I.

Loaded Dice.

Several years ago, I made a tour through some of the Southern Counties

of England with a friend. We travelled in an open carriage, stopping for

a few hours a day, or a week, as it might be, wherever there was

anything to be seen; and we generally got through one stage before

breakfast, because it gave our horses rest, and ourselves the chance of

enjoying the brown bread, new milk, and fresh eggs of those country

road-side inns, which are fast becoming subjects for archæological

investigation.

One evening my friend said, “To-morrow we will breakfast at T----. I

want to inquire about a family named Lovell, who used to live there. I

met the husband and wife, and two lovely children, one summer at

Exmouth. We became very intimate, and I thought them particularly

interesting people, but I have never seen them since.”

The next morning’s sun shone as brightly as heart could desire, and

after a delightful drive, we reached the outskirts of the town about

nine o’clock.

“Oh, what a pretty inn!” said I, as we approached a small white house,

with a sign swinging in front of it, and a flower-garden on one side.

“Stop, John,” cried my friend, “we shall get a much cleaner breakfast

here than in the town, I dare say; and if there is anything to be seen

there, we can walk to it;” so we alighted, and were shown into a neat

little parlor, with white curtains, where an unexceptionable rural

breakfast was soon placed before us.

“Pray do you happen to know anything of a family called Lovell?”

inquired my friend, whose name, by the way, was Markham. “Mr. Lovell was

a clergyman.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” answered the girl who attended us, apparently the

landlord’s daughter, “Mr. Lovell is the vicar of our parish.”

“Indeed! and does he live near here?”

“Yes, Ma’am, he lives at the vicarage. It’s just down that lane

opposite, about a quarter of a mile from here; or you can go across the

fields, if you please, to where you see that tower; it’s close by

there.”

“And which is the pleasantest road?” inquired Mrs. Markham.

“Well, Ma’am, I think by the fields is the pleasantest, if you don’t

mind a stile or two; and, besides, you get the best view of the Abbey by

going that way.”

“Is that tower we see part of the Abbey?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” answered the girl, “and the vicarage is just the other

side of it.”

Armed with these instructions, as soon as we had finished our breakfast

we started across the fields, and after a pleasant walk of twenty

minutes we found ourselves in an old churchyard, amongst a cluster of

the most picturesque ruins we had ever seen. With the exception of the

gray tower, we had espied from the inn, and which had doubtless been the

belfry, the remains were not considerable. There was the outer wall of

the chancel, and the broken step that had led to the high altar, and

there were sections of aisles, and part of a cloister, all gracefully

festooned with mosses and ivy; whilst mingled with the grass-grown

graves of the prosaic dead, there were the massive tombs of the Dame

Margerys and the Sir Hildebrands of more romantic periods. All was ruin

and decay, but such poetic ruin! such picturesque decay! And just beyond

the tall gray tower, there was the loveliest, smiling, little garden,

and the prettiest cottage, that imagination could picture. The day was

so bright, the grass so green, the flowers so gay, the air so balmy with

their sweet perfumes, the birds sang so cheerily in the apple and cherry

trees, that all nature seemed rejoicing.

“Well,” said my friend, as she seated herself on the fragment of a

pillar, and looked around her, “now that I see this place, I understand

what sort of people the Lovells were.”

“What sort of people were they?” said I.

“Why, as I said before, interesting people. In the first place, they

were both extremely handsome.”

“But the locality had nothing to do with their good looks, I presume,”

said I.

“I am not sure of that,” she answered; “when there is the least

foundation of taste or intellect to set out with, the beauty of external

nature, and the picturesque accidents that harmonize with it, do, I am

persuaded, by their gentle and elevating influence on the mind, make the

handsome handsomer, and the ugly less ugly. But it was not alone the

good looks of the Lovells that struck me, but their air of refinement

and high breeding, and I should say high birth--though I know nothing

about their extraction--combined with their undisguised poverty and as

evident contentment. Now, I can understand such people finding here an

appropriate home, and being satisfied with their small share of this

world’s goods; because here the dreams of romance writers about Love in

a Cottage might be somewhat realized; poverty might be graceful and

poetical here; and then, you know, they have no rent to pay.”

“Very true,” said I; “but suppose they had sixteen daughters, like a

half-pay officer I once met on board a steam-packet?”

“That would spoil it certainly,” said Mrs. Markham; “but let us hope

they have not. When I knew them they had only two children, a boy and a

girl called Charles and Emily; two of the prettiest creatures I ever

beheld!”

As my friend thought it yet rather early for a visit, we had remained

chattering in this way for more than an hour, sometimes seated on a

tomb-stone, or a fallen column; sometimes peering amongst the carved

fragments that were scattered about the ground, and sometimes looking

over the hedge into the little garden, the wicket of which was

immediately behind the tower. The weather being warm, most of the

windows of the vicarage were open and the blinds were all down; we had

not yet seen a soul stirring, and were wondering whether we might

venture to present ourselves at the door, when a strain of distant music

struck upon our ears. “Hark!” I said, “how exquisite! It was the only

thing wanting to complete the charm.”

“It’s a military band, I think,” said Mrs. Markham, “you know we passed

some barracks before we reached the Inn.”

Nearer and nearer drew the sound, solemn and slow; the band was

evidently approaching by the green lane that skirted the fields we had

come by. “Hush,” said I, laying my hand on my friend’s arm, with a

strange sinking of the heart; “they are playing the Dead March in Saul!

Don’t you hear the muffled drums? It’s a funeral, but where’s the

grave?”

“There,” said she, pointing to a spot close under the hedge where some

earth had been thrown up; but the aperture was covered with a plank,

probably to prevent accidents.

There are few ceremonies in life at once so touching, so impressive, so

sad, and yet so beautiful, as a soldier’s funeral! Ordinary funerals

with their unwieldy hearses and feathers, and the absurd looking mutes,

and the “inky cloaks” and weepers of hired mourners, always seem to me

like a mockery of the dead; the appointments border so closely on the

grotesque; they are so little in keeping with the true, the only view of

death that can render life endurable! There is such a tone of

exaggerated, forced, heavy, over-acted gravity about the whole thing,

that one had need to have a deep personal interest involved in the

scene, to be able to shut one’s eyes to the burlesque side of it. But a

military funeral, how different! There you see death in life and life in

death! There is nothing over-strained, nothing overdone. At once simple

and silent, decent and decorous, consoling, yet sad. The chief mourners,

at best, are generally true mourners, for they have lost a brother with

whom “they sat but yesterday at meat;” and whilst they are comparing

memories, recalling how merry they had many a day been together, and

the solemn tones of that sublime music float upon the air, we can

imagine the freed and satisfied soul wafted on those harmonious

breathings to its Heavenly home; and our hearts are melted, our

imaginations exalted, our faith invigorated, and we come away the better

for what we have seen.

I believe some such reflections as these were passing through our minds,

for we both remained silent and listening, till the swinging-to of the

little wicket, which communicated with the garden, aroused us; but

nobody appeared, and the tower being at the moment betwixt us and it, we

could not see who had entered. Almost at the same moment, a man came

from a gate on the opposite side, and advancing to where the earth was

thrown up, lifted the plank, and discovered the newly-made grave. He was

soon followed by some boys, and several respectable-looking persons came

into the enclosure, whilst nearer and nearer drew the sound of the

muffled drums, and now we descried the firing party and their officer,

who led the procession with their arms reversed, each man wearing above

the elbow a piece of black crape and a small bow of white satin ribbon;

the band still playing that solemn strain. Then came the coffin, borne

by six soldiers. Six officers bore up the pall, all quite young men; and

on the coffin lay the shako, sword, side-belt, and white gloves of the

deceased. A long train of mourners marched two and two, in open file,

the privates first, the officers last. Sorrow was imprinted on every

face; there was no unseemly chattering, no wandering eyes; if a word was

exchanged, it was in a whisper, and the sad shake of the head showed of

whom they were discoursing. All this we observed as they marched through

the lane that skirted one side of the churchyard. As they neared the

gate the band ceased to play.

“See there,” said Mrs. Markham, directing my attention to the cottage,

“there comes Mr. Lovell. Oh, how he is changed!” and whilst she spoke,

the clergyman entering by the wicket, advanced to meet the procession at

the gate, where he commenced reading the funeral service as he moved

backwards towards the grave, round which the firing party, leaning on

their firelocks, now formed. Then came those awful words, “Ashes to

ashes, dust to dust,” the hollow sound of the earth upon the coffin, and

three volleys fired over the grave, finished the solemn ceremony.

When the procession entered the churchyard, we had retired behind the

broken wall of the chancel, whence, without being observed, we had

watched the whole scene with intense interest. Just as the words, “Ashes

to ashes! dust to dust!” were pronounced, I happened to raise my eyes

towards the gray tower, and then, peering through one of the narrow

slits, I saw the face of a man--such a face! Never to my latest day can

I forget the expression of those features! If ever there was despair and

anguish written on a human countenance, it was there! And yet so young!

so beautiful! A cold chill ran through my veins as I pressed Mrs.

Markham’s arm. “Look up at the tower!” I whispered.

“My God! What can it be?” she answered, turning quite pale! “And Mr.

Lovell, did you observe how his voice shook? at first, I thought it was

illness; but he seems bowed down with grief. Every face looks

awe-struck! There must be some tragedy here--something more than the

death of an individual!” and fearing, under this impression, that our

visit might prove untimely, we resolved to return to the inn, and

endeavor to discover if anything unusual had really occurred. Before we

moved, I looked up at the narrow slit--the face was no longer there; but

as we passed round to the other side of the tower, we saw a tall,

slender figure, attired in a loose coat, pass slowly through the wicket,

cross the garden, and enter the house. We only caught a glimpse of the

profile; the head hung down upon the breast; the eyes were bent upon the

ground; but we knew it was the same face we had seen above.

We went back to the inn, where our inquiries elicited some information,

which made us wish to know more; but it was not till we went into the

town that we obtained the following details of this mournful drama, of

which we had thus accidentally witnessed one impressive scene.

Mr. Lovell, as Mrs. Markham had conjectured, was a man of good family,

but no fortune; he might have had a large one, could he have made up his

mind to marry Lady Elizabeth Wentworth, the bride selected for him by a

wealthy uncle who proposed to make him his heir; but preferring poverty

with Emily Dering, he was disinherited. He never repented his choice,

although he remained vicar of a small parish, and a poor man all his

life. The two children whom Mrs. Markham had seen, were the only ones

they had, and through the excellent management of Mrs. Lovell, and the

moderation of her husband’s desires, they had enjoyed an unusual degree

of happiness in this sort of graceful poverty, till the young Charles

and Emily were grown up, and it was time to think what was to be done

with them. The son had been prepared for Oxford by the father, and the

daughter, under the tuition of her mother, was remarkably well educated

and accomplished; but it became necessary to consider the future:

Charles must be sent to college, since the only chance of finding a

provision for him was in the Church, although the expense of maintaining

him there could be ill afforded; so, in order in some degree to balance

the outlay, it was, after much deliberation, agreed that Emily should

accept a situation as governess in London. The proposal was made by

herself, and the rather consented to, that, in case of the death of her

parents, she would almost inevitably have had to seek some such means of

subsistence. These partings were the first sorrows that had reached the

Lovells.

At first, all went well; Charles was not wanting in ability nor in a

moderate degree of application; and Emily wrote cheerfully of her new

life. She was kindly received, well treated, and associated with the

family on the footing of a friend. Neither did further experience seem

to diminish her satisfaction. She saw a great many gay people--some of

whom she named; and, amongst the rest, there not unfrequently appeared

the name of Herbert. Mr. Herbert was in the army, and being a distant

connexion of the family with whom she resided, was a frequent visitor at

their house. “She was sure papa and mamma would like him.” Once the

mother smiled, and said she hoped Emily was not falling in love; but no

more was thought of it. In the meantime Charles had found out that there

was time for many things at Oxford, besides study. He was naturally fond

of society, and had a remarkable capacity for excelling in all kinds of

games. He was agreeable, lively, exceedingly handsome, and sang

charmingly, having been trained in part-singing by his mother. No young

man at Oxford was more _fêté_; but alas! he was very poor, and poverty

poisoned all his enjoyments. For some time he resisted temptation; but

after a terrible struggle--for he adored his family--he gave way, and

ran in debt, and although the imprudence only augmented his misery, he

had not resolution to retrace his steps, but advanced further and

further on this broad road to ruin, so that he had come home for the

vacation shortly before our visit to T----, threatened with all manner

of annoyances if he did not carry back a sufficient sum to satisfy his

most clamorous creditors. He had assured them he would do so, but where

was he to get the money? Certainly not from his parents; he well knew

they had it not; nor had he a friend in the world from whom he could

hope assistance in such an emergency. In his despair he often thought of

running away--going to Australia, America, New Zealand, anywhere; but he

had not even the means to do this. He suffered indescribable tortures,

and saw no hope of relief.

It was just at this period that Herbert’s regiment happened to be

quartered at T----. Charles had occasionally seen his name in his

sister’s letters, and heard that there was a Herbert now in the

barracks, but he was ignorant whether or not it was the same person; and

when he accidentally fell into the society of some of the junior

officers, and was invited by Herbert himself to dine at the mess, pride

prevented his ascertaining the fact. He did not wish to betray that his

sister was a governess. Herbert, however, knew full well that their

visitor was the brother of Emily Lovell, but partly for reasons of his

own, and partly because he penetrated the weakness of the other, he

abstained from mentioning her name.

Now, this town of T---- was, and probably is, about the dullest quarter

in all England! The officers hated it, there was no flirting, no

dancing, no hunting, no anything. Not a man of them knew what to do with

himself. The old ones wandered about and played at whist, the young ones

took to hazard and three-card-loo, playing at first for moderate stakes,

but soon getting on to high ones. Two or three civilians of the

neighborhood joined the party, Charles Lovell among the rest. Had they

begun with playing high, he would have been excluded for want of funds;

but whilst they played low, he won, so that when they increased the

stakes, trusting to a continuance of his good fortune, he was eager to

go on with them. Neither did his luck altogether desert him; on the

whole, he rather won than lost; but he foresaw that one bad night would

break him, and he should be obliged to retire, forfeiting his amusement

and mortifying his pride. It was just at this crisis, that, one night,

an accident, which caused him to win a considerable sum, set him upon

the notion of turning chance into certainty. Whilst shuffling the cards,

he dropped the ace of spades into his lap, caught it up, replaced it in

the pack, and dealt it to himself. No one else had seen the card, no

observation was made, and a terrible thought came into his head!

Whether loo or hazard was played, Charles Lovell had, night after night,

a most extraordinary run of luck. He won large sums, and saw before him

the early prospect of paying his debts and clearing all his

difficulties.

Amongst the young men who played at the table, some had plenty of money

and cared little for their losses; but others were not so well off, and

one of these was Edward Herbert. He, too, was the son of poor parents

who had straitened themselves to put him in the army, and it was with

infinite difficulty and privation that his widowed mother had amassed

the needful sum to purchase for him a company, which was now becoming

vacant. The retiring officer’s papers were already sent in, and

Herbert’s money was lodged at Cox and Greenwood’s; but before the answer

from the Horse-Guards arrived, he had lost every sixpence. Nearly the

whole sum had become the property of Charles Lovell.

Herbert was a fine young man, honorable, generous, impetuous, and

endowed with an acute sense of shame. He determined instantly to pay the

debts, but he knew that his own prospects were ruined for life; he wrote

to the agents to send him the money and withdraw his name from the list

of purchasers. But how was he to support his mother’s grief? How meet

the eye of the girl he loved? She, who he knew adored him, and whose

hand it was agreed between them he should ask of her parents as soon as

he was gazetted a captain! The anguish of mind he suffered then threw

him into a fever, and he lay for several days betwixt life and death,

and happily unconscious of his misery.

Meantime, another scene was being enacted elsewhere. The officers, who

night after night found themselves losers, had not for some time

entertained the least idea of foul play, but at length, one of them

observing something suspicious, began to watch, and satisfied himself,

by a peculiar method adopted by Lovell in “throwing his mains,” that he

was the culprit. His suspicions were whispered from one to another, till

they nearly all entertained them, with the exception of Herbert, who,

being looked upon as Lovell’s most especial friend, was not told. So

unwilling were these young men to blast, forever, the character of the

visitor whom they had so much liked, and to strike a fatal blow at the

happiness and respectability of his family, that they were hesitating

how to proceed, whether to openly accuse him or privately reprove and

expel him, when Herbert’s heavy loss decided the question.

Herbert himself, overwhelmed with despair, had quitted the room, the

rest were still seated around the table, when having given each other a

signal, one of them, called Frank Houston, arose and said: “Gentlemen,

it gives me great pain to have to call your attention to a very

strange--a very distressing circumstance. For some time past there has

been an extraordinary run of luck in one direction--we have all observed

it--all remarked on it. Mr. Herbert has at this moment retired a heavy

loser. There is, indeed, as far as I know, but one winner amongst

us--but one, and he a winner to a very considerable amount; the rest all

losers. God forbid that I should rashly accuse any man! Lightly blast

any man’s character! But I am bound to say, that I fear the money we

have lost has not been fairly won. There has been foul play! I forbear

to name the party--the facts sufficiently indicate him.”

Who would not have pitied Lovell, when, livid with horror and conscious

guilt, he vainly tried to say something? “Indeed--I assure you--I

never”--but words would not come; he faltered and rushed out of the room

in a transport of agony. They did pity him; and when he was gone, agreed

amongst themselves to hush up the affair; but unfortunately, the

civilians of the party, who had not been let into the secret, took up

his defence. They not only believed the accusation unfounded, but felt

it as an affront offered to their townsman; they blustered about it a

good deal, and there was nothing left for it but to appoint a committee

of investigation. Alas! the evidence was overwhelming! It turned out

that the dice and cards had been supplied by Lovell. The former, still

on the table, were found on examination to be loaded. In fact, he had

had a pair as a curiosity long in his possession, and had obtained

others from a disreputable character at Oxford. No doubt remained of his

guilt.

All this while Herbert had been too ill to be addressed on the subject;

but symptoms of recovery were now beginning to appear; and as nobody

was aware that he had any particular interest in the Lovell family, the

affair was communicated to him. At first he refused to believe in his

friend’s guilt, and became violently irritated. His informants assured

him they would be too happy to find they were mistaken, but that since

the inquiry no hope of such an issue remained, and he sank into a gloomy

silence.

On the following morning, when his servant came to his room door, he

found it locked. When, at the desire of the surgeon, it was broken open,

Herbert was found a corpse, and a discharged pistol lying beside him. An

inquest sat upon the body, and the verdict brought in was _Temporary

Insanity_. There never was one more just.

Preparations were now made for the funeral--that funeral which we had

witnessed; but before the day appointed for it arrived, another chapter

of this sad story was unfolded.

When Charles left the barracks on that fatal night, instead of going

home, he passed the dark hours in wandering wildly about the country;

but when morning dawned, fearing the eye of man, he returned to the

vicarage, and slunk unobserved to his chamber. When he did not appear at

breakfast, his mother sought him in his room, where she found him in

bed. He said he was very ill--and so indeed he was--and begged to be

left alone; but as he was no better on the following day, she insisted

on sending for medical advice. The doctor found him with all those

physical symptoms that are apt to supervene from great anxiety of mind;

and saying he could get no sleep, Charles requested to have some

laudanum; but the physician was on his guard, for although the parties

concerned wished to keep the thing private, some rumors had got abroad

that awakened his caution.

The parents, meanwhile, had not the slightest anticipation of the

thunderbolt that was about to fall upon them. They lived a very retired

life, were acquainted with none of the officers--and they were even

ignorant of the amount of their son’s intimacy with the regiment. Thus,

when news of Herbert’s lamentable death reached them, the mother said

to her son: “Charles, did you know a young man in the barracks called

Herbert; a lieutenant, I believe? By-the-bye, I hope it’s not Emily’s

Mr. Herbert.”

“Did I know him,” said Charles, turning suddenly towards her, for, under

pretence that the light annoyed him, he always lay with his face to the

wall. “Why do you ask, mother?”

“Because he’s dead! He had a fever, and--”

“Herbert dead!” cried Charles, suddenly sitting up in the bed.

“Yes, he had a fever, and it is supposed he was delirious, for he blew

out his brains; there is a report that he had been playing high, and

lost a great deal of money. What’s the matter, dear? Oh, Charles, I

shouldn’t have told you! I was not aware that you knew him!”

“Fetch my father here, and, mother, you come back with him!” said

Charles, speaking with a strange sternness of tone, and wildly motioning

her out of the room.

When the parents came, he bade them sit down beside him; and then, with

a degree of remorse and anguish that no words could portray, he told

them all; whilst they, with blanched cheeks and fainting hearts,

listened to the dire confession.

“And here I am,” he exclaimed, as he ended, “a cowardly scoundrel that

has not dared to die! Oh, Herbert! happy, happy, Herbert! Would I were

with you!”

At that moment the door opened, and a beautiful, bright, smiling, joyous

face peeped in. It was Emily Lovell, the beloved daughter, the adored

sister, arrived from London in compliance with a letter received a few

days previously from Herbert, wherein he had told her that by the time

she received it, he would be a captain. She had come to introduce him to

her parents as her affianced husband. She feared no refusal; well she

knew how rejoiced they would be to see her the wife of so kind and

honorable a man. But they were ignorant of all this, and in the fulness

of their agony, the cup of woe ran over, and she drank of the draught!

They told her all before she had been five minutes in the room. How else

could they account for their tears, their confusion, their bewilderment,

their despair!

Before Herbert’s funeral took place, Emily Lovell was lying betwixt life

and death in a brain fever. Under the influence of a feeling easily to

be comprehended, thirsting for a self-imposed torture, that by its very

poignancy should relieve the dead weight of wretchedness that lay upon

his breast, Charles crept from his bed, and slipping on a loose coat

that hung in his room, he stole across the garden to the tower, whence,

through the arrow-slit, he witnessed the burial of his sister’s lover,

whom he had hastened to the grave.

Here terminates our sad story. We left T---- on the following morning,

and it was two or three years before any further intelligence of the

Lovell family reached us. All we then heard was, that Charles had gone,

a self-condemned exile, to Australia; and that Emily had insisted on

accompanying him thither.