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.