Henry Dunbar by M. E. Braddon

M >> M. E. Braddon >> Henry Dunbar

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35

Why was this man frightened of his beautiful child?--for that it was
fear, and not love, which had blanched Henry Dunbar's face, the lawyer
felt positive. Why was this father frightened of his own daughter,
unless----?

Unless what?

Only one horrible and ghastly suggestion presented itself to Arthur
Lovell's mind. Henry Dunbar was the murderer of his old valet: and the
consciousness of guilt had paralyzed him at the first touch of his
daughter's innocent lips.

But, oh, how terrible if this were true--how terrible to think that
Laura Dunbar was henceforth to live in daily and hourly association with
a traitor and an assassin!

"I have promised to love her for ever, though my love is hopeless, and
to serve her faithfully if ever she should need of my devotion," Arthur
Lovell thought, as he sat silent at the dinner-table, while Henry Dunbar
and his daughter talked together gaily.

The lawyer watched his client now with intense anxiety; and it seemed to
him that there was something feverish and unnatural in the banker's
gaiety. Laura and her step-sister left the room soon after dinner: and
the two men remained alone at the long, ponderous-looking dinner-table,
on which the sparkling diamond-cut decanters and Sèvres dessert-dishes
looked like tiny vases of light and colour on a dreary waste of polished
mahogany.

"I shall go to Maudesley Abbey to-morrow," Henry Dunbar said. "I want
rest and solitude after all this trouble and excitement: and Laura tells
me that she infinitely prefers Maudesley to London. Do you think of
returning to Warwickshire, Mr. Lovell?"

"Oh, yes, immediately. My father expected my return a week ago. I only
came up to town to act as Miss Dunbar's escort."

"Indeed, that was very kind of you. You have known my daughter for a
long time, I understand by her letters."

"Yes. We were children together. I was a great deal at the Abbey in old
Mr. Dunbar's time."

"And you will still be more often there in my time, I hope," Henry
Dunbar answered, courteously. "I fancy I could venture to make a pretty
correct guess at a certain secret of yours, my dear Lovell. Unless I am
very much mistaken, you have a more than ordinary regard for my
daughter."

Arthur Lovell was silent, his heart beat violently, and he looked the
banker unflinchingly in the face; but he did not speak, he only bent his
head in answer to the rich man's questions.

"I have guessed rightly, then," said Mr. Dunbar.

"Yes, sir, I love Miss Dunbar as truly as ever a man loved the woman of
his choice! but----"

"But what? She is the daughter of a millionaire, and you fear her
father's disapproval of your pretensions, eh?"

"No, Mr. Dunbar. If your daughter loved me as truly as I love her, I
would marry her in spite of you--in spite of the world; and carve my own
way to fortune. But such a blessing as Laura Dunbar's love is not for
me. I have spoken to her, and----"

"She has rejected you?"

"She has."

"Pshaw! girls of her age are as changeable as the winds of heaven. Do
not despair, Mr. Lovell; and as far as my consent goes, you may have it
to-morrow, if you like. You are young, good-looking, clever, agreeable:
what more, in the name of feminine frivolity, can a girl want? You will
find no stupid prejudices in me, Mr. Lovell. I should like to see you
married to my daughter: for I believe you love her very sincerely. You
have my good will, I assure you. There is my hand upon it."

He held out his hand as he spoke, and Arthur Lovell took it, a little
reluctantly perhaps, but with as good a grace as he could.

"I thank you, sir," he said, "for your good will, and----"

He tried to say something more, but the words died away upon his lips.
The horrible fear which had taken possession of his breast after the
scene of the morning, weighed upon him like the burden that seems to lie
upon the sleeper's breast throughout the strange agony of nightmare. Do
what he would, he could not free himself from the weight of this
dreadful doubt. Mr. Dunbar's words _seemed_ to emanate from the kind and
generous breast of a good man: but, on the other hand, might it not be
possible that the banker wished to _get rid_ of his daughter?

He had betrayed fear in her presence, that morning: and now he was eager
to give her hand to the first suitor who presented himself: ineligible
as that suitor was in a worldly point of view. Might it not be that the
girl's innocent society was oppressive to her father, and that he wished
therefore to shuffle her off upon a new protector?

"I shall be very busy this evening, Mr. Lovell," said Henry Dunbar,
presently; "for I must look over some papers I have amongst the luggage
that was sent on here from Southampton. When you are tired of the
dining-room, you will be able to find the two girls, and amuse yourself
in their society, I have no doubt."

Mr. Dunbar rang the bell. It was answered by an elderly man-servant out
of livery.

"What have you done with the luggage that was sent from Southampton?"
asked the banker.

"It has all been placed in old Mr. Dunbar's bed-room, sir," the man
answered.

"Very well; let lights be carried there, and let the portmanteaus and
packing-cases be unstrapped and opened."

He handed a bunch of keys to the servant, and followed the man out of
the room. In the hall he stopped suddenly, arrested by the sound of a
woman's voice.

The entrance-hall of the house in Portland Place was divided into two
compartments, separated from each other by folding-doors, the upper
panels of which were of ground glass. There was a porter's chair in the
outer division of the hall, and a bronzed lamp hung from the domed
ceiling.

The doors between the inner and outer hall were ajar, and the voice
which Henry Dunbar heard was that of a woman speaking to the porter.

"I am Joseph Wilmot's daughter," the woman said. "Mr. Dunbar promised
that he would see me at Winchester: he broke his word, and left
Winchester without seeing me: but he _shall_ see me, sooner or later;
for I will follow him wherever he goes, until I look into his face, and
say that which I have to say to him."

The girl did not speak loudly or violently. There was a quiet
earnestness in her voice; an earnestness and steadiness of tone which
expressed more determination than any noisy or passionate utterance
could have done.

"Good gracious me, young woman!" exclaimed the porter, "do you think as
I'm goin' to send such a rampagin' kind of a message as that to Mr.
Dunbar? Why, it would be as much as my place is worth to do it. Go along
about your business, miss; and don't you preshume to come to such a
house as this durin' gentlefolks' dinner-hours another time. Why, I'd
sooner take a message to one of the tigers in the Joological-gardings at
feedin' time than I'd intrude upon such a gentleman as Mr. Dunbar when
he's sittin' over his claret."

Mr. Dunbar stopped to listen to this conversation; then he went back
into the dining-room, and beckoned to the servant who was waiting to
precede him up-stairs.

"Bring me pen, ink, and paper," he said.

The man wheeled a writing-table towards the banker. Henry Dunbar sat
down and wrote the following lines; in the firm aristocratic handwriting
that was so familiar to the chief clerks in the banking-house.

"_The young person who calls herself Joseph Wilmot's daughter is
informed that Mr. Dunbar declines to see her now, or at any future time.
He is perfectly inflexible upon this point; and the young person will do
well to abandon the system of annoyance which she is at present
pursuing. Should she fail to do so, a statement of her conduct will be
submitted to the police, and prompt measures taken to secure Mr.
Dunbar's freedom from persecution. Herewith Mr. Dunbar forwards the
young person a sum of money which will enable her to live for some time
with ease and independence. Further remittances will be sent to her at
short intervals; if she conducts herself with propriety, and refrains
from attempting any annoyance against Mr. Dunbar.

"Portland Place, August 30, 1850_."

The banker took out his cheque-book, wrote a cheque for fifty pounds,
and folded it in the note which he had just written then he rang the
bell, and gave the note to the elderly manservant who waited upon him.

"Let that be taken to the young person in the hall," he said.

Mr. Dunbar followed the servant to the dining-room door and stood upon
the threshold, listening. He heard the man speak to Margaret Wilmot as
he delivered the letter; and then he heard the crackling of the
envelope, as the girl tore it open.

There was a pause, during which the listener waited, with an anxious
expression on his face.

He had not to wait long. Margaret spoke presently, in a clear ringing
voice, that vibrated through the hall.

"Tell your master," she said, "that I will die of starvation sooner than
I would accept bread from his hand. You can tell him what I did with his
generous gift."

There was another brief pause; and then, in the hushed stillness of the
house, Henry Dunbar heard a light shower of torn paper flutter down upon
the polished marble floor. Then he heard the great door of the house
close upon Joseph Wilmot's daughter.

The millionaire covered his face with his hands, and gave a long sigh:
but he lifted his head presently, shrugged his shoulders with an
impatient gesture, and went slowly up the lighted staircase.

The suite of apartments that had been occupied by Percival Dunbar
comprised the greater part of the second floor of the house in Portland
Place. There was a spacious bed-chamber, a comfortable study, a
dressing-room, bath-room, and antechamber. The furniture was handsome,
but of a ponderous style: and, in spite of their splendour, the rooms
had a gloomy look. Everything about them was dark and heavy. The house
was an old one, and the five windows fronting the street were long and
narrow, with deep oaken seats in the recesses between the heavy
shutters. The walls were covered with a dark green paper that looked
like cloth. The footsteps of the occupant were muffled by the rich
thickness of the sombre Turkey carpet. The voluminous curtains that
sheltered the windows, and shrouded the carved rosewood four-post bed,
were of a dark green, which looked black in the dim light.

The massive chairs and tables were of black oak, with cushions of green
velvet. A few valuable cabinet pictures, by the old masters, set in deep
frames of ebony and gold, hung at wide distances upon the wall. There
was the head of an ecclesiastic, cut from a large picture by
Spagnoletti; a Venetian senator by Tintoretto; the Adoration of the Magi
by Caravaggio. An ivory crucifix was the only object upon the high,
old-fashioned chimney-piece.

A pair of wax-candles, in antique silver candlesticks, burned upon a
writing-table near the fireplace, and made a spot of light in the gloomy
bed-chamber. All Henry Dunbar's luggage had been placed in this room.
There were packing-cases and portmanteaus of almost every size and
shape, and they had all been opened by a man-servant, who was kneeling
by the last when the banker entered the room.

"You will sleep here to-night, sir, I presume?" the servant said,
interrogatively, as he prepared to quit the apartment. "Mrs. Parkyn
thought it best to prepare these rooms for your occupation."

Henry Dunbar looked thoughtfully round the spacious chamber.

"Is there no other place in which I can sleep?" he asked. "These rooms
are horribly gloomy."

"There is a spare room upon the floor above this, sir."

"Very well; let the spare room be got ready for me. I have a good many
arrangements to make, and shall be late." "Will you require assistance,
sir?"

"No. Let the room up-stairs be prepared. Is it immediately above this?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good; I shall know how to find it, then. No one need sit up for me. Let
Miss Dunbar be told that I shall not see her again to-night, and that I
shall start for Maudesley in the course of to-morrow. She can make her
arrangements accordingly. You understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then you can go. Remember, I do not wish to be disturbed again
to-night."

"You will want nothing more, sir?"

"Nothing."

The man retired. Henry Dunbar followed him to the door, listened to his
receding footsteps in the corridor and upon the staircase, and then
turned the key in the lock. He went back to the centre of the room, and
kneeling down before one of the open portmanteaus, took out every
article which it contained, slowly: removing the things one by one, and
throwing most of them into a heap upon the floor. He went through this
operation with the contents of all the boxes, throwing the clothes upon
the floor, and carrying the papers to the writing-table, where he piled
them up in a great mass. This business occupied a very long time, and
the hands of an antique clock, upon a bracket in a corner of the room,
pointed to midnight when the banker seated himself at the table, and
began to arrange and sort his papers.

This operation lasted for several hours. The candles were burnt down,
and the flames flickered slowly out in the silver sockets. Mr. Dunbar
went to one of the windows, drew back the green-cloth curtain, unbarred
the heavy shutters, and let the grey morning light into the room. But he
still went on with his work: reading faded documents, tying up old
papers, making notes upon the backs of letters, and other notes in his
own memorandum-book: very much as he had done at the Winchester Hotel.
The broad sunlight streamed in upon the sombre colours of the Turkey
carpet, the sound of wheels was in the street below, when the banker's
work was finished. By that time he had arranged all the papers with
unusual precision, and replaced them in one of the portmanteaus: but he
left the clothes in a careless heap upon the floor, just as they had
fallen when he first threw them out of the boxes.

Mr. Dunbar did one thing more before he left the room. Amongst the
papers which he had arranged upon the writing-table, there was a small
square morocco case, containing a photograph done upon glass. He took
this picture out of the case, dropped it upon the polished oaken floor
beyond the margin of the carpet, and ground the glass into atoms with
the heavy heel of his boot. But even then he was not content with his
work of destruction, for he stamped upon the tiny fragments until there
was nothing left of the picture but a handful of sparkling dust. He
scattered this about with his foot, dropped the empty morocco case into
his pocket, and went up-stairs in the morning sunlight.

It was past six o'clock, and Mr. Dunbar heard the voices of the
women-servants upon the back staircase as he went to his room. He threw
himself, dressed as he was, upon the bed, and fell into a heavy slumber.

At three o'clock the same day Mr. Dunbar left London for Maudesley
Abbey, accompanied by his daughter, Dora Macmahon, and Arthur Lovell.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THREE WHO SUSPECT.

No further discovery was made respecting the murder that had been
committed in the grove between Winchester and St. Cross. The police made
every effort to find the murderer, but without result. A large reward
was offered by the government for the apprehension of the guilty man;
and a still larger reward was offered by Mr. Dunbar, who declared that
his own honour and good name were in a manner involved in the discovery
of the real murderer.

The one clue by which the police hoped to trace the footsteps of the
assassin was the booty which his crime had secured to him: the contents
of the pocket-book that had been rifled, and the clothes which had been
stripped from the corpse of the victim. By means of the clue which these
things might afford, the detective police hoped to reach the guilty man.
But they hoped in vain. Every pawnbroker's shop in Winchester, and in
every town within a certain radius of Winchester, was searched, but
without effect. No clothes at all resembling those that had been seen
upon the person of the dead man had been pledged within forty miles of
the cathedral city. The police grew hopeless at last. The reward was a
large one; but the darkness of the mystery seemed impenetrable, and
little by little people left off talking of the murder. By slow degrees
the gossips resigned themselves to the idea that the secret of Joseph
Wilmot's death was to remain a secret for ever. Two or three "sensation"
leaders appeared in some of the morning papers, urging the bloodhounds
of the law to do their work, and taunting the members of the detective
force with supineness and stupidity. I dare say the social
leader-writers were rather hard-up for subjects at this stagnant
autumnal period, and were scarcely sorry for the mysterious death of the
man in the grove. The public grumbled a little when there was no new
paragraph in the papers about "that dreadful Winchester murder;" but the
nine-days' period during which the English public cares to wonder
elapsed, and nothing had been done. Other murders were committed as
brutal in their nature as the murder in the grove; and the world, which
rarely stops long to lament for the dead, began to think of other
things. Joseph Wilmot was forgotten.

A month passed very quietly at Maudesley Abbey. Henry Dunbar took his
place in the county as a person of importance; lights blazed in the
splendid rooms; carriages drove in and out of the great gates in the
park, and all the landed gentry within twenty miles of the abbey came to
pay their respects to the millionaire who had newly returned from India.
He did not particularly encourage people's visits, but he submitted
himself to such festivities as his daughter declared to be necessary,
and did the honours of his house with a certain haughty grandeur, which
was a little stiff and formal as compared to the easy friendly grace of
his high-bred visitors. People shrugged their shoulders, and hinted that
there was something of the "roturier" in Mr. Dunbar; but they freely
acknowledged that he was a fine handsome-looking fellow, and that his
daughter was an angel, rendered still more angelic by the earthly
advantage of half a million or so for her marriage-portion.

Meanwhile Margaret Wilmot lived alone in her simple countrified lodging,
and thought sadly enough of the father whom she had lost.

He had not been a good father, but she had loved him nevertheless. She
had pitied him for his sorrows, and the wrongs that had been done him.
She had loved him for those feeble traces of a better nature that had
been dimly visible in his character.

"He had not been _always_ a cheat and reprobate," the girl thought as
she sat pondering upon her father's fate. "He never would have been
dishonest but for Henry Dunbar."

She remembered with bitter feelings the aspect of the rich man's house
in Portland Place. She had caught a glimpse of its splendour upon the
night after her return from Winchester. Through the narrow opening
between the folding-doors she had seen the pictures and the statues
glimmering in the lamplight of the inner hall. She had seen in that
brief moment a bright confusion of hothouse flowers, and trailing satin
curtains, gilded mouldings, and frescoed panels, the first few shallow
steps of a marble staircase, the filigree-work of the bronze balustrade.

Only for one moment had she peeped wonderingly into the splendid
interior of Henry Dunbar's mansion; but the objects seen in that one
brief glance had stamped themselves upon the girl's memory.

"He is rich," she thought, "and they say that wealth can buy all the
best things upon this earth. But, after all, there are few _real_ things
that it can purchase. It can buy flattery, and simulated love, and sham
devotion, but it cannot buy one genuine heart-throb, one thrill of true
feeling. All the wealth of this world cannot buy _peace_ for Henry
Dunbar, or forgetfulness. So long as I live he shall be made to
remember. If his own guilty conscience can suffer him to forget, it
shall be my task to recall the past. I promised my dead father that I
would remember the name of Henry Dunbar; I have had good reason to
remember it."

Margaret Wilmot was not quite alone in her sorrow. There was one person
who sympathized with her, with an earnest and pure desire to help her in
her sorrow. This person was Clement Austin, the cashier in St.
Gundolph's Lane; the man who had fallen head-over-heels in love with the
pretty music-mistress, but who felt half ashamed of his sudden and
unreasoning affection.

"I have always ridiculed what people call 'love at sight,'" he thought;
"surely I am not so silly as to have been bewitched by hazel eyes and a
straight nose. Perhaps, after all, I only take an interest in this girl
because she is so beautiful and so lonely, and because of the kind of
mystery there seems to be about her life."

Never for one moment had Clement Austin suspected that this mystery
involved anything discreditable to Margaret herself. The girl's sad face
seemed softly luminous with the tender light of pure and holy thoughts.
The veriest churl could scarcely have associated vice or falsehood with
such a lovely and harmonious image.

Since her return from Winchester, since the failure of her second
attempt to see Henry Dunbar, her life had pursued its wonted course; and
she went so quietly about her daily duties, that it was only by the
settled sadness of her face, the subdued gravity of her manner, that
people became aware of some heavy grief that had newly fallen upon her.

Clement Austin had watched her far too closely not to understand her
better than other people. He had noticed the change in her costume, when
she put on simple inexpensive mourning for her dead father; and he
ventured to express his regret for the loss which she had experienced.
She told him, with a gentle sorrowful accent in her voice, that she had
lately lost some one who was very dear to her; and that the loss had
been unexpected, and was very bitter to bear. But she told him no more;
and he was too well bred to intrude upon her grief by any further
question.

But though he refrained from saying more upon this occasion, the cashier
brooded long and deeply upon the conduct of his niece's music-mistress:
and one chilly September evening, when Miss Wentworth was _not_ expected
at Clapham, he walked across Wandsworth Common, and went straight to the
lane in which Godolphin Cottages sheltered themselves under the shadow
of the sycamores.

Margaret had very few intervals of idleness, and there was a kind of
melancholy relief to her in such an evening as this, on which she was
free to think of her dead father, and the strange story of his death.
She was standing at the low wooden gate opening into the little garden
below the window of her room, in the deepening twilight of this
September evening. It was late in the month: the leaves were falling
from the trees, and drifting with a rustling sound along the dusty
roadway.

The girl stood with her elbow resting upon the top of the gate, and a
dark shawl covering her head and shoulders. She was tired and unhappy,
and she stood in a melancholy attitude, looking with sad eyes towards
the glimpse of the river at the bottom of the lane. So entirely was she
absorbed by her own gloomy thoughts, that she did not hear a footstep
approaching from the other end of the lane; she did not look up until a
man's voice said, in subdued tones,--

"Good evening, Miss Wentworth; are you not afraid of catching cold? I
hope your shawl is thick, for the dews are falling, and here, near the
river, there is a damp mist on these autumn nights."

The speaker was Clement Austin.

Margaret Wilmot looked up at him, and a pensive smile stole over her
face. Yes, it was something to be spoken to so kindly in that deep manly
voice. The world had seemed so blank since her father's death: such
utter desolation had descended upon her since her miserable journey to
Winchester, and her useless visit to Portland Place: for since that time
she had shrunk away from people, wrapped in her own sorrow, separated
from the commonplace world by the exceptional nature of her misery. It
was something to this poor girl to hear thoughtful and considerate
words; and the unbidden tears clouded her eyes.

As yet she had spoken openly of her trouble to no living creature, since
that night upon which she had attempted to gain admission to Mr.
Dunbar's house. She was still known in the neighbourhood as Margaret
Wentworth. She had put on mourning: and she had told the few people
about the place where she lived, of her father's death: but she had told
no one the manner of that death. She had shared her gloomy secret with
neither friends nor counsellors, and had borne her dismal burden alone.
It was for this reason that Clement Austin's friendly voice raised an
unwonted emotion in her breast. The desolate girl remembered that night
upon which she had first heard of the murder, and she remembered the
sympathy that Mr. Austin had evinced on that occasion.

"My mother has been quite anxious about you, Miss Wentworth," said
Clement Austin. "She has noticed such a change in your manner for the
last month or five weeks; though you are as kind as ever to my little
niece, who makes wonderful progress under your care. But my mother
cannot be indifferent to your own feelings, and she and I have both
perceived the change. I fear there is some great trouble on your mind;
and I would give much--ah, Miss Wentworth, you cannot guess how
much!--if I could be of help to you in any time of grief or trouble. You
seemed very much agitated by the news of that shocking murder at
Winchester. I have been thinking it all over since, and I cannot help
fancying that the change in your manner dated from the evening on which
my mother told you that dreadful story. It struck me, that you must,
therefore, in some way or other, be interested in the fate of the
murdered man. Even beyond this, it might be possible that, if you knew
this Joseph Wilmot, you might be able to throw some light upon his
antecedents, and thus give a clue to the assassin. Little by little this
idea has crept into my mind, and to-night I resolved to come to you, and
ask you the direct question, as to whether you were in any way related
to this unhappy man."

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35