The Poacher; Or, Joseph Rushbrook

“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.

Such was the position of his parents, when Joey was proceeding to their abode.

Chapter Thirty Six

Our Hero falls in with an old Acquaintance, and is not very much Delighted

We left our hero rolling his knife-grinder’s wheel towards his father’s house. It must be confessed that he did it very unwillingly. He was never very fond of it at any time; but, since he had taken possession of Spikeman’s property, and had received from Mary the intelligence that he was worth 350 pounds more, he had taken a positive aversion to it. It retarded his movements, and it was hard work when he had not to get his livelihood by it. More than once he thought of rolling it into a horsepond, and leaving it below low-water mark; but then he thought it a sort of protection against inquiry, and against assault, for it told of poverty and honest employment; so Joey rolled on, but not with any feelings of regard towards his companion.

How many castles did our hero build as he went along the road! The sum of money left to him appeared to be enormous. He planned and planned again; and, like most people, at the close of the day, he was just as undetermined as at the commencement. Nevertheless, he was very happy, as people always are, in anticipation; unfortunately, more so than when they grasp what they have been seeking. Time rolled on, as well as the grindstone, and at last Joey found himself at the ale-house where he and Mary had put up previously to her obtaining a situation at the Hall. He immediately wrote a letter to her, acquainting her with his arrival. He would have taken the letter himself, only he recollected the treatment he had received, and found another messenger in the butcher’s boy, who was going up to the Hall for orders. The answer returned by the same party was, that Mary would come down and see him that evening. When Mary came down Joey was astonished at the improvement in her appearance. She looked much younger than she did when they had parted, and her dress was so very different that our hero could with difficulty imagine that it was the same person who had been his companion from Gravesend. The careless air and manner had disappeared; there was a retenue—a dignity about her which astonished him and he felt a sort of respect, mingled with his regard, for her, of which he could not divest himself. But, if she looked younger (as may well be imagined) from her change of life, she also looked more sedate, except when she smiled, or when occasionally, but very rarely, her merry laughter reminded him of the careless, good-tempered Nancy of former times. That the greeting was warm need hardly be said. It was the greeting of a sister and younger brother who loved each other dearly.

“You are very much grown, Joey,” said Mary. “Dear boy, how happy I am to see you!”

“And you, Mary, you’re younger in the face, but older in your manners. Are you as happy in your situation as you have told me in your letters?”

“Quite happy; more happy than ever I deserve to be, my dear boy; and now tell me, Joey, what do you think of doing? You have now the means of establishing yourself.”

“Yes, I have been thinking of it; but I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, you must look out, and do not be in too great a hurry. Recollect, Joey, that if anything offers which you have any reason to believe will suit you, you shall have my money as well as your own.”

“Nay, Mary, why should I take that?”

“Because, as it is of no use to me, it must be idle; besides, you know, if you succeed, you will be able to pay me interest for it; so I shall gain as well as you. You must not refuse your sister, my dear boy.”

“Dear Mary, how I wish we could live in the same house!”

“That cannot be now, Joey; you are above my situation at the Hall, even allowing that you would ever enter it.”

“That I never will, if I can help it; not that I feel angry now, but I like to be independent.”

“Of course you do.”

“And as for that grindstone, I hate the sight of it; it has made Spikeman’s fortune, but it never shall make mine.”

“You don’t agree then with your former companion,” rejoined Mary, “that a tinker’s is the nearest profession to that of a gentleman which you know of.”

“I certainly do not,” replied our hero; “and as soon as I can get rid of it I will; I have rolled it here, but I will not roll it much farther. I only wish I knew where to go.”

“I have something in my pocket which puts me in mind of a piece of news which I received the other day, since my return. First let me give you what I have in my pocket,”—and Mary pulled out the pencil-case sent to Joey by Emma Phillips. “There you know already who that is from.”

“Yes, and I shall value it very much, for she was a dear, kind little creature; and when I was very, very miserable, she comforted me.”

“Well, Joey, Miss Phillips requested me to write when I came back, as she wished to hear that I had arrived safe at the Hall. It was very kind of her, and I did so, of course. Since that I have received a letter from her, stating that her grandmother is dead, and that her mother is going to quit Gravesend for Portsmouth, to reside with her brother, who is now a widower.”

“I will go to Portsmouth,” replied our hero.

“I was thinking that, as her brother is a navy agent, and Mrs Phillips is interested about you, you could not do better. If anything turns up, then you will have good advice, and your money is not so likely to be thrown away. I think, therefore, you had better go to Portsmouth, and try your fortune.”

“I am very glad you have mentioned this, Mary, for, till now, one place was as indifferent to me as another; but now it is otherwise, and to Portsmouth I will certainly go.”

Our hero remained two or three days longer at the village, during which time Mary was with him every evening, and once she obtained leave to go to the banker’s about her money. She then turned over to Joey’s account the sum due to him, and arrangements were made with the bank so that Joey could draw his capital out whenever he pleased.

After which our hero took leave of Mary, promising to correspond more freely than before; and once more putting the strap of his knife-grinder’s wheel over his shoulders, he set off on his journey to Portsmouth.

Joey had not gained two miles from the village when he asked himself the question, “What shall I do with my grindstone?” He did not like to leave it on the road; he did not know to whom he could give it away. He rolled it on for about six miles farther, and then, quite tired, he resolved to follow the plan formerly adopted by Spikeman, and repose a little upon the turf on the road-side. The sun was very warm, and after a time Joey retreated to the other side of the hedge, which was shaded; and having taken his bundle from the side of the wheel where it hung, he first made his dinner of the provender he had brought with him, and then, laying his head on the bundle, was soon in a sound sleep, from which he was awakened by hearing voices on the other side of the hedge. He turned round, and perceived two men on the side of the road, close to his knife-grinder’s wheel. They were in their shirts and trousers only and sitting down on the turf.