g of his
eternal separation from Emma, as soon as he was alone, threw himself on
the bed, and gave full vent to those feelings of bitter anguish which he
could no longer repress.

CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT.

IN WHICH EVERYBODY APPEARS TO BE ON THE MOVE EXCEPT OUR HERO.

Mary set off with post-horses and arrived at the Hall before daylight.
She remained in her own room until the post came in, when her first
object was to secure the newspapers before the butler had opened them,
stating that her mistress was awake, and requested to see them. She
took the same precaution when the other papers came in late in the day,
so that Mr Austin should not read the account of the trial; this was
the more easy to accomplish, as he seldom looked at a newspaper. As
soon as the usual hour had arrived, Mary presented herself to her
mistress, and communicated the melancholy result of the trial. Mrs
Austin desired Mary to say to the servants that she was going to remain
with a lady, a friend of hers, some miles off, who was dangerously ill;
and should in all probability, not return that night, or even the next,
if her friend was not better; and, her preparations for the journey
being completed, she set off with Mary a little before dark on her way
to Exeter.

But, if Mr Austin did not look at the newspapers, others did, and
amongst the latter was Major McShane, who, having returned from his
tour, was sitting with O'Donahue and the two ladies in the library of
his own house when the post came in. The major had hardly looked at the
newspapers, when the name of Rushbrook caught his eye; he turned to it,
read a portion, and gave a loud whistle of surprise.

"What's the matter, my dear?" asked Mrs McShane.

"Murder's the matter, my jewel," returned the major; "but don't
interrupt me just now, for I'm breathless with confusion."

McShane read the whole account of the trial, and the verdict, and then
without saying a word, put it into the bands of O'Donahue. As soon as
O'Donahue had finished it, McShane beckoned him out of the room.

"I didn't like to let Mrs McShane know it, as she would take it sorely
to heart," said McShane: "but what's to be done now, O'Donahue? You see
the boy has not peached upon his father, and has convicted himself. It
would be poor comfort to Mrs McShane, who loves the memory of that boy
better than she would a dozen little McShanes, if it pleased Heaven to
grant them to her, to know that the boy is found, wh