"Do not let us dwell on personalities, Mr. Stepaside!" he said. "After all, it's the principles of our party which have won. You have fought a good fight"--and his voice became very condescending as he spoke--"but truth and right were too strong for you, and the country is turning against you."

"Come, gentlemen," said the mayor. "We are all ready." And with that he stepped through the window on to the balcony above the entrance to the town hall, while the opponents and their supporters followed. The whole of the street outside the town hall was brilliantly lit by torches, and by the street lamps, so that the eager, upturned faces of the thousands who surged between the steps of Hanover Chapel and those of the town hall could be plainly seen. Directly they saw the mayor the people gave a great shout, and then a silence followed like the silence of death.

"Gentlemen," said the mayor, "I am here to announce the results of the election. They are as follows: Bolitho-----" At that word a roar from the people seemed to rend the heavens. With some it was a shout of victory, with others it was a cry of defeat and anger. It was easy to see the excitement on their faces. One could even tell what they were saying, so vivid was the light which fell upon them. "Bolitho's in, good!" "Stepaside is out, it's a shame!" "It's noan been a fair fight!" "We mun 'a' a pet.i.tion!" "Nay, nay, it's no use now!" And so on. Only those close to the balcony heard the figures. The noise of the crowd made it impossible for the people standing near Hanover Chapel gates to bear a word which the chief magistrate had uttered.

Presently, however, a great hush came over the crowd again. The people saw Mr. Bolitho step forward, but only one sentence was heard, "Gentlemen," he said, "we have fought a good fight, and we have won it!" Of course, his supporters shouted wildly, but the cries of antagonism were stronger. Voices became more and more angry. It might seem as though a riot were possible.

Mr. Bolitho, however, continued his speech, which, although the people in the street could not hear, was plain to those who stood on the balcony. He thanked the people for supporting him. He remarked that he had come there a stranger, and was now their friend. He declared that his duty was no longer to a part but the whole of the voters, that he should recognise no difference between one section of the people and another. It was for him to represent the town as a whole, which he intended to do faithfully and loyally. He desired, also, to compliment his opponent on the spirit in which he had conducted his part of the battle, and for the straight fight which had been the consequence. He referred to a few of his most prominent supporters, and then, raising his voice so loudly that it reached to the extreme limits of the crowd, he said: "It may seem bad taste on my part to refer to one without whom I should never have won this election." At this even the most turbulent became silent again, they wanted to hear what he had to say.

"I owe my victory," he said, "and you owe your victory, to my daughter, Mary." And placing his hand upon her shoulder, he drew her forward.

"Here!" he cried, "is your real victor in the battle!"

There was great cheering at this, and even his bitterest opponents did not resent it. The light fell strongly upon the girl's face, and even Paul could not help reflecting how beautiful she looked. Her eyes were flashing with excitement, her lips wreathed with smiles. No wonder she had fascinated him, no wonder, in spite of the fact that he hated her father, he almost worshipped her, even while he hated her.

"Speech, speech!" yelled the crowd. "Speech from Miss Mary Bolitho!"

She looked at her father, who nodded, and then the girl stepped forward, while every ear was strained so as not to miss a word she should say. It was a picture long to be remembered. Even to this day it is talked about in Brunford. She only spoke a few words, but her voice rang out clearly in the still air.

"I am glad I ever came to Brunford," she said. "I have learnt to love the people, and--thank you!"

That was all, but the laugh on her face, the laugh in her voice, her girlish presence, her winsome manner had done a great deal to soften the hardest heart. Indeed, many believed that she had kept thousands from angry words, and perhaps from angry deeds, by her presence.

"Ay, but oo is bonnie!" "No wonder her feyther is proud on her!" "A gradely la.s.s and a'!" was heard everywhere. And then a silence fell upon the crowd again, which was followed by another mighty shout, louder than any which had yet been heard.

Paul Stepaside came forward, his face pale to the lips, his eyes burning like coals of fire. Black rage was in his heart, for he felt himself to be ignominiously beaten, and yet, with that stubborn persistency which characterised him, and a pride which rose above everything, he would not show it. "My good friends and comrades," he said, "we've been beaten this time, but we'll win yet. If you will have me, I mean to be Member for Brunford, in spite of everything. Mr.

Bolitho has won this time, but it will not be for long. He and I will meet again, for I'm not one who gives up. For the moment I'm under a cloud, but only for a moment. The stars in their courses are on the side of those who are on the side of right. And we are on the right, and I've fought a straight battle. Yes, Mr. Bolitho and I will meet again--it may be under circ.u.mstances different from these, but we shall surely meet, and always to fight! He must not think, because he has gained this victory, that he will always be victorious. If I'm not your Member to-day, I will be to-morrow. And the time will come when he will not rejoice in the victory to-day as he has rejoiced in it to-night!"

Afterwards Paul was angry with himself that he had said this. He had meant to utter no vindictive word, and yet he knew that every sentence he uttered contained a threat, a threat which at that time seemed to him to have no meaning. He felt ashamed of himself, too, and it seemed to him on reflection that he had been churlish even almost to childishness. And yet the words came to him in spite of himself, and he had flung them out eagerly, almost triumphantly. Even Mr. Bolitho felt a shiver pa.s.s through his body as Paul spoke. His speech seemed to contain a kind of prophecy. There was something ominous about it.

It seemed to tell of dark days to come, of tragedy--why, he could not understand, but so it was.

It was all over at length. The crowd broke up and wended their way towards their various homes. Mr. Bolitho went to the club, supported by his followers, while Paul also resorted to the gathering-place most frequently used by the cla.s.s whose cause he had hoped to represent.

For hours there was speechifying and loud talking. For hours words were bandied, explanations offered, and threats made. At length, however, silence reigned in the town; and Paul was about to find his way back to his lodgings, when his partner, George Preston, came to him, accompanied by a man whom they had employed to try and find out the secret cause of the ruin which stared them in the face.

"Paul," said Preston, "you've finished now. Can I go with you to your lodgings?"

"Yes," replied Paul. "What is it?"

"Something that will keep till we are alone," replied the young man laconically. "On the whole, I'm glad we didn't know two days ago what I know now. It's best as it is, Paul. I can see you are terribly disappointed at not getting in, but, for my part, I'm glad. After all, business, with me, is more than politics. You should have waited, lad, waited till our position was safe, before you started this fight.

Still, you couldn't help it. It was not your fault that the election came on this year instead of next, and the chaps meant to have you."

"But tell me, what is it?" asked Paul. His mind had become so confused by the scenes of excitement through which he had pa.s.sed that he could not realise the drift of his partner's words.

"No," replied the other sternly; "let's wait until we get to your lodgings. We must be alone. I tell you, if you knew what you'll know now, when you were speaking from the balcony, there would have been a row. But, never mind, it's best as it is."

They walked on through the narrow, comparatively deserted streets, until presently they arrived at a comfortable-looking house in the Liverpool Road, where Paul's rooms were now situated.

"Now, then, tell me," said the young man, when they were seated.

"Is everybody here gone to bed?" asked Standring, the man who had accompanied them, but who had not yet spoken.

"Hours since," replied Paul. "No election ever fought would keep them out of bed after eleven o'clock."

"That's well." And he took out a bundle of papers from his pocket and laid them on the table.

"You don't expect me to read them to-night?" said Paul. "I tell you, I couldn't. My brain's too f.a.gged."

"No," replied Standring, "they need not be read tonight, but I put them there in case you should want to refer to them. They are proofs of what I'm going to tell you." Paul noted that this young fellow's voice was set and stern; he realised that the matter he wished to discuss was serious. He was a pale-faced, quiet-looking young fellow, this Enoch Standring, not given to talking much, or to a.s.sert himself to any great degree. Up to a year before he had been a book-keeper in one of the mills, and Paul, recognising in him what others had failed to see, had given him a position of trust in his own employ. Directly the circular to which I have referred was sent out to the voters of Brunford, Paul had instructed him to discover what it meant and who was the man who was responsible for it. Enoch Standring had something of the sleuthhound in his nature. For three days and nights he had worked.

Almost without sleep, and with but little food, he had laboured quietly, un.o.btrusively, never arousing suspicions, but always effectively. And now he was prepared to give the result of that work.

"You must cast your mind back a bit, Mr. Stepaside," he said, "and then ask yourself one thing. Is there anyone in Brunford who has a grudge against you?"

"Yes," said Paul. "It's known, is that grudge. It is well known that several years ago Ned Wilson and I had a quarrel which neither of us have forgotten."

"Yes," said Enoch, "and remember what's happened since. There was a riot, and you were dragged into it in spite of yourself."

"I know," said Paul. "But surely you don't mean----"

"I mean nothing," replied Standring. "I only ask you to bear it in mind. You were dragged into it in spite of yourself. Although you tried to dissuade the chaps who were engaged in it from doing anything rash, it seemed as though you were the ringleader. For that you were sent to Strangeways Gaol for six months. Who employed Bolitho for the prosecution? I needn't go into particulars about it; but that's one fact. Then there's something else. When you came out, you decided to start manufacturing, and you got the promise of a factory, with some looms and power, cheap. Then, without any reason, you were told you couldn't have it. Somebody else got it. Who got it? We know. I make no comment, but there it is. Presently the election came on, and nasty stories got to be afloat about your birth and parentage. It was whispered about that you were a come-by-chance child, and your mother was a bad woman. Who was responsible for that? We don't know, or, at least, we can't prove; but, put two and two together. In spite of everything you began to gain ground. People began to support you, and it looked very bad for the other side. You know that; everyone knows it. And then came this other affair. You didn't know that anyone else was manufacturing what you manufactured. You thought it was your secret; but the secret leaked out. I don't say who betrayed you, but there it is. But this I've found out: an old, disused mill was taken the other side of Manchester. Who took it? The name of the owner was kept quiet. It was said to be run by a little private company. That was some time ago now, and ever since that mill was taken there's been a kind of secret as to who owned it. But I've discovered this: they manufactured the same stuff that you manufacture. But they did not try to sell it. They kept piling it up in their warehouses. Can you see the meaning of this? It was kept quiet, mind; as quiet as death.

n.o.body seemed to know the stuff they were turning out. Then suddenly that stuff was pushed on the market at a price which left no margin for profits; nay, they offered it at a price less, far less, than you can manufacture it for. For months they had been piling it up in the warehouses, and they were able to flood the market. Now you know why the prices went down, and why you could not sell your stuff except at a ruinous loss!"

Paul listened to the young man with pale face and set features. He spoke no word, but it was easy to see that he grasped every detail which the young man mentioned. He saw the purport of his words too.

"I see," he said quietly. "And have you found out who the owner of that factory is?"

"Yes," replied Enoch Standring, "I have found out."

"Ned Wilson, of course," said Paul.

"Ay," replied the other laconically.

"And you have proofs?"

"Yes, I have proofs. They are all here docketed and numbered. I will go into them whenever you're ready. They are all there."

For a few seconds a silence fell upon them, and both Enoch Standring and George Preston watched Paul's face eagerly. They were wondering what he was thinking. Standring felt sure that he was planning some scheme of revenge.

"I'll be even with him for this!" said Paul presently.

Neither of them answered. They felt it was no use talking.

"But," continued Paul, "I can hardly see through it. Ned Wilson is a man capable of the riots trick. That's just the kind of thing he would do, but is he the man to lose money in order to satisfy his hatred?"

"Yes," said Standring, "the kind of hatred he has towards you. You see, he's a deeper chap than you think, is Ned Wilson. I've known him from a boy. He would carry a grudge for years. But he's been a chap who's always been noted for paying off old scores, and he's paid you off."

"You've not told me all yet, Standring," said Paul. "Ned Wilson had other motives than that of paying off an old score. I see--I see!"

And he clenched his fists angrily. "Why didn't I see it before? Yes, that's it."

"What's it?" asked Preston.

"Never mind what it is; but I see it plainly. Yes, I understand, and he shall rue it."