"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.

Mary having concluded her narrative, Mrs Austin addressed her thus:--

"Mary, if you imagine that you have fallen in my good opinion, after what you have confessed to me, you are much mistaken; you have, on the contrary, been raised. There have been few, very few, that have had the courage and fort.i.tude that you have shown, or who could have succeeded as you have done. I was afraid to trust you before, but now I am not.

I will not ask you not to betray me, for I am sure you will not. On two points only my lips are sealed; and the reason why they are sealed is that the secret is not mine alone, and I have not permission to divulge it. That I am deeply interested in that boy is certain; nay, that he is a near and very dear connection is also the case; but what his exact relationship is towards me I must not at present say. You have a.s.serted your belief of his innocence, and I tell you that you are right; he did not do the deed; I know who did, but I dare not reveal the name."

"That is exactly what Joey said to me, madam," observed Mary, "and, moreover, that he never would reveal it, even if he were on his trial."

"I do not think that he ever will, Mary," rejoined Mrs Austin, bursting into tears. "Poor boy! it is horrible that he should suffer for an offence that he has not committed."

"Surely, madam, if he is found guilty they will not hang him, he was such a child."

"I scarcely know."

"It's very odd that his father and mother have disappeared in the manner they did; I think it is very suspicious," observed Mary.

"You must, of course, have your own ideas from what you have already heard," replied Mrs Austin, in a calm tone; "but, as I have already said, my lips on that subject are sealed. What I wish you to do, Mary, is not at first to let him know that I am interested about him, or even that I know anything about him. Make all the inquiries you can as to what is likely to be the issue of the affair, and, when you have seen him, you must then come back and tell me all that he says, and all that has taken place."

"I will, madam."

"You had better go away early tomorrow; one of the grooms shall drive you over to meet the coach which runs to Exeter. While I think of it, take my purse, and do not spare it, Mary; for money must not be thought of now. I am very unwell, and must go to bed."

"I had better bring up the tray, madam; a mouthful and a gla.s.s of wine will be of service to you."

"Do so, dear Mary; I feel very faint."

As soon as Mrs Austin had taken some refreshment, she entered again into conversation with Mary, asking her a hundred questions about her son. Mary, who had now nothing to conceal, answered freely; and when Mary wished her good night, Mrs Austin was more than ever convinced that her boy's rect.i.tude of principle would have made him an ornament to society. Then came the bitter feeling that he was about to sacrifice himself; that he would be condemned as a felon, disgraced, and perhaps executed; and as she turned on her restless pillow, she exclaimed, "Thank G.o.d that he is innocent--his poor father suffers more."

CHAPTER FORTY FIVE.

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 ma.s.sive 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 pa.s.sage, 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 cla.s.s 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 br.i.m.m.i.n.g 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 pa.s.sed, 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."