Democratic Sentinel, Volume 9, Number 24, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 10 July 1885 — NED'S KEEPSAKE. [ARTICLE]

NED'S KEEPSAKE.

BY STANLEY VERNET.

A bright Juno afternoon is drawing to a close. Margery urmo sits on the kitchen porch hulling strawberries, while her fosterbrother, Ned I.anon, cleans and polishes a pair of ivory-handled revolvers, which were the giit of an uncle who went 10 Australia when a lad and made a lortune in the gold diggings. Coming back to his native country after twenty years' absence, he felt the usual disappointment of a wanderer in the changes that time had wrought, and returned to the land that had smiled upon his ambition. Before sailing he gave each of his remaining relatives a keepsake. Considering his wealth, the presents were thought meager by some of the recipients, and Ned’s revolvers are prized most of all. They are of Utile use in his quiet life, but he is proud of their superior workmanship, and keeps them in excellent order for the Bake of the lonely old man so far away. Sometimes he dreams of wild Australian Beenes and longs for a lile of adventure, but now he is evidently not thinking of anything distant. His eyes wander often in the direction of the rose-scented lawn where a young lady of the blonde type is gently swaying in a hammock and reading a novel. A middleaged mation of ar stocratic appearance sits near the hammock, keeping a motherly watch over the fair-ha.red beauty, who does not once look at the pair on the kitchen porch. “How beautiful she is!” Ned suddenly exclaims. “I suppose you mean Miss Atherton,” says Margery, bobbing her head that is covered with close.y cropped brown curls toward the lawn, and savagely crushing a luscious berry between her thumb and finger. “I would like her looks better if she didn’t snub me so.” “Don't be spiteful, Margery. Of course her ways are ditlerent from ours. She has always been used to refined society,” Ned says, apologetically. Margery does not reply, and he continues: “I never cared much about being rich before, tut I feel now that I would rather die than plod along as I have always done. If I only had a thousand dollars of ready money 1 could buy a share in the new silver mining company that has made Robert Oakley’s fortune. Two years ago he was as poor as lam Now he is likely to become a millionaire. If I could have a little luck of that kind, I don’t believe Mrs. Atherton would irown as she does now when Florence speaks to me. After all, I can’t blame her for wishing her daughter to discourage the attentions of a country fellow like me, who possesses nothing except a bit ■of stony land and an old rookery of a house, and, what is worse, has no prospect of anything better.” There is a movement on the lawn. The elder lady, satisfied with her daughter's demure behavior, has gone into the house. The graceful blonde slightly changes her position, and a glance from her lovely orbs (falls smilingly upon Nt d. It is the invitation be desires. One revolver is thrust into his pocket, the other left carelessly on the steps, with an old silk handkerchief with which he has been rubbing the dangerous toys. In a moment he is occupying a vacant chair by the hammock.

Margery moves a little more In the shade of the morning-glory vines that partly cover the porch, and bitterly wishes the summer gone and the boarders back in the city. “tome, Margery, it’s time to lay the cloth for supper,” cal s the cheery voice of Mrs. Burton. “Yes, mother,” answers Margery. By this most endearing name she has called the kind lady since she. a forlorn little orphan, found a home and friends beneath that hospitable roof. Ned does not appear at the supper table; Margery sees him go away, looking moody •nd reckless, toward Clintonville, a village three-quarters of a mile distant. Alter the supper dishes are washed, and everything put in order for the night Margery takes her garden hat and goes out into cool twilight. Margery is tired and a little inclined to be discontented with her lot. She is ashamed of her brown hands, cotton ■dresses, and thick shoes. She wishes she was fair and slender, and had silks and muslins, French kid slippers, and gloves that would reach to her elbow. The hardest household tasks have been cheerfully taken upon her young shoulders, and she never thought them menial, until Florence Atherton came with her supercilious airs and male her feel like a servant. She would not have cared eo much if Ned’s manner to her had not changed. They had been like brother and Bist r, with just a shade of warmer aflection unexpressed in their hearts; but row he eeems to have forgotten her in his admiration of Miss Atherton, whose influence is making a diflierent man of Ned. Florence is fond of ridiculing “slow, innocent country youths,” and Ned has lately cultivated the babit of playing billiards and drinking wine, with a set of wild young men known as the “young bloods’’ of that locality. “He is trying to be aristocratic,” Margery sarcastically thinks, as she looks anxiously up the dusty road that leads to the village, she sees a figure in the distance, •nd hopes it may be Ned coming home. -Quickly unlatching the gate, she goes out to ,meet him, thinking that she would try to ihide his folly from his mother in case he had • .been drinking. The man she meets proves to be Barney Preen, a sort of half-witted fellow who drifted into Clintonville a few years before from whence no one knew. He had found work at livery barn, where he was kicked by a vicious horse. The accident resulted in a

severe attack of brain fever, which left him “soft in the head,” people said. He is a re-pulsive-looking object, instinctively shunned, but considered perfectly harmless. He h s a large head, long body, short legs, pale, haggard face and light sinister eyes, overhung by shaggy red brows that nearly met over the bridge of bls nose, and match in color the unkempt hair on hte head. He still hangs about the village stables, sleeping in the hay at night and begging cold victuals from the hotel and other houses where he occasionally does odd jobs. For a day or two he has been employed mending old harness for Ned.

He pulls off his greasy cap to Margery and says in a husky kind ot voice that is peculiar to him. “It's goin’ to be a black night, Miss.” Margery nods kind'y, with a feeling of pity for the unfortunate creature. < ontinuing her walk, she soon comes to a rude little dwelling that scarcely deserves the name of bouse, it is so small and mean. It is occupied by an old woman known as Aunt Hepsy Lee. Having lost three sons in the war she receives a pension sufficient for a more comfortable lividg than she affords herself. She is inclined to be miserly, and prefers to hoard her quarterly returns from the Government. It is not yet quite dark, and the old woman sits outside her door knitting. Margery says “Good-evening,” and is passing by when Aunt Hepsy calls after her. “Can’t ye stop a bit, Margery? It’s lonesome like I feel to night, setting alone and a dreadin’ robbers.” “Bobbers! Why, what do you mean, Aunt Hepsy?” “Wai, I’ve heard somebody a prowling about o'nights lor quite a spell, and last night I see a face peekin’ in at the winder.” “You must be mistaken. No one could wish to harm you,” says Margery, assuringly. “Maybe not; but they wants my money.” “You ought to put it in the bank, Aunt Hepsy.” “I’se alius been afeard of the banks a bustin’; so I’se kept my savings in a tin box in my bed; but I guess I’ll take it to the bank to-morrow." Margery turns away, but Aunt Hepsy catches her arm and says, in a half-whisper: “I’ve liked you, Margery, from a baby, and I know you Le an honest gal. I feel so scared and strange. I’ve a notion to let you take care of my tin box to-night. I shan’t sleep a wink without it under my piller; but I want to disappoint the thief if he comes.” Margery hesitates about taking the box, but Aunt Hepsy will not let her refuse. “Take it quick, and run right hum, child. Don't tell a soul you have it, and I’ll come and git it to-morrow. Be dreadful careful! There’s more than a thousand dollars in that box, all in new greenbacks.” Margery never had so much money in her hands teiore, and she felt a little nervous as she hurries home, wishing Aunt Hepsy had chosen some one else to take care of her precious tin tox. As Margery reaches the house she meets Miss Atherton, who is going to the hammock for the book that she left there in the afternoon, and remembered in time to rescue from the dew. “You seem to be in a hurry,” Miss Atherton remarks, glancing curiously at the box. Margery makes a confused reply and runs directly to her room where she locks the box safely in her trunk, lights a lamp, and sits down to read. Drops of rain soon begin to fall, and a thunder storm rises in sudden fury. Margery is frightened and goes to bed, but does not sleep until she hears Ned’s step on the stairs.

The morning breaks bright and pleasant. Ned rises early and eats his breakfast before the boarders come down. Telling his mother he has business at Martinsburgh, a town sixteen miles distant, he saddles brown Mollly and rides away. About ten o’clock the butcher’s boy from Clintonville drives up in a state of wild excitement and informs the household that Aunt Hepsy Lee has been found dead in her bed with a bullet through her brain, her house ransacked, and money gone. “There is a great commotion in the village,” ho says. “'The Sheriff and all his men are out looking lor the murderer.” Margery is shelling peas for dinner when the news is told. She drops the pan that she has on her lap and turns so white that Mrs. Barton dashes a dipper of water in her face, with the idea of preventing a fainting fit. Between the fright and the wetting, it is some time before Margery can speak, and then she linds the boy gone. She runs out calling after him at the top of her strong younr lungs, intending to ask him to tell the Sheriff of her interview with Aunt Hepsy the previous evening, and of the box in her possession. The toy drives furiously and the wagon rattles so that Margery’s voice is unheard. She is returning to the house, when she suddenly stops, 'lhere is something by a little puddle or water in the road that arrests her attention. It is a silk handkerchief soaked in blood so that it has stained the water near it. Margery stops to look at it more closely, and is horrified to find it is a handkerchief that she knows belonged to Ned. There are his initials in the corner that she had awkwardly embroidered a year hand of ice is clutching her heart. Ned’s earnest wish for a thousand debars, his absence during the evening, and hurried departure in the morning occur to her mind. Could it be possible that her dear, brave brother Ned, her hero, was guilty of cruelly taking the life of that defenseless old woman for her paltry savings? It might be he was maddened Ly intoxicating drink, and was not responsible for his deeds, but Margery knows that the law will not excuse him on these grounds if he is really the one who committed the murder. She resolves to save him if possible, no matter what the consequences to herself may be. With a sickening shudder she picks up the suspicious looking handkerchief and rolls it in a large burdock leaf. Then she goes stealthily to the back of the garden, quickly digs a hole with a stick in the soft eaith under a gooseberry bush, and buries it out of sight, feeling all the time like an accomplice in the horrible crime. Her face is ghastly in its whiteness when she appears among the group of boarders assembled in the sitting room. Presently there is a loud knock at the door, anti every one except Margery is surprised to see the Sheriff and two constables.

“Is your son at home, madam?” inquires the superior officer of Mrs. Barton. “Nedr Why, no; he went to Martinsburgh thia morning,” is the wondering reply. The men look at eack other meaningly. “I regret to tel' you, Mrs. Barton, that we fear your son was implicated in last night’s terrible work,” says the Sheriff, gravely. “Oh, no, no, no!” exclaimed the mother. “You are mistaken—my boy would have died sooner than harm Aunt Hepsy.” "We are sorry to think ill of him, buteverybody knows to whom this revolver belongs,” says the Sheriff, producing one of the Ivory-handled weapons that had been Ned’s pride. ■ "It was found in the grass near Aunt Hepsy’s house with one chamber empty, and the ball taken from the poor woman’s head exactly corresponds in size.” Mrs. Barton is agonized with fright and grief. The boarders are shocljfd and silent. Margery looks on in a rigid, da/ed state. As the officers turn to leave the house she comes forward and says, unflinchingly: “You are judging Ned wrongfully; I lost that revolver.” “How did you come by it?” asks the Sheriff, sternly. “I took it from his case without his knowledge,” says Margery, dropping her head a little as she tells the falsehood, and a streak of rod flashes across her pale face. “Young woman, do you know you are getting yourself into a bad scrape? But it can’t be jijssible that a slip of a girl like you did that brutal thing,” says the Sheriff.

At this point Florence Atherton lays her white hand upon the sleeve of the man of law, and says m a low voice, quite devoid of feeling: “Ask her where she was last evening, and what she brought home in a tin box.” Margery stands, with a hunted look of desperate agony in her eyes, and tries to explain how Aunt Hepsy’s treasure came to be in her possession. Incredulity is plainly written upon the faces of the listeners. The officers consult together and demand the box. After it is duly examined, the Sheriff says: “The aspect of this affair has changed in the last ten minutes. Margery Orme, it is my painful duty to arrest you.” Without a word. Margery suffers herself to be placed in the .Sheriff’s dog-cart and carried to the Clintonville Jail. The village was full of excitement before, but it increased tenfold now. Such a sensation was never known in the peaceful county. Ned rbturns at night and finds chaos reigning in his usually quiet home. His mother is in a state bordering on hysterics, and the boarders are packing their trunks. “ We are going to the hotel,” Miss Atherton informs him. “Itis a wonder we have not all been murdered.” It is in vain that Ned indignantly asserts Margery’s innocence. With a contemptuous smile Miss Atherton remaks; “Of course you know best. I believe the Sheriff inquired for you at first.” Ned's infatuation for the blonde beauty is considerably dampened by this, and when he hears particulars from his mother concerning Margery’s arrest he is furious, and vows that he will never rest until Margery is clear from suspicion. He loses no time in getting to the jail, but Magery positively refuses to see him. All night he lies awake trying to account for tHe loss of his revolver. He doubts not for a moment that it was lost by himself and found by the murderer, and he readily surmises that Margery assumed having it to save him. Ned begins his detective work by going to poor Aunt Hepsy’s house and questioning the gossips he found there, hoping they may give him a clew to follow up. But all their prying has brought nothing to light. The house contained only- one room with two windows. Evidently the assassin had entered by one of them, as the was found locked and had to be forced open. Ned’s next step is to go outside and look under both the windows. Some bushes are growing by one that was broken down and trampled, but the recent rain has effaced all tracks of feet, He is going away disappointed when he happens to spy a man's boot-heel that appears to be freshly torn from the boot to which it belongs, and afterward he finds a few scratches on the window-sill. This is convincing proof in Ned’s mind that a man committed the murder, but he fears a jury may not agree with him. Putting the bit of leather and nails in his pocket, he determines to look sharp at the heels of every man he meets.

The worst thing against Margery, next to hor own acknowledgment of having lost the revolver, is the fact of Aunt Hepsy’s tin box being in her possession. Nobody wants to believe her ’ guilty, but before tne day of the examination comes, so many little corroborative incidents are brought out that the tide of public opinion is quite strong against her. Ned has done his best; but the old boot-heel is all the evidence he has found in her favor, except her previous good character. Believing Ned guilty in deed, though not of deliberate intention, she wishes to shield him from punishment, but can not bear the thought of seeing him.

The court house is literally packed with curious and anxious people on the morning of the examination A number of the village loafers have climbed upon the window ledges outside, and cling there as best they can. Margery is brought in by the Sheriff, and seated in a chair facing the crowd. She has changed much in the short time that she has been a prisoner. The roses are gone from her cheeks, and there is a scared, mournful look in the brown eyes that were wont to shine with merriment. Her little berry-stained hands hung at her side limp and wasted. Even her saucy, elfish curls droop dejectedly about her wan face. The J udge has not yet come in. Every one is whispering his opinions regarding her guilty appearance, and gazing admiringly upon Florence Atherton, who is present in faultless attire, as the principal witness lor the people.

Ned approached the court-room with a heavy heart. Suddenly he stops and looks fiercely at the soles of a pair of coarse boots that face him, as the wearer, Barney Preen, kneels on the window ledge. The o.d booh heel found under Aunt Hepsy’s window is shod with a small circle of iron. On one of the boots that Barney wears is a new heel made entirely of leather; the other is like the heel in Ned’s pocket. He pulls the fellow down with no gentle hand, and shouts that he has found the wretch who killed Aunt Hepsy Lee. Barney Preen is so frightened that he goes down on his knees, like the cringing cow ard that he is, and confesses everyth,ng. He went to Mrs. Barton’s kitchen on the fatal evening to beg a plate of food, and found the family at supper. Seeing Ned’s revolver and handkerchief on the steps, he slyly stole them and sneaked of without being seen I y any one. Then his vile, ill-balanced brain conceived the idea of killing Aunt Hepsy and getting the money he had heard she had stowed away. For some time he had longed for it, and had hung about the houso with the intention of breaking in, but had scarcely dared to do so.

Favored by the storm and darkness, and with a revolver in his hand, he summoned courage to accomplish the murder, but was disappointed, in the plunder. Fearing detection, he was cunning enough to throw away the weapon and the handkerchief with which he wiped his hands that were stained in blood while searching Aunt Hepsy’s pillow. Of course Margery is at once honorably discharged and everybody says he knew all the time that she was innocent. Miss Florence Atherlon is a little crestfallen at the termination of the affair. She always likes to be on the popular side, and had expected a pleasing opportunity of showing off her charms on the witness stand. She shortly returned with her mother to their city home and Ned soon receives a paper announcing her marriage to a man to whom she has long been engaged. Florence loved admiration, come from whom it might, and it bad pleased her fancy to indulge in a little flirtation with the goodlooking young farmer when her mother was not by. The last afternoon that they were together he had been so encouraged by her condescension that he asked her to be his wife at some future day when he could offer her a suitable home. She coolly replied that she was surprised that he should so far forget himself as to suppose she would care to grow into a withered old maid waiting for him to win a fortune, when she might at any time she chose become the wife of a rich city merchant. He was a trifle old, to be sure, but he would allow her to do as she pleased, and have all the money she wished to spend. Ned thought that his heart was broken, and he resolved to go to Australia and drown his misery digging gold. After a few years he would come back rolling in wealth like a modern Monte Cristo, and cause his cruel love to regret her mercenary decision.

Some such thoughts as these filled his mind as he rode to Martinsburgh to make arrangements for his departure. Aunt Hepsy’s murder dispelled the idea of emigration. He next discovers that Margery is far more lovable than the fair Florence, and becomes quickly reconciled to the disappointment that at first seemed so bitter. Margery has been his sister for years. He is glad now that she is so only by adoption.