The Day of Judgment Part 48

"You do not believe him guilty, do you?"

"My G.o.d, I don't know," he replied hoa.r.s.ely. "I would give--I would give----" And then he ceased speaking.

"I tell you he's innocent," replied the girl. "And I am going to----"

But Judge Bolitho did not hear her. "Go to bed--go to bed!" he said; and taking her by the arm he led her from the room, and, closing the door, turned the key. A moment later he had unlocked the door and called her back.

"What is that you said about--about something you were going to do?" he asked.

"Surely, father, you do not believe him guilty?" was her reply. "I know that the evidence is black against him; but he could not do it!

He could not do it!"

As the judge looked at his daughter's face, a ray of hope shone into his heart. If the trial had impressed her in this way, might not the jury also be led to doubt the evidence given? He knew that many men had been hanged on circ.u.mstantial evidence, but it might be that they would refuse to accept the evidence in this case as sufficient.

"You see," persisted the girl, and he noticed that her lace was full of anguish, that her eyes shone with an unnatural light--"he could not do it, father."

"Do you mean to say that you regard the evidence as insufficient?"

It was utterly unlike him to talk with her about any trial in which he was engaged. Such things, he had always maintained, were not for women. They had neither the training nor the ac.u.men to give an opinion worth considering. But now he caught at the girl's words like a drowning man might catch at a straw.

"Oh, I know the evidence is terrible enough," she replied. "But that doesn't convince me a bit. Father, you cannot allow them to hang him."

He stood still looking at her steadily, and as he did so the horror of the whole situation seized him more terribly than ever. He knew what she did not know. His mind was filled with thoughts of which she was in utter ignorance.

"I can do nothing, my child," he said, "nothing! It is a case for the jury. They have to hear the evidence, and then they pa.s.s judgment accordingly. If they condemn him as guilty, I must pa.s.s judgment of death, I cannot help myself. I am as helpless as the hangman. If the jury says 'Guilty,' I must p.r.o.nounce death, and the hangman must do the horrible thing!"

"But, father, don't you see? He has refused to have counsel, and you would have to sum up the evidence. And when you are summing up you could say how inconclusive it was, how terrible it would be to hang a man because a set of circ.u.mstances seemed to point in a certain direction."

He was silent for a few seconds. The old numbness had come over his mind again. But he determined to let his daughter know nothing of it.

"You see, Mary," he said, "a judge can do so little, even in the way of summing up, and he must do justice. A judge sits on the bench as a representative of justice, and all he can do is to a.n.a.lyse the evidence. And you know what the evidence is!"

"But he could not do it," said the girl.

"Think," went on the judge, and he spoke more like a machine than a man. "Think of the terrible train of events: the long years of personal enmity between them; the injuries which the prisoner suffered at the hands of the murdered man; the blow struck on the night of the murder; and then--don't you see, Mary? Besides, there is something else, something which has never come to light, something which must never come to light. Wilson had been, as you know, spoken of as your fiance, and you know the letter I received from Stepaside. He asked that you might be his wife, and he would be jealous of Wilson. Don't you see? Don't you see? Mind you, this must not come to light. It must not be spoken of at all. n.o.body guesses that Stepaside cared anything about you. But what am I saying? Drive it out of your mind, Mary--it's of no consequence at all, and you must not consider it for a moment. Oh, my G.o.d, the horror of it! Don't you see, Mary? The horror of it!"

Evidently she did not understand altogether what he was thinking. She did not realise that Paul was her half-brother, and therefore could not altogether understand her father's cry of anguish.

For a moment the two stood together, silent, each looking into the other's face and trying to read each other's thoughts.

"Father," she said at length, "I want to tell you something. I have been to see Paul."

"Been to see Paul! Where? When?"

"I went to see him in prison."

Her father seemed to be staggered by the thought.

"You went to see the prisoner?" he said. Even yet he could not call him by the name that was so dear to him. The legal formulae were almost a habit with him.

"I went to see Paul," she said.

"Why?"

"I went to tell him that I loved him," she replied simply. "I knew what he must be suffering, and I know that he loves me, because he told me so. And I wanted to comfort him. I wanted to a.s.sure him that all would be well."

The judge started back as though someone had struck him. "You love----"

"Yes," she interrupted. "I told him so, too. I never loved Mr.

Wilson, father. You know I didn't. I had not thought that I really cared for anyone until, until----"

"But you love Paul Stepaside?"

The words came from him as if mechanically. Indeed, he had no knowledge that he had uttered them.

"I do," she replied. "And when he's at liberty I shall be his wife."

For a moment the judge rocked to and fro like a drunken man, and then, staggering towards a chair, fell into it, and covered his face with his hands.

"Father!" cried the girl. "Did you not guess?"

"Oh, my G.o.d, that I should suffer this too! I never thought, I never dreamt----"

"I know that Paul is shielding someone," went on the girl presently.

"He did not do this. He could not do it. He is utterly incapable of it! You see that's why I am so certain. And I'm going to find out who did it. Do you understand, father? That's why I wanted to speak to you to-night. You must give me time. You can make the case last for days, if you want, and I'm going to find out who did it. He's hiding someone."

The judge lifted his head, and in his eyes was a gleam of hope.

"You believe this, Mary?" he said.

"I am sure of it!" she replied. "You can do this to help me, can't you?"

"But, my child, don't you see the utter hopelessness of it? You must not love Paul Stepaside. You dare not! Why--why----"

"But I do dare," replied the girl. "This charge is nothing to me. He is not guilty, and I love him. Don't you see, father? And I'm going to save him. And you must give me time. Make the case drag on, father. Of course, it will be suffering for him, but I cannot help that. When I'm ready I'll let you know."

The judge sat for some minutes as though in deep thought. Confused and bewildered as his mind was by the events of the night, there was something in his daughter's demeanour that gave him hope for the future.

"I must think, Mary," he said. "I've had a trying day, and I do not think I'm very well. I want to be alone a little while, and then--well, perhaps in the morning I shall know better what I can do.

Good-night, little girl!"

He rose to his feet as he spoke and kissed her. Then he led her out of the room again.

"Oh, my G.o.d!" he said. "My punishment is greater than I can bear. For that one deed of wrong, of cowardice, must I suffer this?"

He went into the dressing-room and bathed his head in cold water. It seemed to him as though his brain were on fire. A few minutes later he felt better. He could think again. He sat in an arm-chair beside the fire and reviewed the past. His mind went back to the time when he, a free-hearted lad, went on a walking tour with some other fellows among the English lakes, and then on to Scotland. He had been full of good resolutions, and his heart was light and free. He had meant no harm when he made Jean Lindsay love him, but he had never dreamt of what would follow. And then, then all the ensuing events pa.s.sed before his mind in ghastly procession. What must he do?

In spite of everything, Judge Bolitho believed himself to be a religious man. He had identified himself with religious movements, had professed himself a believer in prayer. In one sense he was a man of the world, keen as far as his profession went, eager for his own advancement. But in another he had held fast to the faith of his childhood. He had had a religious training, and while both his father and mother had died when he was young, he had never forgotten their teaching, and had never been able to shake himself free from early a.s.sociations.