For an hour they discussed the matter, and then, when presently the others had left him, Paul sat alone thinking. It seemed to him as though the day marked an epoch in his history. It was an end and it was a beginning. For hours he lay in his bed, sleepless. He was thinking of his plans for the future, thinking of the work he had to do.

The next morning he was up betimes. His mind was made up, for he saw his way clearly now. Knowing the enemy he had to fight, he selected the weapons that he must use, and he was no longer afraid. He went quietly to his mill, and for hours studied his position. After that he went to the bank and had a long talk with the manager. Then he paid a visit to an old manufacturer who had retired, and who had shown great friendliness towards him. After that his face cleared somewhat. The crisis was over, at least for a time. He would have six weeks in which to move, and in six weeks he believed that the complexion of everything would be changed.

"No," he said to himself, "it will not be ruin. I know my man. If I make no sign Ned Wilson is not the man who will continue to lose money for me. He thinks I'm ruined, and so he will take this opportunity of making his pile. He thinks he has a corner in this particular stuff.

Well, he hasn't, and this will be my opportunity."

He was some little distance from Brunford as these thoughts pa.s.sed through his mind. Old Abel Bowyer to whom he had gone, lived some three miles from the town and he was returning from his house now.

Indeed he was entering the footpath where he had met Mary Bolitho long months before, and he had only gone a short distance when he saw her coming towards him.

CHAPTER VIII

THE COMING OF PAUL'S MOTHER

Mary Bolitho had returned to Howden Clough on the night of the election, her heart filled with conflicting emotions. Naturally, she had rejoiced in her father's election. No one had worked harder than she, and she felt that her father had not spoken untruthfully when he said that she had been largely responsible for his election. She had thrown herself eagerly into the work of gaining voters, and she knew she had been supremely successful. During the last three weeks a list of names had been given to her almost daily of those who seemed doubtful and undecided, and she had gone to them, and where others had failed she had secured their promises. She was naturally, therefore, elated at the result. The margin was so narrow that, but for her, both she and her father would have left the town feeling that the enemy had triumphed.

But she was not altogether satisfied. For one thing, she felt uncomfortable at the long stay she had been making at Howden Clough.

Again and again she had spoken to her father, asking him to take rooms at an hotel, but Mr. Bolitho had persisted that it would offend the Wilsons deeply, and that he knew of no sufficient reason for acting upon her suggestion.

"What excuse can I give, Mary?" he said. "It was understood from the beginning that I was to make Howden Clough my home during our visits here. They have become personal friends of ours, and not only should we wound them by going to an hotel, but at this stage of the business we should cause a great deal of gossip."

Though yielding to her father's wishes, however, she was far from satisfied. It seemed to her that Ned Wilson looked on her with an air of proprietorship. He did not say this in so many words, but she couldn't help seeing what his thoughts and determinations were. Not that she disliked Ned--indeed, she had become more and more favourably impressed by him. He had more brains than she imagined, too, and had given evidence that, from the standpoint of business, he was thoroughly versed in the questions at issue. He had thrown himself with tremendous ardour into the fight, and had spared himself in no way in order to win the election, and yet she was not satisfied. There seemed something at the back of everything which she could not understand.

She had seen the circular referred to in the last chapter, and, in spite of the explanations which had been made, could not help feeling that the sending out of this same circular was unfair and even base.

Everyone at Howden Clough professed ignorance concerning it, and there were many surmises as to who was responsible for it. The printer's name did not appear, and it was sent from London. That of itself looked to her very suspicious. But more than this, she could not understand Ned Wilson's behaviour. She had discussed with him who had been guilty of it, and while he, like the rest, professed to know nothing, he did not appear to be at all at ease.

"But is Mr. Stepaside on the brink of ruin, as is suggested here? And will he not be able to pay his debts?" she asked.

"Oh, I daresay it's true," cried Ned. "You see, the fellow is a bounder. He started manufacturing on practically nothing, not knowing very much about it. That's why he's got into this hole. You see, he's no conscience, and his ambition oversteps everything. You should have heard him last Sunday morning haranguing his followers, as I was coming home from church. You would realise, then, what kind of a fellow he is--just a blank, blatant atheist, and, as your father has always maintained, a man who has given up faith in religion is very doubtful as to his morals."

"Then, you mean he'll become a bankrupt?"

"Most likely," replied Ned. "And serve him right, too. He's only himself to blame. But what worries me is not that he will most likely be a bankrupt, but the sufferings of the people to whom he owes money."

Mary was naturally impressed by this conversation. While she regarded Paul Stepaside with a certain amount of admiration because of his strong personality and the position he had, in spite of difficulties, obtained in Brunford, she had a certain horror of his irreligion and his apparent vindictiveness. She recalled the words he had spoken to her on the two occasions on which they had met, words which revealed the pa.s.sionate nature of the man. She was sorry she had spoken to him at all. She ought to have treated him with the scorn and contempt he deserved. After all, what had she to do with a Lancashire operative who, because he was possessed of a kind of vulgar aggressiveness, had become an employer of labour?

The scene in the chamber where the votes were counted, however, strengthened the uncomfortable feelings which had hitherto possessed her. He had openly accused her father of encouraging means which he regarded as disgraceful. He had declared that Mr. Bolitho had used these methods by which to destroy him. Of course, she could not help being offended, if not angry, at Paul Stepaside's demeanour and at his almost savage attack. She reflected that he was guilty of the conduct of a clown, and attributed it not only to his own savagery, but to the instincts of his cla.s.s. And yet she was impressed by his strength.

She almost admired him, as he savagely proclaimed the fact that he would yet be Member for Brunford. She felt his strength, too, and saw how he moved the mult.i.tude. Yes, in spite of everything, he was a strong man, and she loved strength. He had the instincts of a leader, and she admired men who could lead. And he was right, too--he was not crushed, although he was beaten, and he would fight again.

She was very silent at Howden Clough when they all returned from the gathering at the club. Everyone was jubilant except her, and although she was interested in all that was said, there was a strange feeling at her heart which she could not understand. She had a kind of fear, too, that Ned Wilson was on the point of making an avowal of his love, and for that reason she had determined that nothing should keep her from leaving Brunford on the morrow. Her father, however, had arranged to stay in the town until late in the afternoon, and she must perforce stay with him. But she determined to be alone, and that was why she found herself out in the fields at the back of Howden Clough when Paul was returning from his visit to old Abel Bowyer. She did not mean to speak to him, and yet she instinctively walked more slowly as he approached. In spite of herself, too, she found herself admiring him.

He gave no suggestion of a beaten man. His step was firm and quick, and he walked almost like a victor.

Paul, scarcely knowing what he was doing, lifted his hat as he came close to her. "Miss Bolitho," he said, "will you convey a message to your father from me?"

She had meant to pa.s.s by without speaking, but the manner in which he addressed her made this impossible.

"If you wish to send a message to my father," she answered, "would it not be well for you to write to him? Good afternoon." And she moved as if to pa.s.s on.

"No," replied Paul quietly. "I want you to take a message direct from me, and doubtless he will tell Wilson. Please inform him that I have discovered the author of the circular which was sent broadcast during the election, and that I have proofs of the plot to ruin me. Doubtless he will be interested."

Without another word he pa.s.sed on. A little later, Mary Bolitho left Brunford with her father. A fairly large crowd gathered at the Brunford station to see them off, and there were all sorts of shouting and congratulations; but Mary was very silent, and during the whole of the journey to Manchester she scarcely spoke a word. She said nothing of her meeting with Paul that day. It seemed to her that something had closed her lips. She knew not why. One thing, however, gave her a feeling of gratification--she had made it impossible for Wilson to make his declaration of love. She knew she had only put it off for a time, and she dreaded the evil day.

Meanwhile, she was glad that he had not spoken to her, for Mary knew that if she accepted him, she would do so largely, if not altogether, at the wish of her father. For some reason or other Ned Wilson and he had become exceedingly friendly, and she believed, although her father had said nothing definite to her about it, that he favoured Ned's suit.

And she loved her father with a great love, and would not, if she could help it, do anything to displease him. For Mary belonged to those who were held fast by old-fashioned views concerning the obedience due from children to their parents. In this respect she was a child of a past generation. She had a horror of anything like the modern woman movement, and did not claim that so-called emanc.i.p.ation by which they give up their superiority to men, in order to become their equals.

She determined, too, that she would go away on a long visit to a friend, giving as an excuse to her father that she was overwrought by the election and needed a rest. In this way she thought she would, for a time at all events, postpone the day of decision in relation to the suit which she knew Ned Wilson was longing to urge.

In a few days the excitement of the election had calmed down at Brunford. The jubilation of the victors spent itself, as did the disappointment of those who were vanquished. Bolitho was elected and Paul Stepaside didn't get in. And that, for the time being, was the end of it.

Meanwhile, Paul went on with his work silently, doggedly. His affairs were in a critical condition, and he needed all his energy and all his wits to put everything right. He no longer fought in the dark, however. He knew who and what had brought about the crisis which had faced him, and Paul was a man of many resources. For more than a month he had only been able to give half his mind to his business, and George Preston, while a trustworthy and reliable fellow, was not strong enough to face the problems which lay before them. Freed from the demands of the political contest, however, he threw his whole energies into the disentanglement of his affairs, and little by little he succeeded. The prices for the stuff which he had been manufacturing went up again, and although they had not reached the figures of a few months before, he was able to sell enough to help him to meet his most pressing creditors. In three months, matters had a.s.sumed their normal condition. Evidently Ned Wilson regarded him as no longer dangerous, and was not prepared to lose more money to bring about his revenge. In addition to this, Paul had worked in a way whereby Wilson had been deceived. Mind for mind, Wilson was no match for him. He was not so far-seeing, neither had he so broad a grasp of affairs. He had been able to gain an immediate advantage because of his large capital, and Paul knew that Wilson's father was too fond of money to consent to heavy and continuous losses. At the end of six months Paul's position was pretty well a.s.sured. In spite of everything he had overcome the evil circ.u.mstances, and, more than that, he had even used what seemed a disaster to the furtherance of his own ends.

All this time he had not been unmindful of the great quest of his life.

He never forgot, even when the fight was at the highest, the loneliness of his mother's life and the shadow that rested upon her. Indeed he had, from the time of his returning from Scotland, made constant and continuous efforts to discover the man who had blackened her name. All his efforts, however, were unavailing. Every road seemed to be a cul-de-sac. Either Douglas Graham had given his mother a false name or else he had left the country, and thus made it impossible for him to find him; or he might be dead--it was quite possible. During the lapse of twenty-five years anything might happen. Still, he had a feeling that his father was alive, and he owed it to his mother, he owed it to himself, to penetrate the mystery. Why he should connect Mary Bolitho with all this he did not know; nevertheless, it was a fact that her face was never missing from the picture which he drew of the future.

Somehow she was always connected with the efforts he was making. Often he dreamed of the time when he would be able to get her and say, "My name is as honourable as yours, as free from stain as yours. I have found my father." But the months went by and his search was unavailing, and the questions he was constantly asking were never answered.

He had never seen his mother since the day he left her on the Altarnun Moors. More than once he had suggested that she should come and live with him, but she had refused. Frequently, too, when writing to her, he had asked her whether he might come and see her, but she had persistently opposed this. "No, Paul," she said. "Your coming would only lead to questions. Here I am allowed to bury my secret in my own heart, and while my life is lonely enough, I can bear it until the day when justice is done to me."

At length, however, Paul could bear it no longer.

"MOTHER (he wrote),--I am now what you would call a rich man. I have more money than I need to spend, and I cannot bear that you should be living away in that lonely farmhouse. You say you are treated more like a housekeeper than a servant, more like a member of the family than a stranger, but that's not enough for me. You are my mother, and, although I know little of you, I love you dearly. Besides, I am very lonely. I have but few friends, neither do I wish to make any, but I want you to come to me, mother. If you can keep house for that farmer, you can keep house for me. And I want to see you constantly. I want you by my side. I want you to be here to bid me 'Good-morning' when I go out to my work and welcome me when I come home at night. I want a home of my own, and I want my mother to be at the head of it. You must do this, mother. I have my eye now upon an old-fashioned house just outside Brunford. It is hidden from the town, and was at one time, I suppose, owned by a sort of yeoman. It has a large garden, and there are old trees round it, and that, I can a.s.sure you, is something to be desired here, in a town where there are few gardens and where the trees grow with difficulty. It will give me joy to furnish this home for you, mother, and to make your life one of ease. Besides, I want your help. Ever since I came here, I've been trying to find the man of whom you spoke to me; I cannot call him 'Father,' even although he is. If you came, you could help me, and together we could think of means whereby the truth could be brought to light. Will you, mother? I know you say you are comfortable as you are, and that you don't wish to be a burden to me. You would not be a burden, but you would help me to bear mine, and so I don't ask you to come for your own sake, but for mine.

I am your son, and I am lonely, and I need my mother."

Three days later he received his mother's reply:

"MY DEAR PAUL (she wrote),--I will come to you. Great fear is in my heart as I write this, but I can't resist you. You are my own flesh and blood, and although I have scarcely seen you from a child, you are the only thing I love. So, Paul, while I do not wish you to spend money for me, and while I shall be contented with a very little house, I will come as soon as ever you say you are ready for me."

A new interest came into Paul's life directly he had received this letter, and without hesitating a second he took the house he had mentioned. It was a wonder the place had been unoccupied for so long, because it was one of the best specimens of architecture in the neighbourhood. Perhaps the reason why it had not been taken was that it did not accord with the prevailing ideas in relation to houses. Of course, it was too large for an operative to think of taking, and as for the ordinary prosperous business man, he loved a more showy house, with plate-gla.s.s windows and high ceilings. This house had been built before Brunford became a manufacturing town, and was looked upon as utterly inconvenient and lacking in those characteristics which the prosperous Lancashire man loves. It was low ceiled; it looked somewhat dark. Its windows were stone-mullioned, and instead of great plate-gla.s.s windows it had small diamond-leaded lights. And so Paul was able to get it at a comparatively nominal rent, especially as the place was in shocking repair. In a few weeks, however, a transformation had been wrought. The building had been thoroughly overhauled, and by the wise expenditure of a comparatively small amount of money, modern conveniences had been installed. The old oak floors had been thoroughly cleaned, the walls distempered; the roof and windows repaired, and the sanitation made perfect. Paul took a wondrous delight in doing this. Each evening, when the day's work was over, he hastened to it, and rejoiced in the new beauties which the old place was constantly revealing. All the woodwork was of oak, and the old staircase, with its quaintly carved banisters and newels, the oak-panelled walls, which the last tenant had allowed to become dirty and damaged, appealed to his artistic nature. He loved the great oak beams which stretched across the ceilings, and rejoiced in the quaint nooks which were a characteristic of the old building. The furnishing, too, brought him constant pleasure. There happened to be a man in the town who dealt in antique furniture, and he also manufactured new furniture from old models. Why, Paul did not know, but since he had been in the habit of visiting wealthy men's residences, he had taken a great dislike to the bright, showy and costly, though very substantial, furniture which he saw. It had newness written everywhere, and utilitarianism and wealth seemed to be the great things to proclaim.

But in this old dealer's warehouse he was able to resurrect things which had been bought from old manor houses, and which the Brunford people regarded as rubbish. These articles, when cleaned and repaired according to their original design, rejoiced him greatly. So that when, a few weeks after he had written to his mother, he saw them placed in his house, he felt for the first time that he had a home.

One room especially attracted him--the room he meant to be sacred to his mother and to himself. Two-thirds of the wall s.p.a.ce was covered with bookcases, while on the rest he hung some very good pictures. All these bookcases, as well as the chairs and writing-desk, made him think of the days of rest and comfort before Brunford became a scene of rush and turmoil. He pictured his mother seated by the fire, while he, after his day's work was over, would sit by her side with a pipe and a book. If he could not find his father, he could, at least, give his mother a home, and he vowed that he would make her happy. She was only a young woman even yet. It is true she looked careworn and sad when he had seen her on that day when she had told him her story, but he would smooth the lines from her face, and by his love and devotion would bring joy to her heart. He vowed, too, that Brunford should recall the words which had been uttered about her, and that the best people in the town should pay their respects to her. The time was now summer, and although it is hard to make a garden beautiful, even while two miles away from the grime and smoke of the town, he had done all that was possible in that direction.

"She will be here to-morrow night," he said to himself, as one evening he wandered from room to room. "This is her bedroom," he thought. "I hope she'll find everything comfortable. Yes, I believe she'll be happy here. It will ease her aching heart as I come to kiss her good-night, and my bedroom is close by, and she'll always know that I'm near. And then there is the kitchen, too. I must take care that everything is right there. I wonder whether she will like the servant I have got for her. At any rate, she will be able to set that right herself, if it is not right now, and I have money enough to give her every comfort. I was lucky to get such a dear old house, and she shall enjoy it; at least, I owe her that." And then, as her picture came before him as he had seen her that night when she had bidden him good-bye, the tears came into his eyes and his lips trembled. All the next day he was strangely excited, and George Preston declared that he had never known him so careless about business. "People are finely talking about your taking that house!" he said. "Some are saying you're going to get wed! Why have you been so close about it? And what makes you spend all that bra.s.s?"

"My mother is coming to live with me," said Paul; "coming to-day."

"You don't mean it!" said the other. "Why, you looked as though you might be expecting your sweetheart!"

"I am," replied Paul with a laugh. And, indeed, he felt as though he were; for Paul was more happy than he had ever known himself to be before. The clouds somehow seemed to have lifted, and brightness came into his heart in spite of himself.

"She'll be very tired," he reflected, as that night he wended his way to the station. "She will have been travelling all day. She left Launceston early this morning, and it will have been a rush for her."

So he was careful to engage a cab some time before the train was due, and then walked up and down the station with a fast-beating heart.

Yes, life was becoming new to him in, a way that he could not understand. He felt less bitter towards the world, less bitter towards Mr. Bolitho, less angry at what had happened to him. The six months in Strangeways Gaol seemed but a horrible dream. The struggles of the past were far behind. He, while yet but a youth, had succeeded beyond all expectations, and, added to all this, his mother was coming to live with him; and for the first time in his life he would have a home!

No youth waiting for his sweetheart was ever more impatient than Paul.