But we must now return to Portsmouth. The advertisement of Mr Small did not escape the keen eye of the police-constable who had arrested our hero — as the reader must recollect the arrest was made so quietly that no one was aware of the circumstance, and as the reward of 100 pounds would be a very handsome addition to the 200 pounds which he had already received — the man immediately set off for Portsmouth on the outside of the coach, and went to Mr Small, where he found him in the counting-house with Mr Sleek. He soon introduced himself; and his business with them; and such was Mr Small’s impatience that he immediately signed a cheque for the amount, and handed it to the police-officer, who then bluntly told him that our hero had been tried for murder, and sentenced to transportation, his real name being Rushbrook, and not O’Donahue.

  This was a heavy blow to Mr Small: having obtained all the particulars from the police-constable, he dismissed him, and was for some time in consultation with Mr Sleek; and as it would be impossible long to withhold the facts, it was thought advisable that Mrs Phillips and Emma should become acquainted with them immediately, the more so as Emma had acknowledged that there was a mystery about our hero, a portion of which she was acquainted with.

  Mrs Phillips was the first party to whom the intelligence was communicated, and she was greatly distressed. It was some time before she could decide upon whether Emma, in her weak state, should be made acquainted with the melancholy tidings, but as she had suffered so much from suspense, it was at last considered advisable that the communication should be made. It was done as cautiously as possible; Emma was not so shocked as they supposed she would have been at the intelligence.

  “I have been prepared for this, or something like this,” replied she, weeping in her mother’s arms, “but I cannot believe that he has done the deed; he told me that he did not, when he was a child; he has asserted it since. Mother, I must — I will go and see him.”

  “See him, my child! he is confined in gaol.”

  “Do not refuse me, mother, you know not what I feel — you know not — I never knew myself till now how much I loved him. See him I must, and will. Dearest mother, if you value my life, if you would not drive reason from its seat, do not refuse me.”

  Mrs Phillips found that it was in vain to argue, and consulted with Mr Small, who at length (after having in vain remonstrated with Emma) decided that her request should be granted, and that very day he accompanied his niece, travelling all night, until they arrived at Exeter.

  In the mean time, Mrs Austin had remained in a state of great distress; her husband lay dead; she believed that he had confessed his guilt, but to what extent she did not know, for neither she nor Mary had heard what passed between him and the magistrate. She had no one but Mary to confide in or to console, no one to advise with or to consult. She thought of sending for the magistrate, but it would appear indecorous, and she was all anxiety and doubt. The letter from McShane, which arrived the next afternoon, relieved her at once; she felt that her boy was safe.

  “Mary, dear, read this; he is safe,” exclaimed she. “God of heaven, accept a mother’s grateful tears.”

  “Cannot you spare me, madam?” replied Mary, returning the letter.

  “Spare you. Oh, yes! quick, Mary, lose not a moment; go to him, and take this letter with you. My dear, dear child.” Mary did not wait a second command; she sent for post-horses, and in half an hour was on her way to Exeter; travelling with as much speed as Emma and her uncle, she arrived there but a few hours after them.

  Our hero had been anxiously awaiting for Mary’s daily communication; the post time had passed, and it had not arrived. Pale and haggard from long confinement and distress of mind, he was pacing up and down, when the bolts were turned, and Emma, supported by her uncle, entered the cell. At the sight of her, our hero uttered a cry, and staggered against the wall; he appeared to have lost his usual self-control. “Oh,” said he, “this might have been spared me; I have not deserved this punishment. Emma, hear me. As I hope for future happiness I am innocent; I am — I am, indeed—” and he fell senseless on the pavement.

  Mr Small raised him up and put him on the bed; after a time he revived, and remained where he had been laid, sobbing convulsively.

  As soon as he became more composed, Emma, who had been sitting by him, the tears coursing each other down her pale cheeks, addressed him in a calm voice.

  “I feel — I am sure that you are innocent, or I should not have been here.”

  “Bless you for that, Emma, bless you; those few words of yours have given me more consolation than you can imagine. Is it nothing to be treated as a felon, to be disgraced, to be banished to a distant country, and that at the very time that I was full of happiness, prosperous, and anticipating? — but I cannot dwell upon that. Is it not hard to bear, Emma? and what could support me, but the consciousness of my own innocence, and the assurance that she whom I love so, and whom I now lose for ever, still believes me so? Yes, it is a balm; a consolation; and I will now submit to the will of Heaven.”

  Emma burst into tears, leaning her face on our hero’s shoulder. After a time she replied, “And am I not to be pitied? Is it nothing to love tenderly, devotedly, madly — to have given my heart, my whole thoughts, my existence to one object — why should I conceal it now? — to have been dwelling upon visions of futurity so pleasing, so delightful, all passing away as a dream, and leaving a sad reality like this? Make me one promise; you will not refuse Emma — who knelt by your side when you first met her, she who is kneeling before you now?”

  “I dare not, Emma, for my heart tells me that you would propose a step which must not be — you must leave me now, and for ever.”

  “For ever! for ever!” cried Emma springing on her feet. “No! no! uncle, he says I am to leave him for ever? Who is that?” continued the frantic girl. “Mary! yes ’tis! Mary, he says I must leave him for ever!” (It was Mary who had just come into the cell.) “Must I, Mary?”

  “No — no!” replied Mary, “not so! he is saved, and his innocence is established; he is yours for ever!”

  We shall not attempt to describe the scene we could not do justice to. We must allow the day to pass away; during which Emma and our hero, McShane and Mary, were sitting together; tears of misery wiped away — tears of joy still flowing and glistening with the radiance of intermingled smiles.

  The next morning McShane and O’Donahue arrived, the Secretary of State had given immediate orders for our hero’s release, and they had brought the document with them.

  The following day they were all en route, Emma and her uncle to Portsmouth, where they anxiously awaited the arrival of our hero as soon as he had performed his duty to his parents.

  We must allow the reader to suppose the joy of Mrs Austin in once more holding her child in her embrace, and the smiles and happiness of Mary at his triumphant acquittal; the wondering of the domestics, the scandal and rumour of the neighbourhood. Three days sufficed to make all known, and by that time Joey was looked upon as the hero of a novel. On the fourth day he accompanied the remains of his father as chief mourner. The funeral was quiet without being mean; there was no attendance, no carriages of the neighbouring gentry followed. Our hero was quite alone and unsupported; but when the ceremony was over, the want of respect shown to the memory of his father was more than atoned for by the kindness and consideration shown towards the son, who was warmly, yet delicately, welcomed as the future proprietor of the Hall.

  Three months passed away, and there was a great crowd before the house of Mr Small, navy agent at Portsmouth. There was a large company assembled, the O’Donahues, the McShanes, the Spikemans, and many others. Mrs Austin was there, looking ten years younger; and Mary was attending her at the toilet, both of them half smiles, half tears, for it was the morning of our hero’s wedding-day. Mr Small strutted about in white smalls, and Mr Sleek spluttered over everybody. The procession went to the church, and soon after the ceremony, one couple of the party set off for the Hall; where the others went is of no consequence.

  We have now wound up the history of little Joey Rushbrook, the poacher. We have only to add, that the character of our hero was not the worse as he grew older, and was the father of a family. The Hall was celebrated for hospitality, for the amiability of its possessors, and the art which they possessed of making other people happy. Mary remained with them more as a confidante than as a servant; indeed, she had so much money, that she received several offers of marriage, which she invariably refused, observing, with the true humbleness of a contrite heart, that she was undeserving of any honest, good man. Everybody else, even those who knew her history, thought otherwise; but Mary continued firm in her resolution. As for all the rest of the personages introduced into these pages, they passed through life with an average portion of happiness, which is all that can be expected.

  In conclusion, we have only one remark to make. In this story we have shown how a young lad, who commenced his career with poaching, ultimately became a gentleman of 7,000 pounds a year; but we must remind our youthful readers, that it does not follow that every one who commences with poaching is to have the same good fortune. We advise them, therefore, not to attempt it, as they may find that instead of 7,000 pounds a year, they may stand a chance of going to where our hero very narrowly escaped from being sent; that is, to a certain portion of her Majesty’s dominions beyond the seas, latterly termed Australia, but more generally known by the appellation of Botany Bay.

  Chapter Fifty One.

  A RENCONTRE.

  A Short Story.

  One evening I was sitting alone in the salle à manger of the Couronne d’Or, at Boulogne, when Colonel G — , an old acquaintance, came in. After the first greeting, he took a chair, and was soon as busily occupied as I was with a cigar, which was occasionally removed from our lips, as we asked and replied to questions as to what had been our pursuits subsequently to our last rencontre. After about half an hour’s chit-chat, he observed, as he lighted a fresh cigar —

  “When I was last in this room, I was in company with a very strange personage.”

  “Male or female?” inquired I.

  “Female,” replied Colonel G — . “Altogether it’s a story worth telling, and, as it will pass away the time, I will relate it to you — unless you wish to retire.”

  As I satisfied him that I was not anxious to go to bed, and very anxious to hear his story, he narrated it, as nearly as I can recollect, in the following words: —

  “I had taken my place in the diligence from Paris, and when I arrived at Notre Dame des Victoires it was all ready for a start; the luggage, piled up as high as an English haystack, had been covered over and buckled down, and the conducteur was calling out for the passengers. I took my last hasty whiff of my cigar, and unwillingly threw away more than half of a really good Havannah; for I perceived that in the intérieur, for which I had booked myself, there was one female already seated: and women and cigars are such great luxuries in their respective ways, that they are not to be indulged in at one and the same time — the world would be too happy, and happiness, we are told, is not for us here below. Not that I agree with that moral, although it comes from very high authority; there is a great deal of happiness in this world, if you knew how to extract it, — or, rather, I should say, of pleasure; there is a pleasure in doing good; there is a pleasure, unfortunately, in doing wrong; there is a pleasure in looking forward, ay, and in looking backward also; there is pleasure in loving and being loved, in eating, and drinking, and, though last, not least, in smoking. I do not mean to say that there are not the drawbacks of pain, regret, and even remorse; but there is a sort of pleasure even in them; it is pleasant to repent, because you know that you are doing your duty; and if there is no great pleasure in pain, it precedes an excess when it has left you. I say again that, if you know how to extract it, there is a great deal of pleasure and of happiness in this world, especially if you have, as I have, a very bad memory.

  “‘Allons, messieurs!’ said the conducteur; and when I got in I found myself the sixth person, and opposite to the lady: for all the other passengers were of my own sex. Having fixed our hats up to the roof, wriggled and twisted a little so as to get rid of coat-tails, etcetera, all of which was effected previously to our having cleared Rue Notre Dame des Victoires, we began to scrutinise each other. Our female companion’s veil was down and doubled so that I could not well make her out; my other four companions were young men — all Frenchmen, — apparently good-tempered, and inclined to be agreeable. A few seconds were sufficient for my reconnoitre of the gentlemen, and then my eyes were naturally turned towards the lady. She was muffled up in a winter cloak, so that her figure was not to be made out; and the veil still fell down before her face, so that only one cheek and a portion of her chin could be deciphered: that fragment of her physiognomy was very pretty, and I watched in silence for the removal of the veil.

  “I have omitted to state that, before I got into the diligence, I saw her take a very tender adieu of a very handsome woman; but, as her back was turned to me at the time, I did not see her face. She had now fallen back in her seat, and seemed disposed to commune with her own thoughts: that did not suit my views, which were to have a view of her face. Real politeness would have induced me to leave her to herself, but pretended politeness was resorted to that I might gratify my curiosity; so I inquired if she wished the window up. The answer was in the negative, and in a very sweet voice; and then there was a pause, of course so I tried again.

  “‘You are melancholy at parting with your handsome sister,’ observed I, leaning forward with as much appearance of interest as I could put into my beautiful phiz.

  “‘How could you have presumed that she was my sister?’ replied she.

  “‘From the strong family likeness,’ replied I. ‘I felt certain of it.’

  “‘But she is only my sister-in-law, sir, — my brother’s wife.’

  “‘Then, I presume, he chose a wife as like his sister as he could find; nothing more natural — I should have done the same.’

  “‘Sir, you are very polite,’ replied the lady, who lowered down the window, adding, ‘I like fresh air.’

  “‘Perhaps you will find yourself less incommoded if you take off your veil?’

  “‘I will not ascribe that proposition to curiosity on your part, sir,’ replied the lady, ‘as you have already seen my face.’

  “‘You cannot, then, be surprised at my wishing to see it once more.’

  “‘You are very polite, sir.’

  “Although her voice was soft, there was a certain quickness and decision in her manner and language which were very remarkable. The other passengers now addressed her, and the conversation became general. The veiled lady took her share in it, and showed a great deal of smartness and repartee. In an hour more we were all very intimate. As we changed horses, I took down my hat to put into it my cigar-case, which I had left in my pocket, upon which the lady observed, ‘You smoke, I perceive; and so, I dare say, do all the rest of the gentlemen. Now, do not mind me; I am fond of the smell of tobacco — I am used to it.’

  “We hesitated.

  “‘Nay, more, I smoke myself, and will take a cigar with you.’

  “This was decisive. I offered my cigar-case — another gentleman struck a light. Lifting up her veil so as to show a very pretty mouth, with teeth as white as snow, she put the cigar in her mouth, and set us the example. In a minute both windows were down, every one had a cigar in his mouth.

  “‘Where did you learn to smoke, madam?’ was a question put to the incognita by the passenger who sat next to her.

  “‘Where? — In the camp — Africa — everywhere. I did belong to the army — that is, my husband was the captain of the 47th. He was killed, poor man! in the last successful expedition to Constantine: — c’était un brave homme.’

  “‘Indeed! Were you at Constantine?’

  “‘Yes, I was; I followed the army during the whole Campaign.’

  “The diligence stopped for supper or dinner, whichever it might be considered, and the conducteur threw open the doors. ‘Now,’ thought I, ‘we shall see her face;’ and so, I believe, thought the other passengers; but we were mistaken; the lady went upstairs and had a basin of soup taken to her. When all was ready we found her in the diligence, with her veil down as before.

  “This was very provoking, for she was so lively and witty in conversation, and the features of her face which had been disclosed were so perfect, that I was really quite on a fret that she would leave me without satisfying my curiosity: — they talk of woman’s curiosity, but we men have as much, after all. It became dark; — the lady evidently avoided further conversation, and we all composed ourselves as well as we could. It may be as well to state in few words, that the next morning she was as cautious and reserved as ever. The diligence arrived at this hotel — the passengers separated — and I found that the lady and I were the only two who took up our quarters there. At all events, the Frenchmen who travelled with us went away just as wise as they came.

  “‘You remain here?’ inquired I, as soon as we had got out of the diligence.

  “‘Yes,’ replied she. ‘And you—’

  “‘I remain here, certainly; but I hope you do not intend to remain always veiled. It is too cruel of you.’

  “‘I must go to my room now, and make myself a little more comfortable; after that, Monsieur l’Anglais, I will speak to you. You are going over in the packet, I presume?’

  “‘I am, by to-morrow’s packet.’

  “‘I shall put myself under your protection, for I am also going to London.’

  “‘I shall be most delighted.’

  “‘Au revoir.’

  “About an hour afterwards a message was brought to me by the garçon, that the lady would be happy to receive me at Number 19. I ascended to the second floor, knocked, and was told to come in.

  “She was now without a veil; and what do you think was her reason for the concealment of her person?”