“I wish to know whether Anthony Tidkins died of the wound which he received?” said Richard.
“It was my lot to attend to his wound,” began Aischa. “When he was so far recovered as to be able to speak—which was about half an hour after the blood was stanched—he implored me to have him removed from the Palace. He told me a long and pathetic story of persecutions and sufferings which he had undergone; and he offered to enrich our treasury if we would take him beyond the reach of the person who had wounded him. His anxiety to get away was extreme; and it was in consequence of his representations and promises that I prevailed upon the King to issue orders to those who were to leave London with us, to hurry the departure as much as possible. That accounts for the abrupt manner in which we left at such an hour, and for the removal of the wounded man with us. In answer to your direct question, I must inform you that he did not die of the wound which he received.”
“He did not die!” repeated Markham. “Then he is still alive—and doubtless as active as ever in purposes of evil.”
“Is he such a bad man?” asked Aischa.
“He belongs to the atrocious gang called Burkers,” answered Richard, emphatically.
“Merciful heavens!” cried Eva, with a shudder. “To think that we should have harboured such a wretch!”
“And to think that I should have devoted my skill to resuscitate such a demon!” exclaimed Aischa.
“The vengeance of the Zingarees will yet overtake him,” said the King, calmly.
“Wherever I meet him, there will I punish him with the stoutest cudgel that I can find ready to hand,” cried Morcar, with a fierce air.
“Have you then cause to complain against him?” asked Richard.
“The wretch, sir,” answered Morcar, “remained nearly a month in our company, until his wound was completely healed by the skill of my mother. We treated him with as much kindness as if he had been our near and dear relative. One morning, when he was totally recovered, he disappeared, carrying away my father’s gold with him.”
“The ungrateful villain!” ejaculated Richard. “And he was indebted to your kindness for his life?”
“He was,” returned Morcar. “Fortunately, there was but little in the treasury at the time—very little;—nevertheless, it was all we had—and he took our all.”
“And you have no trace of him?” said Richard, eagerly.
“Not yet,” replied Morcar. “But we have adopted measures to discover him. The King my father has sent a description of his person and the history of his treachery to every chief of our race in the kingdom; and thousands of sharp eyes are on the look-out for him through the length and breadth of the land.”
“Heaven be thanked!” exclaimed Markham. “But when you discover him, hand him over to the grasp of justice, and instantly acquaint me with the fact.”
“The Zingarees recognise no justice save their own,” said the King, in a dignified manner. “But this much I promise you, that the moment we obtain a trace of his whereabouts, we will communicate it to you, and you may act as seemeth good to yourself. We have no sympathy in common with a cowardly murderer.”
“None,” added Morcar, emphatically.
“I thank you for this promise,” said Richard, addressing himself to the King. “Here is my card; and remember that as anxious as I am to bring a miscreant to justice, so ready shall I be to reward those who are instrumental in his capture.”
“You may rely upon us, young gentleman,” said Zingary. “We will not shield a man who belongs to the miscreant gang of Burkers. To-morrow morning I will issue fresh instructions to the various district chiefs, but especially to our friends in London.”
“And is it possible that, with no compulsory means to enforce obedience, you can dispose of thousands of individuals at will?” exclaimed Markham.
“Listen, young man,” said the King, stroking his beard. “When the great Ottoman monarch, the Sultan Selim, invaded Egypt at the beginning of the sixteenth century, and put to death the Mameluke sovereign Toumanbai,—when the chivalry of Egypt was subdued by the overwhelming multitudes of warriors who fought beneath the banner of Selim and his great Vizier Sinan-Pacha,—then did a certain Egyptian chief place himself at the head of a chosen body of Mamelukes, and proclaim death and destruction to the Ottomans. This chief was Zingarai. For some time he successfully resisted the troops of Selim; but at length he was compelled to yield to numbers; and Selim put him to death. His followers were proscribed; and those who did not fall into the hands of the Turkish conquerors escaped into Europe. They settled first in Bohemia, where their wandering mode of life, their simple manners, their happy and contented dispositions, and their handsome persons soon attracted notice. Then it was that the Bohemian maidens were proud to bestow their hands upon the fugitive followers of Zingarai; and many Bohemian men sought admittance into the fraternity. Hence the mixed Egyptian and Bohemian origin of the gipsy race. In a short time various members of this truly patriarchal society migrated to other climes; and in 1534 our ancestors first settled in England. Now the gipsy race may be met with all over the globe: in every part of Asia, in the interior of Africa, and in both the Americas, you may encounter our brethren, as in Europe. The Asiatics call us Egyptians, the Germans Zinguener, the Italians Cingani, the Spaniards Gitanos, the French Bohemians, the Russians Saracens, the Swedes and Danes Tartars, and the English Gipsies. We most usually denominate ourselves the united races of Zingarees. And Time, young gentleman, has left us comparatively unchanged; we preserve the primitive simplicity of our manners; our countenances denote our origin; and, though deeply calumniated—vilely maligned, we endeavour to live in peace and tranquillity to the utmost of our power. We have resisted persecution—we have outlived oppression. All Europe has promulgated laws against us; and no sovereigns aimed more strenuously to extirpate our race in their dominions than Henry the Eighth and Elizabeth of England. But as the world grows more enlightened, the prejudice against us loses its virulence; and we now enjoy our liberties and privileges without molestation, in all civilised states.”
“I thank you for this most interesting account of your origin,” said Richard.
“Henceforth you will know how to recognise the real truth amongst all the wild, fanciful, and ridiculous tales which you may hear or read concerning our race,” proceeded Zingary. “From the two or three hundred souls who fled from Egypt and took refuge in Bohemia, as I have ere now explained to you, has sprung a large family, which has increased with each generation; and at the present moment we estimate our total number, scattered over all parts of the earth, at one million and a half.”
“I was not aware that you were so numerous,” said Richard, much interested by these details. “Permit me to ask whether the members in every country have one sovereign or chief, as those in England?”
“There is a King of the Zingarees in Spain; another in France; a third in Italy; and a fourth in Bohemia. In the northern provinces of European Turkey, in Hungary, and in Transylvania, there is a prince with the title of a Waiewode: the Zingarees of Northern Europe are governed by a Grand, or Great Lord.”
Richard now rose to take leave of the hospitable and entertaining family in whose society he had thus passed an hour; and, as it was growing dark, Morcar himself offered to conduct our hero as far as Hounslow.
The proposal was gladly accepted; and Markham, having taken leave of the King, Aischa, and Eva, set out with Morcar.
In the course of three-quarters of an hour they reached the precincts of the town.
Richard forced a handsome remuneration upon the gipsy, and reminded him of the promise made by his father concerning the Resurrection Man.
“You may rely upon us,” said Morcar: “it cannot be very long before you will hear from us, for there are many on the alert to discover the haunt of the villain.”
The gipsy then turned to r
etrace his steps towards the encampment; and Richard proceeded to the inn, where he obtained a conveyance for London.
CHAPTER CLXIV.
THE EXECUTIONER’S HISTORY.
On the following evening Smithers presented himself, according to appointment, at Markham Place.
Richard received him in the library, and treated him altogether with a condescension and a degree of kindness which made a deep impression on the mind of the executioner.
Our hero then proceeded to acquaint him with the good fortune of Katherine, and the arrangement which had been made to supply him with the means to establish him in business.
“But do not imagine that this is all which you are to expect at Katherine’s hands,” said Richard. “As time progresses, and I find that you are determined not only to persevere in a respectable course of life, but also to make amends, by your altered manner, for the harshness which you have exhibited towards your son on so many occasions,—it will be my pleasing duty to recommend Katherine’s trustee, who is disposed to place implicit confidence in me, to grant you such occasional pecuniary succour as may enable you to extend the business, whatever it may be, in which you intend to embark.”
“I cannot find words to express my gratitude to you, sir,” said Smithers; “and I hope that when you see Kate again, you will ask her forgiveness in my name for all the unkindness I have shown her at different times.”
“You shall see her yourself—she wishes you and your son to call upon her,” answered Richard; “and Mr. Bennet, to whom I communicated every thing, has sent you both an invitation to pass an entire day at his farm so soon as you can find leisure to avail yourself of the offer.”
“Then that shall be to-morrow, sir,” exclaimed Smithers; “for now that Katherine has such good prospects, I may as well communicate something to her which she will probably not regret to hear.”
And for a few moments Smithers appeared to be absorbed in deep thought.
“And I don’t know why I should keep any secret away from you, sir,” he continued, suddenly breaking silence; “you have done so much for Kate, and you have produced so great a change in my mind, that I ought to conceal nothing from you. In one word, then, sir—Katherine Wilmot is no more my niece than she is yours.”
“Not your niece!” ejaculated Richard.
“No relation whatever in the world to me,” replied Smithers. “I never had either brother or sister; neither had my wife: and thus you see, sir, Kate cannot be my niece.”
“But she believes herself to be so related to you,” said Markham, who was not altogether displeased to learn that the young female for whom he experienced a fraternal interest, was not even a connexion of the Public Executioner.
“The story is somewhat a long one—and to me a melancholy subject,” continued Smithers; “but if you will have patience to listen to it, I shall have nerve to relate it.”
“Proceed,” said Markham. “I feel deeply interested in the topic which now occupies us.”
“You will then excuse me, sir, if I begin by telling you something about myself,” resumed Smithers; “because it is more or less connected with Kate’s early history.”
Smithers settled himself into a comfortable position in his chair, and then related the following history:—
“My father was a grocer, in a large way of business, at Southampton. He was a widower; and I was his only son. I was considered to be a steady, exemplary young man; and I can safely say that I attended studiously to my father’s business. I never frequented public-houses, but went to church regularly of a Sunday, and was fond of reading good books. Next door to us there lived a corn-dealer of the name of Wilmot;—he also was a widower, and had one child. This was a beautiful girl, about a year or two younger than myself, and whose name was Harriet. The two families had been acquainted for a long, long time; and Harriet and myself were playmates in our infancy. We were therefore very intimate together; and the friendship of childhood ripened into love as we grew up. And, oh! how I did adore that girl! From amidst all the coarse, worldly, and abominable ideas which have of late years crowded in my brain, I have ever singled out that one bright—pure—and holy sentiment as a star that points to a blissful episode in my life. And she loved me in return! Our parents were pleased when they saw our attachment; and it was understood that our marriage should take place on the day that I attained my one-and-twentieth year. It only wanted seven or eight months to that period, when an event occurred which quite changed the prospect of affairs. The local bank failed, and old Wilmot was ruined.”
Smithers paused for a moment, heaved a deep sigh, and then continued thus:—
“Wilmot immediately came to my father and addressed him in these words: ‘The failure of the bank will throw me into the Gazette, if I cannot raise twelve or fifteen hundred pounds within a week to sustain my credit. That difficulty being overcome, I have no doubt of retrieving altogether.’ My father expressed his great delight at hearing this latter announcement, but instinctively buttoned up his breeches-pockets. Wilmot proceeded to state that he could raise the sum he required if my father would guarantee its repayment. My father was a money-making, close man; and this proposal astounded him. He refused it point blank: Wilmot begged and implored him to save him from ruin;—but all in vain. In the course of ten days the name of Joseph Wilmot, corn-dealer, figured in the list of Bankrupts.”
Again Smithers paused for a few moments.
“I must tell you, sir,” he continued, “that I did all I could to persuade my father to help Wilmot in this business; but my prayers and entreaties had been poured forth entirely without effect. I, however, took an opportunity of seeing Harriet, and assuring her that my affection was based upon no selfish motive, but that her father’s misfortunes endeared her more than ever to me. My father viewed matters in quite a different light, and spoke to me openly of the impossibility of my marrying a girl without a penny. I remonstrated with him on the cruelty, injustice, and dishonour of such conduct; but he cut me very short by observing that ‘his money was his own—he had made it by his industry—he could leave it to whom he chose—and that if I insisted upon marrying Harriet Wilmot I need not darken his threshold afterwards.’ I replied that I was resolved to consult my own inclinations, and also to do honour to my vows and promises towards Harriet.”
“You acted in a generous manner,” observed Markham; “although you opposed the wishes of your own father.”
“I had no secrets from Harriet,” said Smithers; “and I assured her that if she would espouse a man who had nothing but his honest name and exertions to depend upon, I was ready to make her mine. She answered me, with tears in her eyes, that she could never consent to be the cause of marring all my prospects in life, and that, much as she loved me, she would release me from my vows. I wept in concert with her;—for I was not then hard-hearted, sir,—nor had my countenance become impressed with that brutal severity which I know—I feel, it has long, long worn.”
“As the countenance is more or less the index of the soul,” said Markham, “so will yours resume all its former serenity of expression.”
“Well—well, sir: let me hope so! I do not wish to die with the word ‘EXECUTIONER’ traced upon my features. But I will continue my story. Harriet seemed firm in her generous purpose not to be the cause of my ruin: I however implored her to reflect upon the misery into which her decision would plunge me. I then left her. The next morning I heard that Wilmot and his daughter had departed from their house, and had gone—no one knew whither. Malignant people said that the old man was afraid to face his creditors in the local Bankruptcy-court: I thought otherwise. I felt persuaded that Harriet had prevailed upon her father, by some means or another, to leave;—and I now considered her lost to me for ever. My sorrow was great; but I redoubled my attention to business in order to distract my mind from contemplating the misfortune that had befallen me. Weeks and
months passed away; and the wound in my heart was closed, but it was still painful. One day, during a temporary indisposition which confined my father to his room, I was turning over some papers in his desk, seeking for an invoice which I required, when I perceived a letter addressed to my father and signed Joseph Wilmot. The date especially attracted my attention, because I remembered that this letter must have been written on the very day that I had the last interview with Harriet. I hesitated not for a moment to read it; and its contents revealed to me the cause of that precipitate departure which has so distressed me. Indeed, the letter was in answer to one which Wilmot acknowledged to have just before received from my father. It appears that my father had written to offer old Wilmot two hundred pounds if he would quit the town, with his daughters, and that Wilmot should give a note of hand for this amount, which security my father engaged himself not to enforce so long as Wilmot remained away and left me in ignorance of his future place of residence. Wilmot consented to this arrangement: he was a ruined man without a shilling; and he gladly availed himself of the means of embarking in business elsewhere. This stratagem on the part of my father I discovered through Wilmot’s letter. I said nothing about the letter to my father: I concluded that he had merely acted under the impression that he was consulting my welfare; and moreover the injury appeared to be irrevocable. Well, sir—six months passed away after the departure of Wilmot and his daughter, and my father, who was usually so cautious and prudent, was induced to embark some money in the purchase of smuggled goods. The excise officers discovered the transaction; and a fine was imposed which swept away every farthing of the sum which my father had been accumulating by the industry and toil of years. It broke his heart: he died, and left me a ruined business, instead of a decent competence. I struggled on for a year, just keeping my head above water, but dreadfully crippled for want of capital. At length I learnt, from a friend, that I had found favour in the sight of a wealthy neighbour’s daughter, who was some six or seven years older than myself. I made the best of this circumstance; and, to save myself from total ruin, in a short time married the female alluded to. The fruit of this union was a son—the poor deformed creature whom you have seen. He was not, however, so afflicted at his birth: how he came to be so, I will presently tell you.”
The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics) Page 25
