This short prayer, in which reproach and intercession were commingled, was said with profound sincerity.
But the image of Cecilia suddenly sprang up in the rector’s imagination; and then his entire form once more became convulsed with rage.
“That wretch—that adulteress was my ruin!” he exclaimed, clenching his fist so violently that the nails of his fingers almost penetrated into his palms. “I was virtuous and untainted until I knew her. She led me astray: she taught me the enjoyment of those pleasures which have proved so fatal to me! The wretch—the adulteress! And to be condemned the day before yesterday to maintain a forced calmness towards her! Oh! I could tear her limb from limb: I could dig my nails into the flesh whose dazzling whiteness and whose charms were wont to plunge my soul in ecstacies. The foul—the vile creature! May she die in a dungeon, as I shall die: no, may she rot upon the straw—may she perish by degrees—of starvation,—a cruel, lingering death of agony! Had I never known her, I should yet be on the pinnacle of pride and fortune,—yet be respected and adored! Ah! these thoughts drive me mad—mad.”
And again he beat his forehead and his breast: again he tore his hair, and writhed convulsively on his bed.
“Senseless idiot that I have been!” he continued. “Better—better far were it to have thrown off the mask—to have dared the world! I was rich—and I was independent. I might have lived a life of luxury and ease, pleasure and enjoyment;—but I was too weak to risk exposure. And that poor old woman whom I destroyed—was she not devoted to me! would she have proclaimed my hypocrisy? My conscience made me behold every thing in its worst light. I anticipated complete security in her death. And now I must die myself,—give up this bright and beautiful world in the prime of my existence,—abandon all earth’s pleasures and enjoyments in the vigour of my days! Senseless idiot that I was to suppose that murder could be perpetrated so easily—to imagine that the finger of God would not point to me, as much as to say ‘That is the man.’ Yes—though millions be assembled together in one vast crowd, the hand of the Almighty will single out the ruthless murderer!”
The rector ceased, and lay for some instants still and motionless.
But his mind was fearfully active.
“Had not all this occurred,” he thought within himself, “I should now be awaking, in my comfortable chamber, to a day which would be marked with the same happiness and security that other men are now enjoying. I should be free to go out and come in at will—free to walk hither and thither as I might choose. I should not have death staring me in the face, as at present! I should be able to say with confidence, ‘To-morrow I will do this,’ and ‘Next day I will do that.’ I should be my own master, possessed of all that can make man happy. But, now—now what a wretch I am! Confined to these four walls—a mere automaton that must eat and drink when a gaoler chooses!”
These thoughts were too heart-rending for the miserable man to endure; and, starting from his bed, he threw on his clothes with a rapidity that denoted the feverish state of his mind.
The clock struck eight; and his breakfast was brought to him.
“How many times more shall I hear that sound?” he asked himself. “Once how welcome were the notes of bells to my ears! With what happiness did I obey their summons to that church to which crowds flocked to hear me! Oh! what calm, what peaceful enjoyments were mine then—in the days of my innocence! And those days are gone—never to return! No human power can restore me to those enjoyments and to that innocence; and God will not do it!”
Thus passed the time of this truly wretched man.
At length the clock struck nine—next ten.
“Will she come?” he said, as he paced his cell with agitated steps. “Or will she be afraid of compromising herself? And yet she must have confidence in me: I have acted in a manner to inspire it. I suffered her to believe that it was out of regard for her that I did not write to her, and that I recommended her to pass in as my sister. The vile wretch! she little knows that all this was the result of calculation on my part! If I had shown myself indifferent to her reputation—careless of her name,—she would not have so readily consented to do my bidding. Perhaps she would never have come to me at all! Now she believes that I am anxious to avert the breath of scandal from herself; and she will serve me: yes—I feel convinced that she will come!”
Nor was Reginald mistaken.
Scarcely had he arrived at that point in his musings, when the bolts of his cell were drawn back, and Lady Cecilia entered the dungeon.
“You are true to your promise,” said the rector.
“Yes—I would not fail you,” answered Cecilia, throwing herself into a chair: “but I tremble—oh! I tremble like a leaf.”
“Have you brought—it?” asked Reginald in a hollow tone.
Cecilia drew from her bosom a small crystal phial, and handed it to the rector.
He greedily withdrew the cork, and placed the bottle to his nostrils.
“Yes—you have not deceived me! Now—now,” he exclaimed, as he carefully concealed the phial about his person, “I am the master of my own destinies!”
And, as he spoke, his countenance was animated with an expression of diabolical triumph.
Cecilia was alarmed.
“My God, what have I done?” she cried; “perhaps I have involved myself——”
“Set aside these selfish considerations,” said the rector; “you have earned wealth—for I have kept my promise—I have bequeathed all my fortune to you.”
“Do not imagine that I shall ever receive enjoyment from its possession, dear Reginald,” returned Cecilia, affecting a tenderness of tone and manner which she did not feel.
“Oh! I know your good heart, beloved Cecilia,” exclaimed the rector; and as she cast down her eyes beneath his looks, he glared upon her for a moment with the ferocity of a tiger. “But you will be surprised—yes, agreeably surprised,” he added composedly, “when you call upon my solicitor—which you must do to-morrow! Here is his address.”
“To-morrow!” echoed Cecilia, turning deadly pale. “You cannot mean to—to——”
“To take this poison to-day?” said Reginald. “Yes—this evening at seven o’clock you may pray for my soul!”
“Oh! this is, indeed, dreadful!” cried Cecilia. “Give me back that phial—or I will raise an alarm!——”
“Foolish woman! Will you not be worth twenty thousand pounds!” ejaculated Reginald. “And fear not that you will be compromised. I shall leave upon this table a letter that will exculpate you from any suspicion of having been the bearer to me of the means of self-destruction—even if it be discovered who it was that visited me here as my alleged sister.”
“This consideration on your part is truly generous, Reginald,” said Cecilia, in whose breast the mention of the twenty thousand pounds had stifled all compunction.
“We must now part, Cecilia—part for ever,” observed the rector. “Go—do not offer to embrace me—I could not bear it!”
“Then farewell, Reginald—farewell!” exclaimed Cecilia, who was not sorry to escape a ceremony which she had anticipated with horror—for the idea that her paramour was a murderer was ever present in her mind.
“Farewell, Cecilia,” added the rector; and he turned his back to the door.
In another moment she was gone.
“Thank heaven that I was enabled to master my rage,” cried Reginald, when he was once more alone. “Oh! how I longed to fall upon her—to tear her to pieces! The selfish harlot—as if I could not read her soul now—as if I were any longer her dupe. But I shall be avenged upon her—I shall be avenged!—My death will be the signal of her exposure—my dissolution will be the beginning of her shame! Oh! deeply shall she rue every caress she has lavished upon me—every accursed wile that she practised to ensnare me! Her blandishments will turn to moans and tears—her s
miles to the contortions of hell. The fascinating syren shall become the mark for every scornful finger. Fool that she is—to think I would die unavenged! If my existence be cut short suddenly—hers shall be dragged out in sorrow and despair.”
Then the rector paced his cell, while from his breast escaped a hoarse sound like the low growling of a wild beast.
But we will not dwell upon the wretched man’s thoughts and words throughout that long day.
Evening came.
Six o’clock struck; and Reginald feared no farther interruption from the turnkeys.
He then sate down to write two letters. Having occupied himself in this manner for a short time, he sealed the letters, and addressed them.
When this task was accomplished, he felt more composed and calm than he had done during the day.
He walked three or four times up and down his cell.
Then he fell upon his knees, and prayed fervently.
Yes—fervently!
Seven o’clock struck.
“Now is the hour!” he exclaimed, rising from his suppliant posture near the bed.
He took the bottle from his pocket: a convulsive shudder passed over him as he handled the fatal phial whose contents were to sever the chain which bound his spirit to the earth.
Then he felt weak and nervous; and he sate down.
“My courage is failing,” he said to himself: “I must not delay another moment.”
But he still hesitated for a minute!
“No—no!” he exclaimed, as if in answer to an idea which had occupied him during that interval; “there is no hope! My fate would be——the scaffold!”
This thought nerved him with courage to execute his desperate purpose.
He raised the phial to his lips, and swallowed the contents—greedy of every drop.
In a few seconds he fell from his chair—a heavy, lifeless mass—upon the floor of the dungeon.
CHAPTER CLXI.
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 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.
The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics) Page 22
