The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics)

by George W. M. Reynolds

  Though so rigidly neat and clean, Kate had nothing of the coquette about her. She was as bashful and artless as a child; and, besides—whom had she, the executioner’s acknowledged niece, to captivate?

  Although she endeavoured to greet Smithers and the hump-back with a smile, a profound melancholy in reality oppressed her.

  It was one of those mornings when her uncle was to exercise his horrible calling:—this circumstance would alone have deeply affected her spirits, which were never too light nor buoyant. But on the present occasion, another cause of sorrow weighed on her soul—and that was the knowledge that her wretched cousin was that morning to enter on his fearful noviciate!

  She entertained a boundless compassion for that unfortunate being. His physical deformities, and the treatment which he experienced from his father, called forth the kindest sympathies of her naturally tender heart. Moreover, he had received instruction and was in the habit of seeking consolation from her: she was the only friend of that suffering creature who was persecuted alike by nature and by man; and she perhaps felt the more acutely on his account, because she was so utterly powerless in protecting him from the parental ferocity which drove him to her for comfort.

  She knew that a good—a generous—a kind—and a deeply sensitive soul was enclosed within that revolting form; and she experienced acute anguish when a brutal hand could wantonly torture so susceptible a spirit.

  And to that wounded, smarting spirit she herself was all kindness—all softness—all conciliation—all encouragement.

  No wonder, then, if the miserable son of the public executioner was devoted to her: no wonder if she were a goddess of light, and hope, and consolation, and bliss to him! To do her the slightest service was a source of the purest joy which that poor being could know: to be able to convince her by a deed,—even so slight as picking up her thread when it fell, or placing her chair for her in its wonted situation,—this, this was sublime happiness to the hump-back!

  He could sit for hours near her, without uttering a word—but watching her like a faithful dog. And when her musical voice, fraught with some expression of kindness, fell upon his ear, how that hideous countenance would brighten up—how those coarse lips would form a smile—how those large dull orbs would glow with ineffable bliss!

  But when his father was unkind to her,—unkind to Katherine, his only friend,—unkind to the sole being that ever had looked not only without abhorrence, but with unadulterated gentleness on him,—then a new spirit seemed to animate him; and the faithful creature, who received his own stripes with spaniel-like irresistance, burst forth in indignant remonstrance when a blow was levelled at her. Then his rage grew terrible; and the resigned, docile, retiring hump-back became transformed into a perfect demon.

  How offensive to the delicate admirer of a maudlin romance, in which only handsome boys and pretty girls are supposed to be capable of playing at the game of Love, must be the statement which we are now about to make. But the reader who truly knows the world,—not the world of the sentimental novel, but the world as it really is,—will not start when we inform him that this being whom nature had formed in her most uncouth mould,—this creature whose deformities seemed to render him a connecting link between man and monkey,—this living thing that appeared to be but one remove above a monster, cherished a profound love for that young girl whom he esteemed as his guardian angel.

  But this passion was unsuspected by her, as its nature was unknown to himself. Of course it was not reciprocated:—how could it be? Nevertheless, every proof of friendship—every testimonial of kind feeling—every evidence of compassion on her part, only tended to augment that attachment which the hump-back experienced for Katherine.

  “Well, Kate,” said the executioner, as he took his seat at the breakfast-table, “I’ve drilled Gibbet into the art of pinioning at last.”

  The girl made no answer; but she cast a rapid glance at the hump-back, and two tears trickled down her cheeks.

  “Come, Gibbet,” answered Smithers; “we’ve no time to lose. Don’t be afraid of your bread-and-butter: you’ll get nothing to eat till you come home again to dinner.”

  “Is John going with you this morning, uncle?” inquired Katherine timidly.

  “Why, you know he is. You only ask the question to get up a discussion once more about it, as you did last night.”

  This was more or less true: the generous-hearted girl hoped yet to be able to avert her uncle from his intention in respect to the hump-back.

  “But I won’t hear any more about it,” continued the executioner, as he ate his breakfast. “And, then, why do you call him John?”

  “Did you not give him that name at his baptism?” said Kate.

  “And if I did, I’ve also the right to change it,” returned the executioner; “and I choose him to be called Gibbet. It’s more professional.”

  “I think the grocer in High Street wants an errand boy, uncle,” observed Katherine, with her eyes fixed upon her cup—she dared not raise them to Smithers’ face as she spoke: “perhaps he would take John—I mean my cousin—and that would be better than making him follow a calling which he does not fancy.”

  “Mind your own business, Miss Imperence!” ejaculated the executioner; “and let me mind mine. Now, then—who knocks at the front door?”

  Gibbet rose and hastened from the room.

  In a few moments he returned, holding in his hand a paper, which he gave to his father.

  “Ah! I thought so,” said Smithers, as he glanced his eye over the paper: “my friend Dognatch is always in time. Here’s the last dying speech, confession, and a true account of the execution of the man that I’m to tuck up presently—all cut and dry, you see. Well—it’s very kind of Dognatch always to send me a copy; but I suppose he thinks it’s a compliment due to my sitiwation.”

  With these words Smithers tossed off his tea, rose, and exclaimed, “Now Gibbet, my boy, we must be off.”

  “Father, I don’t feel equal to it,” murmured the hump-back, who seemed fixed to his chair.

  “Come—without another word!” cried the executioner, in so terrible a tone that Gibbet started from his seat as if suddenly moved by electricity.

  “Uncle—uncle, you will not—you cannot force this poor lad—” began Katherine, venturing upon a last appeal in favour of the hump-back.

  “Kate,” said the executioner, turning abruptly upon her, while his countenance wore so ferocious an expression of mingled determination and rage, that the young girl uttered an ejaculation of alarm,—“Kate, do not provoke me; or——”

  He said no more, but darted on her a look of such dark, diabolical menace, that she sank back, annihilated as it were, into her seat.

  She covered her face with her hands, and burst into an agony of tears.

  For some moments she remained absorbed in profound grief: the fate of the wretched hump-back, and the idea that she herself was doomed to exist beneath the same roof with the horrible man whom she called her uncle, were causes of bitter anguish to her tender and sensitive soul.

  When she raised her head, and glanced timidly around, she found herself alone.

  CHAPTER CXLIV.

  THE UNFINISHED LETTER

  The dawn was now breaking; and Katherine extinguished the candle.

  How gloomily does the young day announce itself to the dwellers in the narrow streets and obscure alleys of the poor districts of the metropolis! The struggling gleam appears to contend with difficulty against the dense atmosphere and noxious vapours which prevail in those regions even in the midst of winter; and as each fitful ray steals through the dingy panes, its light seems leaden and dull, not golden and roseate as that of the orb of day.

  Kate wiped away her tears, and set to work to clear the table of the breakfast-things.

  Having performed this duty, she slipped on h
er neat straw bonnet and warm shawl—purchased by the produce of her own industry,—and repaired to market.

  But, alas! poor girl—as she passed rapidly through the streets, she could not help noticing the people, that were lounging at their doors, nudge each other, as much as to say, “There goes the executioner’s niece.”

  And no friendly voice welcomed her with a kind “Good morning:” no human being had a passing compliment,—not even one of those civil phrases which cost nothing to utter, mean perhaps as little, but still are pleasing to hear,—to waste upon the executioner’s niece.

  Some old women, more hard-hearted than the rest, exclaimed, as she hurried timidly by the spot where they were gossiping, “Ah! her uncle has got business on his hands this morning!”

  And when the poor girl reached the shop whither she was going, her eyes were bathed in tears.

  The shopkeeper was cool and indifferent in his manner towards her—not obsequious and ready as towards his other customers. He even examined with suspicion the coin which she tendered him in payment for her purchases—as if it were impossible that honesty could dwell in the heart of an executioner’s niece!

  The ill-conditioned fellow! He saw not the mild blue eyes, with a tear glittering in each like twin-drops of the diamond dew;—he marked not the pretty lips, apart, and expressive of such profound melancholy;—he observed not the thick folds of the shawl across the gently-budding bosom rise and sink rapidly:—no,—he beheld not that interesting young creature’s grief; but he treated her rudely and harshly, because she was the executioner’s niece!

  Kate retraced her steps homewards. She saw other girls of her own age nod familiarly to their acquaintances at the windows, as they passed;—but she had no friend to receive or return her smile of recognition!

  Shrinking within herself, as it were, from the slightest contact with the world which despised her, the poor young creature felt herself an interloper upon the very pavement, and even stepped into the muddy street to make way for those who passed.

  With a broken spirit she returned home, her fate weighing upon her soul like a crime!

  And so it was with her always on those mornings when her uncle was called upon to exercise his fearful functions.

  She was glad to bury herself once more in that dwelling the threshold of which a friendly step so seldom crossed: her little parlour, embellished with her own hands, appeared a paradise of peace after the contumely which she experienced in the bustling streets.

  She had returned home in so depressed a state of mind that she had forgotten to close the front door behind her.

  She opened her work-box, seated herself at the table, and commenced her toil of pleasure—for that young girl loved her needle, and abhorred idleness.

  She then fell into a reverie as she worked.

  “To be a hangman is something horrible indeed,” she mused aloud; “but to be a member of a hangman’s family is far worse. He knows that he merits what reproach is levelled against him, if indeed his office deserve reproach at all; but I, who abhor the idea, and never so much as witnessed an execution—why should shame and obloquy redound upon me? It is like suffering for a crime of which one is innocent! O God, is this human justice? What have I done that the vilest and lowest should despise me? Am I not flesh and blood like them? do my clothes carry pollution, that the ragged beggar draws her tatters close to her as she passes me? Oh! give me strength, heaven, to support my wretched fate; for there are moments when I despair!”

  “You are wrong to mistrust the goodness of the Almighty,” said a mild voice close behind her chair.

  Kate started, and looked round.

  It was the rector of St. David’s who had entered the room, unperceived by the young maiden.

  “Pardon me, reverend sir,” answered Kate; “I know that I am often forgetful of the wholesome lessons which I have received from your lips; but——”

  “Well, well, poor child,” interrupted Reginald Tracy, to whose cheeks the phrase “wholesome lessons” brought a flush of crimson—for he remembered how he himself had deviated from the doctrines which he had long successfully and sincerely taught: “be consoled! I know how sad must be your lot; and I have called this morning to see if I cannot ameliorate it.”

  “What? better my condition, sir?” exclaimed Katherine. “Oh! how is that possible?”

  “We will see,” answered the rector, taking a chair near the young maiden. “You are not altogether so friendless as you imagine.”

  “I am aware, sir, that through your goodness I received an education at the school which your bounty founded; and your excellent housekeeper, Mrs. Kenrick, has furnished me with needle-work. Oh! sir, I am not ignorant how much I owe to you both!”

  Kate raised her mild blue eyes towards the rector’s countenance; but her glance drooped again instantaneously, for his looks were fixed upon her in a manner which she had never noticed in him before, and which excited a momentary feeling of embarrassment—almost of alarm—in her mind.

  But that feeling passed away as rapidly as it had arisen; and she blushed to think that she should have experienced such a sentiment in the presence of so holy a man and so great a benefactor.

  “I did not wish to remind you of any trifling services which myself or my housekeeper may have rendered you, Katharine,” said Reginald. “I alluded to another friend who interests himself in you.”

  “Another friend!” ejaculated the young girl. “Is it possible that I have another friend in the whole world?”

  “You have,” replied Mr. Tracy. “Did not a gentleman, accompanied by a police-officer, visit this house about a fortnight ago?”

  “Yes—I remember—late one night——”

  And she stopped short, being unwilling to allude to that instance of her uncle’s cruelty which had led to the visit mentioned by the rector.

  “Well, that gentleman feels interested in you,” continued Reginald. “He saw how you were treated—he knows that you are unhappy.”

  “And do strangers thus interest themselves in the wretched?” asked Katherine, her eyes swimming in tears.

  “Not often,” replied the rector. “But this gentleman is one of the few noble exceptions to the general rule.”

  “He must be indeed!” exclaimed Katherine, with an enthusiasm which was almost pious.

  “That gentleman learnt from the policeman enough to give him a favourable impression of your character, and to render him desirous of serving you. He pondered upon the matter for some days, but could come to no determination on the subject. He heard that you were anxious to leave this house and earn your own bread.”

  “Oh! yes—how willingly would I do so!” exclaimed Katherine fervently. “But——”

  “But what?” demanded Reginald, in whose eyes the young maiden had never been an object of peculiar interest until at present;—and now he observed, for the first time, that her personal appearance was far—very far from disagreeable.

  The truth was, that, since his fall, he had viewed every woman with different eyes from those through which he had before surveyed the female sex. When he himself was chaste and pure, he observed only the feminine mind and manner:—now his glances studied and discriminated between external attractions. His moral survey had become a sensual one.

  “But what?” he said, when Katherine hesitated. “Do you object to leave your uncle?”

  “I should be a hypocrite were I to say that I object to leave him,” was the immediate answer. “Nevertheless, if he demanded my services, I would remain with him, through gratitude for the bread which he gave me, and the asylum which he afforded me when I was a child and unable to earn either. But he would not seek to retain me, I know; for he does not—he cannot love me! Still, there is one poor creature in this house——”

  “My housekeeper has told me of him. You mean you
r uncle’s son?” said Reginald.

  “I do, sir. He has no friend in the world but me; and, though my intercessions do not save him from much bad treatment, still I have studied to console him.”

  “If he be grateful, he will be pleased to think that you may be removed to a happier situation,” said the rector.

  “True!” exclaimed Kate. “And if I only earned more money than I do here, I should be able to provide him with a great many little comforts.”

  “Assuredly,” replied the fashionable preacher, who during this colloquy had gradually drawn his chair closer to that of the young maiden. “The gentleman, to whom I have before alluded, called upon me yesterday. It appears he learnt from the policeman that you had been educated at the school in my district, and that my housekeeper was well acquainted with you. He nobly offered to contribute a sum of money towards settling you in some comfortable manner.”

  “The generous stranger!” exclaimed Kate. “What is his name, sir—that I may pray for him?”

  “Mr. Markham——”

  “Markham!” cried the young girl, strangely excited by the mention of that name.

  “Yes. Have you ever heard of him before?” asked the rector, surprised at the impression thus produced.

  Katherine appeared to reflect profoundly for some moments; then, opening a secret drawer of her work box, she drew forth a small satin bag, carefully sewed all round.

  She took her scissors and unpicked the thread from one end of the bag.

  The rector watched her attentively, and with as much surprise as interest.

  Having thus opened one extremity of the bag, she inserted her delicate fingers, and produced a sheet of letter-paper, folded, and dingy with age.

  Handing it to the rector, she observed, with tears streaming down her cheeks, “These were the last words my mother ever wrote; and she had lost the use of her speech ere she penned them.”