THE INTERVIEW.
A week passed away, during which the examination of Reginald Tracy took
place before the police-magistrate, and terminated in the committal of
the rector to Newgate.
The whole town rang with the extraordinary events which had led to this
crisis in the career of a man whose very name had so lately inspired
respect.
The clergy were horror-struck at the disgrace brought upon their cloth
by this terrific explosion; for people grew inclined to look upon real
ecclesiastical sanctity as nothing more nor less than a garb of rank
hypocrisy.
Some ministers of the gospel, more daring and enthusiastic than the
rest, boldly proclaimed from their pulpits that Reginald Tracy was a
saint and a martyr, against whom a horrible conspiracy had been
concocted in order to remove the imputation of murder from the young
female who had been discharged, and fix it on him.
Other clergymen entered into learned disquisitions to prove that Satan
must have obtained especial leave from God, as in the case of Job, to
tempt the most holy and pious of men; and that, having failed to seduce
him from the right path, the Evil One had accomplished a series of
atrocities all so artfully arranged as to fix the stain upon the rector
of St. David's.
But there were some reverend gentlemen, who, having always been jealous
of Reginald Tracy's popularity, descanted in significant terms upon the
shallowness of mere eloquence in the pulpit, and the folly of running
after "fashionable preachers." One venerable and holy gentleman, who had
been married three times, and had received from his wives an aggregate
of seventeen pledges of their affection, bitterly denounced in his
sermon the "whitened sepulchre," "tinkling cymbal," and "unclean
vessel," who had dared to set his face against the sacred institution of
matrimony.
The fashionable world was powerfully excited by the exposure of Reginald
Tracy. Some wiseacres shook their heads, and observed that they had
always suspected there was something wrong about the rector; others
plainly asserted that they had even prophesied what would happen some
day. The fair sex all agreed that it was a great pity, as he _was_ such
a charming preacher and such a handsome man!
The press was not idle in respect to the business. The newspapers teemed
with "Latest Particulars;" and all the penny-a-liners in London were on
the alert to collate additional facts. Nine out of ten of these facts,
however, turned out to be pure fictions. One journal, conducted on more
imaginative principles than its contemporaries, promulgated a new
discovery which it had made in respect to the rector's history, and
coolly fixed upon his back all the murders which had occurred in the
metropolis during the previous dozen years, and the perpetrators of
which had never yet been detected.
Heaven knows Reginald Tracy was bad enough; but if one believed all
which was now said of him in the public journals, no monster that ever
disgraced humanity was so vile as he.
Some of the cheap unstamped periodicals treated their readers with
portraits of the rector; and as very few of the artists who were
employed to draw them had ever seen their subject, and were now unable
to obtain access to him, their inventive faculties were put to the most
exciting test. And, as a convincing proof that no two persons entertain
the same idea of an object which they have never seen, it may be
observed that there was a most extraordinary variety in the respective
characteristics of these portraits.
In a word, the rector's name engrossed universal attention:—a cheap
romance was issued, entitled "The Murdered Housekeeper; or the Corrupt
Clergyman;"—one of the minor theatres attracted crowded houses by the
embodiment of the particulars of the case in a melodrama;—and Madame
Tussaud added the effigy of Reginald Tracy to her collection of
wax-works.
But what were the feelings of Lady Cecilia Harborough when the terrible
announcement of the rector's arrest met her ears!
We must observe that when she first heard of the death of the
housekeeper, she entertained a faint suspicion that Reginald, and not
Katherine Wilmot, was the author of the deed. But while the young girl
was yet in prison, before the trial, and when Cecilia and the rector
met, the latter so eloquently expatiated upon the case, that Cecilia's
suspicions were hushed; and she learnt to look upon the housekeeper's
death following so shortly on the exposure of the rector's hypocrisy to
that female, as a remarkable coincidence only. Moreover, the rector had
all along declared his impression that the housekeeper had committed
suicide, and that the innocence of Katherine would be made apparent
before the judges.
Thus Cecilia's mind had been more or less tranquillised during the
interval which occurred between the housekeeper's death and the day of
trial.
But when, in the afternoon of the day on which that trial took place,
the appalling news of Katherine's acquittal and Reginald's arrest
reached her ears, she was thrown into a state of the most painful
excitement.
It was true that she could not in the slightest degree be implicated in
the enormous crime of which he was accused: but would her guilty
connexion with him transpire?
Her conscience entertained the worst forebodings in this respect.
At one moment she thought of hastening to visit him in his prison: then
she reflected that such a course would only encourage a suspicion
calculated to proclaim that scandal which she was so anxious to avoid.
Fortunately Sir Rupert Harborough was still away from home, with his
friend Chichester, and thus Lady Cecilia had no disagreeable spy to
witness her distressing emotions and embarrassment.
Day after day passed; Reginald had been committed, as before stated, to
Newgate; and Cecilia heard nothing from him.
At length at the expiration of a week from the day of his arrest, a
dirty, shabby-looking lad called in Tavistock Square, and requested to
see Lady Cecilia Harborough alone.
He was accordingly admitted to her presence.
"Please, ma'am," he said, "I've come with a message from Mr. Tracy,
which is in Newgate. He is a wery nice gen'leman, and is certain sure to
be hung, they say."
"Who are you?" demanded Cecilia, with ill-concealed disgust.
"Please, ma'am, I belong to an eating-house in the Old Bailey," returned
the boy; "and I takes in Mr. Tracy's meals to him."
"And what do you want with me?"
"Please, ma'am, Mr. Tracy says will you go and see him to-morrow morning
between ten and eleven?"
"In Newgate!" ejaculated Lady Cecilia, with an unaffected shudder.
"Oh! yes, ma'am: I goes in there three times every day o' my life; and
so I'm sure you needn't be afraid to wisit it just for vonce."
"Well—I will think of it. Have you any thing else to say to me?"
"Please, ma'am, Mr. Tracy says that you've no call to give your own name
at the gate; but if you pass yourself off as his sister, just come up
from the country, you can see him alone in his cell. But if you don't do
that you'd on'y be allowed to speak to him through the bars of his yard.
He would have wrote to you, but then the letters must be read by the
governor before they goes out; and so it would have been known that he
sent to you. He never thought of speaking about it to me till this
morning; and I promised to do his arrand faithful. That's all, ma'am."
"And enough too," said Lady Cecilia, in a tone of deep disgust, as she
threw the lad a few shillings across the table in the room where she
received him.
"Is there any message, ma'am, to take back to Mr. Tracy?" asked the boy;
"'cos I shall see him the first thing in the morning."
"You may say that I will do as he desires," answered Cecilia: "but
beware how you mention to a soul that you have been here. Forget my name
as if you had never heard it."
"Yes, ma'am—to be sure," replied the boy; "and thank'ee kindly."
He then pocketed the money, and took his departure.
"Newgate, Newgate!" thought Lady Cecilia, when she was once more
alone: "there is something chilling—menacing—awful in that name! And
yet I must penetrate into those gloomy cells to see—whom? A murderer!
Oh! who would have thought that the rich, the handsome, the renowned,
the courted, the flattered rector of St. David's would become an
inmate of Newgate? A murderer! Ah—my God, the mere idea is horrible!
And that uncouth boy who said coolly that he was certain to be hanged!
Reginald—Reginald, to what have you come? Would it not have been
better to dare exposure—contumely—infamy—reproach, than to risk such
an appalling alternative? But reputation was dearer to this man than
aught in the world beside! And he is rich:—what will he do with his
wealth? Perhaps it is for _that_ he desires my presence? Who knows?"
This idea determined Lady Cecilia upon visiting Newgate on the following
day.
She did not reflect that she herself was the first link in that chain
which had so rapidly wound itself around the unhappy man, until it
paralysed his limbs in a criminal gaol. She often asked herself how he
could have been so mad as to commit the deed that menaced him with the
most terrible fate; but beyond the abstract event itself she never
thought of looking.
The morning dawned; Lady Cecilia rose, and dressed herself in as
unpretending a manner as possible.
At half-past nine she went out, took a cab at the nearest stand, and
proceeded to Newgate.
She ascertained, by inquiry, which was the prison entrance, and ascended
the steps leading to the half-door, the top of which was garnished with
long iron spikes.
A stout, red-faced turnkey, with a good-tempered countenance, admitted
her into the obscure lobby, behind which was a passage where a gas-light
burns all day long.
"Who do you want, ma'am?" said the turnkey.
"Mr. Tracy," was the reply.
"Are you any relation to him?"
"His sister. I have just arrived from the country."
"Please to write your name down in this book."
Lady Cecilia, who seldom lost her presence of mind, instantly took up
the pen, and wrote down "ANNE TRACY."
"Excuse me, ma'am," said the turnkey, "but if you have any knife in your
pocket you must leave it here."
"I have none," answered Cecilia.
"Take that passage, ma'am, and you will find a turnkey who will admit
you to Tracy's cell."
All titular distinctions are dropped in Newgate.
Lady Cecilia proceeded along the passage as she was desired, and at
length reached a large stone vestibule, from which several doors opened
into the different yards in that part of the building.
She accosted a turnkey, informing him whom she came to visit; and he
bade her follow him.
In a few moments he stopped at a massive door, opened it, and said,
"Walk in there, ma'am."
She advanced a few steps: the door closed behind her; and she found
herself in the presence of Reginald Tracy.
But how changed was he! His cheeks were ghastly pale—his eyes sunken—his
hair was in disorder—his person dirty and neglected.
"This is kind of you, Cecilia," he said, without rising from his chair.
"Sit down, and lose no time in conversing—we have not much time to be
together."
"Oh, Reginald!" exclaimed Cecilia, as she took a seat, "what a place for
us to meet in!"
"Now do not give way to ejaculations and laments which will do no good,"
said Reginald. "If you can maintain your tranquillity it will be
advantageous to yourself. You know that I am possessed of some
property?"
"The world always believed you to be rich," observed Cecilia.
"I have lately been extravagant," continued Reginald: "still I have a
handsome fortune remaining. As I am not _yet_ condemned," he added
bitterly, "I can leave it to whom I choose. Do you wish to be my
heiress?"
"Ah! Reginald—this proof of your affection——"
"No superfluous words, Cecilia," interrupted the rector impatiently. "If
you wish to possess my wealth you must render me a service—an important
service, to merit it."
"Any thing in the world that I can do to benefit you shall be performed
most faithfully," said Lady Cecilia.
"And you will not shrink from the service which I demand? The condition
is no light one."
"Name it. Whatever it be, I will accept it—provided that it do not
involve my safety," returned Cecilia.
"Selfishness!" exclaimed the rector contemptuously. "Listen attentively.
To-morrow my solicitor will attend upon me here. To him I shall make
over all my property—in trust for the person to whom I choose to
bequeath it. He is an honourable man, and will faithfully perform my
wishes. I have not a relation nor a friend in the world who has any
particular claim upon me. I can constitute you my heiress: at my death,"
he added slowly, "all I possess may revert to you,—the world remaining
in ignorance of the manner in which I have disposed of my wealth. But if
I thus enrich you, I demand from your hands the means of escaping an
infamy otherwise inevitable."
"I do not understand you," said Cecilia, somewhat alarmed.
The rector leant forward, fixed a penetrating glance upon his mistress,
and said in a hollow and subdued tone, "I require poison—a deadly
poison!"
"Poison!" echoed Cecilia, with a shudder.
"Yes: do you comprehend me now? Will you earn wealth by rendering me
that service?" he asked eagerly.
"What poison do you require?" demanded Cecilia greatly excited.
"Prussic acid: it is the most certain—and the quickest," answered the
rector. "If you are afraid to procure it yourself, the old hag in Golden
Lane will assist you in that respect."
"And must it really come to this?" said Cecilia. "Is all hope dead?"
"My doom is certain—if I live to meet it," answered Reginald, who only
maintained the composure which he now displayed by the most desperate
efforts to subdue his emotions. "The evidence is too damning against me.
And yet I imagined that I had adopted such precautions!" he continued,
in a musing tone. "I felt so confident that the poor, old woman would
appear to have died by her own hand! I sent the footman out of the way,
not upon a frivolous cause, but on an errand which would bear scrutiny.
I made the housekeeper herself get rid of Katherine. I did all that
prudence suggested. But never—never did I anticipate that _another_
would be charged with the crime! And yet, when suspicion attached itself
so strongly to that poor innocent girl, what could I do? I had but two
alternatives—to allow her to suffer, or to immolate myself by
proclaiming her guiltlessness. Oh! Cecilia, you know not—you cannot
conceive all that I have suffered since that fatal evening! Often and
often was I on the point of going forward and confessing all, in order
to save that innocent girl. But I had not the courage! When I gave my
testimony, I rendered it as favourable towards her as possible. I
laboured hard to encourage the suspicion that the deceased had been her
own destroyer. But fate had ordained that all should transpire."
He paused, and buried his face in his hands.
A sob escaped his breast.
"This is childish—this is foolish in the extreme," he suddenly cried.
"Time is passing—and you have not yet decided whether you will render me
the service I require, upon the consideration of inheriting all my
wealth."
"I will do what you ask of me," said Cecilia, in a low but decided tone.
"And do not attempt to deceive me," continued Reginald; "for if you
bring me a harmless substitute for a deadly poison, you will frustrate
my design, it is true—but I shall live to revoke the bequest made in
your favour."
"I will not deceive you, Reginald—if you be indeed determined," said his
mistress.
"I _am_ determined. We now understand each other: to me the poison—to
you the wealth."
"Agreed," was the answer.
"The day after to-morrow you will return—provided with what I require?"
said Reginald.
"You may rely upon me."
"Then farewell, Cecilia, for the present."
The rector offered the lady his hand: Cecilia pressed it with affected
fervour, though in reality she almost recoiled from the touch.
Profligate as she was, she had no sincere sympathy for a murderer.
Nor was she sorry when she once more found herself beyond the terrible
walls of Newgate.