Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  “I dare say not,” the banker answered, carelessly; “you must allow something for the passage of time, my dear Lovell, and the wear and tear of a life in Calcutta. I dare say my mouth and chin are rather harder and sterner in their character than Laura’s.”

  There was nothing more said upon the subject of the likeness; by-and-by Mr. Dunbar got up, took his hat, and went towards the door.

  “You will come with me, Lovell,” he said.

  “Oh, no, Mr. Dunbar. I would not wish to intrude upon you at such a time. The first interview between a father and daughter, after a separation of so many years, is almost sacred in its character. I — —”

  “Pshaw, Mr. Lovell! I did not think a solicitor’s son would be weak enough to indulge in any silly sentimentality. I shall be very glad to see my daughter; and I understand from her letters that she will be pleased to see me. That is all! At the same time, as you know Laura much better than I do, you may as well come with me.”

  Mr. Dunbar’s looks belied the carelessness of his words. His face was deadly pale, and there was a singularly rigid expression about his mouth.

  Laura had received no notice of her father’s coming. She was sitting at the same window by which she had sat when Arthur Lovell asked her to be his wife. She was sitting in the same low luxurious easy-chair, with the hot-house flowers behind her, and a huge Newfoundland dog — a faithful attendant that she had brought from Maudesley Abbey — lying at her feet.

  The door of Miss Dunbar’s morning-room was open: and upon the broad landing-place outside the apartment the banker stopped suddenly, and laid his hand upon the gilded balustrade. For a moment it seemed almost as if he would have fallen: but he leaned heavily upon the bronze scroll-work of the banister, and bit his lower lip fiercely with his strong white teeth. Arthur Lovell was not displeased to perceive this agitation: for he had been wounded by the careless manner in which Henry Dunbar had spoken of his beautiful daughter. Now it was evident that the banker’s indifference had only been assumed as a mask beneath which the strong man had tried to conceal the intensity of his feelings.

  The two men lingered upon the landing-place for a few minutes; while Mr. Dunbar looked about him, and endeavoured to control his agitation. Everything here was new to him: for neither the house in Portland Place, nor Maudesley Abbey, had been in the possession of the Dunbar family more than twenty years.

  The millionaire contemplated his possessions. Even upon that landing-place there was no lack of evidence of wealth. A Persian carpet covered the centre of the floor, and beyond its fringed margin a tessellated pavement of coloured marbles took new and brighter hues from the slanting rays of sunlight that streamed in through a wide stained-glass window upon the staircase. Great Dresden vases of exotics stood on pedestals of malachite and gold: and a trailing curtain of purple velvet hung half-way across the entrance to a long suite of drawing-rooms — a glistening vista of light and splendour.

  Mr. Dunbar pushed open the door, and stood upon the threshold of his daughter’s chamber. Laura started to her feet.

  “Papa! — papa!” she cried; “I thought that you would come to-day!”

  She ran to him and fell upon his breast, half-weeping, half-laughing. The Newfoundland dog crept up to Mr. Dunbar with his head down: he sniffed at the heels of the millionaire, and then looked slowly upward at the man’s face with sombre sulky-looking eyes, and began to growl ominously.

  “Take your dog away, Laura!” cried Mr. Dunbar, angrily.

  It happened thus that the very first words Henry Dunbar said to his daughter were uttered in a tone of anger. The girl drew herself away from him, and looked up almost piteously in her father’s face. That face was as pale as death: but cold, stern, and impassible. Laura Dunbar shivered as she looked at it. She had been a spoiled child; a pampered, idolized beauty; and had never heard anything but words of love and tenderness. Her lips quivered, and the tears came into her eyes.

  “Come away, Pluto,” she said to the dog; “papa does not want us.”

  She took the great flapping ears of the animal in her two hands, and led him out of the room. The dog went with his young mistress submissively enough: but he looked back at the last moment to growl at Mr. Dunbar.

  Laura left the Newfoundland on the landing-place, and went back to her father. She flung herself for the second time into the banker’s arms.

  “Darling papa,” she cried, impetuously; “my dog shall never growl at you again. Dear papa, tell me you are glad to come home to your poor girl. You would tell me so, if you knew how dearly I love you.”

  She lifted up her lips and kissed Henry Dunbar’s impassible face. But she recoiled from him for the second time with a shudder and a long-drawn shivering sigh. The lips of the millionaire were as cold as ice.

  “Papa,” she cried, “how cold you are! I’m afraid that you are ill!”

  He was ill. Arthur Lovell, who stood quietly watching the meeting between the father and daughter, saw a change come over his client’s face, and wheeled forward an arm-chair just in time for Henry Dunbar to fall into it as heavily as a log of wood.

  The banker had fainted. For the second time since the murder in the grove near St. Cross he had betrayed violent and sudden emotion. This time the emotion was stronger than his will, and altogether overcame him.

  Arthur Lovell laid the insensible man flat upon his back on the carpet. Laura rushed to fetch water and aromatic vinegar from her dressing-room: and in five minutes Mr. Dunbar opened his eyes, and looked about him with a wild half-terrified expression in his face. For a moment he glared fiercely at the anxious countenance of Laura, who knelt beside him: then his whole frame was shaken by a convulsive trembling, and his teeth chattered violently. But this lasted only for a few moments. He overcame it: grinding his teeth, and clenching his strong hands: and then staggered heavily to his feet.

  “I am subject to these fainting fits,” he said, with a wan, sickly smile upon his white face; “and I dreaded this interview on that account: I knew that it would be too much for me.”

  He seated himself upon the low sofa which Laura had pushed towards him, resting his elbows on his knees, and hiding his face in his hands. Miss Dunbar placed herself beside her father, and wound her arm about his neck.

  “Poor papa,” she murmured, softly; “I am so sorry our meeting has agitated you like this: and to think that I should have fancied you cold and unkind to me, at the very time when your silent emotion was an evidence of your love!”

  Arthur Lovell had gone through the open window into the conservatory: but he could hear the girl talking to her father. His face was very grave: and the same shadow that had clouded it once during the course of the coroner’s inquest rested upon it now.

  “An evidence of his love! Heaven grant this may be love,” he thought to himself; “but to me it seems a great deal more like fear!”

  CHAPTER XVII.

  THE BROKEN PICTURE.

  Arthur Lovell stopped at Portland Place for the rest of the day, and dined with the banker and his daughter in the evening. The dinner-party was a very cheerful one, as far as Mr. Dunbar and his daughter were concerned: for Laura was in very high spirits on account of her father’s return, and Dora Macmahon joined pleasantly in the conversation. The banker had welcomed his dead wife’s elder daughter with a speech which, if a little studied in its tone, was at any rate very kind in its meaning.

  “I shall always be glad to see you with my poor motherless girl,” he said; “and if you can make your home altogether with us, you shall never have cause to remember that you are less nearly allied to me than Laura herself.”

  When he met Arthur and the two girls at the dinner-table, Henry Dunbar had quite recovered from the agitation of the morning, and talked gaily of the future. He alluded now and then to his Indian reminiscences, but did not dwell long upon this subject. His mind seemed full of plans for his future life. He would do this, that, and the other, at Maudesley Abbey, in Yorkshire, and in Portland Place. He had the a
ir of a man who fully appreciates the power of wealth; and is prepared to enjoy all that wealth can give him. He drank a good deal of wine during the course of the dinner, and his spirits rose with every glass.

  But in spite of his host’s gaiety, Arthur Lovell was ill at ease. Do what he would, he could not shake off the memory of the meeting between the father and daughter. Henry Dunbar’s deadly pallor — that wild, scared look in his eyes, as they slowly reopened and glared upon Laura’s anxious face — were ever present to the young lawyer’s mind.

  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.