The Poacher; Or, Joseph Rushbrook

“I know you are, so say no more about it. You see, Joey, he gave me all your history, and appears to believe that you committed the murder. I do not believe it; I do not believe you would do such a thing, although your gun might have gone off by accident.”

“No, Mary, I did not do it, either on purpose or by accident; but you must ask me no more questions, for if I were put on my trial, I should not reveal the secret.”

“Then I will never speak to you any more about it, if I can help it. I have my own thoughts on the business, but now I drop it. It is nearly daylight, and we have walked a good many miles; I shall not be sorry to sit down and rest myself.”

“Do you know how far we have to go before we come to any town, Mary?”

“We are not far from Maidstone; it is on our right, but it will be as well not to go through so large a town so near to Gravesend. Besides, some of the soldiers may know me. As soon as we come to a good place, where we can find a drink of water, we will sit down and rest ourselves.”

About a mile further on they came to a small rivulet which crossed the road.

“This will do, Joey,” said Nancy; “now we’ll sit down.”

It was then daylight; they took their seats on their bundles as soon as they had drunk from the stream.

“Now, Joey,” said Mary (as we shall call her for the future), let us see what money we have. Mrs Chopper put all she had in my hands; poor, good old woman, bless her! Count it. Joey; it is yours.

“No, Mary; she gave it for both of us.”

“Never mind; do you keep it: for you see, Joey, it might happen that you might have to run off at a moment’s warning, and it would not do for you to be without money.”

“If I was to run off at a minute’s warning, I should then take it all with me, and it would not do for you to be left without any money, Mary; so we must halve it between us, although we will always make one purse.”

“Well, be it so; for if you were robbed, or I were robbed, on the way, the other might escape.”

They then divided the money, Joey putting his share into his pocket, and tying it in with a string. Mary dropped hers down into the usual deposit of women for bank-notes and billets-doux. As soon as this matter had been arranged, Mary opened her bundle, and took out a handkerchief, which she put on her shoulders; combed out the ringlets which she had worn, and dressed her hair flat on her temples; removed the gay ribbons from her bonnet, and substituted some plain brown in their stead.

“There,” says she; “now, Joey, don’t I look more respectable?”

“You do look more neat and more—”

“More modest, you would say, Joey. Well, and I hope in future to become what I look. But I look more fit to be your sister, Joey, for I have been thinking we had better pass off as brother and sister to avoid questioning. We must make out some story to agree in. Who shall we say that we are (as we dare not say who we really are)? I am looking out for service, and so are you, that’s very clear; father and mother are both dead; father was a baker. That’s all true, as far as relates to me: and as you are my brother, why you must take my father and mother. It’s no very great story, after all.”

“But it won’t do to say we came from Gravesend.”

“No; we need not say that, and yet tell no story; the village we passed through last night was Wrotham, so we came from thence.”

“But where do you think of going, Mary?”

“A good way farther off yet; at all events, before we look out for service, we will get into another county. Now, if you are ready, we will go on Joey, and look out for some breakfast, and then I shall be able to change my gown for a quieter one.”

In half an hour they arrived at a village, and went into a public-house. Mary went up stairs and changed her dress; and now that she had completed her arrangements, she looked a very pretty, modest young woman, and none could have supposed that the day before she had been flaunting in the street of a seafaring town. Inquiries were made, as might be supposed, and Mary replied that she was going to service, and that her brother was escorting her. They had their breakfast, and, after resting two hours, they proceeded on their journey.

For some days they travelled more deliberately, until they found themselves in the village of Manstone, in Dorsetshire, where they, as usual, put up at an humble public-house. Here Mary told a different story; she had been disappointed in a situation, and they intended to go back to their native town.

The landlady of the hotel was prepossessed in favour of such a very pretty girl as Mary, as well as with the appearance of Joey, who, although in his sailor’s dress, was very superior in carriage and manners to a boy in his supposed station in life, and she said that if they would remain there a few days she would try to procure them some situation. The third day after their arrival, she informed Mary that she had heard of a situation as under-housemaid at the squire’s, about a mile off, if she would like to take it, and Mary gladly consented. Mrs Derborough sent up word, and received orders for Mary to make her appearance, and Mary accordingly went up to the hall, accompanied by Joey. When she arrived there, and made known her business, she was desired to wait in the servants’ hall until she was sent for. In about a quarter of a hour she was summoned, and, leaving Joey in the hall, she went up to see the lady of the house, who inquired whether she had ever been out at service before, and if she had a good character.

Mary replied that she had never been out at service, and that she had no character at all (which, by the bye, was very true).

The lady of the house smiled at this apparently naïve answer from so very modest-looking and pretty a girl, and asked who her parents were.

To this question Mary’s answer was ready, and she further added that she had left home in search of a place, and had been disappointed; that her father and mother were dead, but her brother was down below, and had escorted her; and that Mrs Chopper was an old friend of her mother’s, and could answer to her character.

The lady was prepossessed by Mary’s appearance, by the report of Mrs Derborough, and by the respectability of her brother travelling with her, and agreed to try her; but at the same time said she must have Mrs Chopper’s address, that she might write to her; but, the place being vacant, she might come to-morrow morning: her wages were named, and immediately accepted; and thus did Mary obtain her situation.

People say you cannot be too particular when you choose servants; and, to a certain degree, this is true; but this extreme caution, however selfishness and prudence may dictate it, is but too often the cause of servants who have committed an error, and have in consequence been refused a character, being driven to destitution and misery, when they had a full intention, and would have, had they been permitted, redeemed their transgression.

Mary was resolved to be a good and honest girl. Had the lady of the house been very particular, and had others to whom she might afterwards have applied been the same, all her good intentions might have been frustrated, and she might have been driven to despair, if not to her former evil courses. It is perhaps fortunate that everybody in the world is not so particular as your very good people, and that there is an occasional loophole by which those who have erred are permitted to return to virtue. Mary left the room delighted with her success, and went down to Joey in the servants’ hall. The servants soon found out from Mary that she was coming to the house, and one of the men chucked her under the chin, and told her she was a very pretty girl. Mary drew back, and Joey immediately resented the liberty, stating that he would not allow any man to insult his sister, for Joey was wise enough to see that he could not do a better thing to serve Mary. The servant was insolent in return, and threatened to chastise Joey, and ordered him to leave the house. The women took our hero’s part. The housekeeper came down at the time, and hearing the cause of the dispute, was angry with the footman; the butler took the side of the footman; and the end of it was that the voices were at the highest pitch when the bell rang, and the men being obliged to answer it, the women were for the time left in possession of the field.

“What is that noise below?” inquired the master of the house.

“It is a boy, sir—the brother, I believe of the girl who has come as under-housemaid, who has been making a disturbance.”

“Desire him to leave the house instantly.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the butler, who went down to enforce the order.

Little did the master of the house imagine that in giving that order he was turning out of the house his own son; for the squire was no other than Mr Austin. Little did the inconsolable Mrs Austin fancy that her dear, lamented boy was at that moment under the same roof with her, and been driven out of it by her menials; but such was the case. So Joey and Mary quitted the hall, and bent their way back to the village inn.

“Well, Mary,” said Joey, “I am very glad that you have found a situation.”

“And so I am very thankful, indeed, Joey,” replied she; “and only hope that you will be able to get one somewhere about here also, and then we may occasionally see something of one another.”

“No, Mary,” replied Joey, “I shall not look for a situation about here; the only reason I had for wishing it was that I might see you; but that will be impossible now.”

“Why so?”

“Do you think that I will ever put my foot into that house again, after the manner I was treated to-day? Never.”

“I was afraid so,” replied Mary, mournfully.

“No, Mary, I am happy that you are provided for; for I can seek my own fortune, and I will write to you, and let you know what I do; and you will write to me, Mary, won’t you?”

“It will be the greatest pleasure that will be left to me, Joey; for I love you as dearly as it you were my own brother.”

The next day our hero and Mary parted, with many tears on her side, and much sorrow on his. Joey refused to take more of the money than what he had in his possession, but promised; in case of need, to apply to Mary, who said that she would hoard up everything for him; and she kept her word. Joey, having escorted Mary to the hall lodge, remained at the inn till the next morning, and then set off once more on his travels.

Our hero started at break of day, and had walked, by a western road, from Manstone, about six miles, when he met two men coming towards him. They were most miserably clad—neither of them had shoes or stockings; one had only a waistcoat and a pair of trousers, with a sack on his back; the other had a pair of blue trousers torn to ribbons, a Guernsey frock, and a tarpaulin hat. They appeared what they represented themselves to be, when they demanded charity, two wrecked seamen, who were travelling to a northern port to obtain employment; but had these fellows been questioned by a sailor, he would soon have discovered, by their total ignorance of anything nautical, that they were impostors. Perhaps there is no plan more successful than this, which is now carried on to an enormous extent by a set of rogues and depredators, who occasionally request charity, but too often extort it, and add to their spoils by robbing and plundering everything in their way. It is impossible for people in this country to ascertain the truth of the assertions of these vagabonds, and it appears unfeeling to refuse assistance to a poor seaman who has lost his all: even the cottager offers his mite, and thus do they levy upon the public to an extent which is scarcely credible; but it should be known that, in all cases of shipwreck, sailors are now invariably relieved and decently clothed, and supplied with the means of travelling to obtain employment; and whenever a man appeals for charity in a half-naked state, he is invariably an impostor or a worthless scoundrel.

The two men were talking loud and laughing when they approached our hero. As soon as they came near, they looked hard at him, and stopped right before him, so as to block up the footpath.

“Hilloah, my little sailor! where are you bound to?” said one to Joey, who had his common sailor’s dress on.

“And, I say, what have you got in that bundle?” said the other; “and how are you off for brads?—haven’t you something to spare for brother-seamen? Come, feel in your pockets; or shall I feel for you?”

Joey did not much like this exordium; he replied, stepping into the road at the same time, “I’ve no money, and the bundle contains my clothes.”

“Come, come,” said the first, “you’re not going to get off that way. If you don’t wish your brains beaten out, you’ll just hand over that bundle for me to examine;” and so saying, the man stepped into the road towards Joey, who continued to retreat to the opposite side.