The Just and the Unjust by Vaughan Kester

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Whenever North looked down into the alley that morning, there was the
human grouping with its changing personnel. Men sprawled on the piles of
boards, or lounged about the yard, while the murmur of their idle talk
reached him in his cell. The visible excuse which served to bring them
there was commonplace enough, but it was invested with the interest of a
coming tragedy, and North's own thoughts went forward to the time when
the fence should be finished, when somewhere within the space it
inclosed would stand his gallows.

Shortly before the noon whistles blew, two little girls came into the
alley with the carpenters' dinner pails. They made their way timidly
through the crowd, casting shy glances to the right and left; at a word
from one of the men they placed the dinner pails beside the pile of
lumber and hurried away; but at the street corner they paused, and with
wide eyes stared up in the direction of North's window.

A moment later the whistles sounded and the idlers dispersed, while the
two mechanics threw down their hammers and took possession of the lumber
pile. After they had eaten, they lighted their pipes and smoked in
silent contentment; but before their pipes were finished the crowd began
to reassemble, and all that afternoon the shifting changing groups stood
about in the alley, watching the building of the fence. At no time were
the two carpenters without an audience. This continued from day to day
until the structure was completed, then for a week there was no work
done within the inclosure. It remained empty and deserted, with its
litter of chips, of blocks and of board ends.

On the morning of the first Monday in May, North was standing before his
window when the two mechanics entered the yard from the jail; they
brought tools, and one carried a roll of blue paper under his arm; this
he spread out on a board and both men examined it carefully. Next they
crossed to the lumber pile and looked it over. They were evidently
making some sort of calculation. Then they pulled on their overalls and
went to work, and in one corner of the yard--the corner opposite North's
window--they began to build his scaffold. The thing took shape before
his very eyes, a monstrous anachronism.

General Herbert had not been idle while the unhurried preparations for
John North's execution were going forward; whatever his secret feeling
was, neither his words nor his manner conceded defeat. Belknap had tried
every expedient known to criminal practice to secure a new trial but had
failed, and it was now evident that without the intervention of the
governor, North's doom was fixed unalterably. Belknap quitted Mount Hope
for Columbus, and there followed daily letters and almost hourly
telegrams, but General Herbert felt from the first that the lawyer was
not sanguine of success. Then on the eighth of June, two days before the
execution, came a long message from the lawyer. His wife was ill, her
recovery was doubtful; the governor was fully possessed of the facts in
North's case and was considering them, would the general come at once to
Columbus?

This telegram reached Idle Hour late at night, and the next morning
father and daughter were driven into Mount Hope. The pleasant life with
its agreeable ordering which the general had known for ten peaceful
years had resolved itself into a mad race with time. The fearful, the
monstrous, seemed to reach out and grip him with skeleton fingers. Like
the pale silent girl at his side, he was knowing the horror of death,
and a horror that was beyond death.

They stopped at the jail to say good-by to North, and were then driven
rapidly to the station. The journey of about two hours seemed
interminable, but they rarely spoke. Elizabeth did not change the
position she had assumed when they took their seats. She leaned lightly
against her father's broad shoulder and her hands were clasped in her
lap.

For weeks the situation had been absolutely pitiless. Their wrecked
efforts were at the door of every hope, and if this mission failed--but
it would not fail! All they had come to ask was the life of an innocent
man, and surely the governor, unaffected by local prejudice, must
realize John North's innocence.

It was two o'clock when they reached their destination, and as they left
the car the general said:

"We will go to the hotel first. Either Judge Belknap will be there, or
there will be some word for us."

At the hotel they found, not Belknap, but a letter which he had left.
The governor was suffering from a slight indisposition and was confined
to the house. Belknap had made an appointment for him, and he would be
expected. The general crushed the sheet of paper between his fingers
with weary impatience.

"We'll see the governor at once. I'll call a carriage," he said briefly.

Five minutes later, when they had left the hotel, Elizabeth asked:

"What did Judge Belknap say?"

"Nothing, dear, nothing--the matter remains just as it was. The governor
is expecting us."

"What do you think, father? This is our last hope. Oh, do you realize
that?"

She rested her hand on his arm.

"It's going to be all right!" her father assured her.

Then there was silence between them until they drew up before the
governor's house.

Side by side they mounted the steps. The general's ring was answered by
a man-servant, who took their cards after showing them into a small
reception-room. He returned after a moment to say that the governor was
occupied and could not possibly see them until the afternoon. The
general's face was blank. He had never considered it possible that the
governor would refuse to see him at his convenience. Certainly there had
been a time when no politician of his party in the state nor in the
nation would have ventured this; but it was evident the last ten years
had made a difference in his position. Elizabeth gazed up fearfully into
her father's face. What did this mean; was it merely a subterfuge on the
governor's part to avoid a painful interview? Perhaps, after all, it
would have been better had she remained at the hotel. Her father read
her thoughts.

"It's all right--be brave!" he whispered. He turned to the servant.
"Will you kindly learn for me at what hour the governor will be at
liberty?" he said stiffly.

"Oh, he must see us!" cried Elizabeth, the moment they were alone.

"Of course he must, and he will," the general said.

But the governor's refusal to see them at once rankled within him. His
sunburnt cheeks were a brick red and there was an angry light in his
gray eyes. The servant did not return, but in his stead came a dapper
young fellow, the governor's private secretary.

"General Herbert?" he asked inquiringly, as he entered the room.

The general acknowledged his identity by an inclination of the head.

"The governor will be most happy to see you at any time after three
o'clock. May I tell him you will call then?" asked the secretary, and he
glanced, not without sympathy and understanding, at Elizabeth.

"We will return at three," the general said.

"He regrets his inability to see you now," murmured the secretary, and
again he permitted his glance to dwell on the girl's pale beauty.

He bowed them from the room and from the house. When the door closed on
them, Elizabeth turned swiftly to her father.

"He is cruel, heartless, to keep us in suspense. A word, a moment--might
have meant so much to us--" she sobbed.

A spasm of pain contracted her father's rugged features.

"He will see us; he is a busy man with unceasing demands on his time,
but we have this appointment. Be brave, dear, just a little longer!" he
said tenderly.

"I'll try to be, but there is only to-day--and to-morrow--" she
faltered.

"Hush, you must not think of that!"

"I can think of nothing else!"

How they lived through the long hours the general never knew, but at
last three o'clock came and they were again at the governor's door. It
was opened by the servant who had admitted them earlier in the day.

"We have an appointment with the governor," said General Herbert
briefly, pushing past him.

"Yes, sir; I will tell him you are here as soon as he comes in," said
the man.

"He's out, then?" and General Herbert wheeled on the man.

"Yes, but he's expected back any moment, sir."

"It will be all right," her father again assured Elizabeth, speaking
with forced cheerfulness when they were alone.

Ten--twenty minutes slipped by; minutes that were infinitely precious,
then a step sounded in the hall. It was the servant who entered the
room, however. He came to say that a message had that moment been
received from the governor; he was detained at the capitol, and probably
would not reach home before five o'clock.

"Does he say he will see us there?" asked the general.

"He didn't mention you, sir; perhaps he has forgotten, but I thought
you'd wish to know."

"Thank you." The general turned to his daughter. "I think we'd better go
to the capitol."

The carriage was still at the door and they hurried out to it and were
whirled across town. As they came to a stand before the capitol, General
Herbert, without waiting for Elizabeth, sprang out and strode into the
building and up the familiar stairs to the executive chambers. The door
of the outer office stood open. A colored janitor was sweeping the room.

"Who you want, boss?" he asked, stopping his work and leaning on the
handle of his broom.

"The governor--where is he?" demanded the general.

"You's too late, boss, he's done gone out."

A sense of futility and defeat almost overwhelmed the old general. He
was silent for a moment since he dared not trust himself to speak, then
he asked:

"Is the governor's secretary here?"

The man shook his head.

"Him and the governor left together. There ain't no one here now,
they've done for the day."

"Then the governor has gone home?"

"I expect that's where he went, yes, sir."

General Herbert swung about and hurried from the room. In the hall he
met Elizabeth.

"Did you see him?" she asked eagerly.

"Not here," he answered huskily.

Her eyes grew wide with terror, and she swayed as if about to fall, but
her father put out a sunburnt hand for her support.

"We must go back!" he said, mastering himself at sight of her suffering.
"We have missed him here, he's gone home, that is all--it means
nothing."

They drove in silence through the streets. Pallid, fearful, and
speechless in her suffering, Elizabeth leaned back in her seat. The hope
that had sustained her was lost in the realization of defeat. There was
nothing beyond; this was failure, complete and final; the very end of
effort! Suddenly her father's big hand closed about the small one which
rested in her lap.

"You must not give up; I tell you it will be all right!" he insisted.

"He is avoiding us!" she cried chokingly. "Oh, what can we do when he
will not even see us!"

"Yes, he will. We have been unfortunate, that is all."

"Wretchedly unfortunate!" she moaned.

They had reached their destination, and this time slowly and uncertainly
they ascended the steps. With his hand upon the bell, the general
hesitated for an instant; so much was at stake! Then a bell sounded in
some distant part of the house, and after a brief interval the door was
opened to them.

"I am sorry, sir, but the governor has not returned."

The general thrust a bill into the man's hand, saying:

"The moment he comes in, see that he gets my card."

Again there was delay. General Herbert, consumed by impatience, crossed
and recrossed the room. Elizabeth stood by the window, one hand parting
the heavy curtains. It was already late afternoon. The day had been
wasted, and the hours that remained to them were perilously few. But
more than the thought of North's death, the death itself filled her mind
with unspeakable imaginings. The power to control her thoughts was lost,
and her terrors took her where they would, until North's very death
struggles became a blinding horror. Somewhere in the silent house, a
door opened and closed.

"At last!" said the general, under his breath.

But it was only the governor's secretary who entered the room. He halted
in the doorway and glanced from father to daughter. There was no
mistaking the look on his face.

"How much longer are we to be kept in doubt?" asked General Herbert, in
a voice that indicated both his dread and his sense of insult.

"The governor deeply regrets that there should have been this delay--"
began the secretary.

"He is ready to see us now?" General Herbert interrupted.

"I regret--"

"What do you regret? Do you mean to tell me that he will not see us?"
demanded the general.

"The governor has left town."

The angry color flamed into the old man's cheeks. His sorely tried
patience was on the point of giving way, but a cry from the window
recalled him.

"Where has he gone?"

"He left for the East at four o'clock," faltered the secretary, after a
moment of wretched irresolution.

The general's face became white, as his anger yielded to a more powerful
emotion.

"Impossible!" he cried.

"The North matter has been left in my hands," said the secretary
haltingly.

The general's hope revived as he heard this. He stepped to Elizabeth's
side and rested his hand protectingly on her shoulder.

"You have the governor's decision?" he asked.

"Yes," answered the secretary unsteadily.

There was a moment's silence.

"What is it?" The general's voice was strained and unnatural.

"He regrets it, but he does not deem it proper for him to interfere with
the decision of the court. He has had the most eminent legal advice in
this case--"

A choking inarticulate cry from Elizabeth interrupted him.

"My God!" cried her father, as Elizabeth's groping hands clung to him.
He felt the shudder that wrenched her slim body. "Be brave!" he
whispered, slipping his arms about her.

"Oh, father--father--" she sobbed.

"We will go home," said the general.

He looked up from the bowed head that rested against his shoulder,
expecting to find the secretary still standing by the door, but that
dapper young man had stolen from the room.

"Yes, take me home," said Elizabeth.

He led her from the house and the door closed behind them on their last
hope. Both shared in the bitter consciousness of this. They had been
brought face to face with the inexorable demands of life, they had been
foredoomed to failure from the very beginning.

"Father?" she gasped.

"Yes, dear?" He spoke with infinite tenderness.

"Is there nothing more?"

"Nothing, but to go home."

Deeply as he felt for her, he knew that he realized only an
infinitesimal part of her suffering.

"The governor has refused to interfere?"

"You heard what he said, dear," he answered simply.

"And I have to go back and tell John that after all our hopes, after all
our prayers--"

"Perhaps you would better not go back," he suggested.

"Not go back? No, I must see him! You would not deny me this--"

"I would deny you nothing," said her father fervently.

"Dismiss the carriage, and we will walk to the station; there is time?"

"Yes."

For a little while they walked on in silence, the girl's hands clasped
about her father's arm.

"I can not understand it yet!" said Elizabeth at length, speaking in a
fearful whisper. "It is incredible. Oh, can't you save him--can't you?"

The general did not trust himself to answer her.

"We have failed. Do you think it would have been different if Judge
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--"

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