The Day of Judgment

by Joseph Hocking

But what should he do? He did not want to die; he hated the very thought of death. He remembered, too, the smile that Mary Bolitho had given him when last they met. He thought of the hopes she had inspired in his heart, of the dreams which had made the world beautiful. That was all over now. His mother had made everything impossible. But whatever she had done, she had done out of love for him, and he could not think harshly of her. Rather, in a way he could not understand, he loved her more than ever.

"Poor mother!" he said to himself. "It was all for love of me—all because she wanted to make me happy!"

Again he went over the whole miserable story, and tried to see whether he had not been mistaken in the suspicion which haunted his brain, but he saw no loophole anywhere. Who could have committed the deed but she? There was the fact of the knife, the fact of the wild threats she had uttered, the fact of her going out into the night alone, the fact that when he returned in the morning he had found her in an almost hysterical state of mind in her bedroom, the fact that his knife was buried in Wilson's heart. No, no; there could be no doubt about it. He did not love her the less, rather the more. He did not regard her as a murderess, and yet he felt sure it was she, even although he lay there apprehended for one of the foulest deeds man could commit.

The following morning Paul was brought before the magistrates. He knew that their duty was largely a matter of form. It was for them to justify the warrant that had been taken out against him, the warrant to arrest him on a charge of murder.

When he entered the justice room he was perfectly calm. He had mapped out his course of action to the minutest detail, and he had no doubt about the findings of the magistrates. Up to the present no coroner's inquest had been held on the body of Edward Wilson. That might not take place for another day or so. Certain preliminaries would have to be arranged first.

The court was thronged, and he afterwards learnt that the street outside was literally deluged with people who had tried to obtain admission. He had no doubt that thousands who had shouted with exultation when he became Member for Brunford now believed him to be a murderer; while others, with that morbid interest which is ever associated with crime, wanted to be present while he was tried. Every seat on the magistrates' bench was occupied; both the victim and the supposed murderer were well known.

Several witnesses were examined; the two men who had seen the quarrel between Paul and Wilson gave evidence of the very angry scene which took place. They described Wilson's rage, and told how he had struck Paul a very heavy blow on the head with a stick; and that Paul, on his recovery, had threatened to be revenged. The knife, also, which had been found in Wilson's body, was proved to be Paul's property, and had been known to be in his possession, while the long enmity between the accused and the murdered man was the talk of the town.

The results of the magistrates' sitting were, of course, inevitable. No bench of magistrates could do other than they were obliged to do. He had set up no defence nor made any statement. Paul Stepaside was remanded, and sent to Strangeways Gaol in Manchester to await the coroner's inquest.

By a little after six that evening Paul found himself again a prisoner in the gaol where he had previously spent six months. But this time all was different. On the former occasion, even although he knew he had been unjustly accused and more unjustly prosecuted, he was aware that much public sympathy was felt for him. He was regarded as a kind of hero among a large class of people. He felt sure, too, that in due course his name would be cleared, and even although the marks of his prison life would ever remain upon him, he would be outwardly very little the worse for what he suffered.

Now, however, the situation was worse. The sky was black and murky; the air was smoke-laden; the atmosphere seemed to be tense with gloom; but it was not blacker than the sky of his life. Everything was hopeless, and he could do nothing.