Chapter Forty Three.
A very Long Chapter, with a very Long Story, which could not well be cut in Half.
A man may walk a long while in the city of London without having any definite object, and yet be amused, for there are few occupations more pleasant, more instructive, or more contemplative, than looking into the shop windows; you pay a shilling to see an exhibition, whereas in this instance you have the advantage of seeing many without paying a farthing, provided that you look after your pocket-handkerchief. Thus was our hero amused: at one shop he discovered that very gay shawls were to be purchased for one pound, Bandanas at 3 shillings 9 pence, and soiled Irish linen remarkably cheap; at another he saw a row of watches, from humble silver at 2 pounds 10 shillings, to gold and enamelled at twelve or fourteen guineas, all warranted to go well; at another he discovered that furs were at half price, because nobody wore them in the summer. He proceeded further, and came to where there was a quantity of oil-paintings exposed for sale, pointing out to the passer-by that pictures of that description were those which he ought not to buy. A print-shop gave him an idea of the merits of composition and design shown by the various masters; and as he could not transport himself to the Vatican, it was quite as well to see what the Vatican contained; his thoughts were on Rome and her former glories. A tobacconist’s transported him to the State of Virginia, where many had been transported in former days. A grocer’s wafted him still farther to the West Indies and the negroes, and from these, as if by magic, to the Spice Islands and their aromatic groves. But an old curiosity-shop, with bronzes, china, marqueterie, point-lace, and armour, embraced at once a few centuries; and he thought of the feudal times, the fifteenth century, the belle of former days, the amber-headed cane and snuff box of the beaux who sought her smiles, all gone, all dust; the workmanship of the time, even portions of their dresses, still existing—everything less perishable than man.
Our hero proceeded on, his thoughts wandering as he wandered himself, when his attention was attracted by one of those placards, the breed of which appears to have been very much improved of late, as they get larger and larger every day; what they will end in there is no saying, unless it be in placards without end. This placard intimated that there was a masquerade at Vauxhall on that evening, besides tire-works, water-works, and anything but good works. Our hero had heard of Vauxhall, and his curiosity was excited, and he resolved that he would pass away the evening in what was at that time a rather fashionable resort.
It was half past six, and time to go, so he directed his steps over Westminster-bridge, and, having only lost three minutes in peeping through the balustrades at the barges and wherries proceeding up and down the river, after asking his way three times, he found himself at the entrance, and, paying his admission, walked in. There was a goodly sprinkling of company, but not many masks; there was a man clad in brass armour, who stood quite motionless, for the armour was so heavy that he could hardly bear the weight of it. He must have suffered a very great inconvenience on such a warm night, but people stared at him as they passed by, and he was more than repaid by the attention which he attracted; so he stood and suffered on. There were about twenty-five clowns in their motley dresses, seven or eight pantaloons, three devils, and perhaps forty or fifty dominoes. Joey soon found himself close to the orchestra, which was a blaze of light, and he listened very attentively to a lady in ostrich feathers, who was pouring out a bravura, which was quite unintelligible to the audience, while the gentlemen behind her, in their cocked hats, accompanied her voice. He was leaning against one of the trees, and receiving, without knowing it, the drippings of a leaky lamp upon his coat, when two men came up and stopped on the other side of the trunk of the tree, and one said to the other—“I tell you, Joseph, she is here, and with the Christian. Manasseh traced her by the driver of the coach. She will never return to her father’s house if we do not discover her this night.”
“What! will she become a Meshumed—an apostate!” exclaimed the other; “I would see her in her grave first. Holy Father! the daughter of a rabbi to bring such disgrace upon her family! Truly our sins, and the sins of our forefathers, have brought this evil upon our house. If I meet him here I will stab him to the heart!”
“Leemaan Hashem! for the sake of the holy name, my son, think of what you say; you must not be so rash. Alas! alas! but we are mixed with the heathens. She must be concealed in one of the Moabitish garments,” continued the elder of the two personages, whom our hero had of course ascertained to be of the house of Israel. “Manasseh tells me that he has discovered from another quarter, that the Christian had procured a domino, black, with the sleeves slashed with white. That will be a distinguishing mark; and if we see that dress we must then follow, and if a female is with it, it must be thy sister Miriam.”
“I will search now, and meet you here in half an hour,” replied the younger of the two.
“Joseph, my son, we do not part; I cannot trust you in your anger, and you have weapons with you, I know; we must go together. Rooch Hakodesh! may the Holy Spirit guide us, and the daughter of our house be restored, for she is now my heart’s bitterness, and my soul’s sorrow!”
“Let me but discover the Gaw—the infidel!” replied the son, following the father; and our hero observed him put his hand into his breast and half unsheath a poniard.
Joey easily comprehended how the matter stood: a Jewish maiden had met by assignation or had been run away with by some young man, and the father and son were in pursuit to recover the daughter.
“That is all very well,” thought our hero; “but although they may very properly wish to prevent the marriage, I do not much like the cold steel which the young Israelite had in his hand. If I do meet with the party, at all events I will give him warning;” and Joey, having made this resolution, turned away from the orchestra and went down the covered way, which led to what are usually termed the dark walks he had just arrived at the commencement of them, when he perceived coming towards him two dominoes, the shorter hanging on the arm of the taller so as to assure him that they were male and female. When they came to within ten yards of the lighted walk, they turned abruptly, and then Joey perceived that the taller had white slashed sleeves to his domino.
“There they are,” thought our hero; “well, it’s not safe for them to walk here, for a murder might be committed without much chance of the party being found out. I will give them a hint, at all events;” and Joey followed the couple so as to overtake them by degrees. As he walked softly, and they were in earnest conversation, his approach was not heeded until within a few feet of them, when the taller domino turned impatiently round, as if to inquire what the intruder meant.
“You are watched, and in danger, sir, if you are the party I think you are,” said Joey, going up to him, and speaking in a low voice.
“Who are you,” replied the domino, “that gives this notice?”
“A perfect stranger to you, even if your mask was removed, sir; but I happened to overhear a conversation relative to a person in a domino such as you wear. I may be mistaken, and if so, there is no harm done;” and our hero turned away.
“Stop him, dear Henry,” said a soft female voice. “I fear that there is danger: he can have told you but from kindness.”
The person in the domino immediately followed Joey, and accosted him, apologising for his apparent rudeness at receiving his communication, which he ascribed to the suddenness with which it was given, and requested, as a favour, that our hero would inform him why he had thought it necessary.
“I will tell you, certainly; not that I interfere with other people’s concerns; but when I saw that one of them had a poniard—”
“A poniard!” exclaimed the female, who had now joined them.
“Yes,” replied Joey; “and appeared determined to use it. In one word, madam, is your name, Miriam? If so, what I heard concerns you; if not, it does not, and I need say no more.”
“Sir, it does concern her,” replied the domino; “and I will thank you to proceed.”
Our hero then stated briefly what he had overheard, and that the parties were then in pursuit of them.
“We are lost!” exclaimed the young woman. “We shall never escape from the gardens! What must we do? My brother in his wrath is as a lion’s whelp.”
“I care little for myself,” replied the domino. “I could defend myself; but, if we meet, I shall lose you. Your father would tear you away while I was engaged with your brother.”
“At all events, sir, I should recommend your not remaining in these dark walks,” replied our hero, “now that you are aware of what may take place.”
“And yet, if we go into the lighted part of the gardens, they will soon discover us, now that they have, as it appears, gained a knowledge of my dress.”
“Then put it off,” said Joey.
“But they know my person even better,” rejoined the domino. “Your conduct, sir, has been so kind, that perhaps you would be inclined to assist us?”
Our hero was in love himself, and, of course, felt sympathy for others in the same predicament; so he replied that, if he could be of service, they might command him.
“Then, Miriam, dear, what I propose is this; will you put yourself under the protection of this stranger? I think you risk nothing, for he has proved that he is kind. You may then, without fear of detection, pass through the gardens, and be conducted by him to a place of safety. I will remain here for half an hour; should your father and brother meet me, although they may recognise my dress, yet not having you with me, there will be no grounds for any attack being made, and I will, after a time, return home.”
“And what is to become of me?” exclaimed the terrified girl.
“You must send this gentleman to my address to-morrow morning, and he will acquaint me where you are. I am giving you a great deal of trouble, sir; but at the same time I show my confidence; I trust it will not interfere with your other engagements.”
“Your confidence is, I trust, not misplaced, sir,” replied our hero; “and I am just now an idle man. I promise you, if this young lady will venture to trust herself with a perfect stranger, that I will do your request. I have no mask on, madam; do you think you can trust me?”
“I think I can, sir; indeed, I must do so, or there will be shedding of blood; but Henry, they are coming; I know them; see—right up the walk.”
Joey turned round, and perceived the two persons whose conversation he had overheard. “It is they, sir,” said he to the gentleman in the domino; “leave us and walk back farther into the dark part. I must take her away on my arm and pass them boldly. Come, sir, quick!”
Our hero immediately took the young Jewess on his arm and walked towards the father and brother. He felt her trembling like an aspen as they came close to them, and was fearful that her legs would fail her. As they passed, the face of our hero was severely scrutinised by the dark eyes of the Israelites. Joey returned their stare, and proceeded on his way; and after they had separated some paces from the father and brother, he whispered to the maiden, “You are safe now.” Joey conducted his charge through the gardens, and when he arrived at the entrance, he called a coach, and put the lady in.
“Where shall we drive to?” inquired our hero.
“I don’t know; say anywhere, so that we are away from this!”
Joey ordered the man to drive to the hotel where he had taken up his abode, for he knew not where else to go.
On his arrival he left the young lady in the coach, while he went in to prepare the landlady for her appearance. He stated that he had rescued her from a very perilous situation, and that he would feel much obliged to his hostess if she would take charge of the young person until she could be restored to her friends on the ensuing morning. People like to be consulted, and to appear of importance. The fat old lady, who had bridled up at the very mention of the introduction of a lady in a domino, as soon as she heard that the party was to be placed under her protection, relaxed her compressed features, and graciously consented.
Our hero having consigned over his charge, whose face he had not yet seen, immediately retired to his own apartment. The next morning, about nine o’clock, he sent to inquire after the health of his protégée and was answered by a request that he would pay her a visit. When he entered the room he found her alone. She was dressed somewhat in the Oriental style, and he was not a little surprised at her extreme beauty. Her stature was rather above the middle size: she was exquisitely formed; and her hands, ankles, and feet, were models of perfection. She was indeed one of the most exquisite specimens of the Jewish nation, and that is quite sufficient for her portrait. She rose as he entered, and coloured deeply as she saluted him. Our hero, who perceived her confusion, hastened to assure her that he was ready to obey any order she might be pleased to give him, and trusted that she had not been too much annoyed with her very unpleasant position.
“I am more obliged to you, sir, than I can well express,” replied she, “by your kind consideration in putting me into the charge of the landlady of the house: that one act assured me that I was in the hands of a gentleman and man of honour. All I have to request of you now is, that you will call at Number — Berkeley Square, and inform Mr S— of what you have kindly done for me. You will probably hear from him the cause of the strange position in which you found us and relieved us from.”
As our hero had nothing to reply, he wrote down the address and took his leave, immediately proceeding to the house of Mr S—; but, as he was walking up Berkeley Street, he was encountered by two men, whom he immediately recognised as the father and brother of the young Israelite. The brother fixed his keen eye upon our hero, and appeared to recognise him; at all events, as our hero passed them they turned round and followed him, and he heard the brother say, “He was with her,” or something to that purport. Our hero did not, however, consider that it was advisable to wait until they were away before he knocked at the door, as he felt convinced they were on the watch, and that any delay would not obtain the end. He knocked, and was immediately admitted. He found Mr S— pacing the room up and down in great anxiety, the breakfast remaining on the table untouched. He warmly greeted the arrival of our hero. Joey, as soon as he had informed him of what he had done, and in whose hands he had placed the young lady, stated the circumstance of the father and brother being outside on the watch, and that he thought that they had recognised him.
“That is nothing more than what I expected,” replied Mr S—; “but I trust easily to evade them; they are not aware that the back of this house communicates with the stables belonging to it in the mews, and we can go out by that way without their perceiving us. I’ve so many thanks to offer you, sir, for your kind interference in our behalf, that I hardly know how to express them. To one thing you are most certainly entitled, and I should prove but little my sincerity if I did not immediately give it you; that is my confidence, and a knowledge of the parties whom you have assisted, and the circumstances attending this strange affair. The young lady, sir, is, as you know, a Jewess by birth, and the daughter of a rabbi, a man of great wealth and high ancestry, for certainly Jews can claim the latter higher than any other nation upon earth. I am myself a man of fortune, as it is usually termed,—at all events, with sufficient to indulge any woman I should take as my wife with every luxury that can be reasonably demanded. I mention this to corroborate my assertion, that it was not her father’s wealth which has been my inducement. I made the acquaintance of the father and daughter when I was travelling on the Continent; he was on his way to England, when his carriage broke down, in a difficult pass on the mountains, and they would have been left on the road for the night, if I had not fortunately come up in time, and, being alone, was able to convey them to the next town. I have always had a great respect for the Jewish nation. I consider that every true Christian should have; but I will not enter upon that point now. It was probably my showing such a feeling, and my being well versed in their history, which was the occasion of an intercourse of two days ripening into a regard for one another; and we parted with sincere wishes that we might meet again in this country. At the time I speak of, which was about three years ago, his daughter Miriam was, comparatively speaking, a child, and certainly not at that period, or indeed for some time after our meeting again in England, did it ever come into my ideas that I should ever feel anything for her but good-will; but circumstances, and her father’s confidence in me, threw us much together. She has no mother. After a time I found myself growing attached to her, and I taxed myself, and reflected on the consequences. I was aware how very severe the Jewish laws were upon the subject of any of their family uniting themselves to a Christian. That it was not only considered that the party concerned was dishonoured before the nation, but that the whole family became vile, and were denied the usual burial rites. Perhaps you are aware that if a Jew embraces Christianity, the same disgrace is heaped upon the relations. With this knowledge, I determined to conquer my feelings for Miriam, and of course I no longer went to her father’s house; it would have been cruel to put my friend (for such he certainly was) in such a position the more so as, being a rabbi, he would have to denounce himself and his own children.
“My absence was, however, the cause of great annoyance to the father. He sought me, and I was so pressed by him to return, that I had no choice, unless I confessed my reasons, which I did not like to do. I therefore visited the house as before, although not so frequently, and continually found myself in company with Miriam, and, her father being constantly summoned away to the duties of his office, but too often alone. I therefore resolved that I would once more set off on my travels, as the only means by which I could act honourably, and get rid of the feeling which was obtaining such a mastery over me. I went to the house to state my intention, and at the same time bid them farewell; when, ascending the stairs, I slipped and sprained my ankle so severely, that I could not put my foot to the ground. This decided our fate; and I was not only domiciled for a week in the house, but, as I lay on the sofa, was continually attended by Miriam. Her father would not hear of my removal, but declared that my accident was a judgment against me for my rash intention.
“That Miriam showed her regard for me in every way that a modest maiden could do, is certain. I did, however, make one last struggle; I did not deny my feelings towards her, but I pointed out to her the consequences which would ensue, which it was my duty as a friend, and her duty as a daughter, to prevent. She heard me in silence and in tears, and then quitted the room.
“The next day she appeared to have recovered her composure, and entered freely into general conversation, and, after a time, referred to the rites of their Church. By degrees she brought up the subject of Christianity; she demanded the reasons and authority for our belief; in short, she induced me to enter warmly into the subject, and to prove, to the best of my ability, that the true Messiah had already come. This conversation she took a pleasure in renewing, during my stay in the house; and as I considered that the subject was one that diverted our attention from the one I wished to avoid, I was not sorry to enter upon it, although I had not the least idea of converting her to our faith.
“Such was the state of affairs when I quitted the house, and again seriously thought of removing myself from so much temptation, when her brother Joseph arrived from Madrid, where he had been staying with an uncle for some years, and his return was the occasion of a jubilee, at which I could not refuse to appear. He is a fine young man, very intelligent and well informed, but of a very irascible disposition; and his long residence in Spain has probably given him those ideas of retaliation which are almost unknown in this country. He conceived a very strong friendship for me, and I certainly was equally pleased with him; for he is full of talent, although he is revengeful, proud of his lineage, and holding to the tenets of his faith with all the obstinacy of a Pharisee. Indeed, it is strange that he could ever become so partial to a Christian, respecting as he does the rabbinical doctrines held forth to the Jewish people, and which it must be admitted have been inculcated, in consequence of the unwearied and unjustifiable persecution of the tribes for centuries, by those who call themselves Christians, but whose practice has been at open variance with the precepts of the founder of their faith. However, so it was. Joseph conceived a great regard for me, was continually at my house, and compelled me but too often to visit at his father’s. At last I made up my mind that I would leave the country for a time, and was actively preparing, intending to go without saying a word to them, when I found myself one morning alone with Miriam. She walked up to me as I was sitting on the couch I motioned to her to sit by me, but she stood before me with a stately air, fixing upon me her dark gazelle-like eyes.
“‘Do you,’ said she, in a slow and solemn tone of voice, ‘do you remember the conversation which we had upon our respective creeds? Do you recollect how you pointed out to me your authorities and your reasons for your faith, and your sincere belief that the Messiah had already come?’
“‘I do, Miriam,’ replied I; ‘but not with any view to interfere with your non-belief; it was only to uphold by argument my own.’
“‘I do not say nay to that; I believe you,’ said Miriam, ‘nevertheless, I have that in my vest which, if it was known to my father or brother, would cause them to dash me to the earth, and to curse me in the name of the great Jehovah;’ and she pulled out of her vest a small copy of the New Testament. ‘This is the book of your creed; I have searched and compared it with our own; I have found the authorities; I have read the words of the Jews who have narrated the history and the deeds of Jesus of Nazareth, and—I am a Christian.’
“It may appear strange, but I assure you, sir, you cannot imagine the pain I felt when Miriam thus acknowledged herself a convert to our faith: to say to her that I was sorry for it would have argued little for my Christian belief; but when I reflected upon the pain and disgrace it would bring upon her family, and that I should be the cause, I was dreadfully shocked. I could only reply, ‘Miriam, I wish that we had never met!’
“‘I know what your feelings are but too well,’ replied she; ‘but we have met, and what is done cannot be undone. I, too, when I think of my relations, am torn with anxiety and distress; but what is now my duty? If I am, and I declare, not only by the great Jehovah, but by the crucified Messiah, that I am a sincere believer in your creed, must I shrink—must I conceal it on account of my father and my brother? Does not He say, “Leave all and follow me!” Must I not add my feeble voice in acknowledgement of the truth, if I am to consider myself a Christian? Must not my avowal be public? Yes, it must be, and it shall be! Can you blame me?’
“‘Oh, no! I dare not blame you,’ replied I; ‘I only regret that religious differences should so mar the little happiness permitted to us in this world, and that neither Jew nor Christian will admit what our Saviour has distinctly declared—that there is no difference between the Jew and the Greek, or Gentile. I see much misery in this, and I cannot help regretting deeply that I shall be considered as the cause of it, and be upbraided with ingratitude.’
“‘You did your duty,’ replied Miriam. ‘I have been converted by your having so done. Now I have my duty to do. I am aware of the pain it will occasion my father, my relations, and the whole of our tribe; but if they suffer, shall I not suffer more? Thrust out from my father’s door; loaded with curses and execration; not one Jew permitted to offer me an asylum, not even to give me a morsel of bread, or a drop of water; a wanderer and an outcast! Such must be my fate.’
“‘Not so, Miriam; if your tribe desert you—’
“‘Stop one moment,’ interrupted Miriam; ‘do you recollect the conversation you had with me before we entered into the subject of our relative creeds? Do you remember what you then said; and was it true, or was it merely as an excuse?’
“‘It was as true, Miriam, as I stand here. I have loved you long and devotedly. I have tried to conquer the passion, on account of the misery your marriage with a Christian would have occasioned your relations; but if you persist in avowing your new faith, the misery will be equally incurred; and, therefore, I am doubly bound, not only by my love, but because I have, by converting you, put you in such a dreadful position, to offer you not only an asylum, but, if you will accept them, my heart and hand.’
“Miriam folded her arms across her breast, and knelt down, with her eyes fixed upon the floor. ‘I can only answer in the words of Ruth,’ replied she, in a low voice and with trembling lips. I hardly need observe, that after this interview the affair was decided,—the great difficulty was to get her out of the house; for you must have been inside of one of the houses of a Jew of rank to be aware of their arrangements. It was impossible that Miriam could be absent an hour without being missed; and to go out by herself without being seen was equally difficult. Her cousin is married to a Jew, who keeps the masquerade paraphernalia and costumes in Tavistock Street, and she sometimes accompanies her father and brother there, and, as usual, goes up to her cousin in the women’s apartment, while her male relations remain below. We therefore hit upon this plan: That on the first masquerade-night at Vauxhall she should persuade her father and brother to go with her to her cousin’s; that I should be close by in a coach, and, after she had gone in, I was to drive up as the other customers do, and obtain two dominoes, and then wait while she escaped from the women’s apartment, and came down-stairs to the street door, where I was to put her in the coach, and drive off to Vauxhall. You may inquire why we went to Vauxhall. Because as but few minutes would elapse before she would be missed, it would have been almost impossible to have removed her without being discovered, for I was well known to the people. You recollect that Manasseh, who was in the shop, informed them that my domino was slashed with white in my sleeves; he knew me when I obtained the dominoes. Had I not been aware of the violence of the brother, I should have cared little had he followed me to my house, or any other place he might have traced me to; but his temper is such that his sister would certainly have been sacrificed to his rage and fury, as you may imagine from what you have seen and heard. I considered, therefore, that if we once became mixed with the crowd of masks and dominoes at Vauxhall, I should elude them, and all trace of us be lost. I believe, now, that I have made you acquainted with every circumstance, and trust that you will still afford me your valuable assistance.”
“Most certainly,” replied our hero; “I am in duty bound. I cannot help thinking that they have recognised me as the party conducting her out of the dark walk. Did you meet them afterwards?”
“No,” rejoined Mr S—; “I allowed them to walk about without coming up to me for some time, and then when they were down at the farthest end, I made all haste and took a coach home, before they could possibly come up with me, allowing that they did recognise me, which I do not think they did until they perceived me hastening away at a distance.”
“What, then, are your present intentions?” inquired our hero.
“I wish you to return with me to your hotel,” replied Mr S—; “I will then take a chaise, and leave for Scotland as fast as four horses can carry us, and unite myself to Miriam, and, as soon as I can, I shall leave the country, which will be the best step to allow their rage and indignation to cool.”
“I think your plan is good,” replied Joey, “and I am at your service.”
In a few minutes Mr S— and our hero went out by the back way into the mews, and, as soon as they came to a stand, took a coach and drove to the hotel.
They had not, however, been in company with Miriam more than five minutes, when the waiter entered the room in great alarm, stating that two gentlemen were forcing their way upstairs in spite of the landlord and others, who were endeavouring to prevent them. The fact was, that our hero and Mr S— had been perceived by Joseph and his father as they came out of the mews, and they had immediately followed them, taking a coach at the same stand, and desiring the coachman to follow the one our hero and Mr S— had gone into.
The waiter had hardly time to make the communication before the door was forced open, and the man was so terrified, that he retreated behind our hero and Mr S—, into whose arms Miriam had thrown herself for protection. The father and brother did not, however, enter without resistance on the part of the landlord and waiters, who followed, remonstrating and checking them; but Joseph broke from them with his dagger drawn: it was wrenched from him by our hero, who dashed forward. The enraged Israelite then caught up a heavy bronze clock which was on the sideboard, and crying out, “This for the Gaw and the Meshumed!” (the infidel and the apostate), he hurled it at them with all his strength: it missed the parties it was intended for, but striking the waiter who had retreated behind them, fractured his skull, and he fell senseless upon the floor.
Upon this outrage the landlord and his assistants rushed upon Joseph and his father; the police were sent for, and after a desperate resistance, the Israelites were taken away to the police office, leaving Mr S— and Miriam at liberty. Our hero was, however, requested by the police to attend at the examination, and, of course, could not refuse. The whole party had been a quarter of an hour waiting until another case was disposed of, before the magistrate could attend to them, when the surgeon came in and acquainted them that the unfortunate waiter had expired. The depositions were taken down, and both father and son were committed, and Joey, and some others bound over to appear as witnesses. In about two hours our hero was enabled to return to the hotel, where he found that Mr S— had left a note for him, stating that he considered it advisable to start immediately, lest they should require his attendance at the police-court, and he should be delayed, which would give time to the relations of Miriam to take up the question: he had, therefore, set off, and would write to him as soon as he possibly could.
This affair made some noise, and appeared in all the newspapers, and our hero therefore sat down and wrote a detailed account of the whole transaction (as communicated to him by Mr S—), which he despatched to Portsmouth. He made inquiries, and found that the sessions would come on in a fortnight, and that the grand jury would sit in a few days. He therefore made up his mind that he would not think of returning to Portsmouth until the trial was over, and in his next letter he made known his intentions, and then set off for Richmond, where he had been advised to remain for a short time, as being more favourable to an invalid than the confined atmosphere of London.
Our hero found amusement in rowing about in a wherry, up and down the river, and replying to the letters received from Mary and from Portsmouth. He also received a letter from Mr S—, informing him of his marriage, and requesting that as soon as the trial was over he would write to him. Our hero’s health also was nearly re-established, when he was informed that his attendance was required at the court to give his evidence in the case of manslaughter found by the grand jury against Joseph, the brother of Miriam.
He arrived in town, and attended the court on the following day, when the trial was to take place. A short time after the cause came on he was placed in the witness-box. At the time that he gave his depositions before the magistrate he had not thought about his name having been changed; but now that he was sworn, and had declared he would tell the truth, and nothing but the truth, when the counsel asked him if his name was not Joseph O’Donahue, our hero replied that it was Joseph Rushbrook.
“Your deposition says Joseph O’Donahue. How is this? Have you an alias, like many others, sir?” inquired the counsel.
“My real name is Rushbrook, but I have been called O’Donahue for some time,” replied our hero.
This reply was the occasion of the opposite counsel making some very severe remarks; but the evidence of our hero was taken, and was indeed considered very favourable to the prisoner, as Joey stated that he was convinced the blow was never intended for the unfortunate waiter, but for Mr S—.
After about an hour’s examination our hero was dismissed, and in case that he might be recalled, returned as directed to the room where the witnesses were assembled.