AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME ; OR, THE BERISFORD TRAGEDY.

Te Aroha News, Volume IV, Issue 162, 24 July 1886, Page 11

AN UNCONSCIOUS CRIME ; OR, THE BERISFORD TRAGEDY.

(By Major Alfred Rochefort.) CHAPTER XXIV. IN PRISON. As Wilson Bly said, "It is my duty to arrest you in the name of the commonwealth of the State of New York," he drew from his pocket a pair of bright handcuffs and held them out. On seeing this, Miriam sent up a heart broken cry and fell uncouscious to the floor. Ignoring the officer, Clarence lifted her to a sofa and then rang for a servant ; this done, he turned to the detective and asked : " What is your name, my man?" " Wilson Bly," was the prompt answer, " Very well, Wilson Bly. 1 shall tike it for granted that you are acting in accordance with law, and that you have the power to arrest me. As a respecter of that law, which I have never violated to my knowledge, I shall go with you ; but as a man who hasnever permitted himself to submit calmly to an indignity, I warn .you that if you attempt to put those manacles on me you must take the consequence." Wilson Bly looked into the resolute face and burning eyes, and he was altogether too good a 'judge of human nature not to see that it would be downright madness to persist in carry ing out his original resolution. " I have no desire, Mr Ashwortb," he said, respectfully, "to subject you to any unnecessary indignity, but it is the rule to handcuff prisoners under such circumstances. 1 ' 11 There never were such circumstances before, but that apart, this case must prove an exception to the rule." " If you will pledge me your word as a gentleman that you will not attempt to escape," said Bly, returning the manacles to his pocket, " why, then there will be no trouble." "As I am more anxious than anyone else can possibly be to have this matter cleared up, I don't see why I should want to escape. However, to set your mind at rest on that point, I cau safely promise not to run away." While Clarence was talking, Madame Barron, who bed come in with Shirley Benson, met Mary Brady in the room ; and between them they set about administering restoratives to Miriam. Sterling, the county town, was about ten miles away, and thither Wilson Bly proposed carrying Clarence in a buggy which he had waiting at the gate. Clarence packed a valise with such articles of clothing as he thought he might need, and then he sent for Mary Brady, and giving her the key of his trunk, he said: " Keep this for me, Mary, till I come back." Mary took the key and pressing it and the hand that held it up to her lips, she sobbed : " Pray Heavens that you may soon come for it. Oh, sir, it's me heart that's broke at the sbauie they're puttin' on you. But t won't be for^long — it won't be for long. ' " Thank you, Mary ; your confidence is a great comfort. Say to Miss Miriam that I leave my kind regards ; and tell Dr. Berisford I would see him before I go." Madame Barron and Shirley Benson stood directly before Clarence, but he completely ignored them. In addition to his not liking them he felt that in some way which he could not understand they were connected with his misfortunes. Mary Brady was in the act of going out to call the doctor, when Miriam, pale as death, re-entered the room. She ran to Clarence, and taking his hands she said, in a low tone, but so distinct that every one could hear it : "Cousin Clarence, from this hour on I shall devote my life to proving your innocence." " And the knowledge that you are doing bo, Cousin Miriam," he said, raising her hands to his lips, "will give me strength to bear all the trials that may be in store for me." At this juncture the doctor tottered in. His face was haggard, and he looked aa if he had aged ten years in as many hours. Shaking hands with Clarence, ho said : " I would give up fortune, life, everything but honour, to save you from this disgrace." ** Let my friends continue to think that the disgrace is not merited," said Clarence : " and it will be no disgrace." He said "goodbye," and went out with the officer, the soba of the servants ringing in his ears till he had passed the door. Clarence was about to get into the buggy at the gate, when the hermit stepped to his side, and said : "The battle-field tries brute courage; trials like this are the touchstone that prove a higher manhood." " And I shall try to meet the test," replied Clarence. "They call me « The Hermit of Willowemoc,' and know me by any other name that may suit their vulgar fancy. I have been a hermit, Glarence Ashworth, because I cannot trust the world, and dare not trust myself ; but till the world knows you for what I feel you are, I shall go back to it again." "I.thank you, my friend." "Give no thanks till I have done something worthy of them. And now good-bye. We shall meet soon again." "Strange old gent that," said Wilson Bly, nodding after the retreating hermit. " If all the world were as noble and pure as he, I do not think he would seem bo strange. There, lam all ready," said Clarence, as he took a seat in the buggy. '•Smoke?" said Wilson Bly, after they had gone through the village of Willbwemoc, and were bowling along the hilly road that stretched away to Sterling. He took two cigars from his pocket, lit one, and handed the other to Clarence, " I do not object so smoking," was the courteous reply, -" but after several eickening efforts, I failed to acquire the habit." •••All the better for you Habits ase the links in a chain that makes a man the galley slave of his own weaknees.' 1 After this funny bit of philosophy, the detective pulled at his cigar till he got a good glow at the end, This he examined critically, knocked off the ashes, and then said : "Thia ia a mighty unfortunate business, Mr Ashworth." "No person is more aware of that than myself." •• Known Shirley Benson long ?" "I have known of him since he and I were children, and I've had an acquaintance with him for some years;-' : "Like him?" "Can't cay I do.*' "Nordol." // , : /V\- ■•;;,:- -. ' " '"' - '' The •': deij^fclye would- liave : lapsed into silence again had not Clarence asketirj Shirley Benson 1 ? I ' H^ > ■>; .^/-v^- ;.'"■'

" Because I wanted to see if you regarded each other in the same loving way. He don't like you." "Did he tell you so V •'.-•- --" Oh, yes ; but I don't put much reliance in what he saye. I judge, him by his actß, and I know quite few of them quite few I assure you." " Is that why you do not like him ?" | " Yeß, in my part ; but the truth of it is, it was him that got John Penfield to suspect you, and ifc was him that kept th© poor fellow so long on the blind trail that ended in his death." " You surprise me !" " Truth's very often more surprising than fiction." "But why should Shirley Benson do this?" • " Because he hates you." "I can recall giving him no reason for that." " I think I can see the reason," said Wilson Bly, looking straight at the horse's ears. " Then I'd be obliged if you'd tell it to me." "I think there's a lady at the bottom of it, Now there's the hint, and you can think it out for yourself." And the detective looked as if he would not Bpeak again until his prisoner had solved the problem he had given him. I Clarence was surprised at the detective's astuteness, but he made no response. When near the village of Sterling, Wilson Bly renewed the conversation so far as to say : " Now I'm an old hand at this business, and if you don't object I'll give you a few wrinkle." Clarence aaid that instead of objecting, he should feel thankful for the wrinkles. " Firsthand foremost, don't talk to newspapers men, ©r, for the matter of that, to anyone else. If 'they want to know all about it, as they'll be sure to do* refer them to y<>ur lawyer — " "That's good advice, Mr Bly." "That's the kind of an article Ideal in,'' said the. detective, complacently ; " and talking about lawyers, let me suggest a few names to you. You are from Pennsylvania, but you'd better telegraph at once to the names I give you in New York city." Two of the men named were aquaintances — one of them an old friend of Clarence, and it was agreed ho should telegraph them before they went to the gaol. " And now, Mr Ashworth, I don't want you to feel hard towards me about moving first in this arrest. If I had&'t, some one else would have gone in that wouldn't understand things so well. You see, in our profession everything depends on standing well with the people, more particularly at headquarters." Clarence assured the detective that instead of feeling unkindly towards him, he had formed a very high opinion of hia character as a man, and of his abilities as an officer. They stopped at the telegraph offi6e, where Clarence cent off a number of despatches, including one to hia mother. Sterling, though the county town, was not much larger than Willowemoc. The gaol was a little stone structure attached to the back of the brick court house, like a very small and poorly designed kitchen in the rear of an otherwise respectable house. The sheriff was on hand, a rough, illgrained fellow, with no other qualification for the office than that he had been a successful local politician. The sheriff had been to Willowemoc, and, like a majority of the people in that sleepy village, he had made up his mind that Clarence Ashworth was guilty, and that no treatment could be too severe for him. Wilson Bly drew the sheriff to one side, and whispered : " Now, my friend, Mr Ashworth is a number one gentleman, firat- class family brand, and I want you to do the right thing by him—" " You bet I will," said the sheriff, with a wicked wink. " My own belief is that he ien't the party we want, but in the present state of public excitement we must have some one There's a big chance for you to make a reputation out of thia case,, and it may be that there's a lob of money in it, ao it's fcr you to say whether, you'll be a man or a hog." The sheriffs reply waß a grunt. He had already made up his mind not to be a man, as Wilson Bly understood it. The necessary papers being signed, and the usual questions asked of and answered by the prisoner, Wilson Bly said " Goodbye," adding something about "a stiff upper lip," and was gone. Clarence was now alone with the sheriff, and for the firet time he came near losing heart. He did not like his custodian's looks, and that person's conduct showed that his face was in perfect harmony with his nature. He insisted that Clarence should empty his pockets of everything ; and, angered at what he considered an outrage, Clarence forced him to give a memorandum receipt for the things taken from him, Bia valise was searched, and as nothing contraband was found there, the sheriff crammed the articles of clothing back again. v "Pickup that satchel an' f oiler me," he said, with a commanding gesture. Indignant, but wisely aware that it would bo foolish to give expression to his feelings, Glarence obeyed. From a book on the little office wall, the sheriff took down a rusty chain, to which were attached a number of rusty keys. Thia done, he opened a sheet-iron door at one end of the room, and motioned for the prisoner to enter. He followed himself, closing the door securely behind him, and then led the way to the other end of a dark hall, Here be lit a lamp, and, pointing to a flight of stone steps, the dampness of which was ehown by a growth of green moss, he growled : " Prezner, go ahead down ther'." "Where are you going to take .me?' asked Clarence, drawing back with a shudder. "To a cell. Come. I aint agoin' to stan here all day." •' Can you not give me any better accommodations ? I am willing to pay for them." ' " I could ; but I won't. Don't put on any airs with me. I know how to treat murderers, if the detective doesn't. He's more used to that kind than I ever want to ba." Again the sheriff waved the lantern at the steps, and, with a white face and compressed lips, Clarence descended. He was taken to a narrow, slimy cell, in which there"waß a mildewed cot. There was a little grating outside, through which a faint light struggled: 4 Make: yourself comfortable here," said the sheriff. ■•'< :' ■■■-,'.■ . He locked the grated door, and his retreating footsteps seemed to be falling on the prisoner's heart. I. „= .'. ' ■.. ; . , CHAPTEII'XXV. shirley benson anli madame barb on •'■■■■'.- - : •■• -■' ■•-;:■-.: confer, \ _' ';',., \; .-. „-.;.: Up to this timeV Miriam: Berisfdrd's life, if nofc what msga r jH'e;c4^ had/certainly^b^i^we||e^ troubled,. : . I ';TijeJos ( 8 otjnermotlie^ had' been so" Bof^nedf down" by thai

healer. Time, as to have become a soothing memory, J( : Her, existence had been so devoid of incident that, to one differently constituted, it might have been monotonous to the verge of gloominess. But the active miad is never lonely. Miriam's education had been of the moat thorough kind ; and, though the reverse of what ia popularly called " a blue stocking," ehe had a mind of unusual vigour and penetration. She shared her father's scholarly tastes. took » part in hig studies, and even in his speculations— in which ehe could see nothing but philosophic dreaming— and, at the eatne time, by a rigid study and practce, ehe peifected herself in those accomplishments that are the most brilliant crown. of youthful beauty and the one unfading glory of old age. To be sure, she knew but little of the world ; but from this it must nob be inferred that she was indifferent to her fellow-men, or, t to , the great movements going on about her for her elevation. 'Though never in a rebellious spirit, yet shir often yearned to go out and bear her part in the great battle of life and do something that would distinguish her path down thp years from the broad, rambling trail of the myriads. But a high senee of duty — and the sense of duty, after all, ia the beat te?t of character— kept her close to her father's side. I She above all persons knew exactly why her father had given up the society in New York, of which he had so long been the ornament, and the profession of which he had so long been the head, and come out to bury himself in the retirement of Berisford Manor. She alone knew this one secret of her father's life. From her earliest years she had been in his confidence, and so it was natural that he should whisper to her that he feared his mind was giving way, and that the only hop© for its restoration was in the quiet of the old home. She caw the evidences of a tottering intellect in his moodiness, his fits of abstraction, and in his forgetf ulness of his own most important acts ; but what to her was most conclusive, she saw it in his nightwalking and his doing of acts, when in this state, which were entirely foreign to his nature, and of which, in his waking hours, he did not retain the slightest recollection. Since coming to the mountains her father's mental and physical condition had improved, He wandered co little about the house at night, after being a year at the Manor, that Miriam ceased to be troubled by it. For the two years preceding the coming of Clarence Ashworth, the doctor seemed to be entirely cured ; and, excepting that he became more and more absorbed in what he called the " occult sciences of the Hindoos" — which to Miriam seemed to bt> a profitless study — his intellect appeared as bright as in hie most brilliant days. Had Clarencu A&hwortb been a stranger, Miriam would have pitied him, and yearned to help him in the day of his great trial. But unconsciously to herself he had become more than a friend, more than she had thought any man could be to her, till his coming stirred into undying activity the fountain of love that had been dormant in her heart. Crushed into temporary helplessness by this,' the severest blow that had befallen her, she still thought that io was friendship —kinship, that drew her heart to the unfortunate young man. After Clarence went away with the detective, Miriam retired to her own room and threw herself on the bed. Madame Barron came in with honeyed words to offer her hypocritical consolation, but Miriam shuddered and asked to be left alone Not so the reception she gave to Mary Brady, who came in on tiptoe an hour or two afterwards, and whispered ; "Heaven help thim that's heavy of heart this black day ; sure, it's Iyin' down mesel I ought to be if I gave way to me feelin's," On hearing the cook's comforting voice, Miriam said, as she reached out her band : •' It is kind of you to come to me, Mary."- --" It's an impty comin', it is," sighed Mary, kissing and petting the soft white hand. "An 1 it's throubled an' heart-sore Hans an' Minnie an' mesel is without bein' able to do anythin' at all. We're only angry to think that there should ba thim at Berisford Manor that seems to take joy in what brings us grief." "I do not understand you, Mary; to whom do you refer ?" " Then you didn't notice Mr Beason nor the madame ?" " No, Mary ; surely they do not rejoice at the unjust and cruel accusation brought against Mr Ashworth ?" "It may ill become me to spake disrespectful of thim that think they're me betthers, but not ban' blind I couldn't help noticin' how thim two smiled to thimsels while it was goin' on ; an' then went off to the arbor an' nearly danced for joy whin it was all over — an 1 him gone. But it wasn't to say thiß that I came," said Mary, backinpr to the door. "Is there anythin,' Miss, that any of us kin do for you ?" " Nothing, thank you* Mary ; I ehall be stronger presently." Mary sfghed again, and casting a loving glance back at her mistress, she went to her kitchen. Shirley Benson, in his anxiety to have the doctor believe a lie, by thinking that he, Shirley, had been moved to interest in this case by a desire for justice, went to the library and poured ou,t his regrets, and expressed his great sorrow at Clarence Aehworth's misfortune, though he took care to create the impression that he thought him guilty. The old gentleman looked up from a pile of carefully written manuscript which he had been reading, and said : " I fear, Shirley, it is aa you say; yet I cannot find it in my heart to blame a man who, in direct opposition to his own sense of right, carries put .the cruel, inexorable law of his own being." "I never thought that Ashworth was naturally a bad fellow," said Shirley, incapable of comprehending the doctor's point. " Nor is he a bad man. Is the tiger bad because it can only feed on flesh ? Is the. rattlesnake wicked because it carries a poison-sac over its fangs ? Not at all. Tendoncies to certain acts are inherited, perhaps from fierce forefathers a hundred generations ago — " " Accord ing? to that there would be no crime," said Shirley. " You mistake me," replied the doctor, setting u6ide some of the. manuscript, as if about to cite authority in proof of his theory ; but, dreading an affliction, Shirley hurriedly excused himself and left. Dinner was ignored that day, and after a supper that passed in silence, Miriam went to her room and the doctor to the library, leaving 'Madame Barron and Shirley to entertain themselves as" best they could. ': It was the very they had been 'wanting'; '• - - J '-..v'.\^ i r " v ..:.'. V .;•, "■-' :... ; • •It need not be .said that these two were delighted ;at the fcoursel events ;hjid taken, and j as , 'they ! .ftoui&i .have • been .equally . pleased with the ddwnfaU bf. Glarence Ashworth if .assured rof ; his , innocence^ i<s ; doe6 not palliate /their" offence to say that "'they' were at. 'this^time^ :,;well ; convinced _,;. of His guilt ;" r thiß; particM 'Benson.' ■:•;:-. ;''." '■■ ■■■■-. • . -V : --"-: '■

Wise in her 'worldliness, Madame Barron. imagined ehe could read Shirley Benson a* if he were an open book, but in thia she TE&& mistaken. * He realised that she waa to him a most; faithful oily, and almost essential to hia; succcfs with Miriam, which he had lately felt to ba endangered ; but ho also saw through the motive chat excited her interesfe and fidelity. "When I marry Miriam," Shirley reasoned, " then the madame thinks she'll have no trouble in hooking on to the oUI gentleman, which means taking a big chare out of the estate. No, no ; none of that* But I'll humour her as if I wa3 in for.it over head and ears " They sat this night with the lights turned low in the parlour, and they talked in a>_ pitch that corresponded with the illumination. "Mr Benson," said the madame, after some preliminary ram arks, "do you know what I've been thinking?" "I do not, Madame Barron ; but I an* sure that the subject is worthy of you," said Shirley, with unusual gallantry. " It is, for I was thinking; of you." " I should feel flattered.'" " I was thinking," said the madame b looking as if she were thinking still, " that i if it should bo Bhown that Clarence Ashworth ia not guilty of thig crime, or what 1 amounts to the same, if they are unable Ufe prove it, it will be bad for you." " How so.?" *' In two ways." "I fail to see one of thetn." "In the first place, you have conspicu* ously interested yourself in tracing th^. murder of John Penfield to Mr Ashwnrth,, and have not hesitated to state your belief in hia guilt — " " Every one believes the evidence points that way." Without appearing to heed this, she continued : "It" they fail to bring him in guilty, there.. will naturally be a re-action of popular feeting in his favour ; it always happens so 5 and in searching for some one on whom, to* fasten the blame — of what will seem like ft persecution — they will seize on you. You can't demand a trial to prove jou are innocent, and you do no!: know what will be the, consequence?" She waited to give him time to think. "What?' 1 he asked. " Why, your Dame will be blackened, anc£ your social standingruined beyond allchancQ of redemption. In proportion as Clarences Ashwnrth cornea into favourable light, you will sink into odious darknesd. As he rises you will fall—" "From which you would have me infer; that aa he falls I will rise." "Yes, that's it. What do you think of it ?" ' ' I am so confident of his conviction that the prospect does not alarm me. Now» what is the second way in which his innocence will be bad for me ?" "Ah ! that is the most important." " Have you nob asked yourself how thie. is to affect Miriam ?" Nbj Madame. I have seen that for myself," sneered Shirley. " I am glad you noticed it, for you muß& now see that the very hour Clarence Asb,^ worth is declared innocent, she will cast you off for ever. Her love will turn t<fc hate." "Yes, madame ; but she will never break, her word." "Break her word? No j she will nofe think she is doiug so then. This is aow ehe will reason : I pledged myself to be~ come Shirley Benson's wife when I thought! him a brave, truthful, honourable man j he* has proved himself to be just the opposite.* I made a promise to a different man — I can> not keep it to him.' " " And then you think she will marry Clarence . Ashworth ?" said Bhirley, with & lump in his throat. "I am sure of it You can therefore see^ that ycur character, and the possession o£ the woman you co love, depend on the coa* viction of this man." Shirley clenched his hands and hisse^ with an oath : " He shall be convicted !" "It cannot be done without my help, 1 * said the madame. *' But you will give it?'' "Not till you pledge yourself to furtheu my purpoee, which I shall fully explain^ and be guided by me ia this matter from* this time on." "All that I promise, on the honour of'a^ gentleman," paid. Shirley, raising hia han<& as if he were taking an oath. ( To be Continued).