The Poacher; Or, Joseph Rushbrook. Фредерик Марриет

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      “What has happened?” inquired his wife, trembling as she laid her hand on his shoulder.

      “Don’t speak to me now,” was the reply.

      “Joey,” said the frightened woman in a whisper, “what has he done?”

      Joey answered not, but raised his hand, red with the blood which was now dried upon it.

      Jane uttered a faint cry, dropped on her knees, and covered her face, while Joey walked into the back kitchen, and busied himself in removing the traces of the dark deed.

      A quarter of an hour had elapsed—Joey had returned, and taken his seat upon his low stool, and not a word had been exchanged.

      There certainly is a foretaste of the future punishment which awaits crime; for how dreadful were the feelings of those who were now sitting down in the cottage! Rushbrook was evidently stupefied from excess of feeling; first, the strong excitement which had urged him to the deed; and now from the reaction the prostration of mental power which had succeeded it. Jane dreaded the present and the future—whichever way she turned her eyes the gibbet was before her—the clanking of chains in her ears; in her vision of the future, scorn, misery, and remorse—she felt only for her husband. Joey, poor boy, he felt for both. Even the dog showed, as he looked up into Joey’s face, that he was aware that a foul deed had been done. The silence which it appeared none would venture to break, was at last dissolved by the clock of the village church solemnly striking two. They all started up—it was a warning—it reminded them of the bell tolling for the dead—of time and of eternity; but time present quickly effaced for the moment other ideas; yes, it was time to act; in four hours more it would be daylight, and the blood of the murdered man would appeal to his fellow-men for vengeance. The sun would light them to the deed of darkness—the body would be brought home—the magistrates would assemble—and who would be the party suspected?

      “Merciful Heaven!” exclaimed Jane, “what can be done?”

      “There is no proof;” muttered Rushbrook.

      “Yes, there is,” observed Joey, “I left my bag there, when I stooped down to—”

      “Silence!” cried Rushbrook. “Yes,” continued he, bitterly, to his wife, “this is your doing; you must send the boy after me, and now there will be evidence against me; I shall owe my death to you.”

      “Oh, say not so! say not so!” replied Jane, falling down on her knees, and weeping bitterly as she buried her face in his lap; “but there is yet time,” cried she, starting up; “Joey can go and fetch the bag. You will, Joey: won’t you, dear? you are not afraid—you are innocent.”

      “Better leave it where it is, mother,” replied Joey, calmly.

      Rushbrook looked up at his son with surprise; Jane caught him by the arm; she felt convinced the boy had some reason for what he said—probably some plan that would ward off suspicion—yet how could that be, it was evidence against them, and after looking earnestly at the boy’s face, she dropped his arm. “Why so, Joey?” said she, with apparent calmness.

      “Because,” replied Joey, “I have been thinking about it all this time; I am innocent, and therefore I do not mind if they suppose me guilty. The bag is known to be mine—the gun I must throw into a ditch two fields off. You must give me some money, if you have any; if not, I must go without it; but there is no time to be lost. I must be off and away from here in ten minutes; to-morrow ask every one if they have seen or heard of me, because I have left the house some time during the night. I shall have a good start before that; besides, they may not find the pedlar for a day or two, perhaps; at all events, not till some time after I am gone; and then, you see, mother, the bag which is found by him, and the gun in the ditch, will make them think it is me who killed him; but they will not be able to make out whether I killed him by accident, and ran away from fear, or whether I did it on purpose. So now, mother, that’s my plan, for it will save father.”

      “And I shall never see you again, my child!” replied his mother.

      “That’s as may be. You may go away from here after a time, mother, when the thing has blown over. Come, mother, there is no time to lose.”

      “Rushbrook, what say you—what think you?” said Jane to her husband.

      “Why, Jane, at all events, the boy must have left us, for, you see, I told Byres, and I’ve no doubt but he told the keeper, if he met him, that I should bring Joey with me. I did it to deceive him; and, as sure as I sit here, they will have that boy up as evidence against his father.”

      “To be sure they will,” cried Joey; “and what could I do? I dare not—I don’t think I could tell a lie; and yet I would not peach upon father, neither. What can I do—but be out of the way?”

      “That’s the truth—away with you, then, my boy, and take a father’s blessing with you—a guilty father’s, it is true; God forgive me. Jane give him all the money you have; lose not a moment: quick, woman, quick.” And Rushbrook appeared to be in agony.

      Jane hastened to the cupboard, opened a small box, and poured the contents into the hands of Joey.

      “Farewell, my boy,” said Rushbrook; “your father thanks you.”

      “Heaven preserve you, my child!” cried Jane, embracing him, as the tears rained down her cheeks. “You will write—no! you must not—mercy!—mercy!—I shall never see him again!”—and the mother fainted on the floor.

      The tears rose in our hero’s eyes as he beheld the condition of his poor mother. Once more he grasped his father’s hand; and then, catching up the gun, he went out at the back door, and driving back the dog, who would have followed him, made over the fields as fast as his legs would carry him.

      Chapter Six

      We have no doubt but many of our readers have occasionally, when on a journey, come to where the road divides into two, forking out in different directions, and the road being new to them, have not known which of the two branches they ought to take. This happens, as it often does in a novel, to be our case just now. Shall we follow little Joey, or his father and mother?—that is the question. We believe that when a road does thus divide, the wider of the two branches is generally selected, as being supposed to be the continuation of the high road. We shall ourselves act upon that principle; and, as the hero of the tale is of more consequence than characters accessory, we shall follow up the fortunes of little Joey. As soon as our hero had deposited the gun so that it might be easily discovered by any one passing by, he darted into the high road, and went off with all the speed that he was capable of, and it was not yet light when he found himself at least ten miles from his native village. As the day dawned, he quitted the high road, and took to the fields, keeping a parallel course, so as to still increase the distance; it was not until he had made fifteen miles, that, finding himself exhausted, he sat down to recover himself.

      From the time that he had left the cottage until the present, Joey had had but one overwhelming idea in his head, which was, to escape from pursuit, and by his absence to save his father from suspicion; but now that he had effected that purpose, and was in a state of quiescence, other thoughts rushed upon his mind. First, the scenes of the last few hours presented themselves in rapid array before him—he thought of the dead man, and he looked at his hand to ascertain if the bloody marks had been effaced; and then he thought of his poor mother’s state when he quitted the cottage, and the remembrance made him weep bitterly: his own position came next upon him,—a boy, twelve years of age, adrift upon the world—how СКАЧАТЬ