The Day of Judgment

by Joseph Hocking

It was then that he realised what he had to face. For Paul Stepaside believed that he knew who had killed Wilson. For many a weary hour he had thought over his mother's strange behaviour, thought of the flash of madness which had shot from her eyes, thought of the wild words she had uttered. He remembered, too, the sight that met his gaze on the morning of the murder. He saw her again, sitting in her bedroom, saw the look of unholy joy in her face; and in his heart of hearts he felt sure of what she had done. It was all for him. She had loved him with a mad, unreasoning frenzy; for him she was willing to sacrifice her own life. How much wonder, then, that she had been willing to sacrifice another's life. She had believed that Ned Wilson stood between him and happiness, and she had determined to move him out of life's pathway. He had seen her on the day before the murder, with the knife which had killed Ned Wilson in her hand. She, unknown to his partner, George Preston, had come to his office. He had seen her handling this murderous weapon, and he remembered the look in her eyes; remembered, too, what she had said. How could he doubt? Indeed, she had practically confessed the deed to him, and he had sworn that not a shadow of suspicion should rest upon her name. She was his mother. She had suffered for him. She had committed a crime for him. But he could not let her pay the penalty for it. No, no; he was willing to die himself, but he could not bear the thought of his mother's name being tarnished. He shuddered at the very suggestion of her being held up before the world's gaze.

"You see, Paul," went on Mary Bolitho; "I know you never did this, and I know you're hiding something. And you must clear your name, for my sake. You see, don't you?"

It seemed as though the god of silence sealed his lips. He could not speak. How could he speak, when, if he told what was in his heart, his words would be of such terrible portent? Then, like lightning, the issues became clear to him. They were written from sky to sky. If 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 laden with such a terrible meaning. It was heaven to know that she believed in him so—heaven to realise that her trust was so infinite.