The Day of Judgment

by Joseph Hocking

"MOTHER (he wrote),—I am now what you would call a rich man. I have more money than I need to spend, and I cannot bear that you should be living away in that lonely farmhouse. You say you are treated more like a housekeeper than a servant, more like a member of the family than a stranger, but that's not enough for me. You are my mother, and, although I know little of you, I love you dearly. Besides, I am very lonely. I have but few friends, neither do I wish to make any, but I want you to come to me, mother. If you can keep house for that farmer, you can keep house for me. And I want to see you constantly. I want you by my side. I want you to be here to bid me 'Good-morning' when I go out to my work and welcome me when I come home at night. I want a home of my own, and I want my mother to be at the head of it. You must do this, mother. I have my eye now upon an old-fashioned house just outside Brunford. It is hidden from the town, and was at one time, I suppose, owned by a sort of yeoman. It has a large garden, and there are old trees round it, and that, I can assure you, is something to be desired here, in a town where there are few gardens and where the trees grow with difficulty. It will give me joy to furnish this home for you, mother, and to make your life one of ease. Besides, I want your help. Ever since I came here, I've been trying to find the man of whom you spoke to me; I cannot call him 'Father,' even although he is. If you came, you could help me, and together we could think of means whereby the truth could be brought to light. Will you, mother? I know you say you are comfortable as you are, and that you don't wish to be a burden to me. You would not be a burden, but you would help me to bear mine, and so I don't ask you to come for your own sake, but for mine. I am your son, and I am lonely, and I need my mother."

Three days later he received his mother's reply:

"MY DEAR PAUL (she wrote),—I will come to you. Great fear is in my heart as I write this, but I can't resist you. You are my own flesh and blood, and although I have scarcely seen you from a child, you are the only thing I love. So, Paul, while I do not wish you to spend money for me, and while I shall be contented with a very little house, I will come as soon as ever you say you are ready for me."

A new interest came into Paul's life directly he had received this letter, and without hesitating a second he took the house he had mentioned. It was a wonder the place had been unoccupied for so long, because it was one of the best specimens of architecture in the neighbourhood. Perhaps the reason why it had not been taken was that it did not accord with the prevailing ideas in relation to houses. Of course, it was too large for an operative to think of taking, and as for the ordinary prosperous business man, he loved a more showy house, with plate-glass windows and high ceilings. This house had been built before Brunford became a manufacturing town, and was looked upon as utterly inconvenient and lacking in those characteristics which the prosperous Lancashire man loves. It was low ceiled; it looked somewhat dark. Its windows were stone-mullioned, and instead of great plate-glass windows it had small diamond-leaded lights. And so Paul was able to get it at a comparatively nominal rent, especially as the place was in shocking repair. In a few weeks, however, a transformation had been wrought. The building had been thoroughly overhauled, and by the wise expenditure of a comparatively small amount of money, modern conveniences had been installed. The old oak floors had been thoroughly cleaned, the walls distempered; the roof and windows repaired, and the sanitation made perfect. Paul took a wondrous delight in doing this. Each evening, when the day's work was over, he hastened to it, and rejoiced in the new beauties which the old place was constantly revealing. All the woodwork was of oak, and the old staircase, with its quaintly carved banisters and newels, the oak-panelled walls, which the last tenant had allowed to become dirty and damaged, appealed to his artistic nature. He loved the great oak beams which stretched across the ceilings, and rejoiced in the quaint nooks which were a characteristic of the old building. The furnishing, too, brought him constant pleasure. There happened to be a man in the town who dealt in antique furniture, and he also manufactured new furniture from old models. Why, Paul did not know, but since he had been in the habit of visiting wealthy men's residences, he had taken a great dislike to the bright, showy and costly, though very substantial, furniture which he saw. It had newness written everywhere, and utilitarianism and wealth seemed to be the great things to proclaim. But in this old dealer's warehouse he was able to resurrect things which had been bought from old manor houses, and which the Brunford people regarded as rubbish. These articles, when cleaned and repaired according to their original design, rejoiced him greatly. So that when, a few weeks after he had written to his mother, he saw them placed in his house, he felt for the first time that he had a home. One room especially attracted him—the room he meant to be sacred to his mother and to himself. Two-thirds of the wall space was covered with bookcases, while on the rest he hung some very good pictures. All these bookcases, as well as the chairs and writing-desk, made him think of the days of rest and comfort before Brunford became a scene of rush and turmoil. He pictured his mother seated by the fire, while he, after his day's work was over, would sit by her side with a pipe and a book. If he could not find his father, he could, at least, give his mother a home, and he vowed that he would make her happy. She was only a young woman even yet. It is true she looked careworn and sad when he had seen her on that day when she had told him her story, but he would smooth the lines from her face, and by his love and devotion would bring joy to her heart. He vowed, too, that Brunford should recall the words which had been uttered about her, and that the best people in the town should pay their respects to her. The time was now summer, and although it is hard to make a garden beautiful, even while two miles away from the grime and smoke of the town, he had done all that was possible in that direction.

"She will be here to-morrow night," he said to himself, as one evening he wandered from room to room. "This is her bedroom," he thought. "I hope she'll find everything comfortable. Yes, I believe she'll be happy here. It will ease her aching heart as I come to kiss her good-night, and my bedroom is close by, and she'll always know that I'm near. And then there is the kitchen, too. I must take care that everything is right there. I wonder whether she will like the servant I have got for her. At any rate, she will be able to set that right herself, if it is not right now, and I have money enough to give her every comfort. I was lucky to get such a dear old house, and she shall enjoy it; at least, I owe her that." And then, as her picture came before him as he had seen her that night when she had bidden him good-bye, the tears came into his eyes and his lips trembled. All the next day he was strangely excited, and George Preston declared that he had never known him so careless about business. "People are finely talking about your taking that house!" he said. "Some are saying you're going to get wed! Why have you been so close about it? And what makes you spend all that brass?"

"My mother is coming to live with me," said Paul; "coming to-day."

"You don't mean it!" said the other. "Why, you looked as though you might be expecting your sweetheart!"

"I am," replied Paul with a laugh. And, indeed, he felt as though he were; for Paul was more happy than he had ever known himself to be before. The clouds somehow seemed to have lifted, and brightness came into his heart in spite of himself.

"She'll be very tired," he reflected, as that night he wended his way to the station. "She will have been travelling all day. She left Launceston early this morning, and it will have been a rush for her." So he was careful to engage a cab some time before the train was due, and then walked up and down the station with a fast-beating heart. Yes, life was becoming new to him in, a way that he could not understand. He felt less bitter towards the world, less bitter towards Mr. Bolitho, less angry at what had happened to him. The six months in Strangeways Gaol seemed but a horrible dream. The struggles of the past were far behind. He, while yet but a youth, had succeeded beyond all expectations, and, added to all this, his mother was coming to live with him; and for the first time in his life he would have a home!

No youth waiting for his sweetheart was ever more impatient than Paul. He was angry that the train was late, and wondered why the porters could be so indifferent about it. He had all sorts of fears, too, concerning his mother's welfare. Had she been able to catch the connection at Bristol and Manchester? Had some accident happened? Presently the signal fell, and a little later the train swept into the station. There were but few people present, because it was late, and it happened to be a wet day. Eagerly he looked at the carriage windows, and then suddenly he felt as though his heart were too great for his bosom. He saw a lonely, tired-looking woman step from the carriage and look expectantly round. "Mother!" he cried. "My dear, dear mother!" And then the sad-eyed, weary woman laid her head on his broad shoulder and sobbed for very joy.