“REGINALD TRACY.”
Katherine perused this letter, and then handed it to Richard Markham.
While he read it, the young maiden prayed inwardly but sincerely for the eternal welfare of him whose course had been dazzling like a meteor, but had terminated in a cloud of appalling blackness.
“Those conditions, to which the unhappy man alluded, I can explain to you,” said Richard, after a long interval of silence, during which he allowed Katherine to compose her thoughts. “This letter was placed in the hands of Mr. Tracy’s solicitor, by the governor of Newgate, the day before yesterday. The lawyer immediately wrote to me, being unacquainted with your address. I saw him yesterday afternoon; and he gave me the letter to convey to you, entrusting me at the same time with the duty of communicating to you this last act of Reginald Tracy. Mr. Wharton acquainted me with the conditions which Mr. Tracy had named. These are that you shall enjoy the interest of the money until you attain the age of twenty-one, when the capital shall be placed at your whole and sole disposal; but should you marry previous to that period, then the capital may also be transferred to your name. And now I must touch upon a more delicate point—inasmuch as it alludes to myself. Mr. Tracy was pleased to place such confidence in me, as to have stipulated that should you contract any marriage previous to the attainment of the age of twenty-one, without my approval of the individual on whom you may settle your affections, you will then forfeit all right and title to the fortune, which is in that case to be devoted to purposes of charity specified in the instructions given by Mr. Tracy to his solicitor.”
“Oh! I should never think of taking any step—however trivial, or however important—without consulting you, as my benefactor—my saviour!” exclaimed Katherine.
“You are a good and a grateful girl, Katherine,” said Richard; “and never for a moment did I mistake your excellent heart—never did I lose my confidence in your discretion and virtue.”
“No—for when all the world deserted me,” said the maiden, “you befriended me!”
“I have yet other matters of business to consult you upon,” continued Markham. “Yesterday evening your uncle called upon me. Never—never have I seen such an alteration so speedily wrought in any living being! He said that certain representations which I had made to him at the tavern in the Old Bailey, after you had departed with Mrs. Bennet, had induced him to reflect more seriously upon the course of life which he had been for years pursuing.”
“Oh! these news are welcome—welcome indeed!” ejaculated Katherine, clasping her hands together in token of gratitude.
“I communicated to him your good fortune, Katherine,” proceeded Markham; “and he wept like a child.”
“Poor uncle! His heart was not altogether closed against me!” murmured Katherine.
“I desired him to call upon me to-morrow, and I assured him that in the meantime I would devise some project by which he should be enabled to earn a livelihood whereof he need not be ashamed.”
“You are not content with being my benefactor, Mr. Markham: you intend to make my relatives adore your name!” cried Katherine, her heart glowing with gratitude towards our hero.
“I now intend that you shall be the means of doing good, Katherine,” said Richard, with a smile.
“Oh! tell me how!” exclaimed the amiable girl, joyfully.
“You shall draw upon the first year’s interest of your fortune, for a sufficient sum to enable your uncle to retire to some distant town, where, under another name, he may commence a business at whose nature he will not be forced to blush.”
“Oh! that proposal is indeed a source of indescribable happiness to me,” said Katherine.
“Then I will carry the plan into effect to-morrow,” continued Richard. “Your uncle and cousin shall both visit you here, when they leave London.”
“Poor John!” said Katherine. “Do you think that his father——”
“Will treat him better in future?” added Markham, seeing that the maiden hesitated. “Yes: I will answer for it! A complete change has taken place in your uncle: he is another man.”
“He contemplated your benevolence, and he could not do otherwise than be struck by the example,” said Kate.
“I asked him if he desired you to live with him in future; and he replied, ‘Not for worlds!’ He then continued to say that dwell where he might, conceal his name how he would, there would be danger of his ancient calling transpiring; and he would not incur the chance of involving you in the disgrace that might ensue. This consideration on his part speaks volumes in favour of that change which has been effected within him.”
“The tidings you have brought me concerning my uncle, Mr. Markham,” said Katherine, “far outweigh in my estimation the news of my good fortune.”
“Your uncle and your cousin will yet be happy—no doubt,” observed Richard. “In reference to yourself, what course would you like to adopt? Would you wish me to seek some respectable and worthy family in London, with whom you can take up your abode in entire independence? or——”
“Oh! no—not London!” exclaimed Katherine, recoiling from the name in horror.
“My counsel is that you remain here—in this seclusion,—at least for the present,” said Richard. “The tranquillity of this rural dwelling—the charms of the country—the unsophisticated manners of these good people, will restore your mind to its former composure, after all you have passed through.”
“This advice I have every inclination to follow,” said Katherine; “and even were I otherwise disposed—which I could not be—your counsel would at once decide me.”
“Remember, Katherine,” resumed Markham, “I do not wish you to pass the best portion of your youth in this retirement. With your fortune and brilliant prospect, such a proceeding were unnatural—absurd. I only feel desirous that for a short time you should remain afar from society—until recent events shall be forgotten, and until your own mind shall become calm and relieved from the excitement which past misfortunes have been so painfully calculated to produce.”
“I will remain here until you tell me that it is good for me to go elsewhere,” said Katherine.
At this moment an old man, dressed in a rustic garb, but with a good-natured countenance and venerable white hair, entered the room.
This was the farmer himself.
Katherine introduced Richard to him as her benefactor; and the old man shook hands with our hero in a cordial manner, saying at the same time, “By all I have heard Miss Kate tell of you, sir, you must be an honour to any house, whether rich or poor, that you condescend to visit.”
Richard thanked the good-natured rustic for the well-meant compliment, and then communicated to him the fact that his wife was entitled to a legacy of five hundred pounds, which would be paid to her order in the course of a few days.
The old man was overjoyed at these tidings, although his countenance partially fell when he heard the source whence the bequest emanated: but Richard convinced him that it would be unwise and absurd to refuse it.
Mr. Bennet hastened upstairs to communicate the news to his wife.
While he was absent, the farmer’s servant-girl entered to spread the table for the afternoon’s repast.
On the return of the old man to the room, the dinner was served up; and our hero sat down to table with the farmer and Katherine.
A happy meal was that; and in the pure felicity which Katherine now enjoyed, Richard beheld to a considerable extent the results of his own goodness. How amply did the spectacle of that young creature’s happiness reward him for all that he had done in her behalf!
It was four o’clock in the afternoon when our hero took his leave of the old farmer and Miss Wilmot, in order to retrace his steps to Hounslow.
CHAPTER CLXIII.
THE ZINGAREES.
The old farmer
had offered to convey Richard to Hounslow in his own spring-cart, or to provide him with a guide to conduct him thither; but our hero felt so confident of being enabled to find his way back to the town, that he declined both offers.
He walked on, across the fields, pondering upon various subjects,—Isabella, his brother, Katherine, Reginald Tracy’s crimes, and the frightful suicide of Lady Cecilia Harborough,—and with his mind so intent upon these topics, that some time elapsed ere he perceived that he had fallen into a wrong path.
He looked around; but not an object of which he had taken notice in the morning, when proceeding to the farm could he now discover.
Thus he had lost the only means which could assist his memory in regaining the road.
As he stood upon a little eminence, gazing around to find some clue towards the proper direction which he should follow, a light blue wreath of smoke, rising from behind a hill at a short distance, met his eyes.
“There must be a dwelling yonder,” he said to himself; “I will proceed thither, and ask my way; or, if possible, obtain a guide.”
Towards the light blue cloud which curled upwards, Markham directed his steps; but when he reached the brow of the hill, from the opposite side of which the smoke at first met his eye, he perceived, instead of a cottage as he expected, an encampment of gipsies.
A covered van stood near the spot where two men, two women, and a boy were partaking of a meal, the steam of which impregnated the air with a powerful odour of onions.
The caldron, whence the mess was served up in earthenware vessels, was suspended by means of stakes over a cheerful wood-fire.
We need attempt no description of the persons of those who were partaking of the repast: it will be sufficient to inform the reader that they consisted of King Zingary, Queen Aischa, Morcar, Eva, and this latter couple’s son.
They were, however, totally unknown to Richard: but the moment he saw they were of the gipsy tribe, he determined to glean from them any thing which they might know and might choose to reveal concerning the Resurrection Man.
He therefore accosted them in a civil manner, and, stating that he had lost his way, inquired which was the nearest path to Hounslow.
“It would be difficult to direct you, young gentleman, by mere explanation,” answered Zingary, stroking his long white beard in order to impress Richard with a sense of veneration; “but my grandson here shall show you the way with pleasure.”
“That I will, sir,” exclaimed the boy, starting from the ground, and preparing to set off.
“But perhaps the gentleman will rest himself, and partake of some refreshment,” observed Morcar.
“If you will permit me,” said Markham, whose purpose this invitation just suited, “I will warm myself for a short space by your cheerful fire; for the evening is chilly. But you must not consider me rude if I decline your kind hospitality in respect to food.”
“The gentleman is cold, Morcar,” said Zingary: “produce the rum, and hand a snicker.”
The King’s son hastened to the van to fetch the bottle of spirits; and Markham could not help observing his fine, tall, well-knit frame, to which his dark Roman countenance gave an additional air of manliness—even of heroism.
Richard partook of the spirits, in order to ingratiate himself with the gipsies; and King Zingary then called for his “broseley.”
“You appear to lead a happy life,” observed Richard, by way of encouraging a conversation.
“We are our own masters, young gentleman,” answered Zingary; “and where there is freedom, there is happiness.”
“Is it true that your race is governed by a King?” asked Markham.
“I am the King of the united races of Bohemians and Egyptians,” said Zingary, in a stately manner. “This is my beloved Queen, Aischa: that is my son, Morcar; here is my daughter-in-law, Eva; and that lad is my grandson.”
Richard started when these names fell upon his ears; for they had been mentioned to him by Skilligalee in the Palace of the Holy Land. He also remembered to have been informed that it was in consequence of something which the Resurrection Man told Aischa, when she was attending to his wound, that the gipsies took him with them when they removed from the Palace to the encampment near the Penitentiary at Pentonville.
“I feel highly honoured by the hospitality which your Majesty has afforded me,” said Richard, with a bow—an act of courtesy which greatly pleased King Zingary. “On one occasion I was indebted to some of your subjects for a night’s lodging at your establishment in St. Giles’s.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed the King; and now all the gipsies surveyed Richard with some interest.
“Yes,” continued our hero; “and I may as well state to you frankly and candidly under what circumstances I became your guest—for you were all inmates of the house at the time I entered it.”
“Speak, young gentleman,” said Zingary: “we will listen with attention to all you may please to tell us; but we do not seek your confidence of our own accord, as curiosity is forbidden to our race.”
“I must inform you,” resumed Richard, “that I have sustained great and signal injuries at the hands of a miscreant, whom I one night traced to your dwelling in St. Giles’s.”
“Call it the Palace, young gentleman,” said Zingary, smoking his pipe, and listening with great complacency.
“On that night, the man to whom I allude was desperately wounded——”
“Ah!” ejaculated the gipsies, as it were in a breath.
“And you removed him with you, away from the Palace during the night—or rather very early in the morning.”
“Then you, young gentleman,” said the King, “were the stranger whom the porter locked in the room to which you were shown, and who escaped from the Palace by some means or other? The matter was duly reported to us by letter.”
“It is perfectly true that I liberated myself from the room in which I was imprisoned,” said Markham. “But, answer me—I implore you—one question; did that vile man die of the wound which he received?”
“Before I reply to you,” observed Zingary, “you will have the goodness to inform me why you left the Palace by stealth on that occasion, and whether you saw or heard any thing remarkable after we had taken our departure?”
“I will answer you frankly,” returned Markham. “I left my room on that occasion, because I wished to discover whether Anthony Tidkins, to whom I have alluded, was in the house——”
“The Palace,” said Zingary.
“I beg your Majesty’s pardon—the Palace,” continued Richard; “and I thank God that I was more or less instrumental in releasing from a horrible dungeon a poor woman——”
“We know whom you mean,” interrupted Zingary, sternly. “Did you see a tall young man——”
“Who called himself by the strange name of Skilligalee?” added Markham, concluding the King’s question for him. “I did;—I helped him to release the woman he named Margaret.”
“And whom the laws of the Zingarees had condemned to the penalty from which you freed her,” said the King. “Was it right, young man, thus to step between the culprit and the decree of justice?”
“I acted in accordance with the dictates of humanity,” replied Richard, firmly; “and under such circumstances I should act in a similar way again.”
“The young gentleman speaks well,” said Morcar, who admired the resolution evinced in our hero’s tone and manner.
“And he showed a good heart,” observed Eva, now speaking for the first time since Richard’s arrival, and displaying her brilliant teeth.
“Well—well,” exclaimed Zingary: “I will not upbraid the young man more, since even my pretty Eva takes his part. You see,” he continued, addressing himself especially to the gipsies, “it is as we thought. Skilligalee deserted us in order to liberate Marg
aret Flathers. I always believed that such was the case, from the moment we received the account of her escape. But I have one more question to ask our guest. Let him satisfy us how he traced Anthony Tidkins to the Palace, and how he learnt that Anthony Tidkins was wounded in the Palace.”
“On that head I must remain silent,” said Richard. “I will not invent a falsehood, and I cannot reveal the truth. Be you, however, well assured that I never betrayed the secrets and mysteries of your establishment in Saint Giles’s.”
“Our guest is an honourable man,” observed Morcar. “We ought to be satisfied with what he says.”
“I am satisfied,” exclaimed the King. “Aischa, answer you the questions which it is now the young man’s turn to put to us.”
The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics) Page 24
