“So,” thought Nancy, as she left the public-house, “the drunken fool makes sure of his 200 pounds; but there is no time to be lost.”

  Nancy hastened back to Mrs Chopper, whom she found sitting with a candle turning over the leaves of one of the old account books.

  “O, Nancy, is that you? I was just sighing over you, here’s the things that were ordered for your wedding. Poor girl! I fear you have not often been to church since.”

  Nancy was silent for a short time. “I’m sick of my life and sick of myself, Mrs Chopper: but what can I do? — a wretch like me! I wish I could run away, as poor Peter must directly, and go to where I never was known; I should be so happy.”

  “Peter must go, do you say, Nancy? Is that certain?”

  “Most certain, Mrs Chopper, and he must be off directly I have been with the marines, and the fellow has told me everything; he is only waiting now for me to go back, to come and take him.”

  “But tell me, Nancy, has Peter been guilty?”

  “I believe from my heart that he has done nothing; but still murder was committed, and Peter will be apprehended, unless you give him the means of running away. Where is he now?”

  “Asleep, fast asleep: I didn’t like to wake him, poor fellow!”

  “Then he must be innocent, Mrs Chopper: they say the guilty never sleep. But what will he do — he has no money?”

  “He has saved me a mint of money, and he shall not want it,” replied Mrs Chopper. “What shall I do without him? I can’t bear to part with him.”

  “But you must, Mrs Chopper; and, if you love him, you will give him the means, and let him be off directly. I wish I was going too,” continued Nancy, bursting into tears.

  “Go with him, Nancy, and look after him, and take care of my poor Peter,” said Mrs Chopper, whimpering; “go, my child, go, and lead a good life. I should better part with him, if I thought you were with him, and away from this horrid place.”

  “Will you let me go with him, Mrs Chopper — will you, indeed?” cried Nancy, falling on her knees. “Oh! I will watch him as a mother would her son, as a sister would her brother! Give us but the means to quit this place, and the good and the wicked both will bless you.”

  “That you shall have, my poor girl, it has often pained my heart to look at you; for I felt that you are too good for what you are, and you will be again a good honest girl. You both shall go. Poor Peter! I wish I were young enough, I would go with you; but I can’t. How I shall be cheated again when he is gone! but go he must. Here Nancy, take the money; take all I have in the house:” and Mrs Chopper put upwards of 20 pounds into Nancy’s hand as she was kneeling before her. Nancy fell forward with her face in the lap of the good old woman, suffocated with emotion and tears. “Come, come, Nancy,” said Mrs Chopper, after a pause, and wiping her eyes with her apron, “you mustn’t take on so, my poor girl. Recollect poor Peter; there’s no time to lose.”

  “That is true,” replied Nancy, rising up. “Mrs Chopper you have done a deed this night for which you will have your reward in heaven. May the God of mercy bless you! and, as soon as I dare, night and morning will I pray for you.”

  Mrs Chopper went into Joey’s room with the candle in her hand, followed by Nancy. “See, how sound he sleeps!” said the old woman; “he is not guilty. Peter! Peter! come get up, child.”

  Joey rose from his bed, confused at first with the light in his eyes, but soon recovered himself.

  “Peter, you must go, my poor boy, and go quickly, Nancy says.”

  “I was sure of it,” replied Joey: “I am very, very sorry to leave you, Mrs Chopper. Pray think well of me, for, indeed, I have done nothing wrong.”

  “I am sure of it; but Nancy knows it all, and away you must go. I wish you were off; I’m getting fidgety about it, although I cannot bear to lose you; so good-bye at once, Peter, and God bless you! I hope we shall meet again yet.”

  “I hope so, indeed, Mrs Chopper; for you have been very kind to me, as kind as a mother could be.”

  Mrs Chopper hugged him to her breast, and then said, in a hurried tone, as she dropped on the bed,— “There; go, go.”

  Nancy took up Joey’s bundle in one hand and Joey by the other, and they went down stairs. As soon as they were in the street, Nancy turned short round, and went to the house where she usually slept, desiring Joey to wait a moment at the door. She soon returned with her own bundle, and then, with a quick pace, walked on, desiring Joey to follow her. They proceeded in this manner until they were clear of the town, when Joey came up to Nancy, and said, “Thank you, Nancy; I suppose we’d better part now?”

  “No, we don’t part yet, Peter,” replied Nancy.

  “But where are you going, and why have you that bundle?”

  “I am going with you, Peter,” replied Nancy.

  “But, Nancy — ,” replied Joey; and then, after a pause, “I will do all I can for you — I will work for you — but I have no money, and I hope we shall not starve.”

  “Bless you, boy! bless you for that kind feeling! but we shall not starve; I have Mrs Chopper’s leave to go with you; indeed, she wished me so to do, and she has given me money for you — it is for you, although she said for both.”

  “She is very kind; but why should you go with me, Nancy? You have nothing to fear.”

  “We must not talk now, Peter; let us walk on; I have more to fear than you.”

  “How is that? I fear being taken up for that of which I am not guilty, but you have nothing to fear.”

  “Peter, dear,” replied Nancy, solemnly, “I do not fear for anything the world can do to me — but don’t talk now; let us go on.”

  Chapter Twenty Seven.

  In which the Wheel of Fortune brings our Hero’s Nose to a Grindstone.

  When Nancy and our hero had proceeded about three miles on their way, Nancy slackened her pace, and they entered into conversation.

  “Which way are you going?” demanded Joey.

  “I’m cutting right across the country, Peter, or rather Joey, as I shall in future call you, for that is your real name — the marine told me it was Joseph Rushbrook; is it not?”

  “Yes, it is,” replied Joey.

  “Then in future I shall call you so, for I do not want to hear even a name which would remind me of the scene of my misery; and Joey, do you never call me Nancy again, the name is odious to me; call me Mary.”

  “I will if you wish it; but I cannot imagine why you should run away from Gravesend, Mary. What do you mean to do? I ran away from fear of being taken up.”

  “And I, Joey, do more; I fly from the wrath to come. You ask me what I intend to do; I will answer you in the words of the catechism which I used once to repeat, ‘to lead a new life, have a thankful remembrance of Christ’s death, and be in charity with all men.’ I shall seek for service; I care not how humble — it will be good enough. I will sift cinders for brick-making, make bricks, do anything, as long as what I do is honest.”

  “I am very glad to hear you say that, Mary,” replied Joey, “for I was always very fond of you.”

  “Yes, Joey, and you were the first who offered to do a kind thing for me for a long while; I have never forgotten it, and this night I have done something to repay it.”

  Nancy then entered into a detail of all that had passed between her and Furness, of which Joey had been ignorant, and which proved to him what a narrow escape he had had.

  “I little thought you had done all this while I slept,” replied Joey; “but I am very grateful, Mary.”

  “I know you are, so say no more about it. You see, Joey, he gave me all your history, and appears to believe that you committed the murder. I do not believe it; I do not believe you would do such a thing, although your gun might have gone off by accident.”

  “No, Mary, I did not do it, either on purpose or by accident; but you must ask me no more questions, for if I were put on my trial, I should not reveal the secret.”

  “Then I will never speak to you any more about it, if I can help it. I have my own thoughts on the business, but now I drop it. It is nearly daylight, and we have walked a good many miles; I shall not be sorry to sit down and rest myself.”

  “Do you know how far we have to go before we come to any town, Mary?”

  “We are not far from Maidstone; it is on our right, but it will be as well not to go through so large a town so near to Gravesend. Besides, some of the soldiers may know me. As soon as we come to a good place, where we can find a drink of water, we will sit down and rest ourselves.”

  About a mile further on they came to a small rivulet which crossed the road.

  “This will do, Joey,” said Nancy; “now we’ll sit down.”

  It was then daylight; they took their seats on their bundles as soon as they had drunk from the stream.

  “Now, Joey,” said Mary (as we shall call her for the future), let us see what money we have. Mrs Chopper put all she had in my hands; poor, good old woman, bless her! Count it. Joey; it is yours.

  “No, Mary; she gave it for both of us.”

  “Never mind; do you keep it: for you see, Joey, it might happen that you might have to run off at a moment’s warning, and it would not do for you to be without money.”

  “If I was to run off at a minute’s warning, I should then take it all with me, and it would not do for you to be left without any money, Mary; so we must halve it between us, although we will always make one purse.”

  “Well, be it so; for if you were robbed, or I were robbed, on the way, the other might escape.”

  They then divided the money, Joey putting his share into his pocket, and tying it in with a string. Mary dropped hers down into the usual deposit of women for bank-notes and billets-doux. As soon as this matter had been arranged, Mary opened her bundle, and took out a handkerchief, which she put on her shoulders; combed out the ringlets which she had worn, and dressed her hair flat on her temples; removed the gay ribbons from her bonnet, and substituted some plain brown in their stead.

  “There,” says she; “now, Joey, don’t I look more respectable?”

  “You do look more neat and more—”

  “More modest, you would say, Joey. Well, and I hope in future to become what I look. But I look more fit to be your sister, Joey, for I have been thinking we had better pass off as brother and sister to avoid questioning. We must make out some story to agree in. Who shall we say that we are (as we dare not say who we really are)? I am looking out for service, and so are you, that’s very clear; father and mother are both dead; father was a baker. That’s all true, as far as relates to me: and as you are my brother, why you must take my father and mother. It’s no very great story, after all.”

  “But it won’t do to say we came from Gravesend.”

  “No; we need not say that, and yet tell no story; the village we passed through last night was Wrotham, so we came from thence.”

  “But where do you think of going, Mary?”

  “A good way farther off yet; at all events, before we look out for service, we will get into another county. Now, if you are ready, we will go on Joey, and look out for some breakfast, and then I shall be able to change my gown for a quieter one.”

  In half an hour they arrived at a village, and went into a public-house. Mary went up stairs and changed her dress; and now that she had completed her arrangements, she looked a very pretty, modest young woman, and none could have supposed that the day before she had been flaunting in the street of a seafaring town. Inquiries were made, as might be supposed, and Mary replied that she was going to service, and that her brother was escorting her. They had their breakfast, and, after resting two hours, they proceeded on their journey.

  For some days they travelled more deliberately, until they found themselves in the village of Manstone, in Dorsetshire, where they, as usual, put up at an humble public-house. Here Mary told a different story; she had been disappointed in a situation, and they intended to go back to their native town.

  The landlady of the hotel was prepossessed in favour of such a very pretty girl as Mary, as well as with the appearance of Joey, who, although in his sailor’s dress, was very superior in carriage and manners to a boy in his supposed station in life, and she said that if they would remain there a few days she would try to procure them some situation. The third day after their arrival, she informed Mary that she had heard of a situation as under-housemaid at the squire’s, about a mile off, if she would like to take it, and Mary gladly consented. Mrs Derborough sent up word, and received orders for Mary to make her appearance, and Mary accordingly went up to the hall, accompanied by Joey. When she arrived there, and made known her business, she was desired to wait in the servants’ hall until she was sent for. In about a quarter of a hour she was summoned, and, leaving Joey in the hall, she went up to see the lady of the house, who inquired whether she had ever been out at service before, and if she had a good character.

  Mary replied that she had never been out at service, and that she had no character at all (which, by the bye, was very true).

  The lady of the house smiled at this apparently naïve answer from so very modest-looking and pretty a girl, and asked who her parents were.

  To this question Mary’s answer was ready, and she further added that she had left home in search of a place, and had been disappointed; that her father and mother were dead, but her brother was down below, and had escorted her; and that Mrs Chopper was an old friend of her mother’s, and could answer to her character.

  The lady was prepossessed by Mary’s appearance, by the report of Mrs Derborough, and by the respectability of her brother travelling with her, and agreed to try her; but at the same time said she must have Mrs Chopper’s address, that she might write to her; but, the place being vacant, she might come to-morrow morning: her wages were named, and immediately accepted; and thus did Mary obtain her situation.

  People say you cannot be too particular when you choose servants; and, to a certain degree, this is true; but this extreme caution, however selfishness and prudence may dictate it, is but too often the cause of servants who have committed an error, and have in consequence been refused a character, being driven to destitution and misery, when they had a full intention, and would have, had they been permitted, redeemed their transgression.

  Mary was resolved to be a good and honest girl. Had the lady of the house been very particular, and had others to whom she might afterwards have applied been the same, all her good intentions might have been frustrated, and she might have been driven to despair, if not to her former evil courses. It is perhaps fortunate that everybody in the world is not so particular as your very good people, and that there is an occasional loophole by which those who have erred are permitted to return to virtue. Mary left the room delighted with her success, and went down to Joey in the servants’ hall. The servants soon found out from Mary that she was coming to the house, and one of the men chucked her under the chin, and told her she was a very pretty girl. Mary drew back, and Joey immediately resented the liberty, stating that he would not allow any man to insult his sister, for Joey was wise enough to see that he could not do a better thing to serve Mary. The servant was insolent in return, and threatened to chastise Joey, and ordered him to leave the house. The women took our hero’s part. The housekeeper came down at the time, and hearing the cause of the dispute, was angry with the footman; the butler took the side of the footman; and the end of it was that the voices were at the highest pitch when the bell rang, and the men being obliged to answer it, the women were for the time left in possession of the field.

  “What is that noise below?” inquired the master of the house.

  “It is a boy, sir — the brother, I believe of the girl who has come as under-housemaid, who has been making a disturbance.”

  “Desire him to leave the house instantly.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied the butler, who went down to enforce the order.

  Little did the master of the house imagine that in giving that order he was turning out of the house his own son; for the squire was no other than Mr Austin. Little did the inconsolable Mrs Austin fancy that her dear, lamented boy was at that moment under the same roof with her, and been driven out of it by her menials; but such was the case. So Joey and Mary quitted the hall, and bent their way back to the village inn.

  “Well, Mary,” said Joey, “I am very glad that you have found a situation.”

  “And so I am very thankful, indeed, Joey,” replied she; “and only hope that you will be able to get one somewhere about here also, and then we may occasionally see something of one another.”

  “No, Mary,” replied Joey, “I shall not look for a situation about here; the only reason I had for wishing it was that I might see you; but that will be impossible now.”

  “Why so?”

  “Do you think that I will ever put my foot into that house again, after the manner I was treated to-day? Never.”

  “I was afraid so,” replied Mary, mournfully.

  “No, Mary, I am happy that you are provided for; for I can seek my own fortune, and I will write to you, and let you know what I do; and you will write to me, Mary, won’t you?”

  “It will be the greatest pleasure that will be left to me, Joey; for I love you as dearly as it you were my own brother.”

  The next day our hero and Mary parted, with many tears on her side, and much sorrow on his. Joey refused to take more of the money than what he had in his possession, but promised; in case of need, to apply to Mary, who said that she would hoard up everything for him; and she kept her word. Joey, having escorted Mary to the hall lodge, remained at the inn till the next morning, and then set off once more on his travels.

  Our hero started at break of day, and had walked, by a western road, from Manstone, about six miles, when he met two men coming towards him. They were most miserably clad — neither of them had shoes or stockings; one had only a waistcoat and a pair of trousers, with a sack on his back; the other had a pair of blue trousers torn to ribbons, a Guernsey frock, and a tarpaulin hat. They appeared what they represented themselves to be, when they demanded charity, two wrecked seamen, who were travelling to a northern port to obtain employment; but had these fellows been questioned by a sailor, he would soon have discovered, by their total ignorance of anything nautical, that they were impostors. Perhaps there is no plan more successful than this, which is now carried on to an enormous extent by a set of rogues and depredators, who occasionally request charity, but too often extort it, and add to their spoils by robbing and plundering everything in their way. It is impossible for people in this country to ascertain the truth of the assertions of these vagabonds, and it appears unfeeling to refuse assistance to a poor seaman who has lost his all: even the cottager offers his mite, and thus do they levy upon the public to an extent which is scarcely credible; but it should be known that, in all cases of shipwreck, sailors are now invariably relieved and decently clothed, and supplied with the means of travelling to obtain employment; and whenever a man appeals for charity in a half-naked state, he is invariably an impostor or a worthless scoundrel.