Chapter Forty Four.In which the Tide of Fortune turns against our Hero.As soon as Joey had been dismissed from the witness-box he returned to the room in which the other witnesses were assembled, with melancholy forebodings that his real name having been given in open court would lead to some disaster. He had not been there long before a peace-officer came in, and said to him,—“Step this way, if you please, sir; I have something to say to you.”Joey went with him outside the door, when the peace-officer, looking at him full in the face, said, “Your name is Joseph Rushbrook; you said so in the witness-box?”“Yes,” replied Joey, “that is my true name.”“Why did you change it?” demanded the officer.“I had reasons,” replied our hero.“Yes, and I’ll tell you the reasons,” rejoined the other. “You were concerned in a murder some years ago; a reward was offered for your apprehension, and you absconded from justice. I see that you are the person; your face tells me so. You are my prisoner. Now, come away quietly, sir; it is of no use for you to resist, and you will only be worse treated.”Joey’s heart had almost ceased to beat when the constable addressed him; he felt that denial was useless, and that the time was now come when either he or his father must suffer; he, therefore, made no reply, but quietly followed the peace officer, who, holding him by the arm, called a coach, into which he ordered Joey to enter, and following him, directed the coachman to drive to the police-office.As soon as the magistrate had been acquainted by the officer who the party was whom he had taken into custody, he first pointed out to our hero that he had better not say any thing which might criminate himself, and then asked him if his name was Joseph Rushbrook.Joey replied that it was.“Have you anything to say that might prevent my committing you on the charge of murder?” demanded the magistrate.“Nothing, except that I am not guilty,” replied Joey.“I have had the warrant out against him these seven years, or thereabouts, but he escaped me,” observed the peace-officer; “he was but a lad then.”“He must have been a child, to judge by his present appearance,” observed the magistrate, who was making out the committal. “I now perfectly recollect the affair.”The officer received the committal, and in half an hour our hero was locked up with felons of every description. His blood ran cold when he found himself enclosed within the massive walls; and as soon as the gaoler had left him alone, he shuddered and covered his face with his hands. Our hero had, however, the greatest of all consolations to support him—the consciousness of his innocence; but when he called to mind how happy and prosperous he had lately been, when he thought of Emma—and that now all his fair prospects and fondest anticipations were thrown to the ground, it is not surprising that for a short time he wept in his solitude and silence. To whom should he make known his situation? Alas! it would too soon be known; and would not every one, even Emma, shrink from a supposed murderer? No! there was one who would not—one on whose truth he could depend; Mary would not desert him, even now; he would write to her, and acquaint her with his situation. Our hero, having made up his mind so to do, obtained paper and ink from the gaoler when he came into his cell, which he did in about two hours after he had been locked up. Joey wrote to Mary, stating his position in few words, and that the next morning he was to be taken down to Exeter to await his trial; and expressed a wish, if possible, that she would come there to see him; and giving a guinea to the turnkey, requested him to forward the letter.“It shall go safe enough, young master,” replied the man. “Now, do you know, yours is one of the strangest cases which ever came to my knowledge?” continued the man; “we’ve been talking about it among ourselves: why the first warrant for your apprehension was out more than eight years ago; and, to look at you now, you cannot be more than seventeen or eighteen.”“Yes, I am,” replied Joey; “I am twenty-two.”“Then don’t you tell anybody else that, and I will forget it. You see youth goes a great way in court; and they will see that you must have been quite a child when the deed was done—for I suppose by the evidence there is no doubt of that—and it won’t be a hanging matter, that you may be certain of; you’ll cross the water, that’s all: so keep up your spirits, and look as young as you can.”Mary received the letter on the following day, and was in the deepest distress at its contents. She was still weeping over it, her work had been thrown down at her feet, when Mrs Austin came into the dressing-room where she was sitting.“What is the matter, Mary?” said Mrs Austin.“I have received a letter from my brother, madam,” replied Mary; “he is in the greatest distress; and I must beg you to let me go to him immediately.”“Your brother, Mary! what difficulty is he in?” asked Mrs Austin.Mary did not reply, but wept more.“Mary, if your brother is in distress, I certainly will not refuse your going to him; but you should tell me what his distress is, or how shall I be able to advise or help you? Is it very serious?”“He is in prison, madam.”“In prison for debt, I suppose?”“No, madam; on a charge of murder, which he is not guilty of.”“Murder!” exclaimed Mrs Austin, “and not guilty! Why—when—and where did this murder take place?”“Many years ago, madam, when he was quite a child.”“How very strange!” thought Mrs Austin, panting, for breath, and dropping into a chair. “But where, Mary?”“Down in Devonshire, madam, at Grassford.”Mrs Austin fell senseless from her chair. Mary, very much surprised, hastened to her assistance, and, after a time succeeded in restoring her, and leading her to the sofa. For some time Mrs Austin remained with her face buried in the cushions, while Mary stood over her. At last Mrs Austin looked up, and laying her head upon Mary’s arm, said in a solemn tone—“Mary, do not deceive me; you say that that boy isyourbrother—tell me, is not that false? I am sure that it is. Answer me, Mary.”“He is not my born brother, madam, but I love him as one,” replied Mary.“Again answer me truly, Mary, if you have any regard for me. You know his real name; what is it?”“Joseph Rushbrook, madam,” replied Mary, weeping.“I was certain of it!” replied Mrs Austin, bursting into tears; “I knew it! The blow has come at last! God have mercy on me! What can be done?” And again Mrs Austin abandoned herself to bitter grief.Mary was in amazement: how Mrs Austin should know any thing of Joey’s history, and why she should be in such distress, was to her a complete mystery: she remained for some time at the side of her mistress, who gradually became more composed. Mary at last said,—“May I go to him, madam?”“Yes,” replied Mrs Austin, “most certainly. Mary, I must have no secrets now; you must tell me everything. You see that I am deeply interested about this young man as well as yourself: it is quite sufficient for you at present to know that; before I say anything more, you must be candid with me, and tell me how you became acquainted with him, and all that you know relative to his life; that I will assist you and him in every way in my power; that neither money nor interest shall be spared, you may be assured; and I think, Mary, that, after this promise, you will not conceal anything from me.”“Indeed I will not, madam,” replied Mary, “for I love him as much as I can love.” Mary then commenced by stating that she was living at Gravesend when she first met with Joey. There was a little hesitation at the commencement of her narrative, which Mrs Austin pretended not to observe; she then continued, winding up with the information which she had obtained from Furness, the marine, their escape, and her admission into Mrs Austin’s family.“And it was Joseph Rushbrook that came with you to this house?”“Yes, madam,” replied Mary; “but one of the men was quite rude to me, and Joey took it up. Mr Austin, hearing a noise, sent down to inquire the cause; the servants threw all the blame upon Joey, and he was ordered out of the house immediately. He refused even to come back to the Hall, after the treatment he had received, for a long while; but it was he who was in the parlour when you opened the door, if you recollect, a few weeks ago.”Mrs Austin clasped her hands, and then pressed them to her forehead; after a while she said—“And what has he been doing since he came here?”Mary then informed her mistress of all she knew of Joey’s subsequent career.“Well, Mary,” said Mrs Austin, “you must go to him directly. You will want money; but, Mary, promise me that you will not say a word to him about what has passed between us,—that is, for the present; by-and-bye I may trust you more.”“You may trust me, madam,” replied Mary, looking her mistress in the face; “but it is too late for me to go this afternoon; I will, if you please, now wait till to-morrow morning.”“Do so, Mary; I am glad that you do not go to-night, for I wish you to stay with me; I have many questions to ask of you. At present I wish to be alone, my good girl. Tell Mr Austin that I am very unwell, and do not dine below.”“Shall I bring your dinner up here, madam?” asked Mary.“Yes, you maybringit, Mary,” replied Mrs Austin, with a faint smile.Never did two people leave one another both so much wishing to be alone as Mary and Mrs Austin. The former quitted the room, and, having first executed her commission, returned to her own apartment, that she might reflect without being disturbed. What could be the reason of Mrs Austin’s behaviour? What could she know of Joey Rushbrook? and why so interested and moved? She had heard among the servants that Mr and Mrs Austin were formerly in a humbler sphere of life; that he was a half-pay officer; but there was still no clue to such interest about Joey Rushbrook. Mary thought and thought over and over again, revolved all that had passed in her mind, but could make nothing of it; and she was still trying to solve the mystery when the housemaid came into the room, and informed her that Mrs Austin’s bell had rung twice. Mrs Austin, on her part, was still more bewildered; she could not regain sufficient calmness to enable her to decide how to act. Her son in prison, to be tried for his life for a crime he had not committed! Would he divulge the truth, and sacrifice the father? She thought not. If he did not, would he not be condemned? and if he were, could she remain away from him? or ought she not to divulge what the boy would conceal? And if he did confess the truth, would they find out that Mr Austin and Joseph Rushbrook were one and the same person? Would there be any chance of his escape? Would he not, sooner or later, be recognised? How dreadful was her situation! Then, again, should she acquaint her husband with the position of his son? If so, would he come forward? Yes, most certainly he would never let Joey suffer for his crime. Ought she to tell her husband? And then Mary, who knew so much already, who had witnessed her distress and anguish, who was so fond of her son, could she trust her? Could she do without trusting her? Such were the various and conflicting ideas which passed in the mind of Mrs Austin. At last she resolved that she would say nothing to her husband; that she would send Mary to her son, and that she would that evening have more conversation with the girl, and decide, after she had talked with her, whether she would make her a confidant or not. Having made up her mind so far, she rang the bell for Mary.“Are you better, madam?” asked Mary, who had entered the room, very quietly.“Yes, I thank you, Mary; take your work and sit down; I wish to have some more conversation with you about this young person, Joseph Rushbrook; you must have seen that I am much interested about him.”“Yes, madam.”“There were some portions of your story, Mary, which I do not quite understand. You have now lived with me for five years, and I have had every reason to be satisfied with your behaviour. You have conducted yourself as a well-behaved, modest, and attentive young woman.”“I am much obliged to you, madam, for your good opinion.”“And I hope that you will admit that I have not been a hard mistress to you, Mary, but, on the contrary, have shown you that I have been pleased with your conduct.”“Certainly, madam, you have; and I trust I am grateful.”“I believe so,” replied Mrs Austin. “Now, Mary, I wish you to confide in me altogether. What I wish to know is how did you in so short a time become acquainted with this Furness, so as to obtain this secret from him? I may say, whom did you live with, and how did you live, when at Gravesend? for you have not mentioned that to me. It seems so odd to me that this man should have told to a person whom he had seen but for a few hours a secret of such moment.”Mary’s tears fell fast, but she made no reply.“Cannot you answer me, Mary?”“I can, madam,” said she, at last; “but if I tell the truth—and I cannot tell a lie now—you will despise me, and perhaps order me to leave the house immediately; and if you do what will become of me?”“Mary, if you think I intend to take advantage of a confession extorted from you, you do me wrong I ask the question because it is necessary that I should know the truth—because I cannot confide in you without you first confide in me; tell me, Mary, and do not be afraid.”“Madam, I will; but pray do not forget that I have been under your roof for five years, and that I have been during that time an honest and modest girl. I was not so once, I confess it,” and Mary’s cheeks were red with shame, and she hung down her head.“We are all sinful creatures, Mary,” replied Mrs Austin; “and who is there that has not fallen into error? The Scriptures say, ‘Let him who is without sin cast the first stone;’ nay more, Mary, ‘There is more joy over one sinner that repenteth than over ninety and nine who need no repentance.’ Shall I then be harsh to you, my poor girl? No, no. By trusting me you have made me your friend; you must be mine, Mary, for I want a friend now.”Poor Mary fell on her knees before Mrs Austin, and wept over her hand as she kissed it repeatedly.Mrs Austin was much affected, and as the contrite girl recovered herself, Mrs Austin leaned on her elbow, and putting her arm round Mary’s neck, drew her head towards her, and gently kissed her on the brow.“You are, indeed, a kind friend, madam,” said Mary, after a pause, “and may the Almighty reward you! You are unhappy; I know not why, but I would die to serve you. I only wish that you would let me prove it.”“First, Mary, tell me as much of your own history as you choose to tell; I wish to know it.”Mary then entered into the details of her marriage, her husband’s conduct, her subsequent career, and her determination to lead a new life, which she had so sincerely proved by her late conduct.Mary having concluded her narrative, Mrs Austin addressed her thus:—“Mary, if you imagine that you have fallen in my good opinion, after what you have confessed to me, you are much mistaken; you have, on the contrary, been raised. There have been few, very few, that have had the courage and fortitude that you have shown, or who could have succeeded as you have done. I was afraid to trust you before, but now I am not. I will not ask you not to betray me, for I am sure you will not. On two points only my lips are sealed; and the reason why they are sealed is that the secret is not mine alone, and I have not permission to divulge it. That I am deeply interested in that boy is certain; nay, that he is a near and very dear connection is also the case; but what his exact relationship is towards me I must not at present say. You have asserted your belief of his innocence, and I tell you that you are right; he did not do the deed; I know who did, but I dare not reveal the name.”“That is exactly what Joey said to me, madam,” observed Mary, “and, moreover, that he never would reveal it, even if he were on his trial.”“I do not think that he ever will, Mary,” rejoined Mrs Austin, bursting into tears. “Poor boy! it is horrible that he should suffer for an offence that he has not committed.”“Surely, madam, if he is found guilty they will not hang him, he was such a child.”“I scarcely know.”“It’s very odd that his father and mother have disappeared in the manner they did; I think it is very suspicious,” observed Mary.“You must, of course, have your own ideas from what you have already heard,” replied Mrs Austin, in a calm tone; “but, as I have already said, my lips on that subject are sealed. What I wish you to do, Mary, is not at first to let him know that I am interested about him, or even that I know anything about him. Make all the inquiries you can as to what is likely to be the issue of the affair, and, when you have seen him, you must then come back and tell me all that he says, and all that has taken place.”“I will, madam.”“You had better go away early tomorrow; one of the grooms shall drive you over to meet the coach which runs to Exeter. While I think of it, take my purse, and do not spare it, Mary; for money must not be thought of now. I am very unwell, and must go to bed.”“I had better bring up the tray, madam; a mouthful and a glass of wine will be of service to you.”“Do so, dear Mary; I feel very faint.”As soon as Mrs Austin had taken some refreshment, she entered again into conversation with Mary, asking her a hundred questions about her son. Mary, who had now nothing to conceal, answered freely; and when Mary wished her good night, Mrs Austin was more than ever convinced that her boy’s rectitude of principle would have made him an ornament to society. Then came the bitter feeling that he was about to sacrifice himself; that he would be condemned as a felon, disgraced, and perhaps executed; and as she turned on her restless pillow, she exclaimed, “Thank God that he is innocent—his poor father suffers more.”
As soon as Joey had been dismissed from the witness-box he returned to the room in which the other witnesses were assembled, with melancholy forebodings that his real name having been given in open court would lead to some disaster. He had not been there long before a peace-officer came in, and said to him,—“Step this way, if you please, sir; I have something to say to you.”
Joey went with him outside the door, when the peace-officer, looking at him full in the face, said, “Your name is Joseph Rushbrook; you said so in the witness-box?”
“Yes,” replied Joey, “that is my true name.”
“Why did you change it?” demanded the officer.
“I had reasons,” replied our hero.
“Yes, and I’ll tell you the reasons,” rejoined the other. “You were concerned in a murder some years ago; a reward was offered for your apprehension, and you absconded from justice. I see that you are the person; your face tells me so. You are my prisoner. Now, come away quietly, sir; it is of no use for you to resist, and you will only be worse treated.”
Joey’s heart had almost ceased to beat when the constable addressed him; he felt that denial was useless, and that the time was now come when either he or his father must suffer; he, therefore, made no reply, but quietly followed the peace officer, who, holding him by the arm, called a coach, into which he ordered Joey to enter, and following him, directed the coachman to drive to the police-office.
As soon as the magistrate had been acquainted by the officer who the party was whom he had taken into custody, he first pointed out to our hero that he had better not say any thing which might criminate himself, and then asked him if his name was Joseph Rushbrook.
Joey replied that it was.
“Have you anything to say that might prevent my committing you on the charge of murder?” demanded the magistrate.
“Nothing, except that I am not guilty,” replied Joey.
“I have had the warrant out against him these seven years, or thereabouts, but he escaped me,” observed the peace-officer; “he was but a lad then.”
“He must have been a child, to judge by his present appearance,” observed the magistrate, who was making out the committal. “I now perfectly recollect the affair.”
The officer received the committal, and in half an hour our hero was locked up with felons of every description. His blood ran cold when he found himself enclosed within the massive walls; and as soon as the gaoler had left him alone, he shuddered and covered his face with his hands. Our hero had, however, the greatest of all consolations to support him—the consciousness of his innocence; but when he called to mind how happy and prosperous he had lately been, when he thought of Emma—and that now all his fair prospects and fondest anticipations were thrown to the ground, it is not surprising that for a short time he wept in his solitude and silence. To whom should he make known his situation? Alas! it would too soon be known; and would not every one, even Emma, shrink from a supposed murderer? No! there was one who would not—one on whose truth he could depend; Mary would not desert him, even now; he would write to her, and acquaint her with his situation. Our hero, having made up his mind so to do, obtained paper and ink from the gaoler when he came into his cell, which he did in about two hours after he had been locked up. Joey wrote to Mary, stating his position in few words, and that the next morning he was to be taken down to Exeter to await his trial; and expressed a wish, if possible, that she would come there to see him; and giving a guinea to the turnkey, requested him to forward the letter.
“It shall go safe enough, young master,” replied the man. “Now, do you know, yours is one of the strangest cases which ever came to my knowledge?” continued the man; “we’ve been talking about it among ourselves: why the first warrant for your apprehension was out more than eight years ago; and, to look at you now, you cannot be more than seventeen or eighteen.”
“Yes, I am,” replied Joey; “I am twenty-two.”
“Then don’t you tell anybody else that, and I will forget it. You see youth goes a great way in court; and they will see that you must have been quite a child when the deed was done—for I suppose by the evidence there is no doubt of that—and it won’t be a hanging matter, that you may be certain of; you’ll cross the water, that’s all: so keep up your spirits, and look as young as you can.”
Mary received the letter on the following day, and was in the deepest distress at its contents. She was still weeping over it, her work had been thrown down at her feet, when Mrs Austin came into the dressing-room where she was sitting.
“What is the matter, Mary?” said Mrs Austin.
“I have received a letter from my brother, madam,” replied Mary; “he is in the greatest distress; and I must beg you to let me go to him immediately.”
“Your brother, Mary! what difficulty is he in?” asked Mrs Austin.
Mary did not reply, but wept more.
“Mary, if your brother is in distress, I certainly will not refuse your going to him; but you should tell me what his distress is, or how shall I be able to advise or help you? Is it very serious?”
“He is in prison, madam.”
“In prison for debt, I suppose?”
“No, madam; on a charge of murder, which he is not guilty of.”
“Murder!” exclaimed Mrs Austin, “and not guilty! Why—when—and where did this murder take place?”
“Many years ago, madam, when he was quite a child.”
“How very strange!” thought Mrs Austin, panting, for breath, and dropping into a chair. “But where, Mary?”
“Down in Devonshire, madam, at Grassford.”
Mrs Austin fell senseless from her chair. Mary, very much surprised, hastened to her assistance, and, after a time succeeded in restoring her, and leading her to the sofa. For some time Mrs Austin remained with her face buried in the cushions, while Mary stood over her. At last Mrs Austin looked up, and laying her head upon Mary’s arm, said in a solemn tone—
“Mary, do not deceive me; you say that that boy isyourbrother—tell me, is not that false? I am sure that it is. Answer me, Mary.”
“He is not my born brother, madam, but I love him as one,” replied Mary.
“Again answer me truly, Mary, if you have any regard for me. You know his real name; what is it?”
“Joseph Rushbrook, madam,” replied Mary, weeping.
“I was certain of it!” replied Mrs Austin, bursting into tears; “I knew it! The blow has come at last! God have mercy on me! What can be done?” And again Mrs Austin abandoned herself to bitter grief.
Mary was in amazement: how Mrs Austin should know any thing of Joey’s history, and why she should be in such distress, was to her a complete mystery: she remained for some time at the side of her mistress, who gradually became more composed. Mary at last said,—“May I go to him, madam?”
“Yes,” replied Mrs Austin, “most certainly. Mary, I must have no secrets now; you must tell me everything. You see that I am deeply interested about this young man as well as yourself: it is quite sufficient for you at present to know that; before I say anything more, you must be candid with me, and tell me how you became acquainted with him, and all that you know relative to his life; that I will assist you and him in every way in my power; that neither money nor interest shall be spared, you may be assured; and I think, Mary, that, after this promise, you will not conceal anything from me.”
“Indeed I will not, madam,” replied Mary, “for I love him as much as I can love.” Mary then commenced by stating that she was living at Gravesend when she first met with Joey. There was a little hesitation at the commencement of her narrative, which Mrs Austin pretended not to observe; she then continued, winding up with the information which she had obtained from Furness, the marine, their escape, and her admission into Mrs Austin’s family.
“And it was Joseph Rushbrook that came with you to this house?”
“Yes, madam,” replied Mary; “but one of the men was quite rude to me, and Joey took it up. Mr Austin, hearing a noise, sent down to inquire the cause; the servants threw all the blame upon Joey, and he was ordered out of the house immediately. He refused even to come back to the Hall, after the treatment he had received, for a long while; but it was he who was in the parlour when you opened the door, if you recollect, a few weeks ago.”
Mrs Austin clasped her hands, and then pressed them to her forehead; after a while she said—
“And what has he been doing since he came here?”
Mary then informed her mistress of all she knew of Joey’s subsequent career.
“Well, Mary,” said Mrs Austin, “you must go to him directly. You will want money; but, Mary, promise me that you will not say a word to him about what has passed between us,—that is, for the present; by-and-bye I may trust you more.”
“You may trust me, madam,” replied Mary, looking her mistress in the face; “but it is too late for me to go this afternoon; I will, if you please, now wait till to-morrow morning.”
“Do so, Mary; I am glad that you do not go to-night, for I wish you to stay with me; I have many questions to ask of you. At present I wish to be alone, my good girl. Tell Mr Austin that I am very unwell, and do not dine below.”
“Shall I bring your dinner up here, madam?” asked Mary.
“Yes, you maybringit, Mary,” replied Mrs Austin, with a faint smile.
Never did two people leave one another both so much wishing to be alone as Mary and Mrs Austin. The former quitted the room, and, having first executed her commission, returned to her own apartment, that she might reflect without being disturbed. What could be the reason of Mrs Austin’s behaviour? What could she know of Joey Rushbrook? and why so interested and moved? She had heard among the servants that Mr and Mrs Austin were formerly in a humbler sphere of life; that he was a half-pay officer; but there was still no clue to such interest about Joey Rushbrook. Mary thought and thought over and over again, revolved all that had passed in her mind, but could make nothing of it; and she was still trying to solve the mystery when the housemaid came into the room, and informed her that Mrs Austin’s bell had rung twice. Mrs Austin, on her part, was still more bewildered; she could not regain sufficient calmness to enable her to decide how to act. Her son in prison, to be tried for his life for a crime he had not committed! Would he divulge the truth, and sacrifice the father? She thought not. If he did not, would he not be condemned? and if he were, could she remain away from him? or ought she not to divulge what the boy would conceal? And if he did confess the truth, would they find out that Mr Austin and Joseph Rushbrook were one and the same person? Would there be any chance of his escape? Would he not, sooner or later, be recognised? How dreadful was her situation! Then, again, should she acquaint her husband with the position of his son? If so, would he come forward? Yes, most certainly he would never let Joey suffer for his crime. Ought she to tell her husband? And then Mary, who knew so much already, who had witnessed her distress and anguish, who was so fond of her son, could she trust her? Could she do without trusting her? Such were the various and conflicting ideas which passed in the mind of Mrs Austin. At last she resolved that she would say nothing to her husband; that she would send Mary to her son, and that she would that evening have more conversation with the girl, and decide, after she had talked with her, whether she would make her a confidant or not. Having made up her mind so far, she rang the bell for Mary.
“Are you better, madam?” asked Mary, who had entered the room, very quietly.
“Yes, I thank you, Mary; take your work and sit down; I wish to have some more conversation with you about this young person, Joseph Rushbrook; you must have seen that I am much interested about him.”
“Yes, madam.”
“There were some portions of your story, Mary, which I do not quite understand. You have now lived with me for five years, and I have had every reason to be satisfied with your behaviour. You have conducted yourself as a well-behaved, modest, and attentive young woman.”
“I am much obliged to you, madam, for your good opinion.”
“And I hope that you will admit that I have not been a hard mistress to you, Mary, but, on the contrary, have shown you that I have been pleased with your conduct.”
“Certainly, madam, you have; and I trust I am grateful.”
“I believe so,” replied Mrs Austin. “Now, Mary, I wish you to confide in me altogether. What I wish to know is how did you in so short a time become acquainted with this Furness, so as to obtain this secret from him? I may say, whom did you live with, and how did you live, when at Gravesend? for you have not mentioned that to me. It seems so odd to me that this man should have told to a person whom he had seen but for a few hours a secret of such moment.”
Mary’s tears fell fast, but she made no reply.
“Cannot you answer me, Mary?”
“I can, madam,” said she, at last; “but if I tell the truth—and I cannot tell a lie now—you will despise me, and perhaps order me to leave the house immediately; and if you do what will become of me?”
“Mary, if you think I intend to take advantage of a confession extorted from you, you do me wrong I ask the question because it is necessary that I should know the truth—because I cannot confide in you without you first confide in me; tell me, Mary, and do not be afraid.”
“Madam, I will; but pray do not forget that I have been under your roof for five years, and that I have been during that time an honest and modest girl. I was not so once, I confess it,” and Mary’s cheeks were red with shame, and she hung down her head.
“We are all sinful creatures, Mary,” replied Mrs Austin; “and who is there that has not fallen into error? The Scriptures say, ‘Let him who is without sin cast the first stone;’ nay more, Mary, ‘There is more joy over one sinner that repenteth than over ninety and nine who need no repentance.’ Shall I then be harsh to you, my poor girl? No, no. By trusting me you have made me your friend; you must be mine, Mary, for I want a friend now.”
Poor Mary fell on her knees before Mrs Austin, and wept over her hand as she kissed it repeatedly.
Mrs Austin was much affected, and as the contrite girl recovered herself, Mrs Austin leaned on her elbow, and putting her arm round Mary’s neck, drew her head towards her, and gently kissed her on the brow.
“You are, indeed, a kind friend, madam,” said Mary, after a pause, “and may the Almighty reward you! You are unhappy; I know not why, but I would die to serve you. I only wish that you would let me prove it.”
“First, Mary, tell me as much of your own history as you choose to tell; I wish to know it.”
Mary then entered into the details of her marriage, her husband’s conduct, her subsequent career, and her determination to lead a new life, which she had so sincerely proved by her late conduct.
Mary having concluded her narrative, Mrs Austin addressed her thus:—
“Mary, if you imagine that you have fallen in my good opinion, after what you have confessed to me, you are much mistaken; you have, on the contrary, been raised. There have been few, very few, that have had the courage and fortitude that you have shown, or who could have succeeded as you have done. I was afraid to trust you before, but now I am not. I will not ask you not to betray me, for I am sure you will not. On two points only my lips are sealed; and the reason why they are sealed is that the secret is not mine alone, and I have not permission to divulge it. That I am deeply interested in that boy is certain; nay, that he is a near and very dear connection is also the case; but what his exact relationship is towards me I must not at present say. You have asserted your belief of his innocence, and I tell you that you are right; he did not do the deed; I know who did, but I dare not reveal the name.”
“That is exactly what Joey said to me, madam,” observed Mary, “and, moreover, that he never would reveal it, even if he were on his trial.”
“I do not think that he ever will, Mary,” rejoined Mrs Austin, bursting into tears. “Poor boy! it is horrible that he should suffer for an offence that he has not committed.”
“Surely, madam, if he is found guilty they will not hang him, he was such a child.”
“I scarcely know.”
“It’s very odd that his father and mother have disappeared in the manner they did; I think it is very suspicious,” observed Mary.
“You must, of course, have your own ideas from what you have already heard,” replied Mrs Austin, in a calm tone; “but, as I have already said, my lips on that subject are sealed. What I wish you to do, Mary, is not at first to let him know that I am interested about him, or even that I know anything about him. Make all the inquiries you can as to what is likely to be the issue of the affair, and, when you have seen him, you must then come back and tell me all that he says, and all that has taken place.”
“I will, madam.”
“You had better go away early tomorrow; one of the grooms shall drive you over to meet the coach which runs to Exeter. While I think of it, take my purse, and do not spare it, Mary; for money must not be thought of now. I am very unwell, and must go to bed.”
“I had better bring up the tray, madam; a mouthful and a glass of wine will be of service to you.”
“Do so, dear Mary; I feel very faint.”
As soon as Mrs Austin had taken some refreshment, she entered again into conversation with Mary, asking her a hundred questions about her son. Mary, who had now nothing to conceal, answered freely; and when Mary wished her good night, Mrs Austin was more than ever convinced that her boy’s rectitude of principle would have made him an ornament to society. Then came the bitter feeling that he was about to sacrifice himself; that he would be condemned as a felon, disgraced, and perhaps executed; and as she turned on her restless pillow, she exclaimed, “Thank God that he is innocent—his poor father suffers more.”
Chapter Forty Five.In which Mary makes a Discovery of what has been Long Known to the Reader.It was hardly ten o’clock on the second morning when Mary arrived at Exeter, and proceeded to the gaol. Her eyes were directed to the outside of the massive building, and her cheeks blanched when she viewed the chains and fetters over the entrance, so truly designating the purport of the structure. There were several people at the steps and in the passage, making inquiries, and demanding permission of the turnkey to visit the prisoners; and Mary had to wait some minutes before she could make her request. Her appearance was so different to the usual class of applicants, that the turnkey looked at her with some surprise.“Whom do you wish to see?” inquired the man, for Mary’s voice had faltered.“Joseph Rushbrook, my brother,” repeated Mary.At this moment the head gaoler came to the wicket.“She wishes to see her brother, young Rushbrook,” said the turnkey.“Yes, certainly,” replied the gaoler; “walk in, and sit down in the parlour for a little while, till I can send a man with you.”There was a gentleness and kindness of manner shown by both the men towards Mary, for they were moved with her beauty and evident distress. Mary took a seat in the gaoler’s room; the gaoler’s wife was there, and she was more than kind. The turnkey came to show her to the cell; and when Mary rose, the gaoler’s wife said to her, “After you have seen your brother, my dear child, you had better come back again, and sit down here a little while, and then, perhaps, I can be of some use to you, in letting you know what can be done, and what is not allowed.”Mary could not speak, but she looked at the gaoler’s wife, her eyes brimming over with tears. The kind woman understood her. “Go now,” said she, “and mind you come back to me.”The turnkey, without speaking, led her to the cell, fitted the key to the ponderous lock, pushed back the door, and remained outside. Mary entered, and in a second was in the arms of our hero, kissing him, and bedewing his cheeks with her tears.“I was sure that you would come, Mary,” said Joey; “now sit down, and I will tell you how this has happened, while you compose yourself; you will be better able to talk to me after a while.”They sat down on the stretchers upon which the bed had been laid during the night, their hands still clasped, and as Joey entered into a narrative of all that had passed, Mary’s sobs gradually diminished, and she was restored to something like composure.“And what do you intend to do when you are brought to trial, my dear boy?” said Mary at last.“I shall say nothing, except ‘Not Guilty,’ which is the truth, Mary; I shall make no defence whatever.”“But why will you not confess the truth?” replied Mary. “I have often thought of this, and have long made up my mind, Joey, that no one could act as you do if a parent’s life were not concerned; you, or anybody else, would be mad to sacrifice himself in this way, unless it were to save a father.”Joey’s eyes were cast down on the stone pavement; he made no reply.“Why, then, if I am right in my supposition,” continued Mary—“I do not ask you to say yes or no on that point—why should you not tell the truth? Furness told me that your father and mother had left the village, and that he had attempted to trace them, but could not; and he expressed himself sure that they were gone to America. Why, then, supposing I am right, should you sacrifice yourself for nothing?”“Supposing you are right, Mary,” replied Joey, with his eyes still cast down, “what proof is there that my parents have left the country? It was only the supposition of Furness, and it is my conviction that they have not. Where they may be, I know not; but I feel positive that my mother would not leave the country without having first found out where I was, and have taken me with her. No, Mary, my father and mother, if alive, are still in this country.”“Recollect again, my dear boy, that your father may be dead.”“And if so, my mother would have by this time found me out; she would have advertised for me—done everything—I feel that she would have—she would have returned to Grassford, and—”“And what, Joey?”“I must not say what, Mary,” replied our hero; “I have thought a great deal since I have been shut up here, and I have taken my resolution, which is not to be changed; so let us say no more upon the subject, dear Mary. Tell me all about yourself.”Mary remained another hour with Joey, and then bade him farewell; she was anxious to return to Mrs Austin, and acquaint her with the result of her interview; with a heavy heart she walked away from the cell, and went down into the parlour of the gaoler.“Would you like to take anything?” said the gaoler’s wife, after Mary had sat down.“A little water,” replied Mary.“And how is your brother?”“He is innocent,” replied Mary: “he is indeed; but he won’t tell anything, and they will condemn him.”“Well, well; but do not be afraid; he must have been very young at the time, innocent or guilty, and he won’t suffer, that I know; but he will be sent out of the country.”“Then I will go with him,” replied Mary.“Perhaps he will be pardoned, dear; keep your spirits up, and, if you have money, get a good lawyer.”“Can you tell me who would be a good lawyer to apply to?”“Yes; Mr Trevor; he is a very clever man, and comes the Western Circuit; if any one can save him, he can.”“I will take his name down, if you please,” said Mary.The gaoler’s wife gave Mary a piece of paper and pen and ink; Mary wrote down the name and address of Mr Trevor, and then with many thanks took her leave.On her return to the Hall, Mary communicated to Mrs Austin what had passed. Mrs Austin perceived that Joey would not swerve from his resolution, and that all that could be done was to procure the best legal assistance.“Mary, my poor girl,” said Mrs Austin, “here is money, which you will find necessary for your adopted brother’s assistance. You say that you have obtained the name of the best legal person to be employed in his behalf. To-morrow you must go to London, and call upon that gentleman. It may be as well not to mention my name. As his sister, you of course seek the best legal advice. You must manage all this as if from yourself.”“I will, madam.”“And, Mary, if you think it advisable, you can remain in town for two or three days; but pray write to me every day.”“I will, madam.”“Let me know your address, as I may wish to say something to you when I know what has been done.”“I will, madam.”“And now you had better go to bed, Mary, for you must be tired; indeed, you look very fatigued, my poor girl; I need not caution you not to say anything to any of the servants; good night.”Mary threw herself on the bed, she was indeed worn out with anxiety and grief; at last she slept. The next morning she was on her way to town, having, in reply to the curiosity of the servants, stated that the cause of her journey was the dangerous illness of her brother.As soon as she arrived in London, Mary drove to the chambers of the lawyer, whose direction she had obtained from the Exeter gaoler’s wife; he was at home, and after waiting a short time, she was ushered by the clerk into his presence.“What can I do for you, young lady?” inquired Mr Trevor, with some surprise: “it is not often that the den of a lawyer has such a bright vision to cheer it. Do me the favour to take a chair.”“I am not a young lady, sir,” replied Mary; “I have come to you to request that you will be so kind as to defend my brother, who is about to be tried.”“Your brother! what is he charged with?”“Murder,” replied Mary; “but indeed, sir, he is not guilty,” she continued, as she burst into tears.Mr Trevor was not only a clever, but also a kind and considerate man. He remained silent for some minutes to allow Mary time to recover herself. When she was more composed, he said—“What is your brother’s name?”“Joseph Rushbrook.”“Rushbrook! Rushbrook! I well remember that name,” remarked Mr Trevor; “strange, the Christian name also the same! it is singular certainly. The last time I was concerned for a person of that name, I was the means of his coming into a large landed property; now I am requested to defend one of the same name accused of murder.”Mary was astonished at this observation of Mr Trevor’s, but made no reply.“Have you the indictment? Where did the murder take place?”“In Devonshire, sir, many years ago.”“And he is now in Exeter gaol? Come, tell me all the particulars.”Mary told all that she knew, in a very clear and concise manner.“Now, my good girl,” said Mr Trevor, “I must see your brother. In two days I shall be down at Exeter. If you write to him, or see him before I do, you must tell him he must trust in his lawyer, and have no reservation, or I shall not be able to do him so much service. Allow me to ask you have you any relations in Yorkshire?”“No, sir, none.”“And yet the name and Christian name are exactly the same. It’s an odd coincidence! They, however, changed their name, when they came into the property.”“Changed the name of Rushbrook, sir!” said Mary, who now thought that she had a clue to Joey’s parents.“Yes, changed it to Austin; they live now in Dorsetshire. I mention it because, if interest is required for your brother, and he could prove any relationship, it might be valuable. But, bless me! what is the matter? Smithers,” cried Mr Trevor, as he ran and supported Mary, “some water! quick! the girl has fainted!”It was surprise at this astounding intelligence, her regard for Mrs Austin, and the light now thrown upon the interest she had shown for our hero, and the conviction of what must be her suffering, which had overcome the poor girl. In a short time she recovered.“I thank you, sir, but I have suffered so much anxiety about my poor brother,” said Mary, faltering, and almost gasping for breath.“He cannot be a very bad boy, since you are so fond of him,” said Mr Trevor.“No, indeed; I wish I was half as good,” murmured Mary.“I will do all I possibly can, and that immediately; indeed, as soon as I have the documents, and have perused them, I will go to your brother a day sooner than I intended. Do you feel yourself well enough to go now? If you do, my clerk shall procure you a coach. Do you stay in London? If so, you must leave your address.”Mary replied that she intended to set off to Exeter that evening by the mail, and would meet him there.Mr Trevor handed her out, put her into the coach, and she ordered the man to drive to the inn where she was stopping. Mary’s senses were quite bewildered. It was late, and the mail was to start in an hour or two. She secured her place, and during her long journey she hardly knew how time passed away. On her arrival, in the morning, she hastened to the prison. She was received kindly, as before, by the gaoler and his wife, and then attended the turnkey into Joey’s cell. As soon as the door was closed she threw herself down on the bedstead, and wept bitterly, quite heedless of our hero’s remonstrance or attempts to soothe her.“Oh! it is horrible—too horrible!” cried the almost fainting girl. “What can—what must be done! Either way, misery—disgrace! Lord, forgive me! But my head is turned. That you should be here! That you should be in this strait! Why was it not me? I—I have deserved all and more! prison, death, everything is not too bad for me; but you, my dear, dear boy!”“Mary, what is the reason of this? I cannot understand. Are matters worse than they were before?” said Joey. “And why should you talk in such a way about yourself? If you ever did wrong, you were driven to it by the conduct of others; but your reformation is all your own.”“Ah, Joey!” replied Mary; “I should think little of my repentance if I held myself absolved by a few years’ good conduct. No, no; a whole life of repentance is not sufficient for me; I must live on, ever repenting, and must die full of penitence, and imploring for pardon. But why do I talk of myself?”“What has made you thus, Mary?”“Joey, I cannot keep it a secret from you; it is useless to attempt it. I have discovered your father and mother!”“Where are they? and do they know anything of my position?”“Yes; your mother does, but not your father.”“Tell me all, Mary, and tell me quickly.”“Your father and mother are Mr and Mrs Austin.”Joey’s utterance failed him from astonishment; he stared at Mary, but he could not utter a word. Mary again wept; and Joey for some minutes remained by her side in silence.“Come, Mary,” said Joey at last, “you can now tell me everything.”Joey sat down by her side, and Mary then communicated what had passed between herself and Mrs Austin; her acknowledgement that he was her relation; the interest she took in him; the money she had lavished; her sufferings, which she had witnessed; and then she wound up with the conversation between her and Mr Trevor.“You see, my dear boy, there is no doubt of the fact. I believe I did promise Mrs Austin to say nothing to you about it; but I forgot my promise all just this minute. Now, Joey, what is to be done?”“Tell me something about my father, Mary,” said Joey; “I wish to know how he is estimated, and how he behaves in his new position.”Mary told him all she knew, which was not a great deal; he was respected; but he was a strange man, kept himself very much aloof from others and preferred seclusion.“Mary,” said Joey, “you know what were my intentions before; they are now still more fixed. I will take my chance; but I never will say one word. You already know and have guessed more than I could wish; I will not say that you are right, for it is not my secret.”“I thought as much,” replied Mary, “and I feel how much my arguments must be weakened by the disclosures I have made. Before, I only felt for you; now I feel for all. Oh, Joey! why are you, so innocent, to be punished this way, and I, so guilty, to be spared?”“It is the will of God that I should be in this strait, Mary; and now let us not renew the subject.”“But, Joey, Mr Trevor is coming here to-morrow; and he told me to tell you that you must have no reservation with your lawyer, if you wish him to be of service to you.”“You have given your message, Mary; and now you must leave me to deal with him.”“My heart is breaking,” said Mary, solemnly. “I wish I were in my grave if that wish is not wicked.”“Mary, recollect one thing;—recollect it supports me, and let it support you;—I am innocent.”“You are, I’m sure; would to Heaven that I could say the same for another! But tell me, Joey, what shall I do when I meet your mother? I loved her before; but, oh! how much I love her now! What shall I do? Shall I tell her that I have discovered all? I do not know how I can keep it from her.”“Mary, I see no objection to your telling her, but tell her also that I will not see her till after my trial; whatever my fate may be, I should like to see her after that is decided.”“I will take your message the day after to-morrow,” replied Mary; “now I must go and look out for lodgings, and then write to your mother. Bless you!”Mary quitted the cell; she had suffered so much that she could hardly gain the gaoler’s parlour, where she sat down to recover herself. She inquired of the gaoler’s wife if she could procure apartments near the prison, and the woman requested one of the turnkeys to take her to a lodging which would be suitable. As soon as Mary was located, she wrote a letter to Mrs Austin, informing her of her having seen the lawyer, and that his services were secured; and then, worn out with the anxiety and excitement of the three last days, she retired to bed, and in her sleep forgot her sufferings.
It was hardly ten o’clock on the second morning when Mary arrived at Exeter, and proceeded to the gaol. Her eyes were directed to the outside of the massive building, and her cheeks blanched when she viewed the chains and fetters over the entrance, so truly designating the purport of the structure. There were several people at the steps and in the passage, making inquiries, and demanding permission of the turnkey to visit the prisoners; and Mary had to wait some minutes before she could make her request. Her appearance was so different to the usual class of applicants, that the turnkey looked at her with some surprise.
“Whom do you wish to see?” inquired the man, for Mary’s voice had faltered.
“Joseph Rushbrook, my brother,” repeated Mary.
At this moment the head gaoler came to the wicket.
“She wishes to see her brother, young Rushbrook,” said the turnkey.
“Yes, certainly,” replied the gaoler; “walk in, and sit down in the parlour for a little while, till I can send a man with you.”
There was a gentleness and kindness of manner shown by both the men towards Mary, for they were moved with her beauty and evident distress. Mary took a seat in the gaoler’s room; the gaoler’s wife was there, and she was more than kind. The turnkey came to show her to the cell; and when Mary rose, the gaoler’s wife said to her, “After you have seen your brother, my dear child, you had better come back again, and sit down here a little while, and then, perhaps, I can be of some use to you, in letting you know what can be done, and what is not allowed.”
Mary could not speak, but she looked at the gaoler’s wife, her eyes brimming over with tears. The kind woman understood her. “Go now,” said she, “and mind you come back to me.”
The turnkey, without speaking, led her to the cell, fitted the key to the ponderous lock, pushed back the door, and remained outside. Mary entered, and in a second was in the arms of our hero, kissing him, and bedewing his cheeks with her tears.
“I was sure that you would come, Mary,” said Joey; “now sit down, and I will tell you how this has happened, while you compose yourself; you will be better able to talk to me after a while.”
They sat down on the stretchers upon which the bed had been laid during the night, their hands still clasped, and as Joey entered into a narrative of all that had passed, Mary’s sobs gradually diminished, and she was restored to something like composure.
“And what do you intend to do when you are brought to trial, my dear boy?” said Mary at last.
“I shall say nothing, except ‘Not Guilty,’ which is the truth, Mary; I shall make no defence whatever.”
“But why will you not confess the truth?” replied Mary. “I have often thought of this, and have long made up my mind, Joey, that no one could act as you do if a parent’s life were not concerned; you, or anybody else, would be mad to sacrifice himself in this way, unless it were to save a father.”
Joey’s eyes were cast down on the stone pavement; he made no reply.
“Why, then, if I am right in my supposition,” continued Mary—“I do not ask you to say yes or no on that point—why should you not tell the truth? Furness told me that your father and mother had left the village, and that he had attempted to trace them, but could not; and he expressed himself sure that they were gone to America. Why, then, supposing I am right, should you sacrifice yourself for nothing?”
“Supposing you are right, Mary,” replied Joey, with his eyes still cast down, “what proof is there that my parents have left the country? It was only the supposition of Furness, and it is my conviction that they have not. Where they may be, I know not; but I feel positive that my mother would not leave the country without having first found out where I was, and have taken me with her. No, Mary, my father and mother, if alive, are still in this country.”
“Recollect again, my dear boy, that your father may be dead.”
“And if so, my mother would have by this time found me out; she would have advertised for me—done everything—I feel that she would have—she would have returned to Grassford, and—”
“And what, Joey?”
“I must not say what, Mary,” replied our hero; “I have thought a great deal since I have been shut up here, and I have taken my resolution, which is not to be changed; so let us say no more upon the subject, dear Mary. Tell me all about yourself.”
Mary remained another hour with Joey, and then bade him farewell; she was anxious to return to Mrs Austin, and acquaint her with the result of her interview; with a heavy heart she walked away from the cell, and went down into the parlour of the gaoler.
“Would you like to take anything?” said the gaoler’s wife, after Mary had sat down.
“A little water,” replied Mary.
“And how is your brother?”
“He is innocent,” replied Mary: “he is indeed; but he won’t tell anything, and they will condemn him.”
“Well, well; but do not be afraid; he must have been very young at the time, innocent or guilty, and he won’t suffer, that I know; but he will be sent out of the country.”
“Then I will go with him,” replied Mary.
“Perhaps he will be pardoned, dear; keep your spirits up, and, if you have money, get a good lawyer.”
“Can you tell me who would be a good lawyer to apply to?”
“Yes; Mr Trevor; he is a very clever man, and comes the Western Circuit; if any one can save him, he can.”
“I will take his name down, if you please,” said Mary.
The gaoler’s wife gave Mary a piece of paper and pen and ink; Mary wrote down the name and address of Mr Trevor, and then with many thanks took her leave.
On her return to the Hall, Mary communicated to Mrs Austin what had passed. Mrs Austin perceived that Joey would not swerve from his resolution, and that all that could be done was to procure the best legal assistance.
“Mary, my poor girl,” said Mrs Austin, “here is money, which you will find necessary for your adopted brother’s assistance. You say that you have obtained the name of the best legal person to be employed in his behalf. To-morrow you must go to London, and call upon that gentleman. It may be as well not to mention my name. As his sister, you of course seek the best legal advice. You must manage all this as if from yourself.”
“I will, madam.”
“And, Mary, if you think it advisable, you can remain in town for two or three days; but pray write to me every day.”
“I will, madam.”
“Let me know your address, as I may wish to say something to you when I know what has been done.”
“I will, madam.”
“And now you had better go to bed, Mary, for you must be tired; indeed, you look very fatigued, my poor girl; I need not caution you not to say anything to any of the servants; good night.”
Mary threw herself on the bed, she was indeed worn out with anxiety and grief; at last she slept. The next morning she was on her way to town, having, in reply to the curiosity of the servants, stated that the cause of her journey was the dangerous illness of her brother.
As soon as she arrived in London, Mary drove to the chambers of the lawyer, whose direction she had obtained from the Exeter gaoler’s wife; he was at home, and after waiting a short time, she was ushered by the clerk into his presence.
“What can I do for you, young lady?” inquired Mr Trevor, with some surprise: “it is not often that the den of a lawyer has such a bright vision to cheer it. Do me the favour to take a chair.”
“I am not a young lady, sir,” replied Mary; “I have come to you to request that you will be so kind as to defend my brother, who is about to be tried.”
“Your brother! what is he charged with?”
“Murder,” replied Mary; “but indeed, sir, he is not guilty,” she continued, as she burst into tears.
Mr Trevor was not only a clever, but also a kind and considerate man. He remained silent for some minutes to allow Mary time to recover herself. When she was more composed, he said—
“What is your brother’s name?”
“Joseph Rushbrook.”
“Rushbrook! Rushbrook! I well remember that name,” remarked Mr Trevor; “strange, the Christian name also the same! it is singular certainly. The last time I was concerned for a person of that name, I was the means of his coming into a large landed property; now I am requested to defend one of the same name accused of murder.”
Mary was astonished at this observation of Mr Trevor’s, but made no reply.
“Have you the indictment? Where did the murder take place?”
“In Devonshire, sir, many years ago.”
“And he is now in Exeter gaol? Come, tell me all the particulars.”
Mary told all that she knew, in a very clear and concise manner.
“Now, my good girl,” said Mr Trevor, “I must see your brother. In two days I shall be down at Exeter. If you write to him, or see him before I do, you must tell him he must trust in his lawyer, and have no reservation, or I shall not be able to do him so much service. Allow me to ask you have you any relations in Yorkshire?”
“No, sir, none.”
“And yet the name and Christian name are exactly the same. It’s an odd coincidence! They, however, changed their name, when they came into the property.”
“Changed the name of Rushbrook, sir!” said Mary, who now thought that she had a clue to Joey’s parents.
“Yes, changed it to Austin; they live now in Dorsetshire. I mention it because, if interest is required for your brother, and he could prove any relationship, it might be valuable. But, bless me! what is the matter? Smithers,” cried Mr Trevor, as he ran and supported Mary, “some water! quick! the girl has fainted!”
It was surprise at this astounding intelligence, her regard for Mrs Austin, and the light now thrown upon the interest she had shown for our hero, and the conviction of what must be her suffering, which had overcome the poor girl. In a short time she recovered.
“I thank you, sir, but I have suffered so much anxiety about my poor brother,” said Mary, faltering, and almost gasping for breath.
“He cannot be a very bad boy, since you are so fond of him,” said Mr Trevor.
“No, indeed; I wish I was half as good,” murmured Mary.
“I will do all I possibly can, and that immediately; indeed, as soon as I have the documents, and have perused them, I will go to your brother a day sooner than I intended. Do you feel yourself well enough to go now? If you do, my clerk shall procure you a coach. Do you stay in London? If so, you must leave your address.”
Mary replied that she intended to set off to Exeter that evening by the mail, and would meet him there.
Mr Trevor handed her out, put her into the coach, and she ordered the man to drive to the inn where she was stopping. Mary’s senses were quite bewildered. It was late, and the mail was to start in an hour or two. She secured her place, and during her long journey she hardly knew how time passed away. On her arrival, in the morning, she hastened to the prison. She was received kindly, as before, by the gaoler and his wife, and then attended the turnkey into Joey’s cell. As soon as the door was closed she threw herself down on the bedstead, and wept bitterly, quite heedless of our hero’s remonstrance or attempts to soothe her.
“Oh! it is horrible—too horrible!” cried the almost fainting girl. “What can—what must be done! Either way, misery—disgrace! Lord, forgive me! But my head is turned. That you should be here! That you should be in this strait! Why was it not me? I—I have deserved all and more! prison, death, everything is not too bad for me; but you, my dear, dear boy!”
“Mary, what is the reason of this? I cannot understand. Are matters worse than they were before?” said Joey. “And why should you talk in such a way about yourself? If you ever did wrong, you were driven to it by the conduct of others; but your reformation is all your own.”
“Ah, Joey!” replied Mary; “I should think little of my repentance if I held myself absolved by a few years’ good conduct. No, no; a whole life of repentance is not sufficient for me; I must live on, ever repenting, and must die full of penitence, and imploring for pardon. But why do I talk of myself?”
“What has made you thus, Mary?”
“Joey, I cannot keep it a secret from you; it is useless to attempt it. I have discovered your father and mother!”
“Where are they? and do they know anything of my position?”
“Yes; your mother does, but not your father.”
“Tell me all, Mary, and tell me quickly.”
“Your father and mother are Mr and Mrs Austin.”
Joey’s utterance failed him from astonishment; he stared at Mary, but he could not utter a word. Mary again wept; and Joey for some minutes remained by her side in silence.
“Come, Mary,” said Joey at last, “you can now tell me everything.”
Joey sat down by her side, and Mary then communicated what had passed between herself and Mrs Austin; her acknowledgement that he was her relation; the interest she took in him; the money she had lavished; her sufferings, which she had witnessed; and then she wound up with the conversation between her and Mr Trevor.
“You see, my dear boy, there is no doubt of the fact. I believe I did promise Mrs Austin to say nothing to you about it; but I forgot my promise all just this minute. Now, Joey, what is to be done?”
“Tell me something about my father, Mary,” said Joey; “I wish to know how he is estimated, and how he behaves in his new position.”
Mary told him all she knew, which was not a great deal; he was respected; but he was a strange man, kept himself very much aloof from others and preferred seclusion.
“Mary,” said Joey, “you know what were my intentions before; they are now still more fixed. I will take my chance; but I never will say one word. You already know and have guessed more than I could wish; I will not say that you are right, for it is not my secret.”
“I thought as much,” replied Mary, “and I feel how much my arguments must be weakened by the disclosures I have made. Before, I only felt for you; now I feel for all. Oh, Joey! why are you, so innocent, to be punished this way, and I, so guilty, to be spared?”
“It is the will of God that I should be in this strait, Mary; and now let us not renew the subject.”
“But, Joey, Mr Trevor is coming here to-morrow; and he told me to tell you that you must have no reservation with your lawyer, if you wish him to be of service to you.”
“You have given your message, Mary; and now you must leave me to deal with him.”
“My heart is breaking,” said Mary, solemnly. “I wish I were in my grave if that wish is not wicked.”
“Mary, recollect one thing;—recollect it supports me, and let it support you;—I am innocent.”
“You are, I’m sure; would to Heaven that I could say the same for another! But tell me, Joey, what shall I do when I meet your mother? I loved her before; but, oh! how much I love her now! What shall I do? Shall I tell her that I have discovered all? I do not know how I can keep it from her.”
“Mary, I see no objection to your telling her, but tell her also that I will not see her till after my trial; whatever my fate may be, I should like to see her after that is decided.”
“I will take your message the day after to-morrow,” replied Mary; “now I must go and look out for lodgings, and then write to your mother. Bless you!”
Mary quitted the cell; she had suffered so much that she could hardly gain the gaoler’s parlour, where she sat down to recover herself. She inquired of the gaoler’s wife if she could procure apartments near the prison, and the woman requested one of the turnkeys to take her to a lodging which would be suitable. As soon as Mary was located, she wrote a letter to Mrs Austin, informing her of her having seen the lawyer, and that his services were secured; and then, worn out with the anxiety and excitement of the three last days, she retired to bed, and in her sleep forgot her sufferings.
Chapter Forty Six.In which our Hero makes up his Mind to be Hanged.Our hero was not sorry to be left alone; for the first time he felt the absence of Mary a relief. He was almost as much bewildered as poor Mary with the strange discovery; his father a great landed proprietor, one of the first men in the county, universally respected—in the first society! his mother, as he knew by Mary’s letters written long ago, courted and sought after, loved and admired! If he had made a resolution—a promise he might say—when a mere child that he would take the onus of the deed upon his own shoulders, to protect his father, then a poacher and in humble life, how much more was it his duty, now that his father would so feel any degradation—now that, being raised so high, his fall would be so bitter, his disgrace so deeply felt, and the stigma so doubly severe! “No, no,” thought Joey, “were I to impeach my father now—to accuse him of a deed which would bring him to the scaffold—I should not only be considered his murderer, but it would be said I had done it to inherit his possessions; I should be considered one who had sacrificed his father to obtain his property. I should be scouted, shunned, and deservedly despised; the disgrace of my father having been hanged would be a trifle compared with the reproach of a son having condemned a parent to the gallows. Now I am doubly bound to keep to my resolution; and come what may the secret shall die with me:” and Joey slept soundly that night.The next morning Mr Trevor came into his cell.“I have seen your sister, Rushbrook,” said he, “and at her request, have come to assist you, if it is in my power. She has been here since, I have been informed, and if so, I have no doubt that she has told you that you must have no secrets with your lawyer: your legal friend and adviser in this case is your true friend: he is bound in honour to secrecy, and were you to declare now that you were guilty of this murder, the very confidence would only make me more earnest in your defence. I have here all the evidence at the coroner’s inquest, and the verdict against you; tell me honestly what did take place, and then I shall know better how to convince the jury that it did not.”“You are very kind, sir; but I can say nothing even to you, except that, on my honour, I am not guilty.”“But, tell me, then, how did it happen.”“I have nothing more to say, and, with my thanks to you, sir, I will say nothing more.”“This is very strange: the evidence was strong against you, was the evidence correct?”“The parties were correct in their evidence, as it appeared to them.”“And yet you are not guilty!”“I am not; I shall plead not guilty, and leave my fate to the jury.”“Are you mad? Your sister is a sweet young woman, and has interested me greatly; but, if innocent, you are throwing away your life.”“I am doing my duty, sir; whatever you may think of my conduct, the secret dies with me.”“And for whom do you sacrifice yourself in this way, if as, you say, and as your sister declares, you are not guilty?”Joey made no reply, but sat down on the bedstead.“If the deed was not done by you, by whom was it done?” urged Mr Trevor. “If you make no reply to that, I must throw up my brief.”“You said just now,” returned Joey, “that if I declared myself guilty of the murder, you would still defend me; now, because I say I am not, and will not say who is, you must throw up your brief. Surely you are inconsistent.”“I must have your confidence, my good lad.”“You never will have more than you have now. I have not requested you to defend me. I care nothing about defence.”“Then, you wish to be hanged?”“No, I do not; but, rather than say anything, I will take my chance of it.”“This is very strange,” said Mr Trevor: after a pause, he continued, “I observe that you are supposed to have killed this man, Byres, when nobody else was present; you were known to go out with your father’s gun, and the keeper’s evidence proved that you poached. Now, as there is no evidence of intentional murder on your part, it is not impossible that the gun went off by accident, and that, mere boy as you must have been at that age, you were so frightened at what had taken place, that you absconded from fear. It appears to me that that should be our line of defence.”“I never fired at the man at all,” said Joey.“Who fired the gun, then?” asked Mr Trevor.Joey made no reply.“Rushbrook,” said Mr Trevor, “I am afraid I can be of little use to you; indeed, were it not that your sister’s tears have interested me, I would not take up your cause. I cannot understand your conduct, which appears to me to be absurd; your motives are inexplicable, and all I can believe is, that you have committed the crime, and will not divulge the secret to any one, not even to those who would befriend you.”“Think of me what you please, sir,” rejoined our hero; “see me condemned, and, if it should be so, executed; and, after allthathas taken place, believe me, when I assert to you—as I hope for salvation—I am not guilty. I thank you, sir, thank you sincerely, for the interest you have shown for me; I feel grateful, excessively grateful, and the more so for what you have said of Mary; but if you were to remain here for a month, you could gain no more from me than you have already.”“After such an avowal, it is useless my stopping here,” said Mr Trevor; “I must make what defence I can, for your sister’s sake.”“Many, many thanks, sir, for your kindness; I am really grateful to you,” replied Joey.Mr Trevor remained for a minute scanning the countenance or our hero. There was something in it so clear and bright, so unflinching, so proclaiming innocence, and high feeling, that he sighed deeply as he left the cell.His subsequent interview with Mary was short; he explained to her the difficulties arising from the obstinacy of her brother; but at the same time expressed his determination to do his best to save him.Mary, as soon as she had seen Mr Trevor, set off on her return to the Hall. As soon as she went to Mrs Austin, Mary apprised her of Mr Trevor’s having consented to act as counsel for our hero, and also of Joey’s resolute determination not to divulge the secret.“Madam,” said Mary, after some hesitation, “it is my duty to have no secret from you: and I hope you will not be angry when I tell you that I have discovered that which you would have concealed.”“What have you discovered, Mary?” asked Mrs Austin, looking at her with alarm.“That Joseph Rushbrook is your own son,” said Mary, kneeling down and kissing the hand of her mistress. “The secret is safe with me, depend upon it,” she continued.“And how have you made the discovery, Mary; for I will not attempt to deny it?”Mary then entered into a detail of her conversation with Mr Trevor. “He asked me,” said she, “as the sister of Joey, if we had any relatives, and I replied, ‘No;’ so that he has no suspicion of the fact. I beg your pardon, madam, but I could not keep it from Joey; I quite forgot my promise to you at the time.”“And what did my poor child say?”“That he would not see you until after his trial; but, when his fate was decided, he should like to see you once more. Oh, madam, what a painful sacrifice! and yet, now, I do not blame him; for it is his duty.”“My dread is not for my son, Mary; he is innocent; and that to me is everything; but if my husband was to hear of his being about to be tried, I know not what would be the consequence. If it can only be kept from his knowledge! God knows that he has suffered enough! But what am I saying? I was talking nonsense.”“Oh, madam! I know the whole; I cannot be blinded either by Joey or you. I beg your pardon, madam; but although Joey would not reply, I told him that his father did the deed. But do not answer me, madam; be silent, as your son has been: and believe me when I say that my suspicion could not be wrenched from me even by torture.”“I do trust you, Mary; and perhaps the knowledge that you have obtained is advantageous. When does the trial come on?”“The assizes commence to-morrow forenoon, madam, they say.”“Oh! how I long to have him in these arms!” exclaimed Mrs Austin.“It is indeed a sad trial to a mother, madam,” replied Mary; “but still it must not be until after he is—”“Yes; until he is condemned! God have mercy on me; Mary, you had better return to Exeter; but write to me every day. Stay by him and comfort him; and may the God of comfort listen to the prayers of an unhappy and distracted mother! Leave me now. God bless you, my dear girl! you have indeed proved a comfort. Leave me now.”
Our hero was not sorry to be left alone; for the first time he felt the absence of Mary a relief. He was almost as much bewildered as poor Mary with the strange discovery; his father a great landed proprietor, one of the first men in the county, universally respected—in the first society! his mother, as he knew by Mary’s letters written long ago, courted and sought after, loved and admired! If he had made a resolution—a promise he might say—when a mere child that he would take the onus of the deed upon his own shoulders, to protect his father, then a poacher and in humble life, how much more was it his duty, now that his father would so feel any degradation—now that, being raised so high, his fall would be so bitter, his disgrace so deeply felt, and the stigma so doubly severe! “No, no,” thought Joey, “were I to impeach my father now—to accuse him of a deed which would bring him to the scaffold—I should not only be considered his murderer, but it would be said I had done it to inherit his possessions; I should be considered one who had sacrificed his father to obtain his property. I should be scouted, shunned, and deservedly despised; the disgrace of my father having been hanged would be a trifle compared with the reproach of a son having condemned a parent to the gallows. Now I am doubly bound to keep to my resolution; and come what may the secret shall die with me:” and Joey slept soundly that night.
The next morning Mr Trevor came into his cell.
“I have seen your sister, Rushbrook,” said he, “and at her request, have come to assist you, if it is in my power. She has been here since, I have been informed, and if so, I have no doubt that she has told you that you must have no secrets with your lawyer: your legal friend and adviser in this case is your true friend: he is bound in honour to secrecy, and were you to declare now that you were guilty of this murder, the very confidence would only make me more earnest in your defence. I have here all the evidence at the coroner’s inquest, and the verdict against you; tell me honestly what did take place, and then I shall know better how to convince the jury that it did not.”
“You are very kind, sir; but I can say nothing even to you, except that, on my honour, I am not guilty.”
“But, tell me, then, how did it happen.”
“I have nothing more to say, and, with my thanks to you, sir, I will say nothing more.”
“This is very strange: the evidence was strong against you, was the evidence correct?”
“The parties were correct in their evidence, as it appeared to them.”
“And yet you are not guilty!”
“I am not; I shall plead not guilty, and leave my fate to the jury.”
“Are you mad? Your sister is a sweet young woman, and has interested me greatly; but, if innocent, you are throwing away your life.”
“I am doing my duty, sir; whatever you may think of my conduct, the secret dies with me.”
“And for whom do you sacrifice yourself in this way, if as, you say, and as your sister declares, you are not guilty?”
Joey made no reply, but sat down on the bedstead.
“If the deed was not done by you, by whom was it done?” urged Mr Trevor. “If you make no reply to that, I must throw up my brief.”
“You said just now,” returned Joey, “that if I declared myself guilty of the murder, you would still defend me; now, because I say I am not, and will not say who is, you must throw up your brief. Surely you are inconsistent.”
“I must have your confidence, my good lad.”
“You never will have more than you have now. I have not requested you to defend me. I care nothing about defence.”
“Then, you wish to be hanged?”
“No, I do not; but, rather than say anything, I will take my chance of it.”
“This is very strange,” said Mr Trevor: after a pause, he continued, “I observe that you are supposed to have killed this man, Byres, when nobody else was present; you were known to go out with your father’s gun, and the keeper’s evidence proved that you poached. Now, as there is no evidence of intentional murder on your part, it is not impossible that the gun went off by accident, and that, mere boy as you must have been at that age, you were so frightened at what had taken place, that you absconded from fear. It appears to me that that should be our line of defence.”
“I never fired at the man at all,” said Joey.
“Who fired the gun, then?” asked Mr Trevor.
Joey made no reply.
“Rushbrook,” said Mr Trevor, “I am afraid I can be of little use to you; indeed, were it not that your sister’s tears have interested me, I would not take up your cause. I cannot understand your conduct, which appears to me to be absurd; your motives are inexplicable, and all I can believe is, that you have committed the crime, and will not divulge the secret to any one, not even to those who would befriend you.”
“Think of me what you please, sir,” rejoined our hero; “see me condemned, and, if it should be so, executed; and, after allthathas taken place, believe me, when I assert to you—as I hope for salvation—I am not guilty. I thank you, sir, thank you sincerely, for the interest you have shown for me; I feel grateful, excessively grateful, and the more so for what you have said of Mary; but if you were to remain here for a month, you could gain no more from me than you have already.”
“After such an avowal, it is useless my stopping here,” said Mr Trevor; “I must make what defence I can, for your sister’s sake.”
“Many, many thanks, sir, for your kindness; I am really grateful to you,” replied Joey.
Mr Trevor remained for a minute scanning the countenance or our hero. There was something in it so clear and bright, so unflinching, so proclaiming innocence, and high feeling, that he sighed deeply as he left the cell.
His subsequent interview with Mary was short; he explained to her the difficulties arising from the obstinacy of her brother; but at the same time expressed his determination to do his best to save him.
Mary, as soon as she had seen Mr Trevor, set off on her return to the Hall. As soon as she went to Mrs Austin, Mary apprised her of Mr Trevor’s having consented to act as counsel for our hero, and also of Joey’s resolute determination not to divulge the secret.
“Madam,” said Mary, after some hesitation, “it is my duty to have no secret from you: and I hope you will not be angry when I tell you that I have discovered that which you would have concealed.”
“What have you discovered, Mary?” asked Mrs Austin, looking at her with alarm.
“That Joseph Rushbrook is your own son,” said Mary, kneeling down and kissing the hand of her mistress. “The secret is safe with me, depend upon it,” she continued.
“And how have you made the discovery, Mary; for I will not attempt to deny it?”
Mary then entered into a detail of her conversation with Mr Trevor. “He asked me,” said she, “as the sister of Joey, if we had any relatives, and I replied, ‘No;’ so that he has no suspicion of the fact. I beg your pardon, madam, but I could not keep it from Joey; I quite forgot my promise to you at the time.”
“And what did my poor child say?”
“That he would not see you until after his trial; but, when his fate was decided, he should like to see you once more. Oh, madam, what a painful sacrifice! and yet, now, I do not blame him; for it is his duty.”
“My dread is not for my son, Mary; he is innocent; and that to me is everything; but if my husband was to hear of his being about to be tried, I know not what would be the consequence. If it can only be kept from his knowledge! God knows that he has suffered enough! But what am I saying? I was talking nonsense.”
“Oh, madam! I know the whole; I cannot be blinded either by Joey or you. I beg your pardon, madam; but although Joey would not reply, I told him that his father did the deed. But do not answer me, madam; be silent, as your son has been: and believe me when I say that my suspicion could not be wrenched from me even by torture.”
“I do trust you, Mary; and perhaps the knowledge that you have obtained is advantageous. When does the trial come on?”
“The assizes commence to-morrow forenoon, madam, they say.”
“Oh! how I long to have him in these arms!” exclaimed Mrs Austin.
“It is indeed a sad trial to a mother, madam,” replied Mary; “but still it must not be until after he is—”
“Yes; until he is condemned! God have mercy on me; Mary, you had better return to Exeter; but write to me every day. Stay by him and comfort him; and may the God of comfort listen to the prayers of an unhappy and distracted mother! Leave me now. God bless you, my dear girl! you have indeed proved a comfort. Leave me now.”
Chapter Forty Seven.In which our Hero proves Game to the very Last.Mary returned to Exeter. The trial of our hero was expected to come on on the following day. She preferred being with Joey to witnessing the agony and distress of Mrs Austin, to whom she could offer no comfort; indeed, her own state of suspense was so wearing, that she almost felt relief when the day of trial came on. Mr Trevor had once more attempted to reason with Joey, but our hero continued firm in his resolution, and Mr Trevor, when he made his appearance in the court, wore upon his countenance the marks of sorrow and discontent; he did not, nevertheless, fail in his duty. Joey was brought to the bar, and his appearance was so different from that which was to be expected in one charged with the crime of murder, that strong interest was immediately excited; the spectators anticipated a low-bred ruffian, and they beheld a fair, handsome young man, with an open brow and intelligent countenance, whose eye quailed not when it met their own, and whose demeanour was bold without being offensive. True that there were traces of sorrow on his countenance, and that his cheeks were pale; but no one who had any knowledge of human nature, or any feeling of charity in his disposition, could say that there was the least appearance of guilt. The jury were empannelled, the counts of the indictment read over, and the trial commenced, and, as the indictment was preferred, the judge caught the date of the supposed offence.“What is the date?” said the judge; “the year, I mean?”Upon the reply of the clerk, his lordship observed, “Eight years ago!” and then looking at the prisoner, added, “Why, he must have been a child.”“As is too often the case,” replied the prosecuting counsel; “a child in years, but not in guilt, as we shall soon bring evidence to substantiate.”As the evidence brought forward was the same, as we have already mentioned, as given on the inquest over the body, we shall pass it over; that of Furness, as he was not to be found, was read to the court. As the trial proceeded, and as each fact came forth more condemning, people began to look with less compassion on the prisoner: they shook their heads, and compressed their lips.As soon as the evidence for the Crown was closed, Mr Trevor rose in our hero’s defence. He commenced by ridiculing the idea of trying a mere child upon so grave a charge, for a child the prisoner must have been at the time the offence was committed. “Look at him now, gentlemen of the jury; eight years ago the murder of the pedlar, Byres, took place; why, you may judge for yourselves whether he is now more than seventeen years of age; he could scarcely have held a gun at the time referred to.”“The prisoner’s age does not appear in the indictment,” observed the judge.“May we ask his age, my lord?” demanded one of the jury.“The prisoner may answer the question if he pleases,” replied the judge, “not otherwise; perhaps he may not yet be seventeen years, of age. Do you wish to state your age to the jury, prisoner?”“I have no objection, my lord,” replied Joey, not regarding the shakes of the head of his counsel: “I was twenty-two last month.”Mr Trevor bit his lips at this unfortunate regard for truth in our hero, and, after a time, proceeded, observing that the very candour of the prisoner, in not taking advantage of his youthful appearance to deceive the jury, ought to be a strong argument in his favour. Mr Trevor then continued to address the jury upon the vagueness of the evidence, and, as he proceeded, observed—“Now, gentlemen of the jury, if this case had been offered to me to give an opinion upon, I should, without any previous knowledge of the prisoner, have just come to the following conclusion—I should have said (and your intelligence and good sense will, I have no doubt, bear me out in this supposition), that, allowing that the pedlar, Byres, did receive his death by the prisoner’s hand—I say, gentlemen, thatallowingsuch to have been the case, for I deny that it is borne out by the evidence—that it must have beenthat, at the sudden meeting with the pedlar, when the lad’s conscience told him that what he was doing was wrong, that the gun of the prisoner was discharged unintentionally, and the consequence was fatal; I should then surmise, further, that the prisoner, frightened at the deed which he had unintentionally committed, had absconded upon the first impulse. That, gentlemen I believe to be the real state of the case; and what was more natural than that a child under such circumstances should have been frightened, and have attempted to evade the inquiry which must have eventually ensued?”“You state such to be your opinion, Mr Trevor; do you wish me to infer that the prisoner pleads such as his defence?” asked the judge.“My lord,” replied Mr Trevor, in a hesitating way, “the prisoner has pleaded not guilty to the crime imputed to him.”“That I am aware of, but I wish to know whether you mean to say that the prisoner’s defence is, not having anything to do with the death of the pedlar, or upon the plea of his gun going off by accident?”“My lord, it is my duty to my client to make no admission whatever.”“I should think that you would be safe enough, all circumstances considered, if you took the latter course,” observed the judge, humanely.Mr Trevor was now in a dilemma; he knew not how to move. He was fearful, if he stated positively that our hero’s gun went off by accident, that Joey would deny it; and yet if he was permitted to assert this to be the case, he saw, from the bearing of the judge, that the result of the trial would be satisfactory. It hardly need be observed that both judge, prosecuting counsel, jury, and everybody in court, were much astonished at this hesitation on the part of the prisoner’s counsel.“Do you mean to assert that the gun went off by accident, Mr Trevor?” asked the judge.“I never fired the gun, my lord,” replied Joey, in a calm steady voice.“The prisoner has answered for me,” replied Mr Trevor, recovering himself; “we are perfectly aware that by making a statement of accidental murder, we could safely have left the prisoner in the hands of an intelligent jury; but the fact is, my lord, that the prisoner never fired the gun, and therefore could not be guilty of the murder imputed to him.”Mr Trevor had felt, upon our hero’s assertion, that his case was hopeless; he roused up, however, to make a strong appeal to the jury; unfortunately, it was declamation only, not disproof of the charges, and the reply of the prosecuting counsel completely established the guilt of our hero upon what is called presumptive evidence. The jury retired for a few minutes after the summing up of the judge, and then returned a verdict against our hero of Guilty, but recommended him to mercy. Although the time to which we refer was one in which leniency was seldom extended, still there was the youth of our hero, and so much mystery in the transaction, that when the judge passed the sentence, he distinctly stated that the royal mercy would be so far extended, that the sentence would be commuted to transportation. Our hero made no reply; he bowed, and was led back to his place of confinement, and in a few minutes afterwards the arms of the weeping Mary were encircled round his neck.“You don’t blame me, Mary?” said Joey.“No, no,” sobbed Mary; “all that the world can do is nothing when we are innocent.”“I shall soon be far from here, Mary,” said Joey, sitting down on the bedstead; “but, thank Heaven! it is over.”The form of Emma Phillips rose up in our hero’s imagination, and he covered up his face with his hands.“Had it not been for her!” thought he. “What must she think of me! a convicted felon! this is the hardest of all to bear up against.”“Joey,” said Mary, who had watched him in silence and tears, “I must go now; you will see her now, will you not?”“She never will see me! she despises me already,” replied Joey.“Your mother despise her noble boy? Oh, never! How can you think so?”“I was thinking of somebody else, Mary,” replied Joey. “Yes, I wish to see my mother.”“Then I will go now; recollect what her anxiety and impatience must be. I will travel post to-night, and be there by to-morrow morning.”“Go, dear Mary, go, and God bless you! hasten to my poor mother, and tell her that I am quite—yes—quite happy and resigned. Go now, quickly.”Mary left the cell, and Joey, whose heart was breaking at the moment that he said he was happy and resigned, for he was thinking of his eternal separation from Emma, as soon as he was alone, threw himself on the bed, and gave full vent to those feelings of bitter anguish which he could no longer repress.
Mary returned to Exeter. The trial of our hero was expected to come on on the following day. She preferred being with Joey to witnessing the agony and distress of Mrs Austin, to whom she could offer no comfort; indeed, her own state of suspense was so wearing, that she almost felt relief when the day of trial came on. Mr Trevor had once more attempted to reason with Joey, but our hero continued firm in his resolution, and Mr Trevor, when he made his appearance in the court, wore upon his countenance the marks of sorrow and discontent; he did not, nevertheless, fail in his duty. Joey was brought to the bar, and his appearance was so different from that which was to be expected in one charged with the crime of murder, that strong interest was immediately excited; the spectators anticipated a low-bred ruffian, and they beheld a fair, handsome young man, with an open brow and intelligent countenance, whose eye quailed not when it met their own, and whose demeanour was bold without being offensive. True that there were traces of sorrow on his countenance, and that his cheeks were pale; but no one who had any knowledge of human nature, or any feeling of charity in his disposition, could say that there was the least appearance of guilt. The jury were empannelled, the counts of the indictment read over, and the trial commenced, and, as the indictment was preferred, the judge caught the date of the supposed offence.
“What is the date?” said the judge; “the year, I mean?”
Upon the reply of the clerk, his lordship observed, “Eight years ago!” and then looking at the prisoner, added, “Why, he must have been a child.”
“As is too often the case,” replied the prosecuting counsel; “a child in years, but not in guilt, as we shall soon bring evidence to substantiate.”
As the evidence brought forward was the same, as we have already mentioned, as given on the inquest over the body, we shall pass it over; that of Furness, as he was not to be found, was read to the court. As the trial proceeded, and as each fact came forth more condemning, people began to look with less compassion on the prisoner: they shook their heads, and compressed their lips.
As soon as the evidence for the Crown was closed, Mr Trevor rose in our hero’s defence. He commenced by ridiculing the idea of trying a mere child upon so grave a charge, for a child the prisoner must have been at the time the offence was committed. “Look at him now, gentlemen of the jury; eight years ago the murder of the pedlar, Byres, took place; why, you may judge for yourselves whether he is now more than seventeen years of age; he could scarcely have held a gun at the time referred to.”
“The prisoner’s age does not appear in the indictment,” observed the judge.
“May we ask his age, my lord?” demanded one of the jury.
“The prisoner may answer the question if he pleases,” replied the judge, “not otherwise; perhaps he may not yet be seventeen years, of age. Do you wish to state your age to the jury, prisoner?”
“I have no objection, my lord,” replied Joey, not regarding the shakes of the head of his counsel: “I was twenty-two last month.”
Mr Trevor bit his lips at this unfortunate regard for truth in our hero, and, after a time, proceeded, observing that the very candour of the prisoner, in not taking advantage of his youthful appearance to deceive the jury, ought to be a strong argument in his favour. Mr Trevor then continued to address the jury upon the vagueness of the evidence, and, as he proceeded, observed—“Now, gentlemen of the jury, if this case had been offered to me to give an opinion upon, I should, without any previous knowledge of the prisoner, have just come to the following conclusion—I should have said (and your intelligence and good sense will, I have no doubt, bear me out in this supposition), that, allowing that the pedlar, Byres, did receive his death by the prisoner’s hand—I say, gentlemen, thatallowingsuch to have been the case, for I deny that it is borne out by the evidence—that it must have beenthat, at the sudden meeting with the pedlar, when the lad’s conscience told him that what he was doing was wrong, that the gun of the prisoner was discharged unintentionally, and the consequence was fatal; I should then surmise, further, that the prisoner, frightened at the deed which he had unintentionally committed, had absconded upon the first impulse. That, gentlemen I believe to be the real state of the case; and what was more natural than that a child under such circumstances should have been frightened, and have attempted to evade the inquiry which must have eventually ensued?”
“You state such to be your opinion, Mr Trevor; do you wish me to infer that the prisoner pleads such as his defence?” asked the judge.
“My lord,” replied Mr Trevor, in a hesitating way, “the prisoner has pleaded not guilty to the crime imputed to him.”
“That I am aware of, but I wish to know whether you mean to say that the prisoner’s defence is, not having anything to do with the death of the pedlar, or upon the plea of his gun going off by accident?”
“My lord, it is my duty to my client to make no admission whatever.”
“I should think that you would be safe enough, all circumstances considered, if you took the latter course,” observed the judge, humanely.
Mr Trevor was now in a dilemma; he knew not how to move. He was fearful, if he stated positively that our hero’s gun went off by accident, that Joey would deny it; and yet if he was permitted to assert this to be the case, he saw, from the bearing of the judge, that the result of the trial would be satisfactory. It hardly need be observed that both judge, prosecuting counsel, jury, and everybody in court, were much astonished at this hesitation on the part of the prisoner’s counsel.
“Do you mean to assert that the gun went off by accident, Mr Trevor?” asked the judge.
“I never fired the gun, my lord,” replied Joey, in a calm steady voice.
“The prisoner has answered for me,” replied Mr Trevor, recovering himself; “we are perfectly aware that by making a statement of accidental murder, we could safely have left the prisoner in the hands of an intelligent jury; but the fact is, my lord, that the prisoner never fired the gun, and therefore could not be guilty of the murder imputed to him.”
Mr Trevor had felt, upon our hero’s assertion, that his case was hopeless; he roused up, however, to make a strong appeal to the jury; unfortunately, it was declamation only, not disproof of the charges, and the reply of the prosecuting counsel completely established the guilt of our hero upon what is called presumptive evidence. The jury retired for a few minutes after the summing up of the judge, and then returned a verdict against our hero of Guilty, but recommended him to mercy. Although the time to which we refer was one in which leniency was seldom extended, still there was the youth of our hero, and so much mystery in the transaction, that when the judge passed the sentence, he distinctly stated that the royal mercy would be so far extended, that the sentence would be commuted to transportation. Our hero made no reply; he bowed, and was led back to his place of confinement, and in a few minutes afterwards the arms of the weeping Mary were encircled round his neck.
“You don’t blame me, Mary?” said Joey.
“No, no,” sobbed Mary; “all that the world can do is nothing when we are innocent.”
“I shall soon be far from here, Mary,” said Joey, sitting down on the bedstead; “but, thank Heaven! it is over.”
The form of Emma Phillips rose up in our hero’s imagination, and he covered up his face with his hands.
“Had it not been for her!” thought he. “What must she think of me! a convicted felon! this is the hardest of all to bear up against.”
“Joey,” said Mary, who had watched him in silence and tears, “I must go now; you will see her now, will you not?”
“She never will see me! she despises me already,” replied Joey.
“Your mother despise her noble boy? Oh, never! How can you think so?”
“I was thinking of somebody else, Mary,” replied Joey. “Yes, I wish to see my mother.”
“Then I will go now; recollect what her anxiety and impatience must be. I will travel post to-night, and be there by to-morrow morning.”
“Go, dear Mary, go, and God bless you! hasten to my poor mother, and tell her that I am quite—yes—quite happy and resigned. Go now, quickly.”
Mary left the cell, and Joey, whose heart was breaking at the moment that he said he was happy and resigned, for he was thinking of his eternal separation from Emma, as soon as he was alone, threw himself on the bed, and gave full vent to those feelings of bitter anguish which he could no longer repress.