The Poacher; Or, Joseph Rushbrook

“Indeed!” said Nancy, who had put the questions because she wished to give Joey some information relative to his parents; “gone to America, do you say?”

“Yes, I am inclined to think so, for I lost all trace of them.”

“Well, then,” replied Nancy, “that scruple of mine is got over.”

She then pointed out to Furness the propriety of waiting an hour or two, till people were in bed, that there might be no chance of a rescue; and they returned to the public-house. Furness took another glass of ale, and then fell fast asleep on the bench, with his head over the table.

“So,” thought Nancy, as she left the public-house, “the drunken fool makes sure of his 200 pounds; but there is no time to be lost.”

Nancy hastened back to Mrs Chopper, whom she found sitting with a candle turning over the leaves of one of the old account books.

“O, Nancy, is that you? I was just sighing over you, here’s the things that were ordered for your wedding. Poor girl! I fear you have not often been to church since.”

Nancy was silent for a short time. “I’m sick of my life and sick of myself, Mrs Chopper: but what can I do?—a wretch like me! I wish I could run away, as poor Peter must directly, and go to where I never was known; I should be so happy.”

“Peter must go, do you say, Nancy? Is that certain?”

“Most certain, Mrs Chopper, and he must be off directly I have been with the marines, and the fellow has told me everything; he is only waiting now for me to go back, to come and take him.”

“But tell me, Nancy, has Peter been guilty?”

“I believe from my heart that he has done nothing; but still murder was committed, and Peter will be apprehended, unless you give him the means of running away. Where is he now?”

“Asleep, fast asleep: I didn’t like to wake him, poor fellow!”

“Then he must be innocent, Mrs Chopper: they say the guilty never sleep. But what will he do—he has no money?”

“He has saved me a mint of money, and he shall not want it,” replied Mrs Chopper. “What shall I do without him? I can’t bear to part with him.”

“But you must, Mrs Chopper; and, if you love him, you will give him the means, and let him be off directly. I wish I was going too,” continued Nancy, bursting into tears.

“Go with him, Nancy, and look after him, and take care of my poor Peter,” said Mrs Chopper, whimpering; “go, my child, go, and lead a good life. I should better part with him, if I thought you were with him, and away from this horrid place.”

“Will you let me go with him, Mrs Chopper—will you, indeed?” cried Nancy, falling on her knees. “Oh! I will watch him as a mother would her son, as a sister would her brother! Give us but the means to quit this place, and the good and the wicked both will bless you.”

“That you shall have, my poor girl, it has often pained my heart to look at you; for I felt that you are too good for what you are, and you will be again a good honest girl. You both shall go. Poor Peter! I wish I were young enough, I would go with you; but I can’t. How I shall be cheated again when he is gone! but go he must. Here Nancy, take the money; take all I have in the house:” and Mrs Chopper put upwards of 20 pounds into Nancy’s hand as she was kneeling before her. Nancy fell forward with her face in the lap of the good old woman, suffocated with emotion and tears. “Come, come, Nancy,” said Mrs Chopper, after a pause, and wiping her eyes with her apron, “you mustn’t take on so, my poor girl. Recollect poor Peter; there’s no time to lose.”

“That is true,” replied Nancy, rising up. “Mrs Chopper you have done a deed this night for which you will have your reward in heaven. May the God of mercy bless you! and, as soon as I dare, night and morning will I pray for you.”

Mrs Chopper went into Joey’s room with the candle in her hand, followed by Nancy. “See, how sound he sleeps!” said the old woman; “he is not guilty. Peter! Peter! come get up, child.”

Joey rose from his bed, confused at first with the light in his eyes, but soon recovered himself.

“Peter, you must go, my poor boy, and go quickly, Nancy says.”

“I was sure of it,” replied Joey: “I am very, very sorry to leave you, Mrs Chopper. Pray think well of me, for, indeed, I have done nothing wrong.”

“I am sure of it; but Nancy knows it all, and away you must go. I wish you were off; I’m getting fidgety about it, although I cannot bear to lose you; so good-bye at once, Peter, and God bless you! I hope we shall meet again yet.”

“I hope so, indeed, Mrs Chopper; for you have been very kind to me, as kind as a mother could be.”

Mrs Chopper hugged him to her breast, and then said, in a hurried tone, as she dropped on the bed,—“There; go, go.”

Nancy took up Joey’s bundle in one hand and Joey by the other, and they went down stairs. As soon as they were in the street, Nancy turned short round, and went to the house where she usually slept, desiring Joey to wait a moment at the door. She soon returned with her own bundle, and then, with a quick pace, walked on, desiring Joey to follow her. They proceeded in this manner until they were clear of the town, when Joey came up to Nancy, and said, “Thank you, Nancy; I suppose we’d better part now?”

“No, we don’t part yet, Peter,” replied Nancy.

“But where are you going, and why have you that bundle?”

“I am going with you, Peter,” replied Nancy.

“But, Nancy—,” replied Joey; and then, after a pause, “I will do all I can for you—I will work for you—but I have no money, and I hope we shall not starve.”

“Bless you, boy! bless you for that kind feeling! but we shall not starve; I have Mrs Chopper’s leave to go with you; indeed, she wished me so to do, and she has given me money for you—it is for you, although she said for both.”

“She is very kind; but why should you go with me, Nancy? You have nothing to fear.”

“We must not talk now, Peter; let us walk on; I have more to fear than you.”

“How is that? I fear being taken up for that of which I am not guilty, but you have nothing to fear.”

“Peter, dear,” replied Nancy, solemnly, “I do not fear for anything the world can do to me—but don’t talk now; let us go on.”

Chapter Twenty Seven

In which the Wheel of Fortune brings our Hero’s Nose to a Grindstone

When Nancy and our hero had proceeded about three miles on their way, Nancy slackened her pace, and they entered into conversation.

“Which way are you going?” demanded Joey.

“I’m cutting right across the country, Peter, or rather Joey, as I shall in future call you, for that is your real name—the marine told me it was Joseph Rushbrook; is it not?”

“Yes, it is,” replied Joey.

“Then in future I shall call you so, for I do not want to hear even a name which would remind me of the scene of my misery; and Joey, do you never call me Nancy again, the name is odious to me; call me Mary.”

“I will if you wish it; but I cannot imagine why you should run away from Gravesend, Mary. What do you mean to do? I ran away from fear of being taken up.”

“And I, Joey, do more; I fly from the wrath to come. You ask me what I intend to do; I will answer you in the words of the catechism which I used once to repeat, ‘to lead a new life, have a thankful remembrance of Christ’s death, and be in charity with all men.’ I shall seek for service; I care not how humble—it will be good enough. I will sift cinders for brick-making, make bricks, do anything, as long as what I do is honest.”

“I am very glad to hear you say that, Mary,” replied Joey, “for I was always very fond of you.”

“Yes, Joey, and you were the first who offered to do a kind thing for me for a long while; I have never forgotten it, and this night I have done something to repay it.”

Nancy then entered into a detail of all that had passed between her and Furness, of which Joey had been ignorant, and which proved to him what a narrow escape he had had.

“I little thought you had done all this while I slept,” replied Joey; “but I am very grateful, Mary.”