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.