Фредерик Марриет
The Poacher; Or, Joseph Rushbrook
Chapter Thirty Four
A very Long Chapter, necessary to fetch up the Remainder of the Convoy
As it was late that night, Joey did not open the packet delivered to him from Spikeman until he arose the next morning, which he did very early, as he thought it very likely that he might be apprehended, if he was not off in good time. The packet contained a key, 20 pounds in money, and a paper, with the following letter:—
“My dear boy,—As we must now part, at least for some time, I have left you money sufficient to set you up for the present; I have inclosed a memorandum, by which I make over to you the knife-grinder’s wheel, and all the furniture, books, etcetera, that are in my rooms at Dudstone, the key of which is also inclosed. I should recommend you going there and taking immediate possession, and as soon as I have time, I shall write to the woman of the house, to inform her of the contents of the memorandum; and I will also write to you, and let you know how I get on. Of course you will now do as you please; at all events, I have taught you a profession, and have given you the means of following it. I only hope, if you do, that some day you may be able to retire from business as successfully as I have done. You will, of course, write to me occasionally, after you know where I am. Depend upon it, there is no profession so near to that of a gentleman as that of a travelling tinker.
“Yours ever truly, Augustus Spikeman.
“NB. There is some money in the old place to pay the bill at the cottage.”
Our hero considered that he could not do better than follow the advice of Spikeman. He first wrote a few lines to Mary, requesting that she would send her answer to Dudstone; and then, having settled with the hostess, he set off with his knife-grinder’s wheel on his return home to what were now his apartments. As he was not anxious to make money, he did not delay on his road, and on the fifth day he found himself at the door of the alehouse near to Dudstone, where he had before left the wheel. Joey thought it advisable to do so now, telling the landlord that Spikeman had requested him so to do; and as soon as it was dusk, our hero proceeded to the town, and knocked at the door of the house in which were Spikeman’s apartments. He informed the landlady that Spikeman would not in all probability return, and had sent him to take possession, showing her the key. The dame was satisfied, and Joey went upstairs. As soon as he had lighted the candle, and fairly installed himself, our hero threw himself down on the sofa and began to reflect. It is pleasant to have property of our own, and Joey never had had any before; it was satisfactory to look at the furniture, bed, and books, and say, “All this is mine.” Joey felt this, as it is to be presumed everybody would in the same position, and for some time he continued looking round and round at his property. Having satisfied himself with a review of it externally, he next proceeded to open all the drawers, the chests, etcetera. There were many articles in them which Joey did not expect to find, such as a store of sheets, table linen, and all Spikeman’s clothes, which he had discarded when he went up to London, some silver spoons, and a variety of little odds and ends; in short, Spikeman had left our hero everything as it stood. Joey put his money away, and then went to bed, and slept as serenely as the largest landed proprietor in the kingdom. When he awoke next morning, our hero began to reflect upon what he should do. He was not of Spikeman’s opinion that a travelling tinker was the next thing to a gentleman, nor did he much like the idea of rolling the wheel about all his life; nevertheless, he agreed with Spikeman that it was a trade by which he could earn his livelihood, and if he could do no better, it would always be a resource. As soon as he had taken his breakfast, he sat down and wrote to Mary, acquainting her with all that had taken place, and stating what his own feelings were upon his future prospects. Having finished his letter, he dressed himself neatly, and went out to call upon the widow James. Miss Ophelia and Miss Amelia were both at home.
“Well, Master Atherton, how do you do? and pray where is Mr Spikeman?” said both the girls in a breath.
“He is a long way from this!” replied Joey.
“A long way from this! Why, has he not come back with you?”
“No! and I believe he will not come back any more. I am come, as his agent, to take possession of his property.”
“Why, what has happened?”
“A very sad accident,” replied our hero, shaking his head; “he fell—”
“Fell!” exclaimed the two girls in a breath.
“Yes, fell in love, and is married.”
“Well now!” exclaimed Miss Ophelia, “only to think!”
Miss Amelia said nothing.
“And so he is really married?”
“Yes; and he has given up business.”
“He did seem in a great hurry when he last came here,” observed Amelia. “And what are you going to do?”
“I am not going to follow his example just yet,” replied Joey.
“I suppose not; but what are you going to do?” replied Ophelia.
“I shall wait here for his orders; I expect to hear from him. Whether I am to remain in this part of the country, or sell off and join him, or look out for some other business, I hardly know; I think myself I shall look out for something else; I don’t like the cutlery line and travelling for orders. How is your mamma, Miss Ophelia?”
“She is very well, and has gone to market. Well, I never did expect to hear of Mr Spikeman being married! Who is he married to, Joseph?”
“To a very beautiful young lady, daughter of Squire Mathews, with a large fortune.”
“Yes; men always look for money nowadays,” said Amelia.
“I must go now,” said Joey, getting up; “I have some calls and some inquiries to make. Good morning, young ladies.”
It must be acknowledged that the two Misses James were not quite so cordial towards Joey as they were formerly; but unmarried girls do not like to hear of their old acquaintances marrying anybody save themselves. There is not only a flirt the less, but a chance the less in consequence; and it should be remarked, that there were very few beaux at Dudstone. Our hero was some days at Dudstone before he received a letter from Spikeman, who informed him that he had arrived safely at Gretna (indeed, there was no male relation of the family to pursue him), and the silken bands of Hymen had been made more secure by the iron rivets of the blacksmith; that three days after he had written a letter to his wife’s father, informing him that he had done him the honour of marrying his daughter; that he could not exactly say when he could find time to come to the mansion and pay him a visit, but that he would as soon as he conveniently could; that he begged that the room prepared for them upon their arrival might have a large dressing-room attached to it, as he could not dispense with that convenience; that he was not aware whether Mr Mathews was inclined to part with the mansion and property, but, as his wife had declared that she would prefer living there to anywhere else, he had not any objection to purchase it of Mr Mathews, if they could come to terms; hoped his gout was better, and was his “very faithfully, Augustus Spikeman.” Melissa wrote a few lines to Araminta, begging her, as a favour, not to attempt to palliate her conduct, but to rail against her incessantly, as it would be the surest method of bringing affairs to an amicable settlement.
To her father she wrote only these few words:—
“My dear Papa,—You will be glad to hear that I am married. Augustus says that, if I behave well, he will come and see you soon. Dear papa, your dutiful child, Melissa Spikeman.”
That the letters of Spikeman and Melissa put the old gentleman in no small degree of rage, may be conceived; but nothing could be more judicious than the plan Spikeman had acted upon. It is useless to plead to a man who is irritated with constant gout; he only becomes more despotic and more unyielding. Had Araminta attempted to soften his indignation, it would have been equally fruitless; but the compliance with the request of her cousin of continually railing against her, had the effect intended. The vituperation of Araminta left him nothing to say; there was no opposition to direct his anathemas against; there was no coaxing or wheedling on the part of the offenders for him to repulse; and when Araminta pressed the old gentleman to vow that Melissa should never enter the doors again, he accused her of being influenced by interested motives, threw a basin at her head, and wrote an epistle requesting Melissa to come and take his blessing. Araminta refused to attend her uncle after this insult, and the old gentleman became still more anxious for the return of his daughter, as he was now left entirely to the caprice of his servants. Araminta gave Melissa an account of what had passed, and entreated her to come at once. She did so, and a general reconciliation took place. Mr Mathews, finding his new son-in-law very indifferent to pecuniary matters, insisted upon making over to his wife an estate in Herefordshire, which, with Melissa’s own fortune, rendered them in most affluent circumstances. Spikeman requested Joey to write to him now and then, and that, if he required assistance, he would apply for it; but still advised him to follow up the profession of travelling tinker as being the most independent.
Our hero had hardly time to digest the contents of Spikeman’s letter when he received a large packet from Mary, accounting for her not having replied to him before, in consequence of her absence from the Hall. She had, three weeks before, received a letter written for Mrs Chopper, acquainting her that Mrs Chopper was so very ill that it was not thought possible that she could recover, having an abscess in the liver which threatened to break internally, and requesting Mary to obtain leave to come to Gravesend, if she possibly could, as Mrs Chopper wished to see her before she died. Great as was Mary’s repugnance to revisit Gravesend, she felt that the obligations she was under to Mrs Chopper were too great for her to hesitate; and showing the letter to Mrs Austin, and stating at the same time that she considered Mrs Chopper as more than a mother to her, she obtained the leave which she requested, and set off for Gravesend.
It was with feelings of deep shame and humiliation that poor Mary walked down the main street of the town, casting her eyes up fearfully to the scenes of her former life. She was very plainly attired, and had a thick veil over her face, so that nobody recognised her; she arrived at the door of Mrs Chopper’s abode, ascended the stairs, and was once more in the room out of which she had quitted Gravesend to lead a new life; and most conscientiously had she fulfilled her resolution, as the reader must be aware. Mrs Chopper was in bed and slumbering when Mary softly opened the door; the signs of approaching death were on her countenance—her large, round form had wasted away—her fingers were now taper and bloodless; Mary would not have recognised her had she fallen in with her under other circumstances. An old woman was in attendance; she rose up when Mary entered, imagining that it was some kind lady come to visit the sick woman. Mary sat down by the side of the bed, and motioned to the old woman that she might go out, and then she raised her veil and waited till the sufferer roused. Mary had snuffed the candle twice that she might see sufficiently to read the Prayer Book which she had taken up, when Mrs Chopper opened her eyes.
“How very kind of you, ma’am!” said Mrs Chopper; “and where is Miss —? My eyes are dimmer every day.”
“It is me, Mary—Nancy that was!”
“And so it is! O, Nancy, now I shall die in peace! I thought at first it was the kind lady who comes every day to read and to pray with me. Dear Nancy, how glad I am to see you! And how do you do? And how is poor Peter?”
“Quite well when I heard from him last, my dear Mrs Chopper.”
“You don’t know, Nancy, what a comfort it is to me to see you looking as you do, so good and so innocent; and when I think it was by my humble means that you were put in the way of becoming so, I feel as if I had done one good act, and that perhaps my sins may be forgiven me.”
“God will reward you, Mrs Chopper; I said so at the time, and I feel it now,” replied Mary, the tears rolling down her cheeks; “I trust by your means, and with strength from above, I shall continue in the same path, so that one sinner may be saved.”
“Bless you, Nancy!—You never were a bad girl in heart; I always said so. And where is Peter now?”
“Going about the country earning his bread; poor, but happy.”
“Well, Nancy, it will soon be over with me; I may die in a second, they tell me, or I may live for three or four days; but I sent for you that I might put my house in order. There are only two people that I care for upon earth—that is you and my poor Peter; and all I have I mean to leave between you. I have signed a paper already, in case you could not come, but now that you are come, I will tell you all I wish; but give me some of that drink first.”
Mary having read the directions on the label, poured out a wine-glass of the mixture, and gave it to Mrs Chopper, who swallowed it, and then proceeded, taking a paper from under her pillow—
“Nancy! this is the paper I told you of. I have about 700 pounds in the bank, which is all that I have saved in twenty-two years; but it has been honestly made. I have, perhaps, much more owing to me, but I do not want it to be collected. Poor sailors have no money to spare, and I release them all. You will see me buried, Nancy, and tell poor Peter how I loved him, and I have left my account books, with my bad debts and good debts, to him. I am sure he would like to have them, for he knows the history of every sum-total, and he will look over them and think of me. You can sell this furniture; but the wherry you must give to William; he is not very honest, but he has a large family to keep. Do what you like, dearest, about what is here; perhaps my clothes would be useful to his wife; they are not fit for you. There’s a good deal of money in the upper drawer; it will pay for my funeral and the doctor. I believe that is all now; but do tell poor Peter how I loved him. Poor fellow, I have been cheated ever since he left; but that’s no matter. Now, Nancy, dear, read to me a little. I have so longed to have you by my bedside to read to me, and pray for me! I want to hear you pray before I die. It will make me happy to hear you pray, and see that kind face looking up to heaven, as it was always meant to do.” Poor Mary burst into tears. After a few minutes she became more composed, and, dropping down on her knees by the side of the bed, she opened the Prayer Book, and complied with the request of Mrs Chopper; and as she fervently poured forth her supplication, occasionally her voice faltered, and she would stop to brush away the tears which dimmed her sight. She was still so occupied when the door of the room was gently opened, and a lady, with a girl about fourteen or fifteen years old, quietly entered the room. Mary did not perceive them until they also had knelt down. She finished the prayer, rose, and, with a short curtsey, retired from the side of the bed.
Although not recognised herself by the lady, Mary, immediately remembered Mrs Phillips and her daughter Emma, having as we have before observed, been at one time in Mrs Phillips’s service.
“This is the young woman whom you so wished to see, Mrs Chopper, is it not?” said Mrs Phillips. “I am not surprised at your longing for her, for she appears well suited for a companion in such an hour; and, alas! how, few there are! Sit down, I request,” continued Mrs Phillips, turning to Mary. “How do you find yourself to-day, Mrs Chopper?”
“Sinking fast, dear madam, but not unwilling to go, since I have seen Nancy, and heard of my poor Peter; he wrote to Nancy a short time ago. Nancy, don’t forget my love to Peter.”
Emma Phillips, who had now grown tall and thin, immediately went up to Mary, and said, “Peter was the little boy who was with Mrs Chopper; I met him on the road when he first came to Gravesend, did I not?”
“Yes, miss you did,” replied Mary.
“He used to come to our house sometimes, and very often to meet me as I walked home from school. I never could imagine what became of him, for he disappeared all at once without saying good-bye.”
“He was obliged to go away, miss. It was not his fault; he was a very good boy, and is so still.”
“Then pray remember me to him, and tell him that I often think of him.”
“I will, Miss Phillips, and he will be very happy to hear that you have said so.”
“How did you know that my name was Phillips? O, I suppose poor Mrs Chopper told you before we came.”
Mrs Phillips had now read some time to Mrs Chopper, and this put an end to the conversation between Mary and Emma Phillips. It was not resumed. As soon as the reading was over, Mrs Phillips and her daughter took their leave.
Mary made up a bed for herself by the side of Mrs Chopper’s. About the middle of the night, she was roused by a gurgling kind of noise; she hastened to the bedside, and found that Mrs Chopper was suffocating. Mary called in the old woman to her aid, but it was useless, the abscess had burst, and in a few seconds all was over; and Mary, struggling with emotion, closed the eyes of her old friend, and offered up a prayer for her departed spirit.
The remainder of the night was passed in solemn meditation and a renewal of those vows which the poor girl had hitherto so scrupulously adhered to, and which the death-bed scene was so well fitted to encourage; but Mary felt that she had her duties towards others to discharge, and did not give way to useless and unavailing sorrow. It was her duty to return as soon as possible to her indulgent mistress, and the next morning she was busy in making the necessary arrangements. On the third day Mary attended the funeral of her old friend, the bills were all paid, and having selected some articles which she wished to retain as a remembrance, she resolved to make over to William, the waterman, not only the wherry, but all the stock in hand, furniture and clothes of Mrs Chopper. This would enable him and his wife to set up in business themselves and provide for their family. Mary knew that she had no right to do so without Joey’s consent, but of this she felt she was sure; having so done, she had nothing more to do but to see the lawyer who had drawn up the will, and having gone through the necessary forms, she received an order on the county bank nearest to the Hall for the money, which, with what was left in the drawers, after paying every demand, amounted to more than 700 pounds. She thought it was her duty to call upon Mrs Phillips, before she went away, out of gratitude for her kindness to Mrs Chopper; and as she had not been recognised, she had no scruple in so doing. She was kindly received, and blushed at the praise bestowed upon her. As she was going away, Emma Phillips followed her out, and putting into her hand a silver pencil-case, requested she would “give it to Peter as a remembrance of his little friend, Emma.” The next day Mary arrived at the Hall, first communicated to Mrs Austin what had occurred, and then, having received our hero’s two last epistles, sat down to write the packet containing all the intelligence we have made known, and ended by requesting Joey to set off with his knife-grinder’s wheel, and come to the village near to the Hall, that he might receive his share of Mrs Chopper’s money, the silver pencil-case, and the warm greeting of his adopted sister. Joey was not long in deciding. He resolved that he would go to Mary; and, having locked up his apartments, he once more resumed his wheel, and was soon on his way to Hampshire.
Chapter Thirty Five
A Retrospect that the Parties may all start Fair again
We must now leave our hero on his way to the Hall, while we acquaint our readers with the movements of other parties connected with our history. A correspondence had been kept up between O’Donahue and McShane. O’Donahue had succeeded in obtaining the pardon of the emperor, and employment in the Russian army, in which he had rapidly risen to the rank of general. Five or six years had elapsed since he had married, and both O’Donahue and his wife were anxious to visit England; a letter at last came, announcing that he had obtained leave of absence from the emperor, and would in all probability arrive in the ensuing spring.
During this period McShane had continued at his old quarters, Mrs McShane still carrying on the business, which every year became more lucrative; so much so, indeed, that her husband had for some time thought very seriously of retiring altogether, as they had already amassed a large sum, when McShane received the letter from O’Donahue, announcing that in a few months he would arrive in England. Major McShane, who was very far from being satisfied with his negative position in society, pressed the matter more earnestly to his wife, who, although she was perfectly content with her own position, did not oppose his entreaties. McShane found that after disposing of the goodwill of the business, and of the house, they would have a clear 30,000 pounds, which he considered more than enough for their wants, uncumbered as they were with children.
Let it not be supposed that McShane had ceased in his inquiries after our hero; on the contrary, he had resorted to all that his invention could suggest to trace him out, but, as the reader must be aware, without success. Both McShane and his wife mourned his loss, as if they had been bereaved of their own child; they still indulged the idea that some day he would reappear, but when, they could not surmise. McShane had not only searched for our hero, but had traced his father with as little success, and he had now made up his mind that he should see no more of Joey, if he ever did see him again, until after the death of his father, when there would no longer be any occasion for secrecy. Our hero and his fate were a continual source of conversation between McShane and his wife; but latterly, after not having heard of him for more than five years, the subject had not been so often renewed. As soon as McShane had wound up his affairs, and taken his leave of the eating-house, he looked out for an estate in the country, resolving to lay out two-thirds of his money in land, and leave the remainder in the funds. After about three months’ search he found a property which suited him, and, as it so happened, about six miles from the domains held by Mr Austin. He had taken possession and furnished it. As a retired officer in the army he was well received; and if Mrs McShane was sometimes laughed at for her housekeeper-like appearance, still her sweetness of temper and unassuming behaviour soon won her friends, and McShane found himself in a very short time comfortable and happy. The O’Donahues were expected to arrive very shortly, and McShane had now a domicile fit for the reception of his old friend, who had promised to pay him a visit as soon as he arrived.
Of the Austins little more can be said that has not been said already. Austin was a miserable, unhappy man; his cup of bliss—for he had every means of procuring all that this world considers as bliss, being in possession of station, wealth, and respect—was poisoned by the one heavy crime which passion had urged him to commit, and which was now a source of hourly and unavailing repentance. His son, who should have inherited his wealth, was lost to him, and he dared not mention that he was in existence. Every day Austin became more nervous and irritable, more exclusive and averse to society; he trembled at shadows, and his strong constitution was rapidly giving way to the heavy weight on his conscience. He could not sleep without opiates, and he dreaded to sleep lest he should reveal everything of the past in his slumbers. Each year added to the irascibility of his temper, and the harshness with which he treated his servants and his unhappy wife. His chief amusement was hunting, and he rode in so reckless a manner that people often thought that he was anxious to break his neck. Perhaps he was. Mrs Austin was much to be pitied; she knew how much her husband suffered; how the worm gnawed within; and, having that knowledge, she submitted to all his harshness, pitying him instead of condemning him; but her life was still more embittered by the loss of her child, and many were the bitter tears which she would shed when alone, for she dared not in her husband’s presence, as he would have taken them as a reproof to himself. Her whole soul yearned after our hero, and that one feeling rendered her indifferent, not only to all the worldly advantages by which she was surrounded, but to the unkindness and hard-heartedness of her husband. Mary, who had entered her service as kitchen-maid, was very soon a favourite, and had been advanced to the situation of Mrs Austin’s own attendant Mrs Austin considered her a treasure, and she daily became more partial to and more confidential with her. Such was the state of affairs, when one morning, as Austin was riding to cover, a gentleman of the neighbourhood said to him, in the course of conversation—
“By-the-bye, Austin, have you heard that you have a new neighbour?”
“What!—on the Frampton estate, I suppose; I heard that it had been sold.”
“Yes; I have seen him. He is one of your profession—a lively, amusing sort of Irish major; gentlemanlike, nevertheless. The wife not very high-bred, but very fat, and very good-humoured, and amusing from her downright simpleness of heart. You will call upon them, I presume?”
“Oh, of course,” replied Austin. “What is his name did you say?”
“Major McShane, formerly of the 53rd Regiment, I believe.”
Had a bullet passed through the heart of Austin, he could not have received a more sudden shock, and the start which he made from his saddle attracted the notice of his companion.
“What’s the matter, Austin, you look pale; you are not well.”
“No,” replied Austin, recollecting himself; “I am not; one of those twinges from an old wound in the breast came on. I shall be better directly.”
Austin stopped his horse, and put his hand to his heart. His companion rode up, and remained near him.
“It is worse than usual; I thought it was coming on last night; I fear that I must go home.”
“Shall I go with you?”
“O, no; I must not spoil your sport. I am better now a great deal; it is going off fast. Come, let us proceed, or we shall be too late at cover.”
Austin had resolved to conquer his feelings. His friend had no suspicion, it is true; but when we are guilty we imagine that everybody suspects us. They rode a few minutes in silence.
“Well I am glad that you did not go home,” observed his friend; “for you will meet your new neighbour; he has subscribed to the pack, and they say he is well mounted; we shall see how he rides.”
Austin made no reply; but, after riding on a few yards farther, he pulled up, saying that the pain was coming on again, and that he could not proceed. His companion expressed his sorrow at Austin’s indisposition, and they separated.
Austin immediately returned home, dismounted his horse, and hastened to his private sitting-room. Mrs Austin, who had seen him return, and could not imagine the cause, went in to her husband.
“What is the matter, my dear?” said Mrs Austin.
“Matter!” replied Austin, bitterly, pacing up and down the room; “heaven and hell conspire against us!”
“Dear Austin, don’t talk in that way. What has happened?”
“Something which will compel me, I expect, to remain a prisoner in my own house, or lead to something unpleasant. We must not stay here.”
Austin then threw himself down on the sofa, and was silent. At last the persuasions and endearments of his wife overcame his humour. He told her that McShane was the major of his regiment when he was a private; that he would inevitably recognise him; and that, if nothing else occurred from McShane’s knowledge of his former name, at all events, the general supposition of his having been an officer in the army would be contradicted, and it would lower him in the estimation of the county gentlemen.
“It is indeed a very annoying circumstance, my dear Austin; but are you sure that he would, after so long a period, recognise the private soldier in the gentleman of fortune?”
“As sure as I sit here,” replied Austin, gloomily; “I wish I were dead.”
“Don’t say so, dear Austin, it makes me miserable.”
“I never am otherwise,” replied Austin, clasping his hands. “God forgive me! I have sinned, but have I not been punished?”
“You have, indeed; and as repentance is availing, my dear husband, you will receive God’s mercy.”
“The greatest boon, the greatest mercy, would be death,” replied the unhappy man; “I envy the pedlar.” Mrs Austin wept. Her husband, irritated at tears which, to him, seemed to imply reproach, sternly ordered her to leave the room.
That Austin repented bitterly of the crime which he had committed is not to be doubted; but it was not with the subdued soul of a Christian. His pride was continually struggling within him, and was not yet conquered; this it was that made him alternately self-condemning and irascible, and it was the continual warfare in his soul which was undermining his constitution.
Austin sent for medical advice for his supposed complaint. The country practitioner, who could discover nothing, pronounced it to be an affection of the heart. He was not far wrong; and Mr Austin’s illness was generally promulgated. Cards and calls were the consequence, and Austin kept himself a close but impatient prisoner in his own house. His hunters remained in the stables, his dogs in the kennel, and every one intimated that Mr Austin was labouring under a disease from which he would not recover. At first this was extremely irksome to Austin, and he was very impatient; but gradually he became reconciled, and even preferred his sedentary and solitary existence. Books were his chief amusement, but nothing could minister to a mind diseased, or drive out the rooted memory of the brain. Austin became more morose and misanthropic every day, and at last would permit no one to come near him but his valet and his wife.
