LADY CECILIA HARBOROUGH.
Cecilia passed a sleepless and agitated night.
Wild hopes and undefined fears had banished repose from her pillow.
She thought the morning would never come.
At length the first gleam of dawn struggled through the windows of her
bed-room; and she instantly arose.
She was pale—yet fearfully excited; and there was a wildness in her eyes
which denoted the most cruel suspense.
The minutes seemed to be hours; for she was now anxiously awaiting the
arrival of the morning paper.
She descended to the breakfast parlour; but the repast remained
untouched.
At length the well-known knock of the news-boy at the front door echoed
through the house.
The moment the journal was placed on the table by her side, Cecilia took
it up with trembling hands, and cast a hasty glance over its contents.
In another instant all suspense relative to the rector's fate ceased.
The following words settled that point beyond a doubt:—
"SUICIDE OF THE REV. REGINALD TRACY.
"Shortly after eight o'clock last evening a rumour was in
circulation, to the effect that the above-mentioned individual,
whose name has so recently been brought before the public in
connection with the murder of Matilda Kenrick, had put a period to
his existence by means of poison. It appears that the turnkey, on
visiting his cell, according to custom, at eight o'clock, found him
stretched upon the floor, to all appearances quite dead. Medical aid
was immediately procured; but life was pronounced by the
gaol-surgeon to be totally extinct. We have been unable to learn any
further particulars."
"It is better so, than to die upon the scaffold," said Cecilia to
herself. "Now to the lawyer's: Reginald expressly told me that I was to
call upon him this morning."
The heartless woman did not drop a tear nor heave a sigh to the memory
of her paramour.
She rang the bell and desired the servant to fetch a cab without delay.
By the time it arrived Cecilia was ready.
During the rapid drive to the City, she arranged a thousand plans for
the employment and enjoyment of the wealth which she believed herself to
be now entitled to, and the bequest of which she was resolved to conceal
from her husband.
When she alighted at the solicitor's door, she assumed a melancholy and
solemn air, which she thought decorous under the circumstances.
The solicitor, who was an elderly man, and whose name was Wharton,
received her in his private office, and politely inquired the nature of
her business.
"Did you not expect a visit from Lady Cecilia Harborough this morning?"
asked the frail woman.
"Lady Cecilia Harborough!" exclaimed the lawyer, his countenance
assuming a severe tone the moment that name fell upon his ears. "Are you
Lady Cecilia Harborough?"
"I am Lady Cecilia Harborough," was the reply.
"So young—and yet so powerful to work evil!" observed Mr. Wharton, in a
musing tone, and with a sorrowful air.
"I do not understand you, sir," exclaimed Cecilia somewhat alarmed, yet
affecting a haughty and offended manner.
"Do not aggravate your wickedness by means of falsehood," said the
lawyer sternly. "Think you that I am a stranger to your connexion with
that unhappy man who died by his own hands last night? I have known him
for many years—I knew him when he was pure, honourable, and respected: I
have seen him the inmate of a dungeon. The day before yesterday I was
with him for the last time. He then revealed to me every particular
connected with his fall. He told me how you practised your syren arts
upon him—how you led him on, until he became an adulterer! He explained
to me how he repented of his first weakness, and how you practised a
vile—a detestable artifice, by the aid of an old hag in Golden Lane, to
bring him back to your arms."
"Spare me this recital, sir, which has been so highly coloured to my
prejudice," exclaimed Lady Cecilia. "I confess that I was enamoured of
that unhappy man; but——"
"You cannot palliate your wickedness, madam," interrupted Mr. Wharton,
sternly. "Mr. Tracy detailed to me every blandishment you used—every art
you called into force to subdue him. And as for _your_ love for him,
Lady Cecilia Harborough—even that excuse cannot be advanced in
extenuation of your infamy."
"Sir—that is a harsh word!" cried Cecilia, red with indignation, and
starting upon her chair.
"Nay, madam—sit still," continued the solicitor: "you may yet hear
harsher terms from my lips. I say that you cannot even plead a profound
and sincere attachment to that man as an excuse for the arts which you
practised to ensnare and ruin him:—no, madam—it was his gold which you
coveted!"
"Sir—I will hear no more—I——"
"Your ladyship must hear me out," interrupted the lawyer,
authoritatively motioning her to retain her seat. "When alone in his
gloomy cell, your victim pondered upon all that had passed between him
and you, until he came to a full and entire comprehension of the utter
hollowness of your heart. He then understood how he had been duped and
deluded by you! Moreover, madam, it was by your desire that he admitted
you into his own house—that fatal indiscretion which, being often
repeated, at length led to the terrible catastrophe. Now, then, madam,"
cried Mr. Wharton, raising his voice, "who was the real cause of my
friend's downfall? who was the origin of his ruin? who, in a word, is
the murderess of Reginald Tracy?"
"My God!" ejaculated the wretched woman, quivering like an aspen beneath
these appalling denunciations; "you are very severe—too, too harsh upon
me, sir!"
"No, madam," resumed the lawyer; "I am merely placing your conduct in
its true light, and giving your deeds their proper name. You had no
mercy upon my unfortunate friend;—you sacrificed him to your base lust
after gold;—you hurried him on to his doom. Why should I spare you? You
have no claims upon my forbearance as a woman—because, madam, your
unmitigated wickedness debars you from the privilege of your sex. To
show courtesy to you, would be to encourage crime of the most abhorrent
nature."
"Was it to be thus upbraided, sir—thus reviled," demanded Lady Cecilia,
endeavouring to recover her self-possession, "that I was desired to call
upon you this morning?"
"Desired to call upon me, madam!" exclaimed the solicitor: "who conveyed
to you such instructions?"
"Mr. Tracy himself," answered Cecilia in a faint tone—for she now
trembled lest Reginald had deceived her.
"Then my poor friend must have been aware of the reception which you
would meet at my hands—of the stern truths that you would hear from my
lips," said Mr. Wharton; "for to no other purpose could this visit have
been designed."
"But—are there no written instructions—with which you may be as yet
unacquainted—no papers, the contents of which you have not read——"
"Madam, I am at a loss to comprehend you," said the lawyer. "If you
allude to any papers of Mr. Tracy's now in my hands, I can assure you
that they bear no reference to any affairs in which you can possibly be
interested."
"And you have read _all_ those papers—every one—_the last_ that was
placed in your hands, as well as any others?" inquired Cecilia, in a
tone of breathless excitement.
"Merciful heavens, madam!" ejaculated the lawyer, on whose mind a light
seemed suddenly to break: "surely—surely _you_ cannot be in expectation
of a legacy or a boon from that man whom you hurried to his ruin—aye,
even to murder and suicide? Surely your presumption is not so boundless
as all that?"
Cecilia sank back, almost fainting in her chair: her sole hope was now
annihilated; and in its stead there remained to her only the
bitter—bitter conviction that she had been deceived by Reginald in that
last transaction which took place between them.
"No, madam—no," continued the lawyer, with a smile of the most cutting
contempt: "if that unhappy man had bequeathed you any thing, it would
have been his curse—his withering, dying curse!"
"Oh! do not say _that_," screamed Cecilia, now really appalled by the
energetic language of that man who was so unsparing in his duty to the
memory of his friend.
"Ah! I am rejoiced that your ladyship at last feels the full force of
that infamy which has accomplished the ruin of a man once so good, so
upright, so honourable, so happy! But you are, no doubt, curious to know
how your victim has disposed of that wealth of which you would have
plundered him had he not been so suddenly stopped in his mad career? I
will tell you. He has bequeathed it to that young girl who so nearly
suffered for _his_ crime—to Katherine Wilmot, who was so unjustly
accused of the enormity which _he_ perpetrated!"
Lady Cecilia wept with rage, shame, and disappointment.
"Weep, madam, weep," rang the iron voice of that stern denunciator once
more in her ears: "weep—for you have good cause! Not for the wealth of
the universe would I harbour the feelings which ought to be—_must_ be
yours at this moment."
A pause ensued, which was interrupted by the entrance of a clerk who
whispered something in the lawyer's ear, and then withdrew.
"I request your ladyship to have the goodness to remain here until my
return," said Mr. Wharton. "I shall not keep you long."
The lawyer passed into the outer office; and Cecilia was now alone.
The reader can scarcely require to be reminded that this lady was not
one who was likely to remain long depressed by a moral lesson, however
severe its nature.
Scarcely had the lawyer left her, when she raised her head, and thought
within herself, "I have been deceived—cruelly deceived; and if I did
Reginald any wrong, he is amply avenged. One thing seems certain—he has
retained the secret of the means by which he obtained the poison. He has
not compromised me there; or else this harsh man would have been only
too glad to throw _that_ also in my teeth. Thus, my position might have
been worse!"
Such was the substance of Lady Cecilia Harborough's musing during the
absence of the lawyer.
This absence lasted nearly a quarter of an hour; and then he returned to
the office.
He held an open letter in his hand.
"Lady Cecilia Harborough," he said, in a tone of increased sternness,
"the measure of your guilt is now so full, that justice demands an
explanation at your hands."
"Justice, sir!" faltered the frail woman, an icy coldness striking to
her heart.
"Yes, madam," answered the lawyer; "and even from the grave will the
wrongs of Reginald Tracy cry out against you."
"My God! what do you mean?" she exclaimed, her pallor now becoming
actually livid.
"Before Reginald Tracy took the poison which hurried him to his last
account," continued the solicitor in a low and solemn tone, "he wrote
two letters. These were found upon the table in his cell. One was to
Katherine Wilmot—the other was to me. The governor of Newgate has just
been with me, and has delivered to me this last communication from my
poor friend."
"The governor of Newgate!" repeated Cecilia, now overwhelmed with vague
terrors.
"Yes, madam: and the contents are to inform me that you—_you_, madam,
with an assumed name, and passing yourself off as Mr. Tracy's sister,
visited him twice in his cell, and, on the latter occasion, furnished
him with the means of self-destruction."
"Heaven protect me! it is but too true!" cried Cecilia; and, throwing
herself upon her knees before the lawyer, she almost shrieked the words,
"You would not give me up to justice, sir—you will not betray me?"
"No, madam," answered Mr. Wharton; "I had punished you sufficiently when
these tidings arrived."
"Thank you, sir—thank you," cried Cecilia, rising from her knees. "But
the governor of Newgate——"
"Is gone, madam. I did not tell him that you were here. I must, however,
warn you that I communicated to him, as in duty bound, the contents of
this letter."
"Then he is aware that I——"
"He is aware that you conveyed the poison to Reginald Tracy; and the
officers of justice will be in search of you in another hour," replied
the lawyer, coldly.
"My God! what will become of me?" ejaculated Cecilia, now pushed to an
extremity which she never had contemplated.
"I would not say that you were here, madam," continued the lawyer,
"because Reginald Tracy had contemplated making me the means of handing
you over to the grasp of justice; and I am sorry that he should so far
have misunderstood me. I now comprehend why he directed you to come
hither. He thought that his letter would reach me earlier—before you
came, and that I should be the willing instrument of his vengeance. I
will not show you the letter, because he has mistaken me—he has
misunderstood me; and for this reason alone—and for no merciful feeling
towards _you_—have I shielded you thus far. Now go, madam: when once you
are away from this house, you must adopt the best measures you can
devise to ensure your safety."
"But can you not counsel me, sir—will you not direct me how to act?"
cried Cecilia: "I am bewildered—I know not what step to take!"
"I have no counsel to offer, madam," returned the lawyer, briefly.
Cecilia could not mistake the meaning conveyed by this tone.
She rose; and bowing in a constrained manner to the solicitor, left the
office.
But when she found herself in the street, she was cruelly embarrassed
how to act.
She dared not return home; the paternal door had long been closed
against her; she had not a friend—and she had not a resource.
A few sovereigns in her purse were all her available means.
She thought of quitting the country at once, and proceeding to join her
husband, whom she knew to be in Paris.
But how would he receive her? The newspapers would soon be busy with her
name; and Sir Rupert was not the man to burden himself with a woman
penniless in purse and ruined in reputation.
For an instant she thought of Greenwood; but this idea was discarded
almost as soon as entertained. She was aware of his utter heartlessness,
and felt confident that he would repulse her coldly from his dwelling.
To whom could she apply? whither was she to betake herself?
And yet concealment was necessary—oh! she must hide somewhere!
The feelings of this woman were terrible beyond description.
And now she was walking rapidly along the streets towards London Bridge;
for the idea of quitting the country was uppermost in her mind.
Her veil was drawn carefully over her countenance; and yet she trembled
at every policeman whom she passed.
She was hurrying down Gracechurch Street, when she heard herself called
by name.
She knew the voice, and turned round, saying to herself, "Help may come
from this quarter!"
It was the old hag who had spoken to her.
"My good woman," said Lady Cecilia hastily, "all is known—all is
discovered!"
"What is known?" asked the old hag, in her usual imperturbable tone.
"It is known that I conveyed the poison, which _you_ procured for me, to
Reginald Tracy," replied Cecilia, in a hoarse whisper. "You have heard
that he is dead?"
"I heard _that_ last evening," said the hag. "What are you going to do?"
"To hide myself from the officers of justice," returned Cecilia. "But
step into this court, or we shall be observed."
The old woman followed the unhappy lady under an archway.
"I must conceal myself—at least for the present," resumed Cecilia. "Will
you grant me an asylum?"
"I! my dear lady!" ejaculated the hag, shaking her head ominously: "I am
in danger myself—I am in danger myself! Did I not procure you the
poison?"
"True. But I would not betray you."
"No—we must each shift for ourselves—we must each shift for ourselves,
as best we can," replied the hag flatly. "Indeed, I may as well remind
you, Lady Cecilia, that your day is gone—you are ruined—and, if you had
any spirit, you would not survive it!"
"My God! what do you mean?" faltered Cecilia, in a faint tone.
"The river is deep, or the Monument is high," answered the hag, in a
significant tone; "and you are near both!"
The wrinkled old harridan then hobbled out of the court as quickly as
her rheumatic limbs would carry her.
"Even _she_ deserts me!" murmured Cecilia to herself, and with
difficulty suppressing an ebullition of feeling which would have
attracted notice, and probably led to her detection: "even _she_ deserts
me! My God—is there nothing left to me but suicide? No—nothing!"
Her countenance wore, beneath her veil, an expression of blank despair,
as she arrived at this appalling conviction; and for some moments she
stood as if rooted to the spot.
"No—nothing left but _that_," she murmured, awaking from her temporary
stupefaction: "nothing—nothing!"
And although these words were uttered in the lowest whisper, still it
seemed as if she shrieked them _within herself_.
Then she hurried from the court.
"The river—or the Monument," she said, as she continued her rapid way:
"the river is near—but the Monument is nearer. Drowning must be slow and
painful—_the other_ will be instantaneous. From the river I might be
rescued; but no human power can snatch me from death during a fall from
that dizzy height."
And she glanced upwards to the colossal pillar whose base she had now
reached.
At that moment two men, evidently belonging to the working classes,
passed her.
A portion of their conversation met her ears.
"And so she was not his sister, then?" said one.
"No such thing," replied the other. "I heard the governor of Newgate
tell all about it to one of the City officers scarcely half an hour ago.
The governor was coming out of a lawyer's house—Tracy's lawyer, I
believe—and the City officer was waiting for him at the door. He then
told him that it was a lady of fashion—with a name something like
Cecilia Scarborough, I think——"
The men were now too far for the wretched woman to hear any more of
their conversation.
"Merciful heavens!" she said, scarcely able to prevent herself from
wringing her hands; "even at this moment I am not safe!"
Then, without farther hesitation, she passed round the base of the
Monument, and crossed the threshold.
"Sixpence, if you please, ma'am," said the man who received the fees
from visitors.
Lady Cecilia exercised an almost superhuman power over her distracted
feelings, so as to appear composed, while she drew forth the coin from
her purse.
"It's a fine day to view London, ma'am," said the man, as he took the
money.
"Beautiful," answered Cecilia.
She then began the tedious ascent.
And now what awful emotions laboured in her breast as she toiled up that
winding staircase.
"My God! my God!" she murmured to herself; "is it indeed come to this?"
Once she was compelled to stop and lean against the wall for support.
Then she wrung her hands in agony—indescribable agony of mind.
"And yet there is no alternative!" she thought; "none—none! But my
mother—my poor mother! what will be her feelings? Oh! better to know
that I am dead, than an inmate of Newgate!"
And, somewhat encouraged in her dreadful purpose by this idea, she
pursued her way.
In a few moments the fresh air blew in her face.
She was near the top!
A dozen more steps—and the brilliant sun-light burst upon her eyes.
It was indeed a lovely morning; and the Thames appeared like a huge
serpent of quicksilver, meandering its way amidst the myriads of
buildings that stretched on either side, far as the eye could reach.
The din of the huge city reached the ears of the wretched woman who now
stood upon that tremendous eminence.
All was life—bustle—business—activity below!
And above was the serene blue sky of an early spring, illuminated by the
bright and cloudless sun.
"But yesterday," thought Cecilia, as she surveyed the exciting scene
spread beneath her, "had any one said to me, '_Thou wilt seek death
to-morrow_,' I should have ridiculed the idea. And yet it has come to
this! Oh! it is hard to quit this world of pleasure—to leave that city
of enjoyment! Never more to behold that gorgeous sun—never more to hear
those busy sounds! But if I hesitate, my heart will turn coward; and
then—Newgate—Newgate!"
These last words were uttered aloud in the shrill and piercing tones of
despair.
She clasped her hands together, and prayed for a few moments.
Then, as if acting by a sudden impulse,—as if afraid to trust herself
with the thoughts that were crowding into her mind,—she placed her hands
upon the railing.
One leap—and she stood upon the rail.
For a single instant she seemed as if she would fall backwards upon the
platform of the Monument; and her arms were agitated convulsively, like
the motions of one who endeavours to gain a lost balance.
Then she sprang forwards.
Terrific screams burst from her lips as she rolled over and over in her
precipitate whirl.
Down she fell!
Her head dashed against the pavement, at a distance of three yards from
the base of the Monument.
Her brains were scattered upon the stones.
She never moved from the moment she touched the ground:—the once gay,
sprightly, beautiful patrician lady was no more!
A crowd instantaneously collected around her; and horror was depicted on
every countenance, save one, that gazed upon the sad spectacle.
And that one wretch who showed no feeling, was the old hag of Golden
Lane.
"She cannot now betray me for procuring the poison," thought the vile
harridan, as she calmly contemplated the mangled corpse at her feet.