The Poacher; Or, Joseph Rushbrook

The remainder of the journey was completed without any further adventure, and they at last found themselves out of the Russian dominions, when they were met by the uncle of the princess, who, as a Pole, was not sorry that his niece had escaped from being wedded to a Russian. He warmly greeted O’Donahue, as his connection, and immediately exerted all the interest which he had at the court to pacify the emperor. When the affair first became known, which it soon did, by the princess not returning to court, his Majesty was anything but pleased at being outwitted; but the persuasions of the empress, the pleading of the English ambassador, who exerted himself strenuously for O’Donahue, with the efforts made in other quarters, and more than all, the letter of O’Donahue, proving that the emperor had given his consent (unwittingly, it is true), coupled with his wish to enter into his service, at last produced the desired effect, and after two months a notice of their pardon and permission to return was at last despatched by the empress. O’Donahue considered that it was best to take immediate advantage of this turn in his favour, and retrace his way to the capital. McShane, who had been quite long enough in the situation of a domestic, now announced his intention to return home; and O’Donahue, aware that he was separating him from his wife, did not, of course, throw any obstacle in the way of his departure. Our little hero, who has lately become such a cipher in our narrative, was now the subject of consideration. O’Donahue wished him to remain with him, but McShane opposed it.

“I tell you, O’Donahue, that it’s no kindness to keep him here; the boy is too good to be a page at a lady’s shoestring, or even a servant to so great a man as you are yourself now: besides, how will he like being buried here in a foreign country, and never go back to old England?”

“But what will he do better in England, McShane?”

“Depend upon it, major,” said the princess, for she was now aware of McShane’s rank, “I will treat him like a son.”

“Still he will be a servant, my lady, and that’s not the position—although, begging your pardon, an emperor might be proud to be your servant; yet that’s not the position for little Joey.”

“Prove that you will do better for him, McShane, and he is yours: but without you do, I am too partial to him to like to part with him. His conduct on the journey—”

“Yes, exactly, his conduct on the journey, when the wolves would have shared us out between them, is one great reason for my objection. He is too good for a menial, and that’s the fact. You ask me what I intend to do with him; it is not so easy to answer that question, because you see, my lady, there’s a certain Mrs McShane in the way, who must be consulted; but I think that when I tell her, what I consider to be as near the truth as most things which are said in this world, that if it had not been for the courage and activity of little Joey, a certain Major McShane would have been by this time eaten and digested by a pack of wolves, why, I then think, as Mrs McShane and I have no child, nor prospect of any, as I know of, that she may be well inclined to come into my way of thinking, and of adopting him as her own son; but, of course, this cannot be said without my consulting with Mrs McShane, seeing as how the money is her own, and she has a right to do as she pleases with it.”

“That, indeed, alters the case,” replied O’Donahue, “and I must not stand in the way of the boy’s interest; still I should like to do something for him.”

“You have done something for him, O’Donahue; you have prevented his starving; and if he has been of any use to you, it is but your reward—so you and he are quits. Well, then, it is agreed that I take him with me?”

“Yes,” replied O’Donahue. “I cannot refuse my consent after what you have said.”

Two days after this conversation the parties separated: O’Donahue, with his wife, accompanied by Dimitri, set off on their return to Saint Petersburg; while McShane, who had provided himself with a proper passport, got into the diligence, accompanied by little Joey, on his way back to England.

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.