CHAPTER CLXXVII.

HISTORY OF THE HAUNTED HOUSES IN STAMFORD STREET.

Twenty-five years ago there were not three nicer looking houses

in Stamford Street than those which are now so dilapidated and so

wretched in appearance both outside and internally. The corner

dwelling was inhabited by an old gentleman and his son. Their name

was Mitchell; and a handsomer youth than Leonard, who at that period

had just completed his twentieth year, was seldom to be met with.

But it was not only on account of his prepossessing person, elegant

manners, and great talents, that he was a general favourite: it was

likewise in consequence of his admirable behaviour towards his father.

Mr. Mitchell was for many years a partner in an eminent mercantile

firm; but the sudden death of a beloved wife, who had long been

suffering with a disease of the heart, and who one evening fell a

corpse at her husband’s feet after having appeared gay and cheerful

a few minutes previously, produced such an effect upon him that

he was thrown on a sick bed, whence he arose at the expiration of

several months--palsied in all his limbs! Although he still retained

possession of his intellect, yet his spirit appeared to be completely

broken, and his energies were crushed. An arrangement was accordingly

effected, by virtue of which he withdrew from the firm on condition

of receiving four hundred pounds a year for the remainder of his

life. These incidents occurred during Leonard’s seventeenth year; and

the affectionate youth immediately devoted himself to the duty of

rendering his afflicted sire’s existence as pleasing--or rather, as

little burthensome as possible. His attentions were unremitting, and

yet so delicately administered that the old man was not suffered to

feel how completely dependent he was, for solace and comfort, on his

only child. When the weather was fine, Leonard invariably had some

excuse to induce his father to go out for a walk; and as he supported

the arm of that tottering, feeble, trembling parent, he conversed in

a gay and unrestrained manner, conjuring up those topics which he

knew to be agreeable to the invalid, and never--never exhibiting the

least impatience at being thus chained as it were to the side of the

sufferer. Of an evening, the young man would read aloud those works

which best suited his father’s taste: or he would sit for hours playing

at chess--a game of which Mr. Mitchell was particularly fond. When

invited to a party, Leonard would at first promise to attend, so that

his father might not perceive that he remained away entirely on his

account: but the youth was always sure to have a convenient head-ache

or to sprain his ankle, or adopt some other ingenious and equally

venial little device, in order to have an apology for staying at home.

Now and then his father would see through his motive, and insist upon

him keeping his engagement,--in which case Leonard was always sure to

leave long before the breaking-up of the party; and, on his return

home, he would creep noiselessly to his father’s chamber to assure

himself, ere he proceeded to his own, that the old man was comfortable

and wanted for nothing. In a word, the devotion of this youth to his

afflicted sire was such that all who knew him beheld him with mingled

admiration and respect: and even the giddiest and most thoughtless

young men of his acquaintance could not bring themselves to joke or

jeer him for that conduct which, in any other, they would have looked

upon as a steadiness and sedateness carried to an extreme.

Next door to the Mitchells--that is to say, in the central of the three

houses to which this narrative relates--dwelt Mr. Pomfret, who, by the

secession of the paralysed old gentleman, had become the head of the

firm, the business premises of which were in the City. Mr. Pomfret was

likewise a widower, and likewise possessed an only child. Ellen Pomfret

was a year younger than Leonard; and she was as beautiful as he was

handsome. They had been acquainted from childhood; and the affection

which in its origin was such as exists between a brother and a sister,

by natural degrees ripened into a devoted and profoundly-rooted love.

In the estimation of all who know them, there was a remarkable fitness

in the union of this admirable pair: their style of beauty--their

dispositions--their manners--their acquirements, were of a nature to

adapt them for each other. They were both tall, slight, and gracefully

formed: Ellen’s hair was of a rich brown, scarcely a shade deeper than

that of Leonard;--their foreheads were high and intellectual;--their

eyes were of deep blue--hers more melting and tender than his, which

were animated with the fire of a noble and generous spirit;--and never

did man nor woman possess finer teeth than theirs. Both were fond of

music and drawing: both were imbued with deep religious feelings,

sincere and even enthusiastic--but utterly devoid of bigotry and

uncharitableness;--and both loved virtue for its own sake. Faith with

them was a delight and an inspiration encouraging fond hopes in respect

to this world and confidence in the next,--a religion that knew naught

of ascetic gloom, but that seemed to trace life’s pathway amidst love,

and perfume, and flowers!

Mrs. Pomfret had died when Ellen was about fourteen; and for the two

following years the maiden was blessed with the companionship and

counsels of a kind aunt, who, immediately after the decease of her

sister, took up her abode in the house. But death snatched her away

to the tomb shortly after the sixteenth birth-day of her niece, who

was thus left alone as it were with her father. Mr. Pomfret, though a

kind and well-meaning man originally, was not a prudent one. He had

an over-weening confidence in his commercial abilities and financial

foresight; and he was thus led into speculations from which his

friends, had he condescended to consult them, would have dissuaded him.

Many of these speculations he undertook on his own private account,

and independently of the firm of which, as above described, he became

the head; and his numerous affairs accordingly kept him much away from

home. Ellen was therefore a great deal alone: for maidenly prudence

prevented her from calling in next door as often as she could have

desired, or as Leonard would have wished to see her. Still she did now

and then pass an hour or two with Mr. Mitchell and his son, relieving

the latter in his task of reading or his post at the chess-table. The

old gentleman was deeply attached to Ellen Pomfret; and the more so,

inasmuch as it appeared to be a settled thing that the two families

were to be closely united by means of the marriage of the young people.

But no day was fixed for this event--nor indeed did the engagement

appear to be more than a tacit one; for the reader must remember that

at the time when we introduce the hero and heroine of this narrative,

the former was only twenty years of age, and the latter nineteen.

The third house to which our present history especially refers, was

inhabited by an old bachelor, who at the time alluded to was upwards

of sixty. He was a fine man for his age--boasted that he had not

yet taken to spectacles--and walked as upright and as rapidly as if

he were twenty years younger. His rubicund countenance was the very

picture of good-nature: and a very good-natured being he in reality

was. But he was whimsical and eccentric to a degree; and, though very

rich and proud of his elegantly furnished abode, he seldom invited a

grown-up person to cross his threshold--much less to partake of his

hospitality. But, on the other hand, he was devotedly attached to

children; and his greatest delight was to assemble a dozen or so of

his neighbours’ little sons and daughters in his comfortable parlour

or handsome drawing-room, and make them all as happy as he could.

This was certainly a strange and most unusual predilection for an old

bachelor to entertain;--but there are exceptions to all rules--and Mr.

Gamble was a living proof of the dogma. He was wont to say that it did

his heart good to behold rosy-cheeked, flaxen-haired, laughing-eyed

children romping about him,--that it awakened blessed feelings in his

soul to hear their merry shouts and witness their innocent mirth,--and

that he fancied himself young again when presiding at the table around

which he gathered them, and where he dispensed fruit, cake, sweet wine,

and comfitures with no niggard hand. Be it understood, then, that--at

least to our mind--Mr. Gamble was a most estimable character: for he

who is fond of children cannot possibly be a bad man--whereas we have

no confidence whatever in the individual who does _not_ experience a

lively interest in those endearing, artless little beings. Mr. Gamble

did not consider it to be at all derogatory to his nature or his age,

to join in the infantile sports which he loved so much to behold; and

when the curtains were drawn and the door closed, he would even consent

to become an active party to a game of blind-man’s-buff, or allow

himself to be converted for the nonce into a horse for the express

behoof of some chubby urchin more bold in his requisitions than the

rest.

Mr. Gamble was indeed quite a character. He used frequently to

declare that he knew nothing more silly than to give dinner-parties.

“Friendship is a very queer thing,” he would say, “if it must be shown

by my eating at another’s expense, or by him coming to me to eat at

mine. I would sooner spend ten pounds upon cakes and oranges for

children who really enjoy them, than ten shillings on a repast for a

grown-up person, who eats in your presence as if under the influence

of a chilling ceremony.” Relative to adults, therefore, Mr. Gamble

neither gave nor accepted invitations: but twice or thrice a-week he

congregated his little friends around him--and the more they romped,

the better he was pleased,--the more noise they made, the higher

did his spirits rise. If they injured his furniture, he cared not,

provided it was the result of an accident: but if he once discovered a

predilection to wilful destructiveness, or if he were made the butt of

coarse rudeness instead of the object of innocent merriment, he never

again invited the offender to his abode.

Considering that the habits of Mr. Gamble were such as we have taken

some little trouble to describe them, it may easily be supposed that

the neighbours were not a little astonished when it was rumoured, and

ascertained to be a positive fact, that Mr. Pomfret had veritably and

actually been invited to dine with that eccentric gentleman. This was

alone enough to create an impression that a revolution had taken place

in the opinions of the old bachelor: but the wonderment was excessive

when it was reported, and likewise discovered to be true, that Mr.

Gamble had dined in his turn with Mr. Pomfret. At first it was supposed

that the cunning merchant was seeking to ensnare the wealthy bachelor

into a marriage with the beautiful Ellen: but when it was remembered

that she was engaged to Leonard, and moreover when it was ascertained

that she had passed the evening at the Mitchell’s on the occasion

of the old bachelor dining with her father, the above-mentioned

speculation was instantly discarded. That a revolution _had_ taken

place in the habits of Mr. Gamble, was however very certain: for as

time wore on, after those first interchanges of civilities between

him and Mr. Pomfret, their intimacy appeared to increase, and the

parties given by the old bachelor to his juvenile friends grew less

frequent. At length not a day passed without an interview occurring

between Gamble and Pomfret: they were often closetted together for

hours in the evening, when the latter returned home from the City; and

the merchant was moreover frequently seen taking bundles of papers and

correspondence into the other’s house. It was therefore surmised that

they were engaged together in some speculation: but if this were the

case, it was kept very quiet--for even Ellen herself could give her

lover Leonard no explanation relative to the causes of the intimacy

that had sprung up so suddenly between her father and Mr. Gamble.

A conversation which we are about to record, will however throw some

light upon the subject. It was about six months after the intimacy had

commenced, that Mr. Pomfret returned home from the City at a later

hour than usual, and with a countenance so pale and careworn, that

he appeared to his affrighted daughter ten years older than when he

quitted her in the morning. Ellen anxiously implored him to inform her

if anything unpleasant had occurred: but he gave her a sharp reply in

the negative--as much as to enjoin her to abstain from questioning

him in future. The poor girl turned aside to conceal the tears that

gushed from her eyes; and Mr. Pomfret, struck by the sudden conviction

that he had behaved most harshly to his amiable daughter, exclaimed,

“Forgive me, Ellen: but--to tell you the truth--I _have_ received

disagreeable intelligence in the City to-day; and it probably soured

my temper for the moment. You are a good girl,” he added, kissing the

tearful countenance that was now upturned towards his own; “and I

was wrong to speak unkindly to you. But let that pass: I shall have

more command over myself another time.”--“Pray do not dwell upon the

subject, my dearest father,” said Ellen. “Will you have dinner served

up at once?”--“No, my love,” was the answer: “I do not feel in any

humour for eating. I meant to say,” he added, hastily, but with some

degree of confusion, “I dined in the City to-day. And now I shall just

run in and see Mr. Gamble for an hour or two; and you can go and play a

game of chess with Mr. Mitchell. I shall return to supper presently: so

mind and be home again by half-past nine.”--“You told me the day before

yesterday, dear papa,” said Ellen, “that the next time I called on Mr.

Mitchell, I was to be sure and ask you for a cheque for the quarter’s

income due to him, and which has been standing over for nearly a

fortnight.”--“Oh! it does not matter this evening!” ejaculated Mr.

Pomfret, impatiently: “besides, I have not time to sit down and fill up

a cheque at present,” he added, a sickly expression passing over his

countenance, as if his heart were smitten painfully within his breast.

Then, without making another observation and in evident haste to avoid

further parlance on the subject, the merchant threw on his hat and

hurried next door. A sigh escaped from Ellen’s gentle bosom--for she

saw that there was some profound grief in the depths of her father’s

soul, and, anxious to escape from the distressing thoughts which such

a conviction was only too well calculated to engender, she made the

greater speed to dress herself for a visit to her neighbours.

We must for the present follow Mr. Pomfret, whom we shall overtake

in Mr. Gamble’s back-parlour, which was fitted up as a library, and

contained a small but choice collection of books. The old bachelor was

discussing some cool claret--for it was in the midst of a hot summer;

and the moment the merchant made his appearance, he rang for another

glass. Mr. Pomfret sank upon a seat, with the air of a man who is

exhausted in mind and body; and when the servant had retired, he fixed

his eyes intently on his friend’s countenance, as he said in a low and

solemn tone, “Gamble, I have dreadful news for you!”--“For which I am

not altogether unprepared,” returned the old bachelor, his countenance

becoming serious--if not absolutely severe.--“How? what do you mean?”

demanded Pomfret, the gloomy expression of his features giving way

to one of profound astonishment.--“I mean,” replied Mr. Gamble, now

bending his gaze with unmistakeable sternness on his companion, “that

for a week past I have had forced upon my mind the painful conviction

that you were deceiving me.”--“Deceiving you!” cried Mr. Pomfret, his

cheek blanching, and his tall spare form trembling either with rage or

guilt, it was not easy immediately to decide which.--“Yes: deceiving

me, and most grossly deceiving me too!” exclaimed Mr. Gamble, striking

the table violently with his clenched fist.--Mr. Pomfret fell back in

his chair, aghast and speechless, like a man from whose countenance

the visor of duplicity has been suddenly torn.--“You doubtless desire

an explanation,” resumed Mr. Gamble; “and you shall have it. Six

months have elapsed, sir,” he continued, his tone becoming reproachful

rather than angry, “since I called at your counting-house in the

City to receive the amount of a draught which had been forwarded to

me from abroad by a gentleman to whom I advanced a certain sum many

years ago, and which I had given up as lost. The sudden and most

unexpected recovery of that amount somewhat renewed my confidence in

human nature--a confidence not altogether destroyed, but long dormant

in my breast. You remember that we began to converse upon commercial

topics; and you finally stated that if I did not immediately require

the sum I had called to receive, you knew how to lay it out for me in a

safe quarter and at good interest. I accepted the proposal;--firstly,

because the funds were so high at the moment that I did not choose to

buy the money in--secondly, because we were neighbours, and had known

each other, to speak to at least, for some years--and thirdly, because

I was in a good humour with mankind at the moment. You were pleased,

on your side; and when you wrote to me a few days afterwards to state

that the money was invested according to the terms settled between us,

I resolved to carry my good feeling still farther--and I asked you to

dinner. Subsequently you returned the compliment; and I began to think

that my long-sustained misanthropy was founded in error. This belief

opened my heart still farther towards you: and when I came to know

your amiable daughter, I felt convinced that all men and women were

_not_ deceivers. Such was the state of my mind--progressing from a

morbid to a healthy condition--when you proposed certain speculations

to me. I accepted them to a limited extent, and on particular terms.

I advanced the moneys you required to carry out your designs; but I

adopted the precaution to avoid anything like a partnership. And this

I did _only_ as a wise precaution--for I had tutored myself to place

the utmost confidence in you. As time wore on, you constantly demanded

fresh supplies--and I did not refuse them, so specious were your

representations. But by degrees I began to entertain vague suspicions

that everything was not as you would have me view it; and I latterly

instituted inquiries. A week only has elapsed since I acquired the

certainty that the larger portion of the money advanced by me to you

was never laid out in the way and for the purposes represented by

yourself; but that it has been employed to stop up gaps and supply

deficiencies in your deeply-embarrassed establishment!”--“My God!

this is but too true!” murmured the miserable Pomfret. “But you will

be merciful towards a man who is reduced to despair?”--“I shall not

harm you, sir: neither shall I expose you,” returned Mr. Gamble, while

the merchant’s countenance somewhat brightened up at this assurance.

“Perhaps, indeed,” added the old bachelor, after a slight pause, “I

may even save you yet.”--“Save me!” echoed Pomfret. “Oh! no: that is

impossible! I am so deeply involved that I owe three times as much

as all you are likely to possess.”--“I am not so sure of that, sir,”

returned Mr. Gamble, almost in a good-humoured tone: then, immediately

resuming his former seriousness of voice, he said “It is not so much

the loss of my fourteen thousand pounds that I deplore: but it is

that you have changed my habits, and I am not so happy as I was. The

dealings that I had with men in my earlier years, made me mistrust them

and taught me to look upon them with unvarying suspicion. Therefore

was it that when I became rich enough to retire into private life, and

more than rich enough for my purposes, I abjured the society of those

whom the world had spoilt, and sought the society of those who were

too young to be tainted by that world. I withdrew myself from the hot

atmosphere breathed by men and women, and joyed in the freshness of the

pure air in which frank, merry, artless, and sportive children dwelt.

My heart, while closing towards one section of the human race, expanded

towards another; and I have loved the infantine race as dearly--oh! as

dearly as if I had been the father of a vast family. But when I renewed

my intercourse with adults--that is to say, when I was tempted to join

your society and that of the two or three gentlemen and ladies whom I

have occasionally met at your house--I felt my love for that infantine

race diminishing: or rather, their presence afforded me less delight

and amusement. It is all this that I deplore; and the result has been

that my home now seems lonely, and the time hangs heavily upon my

hands. Nay, more: you have been the means of effecting that change in

me which has made me selfish: and I feel capable even of sacrificing

the happiness of another so long as I can in any way minister unto my

own.”--“I do not understand you,” said Pomfret, fearful that these last

words implied some vindictive allusion to himself.--“I will explain

my meaning,” replied Mr. Gamble. “You tell me that you are so deeply

involved that ruin stares you in the face!”--“I am so utterly denuded

of resources at this moment,” answered Pomfret, “that I cannot even

pay the quarter’s income due to my neighbour and late partner, Mr.

Mitchell.”--“And if you fail, that poor paralytic old man will be

reduced to beggary?” said Gamble.--Pomfret covered his face with his

hands, and groaned aloud.

“Nay, more than all this,” continued the old bachelor, after a long

pause, during which he appeared to be sipping his claret complacently,

but was in reality reflecting profoundly,--“more than all this, your

partners will be utterly ruined; and they will curse you as the fatal

cause of their dishonour and their penury. Your daughter, too, will

become a portionless girl; and she will moan the follies of her father

that reduced her from a state of comparative affluence to a condition

of toil for a poor pittance. Lastly, that fine young man, Leonard

Mitchell, will hate and abhor you as the individual who has made his

father’s last years wretched and intolerable,and deprived the afflicted

septuagenarian of the very necessaries of life. All these terrible

things, Mr. Pomfret, will be accomplished on the day when your house

stops payment”--“I know it, alas! too well!” exclaimed the unhappy,

ruined merchant, clasping his hands together in deep agony.--“You are

not so old by ten or a dozen years as I am,” continued Mr. Gamble:

“and yet it does me harm to see you thus reduced to despair. But let

us not waste precious time. What is the amount that will save you from

ruin?”--“I dare not name it,” returned Pomfret--“This is foolish,”

exclaimed the old bachelor, severely: “come, answer me, or else let

our interview terminate at once. Again I demand of you the amount

that can prevent all the lamentable occurrences which I just now

detailed?”-“Eighty thousand pounds,” was the reply, delivered almost in

a fit of desperation.

Mr. Gamble rose, opened his desk, and taking out some Bank securities,

directed the merchant’s attention to the sums specified in those

documents. “Ninety-five thousand pounds!” cried Pomfret, astonished

at these evidences of a wealth far greater than he had supposed the

old bachelor to be possessed of--“You perceive,” observed Mr. Gamble,

returning the papers to his desk, and resuming his seat,--“you perceive

that I am the master of means sufficient to save you from destruction.

Indeed, I can spare the sum necessary, and even then have four hundred

pounds a year left to live upon.”--“But is it possible that you can

even entertain the idea of assisting me to such an extent?” cried

Mr. Pomfret, scarcely able to believe his own ears, and trembling

lest he was indulging in a hope that had no other existence than in a

dream.--“It is quite possible, sir,” responded the old bachelor, piqued

that his word should be questioned even for a moment: “and now it all

depends upon yourself.”--“Upon myself!” repeated Mr. Pomfret, again

surveying his friend with mingled amazement and incredulity--“Yes: upon

yourself,” cried Mr. Gamble: “for the amount you require is at your

service, provided you consent to accept me as your son-in-law!”--These

words were delivered with a solemn seriousness of tone which forbade

the suspicion that they were uttered jocularly; and so completely

astounded was the merchant that several minutes elapsed before he could

make any reply During that interval Mr. Gamble still appeared to sip

his claret with calmness: but he was in reality awaiting with no small

degree of anxiety the answer that would be given to his proposal.

“But do you love my daughter?” inquired Pomfret at length.--“I have

already told you that I begin to feel lonely and cheerless,” replied

Mr. Gamble; “and, moreover, I am irresistibly attracted towards

Miss Ellen. I may also say that I should feel proud and happy to

ensure her an independence: at the same time, I am not endowed with

sufficient philanthropy to induce me to save her father from ruin,

except on the condition of receiving her as a wife. If my suit be

refused, you are ruined; and will it in that case be prudent to

permit her to espouse that young Mitchell, who will likewise be

reduced to penury? It is clear that if she do not accept my offer,

circumstances will effectually interpose a barrier between herself and

Leonard; and thus, happen what will, she must renounce all hope of

becoming his bride.”--“And with the conviction that she _does_ love

Leonard Mitchell, would you accompany her to the altar?” inquired

Mr. Pomfret.--“Assuredly,” replied Mr. Gamble. “I have set my mind

upon it, and will risk everything. She is young, and a first love is

seldom more than a blaze of straw, ardent while it lasts, but speedily

exhausted. When she comes to know me well, and to reflect that I have

saved her father from ruin and dishonour,--when, too, she perceives

all the delicate attentions with which I shall surround her, and the

constancy of my endeavour to ensure her happiness,--she will yield

to the new influences to which she will be thus subjected; and she

will learn to look upon the old man with respect and veneration, with

gratitude and kindly feelings, if not with love. The trial may be for

the first few weeks severe; and there may be deep regrets following

upon the disappointment of the vivid hopes now cherished in her bosom.

But, believe me, she will at length succumb to the conviction that her

happiness has been better consulted by the course chalked out for her

by us, than by that into which the present state of her affections

might impel her.”--Pomfret was man of the world enough to know that

all this was mere sophistry; though Gamble himself believed that he

was arguing on the truest principles: but the merchant was better

acquainted than the old bachelor with the female heart. Nevertheless,

the temptation was irresistible to the man who hovered upon the verge

of ruin: the feelings of the father were sacrificed to the anxieties

of the merchant, who saw destruction staring him in the face;--and,

grasping Gamble’s hand, he said in a deep, impressive tone, “She is

yours!”

In the meantime Ellen Pomfret, little suspecting how her destinies were

being disposed of elsewhere, was passing a couple of hours with Mr.

Mitchell and Leonard. The young man had noticed, the moment she entered

their parlour, that her countenance was pale; and, with the eagle

glance of a lover, he likewise discovered that she had been weeping.

Burning with impatience to ascertain the cause of her grief, and not

choosing to elicit an explanation in the presence of his father, for

fear anything might transpire to give the old gentleman pain, as he

was much attached to the young maiden, whom he looked upon as his

intended daughter-in-law,--Leonard exclaimed, as soon as she had paid

her respects to his parent, “You are just in time, Ellen, to help me

to tie up a few new plants which I have purchased:”--and, taking her

hand, he led her into the little garden at the back of the house. A

very little garden it was, too: but Leonard had made the most of the

circumscribed space; and he had in reality bought some choice flowers

in the morning. It was not however to them that he now directed the

lovely girl’s attention; but the moment they stood in the enclosure,

he took her hand, saying, “Ellen, dearest, you are unhappy this

evening: pray tell me what has annoyed you?”--Miss Pomfret, who was

ingenuousness itself, instantly related the scene that had taken place

between herself and her father; and the tears again started from her

eyes, as she remembered the harsh--almost brutal manner in which he

had spoken to her. Leonard hastened to kiss those diamond drops away

from the damask cheeks adown which they trickled; and he consoled her

by observing that persons in business were liable to those annoyances

that occasionally soured the temper and rendered them severe or hasty

even to the very beings whom they loved the most. Leonard’s powers

of persuasion were omnipotent with Ellen; and she speedily sniffled

through her tears. “And now,” continued the young man, “I will give

you a piece of intelligence that will, I hope, indemnify you, dearest,

for the little vexation you have just experienced. My father has this

day received a letter from an influential friend, stating that I may

rely upon being nominated to a clerkship in a Government Office in the

course of a month or six weeks.”--Ellen expressed her delight at these

news; and after the interchange of a few tender sentiments, the nature

of which our readers can well divine, the youthful lovers returned to

the parlour. There they sate and conversed with the old gentleman until

the time-piece on the mantel indicated that it was twenty-five minutes

past nine, when Ellen rose and took her departure, Leonard escorting

her to the door of the adjoining house, where she dwelt.

Her father had returned about ten minutes previously. The curtains

were drawn in the parlour--the lamp was lighted--and the supper was in

readiness. The moment she entered the room, the beautiful girl cast

an anxious look towards her sire, to gather from his countenance,

if possible, whether his mind had become more composed: but she was

shocked to perceive that his cheeks were ashy pale, and that a strange,

ominous light gleamed in his restless, anxious eyes. She withdrew

her gaze instantly, fearful lest he might observe that she noticed

his peculiarity of manner and altered appearance; and, making some

casual remark, she turned to lay aside her bonnet and also to conceal

the tears that again started into her eyes. For Ellen was of an

affectionate disposition, and loved her father tenderly, and it touched

her heart to the very core to behold the traces of deep, deep care upon

his countenance.

“You have seen Leonard this evening, Ellen?” said Mr. Pomfret, in a

tone so hollow that it startled her: and she could scarcely compose

herself sufficiently to murmur an affirmative.--“And do you love

him very, very much?” asked the merchant, after a long pause.--“Oh!

my dearest father,” she exclaimed, “you know that I do! Have we not

as it were been brought up together from childhood?”--“Yes, yes:

it is natural,” said Mr. Pomfret, bitterly: and he walked to the

mantel-piece, turning his back towards his daughter, to hide the

emotions that swelled his heart almost to bursting. But Ellen caught

sight of his agonising countenance in the mirror; and, terribly

excited, she sprang towards him and threw her arms around his neck,

crying, “Oh! my dearest parent, some dreadful grief oppresses you! May

I not share it? Can I not console you? Is there anything that I, poor

weak girl that I am, can do to ease you of this load of sorrow?”--“Yes,

Ellen,” hastily responded her father, determined to come at once to an

explanation with his daughter; for suspense and delay were intolerable.

“You can do all, everything for me: my honour in your hands! ’Tis for

you also to decide whether we shall be reduced to penury, or remain in

affluence--whether that poor palsied old man next door shall continue

to enjoy the comforts of life, or be plunged into destitution! In a

word, Ellen, my very existence is in your hands; for I will not live

to witness all the terrible afflictions that my accursed folly will

have entailed upon ourselves, as well as upon others!”--Ellen was so

taken by surprise as these alarming revelations burst upon her, that

she started back in dismay, and surveyed her sire with a look of such

passionate grief, that he himself grew affrighted in his turn; and

hastily approaching her, he led her to a seat, saying, “For God’s sake,

compose yourself, Ellen: you have need of all your firmness now!”--With

a frantic gesture she besought him to keep her no longer in suspense,

but to tell her the worst at once.--“I will not torture you, my love,”

said the wretched man, standing like a culprit in her presence. “Know,

then, that I hover on the brink of ruin. It is not that I think

bankruptcy dishonourable: no--the most upright men are liable to

misfortune and cannot control adversity. But, were I to fail, as I am

now circumstanced, I could not save my name from indelible disgrace,

nor my partners and the Mitchells likewise from ruin!”--Speechless

with horror and amazement, the young girl gazed fixedly on her father

as he spoke.--“But there are still means of saving me and the others

also,” he resumed, in a tone so broken that it indicated how difficult

and how painful it was for him to give utterance to this prelude to

an announcement which he knew must prove terrible indeed.--“And those

means?” demanded Ellen, recovering the use of her own voice: for she

saw that there was allusion to herself in her father’s words.--“Nerve

yourself, my poor girl, to hear something very shocking to your gentle

heart,” said Mr. Pomfret.--“I am nerved _now_,” she replied, her

features assuming the settled aspect of despair. “But the means?” she

repeated, more impatiently.--“That you renounce Leonard Mitchell, and

accept Mr. Gamble as your husband,” said the wretched father, speaking

with averted head. A shriek escaped Ellen’s lips--and she started

wildly from her seat: then, staggering forward a few paces, she fell

into her parent’s arms--not insensible, but sobbing convulsively. She

had been prepared for some dreadful tidings: she was not, however,

nerved to meet such a frightful destiny as that so suddenly offered to

her contemplation;--and she felt as if she must sink under the blow.

Mr. Pomfret bore her to the sofa; and, placing himself by her side,

said all he could to console her:--no--not all he _could_--but all he

_dared_;--for he had not courage enough to recall the words that had

sealed her fate!

We must, however, draw a veil over this afflicting scene. Suffice it

to say that the noble-minded girl eventually came to the determination

to sacrifice herself for the sake of her father--yes, and for the sake

of the palsied parent of her lover also! There is a crisis in misery

that is in reality despair, although it may have the outward appearance

of resignation: and this was the condition of the young lady, when

she said to her father, “I will not prove a disobedient daughter. I

therefore consent to renounce Leonard Mitchell, and to become the wife

of him who demands my hand as the price of the succour which he is

willing to afford you in this embarrassment.” Mr. Pomfret embraced her

with the most unfeigned ardour, and thanked her in the most touching

terms for her devotedness; and, strange as it may perhaps appear, Ellen

besought him that the sacrifice should be accomplished as speedily as

possible. This is, however, invariably the case with a noble heart that

resolves upon the immolation of its best affections: the maiden feared

lest selfish considerations should arise from delay, to turn her from

her purpose;--and she was anxious that her self-martyrdom should be

performed heroically and with a good grace. But, oh! in one short hour

how changed was her pure soul: how bitter--how intense was now the

disappointment that succeeded the golden dream she had cherished;--how

stern, and bleak, and cheerless seemed that world on which she had

lately looked as on a fair and sunny landscape, fragrant with flowers

and beautiful with verdure. Yes--gloomy indeed is the earth, and

worthless is existence, when viewed through the same mirror which

reflects the heart’s ruined hopes and blighted affections!

But who was to break the news to Leonard Mitchell? Ellen was not equal

to that task: indeed, she dared not see him. She felt that if she

were to gaze again upon his handsome countenance--if she were to read

despair in his eloquent eyes and listen to the passionate accents of

his melodious though manly voice, appealing to her against the stern

resolve to which circumstances had impelled her,--she felt, we say,

that she should yield, and that by so yielding she should fix her

parent’s doom. Mr. Pomfret therefore took upon himself the mournful

task of imparting to the young man the disappointment that awaited

him; and this was done the morning after the incidents which we have

just described. The merchant threw himself upon Leonard’s mercy,

invoking him by all he deemed sacred not to seek to see his daughter

nor dissuade her by letter from her holy purpose of self-devotion. At

first the impetuosity of youth rendered the lover deaf to all reason

and to all entreaties: but by degrees he appeared to receive a kind of

chivalrous inspiration from the heroic example of her whom he adored;

and he awoke to the necessity of consenting to that dreadful sacrifice,

if only that his sire should not want bread in his helpless old age. He

however begged that Mr. Mitchell might be kept in the dark relative to

all these occurrences, until Ellen should have become the wife of Mr.

Gamble--when it would be too late to recall the sacrifice, and useless

to repine against it. Moreover, Leonard resolved to break the news so

gradiently to his father, that the effect of the blow occasioned by a

son’s deep disappointment might be as much mitigated as possible; and

to these proposals Mr. Pomfret was only too willing to assent. And now,

as another proof of Leonard’s devotedness to his afflicted sire, must

be mentioned the fact that, though bearing in his bosom a heart wrung

almost to breaking, he still maintained a calm exterior; and during

the week which elapsed ere Ellen became the wife of Mr. Gamble, Mr.

Mitchell beheld nothing strange nor suspicious in his son’s manner.

And at the expiration of that week, the sacrifice was consummated.

The marriage was solemnised by special license, and with great

privacy; and it was not known in Stamford-street until a late hour

on the wedding-day that such an extraordinary alliance had taken

place. By that time the victim-bride was far away from London--seated

by the side of her old husband in the post-chaise that was bearing

them to some country-place where they were to pass the honeymoon.

Mr. Pomfret had received the price stipulated for his daughter; and

his honour--his commercial honour, we mean--was saved! Alas! how

many marriages of this unnatural kind are constantly taking place

in this civilised--this enlightened--this Bible-reading--this moral

country!--how many fair young maidens are purchased by old men’s gold,

the performance of the religious ceremony only adding a hideous mockery

to a flagrant injustice! And yet how shocked are those mercenary

fathers and match-making mothers who thus sacrifice their daughters’

pure affections to the most selfish interests--how shocked, we say, are

they when they read that there are countries in the world where men

buy their wives outright! Oh! ye Exeter Hall Saints, who send forth

missionaries to christianise the heathen amongst whom such barter or

purchase prevails, have ye nothing to reform at home? Is the Mussulman

who buys his Circassian or his Georgian wife in a slave-market more

reprehensible than the tottering old lord or the nabob with his liver

eaten away, who purchases an English, a Scotch, or an Irish beauty in

the market of West End Fashion? Go, ye Exeter Hall Saints, into that

sphere where all is glitter outside and hollowness of heart within, and

count the many titled or wealthy septuagenaries to whose corpse-like

side fresh and blooming girls of nineteen and twenty are bound by

marriage-ties! Are such alliances founded upon those holy affections

which God has implanted in the human breast?--or are they proofs of

the rebellion which selfish interests consummate against nature’s laws

and heaven’s own divine promptings? But if we direct our attention to

that sphere wherein the industrious millions struggle with starvation,

oppression, and wrong, do we find such instances of outrage against

all that is natural, moral, and just? Do we discover the agricultural

labourer or the mechanic of seventy with a wife of nineteen? Out of

a hundred marriages in humble life, there is not more than one such

case. And yet the aristocratic, the wealthy, and the great are ever

declaiming upon the immorality of the poor! Immorality indeed! ’Tis

you, ye aristocrats, who are in reality demoralised: ’tis you, ye

oppressors, who would stand a far better chance of winning a place in

heaven, were ye to imitate the humble virtues of the oppressed! Oh! the

soul sickens at the idea that a lazy, insolent, intolerant oligarchy

should be permitted to heap so much abuse upon the toiling, starving,

deeply-wronged millions!

But to return to the thread of our narrative. It was in the evening

of the day on which Ellen became the wife of Mr. Gamble, that Mr.

Mitchell was seated at the open window of his front parlour, a

wire-blind enabling him to note all that passed in the street, but

preventing persons outside from seeing into the room. Leonard was

sitting near him, and racking his brain for the best means to commence

a conversation to which he might give such a turn as to enable him to

break the news of the day to his father. But every time the young man

prepared to speak, his heart’s emotions rose as if to suffocate him;

and at last he was obliged to hurry from the parlour and seek his own

chamber in order to give free vent to feelings that could no longer be

restrained. Scarcely had he left the room, when two gentlemen--dwellers

in Stamford Street--encountered each other precisely opposite the

Mitchells’ window; and after the usual greetings, one said: “I am just

going to call upon our mutual friend Mr. Pomfret, to congratulate

him.”--“Congratulate him!” exclaimed the other: “upon what event?”--“On

the marriage of his daughter with the wealthy Mr. Gamble,” was the

reply. “What! you have not heard of it? Oh! It is quite true, I can

assure you. The ceremony took place this morning: I have the fact

from the clergyman’s own lips.”--“But I thought that Miss Pomfret was

engaged to Leonard Mitchell?” observed the other gentleman, evidently

much amazed by the intelligence he had just received.--“Hush!” said

the first speaker, glancing significantly towards the open window;

and, taking his friend’s arm, he drew him a few paces farther on. But

had they stayed to enter into further explanations, it would have been

all the same: the conviction that his unhappy son had sustained a most

frightful blow to his happiness, burst upon the mind of the wretched

father like a tornado on a traveller in the desert; and when Leonard

returned to the room, he found the old man a corpse in his chair!