The Day of Judgment

by Joseph Hocking

Of what he thought during the many hours he remained there it is not easy to tell, but that he felt the terror of it and the grim tragedy which pervaded everything can be easily realised. He was apprehended for murder, and he had been taken to that gloomy cell because of it. Of course, the reasons were plain enough, and as far as he could see, the police officials could not evade their duty. The long-standing feud between himself and Wilson was well known. Many threats had been uttered on both sides, while the quarrel which had taken place the previous night had evidently become public property. It seemed to him as though the hand of Fate had been at work in order to encompass his ruin. Of course, he was innocent of the deed. He had never struck Ned Wilson the blow which deprived him of life; nevertheless, every circumstance seemed to point to him; and, to crown all, it was his knife that had been found in Wilson's heart.

During the time he had been in the cab he had been thinking of the means he should use to clear himself, for he felt sure he could do so. Sitting alone in the cell, however, this became impossible. Such a terror as he had never known before filled his heart. He believed he knew who had committed this ghastly deed, but his lips must be sealed. He must not tell; he would rather die than tell of what he knew. His mother, out of love for him, and with a desire to be revenged upon the man who had been his enemy, had, in her mad passion, taken away his life.

He called to mind the incidents of the previous day. He remembered that, not long after he had arrived at his office that morning, his mother came to see him. She had come in by a side entrance and had found her way across a little piece of intervening yard, and had thus come to his office without the notice of others—at least, he hoped so; at any rate, it was quite possible that she should have done so. He wondered why she had come that morning, because she seemed to have nothing to say to him of importance. But while they were there, she had noticed a large knife lying upon his desk. It had been sent to him some time before by a man from South America, with whom he had done business. It was an ugly, murderous-looking weapon, and keen as a razor. He remembered her asking questions about it. Soon after he had been called out of the office, and when he returned he noticed that it was not lying on the table. He had paid no particular attention to this fact at the time, because his mind had been filled with other things. He had been trying to discover Ned Wilson's whereabouts, and he had been thinking of the things he meant to say to him.

During the afternoon he had forgotten all about his mother—he had reason to—but on his return, after he had told her all that had taken place, he remembered she seemed like one bereft of her senses. Every detail of the interview they had together came to him there, as he sat alone in the darkness, thinking and remembering. He called to mind every word she had spoken; and, in the light of after events, he thought he could plainly see their meaning. She had told him that he need not fear, that he should be avenged, that the desires of his heart should be realised. She had said something about Howden Clough. He had paid no particular attention to it then, as he fancied she was thinking of the place where he had quarrelled with Wilson; but now he knew.

He remembered going into his mother's bedroom and looking into the wardrobe where she kept her dresses. He had noted that it was nearly midnight, and her bed had been untouched. He called to mind, too, how presently he had left the house, determined to find her; how he had walked for hours in vain, not daring to make inquiries; and then, when presently he had returned, he had found her in her bedroom, evidently under the stress of a great emotion. There was a look of unholy joy in her eyes, and she had uttered wild words. He could not understand them then, but he understood now. His mother, wrought up almost to a pitch of insanity, roused to hatred of Wilson, not only because of what he had done to him but of what he had said about her, and madly thinking that she was going to help him, had gone out and committed this deed.

Of course, there were many things he could not explain; but the grim logic of facts stared him in the face, and they explained the unnameable fear which had come into his heart, the black shadow which had rested upon everything.

In a way, he was almost glad that they had apprehended him; and there in the silence he made a vow that, whatever should happen, he must see to it that no suspicion should ever rest upon her. Evidently she had not been in the mind of the officials at all. No one would suspect that she had not gone to bed when she left him. He was the only one who knew, and he must guard the secret at whatever cost.

He knew something of the course of the procedure which would be taken against him. Whether he were committed for trial or not—ay, whether any jury might find him guilty or not, he must say nothing, and do nothing, which should have the slightest tendency to connect her with this terrible thing.

The meaning of the tragedy itself did not appeal to him. The fact that Wilson, the man who through the long years had been his enemy—yes, and his rival, too—was dead did not appeal to him. The ghastliness of the tragedy was not what he thought about at all. Ever and always his mind reverted to his mother. She must be saved.

He had wondered the night before whether she were quite sane, and he wondered now; but that did not matter. Under no conceivable circumstances must the thoughts of men be directed to her!