Rensselaer Republican, Volume 23, Number 26, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 26 February 1891 — THE MASTER OF THE MINE. [ARTICLE]

THE MASTER OF THE MINE.

By Robert Buchanan.

CHAPTER XXll—Continued. nodded assent, end was about to My something more, when there was the rustle of a dress behind him, and with a quick atari, and a sharp pain at the heart, I saw Madeline standing is the room. The sight of her was almost more than I could bear; I shook like a leaf and myeyes filled with tears. The next moment she stepped forward with an eager cry of recognition and both bands outreach. Ing. Then, seeing that 1 was hand, cuffed, she uttered another cry—of grief and pain. "Madeline!” cried her cousin wamingly:butshe paid no attention. I had turned my head away, too ashamed to meet her gaze, but 1 felt, rather than mw. that bhe was gazing tenderly into my face. When she spoke her voice was broken and tearful. ■*Mr. Trelawney, may I speak to you? May I tell you how my heart aches and bleeds for you in your great trouble? May I assure you how deep, ly Lbelieve—as all who know you must believe—in your innocence of such a crime," 1 turned my head and looked at her; my head SA&m. and the tears so blinded me that I could not see her. • God bliss you for saying that.” I murmured; and as I spoae she lifted my two bound hands and held them gently in her own. ....... ' "I could not believe that anyone would think it possible, ” she said. ■•! would have come before, but waited, expecting to see you set at liberty— But now I hear you are to be put upon your trial. Ah, do not fear! Have courage! Your innocence will be proved and you will soon be a free man.” ‘Terhaps,” I answered,‘‘but whether or not. it is something to know that my innocence is believed in by you.” "How could I doubt it? Dear Mr. Trelawney. I know you better even than you know yourself. No proof, however terrible, could shake my faith in one whom I know to be the bravest and best of meh; one incapable of any baseness, one to whom, remember, I owe my life.” She turned to Redruth, who was looking on, 1 thought, rather uneasily. "And my cousin is equally certain’ that you are falsely accused. George, speak to him! Tell him!" I looked at George Redruth; his brow was clouded, and his expression far less cordial than it had previously been. "I have already told Trelawney what I think on the subject. Never. thele>s, the evidence is ugly, as he is aware. ” ••But you know he is innocent?” cried Madeline, "1 hope so. Whoever took poor Johnson’s life was a miserable and ruffianly coward, well deserving the gallows; and I can't fancy that Trelawney, in spite of his violent temper, Is anything of the kind.” There was something in his manner now which aroused all the angry blood within me. His old superciliousness had returned, and the compassion in his eyes had changed to hard dislike and suspicion. I could not trust myself to answer him, but turning to the police officers, who sat by, I cried: •‘How long am I to remain here* Take me away; for God's sake take me away!" I ••All right— the trap's at the door,” replied one of them. I rose to my feet, and then, setting my lips firm to conquer my agitation, i I turned again to Mj4eliue.. ; "Don't mind me. Miss Graham; I shall come through this trouble right enough, perhaps; and, whatever happens. I shan't forget your goodness, i cared for no one's good opinion outy •m, I’m not the tit st innocent can, by many, who has had to face An unjust accusation. and answer it with his life; and what you have said will give mecourage, perhaps, to bear the Sorrow that's to come!” Before I realised what she was doing she had taken my hands again, had raised them to her lips, and kissed them! "Bon’t!jd cn't 1 .” J cried 1 half sobing. "I can’t bear it! Here lads take me away!” "Use him kindly,” she cried, weeping, and addressing the officers. “Remember he is a gentleman, and falsely accused.” ••Don't be afraid, my lady," said the man who previously spoke. "We’ll took after htm.” ~ ‘ ‘And Mr. . Trelawney—dear friend —do not think that, though we part now, 1 sha Ibe idle. lam rich, remember, snl whateve- money can do tor your defense shall be done by me. It is a poor return, indeed, for the life you gave me! Keep a good heart! Think that you have friends working for you! Think that the happy time will soon come when you wid be free again to return to those you love, who love and who will love you the better for a trouble bravely borne!” fn the raptu e of that moment, I -thou d have caught her in my arms, but I was helpless, and perhaps it was better so. Gently.bit firmly, the offied me from the room, and along the Passage to the door where the dogca* was waiting. There was a crowd u.out. the doorsteps. and when I appeared there was a sympathetic murmur. .

The officers pusbed me through the groups an-i I mounted to my seat in the trap. Then 1 heard a wild cry. and sa>v my a'.nt, who rushed forward, reaching up her h-uods to touch mine. “Ht sh my po >r Hugh!”she sobbed. ••Don’t cry aunt," I said forcing a •mile. **Thev don’t hang innocent men in England. 1 shall soon come back home!” At that there was a fa'nt hurrah, led by Jahn Rudd. Several rough fellow* - -

from ths mine rushed forward, reaching out their horny hands in honest sympathy. ••vhear up, Mcaster Hugh! None o’ us believe you killed ’un! Cheer up! We’ll ha’ you back in St Gurlott’s soon.” «4m, that we will” echoed John Rudd. The officer had now mounted beside me; and his companionwho was seated by the driver. Cried in a loud voice; ••Clear the way! Let go her head!” The horse freshened by rest and a feed, bounded off, and I left the group of sympathisers behind - my poor aunt half fainting. supported by J ohn Rudd. But on the door step under th> porch stood two figures, on which my eyes were riveted UH the last—George Redruth and Madeline Graham. Madeline waved a white hankerchief. I could make no sign in return, but I watched her with streaming eyes till we entered the avenue, and the boughs of the leafless trees blotted Jher from my view. Of that sad day’s business, only one more vivid memory remains t<f me. Slight and trival as the circumstance seemed at the time. I remembered H afterwards with a wondering thrill. Our way back, like our way coming, lay past the cottage. Quitting the gates of the great house, and leaving the dark avenue behind us, we rattled swiftly. along the country road. The horse, being homeward bound, whirled us along at full speed; indeed, as the poet has it, *• We seemed in running todevour the way.” As we approached the dear old cottage, I craned my neck roupd to look at it; the next moment we dashed past it; but in that moment I caught the glimpse of a ghastly white face lookitrgrout ofrone of the lower-windows. It was the face of my uncle, John Pendragon! As we passed, he seemed to give a wild start of recognition. Then, looking back, I saw, before we were fifty yards away, a figure, wild and half dre sed, running out across the garden to the gate, and looking after us, It was my uncle. He seemed dazed and stupefied. As we disappeared round a turning of the road, I fancied I caught the sound of a sharp cry, and eimiltaneously 1 saw him throw his two. arms wildly up into the air! . CHAPTER XXIII. THE TRIAL. Is Is not my intention to trouble the reader with chapters full of appeals ad miserlcordiam, or to pile up the agony in the manner of the expert manufacturer of sensational fiction; though if I chose to do so, there is plenty of material ready to my hand. I have my doubt, perhaps, whether-1 am personally interested enough to sway the sympathy of the tender-hearted, in the character of a man unjustly accused of the most horrible of human crimes, But the mere fact that I survive to write these lines is proof positive of one thing—that I was not hanged! So, on that score at least, the reader may be perfectly easy in his mind. The Assizes came on some six weeks after the date of the inqnest, and in the interim I found that my darling did not fail to keep her word. A firm of solicitors, instructed by her, undertook my defen ?e; and though I at first out of motives of pride, declined their good offices, I was finally persuaded to accept them. Through their managing clerk. I more than once received kindly messages from Madeline, but not once did she appear upon the scene personally until the day of the trial came, when on entering the dock, I saw her sitting by George Redruth’s side in the crowded court. My aunt and uncle were there, too—~tireriHtter so worn and changed that-f should scarcely have recognized him; so was honest John Rudd, together with other old friends and acquaintances. But before the trial began, all those who were called as witnesses withdrew, George Redruth among the number. My darling remained in her place, close to my counsel and solicitors. in the well beneath the judge’s seat; and more than once, in the course of the proceedings, I saw her whisper words of instructiomaand suggestions to my defended; |

Thinking it all over again now, in the quiet of these after-years, I am sure still, as I was sure then, that her face helped to save me. Its pathetic beauty and sympathy, I believe,touched the heart of the jury, and wrought wonders in my behalf. Even the judge, who had what is known as a “hanging” reputation, looked down upon her with eyes of favor. Early in the course of pro-, ceedings, I heard whispers among the crowd surrounding me. They were looking at Madeline, and some one was asking who she might be* A voice replied (how well I remember it, and how my pa’e face went red with proud surprise) that she was “tbe prisoner s sweetheart.” Far away asI knew that idea to be from the simple truth, I looked at my darling with new feelings of love and gratitude, and al> most forgot for a moment the great and impassable barrier between us. After the speech for the prosecution, in which I was painted in vifid colors as a young man of violent habits, having a homicidal hatred to the murdered man, the tirst witness deponed to the finding of the body and to tbe ’ marks of violence upon it Then George Redruth described my last quarrel with Johnson, and my dismissal from the overseership of the mine. On this occasion, I fear, Redruth rather exaggerated than under estimated the extent of my hostility; and when asked if he personally thought that the deceased had any reasun to fear my v.of&nce, hesitated and answered that he **was afraid he had.” I saw Madeline start and look appealingly at the witness while a low murmur ran through the court On the whole Redruth’s evidence, though given with a certain reluctance, was very hostile. I could not help feeling that it was

none the less so beeanee Madeline was Mated there with my defenders, and working so zealously on my behalf. | My aunt next described my doings on the night of my departure from St. Gurlott’s, and again admitted, as at the inquest,'that ! had been at a ’ate hour (n Deighborhood ofthe mine. Then my uncle entered the box. Ghastly and woe begone, clad in his Sabbath clothes of black, he stood like a man, dazed; not-once turning his eyes in nqy direction. His evidence only corroborated that of my aunt; but unimportant as it was, he gave it with extrema reluctance. After the prosecuting OQUMeI was done with him, he was questioned by my own counsel, as follows: ••On the night of the murder, you were at home with the prisoner?” •■lm. sir.” "Did you see him go outP” •*l disremember. I took naw note o’t; and ma memory’s falling me.” "Ah; you have been Hl for some time ?” "Nawt just myself like, sir.” "Had you any reason to imagine that the prisoner bore any animo-ity to the deceased? Did he ever in your hearing utter any threats against him?” . "Never, sir; nawt one ward-" "So far as you know he had no cause to dislike the deceased beyond the fact that he had taken his place as overseer?" I saw my uncle trembling violently; but his answer came clear and firm: "Nawt as I knaws on, sir; and I know this, he ne’er meant to harm ’un.” ••On the night in question, did the prisoner show any agitation?” ••Naw, sir; though he war a bit put out at gawing awa’ fro* home.” “Did he show on his person any signs of violence, as of a struggle?” ••Naw, sir: nawt he.” ••That will Jo. You may stand down.” Still carefully averting his eyes from mine, my uncle left the box. All that could be said was said in my defence. My witnesses to character included John Rudd and other local worthies; but all this testimony would have been of little avail without that which followed. To my intense surprise. Madeline herself entered the box as a witness on my side; and though what she had to say was practically irrelevant, though it concerned chiefly my saving of her life from shipwreck, it worked wonders for me. Never shall I forget the thrill of joy> that went through me as she said, in answer to a question: ‘ *No one who knows the prisoner believes him capable of this or any crime. He is the bravest and truest man I, have ever met.” It was at this point that the prosecuting counsel rose, and said, very suavely: . "Excuse me, Miss Graham—but you have a great interest in the pris oner?” “A very great interest,” replied Madeline, looking him calmly in the face. "A tender interest, perhaps? Am I wrong in believing that there has been an engagement between you?” I could have knocked the fellow down. Madeline went crimson recovering herself in a moment steadily replied: "That is not true. My engagement' with Mr. Trelawney is one of gratitude to the man who saved my life at the risk of his own.” The counsel lo : t something by this , passage of arms, and I gained much. | Madeline’s reply was greeted with the approval of the entire court. For myself, I felt all my being flooded with a great joy, which carried me along in a fearless mood till the end of the proceedings. After my darling’s tender proclamation of her belief in my innocence. I cared not what other man or woman in the world might believe me guilty; or, indeed, what became of my j life. I was justified in her sight, that was enough, After a trial which lasted only the I greater part, of one day, the judge summed up—sternly enough. I thought —and the jury retired to consider their verdict Now, for the first time during the proceedings, I realize my position. My life hung in the balance, and a few minutes would decide whether I was to live or die. The jury returned into the box, and the judge also reappeared in his place. The foreman stood up, and replied, in answer to the clerk of the court’s ques tion whether I was guilty or not guilty: "We are agreed that there is not sufficient evidence to convict the prisoner." ■‘That is no verdict at all." cried the judge sharply. "You must decide one way or another—guilty or not guilty. ” For a moment the foreman seemed dubious, and, stooping to his companions, spoke to them in a whisper. .Thenha Mid: “Not guilty, my lord.” I was acquitted, but the manner of the acquittal was cruel enough, leavit clear that the moral presumption was against me, though the evidence was inadequate. I did not quite realize this at the time, but I had bitter ca"<*e to remember it afterwards. A little later, I was standing, a free in the parlour of a small inn. whither I had been led by John Rudd, and where I found my aunt and uncle waiting for me. I cannot say that It was altogether a joyful meeting. The shadow of dea'h seemed still upon us al’. John Rudd alone was jubilant, and insisted on drinking healths all around. My uncle, us tally an abstemious man. drank eagerly, but the drink, instead of cheerin? him. seemed to make him gloomier than ever. It had been arranged that my aunt and unde were to return in the wagon that evening with John Rudd, who had postponed the hour of his depart-

ure in order to await the result of tb< trial, and they urged me eagerly toac- | company them. 1 was in no hurry, however, lb hasten back to St. Gurlott'a My plans, as far as I was yet able to shape them, were to leave England, perhaps working out my passage to the Colonies, on some out-ward-bound vessel. While we were sitting together, a waiting-girl beckoned me out; and fol--1 lowing her into another room, I found Madeline waiting to speak to me. Directly our eyes met, she held out both her hands, and I took them eagerly in mine. Then, for the first time, my emotion mastered me; and, fairly sobbing, I almost sank upon my knees before her. "I was right, you see,” she said tenderly. "I knew they would never Condemn you.” “I owe my life to you,” I’answered in a voice choked with tears. She smiled sweetly, and shook her head. "Even if it were so, it is only doing as I have been done by; but no one ever doubted your innocence from the first. And now, tell me, what are you going to do? Of course youre are re--4urntng4»Bfc ’€hirlQtt’B?” -■ . •*1 can not tell. God help me, I can hardly realize it all yet! It will never be the same place to me again.” "Suppose,” she said, looking at me thoughtfully, "suppose I could per-suade-my~cbusln to reinstate you as overseer of the mine?’ “He would never do that,” I replied; “and even were he willing, it would be impossible. It is like you, it is like your heavenly goodness to think of it; but it is out of the question. I think there is but bne course for me to adopt, and that is—to leave England,” (To be continued.)