"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 G.o.d 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 circ.u.mstances 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 grat.i.tude, 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 protege, when a circ.u.mstance 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed.

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 grat.i.tude.

"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.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

THE SCENE IS AGAIN SHIFTED, AND THE PLOT ADVANCES.

It will be necessary that for a short time we again follow up the fortunes of our hero's parents. When Rushbrook and Jane had quitted the village of Gra.s.sford, they had not come to any decision as to their future place of abode; all that Rushbrook felt was a desire to remove as far as possible from the spot where the crime had been committed. Such is the feeling that will ever possess the guilty, who, although they may increase their distance, attempt in vain to fly from their consciences, or that All-seeing Eye which follows them everywhere. Jane had a similar feeling, but it arose from her anxiety for her husband. They wandered away, for they had sold everything before their departure, until they found themselves in the West Riding of Yorkshire, and there they at length settled in a small village. Rushbrook easily obtained employment, for the population was scanty, and some months pa.s.sed away without anything occurring of interest.

Rushbrook had never taken up his employment as a poacher since the night of the murder of the pedlar; he had abjured it from that hour. His knowledge of woodcraft was, however, discovered, and he was appointed first as under, and eventually as head keeper to a gentleman of landed property in the neighbourhood. In this situation they had remained about a year, Rushbrook giving full satisfaction to his employer, and comparatively contented (for no man could have such a crime upon his conscience, and not pa.s.s occasional hours of misery and remorse), and Jane was still mourning in secret for her only and darling child, when one day a paper was put into Rushbrook's hands by his master, desiring him to read an advertis.e.m.e.nt which it contained, and which was as follows:--"If Joseph Rushbrook, who formerly lived in the village of Gra.s.sford, in the county of Devon, should be still alive, and will make his residence known to Messrs. Pearce, James, and Simpson, of 14, Chancery-lane, he will hear of something greatly to his advantage.

Should he be dead, and this advertis.e.m.e.nt meet the eye of his heirs, they are equally requested to make the communication to the above address."

"What does it mean, sir?" inquired Rushbrook.

"It means that, if you are that person, in all probability there is some legacy bequeathed to you by a relative," replied Mr S---; "is it you?"

"Yes, sir," replied Rushbrook, changing colour; "I did once live at Gra.s.sford."

"Then you had better write to the parties and make yourself known. I will leave you the newspaper."

"What think you, Jane?" said Rushbrook, as soon as Mr --- had quitted.

"I think he is quite right," replied Jane.

"But, Jane, you forgot--this may be a trap; they may have discovered something about--you know what I mean."

"Yes, I do, and I wish we could forget it; but in this instance I do not think you have anything to fear. There is no reward offered for your apprehension, but for my poor boy's, who is now wandering over the wide world; and no one would go to the expense to apprehend you, if there was nothing to be gained by it."

"True," replied Rushbrook, after a minute's reflection; "but, alas! I am a coward now: I will write."

Rushbrook wrote accordingly, and, in reply, received a letter inclosing a bank-bill for 20 pounds, and requesting that he would come to town immediately. He did so, and found, to his astonishment, that he was the heir-at-law to a property of 7,000 pounds per annum--with the only contingency, that he was, as nearest of kin, to take the name of Austin.

Having entered into all the arrangements required by the legal gentleman, he returned to Yorkshire, with 500 pounds in his pocket, to communicate the intelligence to his wife; and when he did so, and embraced her, she burst into tears.

"Rushbrook, do not think I mean to reproach you by these tears; but I cannot help thinking that you would have been happier had this never happened. Your life will be doubly sweet to you now, and Joey's absence will be a source of more vexation than ever. Do you think that you will be happier?"