“It shall go safe enough, young master,” replied the man. “Now, do you know, yours is one of the strangest cases which ever came to my knowledge?” continued the man; “we’ve been talking about it among ourselves: why the first warrant for your apprehension was out more than eight years ago; and, to look at you now, you cannot be more than seventeen or eighteen.”

  “Yes, I am,” replied Joey; “I am twenty-two.”

  “Then don’t you tell anybody else that, and I will forget it. You see youth goes a great way in court; and they will see that you must have been quite a child when the deed was done — for I suppose by the evidence there is no doubt of that — and it won’t be a hanging matter, that you may be certain of; you’ll cross the water, that’s all: so keep up your spirits, and look as young as you can.”

  Mary received the letter on the following day, and was in the deepest distress at its contents. She was still weeping over it, her work had been thrown down at her feet, when Mrs Austin came into the dressing-room where she was sitting.

  “What is the matter, Mary?” said Mrs Austin.

  “I have received a letter from my brother, madam,” replied Mary; “he is in the greatest distress; and I must beg you to let me go to him immediately.”

  “Your brother, Mary! what difficulty is he in?” asked Mrs Austin.

  Mary did not reply, but wept more.

  “Mary, if your brother is in distress, I certainly will not refuse your going to him; but you should tell me what his distress is, or how shall I be able to advise or help you? Is it very serious?”

  “He is in prison, madam.”

  “In prison for debt, I suppose?”

  “No, madam; on a charge of murder, which he is not guilty of.”

  “Murder!” exclaimed Mrs Austin, “and not guilty! Why — when — and where did this murder take place?”

  “Many years ago, madam, when he was quite a child.”

  “How very strange!” thought Mrs Austin, panting, for breath, and dropping into a chair. “But where, Mary?”

  “Down in Devonshire, madam, at Grassford.”

  Mrs Austin fell senseless from her chair. Mary, very much surprised, hastened to her assistance, and, after a time succeeded in restoring her, and leading her to the sofa. For some time Mrs Austin remained with her face buried in the cushions, while Mary stood over her. At last Mrs Austin looked up, and laying her head upon Mary’s arm, said in a solemn tone —

  “Mary, do not deceive me; you say that that boy is your brother — tell me, is not that false? I am sure that it is. Answer me, Mary.”

  “He is not my born brother, madam, but I love him as one,” replied Mary.

  “Again answer me truly, Mary, if you have any regard for me. You know his real name; what is it?”

  “Joseph Rushbrook, madam,” replied Mary, weeping.

  “I was certain of it!” replied Mrs Austin, bursting into tears; “I knew it! The blow has come at last! God have mercy on me! What can be done?” And again Mrs Austin abandoned herself to bitter grief.

  Mary was in amazement: how Mrs Austin should know any thing of Joey’s history, and why she should be in such distress, was to her a complete mystery: she remained for some time at the side of her mistress, who gradually became more composed. Mary at last said,— “May I go to him, madam?”

  “Yes,” replied Mrs Austin, “most certainly. Mary, I must have no secrets now; you must tell me everything. You see that I am deeply interested about this young man as well as yourself: it is quite sufficient for you at present to know that; before I say anything more, you must be candid with me, and tell me how you became acquainted with him, and all that you know relative to his life; that I will assist you and him in every way in my power; that neither money nor interest shall be spared, you may be assured; and I think, Mary, that, after this promise, you will not conceal anything from me.”

  “Indeed I will not, madam,” replied Mary, “for I love him as much as I can love.” Mary then commenced by stating that she was living at Gravesend when she first met with Joey. There was a little hesitation at the commencement of her narrative, which Mrs Austin pretended not to observe; she then continued, winding up with the information which she had obtained from Furness, the marine, their escape, and her admission into Mrs Austin’s family.

  “And it was Joseph Rushbrook that came with you to this house?”

  “Yes, madam,” replied Mary; “but one of the men was quite rude to me, and Joey took it up. Mr Austin, hearing a noise, sent down to inquire the cause; the servants threw all the blame upon Joey, and he was ordered out of the house immediately. He refused even to come back to the Hall, after the treatment he had received, for a long while; but it was he who was in the parlour when you opened the door, if you recollect, a few weeks ago.”

  Mrs Austin clasped her hands, and then pressed them to her forehead; after a while she said —

  “And what has he been doing since he came here?”

  Mary then informed her mistress of all she knew of Joey’s subsequent career.

  “Well, Mary,” said Mrs Austin, “you must go to him directly. You will want money; but, Mary, promise me that you will not say a word to him about what has passed between us, — that is, for the present; by-and-bye I may trust you more.”

  “You may trust me, madam,” replied Mary, looking her mistress in the face; “but it is too late for me to go this afternoon; I will, if you please, now wait till to-morrow morning.”

  “Do so, Mary; I am glad that you do not go to-night, for I wish you to stay with me; I have many questions to ask of you. At present I wish to be alone, my good girl. Tell Mr Austin that I am very unwell, and do not dine below.”

  “Shall I bring your dinner up here, madam?” asked Mary.

  “Yes, you may bring it, Mary,” replied Mrs Austin, with a faint smile.

  Never did two people leave one another both so much wishing to be alone as Mary and Mrs Austin. The former quitted the room, and, having first executed her commission, returned to her own apartment, that she might reflect without being disturbed. What could be the reason of Mrs Austin’s behaviour? What could she know of Joey Rushbrook? and why so interested and moved? She had heard among the servants that Mr and Mrs Austin were formerly in a humbler sphere of life; that he was a half-pay officer; but there was still no clue to such interest about Joey Rushbrook. Mary thought and thought over and over again, revolved all that had passed in her mind, but could make nothing of it; and she was still trying to solve the mystery when the housemaid came into the room, and informed her that Mrs Austin’s bell had rung twice. Mrs Austin, on her part, was still more bewildered; she could not regain sufficient calmness to enable her to decide how to act. Her son in prison, to be tried for his life for a crime he had not committed! Would he divulge the truth, and sacrifice the father? She thought not. If he did not, would he not be condemned? and if he were, could she remain away from him? or ought she not to divulge what the boy would conceal? And if he did confess the truth, would they find out that Mr Austin and Joseph Rushbrook were one and the same person? Would there be any chance of his escape? Would he not, sooner or later, be recognised? How dreadful was her situation! Then, again, should she acquaint her husband with the position of his son? If so, would he come forward? Yes, most certainly he would never let Joey suffer for his crime. Ought she to tell her husband? And then Mary, who knew so much already, who had witnessed her distress and anguish, who was so fond of her son, could she trust her? Could she do without trusting her? Such were the various and conflicting ideas which passed in the mind of Mrs Austin. At last she resolved that she would say nothing to her husband; that she would send Mary to her son, and that she would that evening have more conversation with the girl, and decide, after she had talked with her, whether she would make her a confidant or not. Having made up her mind so far, she rang the bell for Mary.

  “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 fortitude 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 asserted 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 glass 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 rectitude 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 God 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 massive 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 passage, 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 class 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 brimming 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 passed, 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.”

  Joey’s eyes were cast down on the stone pavement; he made no reply.

  “Why, then, if I am right in my supposition,” continued Mary— “I do not ask you to say yes or no on that point — why should you not tell the truth? Furness told me that your father and mother had left the village, and that he had attempted to trace them, but could not; and he expressed himself sure that they were gone to America. Why, then, supposing I am right, should you sacrifice yourself for nothing?”

  “Supposing you are right, Mary,” replied Joey, with his eyes still cast down, “what proof is there that my parents have left the country? It was only the supposition of Furness, and it is my conviction that they have not. Where they may be, I know not; but I feel positive that my mother would not leave the country without having first found out where I was, and have taken me with her. No, Mary, my father and mother, if alive, are still in this country.”