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.