“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.
CHAPTER CLXII.
THE BEQUEST.
Two days after the suicide of Lady Cecilia Harborough,—an event which created a profound sensation in the fashionable world, and plunged the Tremordyn family into mourning,—Richard Markham was a passenger in a coach that passed through Hounslow.
At this town he alighted, and inquired the way to the residence of Mr. Bennet, a small farmer in the neighbourhood.
A guide was speedily procured at the inn; and after a pleasant walk of about three miles, across a country which already bore signs of the genial influence of an early spring, Richard found himself at the gate of a comfortable-looking farm-house.
He dismissed his guide with a gratuity, and was shortly admitted by a buxom servant-girl into a neat little parlour, where he was presently joined by Katherine.
The young maiden was rejoiced to see her benefactor; and tears started into her eyes, though her lips were wreathed in smiles;—but they were tears of pleasure and gratitude.
“This is kind of you, Mr. Markham,” she said, as he shook her hand with friendly warmth.
“I am come to see you upon important business, Katherine,” observed Richard. “But first let me inquire after the good people with whom you reside?”
“I am sorry to say,” answered Katherine, “that Mrs. Bennet experienced a relapse after her return from London; and she is not able to leave her chamber. She is, however, much better. Her husband is a kind-hearted, good man, and he behaves like a father to me. He is now occu
pied with the business of his farm, but will be in presently.”
“And now, Katherine, listen to the tidings which I have to communicate,” said Markham. “Have you received any news from London within the last day or two?”
“No—not a word,” returned Katherine, already alarmed lest some new misfortune was about to be announced to her.
“Compose yourself,” said Richard; “the news that I have for you are good. But first I must inform you that your late master, Mr. Reginald Tracy, is no more.”
“Dead!” exclaimed Katherine.
“He put a period to his own existence,” continued Markham; “but not before he made you all the amends in his power for the deep injury which his own guilt entailed upon you.”
“Then he confessed his crime, and thus established my innocence beyond all doubt?” said Katherine.
“And he has bequeathed to you his whole fortune, with the exception of a small legacy to Mrs. Bennet, whom his guilt deprived of a sister,” added our hero.
“Oh! then he died penitent!” exclaimed Katherine, weeping—for her goodness of heart prompted her to shed tears even for one who had involved her in such a labyrinth of misery as that from which she had only so recently been extricated.
“He died by his own hands,” said Richard; “and the world will not generally admit that such an act can be consonant with sincere penitence. That he attempted to make his peace with heaven ere he rushed into the presence of the Almighty, let us hope:—that he did all he could to recompense those whom his crime had injured, is apparent. But this letter will probably tell you more on that head.”
Richard handed to Katherine a letter, as he uttered these words.
It was addressed, “Miss Katherine Wilmot.”
With a trembling hand the young girl opened it; and with tearful eyes she read the following words:—
“To you, Katherine Wilmot, a man about to appear before his Maker appeals for pardon. That man is deeply imbued with a sense of the injury—the almost irreparable injury which his enormous guilt caused you to sustain. But in confessing that this guilt was all and solely his own—in proclaiming your complete innocence,—and in offering you the means of henceforth enjoying independence and fulfilling the dictates of your charitable disposition,—that great criminal entertains a hope that you will accord him your forgiveness, and that you will appreciate his anxiety to do you justice in his last moments. My solicitor is already acquainted with my intentions; and he will faithfully execute my wishes. This letter will be forwarded to him, to be delivered to you, through your benefactor—that noble-hearted young man, Mr. Richard Markham. The bulk of my fortune, amounting to eighteen thousand pounds, I have made over to my solicitor in trust for yourself, and under certain conditions which I have devised exclusively for your benefit. The sum of five hundred pounds I have, in addition, bequeathed to Rachel Bennet, with the hope that she will extend her pardon also to the man who deprived her of an affectionate sister. This letter is written in a hurried manner, and under circumstances whose appalling nature you may well conceive. May heaven bless you! Refuse not to pray for the soul of
The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics) Page 23
