The Day of Judgment Part 44

"And she is your sister."

"Yes."

"Then if your birth is honourable, hers is base," said the mother pa.s.sionately. Even at that moment the longing to do justice to her son was uppermost in her mind and heart. "I am his true wife; remember that! He married me. I can't be robbed of that, Paul, can I?"

He saw what her questions meant, knew the thought that was burning in her brain, realised her mad desire to proclaim her right as a wife and as an honourable mother.

Paul Stepaside loved his mother, and never more than then. All those feelings of filial affection which had been aroused in his heart by the remembrance of her sad story were intensified at that moment. Yes, she was his mother, and she must have her rights. But if she had them?

That was the question, the supreme question. His desire for revenge had lost its power now. A new motive force was at work, a new set of circ.u.mstances clamoured for recognition.

Oh, what a muddle life was! Who could explain its mystery? Who could unravel the entanglement?

The steps of the warder were heard in the corridor outside, and Paul knew that his mother's visit must come to an end.

"What will you do? What will you do?" she asked.

"I must wait--I must think," was his reply. "Of course, you have told nothing to anyone else?"

"No, Paul. How could I?"

"And that man has no suspicion?"

"No; he did not see me."

He could not see a ray of light in the darkness anyhow. He saw no means whereby he could solve this great puzzle. Everything was mad confusion.

He heard the key turning in the lock.

"I must wait; I must think, think, mother. Meanwhile, do nothing."

The door opened, and a moment later his mother left the cell, leaving Paul alone.

CHAPTER XX

MAN AND WIFE

A number of men were dining in the princ.i.p.al hotel in Manchester. They all belonged to the legal profession, and had been drawn thither by the a.s.sizes which were being held. Most of them were men who had won a position in the realm of the law, and were now visiting Manchester because their profession had called them thither. They were attached to the Northern Circuit, and were doing their best to make their stay in the smoky metropolis as pleasant as possible. A few there were who were as yet hungry for briefs and could not get them, but who deemed it a privilege and an honour to be invited to dine with their more successful brethren.

Perhaps there is no profession in the land which offer greater possibilities than that of the Bar. On the other hand, there is no calling more fraught with disappointment. Many there are who, after a brilliant University career, and having adopted the Bar as a profession, have to wait year after year without even earning the salary of a four-loom weaver. Proud, sensitive men as some of them are, to have to wait around on the chance of getting a brief must be exquisite torture. Yet such are the chances of the Bar that many undergo the ordeal in the hope that by and by success will come. There were some of these at the gathering which I have just mentioned. They had accepted the invitation to dine with their successful brethren, not without hope that some crumbs might fall from the rich man's table and be enjoyed by them. Added to this, Judge Bolitho, who had won such renown while practising as a barrister on the Northern Circuit, and now appointed judge at the High Court of Justice, was also present. Some of the younger men regarded him with a certain amount of awe, and they wondered whether the time would come when they, who now depended upon the goodwill of their friends, might aspire to the heights which he had reached. After all, it was not impossible, for the Bar, like every other profession, was a gamble.

It had been a merry gathering. They had dined well. The hotel was noted for its cuisine and for the quality of its wines, and the best which the great establishment afforded had been placed at their disposal. Many good stories were told. Those who were now at the top of the tree related incidents of their younger days, when they, like the young fellows who now listened to them so eagerly, were hungry for briefs. Mr. Bakewell, in particular, the man who that day was the counsel for the prosecution in Paul Stepaside's case, was an utterly different man from what he had been when he appeared in court. Then he was solemn, pompous, and almost lugubrious; now he cracked a joke with the best, and told humorous stories with infinite gusto. The judge, too, while naturally patronising and unable to throw aside in entirety the dignity of his office, so far unbent as to be the best of companions.

Naturally, the case which had excited the whole country loomed large on the horizon. Indeed, it gave rise to most of the stories which had been told that night. More than one barrister related incidents of some murder trial in which he had been engaged, and tried to trace connections between them and the one which was now being tried.

If the issues were not so momentous, moreover, the way they discussed the question would have been amusing. Paul's life or death was to many of them a mere secondary consideration. To them he was a case, and they judged of the merits and demerits of the case as if it were some purely imaginary or academical affair especially manufactured for their delectation. It is true the judge did not look at it in this light, but he was not in a talkative humour that night, although he added a certain share to the conversation, and his presence gave a kind of eclat to the proceedings. They had reached the stage of nuts and wine, and most of them were in great good humour.

"I am inclined to think," said one, "that Stepaside has something up his sleeve. The fellow is as sharp as a needle, and although he hasn't yet offered anything like a defence, one can't believe that he was guilty of such a thing."

"I don't know," said another. "Of course, circ.u.mstantial evidence has often been proved to be false, nevertheless, a jury has to go upon such evidence as is adduced in court, and the evidence is d.a.m.ning!"

"Think of the point he made this afternoon when he cross-examined Mr.

Wilson."

"I make nothing of that," said Mr. Bakewell rather pompously. "Of course, he put it strongly, and for the moment made a point, but that kind of thing is not going to save him!"

"Do you think, then," asked a member of the local Bar, "that the jury will find him guilty?"

"I do indeed," said Mr. Bakewell. "Even although he had a man like Montague Williams or Russell to defend him he would stand no chance.

You see, the thing is a perfect chain of reasoning, because there is a perfect chain of events."

"Yes, but how can one think of such a man as Stepaside, keen as a surgeon's knife, cool as the devil himself, as watchful as a sleuth-hound, and having everything before him in the way of a career, so far committing himself as to use the knife known to belong to him, and then to leave it in the body. Why, the thing is absurd!"

"Exactly. But then the cleverest and most daring criminals in the world have been known to have done similar things. Why, think of that Blackburn murder in which I was engaged years ago. It was almost identical with this affair, and there was not the slightest doubt that he was guilty. Why, he confessed it to the chaplain afterwards. You must remember that Stepaside was in a mad pa.s.sion at the time.

Besides, you see, he's never accounted for those hours between midnight and six in the morning!"

"Yes, but no prisoner charged for murder is obliged to account for his time."

"Exactly, but a jury has to give its verdict upon evidence. And remember this, too," and Mr. Bakewell would not perhaps have spoken so freely had his tongue not been unloosed by the generous wine he had been drinking. "Remember this, too, and, of course, we are all friends here, and what I say will not go beyond this room--but the evidence to-morrow will surprise you!"

"In what way?"

"Well, one of the witnesses to-morrow will swear that he saw him not half a mile from Howden Clough, in a state of excitement, about five o'clock on the morning of the murder, that is to say, about half an hour after it took place, according to the doctor's evidence. You see, we have the servants' testimony that they heard him come up to the top storey of the house; that he stood at their bedroom door and then went down again; that they, wondering what had happened, followed, and saw him go out into the night alone. Of course, on the face of it, it does seem unlikely that a clever fellow such as Stepaside undoubtedly is, with a great career possible for him, should have done the deed so clumsily. But, don't you see, everything points to him, and unless he brings some extraordinary witnesses on the other side, which he isn't trying to do, mind you, the jury have no alternative but to find him guilty."

"My own belief is that he's hiding something in his sleeve, and that if he's hanged it'll be a miscarriage of justice."

A waiter then came into the room bearing a slip of paper, which he took to Judge Bolitho. The judge received it calmly and unfolded it, talking meanwhile to his neighbour at the table. After reading a few lines, however, a puzzled expression came on to his face, which was followed by a look almost amounting to terror. More than one who watched him thought he saw his hands tremble somewhat; nevertheless, he held himself in check, like one who was trying to appear to be calm, as he read it the second time. The men who were at the bottom of the table went on with their stories, but Judge Bolitho evidently did not listen. His mind was far away. His cigar had gone out, too, but he did not seem conscious of it.

"I wonder what is in that letter?" asked a man of his neighbour, as he watched the judge's face.

"Oh, there's no knowing. Fellows in Bolitho's position are always getting queer missives."

"He looks mighty uncomfortable, anyhow."

The judge took a winegla.s.s in his hand and began toying with it, but it was evident that he did not know what he was doing.

"I say, Bolitho"--it was a county court judge who spoke to him--"Did you notice that woman's face who fell down in a faint this morning? It was positively ghastly when she looked at you."

Evidently Judge Bolitho did not hear. He took not the slightest notice of the remark. He was still toying with the winegla.s.s.

"I say, Bolitho, aren't you well?"

And still the judge's face was rigid, and his eyes had in them a fixed far-away look. The other caught him by the sleeve.

"Aren't you well, Bolitho?"