CLXXIII. HOPES FULFILLED…

CLXXIII. HOPES FULFILLED

Without pausing to reflect upon the step which she was taking--forgetful of all the injunctions she had received from her father, and all the promises of prudence and caution which she had made to him--obedient only to the irresistible impulse of her feelings--as if nature’s voice rose dominant above a sire’s mandates,--the Recluse of the Cottage disappeared from the view of the lady, who remained in the path outside the garden, a prey to the most torturing fear lest the young maiden should be intercepted by the inmates of the dwelling.

But Agnes was not compelled to pass through the house in order to gain egress from the premises. From the stable-yard a gate opened into the lane; and by this avenue did she proceed--so that there was no necessity to exercise any wariness or precaution. Had the contrary been the case--had she been compelled to pause in order to reflect how she was to escape the notice of the servants, her artlessness of character and purity of soul would have prompted her to wait and reflect whether she were acting in accordance with her father’s counsels. She would then have flown straight to consult Mrs. Gifford; and the result would have been inimical to the hopes and wishes of the lady who was so anxiously expecting her in the lane.

But as nothing impeded the maiden’s progress, nor forced her to stay her steps even for a single instant,--the gate being always left open during the day-time for the convenience of the gardeners, and these men being engaged in front of the house on the present occasion,--the current of her thoughts, impelling her towards the lady, received no hindrance--no check; and in a few moments Agnes was speeding along the lane, with a heart influenced by emotions of hope, curiosity, suspense, and wild aspiration.

For that word “Mother”--that dear, delightful word, which had so seldom fallen on her ears, and which in an instant excited so many pleasurable reflections--so many ineffable feelings in her soul,--that word which, as if with electric inspiration, had suddenly opened to her view an elysium of the affections which she had never known before, and which gave promises of felicity the holiest and the purest,--that word, so fraught with the tenderest sympathies to one who had hitherto lived in a semi-orphan state,--that word it was which exercised a magic influence upon the maiden--absorbed all other considerations--and rendered her impatient to hear more from the same lips whence this word had come.

And yet she could not have accounted, had she paused to search, for the spring of the excitement that now ruled her actions. It was not that she cherished the conviction of finding a mother in the lady who was waiting to embrace her; but she did half suspect that such would be the case,--and she certainly hoped--oh! most fervently hoped that she was not destined to experience disappointment. The very artlessness of her disposition made her sanguine;--and under these influences did she hasten along.

The lady advanced to meet her;--and in a few moments they were clasped in each other’s arms.

“My child--my dearest child!” murmured the fond mother, who had indeed recovered a daughter in Agnes Vernon.

“Oh! Is it possible?” exclaimed the beautiful creature, in an ecstasy of joy: “is it possible that you are my parent?”

“I am, my beloved Agnes--I am: and heaven can attest that, though separated from thee since thine infancy, I have never ceased to think of thee--never ceased to love thee!”

A faintness now came upon Agnes;--and her mother felt that she was clinging the more firmly to her in a convulsive effort to prevent herself from falling.

“Lean on me, my child--here--let me sustain you, my darling Agnes!” cried the lady. “Oh! how happy am I at this moment--with thee in my arms! But----My God! she faints!”

And the maiden, overcome by her emotions, fell into a state of insensibility.

The lady carried her in her arms along the lane: great was the strength which now animated the mother who had just recovered a long-lost daughter;--and in a few minutes a hackney-coach, that was waiting higher up the avenue, received the precious burthen.

When Agnes came to herself, she started as if, on waking from a delicious dream, she feared that it might prove all a delusion: but when, by the rays of the setting sun which streamed through the open windows of the vehicle, she beheld the handsome, pleasing, and yet mournful countenance of her mother bending over her, a glow of joy suffused the charming creature’s face--and, throwing her arms around her parent’s neck, she exclaimed, “Oh! tell me that it is not a dream! assure me once more who you are!”

“I am your mother, Agnes dearest--your own fond and loving mother, who has languished after you for years, and who will never separate from you again, unless by your own consent, or through the stern decree of an iron tyranny! Yes, Agnes--I am your mother;--and, beautiful though you be, I may without vanity declare that the stamp of nature proclaims you to be my child?”

“Yes--and my own heart’s emotions assure me that you are indeed my parent,” said the lovely girl. “But you observed that we should not part without my consent. Oh! can you suppose, dear mother, that I should ever ask to leave you--ever seek to separate myself from you?”

“No, my child--I am sure that you will not!” exclaimed the lady. “At the same time, Agnes,” she added, in a different and mournful tone, “it is my duty to inform you that if you choose to live with me, you must resign all hope of seeing your father again--at least for two years----”

“Oh! say not so!” ejaculated Agnes, bursting into tears. “Surely it must be with my father’s knowledge that you came to see me--that you are taking me away with you. And yet,” she added, a sudden reminiscence flashing to her mind, and causing her to start painfully,--“and yet, I recollect now that I left the garden stealthily--that you urged me to come round to you in the lane, unperceived by the servants--that you knew not my father was in Paris. Oh! mother, mother,” cried the young girl, again interrupting herself, and speaking with a burst of anguish,--“what does all this mean? Whom am I to obey--you or my father?--for it is clear to me that in yielding deference to the counsel of the one, I must prove disobedient to the other!”

“Tranquillise yourself, dearest Agnes--tranquillise yourself, I implore you!” exclaimed the lady, straining the trembling--almost affrighted maiden to her breast.

“Ah! dearest mother, when I hear your voice and receive your kisses, I have no thought save for you,” murmured the young girl. “Oh! and now your tears fall upon my cheek. Mother--dear mother--forgive me for what I said ere now--I will obey you--and you only. But do not--do not weep, my beloved parent!”

“May God Almighty bless you, Agnes!” fervently exclaimed the lady, her tears streaming in blinding torrents from her eyes.

“Oh! do not weep--I implore you!” cried Agnes, in a tone of the most tender affection. “Are you unhappy, dear mother? If so, tell me the cause of your sorrow!”

“I am both happy and unhappy, Agnes,” was the response, almost choked with sobs. “I experience ineffable pleasure and acute pain, all at the same moment! But your words soothe me--your voice descends into my soul like sweet music--your caresses are as a balm to my bruised and weltering spirit!”

“Dear mother, let me embrace you closer still!” murmured Agnes, clinging to her parent in that narrow chaise as if there were an imminent danger of their immediate separation. “But wherefore are you happy and unhappy at the same time?”

“I am happy because I have this evening recovered you, and thus seen accomplished the hope of long, long years,” returned the lady; “and I am unhappy because I fear that some untoward circumstance will part us again.”

“Oh! what circumstance can part us, dear mother?” asked Agnes, her bosom filled with vague alarms. “May I not dwell with you, if I choose--and if you choose to have me with you?”

“Yes--oh! yes, Agnes,” replied her mother, earnestly and in an impassioned tone. “But will you not pine--when the excitement of these new feelings shall have passed away,--will you not pine, I say, for your secluded cottage--your beautiful garden--and--and your father?” she added, her voice suddenly becoming low and tremulously plaintive.

“What is that lovely cottage--what are the choicest flowers of that garden, in comparison with thy love, my dearest--dearest mother?” exclaimed Agnes: “and, oh! if I must decide between you, on the one hand, and my father on the other----And yet he has been so kind--so very kind to me--that it goes to my very heart----”

“Agnes--Agnes--you love your father better than me!” exclaimed the mother, in a voice of the most piercing, rending anguish. “But it is natural--oh! it is natural--for you never knew me until now--at least not since your infancy! Yes, it is natural, I say! Oh! fool that I was to hope that you could love me well enough to consent to dwell beneath my roof in future! No--no--it is impossible: I see it all, Agnes--you would be wretched--miserable, were you to part from your father! I will take you back to your cottage, then, my child--I will leave you then--and we must separate upon its threshold, never--never to meet again, perhaps, in this life!”

“No, dearest mother--speak not thus despairingly--or you will kill me--you will break my heart!” cried Agnes, her voice choking with sobs. “You are unhappy--and it is my duty to remain with you----Oh! and God forgive me for saying it, if it be a crime--but--but--it is also my wish!”

And with these words, the maiden again threw herself upon her mother’s bosom and wept plenteously, while her arms clasped that parent’s neck with almost convulsive violence--as if she feared to lose her.

“Now, Agnes, I am happy--oh! supremely happy!” exclaimed the fond woman. “You will remain with me--and I shall not again submit your feelings to a painful test by proposing the alternatives which have already rent your bosom. Listen, however, to me for a short space. I am a lonely and desolate woman, and have experienced a recent affliction of an almost overpowering nature. Indeed, I should have succumbed beneath its weight, had not accident--an accident of a most extraordinary character--last night revealed to me the place where you dwelt in such seclusion. Then I suddenly felt that I had something worth living for--and I came to you this evening, with the hope of seeing you--yes--and also with the hope of inducing you to accompany me, that we might dwell together in future. For, oh! Agnes, you cannot divine how tender--how lasting--how invincible is the love of a mother for her child. Years and years have passed since I saw you; and I have pictured to myself my darling daughter growing up in beauty and in virtue--endowed with elegant accomplishments, and trained in all that she ought to learn or that would become her--save a knowledge of her mother! Now, my dearest Agnes, you repay me for that immense--that boundless love which I have ever cherished for you: now you reward me for the anxious years--the age of sorrow, as I may term the period which has elapsed, for me, between your infancy and the present time. Your father is rich--is possessed of many resources for recreation and pleasure in the world, which a woman cannot enjoy. He has many, many friends;--and, deeply though he loves you, he will not miss you so much as I have missed you, and should miss you still, were you now to be separated from me. It is, then, a mother who implores her daughter to give her a daughter’s love--to yield her a daughter’s affection--and perform towards her a daughter’s duty. All this, my Agnes, I see that you are prepared to accomplish--even at the sacrifice of your feelings in respect to your sire. Moreover, that sire has been blessed with your smiles ever since your birth--or at least has had you under his guardianship and control: and now--oh! now, am I asking too much when I beseech you to devote a few years of love to me,--to me who am your mother--who am unhappy--and who, without you, should now feel so lonely and desolate that the sooner the cold grave were to close over me, the better!”

“I will not leave you--I will die sooner!” murmured Agnes, her eyes streaming and her bosom heaving with convulsive sobs. “But you will not leave my father--nor that kind and good Mrs. Gifford--in ignorance of what has become of me?”

“I could not be guilty of such cruelty, my darling child,” responded the mother. “And now,” she continued, after a rapid glance from the window of the vehicle, which was at this moment passing by Kennington Common,--“and now listen again to what I have to say to you. My own house is in the northern suburb of London; and it is possible that Mrs. Gifford may be acquainted with the place of my abode. I know not whether she be; and I should conceive that she is not--nevertheless, there is the possibility, as I observed--and, in that case, she would adopt measures to tear you from my arms. For this night, then, you must consent to remain at the house of some ladies of my acquaintance. They will take care of you--they will be rejoiced to have you with them, though only for a few hours; and by to-morrow evening I shall have a dwelling fitted up for our reception. It is my intention to give up my villa which I now possess--and I know of a sweet cottage, with a beautiful garden, in the neighbourhood of Bayswater, which I shall hire at once. All these arrangements can be effected in the course of to-morrow--for by means of money incredible things are accomplished in London.”

“Be it as you say, my dear mother,” observed Agnes. “But you will remain with me this night?--you will not leave me with strangers?” she exclaimed anxiously.

“Certainly, my child, if you wish it, I will stay with you,” returned her mother. “Listen, however, to me once again. The friends in whose care I propose to place you, are two elderly ladles, who will receive you as the daughter of one whom they sincerely love--for they are as devoted to me as if I were a near and dear relative, and are acquainted with much that concerns me. You will be as safe in their charge as if I myself were with you: for, remember,--by to-morrow night I must have a home--a good home--prepared for my Agnes,--and it will occupy me until a late hour this night to make the arrangements for the removal of all my furniture and other property in the morning. In addition to all this, Agnes, I should be compelled in any case to return to my house this evening,--as there may be a communication of importance for me there,--a communication from a generous friend--noble by nature as well as by name--and who is interesting himself for me and for another----”

“Say no more, my dearest parent,” interrupted Agnes. “I am ready to obey you in all things and to follow your counsel: but promise to return and take me away with you as early as you can to-morrow,” she added imploringly.

“Fear not, my darling Agnes,” replied the mother: “I shall be as anxious to embrace you to-morrow as you possibly can be to see me.”

While this conversation was in progress between the two ladles in the hackney-coach, the sun had set--twilight had become absorbed in the shades of night--but the vehicle was now proceeding along the Blackfriars-road, which was brilliant with the gas-lamps stretching away in two approximating lines, and ultimately becoming confounded together on the arching bridge in the distance.

At length the hackney-coach passed out of the Blackfriars-road into Stamford-street; and Agnes, looking from the left-hand window, saw that the three first houses on that side of the way, towards which her eyes were turned, were in a condition so ruinous and dismantled as to strike a chill to her susceptible heart. But the unpleasant sensation almost instantly vanished, when the coach drew up at the door of a house in excellent repair, and presenting, in outward appearance, a remarkable contrast to those dilapidated buildings.

Here Agnes and her mother alighted; and the young maiden no longer thought of the sinister-looking ruins adjoining, when she found herself in a comfortable parlour, where both herself and parent received a cordial welcome from two elderly ladies whose benevolent countenances, agreeable manners, and kind speech were calculated to inspire confidence at once.

The name of these maiden sisters was Theobald; and they were indeed possessed of excellent dispositions and endowed with the most amiable qualities. The moment that Agnes’ mother entered the room, they rose to embrace her with the warmth of an unfeigned friendship; and even before the young maiden was introduced to them, they exclaimed, as if suddenly struck by the same sentiment, “Ah! this is the dear girl whom you have so long pined to recover? We need not wait to be told that she is your daughter: the likeness between you proclaims the fact!”

And then they embraced Agnes in her turn.

The young lady’s mother drew the elder Miss Theobald aside, and said, “I propose to leave my beloved child with you for this night. Circumstances compel me to return home without delay. I have decided upon taking your beautiful little villa at Bayswater, and shall remove all my furniture thither the first thing in the morning. It is fortunate that the sweet dwelling should have been thus in want of a tenant at this moment.”

“I am delighted for your sake, my dear friend,” responded Miss Theobald, “that the villa is unoccupied. We will send one of our servants at day-break to make all the necessary preparations for your reception. Oh! how sincerely--how deeply do I congratulate you upon having recovered your long-lost daughter!” added the kind-hearted woman, in a tone of profound feeling.

“It is indeed a source of indescribable solace to my wounded spirit, as you, my dear friend, may well conceive--for you are acquainted with the principal events of my chequered existence. But I must now depart: it is growing late--and ere I seek my couch this night, I shall have arranged everything for my removal to Bayswater to-morrow.”

With these words the lady turned towards Agnes, saying, “My dearest child, I leave you in the care of these excellent friends, whom it is only necessary to know in order to love.”

“I feel that I do already love them, my dear mother,” responded the young maiden, as she threw herself into her parent’s arms.

“Farewell--till to-morrow, my sweet Agnes: soon after mid-day you may expect me--and the Miss Theobalds can tell you that the new home to which you are then to accompany me, will leave you nothing to regret in reference to your own little secluded cottage and beautiful garden in Surrey.”

“Wherever I may dwell with you, dear mother--there shall I enjoy contentment,” answered Agnes, tenderly embracing her whom in two short hours she had thus learnt to love with an affection that seemed to have existed for years.

“Adieu, my darling child,” murmured the fond mother; and she then took her departure.

Agnes listened until the sounds of the retreating wheels were no longer audible--or rather, until they were absorbed in the din of the numerous vehicles passing in the immediate neighbourhood of the house: and then a sudden chill seized upon her heart--a damp fell upon her spirits--her feelings, powerfully excited by the incidents of the day, experienced a rapid revulsion--and, unable to control her emotions, she burst into tears.

CLXXIV. A NIGHT OF TERRORS

The two ladies hastened to console--or, speaking with greater accuracy, endeavoured to console the weeping girl. But, although she knew how friendly disposed they were towards her--although she felt the full extent of their kindness, and even reproached herself with her inability to yield to its soothing influence,--yet it seemed as if the departure of her mother had left her more alone in the world than ever she was before.

“Dry those tears, my sweet Agnes,” said the elder Miss Theobald, pressing the maiden’s delicate white hand with cordiality and tenderness.

“Oh! do not give way to a sorrow for which you have no real cause,” urged the younger of the two ladies. “A few hours will soon pass, my dear child, and your fond parent will return.”

But Agnes, though acknowledging by her gestures the kindness of the sisters, could not subdue her grief; and her sobbing became more convulsive.

For a tide of conflicting and painful reflections rushed in upon her soul. She remembered all her father’s goodness towards her--the strong injunctions he had given her not to hold intercourse with any one who was not the bearer of a letter from him--and the grief that he would experience when he heard of her departure. She thought, likewise, of the terror and dismay which must even already reign at the cottage on account of her mysterious absence: she beheld, in imagination, the excellent-hearted Mrs. Gifford and the good-natured Jane inconsolable at her loss;--and, apart from all these ideas, she now felt certain misgivings arise in her bosom relative to the step she had taken. Vainly did she endeavour to persuade herself that, acting by the counsel and in obedience to the prayers of her mother, she could not have done wrong: a secret voice appeared to reproach her--an unknown tongue seemed to whisper ominous things in her ears. Terror gained upon her; and, under its influence, her grief became less violent. But her thoughts grew confused--there was a hurry in her brain: she felt as if she had just awakened from a wild and painful dream, and was still unable to collect her scattered ideas;--and still amidst that confusion, flashed, with vivid brightness to her memory, the warning which her sire had so emphatically given to her respecting the snares that were set by the wicked to entrap the artless and the innocent. At length, overcome by the terror which thus rapidly acquired a complete empire over her soul, and forgetting all that was re-assuring and consolatory in her present petition, Agnes Vernon fell upon her knees before the two amazed ladies, exclaiming, as she extended her clasped hands wildly towards them, “Take me home again to my cottage--take me home again, I implore you!”

“My dearest child,” said the elder Miss Theobald, accompanying her soothing words with the tenderest caresses; “what do you fear?--wherefore do you wish to leave us? Are we not your mother’s friends?--and can you not persuade yourself to look upon us in the same light?”

“Oh! yes, madam--I know--I feel that you are my friend--that you wish me well!” cried Agnes, her apprehensions dissipating, but only to allow scope for her anguish to burst forth again.

“Why, then, do you thus give way to your grief?” asked Miss Theobald, raising the young maiden gently, and as gently leading her to a seat.

“I cannot explain my sensations,” sobbed the poor girl: “and yet I feel very--very unhappy.”

“You have doubtless been much excited this evening, my love,” was the reply: “but a good night’s rest will tranquillise you. And remember--you are beneath a friendly roof, and where harm cannot reach you.”

“But I tremble lest I have done wrong, madam,” exclaimed Agnes. “How is it that my father ordains one thing, and my mother counsels another? Oh! I am bewildered with misgivings--I know not what to think, nor how to act?”

“Are you not pleased at having at length embraced a mother?” said the younger Miss Theobald, in a tone of gentle reproach.

“Yes--oh! yes!” ejaculated Agnes, fervently: then, in a mournful voice, she observed, “But I have fled--surreptitiously fled from the home provided for me by a fond and trusting father!”

The two ladies fully comprehended the nature of the conflicting thoughts that were agitating in the breast of Agnes Vernon; and they exchanged rapid glances of mingled sorrow and apprehension. They saw that on one side was a suddenly awakened and ardent love for a mother; and that on the other was a sense of the deference and obedience, as well as of the gratitude, due to an affectionate father. They were, therefore, filled with regret that family circumstances should have placed that pure, artless, and innocent girl in a position which compelled her to balance between the two; and, although they would have moved heaven and earth to induce her to decide in favour of the maternal parent, they recognised the difficulty of the task, and entertained the deepest alarm for its results.

“To-morrow evening, long before this hour, my dear Agnes,” said the elder of the ladies, “you will be comfortably settled in your new home. The villa which your mother intends to inhabit at Bayswater, belongs to my sister and myself. It is a neat little dwelling--neither too much secluded, nor too near to the neighbouring houses; and a large, well-cultivated, and delightful garden is attached to it. Then, my dear child, reflect--remember, that you will possess a constant, a devoted, and a loving companion in your mother: you will no longer pass many, many hours--indeed, the greater portion of your time--in solitude and loneliness, nor be thrown upon the incompatible society of servants, who, however good in heart and well-intentioned, are not such associates as you would select of your own free will.”

“Ah! madam--your words console me,” said Agnes, endeavouring to stifle her sobs. “But how happens it that you should be acquainted with my late mode of life?”

“I did but guess what that mode of life must have been,” returned Miss Theobald; “and I see that I was not far wrong. I knew that your father did not--could not dwell with you entirely--that he could only be a visitor at your place of abode, wherever it might be--and, therefore, I naturally conjectured that you were thrown almost completely upon your own resources.”

“And can you tell me, madam,” asked Miss Vernon, ingenuously, as the thought suddenly struck her,--“can you tell me how it is that my father should wish me to dwell under his guardianship only, and my mother wishes me to rely solely upon her? Or, indeed,” she added, after a few moments’ pause, “I should rather inquire the reason which prevents my parents from living together beneath the same roof, and having me with them? for, according to all the books I have ever read----”

“Ah! my dear Agnes,” interrupted the elder sister, “you would not seek to penetrate into those mysteries which so unhappily belong to the destinies of your parents?”

“Oh! no--no--if it be improper for a child to ask an explanation of such secrets!” exclaimed Miss Vernon, the natural purity of her soul instantly absorbing the sentiment of curiosity that had prompted her queries. “And now let me implore your pardon for having testified so much excitement----”

“It was to be expected, dear child,” said Miss Theobald; “and you have no pardon to solicit. We are delighted to perceive that you have at length recovered some degree of calmness. Rest assured that you will be happy in the society of your mother, whom we have known for years--yes--many, many years, and whom we love as much as if she were a near relative. You will be surprised to learn, Agnes, that when you were a babe, we often fondled you in our arms. Yes: you may regard me with surprise--but it is nevertheless the fact, that my sister and myself have frequently--very frequently nursed and dandled you for hours together.”

“Oh! I was wrong to exhibit so much mistrust and want of confidence in you just now!” exclaimed Agnes, her affectionate soul being deeply touched by assurances so well calculated to move her, and which were indeed strictly consonant with truth.

“Think not of what has gone by, my dear child,” said the younger sister. “We make all possible allowances for the excited state of your mind; and we sincerely hope, as we believe, that happiness awaits you. But it is growing late; and you doubtless stand in need of refreshment ere you retire to rest.”

Then, without waiting for an answer, she rang the bell; and the servant was ordered to bring in the supper-tray. Agnes was in no humour to partake of the meal: indeed, she was in that state of mind when the individual rather loathes the idea of eating, through a total suspension of the appetite. But so delicate were the attentions of the kind-hearted sisters, and so persevering were they in their endeavours to render their guest as much “at home” as possible, that Agnes sate down with them to table; and, if she scarcely ate anything, yet her spirits revived somewhat from the sociable nature of the evening repast.

It was a little after eleven when the Misses Theobald conducted the young lady to the bedchamber which had been prepared for her reception; and, having embraced her affectionately, the good sisters left her, as they hoped, to the enjoyment of that repose of which they knew she must stand much in need.

The moment she found herself alone, the maiden felt unpleasant thoughts returning to her mind; and, in order to escape from them, if possible, she began to lay aside her apparel with unwonted haste. Everything necessary for her toilette had been provided; and the chamber, which was at the back of the house and on the second floor, was elegantly furnished--having an air of comfort that would have been duly appreciated by one in a more settled state of mind than was the amiable girl at the time. In a few minutes she retired to rest; and, contrary to her expectation, sleep soon fell upon her eye-lids--for she was worn out and exhausted by the exciting incidents of the day.

Her dreams were not, however, of a tranquillising description.

In the first place, she fancied that she was roving in her garden, and that she beheld Lord William Trevelyan approaching down the lane. In a few moments he stood by her side; though how he passed the verdant boundary was not quite clear to her. She did not retreat,--yet she felt that she ought to retire: but her feet were rivetted to the ground;--and when he took her hand, the same unknown and invisible influence which nailed her to the spot, forbade her to withdraw that hand which trembled in his own. Then she imagined that the young nobleman began to address her in a style similar to the contents of his letter: she cast down her eyes--she felt herself blushing--and, though she knew that she ought to retreat, she nevertheless listened with emotions of pleasure never experienced before. He pressed her to be allowed to visit her again; and she was raising her eyes bashfully towards his countenance, to read his sincerity in his looks, ere she murmured the affirmative reply that already trembled upon her tongue, when she was suddenly shocked to perceive a marvellous and signal change taking place in him. His face grew wrinkled--the handsome features became distorted and frightful--his clothes took another appearance--and, as she gazed upon him in speechless wonder and alarm, she saw standing in his place a hideous old woman, whom she at length recognised as Mrs. Mortimer. Agnes strove to cry out--but could not: a spell was upon her lips;--and the harridan’s eyes glared upon her with savage malignity. The maiden felt herself sinking in terror to the ground--when the whole scene experienced a sudden variation; and she was now in the parlour of the cottage, with her father seated by her side.

Neither was this second dream of a tranquillising description.

Agnes fancied that her sire was angry with her--that he uttered reproaches for a disobedience of which she had been guilty. At first she could not comprehend the nature of the offence that had entailed upon her this vituperation, and rendered her father’s manner so unusually severe towards her--but at last it flashed to her mind that she had been incautious in receiving at the cottage evil-intentioned visitors;--and then she suddenly found her father engaged in a violent dispute with Mrs. Mortimer, whose countenance seemed more than ever hideous and revolting. How this dispute originated, or how Mrs. Mortimer had got into the room, Agnes knew not: there she however was--and the quarrel waxed warmer and warmer. At length the old woman took her departure: but ere the door closed behind her, she turned on Agnes a look of such fiend-like malignity, that a shriek would have expressed the young maiden’s affright, had not her lips been mysteriously sealed. When the harridan had disappeared, Mr. Vernon renewed his reproaches; and Agnes fancied that, on falling on her knees in the presence of her sire to demand pardon, he spurned her from him--upbraided her with her disobedience and ingratitude--and warned her, in a tone of solemnly prophetic meaning, that her readiness to repose confidence in strangers would bring down some terrible calamity on her head. She was about to promise never more to prove guilty of the disobedience which had elicited all these reproaches and produced all that unwonted harshness on her father’s part, when a third person appeared on the scene;--and this third person was her mother!

But this new dream which now visited the sleeping maiden, was not of a tranquillising description.

She fancied that an earnest appeal was now made to her on either side, placing her in the difficult and most distressing condition of a child who had to decide as to which of her parents she would cling to, and which abandon. Here was her father, reminding her of all he had done for her: there was her mother, proclaiming herself to be unhappy and to need the society and solace of her daughter. On her right hand stood the sire whom she had always known: on her left was the maternal parent whom she had never known before. The countenance of the former expressed misgivings amounting almost to despair: that of the latter was bathed in tears, and indicative of all the agonies of a cruel suspense. Agnes felt that her heart was rent by this scene; and yet it appeared to her that she was bound to decide, and that promptly, in one way or the other. She looked towards her father; and he held out his arms to receive her--his countenance assuming an expression so profoundly wretched that it seemed to say, “If I lose you, I lose all I love or care for on earth.” She turned towards her mother, in order to breathe a last farewell, for that she must accompany her father,--when she beheld her maternal parent on her knees, and extending her clasped hands imploringly, while the pale but beauteous face indicated that life or death was in the decision which was about to be pronounced. Agnes could not resist this earnest--silently eloquent appeal on the part of a mother who had proclaimed herself to be unhappy; and the maiden fancied that she threw herself into that mother’s arms. A cry of misery burst from her father’s lips; and Agnes awoke with a wild start,--awoke, to feel her entire frame quaking convulsively, and her heart palpitating with alarming violence.

For a few moments--nay, for nearly a minute, she lay stretched upon her back, endeavouring to compel her thoughts to settle themselves in their proper places, so that she might attain the assurance whether she had just beheld realities, or had only been the victim of distressing dreams;--and when she was enabled to arrive at the latter conclusion, she started up in her bed, exclaiming, “Nevertheless, this is more than I can endure!”

Then came the consciousness of where she was, and why she was there,--how she had fled from the home that her father had provided for her, and in spite of all his solemn injunctions and prudential warnings,--how her mother had left her in a strange place, and with persons who were strangers to her,--and how Mrs. Gifford would be certain to send to Paris without delay and communicate the afflicting tidings to Mr. Vernon.

The maiden’s brain reeled, as these thoughts flashed through it;--and at this moment, when her senses appeared to be leaving her, the clock of Christ Church, in the Blackfriars-road, proclaimed the hour of one!

The sound came booming--rolling--vibrating through the air, like a solemn warning: at least, so it seemed to the disordered fancy of Agnes Vernon;--and, with feelings worked up to an intolerable pitch, she leapt from her couch.

To obtain a light was an easy matter--for the necessary materials were at hand; and when the flame burst from the tip of the lucifer match, Agnes cast a hurried and affrighted glance around, as if she dreaded to meet some hideous countenance or horrible form in the chamber. Not that she was naturally timid: no--far from it;--her very innocence and purity rendered her courageous on ordinary occasions. But she was now under the influence of emotions powerfully wrung--of feelings strained to an unusual tension;--and she had no control over her imagination, which was disordered and excited.

One idea dominated all the rest. This was to escape from the house--to escape, at any hazard and at all risks. Not for worlds, she thought, could she return to that bed where such distressing visions had rent her soul;--and she could not pass the rest of the night alone, and in a strange place. No: she must return to the cottage--retrace her way to the home which her father had provided for her--and endeavour to reach that friendly threshold in time to prevent Mrs. Gifford from transmitting to her sire the news of her disobedience.

But her mother! Oh! she should see that parent again--she would explain everything--and perhaps arrangements might be made to suit the views and accomplish the happiness of all! In the mean time, however, she must escape--she must return home,--she could not endure the idea of remaining another hour--no--nor even a minute longer than was necessary--in that stranger-dwelling!

With lightning speed did all these thoughts,--or rather glimpses of thoughts--for they were too brief, too fleetingly vivid, to deserve the name of reflections--pass through the maiden’s mind, as she threw on her apparel with a congenial haste; and in three minutes she was dressed. Her bonnet was in the parlour below: but that she could take on her way out of the house--or she cared not if she did not find it at all. She would escape in any case, and at all events; and if she could not find a vehicle to convey her home--she would walk, although she might have to ask her way at every step. For Agnes had worked herself up to a pitch of desperation: a fearful panic was upon her;--she knew not, neither did she pause to ask in her own soul, why she longed so ardently to fly from that house:--an irresistible and almost incomprehensible influence urged her on--and the hurry of her actions was in accordance with the hurry of her brain.

Her hair was flowing over her shoulders: she just waited a moment--a single moment, to fasten it up in a large knot behind; and then, taking the light in her hand, she stole noiselessly down the stairs.

A profound silence--a silence which her footsteps disturbed not--reigned throughout the house.

All, save the affrighted--half-maddened girl, slept.

She gained the hall--she endeavoured to enter the parlour to procure her bonnet: but the door was closed--and she now remembered that the elder Miss Theobald had taken the key with her when they had all quitted that room for the night.

But we have already said that Agnes cared not for the bonnet;--and without bestowing a second thought on the matter, she approached the front-door. Alas! there was a more serious disappointment still--the key of that door had likewise been taken up stairs.

An expression of bitter vexation passed over the pale countenance of the maiden--an expression more bitter than that beauteous countenance had ever before worn: but, in another instant, it was succeeded by something like a gleam of hope and joy,--for Agnes bethought her that there was a yard at the back of the house--she had seen it, in the moonlight, from her bed-room window--and there might be a means of egress in that direction.

Cautiously descending the stairs leading into the kitchens, which were below the level of the street, she hastened to the back-door, which, to her joy, proved only to be bolted.

Oh! now she would escape--she would escape, even if she were forced to climb a wall and enter the enclosure belonging to a neighbouring house: for, with the excitement occasioned by her present proceedings, the panic influence which urged her on acquired fresh power every moment.

Extinguishing the light, she left the candlestick in the house, and then emerged into the yard.

The fresh air, as it fanned her face, seemed to breathe whispering promises of freedom, and gave her renewed courage.

The moon was shining gloriously; and as she cast a glance of rapid survey around, she beheld the backs of the dilapidated houses the fronts of which had struck her with such sinister effect when she first entered Stamford Street, in the hackney-coach, in the evening.

There was no mode of egress from the yard save by scaling the boundary walls, which were low on either side.

Not an instant did Agnes hesitate: the fittings of a water-butt served as a ladder for her delicate feet;--and, behold! the sylph-like form of the maiden passes nimbly and lightly over the wall, into the yard belonging to the ruined house next door: for it strikes her that egress by means of an uninhabited building must be certain beyond all risk or doubt.

The moon-light streams, with silvery rays, upon the sombre walls--the dark window-frames, with the blackened fragments of glass remaining in them--the back-door hanging crazily and loosely on its hinges--and the rust-eaten bars of the back-kitchen window. The yard is overgrown with rank grass, reaching above the ankles; and the ground is ragged and uneven--the chances of tripping being moreover multiplied by the brick-bats and the broken bottles scattered about.

The ruined aspect of the house and the long-neglected condition of the yard, or small garden as it once was, behind the building, constituted a scene of desolation, and conveyed an impression of utter loneliness to the mind of the young lady that made her shrink back for a moment as she placed her hand on the rusty latch of the crazy door leading into the lower premises. And seemed she not the sprite of some maiden who had been foully dealt with in that gloomy, tomb-like place, and whose unquiet ghost came to haunt the scene where her blood had been ruthlessly spilt and her mortal remains lay concealed in unconsecrated ground? Yes--such she indeed appeared, with her ashy pale face--her white dress, rendered whiter still by the moonbeams that played upon it--and her long dark hair which, having become loosened in the act of scaling the wall, now flowed all wildly and dishevelled over her shoulders!

We said that she hesitated for a moment to push her way into the dark and ruined building, wrapped as it was in sepulchral silence: but the dominant influence which had hitherto impelled her, asserted its empire once again; and, thrusting open the door, which was by no means a difficult matter--she entered the dilapidated house.

A chill struck to her heart and a vague terror seized upon her, as she now plunged, as it were, out of the pure moonlight into the utter darkness of those premises: but, subduing her fears, she advanced a few paces, with her arms extended so as to grope for the stairs.

Her right hand encountered the bannisters, which were loose and crazy, and raised a rattling noise as she grasped them: no longer alarmed, however, but feeling that the means of escape were gained, she was about to ascend the steps, when a door suddenly opened immediately in front of her--a light appeared--and the rays of the candle thus abruptly thrust forth revealed a countenance so hideous--so monster-like, that for a few moments Agnes stood transfixed in speechless horror--stupified--paralysed--motionless as a marble statue.

And glaring with horror also, were the eyeballs whose rivetted looks met her own: then a loud, hoarse, and affrighted voice exclaimed, “The ghost! the ghost!”--and the light, dropping suddenly on the ground, was immediately extinguished.

A piercing shriek burst from the lips of Agnes; and she fell senseless at the foot of the stairs.

CLXXV. THE HAUNTED HOUSE IN STAMFORD STREET

We must now carry our narrative backward for a few hours, in order to explain the incident which has just been described.

At the corner of Stamford Street and the Blackfriars Road, there are three houses in a most dismantled and dilapidated condition. They seem to have been ravaged by fire; but time and neglect have in reality produced that deplorable appearance. The walls are blackened with accumulated dirt; and the state of the windows bears unequivocal evidence to the fact that every pane has been broken, individually and separately, by stones flung from the streets by vagabond boys or other mischievous persons. The fragments of glass that remain, seem as if the material never could have been transparent, but had even in its manufacture been stained with an inky dye; and the shutters wherewith the casements are closed inside, are equally blackened, as if by a smoke as dense as that which proceeds from the funnel of a steam-packet or the chimney of a factory.

For the last twenty years have these three houses been thus left to fall into ruin: for the fifth part of a century has the work of dilapidation and decay been going on! That they were once habited is evident from the fact that the blinds, pulled up round their rollers, still remain--but so begrimed with black dust and dirt that it is scarcely possible to believe they were ever white. The cords used to pull them down, with the tassels at the end, are likewise still there, and totally discoloured also. Very mournful is the aspect of those ruined tenements, with these indications that they once were comfortable dwellings,--that cheerful fires once burnt in the grates--that lights streamed from the casements in years gone by--and that the walls echoed to the gay pealing laughter of merry children!

Desolate--desolate, indeed, are the three houses,--a disfigurement to the entire vicinity, and having an appearance well calculated to throw a damp upon the spirits even of the most strong-minded of the neighbours.

There is something picturesque in the aspect which ruins in the open country--perhaps on the summit of a hill--assume from gradual decay; because there the ivy grows upon the walls, and the naked hideousness of dilapidation is concealed by the invasion of a wilderness of shrubs and sweets. But when the golden rays of a summer sun pour upon the blackened walls and shattered casements of houses in the midst of a populous city,--houses which have dwelling-places adjoining them and all around,--the effect is sombre, sad, and sinister in the extreme.

Such is the impression produced by those three houses in Stamford-street. Not that the street itself is otherwise cheerful in aspect: on the contrary, the entire thoroughfare stretching between the Blackfriars and Waterloo Roads, is gloomy and inhospitable in aspect. The exterior of the houses has a dinginess of wall and a darkness of window that are unrelieved by the aristocratic grandeur and the richness of curtains inside, which characterise the rows of smoke-dyed dwellings in more fashionable quarters.

The inhabitants of Stamford Street are amazingly prone to the letting of lodgings, when they can find any persons willing to take them. But that such pliant and easily-persuaded tenants are rare in that quarter, is proved to demonstration by the numbers of cards and bills in the windows announcing furnished apartments to let.

It is a curious study, and one that affords matter for speculation, to examine the cards and bills thus displayed. Some are written in a neat feminine hand, so small that the passer-by must protrude his head far over the railings to enable his vision to decipher the delicate announcements: others are penned in a bold, coarse hand--and, in them, the chances are ten to one that the word let is spelt with a double t;--while others, again, are printed in the types which the experienced eye has no difficulty in tracing to Peel’s famed establishment in the New Cut.

More than half of Stamford Street constantly appears to let; and, from all accounts, landlords experience no trifling difficulty in collecting the rents from the occupants of their houses. If you pass along Stamford Street just before quarter-day, and at a very early hour in the morning, or at a late hour in the night, you will be sure to perceive several vans loading with furniture; for the habit of “moon-shining it,” or flitting surreptitiously, is unfortunately of frequent occurrence in that district.

But these are not the only indications that the affairs of the inhabitants and lodgers in Stamford Street are far from being in the most blooming condition: the fact may also be gathered from the careworn countenance of the tax-gatherer as he leaves a fresh notice at every door, and from the common occurrence of the water being cut off. Nor less does the Poor Rates’ collector feel his task to be a most unpleasant one; while the tradesmen in the Blackfriars Road wonder, as they look over their ledgers, what the deuce Stamford Street is coming to. Visitors are frequently answered from the area--an unmistakeable precaution against the intrusion of sheriff’s officers; and even when the butcher delivers in his meat or the baker his bread at the front door, the chain is in many instances kept up.

Such is the prevalent state of affairs in the long thoroughfare which we have thus briefly described: but it is with the dilapidated houses--or rather with one of them--that we have now to occupy ourselves.

As soon as it was dusk, two men emerged from the miserable rookery constituted by the district of Broad Wall; and, entering Stamford Street, they proceeded stealthily along until they reached the ruined house which was next to the dwelling of the Misses Theobald. One of the men--a tall, stout, ruffian-like fellow, whom we shall presently describe more particularly--took a key from his pocket and opened the door of the dilapidated tenement, into which he hastily entered, his companion closely following him. We should however observe that this ingress was effected at a moment when no other persons were near; and that the door was opened and shut in a noiseless manner, so that no sound might reach the ears of the occupants of the adjacent dwelling.

“Now give us your hand, old feller,” said the ruffian-like individual, when they were safe inside the passage: “because the stairs is summut broke away, and the bannisters isn’t to be trusted. Lord! how you tremble! Why--what the hell are you afeard on?”

“Nothing--nothing, my good friend,” was the answer, delivered in a nervous tone: “only--it’s--it’s--so--very--very--dark.”

“Dark!” cried the ruffian, with a hoarse laugh: “why, it wery often is dark in a house at night-time, and where there’s no candle alight. But p’raps you’re afeard of ghosteses,” he continued, as he dragged rather than led the nervous old man down the crazy, rotting stairs towards the lower region of the place: “and if so, you’re in the right quarters to see a speret--for they do say the young gal which was murdered here, walks in her shroud;--but, for my part, I never see her--and I han’t got no fear of that sort.”

By the time these words were uttered, in a tone of coarse jocularity, the ruffian had conducted his companion to the bottom of the stairs; and, halting at that point, he struck a lucifer-match against the wall, and lighted a piece of candle which he took from his pocket.

He then led the way into the front kitchen of the house, bidding the old man close the door behind him.

The place was black all over with accumulated dust and dirt: the ceiling appeared as if it had been originally painted a sable hue; and the floor, broken in several parts, conveyed the same impression. The shelves above the dresser were in a most dilapidated condition; and the dense cob-webs clung to them, as well as to the corners of the ceiling, like masses of rotten rags. The shutters were closed; and over their entire surface were pasted sheets of thick brown paper--evidently to prevent the light of candles from peeping through their chinks and being noticed in the street. There was an old ricketty table in the middle of the kitchen: there were likewise two chairs, which, being made of a tough wood, had withstood the ravages of time; and an empty beer-barrel was placed upright near the table, as if it occasionally served as a third seat.

The ruffian stuck the candle in the neck of a bottle; and, opening one of the dresser-drawers, he drew forth a bottle and a couple of small tumblers:--then, placing himself on the barrel, he proceeded in a leisurely manner to light his pipe, while the old man--his companion--sank, nervous and trembling, into one of the Windsor-chairs.

The reader has no doubt already guessed that these two individuals were Vitriol Bob and Torrens;--and, if so, the surmise is correct.

The latter person needs no description; but the former character must be more elaborately dealt with on the present occasion. He was indeed, as Jack Rily had represented him, one of the greatest miscreants that ever disgraced humanity,--not only in reality, but also in personal appearance. Of tall stature, athletic frame, and muscular build, he possessed vast physical strength. He was about thirty-six years of age: his countenance was naturally ugly even to repulsiveness--but huge black whiskers meeting under his chin, rendered it positively ferocious;--and the small, dark, reptile-like eyes glared from beneath thick, overhanging brows. His lips were remarkably coarse and of a livid hue; and his nose, broken in the middle, had a deep indentation, giving an appearance of death’s-head flatness to the broad countenance. His apparel consisted of a seedy suit of black--a hat with very wide brims bent even to slouching--and a pair of heavy Wellington boots; and in his hand he carried a thick stick with a huge nob at one end and a massive ferrule at the other. This was his “life-preserver;” but he seldom had occasion to use it--for his proceedings were usually of the savage and diabolical nature described by the Doctor, and whence he derived the appellation of Vitriol Bob.

This terrible individual was well known to the police: but those functionaries trembled at the idea of molesting him. They would have experienced no such dread had his defensive weapons been confined to life-preservers or pistols: but there was something so horrible in the thought of having a bottle of burning, blinding fluid broken over the countenance, that the officers shuddered at the bare idea of tackling Vitriol Bob. Thus, whenever information was given of some nefarious deed which he had attempted or perpetrated, the police took very good care to search for him where they knew he was not to be found; and if they even met him in one of the bye-streets or obscure alleys on the Surrey side of the metropolis--the quarter which he chiefly honoured with his presence--they were suddenly seized with an inclination to look stedfastly into a picture-shop, or gaze up abstractedly at the sky, until he had passed.

Vitriol Bob knew that he was an object of terror to the functionaries of justice in general: but he was also well aware that there were exceptions to the rule, and that amongst so large a body as the police-force, some few individuals would pounce upon him at all risks. In fact, the impunity he enjoyed was not so completely assured as to render precaution unnecessary; and there was moreover such a thing as being taken by surprise. For these reasons he accordingly made use of one of the “haunted houses,”--for so they were denominated,--as a place of concealment whenever he had committed a deed calculated to lead to the institution of unpleasant enquiries.

Such was the individual whom we now find in company with Torrens; and the circumstance that threw them together in the first instance, will presently transpire through the medium of the conversation that took place as soon as they were seated in the kitchen of the haunted house.

“Well, here we are safe at last, old feller,” cried Vitriol Bob, puffing deliberately at his pipe, as if he savoured deliciously the soothing influences of the tobacco. “By goles! it is one of the best larks I ever was engaged in. Such a lot of tin, and so easily got!”

“Two thousand seven hundred a piece--eh?” said Torrens, eyeing his companion with nervous suspense, as if he were eager to assure himself that a fair and equitable division of the booty would take place.

“Hah!” observed the ruffian, in a complacent manner, as he filled the two tumblers with brandy from the black bottle: “drink!”--and he emptied one of the glasses at a draught, just as if it were a mere thimble-full of the fiery liquid. “It was a good job, old feller,” he continued, after a short pause, “that you fell in with such a prime chap as I am--or rayther, it was fortnit that I lodged in the same house, and as I came in heard you moaning and groaning away in your cellar. It was also lucky that you let me worm out of you all that had happened--although you was precious chary of making a confidant of me. You remember that I couldn’t believe you at fust--I looked on you as a perfect madman. Thinks I to myself, ‘There’s a precious lu-nattic just ’scaped out of Bedlam:’ for how was I to fancy that you’d raly been robbed of such an amount, living in a cellar as you was!”

“But you believed me at last--you saw that it was all true and correct,” exclaimed Torrens, perceiving that it suited the man’s humour to talk on the subject.

“Well, I did,” returned Vitriol Bob: “and now,” he added, tapping his breeches pockets significantly, “I have got plenty of proof that you didn’t tell no lies. But, Lord bless ye! you could have done nothink without me: you would have sat down quietly under your loss. But I told you that I’d find the old voman out, if so be she was in London at all; and so I did. The description you gave me of her was not to be mistaken--’specially by a genelman of eggs-sperience like myself. I went about all over London, looking for her; and then, behold ye! arter all she’s living within a stone’s throw of us, as one may say. By goles! I never shall forget how my heart jumped in my buzzim when I clapped eyes on her yesterday, as she came out of the coffee-house: but you don’t know how I found out that she actiwaliy lived there?”

“No--I do not,” said Torrens, observing that his companion bent upon him a look of mysterious importance, as much as to invite a query that should furnish him with the opportunity of giving an explanation relative to the point alluded to. “How did it happen, then?”

“Why, when I see the old voman come out of the coffee-house, I went straight away to my blewen--that’s Pig-faced Polly, as she’s called--and I tells her to go to the place, take tea and toast, and wait till she found out whether the old voman lived there, or not. But I orders Polly not to make inquiries, for fear of eggs-citing suspicion. Well, my gal did as I told her--and waited, and waited a good long time; and when she’d had three teas and four or five buttered toastesses, she see the old voman come in, and she hears the landlady come out and say, ‘Here’s your key, Mrs. Mortimer.’ Then up goes Mrs. Mortimer--for such her name seems to be--to her room; and Pig-faced Poll returns to me with the hintelligence. I knowed that my game was now safe enough; and it was me which dewised the plan of our going as officers with a search-warrant, when we’d watched the old voman leave the coffee-house this morning.”

“Yes--yes: I know that you did it all,” said Torrens, terribly alarmed lest he who experienced the lion’s share of the trouble, should now claim the lion’s share of the booty. “But how long shall we be obliged to remain here? I am in a hurry to get away--with my share--my fair share of my own money----”

“Your own money, indeed!” ejaculated Vitriol Bob, with a chuckling laugh. “Was it your’n when Mother Mortimer had it safe in her own box? And I should just like to know how you fust come by it? Not honestly, I’ll swear, old feller. Such a seedy-looking cove, living in such a way as you was, couldn’t have got near upon six thousand pound by wot’s called legitimate means. But that’s neether here nor there: I don’t care two figs how you got the tin--and if I ask no questions, I shan’t have no lies told me. Von thing is wery certain--that I’ve got it now.”

“But--but--you surely--my dear friend--you--” stammered Torrens, absolutely aghast at the idea, of still remaining a beggar.

“Come, let’s have no more of this drivelling nonsense,” interrupted Vitriol Bob, in a tone of unmitigated contempt: then, as he refilled and relighted his pipe, be observed, “Why, you have been in a fidget and a stew all day, ever since we secured the swag at the coffee-house. Don’t you see, my dear feller, that people in our sitiwations must act with somethink like common prudence? The old voman may rouse hell’s delight about her loss; and that was why I thought we’d better keep ourselves scarce for a time. So I made you stay close with me at the flash lodging-ken in the Mint all the arternoon till it was dusk; and then I brought you here. And here,” added Vitriol Bob, “we are safe enow: ’cos only Pig-faced Poll, Jack Rily, and one or two others of my pals knows anythink about this place being my haunt when I’m afeard of getting into trouble;--and there’s no danger of them splitting on us. So far from that, the Pig-faced will be sure to come here presently, when she finds I don’t wisit her own quarters this evening; and she’ll bring a basket of prog along with her--so that we shall have a jolly good supper in due time. Drink, old feller!”

Thus speaking, the ruffian refilled his own tumbler, and pushed the brandy bottle across the dirty table to Torrens, who did not, however, touch it--for his glass was only half emptied; and he experienced such lively sensations of alarm, that he felt as if his brain were reeling and his intellects were leaving him.

There he was--a feeble, helpless, weak old man, entirely in the power of an individual whom he knew to be of the most desperate character, but with whom he had joined in companionship only through the hope of recovering at least one-half of that treasure to gain which, in the first instance, he had imbrued his hands in blood. There he was--alone with that miscreant, in a place the aspect of which was sufficient to fill his attenuated soul with the gloomiest thoughts and the most melancholy forebodings,--alone with a demon in human shape, in a ruined and desolate tenement, to augment the cheerless influence of which superstition had lent its aid,--alone with a very fiend, in a haunt the ominous features of which were dimly shadowed forth and rendered more hideous by the dull, glimmering light of the solitary candle with its long wick and its sickly flame.

“Well--what are you thinking of?--and why don’t you drink?” were the words which, suddenly falling on the old man’s ears after a pause, awoke him as it were from a lethargy--a lethargy, however, in which the mind had been painfully active, though the body was motionless--petrified!

“I--I--was wondering how long we should have to remain here,” stammered Torrens, starting as if shaken by a strong spasm or moved by an electric shock.

“I asked you the question just now--and--and you did not give me a reply.”

“Well--it all depends, my fine feller,” answered Vitriol Bob. “Three or four days, perhaps----”

“Three or four days!” almost shrieked Torrens. “I shall die if I linger so long in this horrible place!”

“Die, indeed!” ejaculated the ruffian, in a contemptuous tone. “Why, Lord bless you--I’ve stayed here for three veeks at a time, afore now--without ever budging out. Not be able to linger, as you call it, in this comfortable crib--smoke and drink all day long--or drink only, if you don’t like smoking--and sleep in one of them Windsor-cheers as cozie as a bug in a rug! Besides, won’t you have me for a companion----”

“No--no: I can not--will not endure it!” exclaimed Torrens, starting up from his chair,--his countenance hideous with its workings--his nerves strung to the most painful state of tension--and a thousand frightful thoughts rushing in, with the speed and fury of a torrent, upon his appalled soul.

“Hold your cursed jaw, you fool!” growled Vitriol Bob, in a tone of sudden rage: “you will be heard in the street--and----”

“I care not!” screamed Torrens, louder than before. “Give me my share of the money--let me depart----”

“Be quiet, I say!” spoke the ruffian, in a still more irritated voice, while he sprang from his seat on the barrel; “or I shall do you a mischief.”

“I care not!” again cried Torrens--and again his tone grew still more piercing and shriekingly hysterical; for he was wrought up to a state of utter despair. “Give me my money, I say--give me----”

“Fool--be still!” exclaimed Vitriol Bob, rushing round the table, and grasping the old man by the throat.

But Torrens, inspired with a sudden strength that astonished the ruffian, broke away from his gripe, and rushed towards the door, crying “Murder--murder!”

“Damnation!” thundered Bob; and bounding after him, he sprang upon the old man with the fury and the force of a tiger.

“Murder!” again yelled the affrighted, desperate Torrens: but in another instant he was dashed violently against the wall.

A moan succeeded his agonising cry--and he fell heavily upon the floor. Vitriol Bob then jumped upon him--and the attenuated form of the wretched old man writhed beneath the heavy feet of the murderous ruffian.

There was a faint and stifling appeal for “Mercy! mercy!”--but the miscreant silenced it with a ferocious stamp of his heel on the mouth of the dying man;--and in a few moments all was over!

Vitriol Bob was now alone, in the gloomy, cheerless place, with the crushed and disfigured corpse of him whom he had literally trampled to death.

But scarcely was the deed accomplished, when a noise, as of gravel thrown from the street against the kitchen window, fell upon the ears of the murderer, whose countenance instantly expanded into an expression of grim delight at the well-known signal.

“Here’s Pig-faced Poll!” he exclaimed hastily: and then he paused to listen again.

At the expiration of about a minute the signal was repeated; and Vitriol Bob, no longer harbouring the slightest doubt, hurried up the stairs to open the street-door.

CLXXVI. SCENES IN THE HAUNTED HOUSE

At five-and-twenty minutes past ten, on this eventful night, Mrs. Mortimer entered the narrow lane leading from the Blackfriars Road into Collingwood Street.

We have already stated that she had persuaded herself into a belief of Jack Rily’s fidelity towards his partner or pal in any enterprise: nevertheless, she could not help wishing that the business in hand was over--and she mentally exclaimed more than once, as she threaded the lane, “Would that to-morrow morning were come!” But she had such a powerful inducement to proceed in the affair at any risk, that the idea of retreating was discarded each time it faintly suggested itself; and when Jack Rily made his appearance, punctually to an instant, she felt her courage worked up to such a pitch that it was difficult to decide whether it arose from entire confidence or utter desperation.

“So, here you are, my fine old tiger-cat,” said the doctor, grasping her hand, with a force that might have been very friendly, but was not the less painful on that account. “I thought you would not flinch: indeed, I made sure you’d come to the scratch.”

“What have I to be afraid of--since you are so sure of being able to overpower the wretch whom you call Vitriol Bob!” demanded Mrs. Mortimer, in a firm tone. “I have already told you that I will undertake to manage the villain Torrens.”

“I long to see you grapple with him,” returned the doctor. “But we must not waste time in idle observations. Listen, my good lady, to our plan of proceeding. Vitriol Bob has a female acquaintance called Molly Calvert--or, in more familiar terms, Pig-faced Poll. This young woman knows his haunt--knows also the signals necessary to induce him to open the door. Besides, whenever he’s missing, she goes straight there, with a basket of provisions and what not--because she naturally suspects that he has done something queer and has found it convenient to make himself scarce. Well--you must be Pig-faced Poll for the nonce----”

“I understand you,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer. “It is for me to give the signal and obtain admission----”

“Just so, my dear madam--and for us both--because if ever Molly Calvert and I go there together, it’s always the young woman herself who whispers a word of assurance to Vitriol Bob when he opens the door.”

“But suppose that the young woman you speak of, has already repaired to the robber’s haunt--suppose that she is already with him----”

“Now don’t take Jack Rily for an arrant fool!” said the ruffian; and, dark though it were in the narrow lane where this colloquy took place, Mrs. Mortimer could see the huge white teeth of her companion gleaming through the opening of his horrid hare-lip. “I know what I am about,” he continued. “Lord bless you! do you think I have been idle since I saw you this morning? No such thing! I went straight away to Molly Calvert, and made her send out for a bottle of gin. She is uncommonly fond of blue ruin--particularly when she drinks at another person’s expense; and as she drank this afternoon at mine, she did not spare it. In a word, I left her in such a helpless state of intoxication, that if she moves off her bed before two or three o’clock in the morning, then tell Jack Rily he is a fool and incapable of managing any business whatsoever.”

“I give you all possible credit for sagacity and forethought,” said Mrs. Mortimer, purposely flattering the ruffian. “Well, then, the young woman you speak of is placed in a condition which will render her incapable of interfering with our proceedings; and I must personate her for a moment or two, just to obtain admission into the home.”

“Personate her is scarcely the term, my dear madam,” answered Jack Rily: “because if Vitriol Bob only caught a glimpse of you by the neighbouring lamp-light, he would know deuced well that it was not the Pig-faced who sought admission. But it is a mere matter of vocal stratagem, if you understand me.”

“Speak plainly and briefly,” said Mrs. Mortimer, with some degree of sharpness in her tone.

“I will put it all into a nut-shell,” responded Jack Rily: then, with rapid utterance but impressive enunciation, he continued:--“The first signal is made by throwing a little gravel at a certain window; but, as that might be accidental, it is necessary to repeat it at the expiration of a minute or so. In a few seconds afterwards Vitriol Bob will open the front door as far as the chain inside will permit--and that is barely an inch: you must then immediately whisper, ‘It’s me and the Doctor,’ and the door will be instantly opened wide, Bob standing behind it. You pass rapidly in--and I’m at your heels; and as the passage and the stairs leading down to the kitchen are as dark as pitch, he won’t observe that it is not Molly Calvert whom he has admitted into the house. Now, mind, you must walk straight along the passage, and gain the stairs--and all this without any hesitation, but with an apparent knowledge of the premises. Go rapidly down the stairs, and you will then see a light straight before you. That will be in the front kitchen--and there you are certain to find Torrens. Spring upon him--tackle him desperately: there will not be a minute to lose--because the moment you appear in his presence, he will recognise you--he will utter a cry--and that must be the signal for the fight. Vitriol Bob will be just behind me--and----”

“You will assail him at the instant that I pounce upon Torrens?” said the old woman, with a bitter malignity in her tone, as she already gloated in anticipation upon the vengeance which she hoped to wreak upon her husband.

“Perform your part, ma’am--do all I have told you,” observed Jack Rily; “and leave the rest to me. And now are you ready?”

“Quite,” was the reply. “In which direction do we proceed?”

“The house is in Stamford Street,” answered the Doctor. “But you had now better follow me at a short distance.”

With these words, the man turned round, and proceeded along the narrow lane into the Blackfriars Road, up which he wended his way until he reached the corner of Stamford Street, where he looked back to satisfy himself that Mrs. Mortimer was in his track. He beheld her, by the light of the lamps, at a short distance behind; and, turning into Stamford Street, he was duly followed by her. Halting for a moment, he stooped down, gathered a few small pebbles from the side of the road joining the kerb-stone, and threw them at a window in the area of the dilapidated house which stood third from the corner. He then walked on a few paces, picked up some more little stones and hard crusted dirt, and turning back, met Mrs. Mortimer just opposite the house alluded to. The second volley was discharged at the window; and then they both stationed themselves at the door of the tenement, Mrs. Mortimer being placed in the most convenient position to give an answer to any summons that might issue from within.

The door was opened an inch or two; and the old woman, feigning the tone of a younger female, whispered hastily, “It’s me and the Doctor.” Thereupon the chain fell inside, and the door was opened half-way, Vitriol Bob standing behind it.

Mrs. Mortimer passed hastily in, followed by Jack Rily; and Vitriol Bob, closing the door noiselessly, readjusted the chain.

“Take care, Poll,” he said, in a hoarse and low tone: “don’t be in such a devil of a hurry to get down them stairs--’cos there’s somethink in the door-way of the kitchen that you might stumble over.”

“What is it, Bob?” demanded Jack Rily, hastily; for inasmuch as the real truth flashed to his mind in an instant, he feared lest Mrs. Mortimer should likewise suspect the fact, and, being thrown off her guard, betray herself by some sudden exclamation.

“What is it?--why, a stiff ’un,” responded Vitriol Bob, with a chuckling laugh which sounded horribly in the midst of the total darkness that prevailed in the passage and on the stairs. “I s’pose Poll has let you into the business, since you’ve come along with her,” continued the man; “and though I don’t see what right she had to tell you anythink about it, I ain’t sorry you have come--’cos you can help me to bury the old feller, and you shall have your reglars.”

Mrs. Mortimer now fully comprehended that Torrens had been murdered; and an appalling dread seized upon her--for she felt that she was completely in the power of two diabolical ruffians, who were as capable of assassinating her as one had already been to make away with her husband.

A faintness came over her--and she staggered against the wall for support; when Jack Rily, in answer to Vitriol Bob’s last observations, said, “Oh! Poll didn’t tell me a single word about any business that you had in hand: but as I met her quite by accident and suspected she was coming here, I forced myself, as one may say, upon her company--for I thought you’d be glad to see an old pal, if you was under a cloud.”

These words instantaneously re-assured Mrs. Mortimer. She comprehended that her confederate had uttered them, too, for that purpose; and it flashed to her mind that he only wanted to get Vitriol Bob down into the lower part of the house in order to make an attack upon him. She accordingly recovered her self-possession, and rapidly groped her way to the bottom of the stairs, when a feeble light, glimmering from the kitchen, showed her a sinister object lying just inside the threshold.

The blood ran cold in her veins: for, much as she had hated Torrens--anxiously as she had longed to be avenged upon him--profoundly as she abhorred the tie that to some degree had linked their fates, she nevertheless felt horrified at the conviction that the murdered man lay there--in her very path!

Nevertheless, she still maintained her courage as well as she could, and, hastily passing the lifeless form, entered the cheerless, gloomy kitchen, which indeed appeared to be the proper haunt for such a miscreant as Vitriol Bob, and the fitting scene for such a tragedy as the one which had been enacted there that night!

In the middle of the kitchen she paused, and listened with breathless suspense.

Jack Rily had just reached the bottom of the stairs leading thither: Vitriol Bob had only just begun to descend them.

“Well, here is indeed a stiff ’un,” exclaimed the former, stopping short in the interval between the foot of the steps and the threshold of the kitchen. “What had he done to you, Bob?--and when did this happen?”

“Wait a moment--and I’ll tell you all about it,” was the reply. “I hope Poll has brought lots of grub--for the business hasn’t taken away my appetite.”

“She has got a basket with her,” said Jack Rily.

At this moment Vitriol Bob reached the bottom of the stairs, when the Doctor sprang upon him with the sudden violence of a savage monster; and the murderer was thrown back on the steps.

“Treachery!” he exclaimed, in a tone resembling the subdued roar of a wild beast irritated by its keeper; and the two men were locked in a close embrace--a deadly struggle immediately commencing.

A mortal terror struck to the heart of Mrs. Mortimer, who knew full well that if her confederate should succumb, her own life would not be worth a moment’s purchase; and for upwards of a minute she stood rivetted to the spot, listening to the sounds of the conflict which she could not see.

Suddenly it struck her that she might aid her companion; and, taking from beneath her shawl a coil of rope with which she had intended to bind Torrens, whom she had made certain of subduing, she rushed to the scene of the struggle.

The gleam of light that reached that place, was sufficient, feeble though it were, to show her that Vitriol Bob had the advantage. He had succeeded in getting uppermost; and Jack Rily was struggling desperately underneath the man whose strength he had miscalculated. The conflict was thus progressing, accompanied by deep, low, but bitter execrations, when Mrs. Mortimer, whom a sense of danger suddenly restored to complete self-possession, threw a noose round Vitriol Bob’s neck, and instantly drew it tight,--exclaiming, as she performed this rapid and well-executed feat, “Courage, Rily,--courage: grasp him firmly--loosen not your hold!”

“Damnation!” ejaculated Vitriol Bob, the moment he felt the cord upon his neck and heard a strange female voice,--at the same time making a desperate--nay, almost superhuman effort to tear himself away from his foe and turn round on his new enemy.

But the woman drew the cord as tight as she could, and a sense of faintness came suddenly over the murderer,--so that Jack Rily was in another instant enabled to get uppermost once more.

“Tie his legs, old lady--and then we’ve nothing more to fear!” cried he, as he placed one knee on Vitriol Bob’s chest, and held the vanquished ruffian’s wrists firmly with the iron grasp of his sinewy hands. “Now, keep quiet, old fellow--or you’ll be strangled,” he continued, addressing himself to the wretch whose eyes glared savagely up at him even amidst the obscurity of the place: “It’s useless to resist--you are my prisoner,--and if it’s necessary to make you safer still, I’ll draw my clasp-knife across your throat--which I should be sorry to do, on account of old acquaintanceship.”

“What--what have I done to you--Jack--to--to deserve this?” gasped Vitriol Bob, half strangled with the noose, which, however, was now somewhat relaxed in consequence of Mrs. Mortimer being occupied in tying the other end of the rope round his ankles--a task which she performed with amazing skill and rapidity, and which, in consequence of Rily’s menaces, the vanquished one did not think it prudent to resist.

“I’ll tell you presently what you have done, Bob,” said the Doctor, in answer to the other’s query. “Now that you are bound neck and heels, you are not very formidable: nevertheless, I must just make your arms secure--and then we’ll hold a parley. Here, old lady--put your hand in the pocket on the right side of my coat, and give me out the cord you’ll find there. That’s right! Come--be steady, Bob--or I shall do you a mischief yet.”

The conqueror then proceeded to bind the wrists of the vanquished; and when this was done, he said, “Now, my fine fellow, I will just carry you into the kitchen; and if there is any brandy there, you shall have a drop to wash the dust out of your mouth.”

With these words, Jack Rily raised Vitriol Bob in his arms, and bore him into the kitchen, where he placed him on a chair; and the murderer now perceived for the first time that the female who had mainly contributed to his defeat, was the one whom himself and Torrens had robbed.

Jack Rily, on examining the bottle which he found upon the table, discovered that there was plenty of liquor left in it; and, filling a tumbler, he placed it to the lips of Vitriol Bob, who greedily swallowed the contents--for his throat was indeed parched with the dust raised by the late struggle and the semi-strangulation he had endured.

“Now, my hyena friend--my tiger-cat accomplice,” said the Doctor, turning towards Mrs. Mortimer, who, exhausted in mind and body, had sunk into a chair, “you will likewise partake of the stimulant. And mark you, madam,” he added, with deep emphasis, and in a tone that was particularly re-assuring to the old woman, “I owe you my life--and, whatever my intentions concerning you originally were, I can only now say that I’ll do all that’s fair and honourable towards you. But enough of that: so, drink!”

Mrs. Mortimer, greatly delighted at the result of the night’s expedition, smiled as cordially as her repulsive countenance would permit; but Jack Rily surveyed her with much admiration, for she reminded him at the moment of a pleased hyena after a copious meal. His satisfaction was enhanced by the readiness with which she tossed off the burning fluid; and, taking his turn with the brandy, he drank to her health.

“Now to business once more!” he exclaimed, as he set the glass upon the table. “And first, where’s the money, Bob?” he demanded turning towards the helpless ruffian, who sat moody and scowling in the chair in which be had been placed.

“I suppose you mean to let me have my reglars, Jack?” he said, in a tone which he endeavoured to render as conciliatory and agreeable as possible.

“Not a blessed halfpenny, Bob--and that’s flat,” responded the Doctor, as he plunged his hands into the pockets of his prisoner. “Ah! here’s the swag--and a precious heavy parcel it is too!” he exclaimed, after a few moments’ pause, and in a joyous tone. “My dear madam,” continued the villain, handing the brown paper packet to Mrs. Mortimer, “count it over--see that it’s right--and divide its contents equally. You may as well be satisfied at once that I mean to do what is right towards you--and then, may be, you will think seriously of the propriety of our clubbing our fortunes together, and setting up as a gentleman and lady living on our means--that is, you know, as Mr. and Mrs. Rily.”

All the latter portion of this long sentence was lost--entirely lost upon Mrs. Mortimer: for the moment that her hands grasped the brown paper parcel--that parcel which was so significantly weighty--her whole attention was absorbed in the task of examining its contents. She placed it upon the table; and, by the dim flickering light of the miserable candle, she counted the yellow pieces--turned over the soiled notes--and carefully reckoned up the whole,--exclaiming, at the completion of the business, “It is all right, save in respect to a single sovereign, which I dare say the rogues changed and spent directly. Here is your share, Mr. Rily--and I thank you much for your valuable aid.”

“You are the handsomest ogress I ever saw, when you appear gloating over the recovered gold,” said the Doctor. “If I could afford it, I would actually and positively give you my portion just to have the pleasure of contemplating your physiognomy while you fingered it. But perhaps we may have all things in common yet between you and me.”

Thus speaking, the ruffian secured his share of the spoil about his person--an example that was immediately followed by Mrs. Mortimer in respect to her division;--and all the while Vitriol Bob sate looking on with a countenance of the most demoniac ferocity. It was evident that, could the wretch release himself from his bonds, his rage would endow him with a strength calculated to give matters quite another turn: but he was helpless--powerless,--and this consciousness of his enthralled predicament only rendered his hatred the more savage against his successful enemies, and made his longings for revenge the more eager and also the more torturing on account of their unavailing intensity.

“I will now tell you, Bob,” said Jack Rily, turning towards him, “why I have played you this trick--and you will acknowledge that it is only tit for tat. You remember the swell’s crib we broke into at Peckham? Well--you found a bag containing a hundred and twenty sovereigns, in a drawer--and you never mentioned a word about it when we came to divide the plunder.”

“It’s a lie--a damned lie!” ejaculated the villain, ferociously.

“Say that again,” cried the Doctor, his hare-lip becoming absolutely white with rage, while the scar upon his cheek grew crimson,--“and I will cut your throat from ear to ear. How could I invent such a tale? But I saw the advertisement in the papers about the robbery--I read that a bag containing a hundred and twenty pounds in gold was abstracted from a chest of drawers--and I well remembered that you searched those drawers, and afterwards assured me there was nothing in them worth taking. I did not tell you that I had thus become aware of your treachery, because I resolved to be revenged some day or other. That day has now arrived--and you have the consolation of knowing that you have lost thousands in consequence of your beggarly meanness respecting a paltry sixty sovereigns, which was my share of the sum you kept back.”

“Well--’sposing it is all as you say, Jack,” exclaimed Vitriol Bob, assuming a humble and indeed abject tone,--“ain’t you more than even with me to-night? and won’t you let me have my reglars? We shall then be good friends again.”

“I do not mean to give you one farthing of my money--and I know this old lady won’t,” responded the Doctor. “As to our being friends again, I care not whether we become so, or whether we continue enemies. You can’t do me so much harm as I can you, Bob,” added Rily, in an impressive manner, and without a particle of his usual coarse jocularity: “for you have to-night done a deed that, if known, would send you to the scaffold.”

A deadly pallor passed over the countenance of the murderer; and he writhed in his chair with mingled rage and terror.

“Now, my old hyena,” exclaimed the doctor, turning towards Mrs. Mortimer, “I told you that you should have a good opportunity of seeing Vitriol Bob in all his hideousness. Which do you think is the ugliest of the two--he or me?”

And he grinned so horribly with his hare-lip and his gleaming teeth, that the old woman was for an instant appalled by the fiendish, malignant joy that caused his countenance thus to assume so frightful an expression.

“Well--you don’t like to pass an opinion upon the matter,” he said, with a chuckling laugh: “may be you think I am the ugliest of the two, and that it would hurt my feelings to tell me so. Lord bless you, my dear madam--a right down savage, ferocious, revolting ugliness is a splendid subject for admiration to my mind. The uglier people are--provided it’s the right sort of ugliness--the handsomer they are in my eyes. This may seem paradoxical--but it’s the truth; and it’s on that principle I am ready to marry you to-morrow, if you’ll have me. However--think upon it: there’s no hurry for your decision, my dear creature--pardon me for being so familiar. And now I may as well tell you that it was not my original intention to let you have one penny piece of all that swag,” he continued, after a few moments’ pause. “I had purposed to make use of you in obtaining it--and then self-appropriate it; because I didn’t look upon you in the light of a pal with whom it was necessary to keep faith. The moment, however, that you interfered in the struggle just now, the case became suddenly altered: you saved my life--and I wouldn’t harm a hair of your head for all the world. So you are quite welcome to take your departure at once if you will: but I should esteem it a mark of confidence if you’d remain here with me a few hours longer--and I’ll tell you why.”

“Show me a good reason,and I shall not object,” remarked Mrs. Mortimer, knowing that the man, in spite of his conciliatory observations, had the power to enforce, if he chose, what he seemed to ask as a favour.

“I will explain myself,” resumed Jack Rily: then glancing towards Vitriol Bob, he said, “Our friend here must remain in that condition until I can send Pig-faced Poll to release him from his bonds. It would not be worth while to risk another conflict by taking on ourselves the part of liberators. His young woman shall therefore be entrusted with that agreeable duty: but as she is drunk in bed----”

Vitriol Bob uttered a sound resembling the savage but subdued growl of a wild beast.

“As she is drunk in bed,” repeated Jack Rily, with a chuckle, “she won’t be fit to undertake the task until it’s pretty near daylight; and it would not be safe to leave the poor devil alone here for so many hours. I don’t seek his death; but he might fall off his chair, tumble flat on his face, and not be able to right himself--for it’s by no means an easy thing to shift one’s position when bound neck and heels like that. So remain with him I must and will. His company will not, however, prove the most agreeable after all that has occurred betwixt us; and now you can guess why I ask you as a favour to stay with me--say till two o’clock, when we will take our departure and send Poll Calvert, who will be sufficiently sober by that time, to cut his cords.”

“I consent to remain here until two o’clock,” said Mrs. Mortimer: “only----”

And she glanced, with shuddering aversion, towards the door.

“Ah! I understand you, my dear tiger-cat,” exclaimed Jack Rily: “you don’t admire the presence of the stiff ’un there. Lord bless you! if you’d only been my wife when I was a doctor, you would have become familiar enough with articles of that kind--aye, and have thought nothing of shaking hands with a resurrection man. But it’s all habit; and so, since you would feel more comfortable if that bundle over there was moved, I’ll just drag it into the back kitchen--and our friend here will doubtless amuse himself by burying it to-morrow night.”

Having thus delivered himself with characteristic levity, the Doctor rose from the barrel whereon he had been seated, and taking up the candle, proceeded to transfer the dead body of Torrens from the threshold of the door into the back kitchen.

Mrs. Mortimer was now left in the company of the murderer, and in total darkness; and though she knew that he was bound beyond a chance of self-release, yet a cold shudder passed over her frame, as she thought of what would be the consequences were it possible for him to cast off the strong cords that restrained him.

Scarcely had this reflection entered her mine, when a voice--stealing, at it were, like the hiss of an invisible serpent through the utter darkness of the place--smote upon her ear.

“Madam--Mrs. Mortimer--loosen the cord--and I will give you half of what I shall then take from that villain Rily!” were the earnest, hastily uttered words that were thus suddenly whispered by the murderer.

The old woman was so startled that she could make no reply; and in another moment the light reappeared.

She mechanically cast her eyes towards Vitriol Bob; and the returning glimmer fell upon a countenance infuriate with rage, disappointment, and renewed spite;--but she did not think it worth while to mention to the Doctor the treacherous proposal that had been made to her during his temporary absence.

“I have put the corpse in the back kitchen,” said Rily, resuming his seat on the barrel: then, after a few moments’ pause, he observed, “This is the second murder that has been committed in this house.”

“The second!” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, suddenly animated with a feeling of morbid curiosity.

“Yes--the second,” repeated Rily. “What! did you never hear how these three houses came to be shut up, and why they are supposed to be haunted?”

“Never,” answered the old woman, her manner convincing the garrulous Mr. John Rily that she had no objection to be enlightened on the subject.

“Well--as it can’t be more than half-past eleven o’clock, and we have two hours and a half to pass away, according to agreement, in this place,” resumed the Doctor, “I don’t mind telling you the whole story. Our friend Bob here has heard it often enough, I dare say: but he will himself admit that it bears telling over and over again.”

Jack Rily paused for a few moments, and then commenced the promised narrative, which we shall, however, put into our own language, the semi-jocular and flippant style of the Doctor not being quite suited for so serious a history.

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!