“Yeth—in the hothpital,” echoed Sir Cherry.
“Hold your tongue, Cherry—you’re a fool,” cried the Major. “And, policeman, if you want to communicate with me upon the subject—I mean, if any thing should happen to the poor devil, you know—you can call or write. Here’s my card—and here’s a guinea for yourself.”
“Thanke’e, sir,” returned the officer: “but won’t you be so kind as to give him a lift in your cab as far as Saint Bartholomew’s?”
“Quite out of the quethtion!” exclaimed Sir Cherry.
“Oh! quite,” said the Honourable Major Smilax Dapper. “We are engaged to dine at the house of some friends with whom Lady Bounce—that’s this gentleman’s wife—is staying; and we are late as it is. You must get a stretcher, policeman—strike me! Now then, John!”
“All right, sir!” cried the servant, springing up behind the vehicle.
And away went the cabriolet with the rapidity of lightning.
In the meantime a crowd had collected; and amongst the spectators thus assembled were two individuals who seemed to take a more than common interest in the painful scene.
One was Filippo, who happened to be passing at the moment: but he kept behind the crowd, so that Greenwood might not perceive him.
The other was the hump-back Gibbet, whom accident likewise made a witness of the event, and who, observing the cruel indifference with which the gentlemen in the cab had treated a misfortune caused by themselves, felt suddenly interested in behalf of the victim of their carelessness.
The policeman procured a stretcher; and, with the aid of two or three of the idlers whom the accident had collected to the spot, he conveyed Greenwood to Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital.
Filippo hurried rapidly away the moment he saw his late master removed in the manner described; but Gibbet, who, we should observe, was clad in deep mourning, walked by the side of the procession.
Greenwood fainted, through excessive pain, while he was being conveyed to the hospital; and when he came to himself again, he was lying in a narrow bed, upon a hard mattress stretched on an iron frame-work, while the house-surgeon was setting his leg, which had been broken.
The room was long and crowded with beds, in each of which there was a patient; for this was the Casualty Ward of Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital.
“And how did this occur, then?” said the house-surgeon to the police-officer, who was standing by.
“Two gentlemen in a cab, coming along Bridge Street, capsized the poor feller,” was the answer. “They told me who they was—one a Sir, so I suppose a Barrow-Knight—and t’other, whose card I’ve got, is a Honourable and a Major. If they hadn’t had handles to their names I shouldn’t have let ’em go off so quiet as I did, after knocking down a feller-creatur’ through sheer carelessness.”
“Well, well,” said the surgeon, impatiently: “I suppose you know your duty. The leg is set—it’s a simple fracture—and there’s no danger. Mrs. Jubkins!”
“Yes, sir,” said a nurse, stepping forward.
“The new patient must be kept very quiet, Mrs. Jubkins,” continued the house-surgeon, behind whom stood two assistants, termed dressers, and smelling awfully of rum and tobacco: “and if any casualty that’s likely to be noisy should come in to-night, don’t put it into this ward, Mrs. Jubkins. I shall visit this leg the first thing in the morning before I see the Collar-Bone that came in just now. By the by, Mrs. Jubkins, how’s the Eye this evening?”
“The Eye, sir, has been calling out for somethink to eat this last three hours, sir,” replied the head nurse of the Casualty Ward.
“And the Ribs, Mrs. Jubkins, that came in this morning—how do you get on there?”
“The Ribs, sir,” answered the nurse, somewhat indignantly, “has done nothing but curse and swear ever since you left at noon. It’s quite horrible, sir.”
“A bad habit, Mrs. Jubkins—a very bad habit,” said the surgeon: “swearing neither mends nor helps matters. But damn the fellow—he can’t be so very bad, either.”
“In course not, sir,” observed the nurse. “But what am I to do with the Nose, sir?”
“Let the Nose put his feet into hot water as usual.”
The surgeon then felt Greenwood’s pulse, gave Mrs. Jubkins a few necessary directions, and was about to proceed to the next ward to visit a Brain, which also had a compound fracture of the arm, when he suddenly espied Gibbet near the head of the new patient’s bed.
“Well, my good fellow,” said the surgeon; “and what do you want?”
“Please, sir,” answered Gibbet, “I merely came in—I scarce know why—but I saw the accident—and I thought that if this poor gentleman would like to send a message to any friend——”
“Oh! yes, I should indeed!” murmured Greenwood, in a faint and yet earnest tone.
“Well—you can settle that matter between you,” said the surgeon: “only, my good fellow,” he added, speaking to Gibbet, “you must not hold the patient too long in conversation.”
“No, sir—I will not,” was the answer.
The surgeon, the nurse, and the dressers moved away: the policeman had already taken his departure; and Greenwood was therefore enabled to speak without reserve to the kind-hearted hump-back who had manifested so generous an interest in his behalf.
And now behold Gibbet—the late hangman’s son—leaning over the pallet of the once fashionable, courted, and influential George Montague Greenwood.
“I am so weak—so ill in mind and body,” said the latter, in a very faint and low tone, “that I cannot devote words to tell you how much I feel your kindness.”
“Don’t mention that, sir,” interrupted Gibbet. “Inform me as briefly as possible how I can serve you.”
“I will,” continued Greenwood. “If you would proceed to a mansion near Lower Holloway, called Markham Place——”
“Markham Place!” said Gibbet, with a start.
“Yes—do you know it?”
“It was my intention to call there this very evening. The Prince of Montoni has been my greatest benefactor——”
“Oh! how fortunate!” murmured Greenwood. “Then you know that there is a young lady named Miss Monroe——”
“Yes, sir: she lives at the Place, with her father.”
“And it is to her that I wish a message conveyed,” said Greenwood. “Seek an opportunity to deliver that message to her alone;—and on no account, I implore you, let the Prince—nor any inmate of that house save Miss Monroe—learn what has occurred to me.”
“Your wishes shall be faithfully complied with. But the message——”
“Oh! it is brief,” interrupted Greenwood, with a sad smile, which was not, however, altogether devoid of bitterness: “tell her—whisper in her ear—that an accident has brought me hither, and that I am desirous to see her to-morrow. And—assure her, my good friend,” he added, after a short pause, “that I am in no danger—for she might be uneasy.”
“Your instructions shall be fulfilled to the letter,” replied Gibbet.
Greenwood expressed his thanks; and the hump-back took his departure.
CHAPTER CCLV.
GIBBET AT MARKHAM PLACE.
It was at about eight o’clock in the evening when Gibbet alighted from a cab at the entrance of Markham Place.
He knocked timidly at the door; but the servant who answered the summons received him with respect—for not the veriest mendicant that crawled upon the face of the earth ever met with an insulting glance nor a harsh word from any inmate of that dwelling.
To Gibbet’s question whether “His Highness was at home?” the domestic replied by a courteous invitation to enter; and being shown into a parlour—the very same where more than two years previously he and his father had one evening supped with our hero—he was shortly joine
d by the Prince.
The hump-back, well as he had been enabled to judge of the excellent qualities of Richard, was nevertheless surprised at the kind and affable manner in which that exalted personage hastened forward to welcome him; and tears of gratitude rolled down the poor creature’s face as he felt his hands clasped in those of one whom he so profoundly respected and so enthusiastically admired.
Markham made him sit down, and rang the bell for wine and refreshments: then, noticing that the hump-back was in deep mourning, he hastened to question him as to the cause—which he nevertheless could well divine.
“Alas! my lord,” answered Gibbet, “my poor father is no more! And latterly—ever since he knew your Highness—he was so affectionate, so kind towards me, that I feel his loss very painfully indeed!”
“Compose yourself, my good friend,” said Richard; “and be solaced with the thought that your father has gone to a better world.”
“It was but last week, my lord,” continued Gibbet, drying his tears, “that he was apparently in the full enjoyment of health. Your Highness is aware—by means of the letters which you were so condescending as to permit me occasionally to address to you—that the business in which my father embarked in the country prospered well, and that, under an assumed name, we were leading a happy and a comfortable life. But my father was superstitious; and I think he frightened himself to death.”
“Explain yourself, my friend,” said Markham: “you interest me considerably.”
“I should inform your Highness,” proceeded John Smithers, “of an incident which occurred about two years ago. You recollect the letter that your Highness wrote to acquaint us that you had unravelled the mystery which had so long involved the birth of—of——”
“Katherine—call her Katherine,” said Richard, kindly. “You shall see her presently—and she would be offended with you were you to call her by any other name than that by which you knew her for so many years.”
“Oh! my lord—now you afford me real joy!” ejaculated Gibbet, wiping his eyes once more. “But as I was about to say, it was in the middle of the very night before the letter reached us, that my father came to my room in a dreadful fright. He held a rushlight in his hand—and he was as pale as death. Horror was depicted on his countenance. I implored him to tell me what had disturbed him; and when he had somewhat recovered his presence of mind, he said in a solemn and sepulchral tone—oh! I never shall forget it!—‘John, I have just received a second warning. I was in the middle of a deep sleep, when something awoke me with a start; and by the dim light of the candle, I beheld the countenance of Harriet Wilmot gazing with a sweet and beneficent expression upon me through the opening of the curtains. It lingered for a few moments, and then faded away!’—Vainly did I reason with my father upon the subject: vainly did I represent to him that he was the sport of a vision—a fanciful dream. He shook his head solemnly, bade me mention the topic no more, and then returned to his room. For a few days afterwards he was pensive and thoughtful; but in a short time the impression thus strangely made upon him wore away, and he became cheerful and contented as usual.”
“Ah! now I begin to comprehend the meaning of your observation that your poor father frightened himself to death!” exclaimed Richard. “But give me all the details and full particulars.”
“I will, my lord. Two years passed since that time, and the subject was never mentioned by either of us. Katherine, as your lordship knows, used to write to us frequently; and my father was always rejoiced to hear from her and of her great prosperity. We had a feast, my lord, on the day when she was united to that good Italian gentleman whom you wrote to tell us she was to marry; and I never saw my father in better spirits. Well, my lord, thus time slipped away; and all went on smoothly until last Monday week, when we retired to rest somewhat later than usual, having had a few friends to pass the evening. It was about two o’clock in the morning, and I was in a profound sleep, when some one burst into my room. I started up: my poor father fell fainting upon the bed. Assistance was immediately summoned—a surgeon was sent for—and the proper remedies were applied. But all in vain! He remained in a kind of torpor two days; and early in the morning of the third he seemed to recover a little. He opened his eyes and recognised me. A languid smile animated his features: he drew me towards him, and embraced me affectionately. Then, before he released me from his arms, he whispered in a faint tone, ‘John, I am dying—I know I am! The last warning has been given—I have seen her face a third time! But how beautiful she looked—so mild, so angelic!’—With these words his eyes closed—a sudden change came over him—and in a few minutes he was no more.”
“And now, my poor friend,” said Markham, wiping away a tear, while Gibbet’s eyes were streaming, “you are without a companion—without a parent; and the many acts of kindness you showed to my sister when she was dependant on your father’s bounty, have created for you deep sympathies in the hearts of those who will now endeavour to solace you in your present affliction.”
“Oh! my lord, you are goodness itself!” ejaculated Gibbet: “but to-morrow I shall return into the country to realize the property which I now possess through my father’s death—and then—and then, my lord——”
“You will come back to London—to this house,” said Markham, categorically and emphatically.
“No, my lord—I shall repair to Liverpool, and thence depart for America,” answered Gibbet, conquering his emotions and speaking more firmly than he had yet done. “Oh! do not seek to turn me from my purpose, my lord—for my happiness depends upon that step,” he continued.
Richard surveyed the hump-back with unfeigned astonishment;—and this sentiment was strangely increased, when the poor creature, suddenly yielding to the impulse of his emotions, fell at our hero’s feet, and catching hold of both his hands, exclaimed, “Oh! my lord, pardon me for what I have done! From our childhood I have loved Katherine—loved her devotedly,—first as a brother should love a sister—and then, my lord, oh! pardon me, but I knew not that she was by birth so high above me—I could not foresee that she would be some day acknowledged as the sister of a great Prince! And thus, my lord—if I have offended you by daring at one time to love Katherine more tenderly than I ought—you will forgive me—you will forgive me! And believe me, my lord, when I solemnly declare that never did I understand my own feelings in respect to her—never did I comprehend why her image was so unceasingly present to my imagination—until that letter came in which you announced to my father her approaching marriage. Then, my lord, then——but oh! forgive me—pardon me for this boundless insolence—this impious presumption!”
Gibbet had spoken with such strange rapidity and such wild—startling—almost frenzied energy,—and the revelation his words conveyed had so astonished our hero, that the sudden seriousness which his countenance assumed was mistaken by the poor hump-back for severity.
But this error was speedily dissipated, when Markham, recovering from his bewilderment, raised him from the floor, conducted him to a seat, and leaning over him, said in the kindest possible manner, “My dear friend, you have no forgiveness to ask—I no pardon to accord. In my estimation, distinctions of birth are as nothing; and if you have loved my sister, it was a generous—an honest—a worthy attachment which you nourished. But, alas! my poor friend—that attachment is most unfortunate!” he said, soothingly.
“I know it, my lord—I know it!” cried Gibbet, tears streaming from his eyes: “and had I not been compelled to avow my secret, as an explanation of the motive which will induce me to seek another clime where I may commune with my own heart in the solitude of some forest on the verge of civilization—that secret would never have been revealed! And now, my lord,” he added, hastily wiping his eyes, and assuming a calm demeanour, “seek not to deter me from my purpose—and let us close our lips upon this too painful subject!”
“Be it as you will, my good friend
,” said the Prince. “But for this night, at all events, you will make my house your home.”
Gibbet gave a reluctant consent; and, when his feelings were entirely calmed, Richard introduced him into the drawing-room, where Isabella, Katherine and her husband, Ellen and Mr. Monroe were seated.
And here the reader may exclaim, “What! present the hump-back orphan of the late hangman to that elegant, refined, and accomplished Princess whose father sits upon a throne!”
Yes, reader: and it was precisely because this poor creature was deformed—an orphan—with what many might term a stigma on his parentage—and so lonely and desolate in the world, that Richard Markham took him by the hand, and introduced him into the bosom of his domesticity. But the Prince also knew that the unfortunate hump-back possessed a heart that might have done honour to a monarch; and our hero looked not to personal appearance—nor to birth—nor to fortune—nor to name,—but to the qualities of the mind!
And Isabella, who had heard all the previous history of those with whom Katherine had passed so many years of her life, welcomed that poor deformed creature even as her husband had welcomed him,—welcomed him, too, the more kindly because he was so deformed!
But we shall not dwell upon this scene:—we shall leave our readers to picture to themselves the delight of Katherine at beholding him whom she had long believed to be her cousin, and who was ever ready to catch the stripes that were destined for her,—her sorrow when she heard of the death of the hump-back’s father,—and the happiness experienced by Gibbet himself at passing an evening in the society of the inmates of Markham Place.
Accident enabled him to obtain a few moments’ conversation aside with Ellen; and to her he broke in as few words but in as delicate a manner as possible, the sad news which he had to communicate relative to Greenwood.
The young lady suppressed her grief as well as she could; but she shortly afterwards pleaded indisposition and retired early to her room—there to ponder and weep, without fear of interruption, over the fallen fortunes of her husband!
The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics) Page 132
