AN UNCOMMITTED CRIME.

Patea Mail, Volume VIII, Issue 1020, 11 April 1883, Page 4

AN UNCOMMITTED CRIME.

LITERATURE.

* The Story of a Young Surgeon. (Continued.) “Father, are you in earnest?” stammered the young prodigal. “In bitter earnest,” continued Mr Ashenden, in the same cold and measured tone. “ I cannot force you to marry this girl, perhaps, if you are obstinately determined not to do so ; but I will tell you what I can do if you refuse to comply with ray wishes. I shall turn you from ray doors into the street, and not another penny will you ever receive from me !” Mr Browne grasped Mr Ashenden warmly by the hand, while the tears streamed down his cheeks. “ You are a good and honourable man,” he cried, “ and if your son has one spark of virtue left within him, ho will consent to your wishes.” Sidney Ashenden did not have even one solitary spark of virtue. Young as he was, he had became a selfish sensualist. But other motives induced him, after a long and stormy discussion with his father, which would be wearisome to repeat, to consent to make Rosalie his wife. Ho knew his father’s stern and unyielding principles, and had no desire to be deprived of the means of living his present luxurious life, which he enjoyed so much. So he yielded, consoled by the mental reflection that a wife whom he would be under no obligation to treat with common courtesy, would not greatly interfere with his habits and pleasures. A special license was sent for, and the necessary preparations were hurriedly completed. There was no time to delay ; the marriage was to take place next day. Sarah was called upon to act as bridesmaid. It was evident to all that Rosalie was still under the influence of the drug she had taken. Her eyes had a kind of of vacant stare ; she walked, and looked like one in a somnabnlic state, and seemed quite unconscious of what was passing around her. In this state she was married. When the ceremony was over, Mr Browne wished to take his daughter home with him, but Mr Ashenden would not listen to this for a moment. He drew Mr Browne aside, and had a long and earnest talk with him. Rosalie, he said,, was now his son’s wife, fle was much pleased with her. She was pretty and intelligent, pnre and good. His son had evidently felt a strong passion for her, or he would not have acted as he had done. That passion, though now deadened perhaps by his forced marriage, would return , and Rosalie, in heaven’s hands, might be the instrument to wean him from his evil courses. Sidney was wild, he knew, but surety not radically bad, and the society and love of one like Rosalie must work reformation. , Mr Browne had not the heart to tell the good old man that Rosalie’s affections had long since been bestowed upon another, and that Sidney could count upon nothing hut her loathing and disgust. He left Rosalie beneath the roof of her husband’s father, and return to Mary port with Sarah Lipscomb. He thought Mr Ashenden would send Rosalie home when he discoved that she and her husband did not live happily together. They expected Rosalie every day ; but time passed on, and she did not return. She wrote to them finally ; arid then they were surprised to find that she had accepted her destiny, and seemed to have forgotten the past. She had become the darling of old Mr Ashenden, she wrote, who gratified her every wish. She never mentioned her husband’s name, but she wrote that she was growing quite ’contented in her new home. There was not the slightest reference to me in the letter whatever—not a syllable that breathed my name. It appeared as if the past was utterly forgotten. Some people thought that Rosalie, like a Sensible girl, had concluded that the heir of a fortune.was not a bad kind of husband, after all. This was the story my father told me when 1 returned to Maryport with my hard-worn diploma. Of course you have guessed before now that the gentleman who came into my surgery and asked me for drugs to poison his wife was Sidney Ashenden. He had now been married to Rosalie a year. He had endured the chain while his father lived ; but scarcely was that father cold in the grave, than he determined to remove her from his path. For six months had 1 lived in Carlisle practising my profession (when I was fortunate enough to be employed), and hovering at leisure moments around the home of Rosalie. 1 seldom saw her ; but the few glimpses I caught of her pale sad face, convinced me that she was saffeN ing arid unhappy. Now a strange destiny had brought her husband to me to proffer the cup of brimful to ray thirsty lips. 1 could snatch her from his arms to place her in those of the grisly bridegroom, death 1 and then denounce him for the crime. True 1 might involve myself ; but Samson-like, I cared not, if at the same time I pulled sure destruction upon him. So I wrote the prescriptions, and he went upon his way rejoicing. You think I was wrong in this—that my revengeful feelings carried me too far ? Perhaps they did. Yet, think what you would have done had your heart been wrung as mine had! I scanned the “ Deaths,” eagerly in the local papers every day after Sidney Ashenden’s visit to my surgery, and on the third day I found what I was looking for : “ Rosalie, wife of Sidney Ashenden, Esq., aged twenty years and and four months.” The deed was consummated —Rosalie was released, and the betrayer was at my mercy! I had scarcely laid aside the paper and dressed myself to go out, when I heard a ring at the surgery bell. My heart told me who my visitor was, and I could scarcely breathe for its tumultous beating. It was Sidney Ashenden.- He cajne in pale and agitated, the impress of crime on his pallid brow ; tremulous with the fear of detection, but no remorse -for what he bad done. “You are doubtless surprised at this visit,” he began. “ On the contrary, I had expected it.” I returned. “ Expected it!” he echoed, amazed and bewildered. For a -reply I handed him the morning paper, with ray finger upon the column of deaths. He shuddered as he glanced at it, and turned away his head. This man was not altogether hardened —he had some feeling left. “ She died yesterday,” he gasped. “I had forseen the emergency which had arisen,” I said. “ A surgeon’s certificate will be necessary before the burial can take place. You dare not send for one, for fear he may detect the evidence of poison. You did not think of that-—I did. 1 was coming to you !” “ You were ? You knew my residence, then ?” ho demanded, suspiciously.

“ Both your name and residence.” “ iW that I was, I have placed myself in your power.” “ Men who commit crimes are generally fools!” “ You are as deeply involved as I am ! You dare not betray me !” “Who spoke of betraying ? Your fears unman you. I have told you that ■ a surgeon’s certificate is necessary. I suppose mine will answer as well as another’s to prevent the necessity of an inquest.” He brightened up wonderfully at my words. “ And will you give me that certificate ?” he cried. “ Why should I not ? I may as well complete what I have begun.” “You are a good fellow !” he exclaimed with a resumption of his old levity. He extended his hand to grasp mine, but I pretended not to see it. Shake hands with him—the cold-blooded villain? No I I would sooner have cut my hand off. “ It will be necessary for me to go with you to examine the corpse,” I said coldly. “ It would have been better, for the sake of appearances, if you had summoned me yesterday ; but it is not too late, ” “ Come, then, I expect my wife’s father will be at the house when we arrive—l was obliged to send for him, you know—but you will not care for him ?” “ No. Why should I ?" I said this calmly enough, though the information troubled me. Mr Browne would be sure to recognise me. His presence might defeat my plans. We left the surgery together. He had his carriage at the door; we got in, and were driven speedily to our destination, I will not attempt to describe my feelings as I entered the darkened chamber which contained the mortal remains of my loved, lost Rosalie. My brain was in a whirl, and the blood coursed icily through my veins. The coffin had not yet arrived, and she lay upon the bed robed in spotless white. „ The light streamed faintly in through one half-raised curtain, its beams falling upon her sweet, pale face. Heavens! how lovely she was. It was the face of a slumbering angel, death had left no terrors there, Mr Browne was kneeling by the bedside, his grey head bowed in bitter grief. He did not heed our entrance, “ I have brought a skilful medical gentleman to look at her,” said Sidney Ashenden, assuming a hypocrisy of woe. “ She is not dead, is she, doctor ?” cried Mr Brovyne, starting up, “ Look at her—does that look like death ? Our eyes met, and what I had foreseen happened, “ Good heavens!” he continued. “Yon hero? You Mr Irving 1 you of all other men in the world !” . “ You are acquainted ? ” stammered Sidney Ashenden, with an ashy look upon his features. “ We have met before,” I replied quietly. “Mr Browne, will you be good enough to retire for a few minutes ? I wish to make an examination of the body.” “ O, James, James ?” he cried, wringing his hands. “ Why will you do this? it is not right. You try to appear outwardly calm, but this is breaking your heart! I know it! I know it! It killed her, poor thing ! Young man,” he continued, sternly, to Sidney, “ this is your work ! You have much to answer for !” Sidney staggered back, pale and aghast at this accusation. He took it Hterally. “ Who says I killed her ?” he stammered. “Who can prove it?” The old man did not heed him ; absorbed in his grief, he scarcely caught the meaning of the words, he did not notice the frightened looks, but shaking his head, sadly, with trembling limbs, withdrew from the apartment. “Now, quick! quick! doctor,” cried Sidney, when he was gone ; “ the certificate, and let us leave, this chaniber of death. She lies there like an accusing spectre, and I feel my brain reel as I gaze upon her. She has caused me trouble enough. My wife ! She never was my wife 1 We were married, it is true, according to law, and there the matter ended. I could ,never bear the sight of her from that moment. I never slept at home a night after. She never betrayed me to the old man, who took her under his protection, and loved her as his own child—she was too glad to be rid of me to complain. She might have lived, and welcome, for all the trouble she was to me I” “ Why did you kill her then ?” I asked, as he suddenly paused. “ Because —because-—’ ’he hesitated—“l may as well tell you ; we are in the same boat now, sink or swim together. It was because my father left all his property to her, you understand, to make me treat her well. Made me the slave of a woman. But I was her heir, and she is dead I” “ You have schemed to some purpose.” ff .Save I not ? Now then f the certiS.cate.” . . “Patience. Thereis/one condition first. This body must belong to me.” “ What do you mean ?” “ Do you not guess who 1 am ? Did not the recognition of Mr Browne open your eyes ? This girl whom you sought to betray, and whom heaven so strangely protected j this Virgin wife who was forced to marry yon to preserve her good name, was my affianced bride 1 Wretch! can you hope for mercy at my bands ? . I helped you to kill her on purpose to denounce you as her murderer!” “ You are not in earnest ?” he gasped, “ You will soon see that.” I made a movement towards the door. Mr Browne —here! help to secure your daughter’s murderer!” He dashed out of the door like lightning, and I heard the key turned in the lock. I was a prisoner with the dead—but I laughed loud and joyously, the fierce, exulting laugh of triumph. Then I bent over the prostrate form of my Rosalie —mine now, for I had won her—and pressed warm kisses upon her lips ; lips that were not cold, but soft and dewy. Next I took out my case, which I carried in iny pocket, searched for the particular vial, forced apart the lips, and poured its contents down her throat. The powerful drug was quick in its operation ; a tremor prevaded her frame the stiffened cords relaxed—a sigh heaved her bosom—her eyelids quivered —opened—and Rosalie’s starry orbs looked wonderingly into mine. “ James ! James !” she gasped. “It is you—you have come back to claim me !” Was it all a dream, then, a fearful dream ? She shuddered, and glanced around. “ A dream, indeed, dear Rosalie I” I cried ; “ you are now awake to happiness —to make me blessed 1” '“No, No !” she exclaimed, strugglingto free herself, for I had clasped her to my bosom in a mad embrace. “I remember all now —you must not hold me thus—it is not right—l am another’s wife 1” “ And yet you love me still—only me ?” “ I never loved but you,” she'answered, softly, “ I was forced to become another’s —my father made me—but I hare kept my faith to you. This is not right —I am a wife, and though I cannot love my hrisband, I must| respect his honour and name !” Dear girl ! I could but respect her noblo purity. I released her, for I felt

that I should soon obtain the right to call her mine. “ That husband will never trouble you again.” I have set the furies upon his track that will hunt him from the land ! Then I told her all, how Sidney Ashenden had tried to compass her death, and I had pretended to aid him in order to save her. That I had furnished him with a strong narcotic, instead of poison, that she might put on the appearance of death* How I had frightened him away, pursued by the fiends of an accusing conscience which’ would make hirn fly the country, and how her divorce might be obtained and she made free. She said nothing, but her eyes were eloquent with joy, and I was satisfied. Mr Browne knocked without and called to be admitted, and was greatly astonished when I told him to turn the key and enter. That astonishment changed to amazement when he beheld his daughter living. We heard from Sidney sooner than we expected. His dead body was brought to the house that afternoon. He had committed suicide and thus heaven had divorced Rosalie. Sidney Ashenden lies beneath a marble monument, his guilt buried with him, for it was never divulged, out of respect to his good father’s memory. Rosalie is now my wife ; and in our present happiness we have well-nigh forgotten all memory of the bitter past.