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.