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.