A HAPPY PARTY.
In a private room up stairs, at a tavern nearly opposite the Court-house
of the Old Bailey, a happy party was assembled.
And yet the group was somewhat motley.
It consisted of Richard Markham, Katherine Wilmot, the Public
Executioner, Gibbet, Rachel Bennet, and Morris Benstead.
The best luncheon which the house afforded was spread upon the table.
"And so you really thought I was lost, sir?" said Benstead. "I am not
the man to neglect the business that is entrusted to me; neither do I
excite hopes unless I know that they'll be realised."
"But you have not yet told me how you came to bring all your witnesses
into court at one and the same moment," said Richard Markham.
"Well, sir, I'll soon satisfy your curiosity on that head," returned the
policeman. "I made every exertion to sift the entire matter to the
bottom; but the farther I went into it, the more mysterious it seemed.
At last I was pretty nearly inclined to give it up in despair. One of
the principal measures that I adopted was to endeavour to trace, step by
step, all that either Mrs. Kenrick or Katherine did on the day when the
murder took place. I have seen, in my time, so much important evidence
come out of the most trivial—really the most ridiculous things, that I
resolved to glean every minute particular I could relative to the
motions of both the deceased and the accused on that day. My firm idea
was that the housekeeper had committed suicide—saving your presence,
ma'am," added Benstead, turning towards Mrs. Bennet. "Well, I found out
the principal shops where Mr. Tracy dealt; and I visited them all to
ascertain if Mrs. Kenrick had been there on that day; and if so, whether
her words or manner had betrayed any thing strange. But I could learn
nothing material. Various other schemes I thought of, and put into
execution; but as they all failed, there's no use in mentioning them. At
length, yesterday evening I happened to call at the post-office near Mr.
Tracy's house. I got into conversation with the post-mistress, who
seemed to be well acquainted with the late Mrs. Kenrick. In the course
of comment and observation upon the mysterious event, the post-mistress
said, 'I do really think there's some ground for supposing that the poor
dear woman committed suicide; for she came here to pay a letter to her
sister only a few hours before she was found dead; and then I saw that
she wasn't as she usually was. Something appeared to hang upon her
mind.'"
"That was no doubt the sorrow she experienced at having discovered the
hypocrisy of her master," observed Richard.
"Most likely, sir," said Benstead. "Well, the moment I heard that Mrs.
Kenrick had written to her sister only a few hours before her death, I
felt more convinced than ever that it was a case of suicide. It was then
nine o'clock; but I was determined to start off at once to investigate
the business. The post-mistress knew that Mrs. Bennet lived at Hounslow;
and this was fortunate. I thanked her for this information, and hurried
away. I was obliged to go to St. Giles's, before I started for the
country, to ask my Inspector's leave. As I passed by Mr. Smithers'
house, I knocked to see if he had come home. But the green-grocer next
door answered me, as on several former occasions when I had called. He
told me that Mr. Smithers had not come back. I knew it was important for
Miss Kate to prove that she had visited her uncle on the night of the
supposed murder; and so I scribbled a note to Mr. Smithers, desiring
him, in case he should return home in time to-day, to lose not a minute
in coming to this very tavern and sending over into the Old Court to
fetch me. This note I left with the green-grocer; and I then hastened to
the station. I obtained permission to absent myself, and lost no time in
hiring a post-chaise. But it was midnight before I reached Hounslow; and
then I learnt that Mrs. Bennet lived three miles away from that town. So
I was obliged to wait till the first thing this morning before I could
see her. Then a great deal of time was wasted, because Mrs. Bennet and
her husband could not rightly understand why I came, or on whose side I
was engaged. I do not blame them for their caution:—I only mention the
fact to account for our being so late in court. At length I succeeded in
persuading Mrs. Bennet to show me her sister's letter to her; and when I
read it, the whole affair wore another appearance in my mind. I saw
through it in a moment. Then I resolved upon bringing Mrs. Bennet up to
London with me; and to her credit, she did not hesitate an instant to
accompany me, when I had communicated to her the suspicions which that
letter had awakened in my mind, and impressed upon her the necessity of
hastening to save an innocent person from the weight of an unjust
accusation. To conclude this long and rambling story, we came up in the
post-chaise; and, as luck would have it, just as we drove up to this
tavern, Mr. Smithers and his son were stepping out of a cab at the
door."
"Ah! Mr. Markham," said Katherine, "how can I ever sufficiently express
my gratitude towards you; for it was by means of your generosity that
Mr. Benstead was enabled to make those exertions which led to this happy
result."
"I felt convinced of your innocence from the first," returned our hero;
"and it was not probable that I should abandon you when such were my
sentiments."
"A life devoted to your service, sir, could not repay the debt which I
owe you," said Kate. "And you, my dear cousin," she continued, turning
towards Gibbet, who was seated next to her,—"you also have been no
unimportant instrument in rescuing me from infamy and death."
"Do not speak of it, Kate," said the hump-back, whimpering like a mere
child. "I hope you won't scold me for watching you like a cat every
evening as I did."
"Scold you, John! Oh! how can you make use of such words to me—and after
the service you have rendered me?" exclaimed Kate, tears also streaming
down her own cheeks. "I ought to bless God—and I do—to think that your
friendship towards me led you to adopt a step to see me, which has
turned so wonderfully—so providentially to my advantage."
"And now, Kate," said the executioner, "tell me one thing: why didn't
you mention to me that evening when you called, that you were going to
leave the rector's service?"
"Because, my dear uncle," answered the young maiden, "you made one
observation to me which showed that you were pleased at the idea of me
being in Mr. Tracy's service; and as you were so dull and low-spirited,
I did not like to tell you any thing that might occasion you additional
vexation. You said—oh! I shall never forget your words—they made me weep
as I followed you from the street door into the parlour——"
"Yes—because I so seldom spoke kindly to you, poor Kate," exclaimed the
executioner, as if struck by a sudden remorse.
"Do not say that, dear uncle! I owe so much—so very much to you, that
even if you have been harsh to me now and then, I never think of it—and
then, perhaps I have deserved it," she added slowly; for the amiable
girl was anxious to extenuate her uncle's self-accusation in the eyes of
those present.
"No—you did _not_ deserve it, Kate!" cried the executioner, with
resolute emphasis; "you are a good girl—too good ever to have been in
such a den as mine!"
Smithers threw himself back in his chair, and compressed his lips
together to restrain his emotions.
But nature asserted her empire.
A tear trickled from each eye, and rolled slowly down the cheeks of that
man whose heart had been so brutalized by his fearful calling.
Kate rose from her chair, and threw herself into his arms, exclaiming,
"Uncle—dear uncle, if you speak kindly to me, I am indeed happy!"
Gibbet cried, and yet laughed—sobbed, and yet smiled, in so strange a
manner, as he contemplated that touching scene, that the result of his
emotions presented the most ludicrous aspect.
"Sit down, Kate dear," said Smithers: "I am not used to be childish;—and
yet, I don't know how it is, but I don't seem ashamed of dropping a tear
now. I know I'm a harsh, brutal man: but what has made me so? God, who
can read all hearts, has it written down in his book that I was once
possessed of the same kind feelings as other people. However—it's no use
talking: what I am I must remain until the end."
"Believe me," exclaimed Richard Markham, who was ever sensibly alive to
the existence of generous feelings in others,—"believe me," he cried,
grasping Smithers' hand, "society lost a good man when you undertook
your present avocation."
"What, sir!" ejaculated Smithers, unfeignedly surprised; "do you shake
hands with the Public Executioner?"
"Yes—and unblushingly would I do so before the whole world," replied
Markham, "when I discover at the bottom of his soul a spark—aye, even
the faintest spark of noble and exalted feeling yet unquenched."
The Public Executioner fixed upon the animated and handsome countenance
of our hero a glance of the deepest gratitude—a glance of respect,
almost of veneration!
He then cast down his eyes, and appeared to plunge into profound
rumination.
"You were going to tell us, Miss Katherine," said Benstead, "what
observation it was that prevented you from communicating to your uncle
the notice Mrs. Kenrick had given you to leave."
"Oh! I remember," exclaimed the young maiden, upon whose heart the noble
conduct of Richard Markham towards her despised and degraded relative
had made a deep impression: "my uncle said to me, '_I am almost sorry
that I ever parted with you; but as you are now in a place that may do
you good, I shall not interfere with you_.'"
"Ah! my dear young friend," exclaimed Mrs. Bennet, "how fatal might that
place have been to you after all? But where are you going to live now?
If you can make yourself happy with me, I will offer you a home and show
you the kindness of a mother."
Katherine turned a look of deep gratitude upon the good woman who made
her this generous offer; and then she glanced timidly towards her uncle
and Richard Markham.
"If I may be allowed to speak my thoughts in this matter," said our
hero, "I should counsel Katherine to accept a proposition so kindly, so
frankly made; and it shall be my duty to see that she becomes not a
burden upon the friend who will provide her with a home."
"I can give no opinion in the matter, sir," observed the executioner:
"there is something about you which compels me to say, '_Deal with me
and my family as you will_.' Command, sir, and we will obey."
"I never command—but I advise as a friend," said Richard, touched by the
strange gentleness of manner which was now evinced by one lately so
rude, so brutal, so self-willed. "Katherine, then, has your consent to
accompany Mrs. Bennet to Hounslow?"
"And I sincerely thank Mrs. Bennet for her goodness towards that poor
girl who has undergone so much," said the executioner.
Mrs. Bennet now suggested that her husband would be uneasy if she
remained long absent from home; and Richard immediately summoned the
waiter, to whom he gave orders to procure a post-chaise.
This command was speedily executed. Katherine took leave of her
relatives, Markham, and Benstead, with streaming eyes.
"God bless you, my girl," said the executioner, in a tone the
tremulousness of which he could not altogether subdue.
Gibbet could say nothing: his voice was choked with sobs.
Katherine, however, whispered words of kindness in his ears; and the
poor hump-back smiled as he wrung her hand with all the fervour of his
affection.
"To you, Mr. Markham," said Kate, "no words can convey the gratitude—the
boundless gratitude and respect which I entertain for you."
"Be happy, Katherine," returned Richard, shaking her warmly by the hand;
"and remember that in me you have a sincere friend, always ready to aid
and advise you."
The young maiden then tendered her thanks to the good-hearted policeman
for the interest he had manifested in her favour.
The farewells were all said; good wishes were given and returned; and
Mrs. Bennet hurried Katherine from the room. Those who remained behind,
watched their departure from the window.
The moment the post-chaise had rolled away from the door of the tavern,
Smithers accosted our hero, and said, "I am no great hand at making
speeches, sir; but I can't take my leave of you, without saying
something to convince you that I'm not ungrateful for what you've done
for my niece. Your goodness, sir, has saved her from death; and more
than that, has proved her innocence. You are the best man I ever met in
my life: you are more like an angel than a human being. I didn't think
that such men as you could be in existence. It makes me have a better
opinion of the world when I look upon you. How happy would a country be
if it had such a person as yourself for its sovereign! I cannot
understand my own feelings in your presence: I seem as if I could fall
at your feet and worship you. Then I think that I am unworthy even to
breathe the same air that you do. But your words have made me happy to
some extent: for years I have not felt as I feel to-day. I can say no
more, sir: I don't know how I came to say so much!"
And the executioner turned abruptly aside; for he was weeping—he was
weeping!
Markham had not interrupted him while he spoke, because our hero knew
that it was well for that man to give way to the good feelings which the
contemplation of humanity and philanthropy in others had so recently
awakened.
But Richard did not perceive that, while the executioner was giving
utterance to the invincible promptings of nature, Gibbet had drawn
near,—had listened to his father with indescribable interest,—had drunk
in with surprise and avidity every word that fell from his lips,—and had
gradually sunk upon his knees in the presence of that benefactor whom
even a rude, brutalized, and savage disposition was now compelled to
believe to be something more than man!
"This, sir," said Benstead, glancing his eyes around, and touching
Markham's arm to direct his attention to the scene,—"this, sir, is
doubtless a welcome reward for all your goodness."
Richard hastily brushed away a tear, and raising Gibbet from his adoring
posture, said, "You, my good lad, possess a heart worthy of a nobleman.
Look upon me as your friend!"
Then our hero caught Smithers by the hand, and drawing him into the
recess of a window, whispered in a low and rapid tone, "You are not
insensible to the charms of being useful to one's fellow-creatures. I
implore you to renounce your fearful calling—and I will supply you with
the means to enter upon some other pursuit."
Smithers did not answer for a few moments: he appeared to reflect
profoundly.
"Yes—I will follow your advice, sir," he at length said: "but not quite
yet! I must hang up that rector—and then, _then_ I will abandon the
calling for ever!"
With these words the executioner turned abruptly away, caught Gibbet by
the hand, and hurried from the room.
A few minutes afterwards Richard Markham and Benstead also took their
departure, each in a different direction; but the police-officer's
pocket contained substantial proofs of our hero's liberality.