothing."

"I would rather," cried Paul, "that my own name----"

"Stop, Paul!" said Mary. "It does not matter at all. How can it, when--when---- Oh, Paul, Paul, my love!"

"I've always loved you like my own child," said the judge, "and under ordinary circ.u.mstances these revelations should never have pa.s.sed my lips, but--but I--I thought, I understood----"

Paul dared not speak again. The truth was that the knowledge which had come to him in such a strange way overwhelmed him with joy. It seemed to him as though that dark winter night had changed into a June morning. Everything was possible. His mind had swept aside the little conventions of men. Mary's presence and Mary's love were all the world to him.

The judge again looked towards Paul's mother. "I have not quite finished yet," he said, and his voice trembled as he spoke. "And I want to say something more. You know all now, Jean, know what a coward I've been, know how that cowardice meant your misery and your disgrace.

I do not seek to excuse my conduct. It cannot be excused, and yet I must speak the truth, I must----"

He hesitated a second, and then went on, "Can you forgive me, Jean?

Through all you have been pure and worthy, while I have been unworthy.

My name has been spoken of with honour, and yours has been covered with shame through me. Can you forgive me? And more--perhaps you will scorn me and repel me when I tell you this--but after that night when I saw you in Manchester and knew that you still lived, all my old love came back to me; I know that really it had never died. Jean, can you forgive me?"

The eyes of the man and the woman met. At first hers seemed hard and unyielding--she was evidently fighting a great battle. Then slowly, little by little, they underwent a change, and Paul saw that the tears were welling up.

"Jean! Jean!" said the judge, holding out his hands. "Have you no word for me?"

"Come, Mary," said Paul. "Let us go into the other room."

And they went out, leaving the two together.