Belknap had not been called away?"
General Herbert shook his head.
"And now we must go back to him! We were to have telegraphed him; we
won't now, will we?"
"My poor, poor Elizabeth!" cried the general brokenly.
"How shall we ever tell him!"
"I will go alone," said the general.
"No, no--I must see him! You are sure we have time to catch our
train--if we should miss it--" and the thought gave her a sudden
feverish energy.
"You need not hurry," her father assured her.
"But look at your watch!" she entreated.
"We have half an hour," he said.
"You can think of nothing more to do?" she asked, after another brief
silence.
"Nothing, dear."
Little was said until they boarded the train, but in the drawing-room of
the Pullman which her father had been able to secure, Elizabeth's
restraint forsook her, and she abandoned herself to despair. Her father
silently took his place at her side. Oppressed and preoccupied, the
sting of defeat unmitigated, he was struggling with the problem of the
future. The morrow with its hideous tragedy seemed both the end and the
beginning. One thing was clear to him, they must go away from Idle Hour
where North had been so much a part of Elizabeth's life. Nothing had
been added to this decision when at length the train pulled into Mount
Hope.
"We are home, dear," he said gently.
[Illustration: She abandoned herself to despair.]
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE LAST LONG DAY
A long day, the last of many long days he told himself, was ended, and
John North stood by his window. Below in the yard into which he was
looking, but within the black shadow cast by the jail, was the gallows.
Though indistinguishable in the darkness, its shape was seared on his
brain, for he had lived in close fellowship with all it emphasized. It
was his gallows, it had grown to completion under his very eyes that it
might destroy him in the last hour.
There had been for him a terrible fascination in the gaunt thing that
gave out the odor of new wood; a thing men had made with their own
hands; a clumsy device to inflict a brutal death; a left-over from
barbarism which denied every claim of civilization and Christianity!
Now, as the moon crept up from behind the distant hills, the black
shadows retreated, and as he watched, timber by timber the gallows stood
forth distinct in the soft clear light. In a few hours, unless the
governor interfered, he would pass through the door directly below his
window. He pictured the group of grave-faced nervous officials, he saw
himself bound and blindfolded and helpless in their midst.
His fingers closed convulsively about the iron bars that guarded his
window, but the feeling of horror that suddenly seized him was remote
from self-pity. He was thinking of Elizabeth. What unspeakable
wretchedness he had brought into her life, and he was still to bequeath
her this squalid brutal death! It was the crowning shame and misery to
the long months of doubt and fearful suspense.
Up from the earth came the scent of living growing things. The leaves of
the great maples in the court-house grounds rustled in the spring
breeze, there was the soft incessant hum of insect life, and over all
the white wonderful moonlight. But he had no part in this universal
renewal--he was to die his purposeless unheroic death in the morning.
For himself he could almost believe he no longer cared; he had fully
accepted the idea. He had even taken his farewell of the few in Mount
Hope who had held steadfast in their friendship, and there only remained
for him to die decently; to meet the inevitable with whatever courage
there was in his soul.
He heard Brockett's familar step and suddenly, intent and listening, he
faced the door; but the deputy came slowly down the corridor and as he
entered the cell, paused, and shook his head.
"No word yet, John," he said regretfully.
"Is the train in?" asked North.
"Yes, Conklin went down to meet it. He's just back; I guess they'll come
on the ten-thirty."
North again turned listlessly toward the window.
"I wouldn't own myself beat yet, John!" said the deputy.
"I've gone down at every crisis! I didn't think the grand jury would
indict me, I didn't think I would be convicted at the trial!" He made a
weary gesture. "What right have I to think they will be able to
influence the governor?"
There was a moment's silence broken by the deputy.
"I'll be outside, and if you want anything, let me know."
It was the death-watch, and poor Brockett was to keep it.
North fell to pacing his narrow bounds. Without, the wind had risen and
presently there came the patter of rain on the roof. Thick darkness
again enveloped the jail yard; and the gallows--his gallows--was no
longer visible. For an hour or more the storm raged and then it passed
as swiftly as it had gathered. Once more he became aware of the
incessant hum of the insect world, and the rustling of the great maples
in the court-house grounds.
As he listened to these sounds, from somewhere off in the distance he
heard the shriek of an engine's whistle. They were coming now if they
came at all! In spite of himself, his hope revived. To believe that they
had failed was out of the question, and the beat of his pulse and the
throb of his heart quickened.
He endured twenty minutes of suspense, then he heard voices; Brockett
threw open the door, and Elizabeth, white-faced and shaking, was before
him.
"John!" she cried, with such anguish that in one terrible instant all
hope went from him.
His soul seemed to stand naked at the very gates of death, and the
vision of his brutal ending came before his burning eyes. Words of
protest trembled on his lips. This endured but for an imperceptible
space of time, and then that larger pity which was not for himself but
for Elizabeth, took him quickly to her side.
"John--" she cried again, and held out her arms.
"Do not speak--I know," he said.
Her head drooped on his shoulder, and her strength seemed to forsake
her.
"I know, dear!" he repeated.
"We could do nothing!" she gasped.
"You have done everything that love and devotion could do!"
She looked up into his face.
"You are not afraid?" she whispered, clinging to him.
"I think not," he said simply.
"You are very brave, John--I shall try to be brave, also."
"My dear, dear Elizabeth!" he murmured sadly, and they were silent.
Without, in the corridor, an occasional whispered word passed between
General Herbert and the deputy.
"The governor would do nothing, John," Elizabeth faltered at length.
"I understand, dear," he said tenderly.
"He would not even see us; we went repeatedly to his house and to the
capitol, and in the end we saw his secretary. The governor had left
town; he never intended to see us! To reach this end--when nothing can
be done--" Her eyes grew wide with horror.
He drew her closer, and touched her cold lips with his.
"There is one thing you can do that will be a comfort to me, Elizabeth;
let your father take you home!"
"No, no, I must stay till morning, until the day breaks--don't send me
away, John!" she entreated.
"It will be easier--"
Yet his arms still held her close to him, and he gazed down into the
upturned face that rested against his breast. It was his keen sense of
her suffering that weighed on him now. What a wreck he had made of her
life--what infinite compassion and pity he felt! He held her closer.
"What is it, dear?" she asked.
But he could not translate his feeling into words.
"Oh, if there were only something we could do!" she moaned.
"Through all these weeks you have given me hope and strength! You say
that I am brave! Your love and devotion have lifted me out of myself; I
would be ashamed to be a coward when I think of all you have endured!"
He felt her shiver in his arms, then in the momentary silence the
court-house bell struck the half-hour.
"I thought it was later," she said, as the stroke of the bell died out
in the stillness.
"It is best that you should leave this place, dearest--"
"Don't send me from you, John--I can not bear that yet--" she implored.
Pityingly and tenderly his eyes looked deep into hers. What had she not
endured for his sake! And the long days of effort had terminated in this
last agony of disappointment; but now, and almost mercifully, he felt
the fruitless struggle was ended. All that remained was the acceptance
of an inexorable fate. He drew forward his chair for her, and as she
sank wearily into it, he seated himself on the edge of the cot at her
side.
"McBride's murderer will be found one of these days, and then all the
world will know that what you believe is the truth," said North at
length.
"Yes, dear," replied Elizabeth simply.
Some whispered word of General Herbert's or the deputy's reached them in
the interval of silence that ensued. Then presently in that silence they
had both feared to break, the court-house bell rang again. It was
twelve o'clock. Elizabeth rose.
"I am going now--John--" she said, in a voice so low that he scarcely
heard her. "I am going home. You wish it--and you must sleep--" She
caught his hands and pressed them to her heart.
"Oh, my darling--good night--"
She came closer in his arms, and held up her lips for him to kiss. The
passion of life had given place to the chill of death. It was to-day
that he was to die! No longer could they think of it as a thing of
to-morrow, for at last the day had come.
"Yes, you must go," he said, in the same low voice in which she had
spoken.
"I love you, John--"
"As I do you, beloved--" he answered gently.
"Oh, I can not leave you! My place is here with you to the very last--do
not send me away!"
"I could not bear it," he said steadily. "You must leave Mount Hope
to-morrow--to-day--"
He felt her arms tighten about his neck.
"To-day?" she faltered miserably. "To-day--"
Her arms relaxed. He pressed his lips to her pale cold lips and to her
eyes, from which the light of consciousness had fled.
"General Herbert!" he called.
Instantly the general appeared in the doorway.
"She has fainted!" said North.
Her father turned as if with some vague notion of asking assistance, but
North checked him.
"For God's sake take her away while she is still unconscious!" and he
placed her in her father's arms. For a moment his hand lingered on the
general's shoulder. "Thank you--good-by!" and he turned away abruptly.
"Good-by--God bless you, John!" said the general in a strained voice.
He seemed to hesitate for a moment as if he wished to say more; then as
North kept his back turned on him, he gathered the unconscious girl
closer in his arms, and walked from the room.
North remained by the window, his hands clutching the bars with
convulsive strength, then the wind which blew fresh and strong in his
face brought him the sound of wheels; but this quickly died out in the
distance.
Brockett tiptoed into the cell.
"I am going to lie down and see if I can get some sleep," North said,
throwing off his coat. "If I sleep, call me as soon as it is light--good
night."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
ON THE HIGH IRON BRIDGE
As the weeks had passed Marshall Langham had felt his fears lift
somewhat, but the days and nights still remained endless cycles of
torment. Wherever he turned and with whomsoever he talked the North case
was certain sooner or later to be mentioned. There were hideous rumors
afloat, too, concerning General Herbert's activity in behalf of the
condemned man, and in spite of his knowledge of the law, he was
profoundly affected by this wild gossip, this ignorant conjecture, which
reason and experience alike told him misstated every fact that bore on
the situation. He was learning just how dependent he had been on
Gilmore; no strange imaginings, no foolish vagaries had ever beset the
gambler, his brutal vigor had yielded nothing to terror or remorse.
He knew the Herberts had gone to Columbus to make a final appeal to the
governor. Father and daughter had been driven across the Square by
Thompson, the Idle Hour foreman, and they had passed below the windows
of Langham's office on their way to the station. It had seemed to him an
iniquitous thing that the old statesman's position and influence should
be brought into the case to defeat his hopes, to rob him of his
vengeance, to imperil his very safety. Racked and tortured, he had no
existence outside his fear and hate. All that day Langham haunted the
railway station. If any word did come over the wires, he wished to know
it at once, and if General Herbert returned he wished to see him, since
his appearance must indicate success or failure. If it were failure the
knowledge would come none too quickly; if success, in any degree, he
contemplated instant flight, for he was obsessed by the belief that then
he would somehow stand in imminent peril.
He was pacing the long platform when the afternoon train arrived, but
his bloodshot eyes searched the crowd in vain for a sight of General
Herbert's stalwart figure.
"He has just one more chance to get back in time!" he told himself. "If
he doesn't come to-night it means I am safe!"
His bloodless lips sucked in the warm air. Safe! It was the first time
in months he had dared to tell himself this; yet a moment later and his
fears were crowding back crushing him to earth. The general might do
much in the six hours that remained to him.
He was back at his post when the night train drew in, and his heart gave
a great leap in his breast as he saw the general descend from the
platform of the sleeper and then turn to assist Elizabeth. She was
closely veiled, but one glance at the pair sufficed.
Langham passed down the long platform. The flickering gas-jets that
burned at intervals under the wide eaves of the low station were
luminous suns, his brain whirled and his step was unsteady. He passed
out into the night, and when the friendly darkness had closed about him,
slipped a feverish palm across his eyes and thanked God that his season
of despair was at an end. He had suffered and endured but now he was
safe!
Before him the train, with its trailing echoes, had dwindled away into
the silence of the spring night. Scarcely conscious of the direction he
was taking he walked down the track toward the iron bridge. It was as if
some miracle of healing had come to him; his heavy step grew light, his
shaking hands became steady, his brain clear; in those first moments of
security he was the ease-seeking, pleasure-loving Marshall Langham of
seven months before.
As he strode forward he became aware that some one was ahead of him on
the track, then presently at the bridge a match was struck, and his
eyes, piercing the intervening darkness, saw that a man had paused there
to light a pipe. He was quite near the bridge himself when another match
flared, and he was able to distinguish the figure of this man who was
crouching back of one of the iron girders. A puff of wind extinguished
the second match almost immediately, and after a moment or two in which
the lawyer continued to advance, a third match was struck; at the same
instant the man must have heard the sound of Langham's approach, for as
he brought the blazing match to the bowl of a short black pipe, he
turned, standing erect, and Langham caught sight of his face. It was Joe
Montgomery. Another playful gust found Mr. Montgomery's match and the
two men stood facing each other in the darkness.
Langham had been about to speak but the words died on his lips; a wave
of horror passed over him. He had known not quite ten minutes of
security and now it was at an end; his terror all revived; this hulking
brute who faced him there in the darkness menaced his safety, a few
drinks might give him courage to go to Moxlow or to the general with his
confession. How was he to deal with the situation?
"There ain't much Irish about me!" said Montgomery, with a casual oath.
There was a moment of silence. The handy-man was searching his pockets
for a fresh match.
"Why have you come back, Joe?" asked Langham finally, when he could
command himself.
Montgomery started violently and his pipe fell from his mouth.
"Is that you, Boss Langham?" he faltered.
He stared about him seeking to pierce the darkness, fearful that Langham
was not alone, that Gilmore might be somewhere near.
"Are you by yourself, boss?" he asked, and a tremor stole into his
hoarse throaty voice. He still carried the scars of that fearful beating
Gilmore had administered.
"Yes," said Langham. "I'm alone."
"I didn't know but Andy Gilmore might be with you, boss," said
Montgomery, clearing his throat.
"No, he's not here," replied Langham quietly. "He's left town."
"Yes, but he'll be comin' back!" said the handy-man with a short laugh.
"No, he's gone for good."
"Well, I ain't sorry. I hope to God I never see him again--he beat me up
awful! I was as good a friend as he'll ever have; I was a perfect yellow
dog to him; he whistled and I jumped, but I'll be damned if I ever jump
again! Say, I got about eighteen inches of old gas-pipe slid down my
pants leg now for Mr. Andy; one good slug with that, and he won't have
no remarks to make about my goin' home to my old woman!"
"You won't have to use it."
"I'm almost sorry," said Montgomery.
"I suppose that thirst of yours is unimpaired?" inquired Langham.
His burning eyes never for an instant forsook the dark outline of the
handy-man's slouching figure.
"I dunno, boss, I ain't been drinkin' much lately. Liquor's a bully
thing to keep the holes in your pants, and your toes out where you can
look at 'em if you want to. I dunno as I'll ever take up
whisky-drinkin' again," concluded Mr. Montgomery, with a self-denying
shake of the head.
"Are you glad to be back, Joe?" asked Langham.
It was anything to gain time, he was thinking desperately but to no
purpose.
"Glad! Stick all the cuss words you know in front of that and it will be
mild!" cried Montgomery feelingly. "It's pitiful the way I been used,
just knocked from pillar to post; I've seen dogs right here in Mount
Hope that had a lot happier time than I've been havin'--and me a married
man! I've always tried to be a good husband, I hope there won't be no
call for me to make a rough-house of it to-night!" he added playfully,
as he looked off across the bridge.
"I guess not, Joe," said Langham.
His fears assembled themselves before him like a phantom host. How was
he to deal with the handy-man; how would Gilmore have dealt with him?
Had the time gone by to bully and bribe, or was that still the method by
which he could best safeguard his life?
"Say, boss, what they done with young John North?" Montgomery suddenly
demanded.
"Nothing yet," answered Langham after an instant's pause.
"Ain't he had his trial?" Montgomery asked.
"Yes."
"Well, ain't they done anything with him? If he ain't been sent up, he's
been turned loose."
"Neither, Joe," rejoined Langham slowly. "The jury didn't agree. His
friends are trying to get the judge to dismiss the case."
"That would suit me bully, boss, if they done that!" cried the
handy-man.
Langham caught the tone of relief.
"I don't want to see him hang; I don't want to see no one hang, I'm all
in favor of livin', myself. Say, I had a sweet time out West! I'd a died
yonder; I couldn't stand it, I had to come back--just had to!"
He was shaking and wretched, and he exaggerated no part of the misery he
had known.
"When did you get in?" asked Langham.
"I beat my way in on the ten-thirty; I rode most of the way from
Columbus on top of the baggage car--I'm half dead, boss!"
"Have you seen any one?"
"No one but you. I got off at the crossin' where they slow up and come
along here; I wasn't thinkin' of a damn thing but gettin' home to my old
woman. I guess I'll hit the ties right now!" he concluded with sudden
resolution, and once more his small blue eyes were turned toward the
bridge.
"I'll walk across to the other side with you," said Langham hastily.
"The crick's up quite a bit!" said the handy-man as they set foot on the
bridge.
Langham glanced out into the gloom, where swollen by the recent rains
the stream splashed and whirled between its steep banks.
"Yes, way up!" he answered.
As he spoke he stepped close to Montgomery's side and raised his voice.
"Stop a bit," said Joe halting. "I shan't need this now," and he drew
the piece of gas-pipe from his trousers pocket. "I'd have hammered the
life out of Andy Gilmore!" he said, as he tossed the ugly bludgeon from
him.
"You haven't told me where you have been," said Langham, and once more
he pressed close to Montgomery, so close their elbows touched.
The handy-man moved a little to one side.
"Where _ain't_ I been, you better ask, boss," he said. "I seen more
rotten cities and more rotten towns and more rotten country than you can
shake a stick at; God A'mighty knows what's the good of it--I dunno!
Everybody I seen was strangers to me, never a face I knowed anywhere;
Chicago, Kansas City, St. Louis, Denver--to hell with 'em all, boss; old
Mount Hope's good enough for me!" And the handy-man shrugged his huge
slanting shoulders.
"Don't go so fast, Joe!" Langham cautioned, and his eyes searched the
darkness ahead of them.
"It's a risky business for you, boss," said the handy-man. "You ain't
used to this bridge like me."
"Do you always come this way?" asked Langham.
"Always, in all seasons and all shapes, drunk or sober, winter or
summer," said the handy-man.
"One wouldn't have much chance if he slipped off here to-night," said
Langham with a shudder.
"Mighty little," agreed Montgomery. "Say, step over, boss--we want to
keep in the middle! There--that's better, I was clean outside the rail."
"Can you swim?" asked Langham.
"Never swum a stroke. The dirt's good enough for me; I got a notion that
these here people who are always dippin' themselves are just naturally
filthy. Look at me, a handy-man doing all kinds of odd jobs, who's got a
better right to get dirty--but I leave it alone and it wears off. I'm
blame certain you won't find many people that fool away less money on
soap than just me!" said Joe with evident satisfaction. "The old woman's
up!" he cried, as he caught the glimmer of a light on the shore beyond.
Perhaps unconsciously he quickened his pace.
"Not so fast, Joe!" gasped Langham.
"Oh, all right, boss!" responded Montgomery.
Langham turned to him quickly, but as he did so his foot struck the
cinder ballast of the road-bed.
"Good night, boss!" said Joe, his eyes fixed on the distant light.
"Wait!" said Langham imperiously.
"What for?" demanded Montgomery.
"The water made such a noise I couldn't talk to you out on the bridge,"
began Langham.
"Well, I can't stop now, boss," said the handy-man, turning impatiently
from him.
"Yes, damn you--you can--and will!" and Langham raised his voice to give
weight to his words.
Montgomery rounded up his shoulders.
"Don't you try that, boss! Andy Gilmore could shout me down and cuss me
out, but you can't; and I'll peel the face off you if you lay hands on
me!" He thrust out a grimy fist and menaced Langham with it. There was a
brief silence and the handy-man swung about on his heel.
"Good night, boss!" he said over his shoulder, as he moved off.
Langham made no answer, but long after Joe's shuffling steps had died
away in the distance he was still standing there irresolute and
undecided, staring fixedly off into the darkness that had swallowed up
the handy-man's hulking figure.
Mr. Montgomery, muttering somewhat and wagging his head, continued along
the track for a matter of a hundred yards, when his feet found a narrow
path which led off in the direction of the light he had so confidently
declared was his old woman's. Then presently as he shuffled forward, the
other seven houses of the row of which his was the eighth, cloaked in
utter darkness, took shadowy form against the sky. The handy-man
stumbled into his unkempt front yard, its metes and bounds but
indifferently defined by the remnants of what had been a picket fence;
he made his way to the side door, which he threw open without ceremony.
As he had surmised, his old woman was up. She was seated by the table in
the corner, engaged in mending the ragged trousers belonging to Joseph
Montgomery, junior.
At sight of Joe, senior, she screamed and flung them aside; then white
and shaking she came weakly to her feet. The handy-man grinned genially.
He was not of demonstrative temperament.
"Joe!" cried Nellie, as she sprang toward him. "Dear Joe!" and she threw
her arms about him.
"Oh, hell!" said the handy-man.