The Day of Judgment Part 78

"I believe hundreds of them came from Manchester," was the reply.

"Then, of course, there were many at the station, too."

"That's well, my son!"

"Mother, what is it?" cried Paul, noting the change that pa.s.sed over her face.

"I'm not so well, my laddie, and I'm not so strong as I thought I was.

But it's all right. I think I'll lie down again."

He lifted her in his arms and placed her back in the bed, and in a few seconds she was asleep.

The crowds departed after a while, but there was little work done in Brunford that day. Never was such an excitement known before, never such joy manifested. Directly the news had become known that the real murderer had confessed, the news flashed over many wires and the Press of the whole country was flooded with the wonderful story. Throughout Lancas.h.i.+re it pa.s.sed, from town to town, from mill to mill, from cottage to cottage, like wild-fire. People who had been certain of Paul's guilt the day before had known all along that he was innocent, and pretended to rejoice accordingly. No sooner did the news reach Brunford than all the mills in the town ceased running. The streets were filled with excited mult.i.tudes, talking over what had taken place.

Paul Stepaside, for whom the scaffold had been erected and the cord made ready, had been proved innocent at the last moment, and stood before the world a free man! It would be impossible for me to describe in detail the rejoicings of the people or the demonstrations that were made. Even to this day the people in Brunford talk about it as a red-letter day in the history of the town, as a time when it was moved beyond all thought or imagination.

Meanwhile, Paul sat with Mary in his own house. The past weeks seemed like a hideous nightmare to him now. But he had awakened from his sleep, the dark clouds had rolled away. He was home again! The crime of which he had been accused was as nothing. His innocence had been proclaimed to the world. His name was without a stain. But he felt strangely restrained. It seemed as though a weight were put upon his lips, and while he grudged every moment that Mary was out of his sight, he almost feared to be alone with her.

"Paul," she said to him late that afternoon, "your mother does not seem to suffer at all because of the excitement this morning!"

"No," he said quietly. "It's very wonderful! When I was with her just now she was quite cheerful and happy. Even yet she does not know all the truth. Of course, she'll have to know it some day, but we will keep it from her as long as we can. But I do not quite understand the look in her eyes, all the same! She seemed as though she were expecting some one."

"I think I know whom she expects."

"You mean your father?" replied Paul. Even yet he was unable to speak of Judge Bolitho as his own father.

"Yes, I believe she is wondering why he has not come."

"I think I rather wonder, too," said Paul. "You see, he left us directly after I was--after--after the truth was made known, and I've heard nothing from him since. Have you, Mary?"

"No," said the girl. "I've heard nothing. I think he went to London.

You see, as far as you're concerned, there are heaps of formalities to be complied with!"

"Yes, yes, I know!" said Paul almost hastily. It seemed as though he wanted to drive the whole terrible thing from his mind.

"Mary," said Paul at length, "have you ever spoken with your father about the past?"

"No," she replied, "never. I was afraid; I don't know why. Once or twice he seemed to be trying to broach the subject, but there was such an awful look in his eyes that I could not bear to hear him speak about it. Besides, I had no time to think about myself! How could I, when, when---- But you know, Paul!"

It was very wonderful to him to be sitting alone in his own house with Mary in this way. Sometimes he thought he was in a dream, and that he would wake up presently to find all the wild, ghastly realities come to him. But it was no dream. The hundreds of telegrams which came to him expressing delight at the proof of his innocence, and the innumerable messages of goodwill which constantly reached him, made all his black fancies impossible.

He was not happy in a full and complete sense of the word. Even yet he felt his life to be enshrouded in mystery. It seemed to him the problem was not yet solved, and never could be solved this side of eternity. Still, his heart was joyful, for was not Mary by his side?

Was he not for ever seeing her winsome smile and the flash of her bright eyes? Was she not for ever seeking to minister to his comfort and to bring suns.h.i.+ne into his life?

He dared not go into the town. He feared to meet the people. He could not bear to hear their kindly words, their exclamations of delight and joy. He knew that the sight of homely faces would unman him, and that he would break down like a child. While the shadow of guilt was upon him, he could be strong even as a stoic might be strong. He could bear hard words and suspicious looks. All through the long trial he had been composed and self-reliant, but that was over now. In a way he could not understand, the hard crust of his nature had been broken up.

Paul felt a new man. That black, grimy town was no longer dirty and sordid to him. It was the home of tens of thousands of kind hearts, the home of the people he loved. He saw a meaning in their life which he had never seen before. He had dreams of their future to which he was a stranger in the old days. But he could not go out and meet them, could not clasp friendly hands, could not meet smile with smile.

Perhaps it was no wonder. Paul had pa.s.sed far down the deep, dark Valley of the Shadow of Death, and it seemed at one time as though he would never emerge into the light again, and so it was not strange he should desire to be alone with Mary.

Night came on, and still Judge Bolitho did not come. The last train had arrived in Brunford, but there was no news of him.

"He'll be back when he's done his work," said Mary.

"What work?" asked Paul.

"I don't know," she replied. "But, Paul, you are grieving about me.

Don't! I know what's in your mind, but it doesn't matter one bit, not one bit, Paul!"

"But, Mary----"

"No, Paul, not one word! There, it's time for you to go to bed. Kiss me, my love!"

He went towards her, meaning to give her a brotherly kiss, but when he came close to her he caught her in his arms again, and held her pa.s.sionately to him.

"Good-night, Mary. May G.o.d bless you!"

"G.o.d?" she said, looking up into his face wonderingly, and there was almost a sob in her voice. "Do you believe in Him at last?"

"May G.o.d bless you, my--no, I can't say it. Good-night!"

When Paul went to his room that night, the first night he had slept there since the dread things which had so altered the whole of his life came to him, he sat for a long time thinking. Again he reviewed the past, tried to see its deeper meaning. Then he knelt down by his bedside. He uttered no words, formulated no prayer, but he knew he was very near to the heart of things.

Days pa.s.sed, and still there was no news of Judge Bolitho. Paul's mother, as steadily she grew stronger, seemed ever to be listening and watching, but she asked no questions and spoke no word about the man of whom both Paul and Mary were sure she was thinking. Both of them rejoiced as they saw her health coming back to her, saw a new light in her eyes, a tenderer expression on her lips. All the same, each of them wondered what the future would bring forth. Neither Mary nor Paul referred again to the shadow which hung upon the former's name. Not one question did Paul ask about her mother, or about the days before they first met each other. He was afraid it would give her pain, and he would rather suffer anything than do that.

On the fourth day after his return, Paul's mother was well enough to come downstairs again. She had clothed herself in the last new dress Paul had bought her, and she blushed like a girl when he told her how young and handsome she looked.

"Nay, Paul, I'm an old woman," she protested. All the same, it was easy to see that she was pleased.

"You're just young and handsome, mother," he repeated. "There's many a la.s.s in Brunford who'd give anything to have your good looks."

"And they say you're the very image of me, Paul! Think now, when you're praising my good looks you're just praising your own!"

In spite of their pleasantries, however, it was easy to see that she was wondering about and longing for something of which she spoke no word.

"Mother, it's eight o'clock. It's time for you to go to bed. You must not take liberties with yourself."

"No," she said. "I'm going to stay up a little longer. I'm not so weak as you think. Did I give way when--when--when I heard how near you were to----? Oh, Paul! my boy! my boy! Thank G.o.d! No wonder you love Mary. It was she who saved you! I fancied you had got yourself off by your own cleverness, but, without her----"

"Without her everything would have been impossible," said Paul, but he did not lift his eyes. He was afraid what his mother might see there.

"All the same, you'd better go to bed, mother. You'll be overtired!"

"Listen," she said, and both Mary and Paul saw her hands tremble.

"There! There! Don't you hear?"

All plainly heard the sound of wheels outside, an eager step on the path, and then a knock at the door. Paul Stepaside's mother sat rigid.

She seemed like one afraid; yet there was a bright light in her eyes all the time.

"Run, my la.s.sie," she said quickly. "Run. Don't wait for one of the maids to go, perhaps it will be----"