“‘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.

Chapter Forty Four

In which the Tide of Fortune turns against our Hero

As soon as Joey had been dismissed from the witness-box he returned to the room in which the other witnesses were assembled, with melancholy forebodings that his real name having been given in open court would lead to some disaster. He had not been there long before a peace-officer came in, and said to him,—“Step this way, if you please, sir; I have something to say to you.”

Joey went with him outside the door, when the peace-officer, looking at him full in the face, said, “Your name is Joseph Rushbrook; you said so in the witness-box?”

“Yes,” replied Joey, “that is my true name.”

“Why did you change it?” demanded the officer.

“I had reasons,” replied our hero.

“Yes, and I’ll tell you the reasons,” rejoined the other. “You were concerned in a murder some years ago; a reward was offered for your apprehension, and you absconded from justice. I see that you are the person; your face tells me so. You are my prisoner. Now, come away quietly, sir; it is of no use for you to resist, and you will only be worse treated.”

Joey’s heart had almost ceased to beat when the constable addressed him; he felt that denial was useless, and that the time was now come when either he or his father must suffer; he, therefore, made no reply, but quietly followed the peace officer, who, holding him by the arm, called a coach, into which he ordered Joey to enter, and following him, directed the coachman to drive to the police-office.

As soon as the magistrate had been acquainted by the officer who the party was whom he had taken into custody, he first pointed out to our hero that he had better not say any thing which might criminate himself, and then asked him if his name was Joseph Rushbrook.

Joey replied that it was.

“Have you anything to say that might prevent my committing you on the charge of murder?” demanded the magistrate.

“Nothing, except that I am not guilty,” replied Joey.

“I have had the warrant out against him these seven years, or thereabouts, but he escaped me,” observed the peace-officer; “he was but a lad then.”

“He must have been a child, to judge by his present appearance,” observed the magistrate, who was making out the committal. “I now perfectly recollect the affair.”

The officer received the committal, and in half an hour our hero was locked up with felons of every description. His blood ran cold when he found himself enclosed within the massive walls; and as soon as the gaoler had left him alone, he shuddered and covered his face with his hands. Our hero had, however, the greatest of all consolations to support him—the consciousness of his innocence; but when he called to mind how happy and prosperous he had lately been, when he thought of Emma—and that now all his fair prospects and fondest anticipations were thrown to the ground, it is not surprising that for a short time he wept in his solitude and silence. To whom should he make known his situation? Alas! it would too soon be known; and would not every one, even Emma, shrink from a supposed murderer? No! there was one who would not—one on whose truth he could depend; Mary would not desert him, even now; he would write to her, and acquaint her with his situation. Our hero, having made up his mind so to do, obtained paper and ink from the gaoler when he came into his cell, which he did in about two hours after he had been locked up. Joey wrote to Mary, stating his position in few words, and that the next morning he was to be taken down to Exeter to await his trial; and expressed a wish, if possible, that she would come there to see him; and giving a guinea to the turnkey, requested him to forward the letter.

“It shall go safe enough, young master,” replied the man. “Now, do you know, yours is one of the strangest cases which ever came to my knowledge?” continued the man; “we’ve been talking about it among ourselves: why the first warrant for your apprehension was out more than eight years ago; and, to look at you now, you cannot be more than seventeen or eighteen.”

“Yes, I am,” replied Joey; “I am twenty-two.”

“Then don’t you tell anybody else that, and I will forget it. You see youth goes a great way in court; and they will see that you must have been quite a child when the deed was done—for I suppose by the evidence there is no doubt of that—and it won’t be a hanging matter, that you may be certain of; you’ll cross the water, that’s all: so keep up your spirits, and look as young as you can.”

Mary received the letter on the following day, and was in the deepest distress at its contents. She was still weeping over it, her work had been thrown down at her feet, when Mrs Austin came into the dressing-room where she was sitting.

“What is the matter, Mary?” said Mrs Austin.

“I have received a letter from my brother, madam,” replied Mary; “he is in the greatest distress; and I must beg you to let me go to him immediately.”

“Your brother, Mary! what difficulty is he in?” asked Mrs Austin.

Mary did not reply, but wept more.

“Mary, if your brother is in distress, I certainly will not refuse your going to him; but you should tell me what his distress is, or how shall I be able to advise or help you? Is it very serious?”

“He is in prison, madam.”

“In prison for debt, I suppose?”

“No, madam; on a charge of murder, which he is not guilty of.”

“Murder!” exclaimed Mrs Austin, “and not guilty! Why—when—and where did this murder take place?”

“Many years ago, madam, when he was quite a child.”

“How very strange!” thought Mrs Austin, panting, for breath, and dropping into a chair. “But where, Mary?”

“Down in Devonshire, madam, at Grassford.”

Mrs Austin fell senseless from her chair. Mary, very much surprised, hastened to her assistance, and, after a time succeeded in restoring her, and leading her to the sofa. For some time Mrs Austin remained with her face buried in the cushions, while Mary stood over her. At last Mrs Austin looked up, and laying her head upon Mary’s arm, said in a solemn tone—

“Mary, do not deceive me; you say that that boy is your brother—tell me, is not that false? I am sure that it is. Answer me, Mary.”

“He is not my born brother, madam, but I love him as one,” replied Mary.

“Again answer me truly, Mary, if you have any regard for me. You know his real name; what is it?”

“Joseph Rushbrook, madam,” replied Mary, weeping.

“I was certain of it!” replied Mrs Austin, bursting into tears; “I knew it! The blow has come at last! God have mercy on me! What can be done?” And again Mrs Austin abandoned herself to bitter grief.

Mary was in amazement: how Mrs Austin should know any thing of Joey’s history, and why she should be in such distress, was to her a complete mystery: she remained for some time at the side of her mistress, who gradually became more composed. Mary at last said,—“May I go to him, madam?”

“Yes,” replied Mrs Austin, “most certainly. Mary, I must have no secrets now; you must tell me everything. You see that I am deeply interested about this young man as well as yourself: it is quite sufficient for you at present to know that; before I say anything more, you must be candid with me, and tell me how you became acquainted with him, and all that you know relative to his life; that I will assist you and him in every way in my power; that neither money nor interest shall be spared, you may be assured; and I think, Mary, that, after this promise, you will not conceal anything from me.”

“Indeed I will not, madam,” replied Mary, “for I love him as much as I can love.” Mary then commenced by stating that she was living at Gravesend when she first met with Joey. There was a little hesitation at the commencement of her narrative, which Mrs Austin pretended not to observe; she then continued, winding up with the information which she had obtained from Furness, the marine, their escape, and her admission into Mrs Austin’s family.

“And it was Joseph Rushbrook that came with you to this house?”

“Yes, madam,” replied Mary; “but one of the men was quite rude to me, and Joey took it up. Mr Austin, hearing a noise, sent down to inquire the cause; the servants threw all the blame upon Joey, and he was ordered out of the house immediately. He refused even to come back to the Hall, after the treatment he had received, for a long while; but it was he who was in the parlour when you opened the door, if you recollect, a few weeks ago.”

Mrs Austin clasped her hands, and then pressed them to her forehead; after a while she said—

“And what has he been doing since he came here?”

Mary then informed her mistress of all she knew of Joey’s subsequent career.

“Well, Mary,” said Mrs Austin, “you must go to him directly. You will want money; but, Mary, promise me that you will not say a word to him about what has passed between us,—that is, for the present; by-and-bye I may trust you more.”

“You may trust me, madam,” replied Mary, looking her mistress in the face; “but it is too late for me to go this afternoon; I will, if you please, now wait till to-morrow morning.”

“Do so, Mary; I am glad that you do not go to-night, for I wish you to stay with me; I have many questions to ask of you. At present I wish to be alone, my good girl. Tell Mr Austin that I am very unwell, and do not dine below.”

“Shall I bring your dinner up here, madam?” asked Mary.

“Yes, you may bring it, Mary,” replied Mrs Austin, with a faint smile.

Never did two people leave one another both so much wishing to be alone as Mary and Mrs Austin. The former quitted the room, and, having first executed her commission, returned to her own apartment, that she might reflect without being disturbed. What could be the reason of Mrs Austin’s behaviour? What could she know of Joey Rushbrook? and why so interested and moved? She had heard among the servants that Mr and Mrs Austin were formerly in a humbler sphere of life; that he was a half-pay officer; but there was still no clue to such interest about Joey Rushbrook. Mary thought and thought over and over again, revolved all that had passed in her mind, but could make nothing of it; and she was still trying to solve the mystery when the housemaid came into the room, and informed her that Mrs Austin’s bell had rung twice. Mrs Austin, on her part, was still more bewildered; she could not regain sufficient calmness to enable her to decide how to act. Her son in prison, to be tried for his life for a crime he had not committed! Would he divulge the truth, and sacrifice the father? She thought not. If he did not, would he not be condemned? and if he were, could she remain away from him? or ought she not to divulge what the boy would conceal? And if he did confess the truth, would they find out that Mr Austin and Joseph Rushbrook were one and the same person? Would there be any chance of his escape? Would he not, sooner or later, be recognised? How dreadful was her situation! Then, again, should she acquaint her husband with the position of his son? If so, would he come forward? Yes, most certainly he would never let Joey suffer for his crime. Ought she to tell her husband? And then Mary, who knew so much already, who had witnessed her distress and anguish, who was so fond of her son, could she trust her? Could she do without trusting her? Such were the various and conflicting ideas which passed in the mind of Mrs Austin. At last she resolved that she would say nothing to her husband; that she would send Mary to her son, and that she would that evening have more conversation with the girl, and decide, after she had talked with her, whether she would make her a confidant or not. Having made up her mind so far, she rang the bell for Mary.

“Are you better, madam?” asked Mary, who had entered the room, very quietly.

“Yes, I thank you, Mary; take your work and sit down; I wish to have some more conversation with you about this young person, Joseph Rushbrook; you must have seen that I am much interested about him.”

“Yes, madam.”

“There were some portions of your story, Mary, which I do not quite understand. You have now lived with me for five years, and I have had every reason to be satisfied with your behaviour. You have conducted yourself as a well-behaved, modest, and attentive young woman.”

“I am much obliged to you, madam, for your good opinion.”

“And I hope that you will admit that I have not been a hard mistress to you, Mary, but, on the contrary, have shown you that I have been pleased with your conduct.”

“Certainly, madam, you have; and I trust I am grateful.”

“I believe so,” replied Mrs Austin. “Now, Mary, I wish you to confide in me altogether. What I wish to know is how did you in so short a time become acquainted with this Furness, so as to obtain this secret from him? I may say, whom did you live with, and how did you live, when at Gravesend? for you have not mentioned that to me. It seems so odd to me that this man should have told to a person whom he had seen but for a few hours a secret of such moment.”

Mary’s tears fell fast, but she made no reply.

“Cannot you answer me, Mary?”

“I can, madam,” said she, at last; “but if I tell the truth—and I cannot tell a lie now—you will despise me, and perhaps order me to leave the house immediately; and if you do what will become of me?”

“Mary, if you think I intend to take advantage of a confession extorted from you, you do me wrong I ask the question because it is necessary that I should know the truth—because I cannot confide in you without you first confide in me; tell me, Mary, and do not be afraid.”

“Madam, I will; but pray do not forget that I have been under your roof for five years, and that I have been during that time an honest and modest girl. I was not so once, I confess it,” and Mary’s cheeks were red with shame, and she hung down her head.

“We are all sinful creatures, Mary,” replied Mrs Austin; “and who is there that has not fallen into error? The Scriptures say, ‘Let him who is without sin cast the first stone;’ nay more, Mary, ‘There is more joy over one sinner that repenteth than over ninety and nine who need no repentance.’ Shall I then be harsh to you, my poor girl? No, no. By trusting me you have made me your friend; you must be mine, Mary, for I want a friend now.”

Poor Mary fell on her knees before Mrs Austin, and wept over her hand as she kissed it repeatedly.

Mrs Austin was much affected, and as the contrite girl recovered herself, Mrs Austin leaned on her elbow, and putting her arm round Mary’s neck, drew her head towards her, and gently kissed her on the brow.

“You are, indeed, a kind friend, madam,” said Mary, after a pause, “and may the Almighty reward you! You are unhappy; I know not why, but I would die to serve you. I only wish that you would let me prove it.”

“First, Mary, tell me as much of your own history as you choose to tell; I wish to know it.”

Mary then entered into the details of her marriage, her husband’s conduct, her subsequent career, and her determination to lead a new life, which she had so sincerely proved by her late conduct.

Mary having concluded her narrative, Mrs Austin addressed her thus:—

“Mary, if you imagine that you have fallen in my good opinion, after what you have confessed to me, you are much mistaken; you have, on the contrary, been raised. There have been few, very few, that have had the courage and fortitude that you have shown, or who could have succeeded as you have done. I was afraid to trust you before, but now I am not. I will not ask you not to betray me, for I am sure you will not. On two points only my lips are sealed; and the reason why they are sealed is that the secret is not mine alone, and I have not permission to divulge it. That I am deeply interested in that boy is certain; nay, that he is a near and very dear connection is also the case; but what his exact relationship is towards me I must not at present say. You have asserted your belief of his innocence, and I tell you that you are right; he did not do the deed; I know who did, but I dare not reveal the name.”

“That is exactly what Joey said to me, madam,” observed Mary, “and, moreover, that he never would reveal it, even if he were on his trial.”

“I do not think that he ever will, Mary,” rejoined Mrs Austin, bursting into tears. “Poor boy! it is horrible that he should suffer for an offence that he has not committed.”

“Surely, madam, if he is found guilty they will not hang him, he was such a child.”

“I scarcely know.”

“It’s very odd that his father and mother have disappeared in the manner they did; I think it is very suspicious,” observed Mary.

“You must, of course, have your own ideas from what you have already heard,” replied Mrs Austin, in a calm tone; “but, as I have already said, my lips on that subject are sealed. What I wish you to do, Mary, is not at first to let him know that I am interested about him, or even that I know anything about him. Make all the inquiries you can as to what is likely to be the issue of the affair, and, when you have seen him, you must then come back and tell me all that he says, and all that has taken place.”

“I will, madam.”

“You had better go away early tomorrow; one of the grooms shall drive you over to meet the coach which runs to Exeter. While I think of it, take my purse, and do not spare it, Mary; for money must not be thought of now. I am very unwell, and must go to bed.”

“I had better bring up the tray, madam; a mouthful and a glass of wine will be of service to you.”

“Do so, dear Mary; I feel very faint.”

As soon as Mrs Austin had taken some refreshment, she entered again into conversation with Mary, asking her a hundred questions about her son. Mary, who had now nothing to conceal, answered freely; and when Mary wished her good night, Mrs Austin was more than ever convinced that her boy’s rectitude of principle would have made him an ornament to society. Then came the bitter feeling that he was about to sacrifice himself; that he would be condemned as a felon, disgraced, and perhaps executed; and as she turned on her restless pillow, she exclaimed, “Thank God that he is innocent—his poor father suffers more.”