As soon as Joey had been dismissed from the witness-box he returned to
the room in which the other witnesses were assembled, with melancholy
forebodings that his real name having been given in open court would
lead to some disaster. He had not been there long before a
peace-officer came in, and said to him,--"Step this way, if you please,
sir; I have something to say to you."
Joey went with him outside the door, when the peace-officer, looking at
him full in the face, said, "Your name is Joseph Rushbrook; you said so
in the witness-box?"
"Yes," replied Joey, "that is my true name."
"Why did you change it?" demanded the officer.
"I had reasons," replied our hero.
"Yes, and I'll tell you the reasons," rejoined the other. "You were
concerned in a murder some years ago; a reward was offered for your
apprehension, and you absconded from justice. I see that you are the
person; your face tells me so. You are my prisoner. Now, come away
quietly, sir; it is of no use for you to resist, and you will only be
worse treated."
Joey's heart had almost ceased to beat when the constable addressed him;
he felt that denial was useless, and that the time was now come when
either he or his father must suffer; he, therefore, made no reply, but
quietly followed the peace officer, who, holding him by the arm, called
a coach, into which he ordered Joey to enter, and following him,
directed the coachman to drive to the police-office.
As soon as the magistrate had been acquainted by the officer who the
party was whom he had taken into custody, he first pointed out to our
hero that he had better not say any thing which might criminate himself,
and then asked him if his name was Joseph Rushbrook.
Joey replied that it was.
"Have you anything to say that might prevent my committing you on the
charge of murder?" demanded the magistrate.
"Nothing, except that I am not guilty," replied Joey.
"I have had the warrant out against him these seven years, or
thereabouts, but he escaped me," observed the peace-officer; "he was but
a lad then."
"He must have been a child, to judge by his present appearance,"
observed the magistrate, who was making out the committal. "I now
perfectly recollect the affair."
The officer received the committal, and in half an hour our hero was
locked up with felons of every description. His blood ran cold when he
found himself enclosed within the massive walls; and as soon as the
gaoler had left him alone, he shuddered and covered his face with his
hands. Our hero had, however, the greatest of all consolations to
support him--the consciousness of his innocence; but when he called to
mind how happy and prosperous he had lately been, when he thought of
Emma--and that now all his fair prospects and fondest anticipations were
thrown to the ground, it is not surprising that for a short time he wept
in his solitude and silence. To whom should he make known his
situation? Alas! it would too soon be known; and would not every one,
even Emma, shrink from a supposed murderer? No! there was one who would
not--one on whose truth he could depend; Mary would not desert him, even
now; he would write to her, and acquaint her with his situation. Our
hero, having made up his mind so to do, obtained paper and ink from the
gaoler when he came into his cell, which he did in about two hours after
he had been locked up. Joey wrote to Mary, stating his position in few
words, and that the next morning he was to be taken down to Exeter to
await his trial; and expressed a wish, if possible, that she would come
there to see him; and giving a guinea to the turnkey, requested him to
forward the letter.
"It shall go safe enough, young master," replied the man. "Now, do you
know, yours is one of the strangest cases which ever came to my
knowledge?" continued the man; "we've been talking about it among
ourselves: why the first warrant for your apprehension was out more than
eight years ago; and, to look at you now, you cannot be more than
seventeen or eighteen."
"Yes, I am," replied Joey; "I am twenty-two."
"Then don't you tell anybody else that, and I will forget it. You see
youth goes a great way in court; and they will see that you must have
been quite a child when the deed was done--for I suppose by the evidence
there is no doubt of that--and it won't be a hanging matter, that you
may be certain of; you'll cross the water, that's all: so keep up your
spirits, and look as young as you can."
Mary received the letter on the following day, and was in the deepest
distress at its contents. She was still weeping over it, her work had
been thrown down at her feet, when Mrs Austin came into the
dressing-room where she was sitting.
"What is the matter, Mary?" said Mrs Austin.
"I have received a letter from my brother, madam," replied Mary; "he is
in the greatest distress; and I must beg you to let me go to him
immediately."
"Your brother, Mary! what difficulty is he in?" asked Mrs Austin.
Mary did not reply, but wept more.
"Mary, if your brother is in distress, I certainly will not refuse your
going to him; but you should tell me what his distress is, or how shall
I be able to advise or help you? Is it very serious?"
"He is in prison, madam."
"In prison for debt, I suppose?"
"No, madam; on a charge of murder, which he is not guilty of."
"Murder!" exclaimed Mrs Austin, "and not guilty! Why--when--and where
did this murder take place?"
"Many years ago, madam, when he was quite a child."
"How very strange!" thought Mrs Austin, panting, for breath, and
dropping into a chair. "But where, Mary?"
"Down in Devonshire, madam, at Grassford."
Mrs Austin fell senseless from her chair. Mary, very much surprised,
hastened to her assistance, and, after a time succeeded in restoring
her, and leading her to the sofa. For some time Mrs Austin remained
with her face buried in the cushions, while Mary stood over her. At
last Mrs Austin looked up, and laying her head upon Mary's arm, said in
a solemn tone--
"Mary, do not deceive me; you say that that boy 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.