Almost like a man in a dream, he knelt down by the chair and tried to pray. What must he do? Life was a tangle, but he entangled it yet farther himself. He, by his own act, had made everything difficult, terrible, tragic. His conscience was roused within him, and as he prayed he seemed to see, as though in a vision, the road he ought to take.

"No, not that!" he cried. "Not that! Great G.o.d, not that! I could not do it! I could not do it!"

He rose from his knees and began to pace the room. His mind was clear enough now, for G.o.d had spoken.

"But I cannot do it," he said. "If I do what seems right, I shall bring pain, disgrace on so many. No, I cannot do it! It cannot be right to do right! It cannot!"

And still he paced the room, struggling, fighting, and sometimes offering wild, inarticulate prayers.

CHAPTER XXII

THE DAY OF JUDGMENT

On the morning of the second day of the trial Paul Stepaside woke from a troubled sleep. Throughout the night he had been living again in his dreams the scenes of the trial. They had been confused and bewildered; but one fact dominated everything else: the man who was his judge was his father! When he woke, that was the first thought that appeared clear in his mental horizon. Before he had gone to sleep he realised that he hated his father with a more intense hatred than when his mother had told her story on the Altarnun Moors. No thought of tenderness came into his mind. No feeling of affection entered his heart. It seemed to him as though all the darkness of his life, all the pain he had ever suffered, all the wrongs he had ever endured, were because of the man who, his mother declared, was his father. And he hated him! It was through him he lay in prison. It was through him the shadow of the gallows rested upon him. He realised, too, even although his heart refused to a.s.sent to the finding of his brain, that he must no longer love the woman who was dearer to him than his own life. His sister? His heart made mockery of the thought! No man loved a sister as he loved Mary Bolitho. Only a half-sister, it is true, but they were both children of the same father. Oh, the bitter mockery, the terrible irony of it! And this man, who stood for justice, who represented the majesty of the law, who had risen to one of the highest places in the realm of the law, had been in reality a criminal ever since he came to manhood. And this man had made it, as it seemed to him, a sin for him to love the woman who was all the world to him. His sister! His sister! He had some idea that the English law did not forbid a man marrying his own stepsister, but something in his heart revolted against that. And yet, and yet---- But what did it all matter? He lay there in Strangeways Gaol charged with murder. The first day of the trial had gone black against him, and, although he knew no more as to who murdered Ned Wilson than the veriest stranger, he realised that he stood in the most imminent danger. And the man who was really responsible for everything, the man who was at the heart of it all, was the judge! What should he do? If he did what was in his heart, he could make him a byword and a hissing through the whole country; but that, again, meant disgrace for Mary, and he had sworn that she must suffer nothing. The warder brought him his morning meal, which he ate silently. He was thinking what the day would bring forth.

He wondered how long the trial would last, and what the jury would say.

He could not see his way through the tangle of his life. But as he thought of everything a grim resolve mastered him. He would not die; he simply would not! He would fight to the very last. He would tear the evidence which had been adduced in fragments. He would proclaim his innocence, and not only proclaim it, but prove it. He was sadly handicapped, for whatever else he must do he must see to it that no suspicion would attach to his mother. But without allowing anyone to think of her in such a relation, he would make it impossible for the jury to condemn him.

When breakfast was over, he tramped his little cell, thinking, thinking, considering a score of plans, and discarding them, yet all the time fighting his way towards his course of action.

He laughed as he reflected on the irony of the situation. The judge would not know what he knew, but sitting there in all his stately dignity, arrayed in his robes of office, he would not realise that the man charged with murder was his son. He wondered how he could let him know it, wondered how he could bring his own villainy home to him. He had not one tender thought for his father, not one--only scorn, contempt, hatred was in his heart when he thought of him. And yet he was his own father--father, too, of the woman he loved, the woman whom he had held in his arms and who had expressed her infinite faith in him.

Not long before the hour of the trial the chaplain again paid him a visit. But Paul was in no humour to receive him.

"I am afraid you only waste your time coming to me," he said. "I appreciate the fact that you are a kind-hearted man, but see, I haven't an atom of faith, not an atom. I do not believe in the value of your religion. I am an atheist."

"You believe nothing?" said the chaplain.

"Nothing as far as your profession is concerned," said Paul, "nothing."

"Would nothing convince you?" said the chaplain.

"Nothing," replied Paul grimly. And then he laughed. "I am wrong, though," he added. "Yes, I think one thing would convince me. You remember the story I told you yesterday--or shall we call it an incident, and not a story?"

"I remember. I suppose it had something to do with your own life?"

"You have heard the miserable stories, then?" said Paul.

"I have heard a great many things about you," replied the chaplain.

"Well, then," said Paul. "Let me say this to you: I think this would convince me that there might be something in religion if my father confessed his wrong, publicly confessed it, mind you, and sought to do right; if he proclaimed his ill-deeds before the world, and did all in his power to rectify the wrong he had done. Then I might believe."

"And nothing else would convince you?" said the chaplain.

"Nothing else," said Paul.

"But who is your father? Where is he?"

"Ah," said Paul. "But it's no use thinking of it any more. The whole thing is hopeless, and life is just a great mockery."

The chaplain left him with a sad heart. He was a kind man, and sought to do his duty, and Paul had interested him strangely.

The court that day was, if possible, more crowded than ever. The morning papers had been filled with reports of the previous day's trial. The wildest of rumours had been afloat. Descriptive articles had been written about the young Member of Parliament who was accused of such a terrible crime. His every word had been commented on. His appearance had been discussed. The evidence given had been the subject of thousands of gossiping tongues. And so the court that day was simply thronged with an intense, eager crowd. Moreover, the inwardness of the trial had seized upon the imaginations of the people. It was more real, more vivid to them than it had been the day before. And when Paul entered the dock, accompanied by two policemen, a great silence fell upon the court, while every eye was fixed upon him.

"He looks as hard and proud as ever!"

"Yes, there's not much sign of repentance!"

"I wonder if the trial will close to-day?"

"There's no knowing. I've heard as 'ow several witnesses will be brought into court which was never thought of at the beginning. Will Ashley says as 'ow he saw Paul about half-past five on the morning of the murder not far from Howden Clough. Will says as 'ow there was a look in his eyes like the eyes of a madman."

"But Will never appeared before the coroner's inquest?"

"No; I suppose he wanted to be kept out of it. But he 'appened to tell his missis, and his missis told it to somebody else, who told it to one of the policemen, and that's 'ow it came about."

In another part of the court, not far from the barristers' seats, two ladies discussed Paul. They, too, had been brought there by morbid curiosity aroused by this trial.

"Did you know that Judge Bolitho's daughter was here yesterday?"

"No. Was she?"

"Yes. I watched her face during the trial. It was as pale as death.

I wonder how she dared to come."

"Why, what do you mean?"

"Oh, you know she was engaged to young Wilson."

"I've heard that was denied."

"Well, anyhow, there's something about it in one of the Brunford papers, and there's no doubt Wilson was in love with her."

"Then no wonder she was pale."

"Mrs. Jackson told me she saw her smile on the prisoner."

"She must have been mistaken. It's terribly interesting, isn't it?"

"I wonder when they will commence. It's five minutes past time."

This was true. Five minutes had pa.s.sed away since Paul had been led to the dock, and still the trial had not commenced. The reason for this was evident--the judge had not yet appeared. The jurymen were in their places, conversing in low whispers one with another. More than one was anxious and pale. A number of barristers were also present, eager for the commencement of the day's trial. They were wondering what new factor would be at work that day. To most of them it was a case that was deeply interesting, one which they wished to study and which might help them in days to come. Newspaper reporters sat busily writing.

Each was trying to vie with the other to produce a sensational description. Presently, as if by magic, a great silence fell upon the court. It was now ten minutes past the time when the trial should commence, and still the judge had not appeared. Each seemed to be wondering what was the matter. The air was tense with excitement.

Could anything have happened? What did the judge mean by being late?

And still they waited and watched, until at last the silence became almost painful.

Presently a deep sigh rose from the crowded seats. It seemed as if the spectators wanted to give vent to their feelings. A curtain at the back of the hall was drawn aside, and Judge Bolitho, with bowed head and staggering footsteps, found his way to his accustomed seat.