Democratic Sentinel, Volume 11, Number 16, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 20 May 1887 — JUSTICE AT LAST. [ARTICLE]

JUSTICE AT LAST.

BY R. A. RILEY.

Netta Roberts was an orphan, and not an heiress. A lovely face and a guileless heart, coupled with poverty and a sensitive soul, often, very often, renders the possessor miserable. Netta Roberts might have been very miserable had there been no such person as Frank Martin in existence; but there was a Frank Martin, and he and Netta had been lovers from their childhood up. So when Netta was, at one fell swoop, deprived of both parents and left a sorrowing, penniless orphan, Frank Martin came forward, like the true man that he was, and offered to shield her from the rough blasts of adversity by making her the mistress of his home and the wife of his bosom. Netta’s pride might have made her hesitate to accept this offer, notwithstanding she loved Frank dearly, had she not known so well that Frank had always loved her in return, and that the offer had only been hastened a very little by her destitute situatson. They were married, and a year glided by, and all went on happily. Frank Martin was an industrious mechanic, earning his bread, as do thousands of honest freemen in this broad land, by the sweat of his brow. Dull care was a stranger at his fireside, and blithe-hearted Netta could always charm away, with her sweet smiles, the weariness left by a hard day’s toil. A little boy baby was ushered into existence, and then their joy was almost complete. Frank was a carpenter, and had not the means to carry on the trade extensively, but was compelled to accept so much wages a week, and lo’e his independence as a workman by having a boss. “But, ” thought Frank, “it is only for a while; in a year or two, at the furthest, by being economical, I can take jobs on my own account.”

Mr. Clayton, an enterprising contractor, was Frank’s employer. One evening after Frank and one of his fellow-workmen, named Jiles, had completed a job. Mr. Clayton came and inspected it. After commending the work, he took Frank to one side and said: “I have a job for you to-morrow that will require skill, which I know you possess. Jiles is a good enough workman in his way, but when I want anything in the ornamental style that requires skill and taste, I prefer you.” Frank, feeling flattered by the compliment, expressed his thanks, and desired to know the nature of the job. “It is this,” said his employer. “A certain Mr. Henry Jenkins, who is very wealthy, desires a counterpart of an antique mantel-piece in one of his rooms, to put up in the room opposite, which he usually occupies. He lives at No. 241 Murray street. Go there in the morning and take a plan of the work to be done, and return to the shop and complete it, and I will pay you extra.” Frank once more expressed his thanks to his employer, and they separated. Next morning Frank repaired to the mansion. He rang the door-bell, and the door was opened by a servant, and he acquainted him with his business. “Mr. Jenkins is out at present, but he left directions that if you came you should be allowed to examine the mantel-piece. Follow me.” They ascended one flight of stairs, and Frank was ushered into the room containing the antique mantel-piece. The servant said to Frank, as he turned to depart: “I have business back in the kitchen for a while, and if Mr. Jenkins should happen to ring while I am absent, would you be kind enough to step down stairs and admit him? It’s my duty to attend to the door, but he won’t care so it’s attended to.” “Certainly,” replied Frank, who was of an accommodating disposition; and the servant took his leave. The mantel-piece was elaborately carved, and so many were the peculiarities about it that Frank saw at once that the mere outline would not be a sufficient guide, so he took out his drawing materials and began sketching it in earnest. He had been occupied probably twenty minutes when he heard a ring at the door-bell. Remembering his promise to the servant, he hastened down stairs. He opened the door, and a well-dressed young gentleman stood before him. Frank had never seen Mr. Jenkins, so he inquired: “Is this Mr. Jenkins?” “Yes, ” the gentleman replied; “but who are you?” “I am the carpenter sent by Mr. Clayton to take a design of the mantel-piece up stairs. ” “Ah! But where the mischief is George, the servant?” “He went back to the kitchen for some /urpose, and I told him I would open the door in his stead,” replied Frank, respectfully. The gentleman made no reply, but pushed by Frank and hurried up stairs. He stopped at the door of the room opposite to the one containing the mantelpiece. He tried the door, found it locked, took out a bunch of keys, inserted one, unlocked it, and entered. Frank re-entered the room in which he had been engaged, and recommenced his labor. In a few minutes he heard Mr. Jenkins, as he supposed the young man to be, come out of the room and hurriedly descend the stairs. Frank kept at his sketch, and in about half an hour had it completed to his satisfaction. He stepped out of the room, and as his eyes fell on the opposite door, and he saw that it was partially open, with the key in the lock, he concluded that he would step in and take a look at the place where he was to fasten the mantel-board after he had it finished. He entered and examined to see how he might arrange to fasten it firmly. While he was so engaged, he heard footsteps rapidly ascending the stairs. He blushed at the idea of being caught in a room into which he had not been invited, notwithstanding he had entered it with honest intentions. He stepped to the door hurriedly, and, walking out, found himself face to face with a middleaged gentleman, slightly bald, with a plethoric face and a body to match. “Halloo! Who the mischief are you, coming out of my room in this manner?” “I—l—don’t—l don’t understand ” “Neither do I,” interrupted the plethoric gentleman, moving hastily to the door, and withdrawing the key. To the astonishment and alarm of Frank, it proved to be a skeleton key, such as is used by professional burglars. The plethoric gentleman utteied an exclamation, and moved hastily into the room. In a moment he returned, his face flushed with excitement, exclaiming: “Scoundrel, you have opened my desk and robbed me of five thousand dollars!”

Just at thia moment a couple of servants appeared below, and he calle<Lout to them excitedly: “Run for a policeman, quick!” One of them obeyed. Fiank was so much bewildered for a short time that he scarce knew what to do or say. At last he stammered out his explanation, which seemed in itself improbable, and still more I so from his confused manner of telling it. Two policemen soon arrived, and Frank i was searched, but the money could not be 1 found upon his person. “How long was he left here by himself?” asked the plethoric gentleman—who proved ( to be the genuine Mr. Henry Jenkins—o* I the servant. “Nearly an hour, sir,” was the reply. “Plenty of time to step out and hide the money, and return with this hatched-up story; but it won’t work, it won’t work. You nSight as well confess, my fine fellow, and tell us where the money is. It will go easier with you if you do.”" But Frank could not confess anything but the truth —and so he told him—and was marcheed away to jail. The consternation of Netta, his lovely wite, upon hearing that her darling husband was arrested upon such a charge, may be easier imagined than described. The trial come on. Frank procured counsel who sifted the matter to the best of their ability, but could make nothing out of it favorable to poor Frank, and Frank’s story was so handled by the prosecuting counsel os to appear in the highest degree improbable, and no doubt made much against him. He was convicted, and sentenced to five years’ hard labor in the State Penitentiary. Upon the rendering of the verdict his wife Netta was carried out of the court-room insensible. The last day had come, and Frank Martin was to be carried away to the distant prison, to serve out at toilsome drudgery the sentence he had received for a crime he had not committed. His wife Netta stood at the iron bars of his prison cell, with their child in her arms. She had come with it to bid him farewell. All the brightness of the past was as nothing when weighed in comparison with this dark woe, which had settled down on them so suddenly, chilling and blasting their lives almost in the spring-time of youth. Ah! worse than death, each one felt it to be. But at that dismal hour of parting Netta’s love and faith in her husband were stronger than all the proof in the world; and she'did not think he was innocent—she knew it. She held her boy up, and Frank reached forth through the cold iron grating of his prison cell, and encircled his child with his arms. “Oh, what will become of you, poor darlings, when I am gone?” exclaimed he, in anguish. “We’ll trust in God, dear Frank, and we’ll meet again. Let us hope. Let us pray.” And Netta clasped her hand on Frank’s, which was now resting 6n the infant’s head, and thus they stood, each heart tom with emotion, yet dreading the terrible hour of separation, until the stern jailer came, and told them time was up. and then poor Netta had almost forcibly to be taken away. * * * * * * Five years had passed, and Frank Martin wae bnce more a free man. He had served out his time. He returned to the city, where he had left Netta. He found her and his child suffering in poverty and want. We will pass over the joyous reunion. Netta was still his in faith and love as when they parted. The law, by the imprisonment of her husband, gave her a divorce, but she accepted no such divorcement. A few months passed. Frank could obtain no settled employment, and barely managed to obtain a meager subsistence for himself and family. The ban that a jury of his fellow-men had placed upon him still clung to him, and he thought of going away to some distant part of lhe country, where his former life would be unknown; but, alas! he lacked the means. Things were in this condition when, one morning, a well-dressed gentleman knocked at the door of the miserable tenement where they resided. Frank admitted him. “Are you Frank Martin, a carpenter, who served five years in the State Prison?” “I am,” replied Frank, flushing to the temples, yet not denying the truth. “Well, then,” said the stranger, “I am requested to bring you immediately to the house of Mr. Henry Jenkins. His son Charles is dying, and he says he must see yon or he can not rest in his grave.” “Charles Jenkins?” replied Frank; “I never knew such a person.” “He has been residing in Philadelphia for the last eight or ten years, and has lately come home to die. Come, let us go.” Frank went with him without hesitation, yet trembling with excitement. He almost felt what was coming. They arrived at the mansion, and found that Charles Jenkins was indeed dying. A notary public had been summoned, and was taking down some statement of his as they entered, Henry Jenkins, the father, stood by, looking sad and careworn. When the dying man saw Frank, he asked: “Are you Frank Martin?” “I am,” replied Frank. “Then I have done you a great wrong. I let you suffer for a crime 1 committed. I was the individual who entered and robbed my own father. I had just arrived in the city; gambling had reduced me to penury; my father. I knew', was wealthy; I had come to try to induce l>#n to give me money; I was afraid of failure; I determined not to fail; I had skeleton keys, and if he refused to give me what I asked I determined to rob him; I came in and found things as you know; escaped; nobody believed you; nobody knew I had been about. I returned to Philadelphia. I am now here—dying. My fa her. you are rich. Let me pray you give to this poor man some of your wealtu—all, in fact, that you had designed for me—as some poor recompense for what your wild, misguided boy has made him suffer.” “I will, my son. It shall be done,” exclaimed the old man. “Will you forgive me, father?” he then asked. “Indeed, you know I do. Oh, Charles! oh, Charles!” gasped the father with much emotion. * “ Can you forgive me?” asked the dying man, looking to Frank. “I do,” replied Frank, solemnly, “and may God forgive you as freely.” “Amen,” said the clergyman, who had summoned Frank. The notary public had taken down the dying man’s statement. He signed it, and soon after breathed his last. Frank’s nam3 was cleared, and he was made rich; and he and Netta bid fair yet to spend many happy days upon the earth, notwithstanding there once was an hpui when all seemed “Dead Sea ashes. ”