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 air 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.
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.