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 protégée'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.