"They've found him guilty," said the judge hoarsely. "He's condemned to be hanged!"
CHAPTER XXXII
IN THE CONDEMNED CELL
Paul Stepaside was alone in his condemned cell. He was no longer merely a prisoner waiting his trial for the most terrible deed a man can commit; he was condemned for that deed, and his whole circumstances were altered accordingly. No one could see him except in the presence of a warder, and he was under the most rigorous inspection. Care was taken that no means were offered him whereby he could take his own life. Thus, grim and horrible as had been his previous conditions, they were far worse now. The days of hope were gone, because the days of action were gone. Nothing he could say or do now promised a possibility of escape from the terrible doom which had been pronounced.
For many hours he had been thinking over his fate, and wondering what had become of those he loved. Vague rumours had reached him that his mother was not well, but he had no definite knowledge of anything concerning her. A short letter from Mary had also reached him. It was only a few words, but it had been his great source of solace and comfort. But that, too, had lost much of its meaning. It was written before his sentence had been pronounced. It had told him to hope, and it had expressed the undying faith and love of the writer. But even in this short letter he seemed to see a change. It was like the letter of a sister rather than the outpourings of the woman whom he had hoped to make his wife. Of course it was right and natural that this should be so. She had discovered their relationship, and believing herself to be his half-sister, she could no longer think of him as on that night of their meeting in the prison. Then they had met as lovers, and she had promised him that when he was free—as she felt sure he soon would be—to be his wife. But that was all over now. Even although he had been set at liberty, all his hopes would have been in vain. It seemed as though the facts of his life had mocked every hope, as though a grim destiny had fore-ordained that everything he longed for and believed in should mock him.
Since the last hour of the trial, when the judge had pronounced the dread words which made his name a by-word and a shame, and held him up for ever to the reproach of the world, he had been practically alone. He knew nothing of the heart-pangs of others; nothing of great determinations which alternated with wild despair; nothing of agonised prayers, of sleepless nights, and of vain endeavours to prove his innocence. He was a condemned man, alone in a condemned cell, waiting for the last hour. For the first few hours after the final words had been spoken he had a sort of gruesome pleasure in thinking of the future. He fancied that some few days would elapse, during which his case would be considered by the Home Secretary; and then this highly-placed official, having no reason for showing him any special mercy, would go through the formula necessary to his death. Then would come the erecting of the scaffold, the symbol of disgrace and shame. What the cross had been to the old Romans the scaffold was to the modern Englishman. After that, under the grey, murky sky, he would be led out, and the dread formula would be gone through. He would be asked whether he had anything to say before the fatal act was committed, after which the hangman would do his work.
Well, well, he would go through that as he had gone through all the rest. It was a ghastly tragedy, a grim mockery, but he would bear it like a stoic.
Presently, however, his feelings underwent a change. Memories of his early days came back to him—his life in the workhouse, his schooldays, when he took his place among the rest of the pauper boys, the learning of a trade, and his work in the mine. Always his life had been overhung with shadow, and yet he had enjoyed it. He had found pleasure in fighting with difficulty, in overcoming what seemed insuperable obstacles. He remembered the visits of the minister of Hanover Chapel, and of what he had said to him. Yes, the incipient atheism of his boyhood had become more pronounced as the years went by. His unbelief had become more settled, and yet, and yet——
He called to mind the hour he had first seen Mary. How wonderful she had been to him. She had brought something new, something nobler into his life. How, in spite of his anger, he had loved her! Ay, and he loved her still. He thought of his dream of going into Parliament, of fighting for the rights of the working people of the town in which he lived and for the class to which he had belonged. Yes, above and beyond his ambition to be a noted man he had a great consuming desire to do something for the betterment of the condition of the people whom he loved, a great passion to advance their rights. And, to a degree, he had done it. Brunford was the better, and not the worse, because he had lived. If it had been his fate to live, he would have continued to work for the toiling masses of the people. He thought of the dreams which had been born in his brain and heart, and which he hoped to translate into reality; of the Bills he had framed, and which he had meant one day to bring before Parliament, Bills which he had hoped would become Acts, and which would have a beneficent influence on the life of the nation.