Hope!" said he appealingly.
The savage vigor that was normally his had deserted him, his very pride
was gone; a sudden mistrust of himself was humbling him; he felt
wretchedly out of place; he was even dimly conscious of his own baseness
while he was for the moment blinded to the cruelty of her conduct. Under
his breath he cursed himself. By his too great haste, by a too great
frankness he had fooled away his chances with her.
"That is more than I dared hope," Evelyn rejoined composedly.
"If I've offended you--" began Gilmore.
"Your presence offends me," she interrupted and looked past him to the
door.
"You don't mean what you say--Evelyn--" he said earnestly.
"My cook might have been flattered by your proposal; but why you should
have thought I would be, is utterly incomprehensible."
Gilmore's face became livid on the instant. A storm of abuse rushed to
his lips but he held himself in check. Then without a word or a glance
he passed from the room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE HOUSE OF CARDS
The long day had been devoted to the choosing of the twelve men who
should say whether John North was innocent or guilty, but at last court
adjourned and Marshall Langham, pushing through the crowd that was
emptying itself into the street, turned away in the direction of his
home.
For no single instant during the day had he been able to take his eyes
from his father's face. He had heard almost nothing of what was said, it
was only when the coldly impersonal tones of the judge's voice reached
him out of, what was to him silence, that he was stung to a full
comprehension of what was going on about him. The faces of the crowd had
blended until they were as indistinguishable as the face of humanity
itself. For him there had been but the one tragic presence in that dingy
room; and now--as the dull gray winter twilight enveloped him,--wherever
he turned his eyes, on the snow-covered pavement, in the bare branches
of the trees,--there he saw, endlessly repeated, the white drawn face of
his father.
His capacity for endurance seemed to measure itself against the slow
days. A week--two weeks--and the trial would end, but how? If the
verdict was guilty, North's friends would still continue their fight for
his life. He must sustain himself beyond what he felt to be the utmost
limit of his powers; and always, day after day, there would be that face
with its sunken eyes and bloodless lips, to summon him into its
presence.
He found himself at his own door, and paused uncertainly. He passed a
tremulous hand before his eyes. Was he sure of Gilmore,--was he sure of
Evelyn, who must know that North was innocent? The thought of her roused
in him all his bitter sense of hurt and injury. North had trampled on
his confidence and friendship! The lines of his face grew hard. This was
to be his revenge,--his by every right, and his fears should rob him of
no part of it!
He pushed open the door and entered the unlighted hail, then with a
grumbled oath because of the darkness, passed on into the sitting-room.
Except for such light as a bed of soft coal in the grate gave out, the
room was clothed in uncertainty. He stumbled against a chair and swore
again savagely. He was answered by a soft laugh, and then he saw Evelyn
seated in the big arm-chair at one side of the fireplace.
"Did you hurt yourself, Marsh?" she asked.
Langham growled an unintelligible reply and dropped heavily into a
chair. He brought with him the fumes of whisky and stale tobacco, and as
these reached her across the intervening space Evelyn made a little
grimace in the half light.
"I declare, Marsh, you are hardly fit to enter a respectable house!" she
said.
In spite of his doubt of her, they were not on the worst of terms, there
were still times when he resumed his old role of the lover, when he held
her drifting fancy in something of the potent spell he had once been
able to weave about her. Whatever their life together, it was far from
commonplace, with its poverty and extravagance, its quarrelings and its
reconciliations, while back of it all, deep-rooted in the very dregs of
existence, was his passionate love. Even his brutal indifference was but
one of the many phases of his love; it was a manifestation of his revolt
against his sense of dependence, a dependence which made it possible for
him to love where his faith was destroyed and his trust gone absolutely.
Evelyn was vaguely conscious of this and she was not sure but that she
required just such a life as theirs had become, but that she would have
been infinitely bored with a man far more worth while than Marshall
Langham. From his seat by the fire Langham scowled across at her, but
the scowl was lost in the darkness.
"Your father was here last evening, Marsh," Evelyn said at length,
remembering she had not seen him the night before, and that he had
breakfasted and gone before she was up that morning.
"What did he come for?" her husband asked.
"I think to see you. Poor man, he doesn't seem able to get the run of
the hours you keep; I told him he could always find you here between
four and eight in the morning. I must say this little insight into your
domestic habits appeared to distress him, but I tried to comfort him,--I
told him you would probably outlive us all." She laughed softly. "Andy
was here this afternoon, Marsh," she went on.
"What the devil did he want?"
"I don't know."
"Is he coming back?"
"He didn't mention it, if he is." And again she laughed.
Langham moved impatiently; her low full-throated mirth jarred on his
somber mood.
"Were you in court to-day, Marsh?" she inquired, after a short silence.
"Yes," he answered briefly.
"Were there many there?"
"Yes."
"Any ladies, Marsh?" she questioned, with sudden eagerness.
"If you can call them that," he growled.
"Do you know, Marsh, I had a strong impulse to go, too. Would you have
been astonished to see me there?" she asked tentatively.
"We won't have any of that,--do you understand?" he said with fierce
authority.
"Why not? It's as right for me as it is for any one else, isn't it?"
"I won't _have_ it!" he said, lifting his voice slightly.
She had risen and now stood leaning against the arm of his chair.
"Marsh, he didn't kill McBride; he couldn't,--he wouldn't harm a mouse!"
Her words set him raging.
"Keep quiet, will you,--what do you know about it, anyhow?" he cried
with sullen ferocity.
"Don't be rude, Marsh! So you don't want me to come to the trial,--you
tell me I can't?"
"Did my father say anything about this matter,--the trial, I mean?"
asked Langham haltingly.
"Yes, I think he spoke of it, but I really wasn't interested because you
see I am so sure John North is innocent!"
He caught one of her hands in his and drew her down on the arm of his
chair where he could look into her eyes.
"There is just one question I want to ask you, Evelyn, but I expect
you'll answer it as you choose," he said, with his face close to hers.
"Then why ask it?" she said.
"Why,--because I want to know. Where were you on the day of the
murder,--between five and six o'clock?"
"I _wish_ you'd let me go, Marsh; you're hurting me--" she complained.
She struggled for a moment to release herself from his grasp, then
realizing that her effort was of no avail, she quietly resumed her
former position on the arm of his chair.
"You must answer my question, come--where were you?" Langham commanded.
He brought his face close to hers and she saw that his eyes burnt with
an unhealthy light.
"How silly of you, Marsh, you know it was Thanksgiving day,--that we
dined with your father."
"I am not asking you about that,--that was later!"
"I suppose I was on my way there at the hour you mention."
"No, you weren't; you were in North's rooms!"
"If you were not drunk, I should be angry with you, Marsh,--you are
insulting--"
He quitted his hold on her and staggered to his feet.
"You were with North--" he roared.
"Do you want the servants to hear you?" she asked in an angry whisper.
"Hell!"
He made a step toward her, his hand raised.
"Don't do that, Marsh. I should never forgive you!"
Evelyn faced him, meeting his wild glance with unshaken composure. The
clenched hand fell at his side.
"My God, I ought to kill you!" he muttered.
She made him no answer, but kept her eyes fixed steadily on his face.
"You _were_ with North!" Langham repeated.
"Well, since you wish me to say it, I was with John North, but what of
that?"
"In his rooms--" he jerked out.
"No,--now you are asking too much of me!"
"I have proof,--proof, that you went to his rooms that day!" he stormed.
"I did nothing of the sort, and I am not going to quarrel with you while
you are drunk!"
Drunk he was, but not as she understood drunkenness. In the terrible
extremity to which his crime had brought him he was having recourse to
drugs.
"You say you have proof,--don't be absurd, Marsh, you know you haven't!"
she added uneasily.
"You were with North in his rooms--" he insisted.
He was conscious of a strange wonder at himself that he could believe
this, and yet aside from such gusts of rage as these, his doubt of her
made no difference in their life together. Surely this was the measure
of his degradation.
"I am not going to discuss this matter with you!" Evelyn said.
"Aren't you? Well, I guess you will. Do you know you may be summoned
into court?"
"Why?" she demanded, with a nervous start.
"North may want to prove that he was in his rooms at the hour the
murder is supposed to have been committed; all he needs is your
testimony,--it would make a nice scandal, wouldn't it?"
"Has he asked this?" Evelyn questioned.
"Not yet!"
"Then I don't think he ever will," she said quietly.
"Do you suppose he will be fool enough to go to the penitentiary, or
hang, to save _your_ reputation?" Langham asked harshly.
"I think Jack North would be almost fool enough for that," she answered
with conviction.
"Well, I don't,--you were too easy,--men don't risk their necks for your
sort!" he mocked. "Look here, you had an infatuation for North,--you
admitted it,--only this time it went too far! What was the trouble, did
he get sick of the business and throw you over?"
"How coarse you are, Marsh!" and she colored angrily, not at his words,
however, but at the memory of that last meeting with North.
"It's a damn rotten business, and I'll call it by what name I please! If
you are summoned, it will be your word against his; you have told me you
were not in his rooms--"
"I was _not_ there--" she said, and as she said it she wondered why she
did not tell the truth, admit the whole thing and have it over with. She
was tired of the wrangling, and her hatred of North had given way to
pity, yet when Langham replied:
"All right. You are my wife, and North can hang, but he shan't save
himself by ruining you if _I_ can help it!"
She answered: "I have told you that I wasn't there, Marsh."
"Would you swear that you weren't there?" Langham asked eagerly.
"Yes--"
"Even if it sent him to the penitentiary?" he persisted.
"Yes."
He took her by the shoulders and drew her near to him that he might look
deep into her eyes.
"Even if it hanged him?" he rasped out.
She felt his hot breath on her cheek; she looked into his face, fierce,
cruel, with the insane selfishness of his one great fear.
"Answer me,--would you let him hang?" and he shook her roughly.
"Would I let him hang--" she repeated.
"Yes--"
"I--I don't know!" she said in a frightened whisper.
"No, damn you, I can't trust you!" and he flung her from him.
There was a brief silence. The intangible, unformed, unthoughtout fear
that had kept her silent was crystallizing into a very tangible
conviction. Marshall had expressed more than the mere desire to be
revenged on North, she saw that he was swayed by the mastering emotion
of fear, rather than by his blazing hate of the suspected man. Slowly
but surely there came to her an understanding of his swift descent
during the last months.
"Marsh--" she began, and hesitated.
A scarcely articulate snarl from Langham seemed to encourage her to go
on.
"Marsh, where does the money come from that you--that we--have been
spending so lavishly this winter?"
"From my practice," he said, but his face was averted.
She gave a frightened laugh.
"Oh, no, Marsh, I know better than that!"
He swung about on her.
"Well," he stormed, "what do you know?"
"Hush, Marsh!" she implored, in sudden terror of him.
He gave her a sullen glare.
"Oh, very well, bring the whole damn thing rattling down about our
ears!" he cried.
"Marsh,--what do you mean? Do you know that John North is innocent?" She
spoke with terrifying deliberation.
For a moment they stood staring into each other's eyes. The delicate
pallor deepened on her face, and she sank half fainting into a chair,
but her accusing gaze was still fixed on Langham.
He strode to her side, and his hand gripped hers with a cruel force.
"Let him prove that he is innocent if he can, but without help from
you! You keep still no matter what happens, do you hear? Or God knows
where this thing will end--or how!"
"Marsh, what am I to think!"
"You can think what you like so long as you keep still--"
There was a hesitating step in the hall, the door was pushed open, and
Judge Langham paused on the threshold.
"May I come in?" he said.
Neither spoke, and his uneasy glance shifted back and forth from husband
to wife. In that wordless instant their common knowledge manifested
itself to each one of the three.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
GOOD MEN AND TRUE
The North trial was Mount Hope's one vital sensation. Day after day the
courtroom was filled with eager perspiring humanity, while in their
homes, on the streets, and in the stores men talked of little else. As
for North himself, he was conscious of a curious sense of long
acquaintance with the courtroom; its staring white walls and crowded
benches seemed his accustomed surroundings, and here, with a feeling
that was something between fear and weariness, he followed each stage of
the elaborate game Judge Belknap, for the defense, and Moxlow, for the
prosecution, were playing, the game that had his life for its stake.
When court adjourned, always in the twilight of those mid-winter
afternoons, there were his brief comforting interviews with Elizabeth;
and then the long solitary evenings in his cell; and the longer nights,
restless and disturbed. The strain told fearfully on his vigor of body
and mind, his face under imprisonment's pallid mask, became gaunt and
heavily lined, while his eyes sunk deep in their sockets.
At first he had not believed that an innocent man could be punished for
a crime of which he had no knowledge; he was not so sure of this now,
for the days slipped past and the prosecution remained firmly intrenched
behind certain facts which were in their way, conclusive. He told
himself with grim humor that the single weak strand in the rope Moxlow
was seeking to fit about his neck was this, that after all was said and
proved, the fact remained, he had not killed Archibald McBride!
When the last witness for the state had been examined, North took the
stand in his own behalf. His cross-examination was concluded one dull
February day, and there came a brief halt in the rapid progress of the
trial; the jury was sent from the room while Moxlow and Belknap prepared
instructions and submitted them to the court. The judge listened
wearily, his sunken cheek resting against the palm of his thin hand, and
his gaze fixed on vacancy; when he spoke his voice was scarcely audible.
Once he paused in the middle of a sentence as his glance fell on the
heavy upturned face of his son, for he saw fear and entreaty written on
the close-drawn lips and in the bloodshot eyes.
A little later in the twilight North, with the sheriff at his elbow,
walked down the long corridor on his way to the jail. The end was close
at hand, a day or two more and his fate would be decided. The
hopelessness of the situation appalled him, stupified him. The evidence
of his guilt seemed overwhelming; he wondered how Elizabeth retained her
faith in him. He always came back to his thought of her, and that which
had once been his greatest joy now only filled him with despair. Why had
he ever spoken of his love,--what if this grim farce in which he was a
hapless actor blundered on to a tragic close! He would have made any
sacrifice had it been possible for him to face the situation alone, but
another life was bound up with him; he would drag her down in the ruin
that had overtaken him, and when it was all past and forgotten, she
would remember,--the horror of it would fill her days!
On that night, as on many another, North retraced step by step the ugly
path that wound its tortuous way from McBride's back office to the cell
in which he--John North--faced the gallows. But the oftener he trod this
path the more maze-like it became, until now he was hopelessly lost in
its intricacies; discouraged, dazed, confused, almost convinced that in
some blank moment of lost identity it was his hand that had sent the old
man on his long last journey. As Evelyn Langham had questioned, so now
did John North: "If not I, then who did murder Archibald McBride?"
In a vain search for the missing handy-man, General Herbert had opened
his purse wider than North or even Evelyn realized. There seemed three
possibilities in the instance of Montgomery. Either he knew McBride's
murderer and testified falsely to shield him; or else he knew nothing
and had been hired by some unknown enemy to swear North into the
penitentiary; or--and the third possibility seemed not unlikely--it was
he himself that had clambered over the shed roof after killing and
robbing the old merchant.
North turned on his cot and his thoughts turned with him from Montgomery
to Gilmore, who also, with uncharacteristic cowardliness had fled the
scene of his illegal activities and the indictment that threatened him
anew. "What was the gambler's part in the tragedy?" He hated North; he
loved Marshall Langham's wife. But neither of these passions shaped
themselves into murderous motives. Langham himself furnished food for
reflection and speculation. Evidently in the most dire financial
difficulties; evidently under Gilmore's domination; evidently burdened
with some guilty knowledge,--but there was no evidence against him, he
had credibly accounted for himself on that Thanksgiving afternoon, and
North for the hundredth time dismissed him with the exclamation: "Marsh
Langham a murderer? Impossible!"
The first cold rays of light, announcing the belated winter's dawn,
touched with gray fingers the still grayer face of the sleepless
prisoner. Out of the shadows that they coined came a vision of Evelyn
Langham. And again for the hundredth time, North was torn between the
belief that she, by her testimony, might save him and the unconquerable
determination to keep from Elizabeth Herbert the knowledge of his affair
with Langham's wife. Better end his worthless existence than touch her
fair life with this scandal. But of what was Evelyn Langham thinking
during the days of his trial? What if she should voluntarily break her
silence! Should he not send for her--there was a sound at his door.
North started to his feet only to see the fat round face of the deputy
sheriff as he came bringing the morning's hot coffee and thick buttered
bread.
The town bell was ringing for nine o'clock when the deputy sheriff again
appeared to escort him into court, and as they entered the room North
saw that it was packed to the doors. His appearance won a moment of
oppressive silence, then came the shuffling of feet and the hum of
whispered conversation.
At the back of the room sat Marshall Langham. He was huddled up in a
splint-bottomed chair a deputy had placed for him at one end of the last
row of benches. Absorbed and aloof, he spoke with no one, he rarely
moved except to mop his face with his handkerchief. His eyes were fixed
on the pale shrunken figure that bent above the judge's desk. His
father's face with its weary dignity, its unsoftened pride, possessed a
terrible fascination for him; the very memory of it, when he had quitted
the court room, haunted him! Pallid, bloodless as a bit of yellow
parchment, and tortured by suffering, it stole into his dreams at night.
But at last the end was in sight! If Moxlow had the brains he credited
him with, North would be convicted, the law satisfied, and his case
cease to be of vital interest to any one. Then of a sudden his fears
would go from him, he would be born afresh into a heritage of new hopes
and new aspirations! He had suffered to the very limit of his capacity;
there was such a thing as expiation, and surely he had expiated his
crime.
Now Moxlow, lank and awkward, with long black locks sweeping the collar
of his rusty coat, slipped from his chair and stood before the judge's
desk. For an instant Langham's glance shifted from his father to the
accused man. He felt intense hatred of him; to his warped and twisted
consciousness, half mad as he was with drink and drugs, North's life
seemed the one thing that stood between himself and safety,--and clearly
North had forfeited the right to live!
When Moxlow's even tones fell on the expectant hush, Langham writhed in
his seat. Each word, he felt, had a dreadful significance; the big linen
handkerchief went back and forth across his face as he sought to mop
away the sweat that oozed from every pore. He had gone as deep in the
prosecutor's counsels as he dared go, he knew the man's power of
invective, and his sledge-hammer force in argument; he wanted him to cut
loose and overwhelm North all in a breath! The blood in him leaped and
tingled with suppressed excitement, his twitching lips shaped themselves
with Moxlow's words. He felt that Moxlow was letting his opportunity
pass him by, that after all he was not equal to the task before him,
that it was one thing to plan and quite another to perform. Men, such as
those jurors, must be powerfully moved or they would shrink from a
verdict of guilty!
But Moxlow persevered in his level tones, he was not to be hurried. He
felt the case as good as won, and there was the taste of triumph in his
mouth, for he was going to convict his man in spite of the best criminal
lawyer in the state! Yet presently the level tones became more and more
incisive, and Moxlow would walk toward North, his long finger extended,
to loose a perfect storm of words that cut and stung and insulted. He
went deep into North's past, and stripped him bare; shabby, mean, and
profligate, he pictured those few short years of his manhood until he
became the broken spendthrift, desperately in need of money and rendered
daring by the ruin that had overtaken him.
Moxlow's speech lasted three hours, and when he ended a burning mist was
before North's eyes. He saw vaguely the tall figure of the prosecuting
attorney sink into a chair, and he gave a great sigh of relief. Perhaps
North expected Belknap to perform some miracle of vindication in his
behalf, certainly when his counsel advanced to the rail that guarded the
bench there were both authority and confidence in his manner, and soon
the dingy court room was echoing to the strident tones of the old
criminal lawyer's voice. As the minutes passed, however, it became a
certainty with North that no miracle would happen.
Belknap concluded his plea shortly before six o'clock. And this was the
end,--this was the last move in the game where his life was the stake!
In spite of his exhaustion of mind and body North had followed the
speech with the closest attention. He told himself now, that the state's
case was unshaken, that the facts, stubborn and damning, were not to be
brushed aside.