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Just And The Unjust, The

<h2>CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.</h2> <h3>THE LAST APPEAL</h3> One raw morning late in April, Mark Leanard, who worked at Kirby's lumber-yard, drove his team of big grade Percherons up to Kirby's office by the railroad tracks. "What's doing?" he asked of Kirby's clerk. The clerk handed him a slip of paper. "Go round and tell Mitchell to get you out this load!" he said. Leanard went off whistling, with the order slip tucked back of his hatband. In the yard, Mitchell the foreman, gave him a load "of sixteen-foot" pine boards and "two by fours". "Where to?" the driver asked, as he took his seat on top the load. "To the jail, they're going to fence the yard." "You mean young John North?" "That's what,—did you think you'd get a day off and take the old woman and the kids?" asked Mitchell. It was a little past eight when the teamster entered the alley back of the jail and began to unload. The fall of the first heavy plank took John North to his cell window. For a long breathless moment he stood there peering down into the alley, then he turned away. All that day the teams from Kirby's continued to bring lumber for the fence, and at intervals North heard the thud of the heavy planks as they were thrown from the wagons, or the voices of the drivers as they urged their horses up the steep grade from the street. Darkness came at last and with it unbroken quiet, but in his troubled slumbers that night the condemned man saw the teams come and go, and heard the fall of the planks. It was only when the dawn's first uncertain light stole into the cell that a dreamless sleep gave him complete forgetfulness. From this he was presently roused by hearing the sound of voices in the yard, and then the sharp ringing blows of a hammer. He quitted his bed and slipped to the window; two carpenters had already begun building the frame work that was to carry the temporary fence which would inclose the place of execution. It was his fence; it would surround his gallows that his death should not become a public spectacle. As they went about their task, the two carpenters stole covert glances up in the direction of his window, but North stood well back in the gloom of his cell and was unseen. Horror could add nothing to the prison pallor, which had driven every particle of color from his cheeks. Out of these commonplace details was to come the final tragedy. Those men in faded overalls were preparing for his death,—a limit had been fixed to the very hours that he might live. On the morning of the tenth of June he would see earth and sky from that window for the last time! Chance passers-by with no very urgent affairs of their own on hand, drifted up from the street, and soon a little group had assembled in the alley to watch the two carpenters at their work, or to stare up at North's strongly barred window. Now and again a man would point out this window to some new-corner not so well informed as himself. 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. <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/336.jpg" width-obs="45%" alt= "" title="" /> She abandoned herself to despair. </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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