Фредерик Марриет
The Poacher; Or, Joseph Rushbrook
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.”
