The Day of Judgment

by Joseph Hocking

Her words brought him back to the reality of the situation. At first he seemed utterly confounded by the blow. He forgot all about the murder now. It did not seem to exist, or if it did it was somewhere far back in the background, and everything was altered. He had dreamed of the time when he would find his father for himself—thought, too, of what he would say to him, painted pictures of their first meeting. But now everything seemed shattered. Nothing was real! Everything was real, terribly real!

Even yet he could not understand the whole bearings of the case. His brain was confused. Every issue seemed involved, but he did not doubt his mother's words. It seemed to him the key of the puzzle which had been haunting him for years. Judge Bolitho his father! Yes, his treatment of him had been a part, a natural part, of the whole history. What wonder that he who had deceived and betrayed his mother should also be the enemy of his son! He understood his feelings now, understood why when he had first seen this proud, clever man he had a feeling of instinctive hatred towards him. He had been cruel to him in the examination when he was tried years before for the part he had taken in the riot. As the counsel for the prosecution he had seemed to delight in fastening all the guilt upon him, his son. He remembered the look of satisfaction upon his face when the justice committed him to six months' imprisonment in Strangeways Gaol. Yes, he had hated him then, for that matter they had hated each other. Then came the election at Brunford. Every incident of the fight came back to him. He had felt then that this man Bolitho was fighting him unfairly, using devil's tools to beat him, allowing his mother's name to be dragged in the mud, in order to gain the victory, while all the time he—he——

"Don't speak, mother, don't speak for a minute. Let me try to understand."

He walked around the cell like one demented, his face set, his eyes flashing. Again and again he dashed his hand across his forehead as if to sweep away the shadows which rested upon his brain, as if trying to untangle the skeins of his life.

Yes, he had defied him even to the very last. When the votes were counted, and when his father, his enemy, had won the victory, he had defied him. He had told him before the surging mob that they would meet again, and always to fight, yes, and they would, too. He had a new weapon in his hands now!

What would the world say if it knew? He almost felt like laughing at the thought. What would the world say if it knew that the judge and the man accused of murder were father and son? How the tongues of the gossips would wag! What headlines there would be in the newspapers! What a sensation it would create throughout the country!

He laughed aloud, a half-mad laugh. His brain reeled at what his mother had told him. Even yet he did not realise fully the issues of her momentous communication. That would come later! The thing which appealed to him now was that he had found his father, and his father was the man who was sitting in judgment on him!

Never did he hate him as he did at that moment. This man had deceived his mother, blackened her life, allowed her to remain in loneliness, misery and disgrace. Because of him a shadow had rested upon his own life, a shadow which nothing had been able to lift. Yes, he hated him. He thought of the cross-examination that day. This man at the beginning of the trial had pretended to act as his friend, had advised him to accept counsel, had told him that he might defend himself and ask questions. And, utilising the power which he possessed as a judge, had himself asked the witnesses questions, on the pretence that he was trying to do the prisoner justice!

And what questions! To his excited and poisoned mind he had simply supplied the deficiencies of the counsel for the prosecution. Every word he had uttered was only meant as another nail in his scaffold. He was glad he had said what he had said now. He had made both jury and court feel that the judge was unjust because of his prejudice against him. But that was nothing to what he could do, nothing to what he would do. Why, supposing on the next day—yes, and he could do it, too—supposing on the next day of the trial he, the prisoner, were to proclaim before the court, before the twelve jurymen, before the eager counsel, before the gaping, excited crowd, that this Judge Bolitho, this man who assumed an immaculate air, was one of the most damnable villains that ever crawled upon the earth, that this man, who looked so virtuous and spoke of the majesty of justice, had foully deceived a poor, ignorant, innocent girl, dragged her name in the mire, left her to die, as far as he was concerned, in disgrace! He, the judge, had done this, and all the world should know it. Yes, all the world. This man should be pilloried before all England, and every healthy, clean-minded man in the nation would shudder at his name.

Yes, he saw his revenge now.