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 joined 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."
"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,
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."
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!"
"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!
On the following morning, Gibbet—true to his resolve, which our hero no
longer attempted to shake—took his departure from Markham Place, laden
with the presents which had been forced upon him, and followed by the
kindest wishes of those good friends whom he left behind.