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.

CHAPTER 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.

[Illustration]

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.

CHAPTER 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.

CHAPTER 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----”

[Illustration]

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.

CHAPTER CLXXVII.

HISTORY OF THE HAUNTED HOUSES IN STAMFORD STREET.

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

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

wretched in appearance both outside and internally. The corner

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

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

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

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

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

likewise in consequence of his admirable behaviour towards his father.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the affectionate youth immediately devoted himself to the duty of

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

little burthensome as possible. His attentions were unremitting, and

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

admiration and respect: and even the giddiest and most thoughtless

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

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

upon as a steadiness and sedateness carried to an extreme.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and perfume, and flowers!

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

following years the maiden was blessed with the companionship and

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

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

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

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

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

an over-weening confidence in his commercial abilities and financial

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

his neighbours’ little sons and daughters in his comfortable parlour

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

no confidence whatever in the individual who does _not_ experience a

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

rest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

again invited the offender to his abode.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

that the cunning merchant was seeking to ensnare the wealthy bachelor

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

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

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

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

speculation was instantly discarded. That a revolution _had_ taken

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

time wore on, after those first interchanges of civilities between

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

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

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

between Gamble and Pomfret: they were often closetted together for

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

the merchant was moreover frequently seen taking bundles of papers and

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

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

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

lover Leonard no explanation relative to the causes of the intimacy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

demanded Pomfret, the gloomy expression of his features giving way

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

unexpected recovery of that amount somewhat renewed my confidence in

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

representations. But by degrees I began to entertain vague suspicions

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

hands, and groaned aloud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

septuagenarian of the very necessaries of life. All these terrible

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

that can prevent all the lamentable occurrences which I just now

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

a fit of desperation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

words were delivered with a solemn seriousness of tone which forbade

the suspicion that they were uttered jocularly; and so completely

astounded was the merchant that several minutes elapsed before he could

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

circumstances will effectually interpose a barrier between herself and

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

yours!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ingenuousness itself, instantly related the scene that had taken place

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

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

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

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

by observing that persons in business were liable to those annoyances

that occasionally soured the temper and rendered them severe or hasty

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

of persuasion were omnipotent with Ellen; and she speedily sniffled

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her father had returned about ten minutes previously. The curtains

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

his countenance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

to witness all the terrible afflictions that my accursed folly will

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

sealed her fate!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

besought him that the sacrifice should be accomplished as speedily as

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

worthless is existence, when viewed through the same mirror which

reflects the heart’s ruined hopes and blighted affections!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

task of imparting to the young man the disappointment that awaited

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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