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 her 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 bare 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 he 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 our 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, Katherine," 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 your 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 feel 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."
Reginald Tracy unfolded the letter, and read as follows:——
"Should my own gloomy presages prove true, and the warning of my
medical attendant be well founded,—if, in a word, the hand of Death
be already extended to snatch me away thus in the prime of life,
while my darling child is * * * * and inform Mr. Markham, whose
abode is——"
The words that originally stood in the place which we have marked with
asterisks, had evidently been blotted out by the tears of the writer.
Reginald folded the letter as he had received it, and returned it to
Katherine.
The young girl immediately replaced it in the little bag, which she
sewed up with scrupulous care.
It was the poor creature's sole treasure; and she prized it as the last
and only memento that she possessed of her mother.
"And you know not to whom that unfinished letter alluded?" said the
rector, after a long pause, during which the bag, with its precious
contents, had been consigned once more to the secret drawer in the
work-box.
"I have not the least idea," answered Kate, drying her tears. "I was
only four years old when my mother died, and of course could take no
steps to inquire after the Mr. Markham mentioned in the letter. My uncle
has often assured me that he took some trouble in the matter, but
without success. Markham, you know, sir, is by no means an uncommon
name."
"And your father, Katherine—do you remember him?"
"Oh! no, sir—he died before my mother. When I was old enough to
comprehend how dreadful it is to be an orphan, Mr. Tracy, I made that
little satin bag to preserve the letter which Death would not allow my
poor mother to finish."
And again the young maiden wept bitterly.
The rector was deeply affected; and for some minutes his sensual ideas
concerning the damsel were absorbed in a more generous sympathy.
"But did not the medical man who attended your mother in her last
moments, and who is also alluded to in the letter," asked Reginald,—"did
he not afford some clue to unravel the mystery?"
"That question I have asked my uncle more than once," answered Kate;
"and he has assured me that the medical man was a perfect stranger who
was casually summoned to attend upon my poor mother only the very day
before she breathed her last. Since then the medical man has also died."
"Your mother was your uncle's own sister, was she not?" asked the
rector.
"She was, sir."
"And she married a person named Wilmot?"
"Yes—for my name is Katherine Wilmot."
"I remember that you were so entered upon the school-books," said the
rector. "Your mother must have been a superior woman, for the language
of that fragment of a letter is accurate, and the handwriting is good."
"The same thought has often struck me, sir," observed Katherine. "And
now how strange it is that a person bearing the name of Markham should
interest himself in my behalf!"
"Strange indeed!" exclaimed Reginald, whose eyes were once more fixed
upon the interesting girl near him,—fixed, too, with an ardent glance,
and not one of tender sympathy. "Mr. Richard Markham—the gentleman of
whom I speak—called upon me, as I ere now stated, and besought me to
exert myself in your behalf. He seems to think that my position and
character enable me to do for you that which, coming from him, might
awaken the tongue of scandal. The cause of my visit this morning is now
at length explained."
"I am very grateful, sir, for Mr. Markham's good intentions and your
kindness," said Katherine. "The coincidence in names, which led me to
show you that letter, seems a providential suggestion to me to follow
the counsel of such generous—such disinterested friends."
"I thought as I came along," resumed the clergyman, "that I would
procure you a situation with some friends of mine in the country. But—"
and he cast upon her a burning look brimful of licentiousness—"I have my
doubts whether it would not be better for you to come to my house and
assist Mrs. Kenrick in her domestic duties—especially as she is getting
very old—and——"
He paused for a moment:—he hesitated, because at the back of the offer
there was an unworthy motive at which his guilty soul quaked, lest it
should betray itself.
But that pure-minded and artless girl only saw in that offer a noble act
of kindness; and she frankly accepted it—upon the condition that her
uncle approved of her conduct in doing so.
The rector rose—he had no farther excuse for protracting his visit.
The young girl thanked him for his goodness with the most heart-felt
sincerity.
He then took his leave.