BETWEEN TWO FIRES
Ruth trembled at the thought of her appeal to King. She knew his
iron will, his intense love, and the certainty with which he had
long regarded their coming union. His ambitions were still mounting,
and daily with better assurances of success. His party had chosen
another man their candidate for the Presidency, and had been
overwhelmed in defeat, while he had been re-elected Governor by a
larger plurality.
He received her with grave tenderness.
"Morris," she cried, pathetically, seizing his hand and holding
it, "he is not guilty of murder. Everything has been against him
in these trials. They were not fair. He killed that man in what men
have always called a fair fight. You are a manly man. You believe
in justice. You will not let them kill him!"
She could feel the strong man's hand tremble in hers, looked up
into his face, and saw a tear quiver on his lashes.
"Oh! Ruth," he cried, bitterly, "why do you cling to this man? He
is regarded as the most dangerous firebrand in America. I could
show you hundreds of letters piled on that desk begging me in the
name of law and order and all the forces of civilised society not
to interfere with his sentence. Come, you know how I love you.
This is horrible cruelty to me. The doors of the White House are
opening. You know that what I have, am now, and ever may be, is
yours. It will all be ashes without you. I offer you a deathless
love, honour and glory, and you come here to tell me you prefer a
convicted felon in his cell. My God, it is too much!"
The Governor leaned on his desk and shaded his face with his hands.
"How can I help it, Morris, if I love him?" she asked, piteously.
He raised his head, looked away, and softly said:
"Ruth, could you never love me?"
She was silent a moment and her lips trembled.
"If he dies, I cannot live," she gasped.
He leaned close, took her hand, and said:
"I'll order a stay of sentence for three months."
She kissed his hand, and murmured:
"Thank you."
From the telegraph office at Albany over the wires to Sing Sing's
house of death flew the message:
"Sentence stayed for three months while the Governor considers your
pardon. Faith and hope eternal. RUTH."
The next express carried her to him with the copy of the Governor's
order in her bosom.
The warden smiled and congratulated her. She had long before won
his heart, and there was no favour within the limits of law that
he had not granted to the man she loved.
Ruth looked at Gordon tenderly through the barred opening of his
cell.
Her heart ached as she saw the ashen pallor of his face and the skin
beginning to draw tight and slick across the protruding cheek-bones
of his once magnificent face. Three years of prison had bent
his shoulders and reduced his giant frame to a mere shadow of his
former self. Only the eyes had grown larger and softer, and their
gaze now seemed turned within. They burned with a feverish mystic
beauty.
Ruth fixed on him a look of melting tenderness and asked:
"Do you not long for the open fields, the sky and sea, my dear?"
He gazed at her hungrily.
"No. Sometimes I've felt a queer homesickness in these dying
muscles that thirst for the open world, but I've no time to think
of mountain or lake, or hear the call of field or sea---Ruth, I
can only think of you! I have but one interest, but one desire of
soul and body--that you may be happy. I would be free, not because
I fear death or covet life"--his voice sank to a broken whisper--"but
that I might crawl around the earth on my hands and knees and
confess my shame and sorrow that I deserted you."
"Hush, hush, my love; I forgive you," she moaned.
"Yes, I know; but all time and eternity will be too short for my
repentance."
The woman was sobbing bitterly.
"These prison bars," he went on with strange elation, "are nothing.
The old queer instinct of asceticism within me, that made a preacher
of an Epicurean and an athlete, has come back to its kingship. Its
sublime authority is now supreme. I despise life, and have learned
to live. There is no task so hard but that the king within demands
a harder. There can be no pain so fierce and cruel but that it
calls my soul to laughter. As for Death--"
His voice sank to dreamy notes.
"She who comes at last with velvet feet and the tender touch of a
pure woman's hand--her face is radiant, her voice low music. She
will speak the end of strife and doubt, and loose these bars. With
friendly smile she will show me the path among the stars, until I
find the face of God. I'll tell Him I'm a son of His who lost the
way on life's great plain, and that I am sorry for all the pain
I've caused to those who loved me."
[Illustration: A cheer suddenly burst from the crowd and echoed
through the court-room.]
Ruth felt through the bars and grasped his hand, sobbing.
"Don't, don't, don't, Frank! Stop! I cannot endure it!"
The warden turned away to hide his face.