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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 As, in his incoherent exclamations, the name of Byres was frequently repeated, as soon as the medical assistants had withdrawn, Mrs Austin desired all the servants, with the exception of Mary, to quit the room; they did so with reluctance, for their curiosity was excited, and there was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 à 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 intérieur, 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.

“‘Allons, messieurs!’ said the conducteur; and when I got in I found myself the sixth person, and opposite to the lady: for all the other passengers were of my own sex. Having fixed our hats up to the roof, wriggled and twisted a little so as to get rid of coat-tails, etcetera, all of which was effected previously to our having cleared Rue Notre Dame des Victoires, we began to scrutinise each other. Our female companion’s veil was down and doubled so that I could not well make her out; my other four companions were young men—all Frenchmen,—apparently good-tempered, and inclined to be agreeable. A few seconds were sufficient for my reconnoitre of the gentlemen, and then my eyes were naturally turned towards the lady. She was muffled up in a winter cloak, so that her figure was not to be made out; and the veil still fell down before her face, so that only one cheek and a portion of her chin could be deciphered: that fragment of her physiognomy was very pretty, and I watched in silence for the removal of the veil.

“I have omitted to state that, before I got into the diligence, I saw her take a very tender adieu of a very handsome woman; but, as her back was turned to me at the time, I did not see her face. She had now fallen back in her seat, and seemed disposed to commune with her own thoughts: that did not suit my views, which were to have a view of her face. Real politeness would have induced me to leave her to herself, but pretended politeness was resorted to that I might gratify my curiosity; so I inquired if she wished the window up. The answer was in the negative, and in a very sweet voice; and then there was a pause, of course so I tried again.

“‘You are melancholy at parting with your handsome sister,’ observed I, leaning forward with as much appearance of interest as I could put into my beautiful phiz.

“‘How could you have presumed that she was my sister?’ replied she.

“‘From the strong family likeness,’ replied I. ‘I felt certain of it.’

“‘But she is only my sister-in-law, sir,—my brother’s wife.’

“‘Then, I presume, he chose a wife as like his sister as he could find; nothing more natural—I should have done the same.’

“‘Sir, you are very polite,’ replied the lady, who lowered down the window, adding, ‘I like fresh air.’

“‘Perhaps you will find yourself less incommoded if you take off your veil?’

“‘I will not ascribe that proposition to curiosity on your part, sir,’ replied the lady, ‘as you have already seen my face.’

“‘You cannot, then, be surprised at my wishing to see it once more.’

“‘You are very polite, sir.’

“Although her voice was soft, there was a certain quickness and decision in her manner and language which were very remarkable. The other passengers now addressed her, and the conversation became general. The veiled lady took her share in it, and showed a great deal of smartness and repartee. In an hour more we were all very intimate. As we changed horses, I took down my hat to put into it my cigar-case, which I had left in my pocket, upon which the lady observed, ‘You smoke, I perceive; and so, I dare say, do all the rest of the gentlemen. Now, do not mind me; I am fond of the smell of tobacco—I am used to it.’

“We hesitated.

“‘Nay, more, I smoke myself, and will take a cigar with you.’

“This was decisive. I offered my cigar-case—another gentleman struck a light. Lifting up her veil so as to show a very pretty mouth, with teeth as white as snow, she put the cigar in her mouth, and set us the example. In a minute both windows were down, every one had a cigar in his mouth.

“‘Where did you learn to smoke, madam?’ was a question put to the incognita by the passenger who sat next to her.

“‘Where?—In the camp—Africa—everywhere. I did belong to the army—that is, my husband was the captain of the 47th. He was killed, poor man! in the last successful expedition to Constantine:—c’était un brave homme.’

“‘Indeed! Were you at Constantine?’

“‘Yes, I was; I followed the army during the whole Campaign.’

“The diligence stopped for supper or dinner, whichever it might be considered, and the conducteur threw open the doors. ‘Now,’ thought I, ‘we shall see her face;’ and so, I believe, thought the other passengers; but we were mistaken; the lady went upstairs and had a basin of soup taken to her. When all was ready we found her in the diligence, with her veil down as before.

“This was very provoking, for she was so lively and witty in conversation, and the features of her face which had been disclosed were so perfect, that I was really quite on a fret that she would leave me without satisfying my curiosity:– they talk of woman’s curiosity, but we men have as much, after all. It became dark;—the lady evidently avoided further conversation, and we all composed ourselves as well as we could. It may be as well to state in few words, that the next morning she was as cautious and reserved as ever. The diligence arrived at this hotel—the passengers separated—and I found that the lady and I were the only two who took up our quarters there. At all events, the Frenchmen who travelled with us went away just as wise as they came.

“‘You remain here?’ inquired I, as soon as we had got out of the diligence.

“‘Yes,’ replied she. ‘And you—’

“‘I remain here, certainly; but I hope you do not intend to remain always veiled. It is too cruel of you.’

“‘I must go to my room now, and make myself a little more comfortable; after that, Monsieur l’Anglais, I will speak to you. You are going over in the packet, I presume?’

“‘I am, by to-morrow’s packet.’

“‘I shall put myself under your protection, for I am also going to London.’

“‘I shall be most delighted.’

“‘Au revoir.’

“About an hour afterwards a message was brought to me by the garçon, that the lady would be happy to receive me at Number 19. I ascended to the second floor, knocked, and was told to come in.

“She was now without a veil; and what do you think was her reason for the concealment of her person?”

“By the beard of Mokhanna, how can I tell?”

“Well, then, she had two of the most beautiful eyes in the world; her eyebrows were finely arched; her forehead was splendid; her mouth was tempting,—in short, she was as pretty as you could wish a woman to be, only she had broken her nose,—a thousand pities, for it must once have been a very handsome one. Well, to continue, I made my bow.

“‘You perceive now, sir,’ said she, ‘why I wore my veil down.’

“‘No, indeed,’ replied I.

“‘You are very polite, or very blind,’ rejoined she; ‘the latter I believe not to be the fact. I did not choose to submit to the impertinence of my own countrymen in the diligence; they would have asked me a hundred questions upon my accident. But you are an Englishman, and have respect for a female who has been unfortunate.’

“‘I trust I deserve your good opinion, madam; and if I can be in any way useful to you—’

“‘You can. I shall be a stranger in England. I know that in London there is a great man, one Monsieur Lis-tong, who is very clever.’

“‘Very true, madam. If your nose instead of having been slightly injured as it is, had been left behind you in Africa, Mr Liston would have found you another.’

“‘If he will only repair the old one, I ask no more. You give me hopes. But the bones are crushed completely, as you must see.’

“‘That is of no consequence. Mr Liston has put a new eye in, to my knowledge. The party was short-sighted, and saw better with the one put in by Mr Liston than with the one which had been left him.’

“‘Est-il possible? Mais, quel homme extraordinaire! Perhaps you will do me the favour to sit with me, monsieur; and, if I mistake not, you have a request to make of me—n’est-ce pas?’

“‘I felt such interest about you, madam, that I acknowledge, if it would not be too painful to you, I should like to ask a question.’

“‘Which is, How did I break my nose? Of course you want to know. And as it is the only return I can make for past or future obligations to you, you shall most certainly be gratified. I will not detain you now. I shall expect you to supper. Adieu, monsieur.’

“I did not, of course, fail in my appointment; and after supper she commenced:—

“‘The question to be answered,’ said she, ‘is, How did you break your nose?—is it not? Well then, at least, I shall answer it after my own fashion. So, to begin at the beginning, I am now exactly twenty-two years old. My father was tambour-majeur in the Garde Impériale. I was born in the camp—brought up in the camp—and, finally, I was married in the camp, to a lieutenant of infantry at the time. So that, you observe, I am altogether militaire. As a child, I was wakened up with the drum and fife, and went to sleep with the bugles; as a girl, I became quite conversant with every military manoeuvre; and now that I am a woman grown, I believe that I am more fit for the bâton than one-half of those marshals who have gained it. I have studied little else but tactics and have as my poor husband said, quite a genius for them; but of that hereafter. I was married at sixteen, and have ever since followed my husband. I followed him at last to his grave. He quitted my bed for the bed of honour, where he sleeps in peace. We’ll drink to his memory.’

“We emptied our glasses, when she continued:—

“‘My husband’s regiment was not ordered to Africa until after the first disastrous attempt upon Constantine. It fell to our lot to assist in retrieving the honour of our army in the more successful expedition which took place, as you, of course, are aware, about three months ago. I will not detain you with our embarkation or voyage. We landed from a steamer at Bona, and soon afterwards my husband’s company was ordered to escort a convoy of provisions to the army which was collecting at Mzez Ammar. Well, we arrived safely at our various camps of Drean, Nech Meya, and Amman Berda. We made a little détour to visit Ghelma. I had curiosity to see it, as formerly it was an important city. I must say, that a more tenable position I never beheld. But I tire you with these details.’