"What consolations?" asked Paul.
"Do you not realise the need of pardon?" asked the clergyman. "Do you not need to feel the atonement made for sin?"
"I only want justice. Look, sir," said Paul. "What is the practical result of religion? Does it make men do justice and love righteousness? I will tell you something. There was once a man who betrayed a woman. He was a religious man. He partook of the sacraments. But all his religion did not keep him from forsaking the woman he betrayed and allowing her to spend her life in disgrace and misery. If religion could cause that man to come forward, confess his wrong, and atone for his guilt by doing justice to her, perhaps I could believe. But all these little theories of yours are so many parrot cries."
It was in this state of mind that Paul was led from his cell to the dock. He was still wearing his own clothes, for although he was an accused man, he was not yet proved to be guilty; and with that innate pride and that care for personal appearance which was natural to him, he had carefully dressed himself. His garments were well cut, and fitted his figure perfectly. His linen was spotless, and he stood upright, with a proud look on his face.
There was a kind of gasp when he entered the dock. He was not the kind of man whom many had expected to see. Tall, erect, muscular, pale cheeks, clear-cut features, well-shaped head, dark flashing eyes, sensitive lips and nostrils, he was a direct contrast to those who are usually associated with the crime of which he was accused. Even the judge, who looked at him with keen, penetrating eyes, could not help being impressed by the fact. He was a man capable of controlling other men, a man who could deal with large affairs. Passionate, perhaps, and vengeful, but not likely to wreak his passion like a brute.
"Handsome, isn't he?" said one lady to another. "I'd no idea!"
"Yes, terrible pity, isn't it? But still, I suppose he's had a grudge against Mr. Wilson for years. He belongs to the working classes, too, although by his cleverness he's risen above them. But it's always the same, my dear—common people are common people."
Paul looked steadily round the court. His eyes did not rest long on the judge, although he gave him a keen, searching glance. Even then he felt that the circumstances were far out of the ordinary. Only the previous evening this man's daughter had confessed her love to him. She had defied all conventions, defied the possibility of malign gossip, but of course Judge Bolitho did not know that. They met there as judge and accused, and such were the relations that they must maintain. A few weeks before, this man had written a letter to him—an insulting letter—forbidding him to approach his daughter; and now he, the judge, sat in his seat of authority, while Paul was in the dock.
His gaze swept round the room. He recognised many faces. He saw Edward Wilson, father of the murdered man, pale as ashes, and with set, stern face. He saw the Mayor of Brunford and some of the councillors. He saw men who had fought for him at the last election—men with whom he had done business. He saw people of the common orders—some of them were his own employees—who a week or two before had paid him homage in so far as any Lancashire man pays homage to his employer.
No; it was not like an ordinary trial at all, and yet the issues were tragic. The air seemed to pulsate with doom. No word had yet been spoken, and yet men's hearts were beating wildly. Even the barristers, who sat looking at the prisoner, seemed strangely moved.