The Poacher; Or, Joseph Rushbrook

It was hardly ten o’clock on the second morning when Mary arrived at Exeter, and proceeded to the gaol. Her eyes were directed to the outside of the massive building, and her cheeks blanched when she viewed the chains and fetters over the entrance, so truly designating the purport of the structure. There were several people at the steps and in the passage, making inquiries, and demanding permission of the turnkey to visit the prisoners; and Mary had to wait some minutes before she could make her request. Her appearance was so different to the usual class of applicants, that the turnkey looked at her with some surprise.

“Whom do you wish to see?” inquired the man, for Mary’s voice had faltered.

“Joseph Rushbrook, my brother,” repeated Mary.

At this moment the head gaoler came to the wicket.

“She wishes to see her brother, young Rushbrook,” said the turnkey.

“Yes, certainly,” replied the gaoler; “walk in, and sit down in the parlour for a little while, till I can send a man with you.”

There was a gentleness and kindness of manner shown by both the men towards Mary, for they were moved with her beauty and evident distress. Mary took a seat in the gaoler’s room; the gaoler’s wife was there, and she was more than kind. The turnkey came to show her to the cell; and when Mary rose, the gaoler’s wife said to her, “After you have seen your brother, my dear child, you had better come back again, and sit down here a little while, and then, perhaps, I can be of some use to you, in letting you know what can be done, and what is not allowed.”

Mary could not speak, but she looked at the gaoler’s wife, her eyes brimming over with tears. The kind woman understood her. “Go now,” said she, “and mind you come back to me.”

The turnkey, without speaking, led her to the cell, fitted the key to the ponderous lock, pushed back the door, and remained outside. Mary entered, and in a second was in the arms of our hero, kissing him, and bedewing his cheeks with her tears.

“I was sure that you would come, Mary,” said Joey; “now sit down, and I will tell you how this has happened, while you compose yourself; you will be better able to talk to me after a while.”

They sat down on the stretchers upon which the bed had been laid during the night, their hands still clasped, and as Joey entered into a narrative of all that had passed, Mary’s sobs gradually diminished, and she was restored to something like composure.

“And what do you intend to do when you are brought to trial, my dear boy?” said Mary at last.

“I shall say nothing, except ‘Not Guilty,’ which is the truth, Mary; I shall make no defence whatever.”

“But why will you not confess the truth?” replied Mary. “I have often thought of this, and have long made up my mind, Joey, that no one could act as you do if a parent’s life were not concerned; you, or anybody else, would be mad to sacrifice himself in this way, unless it were to save a father.”

Joey’s eyes were cast down on the stone pavement; he made no reply.

“Why, then, if I am right in my supposition,” continued Mary—“I do not ask you to say yes or no on that point—why should you not tell the truth? Furness told me that your father and mother had left the village, and that he had attempted to trace them, but could not; and he expressed himself sure that they were gone to America. Why, then, supposing I am right, should you sacrifice yourself for nothing?”

“Supposing you are right, Mary,” replied Joey, with his eyes still cast down, “what proof is there that my parents have left the country? It was only the supposition of Furness, and it is my conviction that they have not. Where they may be, I know not; but I feel positive that my mother would not leave the country without having first found out where I was, and have taken me with her. No, Mary, my father and mother, if alive, are still in this country.”

“Recollect again, my dear boy, that your father may be dead.”

“And if so, my mother would have by this time found me out; she would have advertised for me—done everything—I feel that she would have—she would have returned to Grassford, and—”

“And what, Joey?”

“I must not say what, Mary,” replied our hero; “I have thought a great deal since I have been shut up here, and I have taken my resolution, which is not to be changed; so let us say no more upon the subject, dear Mary. Tell me all about yourself.”

Mary remained another hour with Joey, and then bade him farewell; she was anxious to return to Mrs Austin, and acquaint her with the result of her interview; with a heavy heart she walked away from the cell, and went down into the parlour of the gaoler.

“Would you like to take anything?” said the gaoler’s wife, after Mary had sat down.

“A little water,” replied Mary.

“And how is your brother?”

“He is innocent,” replied Mary: “he is indeed; but he won’t tell anything, and they will condemn him.”

“Well, well; but do not be afraid; he must have been very young at the time, innocent or guilty, and he won’t suffer, that I know; but he will be sent out of the country.”

“Then I will go with him,” replied Mary.

“Perhaps he will be pardoned, dear; keep your spirits up, and, if you have money, get a good lawyer.”

“Can you tell me who would be a good lawyer to apply to?”

“Yes; Mr Trevor; he is a very clever man, and comes the Western Circuit; if any one can save him, he can.”

“I will take his name down, if you please,” said Mary.

The gaoler’s wife gave Mary a piece of paper and pen and ink; Mary wrote down the name and address of Mr Trevor, and then with many thanks took her leave.

On her return to the Hall, Mary communicated to Mrs Austin what had passed. Mrs Austin perceived that Joey would not swerve from his resolution, and that all that could be done was to procure the best legal assistance.

“Mary, my poor girl,” said Mrs Austin, “here is money, which you will find necessary for your adopted brother’s assistance. You say that you have obtained the name of the best legal person to be employed in his behalf. To-morrow you must go to London, and call upon that gentleman. It may be as well not to mention my name. As his sister, you of course seek the best legal advice. You must manage all this as if from yourself.”

“I will, madam.”

“And, Mary, if you think it advisable, you can remain in town for two or three days; but pray write to me every day.”

“I will, madam.”

“Let me know your address, as I may wish to say something to you when I know what has been done.”

“I will, madam.”

“And now you had better go to bed, Mary, for you must be tired; indeed, you look very fatigued, my poor girl; I need not caution you not to say anything to any of the servants; good night.”

Mary threw herself on the bed, she was indeed worn out with anxiety and grief; at last she slept. The next morning she was on her way to town, having, in reply to the curiosity of the servants, stated that the cause of her journey was the dangerous illness of her brother.

As soon as she arrived in London, Mary drove to the chambers of the lawyer, whose direction she had obtained from the Exeter gaoler’s wife; he was at home, and after waiting a short time, she was ushered by the clerk into his presence.

“What can I do for you, young lady?” inquired Mr Trevor, with some surprise: “it is not often that the den of a lawyer has such a bright vision to cheer it. Do me the favour to take a chair.”

“I am not a young lady, sir,” replied Mary; “I have come to you to request that you will be so kind as to defend my brother, who is about to be tried.”

“Your brother! what is he charged with?”

“Murder,” replied Mary; “but indeed, sir, he is not guilty,” she continued, as she burst into tears.

Mr Trevor was not only a clever, but also a kind and considerate man. He remained silent for some minutes to allow Mary time to recover herself. When she was more composed, he said—

“What is your brother’s name?”

“Joseph Rushbrook.”