Rensselaer Republican, Volume 23, Number 25, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 19 February 1891 — THE MASTER OF THE MINE. [ARTICLE]

THE MASTER OF THE MINE.

By Robert Buchanan

CHAPTER XX -< tn wtje ••I have nothing to forgive.” I replied. "You did me no wrong; b.t you ruined the happlneffiiof your nome, and vou have broken your father's heart” ••Hugh!” :; ••It is as well for you to hear It, Annie," I continued. "When your flight was discovered, your father bore it bravely, we thought; but it seemed he Lid the worst of his trouble from us, and pined in secret. It has been like a cankerworm gnawing at his heart; and now he is weak and feeble, like a weary, worn old man!" j I ceased, for Annie had turned away and was crying piteously. 1 went to I her, and took her hand. ••Annie." I said, "tell me the name of the man who has been the author of all this trouble, and I will ask no more.” She shook her head. "I cannot tell you, Hugh. Why shonld you wish to know? I tell you I am his wife.” —r s -—* •*lf you are his wife, where is the need of all this secrecy?" "There are reasons why he cannot' acknowledge me just now; therefore I made a solemn vow never to tell his name until be gives me permission. Is ft not enough for you to know that I have not disgraced you, and that I am happy ?” She certainly did not look happy. Her pale pained face, which was turned to mine, seemed tO give the lie to every word she spoke. "Will you tell them at home," she •aid, "that you found me well, and that they must not grieve; because tome day soon I shall come back to them?" • Where are you living now?" I asked.

••Close by here,'’ she replied quickly, and paused before a house in Craven street. Enteiing with a latchkey which she carried, she passed up a flight of stairs and entered a room. ••This is where I live, Hugh,” she •aid. ' '■ It was a change indeed from the Cornish kitchen in which she had lived Kt!' rbbm was one which I could imagine Madeline occupying. but which was singularly out of place when coupled with Annie! Having looked about me, I prepared to leave. “Where are you going, Hugh?” she asked, ‘home?’’ ••I don't know,” I answered. “Shall I see you again?” “That I don’t know. Since you say you are well cared for and happy, where is the use of troubling you 3 So re day. perhaps, when your sun begins to set. you’ll find your way back to those who loved you long before this villian crossed your path!” I opened the door, stepped across the threshold, and faced two strange men. A hand was laid upon my shoulder, and a voice add“Stop, young man! We want you for murder!” - . CHAPTER XXI THE INQEBT. For “Murder?” The very word paralyzed me; and I looked at the man in utter consternation. ‘-What do you mean?” I cried, recoiling. “Who are you?” “I’ll tell you all about that presently,” reolied the fellow coolly. “In the first place, are you going to make a shindy, or are you coming along quk i As he spoke, two policemen in uniform entered the room. He nodded to them: and, with the utmost sang froid felt in his pocket and drew out a pair of handcuffs. “Oh. Hugh!” cried Annie wildly. “What is it? What have you done?” Without answering her. I looked wildly at the men; then, acting on a mad impulse, and quite without reflection. I rushed to the door. In a moment the mtn th-ew themselves upon me, and there was a brief bit fierce struggle: bat my strength was of no avail, and 'n a couple of minutes 1 was overpowered jtpd handcuffed. The man in plain clothes, who had first add eased me, looked at me with a grim smile. •‘You're a bold chap,” he said; “but it's no use. You’d have done much better to ba v e come along quietly. Now lookee here. I've got to tell you that, whatever you say. from this moment forward, will be Used in evidence against you.”

•‘For God's sake, explain!” I an-! •wered. "A hat does it all mean? M ho is murdered ?’’ The man smiled ••-ord b.css us, how innocent we are! You’ll be telling 4 us next that your name ain’t Hugh Trelawney, late ove-seer of the St. Gurlott mine.” "Trolawney is my name, but—" ••Of course it is; and Trelawney is, the name of the man we want, the same on this here warrant. My duty is to apprehend you for the murder of Mr. Epnraim S. Johnson, the new •verserr who took your place." ‘•J'insor! murdered?” I cried. ‘'lt is impos - -—~~ ••Oh ..o, it ain’t.” returned the imperturab'e Official. "Decea-ed was found a. me foot of the cliffs, with his brains knocked out. and bearing ~bn his signs of violence: worse than •hats Le'd been stabbed with a knife; and, once more, you’re the party we want for having done the! job.” Utterly a:- a ed aud horrified, 1 stag, go ed aun *»•! Into a ch .ir. As for ▲m-A a seemed complete y petri. ■ fled. 1 rv.n s-e her white face now:] frozen. texriea* and aghast! , . J The*e was a pause of several minutu*. Cstlvln ••! his pri-oner. the officer . on quietly, and allowed me brwalhJmg Uwsa Gradually my ‘'•■aiu

cleared, and I became comparatively calm. ••I will go with vou.” I said, "but I am perfectly Innocent. Until this moment 1 never even heard of this horrible affair. ” . . .. ••Of course not ” returned the officer cheerfully. "That's what they *ll say, young man: and for the matter o’ that, every man’s innocent till the law proves him guilty." 7 , • •But 1 was not even there. I left St. Gurlott’s two days ago." "Exactly,” Wai the dry retort; “you hooked it the very night of the murder. The bod/, was found early on the morning of the 2lrd. and the warrant was issued yesterday.” , As he spoke, I seemed to feel_ net closing around me. At first the very accusation had seemed preposterous; now, I began to understand that my position was one of extreme peril. If Johnson had really been murdered, and on that night, as now seemed clear, 1 could not escape suspicion by a mere alibi. I remember* ed. with a thrill of horror, my last meeting with the murdered man, just before my departure; and my heart sank within me. I knew my own innocence— but who was guilty? As I ask* d myself the question. I looked again at Annie, who was still watching me intently; and in a moment, as if by an Inspiration. I thought of her father! Had John Pendragon, in a moment of mad-ne-s, taken the life of the man whom ho suspected of betraying his daughter? The thou.-ht was almost too horrible for belief—jet, alas! it was not unreasonable . • Now then, are you ready?” said the officer, placing his hand upon my shoulder. I rose quietly. As I did so, Annie sprang towards me with outstretched hands. 1 ? .-s-r'- = ••IL gh! dear Hugh! tell me you did not do it! I cannot—cannot believe that you areguiltv.” As I looked at her, all my spirit

darkened and h irdened against her. ••When the tme comes,” I said solemnly, “may you be as well able to answer for your deeds as 1 shall answer for mine. The trouble began with you. If murder has been jione, it is your doing also—remember that!” They were cruel wo ds, and afterwards I bitterly regretted them; bu t I was thinking of her father and remembered bow bitterly m ist be her blame, if, by any possiblit;, he had been d iven into crime am violence as a consequence of her conduct. Whether she understood me or not, I cannot tell; but, hiding her face in her hands, she sank on a couch, hysterically sobbing. . . z . What followed seemed more like an extraordinary dream than cruel waking reality! I was led from the house, placed in a cab, and driven away. That very afternoon I left Lbndon by train, and late that night w s handed over, handcuffed and h dpless, to the au horities of Falmouth Gaol. It is a truism, I the best consolation to be found by the unjustly accused is the consciousness of their own innocence—a consciousness whi, h Is 8 .1d to sweeten suffering, and lighten the weight of prison chains. My own expe ience is that innocence has no such effect on a man indicted for the foulest of hum <n crimes. My first night in gaol was, like many that followed it, a night of simple horror. Had I really been guilty, 1 could not have suffered a tithe of what I actually endured. To beg.n with, the whole affair was so horrible, so unexpected; it was like the solid earth opening under my feet to destroy me and swallow me up. By * strange killed on the very night of my de-; parture, and at a time when I was known to bear the greatest hostility towards him. Remembering all I had read of men unju t'y convicted and ! even executed on circums antial evidence. I thought with a shudder of how my very departure might be construed into evidence against me. - In the extremity of my position, one thought haunted me with tormenting cruelty. What would Madeline think, when she heard that 1 was accused of a crime so terrible, so cowardly? I could bear everything else, but the fear that her heart might be turned against me. My suspense did not last long. The very next day after my arrival at Faimauth jail, I was taken from the pr son and placed in a dog cart with a policeman by my side and another on the seat beside the driver. An inquest on the body of the murdered man was to take place that day at St. Gurlott’s, and of course my presence was necessary. |

how vividly I remember that drive! Snow had fallen in the night, and the skies were dark and sunless; the whole | prospect bitterly cold and desolate. : We followed the same road that 1 had pursued long years before in company with John Rudd. Then I was a onely boy; now I was a melancholy man. I wore a large ulster coat, the folds ■ of which covered the handcuffs on my wrist; but I fancied that every soul we passed knew the truth—that I was a criminal accused of murder. Talk about the consciousness of innocence! I could have wept for shame. What was a long day’s journey by John Rudd’s slow, old-fashioned wagon, with its innumerable stoppages for business, gossip or refreshment was a swift drive of five or six hours on this occasion. We started at six, in the morning and before mid-day were in flght of Gurloll’s. As we dashed through the village I saw several of the miners hanging about, but I carefully averted my eyes ■ from theirs. A little further on we ; passed the door of the cottage where 1 | so happily and so long, and. II saw with a sigh of relief that there was no sign of anyone about. We trotted on till we reached the gate of the avenue leading to Redruth House. Here, to my surprise, the horse was

pulled up. while one of the men jumped down and threw open the gate. We passed up the avenue at a slow trot, and on arriving in front of Redruth House found the front door wide open and a large number of people, both gentry and common folks, jing round the doorsteps the lawn, There was a murmur as I appeared. I looked round, but saw no face I knew. ••Now, then, get down,” said my companion, and lalighted. As I.did so some one pressed forward, and I met the honest eyes of John Rudd. The poor fellow thrust out his hand to sic e mine; tnen; finding that 1 was handcu led, he drew tue hand hastily back anil placed it on 11)y shi >aider, - ,■- ••Dawnt be downhearted, Master Hugh.” he cried. “The e be not a sawl in St. Gurlotl’s belie es ’ee killed ’un. So cheer up, lai; they'll soon set ’ee free.’ I thanked him. with tears standing in my eyes.- for his kindness to me. Then I was led into the house, and in a little while was facing the coroner in the great old fashioned dining hail, where the inquest was being held. I forget many of ihe details of that miserable day. Only one tning 1 vividly remember—the sight of the dead man’s body, stretched out lor inspection in the kitchen. Why I was taken to see it I do not know: but I felt that 1 was watched as 1 bent over it. Poor Johnson' I forgave him all the trouble he had ever caused me, seeing the blood-stained and disfigured mass which had once been his living self! As the inque it proceeded, I realized the full extent of my peril. Several of the men came forward (unwillingly enough. J am bound to say), and testified to my having quarrelled with Cue murdered man and knocked him down. '•Then tue young master, George Redruth, gave his. test mo iy—to the ettet 1h .d been dismissed from the oversee snip, and that I bore a violent grudge against the man who had sap-

planted me. Finally, it was proved that I had left st. Gurlott’s some time on the very night of the murder, which was not discovered until the following morning. Among the witnesses examined was my aunt, bh > looked overcomed with •grief, aud, on soeing ma, would have sprung to and embraced me hysterically had she not been withheld. Her husband it was shown, was ioo ill to attend; but at his e v.dence would have simply corroborated hers, his absence was deemed unimportant. All she had to say concerned merely my movements on the fatal night, and the Coroner elicited from her the fact that as late as n.ne in the evening I had been in the neighborhood of the mine. Vague and circumstan ial as all the evidence was.it was su.iic.ent to decide the jury against me. Dated and horified, I heard them bring in their verdict—a verdic.t of “Wilful murder aginst Hugh Trelawney," who was straightway committed lor trial at the next Assizes. CHAPTER XXII. MADELINE PROVES MY FRIEND. After the inquest was over. I was led intbZa small room fitted up as a library, still handcuffed and still attended by two policemen who had brought me over. They gave me refreshment—blscui s, which I did not touch, and a gltss of wine, which I drank off eagerly • Ever since my arrival at the house. I had been 1 >oking eagerly for some sign of Madeline Graham; but she had not appeared. While I sat apart,however, George Redruth entered the room, and after glancing at me with (I thought) a certain compassion, addressed me. . “This is a bad business,Trelawney,” he s dd. looking very pale and agitated. • I glanced at him, but made no reply. “Leltne tell you. however.” he continued. ‘that ugly as the evidence looks against you. I hope that you’ll succeed in proving your innocence at the the trial. I haven't much cause to jove you. and poor Johnson had still less; but upon my word, I believe yOu ncapable of such a crime as this.' i“ thank you, sir,” I replied, tremb'ing for I could have borne his anger or in difference better than his sympathy. ‘You at least do me that justice!’ (T be continued.)