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Chapter Eighteen
A Coroner’s Inquest
Day had scarcely dawned when the keeper and his satellites were again on the search. The snow had covered the ground for three or four inches, and, as the covers had been well examined on the preceding day, they now left them and went on in the direction towards where the gun had been picked up. This brought them direct to the furze bottom, where the dogs appeared to quicken their movements, and when the keepers came up with them again, they found them lying down by the frozen and stiffened corpse of the pedlar.
“Murder, as I expected,” said Lucas, as they lifted up the body, and scraped off the snow which covered it; “right through his heart, poor fellow; who would have expected this from such a little varmint? Look about, my lads, and see if we can find anything else. What is Nap scratching at?—a bag—take it up, Martin. Dick, do you go for some people to take the body to the Cat and Fiddle, while we see if we can find anything more.”
In a quarter of an hour the people arrived, the body was carried away, while the keeper went off in all haste to the authorities.
Furness, the schoolmaster, as soon as he had obtained the information, hastened to Rushbrook’s cottage, that he might be the first to convey the intelligence. Rushbrook, however, from the back of the cottage, had perceived the people carrying in the body, and was prepared.
“My good people, I am much distressed, but it must be told; believe me, I feel for you—your son, my pupil, has murdered the pedlar.”
“Impossible!” cried Rushbrook.
“It is but too true; I cannot imagine how a boy, brought up under my tuition—nay, Mrs Rushbrook, don’t cry—brought up, I may say, with such strict notions of morality, promising so fairly, blossoming so sweetly—”
“He never murdered the pedlar!” cried Jane, whose face was buried in her apron.
“Who then could have?” replied Furness.
“He never shot him intentionally, I’ll swear,” said Rushbrook; “if the pedlar has come to his death, it must have been by some accident. I suppose the gun went off somehow or other; yes, that must be it: and my poor boy, frightened at what had taken place, has run away.”
“Well,” replied the schoolmaster, “such may have been the case; and I do certainly feel as if it were impossible that a boy like Joey, brought up by me, grounded in every moral duty—I may add, religiously and piously instructed—could ever commit such a horrible crime.”
“Indeed, he never did,” replied Jane; “I am sure he never would do such a thing.”
“Well, I must wish you good-bye now, my poor people; I will go down to the Cat and Fiddle, and hear what they say,” cried the pedagogue, quitting the cottage.
“Jane, be careful,” said Rushbrook; “our great point now is to say nothing. I wish that man would not come here.”
“Oh, Rushbrook!” cried Jane, “what would I give if we could live these last three days over again.”
“Then imagine, Jane, what I would give!” replied Rushbrook, striking his forehead; “and now say no more about it.”
At twelve o’clock the next day the magistrates met, and the coroner’s inquest was held upon the body of the pedlar. On examination of the body, it was ascertained that a charge of small shot had passed directly through the heart, so as to occasion immediate death; that the murder had not been committed with the view of robbing, it was evident, as the pedlar’s purse, watch, and various other articles were found upon his person.
The first person examined was a man of the name of Green, who had found the gun in the ditch. The gun was produced, and he deposed to its being the one which he had picked up, and given into the possession of the keeper; but no one could say to whom the gun might belong.
The next party who gave his evidence was Lucas, the game-keeper. He deposed that he knew the pedlar, Byres, and that being anxious to prevent poaching, he had offered him a good sum if he would assist him in convicting any poacher; that Byres had then confessed to him that he had often received game from Rushbrook, the father of the boy, and still continued to do so, but Rushbrook had treated him ill, and he was determined to be revenged upon him, and get him sent out of the country; that Byres had informed him on the Saturday night before the murder was committed, that Rushbrook was to be out on Monday night to procure game for him, and that if he looked out sharp he was certain to be taken. Byres had also informed him that he had never yet found out when Rushbrook left his cottage or returned, although he had been tracking the boy, Joey. As the boy was missing on Monday morning, and Byres did not return to the ale-house, after he went out on Saturday night, he presumed that it was on the Sunday night that the pedlar was murdered.
The keeper then farther deposed as to the finding of the body, and also of a bag by the side of it; that the bag had evidently been used for putting game in, not only from the smell, but from the feathers of the birds which were still remaining inside of it.
The evidence as to the finding of the body and the bag was corroborated by that of Martin and Dick, the underkeepers.
Mr Furness then made his appearance to give voluntary evidence, notwithstanding his great regard expressed for the Rushbrooks. He deposed that, calling at the cottage, on Monday morning, for his pupil, he found the father and mother in great distress at the disappearance of their son, whom they stated to have left the cottage some time during the night, and to have taken away his father’s gun with him, and that their son had not since returned; that he pointed out to Rushbrook the impropriety of his having a gun, and that Rushbrook had replied that he had carried one all his life, and did not choose to be without one; that they told him they supposed that he had gone out to poach, and was taken by the keepers, and had requested him to go and ascertain if such was the fact. Mr Furness added that he really imagined that to be the case now that he saw the bag, which he recognised as having been once brought to him by little Joey with some potatoes, which his parents had made him a present of; that he could swear to the bag, and so could several others as well as himself. Mr Furness then commenced a long flourish about his system of instruction, in which he was stopped by the coroner, who said that it had nothing to do with the business.
It was then suggested that Rushbrook and his wife should be examined. There was a demur at the idea of the father and mother giving evidence against their child, but it was over-ruled, and in ten minutes they both made their appearance.
Mrs Rushbrook, who had been counselled by her husband, was the first examined; but she would not answer any question put to her. She did nothing but weep; and to every question her only reply was, “If he did kill him, it was by accident; my boy would never commit murder.” Nothing more was to be obtained from her; and the magistrates were so moved by her distress, that she was dismissed.
Rushbrook trembled as he was brought in and saw the body laid out on the table; but he soon recovered himself, and became nerved and resolute, as people often will do in extremity. He had made up his mind to answer some questions, but not all.
“Do you know at what time your son left the cottage?”
“I do not.”
“Does that gun belong to you?”
“Yes, it is mine.”
“Do you know that bag?”
“Yes, it belongs to me.”
“It has been used for putting game into—has it not?”
“I shall not answer that question. I’m not on trial.”
Many other questions were put to him, but he refused to answer them; and as they would all more or less have criminated himself as a poacher, his refusals were admitted. Rushbrook had played his game well in admitting the gun and bag to be his property, as it was of service to him, and no harm to Joey. After summing up the whole evidence, the coroner addressed the jury, and they returned a unanimous verdict of Wilful Murder against Joseph Rushbrook the younger; and the magistrates directed the sum of 200 pounds to be offered for our hero’s apprehension.
Chapter Nineteen
A Friend in Need is a Friend indeed
Rushbrook and Jane returned to their cottage. Jane closed the door, and threw herself into her husband’s arms. “You are saved at least,” she cried: “thank Heaven for that! You are spared. Alas! we do not know how much we love till anger comes upon us.”
Rushbrook was much affected: he loved his wife, and had good reason to love her. Jane was a beautiful woman, not yet thirty; tall in her person, her head was finely formed, yet apparently small for her height her features were full of expression and sweetness. Had she been born to a high station, she would have been considered one of the greatest belles. As it was, she was loved by those around her; and there was a dignity and commanding air about her which won admiration and respect. No one could feel more deeply than she did the enormity of the offence committed by her husband; and yet never in any moment since her marriage did she cling so earnestly and so closely by him as she did now. She was of that bold and daring temperament, that she could admire the courage that propelled to the crime, while the crime itself she abhorred. It was not, therefore, anything surprising that, at such a moment, with regard to a husband to whom she was devoted, she thought more of the danger to which he was exposed than she did of the crime which had been committed.
To do Rushbrook himself justice, his person and mind were of no plebeian mould. He was a daring, venturous fellow, ready at any emergency, cool and collected in danger, had a pleasure in the excitement created by the difficulty and risk attending his nocturnal pursuits, caring little or nothing for the profits. He, as well as his wife, had not been neglected in point of education: he had been born in humble life, and had, by enlisting, chosen a path by which advancement became impossible; but had Rushbrook been an officer instead of a common soldier, his talents would probably have been directed to more noble channels, and the poacher and pilferer for his captain might have exerted his dexterity so as to have gained honourable mention. His courage had always been remarkable, and he was looked upon by his officers—and so he was by his companions—as the most steady and collected man under fire to be found in the whole company.
We are the creatures of circumstances. Frederick of Prussia had no opinion of phrenology; and one day he sent for the professor, and dressing up a highwayman and a pickpocket in uniforms and orders, he desired the phrenologist to examine their heads, and give his opinion as to their qualifications. The savant did so, and turning to the king, said, “Sire, this person,” pointing to the highwayman, “whatever he may be, would have been a great general, had he been employed. As for the other, he is quite in a different line. He may be, or, if he is not, he would make, an admirable financier.” The king was satisfied that there was some truth in the science; “for,” as he very rightly observed, “what is a general but a highwayman, and what is a financier, but a pickpocket?”
“Calm yourself, dear Jane,” said Rushbrook; “all is well now.”
“All well!—yes; but my poor child—200 pounds offered for his apprehension! If they were to take him!”
“I have no fear of that; and if they did, they could not hurt him. It is true that they have given their verdict; but still they have no positive proof.”
“But they have hanged people upon less proof before now, Rushbrook.”
“Jane,” replied Rushbrook, “our boy shall never be hanged—I promise you that; so make your mind easy.”
“Then you must confess, to save him; and I shall lose you.”
A step at the door interrupted their colloquy. Rushbrook opened it, and Mr Furness, the schoolmaster, made his appearance.
“Well, my good friends, I am very sorry the verdict has been such as it is, but it cannot be helped; the evidence was too strong, and it was a sad thing for me to be obliged to give mine.”
“You!” exclaimed Rushbrook; “why, did they call you up?”
“Yes, and put me on my oath. An oath, to a moral man, is a very serious responsibility; the nature of an oath is awful; and when you consider my position in this place, as the inculcator of morals and piety to the younger branches of the community, you must not be surprised at my telling the truth.”
“And what had you to tell?” inquired Rushbrook, with surprise.
“Had to tell—why, I had to tell what you told me this morning; and I had to prove the bag as belonging to you; for you know you sent me some potatoes in it by little Joey, poor fellow. Wilful Murder, and two hundred pounds upon apprehension and conviction!”
Rushbrook looked at the pedagogue with surprise and contempt.
“Pray, may I ask how they came to know that anything had passed between us yesterday morning, for if I recollect right, you desired me to be secret.”
“Very true, and so I did; but then they knew what good friends we always were, I suppose, and so they sent for me, and obliged me to speak upon my oath.”
“I don’t understand it,” replied Rushbrook; “they might have asked you questions, but how could they have guessed that I had told you anything?”
“My dear friend, you don’t understand it; but in my situation, looking up to me, as every one does, as an example of moral rectitude and correctness of conduct—as a pattern to the juvenile branches of the community,—you see—”
“Yes, I do see that, under such circumstances, you should not go to the ale-house and get tipsy two days, at least, out of the week,” replied Rushbrook, turning away.
“And why do I go to the ale-house, my dear friend, but to look after those who indulge too freely—yourself, for instance? How often have I seen you home?”
“Yes, when you were drunk and I was—” Jane put her hand upon her husband’s mouth.
“And you were what, friend?” inquired Furness, anxiously.
“Worse than you, perhaps. And now, friend Furness, as you must be tired with your long evidence, I wish you a good night.”
“Shall I see you down at the Cat and Fiddle?”
“Not for some time, if ever, friend Furness, that you may depend upon.”
“Never go to the Cat and Fiddle! A little wholesome drink drowns care, my friend; and, therefore, although I should be sorry that you indulged too much, yet, with me to look after you—”
“And drink half my ale, eh? No, no, friend Furness, those days are gone.”
“Well, you are not in a humour for it now but another time. Mrs Rushbrook, have you a drop of small beer?”
“I have none to spare,” replied Jane, turning away; “you should have applied to the magistrates for beer.”
“Oh, just as you please,” replied the pedagogue; “it certainly does ruffle people’s temper when there is a verdict of wilful murder, and two hundred pounds for apprehension and conviction of the offender. Good night.”
Furness banged the cottage door as he went out.
Rushbrook watched till he was out of hearing, and then said, “He’s a scoundrel.”
“I think so too,” replied Jane; “but never mind, we will go to bed now, thank God for his mercies, and pray for his forgiveness. Come, dearest.”
The next morning Mrs Rushbrook was informed by the neighbours that the schoolmaster had volunteered his evidence. Rushbrook’s indignation was excited, and he vowed revenge.
Whatever may have been the feelings of the community at the time of the discovery of the murder, certain it is that, after all was over, there was a strong sympathy expressed for Rushbrook and his wife, and the condolence was very general. The gamekeeper was avoided, and his friend Furness fell into great disrepute, after his voluntarily coming forward and giving evidence against old and sworn friends. The consequence was, his school fell off, and the pedagogue, whenever he could raise the means, became more intemperate than ever.
One Saturday night, Rushbrook, who had resolved to pick a quarrel with Furness, went down to the ale-house. Furness was half drunk, and pot-valiant. Rushbrook taunted him so as to produce replies. One word brought on another, till Furness challenged Rushbrook to come outside and have it out. This was just what Rushbrook wished, and after half an hour Furness was carried home beaten to a mummy, and unable to leave his bed for many days. As soon as this revenge had been taken, Rushbrook, who had long made up his mind so to do, packed up and quitted the village, no one knowing whither he and Jane went; and Furness, who had lost all means of subsistence, did the same in a very few days afterwards, his place of retreat being equally unknown.
Chapter Twenty
In which we again follow up our Hero’s Destiny
After the resolution that Major McShane came to, it is not to be surprised that he made, during the journey home, every inquiry of Joey relative to his former life. To these Joey gave him a very honest reply in everything except that portion of his history in which his father was so seriously implicated; he had the feeling that he was bound in honour not to reveal the circumstances connected with the murder of the pedlar. McShane was satisfied, and they arrived in London without further adventure. As soon as McShane had been embraced by his wife, he gave a narrative of his adventures, and did not forget to praise little Joey as he deserved. Mrs McShane was all gratitude, and then it was that McShane expressed his intentions towards our hero, and, as he expected, he found his amiable wife wholly coincide with him in opinion. It was therefore decided that Joey should be put to a school, and be properly educated, as soon as an establishment that was eligible could be found.
Their full intentions towards him, however, were not communicated to our hero; he was told that he was to go to school, and he willingly submitted: it was not, however, for three months that McShane would part with him: a difficulty was raised against every establishment that was named. During this time little Joey was very idle, for there was nothing for him to do. Books there were none, for Mrs McShane had no time to read, and Major McShane no inclination. His only resort was to rummage over the newspapers which were taken in for the benefit of the customers, and this was his usual employment. One day, in turning over the file, he came to the account of the murder of the pedlar, with the report of the coroner’s inquest. He read all the evidence, particularly that of Furness, the schoolmaster, and found that the verdict was wilful murder, with a reward of 200 pounds for his apprehension. The term, wilful murder, he did not exactly comprehend; so, after laying down the paper, with a beating heart he went to Mrs McShane, and asked her what was the meaning of it.
“Meaning, child?” replied Mrs McShane, who was then very busy in her occupation, “it means, child, that a person is believed to be guilty of murder, and, if taken up, he will be hanged by the neck till he is dead.”
“But,” replied Joey, “suppose he has not committed the murder?”
“Well then, child, he must prove that he has not.”
“And suppose, although he has not committed it, he cannot prove it?”
“Mercy on me, what a number of supposes! why, then he will be hanged all the same, to be sure.”
A fortnight after these queries, Joey was sent to school; the master was a very decent man, the mistress a very decent woman, the tuition was decent, the fare was decent, the scholars were children of decent families; altogether, it was a decent establishment, and in this establishment little Joey made very decent progress, going home every half year. How long Joey might have remained there it is impossible to say; but having been there for a year and a half, and arrived at the age of fourteen, he had just returned from the holidays with three guineas in his pocket, for McShane and his wife were very generous and very fond of their protégé, when a circumstance occurred which again ruffled the smooth current of our hero’s existence.
He was walking out as all boys do walk out in decent schools, that is, in a long line, two by two, as the animals entered Noah’s Ark, when a sort of shabby-genteel man passed their files. He happened to cast his eyes upon Joey, and stopped. “Master Joseph Rushbrook, I am most happy to see you once more,” said he extending his hand. Joey looked up into his face; there was no mistake; it was Furness, the schoolmaster. “Don’t you recollect me, my dear boy? Don’t you recollect him who taught the infant idea how to shoot? Don’t you recollect your old preceptor?”
“Yes,” replied Joey, colouring up, “I recollect you very well.”
“I am delighted to see you; you know you were my fairest pupil, but we are all scattered now; your father and mother have gone no one knows where; you went away, and I also could no longer stay. What pleasure it is to meet you once more!”
Joey did not respond exactly to the pleasure. The stoppage of the line had caused some confusion, and the usher, who had followed it, now came up to ascertain the cause. “This is my old pupil, or rather I should say, my young pupil; but the best pupil I ever had. I am most delighted to see him, sir,” said Furness, taking off his hat. “May I presume to ask who has the charge of this dear child at this present moment?”
The usher made no difficulty in stating the name and residence of the preceptor, and, having gained this information, Furness shook Joey by the hand, bade him farewell, and, wishing him every happiness, walked away.
Joey’s mind was confused during the remainder of his walk, and it was not until their return home that he could reflect on what had passed. That Furness had given evidence upon the inquest he knew, and he had penetration, when he read it, to feel that there was no necessity for Furness having given such evidence. He also knew that there was a reward of two hundred pounds for his apprehension; and when he thought of Furness’s apparent kindness, and his not reverting to a subject so important as wilful murder having been found against him, he made up his mind that Furness had behaved so with the purpose of lulling him into security, and that the next day he would certainly take him up, for the sake of the reward.
Now, although we have not stopped our narrative to introduce the subject, we must here observe that Joey’s love for his parents, particularly his father, was unbounded; he longed to see them again; they were constantly in his thoughts, and yet he dared not mention them, in consequence of the mystery connected with his quitting his home. He fully perceived his danger: he would be apprehended, and being so, he must either sacrifice his father or himself. Having weighed all this in his mind, he then reflected upon what should be his course to steer. Should he go home to acquaint Major McShane? He felt that he could trust him, and would have done so, but he had no right to intrust any one with a secret which involved his father’s life. No, that would not do; yet, to leave him and Mrs McShane after all their kindness, and without a word, this would be too ungrateful. After much cogitation, he resolved that he would run away, so that all clue to him should be lost; that he would write a letter for McShane, and leave it. He wrote as follows:—
“Dear Sir,—Do not think me ungrateful, for I love you and Mrs McShane dearly, but I have been met by a person who knows me, and will certainly betray me. I left my father’s home, not for poaching, but a murder that was committed; I was not guilty. This is the only secret I have held from you, and the secret is not mine. I could not disprove it, and never will. I now leave because I have been discovered by a bad man, who will certainly take advantage of having fallen in with me. We may never meet again. I can say no more, except that I shall always pray for you and Mrs McShane, and remember your kindness with gratitude.
“Yours truly, Joey McShane.”
Since his return from Saint Petersburg, Joey had always, by their request, called himself Joey McShane, and he was not sorry when they gave him the permission, although he did not comprehend the advantages which were to accrue from taking the name.
Joey, having finished his letter, sat down and cried bitterly—but in a school there is no retiring place for venting your feelings, and he was compelled to smother his tears. He performed his exercise, and repeated his lessons, as if nothing had happened and nothing was about to happen, for Joey was in essence a little stoic. At night he went to his room with the other boys; he could only obtain a small portion of his clothes, these he put up in a handkerchief, went softly downstairs about one o’clock in the morning, put his letter, addressed to McShane, on the hall-table, opened the back door, climbed over the play-ground wall, and was again on the road to seek his fortune.
But Joey was much improved during the two years since he had quitted his father’s house. Before that, he was a reflective boy; now, he was more capable of action and decision. His ideas had been much expanded from the knowledge of the world gained during his entry, as it were, into life; he had talked much, seen much, listened much, and thought more; and naturally quiet in his manner, he was now a gentlemanlike boy. At the eating-house he had met with every variety of character; and as there were some who frequented the house daily, with those Joey had become on intimate terms. He was no longer a child, but a lad of undaunted courage and presence of mind; he had only one fear, which was that his father’s crime should be discovered.
And now he was again adrift, with a small bundle, three guineas in his pocket, and the world before him. At first, he had but one idea—that of removing to a distance which should elude the vigilance of Furness, and he therefore walked on, and walked fast. Joey was capable of great fatigue; he had grown considerably, it is true, during the last two years; still he was small for his age; but every muscle in his body was a wire, and his strength, as had been proved by his school-mates, was proportionate. He was elastic as india-rubber, and bold and determined as one who had been all his life in danger.
