f he
did not speak, if he maintained the silence which he had hitherto
maintained, the jury would find him guilty, and he would be hanged.
But his mother's name would be saved from disgrace. She would not have
to pay the penalty of the deed which she had done out of love for him.
No one could associate crime with her. He had gone carefully into his
business matters, and he knew that he would leave her enough to live
comfortably. The hand of want would never knock at her door. Of
course, it was all very terrible; but she would never be branded, and
she might find some measure of peace. Anyhow, he was willing to pay
the price for what happiness she could get. He would be an ingrate
indeed if he were not. Had she not done everything for him? Ah! but
there was the other side. Mary's coming had made everything a thousand
times harder to bear. He did not mind it before, for he believed that
everything had become impossible, but now that she had come to him, now
that she had freely told him with her own lips of the love she bore for
him, now that she was willing to link her life with his, regardless of
what the world might say, now that a happiness such as he had never
dreamt of was possible, how could he do it? In that moment Paul
Stepaside seemed to live an eternity. Whichever way he turned, he was
met by blank impossibilities. How could he enter into happiness,
knowing that in order to do so he had sent his mother to the gallows?
Rather a thousand times that his tongue should be paralysed than that
he should utter a word to fasten the crime upon her. And yet, if he
did not do so, he must lose Mary for ever. He must end his days in a
way which has become a byword and a shame for every right-thinking man.

"You'll tell me what you know, and all you know, won't you? It's for
my sake, Paul. It's for both our sakes, our life's happiness is at
stake. You see it, don't you? Tell me, my dear, tell me?"

What would he not have given to have been able to have told her! But
how could he?

"No, Mary," he said at length. "There is nothing to tell."

"You mean you will not tell?"

"There is nothing to tell," he repeated.

"Paul, you're not guilty; you know you're not guilty. You are
absolutely innocent of everything with which you are charged. You know
it. I don't want you to answer me. You know it, and I know it."

He looked at her with a glad light shining from his eyes, even although
her words were lad