Chapter Forty Eight.
In which Everybody appears to be on the Move except our Hero.
Mary set off with post-horses and arrived at the Hall before daylight. She remained in her own room until the post came in, when her first object was to secure the newspapers before the butler had opened them, stating that her mistress was awake, and requested to see them. She took the same precaution when the other papers came in late in the day, so that Mr Austin should not read the account of the trial; this was the more easy to accomplish, as he seldom looked at a newspaper. As soon as the usual hour had arrived, Mary presented herself to her mistress, and communicated the melancholy result of the trial. Mrs Austin desired Mary to say to the servants that she was going to remain with a lady, a friend of hers, some miles off, who was dangerously ill; and should in all probability, not return that night, or even the next, if her friend was not better; and, her preparations for the journey being completed, she set off with Mary a little before dark on her way to Exeter.
But, if Mr Austin did not look at the newspapers, others did, and amongst the latter was Major McShane, who, having returned from his tour, was sitting with O’Donahue and the two ladies in the library of his own house when the post came in. The major had hardly looked at the newspapers, when the name of Rushbrook caught his eye; he turned to it, read a portion, and gave a loud whistle of surprise.
“What’s the matter, my dear?” asked Mrs McShane.
“Murder’s the matter, my jewel,” returned the major; “but don’t interrupt me just now, for I’m breathless with confusion.”
McShane read the whole account of the trial, and the verdict, and then without saying a word, put it into the bands of O’Donahue. As soon as O’Donahue had finished it, McShane beckoned him out of the room.
“I didn’t like to let Mrs McShane know it, as she would take it sorely to heart,” said McShane: “but what’s to be done now, O’Donahue? You see the boy has not peached upon his father, and has convicted himself. It would be poor comfort to Mrs McShane, who loves the memory of that boy better than she would a dozen little McShanes, if it pleased Heaven to grant them to her, to know that the boy is found, when he is only found to be sent away over the water; so it is better that nothing should be said about it just now: but what is to be done?”
“Well, it appears to me that we had better be off to Exeter directly,” replied O’Donahue.
“Yes, and see him,” rejoined the major.
“Before I saw him, McShane, I would call upon the lawyer who defended him, and tell him what you know about the father, and what our suspicions, I may say, convictions, are. He would then tell us how to proceed, so as to procure his pardon, perhaps.”
“That’s good advice; and now what excuse are we to make for running away?”
“As for my wife,” replied O’Donahue, “I may as well tell her the truth; she will keep it secret; and as for yours, she will believe anything you please to tell her.”
“And so she will, the good creature, and that’s why I never can bear to deceive her about anything; but, in this instance, it is all for her own sake and therefore, suppose your wife says that you must go to town immediately, and that I had better accompany you, as it is upon a serious affair?”
“Be it so,” replied O’Donahue; “do you order the horses to be put to while I settle the affair with the females.”
This was soon done, and in half an hour the two gentlemen were on their way to Exeter; and as soon as they arrived, which was late in the evening, they established themselves at the principal hotel.
In the mean time Mrs Austin and Mary had also arrived and had taken up their quarters at another hotel where Mrs Austin would be less exposed. It was, however, too late to visit our hero when they arrived, and the next morning they proceeded to the gaol, much about the same hour that McShane and O’Donahue paid their visit to Mr Trevor.
Perhaps it will be better to leave to the imagination of our readers the scene which occurred between our hero and his mother, as we have had too many painful ones already in this latter portion of our narrative. The joy and grief of both at meeting again, only to part for ever—the strong conflict between duty and love—the lacerated feelings of the doting mother, the true and affectionate son, and the devoted servant and friend—may be better imagined than expressed; but their grief was raised to its climax when our hero, pressed in his mother’s arms as he narrated his adventures, confessed that another pang was added to his sufferings in parting with the object of his earliest affections.
“My poor, poor boy, this is indeed a bitter cup to drink!” exclaimed Mrs Austin. “May God, in His mercy, look down upon you, and console you!”
“He will, mother: and when far away—not before, not until you can safely do so, promise me to go to Emma, and tell her that I was not guilty. I can bear anything but that she should despise me.”
“I will, my child, I will; and I will love her dearly for your sake. Now go on with your history, my dear boy.”
We must leave our hero and his mother in conversation, and return to McShane and O’Donahue, who, as soon as they had breakfasted, repaired to the lodgings of Mr Trevor.
McShane, who was spokesman, soon entered upon the business which brought them there.
Mr Trevor stated to him the pertinacity of our hero, and the impossibility of saving him from condemnation, remarking, at the same time, that there was a mystery which he could not fathom.
McShane took upon himself to explain that mystery, having, as we have before observed, already been sufficiently clear-sighted to fathom it; and referred to O’Donahue to corroborate his opinion of the elder Rushbrook’s character.
“And this father of his is totally lost sight of; you say?” observed Mr Trevor.
“Altogether: I have never been able to trace him,” replied McShane.
“I was observing to his sister—” said Mr Trevor.
“He has no sister,” interrupted McShane.
“Still there is a young woman—and a very sweet young woman, too—who came to me in London, to engage me for his defence, who represented herself as his sister.”
“That is strange,” rejoined McShane, musing.
“But, however,” continued Mr Trevor, “as I was about to say, I was observing to this young woman how strange it was, that the first time I was legally employed for the name of Rushbrook, it should be a case which, in the opinion of the world, should produce the highest gratification, and that in the second in one which has ended in misery.”
“How do you mean?” inquired McShane.
“I put a person of the name of Rushbrook in possession of a large fortune. I asked our young friend’s sister whether he could be any relation; but she said no.”
“Young Rushbrook had no sister, I am sure,” interrupted McShane.
“I now recollect,” continued Mr Trevor, “that this person who came into the fortune stated that he had formerly held a commission in the army.”
“Then, depend on it, it’s Rushbrook himself, who has given himself brevet rank,” replied McShane. “Where is he now?”
“Down in Dorsetshire,” said Mr Trevor. “He succeeded to the Austin estates, and has taken the name.”
“’Tis he—’tis he—I’ll swear to it,” cried McShane. “Phillaloo! Murder and Irish! the murder’s out now. No wonder this gentleman wouldn’t return my visit, and keeps himself entirely at home. I beg your pardon, Mr Trevor, but what sort of a looking personage may he be, for as I have said, I have never seen this Mr Austin?”
“A fine, tall, soldierly man; I should say rough, but still not vulgar; dark hair and eyes, aquiline nose; if I recollect right—”
“’Tis the man!” exclaimed O’Donahue.
“And his wife—did you see her?” asked McShane.
“No I did not,” replied Mr Trevor.
“Well, I have seen her very often,” rejoined McShane; “and a very nice creature she appears to be. I have never been in their house in my life. I called and left my card, that’s all; but I have met her several times; however, as you have not seen her, that proves nothing; and now, Mr Trevor, what do you think we should do?”
“I really am not prepared to advise; it is a case of great difficulty; I think, however, it would be advisable for you to call upon young Rushbrook, and see what you can obtain from him; after that, if you come here to-morrow morning, I will be better prepared to give you an answer.”
“I will do as you wish, sir; I will call upon my friend first, and my name’s not McShane if I don’t call upon his father afterwards.”
“Do nothing rashly, I beg,” replied Mr Trevor; “recollect you have come to me for advice, and I think you are bound at least to hear what I have to propose before you act.”
“That’s the truth, Mr Trevor; so now with many thanks, we will take our leave, and call upon you to-morrow.”
McShane and O’Donahue then proceeded to the gaol, and demanded permission to see our hero.
“There are two ladies with him, just now,” said the gaoler; “they have been there these three hours, so I suppose they will not be much longer.”
“We will wait, then,” replied O’Donahue.
In about a quarter of an hour Mrs Austin and Mary made their appearance; the former was closely veiled when she entered the gaoler’s parlour, in which O’Donahue and McShane were waiting. It had not been the intention of Mrs Austin to have gone into the parlour, but her agitation and distress had so overcome her that she could scarcely walk, and Mary had persuaded her as she came down to go in and take glass of water. The gentlemen rose when she came in; she immediately recognised McShane, and the sudden rush into her memory of what might be the issue of the meeting, was so overwhelming, that she dropped into a chair and fainted.
Mary ran for some water, and while she did so, McShane and O’Donahue went to the assistance of Mrs Austin. The veil was removed; and, of course, she was immediately recognised by McShane, who was now fully convinced that Austin and Rushbrook were one and the same person.
Upon the first signs of returning animation, McShane had the delicacy to withdraw, and making a sign to the gaoler, he and O’Donahue repaired to the cell of our hero. The greeting was warm on both sides. McShane was eager to enter upon the subject; he pointed out to Joey that he knew who committed the murder; indeed, plainly told him, that it was the deed of his father. But Joey, as before, would admit nothing; he was satisfied with their belief in his innocence, but, having made up his mind to suffer, could not be persuaded to reveal the truth, and McShane and O’Donahue quitted the cell, perceiving that, unless most decided steps were taken, without the knowledge of our hero, there was no chance of his being extricated from his melancholy fate. Struck with admiration at his courage and self-devotion towards an unworthy parent, they bade him farewell, simply promising to use all their endeavours in his behalf.