The Day of Judgment

by Joseph Hocking

But he could not go to him. Even the warders would not allow him. They knew their duty too well for that. He was the judge and Paul was the prisoner. But, oh! how his heart went out to him! How he longed to go to him!

"I wonder what he would say to me if I went to him, supposing I defied all law and all usage?" he asked himself. "Supposing I found my way into his cell, what would he say on seeing me? What would he do?"

And then into Judge Bolitho's heart came a great, haunting fear. He knew that his son must hate him, even as Jean hated him. Paul had heard her side of the story. He knew only of his mother's wrongs, her years of loneliness, the unworthy betrayal! The punishment seemed almost too hard for him to bear. Whatever Paul had suffered, whatever his mother had suffered, Judge Bolitho was sure that neither of them suffered as he did at that moment.

Slowly his mind asserted itself more and more. His vigorous intellect, strengthened by long years of training, caused him to grasp the whole situation more and more clearly. He began to take a practical view of everything, and to form plans as to what must be done in the future. And even as he did so the grimness of the tragedy faced him. Throughout the day he knew that he had, to a large extent, prejudged Paul's case. His own inherent dislike of the man had caused him to feel sure he was guilty. Of course there were difficulties, and of course a clever counsel would mercilessly riddle the evidence which had been adduced. Nevertheless, he had felt convinced that the jury would find him guilty. There was a perfect chain of circumstantial evidence, and he, with his long experience, knew what juries were. They could only judge according to evidence. He went over the points one by one—the years of enmity between Paul and the murdered man; the threats he had made; the injuries which the murdered man had persistently done to the accused; the knife which was known to belong to Paul, and which could only have been in his possession; the quarrel on the eve of the murder; the fact that Paul had left his own house at midnight and had not returned till just before dawn; Wilson found not far from his own house with Paul's knife in his heart; and the evidence which would be surely adduced that Paul had been seen not far from Howden Clough that same morning, acting in a most strange and distracted manner. Added to this was the fact that Wilson was respected in the town; that he was not known to have an enemy in the world but Paul. No, no! Unless Paul could bring evidence of the strongest nature, the jury would find him guilty.

Then the terror of it seized him. His own son would be hanged!

He lifted up his hands to heaven like a man distraught.

"Great God, forgive me and help me!" he cried. But it seemed to him even then as though his prayer were a mockery, as though the black, cloud-laden sky were filled with doom.

Almost mechanically he turned his face towards his hotel.

"I must think this out," he said to himself. "Besides—— Oh, my son! My son!"

He had not walked far towards his hotel when he suddenly stopped in the middle of the pavement. His intellect, which had wakened from its torpor, awakened something else. He began to realise his own share in this tragedy. It was not Paul who was guilty of murder at all—it was he, the judge. If long years before he had done his duty, if he had not listened to the voice of self interest, if he had been true to the pleadings of his own heart and openly confessed to having married the girl whose love he had won, then Paul would have grown up honoured, and this deed would never have been committed. He, he, Judge Bolitho, was guilty. But he could do nothing; how could he?