Evening Republican, Volume 14, Number 13, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 15 January 1910 — DARKIE'S CRIME [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

DARKIE'S CRIME

"A woman la In the surgery, sir, and ■ays she must bee you at once.” 1 looked up from my paper at the speak-er—:-Mary, the housemaid—with a weary sigh. The life of a doctor, Is not, to use a timeworn, and perhaps vulgar, aphorism, ‘‘all beer and skittles," and certainly mine on that day had not been. Sickness was very prevalent in Colbourne, and the Ills of four thousand inhabitants were in the hands of two doctors. Besides, there had been an outbreak of smallpox among the navvies engaged in cutting a new railway to Join the Colbourne terminus, and of late we had had our hands full. Evidently my desire for the quiet evening I had coveted was Bow destroyed. “Did the person send in her name?” I inquired. - -——**- * “No, sir; she said I was to 100k 1 ■harp and ask you to come at once—■he repeated ‘at once,’ sir; and, oh, there was an awful look in her eyes." I rose and went to the surgery, and there found a young woman. She did not reply to my greeting, but at once plunged into the object of her mission. Her husband, BUI Crossland, had met with an a cutting of the new railway, and had been brought home on a .stretcher in a “bad way." “I will be with your husband in a few minutes," I replied, seeing that the nature of the case demanded my Instant attention. The woman left me, and procuring what I thought necessary, I hurried to the squalid yard in which Bill Crossland lived. Colbourne, like many other small towns, had slums almost as bad as some of those which we are told exist in the East End of London, where fever and other pestilences thrive like weeds in an ill kept garden. The houses in this yard were rickety, and some of them filthy and abominable. I found the injured man lying on a sofa, which had been improvised into a bed. An old woman was attending to his wants, and by the fire-place an elderly man —a navvy—stood. As I approached the bed, he left the house. My patient was a strong, lusty looking fellow, with an almost negro complexion, crisp black hail' and mustache. I speedily examined his Injuries, and found them of a serious nature. His. ribs had been severely crushed, and a portion of one had penetrated a lung. But he bore up with wonderful courage, and scarcely emitted a groan when I handled him. Having done everything possible for his comfort, I prepared to leave the house, at the same time beckoning his wife to follow me, with the idea of warning her of the danger her husband was in. The Injured man noticed the motion, and called me.„ “Doctor,” he said faintly, “there's one thing I want to know. Now tell mer—am I done for?” The question was so pointedly put that it quite upset my equilibrium. I began to hesitate in my evasive answer to him, but he quickly stopped me. “Don’t be afraid o’ tellin’ me,” he ■aid roughly. “Bill Crossland ain’t a coward —he’s stood worse than this — he’s cheated the hangman o’ his noose, and he’ll not shrink from a decent death now.” I wondered at this allusion to the "hangman's noose,” but tried to remonstrate with him, telling him it was necessary that he should be quiet, and not talk. “Look here, doctor,” he replied. In a more determined tone, “I'm a-going to hear the truth from you before you go. I’ll have it out o’ you or I’ll limb It out, I will!" and his black eyes gleamed like burning coals. Again I remonstrated with him, but be would not heed me. and at last his wife interfered. “Ton can tell BUI anythin’, sir," she said. “Let him know If he’s got to pass In hls checks, and maybe he’ll prepare for it. It’s none too good a life he's lived," and she jerked her thumb over her shoulder at the recumbent figure. “Well, then,” I replied, “I may as pal) be frank. The fact is, I enterUtg very little hope of your husband s “Te hear that, Bill? Doctor says yer to pass in yer checks, so just yer git reddy and do it!" ■ I was amazed at her cold-blooded - ton* ; rpTT “I know’d it, lass! I know’d It!” BHI -replied. “Doctor!" I turned to ttM bed. “Sit down. Martha, bring

the doctor a chair,” and the old woman placed one close to the bed for me. When I had seated myself—for I thought it best to humor him—he looked round the room and said: “Now, I’m §-goln’ to make a confession. Don't any of yer git interruptin’, ’cause I can’t speak so well." He paused, and then deliberately went on: “Breath seems terrible short!” Then, turning his head to me, he remarked: “Yer remember that ’ere accident to Jem Barker nigh on a twelvemonth sin’?” I nodded, for I recollected it perfectly.- One of the drivers in the tunnel just outside the town had slipped and fallen on a rail In the dark. A load of earth had passed over hls body, breaking his back, and death ( had resulted almost instantly. He was found shortly afterwards, and the coroner’s jury returned a verdict of "accidental death.” “Well," the Injured man pursued, “that ’ere accident wor no accident! It wor no accident! It wor somat else. I had better tell ye that Jem Barker and I wor mates; he wor called ‘Guzzler,’ ’cause he could swallow so much drink—llike soap suds down a sough, as the sayin’ is. I wor called ‘Darkle,’ ’cause —well, ye can see why if ye look at me physog. I could do a fairish drop o’ liquor at times, but the wust of it wor that we both wor fond o’ the same gell—that’s Liz o’er yonder," and he nodded in the direction of his wife, who was seated on a box

which stood beneath *a window. Her eyes wg-e fixed on the speaker. !” he suddenly exclaimed and with somewhat more energy than he had displayed' in the narrative, for his breath had failed him several times then, “Liz, Liz! don’t look at me like that! I canna bear it! I canna!" and he broke off into a Tong groan. His wife dropped her eyes, but still sat like a statue, with her hands clasped in her lap. The injured man struggled for breath,"and then went on: * “I know’d Liz wor fond o’ Jean, 'cause he wor fair and handsome, but I loved her the bestest. Ay, though we be navvies, doctor, we can love — only some people thinks as how we just pair off like! But they’re wrong. Well, to be gettln’ on wi’ my story. Liz ’ere had no eyes for me when Jerii wor about, and I got Jealous. All the old friendship 'tween me and Jem wor gone on my side, and I began to hate 'im. The crisis came one night when I meets Liz a-comin’ back from the tunnel, which wor then bein’ bored. I wor on day duty, and Jem wor workin’ at nights, ’cause then we worked day and night in shifts. She had ta’en him down some supper, and I could see how things wor goln’. So I up and tells her of me love, and axes her to marry me. Liz treated me better 'an I thowt she would have; she Just says, 'Bill, I don’t dislike ye, but I like Jem better, and I’ve promised ’lm.’ I wor furious—thee’st remember It. I dessay, Liz—but she Jurst turns on 'er heel and walks off, Bayin’ as when the drink war In the wit wor out! I had had drink, thee know'st I went down to the tunnel and meets Jem a -cornin’ out wi’ a track o' muck —we call earth muck, thee know’st I dldna let him see that I wor angry, so I Just jokes wi’ him like. As I wor goln’ through the tnnnel a thowt struck me; if I wor Just to come up behind Jem. and ,gl’e 'im a push tu front es the truck. It would, perhaps lame 'im, and then perhaps Lis would ha be bothered wi’ a lame chap, 1 left the tunnel mid went ’ome, but I dldna sleep that ’ere night Next day

I took Jem’s-place driving, and ’twero then \ worked out my plans. Thee know’st there be timbers, called side trees, on each fide to rapport the roof O' the tunnel 'til the brickies take the work in hand, and I thowt as how, ts I wor to hide in one of them just In the darkest place, and when Jem comes on just put out my ’and and gie him a push, It would do all I wanted. I shanna forget that ’ere day! The idea growed on me, and when I left work, I made up my mind to do it. So I walks down about 9 o’clock the same night, and Just as I reached the open l cutting I heerd Jem wish Liz good-night. I wor fair mad wl’ jealousy. L had murder in my 'art. KeepIn’ out o’ sight o’ Liz, I creeps down just in time to see Jem take the horses back into the tunnel to bring a load o’ muck Hp. I creeps down in the darkest part, and past the shed where Bob Dalton wor pumpin’ air Into the tunnel, wi’out bein’ seen. I know’d every inch o’ the place, and I ’ad made up my mind where to hide. I soon found it, ’cause I ’ad put a big stone there. Besides, I ’ad picked out a spot which wor always wet, ’cause of a spring which he had tapped above, which wor always runnin’. strikes me as how, if I wor to put the stone in Jem’s path he might stumble o’er it; so I puts it theer. I ’adna long to wait afore Jem comes down the tunnel, which wor a bit on the incline. “My ’art begins to thump until I wor afraid Jem might ’ear It,,but just then he comes up to wheer I had put the stone. He stumbled o’er it, and the horse swerved a little, but he nearly recovered hisself, and so I puts out my hand and gentle pushes ’im. He falls down on the line, and the truck goes o’er him, ’cause I heerd ’Jm groan. I slipped behind the truck -and out again into Che cutting wi’out bein’ seed, and bunked off back to town. I wor scared! Next mornin’ I herd as how Jem ’ad met wi’ a accident and that he had stumbled o’er a stope, supposed to have tumbled from a truck afore him, and the truck ’ad broke his back. I wor a bit sorry at first, and then I began to be afraid they might trace it to me. But I said nowt to nobody, and the inquest' said as how 'twere a accidefit, and I didna trouble myself. Than I wor spliced, and though we quarreled, yet T would a done anythin’ for her! Thee know’st it, dostna, Liz?” The woman looked up. Her face was pale in the extreme; her black eyes blazed, and her fingers twitched. She rose and approached the bedside. "Murderer!” she hissed between her clenched teeth. “Ah, Liz,” the man replied calmly enough, " ’tis no good a-callin’ me that now; what thee’st better do is to fetch a preachin’ ohap to pra£ for me!” "A preachin’ chap! No! I did like thee a bit till now, but —A preachin’ chap!” she broke off in a voice of supreme disdain and mockery. "No! What soul thee hast, let it go to ’ell!” “Liz! Liz!” the man's voice broke in imploring sobs.—“ Forgive me! For give me! Doctor,” and he turned with a piteous look to me ; “ax her to forgive me.” The woman was standing with her hands clenched, and her eyes gleaming —a statue of Fury. I then noticed, for the first time, that she was a remarkably handsome woman, though rather coarse. I went round the bed to her. “Mrs. Crossland,” I said quietly, "your husband may not live through out the night. Do not let him go from this world to the next, whatever it may have in store for him, without your forgiveness. Don’t you remember the old prayer, ‘Father, forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us’?” The fury gradually died out of the woman’s face, her hands unclenched, and tears welled into her eyes. Her bosom heaved as if suppressed sobs were almost bursting it; then, as though the effort were too much, she dropped on her knees beside the bed, and sobbed aloud. Crossland was fast sinking, his breath came In difficult gasps, and hls dark visage grew almost ashy pale. "Liz! Liz!” he murmured faintly, "do you forgive me?” Still the woman sobbed on. Her grief was poignant—was It for the sinfulness or her husband or for the memory of her past love? I asked myself. The old woman—Martha—who was evidently a Roman Catholic, crossed herself and called upon tjhe Virgin Saint to have mercy on the unfortunate man’s soul, while he, In most endearing tones, implored his wife’s forglveness. At last the paroxysm of tears kpent Itself and the woman became calmer, though she still knelt with, her face hidden In her hands. I bent over her and whispered: “Mrs. Crossland., one word to make him happy. He’s dying! Remember the prayer, ‘Forgive us our trespasses— ’ ’’ She raised her head. There was a new light shining on the tear-stained face. ' “Yes,” she returned, “we should forgive. Years ago, when I went to a Sunday school, I was told that! But ’tie hard, sir—so hard—’cause I loved Jem so, and ’im I didna care—” “Hush!” I raised a warning finger. “HIS life is ebbing away. Come, Mrs. Crossland.” “Lis!" The name came very faintly. Croaaland's hand strayed over the coverlet, and I took hers and placed It within hls. She rose, bending over the murderer, pressed a long kiss upon hls forehead. He opened hls eyes” and met

hers, and there he read hls forgive-' ness. A smile of peace and contentment illumined hls features; he slowly closed hls eyes and sighed, and on .that sigh the stained soul of Darkle Crossland floated 6ver the border to that: land from which no fhiyeler returns.—Grit ,

SHE DROPPED ON HER KNEES BESIDE THE BED.