Mr. Gamble rose, opened his desk, and taking out some Bank securities, directed the merchant’s attention to the sums specified in those documents. “Ninety-five thousand pounds!” cried Pomfret, astonished at these evidences of a wealth far greater than he had supposed the old bachelor to be possessed of—“You perceive,” observed Mr. Gamble, returning the papers to his desk, and resuming his seat,—“you perceive that I am the master of means sufficient to save you from destruction. Indeed, I can spare the sum necessary, and even then have four hundred pounds a year left to live upon.”—“But is it possible that you can even entertain the idea of assisting me to such an extent?” cried Mr. Pomfret, scarcely able to believe his own ears, and trembling lest he was indulging in a hope that had no other existence than in a dream.—“It is quite possible, sir,” responded the old bachelor, piqued that his word should be questioned even for a moment: “and now it all depends upon yourself.”—“Upon myself!” repeated Mr. Pomfret, again surveying his friend with mingled amazement and incredulity—“Yes: upon yourself,” cried Mr. Gamble: “for the amount you require is at your service, provided you consent to accept me as your son-in-law!”—These words were delivered with a solemn seriousness of tone which forbade the suspicion that they were uttered jocularly; and so completely astounded was the merchant that several minutes elapsed before he could make any reply During that interval Mr. Gamble still appeared to sip his claret with calmness: but he was in reality awaiting with no small degree of anxiety the answer that would be given to his proposal.
“But do you love my daughter?” inquired Pomfret at length.—“I have already told you that I begin to feel lonely and cheerless,” replied Mr. Gamble; “and, moreover, I am irresistibly attracted towards Miss Ellen. I may also say that I should feel proud and happy to ensure her an independence: at the same time, I am not endowed with sufficient philanthropy to induce me to save her father from ruin, except on the condition of receiving her as a wife. If my suit be refused, you are ruined; and will it in that case be prudent to permit her to espouse that young Mitchell, who will likewise be reduced to penury? It is clear that if she do not accept my offer, circumstances will effectually interpose a barrier between herself and Leonard; and thus, happen what will, she must renounce all hope of becoming his bride.”—“And with the conviction that she does love Leonard Mitchell, would you accompany her to the altar?” inquired Mr. Pomfret.—“Assuredly,” replied Mr. Gamble. “I have set my mind upon it, and will risk everything. She is young, and a first love is seldom more than a blaze of straw, ardent while it lasts, but speedily exhausted. When she comes to know me well, and to reflect that I have saved her father from ruin and dishonour,—when, too, she perceives all the delicate attentions with which I shall surround her, and the constancy of my endeavour to ensure her happiness,—she will yield to the new influences to which she will be thus subjected; and she will learn to look upon the old man with respect and veneration, with gratitude and kindly feelings, if not with love. The trial may be for the first few weeks severe; and there may be deep regrets following upon the disappointment of the vivid hopes now cherished in her bosom. But, believe me, she will at length succumb to the conviction that her happiness has been better consulted by the course chalked out for her by us, than by that into which the present state of her affections might impel her.”—Pomfret was man of the world enough to know that all this was mere sophistry; though Gamble himself believed that he was arguing on the truest principles: but the merchant was better acquainted than the old bachelor with the female heart. Nevertheless, the temptation was irresistible to the man who hovered upon the verge of ruin: the feelings of the father were sacrificed to the anxieties of the merchant, who saw destruction staring him in the face;—and, grasping Gamble’s hand, he said in a deep, impressive tone, “She is yours!”
In the meantime Ellen Pomfret, little suspecting how her destinies were being disposed of elsewhere, was passing a couple of hours with Mr. Mitchell and Leonard. The young man had noticed, the moment she entered their parlour, that her countenance was pale; and, with the eagle glance of a lover, he likewise discovered that she had been weeping. Burning with impatience to ascertain the cause of her grief, and not choosing to elicit an explanation in the presence of his father, for fear anything might transpire to give the old gentleman pain, as he was much attached to the young maiden, whom he looked upon as his intended daughter-in-law,—Leonard exclaimed, as soon as she had paid her respects to his parent, “You are just in time, Ellen, to help me to tie up a few new plants which I have purchased:”—and, taking her hand, he led her into the little garden at the back of the house. A very little garden it was, too: but Leonard had made the most of the circumscribed space; and he had in reality bought some choice flowers in the morning. It was not however to them that he now directed the lovely girl’s attention; but the moment they stood in the enclosure, he took her hand, saying, “Ellen, dearest, you are unhappy this evening: pray tell me what has annoyed you?”—Miss Pomfret, who was ingenuousness itself, instantly related the scene that had taken place between herself and her father; and the tears again started from her eyes, as she remembered the harsh—almost brutal manner in which he had spoken to her. Leonard hastened to kiss those diamond drops away from the damask cheeks adown which they trickled; and he consoled her by observing that persons in business were liable to those annoyances that occasionally soured the temper and rendered them severe or hasty even to the very beings whom they loved the most. Leonard’s powers of persuasion were omnipotent with Ellen; and she speedily sniffled through her tears. “And now,” continued the young man, “I will give you a piece of intelligence that will, I hope, indemnify you, dearest, for the little vexation you have just experienced. My father has this day received a letter from an influential friend, stating that I may rely upon being nominated to a clerkship in a Government Office in the course of a month or six weeks.”—Ellen expressed her delight at these news; and after the interchange of a few tender sentiments, the nature of which our readers can well divine, the youthful lovers returned to the parlour. There they sate and conversed with the old gentleman until the time-piece on the mantel indicated that it was twenty-five minutes past nine, when Ellen rose and took her departure, Leonard escorting her to the door of the adjoining house, where she dwelt.
Her father had returned about ten minutes previously. The curtains were drawn in the parlour—the lamp was lighted—and the supper was in readiness. The moment she entered the room, the beautiful girl cast an anxious look towards her sire, to gather from his countenance, if possible, whether his mind had become more composed: but she was shocked to perceive that his cheeks were ashy pale, and that a strange, ominous light gleamed in his restless, anxious eyes. She withdrew her gaze instantly, fearful lest he might observe that she noticed his peculiarity of manner and altered appearance; and, making some casual remark, she turned to lay aside her bonnet and also to conceal the tears that again started into her eyes. For Ellen was of an affectionate disposition, and loved her father tenderly, and it touched her heart to the very core to behold the traces of deep, deep care upon his countenance.
“You have seen Leonard this evening, Ellen?” said Mr. Pomfret, in a tone so hollow that it startled her: and she could scarcely compose herself sufficiently to murmur an affirmative.—“And do you love him very, very much?” asked the merchant, after a long pause.—“Oh! my dearest father,” she exclaimed, “you know that I do! Have we not as it were been brought up together from childhood?”—“Yes, yes: it is natural,” said Mr. Pomfret, bitterly: and he walked to the mantel-piece, turning his back towards his daughter, to hide the emotions that swelled his heart almost to bursting. But Ellen caught sight of his agonising countenance in the mirror; and, terribly excited, she sprang towards him and threw her arms around his neck, crying, “Oh! my dearest parent, some dreadful grief oppresses you! May I not share it? Can I not console you? Is there anything that I, poor weak girl that I am, can do to ease you of this load of sorrow?”—“Yes, Ellen,” hastily responded her father, determined to come at once to an explanation with his daughter; for suspense and delay were intolerable. “You can do all, everything for me: my honour in your hands! ’Tis for you also to decide whether we shall be reduced to penury, or remain in affluence—whether that poor palsied old man next door shall continue to enjoy the comforts of life, or be plunged into destitution! In a word, Ellen, my very existence is in your hands; for I will not live to witness all the terrible afflictions that my accursed folly will have entailed upon ourselves, as well as upon others!”—Ellen was so taken by surprise as these alarming revelations burst upon her, that she started back in dismay, and surveyed her sire with a look of such passionate grief, that he himself grew affrighted in his turn; and hastily approaching her, he led her to a seat, saying, “For God’s sake, compose yourself, Ellen: you have need of all your firmness now!”—With a frantic gesture she besought him to keep her no longer in suspense, but to tell her the worst at once.—“I will not torture you, my love,” said the wretched man, standing like a culprit in her presence. “Know, then, that I hover on the brink of ruin. It is not that I think bankruptcy dishonourable: no—the most upright men are liable to misfortune and cannot control adversity. But, were I to fail, as I am now circumstanced, I could not save my name from indelible disgrace, nor my partners and the Mitchells likewise from ruin!”—Speechless with horror and amazement, the young girl gazed fixedly on her father as he spoke.—“But there are still means of saving me and the others also,” he resumed, in a tone so broken that it indicated how difficult and how painful it was for him to give utterance to this prelude to an announcement which he knew must prove terrible indeed.—“And those means?” demanded Ellen, recovering the use of her own voice: for she saw that there was allusion to herself in her father’s words.—“Nerve yourself, my poor girl, to hear something very shocking to your gentle heart,” said Mr. Pomfret.—“I am nerved now,” she replied, her features assuming the settled aspect of despair. “But the means?” she repeated, more impatiently.—“That you renounce Leonard Mitchell, and accept Mr. Gamble as your husband,” said the wretched father, speaking with averted head. A shriek escaped Ellen’s lips—and she started wildly from her seat: then, staggering forward a few paces, she fell into her parent’s arms—not insensible, but sobbing convulsively. She had been prepared for some dreadful tidings: she was not, however, nerved to meet such a frightful destiny as that so suddenly offered to her contemplation;—and she felt as if she must sink under the blow. Mr. Pomfret bore her to the sofa; and, placing himself by her side, said all he could to console her:—no—not all he could—but all he dared;—for he had not courage enough to recall the words that had sealed her fate!
We must, however, draw a veil over this afflicting scene. Suffice it to say that the noble-minded girl eventually came to the determination to sacrifice herself for the sake of her father—yes, and for the sake of the palsied parent of her lover also! There is a crisis in misery that is in reality despair, although it may have the outward appearance of resignation: and this was the condition of the young lady, when she said to her father, “I will not prove a disobedient daughter. I therefore consent to renounce Leonard Mitchell, and to become the wife of him who demands my hand as the price of the succour which he is willing to afford you in this embarrassment.” Mr. Pomfret embraced her with the most unfeigned ardour, and thanked her in the most touching terms for her devotedness; and, strange as it may perhaps appear, Ellen besought him that the sacrifice should be accomplished as speedily as possible. This is, however, invariably the case with a noble heart that resolves upon the immolation of its best affections: the maiden feared lest selfish considerations should arise from delay, to turn her from her purpose;—and she was anxious that her self-martyrdom should be performed heroically and with a good grace. But, oh! in one short hour how changed was her pure soul: how bitter—how intense was now the disappointment that succeeded the golden dream she had cherished;—how stern, and bleak, and cheerless seemed that world on which she had lately looked as on a fair and sunny landscape, fragrant with flowers and beautiful with verdure. Yes—gloomy indeed is the earth, and worthless is existence, when viewed through the same mirror which reflects the heart’s ruined hopes and blighted affections!
But who was to break the news to Leonard Mitchell? Ellen was not equal to that task: indeed, she dared not see him. She felt that if she were to gaze again upon his handsome countenance—if she were to read despair in his eloquent eyes and listen to the passionate accents of his melodious though manly voice, appealing to her against the stern resolve to which circumstances had impelled her,—she felt, we say, that she should yield, and that by so yielding she should fix her parent’s doom. Mr. Pomfret therefore took upon himself the mournful task of imparting to the young man the disappointment that awaited him; and this was done the morning after the incidents which we have just described. The merchant threw himself upon Leonard’s mercy, invoking him by all he deemed sacred not to seek to see his daughter nor dissuade her by letter from her holy purpose of self-devotion. At first the impetuosity of youth rendered the lover deaf to all reason and to all entreaties: but by degrees he appeared to receive a kind of chivalrous inspiration from the heroic example of her whom he adored; and he awoke to the necessity of consenting to that dreadful sacrifice, if only that his sire should not want bread in his helpless old age. He however begged that Mr. Mitchell might be kept in the dark relative to all these occurrences, until Ellen should have become the wife of Mr. Gamble—when it would be too late to recall the sacrifice, and useless to repine against it. Moreover, Leonard resolved to break the news so gradiently to his father, that the effect of the blow occasioned by a son’s deep disappointment might be as much mitigated as possible; and to these proposals Mr. Pomfret was only too willing to assent. And now, as another proof of Leonard’s devotedness to his afflicted sire, must be mentioned the fact that, though bearing in his bosom a heart wrung almost to breaking, he still maintained a calm exterior; and during the week which elapsed ere Ellen became the wife of Mr. Gamble, Mr. Mitchell beheld nothing strange nor suspicious in his son’s manner.
And at the expiration of that week, the sacrifice was consummated. The marriage was solemnised by special license, and with great privacy; and it was not known in Stamford-street until a late hour on the wedding-day that such an extraordinary alliance had taken place. By that time the victim-bride was far away from London—seated by the side of her old husband in the post-chaise that was bearing them to some country-place where they were to pass the honeymoon. Mr. Pomfret had received the price stipulated for his daughter; and his honour—his commercial honour, we mean—was saved! Alas! how many marriages of this unnatural kind are constantly taking place in this civilised—this enlightened—this Bible-reading—this moral country!—how many fair young maidens are purchased by old men’s gold, the performance of the religious ceremony only adding a hideous mockery to a flagrant injustice! And yet how shocked are those mercenary fathers and match-making mothers who thus sacrifice their daughters’ pure affections to the most selfish interests—how shocked, we say, are they when they read that there are countries in the world where men buy their wives outright! Oh! ye Exeter Hall Saints, who send forth missionaries to christianise the heathen amongst whom such barter or purchase prevails, have ye nothing to reform at home? Is the Mussulman who buys his Circassian or his Georgian wife in a slave-market more reprehensible than the tottering old lord or the nabob with his liver eaten away, who purchases an English, a Scotch, or an Irish beauty in the market of West End Fashion? Go, ye Exeter Hall Saints, into that sphere where all is glitter outside and hollowness of heart within, and count the many titled or wealthy septuagenaries to whose corpse-like side fresh and blooming girls of nineteen and twenty are bound by marriage-ties! Are such alliances founded upon those holy affections which God has implanted in the human breast?—or are they proofs of the rebellion which selfish interests consummate against nature’s laws and heaven’s own divine promptings? But if we direct our attention to that sphere wherein the industrious millions struggle with starvation, oppression, and wrong, do we find such instances of outrage against all that is natural, moral, and just? Do we discover the agricultural labourer or the mechanic of seventy with a wife of nineteen? Out of a hundred marriages in humble life, there is not more than one such case. And yet the aristocratic, the wealthy, and the great are ever declaiming upon the immorality of the poor! Immorality indeed! ’Tis you, ye aristocrats, who are in reality demoralised: ’tis you, ye oppressors, who would stand a far better chance of winning a place in heaven, were ye to imitate the humble virtues of the oppressed! Oh! the soul sickens at the idea that a lazy, insolent, intolerant oligarchy should be permitted to heap so much abuse upon the toiling, starving, deeply-wronged millions!
But to return to the thread of our narrative. It was in the evening of the day on which Ellen became the wife of Mr. Gamble, that Mr. Mitchell was seated at the open window of his front parlour, a wire-blind enabling him to note all that passed in the street, but preventing persons outside from seeing into the room. Leonard was sitting near him, and racking his brain for the best means to commence a conversation to which he might give such a turn as to enable him to break the news of the day to his father. But every time the young man prepared to speak, his heart’s emotions rose as if to suffocate him; and at last he was obliged to hurry from the parlour and seek his own chamber in order to give free vent to feelings that could no longer be restrained. Scarcely had he left the room, when two gentlemen—dwellers in Stamford Street—encountered each other precisely opposite the Mitchells’ window; and after the usual greetings, one said: “I am just going to call upon our mutual friend Mr. Pomfret, to congratulate him.”—“Congratulate him!” exclaimed the other: “upon what event?”—“On the marriage of his daughter with the wealthy Mr. Gamble,” was the reply. “What! you have not heard of it? Oh! It is quite true, I can assure you. The ceremony took place this morning: I have the fact from the clergyman’s own lips.”—“But I thought that Miss Pomfret was engaged to Leonard Mitchell?” observed the other gentleman, evidently much amazed by the intelligence he had just received.—“Hush!” said the first speaker, glancing significantly towards the open window; and, taking his friend’s arm, he drew him a few paces farther on. But had they stayed to enter into further explanations, it would have been all the same: the conviction that his unhappy son had sustained a most frightful blow to his happiness, burst upon the mind of the wretched father like a tornado on a traveller in the desert; and when Leonard returned to the room, he found the old man a corpse in his chair!