Фредерик Марриет
The Poacher; Or, Joseph Rushbrook
Chapter Twenty One
The Scene is again shifted, and the Plot advances
It will be necessary that for a short time we again follow up the fortunes of our hero’s parents. When Rushbrook and Jane had quitted the village of Grassford, they had not come to any decision as to their future place of abode; all that Rushbrook felt was a desire to remove as far as possible from the spot where the crime had been committed. Such is the feeling that will ever possess the guilty, who, although they may increase their distance, attempt in vain to fly from their consciences, or that All-seeing Eye which follows them everywhere. Jane had a similar feeling, but it arose from her anxiety for her husband. They wandered away, for they had sold everything before their departure, until they found themselves in the West Riding of Yorkshire, and there they at length settled in a small village. Rushbrook easily obtained employment, for the population was scanty, and some months passed away without anything occurring of interest.
Rushbrook had never taken up his employment as a poacher since the night of the murder of the pedlar; he had abjured it from that hour. His knowledge of woodcraft was, however, discovered, and he was appointed first as under, and eventually as head keeper to a gentleman of landed property in the neighbourhood. In this situation they had remained about a year, Rushbrook giving full satisfaction to his employer, and comparatively contented (for no man could have such a crime upon his conscience, and not pass occasional hours of misery and remorse), and Jane was still mourning in secret for her only and darling child, when one day a paper was put into Rushbrook’s hands by his master, desiring him to read an advertisement which it contained, and which was as follows:– “If Joseph Rushbrook, who formerly lived in the village of Grassford, in the county of Devon, should be still alive, and will make his residence known to Messrs Pearce, James, and Simpson, of 14, Chancery-lane, he will hear of something greatly to his advantage. Should he be dead, and this advertisement meet the eye of his heirs, they are equally requested to make the communication to the above address.”
“What does it mean, sir?” inquired Rushbrook.
“It means that, if you are that person, in all probability there is some legacy bequeathed to you by a relative,” replied Mr S—; “is it you?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Rushbrook, changing colour; “I did once live at Grassford.”
“Then you had better write to the parties and make yourself known. I will leave you the newspaper.”
“What think you, Jane?” said Rushbrook, as soon as Mr – had quitted.
“I think he is quite right,” replied Jane.
“But, Jane, you forgot—this may be a trap; they may have discovered something about—you know what I mean.”
“Yes, I do, and I wish we could forget it; but in this instance I do not think you have anything to fear. There is no reward offered for your apprehension, but for my poor boy’s, who is now wandering over the wide world; and no one would go to the expense to apprehend you, if there was nothing to be gained by it.”
“True,” replied Rushbrook, after a minute’s reflection; “but, alas! I am a coward now: I will write.”
Rushbrook wrote accordingly, and, in reply, received a letter inclosing a bank-bill for 20 pounds, and requesting that he would come to town immediately. He did so, and found, to his astonishment, that he was the heir-at-law to a property of 7,000 pounds per annum—with the only contingency, that he was, as nearest of kin, to take the name of Austin. Having entered into all the arrangements required by the legal gentleman, he returned to Yorkshire, with 500 pounds in his pocket, to communicate the intelligence to his wife; and when he did so, and embraced her, she burst into tears.
“Rushbrook, do not think I mean to reproach you by these tears; but I cannot help thinking that you would have been happier had this never happened. Your life will be doubly sweet to you now, and Joey’s absence will be a source of more vexation than ever. Do you think that you will be happier?”
“Jane, dearest! I have been thinking of it as well as you, and, on reflection, I think I shall be safer. Who would know the poacher Rushbrook in the gentleman of 7,000 pounds a year, of the name of Austin? Who would dare accuse him, even if there were suspicion? I feel that once in another county, under another name, and in another situation, I shall be safe.”
“But our poor boy, should he ever come back—”
“Will also be forgotten. He will have grown up a man, and, having another name, will never be recognised: they will not even know what our former name was.”
“I trust that it will be as you say. What do you now mean to do?”
“I shall say that I have a property of four or five hundred pounds left me, and that I intend to go up to London,” replied Rushbrook.
“Yes, that will be wise; it will be an excuse for our leaving this place, and will be no clue to where we are going,” replied Jane.
Rushbrook gave up his situation, sold his furniture, and quitted Yorkshire. In a few weeks afterwards he was installed into his new property, a splendid mansion, and situated in the west of Dorsetshire. Report had gone before them; some said that a common labourer had come into the property, others said it was a person in very moderate circumstances; as usual, both these reports were contradicted by a third, which represented him as a half-pay lieutenant in the army. Rushbrook had contrived to mystify even the solicitor as to his situation in life; he stated to him that he had retired from the army, and lived upon the government allowance; and it was in consequence of a reference to the solicitor, made by some of the best families in the neighbourhood, who wished to ascertain if the newcomers were people who could be visited, that this third report was spread, and universally believed. We have already observed that Rushbrook was a fine, tall man; and if there is any class of people who can be transplanted with success from low to high life, it will be those who have served in the army. The stoop is the evidence of a low-bred, vulgar man; the erect bearing equally so that of the gentleman. Now, the latter is gained in the army, by drilling and discipline, and being well-dressed will provide for all else that is required, as far as mere personal appearance is concerned. When, therefore, the neighbours called upon Mr and Mrs Austin they were not surprised to find an erect, military-looking man, but they were very much surprised to find him matched with such a fine, and even elegant-looking woman, as his wife. Timid at first, Jane had sufficient tact to watch others and copy; and before many months were passed in their new position, it would have been difficult to suppose that Mrs Austin had not been born in the sphere in which she then moved. Austin was brusque and abrupt in his manners as before; but still there was always a reserve about him, which he naturally felt, and which assisted to remove the impression of vulgarity. People who are distant are seldom considered ungentlemanlike, although they may be considered unpleasant in their manners. It is those who are too familiar who obtain the character of vulgarity.
Austin, therefore, was respected, but not liked; Jane, on the contrary, whose beauty had now all the assistance of dress, and whose continued inward mourning for her lost son had improved that beauty by the pensive air which she wore, was a deserved and universal favourite. People of course said that Austin was a harsh husband, and pitied poor Mrs Austin; but that people always do say if a woman is not inclined to mirth.
Austin found ample amusement in sporting over his extensive manor, and looking after his game. In one point the neighbouring gentlemen were surprised, that, although so keen a sportsman himself, he never could be prevailed upon to convict a poacher. He was appointed a magistrate, and being most liberal in all his subscriptions, was soon considered as a great acquisition to the county. His wife was much sought after, but it was invariably observed that, when children were mentioned, the tears stood in her eyes. Before they had been a year in their new position, they had acquired all the knowledge and tact necessary; their establishment was on a handsome scale; they were visited and paid visits to all the aristocracy and gentry, and were as popular as they could have desired to be. But were they happy? Alas! no. Little did those who envied Austin his property and establishment imagine what a load was on his mind—what a corroding care was wearing out his existence. Little did they imagine that he would gladly have resigned all, and been once more the poacher in the village of Grassford, to have removed from his conscience the deed of darkness which he had committed, and once more have his son by his side. And poor Jane, her thoughts were day and night upon one object—where was her child? It deprived her of rest at night; she remained meditating on her fate for hours during the day; it would rush into her mind in the gayest scenes and the happiest moments; it was one incessant incubus—one continual source of misery. Of her husband she thought less; for she knew how sincerely contrite he was for the deed he had done—how bitterly he had repented it ever since, and how it would, as long as he lived, be a source of misery—a worm that would never die, but gnaw till the last hour of his existence. But her boy—her noble, self-sacrificed little Joey!—he and his destiny were ever in her thoughts; and gladly would she have been a pauper applying for relief, if she had but that child to have led up in her hand. And yet all the county thought how happy and contented the Austins ought to be, to have suddenly come into possession of so much wealth. ’Tis God alone that knows the secrets of the heart of man.
Chapter Twenty Two
A very Long Chapter, but in which our Hero obtains Employment in a very Short Time
The preparatory establishment for young gentlemen to which our hero had been sent, was situated on Clapham-rise. Joey did not think it prudent to walk in the direction of London; he therefore made a cut across the country, so as to bring him, before seven o’clock in the morning, not very far from Gravesend. The night had been calm and beautiful, for it was in the month of August; and it had for some time been broad daylight when our hero, who had walked fifteen or sixteen miles, sat down to repose himself; and, as he remained quietly seated on the green turf on the way side, he thought of his father and mother, of the kindness of the McShanes, and his own hard fate, until he became melancholy and wept; and, as the tears were rolling down his cheeks, a little girl, of about ten years old, very neatly dressed, and evidently above the lower rank of life, came along the road, her footsteps so light as not to be perceived by Joey; she looked at him as she passed, and perceived that he was in tears, and her own bright, pretty face became clouded in a moment. Joey did not look up, and after hesitating awhile, she passed on a few steps, and then she looked round, and observing that he was still weeping, she paused, turned round, and came back to him; for a minute or two she stood before him, but Joey was unconscious of her presence, for he was now in the full tide of his grief, and, not having forgotten the precepts which had been carefully instilled into him, he thought of the God of Refuge, and he arose, fell on his knees, and prayed. The little girl, whose tears had already been summoned by pity and sympathy, dropped her basket, and knelt by his side—not that she prayed, for she knew not what the prayer was for, but from an instinctive feeling of respect towards the Deity which her new companion was addressing, and a feeling of kindness towards one who was evidently suffering. Joey lifted up his eyes, and beheld the child on her knees, the tears rolling down her cheeks; he hastily wiped his eyes, for until that moment, he imagined that he had been alone; he had been praying on account of his loneliness—he looked up, and he was not alone, but there was one by his side who pitied him, without knowing wherefore; he felt relieved by the sight. They both regained their feet at the same time, and Joe went up to the little girl, and, taking her by the hand, said, “Thank you.”
“Why do you cry?” said the little girl.
“Because I am unhappy; I have no home,” replied Joey.
“No home!” said the little girl; “it is boys who are in rags and starving, who have no home, not young gentlemen dressed as you are.”
“But I have left my home,” replied Joey.
“Then go back again—how glad they will be to see you!”
“Yes, indeed they would,” replied Joey, “but I must not.”
“You have not done anything wrong, have you? No, I’m sure you have not—you must have been (be) a good boy, or you would not have prayed.”
“No, I have done nothing wrong, but I must not tell you any more.”
Indeed, Joey was much more communicative with the little girl than he would have been with anybody else; but he had been surprised into it, and, moreover, he had no fear of being betrayed by such innocence. He now recollected himself, and changed the conversation.
“And where are you going to?” inquired he.
“I am going to school at Gravesend. I go there every morning, and stay till the evening. This is my dinner in my basket. Are you hungry?”
“No, not particularly.”
“Are you going to Gravesend?”
“Yes,” replied Joey. “What is your name?”
“Emma Phillips.”
“Have you a father and mother?”
“I have no father; he was killed fighting, a little while after I was born.”
“And your mother—”
“Lives with grandmother, at that house you see there through the large trees. And what are you going to do with yourself? Will you come home with me? and I’ll tell my mother all you have told me, and she is very kind, and will write to your friends.”
“No, no; you must not do that; I am going to seek for employment.”
“Why, what can you do?”
“I hardly know,” replied Joey; “but I can work, and am willing to work, so I hope I shall not starve.”
With such conversation they continued their way, until the little girl said, “There is my school, so now I must wish you good-bye.”
“Good-bye; I shall not forget you,” replied Joey, “although we may never meet again.” Tears stood in the eyes of our hero, as they reluctantly unclasped their hands and parted.
Joey, once more left alone, now meditated what was the best course for him to pursue. The little Emma’s words, “Not young gentlemen dressed as you are,” reminded him of the remarks and suspicions which must ensue if he did not alter his attire. This he resolved to do immediately; the only idea which had presented itself to his mind was, if possible, to find some means of getting back to Captain O’Donahue, who, he was sure, would receive him, if he satisfied him that it was not safe for him to remain in England; but, then, must he confess to him the truth or not? On this point our hero was not decided, so he put off the solution of it till another opportunity. A slop warehouse now attracted his attention; he looked into the door after having examined the articles outside, and seeing that a sailor-boy was bargaining for some clothes, he went in as if waiting to be served, but in fact, more to ascertain the value of the articles which he wished to purchase. The sailor had cheapened a red frock and pair of blue trousers, and at last obtained them from the Jew for 14 shillings. Joey argued that, as he was much smaller than the lad, he ought to pay less; he asked for the same articles, but the Jew, who had scanned in his own mind the suit of clothes which Joey had on, argued that he ought to pay more. Joey was, however, firm, and about to leave the shop, when the Jew called him back, and after much haggling, Joey obtained the dress for 12 shillings. Having paid for the clothes, Joey begged permission to be permitted to retire to the back shop and put them on, to ascertain if they fitted him, to which the Jew consented. A Jew asks no questions when a penny is to be turned; who Joey was, he cared little; his first object was to sell him the clothes, and having so done he hoped to make another penny by obtaining those of Joey at a moderate price. Perceiving that our hero was putting his own clothes, which he had taken off; into a bundle, the Jew asked him whether he would sell them, and Joey immediately agreed; but the price offered by the Jew was so small, that they were returned to the bundle, and once more was Joey leaving the shop, when the Jew at last offered to return to him the money he had paid for the sailor’s dress, and take his own clothes in exchange, provided that Joey would also exchange his hat for one of tarpaulin, which would be more fitting to his present costume. To this our hero consented, and thus was the bargain concluded without Joey having parted with any of his small stock of ready money. No one who had only seen him dressed as when he quitted the school, would have easily recognised Joey in his new attire. Joey sallied forth from the shop with his bundle under his arm, intending to look out for a breakfast, for he was very hungry. Turning his head right and left to discover some notice of where provender might be obtained, he observed the sailor lad, who had been in the shop when he went in, with his new purchase under his arm, looking very earnestly at some prints in a shop window. Joey ranged up alongside of him, and inquired of him where he could get something to eat; the lad turned round, stared, and, after a little while, cried, “Well, now, you’re the young gentleman chap that came into the shop; I say aren’t you after a rig, eh? Given them leg bail, I’ll swear. No consarn of mine, old fellow. Come along, I’ll show you.”
Joey walked by his new acquaintance a few yards, when the lad turned to him, “I say, did your master whop you much?”
“No,” replied Joey.
“Well, then, that’s more than I can say of mine, for he was at it all day. Hold out your right hand, now your left,” continued he, mimicking; “my eyes! how it used to sting. I don’t think I should mind it much now, continued the lad, turning up his hand; it’s a little harder than it was then. Here’s the shop, come in; if you haven’t no money I’ll give you a breakfast.”
The lad took his seat on one side of a narrow table, Joey on the other, and his new acquaintance called for two pints of tea, a twopenny loaf, and two penny bits of cheese. The loaf was divided between them, and with their portion of cheese and pint of tea each they made a good breakfast. As soon as it was over, the young sailor said to Joey, “Now, what are you going arter; do you mean to ship?”
“I want employment,” replied Joey; “and I don’t much care what it is.”
“Well, then, look you; I ran away from my friends and went to sea, and do you know I’ve only repented of it once, and that’s ever since. Better do anything than go to sea—winter coming on and all; besides, you don’t look strong enough; you don’t know what it is to be coasting in winter time; thrashed up to furl the top-gallant sail when it is so dark you can’t see your way, and so cold that you can’t feel your fingers, holding on for your life, and feeling as if life, after all, was not worth caring for; cold and misery aloft, kicks and thumps below. Don’t you go to sea; if you do, after what I’ve told you, why then you’re a greater fool than you look to be.”
“I don’t want to be a sailor,” replied Joey, “but I must do something to get my living. You are very kind: will you tell me what to do?”
“Why, do you know, when I saw you come up to me, when I was looking at the pictures, in your frock and trousers, you put me in mind, because you are so much like him, of a poor little boy who was drowned the other day alongside of an India ship; that’s why I stared, for I thought you were he, at first.”
“How was he drowned, poor fellow?” responded Joey.
“Why, you see, his aunt is a good old soul, who keeps a bumboat, and goes off to the shipping.”
“What’s a bumboat?”
“A boat full of soft tommy, soldiers, pipes, and backey, rotten apples, stale pies, needles and threads, and a hundred other things; besides a fat old woman sitting in the stern sheets.”
Joey stared; he did not know that “soft tommy” meant loaves of bread, or that “soldiers” was the term for red-herrings. He only thought that the boat must be very full.
“Now, you see that little Peter was her right-hand man, for she can’t read and write. Can you? but of course you can.”
“Yes, I can,” replied Joey.
“Well, little Peter was holding on by the painter against a hard sea, but his strength was not equal to it, and so when a swell took the boat he was pulled right overboard, and he was drowned.”
“Was the painter drowned too?” inquired Joey.
“Ha! ha! that’s capital; why, the painter is a rope. Now, the old woman has been dreadfully put out, and does nothing but cry about little Peter, and not being able to keep her accounts. Now, you look very like him, and I think it very likely the old woman would take you in his place, if I went and talked her over; that’s better than going to sea, for at all events you sleep dry and sound on shore every night, even if you do have a wet jacket sometimes. What d’ye think?”
“I think you are very kind; and I should be glad to take the place.”
“Well, she’s a good old soul, and has a warm heart, and trusts them who have no money; too much, I’m afraid, for she loses a great deal. So now I’ll go and speak to her, for she’ll be alongside of us when I go on board; and where shall I find you when I come on shore in the evening?”
“Wherever you say, I will be.”
“Well, then, meet me here at nine o’clock; that will make all certain. Come, I must be off now. I’ll pay for the breakfast.”
“I have money, I thank you,” replied Joey.
“Then keep it, for it’s more than I can do; and what’s your name?”
“Joey.”
“Well then, Joey, my hearty, if I get you this berth, when we come in, and I am short, you must let me go on tick till I can pay.”
“What’s tick?”
“You’ll soon find out what tick is, after you have been a week in the bumboat,” replied the lad, laughing. “Nine o’clock, my hearty; good-bye.”
So saying, the young sailor caught up his new clothes, and hastened down to the beach.
The room was crowded with seamen and women, but they were too busy talking and laughing to pay any attention to Joey and his comrade. Our little hero sat some little time at the table after his new acquaintance had left, and then walked out into the streets, telling the people of the house that he was coming back again, and requesting them to take care of his bundle.
“You’ll find it here, my little fellow, all right when you ask for it,” said the woman at the bar, who took it inside and put it away under the counter.
Joey went out with his mind more at ease. The nature of his new employment, should he succeed in obtaining it, he could scarcely comprehend, but still it appeared to him one that he could accomplish. He amused himself walking down the streets, watching the movements of the passers-by, the watermen in their wherries, and the people on board of the vessels which were lying off in the stream. It was a busy and animating sight. As he was lolling at the landing-place, a boat came on shore, which, from the description given by his young sailor friend, he was convinced was a bumboat; it had all the articles described by him, as well as many others, such as porter in bottles, a cask probably containing beer; leeks, onions, and many other heterogeneous matters, and, moreover, there was a fat woman seated in the stern.
The waterman shoved in with his boat-hook, and the wherry grounded. The fat personage got out, and the waterman handed to her a basket, a long book, and several other articles, which she appeared to consider indispensable; among others, a bundle which looked like dirty linen for the wash.
“Dear me! how shall I get up all these things?” exclaimed the woman; “and, William, you can’t leave the boat, and there’s nobody here to help me.”
“I’ll help you,” said Joey, coming down the steps: “what shall I carry for you?”
“Well, you are a good kind boy,” replied she; “can you carry that bundle? I’ll manage all the rest.”
Joey tossed the bundle on his shoulder in a moment.
“Well, you are a strong little chap,” said the waterman.
“He is a very nice little fellow, and a kind one. Now, come along, and I’ll not forget you.”
Joey followed with the bundle, until they arrived at a narrow door, not eighty yards from the landing-place, and the woman asked him if he would carry it upstairs to the first floor, which he did.
“Do you want me any more?” said Joey, setting down the bundle.
“No, dear, no; but I must give you something for your trouble. What do you expect?”
“Nothing at all,” replied Joey; “and I shall not take anything; you’re very welcome; good-bye;” and so saying, Joey walked downstairs, although the woman halloed after him, and recommenced his peregrination in the streets of Gravesend; but he was soon tired of walking on the pavement, which was none of the best, and he then thought that he would go out into the country, and enjoy the green fields; so off he set, the same way that he came into the town, passed by the school of little Emma, and trudged away on the road, stopping every now and then to examine what attracted his notice; watching a bird if it sang on the branch of a tree, and not moving lest he should frighten it away; at times sitting down by the road-side, and meditating or the past and the future. The day was closing in, and Joey was still amusing himself as every boy who has been confined to a schoolroom would do; he sauntered on until he came to the very spot where he had been crying, and had met with little Emma Phillips; and as he sat down again, he thought of her sweet little face, and her kindness towards him—and there he remained some time till he was roused by some one singing as they went along the road. He looked up, and perceived it was the little girl, who was returning from school. Joey rose immediately, and walked towards her to meet her, but she did not appear to recognise him, and would have passed him if he had not said, “Don’t you know me?”
“Yes, I do now,” replied she, smiling, “but I did not at first—you have put on another dress; I have been thinking of you all day—and, do you know, I’ve got a black mark for not saying my lesson,” added the little girl, with a sigh.
“And, then, it is my fault,” replied Joey; “I’m very sorry.”
“Oh, never mind; it is the first that I have had for a long while, and I shall tell mamma why. But you are dressed as a sailor-boy—are you going to sea?”
“No, I believe not—I hope to have employment in the town here, and then I shall be able to see you sometimes, when you come from school. May I walk with you as far as your own house?”
“Yes, I suppose so, if you like it.”
Joey walked with her until they came to the house, which was about two hundred yards farther.
“But,” said Joey, hesitating, “you must make me a promise.”
“What is that?”
“You must keep my secret. You must not tell your mother that you saw me first in what you call gentleman’s clothes—it might do me harm—and indeed it’s not for my own sake I ask it. Don’t say a word about my other clothes, or they may ask me questions which I must not answer, for it’s not my secret. I told you more this morning than I would have told any one else—I did, indeed.”
“Well,” replied the little girl, after thinking a little, “I suppose I have no right to tell a secret, if I am begged not to do it, so I will say nothing, about your clothes. But I must tell mother that I met you.”
“Oh, yes; tell her you met me, and that I was looking for some work, and all that, and to-morrow or next day I will let you know if I get any.”
“Will you come in now?” said Emma.
“No, not now; I must see if I can get this employment promised for me, and then I shall see you again; if I should not see you again, I shall not forget you, indeed I won’t—Good-bye.”
Emma bade him adieu, and they separated, and Joey remained and watched her till she disappeared under the porch of the entrance.
Our hero returned towards Gravesend in rather a melancholy mood; there was something so unusual in his meeting with the little girl—something so uncommon in the sympathy expressed by her—that he felt pain at parting. But it was getting late, and it was time that he kept his appointment with his friend, the sailor boy.
Joey remained at the door of the eating-house for about a quarter of an hour, when he perceived the sailor lad coming up the street. He went forward to meet him.
“Oh, here we are. Well, young fellow, I’ve seen the old woman, and had a long talk with her, and she won’t believe there can be another in the world like her Peter, but I persuaded her to have a look at you, and she has consented; so come along, for I must be on board again in half an hour.”
Joey followed his new friend down the street, until they came to the very door to which he had carried the bundle. The sailor boy mounted the stairs, and turning into the room at the first landing, Joey beheld the woman whom he had assisted in the morning.
“Here he is, Mrs Chopper, and if he won’t suit you, I don’t know who will,” said the boy. “He’s a regular scholar, and can sum up like winkin’.”
This character, given so gratuitously by his new acquaintance, made Joey stare, and the woman looked hard into Joey’s face.
“Well, now,” said she, “where have I seen you before? Dear me! and he is like poor Peter, as you said, Jim; I vow he is.”
“I saw you before to-day,” replied Joey, “for I carried a bundle up for you.”
“And so you did, and would have no money for your trouble. Well, Jim, he is like poor Peter.”
“I told you so, old lady; ay, and he’ll just do for you as well as Peter did; but I’ll leave you to settle matters, for I must be a-board.”
So saying, the lad tipped a wink to Joey, the meaning of which our hero did not understand, and went downstairs.
