FATHER AND SON
Daylight was now dying, although it was only a little after three o'clock. The sky was murky and smoke-laden, the air was utterly still. All round the centre of the city the people still discussed the events of the morning. Outside the Town Hall, in the Square, outside the Hospital, all down Market Street, along Corporation Street, the people stood in excited groups; and although the intense feeling which had been aroused in the morning had somewhat subsided, there was only one subject which was of paramount interest. Strange as it may seem, however, the district round Strangeways Gaol was comparatively deserted. The Assize Courts were no longer the centre of interest, even although they were the source from which everything emanated.
By this time Paul Stepaside had become almost in a state of torpor. He was suffering a reaction from the intense feeling which had possessed him that morning. When he had at first returned to his cell his mind was intensely alive, and a thousand plans were flashing through his brain, a thousand questions occurred to him which demanded an answer. Now, however, that numb, dull feeling which ever follows such experiences possessed him. After all, what mattered? Mary Bolitho could never be his wife, and if Fate had decided upon his death, die he must. Indeed, he did not seem to care very much. It seemed as if, for the time being, his nature had become almost paralysed. Of course, the experiences through which he was passing were only transitory. Presently his strength would assert itself again, and everything would become vivid and vital. And so he lay in a semi-comatose condition on the comfortless couch which had been provided for him, and the realities of the situation seemed far away. He had been lying thus for perhaps an hour, and was on the point of falling asleep, when there were footsteps in the corridor outside, and the door of his cell opened.
At first he felt almost annoyed at the intrusion. Why could they not let him rest? After all, everything was hopeless, and he did not very much care. Still, he turned his eyes towards the door, and when he saw that it was Judge Bolitho who entered, he started to his feet. His nerves grew tense again, and his mind active. The judge waited while the door was closed, and then turned to Paul. The older man looked around the little room like one trying to take in the situation, noted the light of the dying day as it penetrated the prison window, let his eyes rest upon the little couch where Paul had been lying, and made a survey of the items of the room as though it were his business to care for the prisoner's comfort.
Neither of them spoke for some seconds. Paul was silent because, in spite of everything, there seemed an insurmountable barrier between him and the man who had come to visit him; the judge, because he almost feared the son whom he had come to see.
Presently their eyes fastened upon each other's faces, and each scrutinised every feature as if trying to read the other's mind. It was Paul who spoke first.
"Why have you come here?" he asked.
"Surely you can guess?" was the reply. "I could not stay away. There was but one place to which I could go."
"You must know that I have nothing to say to you, even as you have nothing to say to me."
"You are wrong," replied the judge. "I have a great deal to say to you. How can it be otherwise? Have you no pity, my boy?"