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, Elizabeth," she said, "you don't mean that papa will be unkind to
me?"

"I don't know your pa, Miss Laura. I never set eyes upon Mr. Dunbar in
my life. But the Indian servant that brought you over, when you was but
a bit of a baby, said that your pa was proud and passionate; and that
even your poor mar, which he loved her better than any livin' creature
upon this earth, was almost afraid of him."

The smile had quite vanished from Laura Dunbar's face by this time, and
the blue eyes filled suddenly with tears.

"Oh, what shall I do if my father is unkind to me?" she said, piteously.
"I have so looked forward to his coming home. I have counted the very
days; and if he is unkind to me--if he does not love me----"

She covered her face with her hands, and turned away her head. "Laura,"
exclaimed Arthur Lovell, addressing her for the first time by her
Christian name, "how could any one help loving you? How----"

He stopped, half ashamed of his passionate enthusiasm. In those few
words he had revealed the secret of his heart: but Laura Dunbar was too
innocent to understand the meaning of those eager words.

Mrs. Madden understood them perfectly; and she smiled approvingly at the
young man.

Arthur Lovell was a great favourite with Laura Dunbar's nurse. She knew
that he adored her young mistress; and she looked upon him as a model of
all that is noble and chivalrous.

She began to fidget with the silver tea-canisters; and then looked
significantly at Dora Macmahon. But Miss Macmahon did not understand
that significant glance. Her dark eyes--and she had very beautiful eyes,
with a grave, half-pensive softness in their sombre depths--were fixed
upon the two young faces in the sunny window; the girl's face clouded
with a look of sorrowful perplexity, the young man's face eloquent with
tender meaning. Dora Macmahon's colour went and came as she looked at
that earnest countenance, and the fingers which were absently turning
the leaves of her book were faintly tremulous.

"Your new bonnet's come home this morning, Miss Dora," Elizabeth Madden
said, rather sharply. "Perhaps you'd like to come up-stairs and have a
look at it."

"My new bonnet!" murmured Dora, vaguely.

"La, yes, miss; the new bonnet you bought in Regent Street only
yesterday afternoon. I never did see such a forgetful wool-gathering
young lady in all my life as you are this blessed morning, Miss Dora."

The absent-minded young lady rose suddenly, bewildered by Mrs. Madden's
animated desire for an inspection of the bonnet. But she very willingly
left the room with Laura's old nurse, who was accustomed to have her
mandates obeyed even by the wayward heiress of Maudesley Abbey; and
Laura was left alone with the young lawyer.

Miss Dunbar had seated herself once more in the low easy-chair by the
window. She sat with her elbow resting on the cushioned arm of the
chair, and her head supported by her hand. Her eyes were fixed, and
looked straight before her, with a thoughtful gaze that was strange to
her: for her nature was as joyous as that of a bird, whose music fills
all the wide heaven with one rejoicing psalm.

Arthur Lovell drew his chair nearer to the thoughtful girl.

"Laura," he said, "why are you so silent? I never saw you so serious
before, except after your grandfather's death."

"I am thinking of my father," she answered, in a low, tremulous voice,
that was broken by her tears: "I am thinking that, perhaps, he will not
love me."

"Not love you, Laura! who could help loving you? Oh, if I dared--if I
could venture--I must speak, Laura Dunbar. My whole life hangs upon the
issue, and I will speak. I am not a poor man, Laura; but you are so
divided from the rest of the world by your father's wealth, that I have
feared to speak. I have feared to tell you that which you might have
discovered for yourself, had you not been as innocent as your own pet
doves in the dovecote at Maudesley."

The girl looked at him with wondering eyes that were still wet with
unshed tears.

"I love you, Laura; I love you. The world would call me beneath you in
station, now; but I am a man, and I have a man's ambition--a strong
man's iron will. Everything is possible to him who has sworn to conquer;
and for your sake. Laura, for your love I should overcome obstacles that
to another man might be invincible. I am going to India, Laura: I am
going to carve my way to fame and fortune, for fame and fortune are
_slaves_ that come at the brave man's bidding; they are only _masters_
when the coward calls them. Remember, my beloved one, this wealth that
now stands between you and me may not always be yours. Your father is
not an old man; he may marry again, and have a son to inherit his
wealth. Would to Heaven, Laura, that it might be so! But be that as it
may, I despair of nothing if I dare hope for your love. Oh, Laura,
dearest, one word to tell me that I _may_ hope! Remember how happy we
have been together; little children playing with flowers and butterflies
in the gardens at Maudesley; boy and girl, rambling hand-in-hand beside
the wandering Avon; man and woman standing in mournful silence by your
grandfather's deathbed. The past is a bond of union betwixt us, Laura.
Look back at all those happy days and give me one word, my darling--one
word to tell me that you love me."

Laura Dunbar looked up at him with a sweet smile, and laid her soft
white hand in his.

"I do love you, Arthur," she said, "as dearly as I should have loved my
brother had I ever known a brother's love."

The young man bowed his head in silence. When he looked up, Laura Dunbar
saw that he was very pale.

"You only love me as a brother, Laura?"

"How else should I love you?" she asked, innocently.

Arthur Lovell looked at her with a mournful smile; a tender smile that
was exquisitely beautiful, for it was the look of a man who is prepared
to resign his own happiness for the sake of her he loves.

"Enough, Laura," he said, quietly; "I have received my sentence. You do
not love me, dearest; you have yet to suffer life's great fever."

She clasped her hands, and looked at him beseechingly.

"You are not angry with me, Arthur?" she said.

"Angry with you, my sweet one!"

"And you will still love me?"

"Yes, Laura, with all a brother's devotion. And if ever you have need of
my services, you shall find what it is to have a faithful friend, who
holds his life at small value beside your happiness."

He said no more, for there was the sound of carriage-wheels below the
window, and then a loud double-knock at the hall-door.

Laura started to her feet, and her bright face grew pale.

"My father has come!" she exclaimed.

But it was not her father. It was Mr. Balderby, who had just come from
St. Gundolph Lane, where he had received Henry Dunbar's telegraphic
despatch.

Every vestige of colour faded out of Laura's face as she recognized the
junior partner of the banking-house.

"Something has happened to my father!" she cried.

"No, no, Miss Dunbar!" exclaimed Mr. Balderby, anxious to reassure her.
"Your father has arrived in England safely, and is well, as I believe.
He is staying at Winchester; and he has telegraphed to me to go to him
there immediately."

"Something has happened, then?"

"Yes, but not to Mr. Dunbar individually; so far as I can make out by
the telegraphic message. I was to come to you here, Miss Dunbar, to tell
you not to expect your papa for some few days; and then I am to go on to
Winchester, taking a lawyer with me."

"A lawyer!" exclaimed Laura.

"Yes, I am going to Lincoln's Inn immediately to Messrs. Walford and
Walford, our own solicitors."

"Let Mr. Lovell go with you," cried Miss Dunbar; "he always acted as
poor grandpapa's solicitor. Let him go with you."

"Yes, Mr. Balderby," exclaimed the young man, "I beg you to allow me to
accompany you. I shall be very glad to be of service to Mr. Dunbar."

Mr. Balderby hesitated for a few moments.

"Well, I really don't see why you shouldn't go, if you wish to do so,"
he said, presently. "Mr. Dunbar says he wants a lawyer; he doesn't name
any particular lawyer. We shall save time by your going; for we shall be
able to catch the eleven o'clock express."

He looked at his watch.

"There's not a moment to lose. Good morning, Miss Dunbar. We'll take
care of your papa, and bring him to you in triumph. Come, Lovell."

Arthur Lovell shook hands with Laura, murmured a few words in her ear,
and hurried away with Mr. Balderby.

She had spoken the death-knell of his dearest hopes. He had seen his
sentence in her innocent face; but he loved her still.

There was something in her virginal candour, her bright young
loveliness, that touched the noblest chords of his heart. He loved her
with a chivalrous devotion, which, after all, is as natural to the
breast of a young Englishman in these modern days, miscalled degenerate,
as when the spotless knight King Arthur loved and wooed his queen.

CHAPTER XI.

THE INQUEST.

The coroner's inquest, which had been appointed to take place at noon
that day, was postponed until three o'clock in the afternoon, in
compliance with the earnest request of Henry Dunbar.

When ever was the earnest request of a millionaire refused?

The coroner, who was a fussy little man, very readily acceded to Mr.
Dunbar's entreaties.

"I am a stranger in England," the Anglo-Indian said; "I was never in my
life present at an inquest. The murdered man was connected with me. He
was last seen in my company. It is vitally necessary that I should have
a legal adviser to watch the proceedings on my behalf. Who knows what
dark suspicions may arise, affecting my name and honour?"

The banker made this remark in the presence of four or five of the
jurymen, the coroner, and Mr. Cricklewood, the surgeon who had been
called in to examine the body of the man supposed to have been murdered.
Every one of those gentlemen protested loudly and indignantly against
the idea of the bare possibility that any suspicion, or the shadow of a
suspicion, could attach to such a man as Mr. Dunbar.

They knew nothing of him, of course, except that he was Henry Dunbar,
chief of the rich banking-house of Dunbar, Dunbar, and Balderby, and
that he was a millionaire.

Was it likely that a millionaire would commit a murder?

When had a millionaire ever been known to commit a murder? Never, of
course!

The Anglo-Indian sat in his private sitting-room at the George Hotel,
writing, and examining his papers--perpetually writing, perpetually
sorting and re-sorting those packets of letters in the
despatch-box--while he waited for the coming of Mr. Balderby.

The postponement of the coroner's inquest was a very good thing for the
landlord of the Foresters' Arms. People went in and out, and loitered
about the premises, and lounged in the bar, drinking and talking all the
morning, and the theme of every conversation was the murder that had
been done in the grove on the way to St. Cross.

Mr. Balderby and Arthur Lovell arrived at the George a few minutes
before two o'clock. They were shown at once into the apartment in which
Henry Dunbar sat waiting for them.

Arthur Lovell had been thinking of Laura and Laura's father throughout
the journey from London. He had wondered, as he got nearer and nearer to
Winchester, what would be his first impression respecting Mr. Dunbar.

That first impression was not a good one--no, it was not a good one. Mr.
Dunbar was a handsome man--a very handsome man--tall and
aristocratic-looking, with a certain haughty pace in his manner that
harmonized well with his good looks. But, in spite of all this, the
impression which he made upon the mind of Arthur Lovell was not an
agreeable one.

The young lawyer had heard the story of the forgery vaguely hinted at by
those who were familiar with the history of the Dunbar family; and he
had heard that the early life of Henry Dunbar had been that of a selfish
spendthrift.

Perhaps this may have had some influence upon his feelings in this his
first meeting with the father of the woman he loved.

Henry Dunbar told the story of the murder. The two men were
inexpressibly shocked by this story.

"But where is Sampson Wilmot?" exclaimed Mr. Balderby. "It was he whom I
sent to meet you, knowing that he was the only person in the office who
remembered you, or whom you remembered."

"Sampson was taken ill upon the way, according to his brother's story,"
Mr. Dunbar answered. "Joseph left the poor old man somewhere upon the
road."

"He did not say where?"

"No; and, strange to say, I forgot to ask him the question. The poor
fellow amused me by old memories of the past on the road between
Southampton and this place, and we therefore talked very little of the
present."

"Sampson must be very ill," exclaimed Mr. Balderby, "or he would
certainly have returned to St. Gundolph Lane to tell me what had taken
place."

Mr. Dunbar smiled.

"If he was too ill to go on to Southampton, he would, of course, be too
ill to return to London," he said, with supreme indifference.

Mr. Balderby, who was a good-hearted man, was distressed at the idea of
Sampson Wilmot's desolation; an old man, stricken with sudden illness,
and abandoned to strangers.

Arthur Lovell was silent: he sat a little way apart from the two others,
watching Henry Dunbar.

At three o'clock the inquest commenced. The witnesses summoned were the
two Irishmen, Patrick Hennessy and Philip Murtock, who had found the
body in the stream near St. Cross; Mr. Cricklewood, the surgeon; the
verger, who had seen and spoken to the two men, and who had afterwards
shown the cathedral to Mr. Dunbar; the landlord of the George, and the
waiter who had received the travellers and had taken Mr. Dunbar's orders
for the dinner; and Henry Dunbar himself.

There were a great many people in the room, for by this time the tidings
of the murder had spread far and wide. There were influential people
present, amongst others, Sir Arden Westhorpe, one of the county
magistrates resident at Winchester. Arthur Lovell, Mr. Balderby, and the
Anglo-Indian sat in a little group apart from the rest.

The jurymen were ranged upon either side of a long mahogany table. The
coroner sat at the top.

But before the examination of the witnesses was commenced, the jurymen
were conducted into that dismal chamber where the dead man lay upon one
of the long tap-room tables. Arthur Lovell went with them; and Mr.
Cricklewood, the surgeon, proceeded to examine the corpse, so as to
enable him to give evidence respecting the cause of death.

The face of the dead man was distorted and blackened by the agony of
strangulation. The coroner and the jurymen looked at that dead face with
wondering, awe-stricken glances. Sometimes a cruel stab, that goes
straight home to the heart, will leave the face of the murdered as calm,
as the face of a sleeping child.

But in this case it was not so. The horrible stamp of assassination was
branded upon that rigid brow. Horror, surprise, and the dread agony of
sudden death were all blended in the expression of the face.

The jurymen talked a little to one another in scarcely audible whispers,
asked a few questions of the surgeon, and then walked softly from the
darkened room.

The facts of the case were very simple, and speedily elicited. But
whatever the truth of that awful story might be, there was nothing that
threw any light upon the mystery.

Arthur Lovell, watching the case in the interests of Mr. Dunbar, asked
several questions of the witnesses. Henry Dunbar was himself the first
person examined. He gave a very simple and intelligible account of all
that had taken place from the moment of his landing at Southampton.

"I found the deceased waiting to receive me when I landed," he said. "He
told me that he came as a substitute for another person. I did not know
him at first--that is to say, I did not recognize him as the valet who
had been in my service prior to my leaving England five-and-thirty years
ago. But he made himself known to me afterwards, and he told me that he
had met his brother in London on the sixteenth of this month, and had
travelled with him part of the way to Southampton. He also told me that,
on the way to Southampton, his brother, Sampson Wilmot, a much older man
than the deceased, was taken ill, and that the two men then parted
company."

Mr. Dunbar had said all this with perfect self-possession, and with
great deliberation. He was so very self-possessed, so very deliberate,
that it seemed almost as if he had been reciting something which he had
learned by heart.

Arthur Lovell, watching him very intently, saw this, and wondered at it.
It is very usual for a witness, even the most indifferent witness,
giving evidence about some trifling matter, to be confused, to falter,
and hesitate, and contradict himself, embarrassed by the strangeness of
his position. But Henry Dunbar was in nowise discomposed by the awful
nature of the event which had happened. He was pale; but his firmly-set
lips, his erect carriage, the determined glance of his eyes, bore
witness to the strength of his nerves and the power of his intellect.

"The man must be made of iron," Arthur Lovell thought to himself. "He is
either a very great man, or a very wicked one. I almost fear to ask
myself which."

"Where did the deceased Joseph Wilmot say he left his brother Sampson,
Mr. Dunbar?" asked the coroner.

"I do not remember."

The coroner scratched his chin, thoughtfully.

"That is rather awkward," he said; "the evidence of this man Sampson
might throw some light upon this most mysterious event."

Mr. Dunbar then told the rest of his story.

He spoke of the luncheon at Southampton, the journey from Southampton to
Winchester, the afternoon stroll down to the meadows near St. Cross.

"Can you tell us the exact spot at which you parted with the deceased?"
asked the coroner.

"No," Mr. Dunbar answered; "you must bear in mind that I am a stranger
in England. I have not been in this neighbourhood since I was a boy. My
old schoolfellow, Michael Marston, married and settled at the Ferns
during my absence in India. I found at Southampton that I should have a
few hours on my hands before I could travel express for London, and I
came to this place on purpose to see my old friend. I was very much
disappointed to find that he was dead. But I thought that I would call
upon his widow, from whom I should no doubt hear the history of my poor
friend's last moments. I went with Joseph Wilmot through the cathedral
yard, and down towards St. Cross. The verger saw us, and spoke to us as
we went by."

The verger, who was standing amongst the other witnesses, waiting to be
examined, here exclaimed,--

"Ay, that I did, sir; I remember it well."

"At what time did you leave the George?"

"At a little after four o'clock."

"Where did you go then?"

"I went," answered Mr. Dunbar, boldly, "into the grove with the
deceased, arm-in-arm. We walked together about a quarter of a mile under
the trees, and I had intended to go on to the Ferns, to call upon
Michael Marston's widow; but my habits of late years have been
sedentary; the heat of the day and the walk together were too much for
me. I sent Joseph Wilmot on to the Ferns with a message for Mrs.
Marston, asking at what hour she could conveniently receive me to-day;
and I returned to the cathedral. Joseph Wilmot was to deliver his
message at the Ferns, and rejoin me in the cathedral."

"He was to return to the cathedral?"

"Yes."

"But why should he not have returned to the George Hotel? Why should you
wait for him at the cathedral?"

Arthur Lovell listened, with a strange expression upon his face. If
Henry Dunbar was pale, Henry Dunbar's legal adviser was still more so.
The jurymen stared aghast at the coroner, as if they had been
awe-stricken by his impertinence towards the chief partner of the great
banking-house of Dunbar, Dunbar, and Balderby. How dared he--a man with
an income of five hundred a year at the most--how dared he discredit or
question any assertion made by Henry Dunbar?

The Anglo-Indian smiled, a little contemptuously. He stood in a careless
attitude, playing with the golden trinkets at his watch-chain, with the
hot August sunshine streaming upon his face from a bare unshaded window
opposite him. But he did not attempt to escape that almost blinding
glare. He stood facing the sunlight; facing the gaze of the coroner and
the jurymen; the scrutinizing glance of Arthur Lovell. Unabashed and
_nonchalant_ as if he had been standing in a ball-room, the hero of the
hour, the admired of all who looked upon him, Mr. Dunbar stood before
the coroner and jury, and told the broken history of his old servant's
death.

"Yes," Mr. Lovell thought again, as he watched the rich man's face, "his
nerves must be made of iron."

CHAPTER XII.

ARRESTED.

The coroner repeated his question:

"Why did you tell the deceased to join you at the cathedral, Mr.
Dunbar?"

"Merely because it suited my humour at the time to do so," answered the
Anglo-Indian, coolly. "We had been very friendly together, and I had a
fancy for going over the cathedral. I thought that Wilmot might return
from the Ferns in time to go over some portion of the edifice with me.
He was a very intelligent fellow, and I liked his society."

"But the journey to the Ferns and back would have occupied some time."

"Perhaps so," answered Mr. Dunbar; "I did not know the distance to the
Ferns, and I did not make any calculation as to time. I merely said to
the deceased, 'I shall go back and look at the cathedral; and I will
wait for you there.' I said this, and I told him to be as quick as he
could."

"That was all that passed between you?"

"It was. I then returned to the cathedral."

"And you waited there for the deceased?"

"I did. I waited until close upon the hour at which I had ordered dinner
at the George."

There was a pause, during which the coroner looked very thoughtful.

"I am compelled to ask you one more question, Mr. Dunbar," he said,
presently, hesitating a little as he spoke.

"I am ready to answer any questions you may wish to ask," Mr. Dunbar
replied, very quietly.

"Were you upon friendly terms with the deceased?"

"I have just told you so. We were on excellent terms. I found him an
agreeable companion. His manners were those of a gentleman. I don't know
how he had picked up his education, but he certainly had contrived to
educate himself some how or other."

"I understand you were friendly together at the time of his death; but
prior to that time----"

Mr. Dunbar smiled.

"I have been in India five-and-thirty years," he said.

"Precisely. But before your departure for India, had you any
misunderstanding, any serious quarrel with the deceased?"

Mr. Dunbar's face flushed suddenly, and his brows contracted as if even
his self-possession were not proof against the unpleasant memories of
the past.

"No," he said, with determination; "I never quarrelled with him."

"There had been no cause of quarrel between you?"

"I don't understand your question. I have told you that I never
quarrelled with him."

"Perhaps not; but there might have been some hidden animosity, some
smothered feeling, stronger than any openly-expressed anger, hidden in
your breast. Was there any such feeling?"

"Not on my part."

"Was there any such feeling on the part of the deceased?"

Mr. Dunbar looked furtively at William Balderby. The junior partner's
eyelids dropped under that stolen glance.

It was clear that he knew the story of the forged bills.

Had the coroner for Winchester been a clever man, he would have followed
that glance of Mr. Dunbar's, and would have understood that the junior
partner knew something about the antecedents of the dead man. But the
coroner was not a very close observer, and Mr. Dunbar's eager glance
escaped him altogether.

"Yes," answered the Anglo-Indian, "Joseph Wilmot had a grudge against me
before I sailed for Calcutta, but we settled all that at Southampton,
and I promised to allow him an annuity."

"You promised him an annuity?"

"Yes--not a very large one--only fifty pounds a year; but he was quite
satisfied with that promise."

"He had some claim upon you, then?"

"No, he had no claim whatever upon me," replied Mr. Dunbar, haughtily.

Of course, it could be scarcely pleasant for a millionaire to be
cross-questioned in this manner by an impertinent Hampshire coroner.

The jurymen sympathized with the banker.

The coroner looked rather puzzled.

"If the deceased had no claim upon you, why did you promise him an
annuity?" he asked, after a pause.

"I made that promise for the sake of 'auld lang syne,'" answered Mr.
Dunbar. "Joseph Wilmot was a favourite servant of mine five-and-thirty
years ago. We were young men together. I believe that he had, at one
time, a very sincere affection for me. I know that I always liked him."

"How long were you in the grove with the deceased?"

"Not more than ten minutes."

"And you cannot describe the spot where you left him?"

"Not very easily; I could point it out, perhaps, if I were taken there."

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