CLXXVIII. CONCLUSION OF THE HISTORY OF THE HAUNTED HOUSES…

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.

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!

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.”

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.

CLXXIX. THE GHOST.--AGNES AND MRS. MORTIMER

The preceding episode has run to a considerable length; but we hope and believe that our readers will experience no difficulty in resuming the thread of the general narrative.

It must be remembered that the leading incidents of the story just placed on record were related to Mrs. Mortimer by Jack Rily, by way of passing the few hours during which they had agreed to remain with Vitriol Bob, who, bound hand and foot, was seated helplessly in a chair.

“Yes,” observed Jack Rily, when he had brought his history to a conclusion, “they do say that the young woman walks at times----”

“Don’t speak in such a solemn tone,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer, casting a shuddering glance around: “you almost make me think that you yourself believe in the possibility of the spectral visitation.”

“Well--I don’t know how it is.” returned the Doctor, feeling a certain superstitious influence growing upon him, and which he vainly endeavoured to shake off,--“but I certainly never before had such sensations as I experience now. Upon my soul;” he cried, striking the table violently with his clenched fist, “I am a prey to vague and undefined alarms to night:--but I will subdue them!”

“And are you sure that this is the house where the young lady was murdered?” asked Mrs. Mortimer, after a brief pause.

“There is no doubt about that!” responded Jack Rily. “Vitriol Bob there can tell you that the floor of the chamber where the deed took place is blackened with accumulated dust, yet in the middle there is a deeper stain; and on the ceiling of the room beneath, it is easy to descry the same sinister traces, even amidst dirt and cobwebs.”

“Then, as you said just now,” remarked Mrs. Mortimer, drawing her shawl over her shoulders--for she experienced the chill of superstitious terror gaining upon her,--“as you said just now, this is the second murder that has been committed within these walls!”

Scarcely had Mrs. Mortimer ceased speaking when the bell of the neighbouring church proclaimed the hour of one.

“Now is the time for the ghost,” said Vitriol Bob, with a low but ferocious chuckle; for he experienced a malignant pleasure in observing that superstitious fears were gaining on the formidable Rily and the hideous old woman. “You don’t like the near neighbourhood of the stiff ’un, I’m a-thinking! Well--I’ll lay you a wager, Jack, that I’ll go and shake the old feller by the hand quite in a friendly way--if you will but take off these cussed cords. There’s no ill feelin’ betwixt us now.”

“I would much rather leave you where you are, and send Polly Calvert to release you,” replied the Doctor.

“Yes--yes,” hastily exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, “let him be where he is. But surely we may go now, Mr. Rily? It is getting on for two----”

“It has only just this minit struck one!” cried Vitriol Bob, with a malignant leer from his dark, reptile-like eyes, which seemed to shine with a glare of their own, independent of and brighter than the dim light of the miserable candle. “Besides,” he added, now purposely rendering his voice as solemn and ominous in its tone as possible, “’tis just the time for the ghost of the young gal--or rayther, the young o’oman to walk; and I should be wexed indeed if you didn’t stay to have a look at her. I’ve seen her more than once----”

“That’s an infernal falsehood, Bob!” exclaimed Jack Rily, starting from his seat on the barrel, and vainly endeavouring to subdue the nervous excitement that had gained so rapidly upon him.

“It’s true--true as you’re there!” cried the murderer, who felt a ferocious joy at thus inspiring terror in the mind of the strong and hardened ruffian who had conquered him. “And I’ll tell you somethink more too,” continued Vitriol Bob: “you said just now--and you said truly also--that on the anniwersary of the murder the young lady wanders about the place, uttering holler moans. Well--this is the night, then, that she was murdered just twenty years ago;--and the clock has struck one!”

The effect which these words produced upon Jack Rily and Mrs. Mortimer was as rapid as it was extraordinary. Although they were both of a nature peculiarly inaccessible to superstitious terrors on common occasions, and under any other circumstances would have laughed at the idea of spectral visitations and ghostly wanderings,--yet now they vainly struggled against the powerful influence of increasing terror; and, although in their hearts, they more than half suspected that Vitriol Bob had spoken only to aggravate their alarms, yet they could not shake off the awe and consternation that seized upon their souls. In respect to Jack Rily, it was one of those periods of evanescent weakness which the most brutal and remorseless ruffians are known periodically to experience;--but, with regard to Mrs. Mortimer, it was the singularity of her present position--the consciousness that she was in a lonely place with two men of desperate character--the terrible remembrance that the murdered corse of her husband lay in the adjoining room--the impression made upon her mind by the appalling history of crime which had been to elaborately detailed to her--the thought that the very floors and the ceilings of the uppermost chambers in that house, bore testimony to the tale of blood--and the idea that the ghost of the assassinated lady was wont to wander in the depth of the night and on the scene of the crime,--it was all this that struck Mrs. Mortimer with awe and consternation, rendering her incapable of serious reflection, and levelling her strong mind as it were beneath the influence of superstitious terrors.

“Well--what the devil is the matter with you both?” demanded Vitriol Bob, after a pause.

“How do you mean?” asked Jack Rily, reseating himself, and grasping the brandy-bottle with a trembling hand.

“Why--you and the old lady looked at each other as if you already heard the light step and the rustling shroud of the apparition,” said the murderer.

“Hark! what was that?” ejaculated the Doctor, once more starting to his feet.

“It certainly was a noise somewhere,” observed Mrs. Mortimer, trembling from head to foot.

“Perhaps the old man in the back-kitchen has got up and is groping his way about,” said Vitriol Bob, speaking with an affectation of terror which was so natural that it cruelly enhanced the superstitious alarms experienced by his companions.

“This is intolerable!” exclaimed Rily, looking in a ghastly manner towards the door, as if he more than half expected to behold it suddenly thrown open, and some hideous form appear on the threshold. “I can’t make out what it is that has come over me to-night! ’Tis like a warning--and yet I never believed in ghosts until now.”

“Nor I--nor I!” murmured Mrs. Mortimer. “But to-night--I feel also as if----”

“Hark!” suddenly cried Vitriol Bob: “there is a noise again!”

“It must be the old man!” ejaculated the Doctor. “Are you sure that you did for him thoroughly?”

“If anythink like him meets your eyes, Jack, it must be his ghost, I can assure you,” was the solemn answer--although Vitriol Bob himself partook not in the slightest degree of the superstitious terrors that had grown upon his companions, but was on the contrary inwardly chuckling with malignant joy at their awe-struck state of mind.

“There! did you hear it?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer, in a hasty and excited tone. “I am sure it was a noise this time: there could be no mistake about it!”

And she endeavoured to rise from her chair;--but terror kept her motionless--paralysing every limb, though not placing a seal upon her lips.

“Something dreadful is to happen to-night--I know it--I feel it!” said Jack Rily, in a tone which indicated remorse for a long career of crime and turpitude. “By God! ’tis the back-door of the house that is opening----”

“Then this is serious indeed!” interrupted Vitriol Bob, now alarmed in his turn--but rather on account of constables than spectres. “Unloose me--let us fight--resist----”

“Silence!” muttered Jack Rily, in a low but imperious tone.

There was a pause of nearly a minute, during which the three inmates of the kitchen held their breath to listen, in painful suspense.

Suddenly the rattling of the crazy bannisters outside fell upon their ears; and Jack Rily, worked up to a pitch of desperation, seized the candle, saying in a hoarse and dogged tone, “By hell! I will face it, whatever it may be!”

With these words he tore open the kitchen-door;--and, behold! before him stood a female form--clothed in white--with a countenance pale as death--her hair flowing wildly and dishevelled over her shoulders--and with eyes fixed in unnatural brilliancy upon him.

The ruffian was for a few moments paralyzed--stupified with horror: then, unable any longer to endure the spectacle which his fears converted into a corpse wrapped in a winding-sheet, he exclaimed, “The ghost! the ghost!”--and dropped the candle upon the floor.

Total darkness immediately ensued.

At the same instant a piercing scream echoed through the house; and Mrs. Mortimer, now recovering all her presence of mind, started to her feet, crying, “That is no apparition--save of flesh and blood! Haste, Jack Rily--procure a light! Where are you, man? Let us see who it is!”

“Here I am,” returned the Doctor, likewise regaining his self-possession. “Bob, where are the lucifers?”

“In my right-hand pocket,” growled the murderer, who, in the excitement of the past scene, and in the tremendous but ineffectual exertions which he had made to release himself from his bonds the moment the light was extinguished, had fallen from his seat and rolled upon the floor.

Nearly half a minute now elapsed ere the candle was found and lighted again; and then Jack Rily, closely followed by Mrs. Mortimer, hastened into the passage, where they beheld the form of a young female stretched senseless at the foot of the stairs.

The old woman stooped down to raise her: but scarcely had she caught a glimpse of the pale countenance, on which the finger of death seemed to have been placed, when, starting with surprise and joy, she exclaimed, “’Tis Agnes Vernon, as I am a living being!”

“Agnes Vernon--who is she? do you know her?” demanded the Doctor, holding forward the light. “By Jove! she is a sweet creature, whoever she is! That’s right--raise her gently. But is she dead, poor thing?”

“No--no: her heart beats--and her lips already begin to move,” responded Mrs. Mortimer hastily, as she held the still senseless maiden in her arms. “Well--this is a lucky chance that has thrown her in our way--and there’s money to be made out of it.”

“So much the better? Shall I get a little water?” asked the Doctor.

“Yes--and use despatch,” returned Mrs. Mortimer.

Jack Rily entered the kitchen, and filled a glass with water.

“Who is it?” demanded Vitriol Bob, whom the Doctor had previously restored to his position in the chair.

“A young lady that Mrs. Mortimer happens to know,” was the reply. “There is no danger from other visitors, according to all appearances: so keep quiet, and don’t alarm yourself.”

The Doctor hastened back into the passage, where Mrs. Mortimer was seated on the last step of the staircase, supporting Agnes in her arms.

“Now, will you follow my advice, Mr. Rily?” she demanded in a rapid tone, as she sprinkled the water upon the pallid countenance of the young lady.

“Yes--if it seems feasible,” was the immediate answer. “What is it?”

“That we do not keep this timid thing a moment longer in the house than is absolutely necessary,” continued Mrs. Mortimer. “For our own sakes we must guard against her beholding the interior of that place;” and, as she uttered these words in a low tone, she nodded significantly towards the door of the back kitchen where the corpse of Torrens had been deposited.

“Yes--yes: I understand,” said Jack Rily: “it might be thought that we were accomplices in the murder. In the same way it would do no good to let her see Vitriol Bob bound neck and crop in the front kitchen.”

“That is just what I was about to suggest,” observed Mrs. Mortimer. “We must get her out of the house as soon as possible, and into a cab----”

“Then don’t use any more means to recover her,” interrupted Jack Rily, snatching the glass of water from the old woman’s hand. “Let her remain for a short time longer in that trance: it will not kill her, depend upon it--and you have the advantage of possessing an Æsculapius in me.”

“What do you propose, then?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer, casting an anxious glance upon the countenance of the still senseless girl.

“Don’t be frightened, I tell you,” repeated Jack Rily: “I will guarantee that she shall recover. But let us be off at once. I will take her in my arms and carry her into Bennett Street; the neighbourhood is all quiet and deserted at this hour;--and you shall order round a cab from the stand in the road There are always two or three in attendance throughout the night.”

“Good!” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer. “We will be off at once.”

“This instant,” said Jack Rily, as he gently raised the motionless, senseless form in his powerful arms, while Mrs. Mortimer took off her shawl and wrapped it hastily over the head and shoulders of Agnes.

The Doctor gave a hurried intimation to Vitriol Bob that Molly Calvert should be sent to him as speedily as possible; and he then stole out of the house, Mrs. Mortimer having previously ascertained that the coast was perfectly clear.

Everything was effected as Jack Rily had proposed. He gained Bennett Street, with his lovely burthen in his arms; and there he waited in the deep darkness afforded by a large gateway, until Mrs. Mortimer came round with the cab. The maiden was placed in the vehicle, which the old woman entered in order to take charge of her; and Jack Rily, after having made an appointment with his accomplice for the next evening, bade her a temporary farewell.

The cab drove away towards Park Square; and the Doctor, on his side, hurried off to the lodgings of Pig-faced Moll.

But the thread of our narrative now lies with Mrs. Mortimer and the beauteous Agnes Vernon.

Scarcely had the cab moved away from the vicinity of the haunted houses, when Agnes began rapidly to recover; and, on opening her eyes, she became aware that she was reclining in the arms of a female, and that they were being borne speedily along in a vehicle. For an instant it struck her that she must be with her mother: but in the next moment the horrors of the night crowded rapidly into her memory,--and, starting up, she demanded in a hurried, anxious manner, “Where am I? and who are you?”

Scarcely were the questions put when the young maiden was enabled, by the silver moon-light, to catch a glimpse of the countenance of her companion; and she instantly recognised Mrs. Mortimer.

Her first emotions were of joy and gratitude;--for she was delighted to find herself in the care of a female--especially one of whom she knew something: and, taking the old woman’s hand, she said, “Madam, I know not how to thank you--and am scarcely aware of what I have to thank you for. But--if my impressions be correct--you must have rescued me from something very terrible! Yes--I recollect now--that door opening--a light appearing--and then that hideous, horrible face----”

And, with a visible shudder, the maiden threw herself back in the vehicle, pressing her hands to her throbbing brows in order to collect her still disjointed and somewhat confused reminiscences.

“You are labouring under dreadful recollections my dear child,” said Mrs. Mortimer, in a soothing tone. “Know you not--can you not suspect that you were in the power of a ruffian when I fortunately encountered you?”

“But where--where?” demanded Agnes, impatiently, as her settling ideas seemed to coincide with that belief.

“I should rather ask you, my sweet maiden,” said Mrs. Mortimer, “how you came to be in Stamford Street this night.”

“My mother took me thither--yes--I recollect it all now!” exclaimed Agnes. “She left me at the house of some dear friends--and I was ungrateful enough to entertain the most injurious suspicions respecting them,--yes--and relative to my own dear mother also.”

“Your mother?” repeated Mrs. Mortimer, in astonishment. “I thought you had never known her--or that she had died when you were in your infancy.”

“Oh! no--thank God! my mother is alive--and I know her now!” ejaculated Agnes, with all the enthusiasm of a strongly reviving affection--a powerfully resuscitating devotion for the parent whom she had so lately discovered.

“But where is your mother now?” enquired Mrs. Mortimer.

“Ah! that I know not!” replied Agnes. “And this reminds me,” she exclaimed after a few moments’ pause, “that you must take me back to the good kind ladies in Stamford Street, that I may remain there until my mother shall come to fetch me away to the new home which she has promised to prepare for me.”

“Who are those good ladies?” asked Mrs. Mortimer.

“Their name is Theobald, and they live in Stamford Street,” responded the artless girl. “You may know the house--or at least the driver of the vehicle can find it out, when I describe it as being situated fourth from the corner of the Blackfriars’ Road, and next to three deserted--dilapidated--sinister-looking houses----”

“Ah! then you must have found your way from the dwelling of your friends into one of those ruined places,” thought Mrs. Mortimer. “But I am really at a loss, my dear young lady, to comprehend all you tell me,” she said aloud.

“Before I give you the necessary explanations to enable you to understand it all,” said Agnes, “will you inform me which road the vehicle is pursuing?”

“I am taking you to a place of safety, my dear girl,” responded Mrs. Mortimer.

“A place of safety!” repeated Agnes, her countenance assuming an expression of deep anxiety: “am I, then, in any danger? and in what does the peril consist?”

“I know not, my love,” answered the old woman, speaking in the kindest tone of voice. “I only judge by the condition in which I found you--the circumstances which threw us this night together--and the observations which have fallen from your lips, that you were indeed in a state of extreme danger.”

“Just heaven!” ejaculated Agnes. “But what observations did I make----”

“That you had entertained suspicions relative to the friends to whose care your mother had consigned you,” said Mrs. Mortimer.

“Yes--and I told you truly,” resumed the ingenuous maiden. “I know not how it was--I cannot account for it now--but when I found myself alone in a strange house, terrible though undefined fears took possession of my soul--and I resolved to escape. I succeeded in getting as far as the next house, which I entered: but scarcely had I crossed the threshold of the back door, when a light suddenly appeared and a countenance was revealed to my affrighted gaze--a countenance so dreadful to look upon that I tremble now as I think of it. Then, so far as I can recollect, I heard a voice thundering something loud but unintelligible in my ears: I screamed--and fainted. When I came to my senses, I was in your arms and in this vehicle.”

“I can throw some light upon the matter,” said Mrs. Mortimer, whose object was to keep the attention of Agnes as much and as unremittingly engaged as possible, so as to prevent her from growing uneasy relative to the ultimate destination of the cab: for should she become alarmed, she might appeal to the driver for protection, and a disturbance in the streets would prove inevitable. “You must know,” continued Mrs. Mortimer, “that I was returning home from a friend’s house in Stamford-street, when I met a great, stout, horribly ugly man carrying a female form in his arms. The moon-light showed me his dreadful countenance--and I instantly suspected that some foul play was intended. I accordingly insisted that he should stop--which he did with much reluctance, declaring that you were his daughter, and that he was taking you home, as you had fallen down in a fit.”

“Oh! then some mischief was really meditated towards me!” exclaimed Agnes, clasping her hands together in shuddering horror of the perils through which she supposed herself to have passed.

“Yes--my dear child,” observed Mrs. Mortimer, “you doubtless owe your life to me----”

“Ah! madam,” interrupted Agnes, “how can I ever sufficiently thank you for your goodness?”--then, as a reminiscence struck to her artless mind with the pang of a remorse, she exclaimed, as she pressed the old woman’s wrinkled hands to her lips, “It seems fated that I should suspect those who are my best friends!”

“Do not think of that, my love,” said the wily old creature, who easily conjectured what was passing in that amiable maiden’s ingenuous soul. “When you know me better, you will appreciate my conduct towards you as it deserves. Doubtless your father set you against me--and then that little misunderstanding relative to the affair of Lord William Trevelyan----But enough of that for the present! Let me conclude my little narrative relative to yourself. Well, I was describing to you how I compelled the man to stop; and I was about to tell you that I was by no means satisfied with the explanations he gave me. Indeed, I threatened to summon the assistance of the police; and you may be well assured that this menace suddenly became a settled resolution, when, as the moonlight fell upon the countenance of the fair creature whom the man carried in his arms, I recognised yourself, my sweet Agnes! You can conceive my astonishment, perhaps--but you can form no idea of the apprehension that seized on me; for I really love you dearly, although I have seen so little of you. The man was dreadfully alarmed when he perceived that I knew you; and I had no difficulty in compelling him to surrender you into my charge. He then decamped; and I placed you in a cab which happened to be passing at the time. You now know all.”

“Ah! from what inconceivable perils have you not saved me!” exclaimed Agnes, full of enthusiastic and impassioned gratitude towards the woman whom she looked upon as her deliverer. “My dear mother will thank you warmly--earnestly--most sincerely for this generous act on your part; and I shall never, never forget the deep obligation under which you have placed me.”

“Enough on that subject, my dear child,” said Mrs. Mortimer. “You have spoken several times of your mother--may I ask how you came to discover her, or how she happened to have remained so long unknown to you?”

“I am bewildered when I think of all that!” returned Miss Vernon, in a mournful tone. “It was last evening that she came to me--that she sought me out in my retirement--that she announced herself as my parent; and my heart’s feelings gave me the assurance that she was indeed what she represented herself to be. Then I agreed to accompany her--for she told me that she was unhappy, and she claimed my love and my duty as a daughter. Oh! my dear madam, you can doubtless understand how joyous--how delightful were my emotions on thus encountering a mother whom I had never known till then! I only thought of giving way to those delicious feelings--until I found myself left in the charge of strangers. Then it was that I grew afraid--that vague and undefinable apprehensions took possession of my soul--that I became suspicions of all and everything--and that I fled! Foolish, mistaken creature that I was! That one false step of mine threw me into the hands of a monster, who would perhaps have killed me had you not rescued me from his power.”

Agnes paused, and arranged her hair--her dark, luxuriant, glossy hair--floating so wildly and yet so beauteously in its dishevelled state, over her shoulders;--and now, as the tint of the rose had returned to her cheeks, and her eyes had recovered their witching softness of expression, she appeared transcendantly lovely to the view of the old woman, whom the moon-light enabled to survey the charming creature seated opposite to her.

Suddenly the vehicle stopped;--and Agnes, hastily looking from the windows, beheld a row of handsome houses on one side, and an enclosure of verdant shrubs and plants on the other.

“This is not Stamford Street, madam,” she said to Mrs. Mortimer.

“No, my dear child,” was the almost whispered reply: “but it is a place of safety to which I have brought you. Do you imagine that I, who have saved your life this night, could intend you any harm? Wherefore be thus ever suspicious respecting your best friends?”

These words not only reassured Agnes, but made her blush at what she deemed to be her ingratitude towards her deliverer;--and, pressing the old woman’s hand fervently, she murmured, “Forgive me, I implore you!”

“Think no more of it, my love,” said Mrs. Mortimer, as she alighted from the vehicle: then, turning towards the maiden, she added, “Remain in your place for a few minutes until I have aroused the people of the house: the chill air of the early morning will give you cold, lightly clad as you are.”

Agnes signified an assent; and the old woman hastened up to the front door of the house at which they had stopped. She knocked and rang: but some time elapsed ere the summons was answered. At length a domestic, who had huddled on some clothing, made his appearance; and, to Mrs. Mortimer’s query whether his master were at home, an affirmative reply was given.

“Then hesitate not to arouse him--for I have called upon a matter of great importance to his lordship,” said the old woman.

“Certainly I will do so, madam,” returned the domestic; “since you assure me that your business is pressing. But will you not walk in and await his lordship’s readiness to receive you?”

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Mortimer; “and I have a person with me who must accompany me. But listen to something that I have to urge upon you. You will conduct us both, as a matter of course, into the same room: but when your master is ready to receive me, take care that I obtain an interview alone with him in the first instance. It is of the highest consequence that these instructions should be fully attended to.”

“You shall be obeyed, madam,” said the servant.

Mrs. Mortimer now fetched Agnes from the vehicle, which she ordered to be kept waiting for herself; and the two females were conducted by the domestic into a handsome apartment, where, having lighted the wax-candles, he left them.

CLXXX. AGNES AND TREVELYAN

In spite of her anxiety to place confidence in Mrs. Mortimer--in spite of the deep obligation under which she believed herself to be lying towards her, Agnes could not subdue a partial feeling of uneasiness when she found that she was in a strange house, evidently the abode of a rich person.

She gazed round the walls covered with splendid pictures--on the chandelier suspended to the ceiling--on the elegant and costly furniture--the superb mantel-ornaments--and down upon the luxurious carpet, so thick that her tiny feet were almost imbedded in it, as if she were walking in snow.

Whose dwelling could it be? Assuredly not Mrs. Mortimer’s--for she was only treated as a visitress. At length, after the lapse of a few minutes, the young maiden ventured to ask, “Who are the friends, madam, with whom you propose to leave me?”

“Does not that very question, Agnes, imply a suspicion injurious to me?” said Mrs. Mortimer, evasively.

“Oh! no--no!” exclaimed Miss Vernon, in a melting tone of the profoundest sincerity. “But may I not ask so simple a question without being liable to such a distressing imputation?”

“Can you not leave yourself in the hands of one who has saved your life and who wishes you well?” said the old woman, speaking in a voice of mingled reproach and conciliation.

“Yes--certainly, madam,” was the immediate answer: “but you yourself are not going to remain here--inasmuch as you have ordered the cabriolet to wait for you.”

“True, Agnes: because I have business of importance to transact at an early hour this morning, and at a considerable distance hence. Reassure yourself, my darling girl,” continued the iniquitous hag: “you will be delighted to meet the person whom you will presently see. Indeed, it is only a little surprise which I am preparing for you--and, after all I have done for you, you surely will not deny me the pleasure which I promise myself in beholding the interview between yourself and the owner of this splendid mansion.”

By degrees, as Mrs. Mortimer spoke, the countenance of Agnes brightened up; for it struck the young maiden that it was her mother whom she was now to meet--and this idea grew into a positive conviction by the time the old woman had uttered the last words of her sentence. She was accordingly about to express renewed gratitude for the happy surprise thus reserved for her, when the door opened and the domestic returned to the apartment.

“Madam, will you follow me?” he said, addressing himself to Mrs. Mortimer.

“My dear child,” observed the old woman, turning towards Agnes and patting her face with a show of affection, “you will remain here for a few minutes--a very few minutes; and then,” she added, with a sly smile, which meant as much as to intimate that she read the hope entertained by Agnes, and should speedily have the pleasure of gratifying it,--“and then, my love, you will not scold me for having kept you a little in suspense.”

Tears of gratitude trembled upon the long dark lashes of the beauteous maiden, although her lips were wreathed in smiles:--but when Nature melts into April softness, ’tis with mingled rain and sunshine.

While Agnes remained alone in the handsome parlour, cradling herself in the hope that the lapse of a few minutes would see her embraced in the arms of her mother, Mrs. Mortimer was conducted into another apartment, where she found herself in the presence of Lord William Trevelyan, who had dressed himself with as much despatch as possible.

“Well, madam,” he said, in a hasty and even anxious tone, “what has brought you hither at this unseasonable hour?--whom have you with you?--and wherefore this desire, as expressed to my domestic, to see me alone in the first instance?”

“My lord, it is Agnes Vernon who has accompanied me, and who is in the room which I have just left,” answered the old woman.

“I thought so--I was afraid that it was so, when the servant gave me a description of her--a very rapid and partial one, it is true, inasmuch as he beheld her only for a few moments. But, great heavens! madam,” continued the young nobleman, speaking with singular and unusual vivacity, “what means this strange proceeding?”

“That Agnes required an asylum, and I brought her hither,” was the response.

“And do you for an instant imagine, madam, that I am capable--that I would be guilty--that I----But, enough! I will say no more to you: I see through your real character--and I loathe and despise it! My God! to think that I should have enlisted a common procuress in my service! Oh! how can I ever look Agnes in the face?--how venture to accost her, after having thus offered her the most flagrant of insults? But, tell me, vile woman,” he exclaimed, seizing Mrs. Mortimer forcibly by the wrist, while his tone and manner alike indicated the most painful excitement,--“tell me, I say, by what detestable artifices you have induced that innocent and unsuspecting maiden to accompany you hither?”

“My lord, you will be ashamed of yourself for this unworthy conduct towards me, when you come to know all,--yes, ashamed and astonished at the same time,” said Mrs. Mortimer, assuming an air of offended dignity and wounded pride.

“How!--speak!” ejaculated Lord William, dropping the woman’s arm and surveying her with mingled surprise and repentance.

“I shall not waste precious time in entering into details,” resumed Mrs. Mortimer. “Yesterday morning I saw Agnes and induced her to peruse your letter. She was offended, and tossed it indignantly back to me.”

“Ah!” cried the nobleman, his countenance assuming an expression of extreme vexation.

“Yes--and here it is,” continued Mrs. Mortimer, producing the epistle from her reticule, and laying it upon the table.

“But she read it, you say?” exclaimed Lord William.

“Every word,” was the response. “Nevertheless, though softened and even pleased at first, she subsequently thought better of it, and rejected the communication in the manner I have described. I was disheartened, and felt unwilling to return to you with such unwelcome intelligence. An hour ago I quitted the house of a friend in Stamford Street; and in that same street the following adventure occurred to me.”

The old woman then related precisely the same anecdote which she had already told to Agnes, relative to the pretended rescue of that young lady from the power of a man who was bearing her along insensible in his arms.

The young nobleman was astounded; and his manner denoted incredulity.

“I perceive that your lordship puts no faith in my narrative,” said Mrs. Mortimer, who conjectured what was passing in his mind: “but the tale which Agnes can tell you, will corroborate it. She herself will inform you how she fell into the power of the ruffian from whom it was subsequently my good fortune to deliver her; and if you place confidence in her words, you will perforce be led to accord the same favour to mine?”

“And her tale--what is it?” demanded the nobleman, impatiently.

“Yesterday she discovered the mother whom she had lost since her infancy,” answered Mrs. Mortimer.

“Her mother!” exclaimed Trevelyan. “And where is that mother? who is she? Tell me, that I may hasten to her at as early an hour as possible, and implore of her to accord me the hand of her daughter.”

“Be not so hasty, my lord. I am totally unacquainted with Agnes Vernon’s mother; and she herself--poor artless girl! knows, I believe, but little more. It is however certain that the young lady was induced to accompany her newly-found parent from the cottage--that she was consigned to the care of two ladies named Theobald, and dwelling in Stamford Street--that in the night she became the prey to vague and unfounded terrors, which induced her to attempt an escape from the house--and that she fell into the hands of the man from whom I rescued her.”

“And wherefore have you brought her hither?” asked Lord William. “Why not have conducted her back to the ladies to whose care her mother had consigned her--or to the cottage where she has dwelt so long?”

“I have put you in the position of one who may perform a chivalrous action, and thereby win the permanent esteem, gratitude, and love of this beautiful creature whom you adore,” said Mrs. Mortimer; “and now you appear inclined to load me with reproaches. Yes--I perceive that reproaches are trembling upon your lordship’s tongue;--and I who have done all I could to serve you, shall experience nought save ingratitude. Oh! short-sighted lover that you are! Here is a young girl whom I pick up as it were houseless and homeless--and I am already half-way with her to your mansion, before I even learn from her lips how she came in Stamford Street at all, or that she has friends there. But when I do glean those facts, I find that she has escaped from the guardianship of those friends: and could I suppose that they would be willing to receive her again? Now, my lord, it is for you to grant her an asylum--to treat her with all imaginable delicacy and attention--and to leave me to find out her mother, that you may restore the lost daughter to the distracted parent. Doubtless the Miss Theobalds will give me the desired information: and then calculate the amount of gratitude that will be due to you! In spite of her father--whoever he may really be, and whatever opposition he might raise--Agnes is yours; and you gain the object of your heart’s dearest wishes.”

“And think you, woman,” exclaimed Lord William Trevelyan, unable any longer to subdue his resentment,--“think you that I will blast the fair fame of this young lady by retaining her for even a single hour beneath my roof?--think you that I will obtain for her the inevitable reputation of having been my mistress, previously to becoming my wife? No--a thousand times no! And do you imagine that I read not your heart aright? do you suppose that I am your dupe? I tell you, vile woman, that in bringing the innocent and artless Agnes hither, you fancied you would be throwing in my way a temptation which I could not resist,--a temptation which would thaw all my virtuous principles and honourable notions, and lead me to sacrifice the purity of the confiding girl to my passion. Yes--such was your base calculation: or you would at once and unhesitatingly have conducted her either to the abode of her friends in Stamford Street, or home to her own cottage! Ah! madam, because I belong to the aristocracy, you imagine that I must necessarily be as vile, depraved, and unprincipled as ninety-nine out of every hundred individuals who bear lordly titles. But you have deceived yourself--grossly deceived yourself: and you shall at once have the proof that you are so deceived! Follow me.”

Thus speaking, Lord William advanced rapidly towards the door, imperiously beckoning the vile woman to accompany him.

“Whither are you going, my lord?” she demanded, finding that she had indeed over-reached herself--that the nobleman’s principles were more profoundly rooted than she had imagined--and that all her trouble was likely to go unrewarded.

“Follow me, I say: as you have done this amount of mischief, you shall at least see it remedied to the utmost of my power;”--and the nobleman burst from the room, literally dragging the old woman with him.

In less than a minute they entered the apartment where Agnes was anxiously--oh! most anxiously awaiting the presence of her mother;--and the moment the door was opened, she darted forward to precipitate herself into the arms of her parent.

But, recognising Lord William Trevelyan, she stopped short with a cry of mingled disappointment, surprise, and alarm; while an ashy pallor overspread her countenance.

“Reassure yourself, Miss Vernon--I am your friend, and a man of honour!” were the encouraging words which Trevelyan hastened to address to her.

“And my mother?” said the young maiden, bending a look of earnest appeal upon Mrs. Mortimer, who however shrank back in confusion.

“Your mother is not here, Miss Vernon,” exclaimed the nobleman: “neither does this woman know where to find her. An act of the greatest imprudence has been committed in bringing you hither----”

“Oh! what do I hear?” cried Agnes, clasping her hands. “Is this your house, my lord? If so,” she added, with dignity succeeding grief, “I am innocent of any intention to intrude: indeed, your lordship might full well conceive that I should not have come hither of my own accord--oh! no--not for worlds!”

And tears rolled down the cheeks of the gentle girl for she felt humiliated in the presence of the very man in whose eyes, if her young heart had a preference, she would have fain appeared in another light.

“Oh! Miss Vernon, it is you who do not understand me!” ejaculated Lord William, advancing and taking her hand. “If I spoke of the imprudence which had been committed, it was on your account only! For believe me when I declare that I should be proud,--yes, and in the enjoyment of an elysian happiness, could you enter this mansion to remain here--to command here, with honour to yourself! But I will not avail myself of this opportunity to urge a suit that I have already ventured to prefer, and in the prosecution of which I unfortunately selected so improper an agent.”

As he uttered these words, he bent an indignant look upon Mrs. Mortimer, who turned away petulantly and made for the door.

“Stop, woman!” cried the young nobleman, hastening to detain her: “I cannot yet part with you, intolerable as your presence has become to me. “Miss Vernon,” he continued, again turning toward the maiden, whose sense of humiliation had vanished, and who in her heart of hearts now rejoiced in the conviction that Lord William Trevelyan was indeed as noble in nature as he was in name,--“I need scarcely observe that circumstances compel me to procure for you an asylum for the remainder of the night as speedily as possible. You will permit me to conduct you to the abode of a lady of my acquaintance,--a lady who will receive you with open arms, and who will to-morrow--or rather, in a few hours’ time--herself conduct you to the abode of your friends in Stamford Street, or to your own home near Streatham.”

With these words, the nobleman took the hand of the blushing Agnes, and led her from the house to the vehicle that was still waiting.

“Now, madam, you may depart,” he said sternly to Mrs. Mortimer, as soon as he had seated himself in the cab, opposite to Agnes.

The old woman turned sulkily away, muttering threats of vengeance; but these were unheeded by the chivalrous Trevelyan, who gave hasty instructions to the driver, and the vehicle rolled rapidly on towards Kentish Town.

Agnes could not do otherwise than appreciate all the delicacy of Lord William’s conduct towards her; for it is no disparagement to the extreme artlessness of her mind to state that she comprehended wherefore he had compelled Mrs. Mortimer to wait until they had quitted the house. But she could scarcely collect her bewildered ideas into a settled state--so rapid was the whirl of incidents and adventures through which she was doomed to pass on this memorable night. Had she paused to reflect upon her position, with that seriousness which it required, she would have requested the nobleman to conduct her at once to the dwelling of the Misses Theobald: but he had deported himself towards her with the generosity of a brother, and she acted in obedience to his suggestions without waiting to analyse them. In a word, she was full of confidence and ingenuous reliance in him; and she felt as if she had suddenly found a stanch and sincere friend in the midst of cruel difficulties and deep embarrassments. A dreamy kind of repose stole over her as she was borne along in the vehicle: and yet she not only heard the few remarks which her companion addressed to her, but likewise answered them in a befitting manner.

On his side Trevelyan was a prey to the strangest excitement; accident having not only thus procured him the acquaintanceship of her whom he loved so fondly, but having likewise placed them in a relative position, establishing as it were a friendship--almost an intimacy. Moreover, had he not touched her delicate white hand--touched it gently, it is true, and without venturing to press it,--but still touched it, and even held it for a few moments in his own? Had he not discovered, too, that if she appeared surpassingly lovely when seen from a distance, a nearer contemplation of her charms was only calculated to enhance his admiration and strengthen his devotion? And, lastly, had not the musical tones of her silver voice been breathed in his hearing, wafting words that were addressed to himself, and making every fibre in his heart vibrate deliciously to the dulcet sounds? Yes--all this he felt and appreciated; and he was happy.

The conversation that passed between them during the drive to Kentish Town was slight, and chiefly confined to such observations as a well-bred gentleman would address to a lady under circumstances of embarrassment, and to such responses as those remarks were calculated to elicit. The young nobleman was careful to avoid any allusion to the letter which he had sent to Agnes, or to the circumstances that had thus thrown them so singularly together; and she, understanding his forbearance and perceiving his unwillingness to take the least advantage of her peculiar position, felt her esteem--we might almost say her love--increase in his favour.

In about twenty minutes the cab stopped at the gate of a beautiful villa; and as the orient sky was now flickering with the first struggling beams of a summer sunrise, Agnes was enabled to obtain a tolerably distinct view of the picturesque spot. The fresh breeze, too, fanned her countenance, recalling the roses to her damask cheeks; and as she threw back the shining masses of hair from her forehead, Trevelyan’s eye could trace the blue veins so delicately marked beneath the white skin of that fair and polished brow.

On alighting at the entrance to the villa, Trevelyan and his beautiful companion were both struck by the glimmering of lights which shone through the divisions in the parlour shutters, and the rays of which, peeping forth, struggled with sickly effect against the dawning of a new day. Those lights, too, were evidently moving about; and it was therefore clear that the inmates of the dwelling were astir even at that early hour.

The summons at the front door was almost immediately responded to by a female servant, who, in reply to the young nobleman’s questions, stated that Mrs. Sefton was at home, and had risen thus early in order to make preparations for removal to a new house which she had taken in another suburb of London.

Trevelyan and Agnes were accordingly admitted forthwith; and the domestic conducted them to the parlour, where Mrs. Sefton was busily engaged in packing up her effects. She was much surprised when she heard Trevelyan’s voice, and immediately apprehended that some misfortune was in store for her--some evil tidings, perhaps, relative to Sir Gilbert Heathcote.

But scarcely had Agnes reached the threshold of the apartment, when--the moment Mrs. Sefton turned to receive her visitors--the young girl gave vent to an ejaculation of mingled astonishment and joy, and, bounding forward, was in the next instant clasped in that lady’s arms.

“My dearest--dearest mother!”

“Agnes--my beloved child!”

These were the words which explained to Trevelyan the scene that he now witnessed.

CLXXXI. EXPLANATIONS

The reader need scarcely be informed that if Lord William were amazed at the discovery of the relationship subsisting between two ladies whom he had hitherto deemed to be perfect strangers to each other, Mrs. Sefton was not less astonished at having her daughter thus unexpectedly introduced into her presence and at such an unseasonable hour.

For a few minutes, however, she had no leisure for reflection,--joy at once more being enabled to strain that beloved child to her bosom triumphing over all other considerations.

But when the first gush of feeling had somewhat subsided, a horrible suspicion entered her mind.

Could Lord William have seduced Agnes away from the care of those friends to whom she was consigned?--could he have entertained the vile and derogatory idea of using the villa as the receptacle for a young creature whom he intended to make his mistress?--did he suppose that Mrs. Sefton would lend herself to such an atrocious proceeding?--and had he unconsciously brought the child to the house of the mother, thinking to make a pander of the latter to the dishonour of the former?

All these thoughts flashed with lightning rapidity to Mrs. Sefton’s mind, as, disengaging herself from the embraces of Agnes, she turned towards Lord William, and, with flashing eyes and quivering lips, peremptorily demanded an explanation of the circumstances which had rendered him the companion of her daughter at such an hour.

Trevelyan instantly divined what was passing in the lady’s bosom; and, perceiving at once the awkwardness of his position and the grounds of her suspicions, he hastily gave such explanations as were satisfactory to Mrs. Sefton, Agnes herself corroborating the main facts.

“Pardon me, my dear friend,” said the now happy mother, taking Trevelyan’s hand and pressing it fervently in token of gratitude,--“pardon me if for a moment I entertained the most unjust and derogatory suspicions.”

“Mention them not, madam,” exclaimed Trevelyan warmly: “but let your daughter seek that repose which she must so deeply need--and I will then, as a man of honour, explain to you how I became interested in her, and how it was that the Mrs. Mortimer whose name has already been mentioned happened to bring her to my house.”

A slight smile--almost of archness--played upon the lips of Mrs. Sefton, as she turned towards Agnes,--a smile which seemed to intimate that she already knew more than the young nobleman fancied, but was not vexed with him in consequence of the facts thus known to her.

“Come with me, dearest girl,” she said, addressing her daughter, “and I will conduct you to a chamber where you may obtain a few hours’ repose. You need not bid farewell to his lordship; for I have no doubt he will honour us with his presence at breakfast--when you will see him again.”

Agnes blushed and cast down her eyes--she scarcely knew why--as these words met her ears;--and again the arch smile played upon her mother’s lips. Trevelyan observed that there was some mystery, though not of a disagreeable nature, in Mrs. Sefton’s manner; and in a moment--with galvanic swiftness--the reminiscence of the tears upon the portrait and the lost letter flashed to his mind.

The ladies disappeared, and Trevelyan threw himself in a chair, to muse upon the discovery which he had thus made, and which was well calculated to afford him pleasure. Inasmuch as it was evident from Mrs. Sefton’s manner and the significant words she had uttered relative to the meeting at the breakfast-table, that she was not inimical to his suit.

In a few minutes she returned to the room.

“My dear madam,” said Trevelyan, rising and advancing to meet her, “you already know that I love your daughter Agnes--that I adore her?”

“And you have already divined how the letter which you must have missed, came to be lost?” returned Mrs. Sefton, with a smile.

“Yes, madam--and I likewise observed the trace of a tear upon the portrait which I painted from memory,” continued the young nobleman.

“Oh! then you can make allowance for the feelings of a mother!” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton, with enthusiasm: “and you will forgive me that act of apparent ingratitude--nay, of treachery--I mean the purloining of a document so sacred as a sealed letter--and at a moment, too, when I sought your aid, and you so generously afforded it?”

“It is for me to implore your pardon as a mother for having dared to address such a letter to your daughter,” said Trevelyan, with some degree of embarrassment.

“Then let us accord mutual forgiveness,” exclaimed the lady, extending her hand, which was immediately pressed with the fervour of gratitude. I am well aware that my conduct in taking that letter was improper to a degree,” she continued, after a short pause: “but pray consider all the circumstances.”

“I do--I do,” interrupted Trevelyan; “and you have nothing to explain. Oh! I am delighted at the discovery that the beautiful and much-loved Agnes is your daughter--delighted also to think that, by the perusal of that letter, you have acquired the certainty of the ardent and honourable feelings which animate me with regard to her.”

“And Agnes is deserving of your affection, my lord,” said Mrs. Sefton: “I am convinced that she is in heart and soul all she appears to be--ingenuousness, amiability, candour, and virtue!”

“Oh! I am well assured of the value of that jewel which, in due time, I shall implore you to bestow upon me!” exclaimed the generous and impassioned young nobleman: “and I rejoice that you not only observed the letter in my apartment, but that you also took it; for it has--”

“It has enabled me to discover my child, whom I had fruitlessly sought for years, and whom I longed to embrace!” added Mrs. Sefton, wiping away the tears of joy that started to her eye-lashes. “Oh! my lord, you may conceive my surprise--my joy, when I beheld that portrait in your portfolio. Although I had never seen my child since her infancy, yet it seemed as if a heavenly inspiration imparted to me the conviction that I was then gazing on her likeness. At all events I murmured to myself, while contemplating it, ‘Such must Agnes now be: tall, beautiful, and with innocence depicted in her countenance, even as this portrait.’ And then I wept as I thought that the dear girl was lost to me for ever--buried in some seclusion by one who cruelly kept us separated! I closed the portfolio--rose--and mechanically approached the mantel. There I beheld the letter--and the address immediately rivetted my attention. ‘Miss Agnes Vernon!’ Oh! yes--it was my own dear daughter whose portrait I had been contemplating; and I was not mistaken! For I may be allowed to say, without incurring the imputation of vanity, that in the countenance of the portrait I traced my own lineaments; and then--on discovering the letter--I felt assured that nature’s promptings had not been misinterpreted by me! Because I knew that Agnes passed under the name of Vernon: that fact I accidentally learnt years ago, through my husband’s solicitor, who was permitted from time to time to give me the assurance that my daughter was alive and in health. You can now conceive, my dear friend, how strong were the emotions which agitated within me, and which influenced me in seizing upon the letter--tearing it open--and devouring its contents.”

“And your first impression was doubtless one of indignation against me for having dared thus to address your daughter?” said Lord William Trevelyan.

“Far from it, I can assure you!” returned Mrs. Sefton, in a tone of the deepest sincerity. “I already knew enough of your character to be well aware that you were honourable in principle and generous in heart! and the whole tenour of the letter was respectful and delicate, though earnest and decided,” added the lady, with a smile, as Trevelyan’s cheeks were suffused with a deep blush. “Besides, my dear friend,” she continued, in a serious tone, “I have acquainted you with the history of the crushed hopes and the blighted affections of my own early years--and I should be the last person in the world to raise an obstacle in the way of a pure and honourable attachment on the part of those in whom I felt interested.”

“Then you approve of my suit in respect to your daughter?” exclaimed Trevelyan, his handsome countenance becoming animated with joy; “and you will not refuse me her hand?”

“When she attains her twenty-first year, my lord,” replied Mrs. Sefton, in a solemn tone. “Until then I dare not dispose of her hand in marriage. She is now nineteen----”

“Two years to wait!” exclaimed Trevelyan, mournfully: “and in the mean time how many adverse circumstances may occur to separate us!”

“Yours is the age when Hope smiles most brightly,” said Mrs. Sefton; “and if your affection for my daughter be as strong as you represent it, believe me, my dear friend, that time will not impair--but rather strengthen and confirm it.”

“Were years and years to elapse, ere Agnes could become mine, I should not love her the less!” exclaimed Lord William. “But this may not be so with her: indeed, I have no reason to hope--much less any assurance--that she in any degree reciprocates my passion.”

“Agnes will not prove indifferent to your lordship’s merits,” said Mrs. Sefton, encouragingly. “But we must postpone any farther conversation on this subject until another occasion. Behold the confusion that prevails in the house,” she continued, in a more cheerful tone, as she glanced round the room at the various boxes and packages on which she had been busied when the arrival of Trevelyan and her daughter had compelled her to desist from her occupation. “I am about to remove this morning to a beautiful little villa which I have taken at Bayswater. By those means I hope to destroy all trace of my new abode, in respect to those who might seek to tear Agnes from my arms. But I have the law with me:--yes, the law is in my favour,” she added, in an emphatic tone; “and I will not surrender up my daughter to him----”

She checked herself, and hastily advancing to the window, opened the shutters.

It was now quite light; and, having extinguished the candles, Mrs. Sefton returned to her task of placing various valuable effects in a box. Trevelyan volunteered his assistance, which was accepted; for circumstances had placed him and the lady on a footing of the most friendly intimacy together.

“I received your note on my return last evening,” said Mrs. Sefton, after a pause; “and I regretted much to find that you had obtained no clue to the place where Sir Gilbert Heathcote is confined.”

“But you must remember, my dear madam, that no time has been lost,” observed Trevelyan. “It was only yesterday morning that we acquired the knowledge of Sir Gilbert’s real position; and I have employed my valet Fitzgeorge, who is an intelligent and faithful man, to obtain an interview with Green, Heathcote’s clerk, and bribe him to serve us. From the specimen of the fellow’s character which we had yesterday morning in this very room, I entertain but little doubt of Fitzgeorge’s success.”

“God grant that it may be so!” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton, fervently. “And if you succeed in discovering the den where Sir Gilbert is confined, how do you intend to proceed?”

“Still by artifice, my dear madam. We must fight that bad man, James Heathcote, with his own weapons----”

“Oh! think you not, my lord, that our unfortunate friend is hemmed round with all imaginable precautions to prevent his flight?” demanded Mrs. Sefton.

“Doubtless,” answered Trevelyan: “but the janitors and dependants of a lunatic-asylum are as accessible as other people to the influence of gold.”

“I now more than ever, if possible, desire the restoration of Sir Gilbert,” said Mrs. Sefton: then, after a pause, she added in a low and peculiar tone, “I have many--many strange things yet to tell you, Lord William: but the present is not the most fitting occasion. In a few days I will explain every thing--yes, everything,” she said, emphatically; “and thenceforth there will be no secrets between you and me.”

The lady again applied herself to the task of preparing for her removal; and the young nobleman assisted her with as much kindliness of manner and good-tempered alacrity as if he were her brother, or already her son-in-law. In this manner the hours passed away until the time-piece struck nine, when Agnes descended to the breakfast which was now served up. A messenger was despatched to the Misses Theobald to give them an assurance of the young maiden’s safety; and in the course of the day the mother and daughter, accompanied by Lord William, removed to the beautiful villa prepared for the ladies’ reception at Bayswater.

Lord William remained with them until the evening, when he took his leave--but not without observing that pleasure beamed in the eyes of Agnes as he intimated his intention of becoming a frequent visitor at the villa.

CLXXXII. LAURA MORTIMER’S NEW INTRIGUES

We must now return to Laura Mortimer, whom we left in Paris, and of whom we have lost sight for some time.

It was in the evening of the fourth day after the incidents recorded in the preceding chapter, that Laura was seated in her handsome drawing-room, wrapped up in deep meditation.

Her thoughts were not, however, of a disagreeable nature;--for ever and anon the fire of triumph flashed from her fine eyes, and her rich moist lips were wreathed into a smile.

She held a book open in her hand; but her gaze was fixed upon the ceiling as she lay, rather than sate, on the voluptuous cushions of the purple velvet ottoman.

The windows were open, and a gentle evening breeze, which had succeeded the stifling heat of a Parisian summer-day, fanned her countenance and wantoned with the luxuriant ringlets that floated over her naked shoulders,--those shoulders so white, so plump, so exquisitely shaped!

The perfumes of choice flowers and the odour of ravishing oriental scents rendered the atmosphere fragrant: gold and silver fish were disporting in an immense crystal globe which stood upon a marble table between the casements--and two beautiful canaries were carolling in a superb cage suspended in one of those open windows.

On the table near which Laura was placed, stood several crystal dishes containing the finest fruit that the Parisian market could yield,--the luscious pine, the refreshing melon, strawberries of extraordinary size and exquisite flavour, cherries of the richest red, and mulberries of the deepest purple.

A bottle of champagne stood in a cooler filled with ice; and in the middle of the table was a superb nosegay of flowers.

The entire appearance of the room and its appointments was luxurious in the extreme,--comfort being combined with elegance, and the means of enjoyment distributed with taste;--while she--the mistress of the place--the presiding genius of the scene--was pillowed voluptuously upon the immense velvet cushions. So complete was the abandonment of her attitude, in her deep reverie, that she seemed ten hundred times more charming than when her artifice devised a thousand studied graces in order to effect a conquest and captivate a lover.

One of her naked arms, plump, white, and beautifully formed, lay across her person as the hand held the book, on which the eyes rested not, and against the dark binding of which the taper fingers were set off in the dazzling purity of their complexion and the rosy tint of the almond-shaped nails: the other arm hung down negligently--not quite straight, but gently rounded--the fingers of that hand playing mechanically with the ottoman’s golden fringe that swept the thick carpet. One of her legs lay stretched completely upon the ottoman: the other hung over the side, displaying the well-formed foot, the delicate ankle, and the robust swell of the calf. More voluptuously modelled than Venus, but with all the elegance attributed to the form of that fabled divinity,--handsome as Juno, without the stern imperiousness that characterised the queen of heaven,--and with that subdued nobility of demeanour which Diana, when out of sight of her attendant huntresses, might have been supposed to wear,--Laura Mortimer united in her own person the most fascinating of the charms belonging to the three principal goddesses of heathen worship.

But let us endeavour to ascertain the subject of her thoughts, as she lay thus wrapped up in a deep reverie.

“Fortune appears resolved to favour me, and I accept the auspicious omen with joy. The Marquis is in my power--is my slave--inextricably shackled by my silken chains! Four short days have been sufficient to accomplish this victory. When first introduced to him in the Champs Elysées, I saw that he regarded me with attention--nay, with admiration; and I that moment signalled him out as the man who is destined to place me in a proud position--to render me independent of Charles Hatfield’s hated father! The evening before last I met him for the second time: this was at the party given by my music-master. The nobleman was almost instantly by my side, as soon as I made my appearance; and I knew full well how to gain his favour. When handsome young men approached me, I received them coldly, and continued my discourse with the Marquis in a more animated and friendly style than before. I even hinted to him--or rather suffered him to believe that it was a relief to escape from the frivolities of the average run of conversation, in the indulgence of discourse on intellectual subjects. I saw that the old man was flattered--that he thought highly of me: in a word, I secured his esteem as I had already acquired his admiration. We sate next to each other at supper; and he lavished all his attentions upon me--attentions which I accepted with an air as if they came from a young and handsome gallant. The Marquis handed me to my carriage, and solicited permission to call. I signified an assent with an ingenuousness that could not possibly have seemed affected; and he squeezed my hand slightly as he bade me farewell. On the following afternoon he called: this was yesterday--and he remained a long time. Two hours passed--doubtless like two minutes to him: and I was completely triumphant. Never did I appear to such advantage: my glass told me that I was radiantly beautiful--and I could observe full well that my manner--my conversation--and the delicate artifices I called to aid, were pre-eminently successful. The old man was ready to fall upon his knees and worship me: he was in that humour when he would have laid his whole fortune at my feet. He appeared to be longing to throw his arms around my neck, and exclaim, ‘Laura, I adore you!’ But when I had excited him to the highest possible pitch, I suddenly directed his attention to some subject of comparative indifference; and thus did I play with his feelings during two long hours. He went away half crazy--dazzled, bewildered, not knowing what to think or how to act--intoxicated with sensual passions mingling with the purer sentiments of a profound admiration and a cordial esteem. Then this morning he called again, and I made him become my companion at luncheon. I affected to be rejoiced that he had thus unexpectedly dropped in, as I had previously felt low-spirited and dull. He seemed charmed that his presence was calculated to cheer me: It was a delicate compliment paid to his conversational powers--and he was flattered and pleased. Oh! how admirably did I wind myself, as it were, around him during the three hours that he remained with me this morning: how successfully did I insinuate myself, as one may say, into his very soul;--not seizing upon his heart by a sudden attack--but gaining possession of it by means the more sure because so stealthy,--not carrying that heart by storm--but gradually and imperceptibly enmeshing it in snares and toils whence it never can escape, so long as my real character shall remain a mystery to him. Yes--and this morning, too, was he not a thousand times on the point of falling upon his knees, and exclaiming,‘Laura, I adore you!’ But still I tantalised him--still I worked him up to the highest possible pitch of excitement, and then suddenly discouraged him by some word or gesture that threw a coldness on all I had before said, and which yet would admit of no positive interpretation so as to render him hopeless altogether. And now he is to return again--this evening,--to return, by his own solicitation;--and this evening--yes--this evening,” thought Laura, her lips wreathing into a smile of triumph,--“he shall fall down at my feet and exclaim, ‘Laura, I adore you!’”

Thus ran the meditations of this dangerous woman,--so strong in the consciousness of her almost superhuman beauty--so confident in the power of her matchless charms and in the witchery of her guileful tongue!

“Yes--four days will have been sufficient to reduce the proud English noble to the condition of a captive kneeling at my feet.” she continued, in her silent but triumphant reverie. “What other woman in the world can thus effect a conquest with such amazing rapidity? The tigress hunts for her prey--pursuing the affrighted deer through bramble and through brake--by the margin of the lake in the depths of the forest--amidst the trackless mazes of the wild woods,--a long--tedious--and fatiguing chase, with the possibility of escape for the intended victim after all. But the boa-constrictor fixes its eyes upon its prey--fascinates it--renders it incapable of retreat--compels it even to advance nearer and nearer to its mouth--plays with it--tantalizes it--sets every feeling and every emotion into fluttering agitation--and even when about to gorge it, licks it over with his caresses. And thus do I secure my prey! I am the anaconda amongst women: none whom I choose to make my victim can escape from the influence of my witchery--the sphere of my fascination! With me it is no long, tedious, and wearisome chase: ’tis instantaneous capture and an easy triumph!”

And again the peculiar smile--half haughtiness, half sweetness--returned to the lips of the peerless beauty, who felt herself to be ten thousand times more powerful in the possession of her transcendent charms, than an Amazonian Queen clothed in armour of proof from head to heel.

Suddenly the bell at the outer door of her suite of apartments announced the coming of a visitor; and in a few moments the Marquis of Delmour was ushered into the room.

Laura had already assumed a sitting posture; and she now rose to receive the English nobleman.

“Good evening, charming Miss Mortimer,” said the Marquis, taking her hand and gently touching it with his lips: then, leading her to the ottoman, and placing himself at a short distance from her, he looked at her tenderly, observing, “You perceive that I am punctual to the hour at which I was to make my appearance according to the kind permission you granted me.”

“Your lordship is most generous thus to condescend to enliven an hour that would otherwise be passed in loneliness by me,” said Laura, bending upon him all the glory of her fine bright eyes and revealing the splendour of her brilliant teeth.

“Beautiful, intellectual, and agreeable as you are, Miss Mortimer,” observed the nobleman, “it is utterly impossible that you can feel yourself indebted to an old man like me for the recreation of a leisure hour. You would only need to throw open your drawing-rooms to the élite of Paris,to be surrounded by admiring guests.”

“And what if I prefer an hour of intellectual conversation to an entire evening of empty formalities, ceremonial frivolities, and the inane routine of fashionable réunions?” asked Laura, with an affectation of candour which seemed most real--most natural.

“You possess a mind the strength and soundness of which surprise me,” exclaimed the Marquis of Delmour, enthusiastically. “How is it that, rich and beautiful, young and courted, as you are, you can have taken so just a view of the world,--that you have learnt to prefer solid enjoyments to artificial pleasures,--and that you can so well discriminate between the real on which the gay and giddy close their eyes, and the ideal or the unreal which they so much worship?”

“You would ask me, my lord, I presume, wherefore I dislike that turmoil of fashionable life which brings one in contact with persons who flatter in a meaningless manner, and who believe that a woman is best pleased with him who most skilfully gilds his pretty nothings. It is, my lord, because I do not estimate the world according to the usual standard,--because I am not dazzled by outside glitter and external show. If an officer in the army be introduced to me, I am not captivated by his splendid epaulets and his waving plumes: I wait to hear his discourse before I form my estimate of his character.”

“Then neither youth nor riches will prove the principal qualifications of him who shall be fortunate enough to win your hand?” said the Marquis, fixing his eyes in an impassioned manner upon the syren.

“Oh! you would speak to me upon the topic of marriage!” exclaimed Laura, laughing gaily. “To tell your lordship the truth, I should be sorry to surrender up my freedom beyond all possibility of release, to any man in existence.”

“What!” ejaculated the old nobleman: “do you mean me to infer that you will never marry?”

“I have more than half made up my mind to that resolution,” responded Laura, casting down her eyes and forcing a blush to her cheeks.

“Never marry!” cried the Marquis, in unfeigned surprise. “And what if you happened to fall in love with some fine, handsome, eligible young man?”

“In the first place it is by no means necessary that a man should be fine, handsome, or young for me to love him,” answered Laura, as if in the most ingenuous way in the world; “and when I do love, it is not a whit the more imperious that the person or the priest should rivet my hand to that of the object of my affections. It is within the power of man to unite hands--and that is a mockery: but God alone can unite hearts--and that is a solemn and sacred compact that should be effected in the sight of heaven only.”

“I scarcely understand you, beautiful and mysterious being!” exclaimed the Marquis, drawing nearer to the syren, who did not appear to notice the movement.

“I am aware that some of my notions are not altogether in accordance with those of society in general,” observed Laura, with an affectation of reserve and diffidence: “but since the conversation has taken this turn, I do not hesitate to admit that I do hold peculiar opinions with respect to marriage.”

“You would have me understand, Miss Mortimer,” said the Marquis, “that were you to find your affections enchained by some deserving individual, you would not hesitate to join your destinies to his, without the intervention of the Church to cement the union.”

“Your lordship has interpreted my meaning in language so delicate as to be almost ambiguous,” observed Laura. “And yet why should the truth be thus wrapped up in verbiage? I do not entertain opinions which I am afraid to look in the face. God forbid! In a word, then, I would ten thousand times rather become the mistress of the man I loved, than the wife of him whom I abhorred;--and in loving the former, and with him loving me, is it not that union of hearts which, as I ere now said, should be effected only in the sight of heaven?”

“And have you ever yet loved?” asked the nobleman, in a tone of profound emotion, as he gazed long and ardently upon the splendid countenance whereon the light from the casements now fell with a Rembrandt effect, delineating the faultless profile against the obscurity that had already begun to occupy the end of the room most remote from the windows.

“Oh! my lord, that is a question which you can only ask me when we come to know each other better!” exclaimed Laura, after a few moments’ pause.

“And yet I already feel as if I had known you for as many years as our acquaintance numbers days,” said the Marquis. “Methought yesterday--and this morning too--that a species of intimacy--a kind of impromptu friendship had sprung up between us; and now you are somewhat cold towards me--your manner is not the same----”

“If I have been guilty of any want of courtesy towards your lordship, I should be truly--deeply grieved,” exclaimed Laura, surveying the nobleman with well affected astonishment at the accusation uttered against her.

“Oh! use not such chilling language, Laura--Miss Mortimer, I mean!” cried the old nobleman, half inclined to throw himself at her feet and implore her to take compassion upon him. “But I an mad--I am insane to appeal to you thus!” he continued, in a species of rage against himself. “How can I suppose that the society of an old man like me is agreeable to a young and beautiful creature such as you!--how can I give way to those glorious but fatal delusions that have occupied my brain for the last forty-eight hours! Oh! Miss Mortimer--would that I had never seen you!”

And the old nobleman, covering his face with his hands, literally sobbed like a youthful lover quarrelling with an adored mistress.

“My lord--my lord, what have I done to offend you?” demanded Laura, as if deeply excited; and, seizing his hands, she drew them away from his countenance, well aware that the contact of her soft and warm flesh would make the blood that age had partially chilled, circulate with speed and heat in his veins.

“If you had attempted my life,” replied the Marquis, with fervid emphasis, “I should rejoice at a deed that would elicit such kindness from you as you manifest towards me now!”

And thus speaking, he raised her hands to his lips and covered them with kisses.

“Tell me--how did I offend you?” she asked, in a voice that was melting and musical even to ravishment.

“Oh! let us think not of what has passed,” he exclaimed: “but bless me with the assurance that you can entertain a sentiment of friendship for the old man!”

“I would rather possess your friendship, my lord, than that of the handsomest and wealthiest young gentleman whom we met at the party the other evening,” responded the artful woman, still abandoning her hands to the Marquis. “Did you not observe that I was pleased with your attentions--that I refused to dance in order that I might remain seated next to you, and listening to your conversation--that when the gay moths of fashion approached me with their fulsome compliments, I exhibited signs of impatience, and by my coldness compelled them to retreat--that I gave no encouragement to them in any way----”

“Yes--yes,” interrupted the enraptured Marquis: “I noticed all that--and were I a young man I should have felt myself justified in addressing you in the language of passion--aye, of ardent and sincere affection. But--although such are indeed my sentiments towards you--I perceive all the folly and ridicule of daring to give utterance to them in your presence: yet God knows that I am ready to lay my fortune at your feet--and could I offer to place the coronet of a marchioness upon your brow----”

“Were you in the position to do so, I should refuse it,” said Laura, emphatically. “All the rest I might listen to----”

“Then you are aware that I am married?” interrupted the nobleman, fixing an earnest and enquiring gaze upon her beauteous countenance.

“Rumour declares as much,” replied Laura; “and it likewise avers that you are not happy in your matrimonial connexion. I pity you from the bottom of my heart--and I behold in the fact itself a new argument in support of my own peculiar tenets relative to marriage-ties;--for assuredly you are endowed with qualities calculated to render a woman happy--or I am deeply, deeply deceived.”

“Ah! It is a sad tale--and I dare not venture upon the narration now,” said the Marquis, with a profound sigh. “But should our acquaintance continue--as I ardently hope it may--I will some day give you the fullest and most ample explanations. And you yourself, charming creature--is there not some mystery attached to you? How happens it that at your age you should be so well acquainted with the world?--how is it that you seem free to follow the bent of your own inclinations, uncontrolled even by your mother? For rumour declares that you have a mother alive----”

“I am independent of her in a pecuniary point of view, my lord,” interrupted Laura; “and I am determined to consult my own ideas of happiness, instead of adopting the standard of enjoyment and pleasure established by the fashionable world.”

“Would to heavens that it lay in my power to ensure your happiness--or even to contribute to it!” exclaimed the Marquis, gazing upon her with admiration and ardent passion. “Long years have elapsed since I encountered any woman who inspired me with even half the interest that I feel in you; and it seems to me that I become young again when in your sweet society.”

“And, on my side,” answered Laura, casting down her eyes and assuming a bashful demeanour, “I do not hesitate to admit that I experience greater enjoyment from your conversation than from that of any other nobleman or gentleman with whom I am acquainted.”

“Just now, my sweet Miss Mortimer,” said the Marquis, approaching still nearer to her, and speaking in a tone that was low and tremulous with emotion,--“just now you declared that ‘all the rest you might listen to’----”

“And I do not attempt to revoke the admission that thus fell from my lips,” murmured the designing young woman, turning a glance of half-timidity and half-fondness upon the old nobleman, who, in spite of a strong and vigorous intellect, was rendered childish and plunged as it were into dotage by the fascinating--ravishing influence of the syren-enchantress.

“What am I to understand by those words?” he asked, in an ecstacy of delight. “Oh! is it possible that you can become something more to the old man than a mere acquaintance--something more than even a friend----”

“I could wish to retain your good opinion--your esteem for ever!” said Laura, now turning upon him a countenance radiant with hope and joy.

“It is scarcely possible--I am dreaming--’tis a delicious delusion--a heavenly vision!” murmured the Marquis in broken sentences,--for he was dazzled by the transcendant beauty of the houri who seemed to encourage him in the aspirations which he had formed.

“Is it, then, so extraordinary that I should have learnt to love one who is so kind--so generous-hearted--so intellectual as yourself?” asked Laura, leaning towards him so that her fragrant breath fanned his countenance and her forehead for an instant touched his own.

“Great heaven! Is it possible that so much happiness awaits me?” cried the Marquis, scarcely able to believe his eyes or his ears: then, after gazing upon her for a few instants with all the rapturous ardour of a youthful lover, he sank upon his knees before her, exclaiming, “Laura, I adore you!”

The designing woman’s triumph was complete: the Marquis was inextricably entangled in her snares;--and, throwing her arms around his neck, she murmured, “Oh! it is an honour as well as a joy to possess your love!”

Then the old man covered the charming young woman’s countenance with kisses; and for several minutes not a word was spoken between them. But at length the Marquis, who could scarcely believe that he had won a prize the possession of which all the noblest, handsomest, and wealthiest young men in Paris would envy him, began to speak upon the course which it would be prudent for them to adopt. Laura at once gave him to understand that she should experience no sentiment of shame in appearing as his mistress; and she undertook--as well indeed she might do--to reconcile her mother to this connexion which she had formed.

“Let us then return to England without delay,’ said the Marquis. “The business which has brought me to Paris is now in such a position that an agent may manage it for me. But tell me--is your mother dependent upon you?”

“Entirely,” answered Laura, anticipating the course which her noble lover was about to adopt.

“And your fortune is doubtless large?” he continued, interrogatively.

“It is not nearly so large as rumour has alleged,” was the reply. “Still it is a handsome competency for one person.”

“Then, as there shall be nothing having even the slightest appearance of selfishness in my attachment towards you, Laura,” resumed the nobleman, “you must immediately assign all your property to your mother; and I will at once--yea, at once--give you a proof of the boundless devotion with which you have inspired me. Permit me the use of your desk for a few moments.”

Laura rang the bell, and ordered Rosalie to bring writing materials; and when this was done, the marquis seated himself at the table and wrote something upon a sheet of paper. He next penned a letter, which he folded up, sealed, and addressed; and, turning towards Laura, he said, “This draught, beloved girl, is for the sum of sixty thousand pounds, payable at sight at my bankers’ in London. This letter, which you will have the kindness to send through the post to-morrow, is to advise them of the fact of such a cheque having been given, and to prepare them to meet it, so that there may be no hesitation in paying such a large amount. For it will be my joy and delight to enrich you, my dearest Laura; so that the old man may to some extent repay the immense obligation under which he is placed by the possession of such a heart as thine. I would not have you remain wealthy through your own resources: henceforth you must owe every thing to me--for if you cannot be my wife in name, you shall at least be the sharer of my fortune, as you have consented to be the partner of my destinies.”

“Your generosity, my dear Marquis, only binds me the more closely to you,” exclaimed Laura, lavishing upon the old man the most exciting and apparently fervent caresses. “At the same time permit me to remind you that there is nothing selfish in that affection which so suddenly sprang up in my bosom towards you: because I am no needy adventuress--no intriguing fortune-hunter,--and you are well aware that many a French nobleman would be proud to lay his title at my feet, were I disposed to decorate my brow with a coronet. My father--who, as you have doubtless heard, accumulated some money in India--left me well provided for; and that fortune I shall cheerfully abandon to my mother, preferring to remain dependent on yourself.”

“Ah! your father dwelt a long time in India!” exclaimed the Marquis, as if struck by a sudden idea. “Is it possible, then, that I could have encountered your mother in England? But, no--that woman could not have been the parent of such a lovely, charming creature as yourself!”

“To whom do you allude, my lord?” demanded Laura, now seized with the apprehension that her mother might be known to the wealthy lover whom she had succeeded in ensnaring, and whom she intended to fleece of the greater portion of his fortune.

“It was but a momentary thought--it exists no longer in my mind, dearest,” responded the nobleman, who, as he gazed upon the bright and splendid being before him, felt an ineffable disgust at having even for an instant associated her in any way with the loathsome old hag to whom he was alluding. “The fact is,” he continued, “I met a certain female in London--or rather, in the neighbourhood of London--a short time ago--indeed, just before I left England; and this woman bore the name of Mortimer.”

“It is not altogether an uncommon one,” observed Laura, maintaining an unruffled countenance, though her heart palpitated with continued apprehension.

“The singularity of the coincidence is that the female to whom I am alluding announces herself as the widow of a General-officer who had died in India,” resumed the Marquis.

“My lamented father was a merchant,” said Laura.

“Then of course there can be no identity in that case,” continued the nobleman. “Besides, having an intimate acquaintance with all military matters--as I myself held the post of Secretary at War many years ago, and have since taken a deep interest in that department--I am enabled to state that no General-officer of the name of Mortimer has recently died in India.”

“The woman, then, of whom you am speaking, was an impostress?” said Laura, interrogatively.

“I have little doubt of it,” answered the marquis. “But let us not dwell upon a subject so perfectly indifferent to us. We were talking of our plans. Will it suit you, dearest Laura, to quit Paris to-morrow, or the day after at latest?”

“To-morrow, if you will,” the young woman hastened to reply: for she now trembled lest her mother should suddenly return and perhaps prove, though unintentionally, a marplot to all the plans which her intriguing disposition had conceived.

“To-morrow, then, be it,” said the Marquis. “At noon I shall call for you in my travelling-chariot. We will return by easy stages to London; and, on our arrival in the English capital, the handsomest mansion that money can procure shall be fitted up with all possible speed for your abode.”

“I care not for a splendid dwelling in London itself,” replied Laura. “Rather let me have some beautiful and retired villa in the suburbs, where you can visit me at your leisure, and where we can pass the hours together without intrusion on the part of a host of visitors.”

“Your ideas on this subject concur with mine,” observed the Marquis, enchanted with the belief that Laura intended to retire from the fashionable world and devote herself wholly to him. “The seclusion of a charming villa will be delightful; and I think I can promise,” he added with a smile, “that the said villa will have more of my company than my town mansion. But I shall now take my departure--although with reluctance: it is however necessary for me to make certain preparations this evening, as I am to leave Paris thus unexpectedly to-morrow. For a few hours, then, my Laura, adieu--adieu!”

The old man embraced the young woman with the most unfeigned--unaffected fondness; and as his arms were cast about her neck, and he felt her bosom heaving against his chest, he longed to implore her to allow him to remain with her until the morning--for the dalliance and the toyings he had already enjoyed had inflamed his blood, and he aspired to be completely happy without delay. But he feared lest he should offend her by any manifestations of sensual longings; for he flattered himself that the connexion which had commenced between them had its origin in sentiment on her side. He accordingly withdrew--but reluctantly--from her embrace; and took his departure, promising to call for her punctually at noon on the following day.

CLXXXIII. AN UNEXPECTED VISIT AND A DREADED ARRIVAL

The moment Laura heard the outer door close behind the Marquis of Delmour, she exclaimed aloud, “I have triumphed! I have triumphed! He is in my power--he fell at my feet--he said, ‘Laura, I adore you!’--and the proof of his utter credulity is here--here!”

Thus speaking, she clutched the draught for sixty thousand pounds--devoured it with her eyes--and then secured it in her writing-desk.

“Yes: sixty thousand pounds!” she murmured to herself, as she resumed her voluptuously reclining position upon the ottoman;--“sixty thousand pounds--gained with but little trouble and in a short time! It would scarcely matter if I never touched another piece of gold from his purse; for I am now independent of him--of the hated Hatfields--of all the world! But I will not abandon my doating English Marquis in a hurry: I will not cast aside a nobleman who is so generous--so rich--so confiding! No--no: he will be worth two hundred thousand pounds to me;--and then--yes--then, I may espouse a peer of high title! My fortune is assured--my destiny is within the range of prophecy. I have taken a tremendous step this evening: an hour has seen me grow suddenly rich--already the possessor of sixty thousand pounds! Thanks to this more than human beauty of mine--thanks to that witchery of manner which I know so well how to assume--and thanks also to that fascinating influence wherewith I can invest my language at will, the Marquis has become my slave. Thus does the strong-minded--the resolute--the intellectual man succumb to woman, when she dazzles him with her loveliness and bewilders him with her guile. Sixty thousand pounds now own me as their mistress! ’Tis glorious to possess great wealth: but ’tis an elysian happiness--a burning joy--a proud triumph to feel that I am released from the thraldom of those Hatfields--or rather from a state of dependence upon the father of him whom I lately loved so well! And my mother, too--my selfish, intriguing, deceitful old mother, who has ever hoped to make a profitable market of my charms, and hold despotic sway over me at the same time,--she is no longer necessary to me--and I may in a moment assert my independence should she dare to attempt to tyrannise again. The mad old fool! to fancy that she will succeed in discovering Torrens,--or, even if she did, to hope that she could compel him to disgorge the treasures which he has perilled his life here and his soul hereafter to gain! She will return to me penniless--totally dependent upon me; and I shall allow her a small income on condition that she locates herself in some obscure spot, whence her machinations and her intrigues cannot reach me. Not for worlds would I have her fastened to my apron-strings in London--that London whither I am about to return, and where I may yet hope to punish that Mr. Hatfield who for a time so savagely triumphed over me! No--my mother must be forced into seclusion; her notoriety of character would ruin me. Constantly incurring the chance of being discovered as the Mrs. Slingsby of former years--certain to be recognised as the Mrs. Fitzhardinge who was arrested on suspicion of being concerned in the murder of the old miser--and having evidently entered into some intrigue which has brought her under the notice of the Marquis of Delmour, she can no longer be allowed to associate with me! Her day has gone by--mine has scarcely begun.”

Laura--the beauteous, wanton,unprincipled Laura--had reached this point in her musings, when she was startled by an unusually violent ringing at the front door bell; and in a few moments a gentleman burst into the room, his impatience having urged him to cast away all ceremony and dispense with the introductory agency of Rosalie, who had uttered an ejaculation of surprise on beholding him.

“Captain Barthelma!” cried Laura, in an astonishment which even surpassed that of her abigail.

“Yes--my angel: It is I!” exclaimed the enthusiastic young Italian, as, bounding towards Laura, he caught her in his arms.

His lips were instantaneously fastened to her ripe mouth; and, remembering the night of love and pleasure which she had passed with him, she experienced no vexation at his sudden and most unexpected appearance.

“Can you pardon me for this intrusion?” he demanded, at length loosening her from his embrace, but seating himself closely by her side on the ottoman and taking her hands in his own; “can you pardon me, I ask, adorable woman?” he repeated, gazing upon her in boundless and passionate admiration.

“It seems that it were useless to be offended with you,” she replied, smiling with voluptuous sweetness.

“Oh! then you will not upbraid me--you will not reproach me with having broken the solemn promise that I made you to depart and seek to see you no more in Paris?” he exclaimed. “But even if you were inclined to be angry, Laura, it could not in justice be upon me that your wrath would fall. You must blame your own matchless beauty--you must take all the fault unto yourself. I feel that I cannot live without you. Ever since we parted, my brain has been in a ceaseless ferment--my soul a prey to incessant excitement. By day and by night has your lovely image been before me: by day and by night have I fancied that I heard your voice pouring forth the most eloquent music:--I have dreamt that your lips, breathing odours and bathed with sweets, were pressed to mine:--and your looks, beaming love, and happiness, and joy, have ever been fixed on mine! Oh! my imagination has maintained me in a condition of such pleasing pain that I have been in a species of restless elysium,--a giddy and sometimes agonising whirl, although the scene was paradise! At length I could endure this state no longer: and when at a considerable distance from Paris, on the road to Italy, I suddenly and secretly quitted the service of the Grand Duke----”

“Oh! what madness--what insanity!” exclaimed Laura, grieved that the handsome young Castelcicalan should have made so deep a sacrifice for her--inasmuch as his generous devotion had not only flattered her pride, but also touched her soul.

“It may be madness--it may be insanity,” repeated Lorenzo Barthelma, with impassioned warmth: “but those words must in that case be taken only as other terms for the deepest--sincerest--and most ardent devotion. Were I a beggar on the face of the earth, I should have acted in the same manner; because I should have come to you--I should have thrown myself at your feet--I should have implored you to render me happy,--and in return I should have toiled from morning to night to make up for the deficiency of my means.”

“Generous Lorenzo!” exclaimed Laura, speaking with more sincerity than had characterised her words for years.

“Ah! then you are somewhat touched by my devotion, angelic woman!” cried the handsome young officer, drawing her still more closely towards him, and passing his arm round her slender waist. “But happily I am no pauper--fortunately I am not dependent upon my own exertions. When I was with you before, my adorable Laura, I told you that I possessed a competency; and I then offered to link my destinies with yours for ever. Now my circumstances have materially altered--and I rejoice in the fact! For the French papers of this day contain intelligence of the death of my cousin, the Count of Carignano, at Montoni; and by that unexpected event I have succeeded alike to his title and his princely revenues.”

“Oh! my beloved Lorenzo,” exclaimed Laura, now giving way to all that tenderness towards him which was really in accordance with her inclinations, but which her more selfish interests would have prompted her to subdue and stifle had not this last announcement met her ear: “Oh! my beloved Lorenzo,” she cried, pressing closer to him, so that he could feel her bosom throbbing like the undulations of a mighty tide--for she was now powerfully excited, alike morally and sensually: “how can I reward--how recompense this generosity on your part?”

“By becoming my wife--yes, my wife, Laura--if you will,” returned the enraptured young man. “For you know not how I love you--how intense is the passion with which you have inspired me. I am blind and deaf to all--everything, save your beauties and your witching voice. If you be the greatest profligate the world ever saw, I care not--so madly do I love you.”

“And when this delirium shall have passed away, Lorenzo,” murmured Laura, concealing her burning countenance on his breast, “you will repent the rashness which induced you to wed with one who had so easily abandoned herself to you when a complete stranger--and whom--whom--you knew to be unchaste even then!” she added, her voice becoming touchingly low and tremulously plaintive.

“To suspect even for an instant that I should ever repent of making you my wife, Laura, is to doubt my love,” said the Count of Carignano--for such we may now call him; “and that wounds me to the very soul! ’Tis sufficient for me to know that you are an angel of beauty--and I reck not if you are a demoness in character. But that I am sure is impossible. Your loveliness may have led you into temptations, and your temperament may have induced you to yield: but that you are generous--good--amiable, I am convinced, Laura;--and that you will prove faithful to one who places all his own happiness in you, and who will study incessantly to promote yours--oh! of that I am well assured also. Say, then, my adored one--can you consent to become the Countess of Carignano, with a revenue of twelve thousand a year?”

“Not for the dross--oh! not for the despicable dross,” murmured Laura, scarcely able to restrain her joy within reasonable bounds, and induce her suitor to believe that no selfish interests were mixed up with the motives for that assent which she was about to give,--“not for vile and sordid gold, Lorenzo, do I respond in the affirmative to the generous proposal that you have now made to me--because I myself am possessed of a fortune of sixty thousand pounds: but it is because I love you--yes--I love you, my handsome Lorenzo----”

“Say no more, Laura--beloved Laura!” interrupted the impassioned young nobleman, straining her to his breast: then fondly--oh! how fondly did he gaze upon her--upon her, that guileful woman--reading the reflection of his own voluptuous feelings in her fine large eyes, and then bestowing upon her the most ardent caresses.

Several minutes passed away,--minutes that glided by with rapid and silent wings;--and the handsome pair scarcely noticed that a single second had elapsed since last they spoke.

“Tell me, my sweet Laura,” at length said the Count, toying with the glossy and fragrant tresses of her hair,--“tell me what meant certain words which you addressed to me on that evening when I was first blessed with your kindness. You declared that you could not marry me, although you were not married--that you could not be my mistress, although you were not the mistress of another--and that you could not hold out any hope to me, although you were pledged to no other man.”

“That language, apparently so mysterious, is easily explained,” said Laura, forcing a deep blush into her cheeks as she spoke, and winding one of her snow-white and naked arms round her lover’s neck, so that the contact of the firm warm flesh against his cheek sent the blood rushing through his veins in boiling currents. “I had abandoned myself to you in a moment of caprice--no, of weakness--of passion, which I could not subdue: I had yielded to an invincible impulse, not knowing its nature, and not waiting to ask myself the question. But when you had been with me a short time, I felt that I could love you--yes--deeply, tenderly love you; and as I fancied that, even though you protested the contrary, you could entertain no lasting affection for me, but on the other hand would soon regret any hastily and rashly-formed connexion, I was resolved not to place my own heart in jeopardy, nor incur the risk of loving well and then sustaining a cruel disappointment. For I feared that you addressed me in an impassioned tone only because you were labouring under the delirium of passing excitement and strong though evanescent feelings. Thus was it, then--for my own sake--that I spoke mysteriously to you, in order to convince you of the necessity of seeing me no more. But now, my Lorenzo--now, that you have had several days to reflect upon the proposal which you then made me--now that I have received such unequivocal proofs of your love, and that I no longer fear lest you should be acting in obedience to a sudden impulse,--oh! now, I say, I can hesitate no longer--and I will become your wife!”

The Count of Carignano drank in the delicious poison of her words until his very soul was intoxicated; and loving so well as did this generous-hearted, confiding young man, he paused not for an instant to demand of himself whether he were loving wisely. But he was contented to risk all and everything,--happiness--honour--fame--and name,--in this marriage upon which he had set his mind:--he longed--he burnt--he craved to possess Laura altogether--to have her to himself;--and he felt jealous of all the rest of the world until the nuptial knot should have been tied. It is in this humour and in such a temperament that the highest peer will marry an actress, who would jump at an offer to become his pensioned mistress for a few hundreds a-year.

And Laura--what was passing in her mind? The readers may easily conceive: and yet, lest there should be one or two of imaginations so opaque as not to be able to divine her thoughts, we will describe them as succinctly as possible.

She had run down the institution of marriage when in conversation with the Marquis of Delmour, because she knew that he was already bound in matrimonial bonds, and that she therefore could not become his wife. The result was that she was enabled to consent to become his mistress with much less apparent violation of decency, and without the risk of shocking his feelings. And his mistress she would have become, as she indeed promised, had not the arrival of the Count of Carignano turned her thoughts into an entirely new channel, and placed her interests altogether in a new light. From the moment that he announced his title and his wealth, Laura resolved to throw the poor Marquis of Delmour overboard and accept the proposals of the Italian nobleman.

In fact, Fortune appeared to favour Laura marvellously. Ere now she had beholden a coronet at the end of a vista of some years: in her musings, she had said, “The Marquis will be worth two hundred thousand pounds to me: and then I may espouse a peer of high title!” Such was her ambitious speculation previously to the arrival of Lorenzo: and now, since he had come, she no longer need pass through the apprenticeship of mistress to one nobleman in order to become the wife of another. No--a coronet was within her grasp: a few days--a few hours might behold her Countess of Carignano,--with a husband of whom she could not but be proud, and not with an animated corpse bound to her side.

Here was another triumph for Laura--another cause of glorification in the possession of those matchless charms which thus captivated so hastily and triumphed so effectually. Within a few short weeks she had seen Charles Hatfield--the Marquis of Delmour--and the Count of Carignano at her feet. The first and last had enjoyed her favours: the second was in anticipation of them--and, in that anticipation, had paid sixty thousand pounds. To the first she was wedded--and their marriage was a secret: to the last she had consented to be allied--and their union would be proclaimed to all the world!

Oh! associated with all these reflections, were triumphs--glorious triumphs for Laura Mortimer; and as those thoughts rushed through her mind, as she lay half embraced in the arms of the fond and doting Italian nobleman, the delicious rosiness of animation spread over her cheeks, and kindred fires flashed from under her long silken lashes.

“How beautiful art thou, my adored one!” exclaimed Carignano, as he contemplated the glorious loveliness of her looks: and then he pressed his lips to that mouth which was so voluptuously formed, and which rather resembled a luscious fruit than anything belonging to human shape. “Oh! how I long to call thee mine--to know that thou art indissolubly linked to me! But say--tell me--when shall this happy, happy union take place?--when wilt thou accompany me to the altar?”

“Let us depart for England without delay, my dearest Lorenzo,” murmured Laura, lavishing upon him the most tender caresses; “and there--in London--our marriage can be celebrated immediately after our arrival. Have you any tie--and business on hand to retain you in Paris?”

“None in the world,” was the answer: “and even if I had, everything should give place to the accomplishment of my felicity and the fulfilment of your wishes.”

“Then let us take our departure as early as convenient to-morrow morning,” said Laura.

“And we shall not separate in the meantime?” observed the young Count, straining the syren to his breast.

She murmured a favourable reply; and, after some minutes of tender dalliance, she hastened to give her servants the necessary instructions relative to the preparations for her departure.

A delicate supper was then served up; and the sparkling champagne made the eyes of the lovers flash more brightly, and enhanced the rich carnation glow of their countenances.

The time-piece struck eleven; and they were about to retire to rest, when Rosalie hastily entered the room, and approaching Laura, said in an under tone, “Mademoiselle, your mother has this moment arrived. I told her that you were engaged--and she awaits your presence in the breakfast-parlour.”

“It is my mother, dear Lorenzo,” Laura observed to the Count, who had not overheard the abigail’s communication: “but her arrival will not in any way interfere with our arrangements,” she hastened to add, perceiving that the young nobleman’s countenance suddenly expressed apprehension.

“And yet you yourself appear to be but little pleased at this occurrence, dearest Laura,” he whispered, gazing fondly upon her.

“I could have wished it were otherwise,” she responded: “but no matter. There is nothing to fear: I am independent of my mother. Have patience for ten minutes--and I will return to you.”

With these words, she pressed his hand tenderly and then hurried from the apartment--the discreet Rosalie having already retired the moment she had delivered her message.

Laura hastened to the breakfast-parlour; and there she found her mother, whose garments indicated that she had just arrived in Paris after a journey in an open vehicle and on a dusty road.