"But in the eyes of the law, Paul?" she asked eagerly.
"Ay, even in the eyes of the law," he replied. "If I could find him, I could face him with what you both wrote in that book in the old inn. Both the man and the woman are still alive, and they had no doubt about it. But I cannot find him. I've tried, and, as these Lancashire people say, 'better tried.' I sometimes think we'll have to give it up!"
The woman rose to her feet and came towards him like one in anger. "Paul," she said, "never hint at such a thing again. For myself it doesn't matter. Everyone here calls me Mrs. Stepaside, and there are but few who ask questions about my marriage, although I know it's been talked about. But there is you to consider. Stepaside is not your real name. It is the name of a hamlet, the place where I fell down, thinking and hoping and almost praying that I should die. It's a name of disgrace. It was given to you because the workhouse master could think of nothing else. And I should never rest in my grave thinking that you did not possess your rights! We must find him, Paul. We must make him do you justice, ay, and make him suffer, too, as I have suffered!"
"Have you not forgotten or forgiven yet?" he asked, almost startled by the look on his mother's face.
"Forgotten, forgiven!" And it did not seem to be like her voice at all. "Never, while I have a brain to think or a heart to feel! Forgiven! As I said, for myself it does not matter, although for many a month I was in hell! But I can never forget the injury he has done to you—you who were branded in the village where you were reared as a come-by-chance child, a workhouse brat, reared, upon the rates, a burden to the parish! Can I forgive that, while perhaps he—he may have married again."
"Perhaps he did not," said Paul. "Perhaps he sent that man to your old home to inquire because, after all, he was caring for you!"
"What's that?" cried the woman angrily. "To send to inquire! Did he follow the steps I took? If he cared for me, if he were faithful to his promise, he would have traced me to Cornwall. He would never give up seeking for me until he had found me or discovered the truth about me. No, Paul, we must make him pay for it, we must! And don't ever hint about giving it up again. I've had a feeling lately that I'm going to find him, and when I do—when I do——"
And Paul saw that his mother's eyes burned red. She seemed to have lost control over herself entirely. "I have plans even now," she went on presently.
"What plans?" he asked.
"I am not going to tell you," she replied. "But I've not been thinking all these years for nothing! Directly you wrote me the account of your visit to Scotland it all came back to me again. I've been thinking it over week after week and month after month. And I have a feeling that I shall find him. I must, for your sake, Paul! You love that lass, and you must marry her. I know that you are dreaming of her night and day. I know that you'll never be happy without her!"