Chapter Seventeen.
The Day after the Murder.
We must now return to the village of Grassford, and the cottage in which we left Rushbrook and his wife, who had been raised up from the floor, by her husband, and, having now recovered from her swoon, was crying bitterly for the loss of her son, and the dread of her husband’s crime being discovered. For some time Rushbrook remained in silence, looking at the embers in the grate: Mum sometimes would look piteously in his master’s face, at other times he would slowly approach the weeping woman. The intelligence of the animal told him that something was wrong. Finding himself unnoticed, he would then go to the door by which Joey had quitted, snuff at the crevice, and return to his master’s side.
“I’m glad that he’s off,” at last muttered Rushbrook; “he’s a fine boy, that.”
“Yes, he is,” replied Jane; “but when shall I behold him again?”
“By-and-bye, never fear, wife. We must not stay in this place, provided this affair blows over.”
“If it does, indeed!”
“Come, come, Jane, we have every reason to hope it will; now, let’s go to bed; it would not do, if any one should happen to have been near the spot, and to have found out what has taken place, for us to be discovered not to have been in bed all night, or even for a light to be seen at the cottage by any early riser. Come, Jane, let’s to bed.”
Rushbrook and his wife retired, the light was extinguished, and all was quiet, except conscience, which still tormented and kept Rushbrook turning to the right and left continually. Jane slept not: she listened to the wind; the slightest noise—the crowing of the cock—startled her, and soon footsteps were heard of those passing the windows. They could remain in bed no longer. Jane arose, dressed, and lighted the fire: Rushbrook remained sitting on the side of the bed in deep thought.
“I’ve been thinking, Jane,” said he, at last, “it would be better to make away with Mum.”
“With the dog? Why, it can’t speak, poor thing. No—no—don’t kill the poor dog.”
“He can’t speak, but the dog has sense; he may lead them to the spot.”
“And if he were to do so, what then? it would prove nothing.”
“No! only it would go harder against Joey.”
“Against the boy! yes, it might convince them that Joey did the deed; but still, the very killing of the animal would look suspicious: tie him up, Rushbrook; that will do as well.”
“Perhaps better,” replied he; “tie him up in the back-kitchen, there’s a good woman.”
Jane did so, and then commenced preparing the breakfast; they had taken their seats, when the latch of the door was lifted up, and Furness, the schoolmaster, looked in. This he was often in the habit of doing, to call Joey out to accompany him to school.
“Good morning,” said he; “now, where’s my friend Joey?”
“Come in, come in, neighbour, and shut the door,” said Rushbrook; “I wish to speak to you. Mayhap you’ll take a cup of tea; if so, my missus will give you a good one.”
“Well, as Mrs Rushbrook does make everything so good, I don’t care if I do, although I have had breakfast. But where’s my friend Joey? the lazy little dog; is he not up yet? Why Mrs Rushbrook, what’s the matter? you look distressed.”
“I am, indeed,” replied Jane, putting her apron to her eyes.
“Why, Mrs Rushbrook, what is it?” inquired the pedagogue.
“Just this; we are in great trouble about Joey. When we got up this morning we found that he was not in bed, and he has never been home since.”
“Well, that is queer; why, where can the young scamp be gone to?”
“We don’t know; but we find that he took my gun with him, and I’m afraid—” and here Rushbrook paused, shaking his head.
“Afraid of what?”
“That he has gone poaching, and has been taken by the keepers.”
“But did he ever do so before?”
“Not by night, if he did by day. I can’t tell; he always has had a hankering that way.”
“Well, they do whisper the same of you, neighbour. Why do you keep a gun?”
“I’ve carried a gun all my life,” replied Rushbrook, “and I don’t choose to be without one: but that’s not to the purpose; the question is, what would you advise us to do?”
“Why, you see, friend Rushbrook,” replied the schoolmaster, “advice in this question becomes rather difficult. If Joey has been poaching, as you imagine, and has been taken up, as you suspect, why, then, you will soon hear of it: you, of course, have had no hand in it?”
“Hand in it—hand in what?” replied Rushbrook. “Do you think we trust a child like him with a gun?”
“I should think not; and therefore it is evident that he has acted without the concurrence of his parents. That will acquit you; but still, it will not help Joey; neither do I think you will be able to recover the gun, which I anticipate will become a deodand to the lord of the manor.”
“But, the child—what will become of him?” exclaimed Jane.
“What will become of him?—why, as he is of tender years, they will not transport him—at least, I should think not; they may imprison him for a few months, and order him to be privately whipped. I do not see what you can do but remain quiet. I should recommend you not to say one syllable about it until you hear more.”
“But suppose we do not hear?”
“That is to suppose that he did not go out with the gun to poach, but upon some other expedition.”
“What else could the boy have gone out for?” said Rushbrook, hastily.
“Very true; it is not very likely that he went out to commit murder,” replied the pedagogue.
At the word “murder” Rushbrook started from his chair; but, recollecting himself, he sat down again.
“No, no, Joey commit murder!” cried he. “Ha, ha, ha—no, no, Joey is no murderer.”
“I should suspect not. Well, Master Rushbrook, I will dismiss my scholars this morning, and make every inquiry for you. Byres will be able to ascertain very soon, for he knows the new keeper at the manor house.”
“Byres help you, did you say? No, no, Byres never will,” replied Rushbrook, solemnly.
“And why not, my friend?”
“Why,” replied Rushbrook, recollecting himself, “he has not been over cordial with me lately.”
“Nevertheless, depend upon it, he will if he can,” replied Furness; “if not for you, he will for me. Good morning, Mrs Rushbrook, I will hasten away now; but will you not go with me?” continued Furness, appealing to Rushbrook.
“I will go another way; it’s no use both going the same road.”
“Very true,” replied the pedagogue, who had his reasons for not wishing the company of Rushbrook, and Furness then left the house.
Mr Furness found all his boys assembled in the school-room, very busily employed thumbing their books; he ordered silence, and informed them that in consequence of Joey being missing, he was going to assist his father to look after him: and therefore they would have a holiday for that day. He then ranged them all in a row, made them turn to the right face, clap their hands simultaneously, and disperse.
Although Mr Furness had advised secrecy to the Rushbrooks, he did not follow the advice he had given; indeed, his reason for not having wished Rushbrook to be with him was, that he might have an opportunity of communicating his secret through the village, which he did by calling at every cottage, and informing the women who were left at home, that Joey Rushbrook had disappeared last night, with his father’s gun, and that he was about to go in quest of him. Some nodded and smiled, others shook their heads, some were not at all surprised at it, others thought that things could not go on so for ever.
Mr Furness having collected all their various opinions, then set off to the ale-house, to find Byres the pedlar. When he arrived, he found that Byres had not come home that night, and where he was nobody knew, which was more strange, as his box was up in his bed-chamber. Mr Furness returned to the village intending to communicate this information to Rushbrook, but on calling, he found that Rushbrook had gone out in search of the boy. Furness then resolved to go up at once to the keeper’s lodge, and solve the mystery. He took the high road, and met Rushbrook returning.
“Well, have you gained any tidings,” inquired the pedagogue.
“None,” replied Rushbrook.
“Then it’s my opinion, my worthy friend, that we had better at once proceed to the keeper’s cottage and make inquiry; for, strange to say, I have been to the ale-house, and my friend Byres is also missing.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Rushbrook, who had now completely recovered his self-possession. “Be it so, then; let us go to the keeper’s.”
They soon arrived there, and found the keeper at home, for he had returned to his dinner. Rushbrook, who had been cogitating how to proceed, was the first to speak.
“You haven’t taken my poor Joey, have you, sir?” said he to the keeper.
“Not yet,” replied the keeper, surlily.
“You don’t mean to say that you know nothing about him?” replied Rushbrook.
“Yes, I know something about him and about you too, my chap,” replied the keeper.
“But, Mr Lucas,” interrupted the pedagogue, “allow me to put you in possession of the facts. It appears that this boy—a boy of great natural parts, and who has been for some time under my tuition, did last night, but at what hour is unknown to his disconsolate parents, leave the cottage, taking with him his father’s gun, and has not been heard of since.”
“Well, I only hope he’s shot himself, that’s all,” replied the keeper. “So you have a gun, then, have you, my honest chap?” continued he, turning to Rushbrook.
“Which,” replied Furness, “as I have informed him already, will certainly be forfeited as a deodand to the lord of the manor; but, Mr Lucas, this is not all; our mutual friend, Byres, the pedlar, is also missing, having left the Cat and Fiddle last night, and not having been heard of since.”
“Indeed! that makes out a different case, and must be inquired into immediately. I think you were not the best of friends, were you?” said the keeper, looking at Rushbrook; and then he continued, “Come, Mary, give me my dinner, quick, and run up as fast as you can for Dick and Martin: tell them to come down with their retrievers only. Never fear, Mr Furness, we will soon find it out. Never fear, my chap, we’ll find your son also, and your gun to boot. You may hear more than you think for.”
“All I want to know,” replied Rushbrook, fiercely, for his choler was raised by the sneers of the keeper, “is, where my boy may be.” So saying, he quitted the cottage, leaving the schoolmaster with the keeper.
As Rushbrook returned home, he revolved in his mind what had passed, and decided that nothing could be more favourable for himself, however it might turn out for Joey. This conviction quieted his fears, and when the neighbours came in to talk with him, he was very cool and collected in his replies. In the meantime the keeper made a hasty meal, and, with his subordinates and the dogs, set off to the covers, which they beat till dark without success. The gun, however, which Joey had thrown down in the ditch, had been picked up by one of the labourers returning from his work, and taken by him to the ale-house. None could identify the gun, as Rushbrook had never permitted it to be seen. Lucas, the keeper, came in about an hour after dusk, and immediately took possession of it.
Such were the events of the first day after Joey’s departure. Notwithstanding that the snow fell fast, the Cat and Fiddle was, as it may be supposed, unusually crowded on that night. Various were the surmises as to the disappearance of the pedlar and of little Joey. The keeper openly expressed his opinion that there was foul play somewhere, and it was not until near midnight that the ale-house was deserted, and the doors closed.
Rushbrook and his wife went to bed; tired with watching and excitement, they found oblivion for a few hours in a restless and unrefreshing sleep.