Henry Dunbar

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

CHAPTER XXI.

A NEW LIFE.

For the first time in her life, Margaret Wilmot knew what it was to have
friends, real and earnest friends, who interested themselves in her
welfare, and were bent upon securing her happiness; and I must admit
that in this particular case there was something more than
friendship--something holier and higher in its character--the pure and
unselfish love of an honourable man.

Clement Austin, the cashier at Dunbar, Dunbar, and Balderby's
Anglo-Indian banking-house, had fallen in love with the modest
hazel-eyed music-mistress, and had set himself to work to watch her, and
to find out all about her, long before he was conscious of the real
nature of his feelings.

He had begun by pitying her. He had pitied her because of her hard life,
her loneliness, her beauty, which doubtless exposed her to many dangers
that would have been spared to a plain woman.

Now, when a man allows himself to pity a very pretty girl, he places
himself on a moral tight-rope; and he must be a moral Blondin if he
expects to walk with any safety upon the narrow line which alone divides
him from the great abyss called love.

There are not many Blondins, either physical or intellectual; and the
consequence is, that nine out of ten of the gentlemen who place
themselves in this perilous position find the narrow line very slippery,
and, before they have gone twenty paces, plunge overboard plump to the
very bottom of the abyss, and are over head and ears in love before they
know where they are.

Clement Austin fell in love with Margaret Wilmot; and his tender regard,
his respectful devotion, were very new and sweet to the lonely girl. It
would have been strange, then, under such circumstances, if his love had
been hopeless.

He was in no very great hurry to declare himself; for he had a powerful
ally in his mother, who adored her son, and would have allowed him to
bring home a young negress, or a North American squaw, to the maternal
hearth, if such a bride had been necessary to his happiness.

Mrs. Austin very speedily discovered her son's secret; for he had taken
little pains to conceal his feelings from the indulgent mother who had
been his confidante ever since his first boyish loves at a Clapham
seminary, within whose sacred walls he had been admitted on Tuesdays and
Fridays to learn dancing in the delightful society of five-and-thirty
young ladies.

Mrs. Austin confessed that she would rather her son had chosen some
damsel who could lay claim to greater worldly advantages than those
possessed by the young music-mistress; but when Clement looked
disappointed, the good soul's heart melted all in a moment, and she
declared, that if Margaret was only as good as she was pretty, and truly
attached to her dear noble-hearted boy, she (Mrs. Austin) would ask no
more.

It happened fortunately that she knew nothing of Joseph Wilmot's
antecedents, or of the letter addressed to Norfolk Island; or perhaps
she might have made very strong objections to a match between her son
and a young lady whose father had spent a considerable part of his life
in a penal settlement.

"We will tell my mother nothing of the past, Miss Wilmot," Clement
Austin said, "except that which concerns yourself alone. Let the history
of your unhappy father's life remain a secret between you and me. My
mother is very fond of you; I should be sorry, therefore, if she heard
anything to shock her prejudices. I wish her to love you better every
day."

Clement Austin had his wish; for the kind-hearted widow grew every day
more and more attached to Margaret Wilmot. She discovered that the girl
had more than an ordinary talent for music; and she proposed that
Margaret should take a prettily furnished first-floor in a
pleasant-looking detached house, half cottage, half villa, at Clapham,
and at once set to work as a teacher of the piano.

"I can get you plenty of pupils, my dear," Mrs. Austin said; "for I have
lived here more than thirty years--ever since Clement's birth, in
fact--and I know almost everybody in the neighbourhood. You have only to
teach upon moderate terms, and the people will be glad to send their
children to you. I shall give a little evening party, on purpose that my
friend may hear you play."

So Mrs. Austin gave her evening party, and Margaret appeared in a simple
black-silk dress that had been in her wardrobe for a long time, and
which would have seemed very shabby in the glaring light of day. The
wearer of it looked very pretty and elegant, however, by the light of
Mrs. Austin's wax-candles; and the aristocracy of Clapham remarked that
the "young person" whom Mrs. Austin and her son had "taken up" was
really rather nice-looking.

But when Margaret played and sang, people were charmed in spite of
themselves. She had a superb contralto voice, rich, deep, and melodious;
and she played with brilliancy, and, what is much rarer, with
expression.

Mrs. Austin, going backwards and forwards amongst her guests to
ascertain the current of opinions, found that her protegee's success was
an accomplished fact before the evening was over.

Margaret took the new apartments in the course of the week; and before a
fortnight had passed, she had secured more than a dozen pupils, who gave
her ample employment for her time; and who enabled her to earn more than
enough for her simple wants.

Every Sunday she dined with Mrs. Austin. Clement had persuaded his
mother to make this arrangement a settled thing; although as yet he had
said nothing of his growing love for Margaret.

Those Sundays were pleasant days to Clement and the girl whom he hoped
to win for his wife.

The comfortable elegance of Mrs. Austin's drawing-room, the peaceful
quiet of the Sabbath-evening, when the curtains were drawn before the
bay-window, and the shaded lamp brought into the room; the intellectual
conversation; the pleasant talk about new books and music: all were new
and delightful to Margaret.

This was her first experience of a home, a real home, in which there was
nothing but union and content; no overshadowing fear, no horrible
unspoken dread, no half-guessed secrets always gnawing at the heart. But
in all this new comfort Margaret Wilmot had not forgotten Henry Dunbar.
She had not ceased to believe him guilty of her father's murder. Calm
and gentle in her outward demeanour, she kept her secret buried in her
breast, and asked for no sympathy.

Clement Austin had given her his best attention, his best advice; but it
all amounted to nothing. The different scraps of evidence that hinted at
Henry Dunbar's guilt were not strong enough to condemn him. The cashier
communicated with the detective police, who had been watching the case;
but they only shook their heads gravely, and dismissed him with their
thanks for his information. There was nothing in what he had to tell
them that could implicate Mr. Dunbar.

"A gentleman with a million of money doesn't put himself in the power of
the hangman unless he's very hard pushed," said the detective. "The
motive's what you must look to in these cases, sir. Now, where's Mr.
Dunbar's motive for murdering this man Wilmot?"

"The secret that Joseph Wilmot possessed----"

"Bah, my dear sir! Henry Dunbar could afford to buy all the secrets that
ever were kept. Secrets are like every other sort of article: they're
only kept to sell. Good morning."

After this, Clement Austin told Margaret that he could be of no use to
her. The dead man must rest in his grave: there was little hope that the
mystery of his fate would ever be fathomed by human intelligence.

But Margaret Wilmot did not cease to remember Mr. Dunbar She only
waited.

One resolution was always uppermost in her mind, even when she was
happiest with her new friends. She would see Henry Dunbar. In spite of
his obstinate determination to avoid an interview with her, she would
see him: and then, when she had gained her purpose, and stood face to
face with him, she would boldly denounce him as her father's murderer.
If then he did not flinch or falter, if she saw innocence in his face,
she would cease to doubt him, she would be content to believe that
Joseph Wilmot had met his untimely death from a stranger's hand.

CHAPTER XXII.

THE STEEPLE-CHASE.

After considerable discussion, it was settled that Laura Dunbar's
wedding should take place upon the 7th of November. It was to be a very
quiet wedding. The banker had especially impressed that condition upon
his daughter. His health was entirely broken, and he would assist in no
splendid ceremonial to which half the county would be invited. If Laura
wanted bridesmaids, she might have Dora Macmahon and any particular
friend who lived in the neighbourhood. There was to be no fuss, no
publicity. Marriage was a very solemn business, Mr. Dunbar said, and it
would be as well for his daughter to be undisturbed by any pomp or
gaiety on her wedding-day. So the marriage was appointed to take place
on the 7th, and the arrangements were to be as simple as the
circumstances of the bride would admit. Sir Philip was quite willing
that it should be so. He was much too happy to take objection to any
such small matters. He only wanted the sacred words to be spoken which
made Laura Dunbar his own for ever and for ever. He wanted to take her
away to the southern regions, where he had travelled so gaily in his
careless bachelor days, where he would be so supremely happy now with
his bright young bride by his side. Fortune, who certainly spoils some
of her children, had been especially beneficent to this young man. She
had given him so many of her best gifts, and had bestowed upon him, over
and above, the power to enjoy her favours.

It happened that the 6th of November was a day which, some time since,
Philip Jocelyn would have considered the most important, if not the
happiest, day of the year. It was the date of the Shorncliffe
steeple-chases, and the baronet had engaged himself early in the
preceding spring to ride his thorough-bred mare Guinevere, for a certain
silver cup, subscribed for by the officers stationed at the Shorncliffe
barracks.

Philip Jocelyn looked forward to this race with a peculiar interest, for
it was to be the last he would ever ride--the very last: he had given
this solemn promise to Laura, who had in vain tried to persuade him
against even this race. She was brave enough upon ordinary occasions;
but she loved her betrothed husband too dearly to be brave on this.

"I know it's very foolish of me, Philip," she said, "but I can't help
being frightened. I can't help thinking of all the accidents I've ever
heard of, or read of. I've dreamt of the race ever so many times,
Philip. Oh, if you would only give it up for my sake!"

"My darling, my pet, is there anything I would not do for your sake that
I could do in honour? But I can't do this, Laura dearest. You see I'm
all right myself, and the mare's in splendid condition;--well, you saw
her take her trial gallop the other morning, and you must know she's a
flyer, so I won't talk about her. My name was entered for this race six
months ago, you know, dear; and there are lots of small farmers and
country people who have speculated their money on me; and they'd all
lose, poor fellows, if I hung back at the last. You don't know what
play-or-pay bets are, Laura dear. There's nothing in the world I
wouldn't do for your sake; but my backers are poor people, and I can't
put them in a hole. I must ride, Laura, and ride to win, too."

Miss Dunbar knew what this last phrase meant, and she conjured up the
image of her lover flying across country on that fiery chestnut mare,
whose reputation was familiar to almost every man, woman, and child in
Warwickshire: but whatever her fears might be, she was obliged to be
satisfied with her lover's promise that this should be his last
steeple-chase.

The day came at last, a pale November day, mild but not sunny. The sky
was all of one equal grey tint, and seemed to hang only a little way
above the earth. The caps and jackets of the gentleman riders made spots
of colour against that uniform grey sky; and the dresses of the ladies
in the humble wooden structure which did duty as a grand stand,
brightened the level landscape.

The course formed a long oval, and extended over three or four meadows,
and crossed a country lane. It was a tolerably flat course; but the
leaps, though roughly constructed, were rather formidable. Laura had
been over all the ground with her lover on the previous day, and had
looked fearfully at the high ragged hedges, and the broad ditches of
muddy water. But Philip only made light of her fears, and told her the
leaps were nothing, scarcely worthy of the chestnut mare's powers.

The course was not crowded, but there was a considerable sprinkling of
spectators on each side of the rope--soldiers from the Shorncliffe
barracks, country people, and loiterers of all kinds. There were a
couple of drags, crowded with the officers and their friends, who
clustered in all manner of perilous positions on the roof, and consumed
unlimited champagne, bitter beer, and lobster-salad, in the pauses
between the races. A single line of carriages extended for some little
distance opposite the grand stand. The scene was gay and pleasant, as a
race-ground always must be, even though it were in the wildest regions
of the New World; but it was very quiet as compared to Epsom Downs or
the open heath at Ascot.

Conspicuous amongst the vehicles there was a close carriage drawn by a
pair of magnificent bays--an equipage which was only splendid in the
perfection of its appointments. It was a clarence, with dark
subdued-looking panels, only ornamented by a vermilion crest. The
liveries of the servants were almost the simplest upon the course; but
the powdered heads of the men, and an indescribable something in their
style, distinguished them from the country-bred coachmen and hobbledehoy
pages in attendance on the other carriages.

Almost every one on the course knew that crest of an armed hand clasping
a battle-axe, and knew that it belonged to Henry Dunbar. The banker
appeared so very seldom in public that there was always a kind of
curiosity about him when he did show himself; and between the races,
people who were strolling upon the ground contrived to approach very
near the carriage in which the master of Maudesley Abbey sat, wrapped in
Cashmere shawls, and half-hidden under a great fur rug, in legitimate
Indian fashion.

He had consented to appear upon the racecourse in compliance with his
daughter's most urgent entreaties. She wanted him to be near her. She
had some vague idea that he might be useful in the event of any accident
happening to Philip Jocelyn. He might help her. It would be some
consolation, some support to have him with her. He might be able to do
something. Her father had yielded to her entreaties with a very
tolerable grace, and he was here; but having conceded so much, he seemed
to have done all that his frigid nature was capable of doing. He took no
interest in the business of the day, but lounged far back in the
carriage, and complained very much of the cold.

The vehicle had been drawn close up to the boundary of the course, and
Laura sat at the open window, pale and anxious, straining her eyes
towards the weighing-house and the paddock, the little bit of enclosed
ground where the horses were saddled. She could see the gentleman riders
going in and out, and the one rider on whose safety her happiness
depended, muffled in his greatcoat, and very busy and animated amongst
his grooms and helpers. Everybody knew who Miss Dunbar was, and that she
was going to be married to the young baronet; and people looked with
interest at that pale face, keeping such anxious watch at the
carriage-window. I am speaking now of the simple country people, for
whom a race meant a day's pleasure. There were people on the other side
of the course who cared very little for Miss Dunbar or her anxiety; who
would have cared as little if the handsome young baronet had rolled upon
the sward, crushed to death under the weight of his chestnut mare, so
long as they themselves were winners by the event. In the little
enclosure below the grand stand the betting men--that strange fraternity
which appears on every racecourse from Berwick-on-Tweed to the
Land's-End, from the banks of the Shannon to the smooth meads of
pleasant Normandy--were gathered thick, and the talk was loud about Sir
Philip and his competitors.

Among the men who were ready to lay against anything, and were most
unpleasantly vociferous in the declaration of their readiness, there was
one man who was well known to the humbler class of bookmen with whom he
associated, who was known to speculate upon very small capital, but who
had never been known as a defaulter. The knowing ones declared this man
worthy to rank high amongst the best of them; but no one knew where he
lived, or what he was. He was rarely known to miss a race; and he was
conspicuous amongst the crowd in those mysterious purlieus where the
plebeian bookmen, who are unworthy to enter the sacred precincts of
Tattersall's, mostly do congregate, in utter defiance of the police. No
one had ever heard the name of this man; but in default of any more
particular cognomen, they had christened him the Major; because in his
curt manners, his closely buttoned-up coat, tightly-strapped trousers,
and heavy moustache, there was a certain military flavour, which had
given rise to the rumour that the unknown had in some remote period been
one of the defenders of his country. Whether he had enlisted as a
private, and had been bought-off by his friends; whether he had borne
the rank of an officer, and had sold his commission, or had been
cashiered, or had deserted, or had been drummed-out of his regiment,--no
one pretended to say. People called him the Major; and wherever he
appeared, the Major made himself conspicuous by means of a very tall
white hat, with a broad black crape band round it.

He was tall himself, and the hat made him seem taller. His clothes were
very shabby, with that peculiar shiny shabbiness which makes a man look
as if he had been oiled all over, and then rubbed into a high state of
polish. He wore a greenish-brown greatcoat with a poodle collar, and was
supposed to have worn the same for the last ten years. Round his neck,
be the weather ever so sultry, he wore a comforter of rusty worsted that
had once been scarlet, and above this comforter appeared his nose, which
was a prominent aquiline. Nobody ever saw much more of the Major than
his nose and his moustache. His hat came low down over his forehead,
which was itself low, and a pair of beetle brows, of a dense
purple-black, were faintly visible in the shadow of the brim. He never
took off his hat in the presence of his fellow-men; and as he never
encountered the fair sex, except in the person of the barmaid at a
sporting public, he was not called upon to unbonnet himself in
ceremonious obeisance to lovely woman. He was eminently a mysterious
man, and seemed to enjoy himself in the midst of the cloud of mystery
which surrounded him.

The Major had inspected the starters for the great event of the day, and
had sharply scrutinized the gentleman riders as they went in and out of
the paddock. He was so well satisfied with the look of Sir Philip
Jocelyn, and the chestnut mare Guinevere, that he contented himself with
laying the odds against all the other horses, and allowed the baronet
and the chestnut to run for him. He asked a few questions presently
about Sir Philip, who had taken off his greatcoat by this time, and
appeared in all the glory of a scarlet satin jacket and a black velvet
cap. A Warwickshire farmer, who had found his way in among the knowing
ones, informed the Major that Sir Philip Jocelyn was going to be married
to Miss Dunbar, only daughter and sole heiress of the great Mr. Dunbar.

The great Mr. Dunbar! The Major, usually so imperturbable, gave a little
start at the mention of the banker's name.

"What Mr. Dunbar?" he asked.

"The banker. Him as come home from the Indies last August."

The Major gave a long low whistle; but he asked no further question of
the farmer. He had a memorandum-book in his hand--a greasy and
grimy-looking little volume, whose pages he was wont to study profoundly
from time to time, and in which he jotted down all manner of queer
hieroglyphics with half an inch of fat lead-pencil. He relapsed into the
contemplation of this book now; but he muttered to himself ever and anon
in undertones, and his mutterings had relation to Henry Dunbar.

"It's him," he muttered; "that's lucky. I read all about that Winchester
business in the Sunday papers. I've got it all at my fingers'-ends, and
I don't see why I shouldn't make a trifle out of it. I don't see why I
shouldn't win a little money upon Henry Dunbar. I'll have a look at my
gentleman presently, when the race is over."

The bell rang, and the seven starters went off with a rush; four
abreast, and three behind. Sir Philip was among the four foremost
riders, keeping the chestnut well in hand, and biding his time very
quietly. This was his last race, and he had set his heart upon winning.
Laura leaned out of the carriage-window, pale and breathless, with a
powerful race-glass in her hand. She watched the riders as they swept
round the curve in the course. Then they disappeared, and the few
minutes during which they were out of sight seemed an age to that
anxious watcher. The people run away to see them take the double leap in
the lane, and then come trooping back again, panting and eager, as three
of the riders appear again round another bend of the course.

The scarlet leads this time. The honest country people hurrah for the
master of Jocelyn's Rock. Have they not put their money upon him, and
are they not proud of him?--proud of his handsome face, which, amid all
its easy good-nature, has a certain dash of hauteur that befits one who
has a sprinkling of the blood of Saxon kings in his veins; proud of his
generous heart, which beats with a thousand kindly impulses towards his
fellow-men. They shout aloud as he flies past them, the long stride of
the chestnut skimming over the ground, and spattering fragments of torn
grass and ploughed-up earth about him as he goes. Laura sees the scarlet
jacket rise for a moment against the low grey sky, and then fly onward,
and that is about all she sees of the dreaded leap which she had looked
at in fear and trembling the day before. Her heart is still beating with
a strange vague terror, when her lover rides quietly past the stand, and
the people about her cry out that the race has been nobly won. The other
riders come in very slowly, and are oppressed by that indescribable air
of sheepishness which is peculiar to gentleman jockeys when they do not
win.

The girl's eyes fill suddenly with tears, and she leans back in the
carriage, glad to hide her happy face from the crowd.

Ten minutes afterwards Sir Philip Jocelyn came across the course with a
great silver-gilt cup in his arms, and surrounded by an admiring throng,
amongst whom he had just emptied his purse.

"I've brought you the cup, Laura; and I want you to be pleased with my
victory. It's the last triumph of my bachelor days, you know, darling."

"Three cheers for Miss Dunbar!" shouted some adventurous spirit among
the crowd about the baronet.

In the next moment the cry was taken up, and two or three hundred voices
joined in a loud hurrah for the banker's daughter. The poor girl drew
back into the carriage, blushing and frightened.

"Don't mind them, Laura dear," Sir Philip said; "they mean well, you
know, and they look upon me as public property. Hadn't you better give
them a bow, Mr. Dunbar?" he added, in an undertone to the banker. "It'll
please them, I know."

Mr. Dunbar frowned, but he bent forward for a moment, and, leaning his
head a little way out of the window, made a stately acknowledgment of
the people's enthusiasm. As he did so, his eyes met those of the Major,
who had crossed the course with Sir Philip and his admirers, and who was
staring straight before him at the banker's carriage. Henry Dunbar drew
back immediately after making that very brief salute to the populace.
"Tell them to drive home, Sir Philip," he said. "The people mean well, I
dare say; but I hate these popular demonstrations. There's something to
be done about the settlements, by-the-bye; you'd better dine at the
Abbey this evening. John Lovell will be there to meet you."

The carriage drove away; and though the Major pushed his way through the
crowd pretty rapidly, he was too late to witness its departure. He was
in a very good temper, however, for he had won what his companions
called a hatful of money on the steeple-chase, and he stood to win on
other races that were to come off that afternoon. During the interval
that elapsed before the next race, he talked to a sociable bystander
about Sir Philip Jocelyn, and the young lady he was going to marry. He
ascertained that the wedding was to take place the next morning, and at
Lisford church.

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