Chapter Twenty Five.
In which the Biter is bit.
The disappearance of Joey from the school was immediately communicated to McShane by the master, who could not imagine how such an incident could have occurred in such a decent establishment as his preparatory seminary; it was an epoch in his existence, and ever afterwards his chronology was founded upon it, and everything that occurred was so many months or weeks before or after the absconding of young Master McShane. The letter had, of course, been produced, and as soon as the schoolmaster had taken his departure, McShane and his wife were in deep council. “I recollect,” said Mrs McShane, who was crying in an easy chair—“I recollect, now, that one day the boy came up and asked me the meaning of wilful murder, and I told him. And now I think of it, I do also remember the people at Number 1 table, close to the counter, some time ago, talking about a murder having been committed by a mere child, and a long report of it in the newspapers. I am sure, however (as Joey says in his letter), that he is not guilty.”
“And so am I,” replied McShane. “However, bring up the file of newspapers, dear, and let me look over them. How long back do you think it was?”
“Why, let me see; it was about the time you went away with Captain O’Donahue, I think, or a little before—that was in October.”
McShane turned over the file of newspapers, and after a quarter of an hour’s search found the report of the coroner’s inquest.
“Here it is, my dear, sure enough,” said McShane.
As soon as he had read it over, and came to the end, he said, “Yes; wilful murder against Joseph Rushbrook the younger, and 200 pounds for his apprehension. This it was that drove the boy away from home, and not poaching, although I have no doubt that poaching was the cause of the murder. Now, my dear,” continued McShane, “I think I can unravel all this; the murder has been committed, that’s evident, by somebody, but not by Joey, I’ll be sworn; he says that he is not guilty, and I believe him. Nevertheless, Joey runs away, and a verdict is found against him. My dear wife, I happen to know the father of Joey well; he was a fine, bold soldier, but one who would stick at nothing; and if I could venture an opinion, it is, that the murder was committed by Rushbrook, and not by the boy, and that the boy has absconded to save his father.”
The reader will acknowledge that McShane was very clear-sighted.
“That’s my opinion,” continued McShane. “How it has been managed to make the boy appear as the party, I cannot tell; but knowing the father, and knowing the son, I’d stake my commission that I’ve guessed at the truth.”
“Poor boy!” exclaimed Mrs McShane; “well, the Commandments say that the sins of the father shall be visited upon the children. What can be done, McShane?”
“Nothing at present; it would injure Joey to raise a hue and cry after him; for, you see, if he is apprehended, he must either be tried for his life, and convicted himself, or prove that he did not do it, which probably he could not do without convicting his father; I will, however, make some inquiries about Rushbrook himself, and if I can I will see him.”
The same evening the schoolmaster again called upon McShane, to say that two persons had come to the school in the afternoon and asked to see him; that one of them, shabbily dressed, but evidently a person who was not of so low a class in life as the other, had accosted him, when he came into the parlour, with, “I believe I have the pleasure of speaking to Mr Slappum; if so, may I request the favour to see my little friend Joey, whom I met yesterday walking out with the other young gentlemen under your care, as I have a message to him from his father and mother? The dear boy was once under my tuition, and did me much credit, as I have no doubt that he has done you.”
Now, the usher had told Mr Slappum that Joey had been addressed by this person the day before, and the schoolmaster presuming, of course, that it was Joey McShane, replied,—“I am sorry to say that he left this house last night, and has absconded we know not where. He left a letter for Major McShane, which I have this day delivered to him, acquainting him with the unpleasant circumstance.”
“Bolted, by all that’s clever!” said the second personage to the first, who looked very much surprised and confounded.
“You really have astonished me, my dear sir,” replied the first person, whom the reader will of course recognise to be Furness; “that a lad brought up by me in such strict moral principles, such correct notions of right and wrong, and, I may add, such pious feelings, should have taken such a step, is to me incomprehensible. Major McShane, I think you said, lives at —?”
“Major McShane lives at Number — in Holborn,” replied the schoolmaster.
“And the lad has not gone home to him?”
“No, he has not; he left a letter, which I took to Major McShane; but I did not break the seal, and am ignorant of its contents.”
“I really am stupefied with grief and vexation,” replied Furness, “and will not intrude any longer. Bless the poor boy! what can have come of him?”
So saying, Furness took his departure with the peace-officer, whom he had intrusted with the warrant, which he had taken out to secure the person of our hero.
McShane heard the schoolmaster’s account of this visit without interruption, and then said, “I have no doubt but that this person who has called upon you will pay me a visit; oblige me, therefore, by describing his person particularly, so that I may know him at first sight.”
The schoolmaster gave a most accurate description of Furness, and then took his leave.
As the eating-house kept by Mrs McShane had a private door, Furness (who, as McShane had prophesied, came the next afternoon), after having read the name on the private door, which was not on the eating-house, which went by the name of the Chequers, imagined that it was an establishment apart, and thought it advisable to enter into it, and ascertain a little about Major McShane before he called upon him. Although McShane seldom made his appearance in the room appropriated for the dinners, it so happened that he was standing at the door when Furness entered and sat down in a box, calling for the bill of fare, and ordering a plate of beef and cabbage. McShane recognised him by the description given of him immediately, and resolved to make his acquaintance incognito, and ascertain what his intentions were; he therefore took his seat in the same box, and winking to one of the girls who attended, also called for a plate of beef and cabbage. Furness, who was anxious to pump any one he might fall in with, immediately entered into conversation with the major.
“A good house this, sir, and well attended apparently?”
“Yes, sir,” replied McShane; “it is considered a very good house.”
“Do you frequent it much yourself?”
“Always, sir; I feel much interested in its success,” replied McShane; “for I know the lady who keeps it well, and have a high respect for her.”
“I saw her as I passed by—a fine woman, sir! Pray may I ask who is Major McShane, who I observe lives in the rooms above?”
“He is a major in the army, sir—now on half-pay.”
“Do you know him?”
“Remarkably well,” replied McShane; “he’s a countryman of mine.”
“He’s married, sir, I think? I’ll trouble you for the pepper.”
“He is married, sir, to a very amiable woman.”
“Any family, sir?”
“Not that I know of; they have a young protégé, I believe, now at school—a boy they call Joey.”
“Indeed! how very kind of them; really, now, it’s quite refreshing for me to see so much goodness of heart still remaining in this bad world. Adopted him, I presume?”
“I really cannot exactly say that; I know that they treat him as their own child.”
“Have you seen Major McShane lately, sir?”
“Saw him this morning, sir, just after he got up.”
“Indeed! This is remarkably good ale, sir—will you honour me by tasting it?”
“Sir, you are very kind; but the fact is I never drink malt liquor. Here, girl, bring a half pint of brandy. I trust, sir, you will not refuse to join me in a glass, although I cannot venture to accept your polite offer.”
Furness drank off his pot of ale, and made ready for the brandy which had been offered him; McShane filled his own glass, and then handed the decanter over to Furness.
“I have the pleasure of drinking your good health, sir,” said McShane. “You are from the country, I presume; may I inquire from what part?”
“I am from Devonshire; I was formerly head of the grammar school at —; but, sir, my principles would not allow me to retain my situation; rectitude of conduct, sir, is absolutely necessary to the profession which inculcates morality and virtue, as well as instruction to youth, sir. Here’s to our better acquaintance, sir.”
“Sir, to your’s; I honour your sentiments. By the powers! but you’re right, Mr —, I beg your pardon—but I don’t catch your name exactly.”
“Furness, sir, at your service. Yes, sir, the directors of the foundation which I presided over, I may say, with such credit to myself, and such advantage to the pupils under my care, wished to make a job—yes, sir—of a charity; I could not consent to such deeds, and I resigned.”
“And you have been in London ever since?”
“No, sir; I repaired to the small village of Grassford, where I set up a school, but circumstances compelled me to resign, and I am now about to seek for employment in another hemisphere; in short, I have an idea of going out to New South Wales as a preceptor. I understand they are in great want of tuition in that quarter.”
“I should think so,” replied McShane; “and they have a great deal to unlearn as well as to learn.”
“I speak of the junior branches—the scions or offsets, I may say—born in the colony, and who I trust, will prove that crime is not hereditary.”
“Well, I wish you luck, sir,” replied McShane; “you must oblige me by taking another glass, for I never shall be able to finish this decanter myself.”
“I gladly avail myself of the pleasure of your company, sir.”
As the reader is well aware that Furness was an intemperate man, it is not surprising that he accepted the offer; and before the second glass was finished, the ale and brandy had begun to have the effect, and he had become very communicative.
“What was the name of the village which you stated you had resided in lately, sir?” inquired McShane.
“The village of Grassford.”
“There is something I recollect about that village; let me see—something that I read in the newspapers. I remember now—it was the murder of a pedlar.”
“Very true, sir, such a circumstance did take place; it was a dreadful affair—and, what is more strange, committed by a mere child, who absconded.”
“Indeed! What was his name?”
“Rushbrook, sir; his father was a well-known poacher—a man who had been in the army, and had a pension for wounds. There is an old saying, sir, of high authority—‘Bring up a child in the way he should go, and he will not depart from it.’ I instructed that boy, sir; but alas! what avails the instruction of a preceptor when a father leads a child into evil ways?”
“That’s the truth, and no mistake,” replied McShane. “So the boy ran away? Yes; I recollect now. And what became of the father?”
“The father, sir, and mother have since left the village, and gone nobody knows where.”
“Indeed! are you sure of that?”
“Quite sure, sir; for I was most anxious to discover them, and took great pains, but without success.”
“What did the people say thereabouts? Was there no suspicion of the father being implicated?”
“I do not think there was. He gave evidence at the inquest, and so did I, sir, as you may suppose, most unwillingly; for the boy was a favourite of mine. I beg your pardon, sir—you say you are acquainted with Major McShane, and saw him this morning; is the interesting little boy you speak of as under his protection now at home or still at school?”
“I really cannot positively say,” replied McShane; “but this is not holiday-time. Come, sir, we must not part yet; your conversation is too interesting. You must allow me to call for some more brandy; poor as I am, I must treat myself and you too. I wish I knew where I could pick up a little money; for, to tell you the truth, cash begins to run low.”
Furness was now more than half drunk. “Well, sir,” said he; “I have known money picked up without any difficulty: for instance, now, suppose we should fall in with this young rascal who committed the murder; there is 200 pounds offered for his apprehension and conviction.”
“I thought as much,” muttered McShane; “the infernal scoundrel! I suspect that you will find him where you are going to, Mr Furbish, he’s got that far by this time.”
“Between you and I, I think not, sir. My name is Furness, sir—I beg your pardon—not Furbish.”
“Why you do not think he would be such a fool as to remain in the country after such an act?”
“The wicked are foolish, sir, as well as others,” replied Furness, putting his finger to his nose, and looking very knowingly.
“That’s truth, sir. Help yourself; you drink nothing. Excuse me one minute; I’ll be back directly.”
McShane left the box for a few minutes to explain to his wife what he was about, and to give time for the liquor to operate upon Furness. As he expected, he found, on his return, that Furness had finished his glass, and was more tipsy than when he left him.
The conversation was renewed, and McShane again pleading his poverty, and his wish to obtain money, brought out the proposal of Furness, who informed him that he had recognised the protégé of Major McShane to be the identical Joseph Rushbrook; that the boy had absconded from the school, and was concealed in the house. He concluded by observing to McShane, that, as he was so intimate with the major, it would be very easy for him to ascertain the fact, and offered him 50 pounds, as his share of the reward, if he would assist him in the boy’s capture. It was lucky for Furness that McShane was surrounded by others, or in all probability there would have been another murder committed. The major, however, said he would think of it, and fell back in deep thought; what he was thinking of was what he should do to punish Furness. At last an idea came into his head; the rascal was drunk, and he proposed that he should go to another house, where they might find the major, and he would present him. Furness consented, and reeled out of the box; McShane, although he would as soon have touched a viper, controlled himself sufficiently to give Furness his arm, and leading him down by two or three back courts, he took him into an ale-house where there was a rendezvous for enlisting marines for the navy. As soon as they were seated, and had liquor before them, McShane spoke to the sergeant, tipped him a guinea, and said he had a good recruit for him, if he could be persuaded to enlist. He then introduced the sergeant as the major, and advised Furness to pretend to agree with him in everything. The sergeant told long stories, clapped Furness, who was now quite intoxicated, on the back, called him a jolly fellow, and asked him to enlist. “Say ‘yes,’ to please him,” said McShane in his ear. Furness did so, received the shilling, and when he came to his senses next day, found his friend had disappeared, and that he was under an escort for Portsmouth. All remonstrances were unavailing; McShane had feed (paid a fee to) the sergeant, and had promised him a higher fee not to let Furness off; and the latter, having but a few shillings in his pocket, was compelled to submit to his fate.