CHAPTER XXIII

THE DAY OF JUDGMENT (_continued_)

The attention of all present, which had been directed towards Paul, was now diverted to the judge. It seemed for the moment as though Paul were no longer the centre of interest, nor indeed did he occupy the chief place in the great drama of life which was played before him. It was no longer Hamlet who held the stage, but the King.

There was little wonder at this. He fell into his chair as if he were unable to support himself, and everyone saw at a glance that something of terrible import must have happened to him. His eyes were bloodshot; his face, usually so healthful looking and florid, was pale and haggard; his cheeks were baggy; and he was bowed down as if by some great calamity. Everyone felt this, although no one spoke. All eyes were riveted upon him; everyone took note of his slightest movement.

For a few seconds he sat with bowed head, apparently looking at the papers before him, but really seeing nothing. He seemed to be pondering what to do, what to say. More than one noticed that his hands trembled. The clerk of the a.s.sizes mentioned something to him, but the judge took no notice; the man might not have spoken at all.

At length he seemed to gather himself up as if by a great effort.

Twice he essayed to speak, and twice he failed. It might appear as though the power of language were gone.

If the silence had been intense when he had entered the court, it was more than ever so now. People seemed afraid to breathe. The jurymen looked towards him in wonder, and barristers who were _habitues_ of courts of law, and who had grown callous even with regard to the most interesting cases, watched him with an eagerness that they had never known before, while the spectators seemed to be afraid to breathe.

And yet nothing had been said. From the casual observer's point of view the case was to recommence in the ordinary way, save that the judge was a few minutes late. But everyone knew something was about to happen. The very air they breathed was tense with emotion.

"Gentlemen," said the judge presently--and it did not seem like his voice at all, it was so hoa.r.s.e and unnatural--"Gentlemen, I wish to make a statement which is of the utmost importance. I wish to say that I can no longer sit in judgment on this case, and that therefore, to all intents and purposes, the court is dismissed."

No one moved or made a sound, save that the reporters at their desks were busily writing. Their pencils, as they swept over their note-books, made quite a noise, so tense was the silence which prevailed. More than one of these reporters declared afterwards that they did not know what they were writing. They were simply like automata, acting according to custom.

Although the judge had dismissed the court, no one moved. As if by instinct, all felt that there was something more to be said. What had prompted Judge Bolitho to make this statement they did not know, they could not conceive; but they felt rather than thought that something tremendous was at stake. Old, habitual theatre-goers declared to each other in talking about the matter afterwards that no drama they had ever witnessed had ever been so exciting as the scene that day. But nothing had depended upon what was said. The words of the judge were few and simple, but the very place seemed laden with doom.

"In abandoning all a.s.sociations with this case," went on the judge, and his voice was more natural now, "I wish to make a further statement.

Perhaps there seems no sufficient reason why I should do so, nevertheless I must. I can no longer sit in judgment upon the prisoner for the gravest of all reasons----" Again he stopped. He did not know how to proceed. Perhaps such a thing was almost unprecedented in the history of trials. Up to that moment Paul had been like a man in a dream. On entering the dock and finding that the judge was not present he fell to wondering at the reason of his lateness, and presently could not help being affected by the influences which surrounded him. He, too, felt there was something in the air which, to say the least of it, was not usual. He had come there with his heart full of bitter hatred, with a feeling that the man who was to sit in judgment upon him, even although he were his father, was his enemy. In a vague way he wondered what would happen through the day, wondered whether he should be able to keep his knowledge to himself, wondered whether, at some moment when the judge manifested some particular injustice to him, he might not yield to the pa.s.sion of the moment and proclaim the relationship.

Outwardly he was still cool and collected, although his face was very pale and his eyes burned like coals of fire.

When the judge entered the court he, too, was much moved by his appearance. He saw that he had been suffering terribly, and into his heart came a kind of savage joy. There seemed something like poetical justice in the thought of this man's suffering, and he wondered whether he had in some way learned the truth.

When Judge Bolitho opened his mouth to speak, Paul's heart seemed to stop. So intense was his interest in what he would say that, for the moment, he forgot his own position. The shadow of death was somehow removed from him; that grimness and the horror of the trial had lost their meaning. That "Gentlemen, I wish to make a statement which is of the utmost importance. I wish to say that I can no longer sit in judgment on this case . . ."--what did it mean? A thousand wild fancies flashed through his mind. He wondered whether Mary Bolitho had been at work, whether this was the first step in her endeavours to prove him innocent. He did not know how it could be, but, like lightning, his mind and heart flew to her.

He gave a quick glance around the court and turned towards the spot where he had seen her on the previous day. Even then he realised that all attention was turned from him to the judge, realised that everyone waited with breathless interest for the next words that should fall from his lips. But he could not see Mary. Again his eyes swept over the crowded benches which held the spectators, but she was not there.

He wondered why. In a sense he was glad. At least she no longer looked upon his ignominy and shame. And yet he felt the loss of her presence. The day before she had cheered him in spite of himself, strengthened him to bear the brunt of the battle; but now he was alone.

Again the judge spoke, and Paul listened to every word that pa.s.sed his lips. Like the other spectators, he was eager to know what would follow.

"I cannot continue to sit in judgment upon the prisoner," went on the judge; and every word was clearly enunciated. "And my reason for this is all-sufficient--I cannot sit in judgment upon him because I have learnt that he is my own son!"

Paul's heart gave a leap as he heard the words. It seemed to him as though the atmosphere of the court changed as if by magic. There was something electric in it, something that seemed to alter the whole state of affairs and change the current of events. His heart beat with a new hope and burned with a strange joy. He had not yet grasped what it meant. He could not yet read the thoughts that were pa.s.sing in the judge's mind, but he felt their consequence, felt that, in spite of everything, the sky was becoming brighter.

The effect on the court, as may be imagined, was tremendous. The barristers sat in their seats open-mouthed. Never in all their experience had they witnessed such an event. The jury seemed incapable of moving, but many of the spectators, unable to restrain their emotions, sobbed hysterically.

"I wish to say," went on the judge, "that I have had no communication in any form with the prisoner, neither did he know of what was in my mind as I came here to-day. I have not seen him during the trial except in this court. Realising our relations as judge and prisoner this was impossible. But no sooner did I learn of the relationship which existed between us than I realised the impossibility of my continuing to sit on this case."

For the moment he stopped, as if he had said all that he intended to say. Perhaps he felt that it was not for the jurymen to know, or for that gaping crowd to know the real thoughts that were in his heart.

But no one made a movement as if to go. Men and women sat there, hungry to hear more, eager for the continuance of the exciting scene which had aroused them to the very depths of their nature. One man who was there has told me since that he forgot, just as others had forgotten, that Paul Stepaside was being tried for murder. It was rather some great drama of life which was being acted for their benefit, and which held them all spellbound as if by some magician's power. They could not understand the why and the wherefore. Their minds were too bewildered and excited to realise what lay behind it all, but all felt that there was something momentous, tragic.

Presently the judge lifted his head as if to speak again. That he was suffering terribly, and undoubtedly that he was under the influence of mighty emotions all were sure. Many there were who, forgetful of all else, pitied him. But the prevailing feeling was that of wonder and eager expectation of what might come next.

"I need not say," went on the judge, "that the proceedings of yesterday are nullified by my action to-day. I need not say that another of his Majesty's judges will have to sit in my place, that a new jury will have to be sworn, and the case will have to be re-tried from the beginning. But with that I have nothing to do, and for the moment, although it is not in accordance with any law or usage, I want to say what is in my heart. It was only late last night that I learnt of the relationship between the man who is known as Paul Stepaside and myself, and therefore I could not make known my intentions before; but this I do wish to say, here, in the presence of all who have gathered together to witness this trial--Paul Stepaside is my lawful son, and, unknowingly, I have sinned against him grievously and greatly. His mother is my lawful wife--how and where she became so it is not for me to tell you or for you to know--but such is the truth. Concerning the fact itself, however, I wish it to be made known--as it will be made known--that his mother is my lawful wife, and that he is my lawful son, and that I do here and now confess the wrong which I have done to him, even although that wrong was to me largely unknown. In a sense there is no need that I should make this explanation in this way; but I do it because my conscience compels me to do so and because I wish here and now to ask my son's forgiveness."

He still spoke in the same slow, measured tones, his voice somewhat husky, but every word reaching the ears of all present. And as he spoke, Paul seemed to feel as though the foundations of the world were slipping away from under his feet. His thoughts of revenge were being scattered to the winds. He had never dreamt of this; never in the wildest of his imaginings had he thought Judge Bolitho would have made such a confession. Even now he could not understand it, much less realise it; but he felt it to be the most tragic moment of his life.

He felt as if the world could never be the same to him again. And yet he hated the judge. Why it was he could not tell; but even as he spoke, even as he made this most momentous confession, his heart steeled against his father. In spite of his humility, in spite of his suffering, in spite of what it must have cost him to have spoken the words to which he had just listened, he still hated him. The man had wrecked his mother's life, robbed her of her girlhood, sent her away into loneliness and sorrow, allowed her to bear her disgrace in solitude. He had robbed him also of his boyhood, of his name. He had ever been his enemy. From the first time they had met he had sought to crush him; and he wondered, even now, with a mad wonder, whether there were not some kind of ulterior motive prompting him to say these things.

The effect, however, upon the spectators, was entirely different.

Although his words seemed commonplace enough, there was something pathetic in them. All present realised something of the inwardness of that to which they had just been listening. Although it was no distinct thought in their minds, all realised what it must have cost him to make such a confession. When he said that he had made it in order to ask his son's forgiveness, a great sobbing sigh swept like a wave over the court.

Still the judge spoke on in the same slow, measured tones, although all felt that he was a man in agony.

"Of the rights and wrongs of this trial," he went on, "it is for me to say nothing. Whether I believe Paul Stepaside, my son, to be guilty of the murder of the late Edward Wilson I must not say. It will be for another to listen to the evidence. It will be for another to advise the jury concerning their verdict. I am simply the judge who has been, and therefore can say nothing except this--that if Paul Stepaside is guilty of the murder of Edward Wilson, I am not innocent. If he struck him the blow which has been described, a measure of the guilt belongs to me. If I had done my duty to him as a child, as a youth, and as a young man, he would, in all probability, not have been here. And therefore, although technically and legally I know nothing of the murder, if he is guilty I must share in his guilt. This I say that the truth may be understood and realised."

Again he ceased speaking. It seemed now as if he had said all he intended to say--much more than any of the spectators thought a man in his position could have said; but still they sat in silence, except for an occasional sob, or the hoa.r.s.e breathing of some woman who could not control her excitement. The pencils of the reporters were still. They were waiting eagerly for the next word that should fall from the judge's lips should he speak further. They realised by now the tremendous possibilities of the case. No murder trial on record ever gave such an opportunity for a descriptive journalist as this, and they knew what effect their report would have upon the excited public.

The judge rose to his feet.

"That is all I think I need say," he said.

He turned as if to leave the court, then paused, and his eyes moved towards his son. For a moment the two men stood looking at each other.

Paul, pale, erect, tense, almost overwhelmed by what he had heard, yet strong in his mastery over himself and wondering what it all might mean; the judge bowed, haggard, with bloodshot eyes and trembling limbs. For several seconds they stood looking at each other, while the crowd, forgetful of where they were, sat watching, waiting, listening.

"Paul, my son, can you forgive me!" said the judge.

But Paul made no sign, and then Judge Bolitho, like a man who had received his death warrant, staggered out of the court.

Immediately the whole place was in confusion. So affected was everyone by what had taken place that they even forgot the presence of the prisoner. Each talked excitedly with his neighbour concerning the revelation which had been made. No attempt at keeping order was made.

Ushers, barristers, jurymen, spectators were all eagerly discussing what they had heard.

"Never heerd owt like it!" said one weaver to another. He had come all the way from Brunford that morning to be present at the trial. "They can never hang him after this!"

"Nay," said the other. "But, after all, it's got nowt to do with th'

murder. Either Paul killed him or he didn't; and if he killed him he'll be hanged for it."

"I'm noan so sure," was the reply. "Why, the king would interfere.

I've heerd as 'ow Judge Bolitho is very friendly with his Majesty, and he would never let his son get hanged."

"Nay, king or no king, people'll cry out for justice. If Paul Stepaside killed Ned Wilson, no matter if he is the son of a thousand Judge Bolithos, he'll swing."

"But did'st ever hear owt like it? I wouldn't have missed it for a month's wage. Just think on it! The judge gets up and says as 'ow he canna go ony further 'cause the murderer is his son!"

"I never liked th' chap before," was the response, "but I canna 'elp liking him now, a bit 't ony rate. It must have cost him summat to get up in t' court like that."

"But just think on 't!" said the other. "If what he says is true, the woman as we have known as Mrs. Stepaside is Judge Bolitho's wife! Weel then, canst a' see? Judge Bolitho must be a bigamist. His daughter is in the town at this very time, and he must have married her mother while Paul's mother was alive. I tell thee, there'll be rare doings."

"Ay," replied the other; "but I expect they'll patch it up. These lawyer chaps can do onything. I heerd one on 'em say once that all law was a matter of interpretation, and you may be sure that they'll interpret it to suit theirsen."

"Nay; I'm noan so sure," replied the other. "But it's a rare business.