MORBID FEELINGS.—KATHERINE.
"Holloa, Banks!" exclaimed the executioner. "Got scent of the morning's
work—eh, old feller?"
"Alas! my dear Mr. Smithers," returned the undertaker, shaking his head
in a lachrymose manner, "if men will perpetrate such enormities, they
must expect to go to their last home by means of a dance upon nothing."
And, according to a custom which years had rendered a part of
Mr. Banks's nature, he wiped his eyes with a dingy white
pocket-handkerchief.
"There he is again, the old fool!" ejaculated Smithers, with a coarse
guffaw; "always a-whimpering! Why, you don't mean to say, Banks, that
you care two straws about the feller that's going to be tucked up this
morning?"
"Ah! Smithers, you don't know my heart: I weeps for frail human natur',
and not only for the unhappy being that's so soon to be a blessed
defunct carkiss. But, Smithers—my boy——"
"Well?" cried the executioner.
"How much is it to be this time for the rope?" asked Mr. Banks, in a
tremulous tone and with another solemn shake of the head.
"Five shillings—not a mag under," was the prompt reply.
"That's too much, Mr. Smithers—too much," observed the undertaker of
Globe Lane. "The last one I bought I lost by: times is changed, Mr.
Smithers—sadly changed."
"Ain't the _morbid feelings_, as the press calls 'em, as powerful as
ever?" demanded the executioner savagely.
"The morbid feelings, thank God, is right as a trivet," answered Banks;
"but it's the blunt that falls off, Smithers—the blunt! And what's the
use of the morbid feelings if there's no blunt to gratify 'em?"
"Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Banks," cried the executioner, "that you
can't get as ready a sale for the halters as you used to do?"
"I'm afraid that such is the actiwal case, my dear friend," responded
Mr. Banks, turning up his eyes in a melancholy manner. "The last blessed
wictim that you operated on, Mr. Smithers, you remember, I gived you
five shillings for the rope; and I will say, in justice to him as spun
it and them as bought it, that a nicer, stronger, or compacter bit of
cord never supported carkiss to cross-beam. But wain was it that I
coiled it neat up in my winder;—wain was it that I wrote on a half sheet
of foolscap, '_This is the halter that hung poor William Lees_;'—the
morbid feelings was strong, 'cos the crowd collected opposite my house;
but the filthy lucre, Smithers, was wanting. Well—there the damned—I beg
its pardon—the blessed cord stayed for a matter of three weeks; and I do
believe it never would have gone at all, if some swell that was passing
quite promiscuously one day didn't take a fancy to it——"
"Well, and what did he give you?" demanded the executioner impatiently.
"Only twelve shillings, as true as I'm a woful sinner that hopes to be
saved!" answered the undertaker.
"Twelve shillings—eh? And how much would you have had for the rope?"
"When the blunt doesn't fall short of the morbid feelings, I calkilates
upon a guinea," answered Mr. Banks.
"Why, you old rogue," shouted the executioner, "you know that you sold
William Lees's rope a dozen times over. The moment the real one was
disposed of, you shoved a counterfeit into your winder; and that went
off so well, that you kept on till you'd sold a dozen."
"No, Smithers—never no such luck as that since Greenacre's business,"
said the undertaker, with a solemn shake of his head; "and then I
believe I really did sell nineteen ropes in less than a week."
"I only wonder people is such fools as to be gulled so," observed
Smithers.
"What can they say, when they see your certifikit that the rope's the
true one?" demanded Banks. "There was one old gen'leman that dealt with
me for a many—many years; and he bought the rope of every blessed
defunct that had danced on nothing at Newgate for upwards of twenty
year! I quite entered into his feeling, I did—I admired that man; and so
I always sold him the real ropes. But time's passing, while I'm
chattering here. Come, my dear Smithers—shall we say three shillings for
the rope and certifikit this morning?"
"Not a mag less than five," was the dogged answer.
"Four, my dear friend Smithers?" said the undertaker, with a whining,
coaxing tone and manner.
"No—five, I tell you."
"Well—five then," said Banks. "I'll be there at a few minits 'afore
nine: I s'pose you'll cut the carkiss down at the usual hour?"
"Yes—yes," answered Smithers. "I'm always punctiwal with the dead as
well as the living."
The undertaker muttered something about "blessed defuncts," smoothed
down the limp ends of his dirty cravat, and slowly withdrew, shaking his
head more solemnly than ever.
"See what it is to be a Public Executioner!" cried Smithers, turning
with an air of triumph towards his son: "look at the perk-visits—look at
the priweleges! And yet you go snivelling about like a young gal, 'cos I
want to make you fit to succeed me in my honourable profession."
"O father!" cried the lad, unable to restrain his feelings any longer:
"instead of being respected, we are abhorred—instead of being honoured,
our very touch is contamination! You yourself know, dear father, that
you scarcely or never go abroad; if you enter the public-house tap-room,
even in a neighbourhood so low as this, the people get up and walk away
on different excuses. When I step out for an errand, the boys in the
streets point at me; and those who are well-behaved, pass me with
stealthy looks of horror and dread. Even that canting hypocrite who has
just left us—even _he_ never crosses your threshold except when his
interest is concerned;—and yet he, they say, is connected with
body-snatchers, and does not bear an over-excellent character in his
neighbourhood. Yet such a sneaking old wretch as that approaches our
door with loathing—Oh! I know that he does! You see, father—dear father,
that it is a horrible employment; then pray don't make me embrace it—Oh!
don't—pray don't, father—dear father: say you won't—and I'll do any
thing else you tell me! I'll pick up rags and bones from the
gutters—I'll sweep chimnies—I'll break stones from dawn to darkness;—but
do not—do not make me an executioner!"
Smithers was so astounded at this appeal that he had allowed it to
proceed without interruption. He was accustomed to be addressed on the
same subject, but never to such a length, nor with such arguments; so
that the manner and matter of that prayer produced a strange impression
on the man who constantly sought, by means of rude sophistries, to veil
from himself and his family the true estimation in which his calling was
held.
Gibbet, mistaking his father's astonishment for a more favourable
impression, threw himself at his feet, clasped his hands, and exclaimed,
"Oh! do not turn a deaf ear to my prayer! And think not, dear father,
that I confound _you_ with that pursuit which I abhor;—think not that I
see other in you than my parent—a parent whom——"
"Whom you shall obey!" cried the executioner, now recovering the use of
his tongue: "or, by God!" he added, pointing with terrible ferocity
towards the model-gallows, "I'll serve you as I did that puppet just
now—and as I shall do the man down in the Old Bailey presently."
Gibbet rose—disappointed, dispirited, and with a heart agitated by the
most painful emotions.
But why had not Smithers recourse to the leathern weapon as usual? why
had he spared the poor hump-back on this occasion?
Gibbet himself marvelled that such forbearance should have been shown
towards him, since he now comprehended but too well that his father was
inexorable in his determination with regard to him.
The truth was that Smithers was so far struck by his son's appeal as to
deem it of more serious import than any previously manifested aversion
to his horrible calling; and he accordingly met it with a menace which
he deemed to be more efficacious than the old discipline of the thong.
"Now, mind me," said the executioner, after a few moments' pause, "you
needn't try any more of these snivelling antics: they won't succeed with
me, I tell you before-hand. If you don't do as I order you, I'll hang
you up to that beam as soon as yonder mouse in the noose on the mantel.
So let one word be enough. Hark! there's seven o'clock: we've only just
time to get a mouthful before we must be off."
Smithers proceeded down stairs, followed by Gibbet.
They entered a little parlour, where Katherine was preparing breakfast.
It being still dark, a candle stood on the table; and its light was
reflected in the polished metal tea-pot, milk-jug, and sugar-basin. The
table napkin was of dazzling whiteness: the knives and forks were bright
as steel could be;—in a word, an air of exquisite neatness and
cleanliness pervaded the board on which the morning's repast was spread.
Nor was this appearance confined to the table. The little room itself
was a model of domestic propriety. Not a speck of dust was to be seen on
the simple furniture, which was also disposed with taste: the windows
were set off with a clean muslin curtain; and the mantel was covered
with fancy ornaments all indicative of female industry.
Then Kate herself!—her appearance was in perfect keeping with that of
the room which owed its cleanliness and air of simple comfort to her. A
neat cap set off her chesnut hair, which was arranged in plain bands:
her dark stuff gown was made high in the body and long in the skirt, but
did not conceal the gracefulness of her slender form, nor altogether
prevent a little foot in a neat shoe and a well-turned ankle in a
lily-white cotton stocking from occasionally revealing themselves. Then
her hands were so slightly brown, her fingers so taper, and her nails so
carefully kept, that no one, to look at them, would conceive how much
hard work Katherine was compelled to do.
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," added 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.