CHAPTER CLXXVIII.

CONCLUSION OF THE HISTORY OF THE HAUNTED HOUSES.

Three years had elapsed since the occurrences just related; and it was

on a fine summer afternoon that a tall, handsome young soldier, in

the graceful undress of a private in a dragoon regiment, was walking

down Regent Street. His countenance was somewhat sunburnt; but there

was about him such an air of gentility that, even had he been far less

good-looking than he really was, it would have been impossible to pass

him by with indifference. His figure was slight, but admirably formed

and well knit: his legs were straight as a dart; and he carried his

arms with that gentle rounding which is so compatible with military

grace. His whiskers were small, but curling and glossy; and the slight

moustache that he wore was quite sufficient to turn the head of any

giddy girl--the more so that, as his lips were always kept the least

thing apart, that fringe set off his fine teeth to greater advantage.

His rich brown hair, worn short according to the regulation, stood

out in small but natural curls from beneath his undress cap; and

the somewhat darkly pencilled brows arched above eyes of deep blue,

and in which there was a melancholy expression that did not however

deteriorate from the masculine beauty of his person. His uniform was

scrupulously neat: his boots well polished; his buckskin gloves white

as snow;--and did he remove those gloves, his hands appeared to be

almost as delicate in complexion as a lady’s. In a word he was the very

_beau ideal_ of a soldier; and nature’s stamp of aristocracy was upon

him:--yet was he only a private--a humble private in his regiment!

We said that the day was remarkably fine; and it was at that hour when

the fashionable world goes forth to while away the time until dinner.

Regent Street was thronged with gay equipages filled with elegantly

dressed ladies, and attended by domestics in gaudy liveries; and the

footways were likewise crowded, but with a mere miscellaneous company.

For when the daughters of fashion appear abroad in the afternoon, the

daughters of crime likewise come forth; and yet we doubt whether

the immorality that walks the pavement is so much greater than that

which rides in carriages as the world generally supposes. Behold that

magnificent equipage wherein the elderly dowager and the beauteous

young girl of seventeen or eighteen are seated: it stops at the door of

a fashionable linen-draper’s, and the dowager leans heavily on the arm

of the tall, handsome footman who hands her out, while the young lady

throws a rapid but significant glance at the slim, graceful page who

has likewise dismounted from behind the vehicle. Or again, behold that

gentleman on horseback, moving leisurely along, and gazing intently

at each carriage which approaches down the wide avenue: at length he

recognises the equipage which he is so anxiously expecting--and, riding

up, he exchanges a few words with the fair creature who is its sole

occupant. A day, an hour, and a place are named for an appointment of

even a far less innocent nature than this one; and the lover passes on

with triumph in his heart, while the carriage whirls away the titled

lady who has already assented to a step that must lead to the dishonour

of her husband. Again, behold the splendid chariot, with a coronet

on the panel, and in which three beauteous girls with their maternal

parent--herself a fine woman--are seated. Would you believe that care

was harboured in hearts where smiles appear on radiant countenances?

And yet, the eldest of those sisters is a prey to a mortal

apprehension: she has been frail--weak--the victim of her own strong

desires and the opportunity afforded by some handsome, but obscure and

ineligible lover; and now she dreads lest a few months should betray

her unchastity and ruin her for ever. But we have not leisure to extend

this picture:--we must return to the handsome dragoon who is walking,

in a leisurely but somewhat thoughtful manner, down Regent Street.

[Illustration]

And wherefore was he thus partially pensive? Because nearly three

years had elapsed since he had last seen London, and his return to the

capital revived a thousand reflections which were indeed sufficient to

touch his heart painfully. He thought of his early youth--the hopes

which he had cherished when the future was bright before him--the

crushing disappointments and accumulated miseries that had suddenly

fallen upon his head--and his present position, so different from what

it ought to be. Yes--and he thought, too, of _one_ whom he had loved so

fondly--oh! so fondly, that his passion was a worship--an idolatry, and

whose image was indelibly impressed upon his soul. Time had taught him

the necessity of resignation to a lot which he could not alter--a fate

which he could not change--a destiny which he could not subdue: and

though that same resignation, aided by the faith of a sincere Christian

and a firm reliance on Him who disposeth of all things, had deprived

his anguish of its sting and blunted the iron that had entered into

his soul--there were, nevertheless, moments when the cloud came over

the handsome countenance, and the soldier’s heart swelled almost to

bursting. And this was now the state of his mind as he passed along the

fashionable quarter of that metropolis where he had arrived with his

regiment only the evening before. He had no particular aim in view--he

was not on his way to see any friends: the only being on the face of

the earth in whom he felt interested, was she whom he had once loved so

devotedly--whom he still loved with the mellowed and almost embittered

affection of disappointment--and whom he dared not inquire after, much

less venture to visit. His return to the capital had unsettled him: he

felt no inclination to remain in the barracks and pursue his favourite

recreation of reading--and he had therefore walked abroad in the hope

of diverting his mind from the unpleasant thoughts that intruded upon

it.

The handsome dragoon had just entered the arcade of the Quadrant, when

he was suddenly struck as if by paralysis--or as it were with a violent

blow dealt by an invisible hand: he stopped short--then staggered back

a few paces--and leant against one of the pillars for support,--his

countenance the while denoting the most intense emotions. For,

issuing from a shop, were two persons both of whom he instantaneously

recognised, but on one of whom his eyes became rivetted as if by

enchantment. Yes:--there was Ellen--the Ellen whom he had loved--whom

he still loved--leaning on the arm of her old husband--that man who

had robbed _him_--Leonard Mitchell--of the object of such a fervent

and undying affection! But neither the lady herself nor Mr. Gamble

observed the young soldier: for, on issuing from the shop, they passed

down the Quadrant; and thus their backs were almost immediately turned

upon him. Recovering his presence of mind, and passing his hand hastily

across his brow, as if to tear away a mist that hung upon his eyes,

Leonard Mitchell--for he indeed was the handsome young dragoon--was

already pushing his way amidst the crowd and hurrying after Ellen,

when the thought flashed, like blasting lightning, to his soul, that

she was an elegantly dressed lady, leaning on the arm of a husband who

was evidently a gentleman of substance--and _he_ was a common soldier!

Oh! never--never were the accursed class-distinctions of an artificial

state of society felt so bitterly as on the present occasion. Not that

Leonard mistrusted Ellen’s heart--not that he feared of experiencing

a cold reception from one of her generous nature: but a sense of

propriety--a deep conviction of what was due, under circumstances, to

herself and her husband, caused him suddenly to stop short;--then, in

obedience to the new impulse which was received from this revulsion of

his feelings, he turned abruptly from the Quadrant into one of those

streets that stretch towards the district of Golden Square.

Walking on, like one intoxicated, and with eyes that saw nothing--as

if all the powers of vision, physical and mental, were absorbed in

the necessity of internal contemplation--the young man felt as if

he were going mad. There was a fearful hurry in his brain; and yet,

palpable and distinct, as it were, in his heart was the image that

for years had been there, but each feature--each lineament of which

had suddenly received the most vivid colourings of revival. She was

beautiful as ever--more beautiful, if possible, in the glory of her

womanhood; and, although her countenance was somewhat pale and had a

melancholy--yes, a very melancholy expression--this only added to her

charms, in his estimation, by rendering her the more interesting. By

degrees, his thoughts grew more settled--the whirlwind that raged in

his brain, abated in violence; and suddenly there sprang up in his soul

a feeling of pleasure at the idea that her features wore that shade of

mournfulness. For, oh! there could be no doubt as to the cause: she

was unhappy--unhappy on account of him! She had not, then, forgotten

him--she remembered their youthful loves: perhaps he was still dear to

her? That thought became more delightful, as it seemed more consistent

with probability; and now _he_ was not altogether so thoroughly devoid

of hope--so profoundly a prey to black despair, as he had been a few

minutes previously. Hope, indeed! what could he hope? He knew not--he

did not immediately pause to ask himself the question: but he abandoned

himself to the delicious reverie into which the altered current of

his thoughts thus madly hurried him. When he awoke, as it were, from

this day-dream, he was astonished to find that it had lasted so long,

and without interruption: for, while wrapped up in that vision, he

had threaded many streets--accomplished a considerable distance--and

was now close to the toll-gate of Waterloo Bridge. Entering upon that

mighty viaduct, he seated himself in one of the recesses, and again

gave way to the meditations which the incident of the afternoon had

conjured up.

But how was it that Leonard Mitchell had taken the direction of

Waterloo Bridge, in that species of somnambulism under which he had

been labouring? Because it was the way to Stamford Street; and, in his

walking reverie, an irresistible impulse had influenced his footsteps,

even while he appeared to be proceeding at random. And what now was

the nature of his reflections? He experienced an ardent longing to

cross the bridge--to enter Stamford Street--and to behold once more the

house where all his early years were passed: yes--and to behold also

the dwelling of her whom he loved! But did he know that Mr. and Mrs.

Gamble still resided in Stamford Street? He was completely ignorant

on the subject; and an ardent curiosity impelled him to clear up the

point in question. Still he hesitated: amidst all the feelings by

which he was now animated, and the longings by which he was prompted,

a sense of duty rose up in his mind,--of duty towards her whom he

loved,--towards her husband--and towards himself. Why should he incur

the risk of meeting her, and perhaps unsettling her studied attempts at

unmixed devotion to him whose name she bore?--why should he do aught

that might arouse the suspicion or excite the jealousy of the old man

who doubtless treasured his young wife as a peerless jewel?--and why

should he resuscitate all his own griefs and sorrows, by an encounter

with one who was lost to him perhaps for ever? These questions did he

ask himself over and over again: they were the basis of the reasoning

which he held with his own heart--his own soul--in order to crush

the promptings that urged him towards the scene of past and happier

days. Alas! with all his natural rectitude of principle--with all his

generosity of disposition--with all his honourable feelings, Leonard

Mitchell was but a poor weak mortal, like the rest of us;--and while

still arguing with himself, he was traversing the bridge--he was

directing his way towards Stamford Street!

As he drew nearer to the end of the long thoroughfare--that end which

joins the Blackfriars Road--he relaxed his speed; and though his pace

was slower, his heart beat more rapidly. At length he came within

sight of the three corner houses: he paused--he stopped--heaven alone

knows how acute were the emotions that agitated within him then! Again

he moved onward--he called all his courage, all his presence of mind

to his aid;--and now he passed by Mr. Gamble’s house. Irresistibly

he glanced towards the window: his eyes met those of Ellen;--and he

heard the faint scream of astonishment that burst from her lips! But

the beauteous countenance had disappeared: had she, then, fainted?

No--her feelings had doubtless overcome her for a few moments;--but

she speedily recovered--she reappeared at the window--and a rapid

sign conveyed to him the intimation that she would come forth and

join him presently. All this passed so quickly as to be unobserved by

any of the neighbours; although it is probable that had ten thousand

pairs of eyes been rivetted on the house, Ellen would have not acted

differently--for she saw no one save him of whom she had heard nothing

for three long years. Leonard, half intoxicated with joy at the signal

that had been made by her fair hand, and aided in its interpretation

by the expression of her countenance,--scarcely believing, however,

that such happiness could indeed await him--and not pausing for a

single instant to ask himself whether he were acting well or even

prudently--Leonard, we say, passed on. The central of the three houses

was still occupied by Mr. Pomfret; for his name was on the brass-plate

on the front-door:--but the corner house--the house where Leonard had

dwelt so many years, and where his revered father had died in so sudden

and awful a manner--was shut up, a board intimating that it was to let.

The young soldier had not, however, many minutes’ leisure to reflect

upon the scenes of past days; for, aware that Ellen could not prudently

join him within a few yards of her own door, he crossed the Blackfriars

Road, and loitered at the corner of Holland Street. In a short time he

beheld her approaching: she saw him--she followed the direction which

he took;--and he proceeded farther down the comparatively secluded

place which he had deemed most fitting for this interview. At length

he halted; and in another minute his heart’s idol was by his side. She

had purposely put on a cottage-bonnet and a plain shawl;--and thus the

few people who passed saw nothing very remarkable in a modestly dressed

female in company with a private dragoon.

But even if they had attracted disagreeable notice, what was it to

them who had now no thought--no eyes--no ears save for each other?

Without a word at first--but after a brief though earnest pressure

of the hand--Leonard gave the young lady his arm; and they passed

along Holland Street. A few low, but anxious inquiries were rapidly

interchanged, and as speedily answered;--but frequent, long, and tender

were the looks they fixed upon each other. A few minutes’ walk brought

them to Southwark Bridge, to which they ascended; and when seated in

one of the recesses of that almost entirely deserted viaduct, the

restraint under which they had hitherto laboured was immediately thrown

aside.

“At length we meet again, Ellen,” said Leonard, taking her hand and

retaining it in his own, while he gazed fondly upon her.--“Yes,” she

replied, murmuringly, and holding down her blushing countenance:

“but do you think the worse of me, because, yielding to a sudden and

irresistible impulse, and availing myself of my husband’s temporary

absence, I thus stole forth to meet you--to hear from your own lips

that you are happy?”--“Happy!” repeated Leonard, bitterly: then,

unwilling to cause her additional pain, for his ejaculation had

already brought the diamond-tears to her violet eyes, he said, “How

can I think the worse of you, Ellen, when you come forth as a sister

to pass a few minutes with a brother who can not, dares not visit you

at your own abode? But rather let me ask, whether _you_, Ellen, are

happy?”--The young lady endeavoured to give utterance to a reply:

but, overpowered by her emotions, she burst into an agony of weeping.

Unable to restrain his own feelings any longer, Leonard caught her

in his arms, strained her to his breast and imprinted a thousand

kisses upon her moist lips and her tear-bedewed cheeks: for no eye,

save that of God, beheld them at this moment. Several minutes passed

ere either could recover the faculty of speech; and then they spoke

so low--so feelingly--and in such accents of deep, deep sorrow, that

it was easy for each to perceive that the love of the other had not

become impaired by time, separation, or circumstances.--“You were

wrong, oh! you were very wrong, Leonard,” said Ellen, “to abandon your

home and your friends, the moment after your father’s funeral. It is

true that you did not leave us altogether in uncertainty and suspense

relative to your fate--that you left for me a note acquainting me

with your determination to enlist and earn your bread honourably!

But, oh! wherefore have adopted that distressing alternative?”--“Can

you not understand my feelings, Ellen?” asked the young man, almost

reproachfully. “My father’s death left me without interest to obtain

the situation that had been promised to me through him; and his income

likewise perished with him. I had no claim upon Mr. Pomfret: neither

would I have accepted eleemosynary assistance. What could I do? I

disposed of the furniture to pay off the few debts owing by my father

and the expenses of the funeral; and I made all my arrangements with as

much haste as possible, in order to be able to leave that once happy

neighbourhood before you and--and--your husband should return to it.

I then repaired to Hounslow, and enlisted. Yesterday my regiment was

ordered to London; and within a few hours of my arrival, I experience

the happiness--the indescribable happiness of thus encountering you.

And now, Ellen, let us think--or, at all events, let us talk no more

of the past. I cannot bear to look back upon it. But, my God!” he

exclaimed passionately, and suddenly interrupting himself: “wherefore

should I dread to retrospect, since the happiness of the present is

only transitory, and there is no hope for the future?”--Thus speaking,

the young man covered his face with his hands and moaned audibly.

“Oh! this is dreadful!” exclaimed Ellen, with accents of despair.

“Leonard! I implore you not to give way to affliction thus. Listen

to me, my beloved one--for you are as dearly and as fondly loved

as ever; and I hesitate not to give you that assurance.”--“Oh! is

it possible? can I believe my ears?” cried the young dragoon, now

turning upon the lady a countenance suddenly lighting up with the

animation of indescribable joy and bliss, as the rays of the setting

sun played upon those handsome features. “But you forget,” he said,

after a brief pause, and with a cloud again appearing upon his face,

“that you are the wife of another?”--“Then it is you who love me not!”

exclaimed Ellen, in a tone of disappointment and reproach.--“Not love

you!” repeated Leonard: “Oh! how cruel of you thus to speak!”--and

again snatching her to his bosom, he covered her lips and cheeks with

kisses--kisses which she as fondly and as passionately returned. “Yes:

Ellen, you know that I love and adore you!” he added in a voice of the

tenderest sincerity.--“And I am not ashamed, Leonard, to give you a

reciprocal assurance,” said the young wife of another. “Oh! wherefore

should I attempt to restrain my natural feelings? Believe me that I

am much changed since last we met: I no longer see things in the same

light. For, to speak candidly, I have a deep conviction of the disgrace

of having been sold and bought for that dross which men so much prize.

I cannot help the thoughts that steal upon me; and therefore it is that

I have long ceased to look upon my father with respect. I feel that he

sacrificed me--me, his only daughter, whom he might have made so happy!

I feel also that he who is my husband hesitated not to immolate the

hopes of my youth to his own selfishness. These are sad--nay, terrible

thoughts, Leonard: but I again assure you that I cannot combat against

them. It is true that my father is now rich and prosperous, and that he

sometimes thanks me as the authoress of his fortunes: true also is it

that my husband treats me with the utmost kindness. But never--never

ought I to have been placed in the position to receive such thanks

from the one, nor such kindness from the other: for, between them,

they have wrecked my happiness, blighted my hopes, ruined all my

youthful dreams of felicity. There are times, then, when I feel as if

it would be a relief to fly from the neighbourhood of a father whom I

am almost compelled to look upon as an enemy, and from the arms of a

husband who is loathsome to me!”--As she uttered these last words, in

a low tone but with a bitter emphasis, Ellen bent her countenance--her

burning countenance--over her lover’s hand, which she pressed to her

lips.--“Then you would fly with me even now, dearest,” he said, in a

voice rendered tremulous by indescribable emotions, “did circumstances

permit me to accompany you?”--Ellen made no verbal answer; but the

rapturous manner in which she again pressed his hand to her rich, red

mouth was a sufficiently significant response--“Alas! that may not

be,” resumed Leonard mournfully; and now the young lady absolutely

shuddered in his arms, as if an ice-chill had suddenly fallen upon a

heart an instant before so warm with passion. “No--that may not be,”

continued Leonard, determined not to leave her in the least degree of

suspense. “Behold this uniform--a uniform which is accursed under all

circumstances, not only on account of the soul-crushing, merciless

discipline and degrading servitude of which it is the badge, but

also because it constitutes the barrier to the wishes which you so

generously intimated and which I so enthusiastically share.”--“But your

discharge can be purchased, can it not?” asked Ellen, bending down her

head to conceal her deep blushes.--“When I enlisted, Ellen,” solemnly

and mournfully replied Leonard, “I swore within myself an oath--an

oath ratified by all I deem sacred in heaven and by all my hopes of an

hereafter--to follow the course of this new destiny which I carved out

for myself, and, if possible, to rise to distinction in this service

which I dare not quit. I was young when I made that vow; and the hope

which dictated it never will be fulfilled;--for the English soldier is

a serf--a slave; and the idea of rising--ha! ha!”--and Leonard laughed

wildly. “At all events,” he added hastily, and again assuming a solemn

tone, “I respect the oath that I took; and you, who love me, will not

counsel me to break it. But we can see each other often, Ellen--we can

meet, as we have met to-night----.”--“Then with that assurance must

I content myself, Leonard!” interrupted the impassioned young lady,

in whom, as the reader may have surmised, the hand of affliction, the

tyranny of a parent, and the selfishness of the old man who bought her

with his gold, had deadened those delicate feelings and even undermined

the virtuous principles which had characterised her in her days of

happy innocence.--“Yes,” returned Leonard, “with that understanding

must we endeavour to console ourselves! And now, my beloved one, it is

time for me to leave you: remember,” he added bitterly, “that though a

man in years, I belong to a service where I am treated as a child and

limited to particular hours.”--“Would to God that you were emancipated

from this dreadful thraldom!” exclaimed Ellen, weeping.--“Nay, I was

wrong to say aught to afflict you,” returned Leonard, embracing her

tenderly. A few minutes more did they pass together, exchanging the

most passionate caresses and earnest protestations of unalterable

affection; and when they separated at last, it was not without having

arranged for another meeting at an early day.

It would be scarcely possible to describe the feelings which animated

the young lovers as they respectively hastened to their abodes--the

one to his barracks, the other to her home. As we have before stated,

circumstances had so warped Ellen’s mind, that she paused not even

to reflect for an instant upon the dangerous course on which she had

entered: she had no longer any ties to bind her with filial love to

her father--and she never had any bond of affection to link her to

her husband. Therefore all she now thought of, or cared to think of,

was that she had recovered a lover whom she adored; and she would

have ridiculed and laughed at the idea of disgrace and of a ruined

reputation, had any friend counselled her in the matter. On his side,

Leonard was less hardened--for such indeed is the term which might

be applied to Ellen’s state of mind--to the consequences of this new

phase of his existence. He shuddered at the thought of inducing a young

wife to conduct herself in a manner so injurious to her husband’s

happiness; and he resolved, in his calmer moments, that when he met

Ellen again, according to the appointment already arranged, he would

represent to her the necessity of their eternal separation. But when

they did meet, and in a secluded place, she appeared so ravishingly

beautiful, and spoke with so much tenderness, and seemed so completely

happy in his society, and was withal so unfeignedly loving, that he

could not bring himself to give utterance to the words that trembled

upon his tongue--words that would have chased away those charming

smiles, dimmed with tears the lustre of those melting eyes, hushed with

sighs that language of fervid passion, and changed to dark despair

all that bright and glowing bliss. Therefore they separated a second

time with an arrangement to meet again:--and on the occasion of the

third interview Leonard found himself less disposed than before to

make a representation which would be fatal to the happiness of both.

To be brief, interview succeeded interview, Leonard resolving that

each one should be the last,--until at length love’s dalliance became

irresistible in its consequences; and, opportunity serving in all

respects, the lovers were criminal! From that day forth Leonard thought

no more of the impropriety of their meetings, which thereafter grew

more frequent and longer in duration.

We shall here interrupt the thread of our narrative for a brief space,

in order to make a few observations upon the condition of the private

soldier. And, in the first instance, let us record our conviction that

there is not a more generous-hearted, a nobler-minded, or a more humane

set of men breathing than those who constitute the ranks of the British

Army; while there is not a more tyrannical, overbearing, illiberal,

and self-sufficient class than that composed of the officers of this

army. But how is the latter fact to be accounted for? Because the Army

is the mere plaything of the Aristocracy--a means of providing for the

younger sons of noblemen, and enabling titled mammas to show off their

striplings in red coats. What opinion can we have of the constitution

of the army, so far as the officers are concerned, when we find

Prince Albert suddenly created a Field-Marshal![18] Such a spectacle

is nauseating in the extreme; and the German must have execrably

bad taste, or else be endowed with inordinate conceit, to hold the

_baton_ of a Marshal when he has not even the military knowledge of

a drummer-boy. Since the Army is thus made a mere tool in the hands

of a rascally Aristocracy, what sympathy can possibly exist between

the officers and the men? The former look upon the latter as the scum

of the earth--mere slaves on a level with shoe-blacks; and hence the

barbarous cry of “Flog! flog! flog!” But there is no love lost between

the classes: for the soldiers hate and abhor their officers, whom they

naturally and most justly look upon as their tyrants and oppressors.

It is enough to make the blood boil with indignation to think that

those fine, stalwart, gallant fellows should be kicked about at the

caprice of a wretched ensign or contemptible cornet just loosened

from his mamma’s apron-strings,--or bullied by older officers whose

only “excellence” is their relationship to nobility, and their power

to obtain promotion _by purchase_. The generality of the officers in

the British Army are nothing more nor less than a set of purse-proud

bloodhounds, whose greatest delight is to behold the blood streaming

down the backs of those men who alone win their country’s battles.

When the Duke of York (who was a humane man, though as great a scamp

as ever had a COLUMN OF INFAMY erected to his memory) limited corporal

punishment to 300 lashes, the full amount was invariably inflicted

in nineteen out of twenty cases: but even this would not satisfy the

bloodhounds, who annoyed and pestered the Duke on the subject to such

an extent that he was literally bullied into empowering them to hold

General Regimental Courts-Martial, by whose decision 500 lashes might

be administered to the unhappy victim. For years and years was the

torture of military flogging in England a shame and a scandal to all

Europe; and it was absolutely necessary that a fine fellow should be

_murdered_ at Hounslow by the accursed lash, before the barbarous

Government would interfere. All the world knows that a BRITISH SOLDIER

_was murdered_ in this revolting manner, and in the presence of

his horror-stricken comrades: for be it remembered that when these

appalling spectacles take place, the eyes that weep and the hearts that

grow faint are those of the soldiers--never of the officers!

Again we ask, then, what sympathy can possibly exist between the

privates and those in command? None: the soldiers would be more

grovelling than spaniels if they could possibly kiss the hands that

cuff them, or lick the shoes of those who kick and spurn them. The

British soldier has his feelings as well as others--aye, and his spirit

too; and he feels the iron of a cruel discipline and a heartless

system rankling in his very soul. The celebrated John Wilkes was wont

to say, “The very worst use you can put a man to, is to hang him.” We

agree with the _dictum_: but we aver in addition that it is an equally

vile use to flog him. In fact, the whole treatment of the soldier,

from the day of his enlistment until that of his discharge, is one

continuous system of tyranny. Deception is made use of to ensnare him

into the service--a crushing despotism is maintained to render him

a docile, pliant tool while he is in it--and the basest ingratitude

marks his departure from it, when he is turned adrift on the world

without a penny to help him. The infamy commences with the recruiting

sergeant--is perpetuated by all the officers--and is consummated by

the Government. Take the case of Leonard Mitchell, in respect to

enlistment. The young man was assured by the recruiting sergeant that

his pay would be a guinea a-week: it however turned out to be only

9_s._ 4_d._, from which 5_s._ 10_d._ were stopped for messing and

washing, 2_s._ 7½_d._ for clothes, and 3½_d._ for articles to clean

his uniform with--leaving 7_d._ per week, or _one penny a-day_, for

pocket-money! And this is the condition of a British dragoon--with less

pocket-money than a school-boy receives from his parents!

The Government relies upon the fidelity of the Army from the fact that

it is officered by the scions of the aristocracy, who are of course

interested in upholding all kinds of abuses. Hence the belief which

the Government entertains that in case of a popular convulsion the

troops would be certain to fire upon the people. But, in spite of the

lordlings and aristocratic offshoots who command the army, we firmly

believe that it all depends upon the cause in which such popular

convulsion might arise, whether the troops would really massacre

their civilian-brethren. If it were a glorious and just struggle for

rights pertinaciously withheld and privileges doggedly refused, the

Army would _not_ act against the people. Even the Government itself

has fears on this head, ignorant though it be of the real state of

feeling anywhere save in the circles of the oligarchy;--for on a recent

occasion[19] when tremendous military preparations were made to resist

an expected outbreak of the working-men of London, the Government set

policemen in plain clothes to act as spies in respect to the private

soldiers. These spies threw themselves in the way of the soldiers,

enticed them into public-houses, plied them with drink, and, in an

apparently frank and off-hand manner, questioned them as to their

political opinions. Some of the gallant privates, thus treated and

interrogated, and little thinking that they were in the fangs of the

Government _mouchards_, candidly expressed their sympathy with the

popular cause, and as generously declared that they would sooner cut

their hands off than draw a trigger against the people--adding, “The

working-men and the soldiers are brethren.” What was the consequence?

The spies followed these brave and open-hearted men home to their

barracks, and laid information against them; so that numbers of British

soldiers, thus shamefully entrapped, found themselves suddenly placed

under arrest. Their commanding officers did not dare bring them to

punishment; but they are doubtless marked men, and will be persecuted

with all imaginable rancour and bitterness. To conclude this portion

of our observations, we must remark that if any disturbance had

really occurred on the great public occasion now especially alluded

to, the troops were resolved _not_ to fire upon the people; but they

were equally determined to avenge themselves most signally upon the

police.[20]

The day has gone by for the British soldier to permit himself to be

made the tool of despotism: he will not be behind the French soldier in

noble sentiments, generous conduct, and enlightened feelings, any more

than he is inferior to him in bravery or discipline. But the British

soldier must have his wrongs boldly proclaimed and speedily redressed.

In many, if not in most regiments, the love of self-improvement is

looked upon by the officers as a crime; whereas reading should be

encouraged as much as possible. The barrack-room should be made more

comfortable: at present it is so miserable and cheerless, that the

private soldier is driven to the public-house in spite of his better

inclinations. In many instances, men have become drunkards from this

very fact, and are then entered in the Proscribed List; though all

this might be avoided, were they encouraged to remain and pass their

evenings at home. The food provided for the mess-tables is seldom of a

good description, and frequently of the very worst: the meat especially

is too often of the vilest kind, and unfit for human food. Yet the

poor soldier dares not complain--no, not even in respect to that for

the supply of which he is so heavily mulcted out of his miserable

pittance. Drunkenness even every now and then is a heinous crime in

respect to the private soldier; whereas the veriest stripling that was

ever dubbed ensign or cornet, may get as tipsy as an owl every night

of his life with utter impunity. In fine, the condition of the British

soldier is wretched in the extreme; and while the officer, who _buys_

his rank, enjoys every privilege and riots in luxury and dissipation,

the unfortunate private, who is basely inveigled into the service by a

damnable fraud, is persecuted for the slightest offence, and treated on

all occasions as a mere dog.

And now to return to our narrative. Six months elapsed; and during

that period Leonard and Ellen met as often as the duties of the

former would permit, while the latter cared not to what extent her

husband’s suspicions were aroused by her frequent and unaccountable

absences from home. And that the old man did speedily entertain the

most heart-rending suspicions, was a fact: but if he questioned his

wife, she either took refuge in a stubborn silence, or answered him

in a manner that only provoked him the more. Pride prevented him from

complaining to her father; and he felt that he was now righteously

punished for his selfishness in sacrificing the happiness of the fair

young creature to his own desires. At length, unable any longer to

endure the tortures of uncertainty, and anxious to know the worst at

once, or else acquire the conviction that he had misjudged his wife

altogether, he watched her movements: but she, aware of his proceeding,

and without affecting to notice it, adopted such precautions as

completely to outwit her husband, and to hold meetings with her lover,

undiscovered as before. Up to this period--nearly three years and a

half--the young man had conducted himself in his regiment with the

utmost steadiness: he had never been reported--never incurred the

slightest reprimand from his superiors. This was an extraordinary

case, inasmuch as the private soldier has so many persons to please:

first, the corporal--then the serjeant--then the serjeant-major--then

the subaltern of the troop--next the captain--and lastly the

commanding-officer. No--not _lastly_: for he must likewise please the

Regimental Serjeant-Major, the Adjutant, and the Riding Master. Well,

all these difficult objects had Leonard accomplished with success; and

he was likewise beloved by all his comrades. He was ever in barracks of

an evening at the proper hour; and during the first six months of his

amour with Ellen, not even her sweet society had caused him to be late.

We must state that the more completely to enjoy the company of her

lover, Ellen Gamble had taken a furnished lodging in the neighbourhood

of his barracks; and there they were wont to meet. The landlady of the

place asked no questions, her rent being regularly paid, and so little

use being made of the apartments. It was Ellen’s delight to provide

succulent suppers for Leonard; and these he did not hesitate to partake

of with her: but as for direct pecuniary assistance--when once she had

offered it in as delicate a manner as possible, he refused it with so

much firmness and with such a glowing countenance that she did not

again allude to the subject. One evening,--it was at the expiration

of the six months already alluded to--the conversation had become

more than ordinarily interesting to the pair--the supper was later

than usual--and Ellen had ordered a bottle of champagne by way of an

additional treat. Leonard was remarkably temperate in his habits; and

the wine excited him considerably. He was not however tipsy--only very

much animated; and the time passed away more rapidly than the lovers

had imagined. At length, a neighbouring clock proclaimed the hour when

Leonard should be in quarters: and, starting up, he snatched a hasty

embrace, and hurried away. He reached the barracks ten minutes after

the proper time; and as he was traversing the yard, deeply regretting

that he should be even such a trifle too late, he met a young cornet

who had only joined the regiment six weeks previously. “Holloa, you

sir!” cried Lord Satinet; for such was the officer’s appellation:

“what the devil do you mean by coming in at this hour?”--Leonard,

perceiving that his lordship was so tipsy as to be scarcely able to

stand, endeavoured to get away without making any answer.--“Stop there,

damn your eyes!” exclaimed the nobleman. “What’s your number? Oh! B

57. Very well. But, damn your eyes!” repeated his lordship; “you’re

drunk--as drunk as a beast, I declare.”--“I am not, my lord!” cried

Leonard, indignantly: and again he made for the door leading to his

quarters.--“You infernal scoundrel!” vociferated the splendid specimen

of aristocracy, flying into a furious passion: “how dare you tell me

you are not drunk? Why, curse you, you can hardly stand.” It was his

lordship, however, who staggered.--“I am sober, my lord,” responded

Leonard, still keeping his temper: “and pray permit me to inform

your lordship that I _once_ was a gentleman, and that your lordship

might have a little more consideration for a person so unfortunately

circumstanced as I am!”--“A gentleman _once_!” repeated Lord Satinet,

with an ironical laugh: “a pretty gentleman, I’ll be bound! Your father

was a costermonger, I suppose; and your mother an apple-woman? A

gentleman, indeed! Why, damn your eyes, you’ll be telling me you were a

nobleman next. A gentleman, by the powers! a splendid gentleman! Of the

swell-mob, most likely.”--“Were I now as I was three years and a half

ago, my lord,” said Leonard, scarcely able to master his passion, “you

would not dare to address me thus.”--“Holloa! you threaten me, eh!”

cried Lord Satinet. “Come, sir: tramp off to the guard-room; and I’ll

teach you what it is to insult your officer, and be damned to you!”

Poor Leonard was compelled to obey: but the mere circumstance of being

forced to restrain his boiling indignation, gave him such an excited

appearance, that when he arrived at the guard-room the Serjeant on

duty immediately accused him of having been drinking. Leonard scorned

to utter a falsehood; and he did not therefore deny the fact: but he

declared that he was not inebriated--a statement which was treated with

ridicule. To be brief, he was kept in custody for three days, at the

expiration of which a court-martial assembled to try him. Lord Satinet

made out the case as black as possible against the unfortunate young

man, who in his defence most unwisely but very truly averred that his

lordship himself was excessively tipsy on the occasion referred to. The

nobleman denied the statement with much apparent indignation; and the

judge-advocate declared that Leonard Mitchell had materially aggravated

his own enormity by such an accusation--although the very officer who

thus fulfilled the judicial functions could of himself have proved, had

he chosen, that Lord Satinet _was_ particularly disguised in liquor on

the night in question. The result of that hideous mockery of a trial

was that the accused was pronounced _guilty_ of returning home late

in a condition of extreme intoxication, and of grossly insulting and

even menacing his officer. Leonard Mitchell was accordingly condemned

to receive three hundred lashes with the cat-o’nine-tails: he was then

removed to the black hole, where he passed a night scarcely enviable

even by a man about to suffer the extreme penalty of the law. For, oh!

how could he ever again look the world in the face?--how should he

dare meet his much-loved Ellen? how survive this deep disgrace--this

flagrant shame--this damning infamy? But we dare not pause to analyse

the thoughts or describe the feelings of the wretched young man during

the interval between his condemnation and the execution of the sentence.

The fatal moment arrived when the gallant British soldier, stripped

naked to the waist, was tied up to receive the torture of the lash,

in the presence of the entire regiment, which was marshalled for

the purpose. Leonard’s face was ashy pale--but the compressed lip,

sternly-fixed eye, and determined expression of countenance indicated

his resolution to meet the horrible punishment with as much courage as

he could invoke to his aid. On many an eye-lash in the ranks did the

tear of sympathy--aye, of deep, deep commiseration tremble: but the

officers looked on, the elder ones without emotion--the younger with

curiosity, but with no better feeling. As for Cornet Lord Satinet--he

could scarcely conceal his delight at the inhuman spectacle which he

himself had caused to be enacted; and he thought what a “lion of the

party” he should prove in the evening at his father’s house, when

detailing to his noble mamma and his dear sisters the particulars of

the military flogging of the morning. But, hark! the drums beat--and

the accursed torture commences!--the first blow is inflicted--and nine

long livid marks appear upon the back of the victim. Still he winces

not--and not a murmur escapes his lips. Again does the lash fall--and

of a livelier red are the traces it leaves behind. A third time the

instrument of torture descends--and now blood is drawn. But still the

young man is silent--although his well-knit frame moves with a slight

convulsiveness. A shudder--passing throughout the long ranks like an

electric shock, from flank to flank--denotes the horror--the profound,

intense horror, which strikes to the hearts of the brave dragoons

who behold the appalling laceration of their comrade. And now faster

falls each murderous weapon--for there are two executioners employed

at the same time: and when they have dealt a certain number of blows,

they are relieved by others, so that the victim may gain nothing by

the slightest weariness of arm on the part of his torturers. Still he

maintains a profound silence: but he cannot prevent his countenance

from expressing a keen sense of the mortal agony that he endures.

Down--down comes the horrible weapon, each stroke inflicting _nine_

distinct blows; and, while the blood streams forth in many crimson

rivulets, the knotted cords carry away pieces of the palpitating

flesh. Oh! that such infernal cruelty should be perpetrated in a

country vaunted as the chosen land of freedom, and peopled by beings

who boast their humanity!--Oh! that such a blood-thirsty torture should

be sanctioned by the laws of a nation paying upwards of ten millions

a-year for the maintenance of the ministers of Christ! Gracious God!

do thy thunders sleep when a creature fashioned after thine own image

is thus enduring the torments of the damned,--torments inflicted

not in a paroxysm of rage, and by the hand of a savage individual

vengeance,--but in cold blood, in unprovoked mercilessness, and under

colour of a sanguinary law which would disgrace a community of savages!

People of England! let us blush--let us hang down our heads for very

shame when we reflect that such appalling scenes are enacted amongst

us; or rather let us gnash our teeth with rage--and tear our hair--and

beat our breasts, to think that we are unable to compel our legislators

to receive even a scintillation of that humane spirit which animates

ourselves. For we have a Society to prevent cruelty to animals--and

the man who beats his ox or his ass too severely, is punished; and

if a poor man only happens to jostle against a police-officer, it

is construed into _a savage assault_ and attended with penalties.

But there is no Society to prevent cruelty to human beings; and the

lash--the accursed lash may be used, until the blood flows down the

back--the skin is flayed away--deep wails are made in the quivering

form--morsels of palpitating flesh are torn off--and the muscles are

laid bare,--oh! all this may be done--all these revolting atrocities

may be perpetrated--all these hellish cruelties may be accomplished,

and there is no Association patronised by Royal Highnesses, Bishops,

and Noble Lords, to interfere in behalf of the victims nor to punish

the offenders!

Leonard Mitchell bore his murderous punishment as bravely as man could

endure such fiendish torture. A hundred and fifty lashes had been

inflicted, without eliciting a moan from his lips: but his countenance

betrayed all the intensity of the anguish which he suffered. His eyes

lost their lustre--his under-jaw fell slightly--there was foam upon

his mouth--and his tongue protruded somewhat. As for his back----But,

perdition seize upon the blood-hounds! the indignation which we feel

at this moment will not allow us to extend _that_ portion of the

painful description. Better--oh! better far to be the vilest beggar

that ever grovelled in the mire, than one of those Greenacres of the

House of Commons who advocate corporal punishment, or those Barkers

of colonels who delight in having it inflicted! As for poor Leonard

Mitchell, he received upwards of two hundred lashes without a murmur;

and then the surgeon ordered a pause. Drink was given to him--and he

revived. But was he then removed? Oh! no--no: the feast of blood was

not accomplished--the cup of gore was not full enough--the sum of human

tortures was not finished. Again fell the accursed weapon: and now--we

know not whether it were that after a brief cessation the agony of the

renewal was more intense than before--or that the interval of rest had

allowed the fine spirit of the man to flag,--whatever were the cause,

it is nevertheless a fact that a piercing shriek of anguish burst from

his lips--a shriek so strange, so wild, and so unnatural, that long,

long after did it ring in the ears of those who heard it; for it seemed

to lacerate the very brain as, in its horrible inflections, the rending

sound was sent back from the barrack walls in penetrating echoes and

frightful reverberations. A thrill of horror electrified the startled

ranks of the victim’s comrades; and the gloved hand of many a brave

soldier was drawn rapidly across the countenance, to dash away the

tears that trembled on the quivering eye-lids. For, oh! the British

warrior may indeed well weep at such a scene,--weep--weep with mingled

shame and sorrow--weep, too, with bitterness and indignation!

The punishment was over: soon as that piercing scream had died away,

the prisoner fainted;--and he was forthwith hurried to the infirmary,

where many hours elapsed ere he came to his senses. Then he awoke

to consciousness amidst the most horrible tortures: for the means

that were adopted to prevent his lacerated back from mortifying,

inflicted the agonies of hell. Only fancy, Christian reader--a man

in this country can be beaten into such a state that it is ten to

one whether he will not die of his wounds, and all the surgeon’s art

can with difficulty resuscitate him! But pass we over the lingering

illness endured by the unhappy Leonard---an illness of eight long

weeks; and let us see whether the tortures of the lash have made him

a better man. Alas! far from it! His fine spirit was broken: he saw

that it was useless to endeavour to be good--that it was ridiculous to

practise virtues which experienced no reward. His religious faith was

shaken--nay, almost completely destroyed; and he no longer believed in

the efficacy of prayer. Instead of harbouring feelings of a generous

philanthropy, he began to loathe and detest his superiors and look with

suspicion on his equals. A doggedness of disposition, a recklessness

of character, a species of indifference as to what might become of

him, displaced all those fine qualities and noble attributes that had

previously graced him. For he felt that he was a marked man in his

regiment, and never could hope for promotion--that his character was

gone--and that, like Cain, he bore about him the brand of indelible

infamy. Moreover, he longed for vengeance--bitter, bitter vengeance

upon that young scion of the aristocracy who had lied against him--lied

foully as only such a wretch could lie--and who had brought down all

that disgrace on his devoted head.

In such a frame of mind was it that Leonard Mitchell met Ellen for

the first time after a separation of nearly ten weeks. The young lady

had learnt the misfortunes which had befallen her lover; and she was

prepared, by an intimate knowledge of his character, to hear that he

had been accused as unjustly as he had been punished savagely. She

endeavoured to console him: but he assured her broadly and frankly

that the only solace he could ever know was--_vengeance_! Ellen did

not discourage this idea--did not rebuke this craving; for she also

felt bitterly--bitterly against the despicable lordling who had

persecuted him so foully. It was, nevertheless, with sorrow that she

soon observed the alteration which had taken place in his disposition.

He was still devoted to her: but his passion now partook rather of

a gross sensuality than, of the refinement of love. How could it be

otherwise? The best feelings of the man were blunted; and his brute

impulses, unchecked by that delicacy of sentiment which had once so

peculiarly characterised him, became the more violent. Especially did

he soon manifest a loving for intoxicating liquors; and at the third

or fourth interview with Ellen, after his release from the hospital,

he suffered her to understand pretty plainly that he should no longer

refuse pecuniary assistance at her hands. In the course of a few weeks

he spoke out more plainly still, and unblushingly asked for the amount

he required at the time; and ere many months had passed away, he never

parted from her without receiving a portion of the contents of her

purse. At first she herself was much shocked at this evidence of an

altered disposition: but she was so deeply--so devotedly attached to

him, that she reasoned herself into consolation even on that head; and

the more selfish he became, the more anxious did she appear to minister

to his wants. This was not all: for frequent intoxication irritated

his temper--and he did not hesitate to vent his ill humour upon her.

Sometimes, too, he failed to keep his appointments with her: and when

they did meet at last, he abused her if she dared to reproach him. On

one occasion he actually raised his hand to strike her; but the poor,

loving creature, falling on her knees at his feet, turned up towards

him a countenance so tearful and woe-begone, that the coward blow was

stayed, and he implored her pardon. Nevertheless, she had received a

shock which she could not forget: neither could she avoid contrasting

the Leonard Mitchell whom military punishment had degraded to the same

level as the brutes, with the Leonard Mitchell who formerly appeared

the very type of a gallant, generous-hearted, and high-minded British

Dragoon!

[Illustration]

But Leonard Mitchell must not be blamed if his manners and habits

were thus changed, and if he took inveterately to drinking. He was

one of those whom bad laws had forced into evil courses; and if he

flew to the intoxicating glass, it was because the alcoholic liquor

contained the hours of oblivion. Persecuted as he had been--degraded as

he felt himself, existence had become intolerable unless he lost the

consciousness of at least a portion of it. His comrades noticed the

alteration which had taken place in him, and they well understood the

cause: for it had been the same with every one who had ever undergone

the torture and the disgrace of the lash. In his sober hours Leonard

experienced no remorse--no compunction for the ways which he was

pursuing: he had grown dogged--morose--indifferent;--no--not altogether

indifferent,--for he cherished--dearly, deeply cherished a scheme of

vengeance. And the day and the hour for carrying it into execution

arrived at last.

It was, indeed, on the anniversary of the memorable morning of his

degrading punishment, that a grand review took place in Hyde Park.

Certain German pauper Princes were on a visit to this country,--princes

who received annual incomes from the English Treasury, heaven only

knows for what services performed--and whose very travelling expenses

to and from the Court of St. James’s were duly paid from the public

purse;--for those contemptible petty sovereigns of Germany are as

mean as they are poor, and as proud as they are both mean and poor!

Well, it was on the occasion of the presence of two or three of those

princely beggars in the British metropolis, that the grand review

took place. All the troops quartered in or near London were marched

shortly after ten o’clock in the morning to Hyde Park; and as the day

was remarkably fine, the spectacle was brilliant and imposing. The

Duke of Wellington, the German Princes, and several General-officers,

attended by a numerous staff, shortly afterwards appeared upon the

ground: and the road was thronged with spectators. The review commenced

in the usual manner: the entire force, infantry and cavalry, was

drawn up to receive the Duke, the Princes, and their companions;--and

after the inspection and the “marching past,” various evolutions and

manœuvres were practised. A sham fight was then ordered; and the troops

were accordingly separated for the purpose into two divisions. The

appearance of the dragoon regiment in which Leonard Mitchell served

attracted general notice, not only on account of the reputation it had

acquired of containing some of the finest men in the British army, but

likewise in consequence of its discipline and its perfection in the

evolutions already practised. But had some searching eye scanned each

individual countenance, there was _one_ in that regiment which would

have rivetted the gaze: for, though strikingly handsome, there was then

upon that countenance an expression of fiend-like satisfaction and

sardonic triumph--and the portentous gaze, the curling lip, and the

dilation of the nostrils on the part of the dragoon thus alluded to,

would have convinced the observer that the man’s thoughts were intent

on some sinister design.

And now the sham-fight commences;--and there is advancing and

retreating by turns--and there are echelons and deployings, and

other evolutions--until a general attack commences on the side of

the assailing party. The dragoons are armed with their carbines; and

Leonard Mitchell grasps his weapon with an ardour--an affection--a

species of gratitude, as if it were about to render him some signal

service. The order is given to fire; and the carbines vomit forth

volumes of white, vapoury smoke, which in a moment envelopes the entire

corps. But from the midst of the cloud a piercing scream--a scream of

mortal agony--breaks forth; and then, as the smoke moves slowly away on

the lazy wing of the partial breeze, ejaculations of horror and dismay

announce that some accident has occurred. All is now confusion; but

a report spreads through the dragoon regiment, and thence circulates

like wildfire amidst the troops and the spectators, that Lord Satinet

has been wounded in the sham-fight. And true enough was the rumour;

for there lay the young nobleman, fallen from his horse, and stretched

bleeding and gasping on the green sward! The surgeon hastily proceeded

to render all the assistance that human skill could administer: but the

aid was vain and useless--the victim was mortally wounded by a bullet

which had entered his back--and, without uttering an intelligible

word, he shortly expired in the surgeon’s arms. And now a sad and

heart-rending scene took place: for the parents and the sisters of the

murdered nobleman were upon the ground--and they hastened to the spot,

guided by the common rumour which had appalled them, but which they

hoped to find incorrect, or at all events fearfully exaggerated. They

discovered, however, that it was, alas! too true; and the gala day was

turned into one of bitter mourning for them. The review was broken

up--and the troops were marched away to their respective barracks;

while the spectators crowded to behold the sad procession that bore the

corpse of the young noble to the family mansion in the neighbourhood.

During the return of the dragoon regiment to its quarters, those of

Leonard’s comrades who were near him frequently bent suspicious and

enquiring glances upon him: but his countenance afforded no indication

of guilt. He neither appeared triumphant nor downcast--neither nervous

nor afraid; and the soldiers who thus beheld his calm and tranquil

demeanour, were shaken in the idea which they had formed in respect

to the authorship of the morning’s tragedy. The moment the dragoons

entered the barracks, every cartouche-box was examined; but in none was

found aught save blank cartridges. The suspicions of the officers had

naturally fallen upon Leonard Mitchell; and it was deemed necessary

to place him under arrest until the coroner should have instituted

the usual enquiry. But he energetically declared his innocence; and

those who were the most ready to suspect him, were staggered by the

sincerity which seemed to characterise his protestations, and by the

indignation which he manifested at the crime imputed to him. On the

ensuing day the inquest was held; and the result was favourable to

Mitchell. No particle of evidence appeared to tell against him, unless

indeed it were the fact that he had been flogged a year previously

through the instrumentality of the deceased nobleman. But none of

Leonard’s comrades who were examined, could aver that they had ever

heard him use a threatening expression in respect to Lord Satinet--no,

not even in his cups, when the truth is so likely to slip from a

man’s lips and the real state of his feelings to be proclaimed by

the tongue. That the nobleman’s death was the result of an accident,

was an alternative that could scarcely be adopted: for it was almost

impossible that a ball-cartridge could have been mistaken for a blank

one. Thus, though not a tittle of testimony could be brought against

Leonard Mitchell,--and though he was discharged from custody,--yet in

the minds of all the officers and of many of his comrades, there still

dwelt a suspicion with regard to him. An open verdict was returned

by the jury,--to the effect that “the deceased had met his death by

a ball discharged from a carbine, but whether by accident or guilty

intent, and by what hand, was unknown.” A few days afterwards the

remains of the young nobleman were consigned to the tomb; and the Tory

newspapers, in passing an eulogium upon his character, grouped together

such a variety of admirable qualities, that if he had only possessed

one-tenth of them, he must have been a phœnix of moral perfection and a

prodigy of intellectual power.

The first meeting which took place between Leonard Mitchell and Ellen

after the tragedy just related, was of a painful description. Scarcely

were they alone together in the apartment which she had hired for

these guilty interviews, when, seizing him violently by the wrist,

and speaking in a low, thick tone--while her eyes looked fixedly and

searchingly into the depths of his own--she said, “Leonard, is it

possible that you have done this?”--“I told you that I would have

vengeance,” he replied, almost brutally, as he abruptly withdrew his

arm from her grasp; “and you have even encouraged me in the project.

Do you mean to reproach me now?”--“Oh! my God, it seems so horrible

to contemplate!” cried Ellen, sinking into a chair, and pressing her

hands to her throbbing brows: for, criminal--almost depraved, though

she were, yet she was not so hardened as to be able to stifle the still

small voice which whispered in her ears, “_Thou art the companion

of a murderer!_”--“Horrible to contemplate!” repeated Leonard, with

a brutal laugh. “You are a fool to talk in that style, Ellen. But

perhaps you will go and betray me next?”--“Good heavens! how have I

merited such treatment as this?” exclaimed the wretched woman, now

bursting into a flood of tears. “Have I not sacrificed everything for

you, Leonard?” she demanded, her voice broken with agonising sobs:

“and can you find it in your heart to insult me thus? Oh! consider

my position, and have mercy upon me! Tormented day and night by the

suspicions and the increasing ill-humour of a husband whom I loathe

and abhor--with the greatest difficulty avoiding the snares which he

sets to entrap me, and to acquire proof of that infidelity which he

even more than suspects and subjected latterly to the questions and

remonstrances of my father, who has at length obtained a knowledge of

my frequent and unaccounted-for absences from home,--think you not that

I am sufficiently unhappy, perplexed, and bewildered, without receiving

insult and injury from you?”--“Then why do you provoke me?” demanded

Leonard. “For a year past I have been constantly telling you that I

would have vengeance; and, as I said just now, you have encouraged me

in the idea. But now that it is consummated, and that my mortal enemy

sleeps in a premature grave, you affect horror and disgust.”--“Oh!

Leonard,” ejaculated Ellen, throwing herself at his feet, “pardon me,

and I will offend you no more! I am well aware that the provocation was

immense, and that there are circumstances in which human forbearance

knows no limit--can acknowledge no restraint. Such was your position;

and I was wrong to utter a word deprecatory of your conduct.”--“Well,

well,” said Leonard, raising the infatuated woman from her suppliant

posture, and placing her on the sofa by his side: “let us talk no more

of this little quarrel between us. For you must be aware that I should

have been worse than the spaniel which licks the hand that beats it,

if I had not avenged myself on that miscreant lordling, whom my hatred

accompanies even in his grave. And let me tell you, that in times of

war, many and many an officer is picked off by some soldier who has

felt the iron hand of despotism press upon him, or who has suffered

from the effects of individual persecution. It may be called _murder_,

if you choose: but I look upon it as a _righteous retribution_.”--Ellen

gazed in mingled astonishment and horror, and with a ghastly pallor

of countenance, upon her lover’s face, as he enunciated this dreadful

doctrine: then, perceiving that he was again about to become angry, she

hastened to caress him. He returned the amorous dalliance; but Ellen

could no longer abandon herself wholly and entirely to the delights of

illicit love. Though the course of life which she had for some time

adopted had rendered her insatiably sensual, she now experienced a

feeling of loathing and disgust when in contact with her lover. This

feeling she strove hard to conquer, by conjuring up all the voluptuous

ideas that had ever existed in her soul: but, in spite of this

straining against nature, a voice of blood seemed to ring in her ears,

warning her that she was in the arms of a murderer! She gazed upon his

handsome countenance, in the hope that its beauty would inspire her

with sentiments of a purer affection;--but his eyes appeared to beam

with fiendish triumph and demoniac malignity;--and if she pressed his

hand to her lips, it seemed as if she were kissing flesh stained with

human gore.

Unable to endure these torturing feelings, she hastened to prepare

the supper-table, and bade him draw the cork of a champagne-bottle.

Full readily did he comply; and, having tossed off a bumper first, he

refilled the same glass, saying, “Now drink from this, to convince me

that you do not love me less on account of what has happened.”--The

lady took the glass and placed it to her lips: but the words he had

just uttered, recalled so vividly to her mind those images which

she had striven so forcibly to banish from her imagination, that an

invincible feeling of disgust came over her--a blood-mist appeared to

obscure her sight--and as she drank, it seemed as if a draught from a

sanguine tide were pouring down her throat. Nevertheless, she forced

herself to drain the glass; and as soon as the exciting liquor began

to circulate in her veins, these horrible images rapidly disappeared,

and she felt that she could now abandon herself to a voluptuousness

of soul unmarred by disgust or loathing. Ellen, therefore, as well as

Leonard, discovered that there were charms in the crystal cup filled

with sparkling wine; and she drank the exciting juice with the avidity

of one who knows full well its efficacy in banishing care. Leonard was

both surprised and rejoiced to behold the influence which the nectar

had upon her; and for a long time he had not appeared so tender and

affectionate as he was during the latter part of this interview.

And what was the consequence of that evening’s incidents? That Ellen

took a liking to alcoholic liquor. She had discovered therein a panacea

for disagreeable thoughts; and her reflections in serious moments

were by no means of a pleasurable nature. Thus was it that she, who

was lately so abstemious as scarcely to touch a drop of wine even

after dinner, and who had so deeply deplored the weakness of Leonard

in yielding to the insidious temptations of strong drink,--thus was

it that she, the elegant and lovely Ellen, gave way to that same

fascination, and sought solace in the sparkling glass. At first she

touched no wine until the dinner-hour: but she soon found that all

the morning and afternoon she was a prey to low spirits, distressing

reflections, and feelings of mingled loathing and fondness in respect

to Leonard; and she therefore made the mid-day luncheon an excuse for

taking her first glass. At dinner-time she would freely partake of

her two or three glasses;--and on those evenings when she met Leonard,

she indulged readily in the liquor provided for the supper-table. But

as the habit rapidly gained upon the unfortunate young woman, she

soon began to tipple slily at home; and, even before breakfast, she

eventually found herself compelled by great mental depression to imbibe

a dram. It was about this time that Mr. Gamble’s intellects, racked

and tortured for upwards of a year by the most harrowing suspicions

and by the total estrangement of his wife’s affections and even

attentions, began to give way; and he would sit for hours together

in his chair, with his eyes fixed upon vacancy. It was also at the

same epoch that a turn once more manifested itself in Mr. Pomfret’s

affairs; and, a colossal speculation failing, he was again plunged

into deep embarrassments. Further assistance from his son-in-law was

out of the question; and Mr. Pomfret accordingly devoted all his

energies to sustain the credit of his house in the hope that he might

yet retrieve himself, or in any case postpone the catastrophe for as

long a period as possible. Thus the condition of her husband and the

constant application of her father to his business left Ellen almost

totally free from any supervision; and she was enabled to indulge at

will in the fatal habit that was gaining so rapidly upon her. Leonard

did not fail to notice this growing attachment to liquor on her part;

and he rather encouraged it than otherwise--for he himself had become

utterly depraved and reckless, and when his mistress was in a maudlin

condition of semi-ebriety, she cheerfully parted with all the contents

of her purse. The increasing childishness of her husband gave her a

greater command over his finances; and she was therefore the better

able to supply her lover’s extravagances. At length she acquired the

certainty that Leonard was unfaithful to her; and a desperate quarrel

was the consequence. Nor was the dispute confined to mere words; for

the young man beat her unmercifully--and she, half intoxicated at the

time, retaliated to the best of her ability. The scene was shocking and

disgusting; and when Ellen awoke next morning, and reflected upon all

that had occurred on the preceding evening, she wept bitter--bitter

tears, as she compared the guilty present with the innocent past. Then

she vowed to abstain from liquor in future, and to see Leonard Mitchell

no more; and, temporarily strong in this resolution, she sent him a

note communicating her design. Moreover, under the influence of the

better feelings that were thus awakening within her soul, her heart

smote her for her conduct towards her husband, who was daily becoming

more dependant upon her kindness, and whom she had long neglected

altogether. She even felt happy when she pondered upon her newly-formed

determination to resume a steady course of life;--but all her salutary

schemes and hopes were annihilated in the afternoon of that same day,

by the arrival of a letter from Mitchell, threatening to murder her and

kill himself afterwards unless she repaired in the evening to the usual

place of meeting.

Over that letter Ellen wept scalding tears--for she knew that if she

yielded _now_, her fate was sealed: ruin, degradation, and disgrace

must inevitably await her! She saw herself again entering upon the path

which would lead her to the condition of a confirmed drunkard; and the

awful menaces contained in the missive, filled her with presentiments

that even her death might be premature and violent. Nevertheless, she

had not the moral courage to resist the temptation of meeting her

lover; and she consoled herself--or rather, she endeavoured to quiet

her qualms of conscience and her presaging fears--by saying, “It shall

be for the last time!” To the place of appointment she accordingly

went; and Leonard Mitchell, who feared to lose a mistress possessed of

such ample means to minister to his extravagances, played the hypocrite

so admirably that Ellen--infatuated creature that she was!--believed in

the sincerity of his protestations of undivided love for the future,

and his regrets for the past. The wine-bottle circulated freely; and

she forgot all her remorse--all her compunctions--all her resolves

of reformation. She even went so far as to revive the proposal of

purchasing Leonard’s discharge; but to this he positively refused to

accede. He quoted his oath as a reason: it was not however the correct

one--for even that solemn vow had long ceased to have any influence

upon his depraved and hardened mind. The truth was that he had become

a confirmed voluptuary in respect to women; and he found that his

uniform was an immense auxiliary towards success with the frivolous

and giddy of the sex: moreover, he knew that were he released from the

ranks, he should become completely tacked to the apron-strings of his

mistress; and, as she held the purse, he would not in that case be able

to exercise his independence. It therefore suited him better to remain

in the army; and Ellen was foolish--infatuated enough to believe in the

validity and genuineness of the motive which he alleged for declining

her proposal. She accordingly forbore from pressing it; and the

remainder of that evening was spent in voluptuous enjoyment--sensuality

and champagne constituting the elements of that guilty pair’s

unhallowed pleasures.

Time passed on; and the position of the lovers--if such they could

now be called--became daily more unhappy in respect to each other.

Quarrels between them were of constant occurrence; and on each occasion

blows were exchanged. The affection of Ellen had changed into a gross

sensuality, having lost every particle of refining sentiment; and she

became jealous in the extreme, frequently giving way to such fits

of passion, when she reproached Leonard for his infidelities, that

it was impossible to recognise in the furious, rabid, half-drunken

demoness--the mild, amiable, and chaste young lady of former years.

She still retained her beauty to a marvellous degree, in spite of the

deep potations in which she indulged and the slovenliness that had

crept upon her in respect to dress; and, as she was frequently out in

the streets late of an evening, after her interviews with Leonard,

she was subjected to the licentious proposals of the “young men about

town” who are ever on the look-out for pretty women. The result was

that, although she yielded not to such temptations, her mind became

more thoroughly depraved, by being robbed of every chastening thought

and feminine reflection; for, when under the influence of liquor,

she would frequently converse with the rakes who accosted her in the

manner described. Leonard himself suddenly grew jealous; and, having

followed her one evening, he caught her in discourse with a young

gentleman whom she had encountered more than once during her walks

home. A dreadful scene ensued: and, though Leonard at length suffered

himself to be appeased, simply because afraid of losing one whose

purse was so convenient to him, he nevertheless entertained a firm but

erroneous conviction, of her infidelity. They therefore now harboured

mutual distrust, which on many occasions rose into absolute loathing.

Bad as Leonard was, and much as he had encouraged her in her drinking

habits, he was nevertheless often disgusted when he beheld her reeling

under the influence of liquor, and when he felt upon his face that

breath which, now heated with alcoholic fluid, was once so pure and

balmy. On her side, she could never divest herself of the remembrance

that she was consorting with a murderer; and frequently--oh! how

frequently, the blood-mist would reappear before her eyes, and the

liquor would seem gore in her glass, and sanguine stains would, in her

heated imagination, dye his hands! Thus wretchedly did their connexion

progress,--she still clinging to him through that infatuation which

often belongs to sensuality of soul--and he still tolerating her

because she possessed the means of supplying his pocket.

At length matters had reached a crisis, at which the amour was destined

to have a most tragical termination. Ellen was returning home one

evening, smarting under some insult which her lover had put upon her,

and labouring as usual under the influence of wine, when she met the

young gentleman above alluded to. On this occasion his entreaties were

more urgent than ever; and she was more pliant than he had as yet found

her to be. Her blood was inflamed; and she was moreover in that humour

when to assert her independence of Leonard, even to herself, would

prove a solace and a comfort. She accordingly yielded to the proposals

of the stranger, and accompanied him to an improper house. It was

midnight when they issued forth; and Ellen hastened homeward, having

made an appointment for another evening. In the middle of Waterloo

Bridge she heard hasty steps approaching from behind: it was a clear,

moonlit night--and on turning her head, she beheld Leonard Mitchell

close at hand. A faintness came over her: she instantly suspected--nay,

felt certain that he had watched her;--and, trembling with terrible

apprehensions, she sank upon a seat in one of the recesses. In another

moment the young dragoon was by her side. For almost a minute he spoke

not; and this silence augmented her alarm. Raising her pale--her

haggard countenance, on which the moon-light streamed in all its chaste

and silvery purity, she endeavoured to frame some question that would

lead to an explanation of his presence there: but her lips refused

utterance to the words that rose to them. A mortal terror was upon

her--a consternation, as if she beheld the skeleton form of Death

hovering dimly in the obscure distance.

Taking her hand, and pressing it with convulsive violence, Leonard

said in a low and hollow tone, “Now, Ellen, I have at last obtained

ample proof of your infidelity.”--“Mercy! mercy!” murmured the young

woman, as gazing rapidly up and down the bridge, she saw that it was

completely deserted.--“Oh! I deserve it,” exclaimed Leonard, beating

his brow violently with his open palm: “I know that I deserve it all!

I have long entertained the suspicion that such was the case: but now

that I have acquired the conviction, it seems too dreadful to bear!

Again, however, I say that I deserve it: and yet, bad--vile--depraved

as I am, I feel as if my heart had received a mortal wound.”--“I take

Almighty God to witness, Leonard,” cried Ellen in an impassioned tone,

“that this is the first time I have been unfaithful to you. Your

conduct of the evening wounded me so deeply, that I longed to avenge

myself--longed also to assert my independence of you, even if only to

the knowledge of my own heart. By this I mean that I should have felt

triumphant in proving false to you, even though you yourself were to

remain ignorant of the proceeding. And now if you will pardon me, I

promise never to err again. But, O Leonard--Leonard, do treat me with

at least a little kindness!”--and as she uttered these words in a

tone of deep feeling and profound pathos, she flung herself upon his

breast, throwing her arms around his neck in a paroxysm of reviving

fondness. So touching was her appeal, that it instantly brought to

his soul an overwhelming cloud of reminiscences of all the harshness,

brutality, and cowardly cruelty of which he had been guilty towards

her,--reminiscences, too, of all her love for him--the sacrifices she

had made for him--the generosity of her behaviour in his behalf. He

recollected also--and all in a moment as it were--that if she were

degraded by drink, and defiled by the hot breath of licentiousness,

she was pure and chaste as a wife until he had sought her out on his

return to London,--that her fall, in fine, might be unmistakeably

traced to her fatal connexion with him. Then, too, he recalled to

mind his own condition when two years previously he had crossed that

bridge on his way to snatch a glimpse of the three houses in Stamford

Street,--a condition which, unenviable as he had then deemed it, was

one of supreme happiness compared with his present state. For the mark

of the branding lash was upon his back, and the remorse of a murderer

was in his heart; and he knew himself to be a drunkard--a disgrace to

his regiment--a vile wretch, rioting in pleasures purchased by the

coin that he wrung from the woman whom he ill-treated and abused. And,

lastly, his thoughts were reflected back to those times when all was

bright and smiling before him--when he and Ellen were alike untainted

by guilt, and the willing votaries of virtue--when their loves were

innocent and chaste, and they would have started back in horror and

indignation had it been prophesied to them that they were one day

destined to look upon each other with disgust. All these recollections

and reflections poured in, like an overwhelming torrent, upon the mind

of the young dragoon; and his soul was softened--his heart, long so

hard, was touched--and, melting into tears, as he felt the miserable

woman clinging to him with resuscitated fondness, he pressed her to his

bosom, exclaiming, “Ellen, I have wronged you deeply--deeply: but can

you--can you forgive me?”

The reconciliation was complete; and then Ellen, animated by a sudden

thought, exclaimed, “But, gracious heavens! Leonard, you have absented

yourself from your quarters--and, hark! the clock strikes one.”--The

booming note of St. Paul’s iron tongue had indeed fallen upon their

ears while she was yet speaking.--“I dare not return to the barracks

again,” said Leonard; and she felt that he shuddered convulsively in

her arms.--“But what will you do?” she asked, diffidently.--“Anything!”

he cried: “anything! rather than be flogged again.”--“Flogged!”

repeated Ellen, now shuddering in her turn.--“Yes: I should be

assuredly condemned to that ignominy--that torture,” replied Mitchell.

“My conduct has for some time been so unsteady, and I have been so

often reported ‘_late_,’ that this time nothing could save me from the

_cat_. I have determined not to return to the barracks,” he added,

doggedly.--“But what will you do?” again asked Ellen.--“I know not,”

he responded gloomily. “Unless I can find some secure place wherein

to hide for a few days, until I may escape from the country, I cannot

tell what will become of me.”--“And must you quit the country?”

demanded Ellen.--“Would you have me taken up as a deserter?” asked

Leonard bitterly. “My punishment in that case would be worse than if

I were now to go back and submit to the result of a court-martial

on charges of irregularity, drunkenness, and late hours.”--“Not for

worlds would I have you return under present circumstances,” cried

Ellen, in an impassioned tone: “much less have you eventually incur

the danger of being arrested as a deserter, Leonard,” she added,

after a few moments’ pause, “if you leave the country, I will go

with you.”--“I thought that you would not abandon me,” exclaimed the

dragoon, pressing her closer to him. Then he whispered something in

her ears; and they conversed in a very low tone for several minutes.

At length Ellen yielded to the plan which her lover had suggested, but

which had at first seemed fraught with difficulties.--“Yes,” she said;

“there is no alternative--I must conceal you at my house. And when I

reflect, the two servants are devoted to me: you may suppose that I

have all along bribed them heavily in order to induce them to wink at

my irregularities; and if they refused to become Mr. Gamble’s spies in

these times when he was in full possession of his intellects, they will

not betray me now that he is half childish and does not question them

concerning me any more. Yes: It must be so;--there is no choice left.

Come at once: I possess the latch-key, and can admit you without even

disturbing the servants. It will be sufficient to make confidants of

them to-morrow.”

The reader may now understand that Ellen was about to consummate her

imprudence by taking her paramour beneath her husband’s roof. When the

first moments of dissolving softness and better feelings had passed

away in respect to Leonard, his selfishness again asserted its empire;

and, while determining to desert, he at the same time bethought himself

how he could still make Ellen’s pecuniary means available for his own

purpose. His object was therefore to gain admittance into the house--to

ascertain the precise nature of her resources and find out the amount

of valuables she could dispose of--and then induce her to elope with

him, having previously plundered her husband and his dwelling of

everything worth carrying off. We have seen how far his diabolical and

hastily formed scheme succeeded. Two points were already gained: she

would admit him into the house--and she had promised to accompany him

to another country. The robbery, he felt assured, he should be enabled

to reason her into: if not, menaces could be effectually employed,

no doubt. Such was the design which the once upright and honourable

Leonard Mitchell now had in view; and he chuckled inwardly at the

scheme, as he walked arm-in-arm with Ellen towards Stamford Street.

In ten minutes they reached Mr. Gamble’s house: Ellen opened the

street-door by means of the latch-key which she had about her;--and

the dragoon passed, unobserved and noiselessly, to her bed-room--for

during the past eighteen months she and her husband had occupied

separate chambers. The remainder of that night glided away: in the

morning Ellen admitted the two domestics to her confidence; and as she

at the same time slipped a heavy bribe into their hands, they willingly

promised devotion to her interests. The day passed heavily enough for

the dragoon, who was accustomed to exercise and bustle, and who could

not endure the idea of being pent up within the narrow limits of a

bed-room. He accordingly determined to put the remainder of his scheme

into execution without delay; and he rejoiced when night once more

spread its sable wing over this hemisphere.

It was eleven o’clock: Mr. Gamble had long before retired to rest--the

servants had likewise sought their chamber;--and Leonard was seated at

table with Ellen in the bedroom of the latter. A succulent supper and

rich wines were placed before them: the curtains were drawn carefully

over the windows; and a lamp diffused a mellow lustre throughout

the apartment. Having eaten as much as he cared for, Leonard filled

a tumbler with sherry, which he drank at a draught to inspire him

with courage for the part which he had now to play--for, by fair or

foul means, was he resolved to succeed. “Ellen,” said he, after a

pause, “we must quit the house to-night.”--“To-night!” she exclaimed,

in astonishment: “wherefore this hurry?”--“In the first place,” he

replied, “because I cannot bear confinement here; and secondly,

because it may as well be done now as a week or a month hence.”--“Let

us postpone our departure until to-morrow night,” said Ellen,

imploringly.--“Why so?”--“Because I have not seen my father for many

days,” she answered: “he has been so much engaged in the City; and I

should wish to bid him farewell for ever, if only mentally.”--“This

is childish!” ejaculated Leonard impatiently. “I thought you had lost

all respect for your father?”--“Oh! but I cannot forget that he _is_

my father,” responded Ellen, the tears trickling down her cheeks:

“and now that I have made up my mind to leave England for ever, I

would embrace him once more.”--“Then I must depart without you,” said

Leonard, rising from his chair--“Oh! this is unkind to a degree!”

urged Ellen bitterly. “Surely you can allow me four-and-twenty hours

for the necessary preparations?”--“Our preparations can be made in an

hour,” said Leonard obstinately: then, reseating himself, he drank off

another tumblerful of wine. “Listen to me. What preparations have you

to make, save to possess yourself of all the money, plate, jewels, and

other valuables you can lay your hands upon?”--Ellen stared at her

lover with the fixed gaze of mingled astonishment and horror.--“Well,

what is the matter with you?” he demanded.--“Leonard, you are not in

earnest?” she said at length: “you would not have me rob my husband

of his plate?”--“Certainly,” replied the ruffian: “and of his watch,

and everything of value that is portable in the house. We must not go

away empty-handed, I can tell you.”--“Is it possible that you would

counsel me to do this?” asked Ellen, speaking in a low and agitated

voice. “Leonard, I have never hesitated to supply you with money,

because that is an article which I believe to exist in common between

a husband and wife. Moreover, the household has suffered in no way by

the appropriation of those sums to your wants. But if you mean me to

plunder my husband of his plate--his watch--and other things which are

beyond all question his own exclusively, I declare once for all that

I will not be a party to such a deed. It is sufficient,” she added,

tears now bursting from her eyes, “that I am what I am, without leaving

behind me the reputation of a thief.”--Leonard ground his teeth with

rage: and again he had recourse to the wine-bottle.--“Pray recall the

words that you have uttered,” exclaimed Ellen: “tell me that you were

joking, or that you only made the proposal in order to try me!”--“I

never was more serious in my life,” said Leonard, brutally.--“Oh! what

do I hear?” cried the wretched woman, wringing her hands.--“Enough of

this!” ejaculated the ruffian, starting from his seat. “Do you mean

to accompany me, or do you not?”--“Yes, yes; I have pledged myself

to _that_!”--“And are we to go empty-handed?”--“I have sixty or

seventy pounds in money, and my jewels are worth as much more.”--“And

the plate?” demanded Leonard.--“Is always kept in a box beneath Mr.

Gamble’s bed; and therefore you see how impossible it is to obtain it,

even if I were disposed to plunder him of property which has been in

his family for so many, many years.”

Leonard reseated himself--poured out more wine--drank it--and then

fell into a deep meditation. Ellen watched his countenance, flattering

herself that the reason she had alleged for forbearance in respect to

the plate would prove efficient. But she had only confirmed the ruffian

in his resolution to possess it; inasmuch as she had committed herself

in two ways. Firstly, she had told him where it was; and secondly, by

informing him that it had been in the family for many years, she had

naturally left on his mind the impression that it was of considerable

value--for heir-looms of that species are usually costly. What, then,

was Leonard Mitchell really thinking of--thinking of, too, under the

influence of the deep potations which he had imbibed? He was revolving

a hellish project in his mind. If he endeavoured to possess himself

of the plate contrary to the assent of Ellen, a disturbance would

ensue in the house, and his arrest as a deserter might follow upon the

discovery of his presence there. To depart without the plate was not at

all suitable to his purposes: for if he repaired to a foreign country,

it would not be to toil for a livelihood. How, then, was he to secure

the coveted property, and carry it away without the chance of noise or

detection? Only if Ellen were removed from his path! Yes--_this_ was

the project now revolved in the mind of the lost, depraved young man;

and, having again fortified himself with liquor, he determined to put

his diabolical scheme into execution. Suddenly rising from his seat,

he approached Ellen, and, taking her hand, said, “Forgive me, dearest,

for what I dared to utter just now. We will delay our departure until

to-morrow night; and then you shall take with you just so much as you

choose to select, and nothing more.”--“I freely pardon you, Leonard,”

she replied; and yet, as he bent over her, there was a wild gleaming

in his eye and a peculiarity of expression in his countenance which

caused vague apprehensions to sweep across her mind. “But how strangely

you regard me, Leonard,” she said: “is anything the matter with

you?”--“Nothing, nothing, dearest,” he responded, throwing his arms

round her neck and pressing her head as if in the fervour of affection

against his bosom. All her alarms were immediately dissipated; and,

thrown completely off her guard, she returned the embrace, abandoning

herself entirely to him. At that instant his right hand was withdrawn;

and, as he uttered some words of endearment, he possessed himself of

the carving knife, unperceived by her.--“Let us now retire to rest,

Leonard,” she murmured, as her face lay buried on his chest: “It is

growing late----Oh! heavens----”

And farther utterance was suddenly stopped; for, like a flash of

lightning, the sharp blade, gleaming in the rays of the lamp, was

drawn across her throat--the murderer turning her head and throwing

it back at the same moment in order to aid his fell design. Death was

almost instantaneous; and the miscreant gently lowered the body upon

the floor. For nearly half a minute did he stand gazing upon that

corpse--unable to believe that it was really what it seemed to be, and

that he had perpetrated the deed. Then, as the awful conviction stared

him fully in the face, and the entire sense of his enormity seized upon

his soul, he would have given worlds, had he possessed them, to undo

what was there done! But it was too late--oh! too late; and he must

save himself--he must escape! A bumper of brandy gave him the courage

of a brute: and, taking the lamp in his hand, he crept cautiously to

Mr. Gamble’s bed-room. The door was unlocked, and the old man slept

profoundly. Beneath the bed was the plate-chest: but it was securely

fastened with a padlock. Leonard raised the chest, and, placing it on

his shoulder, was about to quit the room, when he espied upon a chair

the clothes which Mr. Gamble had put off when retiring to rest. These

garments the murderer likewise self-appropriated, as well as a hat,

which was standing on a chest of drawers; and he noiselessly retraced

his way to the chamber where the corpse lay. Turning his back towards

that appalling spectacle, he proceeded to dress himself in Mr. Gamble’s

apparel, which fitted him quite well enough for his purpose, and was at

all events a safer attire than his uniform. He next proceeded to break

open the plate-chest--a task speedily effected by means of the same

knife that had accomplished the murder. The contents of the chest, when

rapidly scanned by his eager eyes, were evidently of great value; and

he hastened to pack them up in towels, and lastly in brown paper. He

then rifled the jewel-box of his murdered paramour; and, in addition to

the costly articles which he found there, were the seventy pounds that

the unfortunate woman had alluded to but a few minutes before she had

ceased to exist. Leonard was satisfied with the booty thus acquired;

and he was moreover in haste to depart. Having secured the money and

jewels about his person, he took the parcel containing the plate

under his arm, and stole cautiously down the stairs. All was silent

throughout the house: several times did he pause to listen--but not a

sound was heard;--and he gained the street without interruption. When,

however, he was in the open air, he knew not whither to go--what plan

to adopt,--whether to seek concealment in London until the coming storm

should have blown over, or to make every effort to get out of England.

The latter plan appeared to be the more advisable; and he accordingly

pushed on towards the Dover road.

It was shortly after sun-rise that Mr. Gamble, awaking from a sound

sleep, beheld a deep stain on the ceiling of his chamber; and, with

eyes rivetted upon it, he lay reflecting what it could possibly be.

The old man was half childish; and the strangest conjectures passed

through his mind. At length he grew frightened: an unknown terror

stole gradually upon him--and he rang his bell violently. In a few

minutes the two female domestics entered the room, having hastily

huddled on some clothing; and they found their master gazing intently

up at the ceiling, with a wild vacancy in the eyes. Their own looks

instantly took the same direction; and one of them suddenly exclaimed,

with shuddering horror, “It is blood!” They then hurried up-stairs;

and a frightful spectacle met their view. Their mistress lay upon

the floor, with her throat cut from ear to ear; and the carpet was

completely saturated with her blood. Screams and shrieks burst from

the lips of the horror-stricken women; and rushing down stairs, they

rashly communicated to Mr. Gamble, without any previous warning

or preparation, the dreadful tragedy which had been enacted. The

flickering, decaying lamp of the old man’s intellect suddenly burnt

up vividly for a few moments: the full powers of reason returned;--he

comprehended the appalling news which were thus unguardedly made known

to him; and with a horrible lamentation he sprang from his bed. With

incredible speed did he ascend to his wife’s chamber; and when the

awful spectacle met his eyes, he threw up his arms in despair, gave

vent to a piteous cry, and sank down on the blood-stained corpse.

Meantime one of the servants had hastened next door to alarm Mr.

Pomfret; and when that gentleman, accompanied by two or three of

his own domestics, appeared on the scene of murder, assistance was

immediately offered to Mr. Gamble. But all endeavours to recover him

were ineffectual: the shock he had received was a death-blow--and life

was extinct!

A few questions hastily put to the old man’s servants elicited many

facts dreadful for Mr. Pomfret to hear. He now learnt enough to

convince him that his daughter had long maintained an illicit connexion

with a handsome young dragoon--that her lover had been admitted the

night before the one of the murder into the house--and that he must

have been the author of the dreadful deed. Farther investigation

corroborated this belief: the uniform was found, and a suit of Mr.

Gamble’s apparel had disappeared;--the plate, jewels, and money

were likewise gone. The distracted father, having heard a long time

previously that Leonard Mitchell had enlisted in a dragoon regiment,

immediately suspected that he must be the criminal; and this idea was

confirmed by the discovery of some letters in Ellen’s desk. Information

of the murder and robbery was accordingly given to the proper

authorities; and Mr. Pomfret, crushed to the very dust by the weight

of misfortune, crept back to his own cheerless dwelling--there to

meditate upon the closing scene of the tragedy in which his own conduct

had originally made his poor daughter the heroine. Bitterness was in

the wretched man’s soul--horror in his eyes--spasmodic shuddering in

all his limbs; and, when he contemplated his child’s horrible end and

his own ruined fortunes, he felt indeed that he had nothing left worth

living for. The cup of his adversity was not, however, quite full yet:

but in a few hours it was overflowing--for his head clerk arrived in

a cab, and, rushing into the parlour without ceremony, announced to

him that the officers of justice were in search of him, a true bill

of indictment having been found against him for certain frauds in his

commercial transactions. “Thank you--thank you, for coming to give me

this timely warning,” said Mr. Pomfret, pressing his clerk’s hand with

painful violence: “I will depart immediately;”--and he staggered from

the room. The clerk waited five minutes, and began to grow impatient:

ten minutes elapsed and still his master did not reappear. The man rose

and rang the bell furiously to summon one of the domestics; but at the

same instant the constables entered the house. These officials, having

learnt from the servant who admitted them, that Mr. Pomfret was at

home, proceeded to search the dwelling; and the clerk, now entertaining

the worst fears, accompanied them to the ruined merchant’s bed-chamber.

There these fears met with immediate confirmation: Mr. Pomfret had put

a period to his existence--he had hanged himself to a strong nail in

his sleeping apartment! The body was instantly cut down, and medical

assistance promptly obtained: but the wretched suicide was no more.

In the evening of that same day a man was arrested under suspicious

circumstances at Dover. The news of the awful occurrences in Stamford

Street had not reached that town at the time--for there was neither

railway nor electric telegraph between London and the Kentish coast in

those days: but the individual alluded to, had presented a quantity

of plate at a pawnbroker’s shop, and, not being able to give a

satisfactory account of how it came into his possession, was detained

until a constable arrived to take him into custody. On the ensuing

morning the tidings of the murder in London reached Dover; and the

particulars given by the newspapers of the preceding evening were ample

enough to identify the person under arrest with the Leonard Mitchell

who was accused of desertion, murder, and robbery. He was accordingly

sent under a strong escort to the metropolis, where, on his arrival,

he was immediately lodged in Newgate. In due course his trial came

on: he was found guilty upon evidence the most conclusive:--and, upon

being called upon to allege anything wherefore sentence of death should

not be passed, he addressed the Judge in the following manner:--“I

acknowledge, my lord, that I am guilty of the dreadful crime imputed

to me; and although it be too late--far too late to express contrition

now, I nevertheless declare that I am deeply, deeply penitent. My

lord, lost--degraded--criminal--and condemned, as I stand here in

your presence, I was once as sincerely attached to virtue as any man

or woman who now hears me. Even when adversity entered the paternal

dwelling, ravaging it with the desolating fury of an army, I yielded

to no evil temptation: neither did my confidence in the justice, the

goodness, and the wisdom of heaven abate. I enlisted, my lord, in order

to obtain an honest livelihood, and to stifle in the bustle of a new

state of existence the painful reminiscences of blighted hopes and

crushed affections. The officers who have appeared before your lordship

this day, have all admitted, in reply to the question I put to them,

that up to the time when I was sentenced to three hundred lashes, I

had never even received a reprimand nor had been once reported for

the slightest irregularity. But from the moment that the first blow

of the torturing and degrading weapon fell upon my back, my existence

assumed a new phase--my soul underwent a sudden and immediate change.

With each drop of blood that oozed from my lacerated back, ebbed away

some sentiment of rectitude--some principle of virtue. My lord, it

was the lash that drove me to drinking--that made me reckless of all

consequences--that made me a liar and a voluptuary, a mean fellow

and a paltry rascal--and that hardened my heart so as to render it

inaccessible to every feeling of honour, mercy, or remorse. It was the

lash, then, that has made me a murderer; and I might almost claim to

be pitied, rather than to be looked upon with loathing. A cruel law

taught me to be cruel: a merciless and barbarian punishment prepared

me to become a ruthless and ferocious assassin. And now, my lord, I am

about to reveal a fact which has long ago been suspected, and which,

situated as I unhappily am, need not exist in doubt or uncertainty any

more. My life must be forfeited for the crime which has been proved

against me this day; and it will unburthen my soul of a heavy secret

to confess another crime, which I perpetrated upwards of a year ago.

Your lordship doubtless remembers that a young nobleman--an officer in

the regiment to which I belonged--was shot at a review in Hyde Park. My

lord, I was the assassin: the man accused me wrongfully--persecuted me

unrelentingly--and lied most foully against me,--and I was avenged.”

[Illustration]

As Leonard uttered these last words in a firm tone and with marked

emphasis, a thrill of horror passed through the crowded court; and

the dead silence which had been observed while he was speaking, was

succeeded by a subdued murmuring as of many voices commenting on what

he had said. Erect, and with an evident determination to meet his doom

courageously, the unhappy young man stood in the dock--his eye quailing

not, his limbs trembling not; and, heinous as his offences were, he

was not altogether without commiseration on the part of many present.

The judge put on the black cap; and the sentence of death--that

barbarian sentence--was pronounced in due form, the culprit receiving

an intimation that he need entertain no hope of mercy. The hint was

unnecessary: he had made up his mind to suffer;--and as firmly as he

walked out of the dock back into the prison, so resolutely did he step

from that same prison ten days afterwards on to the scaffold erected

at the debtors’ door. A tremendous crowd was assembled to witness the

execution; and the unhappy criminal maintained his courage to the last.

From that time have the three houses in Stamford Street been shut up:

from that period have they been suffered to fall into decay. In the

first, old Mr. Mitchell expired suddenly: in the second, Mr. Pomfret

hung himself;--and in the third, Ellen was brutally murdered. The hand

of Fate had marked those three tenements to be the scenes of horror and

of crime: and a superstitious feeling on the part of certain credulous

and weak-minded neighbours soon engendered the report that they were

haunted. It was said that the ghost of the young lady had been seen

walking in her shroud, in the yard behind the house where she was

murdered; and rumour added that on the anniversary night of the dread

crime which had hurried her to a premature grave, she was wont to

wander about the premises, uttering hollow and sepulchral moans. Such

reports as those lose nothing by repetition during the lapse of years,

especially while the buildings which were the scenes of the crimes

engendering the superstition, continue to exist; and therefore is it

that even at the present day the evil reputation of the HAUNTED HOUSES

remains unimpaired in Stamford Street and its neighbourhood.