Chapter Sixteen.Return to England.The remainder of the journey was completed without any further adventure, and they at last found themselves out of the Russian dominions, when they were met by the uncle of the princess, who, as a Pole, was not sorry that his niece had escaped from being wedded to a Russian. He warmly greeted O’Donahue, as his connection, and immediately exerted all the interest which he had at the court to pacify the emperor. When the affair first became known, which it soon did, by the princess not returning to court, his Majesty was anything but pleased at being outwitted; but the persuasions of the empress, the pleading of the English ambassador, who exerted himself strenuously for O’Donahue, with the efforts made in other quarters, and more than all, the letter of O’Donahue, proving that the emperor had given his consent (unwittingly, it is true), coupled with his wish to enter into his service, at last produced the desired effect, and after two months a notice of their pardon and permission to return was at last despatched by the empress. O’Donahue considered that it was best to take immediate advantage of this turn in his favour, and retrace his way to the capital. McShane, who had been quite long enough in the situation of a domestic, now announced his intention to return home; and O’Donahue, aware that he was separating him from his wife, did not, of course, throw any obstacle in the way of his departure. Our little hero, who has lately become such a cipher in our narrative, was now the subject of consideration. O’Donahue wished him to remain with him, but McShane opposed it.“I tell you, O’Donahue, that it’s no kindness to keep him here; the boy is too good to be a page at a lady’s shoestring, or even a servant to so great a man as you are yourself now: besides, how will he like being buried here in a foreign country, and never go back to old England?”“But what will he do better in England, McShane?”“Depend upon it, major,” said the princess, for she was now aware of McShane’s rank, “I will treat him like a son.”“Still he will be a servant, my lady, and that’s not the position—although, begging your pardon, an emperor might be proud to be your servant; yet that’s not the position for little Joey.”“Prove that you will do better for him, McShane, and he is yours: but without you do, I am too partial to him to like to part with him. His conduct on the journey—”“Yes, exactly, his conduct on the journey, when the wolves would have shared us out between them, is one great reason for my objection. He is too good for a menial, and that’s the fact. You ask me what I intend to do with him; it is not so easy to answer that question, because you see, my lady, there’s a certain Mrs McShane in the way, who must be consulted; but I think that when I tell her, what I consider to be as near the truth as most things which are said in this world, that if it had not been for the courage and activity of little Joey, a certain Major McShane would have been by this time eaten and digested by a pack of wolves, why, I then think, as Mrs McShane and I have no child, nor prospect of any, as I know of, that she may be well inclined to come into my way of thinking, and of adopting him as her own son; but, of course, this cannot be said without my consulting with Mrs McShane, seeing as how the money is her own, and she has a right to do as she pleases with it.”“That, indeed, alters the case,” replied O’Donahue, “and I must not stand in the way of the boy’s interest; still I should like to do something for him.”“You have done something for him, O’Donahue; you have prevented his starving; and if he has been of any use to you, it is but your reward—so you and he are quits. Well, then, it is agreed that I take him with me?”“Yes,” replied O’Donahue. “I cannot refuse my consent after what you have said.”Two days after this conversation the parties separated: O’Donahue, with his wife, accompanied by Dimitri, set off on their return to Saint Petersburg; while McShane, who had provided himself with a proper passport, got into the diligence, accompanied by little Joey, on his way back to England.
The remainder of the journey was completed without any further adventure, and they at last found themselves out of the Russian dominions, when they were met by the uncle of the princess, who, as a Pole, was not sorry that his niece had escaped from being wedded to a Russian. He warmly greeted O’Donahue, as his connection, and immediately exerted all the interest which he had at the court to pacify the emperor. When the affair first became known, which it soon did, by the princess not returning to court, his Majesty was anything but pleased at being outwitted; but the persuasions of the empress, the pleading of the English ambassador, who exerted himself strenuously for O’Donahue, with the efforts made in other quarters, and more than all, the letter of O’Donahue, proving that the emperor had given his consent (unwittingly, it is true), coupled with his wish to enter into his service, at last produced the desired effect, and after two months a notice of their pardon and permission to return was at last despatched by the empress. O’Donahue considered that it was best to take immediate advantage of this turn in his favour, and retrace his way to the capital. McShane, who had been quite long enough in the situation of a domestic, now announced his intention to return home; and O’Donahue, aware that he was separating him from his wife, did not, of course, throw any obstacle in the way of his departure. Our little hero, who has lately become such a cipher in our narrative, was now the subject of consideration. O’Donahue wished him to remain with him, but McShane opposed it.
“I tell you, O’Donahue, that it’s no kindness to keep him here; the boy is too good to be a page at a lady’s shoestring, or even a servant to so great a man as you are yourself now: besides, how will he like being buried here in a foreign country, and never go back to old England?”
“But what will he do better in England, McShane?”
“Depend upon it, major,” said the princess, for she was now aware of McShane’s rank, “I will treat him like a son.”
“Still he will be a servant, my lady, and that’s not the position—although, begging your pardon, an emperor might be proud to be your servant; yet that’s not the position for little Joey.”
“Prove that you will do better for him, McShane, and he is yours: but without you do, I am too partial to him to like to part with him. His conduct on the journey—”
“Yes, exactly, his conduct on the journey, when the wolves would have shared us out between them, is one great reason for my objection. He is too good for a menial, and that’s the fact. You ask me what I intend to do with him; it is not so easy to answer that question, because you see, my lady, there’s a certain Mrs McShane in the way, who must be consulted; but I think that when I tell her, what I consider to be as near the truth as most things which are said in this world, that if it had not been for the courage and activity of little Joey, a certain Major McShane would have been by this time eaten and digested by a pack of wolves, why, I then think, as Mrs McShane and I have no child, nor prospect of any, as I know of, that she may be well inclined to come into my way of thinking, and of adopting him as her own son; but, of course, this cannot be said without my consulting with Mrs McShane, seeing as how the money is her own, and she has a right to do as she pleases with it.”
“That, indeed, alters the case,” replied O’Donahue, “and I must not stand in the way of the boy’s interest; still I should like to do something for him.”
“You have done something for him, O’Donahue; you have prevented his starving; and if he has been of any use to you, it is but your reward—so you and he are quits. Well, then, it is agreed that I take him with me?”
“Yes,” replied O’Donahue. “I cannot refuse my consent after what you have said.”
Two days after this conversation the parties separated: O’Donahue, with his wife, accompanied by Dimitri, set off on their return to Saint Petersburg; while McShane, who had provided himself with a proper passport, got into the diligence, accompanied by little Joey, on his way back to England.
Chapter Seventeen.The Day after the Murder.We must now return to the village of Grassford, and the cottage in which we left Rushbrook and his wife, who had been raised up from the floor, by her husband, and, having now recovered from her swoon, was crying bitterly for the loss of her son, and the dread of her husband’s crime being discovered. For some time Rushbrook remained in silence, looking at the embers in the grate: Mum sometimes would look piteously in his master’s face, at other times he would slowly approach the weeping woman. The intelligence of the animal told him that something was wrong. Finding himself unnoticed, he would then go to the door by which Joey had quitted, snuff at the crevice, and return to his master’s side.“I’m glad that he’s off,” at last muttered Rushbrook; “he’s a fine boy, that.”“Yes, he is,” replied Jane; “but when shall I behold him again?”“By-and-bye, never fear, wife. We must not stay in this place, provided this affair blows over.”“If it does, indeed!”“Come, come, Jane, we have every reason to hope it will; now, let’s go to bed; it would not do, if any one should happen to have been near the spot, and to have found out what has taken place, for us to be discovered not to have been in bed all night, or even for a light to be seen at the cottage by any early riser. Come, Jane, let’s to bed.”Rushbrook and his wife retired, the light was extinguished, and all was quiet, except conscience, which still tormented and kept Rushbrook turning to the right and left continually. Jane slept not: she listened to the wind; the slightest noise—the crowing of the cock—startled her, and soon footsteps were heard of those passing the windows. They could remain in bed no longer. Jane arose, dressed, and lighted the fire: Rushbrook remained sitting on the side of the bed in deep thought.“I’ve been thinking, Jane,” said he, at last, “it would be better to make away with Mum.”“With the dog? Why, it can’t speak, poor thing. No—no—don’t kill the poor dog.”“He can’t speak, but the dog has sense; he may lead them to the spot.”“And if he were to do so, what then? it would prove nothing.”“No! only it would go harder against Joey.”“Against the boy! yes, it might convince them that Joey did the deed; but still, the very killing of the animal would look suspicious: tie him up, Rushbrook; that will do as well.”“Perhaps better,” replied he; “tie him up in the back-kitchen, there’s a good woman.”Jane did so, and then commenced preparing the breakfast; they had taken their seats, when the latch of the door was lifted up, and Furness, the schoolmaster, looked in. This he was often in the habit of doing, to call Joey out to accompany him to school.“Good morning,” said he; “now, where’s my friend Joey?”“Come in, come in, neighbour, and shut the door,” said Rushbrook; “I wish to speak to you. Mayhap you’ll take a cup of tea; if so, my missus will give you a good one.”“Well, as Mrs Rushbrook does make everything so good, I don’t care if I do, although I have had breakfast. But where’s my friend Joey? the lazy little dog; is he not up yet? Why Mrs Rushbrook, what’s the matter? you look distressed.”“I am, indeed,” replied Jane, putting her apron to her eyes.“Why, Mrs Rushbrook, what is it?” inquired the pedagogue.“Just this; we are in great trouble about Joey. When we got up this morning we found that he was not in bed, and he has never been home since.”“Well, that is queer; why, where can the young scamp be gone to?”“We don’t know; but we find that he took my gun with him, and I’m afraid—” and here Rushbrook paused, shaking his head.“Afraid of what?”“That he has gone poaching, and has been taken by the keepers.”“But did he ever do so before?”“Not by night, if he did by day. I can’t tell; he always has had a hankering that way.”“Well, they do whisper the same of you, neighbour. Why do you keep a gun?”“I’ve carried a gun all my life,” replied Rushbrook, “and I don’t choose to be without one: but that’s not to the purpose; the question is, what would you advise us to do?”“Why, you see, friend Rushbrook,” replied the schoolmaster, “advice in this question becomes rather difficult. If Joey has been poaching, as you imagine, and has been taken up, as you suspect, why, then, you will soon hear of it: you, of course, have had no hand in it?”“Hand in it—hand in what?” replied Rushbrook. “Do you think we trust a child like him with a gun?”“I should think not; and therefore it is evident that he has acted without the concurrence of his parents. That will acquit you; but still, it will not help Joey; neither do I think you will be able to recover the gun, which I anticipate will become a deodand to the lord of the manor.”“But, the child—what will become of him?” exclaimed Jane.“What will become of him?—why, as he is of tender years, they will not transport him—at least, I should think not; they may imprison him for a few months, and order him to be privately whipped. I do not see what you can do but remain quiet. I should recommend you not to say one syllable about it until you hear more.”“But suppose we do not hear?”“That is to suppose that he did not go out with the gun to poach, but upon some other expedition.”“What else could the boy have gone out for?” said Rushbrook, hastily.“Very true; it is not very likely that he went out to commit murder,” replied the pedagogue.At the word “murder” Rushbrook started from his chair; but, recollecting himself, he sat down again.“No, no, Joey commit murder!” cried he. “Ha, ha, ha—no, no, Joey is no murderer.”“I should suspect not. Well, Master Rushbrook, I will dismiss my scholars this morning, and make every inquiry for you. Byres will be able to ascertain very soon, for he knows the new keeper at the manor house.”“Byres help you, did you say? No, no, Byres never will,” replied Rushbrook, solemnly.“And why not, my friend?”“Why,” replied Rushbrook, recollecting himself, “he has not been over cordial with me lately.”“Nevertheless, depend upon it, he will if he can,” replied Furness; “if not for you, he will for me. Good morning, Mrs Rushbrook, I will hasten away now; but will you not go with me?” continued Furness, appealing to Rushbrook.“I will go another way; it’s no use both going the same road.”“Very true,” replied the pedagogue, who had his reasons for not wishing the company of Rushbrook, and Furness then left the house.Mr Furness found all his boys assembled in the school-room, very busily employed thumbing their books; he ordered silence, and informed them that in consequence of Joey being missing, he was going to assist his father to look after him: and therefore they would have a holiday for that day. He then ranged them all in a row, made them turn to the right face, clap their hands simultaneously, and disperse.Although Mr Furness had advised secrecy to the Rushbrooks, he did not follow the advice he had given; indeed, his reason for not having wished Rushbrook to be with him was, that he might have an opportunity of communicating his secret through the village, which he did by calling at every cottage, and informing the women who were left at home, that Joey Rushbrook had disappeared last night, with his father’s gun, and that he was about to go in quest of him. Some nodded and smiled, others shook their heads, some were not at all surprised at it, others thought that things could not go on so for ever.Mr Furness having collected all their various opinions, then set off to the ale-house, to find Byres the pedlar. When he arrived, he found that Byres had not come home that night, and where he was nobody knew, which was more strange, as his box was up in his bed-chamber. Mr Furness returned to the village intending to communicate this information to Rushbrook, but on calling, he found that Rushbrook had gone out in search of the boy. Furness then resolved to go up at once to the keeper’s lodge, and solve the mystery. He took the high road, and met Rushbrook returning.“Well, have you gained any tidings,” inquired the pedagogue.“None,” replied Rushbrook.“Then it’s my opinion, my worthy friend, that we had better at once proceed to the keeper’s cottage and make inquiry; for, strange to say, I have been to the ale-house, and my friend Byres is also missing.”“Indeed!” exclaimed Rushbrook, who had now completely recovered his self-possession. “Be it so, then; let us go to the keeper’s.”They soon arrived there, and found the keeper at home, for he had returned to his dinner. Rushbrook, who had been cogitating how to proceed, was the first to speak.“You haven’t taken my poor Joey, have you, sir?” said he to the keeper.“Not yet,” replied the keeper, surlily.“You don’t mean to say that you know nothing about him?” replied Rushbrook.“Yes, I know something about him and about you too, my chap,” replied the keeper.“But, Mr Lucas,” interrupted the pedagogue, “allow me to put you in possession of the facts. It appears that this boy—a boy of great natural parts, and who has been for some time under my tuition, did last night, but at what hour is unknown to his disconsolate parents, leave the cottage, taking with him his father’s gun, and has not been heard of since.”“Well, I only hope he’s shot himself, that’s all,” replied the keeper. “So you have a gun, then, have you, my honest chap?” continued he, turning to Rushbrook.“Which,” replied Furness, “as I have informed him already, will certainly be forfeited as a deodand to the lord of the manor; but, Mr Lucas, this is not all; our mutual friend, Byres, the pedlar, is also missing, having left the Cat and Fiddle last night, and not having been heard of since.”“Indeed! that makes out a different case, and must be inquired into immediately. I think you were not the best of friends, were you?” said the keeper, looking at Rushbrook; and then he continued, “Come, Mary, give me my dinner, quick, and run up as fast as you can for Dick and Martin: tell them to come down with their retrievers only. Never fear, Mr Furness, we will soon find it out. Never fear, my chap, we’ll find your son also, and your gun to boot. You may hear more than you think for.”“All I want to know,” replied Rushbrook, fiercely, for his choler was raised by the sneers of the keeper, “is, where my boy may be.” So saying, he quitted the cottage, leaving the schoolmaster with the keeper.As Rushbrook returned home, he revolved in his mind what had passed, and decided that nothing could be more favourable for himself, however it might turn out for Joey. This conviction quieted his fears, and when the neighbours came in to talk with him, he was very cool and collected in his replies. In the meantime the keeper made a hasty meal, and, with his subordinates and the dogs, set off to the covers, which they beat till dark without success. The gun, however, which Joey had thrown down in the ditch, had been picked up by one of the labourers returning from his work, and taken by him to the ale-house. None could identify the gun, as Rushbrook had never permitted it to be seen. Lucas, the keeper, came in about an hour after dusk, and immediately took possession of it.Such were the events of the first day after Joey’s departure. Notwithstanding that the snow fell fast, the Cat and Fiddle was, as it may be supposed, unusually crowded on that night. Various were the surmises as to the disappearance of the pedlar and of little Joey. The keeper openly expressed his opinion that there was foul play somewhere, and it was not until near midnight that the ale-house was deserted, and the doors closed.Rushbrook and his wife went to bed; tired with watching and excitement, they found oblivion for a few hours in a restless and unrefreshing sleep.
We must now return to the village of Grassford, and the cottage in which we left Rushbrook and his wife, who had been raised up from the floor, by her husband, and, having now recovered from her swoon, was crying bitterly for the loss of her son, and the dread of her husband’s crime being discovered. For some time Rushbrook remained in silence, looking at the embers in the grate: Mum sometimes would look piteously in his master’s face, at other times he would slowly approach the weeping woman. The intelligence of the animal told him that something was wrong. Finding himself unnoticed, he would then go to the door by which Joey had quitted, snuff at the crevice, and return to his master’s side.
“I’m glad that he’s off,” at last muttered Rushbrook; “he’s a fine boy, that.”
“Yes, he is,” replied Jane; “but when shall I behold him again?”
“By-and-bye, never fear, wife. We must not stay in this place, provided this affair blows over.”
“If it does, indeed!”
“Come, come, Jane, we have every reason to hope it will; now, let’s go to bed; it would not do, if any one should happen to have been near the spot, and to have found out what has taken place, for us to be discovered not to have been in bed all night, or even for a light to be seen at the cottage by any early riser. Come, Jane, let’s to bed.”
Rushbrook and his wife retired, the light was extinguished, and all was quiet, except conscience, which still tormented and kept Rushbrook turning to the right and left continually. Jane slept not: she listened to the wind; the slightest noise—the crowing of the cock—startled her, and soon footsteps were heard of those passing the windows. They could remain in bed no longer. Jane arose, dressed, and lighted the fire: Rushbrook remained sitting on the side of the bed in deep thought.
“I’ve been thinking, Jane,” said he, at last, “it would be better to make away with Mum.”
“With the dog? Why, it can’t speak, poor thing. No—no—don’t kill the poor dog.”
“He can’t speak, but the dog has sense; he may lead them to the spot.”
“And if he were to do so, what then? it would prove nothing.”
“No! only it would go harder against Joey.”
“Against the boy! yes, it might convince them that Joey did the deed; but still, the very killing of the animal would look suspicious: tie him up, Rushbrook; that will do as well.”
“Perhaps better,” replied he; “tie him up in the back-kitchen, there’s a good woman.”
Jane did so, and then commenced preparing the breakfast; they had taken their seats, when the latch of the door was lifted up, and Furness, the schoolmaster, looked in. This he was often in the habit of doing, to call Joey out to accompany him to school.
“Good morning,” said he; “now, where’s my friend Joey?”
“Come in, come in, neighbour, and shut the door,” said Rushbrook; “I wish to speak to you. Mayhap you’ll take a cup of tea; if so, my missus will give you a good one.”
“Well, as Mrs Rushbrook does make everything so good, I don’t care if I do, although I have had breakfast. But where’s my friend Joey? the lazy little dog; is he not up yet? Why Mrs Rushbrook, what’s the matter? you look distressed.”
“I am, indeed,” replied Jane, putting her apron to her eyes.
“Why, Mrs Rushbrook, what is it?” inquired the pedagogue.
“Just this; we are in great trouble about Joey. When we got up this morning we found that he was not in bed, and he has never been home since.”
“Well, that is queer; why, where can the young scamp be gone to?”
“We don’t know; but we find that he took my gun with him, and I’m afraid—” and here Rushbrook paused, shaking his head.
“Afraid of what?”
“That he has gone poaching, and has been taken by the keepers.”
“But did he ever do so before?”
“Not by night, if he did by day. I can’t tell; he always has had a hankering that way.”
“Well, they do whisper the same of you, neighbour. Why do you keep a gun?”
“I’ve carried a gun all my life,” replied Rushbrook, “and I don’t choose to be without one: but that’s not to the purpose; the question is, what would you advise us to do?”
“Why, you see, friend Rushbrook,” replied the schoolmaster, “advice in this question becomes rather difficult. If Joey has been poaching, as you imagine, and has been taken up, as you suspect, why, then, you will soon hear of it: you, of course, have had no hand in it?”
“Hand in it—hand in what?” replied Rushbrook. “Do you think we trust a child like him with a gun?”
“I should think not; and therefore it is evident that he has acted without the concurrence of his parents. That will acquit you; but still, it will not help Joey; neither do I think you will be able to recover the gun, which I anticipate will become a deodand to the lord of the manor.”
“But, the child—what will become of him?” exclaimed Jane.
“What will become of him?—why, as he is of tender years, they will not transport him—at least, I should think not; they may imprison him for a few months, and order him to be privately whipped. I do not see what you can do but remain quiet. I should recommend you not to say one syllable about it until you hear more.”
“But suppose we do not hear?”
“That is to suppose that he did not go out with the gun to poach, but upon some other expedition.”
“What else could the boy have gone out for?” said Rushbrook, hastily.
“Very true; it is not very likely that he went out to commit murder,” replied the pedagogue.
At the word “murder” Rushbrook started from his chair; but, recollecting himself, he sat down again.
“No, no, Joey commit murder!” cried he. “Ha, ha, ha—no, no, Joey is no murderer.”
“I should suspect not. Well, Master Rushbrook, I will dismiss my scholars this morning, and make every inquiry for you. Byres will be able to ascertain very soon, for he knows the new keeper at the manor house.”
“Byres help you, did you say? No, no, Byres never will,” replied Rushbrook, solemnly.
“And why not, my friend?”
“Why,” replied Rushbrook, recollecting himself, “he has not been over cordial with me lately.”
“Nevertheless, depend upon it, he will if he can,” replied Furness; “if not for you, he will for me. Good morning, Mrs Rushbrook, I will hasten away now; but will you not go with me?” continued Furness, appealing to Rushbrook.
“I will go another way; it’s no use both going the same road.”
“Very true,” replied the pedagogue, who had his reasons for not wishing the company of Rushbrook, and Furness then left the house.
Mr Furness found all his boys assembled in the school-room, very busily employed thumbing their books; he ordered silence, and informed them that in consequence of Joey being missing, he was going to assist his father to look after him: and therefore they would have a holiday for that day. He then ranged them all in a row, made them turn to the right face, clap their hands simultaneously, and disperse.
Although Mr Furness had advised secrecy to the Rushbrooks, he did not follow the advice he had given; indeed, his reason for not having wished Rushbrook to be with him was, that he might have an opportunity of communicating his secret through the village, which he did by calling at every cottage, and informing the women who were left at home, that Joey Rushbrook had disappeared last night, with his father’s gun, and that he was about to go in quest of him. Some nodded and smiled, others shook their heads, some were not at all surprised at it, others thought that things could not go on so for ever.
Mr Furness having collected all their various opinions, then set off to the ale-house, to find Byres the pedlar. When he arrived, he found that Byres had not come home that night, and where he was nobody knew, which was more strange, as his box was up in his bed-chamber. Mr Furness returned to the village intending to communicate this information to Rushbrook, but on calling, he found that Rushbrook had gone out in search of the boy. Furness then resolved to go up at once to the keeper’s lodge, and solve the mystery. He took the high road, and met Rushbrook returning.
“Well, have you gained any tidings,” inquired the pedagogue.
“None,” replied Rushbrook.
“Then it’s my opinion, my worthy friend, that we had better at once proceed to the keeper’s cottage and make inquiry; for, strange to say, I have been to the ale-house, and my friend Byres is also missing.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Rushbrook, who had now completely recovered his self-possession. “Be it so, then; let us go to the keeper’s.”
They soon arrived there, and found the keeper at home, for he had returned to his dinner. Rushbrook, who had been cogitating how to proceed, was the first to speak.
“You haven’t taken my poor Joey, have you, sir?” said he to the keeper.
“Not yet,” replied the keeper, surlily.
“You don’t mean to say that you know nothing about him?” replied Rushbrook.
“Yes, I know something about him and about you too, my chap,” replied the keeper.
“But, Mr Lucas,” interrupted the pedagogue, “allow me to put you in possession of the facts. It appears that this boy—a boy of great natural parts, and who has been for some time under my tuition, did last night, but at what hour is unknown to his disconsolate parents, leave the cottage, taking with him his father’s gun, and has not been heard of since.”
“Well, I only hope he’s shot himself, that’s all,” replied the keeper. “So you have a gun, then, have you, my honest chap?” continued he, turning to Rushbrook.
“Which,” replied Furness, “as I have informed him already, will certainly be forfeited as a deodand to the lord of the manor; but, Mr Lucas, this is not all; our mutual friend, Byres, the pedlar, is also missing, having left the Cat and Fiddle last night, and not having been heard of since.”
“Indeed! that makes out a different case, and must be inquired into immediately. I think you were not the best of friends, were you?” said the keeper, looking at Rushbrook; and then he continued, “Come, Mary, give me my dinner, quick, and run up as fast as you can for Dick and Martin: tell them to come down with their retrievers only. Never fear, Mr Furness, we will soon find it out. Never fear, my chap, we’ll find your son also, and your gun to boot. You may hear more than you think for.”
“All I want to know,” replied Rushbrook, fiercely, for his choler was raised by the sneers of the keeper, “is, where my boy may be.” So saying, he quitted the cottage, leaving the schoolmaster with the keeper.
As Rushbrook returned home, he revolved in his mind what had passed, and decided that nothing could be more favourable for himself, however it might turn out for Joey. This conviction quieted his fears, and when the neighbours came in to talk with him, he was very cool and collected in his replies. In the meantime the keeper made a hasty meal, and, with his subordinates and the dogs, set off to the covers, which they beat till dark without success. The gun, however, which Joey had thrown down in the ditch, had been picked up by one of the labourers returning from his work, and taken by him to the ale-house. None could identify the gun, as Rushbrook had never permitted it to be seen. Lucas, the keeper, came in about an hour after dusk, and immediately took possession of it.
Such were the events of the first day after Joey’s departure. Notwithstanding that the snow fell fast, the Cat and Fiddle was, as it may be supposed, unusually crowded on that night. Various were the surmises as to the disappearance of the pedlar and of little Joey. The keeper openly expressed his opinion that there was foul play somewhere, and it was not until near midnight that the ale-house was deserted, and the doors closed.
Rushbrook and his wife went to bed; tired with watching and excitement, they found oblivion for a few hours in a restless and unrefreshing sleep.
Chapter Eighteen.A Coroner’s Inquest.Day had scarcely dawned when the keeper and his satellites were again on the search. The snow had covered the ground for three or four inches, and, as the covers had been well examined on the preceding day, they now left them and went on in the direction towards where the gun had been picked up. This brought them direct to the furze bottom, where the dogs appeared to quicken their movements, and when the keepers came up with them again, they found them lying down by the frozen and stiffened corpse of the pedlar.“Murder, as I expected,” said Lucas, as they lifted up the body, and scraped off the snow which covered it; “right through his heart, poor fellow; who would have expected this from such a little varmint? Look about, my lads, and see if we can find anything else. What is Nap scratching at?—a bag—take it up, Martin. Dick, do you go for some people to take the body to the Cat and Fiddle, while we see if we can find anything more.”In a quarter of an hour the people arrived, the body was carried away, while the keeper went off in all haste to the authorities.Furness, the schoolmaster, as soon as he had obtained the information, hastened to Rushbrook’s cottage, that he might be the first to convey the intelligence. Rushbrook, however, from the back of the cottage, had perceived the people carrying in the body, and was prepared.“My good people, I am much distressed, but it must be told; believe me, I feel for you—your son, my pupil, has murdered the pedlar.”“Impossible!” cried Rushbrook.“It is but too true; I cannot imagine how a boy, brought up under my tuition—nay, Mrs Rushbrook, don’t cry—brought up, I may say, with such strict notions of morality, promising so fairly, blossoming so sweetly—”“He never murdered the pedlar!” cried Jane, whose face was buried in her apron.“Who then could have?” replied Furness.“He never shot him intentionally, I’ll swear,” said Rushbrook; “if the pedlar has come to his death, it must have been by some accident. I suppose the gun went off somehow or other; yes, that must be it: and my poor boy, frightened at what had taken place, has run away.”“Well,” replied the schoolmaster, “such may have been the case; and I do certainly feel as if it were impossible that a boy like Joey, brought up by me, grounded in every moral duty—I may add, religiously and piously instructed—could ever commit such a horrible crime.”“Indeed, he never did,” replied Jane; “I am sure he never would do such a thing.”“Well, I must wish you good-bye now, my poor people; I will go down to the Cat and Fiddle, and hear what they say,” cried the pedagogue, quitting the cottage.“Jane, be careful,” said Rushbrook; “our great point now is to say nothing. I wish that man would not come here.”“Oh, Rushbrook!” cried Jane, “what would I give if we could live these last three days over again.”“Then imagine, Jane, what I would give!” replied Rushbrook, striking his forehead; “and now say no more about it.”At twelve o’clock the next day the magistrates met, and the coroner’s inquest was held upon the body of the pedlar. On examination of the body, it was ascertained that a charge of small shot had passed directly through the heart, so as to occasion immediate death; that the murder had not been committed with the view of robbing, it was evident, as the pedlar’s purse, watch, and various other articles were found upon his person.The first person examined was a man of the name of Green, who had found the gun in the ditch. The gun was produced, and he deposed to its being the one which he had picked up, and given into the possession of the keeper; but no one could say to whom the gun might belong.The next party who gave his evidence was Lucas, the game-keeper. He deposed that he knew the pedlar, Byres, and that being anxious to prevent poaching, he had offered him a good sum if he would assist him in convicting any poacher; that Byres had then confessed to him that he had often received game from Rushbrook, the father of the boy, and still continued to do so, but Rushbrook had treated him ill, and he was determined to be revenged upon him, and get him sent out of the country; that Byres had informed him on the Saturday night before the murder was committed, that Rushbrook was to be out on Monday night to procure game for him, and that if he looked out sharp he was certain to be taken. Byres had also informed him that he had never yet found out when Rushbrook left his cottage or returned, although he had been tracking the boy, Joey. As the boy was missing on Monday morning, and Byres did not return to the ale-house, after he went out on Saturday night, he presumed that it was on the Sunday night that the pedlar was murdered.The keeper then farther deposed as to the finding of the body, and also of a bag by the side of it; that the bag had evidently been used for putting game in, not only from the smell, but from the feathers of the birds which were still remaining inside of it.The evidence as to the finding of the body and the bag was corroborated by that of Martin and Dick, the underkeepers.Mr Furness then made his appearance to give voluntary evidence, notwithstanding his great regard expressed for the Rushbrooks. He deposed that, calling at the cottage, on Monday morning, for his pupil, he found the father and mother in great distress at the disappearance of their son, whom they stated to have left the cottage some time during the night, and to have taken away his father’s gun with him, and that their son had not since returned; that he pointed out to Rushbrook the impropriety of his having a gun, and that Rushbrook had replied that he had carried one all his life, and did not choose to be without one; that they told him they supposed that he had gone out to poach, and was taken by the keepers, and had requested him to go and ascertain if such was the fact. Mr Furness added that he really imagined that to be the case now that he saw the bag, which he recognised as having been once brought to him by little Joey with some potatoes, which his parents had made him a present of; that he could swear to the bag, and so could several others as well as himself. Mr Furness then commenced a long flourish about his system of instruction, in which he was stopped by the coroner, who said that it had nothing to do with the business.It was then suggested that Rushbrook and his wife should be examined. There was a demur at the idea of the father and mother giving evidence against their child, but it was over-ruled, and in ten minutes they both made their appearance.Mrs Rushbrook, who had been counselled by her husband, was the first examined; but she would not answer any question put to her. She did nothing but weep; and to every question her only reply was, “If he did kill him, it was by accident; my boy would never commit murder.” Nothing more was to be obtained from her; and the magistrates were so moved by her distress, that she was dismissed.Rushbrook trembled as he was brought in and saw the body laid out on the table; but he soon recovered himself, and became nerved and resolute, as people often will do in extremity. He had made up his mind to answer some questions, but not all.“Do you know at what time your son left the cottage?”“I do not.”“Does that gun belong to you?”“Yes, it is mine.”“Do you know that bag?”“Yes, it belongs to me.”“It has been used for putting game into—has it not?”“I shall not answer that question. I’m not on trial.”Many other questions were put to him, but he refused to answer them; and as they would all more or less have criminated himself as a poacher, his refusals were admitted. Rushbrook had played his game well in admitting the gun and bag to be his property, as it was of service to him, and no harm to Joey. After summing up the whole evidence, the coroner addressed the jury, and they returned a unanimous verdict of Wilful Murder against Joseph Rushbrook the younger; and the magistrates directed the sum of 200 pounds to be offered for our hero’s apprehension.
Day had scarcely dawned when the keeper and his satellites were again on the search. The snow had covered the ground for three or four inches, and, as the covers had been well examined on the preceding day, they now left them and went on in the direction towards where the gun had been picked up. This brought them direct to the furze bottom, where the dogs appeared to quicken their movements, and when the keepers came up with them again, they found them lying down by the frozen and stiffened corpse of the pedlar.
“Murder, as I expected,” said Lucas, as they lifted up the body, and scraped off the snow which covered it; “right through his heart, poor fellow; who would have expected this from such a little varmint? Look about, my lads, and see if we can find anything else. What is Nap scratching at?—a bag—take it up, Martin. Dick, do you go for some people to take the body to the Cat and Fiddle, while we see if we can find anything more.”
In a quarter of an hour the people arrived, the body was carried away, while the keeper went off in all haste to the authorities.
Furness, the schoolmaster, as soon as he had obtained the information, hastened to Rushbrook’s cottage, that he might be the first to convey the intelligence. Rushbrook, however, from the back of the cottage, had perceived the people carrying in the body, and was prepared.
“My good people, I am much distressed, but it must be told; believe me, I feel for you—your son, my pupil, has murdered the pedlar.”
“Impossible!” cried Rushbrook.
“It is but too true; I cannot imagine how a boy, brought up under my tuition—nay, Mrs Rushbrook, don’t cry—brought up, I may say, with such strict notions of morality, promising so fairly, blossoming so sweetly—”
“He never murdered the pedlar!” cried Jane, whose face was buried in her apron.
“Who then could have?” replied Furness.
“He never shot him intentionally, I’ll swear,” said Rushbrook; “if the pedlar has come to his death, it must have been by some accident. I suppose the gun went off somehow or other; yes, that must be it: and my poor boy, frightened at what had taken place, has run away.”
“Well,” replied the schoolmaster, “such may have been the case; and I do certainly feel as if it were impossible that a boy like Joey, brought up by me, grounded in every moral duty—I may add, religiously and piously instructed—could ever commit such a horrible crime.”
“Indeed, he never did,” replied Jane; “I am sure he never would do such a thing.”
“Well, I must wish you good-bye now, my poor people; I will go down to the Cat and Fiddle, and hear what they say,” cried the pedagogue, quitting the cottage.
“Jane, be careful,” said Rushbrook; “our great point now is to say nothing. I wish that man would not come here.”
“Oh, Rushbrook!” cried Jane, “what would I give if we could live these last three days over again.”
“Then imagine, Jane, what I would give!” replied Rushbrook, striking his forehead; “and now say no more about it.”
At twelve o’clock the next day the magistrates met, and the coroner’s inquest was held upon the body of the pedlar. On examination of the body, it was ascertained that a charge of small shot had passed directly through the heart, so as to occasion immediate death; that the murder had not been committed with the view of robbing, it was evident, as the pedlar’s purse, watch, and various other articles were found upon his person.
The first person examined was a man of the name of Green, who had found the gun in the ditch. The gun was produced, and he deposed to its being the one which he had picked up, and given into the possession of the keeper; but no one could say to whom the gun might belong.
The next party who gave his evidence was Lucas, the game-keeper. He deposed that he knew the pedlar, Byres, and that being anxious to prevent poaching, he had offered him a good sum if he would assist him in convicting any poacher; that Byres had then confessed to him that he had often received game from Rushbrook, the father of the boy, and still continued to do so, but Rushbrook had treated him ill, and he was determined to be revenged upon him, and get him sent out of the country; that Byres had informed him on the Saturday night before the murder was committed, that Rushbrook was to be out on Monday night to procure game for him, and that if he looked out sharp he was certain to be taken. Byres had also informed him that he had never yet found out when Rushbrook left his cottage or returned, although he had been tracking the boy, Joey. As the boy was missing on Monday morning, and Byres did not return to the ale-house, after he went out on Saturday night, he presumed that it was on the Sunday night that the pedlar was murdered.
The keeper then farther deposed as to the finding of the body, and also of a bag by the side of it; that the bag had evidently been used for putting game in, not only from the smell, but from the feathers of the birds which were still remaining inside of it.
The evidence as to the finding of the body and the bag was corroborated by that of Martin and Dick, the underkeepers.
Mr Furness then made his appearance to give voluntary evidence, notwithstanding his great regard expressed for the Rushbrooks. He deposed that, calling at the cottage, on Monday morning, for his pupil, he found the father and mother in great distress at the disappearance of their son, whom they stated to have left the cottage some time during the night, and to have taken away his father’s gun with him, and that their son had not since returned; that he pointed out to Rushbrook the impropriety of his having a gun, and that Rushbrook had replied that he had carried one all his life, and did not choose to be without one; that they told him they supposed that he had gone out to poach, and was taken by the keepers, and had requested him to go and ascertain if such was the fact. Mr Furness added that he really imagined that to be the case now that he saw the bag, which he recognised as having been once brought to him by little Joey with some potatoes, which his parents had made him a present of; that he could swear to the bag, and so could several others as well as himself. Mr Furness then commenced a long flourish about his system of instruction, in which he was stopped by the coroner, who said that it had nothing to do with the business.
It was then suggested that Rushbrook and his wife should be examined. There was a demur at the idea of the father and mother giving evidence against their child, but it was over-ruled, and in ten minutes they both made their appearance.
Mrs Rushbrook, who had been counselled by her husband, was the first examined; but she would not answer any question put to her. She did nothing but weep; and to every question her only reply was, “If he did kill him, it was by accident; my boy would never commit murder.” Nothing more was to be obtained from her; and the magistrates were so moved by her distress, that she was dismissed.
Rushbrook trembled as he was brought in and saw the body laid out on the table; but he soon recovered himself, and became nerved and resolute, as people often will do in extremity. He had made up his mind to answer some questions, but not all.
“Do you know at what time your son left the cottage?”
“I do not.”
“Does that gun belong to you?”
“Yes, it is mine.”
“Do you know that bag?”
“Yes, it belongs to me.”
“It has been used for putting game into—has it not?”
“I shall not answer that question. I’m not on trial.”
Many other questions were put to him, but he refused to answer them; and as they would all more or less have criminated himself as a poacher, his refusals were admitted. Rushbrook had played his game well in admitting the gun and bag to be his property, as it was of service to him, and no harm to Joey. After summing up the whole evidence, the coroner addressed the jury, and they returned a unanimous verdict of Wilful Murder against Joseph Rushbrook the younger; and the magistrates directed the sum of 200 pounds to be offered for our hero’s apprehension.
Chapter Nineteen.A Friend in Need is a Friend indeed.Rushbrook and Jane returned to their cottage. Jane closed the door, and threw herself into her husband’s arms. “You are saved at least,” she cried: “thank Heaven for that! You are spared. Alas! we do not know how much we love till anger comes upon us.”Rushbrook was much affected: he loved his wife, and had good reason to love her. Jane was a beautiful woman, not yet thirty; tall in her person, her head was finely formed, yet apparently small for her height her features were full of expression and sweetness. Had she been born to a high station, she would have been considered one of the greatest belles. As it was, she was loved by those around her; and there was a dignity and commanding air about her which won admiration and respect. No one could feel more deeply than she did the enormity of the offence committed by her husband; and yet never in any moment since her marriage did she cling so earnestly and so closely by him as she did now. She was of that bold and daring temperament, that she could admire the courage that propelled to the crime, while the crime itself she abhorred. It was not, therefore, anything surprising that, at such a moment, with regard to a husband to whom she was devoted, she thought more of the danger to which he was exposed than she did of the crime which had been committed.To do Rushbrook himself justice, his person and mind were of no plebeian mould. He was a daring, venturous fellow, ready at any emergency, cool and collected in danger, had a pleasure in the excitement created by the difficulty and risk attending his nocturnal pursuits, caring little or nothing for the profits. He, as well as his wife, had not been neglected in point of education: he had been born in humble life, and had, by enlisting, chosen a path by which advancement became impossible; but had Rushbrook been an officer instead of a common soldier, his talents would probably have been directed to more noble channels, and the poacher and pilferer for his captain might have exerted his dexterity so as to have gained honourable mention. His courage had always been remarkable, and he was looked upon by his officers—and so he was by his companions—as the most steady and collected man under fire to be found in the whole company.We are the creatures of circumstances. Frederick of Prussia had no opinion of phrenology; and one day he sent for the professor, and dressing up a highwayman and a pickpocket in uniforms and orders, he desired the phrenologist to examine their heads, and give his opinion as to their qualifications. Thesavantdid so, and turning to the king, said, “Sire, this person,” pointing to the highwayman, “whatever he may be, would have been a great general, had he been employed. As for the other, he is quite in a different line. He may be, or, if he is not, he would make, an admirable financier.” The king was satisfied that there was some truth in the science; “for,” as he very rightly observed, “what is a general but a highwayman, and what is a financier, but a pickpocket?”“Calm yourself, dear Jane,” said Rushbrook; “all is well now.”“All well!—yes; but my poor child—200 pounds offered for his apprehension! If they were to take him!”“I have no fear of that; and if they did, they could not hurt him. It is true that they have given their verdict; but still they have no positive proof.”“But they have hanged people upon less proof before now, Rushbrook.”“Jane,” replied Rushbrook, “our boy shall never be hanged—I promise you that; so make your mind easy.”“Then you must confess, to save him; and I shall lose you.”A step at the door interrupted their colloquy. Rushbrook opened it, and Mr Furness, the schoolmaster, made his appearance.“Well, my good friends, I am very sorry the verdict has been such as it is, but it cannot be helped; the evidence was too strong, and it was a sad thing for me to be obliged to give mine.”“You!” exclaimed Rushbrook; “why, did they call you up?”“Yes, and put me on my oath. An oath, to a moral man, is a very serious responsibility; the nature of an oath is awful; and when you consider my position in this place, as the inculcator of morals and piety to the younger branches of the community, you must not be surprised at my telling the truth.”“And what had you to tell?” inquired Rushbrook, with surprise.“Had to tell—why, I had to tell what you told me this morning; and I had to prove the bag as belonging to you; for you know you sent me some potatoes in it by little Joey, poor fellow. Wilful Murder, and two hundred pounds upon apprehension and conviction!”Rushbrook looked at the pedagogue with surprise and contempt.“Pray, may I ask how they came to know that anything had passed between us yesterday morning, for if I recollect right, you desired me to be secret.”“Very true, and so I did; but then they knew what good friends we always were, I suppose, and so they sent for me, and obliged me to speak upon my oath.”“I don’t understand it,” replied Rushbrook; “they might have asked you questions, but how could they have guessed that I had told you anything?”“My dear friend, you don’t understand it; but in my situation, looking up to me, as every one does, as an example of moral rectitude and correctness of conduct—as a pattern to the juvenile branches of the community,—you see—”“Yes, I do see that, under such circumstances, you should not go to the ale-house and get tipsy two days, at least, out of the week,” replied Rushbrook, turning away.“And why do I go to the ale-house, my dear friend, but to look after those who indulge too freely—yourself, for instance? How often have I seen you home?”“Yes, when you were drunk and I was—” Jane put her hand upon her husband’s mouth.“And you were what, friend?” inquired Furness, anxiously.“Worse than you, perhaps. And now, friend Furness, as you must be tired with your long evidence, I wish you a good night.”“Shall I see you down at the Cat and Fiddle?”“Not for some time, if ever, friend Furness, that you may depend upon.”“Never go to the Cat and Fiddle! A little wholesome drink drowns care, my friend; and, therefore, although I should be sorry that you indulged too much, yet, with me to look after you—”“And drink half my ale, eh? No, no, friend Furness, those days are gone.”“Well, you are not in a humour for it now but another time. Mrs Rushbrook, have you a drop of small beer?”“I have none to spare,” replied Jane, turning away; “you should have applied to the magistrates for beer.”“Oh, just as you please,” replied the pedagogue; “it certainly does ruffle people’s temper when there is a verdict of wilful murder, and two hundred pounds for apprehension and conviction of the offender. Good night.”Furness banged the cottage door as he went out.Rushbrook watched till he was out of hearing, and then said, “He’s a scoundrel.”“I think so too,” replied Jane; “but never mind, we will go to bed now, thank God for his mercies, and pray for his forgiveness. Come, dearest.”The next morning Mrs Rushbrook was informed by the neighbours that the schoolmaster had volunteered his evidence. Rushbrook’s indignation was excited, and he vowed revenge.Whatever may have been the feelings of the community at the time of the discovery of the murder, certain it is that, after all was over, there was a strong sympathy expressed for Rushbrook and his wife, and the condolence was very general. The gamekeeper was avoided, and his friend Furness fell into great disrepute, after his voluntarily coming forward and giving evidence against old and sworn friends. The consequence was, his school fell off, and the pedagogue, whenever he could raise the means, became more intemperate than ever.One Saturday night, Rushbrook, who had resolved to pick a quarrel with Furness, went down to the ale-house. Furness was half drunk, and pot-valiant. Rushbrook taunted him so as to produce replies. One word brought on another, till Furness challenged Rushbrook to come outside and have it out. This was just what Rushbrook wished, and after half an hour Furness was carried home beaten to a mummy, and unable to leave his bed for many days. As soon as this revenge had been taken, Rushbrook, who had long made up his mind so to do, packed up and quitted the village, no one knowing whither he and Jane went; and Furness, who had lost all means of subsistence, did the same in a very few days afterwards, his place of retreat being equally unknown.
Rushbrook and Jane returned to their cottage. Jane closed the door, and threw herself into her husband’s arms. “You are saved at least,” she cried: “thank Heaven for that! You are spared. Alas! we do not know how much we love till anger comes upon us.”
Rushbrook was much affected: he loved his wife, and had good reason to love her. Jane was a beautiful woman, not yet thirty; tall in her person, her head was finely formed, yet apparently small for her height her features were full of expression and sweetness. Had she been born to a high station, she would have been considered one of the greatest belles. As it was, she was loved by those around her; and there was a dignity and commanding air about her which won admiration and respect. No one could feel more deeply than she did the enormity of the offence committed by her husband; and yet never in any moment since her marriage did she cling so earnestly and so closely by him as she did now. She was of that bold and daring temperament, that she could admire the courage that propelled to the crime, while the crime itself she abhorred. It was not, therefore, anything surprising that, at such a moment, with regard to a husband to whom she was devoted, she thought more of the danger to which he was exposed than she did of the crime which had been committed.
To do Rushbrook himself justice, his person and mind were of no plebeian mould. He was a daring, venturous fellow, ready at any emergency, cool and collected in danger, had a pleasure in the excitement created by the difficulty and risk attending his nocturnal pursuits, caring little or nothing for the profits. He, as well as his wife, had not been neglected in point of education: he had been born in humble life, and had, by enlisting, chosen a path by which advancement became impossible; but had Rushbrook been an officer instead of a common soldier, his talents would probably have been directed to more noble channels, and the poacher and pilferer for his captain might have exerted his dexterity so as to have gained honourable mention. His courage had always been remarkable, and he was looked upon by his officers—and so he was by his companions—as the most steady and collected man under fire to be found in the whole company.
We are the creatures of circumstances. Frederick of Prussia had no opinion of phrenology; and one day he sent for the professor, and dressing up a highwayman and a pickpocket in uniforms and orders, he desired the phrenologist to examine their heads, and give his opinion as to their qualifications. Thesavantdid so, and turning to the king, said, “Sire, this person,” pointing to the highwayman, “whatever he may be, would have been a great general, had he been employed. As for the other, he is quite in a different line. He may be, or, if he is not, he would make, an admirable financier.” The king was satisfied that there was some truth in the science; “for,” as he very rightly observed, “what is a general but a highwayman, and what is a financier, but a pickpocket?”
“Calm yourself, dear Jane,” said Rushbrook; “all is well now.”
“All well!—yes; but my poor child—200 pounds offered for his apprehension! If they were to take him!”
“I have no fear of that; and if they did, they could not hurt him. It is true that they have given their verdict; but still they have no positive proof.”
“But they have hanged people upon less proof before now, Rushbrook.”
“Jane,” replied Rushbrook, “our boy shall never be hanged—I promise you that; so make your mind easy.”
“Then you must confess, to save him; and I shall lose you.”
A step at the door interrupted their colloquy. Rushbrook opened it, and Mr Furness, the schoolmaster, made his appearance.
“Well, my good friends, I am very sorry the verdict has been such as it is, but it cannot be helped; the evidence was too strong, and it was a sad thing for me to be obliged to give mine.”
“You!” exclaimed Rushbrook; “why, did they call you up?”
“Yes, and put me on my oath. An oath, to a moral man, is a very serious responsibility; the nature of an oath is awful; and when you consider my position in this place, as the inculcator of morals and piety to the younger branches of the community, you must not be surprised at my telling the truth.”
“And what had you to tell?” inquired Rushbrook, with surprise.
“Had to tell—why, I had to tell what you told me this morning; and I had to prove the bag as belonging to you; for you know you sent me some potatoes in it by little Joey, poor fellow. Wilful Murder, and two hundred pounds upon apprehension and conviction!”
Rushbrook looked at the pedagogue with surprise and contempt.
“Pray, may I ask how they came to know that anything had passed between us yesterday morning, for if I recollect right, you desired me to be secret.”
“Very true, and so I did; but then they knew what good friends we always were, I suppose, and so they sent for me, and obliged me to speak upon my oath.”
“I don’t understand it,” replied Rushbrook; “they might have asked you questions, but how could they have guessed that I had told you anything?”
“My dear friend, you don’t understand it; but in my situation, looking up to me, as every one does, as an example of moral rectitude and correctness of conduct—as a pattern to the juvenile branches of the community,—you see—”
“Yes, I do see that, under such circumstances, you should not go to the ale-house and get tipsy two days, at least, out of the week,” replied Rushbrook, turning away.
“And why do I go to the ale-house, my dear friend, but to look after those who indulge too freely—yourself, for instance? How often have I seen you home?”
“Yes, when you were drunk and I was—” Jane put her hand upon her husband’s mouth.
“And you were what, friend?” inquired Furness, anxiously.
“Worse than you, perhaps. And now, friend Furness, as you must be tired with your long evidence, I wish you a good night.”
“Shall I see you down at the Cat and Fiddle?”
“Not for some time, if ever, friend Furness, that you may depend upon.”
“Never go to the Cat and Fiddle! A little wholesome drink drowns care, my friend; and, therefore, although I should be sorry that you indulged too much, yet, with me to look after you—”
“And drink half my ale, eh? No, no, friend Furness, those days are gone.”
“Well, you are not in a humour for it now but another time. Mrs Rushbrook, have you a drop of small beer?”
“I have none to spare,” replied Jane, turning away; “you should have applied to the magistrates for beer.”
“Oh, just as you please,” replied the pedagogue; “it certainly does ruffle people’s temper when there is a verdict of wilful murder, and two hundred pounds for apprehension and conviction of the offender. Good night.”
Furness banged the cottage door as he went out.
Rushbrook watched till he was out of hearing, and then said, “He’s a scoundrel.”
“I think so too,” replied Jane; “but never mind, we will go to bed now, thank God for his mercies, and pray for his forgiveness. Come, dearest.”
The next morning Mrs Rushbrook was informed by the neighbours that the schoolmaster had volunteered his evidence. Rushbrook’s indignation was excited, and he vowed revenge.
Whatever may have been the feelings of the community at the time of the discovery of the murder, certain it is that, after all was over, there was a strong sympathy expressed for Rushbrook and his wife, and the condolence was very general. The gamekeeper was avoided, and his friend Furness fell into great disrepute, after his voluntarily coming forward and giving evidence against old and sworn friends. The consequence was, his school fell off, and the pedagogue, whenever he could raise the means, became more intemperate than ever.
One Saturday night, Rushbrook, who had resolved to pick a quarrel with Furness, went down to the ale-house. Furness was half drunk, and pot-valiant. Rushbrook taunted him so as to produce replies. One word brought on another, till Furness challenged Rushbrook to come outside and have it out. This was just what Rushbrook wished, and after half an hour Furness was carried home beaten to a mummy, and unable to leave his bed for many days. As soon as this revenge had been taken, Rushbrook, who had long made up his mind so to do, packed up and quitted the village, no one knowing whither he and Jane went; and Furness, who had lost all means of subsistence, did the same in a very few days afterwards, his place of retreat being equally unknown.
Chapter Twenty.In which we again follow up our Hero’s Destiny.After the resolution that Major McShane came to, it is not to be surprised that he made, during the journey home, every inquiry of Joey relative to his former life. To these Joey gave him a very honest reply in everything except that portion of his history in which his father was so seriously implicated; he had the feeling that he was bound in honour not to reveal the circumstances connected with the murder of the pedlar. McShane was satisfied, and they arrived in London without further adventure. As soon as McShane had been embraced by his wife, he gave a narrative of his adventures, and did not forget to praise little Joey as he deserved. Mrs McShane was all gratitude, and then it was that McShane expressed his intentions towards our hero, and, as he expected, he found his amiable wife wholly coincide with him in opinion. It was therefore decided that Joey should be put to a school, and be properly educated, as soon as an establishment that was eligible could be found.Their full intentions towards him, however, were not communicated to our hero; he was told that he was to go to school, and he willingly submitted: it was not, however, for three months that McShane would part with him: a difficulty was raised against every establishment that was named. During this time little Joey was very idle, for there was nothing for him to do. Books there were none, for Mrs McShane had no time to read, and Major McShane no inclination. His only resort was to rummage over the newspapers which were taken in for the benefit of the customers, and this was his usual employment. One day, in turning over the file, he came to the account of the murder of the pedlar, with the report of the coroner’s inquest. He read all the evidence, particularly that of Furness, the schoolmaster, and found that the verdict was wilful murder, with a reward of 200 pounds for his apprehension. The term, wilful murder, he did not exactly comprehend; so, after laying down the paper, with a beating heart he went to Mrs McShane, and asked her what was the meaning of it.“Meaning, child?” replied Mrs McShane, who was then very busy in her occupation, “it means, child, that a person is believed to be guilty of murder, and, if taken up, he will be hanged by the neck till he is dead.”“But,” replied Joey, “suppose he has not committed the murder?”“Well then, child, he must prove that he has not.”“And suppose, although he has not committed it, he cannot prove it?”“Mercy on me, what a number of supposes! why, then he will be hanged all the same, to be sure.”A fortnight after these queries, Joey was sent to school; the master was a very decent man, the mistress a very decent woman, the tuition was decent, the fare was decent, the scholars were children of decent families; altogether, it was a decent establishment, and in this establishment little Joey made very decent progress, going home every half year. How long Joey might have remained there it is impossible to say; but having been there for a year and a half, and arrived at the age of fourteen, he had just returned from the holidays with three guineas in his pocket, for McShane and his wife were very generous and very fond of their protégé, when a circumstance occurred which again ruffled the smooth current of our hero’s existence.He was walking out as all boys do walk out in decent schools, that is, in a long line, two by two, as the animals entered Noah’s Ark, when a sort of shabby-genteel man passed their files. He happened to cast his eyes upon Joey, and stopped. “Master Joseph Rushbrook, I am most happy to see you once more,” said he extending his hand. Joey looked up into his face; there was no mistake; it was Furness, the schoolmaster. “Don’t you recollect me, my dear boy? Don’t you recollect him who taught the infant idea how to shoot? Don’t you recollect your old preceptor?”“Yes,” replied Joey, colouring up, “I recollect you very well.”“I am delighted to see you; you know you were my fairest pupil, but we are all scattered now; your father and mother have gone no one knows where; you went away, and I also could no longer stay. What pleasure it is to meet you once more!”Joey did not respond exactly to the pleasure. The stoppage of the line had caused some confusion, and the usher, who had followed it, now came up to ascertain the cause. “This is my old pupil, or rather I should say, my young pupil; but the best pupil I ever had. I am most delighted to see him, sir,” said Furness, taking off his hat. “May I presume to ask who has the charge of this dear child at this present moment?”The usher made no difficulty in stating the name and residence of the preceptor, and, having gained this information, Furness shook Joey by the hand, bade him farewell, and, wishing him every happiness, walked away.Joey’s mind was confused during the remainder of his walk, and it was not until their return home that he could reflect on what had passed. That Furness had given evidence upon the inquest he knew, and he had penetration, when he read it, to feel that there was no necessity for Furness having given such evidence. He also knew that there was a reward of two hundred pounds for his apprehension; and when he thought of Furness’s apparent kindness, and his not reverting to a subject so important as wilful murder having been found against him, he made up his mind that Furness had behaved so with the purpose of lulling him into security, and that the next day he would certainly take him up, for the sake of the reward.Now, although we have not stopped our narrative to introduce the subject, we must here observe that Joey’s love for his parents, particularly his father, was unbounded; he longed to see them again; they were constantly in his thoughts, and yet he dared not mention them, in consequence of the mystery connected with his quitting his home. He fully perceived his danger: he would be apprehended, and being so, he must either sacrifice his father or himself. Having weighed all this in his mind, he then reflected upon what should be his course to steer. Should he go home to acquaint Major McShane? He felt that he could trust him, and would have done so, but he had no right to intrust any one with a secret which involved his father’s life. No, that would not do; yet, to leave him and Mrs McShane after all their kindness, and without a word, this would be too ungrateful. After much cogitation, he resolved that he would run away, so that all clue to him should be lost; that he would write a letter for McShane, and leave it. He wrote as follows:—“Dear Sir,—Do not think me ungrateful, for I love you and Mrs McShane dearly, but I have been met by a person who knows me, and will certainly betray me. I left my father’s home, not for poaching, but a murder that was committed;I was not guilty. This is the only secret I have held from you, and the secret is notmine. I could not disprove it, and never will. I now leave because I have been discovered by a bad man, who will certainly take advantage of having fallen in with me. We may never meet again. I can say no more, except that I shall always pray for you and Mrs McShane, and remember your kindness with gratitude.“Yours truly,Joey McShane.”Since his return from Saint Petersburg, Joey had always, by their request, called himself Joey McShane, and he was not sorry when they gave him the permission, although he did not comprehend the advantages which were to accrue from taking the name.Joey, having finished his letter, sat down and cried bitterly—but in a school there is no retiring place for venting your feelings, and he was compelled to smother his tears. He performed his exercise, and repeated his lessons, as if nothing had happened and nothing was about to happen, for Joey was in essence a little stoic. At night he went to his room with the other boys; he could only obtain a small portion of his clothes, these he put up in a handkerchief, went softly downstairs about one o’clock in the morning, put his letter, addressed to McShane, on the hall-table, opened the back door, climbed over the play-ground wall, and was again on the road to seek his fortune.But Joey was much improved during the two years since he had quitted his father’s house. Before that, he was a reflective boy; now, he was more capable of action and decision. His ideas had been much expanded from the knowledge of the world gained during his entry, as it were, into life; he had talked much, seen much, listened much, and thought more; and naturally quiet in his manner, he was now a gentlemanlike boy. At the eating-house he had met with every variety of character; and as there were some who frequented the house daily, with those Joey had become on intimate terms. He was no longer a child, but a lad of undaunted courage and presence of mind; he had only one fear, which was that his father’s crime should be discovered.And now he was again adrift, with a small bundle, three guineas in his pocket, and the world before him. At first, he had but one idea—that of removing to a distance which should elude the vigilance of Furness, and he therefore walked on, and walked fast. Joey was capable of great fatigue; he had grown considerably, it is true, during the last two years; still he was small for his age; but every muscle in his body was a wire, and his strength, as had been proved by his school-mates, was proportionate. He was elastic as india-rubber, and bold and determined as one who had been all his life in danger.
After the resolution that Major McShane came to, it is not to be surprised that he made, during the journey home, every inquiry of Joey relative to his former life. To these Joey gave him a very honest reply in everything except that portion of his history in which his father was so seriously implicated; he had the feeling that he was bound in honour not to reveal the circumstances connected with the murder of the pedlar. McShane was satisfied, and they arrived in London without further adventure. As soon as McShane had been embraced by his wife, he gave a narrative of his adventures, and did not forget to praise little Joey as he deserved. Mrs McShane was all gratitude, and then it was that McShane expressed his intentions towards our hero, and, as he expected, he found his amiable wife wholly coincide with him in opinion. It was therefore decided that Joey should be put to a school, and be properly educated, as soon as an establishment that was eligible could be found.
Their full intentions towards him, however, were not communicated to our hero; he was told that he was to go to school, and he willingly submitted: it was not, however, for three months that McShane would part with him: a difficulty was raised against every establishment that was named. During this time little Joey was very idle, for there was nothing for him to do. Books there were none, for Mrs McShane had no time to read, and Major McShane no inclination. His only resort was to rummage over the newspapers which were taken in for the benefit of the customers, and this was his usual employment. One day, in turning over the file, he came to the account of the murder of the pedlar, with the report of the coroner’s inquest. He read all the evidence, particularly that of Furness, the schoolmaster, and found that the verdict was wilful murder, with a reward of 200 pounds for his apprehension. The term, wilful murder, he did not exactly comprehend; so, after laying down the paper, with a beating heart he went to Mrs McShane, and asked her what was the meaning of it.
“Meaning, child?” replied Mrs McShane, who was then very busy in her occupation, “it means, child, that a person is believed to be guilty of murder, and, if taken up, he will be hanged by the neck till he is dead.”
“But,” replied Joey, “suppose he has not committed the murder?”
“Well then, child, he must prove that he has not.”
“And suppose, although he has not committed it, he cannot prove it?”
“Mercy on me, what a number of supposes! why, then he will be hanged all the same, to be sure.”
A fortnight after these queries, Joey was sent to school; the master was a very decent man, the mistress a very decent woman, the tuition was decent, the fare was decent, the scholars were children of decent families; altogether, it was a decent establishment, and in this establishment little Joey made very decent progress, going home every half year. How long Joey might have remained there it is impossible to say; but having been there for a year and a half, and arrived at the age of fourteen, he had just returned from the holidays with three guineas in his pocket, for McShane and his wife were very generous and very fond of their protégé, when a circumstance occurred which again ruffled the smooth current of our hero’s existence.
He was walking out as all boys do walk out in decent schools, that is, in a long line, two by two, as the animals entered Noah’s Ark, when a sort of shabby-genteel man passed their files. He happened to cast his eyes upon Joey, and stopped. “Master Joseph Rushbrook, I am most happy to see you once more,” said he extending his hand. Joey looked up into his face; there was no mistake; it was Furness, the schoolmaster. “Don’t you recollect me, my dear boy? Don’t you recollect him who taught the infant idea how to shoot? Don’t you recollect your old preceptor?”
“Yes,” replied Joey, colouring up, “I recollect you very well.”
“I am delighted to see you; you know you were my fairest pupil, but we are all scattered now; your father and mother have gone no one knows where; you went away, and I also could no longer stay. What pleasure it is to meet you once more!”
Joey did not respond exactly to the pleasure. The stoppage of the line had caused some confusion, and the usher, who had followed it, now came up to ascertain the cause. “This is my old pupil, or rather I should say, my young pupil; but the best pupil I ever had. I am most delighted to see him, sir,” said Furness, taking off his hat. “May I presume to ask who has the charge of this dear child at this present moment?”
The usher made no difficulty in stating the name and residence of the preceptor, and, having gained this information, Furness shook Joey by the hand, bade him farewell, and, wishing him every happiness, walked away.
Joey’s mind was confused during the remainder of his walk, and it was not until their return home that he could reflect on what had passed. That Furness had given evidence upon the inquest he knew, and he had penetration, when he read it, to feel that there was no necessity for Furness having given such evidence. He also knew that there was a reward of two hundred pounds for his apprehension; and when he thought of Furness’s apparent kindness, and his not reverting to a subject so important as wilful murder having been found against him, he made up his mind that Furness had behaved so with the purpose of lulling him into security, and that the next day he would certainly take him up, for the sake of the reward.
Now, although we have not stopped our narrative to introduce the subject, we must here observe that Joey’s love for his parents, particularly his father, was unbounded; he longed to see them again; they were constantly in his thoughts, and yet he dared not mention them, in consequence of the mystery connected with his quitting his home. He fully perceived his danger: he would be apprehended, and being so, he must either sacrifice his father or himself. Having weighed all this in his mind, he then reflected upon what should be his course to steer. Should he go home to acquaint Major McShane? He felt that he could trust him, and would have done so, but he had no right to intrust any one with a secret which involved his father’s life. No, that would not do; yet, to leave him and Mrs McShane after all their kindness, and without a word, this would be too ungrateful. After much cogitation, he resolved that he would run away, so that all clue to him should be lost; that he would write a letter for McShane, and leave it. He wrote as follows:—
“Dear Sir,—Do not think me ungrateful, for I love you and Mrs McShane dearly, but I have been met by a person who knows me, and will certainly betray me. I left my father’s home, not for poaching, but a murder that was committed;I was not guilty. This is the only secret I have held from you, and the secret is notmine. I could not disprove it, and never will. I now leave because I have been discovered by a bad man, who will certainly take advantage of having fallen in with me. We may never meet again. I can say no more, except that I shall always pray for you and Mrs McShane, and remember your kindness with gratitude.“Yours truly,Joey McShane.”
“Dear Sir,—Do not think me ungrateful, for I love you and Mrs McShane dearly, but I have been met by a person who knows me, and will certainly betray me. I left my father’s home, not for poaching, but a murder that was committed;I was not guilty. This is the only secret I have held from you, and the secret is notmine. I could not disprove it, and never will. I now leave because I have been discovered by a bad man, who will certainly take advantage of having fallen in with me. We may never meet again. I can say no more, except that I shall always pray for you and Mrs McShane, and remember your kindness with gratitude.
“Yours truly,Joey McShane.”
Since his return from Saint Petersburg, Joey had always, by their request, called himself Joey McShane, and he was not sorry when they gave him the permission, although he did not comprehend the advantages which were to accrue from taking the name.
Joey, having finished his letter, sat down and cried bitterly—but in a school there is no retiring place for venting your feelings, and he was compelled to smother his tears. He performed his exercise, and repeated his lessons, as if nothing had happened and nothing was about to happen, for Joey was in essence a little stoic. At night he went to his room with the other boys; he could only obtain a small portion of his clothes, these he put up in a handkerchief, went softly downstairs about one o’clock in the morning, put his letter, addressed to McShane, on the hall-table, opened the back door, climbed over the play-ground wall, and was again on the road to seek his fortune.
But Joey was much improved during the two years since he had quitted his father’s house. Before that, he was a reflective boy; now, he was more capable of action and decision. His ideas had been much expanded from the knowledge of the world gained during his entry, as it were, into life; he had talked much, seen much, listened much, and thought more; and naturally quiet in his manner, he was now a gentlemanlike boy. At the eating-house he had met with every variety of character; and as there were some who frequented the house daily, with those Joey had become on intimate terms. He was no longer a child, but a lad of undaunted courage and presence of mind; he had only one fear, which was that his father’s crime should be discovered.
And now he was again adrift, with a small bundle, three guineas in his pocket, and the world before him. At first, he had but one idea—that of removing to a distance which should elude the vigilance of Furness, and he therefore walked on, and walked fast. Joey was capable of great fatigue; he had grown considerably, it is true, during the last two years; still he was small for his age; but every muscle in his body was a wire, and his strength, as had been proved by his school-mates, was proportionate. He was elastic as india-rubber, and bold and determined as one who had been all his life in danger.
Chapter Twenty One.The Scene is again shifted, and the Plot advances.It will be necessary that for a short time we again follow up the fortunes of our hero’s parents. When Rushbrook and Jane had quitted the village of Grassford, they had not come to any decision as to their future place of abode; all that Rushbrook felt was a desire to remove as far as possible from the spot where the crime had been committed. Such is the feeling that will ever possess the guilty, who, although they may increase their distance, attempt in vain to fly from their consciences, or that All-seeing Eye which follows them everywhere. Jane had a similar feeling, but it arose from her anxiety for her husband. They wandered away, for they had sold everything before their departure, until they found themselves in the West Riding of Yorkshire, and there they at length settled in a small village. Rushbrook easily obtained employment, for the population was scanty, and some months passed away without anything occurring of interest.Rushbrook had never taken up his employment as a poacher since the night of the murder of the pedlar; he had abjured it from that hour. His knowledge of woodcraft was, however, discovered, and he was appointed first as under, and eventually as head keeper to a gentleman of landed property in the neighbourhood. In this situation they had remained about a year, Rushbrook giving full satisfaction to his employer, and comparatively contented (for no man could have such a crime upon his conscience, and not pass occasional hours of misery and remorse), and Jane was still mourning in secret for her only and darling child, when one day a paper was put into Rushbrook’s hands by his master, desiring him to read an advertisement which it contained, and which was as follows:— “If Joseph Rushbrook, who formerly lived in the village of Grassford, in the county of Devon, should be still alive, and will make his residence known to Messrs Pearce, James, and Simpson, of 14, Chancery-lane, he will hear of something greatly to his advantage. Should he be dead, and this advertisement meet the eye of his heirs, they are equally requested to make the communication to the above address.”“What does it mean, sir?” inquired Rushbrook.“It means that, if you are that person, in all probability there is some legacy bequeathed to you by a relative,” replied Mr S—; “is it you?”“Yes, sir,” replied Rushbrook, changing colour; “I did once live at Grassford.”“Then you had better write to the parties and make yourself known. I will leave you the newspaper.”“What think you, Jane?” said Rushbrook, as soon as Mr — had quitted.“I think he is quite right,” replied Jane.“But, Jane, you forgot—this may be a trap; they may have discovered something about—you know what I mean.”“Yes, I do, and I wish we could forget it; but in this instance I do not think you have anything to fear. There is no reward offered for your apprehension, but for my poor boy’s, who is now wandering over the wide world; and no one would go to the expense to apprehend you, if there was nothing to be gained by it.”“True,” replied Rushbrook, after a minute’s reflection; “but, alas! I am a coward now: I will write.”Rushbrook wrote accordingly, and, in reply, received a letter inclosing a bank-bill for 20 pounds, and requesting that he would come to town immediately. He did so, and found, to his astonishment, that he was the heir-at-law to a property of 7,000 pounds per annum—with the only contingency, that he was, as nearest of kin, to take the name of Austin. Having entered into all the arrangements required by the legal gentleman, he returned to Yorkshire, with 500 pounds in his pocket, to communicate the intelligence to his wife; and when he did so, and embraced her, she burst into tears.“Rushbrook, do not think I mean to reproach you by these tears; but I cannot help thinking that you would have been happier had this never happened. Your life will be doubly sweet to you now, and Joey’s absence will be a source of more vexation than ever. Do you think that you will be happier?”“Jane, dearest! I have been thinking of it as well as you, and, on reflection, I think I shall be safer. Who would know the poacher Rushbrook in the gentleman of 7,000 pounds a year, of the name of Austin? Who would dare accuse him, even if there were suspicion? I feel that once in another county, under another name, and in another situation, I shall be safe.”“But our poor boy, should he ever come back—”“Will also be forgotten. He will have grown up a man, and, having another name, will never be recognised: they will not even know what our former name was.”“I trust that it will be as you say. What do you now mean to do?”“I shall say that I have a property of four or five hundred pounds left me, and that I intend to go up to London,” replied Rushbrook.“Yes, that will be wise; it will be an excuse for our leaving this place, and will be no clue to where we are going,” replied Jane.Rushbrook gave up his situation, sold his furniture, and quitted Yorkshire. In a few weeks afterwards he was installed into his new property, a splendid mansion, and situated in the west of Dorsetshire. Report had gone before them; some said that a common labourer had come into the property, others said it was a person in very moderate circumstances; as usual, both these reports were contradicted by a third, which represented him as a half-pay lieutenant in the army. Rushbrook had contrived to mystify even the solicitor as to his situation in life; he stated to him that he had retired from the army, and lived upon the government allowance; and it was in consequence of a reference to the solicitor, made by some of the best families in the neighbourhood, who wished to ascertain if the newcomers were people who could be visited, that this third report was spread, and universally believed. We have already observed that Rushbrook was a fine, tall man; and if there is any class of people who can be transplanted with success from low to high life, it will be those who have served in the army. The stoop is the evidence of a low-bred, vulgar man; the erect bearing equally so that of the gentleman. Now, the latter is gained in the army, by drilling and discipline, and being well-dressed will provide for all else that is required, as far as mere personal appearance is concerned. When, therefore, the neighbours called upon Mr and Mrs Austin they were not surprised to find an erect, military-looking man, but they were very much surprised to find him matched with such a fine, and even elegant-looking woman, as his wife. Timid at first, Jane had sufficient tact to watch others and copy; and before many months were passed in their new position, it would have been difficult to suppose that Mrs Austin had not been born in the sphere in which she then moved. Austin wasbrusqueand abrupt in his manners as before; but still there was always a reserve about him, which he naturally felt, and which assisted to remove the impression of vulgarity. People who are distant are seldom considered ungentlemanlike, although they may be considered unpleasant in their manners. It is those who are too familiar who obtain the character of vulgarity.Austin, therefore, was respected, but not liked; Jane, on the contrary, whose beauty had now all the assistance of dress, and whose continued inward mourning for her lost son had improved that beauty by the pensive air which she wore, was a deserved and universal favourite. People of course said that Austin was a harsh husband, and pitied poor Mrs Austin; but that people always do say if a woman is not inclined to mirth.Austin found ample amusement in sporting over his extensive manor, and looking after his game. In one point the neighbouring gentlemen were surprised, that, although so keen a sportsman himself, he never could be prevailed upon to convict a poacher. He was appointed a magistrate, and being most liberal in all his subscriptions, was soon considered as a great acquisition to the county. His wife was much sought after, but it was invariably observed that, when children were mentioned, the tears stood in her eyes. Before they had been a year in their new position, they had acquired all the knowledge and tact necessary; their establishment was on a handsome scale; they were visited and paid visits to all the aristocracy and gentry, and were as popular as they could have desired to be. But were they happy? Alas! no. Little did those who envied Austin his property and establishment imagine what a load was on his mind—what a corroding care was wearing out his existence. Little did they imagine that he would gladly have resigned all, and been once more the poacher in the village of Grassford, to have removed from his conscience the deed of darkness which he had committed, and once more have his son by his side. And poor Jane, her thoughts were day and night upon one object—where was her child? It deprived her of rest at night; she remained meditating on her fate for hours during the day; it would rush into her mind in the gayest scenes and the happiest moments; it was one incessant incubus—one continual source of misery. Of her husband she thought less; for she knew how sincerely contrite he was for the deed he had done—how bitterly he had repented it ever since, and how it would, as long as he lived, be a source of misery—a worm that would never die, but gnaw till the last hour of his existence. But her boy—her noble, self-sacrificed little Joey!—he and his destiny were ever in her thoughts; and gladly would she have been a pauper applying for relief, if she had but that child to have led up in her hand. And yet all the county thought how happy and contented the Austins ought to be, to have suddenly come into possession of so much wealth. ’Tis God alone that knows the secrets of the heart of man.
It will be necessary that for a short time we again follow up the fortunes of our hero’s parents. When Rushbrook and Jane had quitted the village of Grassford, they had not come to any decision as to their future place of abode; all that Rushbrook felt was a desire to remove as far as possible from the spot where the crime had been committed. Such is the feeling that will ever possess the guilty, who, although they may increase their distance, attempt in vain to fly from their consciences, or that All-seeing Eye which follows them everywhere. Jane had a similar feeling, but it arose from her anxiety for her husband. They wandered away, for they had sold everything before their departure, until they found themselves in the West Riding of Yorkshire, and there they at length settled in a small village. Rushbrook easily obtained employment, for the population was scanty, and some months passed away without anything occurring of interest.
Rushbrook had never taken up his employment as a poacher since the night of the murder of the pedlar; he had abjured it from that hour. His knowledge of woodcraft was, however, discovered, and he was appointed first as under, and eventually as head keeper to a gentleman of landed property in the neighbourhood. In this situation they had remained about a year, Rushbrook giving full satisfaction to his employer, and comparatively contented (for no man could have such a crime upon his conscience, and not pass occasional hours of misery and remorse), and Jane was still mourning in secret for her only and darling child, when one day a paper was put into Rushbrook’s hands by his master, desiring him to read an advertisement which it contained, and which was as follows:— “If Joseph Rushbrook, who formerly lived in the village of Grassford, in the county of Devon, should be still alive, and will make his residence known to Messrs Pearce, James, and Simpson, of 14, Chancery-lane, he will hear of something greatly to his advantage. Should he be dead, and this advertisement meet the eye of his heirs, they are equally requested to make the communication to the above address.”
“What does it mean, sir?” inquired Rushbrook.
“It means that, if you are that person, in all probability there is some legacy bequeathed to you by a relative,” replied Mr S—; “is it you?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Rushbrook, changing colour; “I did once live at Grassford.”
“Then you had better write to the parties and make yourself known. I will leave you the newspaper.”
“What think you, Jane?” said Rushbrook, as soon as Mr — had quitted.
“I think he is quite right,” replied Jane.
“But, Jane, you forgot—this may be a trap; they may have discovered something about—you know what I mean.”
“Yes, I do, and I wish we could forget it; but in this instance I do not think you have anything to fear. There is no reward offered for your apprehension, but for my poor boy’s, who is now wandering over the wide world; and no one would go to the expense to apprehend you, if there was nothing to be gained by it.”
“True,” replied Rushbrook, after a minute’s reflection; “but, alas! I am a coward now: I will write.”
Rushbrook wrote accordingly, and, in reply, received a letter inclosing a bank-bill for 20 pounds, and requesting that he would come to town immediately. He did so, and found, to his astonishment, that he was the heir-at-law to a property of 7,000 pounds per annum—with the only contingency, that he was, as nearest of kin, to take the name of Austin. Having entered into all the arrangements required by the legal gentleman, he returned to Yorkshire, with 500 pounds in his pocket, to communicate the intelligence to his wife; and when he did so, and embraced her, she burst into tears.
“Rushbrook, do not think I mean to reproach you by these tears; but I cannot help thinking that you would have been happier had this never happened. Your life will be doubly sweet to you now, and Joey’s absence will be a source of more vexation than ever. Do you think that you will be happier?”
“Jane, dearest! I have been thinking of it as well as you, and, on reflection, I think I shall be safer. Who would know the poacher Rushbrook in the gentleman of 7,000 pounds a year, of the name of Austin? Who would dare accuse him, even if there were suspicion? I feel that once in another county, under another name, and in another situation, I shall be safe.”
“But our poor boy, should he ever come back—”
“Will also be forgotten. He will have grown up a man, and, having another name, will never be recognised: they will not even know what our former name was.”
“I trust that it will be as you say. What do you now mean to do?”
“I shall say that I have a property of four or five hundred pounds left me, and that I intend to go up to London,” replied Rushbrook.
“Yes, that will be wise; it will be an excuse for our leaving this place, and will be no clue to where we are going,” replied Jane.
Rushbrook gave up his situation, sold his furniture, and quitted Yorkshire. In a few weeks afterwards he was installed into his new property, a splendid mansion, and situated in the west of Dorsetshire. Report had gone before them; some said that a common labourer had come into the property, others said it was a person in very moderate circumstances; as usual, both these reports were contradicted by a third, which represented him as a half-pay lieutenant in the army. Rushbrook had contrived to mystify even the solicitor as to his situation in life; he stated to him that he had retired from the army, and lived upon the government allowance; and it was in consequence of a reference to the solicitor, made by some of the best families in the neighbourhood, who wished to ascertain if the newcomers were people who could be visited, that this third report was spread, and universally believed. We have already observed that Rushbrook was a fine, tall man; and if there is any class of people who can be transplanted with success from low to high life, it will be those who have served in the army. The stoop is the evidence of a low-bred, vulgar man; the erect bearing equally so that of the gentleman. Now, the latter is gained in the army, by drilling and discipline, and being well-dressed will provide for all else that is required, as far as mere personal appearance is concerned. When, therefore, the neighbours called upon Mr and Mrs Austin they were not surprised to find an erect, military-looking man, but they were very much surprised to find him matched with such a fine, and even elegant-looking woman, as his wife. Timid at first, Jane had sufficient tact to watch others and copy; and before many months were passed in their new position, it would have been difficult to suppose that Mrs Austin had not been born in the sphere in which she then moved. Austin wasbrusqueand abrupt in his manners as before; but still there was always a reserve about him, which he naturally felt, and which assisted to remove the impression of vulgarity. People who are distant are seldom considered ungentlemanlike, although they may be considered unpleasant in their manners. It is those who are too familiar who obtain the character of vulgarity.
Austin, therefore, was respected, but not liked; Jane, on the contrary, whose beauty had now all the assistance of dress, and whose continued inward mourning for her lost son had improved that beauty by the pensive air which she wore, was a deserved and universal favourite. People of course said that Austin was a harsh husband, and pitied poor Mrs Austin; but that people always do say if a woman is not inclined to mirth.
Austin found ample amusement in sporting over his extensive manor, and looking after his game. In one point the neighbouring gentlemen were surprised, that, although so keen a sportsman himself, he never could be prevailed upon to convict a poacher. He was appointed a magistrate, and being most liberal in all his subscriptions, was soon considered as a great acquisition to the county. His wife was much sought after, but it was invariably observed that, when children were mentioned, the tears stood in her eyes. Before they had been a year in their new position, they had acquired all the knowledge and tact necessary; their establishment was on a handsome scale; they were visited and paid visits to all the aristocracy and gentry, and were as popular as they could have desired to be. But were they happy? Alas! no. Little did those who envied Austin his property and establishment imagine what a load was on his mind—what a corroding care was wearing out his existence. Little did they imagine that he would gladly have resigned all, and been once more the poacher in the village of Grassford, to have removed from his conscience the deed of darkness which he had committed, and once more have his son by his side. And poor Jane, her thoughts were day and night upon one object—where was her child? It deprived her of rest at night; she remained meditating on her fate for hours during the day; it would rush into her mind in the gayest scenes and the happiest moments; it was one incessant incubus—one continual source of misery. Of her husband she thought less; for she knew how sincerely contrite he was for the deed he had done—how bitterly he had repented it ever since, and how it would, as long as he lived, be a source of misery—a worm that would never die, but gnaw till the last hour of his existence. But her boy—her noble, self-sacrificed little Joey!—he and his destiny were ever in her thoughts; and gladly would she have been a pauper applying for relief, if she had but that child to have led up in her hand. And yet all the county thought how happy and contented the Austins ought to be, to have suddenly come into possession of so much wealth. ’Tis God alone that knows the secrets of the heart of man.