"You know my Paul's story," she went on. "Therefore, I needn't repeat it. He came to Brunford, and was falsely accused in this very city, and you—because you were well paid and because I think your conscience smote you and you felt an instinctive hatred towards him—you did your best to get him a heavy punishment. Through you he was sent to Strangeways Gaol for six months, he an innocent man! Then you fought him at the election. You told all sorts of lies about him, and you besmirched my name; he your son, and I your wife, the woman you promised to love and cherish, and then deserted. Do you understand? Do you understand?"
"Yes, I understand," he said; but still it did not seem like Judge Bolitho's voice at all.
"But mind," and here her voice rose somewhat. "But mind, I'm your wife. You married me. I'm your true lawful wife. You don't deny that?"
"Jean," he said, "you don't know; you cannot know. But you'll forgive me, won't you? I do not know myself, that is—— No, of course I can't expect you to forgive me."
"Forgive you?" said the woman, and there was a world of scorn in her tones. "Forgive you, when I've suffered twenty-five years of disgrace because of you! Forgive you, when my son has been lying in gaol because of you! Forgive you, when, but for you, he might be free now! But there's a God in the heaven."
"And Paul Stepaside is my son, my son!"
The thought seemed to have a kind of fascination for him. He repeated it over again and again, as though he took a certain pleasure in doing so. He remembered all that had taken place, remembered that ever since they had first met there had seemed to be a kind of fatality which caused them to feel antagonism for each other. He remembered Paul's words: "Mr. Bolitho and I will meet again, and always to fight, always to fight!" And he was his son! He had never dreamed of this. Often during the years which had elapsed since he last saw the girl he had married, he had wondered what had become of her, but never once had he dreamed of this. It seemed to him as though the foundations of his life were taken away from him. His brain refused to act. His eyes refused to see. A great blackness fell upon everything. He who was usually so keen witted, so clear sighted, could not grasp the meaning of all he had heard, could not understand the issues. He only knew that he was enveloped in a great black cloud, and that he could not see which way to turn or what to do.
"Oh, my God, forgive me!"
The woman turned to him as he uttered these words. "God forgive you!" she cried. "How can God forgive you? I would cease to believe in Him if He did. What, you! who basely deserted me; you! who married me under a false name; you! who during the years have never taken a step to try and find out what had become of me; you! who have hunted my son as though you were a sleuthhound; you! who have dragged him to prison. God forgive you! Tell me, why did you do it?"
There seemed no logical sequence between her last cry and the words which had preceded it. She was a creature of passion, and seemed incapable of thinking coherently.