Chapter Forty Eight.

Chapter Forty Eight.In which Everybody appears to be on the Move except our Hero.Mary set off with post-horses and arrived at the Hall before daylight. She remained in her own room until the post came in, when her first object was to secure the newspapers before the butler had opened them, stating that her mistress was awake, and requested to see them. She took the same precaution when the other papers came in late in the day, so that Mr Austin should not read the account of the trial; this was the more easy to accomplish, as he seldom looked at a newspaper. As soon as the usual hour had arrived, Mary presented herself to her mistress, and communicated the melancholy result of the trial. Mrs Austin desired Mary to say to the servants that she was going to remain with a lady, a friend of hers, some miles off, who was dangerously ill; and should in all probability, not return that night, or even the next, if her friend was not better; and, her preparations for the journey being completed, she set off with Mary a little before dark on her way to Exeter.But, if Mr Austin did not look at the newspapers, others did, and amongst the latter was Major McShane, who, having returned from his tour, was sitting with O’Donahue and the two ladies in the library of his own house when the post came in. The major had hardly looked at the newspapers, when the name of Rushbrook caught his eye; he turned to it, read a portion, and gave a loud whistle of surprise.“What’s the matter, my dear?” asked Mrs McShane.“Murder’s the matter, my jewel,” returned the major; “but don’t interrupt me just now, for I’m breathless with confusion.”McShane read the whole account of the trial, and the verdict, and then without saying a word, put it into the bands of O’Donahue. As soon as O’Donahue had finished it, McShane beckoned him out of the room.“I didn’t like to let Mrs McShane know it, as she would take it sorely to heart,” said McShane: “but what’s to be done now, O’Donahue? You see the boy has not peached upon his father, and has convicted himself. It would be poor comfort to Mrs McShane, who loves the memory of that boy better than she would a dozen little McShanes, if it pleased Heaven to grant them to her, to know that the boy is found, when he is only found to be sent away over the water; so it is better that nothing should be said about it just now: but what is to be done?”“Well, it appears to me that we had better be off to Exeter directly,” replied O’Donahue.“Yes, and see him,” rejoined the major.“Before I saw him, McShane, I would call upon the lawyer who defended him, and tell him what you know about the father, and what our suspicions, I may say, convictions, are. He would then tell us how to proceed, so as to procure his pardon, perhaps.”“That’s good advice; and now what excuse are we to make for running away?”“As for my wife,” replied O’Donahue, “I may as well tell her the truth; she will keep it secret; and as for yours, she will believe anything you please to tell her.”“And so she will, the good creature, and that’s why I never can bear to deceive her about anything; but, in this instance, it is all for her own sake and therefore, suppose your wife says that you must go to town immediately, and that I had better accompany you, as it is upon a serious affair?”“Be it so,” replied O’Donahue; “do you order the horses to be put to while I settle the affair with the females.”This was soon done, and in half an hour the two gentlemen were on their way to Exeter; and as soon as they arrived, which was late in the evening, they established themselves at the principal hotel.In the mean time Mrs Austin and Mary had also arrived and had taken up their quarters at another hotel where Mrs Austin would be less exposed. It was, however, too late to visit our hero when they arrived, and the next morning they proceeded to the gaol, much about the same hour that McShane and O’Donahue paid their visit to Mr Trevor.Perhaps it will be better to leave to the imagination of our readers the scene which occurred between our hero and his mother, as we have had too many painful ones already in this latter portion of our narrative. The joy and grief of both at meeting again, only to part for ever—the strong conflict between duty and love—the lacerated feelings of the doting mother, the true and affectionate son, and the devoted servant and friend—may be better imagined than expressed; but their grief was raised to its climax when our hero, pressed in his mother’s arms as he narrated his adventures, confessed that another pang was added to his sufferings in parting with the object of his earliest affections.“My poor, poor boy, this is indeed a bitter cup to drink!” exclaimed Mrs Austin. “May God, in His mercy, look down upon you, and console you!”“He will, mother: and when far away—not before, not until you can safely do so, promise me to go to Emma, and tell her that I was not guilty. I can bear anything but that she should despise me.”“I will, my child, I will; and I will love her dearly for your sake. Now go on with your history, my dear boy.”We must leave our hero and his mother in conversation, and return to McShane and O’Donahue, who, as soon as they had breakfasted, repaired to the lodgings of Mr Trevor.McShane, who was spokesman, soon entered upon the business which brought them there.Mr Trevor stated to him the pertinacity of our hero, and the impossibility of saving him from condemnation, remarking, at the same time, that there was a mystery which he could not fathom.McShane took upon himself to explain that mystery, having, as we have before observed, already been sufficiently clear-sighted to fathom it; and referred to O’Donahue to corroborate his opinion of the elder Rushbrook’s character.“And this father of his is totally lost sight of; you say?” observed Mr Trevor.“Altogether: I have never been able to trace him,” replied McShane.“I was observing to his sister—” said Mr Trevor.“He has no sister,” interrupted McShane.“Still there is a young woman—and a very sweet young woman, too—who came to me in London, to engage me for his defence, who represented herself as his sister.”“That is strange,” rejoined McShane, musing.“But, however,” continued Mr Trevor, “as I was about to say, I was observing to this young woman how strange it was, that the first time I was legally employed for the name of Rushbrook, it should be a case which, in the opinion of the world, should produce the highest gratification, and that in the second in one which has ended in misery.”“How do you mean?” inquired McShane.“I put a person of the name of Rushbrook in possession of a large fortune. I asked our young friend’s sister whether he could be any relation; but she said no.”“Young Rushbrook had no sister, I am sure,” interrupted McShane.“I now recollect,” continued Mr Trevor, “that this person who came into the fortune stated that he had formerly held a commission in the army.”“Then, depend on it, it’s Rushbrook himself, who has given himself brevet rank,” replied McShane. “Where is he now?”“Down in Dorsetshire,” said Mr Trevor. “He succeeded to the Austin estates, and has taken the name.”“’Tis he—’tis he—I’ll swear to it,” cried McShane. “Phillaloo! Murder and Irish! the murder’s out now. No wonder this gentleman wouldn’t return my visit, and keeps himself entirely at home. I beg your pardon, Mr Trevor, but what sort of a looking personage may he be, for as I have said, I have never seen this Mr Austin?”“A fine, tall, soldierly man; I should say rough, but still not vulgar; dark hair and eyes, aquiline nose; if I recollect right—”“’Tis the man!” exclaimed O’Donahue.“And his wife—did you see her?” asked McShane.“No I did not,” replied Mr Trevor.“Well, I have seen her very often,” rejoined McShane; “and a very nice creature she appears to be. I have never been in their house in my life. I called and left my card, that’s all; but I have met her several times; however, as you have not seen her, that proves nothing; and now, Mr Trevor, what do you think we should do?”“I really am not prepared to advise; it is a case of great difficulty; I think, however, it would be advisable for you to call upon young Rushbrook, and see what you can obtain from him; after that, if you come here to-morrow morning, I will be better prepared to give you an answer.”“I will do as you wish, sir; I will call upon my friend first, and my name’s not McShane if I don’t call upon his father afterwards.”“Do nothing rashly, I beg,” replied Mr Trevor; “recollect you have come to me for advice, and I think you are bound at least to hear what I have to propose before you act.”“That’s the truth, Mr Trevor; so now with many thanks, we will take our leave, and call upon you to-morrow.”McShane and O’Donahue then proceeded to the gaol, and demanded permission to see our hero.“There are two ladies with him, just now,” said the gaoler; “they have been there these three hours, so I suppose they will not be much longer.”“We will wait, then,” replied O’Donahue.In about a quarter of an hour Mrs Austin and Mary made their appearance; the former was closely veiled when she entered the gaoler’s parlour, in which O’Donahue and McShane were waiting. It had not been the intention of Mrs Austin to have gone into the parlour, but her agitation and distress had so overcome her that she could scarcely walk, and Mary had persuaded her as she came down to go in and take glass of water. The gentlemen rose when she came in; she immediately recognised McShane, and the sudden rush into her memory of what might be the issue of the meeting, was so overwhelming, that she dropped into a chair and fainted.Mary ran for some water, and while she did so, McShane and O’Donahue went to the assistance of Mrs Austin. The veil was removed; and, of course, she was immediately recognised by McShane, who was now fully convinced that Austin and Rushbrook were one and the same person.Upon the first signs of returning animation, McShane had the delicacy to withdraw, and making a sign to the gaoler, he and O’Donahue repaired to the cell of our hero. The greeting was warm on both sides. McShane was eager to enter upon the subject; he pointed out to Joey that he knew who committed the murder; indeed, plainly told him, that it was the deed of his father. But Joey, as before, would admit nothing; he was satisfied with their belief in his innocence, but, having made up his mind to suffer, could not be persuaded to reveal the truth, and McShane and O’Donahue quitted the cell, perceiving that, unless most decided steps were taken, without the knowledge of our hero, there was no chance of his being extricated from his melancholy fate. Struck with admiration at his courage and self-devotion towards an unworthy parent, they bade him farewell, simply promising to use all their endeavours in his behalf.

Mary set off with post-horses and arrived at the Hall before daylight. She remained in her own room until the post came in, when her first object was to secure the newspapers before the butler had opened them, stating that her mistress was awake, and requested to see them. She took the same precaution when the other papers came in late in the day, so that Mr Austin should not read the account of the trial; this was the more easy to accomplish, as he seldom looked at a newspaper. As soon as the usual hour had arrived, Mary presented herself to her mistress, and communicated the melancholy result of the trial. Mrs Austin desired Mary to say to the servants that she was going to remain with a lady, a friend of hers, some miles off, who was dangerously ill; and should in all probability, not return that night, or even the next, if her friend was not better; and, her preparations for the journey being completed, she set off with Mary a little before dark on her way to Exeter.

But, if Mr Austin did not look at the newspapers, others did, and amongst the latter was Major McShane, who, having returned from his tour, was sitting with O’Donahue and the two ladies in the library of his own house when the post came in. The major had hardly looked at the newspapers, when the name of Rushbrook caught his eye; he turned to it, read a portion, and gave a loud whistle of surprise.

“What’s the matter, my dear?” asked Mrs McShane.

“Murder’s the matter, my jewel,” returned the major; “but don’t interrupt me just now, for I’m breathless with confusion.”

McShane read the whole account of the trial, and the verdict, and then without saying a word, put it into the bands of O’Donahue. As soon as O’Donahue had finished it, McShane beckoned him out of the room.

“I didn’t like to let Mrs McShane know it, as she would take it sorely to heart,” said McShane: “but what’s to be done now, O’Donahue? You see the boy has not peached upon his father, and has convicted himself. It would be poor comfort to Mrs McShane, who loves the memory of that boy better than she would a dozen little McShanes, if it pleased Heaven to grant them to her, to know that the boy is found, when he is only found to be sent away over the water; so it is better that nothing should be said about it just now: but what is to be done?”

“Well, it appears to me that we had better be off to Exeter directly,” replied O’Donahue.

“Yes, and see him,” rejoined the major.

“Before I saw him, McShane, I would call upon the lawyer who defended him, and tell him what you know about the father, and what our suspicions, I may say, convictions, are. He would then tell us how to proceed, so as to procure his pardon, perhaps.”

“That’s good advice; and now what excuse are we to make for running away?”

“As for my wife,” replied O’Donahue, “I may as well tell her the truth; she will keep it secret; and as for yours, she will believe anything you please to tell her.”

“And so she will, the good creature, and that’s why I never can bear to deceive her about anything; but, in this instance, it is all for her own sake and therefore, suppose your wife says that you must go to town immediately, and that I had better accompany you, as it is upon a serious affair?”

“Be it so,” replied O’Donahue; “do you order the horses to be put to while I settle the affair with the females.”

This was soon done, and in half an hour the two gentlemen were on their way to Exeter; and as soon as they arrived, which was late in the evening, they established themselves at the principal hotel.

In the mean time Mrs Austin and Mary had also arrived and had taken up their quarters at another hotel where Mrs Austin would be less exposed. It was, however, too late to visit our hero when they arrived, and the next morning they proceeded to the gaol, much about the same hour that McShane and O’Donahue paid their visit to Mr Trevor.

Perhaps it will be better to leave to the imagination of our readers the scene which occurred between our hero and his mother, as we have had too many painful ones already in this latter portion of our narrative. The joy and grief of both at meeting again, only to part for ever—the strong conflict between duty and love—the lacerated feelings of the doting mother, the true and affectionate son, and the devoted servant and friend—may be better imagined than expressed; but their grief was raised to its climax when our hero, pressed in his mother’s arms as he narrated his adventures, confessed that another pang was added to his sufferings in parting with the object of his earliest affections.

“My poor, poor boy, this is indeed a bitter cup to drink!” exclaimed Mrs Austin. “May God, in His mercy, look down upon you, and console you!”

“He will, mother: and when far away—not before, not until you can safely do so, promise me to go to Emma, and tell her that I was not guilty. I can bear anything but that she should despise me.”

“I will, my child, I will; and I will love her dearly for your sake. Now go on with your history, my dear boy.”

We must leave our hero and his mother in conversation, and return to McShane and O’Donahue, who, as soon as they had breakfasted, repaired to the lodgings of Mr Trevor.

McShane, who was spokesman, soon entered upon the business which brought them there.

Mr Trevor stated to him the pertinacity of our hero, and the impossibility of saving him from condemnation, remarking, at the same time, that there was a mystery which he could not fathom.

McShane took upon himself to explain that mystery, having, as we have before observed, already been sufficiently clear-sighted to fathom it; and referred to O’Donahue to corroborate his opinion of the elder Rushbrook’s character.

“And this father of his is totally lost sight of; you say?” observed Mr Trevor.

“Altogether: I have never been able to trace him,” replied McShane.

“I was observing to his sister—” said Mr Trevor.

“He has no sister,” interrupted McShane.

“Still there is a young woman—and a very sweet young woman, too—who came to me in London, to engage me for his defence, who represented herself as his sister.”

“That is strange,” rejoined McShane, musing.

“But, however,” continued Mr Trevor, “as I was about to say, I was observing to this young woman how strange it was, that the first time I was legally employed for the name of Rushbrook, it should be a case which, in the opinion of the world, should produce the highest gratification, and that in the second in one which has ended in misery.”

“How do you mean?” inquired McShane.

“I put a person of the name of Rushbrook in possession of a large fortune. I asked our young friend’s sister whether he could be any relation; but she said no.”

“Young Rushbrook had no sister, I am sure,” interrupted McShane.

“I now recollect,” continued Mr Trevor, “that this person who came into the fortune stated that he had formerly held a commission in the army.”

“Then, depend on it, it’s Rushbrook himself, who has given himself brevet rank,” replied McShane. “Where is he now?”

“Down in Dorsetshire,” said Mr Trevor. “He succeeded to the Austin estates, and has taken the name.”

“’Tis he—’tis he—I’ll swear to it,” cried McShane. “Phillaloo! Murder and Irish! the murder’s out now. No wonder this gentleman wouldn’t return my visit, and keeps himself entirely at home. I beg your pardon, Mr Trevor, but what sort of a looking personage may he be, for as I have said, I have never seen this Mr Austin?”

“A fine, tall, soldierly man; I should say rough, but still not vulgar; dark hair and eyes, aquiline nose; if I recollect right—”

“’Tis the man!” exclaimed O’Donahue.

“And his wife—did you see her?” asked McShane.

“No I did not,” replied Mr Trevor.

“Well, I have seen her very often,” rejoined McShane; “and a very nice creature she appears to be. I have never been in their house in my life. I called and left my card, that’s all; but I have met her several times; however, as you have not seen her, that proves nothing; and now, Mr Trevor, what do you think we should do?”

“I really am not prepared to advise; it is a case of great difficulty; I think, however, it would be advisable for you to call upon young Rushbrook, and see what you can obtain from him; after that, if you come here to-morrow morning, I will be better prepared to give you an answer.”

“I will do as you wish, sir; I will call upon my friend first, and my name’s not McShane if I don’t call upon his father afterwards.”

“Do nothing rashly, I beg,” replied Mr Trevor; “recollect you have come to me for advice, and I think you are bound at least to hear what I have to propose before you act.”

“That’s the truth, Mr Trevor; so now with many thanks, we will take our leave, and call upon you to-morrow.”

McShane and O’Donahue then proceeded to the gaol, and demanded permission to see our hero.

“There are two ladies with him, just now,” said the gaoler; “they have been there these three hours, so I suppose they will not be much longer.”

“We will wait, then,” replied O’Donahue.

In about a quarter of an hour Mrs Austin and Mary made their appearance; the former was closely veiled when she entered the gaoler’s parlour, in which O’Donahue and McShane were waiting. It had not been the intention of Mrs Austin to have gone into the parlour, but her agitation and distress had so overcome her that she could scarcely walk, and Mary had persuaded her as she came down to go in and take glass of water. The gentlemen rose when she came in; she immediately recognised McShane, and the sudden rush into her memory of what might be the issue of the meeting, was so overwhelming, that she dropped into a chair and fainted.

Mary ran for some water, and while she did so, McShane and O’Donahue went to the assistance of Mrs Austin. The veil was removed; and, of course, she was immediately recognised by McShane, who was now fully convinced that Austin and Rushbrook were one and the same person.

Upon the first signs of returning animation, McShane had the delicacy to withdraw, and making a sign to the gaoler, he and O’Donahue repaired to the cell of our hero. The greeting was warm on both sides. McShane was eager to enter upon the subject; he pointed out to Joey that he knew who committed the murder; indeed, plainly told him, that it was the deed of his father. But Joey, as before, would admit nothing; he was satisfied with their belief in his innocence, but, having made up his mind to suffer, could not be persuaded to reveal the truth, and McShane and O’Donahue quitted the cell, perceiving that, unless most decided steps were taken, without the knowledge of our hero, there was no chance of his being extricated from his melancholy fate. Struck with admiration at his courage and self-devotion towards an unworthy parent, they bade him farewell, simply promising to use all their endeavours in his behalf.

Chapter Forty Nine.The Interview.According to their arrangement, on the following morning, McShane and O’Donahue called upon Mr Trevor, and after half an hour’s consultation, it was at last decided that they should make an attempt to see Austin, and bide the issue of the interview, when they would again communicate with the lawyer, who was to return to town on the following day. They then set off as fast as four horses could convey them, and drove direct to the Hall, where they arrived about six o’clock in the evening.It had so happened that Austin had the evening before inquired for his wife. The servant reported to him what Mary had told them, and Austin, who was in a fidgety humour, had sent for the coachman who had driven the carriage, to inquire whether Mrs Austin’s friend was very ill. The coachman stated that he had not driven over to the place in question, but to the nearest post-town, where Mrs Austin had taken a postchaise. This mystery and concealment on the part of his wife was not very agreeable to a man of Mr Austin’s temper; he was by turns indignant and alarmed; and after having passed a sleepless night, had been all the day anxiously waiting Mrs Austin’s return, when the sound of wheels was heard, and the carriage of McShane drove up to the door. On inquiry if Mr Austin was at home, the servants replied that they would ascertain; and Austin, who imagined that this unusual visit might be connected with his wife’s mysterious absence, desired the butler to show in the visitors. Austin started at the announcement of the names, but recovering himself; he remained standing near the table, drawn up to his full height.“Mr Austin,” said O’Donahue, “we have ventured to call upon you upon an affair of some importance: as Mr Austin, we have not the pleasure of your acquaintance, but we were formerly, if I mistake not, serving his majesty in the same regiment.”“I do not pretend to deny, gentlemen, that you once knew me under different circumstances,” replied Austin, haughtily; “will you please to be seated, and then probably you will favour me with the cause of this visit.”“May I inquire of you, Mr Austin,” said McShane, “if you may have happened to look over the newspapers within these few days?”“No! and now I recollect—which is unusual—the papers have not been brought to me regularly.”“They were probably withheld from you in consequence of the intelligence they would have conveyed to you.”“May I ask what that intelligence may be?” inquired Austin, surprised.“The trial, conviction, and sentence to transportation for life of one Joseph Rushbrook, for the murder of a man of the name of Byres,” replied McShane; “Mr Austin, you are of course aware that he is your son.”“You have, of course, seen the party, and he has made that statement to you?” replied Mr Austin.“We have seen the party, but he has not made that statement,” replied O’Donahue; “but do you pretend to deny it?”“I am not aware upon what grounds you have thought proper to come here to interrogate me,” replied Austin. “Supposing that I had a son, and that son has as you say been guilty of the deed, it certainly is no concern of yours.”“First, with your leave, Mr Austin,” said McShane, “let me prove that he is your son. You were living at Grassford, where the murder was committed; your son ran away in consequence, and fell into the hands of Captain (now General) O’Donahue; from him your son was made over to me, and I adopted him; but having been recognised when at school, by Furness, the schoolmaster of the village, he absconded to avoid being apprehended; and I have never seen him from that time till yesterday morning, when I called upon him, and had an interview as soon as his mother, Mrs Austin, had quitted the cell in Exeter gaol, where he is at present confined.”Austin started—here was the cause of Mrs Austin’s absence explained; neither could he any longer refuse to admit that Joey was his son. After a silence of a minute, he replied—“I have to thank you much for your kindness to my poor boy, Major McShane; and truly sorry am I that he is in such a dilemma. Now that I am acquainted with it, I shall do all in my power. There are other Rushbrooks, gentlemen, and you cannot be surprised at my not immediately admitting that such a disgrace had occurred to my own family. Of Mrs Austin’s having been with him I assure you I had not any idea; her having gone there puts it beyond a doubt, although it has been carefully concealed from me till this moment.”It must not be supposed that, because Austin replied so calmly to Major McShane, he was calm within. On the contrary, from the very first of the interview he had been in a state of extreme excitement, and the struggle to command his feelings was terrible; indeed, it was now so painfully expressed in his countenance, that O’Donahue said—“Perhaps, Mr Austin, you will allow me to ring for a little water?”“No, sir, thank you,” replied Austin, gasping for breath.“Since you have admitted that Joseph Rushbrook is your son, Mr Austin,” continued McShane, “your own flesh and blood, may I inquire of you what you intend to do in his behalf? Do you intend to allow the law to take its course, and your son to be banished for life?”“What can I do, gentlemen? He has been tried and condemned: of course if any exertion on my part can avail—but I fear that there is no chance of that.”“Mr Austin, if he were guilty I should not have interfered; but, in my opinion, he is innocent; do you not think so?”“I do not believe, sir, that he ever would have done such a deed; but that avails nothing, he is condemned.”“I grant it, unless the real murderer of the pedlar could be brought forward.”“Y–e–s,” replied Austin, trembling.“Shall I denounce him, Mr Austin?”“Do you know him?” replied Austin, starting on his feet.“Yes, Rushbrook,” replied McShane, in a voice of thunder, “I do know him,—’tis yourself!”Austin could bear up no longer, he fell down on the floor as if he had been shot. O’Donahue and McShane went to his assistance; they raised him up, but he was insensible; they then rang the bell for assistance, the servant came in, medical advice was sent for, and McShane and O’Donahue, perceiving there was no chance of prosecuting their intentions, in Mr Austin’s present state, quitted the Hall just as the chaise with Mrs Austin and Mary drove up to the door.

According to their arrangement, on the following morning, McShane and O’Donahue called upon Mr Trevor, and after half an hour’s consultation, it was at last decided that they should make an attempt to see Austin, and bide the issue of the interview, when they would again communicate with the lawyer, who was to return to town on the following day. They then set off as fast as four horses could convey them, and drove direct to the Hall, where they arrived about six o’clock in the evening.

It had so happened that Austin had the evening before inquired for his wife. The servant reported to him what Mary had told them, and Austin, who was in a fidgety humour, had sent for the coachman who had driven the carriage, to inquire whether Mrs Austin’s friend was very ill. The coachman stated that he had not driven over to the place in question, but to the nearest post-town, where Mrs Austin had taken a postchaise. This mystery and concealment on the part of his wife was not very agreeable to a man of Mr Austin’s temper; he was by turns indignant and alarmed; and after having passed a sleepless night, had been all the day anxiously waiting Mrs Austin’s return, when the sound of wheels was heard, and the carriage of McShane drove up to the door. On inquiry if Mr Austin was at home, the servants replied that they would ascertain; and Austin, who imagined that this unusual visit might be connected with his wife’s mysterious absence, desired the butler to show in the visitors. Austin started at the announcement of the names, but recovering himself; he remained standing near the table, drawn up to his full height.

“Mr Austin,” said O’Donahue, “we have ventured to call upon you upon an affair of some importance: as Mr Austin, we have not the pleasure of your acquaintance, but we were formerly, if I mistake not, serving his majesty in the same regiment.”

“I do not pretend to deny, gentlemen, that you once knew me under different circumstances,” replied Austin, haughtily; “will you please to be seated, and then probably you will favour me with the cause of this visit.”

“May I inquire of you, Mr Austin,” said McShane, “if you may have happened to look over the newspapers within these few days?”

“No! and now I recollect—which is unusual—the papers have not been brought to me regularly.”

“They were probably withheld from you in consequence of the intelligence they would have conveyed to you.”

“May I ask what that intelligence may be?” inquired Austin, surprised.

“The trial, conviction, and sentence to transportation for life of one Joseph Rushbrook, for the murder of a man of the name of Byres,” replied McShane; “Mr Austin, you are of course aware that he is your son.”

“You have, of course, seen the party, and he has made that statement to you?” replied Mr Austin.

“We have seen the party, but he has not made that statement,” replied O’Donahue; “but do you pretend to deny it?”

“I am not aware upon what grounds you have thought proper to come here to interrogate me,” replied Austin. “Supposing that I had a son, and that son has as you say been guilty of the deed, it certainly is no concern of yours.”

“First, with your leave, Mr Austin,” said McShane, “let me prove that he is your son. You were living at Grassford, where the murder was committed; your son ran away in consequence, and fell into the hands of Captain (now General) O’Donahue; from him your son was made over to me, and I adopted him; but having been recognised when at school, by Furness, the schoolmaster of the village, he absconded to avoid being apprehended; and I have never seen him from that time till yesterday morning, when I called upon him, and had an interview as soon as his mother, Mrs Austin, had quitted the cell in Exeter gaol, where he is at present confined.”

Austin started—here was the cause of Mrs Austin’s absence explained; neither could he any longer refuse to admit that Joey was his son. After a silence of a minute, he replied—

“I have to thank you much for your kindness to my poor boy, Major McShane; and truly sorry am I that he is in such a dilemma. Now that I am acquainted with it, I shall do all in my power. There are other Rushbrooks, gentlemen, and you cannot be surprised at my not immediately admitting that such a disgrace had occurred to my own family. Of Mrs Austin’s having been with him I assure you I had not any idea; her having gone there puts it beyond a doubt, although it has been carefully concealed from me till this moment.”

It must not be supposed that, because Austin replied so calmly to Major McShane, he was calm within. On the contrary, from the very first of the interview he had been in a state of extreme excitement, and the struggle to command his feelings was terrible; indeed, it was now so painfully expressed in his countenance, that O’Donahue said—

“Perhaps, Mr Austin, you will allow me to ring for a little water?”

“No, sir, thank you,” replied Austin, gasping for breath.

“Since you have admitted that Joseph Rushbrook is your son, Mr Austin,” continued McShane, “your own flesh and blood, may I inquire of you what you intend to do in his behalf? Do you intend to allow the law to take its course, and your son to be banished for life?”

“What can I do, gentlemen? He has been tried and condemned: of course if any exertion on my part can avail—but I fear that there is no chance of that.”

“Mr Austin, if he were guilty I should not have interfered; but, in my opinion, he is innocent; do you not think so?”

“I do not believe, sir, that he ever would have done such a deed; but that avails nothing, he is condemned.”

“I grant it, unless the real murderer of the pedlar could be brought forward.”

“Y–e–s,” replied Austin, trembling.

“Shall I denounce him, Mr Austin?”

“Do you know him?” replied Austin, starting on his feet.

“Yes, Rushbrook,” replied McShane, in a voice of thunder, “I do know him,—’tis yourself!”

Austin could bear up no longer, he fell down on the floor as if he had been shot. O’Donahue and McShane went to his assistance; they raised him up, but he was insensible; they then rang the bell for assistance, the servant came in, medical advice was sent for, and McShane and O’Donahue, perceiving there was no chance of prosecuting their intentions, in Mr Austin’s present state, quitted the Hall just as the chaise with Mrs Austin and Mary drove up to the door.

Chapter Fifty.In which it is to be hoped that the Story winds up to the Satisfaction of the Reader.It was not for some time after the arrival of the medical men that Mr Austin could be recovered from his state of insensibility, and when he was at last restored to life, it was not to reason. He raved wildly, and it was pronounced that his attack was a brain fever. As, in his incoherent exclamations, the name of Byres was frequently repeated, as soon as the medical assistants had withdrawn, Mrs Austin desired all the servants, with the exception of Mary, to quit the room; they did so with reluctance, for their curiosity was excited, and there was shrugging of the shoulders, and whispering, and surmising, and repeating of the words which had escaped from their unconscious master’s lips, and hints that all was not right passed from one to another in the servants’ hall. In the mean time, Mrs Austin and Mary remained with him; and well it was that the servants had been sent away, if they were not to know what had taken place so long ago, for now Austin played the whole scene over again, denounced himself as a murderer, spoke of his son, and of his remorse, and then he would imagine himself in conflict with Byres—he clenched his fists—and he laughed and chuckled and then would change again to bitter lamentations for the deed which he had done.“Oh, Mary, how is this to end?” exclaimed Mrs Austin, after one of the paroxysms had subsided.“As guilt always must end, madam,” replied Mary, bursting into tears and clasping her hands,—“in misery.”“My dear Mary, do not distress yourself in that manner; you are no longer guilty.”“Nor is my master then, madam; for I am sure that he has repented.”“Yes, indeed, he has repented most sincerely; one hasty deed has embittered his whole life—he never has been happy since, and never will be until he is in heaven.”“Oh, what a happy relief it would be to him!” replied Mary, musing. “I wish that I was, if such wish is not sinful.”“Mary, you must not add to my distress by talking in that manner; I want your support and consolation now.”“You have a right to demand everything of me, madam,” replied Mary, “and I will do my best, I will indeed. I have often felt this before, and I thank God for it; it will make me more humble.”The fever continued for many days, during which time Mr Austin was attended solely by his wife and Mary; the latter had written to our hero, stating the cause of her absence from him in so trying a period, and she had received an answer, stating that he had received from very good authority the information that he was not likely to leave the country for some weeks, and requesting that Mary would remain with his mother until his father’s dangerous illness was decided one way or the other he stated that he should be perfectly satisfied if he only saw her once before his departure, to arrange with her relative to her affairs, and to give her legal authority to act for him, previously to his removal from the country. He told her that he had perceived an advertisement in the London papers, evidently put in by his friends at Portsmouth, offering a handsome reward to any one who could give any account of him—and that he was fearful that some of those who were at the trial would read it, and make known his position; he begged Mary to write to him every day if possible, if it were only a few lines, and sent his devoted love to his mother. Mary complied with all our hero’s requests, and every day a few lines were despatched; and it was now ascertained by the other domestics, and by them made generally known, that a daily correspondence was kept up with a prisoner in Exeter gaol, which added still more mystery and interest to the state of Mr Austin. Many were the calls and cards left at the Hall, and if we were to inquire whether curiosity or condolence was the motive of those who went there, we are afraid that the cause would, in most cases, have proved to have been the former. Among others, O’Donahue and McShane did not fail to send every day, waiting for the time when they could persuade Austin to do justice to his own child.The crisis, as predicted by the medical attendants, at last arrived, and Mr Austin recovered his reason; but, at the same time, all hopes of his again rising from his bed were given over. This intelligence was communicated to his wife, who wept and wished, but dared not utter what she wished; Mary, however took an opportunity, when Mrs Austin had quitted the room, to tell Mr Austin, who was in such a feeble state that he could hardly speak, that the time would soon come when he would be summoned before a higher tribunal, and conjured him, by the hopes he had of forgiveness, now that the world was fading away before his eyes, to put away all pride, and to do that justice to his son which our hero’s noble conduct towards him demanded—to make a confession, either in writing or in presence of witnesses, before he died—which would prove the innocence of his only child, the heir to the property and the name.There was a straggle, and a long one, in the proud heart of Mr Austin before he could consent to this act of justice. Mary had pointed out the propriety of it early in the morning, and it was not until late in the evening, after having remained in silence and with his eyes closed for the whole day, that Austin made a sign to his wife to bend down to him, and desired her in a half-whisper to send for a magistrate. His request was immediately attended to; and in an hour the summons was answered by one with whom Austin had been on good terms. Austin made his deposition in few words, and was supported by Mary while he signed the paper. It was done; and when she would have removed the pen from his fingers, she found that it was still held fast, and that his head had fallen back; the conflict between his pride and this act of duty had been too overpowering for him in his weak condition, and Mr Austin was dead before the ink of his signature had time to dry.The gentleman who had been summoned in his capacity of magistrate, thought it advisable to remove from the scene of distress without attempting to communicate with Mrs Austin in her present sorrow. He had been in conversation with O’Donahue and McShane at the time that he was summoned, and Mr Austin’s illness and the various reports abroad had been there canvassed. O’Donahue and McShane had reserved the secret; but when their friend was sent for, anticipating some such result would take place, they requested him to return to them from the Hall: he did so, and acquainted them with what had passed.“There’s no time to lose, then,” said McShane; “I will, if you please, take a copy of this deposition.”O’Donahue entered into a brief narrative of the circumstances and the behaviour of our hero; and, as soon as the copy of the deposition had been attested by the magistrate, he and McShane ordered horses, and set off for London. They knocked up Mr Trevor at his private house in the middle of the night, and put the document into his hands.“Well, Major McShane, I would gladly have risen from a sick bed to have had this paper put into my hands; we must call upon the Secretary of State to-morrow, and I have no doubt but that the poor lad will be speedily released, take possession of his property, and be an honour to the county.”“An honour to old England,” replied McShane; “but I shall now wish you good night.”McShane, before he went to bed, immediately wrote a letter to Mrs Austin, acquainting her with what he had done, and the intentions of Mr Trevor, sending it by express; he simply stated the facts, without any comments.But we must now return to Portsmouth. The advertisement of Mr Small did not escape the keen eye of the police-constable who had arrested our hero—as the reader must recollect the arrest was made so quietly that no one was aware of the circumstance, and as the reward of 100 pounds would be a very handsome addition to the 200 pounds which he had already received—the man immediately set off for Portsmouth on the outside of the coach, and went to Mr Small, where he found him in the counting-house with Mr Sleek. He soon introduced himself; and his business with them; and such was Mr Small’s impatience that he immediately signed a cheque for the amount, and handed it to the police-officer, who then bluntly told him that our hero had been tried for murder, and sentenced to transportation, his real name being Rushbrook, and not O’Donahue.This was a heavy blow to Mr Small: having obtained all the particulars from the police-constable, he dismissed him, and was for some time in consultation with Mr Sleek; and as it would be impossible long to withhold the facts, it was thought advisable that Mrs Phillips and Emma should become acquainted with them immediately, the more so as Emma had acknowledged that there was a mystery about our hero, a portion of which she was acquainted with.Mrs Phillips was the first party to whom the intelligence was communicated, and she was greatly distressed. It was some time before she could decide upon whether Emma, in her weak state, should be made acquainted with the melancholy tidings, but as she had suffered so much from suspense, it was at last considered advisable that the communication should be made. It was done as cautiously as possible; Emma was not so shocked as they supposed she would have been at the intelligence.“I have been prepared for this, or something like this,” replied she, weeping in her mother’s arms, “but I cannot believe that he has done the deed; he told me that he did not, when he was a child; he has asserted it since. Mother, I must—I will go and see him.”“See him, my child! he is confined in gaol.”“Do not refuse me, mother, you know not what I feel—you know not—I never knew myself till now how much I loved him. See him I must, and will. Dearest mother, if you value my life, if you would not drive reason from its seat, do not refuse me.”Mrs Phillips found that it was in vain to argue, and consulted with Mr Small, who at length (after having in vain remonstrated with Emma) decided that her request should be granted, and that very day he accompanied his niece, travelling all night, until they arrived at Exeter.In the mean time, Mrs Austin had remained in a state of great distress; her husband lay dead; she believed that he had confessed his guilt, but to what extent she did not know, for neither she nor Mary had heard what passed between him and the magistrate. She had no one but Mary to confide in or to console, no one to advise with or to consult. She thought of sending for the magistrate, but it would appear indecorous, and she was all anxiety and doubt. The letter from McShane, which arrived the next afternoon, relieved her at once; she felt that her boy was safe.“Mary, dear, read this; he is safe,” exclaimed she. “God of heaven, accept a mother’s grateful tears.”“Cannot you spare me, madam?” replied Mary, returning the letter.“Spare you. Oh, yes! quick, Mary, lose not a moment; go to him, and take this letter with you. My dear, dear child.” Mary did not wait a second command; she sent for post-horses, and in half an hour was on her way to Exeter; travelling with as much speed as Emma and her uncle, she arrived there but a few hours after them.Our hero had been anxiously awaiting for Mary’s daily communication; the post time had passed, and it had not arrived. Pale and haggard from long confinement and distress of mind, he was pacing up and down, when the bolts were turned, and Emma, supported by her uncle, entered the cell. At the sight of her, our hero uttered a cry, and staggered against the wall; he appeared to have lost his usual self-control. “Oh,” said he, “this might have been spared me; I have not deserved this punishment. Emma, hear me. As I hope for future happiness I am innocent; I am—I am, indeed—” and he fell senseless on the pavement.Mr Small raised him up and put him on the bed; after a time he revived, and remained where he had been laid, sobbing convulsively.As soon as he became more composed, Emma, who had been sitting by him, the tears coursing each other down her pale cheeks, addressed him in a calm voice.“I feel—I am sure that you are innocent, or I should not have been here.”“Bless you for that, Emma, bless you; those few words of yours have given me more consolation than you can imagine. Is it nothing to be treated as a felon, to be disgraced, to be banished to a distant country, and that at the very time that I was full of happiness, prosperous, and anticipating?—but I cannot dwell upon that. Is it not hard to bear, Emma? and what could support me, but the consciousness of my own innocence, and the assurance that she whom I love so, and whom I now lose for ever, still believes me so? Yes, it is a balm; a consolation; and I will now submit to the will of Heaven.”Emma burst into tears, leaning her face on our hero’s shoulder. After a time she replied, “And am I not to be pitied? Is it nothing to love tenderly, devotedly, madly—to have given my heart, my whole thoughts, my existence to one object—why should I conceal it now?—to have been dwelling upon visions of futurity so pleasing, so delightful, all passing away as a dream, and leaving a sad reality like this? Make me one promise; you will not refuse Emma—who knelt by your side when you first met her, she who is kneeling before you now?”“I dare not, Emma, for my heart tells me that you would propose a step which must not be—you must leave me now, and for ever.”“For ever! for ever!” cried Emma springing on her feet. “No! no! uncle, he says I am to leave him for ever? Who is that?” continued the frantic girl. “Mary! yes ’tis! Mary, he says I must leave him for ever!” (It was Mary who had just come into the cell.) “Must I, Mary?”“No—no!” replied Mary, “not so! he is saved, and his innocence is established; he is yours for ever!”We shall not attempt to describe the scene we could not do justice to. We must allow the day to pass away; during which Emma and our hero, McShane and Mary, were sitting together; tears of misery wiped away—tears of joy still flowing and glistening with the radiance of intermingled smiles.The next morning McShane and O’Donahue arrived, the Secretary of State had given immediate orders for our hero’s release, and they had brought the document with them.The following day they were allen route, Emma and her uncle to Portsmouth, where they anxiously awaited the arrival of our hero as soon as he had performed his duty to his parents.We must allow the reader to suppose the joy of Mrs Austin in once more holding her child in her embrace, and the smiles and happiness of Mary at his triumphant acquittal; the wondering of the domestics, the scandal and rumour of the neighbourhood. Three days sufficed to make all known, and by that time Joey was looked upon as the hero of a novel. On the fourth day he accompanied the remains of his father as chief mourner. The funeral was quiet without being mean; there was no attendance, no carriages of the neighbouring gentry followed. Our hero was quite alone and unsupported; but when the ceremony was over, the want of respect shown to the memory of his father was more than atoned for by the kindness and consideration shown towards the son, who was warmly, yet delicately, welcomed as the future proprietor of the Hall.Three months passed away, and there was a great crowd before the house of Mr Small, navy agent at Portsmouth. There was a large company assembled, the O’Donahues, the McShanes, the Spikemans, and many others. Mrs Austin was there, looking ten years younger; and Mary was attending her at the toilet, both of them half smiles, half tears, for it was the morning of our hero’s wedding-day. Mr Small strutted about in white smalls, and Mr Sleek spluttered over everybody. The procession went to the church, and soon after the ceremony, one couple of the party set off for the Hall; where the others went is of no consequence.We have now wound up the history of little Joey Rushbrook, the poacher. We have only to add, that the character of our hero was not the worse as he grew older, and was the father of a family. The Hall was celebrated for hospitality, for the amiability of its possessors, and the art which they possessed of making other people happy. Mary remained with them more as a confidante than as a servant; indeed, she had so much money, that she received several offers of marriage, which she invariably refused, observing, with the true humbleness of a contrite heart, that she was undeserving of any honest, good man. Everybody else, even those who knew her history, thought otherwise; but Mary continued firm in her resolution. As for all the rest of the personages introduced into these pages, they passed through life with an average portion of happiness, which is all that can be expected.In conclusion, we have only one remark to make. In this story we have shown how a young lad, who commenced his career with poaching, ultimately became a gentleman of 7,000 pounds a year; but we must remind our youthful readers, that it does not follow that every one who commences with poaching is to have the same good fortune. We advise them, therefore, not to attempt it, as they may find that instead of 7,000 pounds a year, they may stand a chance of going to where our hero very narrowly escaped from being sent; that is, to a certain portion of her Majesty’s dominions beyond the seas, latterly termed Australia, but more generally known by the appellation of Botany Bay.

It was not for some time after the arrival of the medical men that Mr Austin could be recovered from his state of insensibility, and when he was at last restored to life, it was not to reason. He raved wildly, and it was pronounced that his attack was a brain fever. As, in his incoherent exclamations, the name of Byres was frequently repeated, as soon as the medical assistants had withdrawn, Mrs Austin desired all the servants, with the exception of Mary, to quit the room; they did so with reluctance, for their curiosity was excited, and there was shrugging of the shoulders, and whispering, and surmising, and repeating of the words which had escaped from their unconscious master’s lips, and hints that all was not right passed from one to another in the servants’ hall. In the mean time, Mrs Austin and Mary remained with him; and well it was that the servants had been sent away, if they were not to know what had taken place so long ago, for now Austin played the whole scene over again, denounced himself as a murderer, spoke of his son, and of his remorse, and then he would imagine himself in conflict with Byres—he clenched his fists—and he laughed and chuckled and then would change again to bitter lamentations for the deed which he had done.

“Oh, Mary, how is this to end?” exclaimed Mrs Austin, after one of the paroxysms had subsided.

“As guilt always must end, madam,” replied Mary, bursting into tears and clasping her hands,—“in misery.”

“My dear Mary, do not distress yourself in that manner; you are no longer guilty.”

“Nor is my master then, madam; for I am sure that he has repented.”

“Yes, indeed, he has repented most sincerely; one hasty deed has embittered his whole life—he never has been happy since, and never will be until he is in heaven.”

“Oh, what a happy relief it would be to him!” replied Mary, musing. “I wish that I was, if such wish is not sinful.”

“Mary, you must not add to my distress by talking in that manner; I want your support and consolation now.”

“You have a right to demand everything of me, madam,” replied Mary, “and I will do my best, I will indeed. I have often felt this before, and I thank God for it; it will make me more humble.”

The fever continued for many days, during which time Mr Austin was attended solely by his wife and Mary; the latter had written to our hero, stating the cause of her absence from him in so trying a period, and she had received an answer, stating that he had received from very good authority the information that he was not likely to leave the country for some weeks, and requesting that Mary would remain with his mother until his father’s dangerous illness was decided one way or the other he stated that he should be perfectly satisfied if he only saw her once before his departure, to arrange with her relative to her affairs, and to give her legal authority to act for him, previously to his removal from the country. He told her that he had perceived an advertisement in the London papers, evidently put in by his friends at Portsmouth, offering a handsome reward to any one who could give any account of him—and that he was fearful that some of those who were at the trial would read it, and make known his position; he begged Mary to write to him every day if possible, if it were only a few lines, and sent his devoted love to his mother. Mary complied with all our hero’s requests, and every day a few lines were despatched; and it was now ascertained by the other domestics, and by them made generally known, that a daily correspondence was kept up with a prisoner in Exeter gaol, which added still more mystery and interest to the state of Mr Austin. Many were the calls and cards left at the Hall, and if we were to inquire whether curiosity or condolence was the motive of those who went there, we are afraid that the cause would, in most cases, have proved to have been the former. Among others, O’Donahue and McShane did not fail to send every day, waiting for the time when they could persuade Austin to do justice to his own child.

The crisis, as predicted by the medical attendants, at last arrived, and Mr Austin recovered his reason; but, at the same time, all hopes of his again rising from his bed were given over. This intelligence was communicated to his wife, who wept and wished, but dared not utter what she wished; Mary, however took an opportunity, when Mrs Austin had quitted the room, to tell Mr Austin, who was in such a feeble state that he could hardly speak, that the time would soon come when he would be summoned before a higher tribunal, and conjured him, by the hopes he had of forgiveness, now that the world was fading away before his eyes, to put away all pride, and to do that justice to his son which our hero’s noble conduct towards him demanded—to make a confession, either in writing or in presence of witnesses, before he died—which would prove the innocence of his only child, the heir to the property and the name.

There was a straggle, and a long one, in the proud heart of Mr Austin before he could consent to this act of justice. Mary had pointed out the propriety of it early in the morning, and it was not until late in the evening, after having remained in silence and with his eyes closed for the whole day, that Austin made a sign to his wife to bend down to him, and desired her in a half-whisper to send for a magistrate. His request was immediately attended to; and in an hour the summons was answered by one with whom Austin had been on good terms. Austin made his deposition in few words, and was supported by Mary while he signed the paper. It was done; and when she would have removed the pen from his fingers, she found that it was still held fast, and that his head had fallen back; the conflict between his pride and this act of duty had been too overpowering for him in his weak condition, and Mr Austin was dead before the ink of his signature had time to dry.

The gentleman who had been summoned in his capacity of magistrate, thought it advisable to remove from the scene of distress without attempting to communicate with Mrs Austin in her present sorrow. He had been in conversation with O’Donahue and McShane at the time that he was summoned, and Mr Austin’s illness and the various reports abroad had been there canvassed. O’Donahue and McShane had reserved the secret; but when their friend was sent for, anticipating some such result would take place, they requested him to return to them from the Hall: he did so, and acquainted them with what had passed.

“There’s no time to lose, then,” said McShane; “I will, if you please, take a copy of this deposition.”

O’Donahue entered into a brief narrative of the circumstances and the behaviour of our hero; and, as soon as the copy of the deposition had been attested by the magistrate, he and McShane ordered horses, and set off for London. They knocked up Mr Trevor at his private house in the middle of the night, and put the document into his hands.

“Well, Major McShane, I would gladly have risen from a sick bed to have had this paper put into my hands; we must call upon the Secretary of State to-morrow, and I have no doubt but that the poor lad will be speedily released, take possession of his property, and be an honour to the county.”

“An honour to old England,” replied McShane; “but I shall now wish you good night.”

McShane, before he went to bed, immediately wrote a letter to Mrs Austin, acquainting her with what he had done, and the intentions of Mr Trevor, sending it by express; he simply stated the facts, without any comments.

But we must now return to Portsmouth. The advertisement of Mr Small did not escape the keen eye of the police-constable who had arrested our hero—as the reader must recollect the arrest was made so quietly that no one was aware of the circumstance, and as the reward of 100 pounds would be a very handsome addition to the 200 pounds which he had already received—the man immediately set off for Portsmouth on the outside of the coach, and went to Mr Small, where he found him in the counting-house with Mr Sleek. He soon introduced himself; and his business with them; and such was Mr Small’s impatience that he immediately signed a cheque for the amount, and handed it to the police-officer, who then bluntly told him that our hero had been tried for murder, and sentenced to transportation, his real name being Rushbrook, and not O’Donahue.

This was a heavy blow to Mr Small: having obtained all the particulars from the police-constable, he dismissed him, and was for some time in consultation with Mr Sleek; and as it would be impossible long to withhold the facts, it was thought advisable that Mrs Phillips and Emma should become acquainted with them immediately, the more so as Emma had acknowledged that there was a mystery about our hero, a portion of which she was acquainted with.

Mrs Phillips was the first party to whom the intelligence was communicated, and she was greatly distressed. It was some time before she could decide upon whether Emma, in her weak state, should be made acquainted with the melancholy tidings, but as she had suffered so much from suspense, it was at last considered advisable that the communication should be made. It was done as cautiously as possible; Emma was not so shocked as they supposed she would have been at the intelligence.

“I have been prepared for this, or something like this,” replied she, weeping in her mother’s arms, “but I cannot believe that he has done the deed; he told me that he did not, when he was a child; he has asserted it since. Mother, I must—I will go and see him.”

“See him, my child! he is confined in gaol.”

“Do not refuse me, mother, you know not what I feel—you know not—I never knew myself till now how much I loved him. See him I must, and will. Dearest mother, if you value my life, if you would not drive reason from its seat, do not refuse me.”

Mrs Phillips found that it was in vain to argue, and consulted with Mr Small, who at length (after having in vain remonstrated with Emma) decided that her request should be granted, and that very day he accompanied his niece, travelling all night, until they arrived at Exeter.

In the mean time, Mrs Austin had remained in a state of great distress; her husband lay dead; she believed that he had confessed his guilt, but to what extent she did not know, for neither she nor Mary had heard what passed between him and the magistrate. She had no one but Mary to confide in or to console, no one to advise with or to consult. She thought of sending for the magistrate, but it would appear indecorous, and she was all anxiety and doubt. The letter from McShane, which arrived the next afternoon, relieved her at once; she felt that her boy was safe.

“Mary, dear, read this; he is safe,” exclaimed she. “God of heaven, accept a mother’s grateful tears.”

“Cannot you spare me, madam?” replied Mary, returning the letter.

“Spare you. Oh, yes! quick, Mary, lose not a moment; go to him, and take this letter with you. My dear, dear child.” Mary did not wait a second command; she sent for post-horses, and in half an hour was on her way to Exeter; travelling with as much speed as Emma and her uncle, she arrived there but a few hours after them.

Our hero had been anxiously awaiting for Mary’s daily communication; the post time had passed, and it had not arrived. Pale and haggard from long confinement and distress of mind, he was pacing up and down, when the bolts were turned, and Emma, supported by her uncle, entered the cell. At the sight of her, our hero uttered a cry, and staggered against the wall; he appeared to have lost his usual self-control. “Oh,” said he, “this might have been spared me; I have not deserved this punishment. Emma, hear me. As I hope for future happiness I am innocent; I am—I am, indeed—” and he fell senseless on the pavement.

Mr Small raised him up and put him on the bed; after a time he revived, and remained where he had been laid, sobbing convulsively.

As soon as he became more composed, Emma, who had been sitting by him, the tears coursing each other down her pale cheeks, addressed him in a calm voice.

“I feel—I am sure that you are innocent, or I should not have been here.”

“Bless you for that, Emma, bless you; those few words of yours have given me more consolation than you can imagine. Is it nothing to be treated as a felon, to be disgraced, to be banished to a distant country, and that at the very time that I was full of happiness, prosperous, and anticipating?—but I cannot dwell upon that. Is it not hard to bear, Emma? and what could support me, but the consciousness of my own innocence, and the assurance that she whom I love so, and whom I now lose for ever, still believes me so? Yes, it is a balm; a consolation; and I will now submit to the will of Heaven.”

Emma burst into tears, leaning her face on our hero’s shoulder. After a time she replied, “And am I not to be pitied? Is it nothing to love tenderly, devotedly, madly—to have given my heart, my whole thoughts, my existence to one object—why should I conceal it now?—to have been dwelling upon visions of futurity so pleasing, so delightful, all passing away as a dream, and leaving a sad reality like this? Make me one promise; you will not refuse Emma—who knelt by your side when you first met her, she who is kneeling before you now?”

“I dare not, Emma, for my heart tells me that you would propose a step which must not be—you must leave me now, and for ever.”

“For ever! for ever!” cried Emma springing on her feet. “No! no! uncle, he says I am to leave him for ever? Who is that?” continued the frantic girl. “Mary! yes ’tis! Mary, he says I must leave him for ever!” (It was Mary who had just come into the cell.) “Must I, Mary?”

“No—no!” replied Mary, “not so! he is saved, and his innocence is established; he is yours for ever!”

We shall not attempt to describe the scene we could not do justice to. We must allow the day to pass away; during which Emma and our hero, McShane and Mary, were sitting together; tears of misery wiped away—tears of joy still flowing and glistening with the radiance of intermingled smiles.

The next morning McShane and O’Donahue arrived, the Secretary of State had given immediate orders for our hero’s release, and they had brought the document with them.

The following day they were allen route, Emma and her uncle to Portsmouth, where they anxiously awaited the arrival of our hero as soon as he had performed his duty to his parents.

We must allow the reader to suppose the joy of Mrs Austin in once more holding her child in her embrace, and the smiles and happiness of Mary at his triumphant acquittal; the wondering of the domestics, the scandal and rumour of the neighbourhood. Three days sufficed to make all known, and by that time Joey was looked upon as the hero of a novel. On the fourth day he accompanied the remains of his father as chief mourner. The funeral was quiet without being mean; there was no attendance, no carriages of the neighbouring gentry followed. Our hero was quite alone and unsupported; but when the ceremony was over, the want of respect shown to the memory of his father was more than atoned for by the kindness and consideration shown towards the son, who was warmly, yet delicately, welcomed as the future proprietor of the Hall.

Three months passed away, and there was a great crowd before the house of Mr Small, navy agent at Portsmouth. There was a large company assembled, the O’Donahues, the McShanes, the Spikemans, and many others. Mrs Austin was there, looking ten years younger; and Mary was attending her at the toilet, both of them half smiles, half tears, for it was the morning of our hero’s wedding-day. Mr Small strutted about in white smalls, and Mr Sleek spluttered over everybody. The procession went to the church, and soon after the ceremony, one couple of the party set off for the Hall; where the others went is of no consequence.

We have now wound up the history of little Joey Rushbrook, the poacher. We have only to add, that the character of our hero was not the worse as he grew older, and was the father of a family. The Hall was celebrated for hospitality, for the amiability of its possessors, and the art which they possessed of making other people happy. Mary remained with them more as a confidante than as a servant; indeed, she had so much money, that she received several offers of marriage, which she invariably refused, observing, with the true humbleness of a contrite heart, that she was undeserving of any honest, good man. Everybody else, even those who knew her history, thought otherwise; but Mary continued firm in her resolution. As for all the rest of the personages introduced into these pages, they passed through life with an average portion of happiness, which is all that can be expected.

In conclusion, we have only one remark to make. In this story we have shown how a young lad, who commenced his career with poaching, ultimately became a gentleman of 7,000 pounds a year; but we must remind our youthful readers, that it does not follow that every one who commences with poaching is to have the same good fortune. We advise them, therefore, not to attempt it, as they may find that instead of 7,000 pounds a year, they may stand a chance of going to where our hero very narrowly escaped from being sent; that is, to a certain portion of her Majesty’s dominions beyond the seas, latterly termed Australia, but more generally known by the appellation of Botany Bay.

Chapter Fifty One.A RENCONTRE.A Short Story.One evening I was sitting alone in thesalle à mangerof theCouronne d’Or, at Boulogne, when Colonel G—, an old acquaintance, came in. After the first greeting, he took a chair, and was soon as busily occupied as I was with a cigar, which was occasionally removed from our lips, as we asked and replied to questions as to what had been our pursuits subsequently to our last rencontre. After about half an hour’s chit-chat, he observed, as he lighted a fresh cigar—“When I was last in this room, I was in company with a very strange personage.”“Male or female?” inquired I.“Female,” replied Colonel G—. “Altogether it’s a story worth telling, and, as it will pass away the time, I will relate it to you—unless you wish to retire.”As I satisfied him that I was not anxious to go to bed, and very anxious to hear his story, he narrated it, as nearly as I can recollect, in the following words:—“I had taken my place in the diligence from Paris, and when I arrived atNotre Dame des Victoiresit was all ready for a start; the luggage, piled up as high as an English haystack, had been covered over and buckled down, and theconducteurwas calling out for the passengers. I took my last hasty whiff of my cigar, and unwillingly threw away more than half of a really good Havannah; for I perceived that in theintérieur, for which I had booked myself, there was one female already seated: and women and cigars are such great luxuries in their respective ways, that they are not to be indulged in at one and the same time—the world would be too happy, and happiness, we are told, is not for us here below. Not that I agree with that moral, although it comes from very high authority; there is a great deal of happiness in this world, if you knew how to extract it,—or, rather, I should say, of pleasure; there is a pleasure in doing good; there is a pleasure, unfortunately, in doing wrong; there is a pleasure in looking forward, ay, and in looking backward also; there is pleasure in loving and being loved, in eating, and drinking, and, though last, not least, in smoking. I do not mean to say that there are not the drawbacks of pain, regret, and even remorse; but there is a sort of pleasure even in them; it is pleasant to repent, because you know that you are doing your duty; and if there is no great pleasure in pain, it precedes an excess when it has left you. I say again that, if you know how to extract it, there is a great deal of pleasure and of happiness in this world, especially if you have, as I have, a very bad memory.“‘Allons, messieurs!’ said theconducteur; and when I got in I found myself the sixth person, and opposite to the lady: for all the other passengers were of my own sex. Having fixed our hats up to the roof, wriggled and twisted a little so as to get rid of coat-tails, etcetera, all of which was effected previously to our having clearedRue Notre Dame des Victoires, we began to scrutinise each other. Our female companion’s veil was down and doubled so that I could not well make her out; my other four companions were young men—all Frenchmen,—apparently good-tempered, and inclined to be agreeable. A few seconds were sufficient for my reconnoitre of the gentlemen, and then my eyes were naturally turned towards the lady. She was muffled up in a winter cloak, so that her figure was not to be made out; and the veil still fell down before her face, so that only one cheek and a portion of her chin could be deciphered: that fragment of her physiognomy was very pretty, and I watched in silence for the removal of the veil.“I have omitted to state that, before I got into the diligence, I saw her take a very tender adieu of a very handsome woman; but, as her back was turned to me at the time, I did not see her face. She had now fallen back in her seat, and seemed disposed to commune with her own thoughts: that did not suit my views, which were to have a view of her face. Real politeness would have induced me to leave her to herself, but pretended politeness was resorted to that I might gratify my curiosity; so I inquired if she wished the window up. The answer was in the negative, and in a very sweet voice; and then there was a pause, of course so I tried again.“‘You are melancholy at parting with your handsome sister,’ observed I, leaning forward with as much appearance of interest as I could put into my beautiful phiz.“‘How could you have presumed that she was my sister?’ replied she.“‘From thestrong familylikeness,’ replied I. ‘I felt certain of it.’“‘But she is only my sister-in-law, sir,—my brother’s wife.’“‘Then, I presume, he chose a wife as like his sister as he could find; nothing more natural—I should have done the same.’“‘Sir, you are very polite,’ replied the lady, who lowered down the window, adding, ‘I like fresh air.’“‘Perhaps you will find yourself less incommoded if you take off your veil?’“‘I will not ascribe that proposition to curiosity on your part, sir,’ replied the lady, ‘as you have already seen my face.’“‘You cannot, then, be surprised at my wishing to see it once more.’“‘You are very polite, sir.’“Although her voice was soft, there was a certain quickness and decision in her manner and language which were very remarkable. The other passengers now addressed her, and the conversation became general. The veiled lady took her share in it, and showed a great deal of smartness and repartee. In an hour more we were all very intimate. As we changed horses, I took down my hat to put into it my cigar-case, which I had left in my pocket, upon which the lady observed, ‘You smoke, I perceive; and so, I dare say, do all the rest of the gentlemen. Now, do not mind me; I am fond of the smell of tobacco—I am used to it.’“We hesitated.“‘Nay, more, I smoke myself, and will take a cigar with you.’“This was decisive. I offered my cigar-case—another gentleman struck a light. Lifting up her veil so as to show a very pretty mouth, with teeth as white as snow, she put the cigar in her mouth, and set us the example. In a minute both windows were down, every one had a cigar in his mouth.“‘Where did you learn to smoke, madam?’ was a question put to the incognita by the passenger who sat next to her.“‘Where?—In the camp—Africa—everywhere. I did belong to the army—that is, my husband was the captain of the 47th. He was killed, poor man! in the last successful expedition to Constantine:—c’était un brave homme.’“‘Indeed! Were you at Constantine?’“‘Yes, I was; I followed the army during the whole Campaign.’“The diligence stopped for supper or dinner, whichever it might be considered, and theconducteurthrew open the doors. ‘Now,’ thought I, ‘we shall see her face;’ and so, I believe, thought the other passengers; but we were mistaken; the lady went upstairs and had a basin of soup taken to her. When all was ready we found her in the diligence, with her veil down as before.“This was very provoking, for she was so lively and witty in conversation, and the features of her face which had been disclosed were so perfect, that I was really quite on a fret that she would leave me without satisfying my curiosity:— they talk of woman’s curiosity, but we men have as much, after all. It became dark;—the lady evidently avoided further conversation, and we all composed ourselves as well as we could. It may be as well to state in few words, that the next morning she was as cautious and reserved as ever. The diligence arrived at this hotel—the passengers separated—and I found that the lady and I were the only two who took up our quarters there. At all events, the Frenchmen who travelled with us went away just as wise as they came.“‘You remain here?’ inquired I, as soon as we had got out of the diligence.“‘Yes,’ replied she. ‘And you—’“‘I remain here, certainly; but I hope you do not intend to remain always veiled. It is too cruel of you.’“‘I must go to my room now, and make myself a little more comfortable; after that, Monsieur l’Anglais, I will speak to you. You are going over in the packet, I presume?’“‘I am, by to-morrow’s packet.’“‘I shall put myself under your protection, for I am also going to London.’“‘I shall be most delighted.’“‘Au revoir.’“About an hour afterwards a message was brought to me by thegarçon, that the lady would be happy to receive me at Number 19. I ascended to the second floor, knocked, and was told to come in.“She was now without a veil; and what do you think was her reason for the concealment of her person?”“By the beard of Mokhanna, how can I tell?”“Well, then, she had two of the most beautiful eyes in the world; her eyebrows were finely arched; her forehead was splendid; her mouth was tempting,—in short, she was as pretty as you could wish a woman to be, only she hadbroken her nose,—a thousand pities, for it must once have been a very handsome one. Well, to continue, I made my bow.“‘You perceive now, sir,’ said she, ‘why I wore my veil down.’“‘No, indeed,’ replied I.“‘You are very polite, or very blind,’ rejoined she; ‘thelatterI believe not to be the fact. I did not choose to submit to the impertinence of my own countrymen in the diligence; they would have asked me a hundred questions upon my accident. But you are an Englishman, and have respect for a female who has been unfortunate.’“‘I trust I deserve your good opinion, madam; and if I can be in any way useful to you—’“‘You can. I shall be a stranger in England. I know that in London there is a great man, one Monsieur Lis-tong, who is very clever.’“‘Very true, madam. If your nose instead of having been slightly injured as it is, had been left behind you in Africa, Mr Liston would have found you another.’“‘If he will only repair the old one, I ask no more. You give me hopes. But the bones are crushed completely, as you must see.’“‘That is of no consequence. Mr Liston has put a new eye in, to my knowledge. The party was short-sighted, and saw better with the one put in by Mr Liston than with the one which had been left him.’“‘Est-il possible? Mais, quel homme extraordinaire! Perhaps you will do me the favour to sit with me, monsieur; and, if I mistake not, you have a request to make of me—n’est-ce pas?’“‘I felt such interest about you, madam, that I acknowledge, if it would not be too painful to you, I should like to ask a question.’“‘Which is, How did I break my nose? Of course you want to know. And as it is the only return I can make for past or future obligations to you, you shall most certainly be gratified. I will not detain you now. I shall expect you to supper. Adieu, monsieur.’“I did not, of course, fail in my appointment; and after supper she commenced:—“‘The question to be answered,’ said she, ‘is, How did you break your nose?—is it not? Well then, at least, I shall answer it after my own fashion. So, to begin at the beginning, I am now exactly twenty-two years old. My father was tambour-majeur in the Garde Impériale. I was born in the camp—brought up in the camp—and, finally, I was married in the camp, to a lieutenant of infantry at the time. So that, you observe, I am altogethermilitaire. As a child, I was wakened up with the drum and fife, and went to sleep with the bugles; as a girl, I became quite conversant with every military manoeuvre; and now that I am a woman grown, I believe that I am more fit for thebâtonthan one-half of those marshals who have gained it. I have studied little else but tactics and have as my poor husband said, quite a genius for them; but of that hereafter. I was married at sixteen, and have ever since followed my husband. I followed him at last to his grave. He quitted my bed for the bed of honour, where he sleeps in peace. We’ll drink to his memory.’“We emptied our glasses, when she continued:—“‘My husband’s regiment was not ordered to Africa until after the first disastrous attempt upon Constantine. It fell to our lot to assist in retrieving the honour of our army in the more successful expedition which took place, as you, of course, are aware, about three months ago. I will not detain you with our embarkation or voyage. We landed from a steamer at Bona, and soon afterwards my husband’s company was ordered to escort a convoy of provisions to the army which was collecting at Mzez Ammar. Well, we arrived safely at our various camps of Drean, Nech Meya, and Amman Berda. We made a littledétourto visit Ghelma. I had curiosity to see it, as formerly it was an important city. I must say, that a more tenable position I never beheld. But I tire you with these details.’“‘On the contrary, I am delighted.’“‘You are very good. I ought to have said something about the travelling in those wild countries, which is anything but pleasant. The soil is a species of clay, hard as a flint when the weather is dry, but running into a slippery paste as soon as moistened. It is, therefore, very fatiguing, especially in wet weather, when the soldiers slip about in a very laughable manner to look at, but very distressing to themselves. I travelled either on horseback or in one of the waggons, as it happened. I was too well known, and, I hope I may add, too well liked, not to be as well provided for as possible. It is remarkable how soon a Frenchman will make himself comfortable, wherever he may chance to be. The camp of Mzez Ammar was as busy and as lively as if it was pitched in the heart of France. The followers had built up little cabins out of the branches of trees, with their leaves on, interwoven together, all in straight lines, forming streets, very commodious, and perfectly impervious to the withering sun. There wererestaurants, cafés, débis de vin et d’eau-de-vie, sausage-sellers, butchers, grocers—in fact, there was every trade almost, and everything you required; not very cheap certainly, but you must recollect, that this little town had sprung up, as if by magic, in the heart of the desert.“‘It was in the month of September that Damremont ordered areconnoissancein the direction of Constantine, and a battalion of my husband’s regiment, the 47th, was ordered to form a part of it. I have said nothing about my husband. He was a good little man, and a brave officer, full of honour, but very obstinate. He never would take advice, and it was nothing but “Tais-toi, Coralie,” all day long—but no one is perfect. He wished me to remain in the camp, but I made it a rule never to be left behind. We set off; and I rode in one of the little carriages calledcacoletswhich had been provided for the wounded. It was terrible travelling, I was jolted to atoms, in the ascent of the steep mountain called the Rass-el-akba; but we gained the summit without a shot being fired. When we arrived there, and looked down beneath us, the sight was very picturesque. There were about four or five thousand of the Arab cavalry awaiting our descent; their white bournous, as they term the long dresses in which they enfold themselves, waving in the wind as they galloped at speed in every direction; while the glitter of their steel arms flashed like lightning upon our eyes. We closed our ranks and descended; the Arabs, in parties of forty or fifty, charging upon our flanks every minute, not coming to close conflict, but stopping at pistol-shot distance, discharging their guns, and then wheeling off again to a distance—mere child’s play, sir; nevertheless, there were some of our men wounded, and the little waggon, upon which I was riding, was ordered up in the advance to take them in. Unfortunately, to keep clear of the troops, the driver kept too much on one side of the narrow defile through which we passed: the consequence was, that the waggon upset, and I was thrown out a considerable distance down the precipice.’ ‘And broke your nose,’ interrupted I.“‘No, indeed, sir, I did not. I escaped with only a few contusions about the region of the hip, which certainly lamed me for some time, and made the jolting more disagreeable than ever. Well, thereconnoissancesucceeded. Damremont was, however, wrong altogether. I told him so when I met him; but he was an obstinate old fool, and his answer was not as polite as it might have been, considering that at that time I was a very pretty woman. We returned to the camp at Mzez Ammar; a few days afterwards we were attacked by the Arabs, who showed great spirit and determination in their desultory mode of warfare, which, however, can make no impression on such troops as the French. The attack was continued for three days, when they decamped as suddenly as they had come. But this cannot be very interesting to you, monsieur.’“‘On the contrary, do not, I beg, leave out a single remark or incident.’“‘You are very good. I presume you know how wemilitaireslike to fight our battles over again. Well, sir, we remained in camp until the arrival of the Duc de Nemours,—a handsome, fair lad, who smiled upon me very graciously. On the 1st of October we set off on our expedition to Constantine; that is to say, the advanced guard did, of which my husband’s company formed a portion. The weather, which had been very fine, now changed, and it rained hard all the day. The whole road was one mass of mud, and there was no end to delays and accidents. However, the weather became fine again, and on the 5th we arrived within two leagues of Constantine, when the Arabs attacked us, and I was very nearly taken prisoner.’“‘Indeed?’“‘Yes; my husband, who, as I before observed to you, was very obstinate, would have me ride on acaissonin the rear; whereas I wished to be in the advance, where my advice might have been useful. The charge of the Arabs was very sudden; the three men who were with thecaissonwere sabred, and I was in the arms of a chieftain, who was wheeling round his horse to make off with me when a ball took him in the neck, and he fell with me. I disengaged myself, seized the horse by the bridle, and prevented its escape; and I also took possession of the Arab’s pistols and scymitar.’“‘Indeed!’“‘My husband sold the horse the next day to one of our generals, who forgot to pay for it after my husband was killed. As for the scymitar and pistols, they were stolen from me that night: but what can you expect?—our army is brave, but a little demoralised. The next day we arrived before Constantine, and we had to defile before the enemy’s guns. At one portion of the road, men and horses were tumbled over by their fire; thecaissonthat I was riding upon was upset by a ball, and thrown down the ravine, dragging the horses after it. I lay among the horses’ legs—they kicking furiously; it was a miracle that my life was preserved: as it was—’“‘You broke your nose,’ interrupted I.“‘No, sir, indeed I did not. I only received a kick on the arm, which obliged me to carry it in a sling for some days. The weather became very bad; we had few tents, and they were not able to resist the storms of rain and wind. We wrapped ourselves up how we could, and sat in deep pools of water, and the Arabs attacked us before we could open the fire of our batteries; we were in such a pickle that, had the bad weather lasted, we must have retreated; and happy would those have been who could have once more found themselves safe in the camp of Mzez Ammar. I don’t think that I ever suffered so much as I did at that time—the weather had even overcome the natural gallantry of our nation; and so far from receiving any attention, the general remark to me was, “What the devil doyoudo here?” This to be said to a pretty woman!“‘It was not till the 10th that we could manage to open the fire of our batteries. It was mud, mud, and mud again; the men and horses were covered with mud up to their necks—the feathers of the staff were covered with mud—every ball which was fired by the enemy sent up showers of mud; even the face of the Duc de Nemours was disfigured with it. I must say that our batteries were well situated, all except the great mortar battery. This I pointed out to Damremont when he passed me, and he was very savage. Great men don’t like to be told of their faults; however, he lost his life three days afterwards from not taking my advice. He was going down the hill with Rhullières when I said to him, “Mon Général, you expose yourself too much; that which is duty in a subaltern is a fault in a general.” He very politely told me to go to where he may chance to be himself now; for a cannonball struck him a few seconds afterwards, and he was killed on the spot. General Perregaux was severely wounded almost at the same time. For four days the fighting was awful; battery answered to battery night and day: while from every quarter of the compass we were exposed to the fierce attacks of the Arab cavalry. The commander of our army sent a flag of truce to their town, commanding them to surrender: and, what do you think was the reply?—“If you want powder, we’ll supply you; if you are without bread, we will send it to you: but as long as there is one good Mussulman left alive, you do not enter the town.”—Was not that grand? The very reply, when made known to the troops, filled them with admiration of their enemy, and they swore by their colours that if ever they overpowered them they would give them no quarter.“‘In two days, General Vallée, to whom the command fell upon the death of Damremont, considered the breach sufficiently wide for the assault, and we every hour expected that the order would be given. It came at last. My poor husband was in the second column which mounted. Strange to say, he was very melancholy on that morning, and appeared to have a presentiment of what was to take place. “Coralie,” said he to me, as he was scraping the mud off his trousers with his pocket-knife, “if I fall, you will do well. I leave you as a legacy to General Vallée—he will appreciate you. Do not forget to let him know my testamentary dispositions.”“‘I promised I would not. The drums beat. He kissed me on both cheeks. “Go, my Philippe,” said I; “go to glory.” He did; for a mine was sprung, and he with many others was blown to atoms. I had watched the advance of the column and was able to distinguish the form of my dear Philippe when the explosion with the vast column of smoke took place. When it cleared away, I could see the wounded in every direction hastening back; but my husband was not among them. In the mean time the other columns entered the breach—the firing was awful, and the carnage dreadful. It was more than an hour after the assault commenced before the French tricolor waved upon the minarets of Constantine.“‘It was not until the next day that I could make up my mind to search for my husband’s body; but it was my duty. I climbed up the breach, strewed with the corpses of our brave soldiers, intermingled with those of the Arabs; but I could not find my husband. At last a head which had been blown off attracted my attention. I examined it—it was my Philippe’s, blackened and burnt, and terribly disfigured: but who can disguise the fragment of a husband from the keen eyes of the wife of his bosom? I leaned over it. “My poor Philippe!” exclaimed I: and the tears were bedewing my cheeks when I perceived the Duc de Nemours close to me, with all his staff attending him. “What have we here?” said he with surprise, to those about him. “A wife, looking for her husband’s body, mon prince,” replied I. “I cannot find it; but here is his head.” He said something very complimentary and kind, and then walked on. I continued my search without success, and determined to take up my quarters in the town. As I clambered along, I gained a battered wall; and, putting my foot on it it gave way with me, and I fell down several feet. Stunned with the blow, I remained for some time insensible; when I came to, I found—’“‘That you had broken your nose.’“‘No, indeed; I had sprained my ankle and hurt the cap of my knee, but my nose was quite perfect. You must have a little patience yet.“‘What fragments of my husband were found, were buried in a large grave, which held the bodies and the mutilated portions of the killed: and having obtained possession of an apartment in Constantine, I remained there several days, lamenting his fate. At last, it occurred to me that his testamentary dispositions should be attended to, and I wrote to General Vallée, informing him of the last wishes of my husband. His reply was very short; it was, that he was excessively flattered,—but press of business would not permit him to administer to the will. It was not polite.“‘On the 26th I quitted Constantine with a convoy of wounded men. The dysentery and the cholera made fearful ravages, and I very soon had acaissonall to myself. The rain again came on in torrents, and it was a dreadful funeral procession. Every minute wretches, jolted to death, were thrown down into pits by the road-side, and the cries of those who survived were dreadful. Many died of cold and hunger; and after three days we arrived at the camp of Mzez Ammar, with the loss of more than one-half of our sufferers.“‘I took possession of one of the huts built of the boughs of the trees which I formerly described, and had leisure to think over my future plans and prospects. I was young and pretty, and hope did not desert me. I had recovered my baggage, which I had left at the camp, and was now able to attend to my toilet. The young officers who were in the camp paid me great attention, and were constantly passing and repassing to have a peep at the handsome widow, as they were pleased to call me: and now comes the history of my misfortune.“‘The cabin built of boughs which I occupied was double; one portion was fenced off from the other with a wattling of branches, which ran up about seven feet, but not so high as the roof. In one apartment I was located, the other was occupied by a young officer who paid me attention, but who was not to my liking. I had been walking out in the cool of the evening, and had returned, when I heard voices in the other apartment. I entered softly and they did not perceive my approach; they were talking about me, and I must say that the expressions were very complimentary. At last one of the party observed, “Well, she is a splendid woman, and a good soldier’s wife. I hope to be a general by-and-bye, and she would not disgrace a marshal’s bâton. I think I shall propose to her before we leave the camp.”“‘Now, sir, I did not recognise the speaker by his voice, and, flattered by the remark, I was anxious to know who it could be who was thus prepossessed in my favour. I thought that if I could climb up on the back of the only chair which was in my apartment, I should be able to see over the partition and satisfy my curiosity. I did so, and without noise; and I was just putting my head over to take a survey of the tenants of the other apartment when the chair tilted, and down I came on the floor, and on my face. Unfortunately, I hit my nose upon the edge of the frying-pan, with which my poor Philippe and I used to cook our meat; and now, sir, you know how it was that I broke my nose.’“‘What a pity!’ observed I.“‘Yes; a great pity. I had gone through the whole campaign without any serious accident, and—But, after all, it was very natural: the two besetting evils of women are Vanity and Curiosity, and if you were to ascertain the truth, you would find that it is upon these two stumbling-blocks that most women are upset and break their noses.’“‘Very true, madam,’ replied I. ‘I thank you for your narrative, and shall be most happy to be of any use to you. But I will detain you from your rest no longer, so wish you a very good night.’”“Well, colonel,” said I, as he made a sudden stop, “what occurred after that?”“I took great care of her until we arrived in London, saw her safe to the hotel in Leicester Square, and then took my leave. Whether Liston replaced her nose, and she is nowflanée-ing about Paris, as beautiful as before her accident; or, whether his skill was useless to her, and she is among theSoeurs de Charité, or in a convent, I cannot say: I have never seen or heard of her since.”“Well, I know Liston, and I’ll not forget to ask him about her the very first time that I meet him. Will you have another cigar?”“No, I thank you. I’ve finished my cigar, my bottle, and my story, and so now good night!”The End.

A RENCONTRE.

One evening I was sitting alone in thesalle à mangerof theCouronne d’Or, at Boulogne, when Colonel G—, an old acquaintance, came in. After the first greeting, he took a chair, and was soon as busily occupied as I was with a cigar, which was occasionally removed from our lips, as we asked and replied to questions as to what had been our pursuits subsequently to our last rencontre. After about half an hour’s chit-chat, he observed, as he lighted a fresh cigar—

“When I was last in this room, I was in company with a very strange personage.”

“Male or female?” inquired I.

“Female,” replied Colonel G—. “Altogether it’s a story worth telling, and, as it will pass away the time, I will relate it to you—unless you wish to retire.”

As I satisfied him that I was not anxious to go to bed, and very anxious to hear his story, he narrated it, as nearly as I can recollect, in the following words:—

“I had taken my place in the diligence from Paris, and when I arrived atNotre Dame des Victoiresit was all ready for a start; the luggage, piled up as high as an English haystack, had been covered over and buckled down, and theconducteurwas calling out for the passengers. I took my last hasty whiff of my cigar, and unwillingly threw away more than half of a really good Havannah; for I perceived that in theintérieur, for which I had booked myself, there was one female already seated: and women and cigars are such great luxuries in their respective ways, that they are not to be indulged in at one and the same time—the world would be too happy, and happiness, we are told, is not for us here below. Not that I agree with that moral, although it comes from very high authority; there is a great deal of happiness in this world, if you knew how to extract it,—or, rather, I should say, of pleasure; there is a pleasure in doing good; there is a pleasure, unfortunately, in doing wrong; there is a pleasure in looking forward, ay, and in looking backward also; there is pleasure in loving and being loved, in eating, and drinking, and, though last, not least, in smoking. I do not mean to say that there are not the drawbacks of pain, regret, and even remorse; but there is a sort of pleasure even in them; it is pleasant to repent, because you know that you are doing your duty; and if there is no great pleasure in pain, it precedes an excess when it has left you. I say again that, if you know how to extract it, there is a great deal of pleasure and of happiness in this world, especially if you have, as I have, a very bad memory.

“‘Allons, messieurs!’ said theconducteur; and when I got in I found myself the sixth person, and opposite to the lady: for all the other passengers were of my own sex. Having fixed our hats up to the roof, wriggled and twisted a little so as to get rid of coat-tails, etcetera, all of which was effected previously to our having clearedRue Notre Dame des Victoires, we began to scrutinise each other. Our female companion’s veil was down and doubled so that I could not well make her out; my other four companions were young men—all Frenchmen,—apparently good-tempered, and inclined to be agreeable. A few seconds were sufficient for my reconnoitre of the gentlemen, and then my eyes were naturally turned towards the lady. She was muffled up in a winter cloak, so that her figure was not to be made out; and the veil still fell down before her face, so that only one cheek and a portion of her chin could be deciphered: that fragment of her physiognomy was very pretty, and I watched in silence for the removal of the veil.

“I have omitted to state that, before I got into the diligence, I saw her take a very tender adieu of a very handsome woman; but, as her back was turned to me at the time, I did not see her face. She had now fallen back in her seat, and seemed disposed to commune with her own thoughts: that did not suit my views, which were to have a view of her face. Real politeness would have induced me to leave her to herself, but pretended politeness was resorted to that I might gratify my curiosity; so I inquired if she wished the window up. The answer was in the negative, and in a very sweet voice; and then there was a pause, of course so I tried again.

“‘You are melancholy at parting with your handsome sister,’ observed I, leaning forward with as much appearance of interest as I could put into my beautiful phiz.

“‘How could you have presumed that she was my sister?’ replied she.

“‘From thestrong familylikeness,’ replied I. ‘I felt certain of it.’

“‘But she is only my sister-in-law, sir,—my brother’s wife.’

“‘Then, I presume, he chose a wife as like his sister as he could find; nothing more natural—I should have done the same.’

“‘Sir, you are very polite,’ replied the lady, who lowered down the window, adding, ‘I like fresh air.’

“‘Perhaps you will find yourself less incommoded if you take off your veil?’

“‘I will not ascribe that proposition to curiosity on your part, sir,’ replied the lady, ‘as you have already seen my face.’

“‘You cannot, then, be surprised at my wishing to see it once more.’

“‘You are very polite, sir.’

“Although her voice was soft, there was a certain quickness and decision in her manner and language which were very remarkable. The other passengers now addressed her, and the conversation became general. The veiled lady took her share in it, and showed a great deal of smartness and repartee. In an hour more we were all very intimate. As we changed horses, I took down my hat to put into it my cigar-case, which I had left in my pocket, upon which the lady observed, ‘You smoke, I perceive; and so, I dare say, do all the rest of the gentlemen. Now, do not mind me; I am fond of the smell of tobacco—I am used to it.’

“We hesitated.

“‘Nay, more, I smoke myself, and will take a cigar with you.’

“This was decisive. I offered my cigar-case—another gentleman struck a light. Lifting up her veil so as to show a very pretty mouth, with teeth as white as snow, she put the cigar in her mouth, and set us the example. In a minute both windows were down, every one had a cigar in his mouth.

“‘Where did you learn to smoke, madam?’ was a question put to the incognita by the passenger who sat next to her.

“‘Where?—In the camp—Africa—everywhere. I did belong to the army—that is, my husband was the captain of the 47th. He was killed, poor man! in the last successful expedition to Constantine:—c’était un brave homme.’

“‘Indeed! Were you at Constantine?’

“‘Yes, I was; I followed the army during the whole Campaign.’

“The diligence stopped for supper or dinner, whichever it might be considered, and theconducteurthrew open the doors. ‘Now,’ thought I, ‘we shall see her face;’ and so, I believe, thought the other passengers; but we were mistaken; the lady went upstairs and had a basin of soup taken to her. When all was ready we found her in the diligence, with her veil down as before.

“This was very provoking, for she was so lively and witty in conversation, and the features of her face which had been disclosed were so perfect, that I was really quite on a fret that she would leave me without satisfying my curiosity:— they talk of woman’s curiosity, but we men have as much, after all. It became dark;—the lady evidently avoided further conversation, and we all composed ourselves as well as we could. It may be as well to state in few words, that the next morning she was as cautious and reserved as ever. The diligence arrived at this hotel—the passengers separated—and I found that the lady and I were the only two who took up our quarters there. At all events, the Frenchmen who travelled with us went away just as wise as they came.

“‘You remain here?’ inquired I, as soon as we had got out of the diligence.

“‘Yes,’ replied she. ‘And you—’

“‘I remain here, certainly; but I hope you do not intend to remain always veiled. It is too cruel of you.’

“‘I must go to my room now, and make myself a little more comfortable; after that, Monsieur l’Anglais, I will speak to you. You are going over in the packet, I presume?’

“‘I am, by to-morrow’s packet.’

“‘I shall put myself under your protection, for I am also going to London.’

“‘I shall be most delighted.’

“‘Au revoir.’

“About an hour afterwards a message was brought to me by thegarçon, that the lady would be happy to receive me at Number 19. I ascended to the second floor, knocked, and was told to come in.

“She was now without a veil; and what do you think was her reason for the concealment of her person?”

“By the beard of Mokhanna, how can I tell?”

“Well, then, she had two of the most beautiful eyes in the world; her eyebrows were finely arched; her forehead was splendid; her mouth was tempting,—in short, she was as pretty as you could wish a woman to be, only she hadbroken her nose,—a thousand pities, for it must once have been a very handsome one. Well, to continue, I made my bow.

“‘You perceive now, sir,’ said she, ‘why I wore my veil down.’

“‘No, indeed,’ replied I.

“‘You are very polite, or very blind,’ rejoined she; ‘thelatterI believe not to be the fact. I did not choose to submit to the impertinence of my own countrymen in the diligence; they would have asked me a hundred questions upon my accident. But you are an Englishman, and have respect for a female who has been unfortunate.’

“‘I trust I deserve your good opinion, madam; and if I can be in any way useful to you—’

“‘You can. I shall be a stranger in England. I know that in London there is a great man, one Monsieur Lis-tong, who is very clever.’

“‘Very true, madam. If your nose instead of having been slightly injured as it is, had been left behind you in Africa, Mr Liston would have found you another.’

“‘If he will only repair the old one, I ask no more. You give me hopes. But the bones are crushed completely, as you must see.’

“‘That is of no consequence. Mr Liston has put a new eye in, to my knowledge. The party was short-sighted, and saw better with the one put in by Mr Liston than with the one which had been left him.’

“‘Est-il possible? Mais, quel homme extraordinaire! Perhaps you will do me the favour to sit with me, monsieur; and, if I mistake not, you have a request to make of me—n’est-ce pas?’

“‘I felt such interest about you, madam, that I acknowledge, if it would not be too painful to you, I should like to ask a question.’

“‘Which is, How did I break my nose? Of course you want to know. And as it is the only return I can make for past or future obligations to you, you shall most certainly be gratified. I will not detain you now. I shall expect you to supper. Adieu, monsieur.’

“I did not, of course, fail in my appointment; and after supper she commenced:—

“‘The question to be answered,’ said she, ‘is, How did you break your nose?—is it not? Well then, at least, I shall answer it after my own fashion. So, to begin at the beginning, I am now exactly twenty-two years old. My father was tambour-majeur in the Garde Impériale. I was born in the camp—brought up in the camp—and, finally, I was married in the camp, to a lieutenant of infantry at the time. So that, you observe, I am altogethermilitaire. As a child, I was wakened up with the drum and fife, and went to sleep with the bugles; as a girl, I became quite conversant with every military manoeuvre; and now that I am a woman grown, I believe that I am more fit for thebâtonthan one-half of those marshals who have gained it. I have studied little else but tactics and have as my poor husband said, quite a genius for them; but of that hereafter. I was married at sixteen, and have ever since followed my husband. I followed him at last to his grave. He quitted my bed for the bed of honour, where he sleeps in peace. We’ll drink to his memory.’

“We emptied our glasses, when she continued:—

“‘My husband’s regiment was not ordered to Africa until after the first disastrous attempt upon Constantine. It fell to our lot to assist in retrieving the honour of our army in the more successful expedition which took place, as you, of course, are aware, about three months ago. I will not detain you with our embarkation or voyage. We landed from a steamer at Bona, and soon afterwards my husband’s company was ordered to escort a convoy of provisions to the army which was collecting at Mzez Ammar. Well, we arrived safely at our various camps of Drean, Nech Meya, and Amman Berda. We made a littledétourto visit Ghelma. I had curiosity to see it, as formerly it was an important city. I must say, that a more tenable position I never beheld. But I tire you with these details.’

“‘On the contrary, I am delighted.’

“‘You are very good. I ought to have said something about the travelling in those wild countries, which is anything but pleasant. The soil is a species of clay, hard as a flint when the weather is dry, but running into a slippery paste as soon as moistened. It is, therefore, very fatiguing, especially in wet weather, when the soldiers slip about in a very laughable manner to look at, but very distressing to themselves. I travelled either on horseback or in one of the waggons, as it happened. I was too well known, and, I hope I may add, too well liked, not to be as well provided for as possible. It is remarkable how soon a Frenchman will make himself comfortable, wherever he may chance to be. The camp of Mzez Ammar was as busy and as lively as if it was pitched in the heart of France. The followers had built up little cabins out of the branches of trees, with their leaves on, interwoven together, all in straight lines, forming streets, very commodious, and perfectly impervious to the withering sun. There wererestaurants, cafés, débis de vin et d’eau-de-vie, sausage-sellers, butchers, grocers—in fact, there was every trade almost, and everything you required; not very cheap certainly, but you must recollect, that this little town had sprung up, as if by magic, in the heart of the desert.

“‘It was in the month of September that Damremont ordered areconnoissancein the direction of Constantine, and a battalion of my husband’s regiment, the 47th, was ordered to form a part of it. I have said nothing about my husband. He was a good little man, and a brave officer, full of honour, but very obstinate. He never would take advice, and it was nothing but “Tais-toi, Coralie,” all day long—but no one is perfect. He wished me to remain in the camp, but I made it a rule never to be left behind. We set off; and I rode in one of the little carriages calledcacoletswhich had been provided for the wounded. It was terrible travelling, I was jolted to atoms, in the ascent of the steep mountain called the Rass-el-akba; but we gained the summit without a shot being fired. When we arrived there, and looked down beneath us, the sight was very picturesque. There were about four or five thousand of the Arab cavalry awaiting our descent; their white bournous, as they term the long dresses in which they enfold themselves, waving in the wind as they galloped at speed in every direction; while the glitter of their steel arms flashed like lightning upon our eyes. We closed our ranks and descended; the Arabs, in parties of forty or fifty, charging upon our flanks every minute, not coming to close conflict, but stopping at pistol-shot distance, discharging their guns, and then wheeling off again to a distance—mere child’s play, sir; nevertheless, there were some of our men wounded, and the little waggon, upon which I was riding, was ordered up in the advance to take them in. Unfortunately, to keep clear of the troops, the driver kept too much on one side of the narrow defile through which we passed: the consequence was, that the waggon upset, and I was thrown out a considerable distance down the precipice.’ ‘And broke your nose,’ interrupted I.

“‘No, indeed, sir, I did not. I escaped with only a few contusions about the region of the hip, which certainly lamed me for some time, and made the jolting more disagreeable than ever. Well, thereconnoissancesucceeded. Damremont was, however, wrong altogether. I told him so when I met him; but he was an obstinate old fool, and his answer was not as polite as it might have been, considering that at that time I was a very pretty woman. We returned to the camp at Mzez Ammar; a few days afterwards we were attacked by the Arabs, who showed great spirit and determination in their desultory mode of warfare, which, however, can make no impression on such troops as the French. The attack was continued for three days, when they decamped as suddenly as they had come. But this cannot be very interesting to you, monsieur.’

“‘On the contrary, do not, I beg, leave out a single remark or incident.’

“‘You are very good. I presume you know how wemilitaireslike to fight our battles over again. Well, sir, we remained in camp until the arrival of the Duc de Nemours,—a handsome, fair lad, who smiled upon me very graciously. On the 1st of October we set off on our expedition to Constantine; that is to say, the advanced guard did, of which my husband’s company formed a portion. The weather, which had been very fine, now changed, and it rained hard all the day. The whole road was one mass of mud, and there was no end to delays and accidents. However, the weather became fine again, and on the 5th we arrived within two leagues of Constantine, when the Arabs attacked us, and I was very nearly taken prisoner.’

“‘Indeed?’

“‘Yes; my husband, who, as I before observed to you, was very obstinate, would have me ride on acaissonin the rear; whereas I wished to be in the advance, where my advice might have been useful. The charge of the Arabs was very sudden; the three men who were with thecaissonwere sabred, and I was in the arms of a chieftain, who was wheeling round his horse to make off with me when a ball took him in the neck, and he fell with me. I disengaged myself, seized the horse by the bridle, and prevented its escape; and I also took possession of the Arab’s pistols and scymitar.’

“‘Indeed!’

“‘My husband sold the horse the next day to one of our generals, who forgot to pay for it after my husband was killed. As for the scymitar and pistols, they were stolen from me that night: but what can you expect?—our army is brave, but a little demoralised. The next day we arrived before Constantine, and we had to defile before the enemy’s guns. At one portion of the road, men and horses were tumbled over by their fire; thecaissonthat I was riding upon was upset by a ball, and thrown down the ravine, dragging the horses after it. I lay among the horses’ legs—they kicking furiously; it was a miracle that my life was preserved: as it was—’

“‘You broke your nose,’ interrupted I.

“‘No, sir, indeed I did not. I only received a kick on the arm, which obliged me to carry it in a sling for some days. The weather became very bad; we had few tents, and they were not able to resist the storms of rain and wind. We wrapped ourselves up how we could, and sat in deep pools of water, and the Arabs attacked us before we could open the fire of our batteries; we were in such a pickle that, had the bad weather lasted, we must have retreated; and happy would those have been who could have once more found themselves safe in the camp of Mzez Ammar. I don’t think that I ever suffered so much as I did at that time—the weather had even overcome the natural gallantry of our nation; and so far from receiving any attention, the general remark to me was, “What the devil doyoudo here?” This to be said to a pretty woman!

“‘It was not till the 10th that we could manage to open the fire of our batteries. It was mud, mud, and mud again; the men and horses were covered with mud up to their necks—the feathers of the staff were covered with mud—every ball which was fired by the enemy sent up showers of mud; even the face of the Duc de Nemours was disfigured with it. I must say that our batteries were well situated, all except the great mortar battery. This I pointed out to Damremont when he passed me, and he was very savage. Great men don’t like to be told of their faults; however, he lost his life three days afterwards from not taking my advice. He was going down the hill with Rhullières when I said to him, “Mon Général, you expose yourself too much; that which is duty in a subaltern is a fault in a general.” He very politely told me to go to where he may chance to be himself now; for a cannonball struck him a few seconds afterwards, and he was killed on the spot. General Perregaux was severely wounded almost at the same time. For four days the fighting was awful; battery answered to battery night and day: while from every quarter of the compass we were exposed to the fierce attacks of the Arab cavalry. The commander of our army sent a flag of truce to their town, commanding them to surrender: and, what do you think was the reply?—“If you want powder, we’ll supply you; if you are without bread, we will send it to you: but as long as there is one good Mussulman left alive, you do not enter the town.”—Was not that grand? The very reply, when made known to the troops, filled them with admiration of their enemy, and they swore by their colours that if ever they overpowered them they would give them no quarter.

“‘In two days, General Vallée, to whom the command fell upon the death of Damremont, considered the breach sufficiently wide for the assault, and we every hour expected that the order would be given. It came at last. My poor husband was in the second column which mounted. Strange to say, he was very melancholy on that morning, and appeared to have a presentiment of what was to take place. “Coralie,” said he to me, as he was scraping the mud off his trousers with his pocket-knife, “if I fall, you will do well. I leave you as a legacy to General Vallée—he will appreciate you. Do not forget to let him know my testamentary dispositions.”

“‘I promised I would not. The drums beat. He kissed me on both cheeks. “Go, my Philippe,” said I; “go to glory.” He did; for a mine was sprung, and he with many others was blown to atoms. I had watched the advance of the column and was able to distinguish the form of my dear Philippe when the explosion with the vast column of smoke took place. When it cleared away, I could see the wounded in every direction hastening back; but my husband was not among them. In the mean time the other columns entered the breach—the firing was awful, and the carnage dreadful. It was more than an hour after the assault commenced before the French tricolor waved upon the minarets of Constantine.

“‘It was not until the next day that I could make up my mind to search for my husband’s body; but it was my duty. I climbed up the breach, strewed with the corpses of our brave soldiers, intermingled with those of the Arabs; but I could not find my husband. At last a head which had been blown off attracted my attention. I examined it—it was my Philippe’s, blackened and burnt, and terribly disfigured: but who can disguise the fragment of a husband from the keen eyes of the wife of his bosom? I leaned over it. “My poor Philippe!” exclaimed I: and the tears were bedewing my cheeks when I perceived the Duc de Nemours close to me, with all his staff attending him. “What have we here?” said he with surprise, to those about him. “A wife, looking for her husband’s body, mon prince,” replied I. “I cannot find it; but here is his head.” He said something very complimentary and kind, and then walked on. I continued my search without success, and determined to take up my quarters in the town. As I clambered along, I gained a battered wall; and, putting my foot on it it gave way with me, and I fell down several feet. Stunned with the blow, I remained for some time insensible; when I came to, I found—’

“‘That you had broken your nose.’

“‘No, indeed; I had sprained my ankle and hurt the cap of my knee, but my nose was quite perfect. You must have a little patience yet.

“‘What fragments of my husband were found, were buried in a large grave, which held the bodies and the mutilated portions of the killed: and having obtained possession of an apartment in Constantine, I remained there several days, lamenting his fate. At last, it occurred to me that his testamentary dispositions should be attended to, and I wrote to General Vallée, informing him of the last wishes of my husband. His reply was very short; it was, that he was excessively flattered,—but press of business would not permit him to administer to the will. It was not polite.

“‘On the 26th I quitted Constantine with a convoy of wounded men. The dysentery and the cholera made fearful ravages, and I very soon had acaissonall to myself. The rain again came on in torrents, and it was a dreadful funeral procession. Every minute wretches, jolted to death, were thrown down into pits by the road-side, and the cries of those who survived were dreadful. Many died of cold and hunger; and after three days we arrived at the camp of Mzez Ammar, with the loss of more than one-half of our sufferers.

“‘I took possession of one of the huts built of the boughs of the trees which I formerly described, and had leisure to think over my future plans and prospects. I was young and pretty, and hope did not desert me. I had recovered my baggage, which I had left at the camp, and was now able to attend to my toilet. The young officers who were in the camp paid me great attention, and were constantly passing and repassing to have a peep at the handsome widow, as they were pleased to call me: and now comes the history of my misfortune.

“‘The cabin built of boughs which I occupied was double; one portion was fenced off from the other with a wattling of branches, which ran up about seven feet, but not so high as the roof. In one apartment I was located, the other was occupied by a young officer who paid me attention, but who was not to my liking. I had been walking out in the cool of the evening, and had returned, when I heard voices in the other apartment. I entered softly and they did not perceive my approach; they were talking about me, and I must say that the expressions were very complimentary. At last one of the party observed, “Well, she is a splendid woman, and a good soldier’s wife. I hope to be a general by-and-bye, and she would not disgrace a marshal’s bâton. I think I shall propose to her before we leave the camp.”

“‘Now, sir, I did not recognise the speaker by his voice, and, flattered by the remark, I was anxious to know who it could be who was thus prepossessed in my favour. I thought that if I could climb up on the back of the only chair which was in my apartment, I should be able to see over the partition and satisfy my curiosity. I did so, and without noise; and I was just putting my head over to take a survey of the tenants of the other apartment when the chair tilted, and down I came on the floor, and on my face. Unfortunately, I hit my nose upon the edge of the frying-pan, with which my poor Philippe and I used to cook our meat; and now, sir, you know how it was that I broke my nose.’

“‘What a pity!’ observed I.

“‘Yes; a great pity. I had gone through the whole campaign without any serious accident, and—But, after all, it was very natural: the two besetting evils of women are Vanity and Curiosity, and if you were to ascertain the truth, you would find that it is upon these two stumbling-blocks that most women are upset and break their noses.’

“‘Very true, madam,’ replied I. ‘I thank you for your narrative, and shall be most happy to be of any use to you. But I will detain you from your rest no longer, so wish you a very good night.’”

“Well, colonel,” said I, as he made a sudden stop, “what occurred after that?”

“I took great care of her until we arrived in London, saw her safe to the hotel in Leicester Square, and then took my leave. Whether Liston replaced her nose, and she is nowflanée-ing about Paris, as beautiful as before her accident; or, whether his skill was useless to her, and she is among theSoeurs de Charité, or in a convent, I cannot say: I have never seen or heard of her since.”

“Well, I know Liston, and I’ll not forget to ask him about her the very first time that I meet him. Will you have another cigar?”

“No, I thank you. I’ve finished my cigar, my bottle, and my story, and so now good night!”

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