Chapter Forty Six.
In which our Hero makes up his Mind to be Hanged.
Our hero was not sorry to be left alone; for the first time he felt the absence of Mary a relief. He was almost as much bewildered as poor Mary with the strange discovery; his father a great landed proprietor, one of the first men in the county, universally respected—in the first society! his mother, as he knew by Mary’s letters written long ago, courted and sought after, loved and admired! If he had made a resolution—a promise he might say—when a mere child that he would take the onus of the deed upon his own shoulders, to protect his father, then a poacher and in humble life, how much more was it his duty, now that his father would so feel any degradation—now that, being raised so high, his fall would be so bitter, his disgrace so deeply felt, and the stigma so doubly severe! “No, no,” thought Joey, “were I to impeach my father now—to accuse him of a deed which would bring him to the scaffold—I should not only be considered his murderer, but it would be said I had done it to inherit his possessions; I should be considered one who had sacrificed his father to obtain his property. I should be scouted, shunned, and deservedly despised; the disgrace of my father having been hanged would be a trifle compared with the reproach of a son having condemned a parent to the gallows. Now I am doubly bound to keep to my resolution; and come what may the secret shall die with me:” and Joey slept soundly that night.
The next morning Mr Trevor came into his cell.
“I have seen your sister, Rushbrook,” said he, “and at her request, have come to assist you, if it is in my power. She has been here since, I have been informed, and if so, I have no doubt that she has told you that you must have no secrets with your lawyer: your legal friend and adviser in this case is your true friend: he is bound in honour to secrecy, and were you to declare now that you were guilty of this murder, the very confidence would only make me more earnest in your defence. I have here all the evidence at the coroner’s inquest, and the verdict against you; tell me honestly what did take place, and then I shall know better how to convince the jury that it did not.”
“You are very kind, sir; but I can say nothing even to you, except that, on my honour, I am not guilty.”
“But, tell me, then, how did it happen.”
“I have nothing more to say, and, with my thanks to you, sir, I will say nothing more.”
“This is very strange: the evidence was strong against you, was the evidence correct?”
“The parties were correct in their evidence, as it appeared to them.”
“And yet you are not guilty!”
“I am not; I shall plead not guilty, and leave my fate to the jury.”
“Are you mad? Your sister is a sweet young woman, and has interested me greatly; but, if innocent, you are throwing away your life.”
“I am doing my duty, sir; whatever you may think of my conduct, the secret dies with me.”
“And for whom do you sacrifice yourself in this way, if as, you say, and as your sister declares, you are not guilty?”
Joey made no reply, but sat down on the bedstead.
“If the deed was not done by you, by whom was it done?” urged Mr Trevor. “If you make no reply to that, I must throw up my brief.”
“You said just now,” returned Joey, “that if I declared myself guilty of the murder, you would still defend me; now, because I say I am not, and will not say who is, you must throw up your brief. Surely you are inconsistent.”
“I must have your confidence, my good lad.”
“You never will have more than you have now. I have not requested you to defend me. I care nothing about defence.”
“Then, you wish to be hanged?”
“No, I do not; but, rather than say anything, I will take my chance of it.”
“This is very strange,” said Mr Trevor: after a pause, he continued, “I observe that you are supposed to have killed this man, Byres, when nobody else was present; you were known to go out with your father’s gun, and the keeper’s evidence proved that you poached. Now, as there is no evidence of intentional murder on your part, it is not impossible that the gun went off by accident, and that, mere boy as you must have been at that age, you were so frightened at what had taken place, that you absconded from fear. It appears to me that that should be our line of defence.”
“I never fired at the man at all,” said Joey.
“Who fired the gun, then?” asked Mr Trevor.
Joey made no reply.
“Rushbrook,” said Mr Trevor, “I am afraid I can be of little use to you; indeed, were it not that your sister’s tears have interested me, I would not take up your cause. I cannot understand your conduct, which appears to me to be absurd; your motives are inexplicable, and all I can believe is, that you have committed the crime, and will not divulge the secret to any one, not even to those who would befriend you.”
“Think of me what you please, sir,” rejoined our hero; “see me condemned, and, if it should be so, executed; and, after all that has taken place, believe me, when I assert to you—as I hope for salvation—I am not guilty. I thank you, sir, thank you sincerely, for the interest you have shown for me; I feel grateful, excessively grateful, and the more so for what you have said of Mary; but if you were to remain here for a month, you could gain no more from me than you have already.”
“After such an avowal, it is useless my stopping here,” said Mr Trevor; “I must make what defence I can, for your sister’s sake.”
“Many, many thanks, sir, for your kindness; I am really grateful to you,” replied Joey.
Mr Trevor remained for a minute scanning the countenance or our hero. There was something in it so clear and bright, so unflinching, so proclaiming innocence, and high feeling, that he sighed deeply as he left the cell.
His subsequent interview with Mary was short; he explained to her the difficulties arising from the obstinacy of her brother; but at the same time expressed his determination to do his best to save him.
Mary, as soon as she had seen Mr Trevor, set off on her return to the Hall. As soon as she went to Mrs Austin, Mary apprised her of Mr Trevor’s having consented to act as counsel for our hero, and also of Joey’s resolute determination not to divulge the secret.
“Madam,” said Mary, after some hesitation, “it is my duty to have no secret from you: and I hope you will not be angry when I tell you that I have discovered that which you would have concealed.”
“What have you discovered, Mary?” asked Mrs Austin, looking at her with alarm.
“That Joseph Rushbrook is your own son,” said Mary, kneeling down and kissing the hand of her mistress. “The secret is safe with me, depend upon it,” she continued.
“And how have you made the discovery, Mary; for I will not attempt to deny it?”
Mary then entered into a detail of her conversation with Mr Trevor. “He asked me,” said she, “as the sister of Joey, if we had any relatives, and I replied, ‘No;’ so that he has no suspicion of the fact. I beg your pardon, madam, but I could not keep it from Joey; I quite forgot my promise to you at the time.”
“And what did my poor child say?”
“That he would not see you until after his trial; but, when his fate was decided, he should like to see you once more. Oh, madam, what a painful sacrifice! and yet, now, I do not blame him; for it is his duty.”
“My dread is not for my son, Mary; he is innocent; and that to me is everything; but if my husband was to hear of his being about to be tried, I know not what would be the consequence. If it can only be kept from his knowledge! God knows that he has suffered enough! But what am I saying? I was talking nonsense.”
“Oh, madam! I know the whole; I cannot be blinded either by Joey or you. I beg your pardon, madam; but although Joey would not reply, I told him that his father did the deed. But do not answer me, madam; be silent, as your son has been: and believe me when I say that my suspicion could not be wrenched from me even by torture.”
“I do trust you, Mary; and perhaps the knowledge that you have obtained is advantageous. When does the trial come on?”
“The assizes commence to-morrow forenoon, madam, they say.”
“Oh! how I long to have him in these arms!” exclaimed Mrs Austin.
“It is indeed a sad trial to a mother, madam,” replied Mary; “but still it must not be until after he is—”
“Yes; until he is condemned! God have mercy on me; Mary, you had better return to Exeter; but write to me every day. Stay by him and comfort him; and may the God of comfort listen to the prayers of an unhappy and distracted mother! Leave me now. God bless you, my dear girl! you have indeed proved a comfort. Leave me now.”