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Just And The Unjust, The

<h2>CHAPTER EIGHTEEN</h2> <h3>FATHER AND SON</h3> While Mr. Gilmore was an exceedingly capable accomplice, at once resourceful, energetic, unsentimental and conscienceless, he yet combined with these solid merits, certain characteristics which rendered uninterrupted intercourse with him a horror and a shame to Marshall Langham who was daily and almost hourly paying the price the gambler had set on his silence. And what a price it was! Gilmore was his master, coarse, brutal, and fiercely exacting. How he hated him, and yet how necessary he had become; for the gambler never faltered, was never uncertain; he met each difficulty with a callous readiness which Langham knew he himself would utterly have lacked. He decided this was because Gilmore was without imagination, since in his own many fearful, doubting moments, he saw always what he had come to believe as the inevitable time when the wicked fabric they were building would collapse like a house of cards in a gale of wind, and his terrible secret would be revealed to all men. All this while, step by step, Gilmore, without haste but without pause, was moving toward his desires. He came and went in the Langham house as if he were master there. When Marshall had first informed Evelyn that he expected to have Mr. Gilmore in to dinner, there had been a scene, and she had threatened to appeal to the judge; but he told her fiercely that he would bring home whom he pleased, that it suited him to be decent to Andy and that was all there was to it. And apparently she soon found something to like in this strange intimate of her husband's; at least she had made no protest after the gambler's first visit to the house. On his part Gilmore was quickly conscious of the subtle encouragement she extended him. She understood him, she saw into his soul, she divined his passion for her and she was not shocked by it. In his unholy musings he told himself that here was a woman who was dead game—and a lady, too, with all the pretty ways and refinements that were so lacking in the other women he had known. Montgomery was some two days gone toward the West and Gilmore had dropped around ostensibly to see Marshall Langham, but in reality to make love to Marshall Langham's wife, when the judge, looking gray and old, walked in on the little group unobserved. He paused for an instant near the door. Evelyn was seated before the piano and Gilmore was bending above her, while Marshall, with an unread book in his hands and with a half-smoked cigar between his teeth, was lounging in front of the fire. The judge's glance rested questioningly on Gilmore, but only for a moment. Then an angry flame of recognition colored his thin cheeks. Aware now of his father's presence, Marshall tossed aside his book and quitted his chair. For two days he had been dreading this meeting, and for two days he had done what he could to avert it. "You must have had a rather cold walk, father; let me draw a chair up close to the fire for you," he said. Evelyn had risen to greet the judge, while the gambler turned to give him an easy nod. A smile hid itself in the shadow of his black mustache; he was feeling very sure of himself and surer still of Evelyn. The disfavor or approval of this slight man of sixty meant nothing to him. "How do you do, sir!" said the judge with icy civility. Had he met Gilmore on the street he would not have spoken to him. As he slowly withdrew his eyes from the gambler, he said to his son: "Can you spare me a moment or two, Marshall?" "Come into the library," and Marshall led the way from the room. They walked the length of the hall in silence, Marshall a step or two in advance of the judge. He knew his father was there on no trivial errand. This visit was the result of his interview with Joe Montgomery. How much had the handy-man told him? This was the question that had been revolving in his mind for the last two days, and he was about to find an answer to it. The father and son entered the room, each heavily preoccupied. Marshall seated himself and stared moodily into the fire. Already the judge had found a chair and his glance was fixed on the carpet at his feet. Presently looking up he asked: "Will you be good enough to tell me what that fellow is doing here?" "Andy?" The single word came from Langham as with a weary acceptance of his father's anger. "Yes, certainly—Gilmore—of whom do you imagine me to be speaking?" "Give a dog a bad name—" "He has earned his name. I had heard something of this but did not credit it!" said the judge. There was another pause. "Perhaps you will be good enough to explain how I happen to meet that fellow here?" The judge regarded his son fixedly. There had always existed a cordial frankness in their intercourse, for though the judge was a man of few intimacies, family ties meant much to him, and these ties were now all centered in his son. He had shown infinite patience with Marshall's turbulent youth; an even greater patience with his dissipated manhood; he believed that in spite of the terrible drafts he was making on his energies, his future would not be lacking in solid and worthy achievement. In his own case the traditional vice of the Langhams had passed him by. He was grateful for this, but it had never provoked in him any spirit of self-righteousness; indeed, it had only made him the more tender in his judgment of his son's lapses. "Marshall—" and the tone of anger had quite faded from his voice—"Marshall, what is that fellow's hold on you?" "You would not appreciate Andy's peculiar virtues even if I were to try to describe them," said Marshall with a smile of sardonic humor. "Do you consider him the right sort of a person to bring into your home?" "It won't hurt him!" said Marshall. The judge, with a look on his face that mingled astonishment and injury, sank back in his chair. He never attempted anything that even faintly suggested flippancy, and he was unappreciative of this tendency in others. "You have not told me what this fellow's hold on you is?" he said, after a moment's silence. "Oh, he's done me one or two good turns." "You mean in the way of money?" Marshall nodded. "Are you in his debt now, may I ask?" "No," and Marshall moved restlessly. "Are you quite frank with me, Marshall?" asked the judge with that rare gentleness of voice and manner that only his son knew. "Quite." "Because it would be better to make every sacrifice and be rid of the obligation." Another long pause followed in which there came to the ears of the two men the sound of a noisy waltz that Evelyn was playing. Again it was the judge who broke the oppressive silence. "I came here to-night, Marshall, because there is a matter I must discuss with you. Perhaps you will tell me what you and Gilmore have done with Joe Montgomery?" Marshall had sought to prepare himself against the time when this very question should be asked him, but the color left his cheeks. "I don't think I know what you mean," he said slowly. His father made an impatient gesture. "Don't tell me that! What has become of Montgomery? Look at me! Two nights ago he came to see me; I had sent for him; I had learned from Nellie that he had practically deserted her. I learned further from the man himself that you and Gilmore were largely responsible for this." "He was drunk, of course." "He had been drinking—yes—" "Doesn't that explain his remarkable statement? What reason could Andy or any one have for wishing to keep him from his wife?" asked Marshall who had recovered his accustomed steadiness. "He was ready with an answer for that question when I asked it. Do you wish to know what that answer was?" said the judge. Marshall did not trust himself to speak; he felt the judge's eyes on him and could not meet them. He saw himself cowering there in his chair with his guilt stamped large on every feature. His throat was dry and his lips were parched, he did not know whether he could speak. His shoulders drooped and his chin rested on his breast. What was the use—was it worth the struggle? Suppose Montgomery, in spite of his promises, came back to Mount Hope, suppose Gilmore's iron nerve failed him! "You don't answer me, Marshall," said the judge. "I don't understand you—" evaded Marshall. "From my soul I wish I could believe you!" exclaimed his father. "If it's not debt, what is the nature of your discreditable connection with Gilmore?" Marshall glanced up quickly; he seemed to breathe again; perhaps after all Montgomery had said less than he supposed him to have said! "I have already told you that I owe Gilmore nothing!" "I should be glad to think it, but I warn you to stand clear of him and his concerns, for I am going to investigate the truth of Montgomery's story," declared the judge. "What did he tell you?" Marshall spoke with an effort. "That his evidence in the North case was false, that it was inspired by Gilmore." Marshall passed a shaking hand across his face. "Nonsense!" he said. "His story will be worth looking into. He stood for the truth of what he said in part, he insisted that he saw a man cross McBride's shed on the night of the murder and drop into the alley, and the man was not John North. He seemed unwilling that North, through any instrumentality of his, should suffer for a crime of which he was innocent; his feeling on this point was unfeigned and unmistakable." There was silence again, while the two men stared at each other. From the parlor the jarring sound of the music reached them, inconceivably out of harmony with the seriousness of their mood. "I have wished to take no action in the matter of Montgomery's disappearance until I saw you, Marshall," said the judge. "I have been sick with this thing! Now I am going to lay such facts as I have before Moxlow." Marshall stared moodily into the fire. He told himself that the prosecuting attorney would be in great luck if he got anything out of Gilmore. "I purpose to suggest to Moxlow a fresh line of investigation where this important witness is concerned, and Mr. Gilmore as the man most likely to clear up the mystery surrounding his disappearance from Mount Hope. We may not be able to get anything very tangible out of him in the way of information, but I imagine we may cause him some little anxiety and annoyance. You can't afford to be mixed up in this affair, and I warn you again to stand clear of Gilmore! If there is any truth in Montgomery's statement it can only have the most sinister significance, for I don't need to tell you that some powerful motive must be back of Gilmore's activity. If North was not responsible for McBride's death, where do the indications all point? Who more likely to commit such a crime than a social outcast—a man plying an illegal trade in defiance of the laws?" "Hush! For God's sake speak lower!" cried Marshall, giving way to an uncontrollable emotion of terror. Racked and shaken, he stared about him as if he feared another presence in the room. The judge leaned forward and rested a thin hand on his son's knee. "Marshall, what do you know of Gilmore's connection with this matter?" "I want him let alone! To lay such stress on Montgomery's drunken talk is absurd!" The judge's lips met in a determined line. "I scarcely expected to hear that from you! I am not likely, as you know, to be influenced in the discharge of my duty by any private consideration." He quitted his chair and stood erect, his figure drawn to its fullest height. "Wait—I didn't mean that," protested Marshall. The judge resumed his chair. "What did you mean?" he asked. "What's the use of throwing Moxlow off on a fresh scent?" "That's a very remarkable point of view!" said the judge, with a mirthless laugh. In the utter selfishness that his fear had engendered, it seemed a monstrous thing to Langham that any one should wish to clear North, in whose conviction lay his own salvation. More than this, he had every reason to hate North, and if he were hanged it would be but a roundabout meting out of justice for that hideous wrong he had done him, the shame of which was ever present. He saw one other thing clearly, the necessity that Gilmore should be left alone; for the very moment the gambler felt the judge was moving against him, that moment would come his fierce demands that he be called off—that Marshall quiet him, no matter how. "Have you been near North since his arrest?" asked the judge, apparently speaking at random. "No," said Marshall. "May I ask if you are offended because of his choice of counsel?" "That has nothing to do with it!" said the younger man, moving impatiently in his chair. "I do not like your attitude in this matter, Marshall; I like it as little as I understand it. But I have given my warning. Keep clear of that fellow Gilmore, do not involve yourself in his fortunes, or the result may prove disastrous to you!" "I want him let alone!" said Marshall doggedly, speaking with desperate resolution. "Why?" asked the judge. "Because it is better for all concerned; you—you don't know what you're meddling with—" He quitted his chair and fell to pacing to and fro. His father's glance, uncertain and uneasy, followed him as he crossed and recrossed the room. "I find I can not agree with you, Marshall!" said the judge at length. "I do not like hints, and unless you can deal with me with greater frankness than you have yet done, there is not much use in prolonging this discussion." "As you like, then," replied Marshall, wheeling on him with sudden recklessness. "I want to tell you just this—you'll not hurt Gilmore, but—" Words failed him, and his voice died away on his white and twitching lips into an inarticulate murmur. He struggled vainly to recover the mastery of himself, but his fear, now the growth of his many days and nights of torture, would not let him finish what he had started to say. "Very good, I don't want to hurt anybody, but I do want to find that man, whoever he is, that you and Gilmore are shielding; the man Joe Montgomery saw cross those sheds the night of the murder; I am going to bend my every energy to learning who that man is, and when I have discovered his identity—" "You'll want to see him in North's place, will you?" asked Marshall. The words came from him in a hoarse whisper and his arm was extended threateningly toward his father. "You're sure about that? You can't conceive of the possibility that you'd be glad not to know? You want to have John North out of his cell and this other man there in his place; you want to face him day after day in the court room—you're sure?" His shaking arm continued to menace the judge. "Well, you don't need to find Montgomery, and you don't need to hound Gilmore; I can tell you more than they can—" His bloodshot eyes, fixed and staring, seemed starting from their sockets. "The facts you want to know are hidden here!" He struck his hand savagely against his breast and lurched half-way across the room, then he swung about and once more faced the judge. "Why haven't you had the wisdom to keep out of this,—or have you expected to find some one it would be easier to pronounce sentence on than North? Did you think it would be Gilmore?" He scowled down on his father. It was appalling and unnatural, after all his frightful suffering, his fear, and his remorse which never left him, that his safety should be jeopardized by his own father! He had only asked that the law be left to deal with John North, who, he believed, had so wronged him that no death he could die would atone for the injury he had done. Slowly but inexorably the full significance of Marshall's words dawned on the judge. He had risen from his chair dumb and terror-stricken. For a moment they stood without speech, each staring into the other's face. Presently the judge stole to Marshall's side. "Tell me that I misunderstand you!" he whispered in entreaty, resting a tremulous hand on his son's arm. But the latter was bitterly resentful. His father had forced this confession, from him, he had given him no choice! "Why should I tell you that now?" he asked, as he roughly shook off his father's hand. "Tell me I misunderstand you!" repeated the judge, in a tone of abject entreaty. "It's too late!" said Marshall, his voice a mere whisper between parched lips. He tossed up his arms in a gesture that betokened his utter weariness of soul. "My God, how I've suffered!" he said chokingly, and his eyes were wet with the sudden anguish of self-pity. "Marshall!" The judge spoke in protest of his words. Marshall turned abruptly from him and crossed the room. The spirit of his fierce resentment was dying within him, for, after all, what did it signify how his father learned his secret! From the parlor there still came the strains of light music; these and Marshall's echoing tread as he strode to and fro, filled in the ghastly silence that succeeded. Then at length he paused before his father, and once more they looked deep into each other's eyes, and the little space between was for both as an open grave filled with dead things—hopes, ambitions, future days and months and years—days and months and years when they should be for ever mindful of his crime! For henceforth they were to dwell in the chill of this direful shadow that would tower above all the concerns of life whether great or small; that would add despair to every sorrow, and take the very soul and substance from every joy. The judge dropped into his chair, but his wavering glance still searched his son's face for some sign that should tell him, not what he already knew but what he hoped might be,—that Marshall was either drunk or crazed; but he only saw there the reflection of his own terror. He buried his head in his hands and bitter age-worn sobs shook his bent shoulders. After a moment of sullen waiting for him to recover, Marshall approached and touched him on the arm. "Father—" he whispered gently. The judge glanced up. "It's a lie, Marshall!" But Marshall only stared at him until the judge again covered his face with his hands. When he glanced up a few moments later, he found himself alone. Marshall had stolen from the room. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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