"He is in prison, madam."

"In prison for debt, I suppose?"

"No, madam; on a charge of murder, which he is not guilty of."

"Murder!" exclaimed Mrs Austin, "and not guilty! Why—when—and where did this murder take place?"

"Many years ago, madam, when he was quite a child."

"How very strange!" thought Mrs Austin, panting, for breath, and dropping into a chair. "But where, Mary?"

"Down in Devonshire, madam, at Grassford."

Mrs Austin fell senseless from her chair. Mary, very much surprised, hastened to her assistance, and, after a time succeeded in restoring her, and leading her to the sofa. For some time Mrs Austin remained with her face buried in the cushions, while Mary stood over her. At last Mrs Austin looked up, and laying her head upon Mary's arm, said in a solemn tone—

"Mary, do not deceive me; you say that that boy is your brother—tell me, is not that false? I am sure that it is. Answer me, Mary."

"He is not my born brother, madam, but I love him as one," replied Mary.

"Again answer me truly, Mary, if you have any regard for me. You know his real name; what is it?"

"Joseph Rushbrook, madam," replied Mary, weeping.

"I was certain of it!" replied Mrs Austin, bursting into tears; "I knew it! The blow has come at last! God have mercy on me! What can be done?" And again Mrs Austin abandoned herself to bitter grief.

Mary was in amazement: how Mrs Austin should know any thing of Joey's history, and why she should be in such distress, was to her a complete mystery: she remained for some time at the side of her mistress, who gradually became more composed. Mary at last said,—"May I go to him, madam?"

"Yes," replied Mrs Austin, "most certainly. Mary, I must have no secrets now; you must tell me everything. You see that I am deeply interested about this young man as well as yourself: it is quite sufficient for you at present to know that; before I say anything more, you must be candid with me, and tell me how you became acquainted with him, and all that you know relative to his life; that I will assist you and him in every way in my power; that neither money nor interest shall be spared, you may be assured; and I think, Mary, that, after this promise, you will not conceal anything from me."

"Indeed I will not, madam," replied Mary, "for I love him as much as I can love." Mary then commenced by stating that she was living at Gravesend when she first met with Joey. There was a little hesitation at the commencement of her narrative, which Mrs Austin pretended not to observe; she then continued, winding up with the information which she had obtained from Furness, the marine, their escape, and her admission into Mrs Austin's family.

"And it was Joseph Rushbrook that came with you to this house?"

"Yes, madam," replied Mary; "but one of the men was quite rude to me, and Joey took it up. Mr Austin, hearing a noise, sent down to inquire the cause; the servants threw all the blame upon Joey, and he was ordered out of the house immediately. He refused even to come back to the Hall, after the treatment he had received, for a long while; but it was he who was in the parlour when you opened the door, if you recollect, a few weeks ago."

Mrs Austin clasped her hands, and then pressed them to her forehead; after a while she said—

"And what has he been doing since he came here?"

Mary then informed her mistress of all she knew of Joey's subsequent career.

"Well, Mary," said Mrs Austin, "you must go to him directly. You will want money; but, Mary, promise me that you will not say a word to him about what has passed between us,—that is, for the present; by-and-bye I may trust you more."

"You may trust me, madam," replied Mary, looking her mistress in the face; "but it is too late for me to go this afternoon; I will, if you please, now wait till to-morrow morning."

"Do so, Mary; I am glad that you do not go to-night, for I wish you to stay with me; I have many questions to ask of you. At present I wish to be alone, my good girl. Tell Mr Austin that I am very unwell, and do not dine below."

"Shall I bring your dinner up here, madam?" asked Mary.

"Yes, you may bring it, Mary," replied Mrs Austin, with a faint smile.

Never did two people leave one another both so much wishing to be alone as Mary and Mrs Austin. The former quitted the room, and, having first executed her commission, returned to her own apartment, that she might reflect without being disturbed. What could be the reason of Mrs Austin's behaviour? What could she know of Joey Rushbrook? and why so interested and moved? She had heard among the servants that Mr and Mrs Austin were formerly in a humbler sphere of life; that he was a half-pay officer; but there was still no clue to such interest about Joey Rushbrook. Mary thought and thought over and over again, revolved all that had passed in her mind, but could make nothing of it; and she was still trying to solve the mystery when the housemaid came into the room, and informed her that Mrs Austin's bell had rung twice. Mrs Austin, on her part, was still more bewildered; she could not regain sufficient calmness to enable her to decide how to act. Her son in prison, to be tried for his life for a crime he had not committed! Would he divulge the truth, and sacrifice the father? She thought not. If he did not, would he not be condemned? and if he were, could she remain away from him? or ought she not to divulge what the boy would conceal? And if he did confess the truth, would they find out that Mr Austin and Joseph Rushbrook were one and the same person? Would there be any chance of his escape? Would he not, sooner or later, be recognised? How dreadful was her situation! Then, again, should she acquaint her husband with the position of his son? If so, would he come forward? Yes, most certainly he would never let Joey suffer for his crime. Ought she to tell her husband? And then Mary, who knew so much already, who had witnessed her distress and anguish, who was so fond of her son, could she trust her? Could she do without trusting her? Such were the various and conflicting ideas which passed in the mind of Mrs Austin. At last she resolved that she would say nothing to her husband; that she would send Mary to her son, and that she would that evening have more conversation with the girl, and decide, after she had talked with her, whether she would make her a confidant or not. Having made up her mind so far, she rang the bell for Mary.

"Are you better, madam?" asked Mary, who had entered the room, very quietly.

"Yes, I thank you, Mary; take your work and sit down; I wish to have some more conversation with you about this young person, Joseph Rushbrook; you must have seen that I am much interested about him."

"Yes, madam."

"There were some portions of your story, Mary, which I do not quite understand. You have now lived with me for five years, and I have had every reason to be satisfied with your behaviour. You have conducted yourself as a well-behaved, modest, and attentive young woman."

"I am much obliged to you, madam, for your good opinion."

"And I hope that you will admit that I have not been a hard mistress to you, Mary, but, on the contrary, have shown you that I have been pleased with your conduct."

"Certainly, madam, you have; and I trust I am grateful."

"I believe so," replied Mrs Austin. "Now, Mary, I wish you to confide in me altogether. What I wish to know is how did you in so short a time become acquainted with this Furness, so as to obtain this secret from him? I may say, whom did you live with, and how did you live, when at Gravesend? for you have not mentioned that to me. It seems so odd to me that this man should have told to a person whom he had seen but for a few hours a secret of such moment."

Mary's tears fell fast, but she made no reply.

"Cannot you answer me, Mary?"

"I can, madam," said she, at last; "but if I tell the truth—and I cannot tell a lie now—you will despise me, and perhaps order me to leave the house immediately; and if you do what will become of me?"

"Mary, if you think I intend to take advantage of a confession extorted from you, you do me wrong I ask the question because it is necessary that I should know the truth—because I cannot confide in you without you first confide in me; tell me, Mary, and do not be afraid."

"Madam, I will; but pray do not forget that I have been under your roof for five years, and that I have been during that time an honest and modest girl. I was not so once, I confess it," and Mary's cheeks were red with shame, and she hung down her head.

"We are all sinful creatures, Mary," replied Mrs Austin; "and who is there that has not fallen into error? The Scriptures say, 'Let him who is without sin cast the first stone;' nay more, Mary, 'There is more joy over one sinner that repenteth than over ninety and nine who need no repentance.' Shall I then be harsh to you, my poor girl? No, no. By trusting me you have made me your friend; you must be mine, Mary, for I want a friend now."

Poor Mary fell on her knees before Mrs Austin, and wept over her hand as she kissed it repeatedly.

Mrs Austin was much affected, and as the contrite girl recovered herself, Mrs Austin leaned on her elbow, and putting her arm round Mary's neck, drew her head towards her, and gently kissed her on the brow.

"You are, indeed, a kind friend, madam," said Mary, after a pause, "and may the Almighty reward you! You are unhappy; I know not why, but I would die to serve you. I only wish that you would let me prove it."

"First, Mary, tell me as much of your own history as you choose to tell; I wish to know it."

Mary then entered into the details of her marriage, her husband's conduct, her subsequent career, and her determination to lead a new life, which she had so sincerely proved by her late conduct.

Mary having concluded her narrative, Mrs Austin addressed her thus:—

"Mary, if you imagine that you have fallen in my good opinion, after what you have confessed to me, you are much mistaken; you have, on the contrary, been raised. There have been few, very few, that have had the courage and fortitude that you have shown, or who could have succeeded as you have done. I was afraid to trust you before, but now I am not. I will not ask you not to betray me, for I am sure you will not. On two points only my lips are sealed; and the reason why they are sealed is that the secret is not mine alone, and I have not permission to divulge it. That I am deeply interested in that boy is certain; nay, that he is a near and very dear connection is also the case; but what his exact relationship is towards me I must not at present say. You have asserted your belief of his innocence, and I tell you that you are right; he did not do the deed; I know who did, but I dare not reveal the name."

"That is exactly what Joey said to me, madam," observed Mary, "and, moreover, that he never would reveal it, even if he were on his trial."

"I do not think that he ever will, Mary," rejoined Mrs Austin, bursting into tears. "Poor boy! it is horrible that he should suffer for an offence that he has not committed."

"Surely, madam, if he is found guilty they will not hang him, he was such a child."

"I scarcely know."

"It's very odd that his father and mother have disappeared in the manner they did; I think it is very suspicious," observed Mary.

"You must, of course, have your own ideas from what you have already heard," replied Mrs Austin, in a calm tone; "but, as I have already said, my lips on that subject are sealed. What I wish you to do, Mary, is not at first to let him know that I am interested about him, or even that I know anything about him. Make all the inquiries you can as to what is likely to be the issue of the affair, and, when you have seen him, you must then come back and tell me all that he says, and all that has taken place."

"I will, madam."

"You had better go away early tomorrow; one of the grooms shall drive you over to meet the coach which runs to Exeter. While I think of it, take my purse, and do not spare it, Mary; for money must not be thought of now. I am very unwell, and must go to bed."

"I had better bring up the tray, madam; a mouthful and a glass of wine will be of service to you."

"Do so, dear Mary; I feel very faint."

As soon as Mrs Austin had taken some refreshment, she entered again into conversation with Mary, asking her a hundred questions about her son. Mary, who had now nothing to conceal, answered freely; and when Mary wished her good night, Mrs Austin was more than ever convinced that her boy's rectitude of principle would have made him an ornament to society. Then came the bitter feeling that he was about to sacrifice himself; that he would be condemned as a felon, disgraced, and perhaps executed; and as she turned on her restless pillow, she exclaimed, "Thank God that he is innocent—his poor father suffers more."



CHAPTER FORTY FIVE.

IN WHICH MARY MAKES A DISCOVERY OF WHAT HAS BEEN LONG KNOWN TO THE READER.

It was hardly ten o'clock on the second morning when Mary arrived at Exeter, and proceeded to the gaol. Her eyes were directed to the outside of the massive building, and her cheeks blanched when she viewed the chains and fetters over the entrance, so truly designating the purport of the structure. There were several people at the steps and in the passage, making inquiries, and demanding permission of the turnkey to visit the prisoners; and Mary had to wait some minutes before she could make her request. Her appearance was so different to the usual class of applicants, that the turnkey looked at her with some surprise.

"Whom do you wish to see?" inquired the man, for Mary's voice had faltered.

"Joseph Rushbrook, my brother," repeated Mary.

At this moment the head gaoler came to the wicket.

"She wishes to see her brother, young Rushbrook," said the turnkey.

"Yes, certainly," replied the gaoler; "walk in, and sit down in the parlour for a little while, till I can send a man with you."

There was a gentleness and kindness of manner shown by both the men towards Mary, for they were moved with her beauty and evident distress. Mary took a seat in the gaoler's room; the gaoler's wife was there, and she was more than kind. The turnkey came to show her to the cell; and when Mary rose, the gaoler's wife said to her, "After you have seen your brother, my dear child, you had better come back again, and sit down here a little while, and then, perhaps, I can be of some use to you, in letting you know what can be done, and what is not allowed."

Mary could not speak, but she looked at the gaoler's wife, her eyes brimming over with tears. The kind woman understood her. "Go now," said she, "and mind you come back to me."

The turnkey, without speaking, led her to the cell, fitted the key to the ponderous lock, pushed back the door, and remained outside. Mary entered, and in a second was in the arms of our hero, kissing him, and bedewing his cheeks with her tears.

"I was sure that you would come, Mary," said Joey; "now sit down, and I will tell you how this has happened, while you compose yourself; you will be better able to talk to me after a while."

They sat down on the stretchers upon which the bed had been laid during the night, their hands still clasped, and as Joey entered into a narrative of all that had passed, Mary's sobs gradually diminished, and she was restored to something like composure.

"And what do you intend to do when you are brought to trial, my dear boy?" said Mary at last.

"I shall say nothing, except 'Not Guilty,' which is the truth, Mary; I shall make no defence whatever."

"But why will you not confess the truth?" replied Mary. "I have often thought of this, and have long made up my mind, Joey, that no one could act as you do if a parent's life were not concerned; you, or anybody else, would be mad to sacrifice himself in this way, unless it were to save a father."

Joey's eyes were cast down on the stone pavement; he made no reply.

"Why, then, if I am right in my supposition," continued Mary—"I do not ask you to say yes or no on that point—why should you not tell the truth? Furness told me that your father and mother had left the village, and that he had attempted to trace them, but could not; and he expressed himself sure that they were gone to America. Why, then, supposing I am right, should you sacrifice yourself for nothing?"

"Supposing you are right, Mary," replied Joey, with his eyes still cast down, "what proof is there that my parents have left the country? It was only the supposition of Furness, and it is my conviction that they have not. Where they may be, I know not; but I feel positive that my mother would not leave the country without having first found out where I was, and have taken me with her. No, Mary, my father and mother, if alive, are still in this country."

"Recollect again, my dear boy, that your father may be dead."

"And if so, my mother would have by this time found me out; she would have advertised for me—done everything—I feel that she would have—she would have returned to Grassford, and—"

"And what, Joey?"

"I must not say what, Mary," replied our hero; "I have thought a great deal since I have been shut up here, and I have taken my resolution, which is not to be changed; so let us say no more upon the subject, dear Mary. Tell me all about yourself."

Mary remained another hour with Joey, and then bade him farewell; she was anxious to return to Mrs Austin, and acquaint her with the result of her interview; with a heavy heart she walked away from the cell, and went down into the parlour of the gaoler.

"Would you like to take anything?" said the gaoler's wife, after Mary had sat down.

"A little water," replied Mary.

"And how is your brother?"

"He is innocent," replied Mary: "he is indeed; but he won't tell anything, and they will condemn him."

"Well, well; but do not be afraid; he must have been very young at the time, innocent or guilty, and he won't suffer, that I know; but he will be sent out of the country."

"Then I will go with him," replied Mary.

"Perhaps he will be pardoned, dear; keep your spirits up, and, if you have money, get a good lawyer."

"Can you tell me who would be a good lawyer to apply to?"

"Yes; Mr Trevor; he is a very clever man, and comes the Western Circuit; if any one can save him, he can."

"I will take his name down, if you please," said Mary.

The gaoler's wife gave Mary a piece of paper and pen and ink; Mary wrote down the name and address of Mr Trevor, and then with many thanks took her leave.

On her return to the Hall, Mary communicated to Mrs Austin what had passed. Mrs Austin perceived that Joey would not swerve from his resolution, and that all that could be done was to procure the best legal assistance.

"Mary, my poor girl," said Mrs Austin, "here is money, which you will find necessary for your adopted brother's assistance. You say that you have obtained the name of the best legal person to be employed in his behalf. To-morrow you must go to London, and call upon that gentleman. It may be as well not to mention my name. As his sister, you of course seek the best legal advice. You must manage all this as if from yourself."

"I will, madam."

"And, Mary, if you think it advisable, you can remain in town for two or three days; but pray write to me every day."

"I will, madam."

"Let me know your address, as I may wish to say something to you when I know what has been done."

"I will, madam."

"And now you had better go to bed, Mary, for you must be tired; indeed, you look very fatigued, my poor girl; I need not caution you not to say anything to any of the servants; good night."

Mary threw herself on the bed, she was indeed worn out with anxiety and grief; at last she slept. The next morning she was on her way to town, having, in reply to the curiosity of the servants, stated that the cause of her journey was the dangerous illness of her brother.

As soon as she arrived in London, Mary drove to the chambers of the lawyer, whose direction she had obtained from the Exeter gaoler's wife; he was at home, and after waiting a short time, she was ushered by the clerk into his presence.

"What can I do for you, young lady?" inquired Mr Trevor, with some surprise: "it is not often that the den of a lawyer has such a bright vision to cheer it. Do me the favour to take a chair."

"I am not a young lady, sir," replied Mary; "I have come to you to request that you will be so kind as to defend my brother, who is about to be tried."

"Your brother! what is he charged with?"

"Murder," replied Mary; "but indeed, sir, he is not guilty," she continued, as she burst into tears.

Mr Trevor was not only a clever, but also a kind and considerate man. He remained silent for some minutes to allow Mary time to recover herself. When she was more composed, he said—

"What is your brother's name?"

"Joseph Rushbrook."

"Rushbrook! Rushbrook! I well remember that name," remarked Mr Trevor; "strange, the Christian name also the same! it is singular certainly. The last time I was concerned for a person of that name, I was the means of his coming into a large landed property; now I am requested to defend one of the same name accused of murder."

Mary was astonished at this observation of Mr Trevor's, but made no reply.

"Have you the indictment? Where did the murder take place?"

"In Devonshire, sir, many years ago."

"And he is now in Exeter gaol? Come, tell me all the particulars."

Mary told all that she knew, in a very clear and concise manner.

"Now, my good girl," said Mr Trevor, "I must see your brother. In two days I shall be down at Exeter. If you write to him, or see him before I do, you must tell him he must trust in his lawyer, and have no reservation, or I shall not be able to do him so much service. Allow me to ask you have you any relations in Yorkshire?"

"No, sir, none."

"And yet the name and Christian name are exactly the same. It's an odd coincidence! They, however, changed their name, when they came into the property."

"Changed the name of Rushbrook, sir!" said Mary, who now thought that she had a clue to Joey's parents.

"Yes, changed it to Austin; they live now in Dorsetshire. I mention it because, if interest is required for your brother, and he could prove any relationship, it might be valuable. But, bless me! what is the matter? Smithers," cried Mr Trevor, as he ran and supported Mary, "some water! quick! the girl has fainted!"

It was surprise at this astounding intelligence, her regard for Mrs Austin, and the light now thrown upon the interest she had shown for our hero, and the conviction of what must be her suffering, which had overcome the poor girl. In a short time she recovered.

"I thank you, sir, but I have suffered so much anxiety about my poor brother," said Mary, faltering, and almost gasping for breath.

"He cannot be a very bad boy, since you are so fond of him," said Mr Trevor.

"No, indeed; I wish I was half as good," murmured Mary.

"I will do all I possibly can, and that immediately; indeed, as soon as I have the documents, and have perused them, I will go to your brother a day sooner than I intended. Do you feel yourself well enough to go now? If you do, my clerk shall procure you a coach. Do you stay in London? If so, you must leave your address."

Mary replied that she intended to set off to Exeter that evening by the mail, and would meet him there.

Mr Trevor handed her out, put her into the coach, and she ordered the man to drive to the inn where she was stopping. Mary's senses were quite bewildered. It was late, and the mail was to start in an hour or two. She secured her place, and during her long journey she hardly knew how time passed away. On her arrival, in the morning, she hastened to the prison. She was received kindly, as before, by the gaoler and his wife, and then attended the turnkey into Joey's cell. As soon as the door was closed she threw herself down on the bedstead, and wept bitterly, quite heedless of our hero's remonstrance or attempts to soothe her.

"Oh! it is horrible—too horrible!" cried the almost fainting girl. "What can—what must be done! Either way, misery—disgrace! Lord, forgive me! But my head is turned. That you should be here! That you should be in this strait! Why was it not me? I—I have deserved all and more! prison, death, everything is not too bad for me; but you, my dear, dear boy!"

"Mary, what is the reason of this? I cannot understand. Are matters worse than they were before?" said Joey. "And why should you talk in such a way about yourself? If you ever did wrong, you were driven to it by the conduct of others; but your reformation is all your own."

"Ah, Joey!" replied Mary; "I should think little of my repentance if I held myself absolved by a few years' good conduct. No, no; a whole life of repentance is not sufficient for me; I must live on, ever repenting, and must die full of penitence, and imploring for pardon. But why do I talk of myself?"

"What has made you thus, Mary?"

"Joey, I cannot keep it a secret from you; it is useless to attempt it. I have discovered your father and mother!"

"Where are they? and do they know anything of my position?"

"Yes; your mother does, but not your father."

"Tell me all, Mary, and tell me quickly."

"Your father and mother are Mr and Mrs Austin."

Joey's utterance failed him from astonishment; he stared at Mary, but he could not utter a word. Mary again wept; and Joey for some minutes remained by her side in silence.

"Come, Mary," said Joey at last, "you can now tell me everything."

Joey sat down by her side, and Mary then communicated what had passed between herself and Mrs Austin; her acknowledgement that he was her relation; the interest she took in him; the money she had lavished; her sufferings, which she had witnessed; and then she wound up with the conversation between her and Mr Trevor.

"You see, my dear boy, there is no doubt of the fact. I believe I did promise Mrs Austin to say nothing to you about it; but I forgot my promise all just this minute. Now, Joey, what is to be done?"

"Tell me something about my father, Mary," said Joey; "I wish to know how he is estimated, and how he behaves in his new position."

Mary told him all she knew, which was not a great deal; he was respected; but he was a strange man, kept himself very much aloof from others and preferred seclusion.

"Mary," said Joey, "you know what were my intentions before; they are now still more fixed. I will take my chance; but I never will say one word. You already know and have guessed more than I could wish; I will not say that you are right, for it is not my secret."

"I thought as much," replied Mary, "and I feel how much my arguments must be weakened by the disclosures I have made. Before, I only felt for you; now I feel for all. Oh, Joey! why are you, so innocent, to be punished this way, and I, so guilty, to be spared?"

"It is the will of God that I should be in this strait, Mary; and now let us not renew the subject."

"But, Joey, Mr Trevor is coming here to-morrow; and he told me to tell you that you must have no reservation with your lawyer, if you wish him to be of service to you."

"You have given your message, Mary; and now you must leave me to deal with him."

"My heart is breaking," said Mary, solemnly. "I wish I were in my grave if that wish is not wicked."

"Mary, recollect one thing;—recollect it supports me, and let it support you;—I am innocent."

"You are, I'm sure; would to Heaven that I could say the same for another! But tell me, Joey, what shall I do when I meet your mother? I loved her before; but, oh! how much I love her now! What shall I do? Shall I tell her that I have discovered all? I do not know how I can keep it from her."

"Mary, I see no objection to your telling her, but tell her also that I will not see her till after my trial; whatever my fate may be, I should like to see her after that is decided."

"I will take your message the day after to-morrow," replied Mary; "now I must go and look out for lodgings, and then write to your mother. Bless you!"

Mary quitted the cell; she had suffered so much that she could hardly gain the gaoler's parlour, where she sat down to recover herself. She inquired of the gaoler's wife if she could procure apartments near the prison, and the woman requested one of the turnkeys to take her to a lodging which would be suitable. As soon as Mary was located, she wrote a letter to Mrs Austin, informing her of her having seen the lawyer, and that his services were secured; and then, worn out with the anxiety and excitement of the three last days, she retired to bed, and in her sleep forgot her sufferings.



CHAPTER FORTY SIX.

IN WHICH OUR HERO MAKES UP HIS MIND TO BE HANGED.

Our hero was not sorry to be left alone; for the first time he felt the absence of Mary a relief. He was almost as much bewildered as poor Mary with the strange discovery; his father a great landed proprietor, one of the first men in the county, universally respected—in the first society! his mother, as he knew by Mary's letters written long ago, courted and sought after, loved and admired! If he had made a resolution—a promise he might say—when a mere child that he would take the onus of the deed upon his own shoulders, to protect his father, then a poacher and in humble life, how much more was it his duty, now that his father would so feel any degradation—now that, being raised so high, his fall would be so bitter, his disgrace so deeply felt, and the stigma so doubly severe! "No, no," thought Joey, "were I to impeach my father now—to accuse him of a deed which would bring him to the scaffold—I should not only be considered his murderer, but it would be said I had done it to inherit his possessions; I should be considered one who had sacrificed his father to obtain his property. I should be scouted, shunned, and deservedly despised; the disgrace of my father having been hanged would be a trifle compared with the reproach of a son having condemned a parent to the gallows. Now I am doubly bound to keep to my resolution; and come what may the secret shall die with me:" and Joey slept soundly that night.

The next morning Mr Trevor came into his cell.

"I have seen your sister, Rushbrook," said he, "and at her request, have come to assist you, if it is in my power. She has been here since, I have been informed, and if so, I have no doubt that she has told you that you must have no secrets with your lawyer: your legal friend and adviser in this case is your true friend: he is bound in honour to secrecy, and were you to declare now that you were guilty of this murder, the very confidence would only make me more earnest in your defence. I have here all the evidence at the coroner's inquest, and the verdict against you; tell me honestly what did take place, and then I shall know better how to convince the jury that it did not."

"You are very kind, sir; but I can say nothing even to you, except that, on my honour, I am not guilty."

"But, tell me, then, how did it happen."

"I have nothing more to say, and, with my thanks to you, sir, I will say nothing more."

"This is very strange: the evidence was strong against you, was the evidence correct?"

"The parties were correct in their evidence, as it appeared to them."

"And yet you are not guilty!"

"I am not; I shall plead not guilty, and leave my fate to the jury."

"Are you mad? Your sister is a sweet young woman, and has interested me greatly; but, if innocent, you are throwing away your life."

"I am doing my duty, sir; whatever you may think of my conduct, the secret dies with me."

"And for whom do you sacrifice yourself in this way, if as, you say, and as your sister declares, you are not guilty?"

Joey made no reply, but sat down on the bedstead.

"If the deed was not done by you, by whom was it done?" urged Mr Trevor. "If you make no reply to that, I must throw up my brief."

"You said just now," returned Joey, "that if I declared myself guilty of the murder, you would still defend me; now, because I say I am not, and will not say who is, you must throw up your brief. Surely you are inconsistent."

"I must have your confidence, my good lad."

"You never will have more than you have now. I have not requested you to defend me. I care nothing about defence."

"Then, you wish to be hanged?"

"No, I do not; but, rather than say anything, I will take my chance of it."

"This is very strange," said Mr Trevor: after a pause, he continued, "I observe that you are supposed to have killed this man, Byres, when nobody else was present; you were known to go out with your father's gun, and the keeper's evidence proved that you poached. Now, as there is no evidence of intentional murder on your part, it is not impossible that the gun went off by accident, and that, mere boy as you must have been at that age, you were so frightened at what had taken place, that you absconded from fear. It appears to me that that should be our line of defence."

"I never fired at the man at all," said Joey.

"Who fired the gun, then?" asked Mr Trevor.

Joey made no reply.

"Rushbrook," said Mr Trevor, "I am afraid I can be of little use to you; indeed, were it not that your sister's tears have interested me, I would not take up your cause. I cannot understand your conduct, which appears to me to be absurd; your motives are inexplicable, and all I can believe is, that you have committed the crime, and will not divulge the secret to any one, not even to those who would befriend you."

"Think of me what you please, sir," rejoined our hero; "see me condemned, and, if it should be so, executed; and, after all that has taken place, believe me, when I assert to you—as I hope for salvation— I am not guilty. I thank you, sir, thank you sincerely, for the interest you have shown for me; I feel grateful, excessively grateful, and the more so for what you have said of Mary; but if you were to remain here for a month, you could gain no more from me than you have already."

"After such an avowal, it is useless my stopping here," said Mr Trevor; "I must make what defence I can, for your sister's sake."

"Many, many thanks, sir, for your kindness; I am really grateful to you," replied Joey.

Mr Trevor remained for a minute scanning the countenance or our hero. There was something in it so clear and bright, so unflinching, so proclaiming innocence, and high feeling, that he sighed deeply as he left the cell.

His subsequent interview with Mary was short; he explained to her the difficulties arising from the obstinacy of her brother; but at the same time expressed his determination to do his best to save him.

Mary, as soon as she had seen Mr Trevor, set off on her return to the Hall. As soon as she went to Mrs Austin, Mary apprised her of Mr Trevor's having consented to act as counsel for our hero, and also of Joey's resolute determination not to divulge the secret.

"Madam," said Mary, after some hesitation, "it is my duty to have no secret from you: and I hope you will not be angry when I tell you that I have discovered that which you would have concealed."

"What have you discovered, Mary?" asked Mrs Austin, looking at her with alarm.

"That Joseph Rushbrook is your own son," said Mary, kneeling down and kissing the hand of her mistress. "The secret is safe with me, depend upon it," she continued.

"And how have you made the discovery, Mary; for I will not attempt to deny it?"

Mary then entered into a detail of her conversation with Mr Trevor. "He asked me," said she, "as the sister of Joey, if we had any relatives, and I replied, 'No;' so that he has no suspicion of the fact. I beg your pardon, madam, but I could not keep it from Joey; I quite forgot my promise to you at the time."

"And what did my poor child say?"

"That he would not see you until after his trial; but, when his fate was decided, he should like to see you once more. Oh, madam, what a painful sacrifice! and yet, now, I do not blame him; for it is his duty."

"My dread is not for my son, Mary; he is innocent; and that to me is everything; but if my husband was to hear of his being about to be tried, I know not what would be the consequence. If it can only be kept from his knowledge! God knows that he has suffered enough! But what am I saying? I was talking nonsense."

"Oh, madam! I know the whole; I cannot be blinded either by Joey or you. I beg your pardon, madam; but although Joey would not reply, I told him that his father did the deed. But do not answer me, madam; be silent, as your son has been: and believe me when I say that my suspicion could not be wrenched from me even by torture."

"I do trust you, Mary; and perhaps the knowledge that you have obtained is advantageous. When does the trial come on?"

"The assizes commence to-morrow forenoon, madam, they say."

"Oh! how I long to have him in these arms!" exclaimed Mrs Austin.

"It is indeed a sad trial to a mother, madam," replied Mary; "but still it must not be until after he is—"

"Yes; until he is condemned! God have mercy on me; Mary, you had better return to Exeter; but write to me every day. Stay by him and comfort him; and may the God of comfort listen to the prayers of an unhappy and distracted mother! Leave me now. God bless you, my dear girl! you have indeed proved a comfort. Leave me now."



CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN.

IN WHICH OUR HERO PROVES GAME TO THE VERY LAST.

Mary returned to Exeter. The trial of our hero was expected to come on on the following day. She preferred being with Joey to witnessing the agony and distress of Mrs Austin, to whom she could offer no comfort; indeed, her own state of suspense was so wearing, that she almost felt relief when the day of trial came on. Mr Trevor had once more attempted to reason with Joey, but our hero continued firm in his resolution, and Mr Trevor, when he made his appearance in the court, wore upon his countenance the marks of sorrow and discontent; he did not, nevertheless, fail in his duty. Joey was brought to the bar, and his appearance was so different from that which was to be expected in one charged with the crime of murder, that strong interest was immediately excited; the spectators anticipated a low-bred ruffian, and they beheld a fair, handsome young man, with an open brow and intelligent countenance, whose eye quailed not when it met their own, and whose demeanour was bold without being offensive. True that there were traces of sorrow on his countenance, and that his cheeks were pale; but no one who had any knowledge of human nature, or any feeling of charity in his disposition, could say that there was the least appearance of guilt. The jury were empannelled, the counts of the indictment read over, and the trial commenced, and, as the indictment was preferred, the judge caught the date of the supposed offence.

"What is the date?" said the judge; "the year, I mean?"

Upon the reply of the clerk, his lordship observed, "Eight years ago!" and then looking at the prisoner, added, "Why, he must have been a child."

"As is too often the case," replied the prosecuting counsel; "a child in years, but not in guilt, as we shall soon bring evidence to substantiate."

As the evidence brought forward was the same, as we have already mentioned, as given on the inquest over the body, we shall pass it over; that of Furness, as he was not to be found, was read to the court. As the trial proceeded, and as each fact came forth more condemning, people began to look with less compassion on the prisoner: they shook their heads, and compressed their lips.

As soon as the evidence for the Crown was closed, Mr Trevor rose in our hero's defence. He commenced by ridiculing the idea of trying a mere child upon so grave a charge, for a child the prisoner must have been at the time the offence was committed. "Look at him now, gentlemen of the jury; eight years ago the murder of the pedlar, Byres, took place; why, you may judge for yourselves whether he is now more than seventeen years of age; he could scarcely have held a gun at the time referred to."

"The prisoner's age does not appear in the indictment," observed the judge.

"May we ask his age, my lord?" demanded one of the jury.

"The prisoner may answer the question if he pleases," replied the judge, "not otherwise; perhaps he may not yet be seventeen years, of age. Do you wish to state your age to the jury, prisoner?"

"I have no objection, my lord," replied Joey, not regarding the shakes of the head of his counsel: "I was twenty-two last month."

Mr Trevor bit his lips at this unfortunate regard for truth in our hero, and, after a time, proceeded, observing that the very candour of the prisoner, in not taking advantage of his youthful appearance to deceive the jury, ought to be a strong argument in his favour. Mr Trevor then continued to address the jury upon the vagueness of the evidence, and, as he proceeded, observed—"Now, gentlemen of the jury, if this case had been offered to me to give an opinion upon, I should, without any previous knowledge of the prisoner, have just come to the following conclusion—I should have said (and your intelligence and good sense will, I have no doubt, bear me out in this supposition), that, allowing that the pedlar, Byres, did receive his death by the prisoner's hand—I say, gentlemen, that allowing such to have been the case, for I deny that it is borne out by the evidence—that it must have been that, at the sudden meeting with the pedlar, when the lad's conscience told him that what he was doing was wrong, that the gun of the prisoner was discharged unintentionally, and the consequence was fatal; I should then surmise, further, that the prisoner, frightened at the deed which he had unintentionally committed, had absconded upon the first impulse. That, gentlemen I believe to be the real state of the case; and what was more natural than that a child under such circumstances should have been frightened, and have attempted to evade the inquiry which must have eventually ensued?"

"You state such to be your opinion, Mr Trevor; do you wish me to infer that the prisoner pleads such as his defence?" asked the judge.

"My lord," replied Mr Trevor, in a hesitating way, "the prisoner has pleaded not guilty to the crime imputed to him."

"That I am aware of, but I wish to know whether you mean to say that the prisoner's defence is, not having anything to do with the death of the pedlar, or upon the plea of his gun going off by accident?"

"My lord, it is my duty to my client to make no admission whatever."

"I should think that you would be safe enough, all circumstances considered, if you took the latter course," observed the judge, humanely.

Mr Trevor was now in a dilemma; he knew not how to move. He was fearful, if he stated positively that our hero's gun went off by accident, that Joey would deny it; and yet if he was permitted to assert this to be the case, he saw, from the bearing of the judge, that the result of the trial would be satisfactory. It hardly need be observed that both judge, prosecuting counsel, jury, and everybody in court, were much astonished at this hesitation on the part of the prisoner's counsel.

"Do you mean to assert that the gun went off by accident, Mr Trevor?" asked the judge.

"I never fired the gun, my lord," replied Joey, in a calm steady voice.

"The prisoner has answered for me," replied Mr Trevor, recovering himself; "we are perfectly aware that by making a statement of accidental murder, we could safely have left the prisoner in the hands of an intelligent jury; but the fact is, my lord, that the prisoner never fired the gun, and therefore could not be guilty of the murder imputed to him."

Mr Trevor had felt, upon our hero's assertion, that his case was hopeless; he roused up, however, to make a strong appeal to the jury; unfortunately, it was declamation only, not disproof of the charges, and the reply of the prosecuting counsel completely established the guilt of our hero upon what is called presumptive evidence. The jury retired for a few minutes after the summing up of the judge, and then returned a verdict against our hero of Guilty, but recommended him to mercy. Although the time to which we refer was one in which leniency was seldom extended, still there was the youth of our hero, and so much mystery in the transaction, that when the judge passed the sentence, he distinctly stated that the royal mercy would be so far extended, that the sentence would be commuted to transportation. Our hero made no reply; he bowed, and was led back to his place of confinement, and in a few minutes afterwards the arms of the weeping Mary were encircled round his neck.

"You don't blame me, Mary?" said Joey.

"No, no," sobbed Mary; "all that the world can do is nothing when we are innocent."

"I shall soon be far from here, Mary," said Joey, sitting down on the bedstead; "but, thank Heaven! it is over."

The form of Emma Phillips rose up in our hero's imagination, and he covered up his face with his hands.

"Had it not been for her!" thought he. "What must she think of me! a convicted felon! this is the hardest of all to bear up against."

"Joey," said Mary, who had watched him in silence and tears, "I must go now; you will see her now, will you not?"

"She never will see me! she despises me already," replied Joey.

"Your mother despise her noble boy? Oh, never! How can you think so?"

"I was thinking of somebody else, Mary," replied Joey. "Yes, I wish to see my mother."

"Then I will go now; recollect what her anxiety and impatience must be. I will travel post to-night, and be there by to-morrow morning."

"Go, dear Mary, go, and God bless you! hasten to my poor mother, and tell her that I am quite—yes—quite happy and resigned. Go now, quickly."

Mary left the cell, and Joey, whose heart was breaking at the moment that he said he was happy and resigned, for he was thinking of his eternal separation from Emma, as soon as he was alone, threw himself on the bed, and gave full vent to those feelings of bitter anguish which he could no longer repress.



CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT.

IN WHICH EVERYBODY APPEARS TO BE ON THE MOVE EXCEPT OUR HERO.

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

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

"What's the matter, my dear?" asked Mrs McShane.

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

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

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

"Well, it appears to me that we had better be off to Exeter directly," replied O'Donahue.

"Yes, and see him," rejoined the major.

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

"That's good advice; and now what excuse are we to make for running away?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I was observing to his sister—" said Mr Trevor.

"He has no sister," interrupted McShane.

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

"That is strange," rejoined McShane, musing.

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

"How do you mean?" inquired McShane.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"'Tis the man!" exclaimed O'Donahue.

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

"No I did not," replied Mr Trevor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We will wait, then," replied O'Donahue.

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

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

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



CHAPTER FORTY NINE.

THE INTERVIEW.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, sir, thank you," replied Austin, gasping for breath.

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

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

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

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

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

"Y-e-s," replied Austin, trembling.

"Shall I denounce him, Mr Austin?"

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

"Yes, Rushbrook," replied McShane, in a voice of thunder, "I do know him,—'tis yourself!"

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



CHAPTER FIFTY.

IN WHICH IT IS TO BE HOPED THAT THE STORY WINDS UP TO THE SATISFACTION OF THE READER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER FIFTY ONE.

A RENCONTRE.

A SHORT STORY.

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

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

"Male or female?" inquired I.

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

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

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