CLEMENT AUSTIN MAKES A SACRIFICE.
Margaret Wilmot had promised to become the wife of the man she loved;
but she had given that promise very reluctantly, and only upon one
condition. The condition was, that, before her marriage with Clement
Austin took place, the mystery of her father's death should be cleared
up for ever.
"I cannot be your wife so long as the secret of that cruel deed remains
unknown," she said to Clement. "It seems to me as if I have already
been wickedly neglectful of a solemn duty. Who had my father to love
him and remember him in all the world but me? and who should avenge his
death if I do not? He was an outcast from society; and people think it
a very small thing that, after having led a reckless life, he should
die a cruel death. If Henry Dunbar, the rich banker, had been murdered,
the police would never have rested until the assassin had been
discovered. But who cares what became of Joseph Wilmot, except his
daughter? His death makes no blank in the world: except to me—except to
me!"
Clement Austin did not forget his promise to do his uttermost towards
the discovery of the banker's guilt. He believed that Henry Dunbar was
the murderer of his old servant; and he had believed it ever since that
day upon which the banker stole, like a detected thief, out of the
house in St. Gundolph Lane.
It was just possible that Henry Dunbar might avoid Joseph Wilmot's
daughter from a natural horror of the events connected with his return
to England; but that the banker should resort to a cowardly stratagem
to escape from an interview with the girl could scarcely be accounted
for, except by the fact of his guilt.
He had an insurmountable terror of seeing this girl, because he was the
murderer of her father.
The longer Clement Austin deliberated upon this business the more
certainly he came to that one terrible conclusion: Henry Dunbar was
guilty. He would gladly have thought otherwise: and he would have been
very happy had he been able to tell Margaret Wilmot that the mystery of
her father's death was a mystery that would never be solved upon this
earth: but he could not do so; he could only bow his head before the
awful necessity that urged him on to take his part in this drama of
crime—the part of an avenger.
But a cashier in a London bank has very little time to play any part in
life's history, except that quiet _rôle_ which seems chiefly to consist
in locking and unlocking iron safes, peering furtively into mysterious
ledgers, and shovelling about new sovereigns as coolly as if they were
Wallsend or Clay-Cross coals.
Clement Austin's life was not an easy one, and he had no time to turn
amateur detective, even in the service of the woman he loved.
He had no time to turn amateur detective so long as he remained at the
banking-house in St. Gundolph Lane.
But could he remain there? That question arose in his mind, and took a
very serious form. Was it possible to remain in that house when he
believed the principal member of it to be one of the most infamous of
men?
No; it was quite impossible for him to remain in his present situation.
So long as he took a salary from Dunbar, Dunbar and Balderby, he was in
a manner under obligation to Henry Dunbar. He could not remain in this
man's service, and yet at the same time play the spy upon his actions,
and work heart and soul to drag the dreadful secret of his life into
the light of day.
Thus it was that towards the close of the week in which Henry Dunbar,
for the first time after his return from India, visited the
banking-offices, Clement Austin handed a formal notice of resignation
to Mr. Balderby. The cashier could not immediately resign his
situation, but was compelled to give his employers a month's notice of
the withdrawal of his services.
A thunderbolt falling upon the morocco-covered writing-table in Mr.
Balderby's private parlour could scarcely have been more astonishing to
the junior partner than this letter which Clement Austin handed him
very quietly and very respectfully.
There were many reasons why Clement Austin should remain in the
banking-house. His father had lived for thirty years, and had
eventually died, in the employment of Dunbar and Dunbar. He had been a
great favourite with the brothers; and Clement had been admitted into
the house as a boy, and had received much notice from Percival. More
than this, he had every chance of being admitted ere long to a junior
partnership upon very easy terms, which junior partnership would of
course be the high-road to a great fortune.
Mr. Balderby sat with the letter open in his hands, staring at the
lines before him as if he was scarcely able to comprehend their
purport.
"Do you _mean_ this, Austin?" he said at last.
"Yes, sir. Circumstances over which I have no control compel me to
offer you my resignation."
"Have you quarrelled with anybody in the office? Has anything occurred
in the house that has made you uncomfortable?"
"No, indeed, Mr. Balderby; I am very comfortable in my position."
The junior partner leaned back in his chair, and stared at the cashier
as if he had been trying to detect the traces of incipient insanity in
the young man's countenance.
"You are comfortable in your position, and yet you—Oh! I suppose the
real truth of the matter is, that you have heard of something better,
and you are ready to give us the go-by in order to improve your own
circumstances?" said Mr. Balderby, with a tone of pique; "though I
really don't see how you can very well be better off anywhere than you
are here," he added, thoughtfully.
"You do me wrong, sir, when you think that I could willingly leave you
for my own advantage," Clement answered, quietly. "I have no better
engagement, nor have I even a prospect of any engagement."
"You haven't!" exclaimed the junior partner; "and yet you throw away
such a chance as only falls to the lot of one man in a thousand! I
don't particularly care about guessing riddles, Mr. Austin; perhaps
you'll be kind enough to tell me frankly why you want to leave us?"
"I regret to say that it is impossible for me to do so, sir," replied
the cashier; "my motive for leaving this house, which is a kind of
second home to me, is no frivolous one, believe me. I have weighed well
the step I am about to take, and I am quite aware that I sacrifice very
excellent prospects in throwing up my present situation. But the reason
of my resignation must remain a secret; for the present at least. If
ever the day comes when I am able to explain my conduct, I believe that
you will give me your hand, and say to me, 'Clement Austin, you only
did your duty.'"
"Clement," said Mr. Balderby, "you are an excellent fellow; but you
certainly must have got some romantic crotchet in your head, or you
could never have thought of writing such a letter as this. Are you
going to be married? Is that your reason for leaving us? Have you
fascinated some wealthy heiress, and are you going to retire into
splendid slavery?"
"No, sir. I am engaged to be married; but the lady whom I hope to call
my wife is poor, and I have every necessity to be a working man for the
rest of my life."
"Well, then, my dear fellow, it's a riddle; and, as I said before, I'm
not good at guessing enigmas. There, my boy; go home and sleep upon
this; and come back to me to-morrow morning, and tell me to throw this
stupid letter in the fire—that's the wisest thing you can do. Good
night."
But, in spite of all that Mr. Balderby could say, Clement Austin
steadily adhered to his resolution. He worked early and late during the
month in which he remained at his post, preparing the ledgers,
balancing accounts, and making things straight and easy for the new
cashier. He told Margaret Wilmot of what he had done, but he did not
tell her the extent of the sacrifice which he had made for her sake.
She was the only person who knew the real motive of his conduct, for to
his mother he said very little more than he had said to Mr. Balderby.
"I shall be able to tell you my motives for leaving the banking-house
at some future time, dear mother," he said; "until that time I can only
entreat you to trust me, and to believe that I have acted for the
best."
"I do believe it, my dear," answered the widow, cheerfully; "when did
you ever do anything that wasn't wise and good?"
Her only son, Clement, was the god of this simple woman's idolatry; and
if he had seen fit to turn her out of doors, and ask her to beg by his
side in the streets of the city, I doubt if she would not have imagined
some hidden wisdom lurking at the bottom of his apparently irrational
proceedings. So she made no objection to his abandoning his desk in the
house of Dunbar, Dunbar, and Balderby.
"We shall be poorer, I suppose, Clem," Mrs. Austin said; "but that's
very little consequence, for your dear father left me so comfortably
off that I can very well afford to keep house for my only son; and I
shall have you more at home, dear, and that will indeed be happiness."
But Clement told his mother that he had some very important business on
hand just then, which would occupy him a good deal; and indeed the
first step necessary would be a journey to Shorncliffe, in
Warwickshire.
"Why, that's where you went to school, Clem!"
"Yes, mother."
"And it's near Mr. Percival Dunbar—or, at least, Mr. Dunbar's country
house."
"Yes, mother," answered Clement. "Now the business in which I am
engaged is—is rather of a difficult nature, and I want legal help. My
old schoolfellow, Arthur Lovell, who is as good a fellow as ever
breathed, has been educated for the law, and is now a solicitor. He
lives at Shorncliffe with his father, John Lovell, who is also a
solicitor, and a man of some standing in the county. I shall run down
to Shorncliffe, see my old friend, and get has advice; and if you'll
bring Margaret down for a few days' change of air, we'll stop at the
dear old Reindeer, where you used to come, mother, when I was at
school, and where you used to give me such jolly dinners in the days
when a good dinner was a treat to a hungry schoolboy."
Mrs. Austin smiled at her son; she smiled tenderly as she remembered
his bright boyhood. Mothers with only sons are not very strong-minded.
Had Clement proposed a trip to the moon, she would scarcely have known
how to refuse him her company on the expedition.
She shivered a little, and looked rather doubtfully from the blazing
fire which lit up the cozy drawing-room to the cold grey sky outside
the window.
"The beginning of January isn't the pleasantest time in the year for a
trip into the country, Clem, dear," she said; "but I should certainly
be very lonely at home without you. And as to poor Madge, of course it
would be a great treat to her to get away from her pupils and have a
peep at the genuine country, even though there isn't a single leaf upon
the trees. So I suppose I must say yes. But do tell me all about this
business, there's a dear good boy."
Unfortunately the dear good boy was obliged to tell his mother that the
business in question was, like his motive for resigning his situation,
a profound secret, and that it must remain so for some time to come.
"Wait, dear mother," he said; "you shall know all about it by-and-by.
Believe me, when I tell you that it's not a very pleasant business," he
added, with a sigh.
"It's not unpleasant for you, I hope, Clement?"
"It isn't pleasant for any one who is concerned in it, mother,"
answered the young man, thoughtfully; "it's altogether a miserable
business; but I'm not concerned in it as a principal, you know, dear
mother; and when it's all over we shall only look back upon it as the
passing of a black cloud over our lives, and you will say that I have
done my duty. Dearest mother, don't look so puzzled," added Clement;
"this matter _must_ remain a secret for the present. Only wait, and
trust me."
"I will, my dear boy," Mrs. Austin said, presently. "I will trust you
with all my heart; for I know how good you are. But I don't like
secrets, Clem; secrets always make me uncomfortable."
No more was said upon this subject, and it was arranged by-and-by that
Mrs. Austin and Margaret should prepare to start for Warwickshire at
the beginning of the following week, when Clement would be freed from
all engagements to Messrs. Dunbar, Dunbar, and Balderby.
Margaret had waited very patiently for this time, in which Clement
would be free to give her all his help in that awful task which lay
before her—the discovery of Henry Dunbar's guilt.
"You will go to Shorncliffe with my mother," Clement Austin said, upon
the evening after his conversation with the widow; "you will go with
her, Madge, ostensibly upon a little pleasure trip. Once there, we
shall be able to contrive an interview with Mr. Dunbar. He is a
prisoner at Maudesley Abbey, laid up by the effect of his accident the
other day, but not too ill to see people, Balderby says; therefore I
should think we may be able to plan an interview between you and him.
You still hold to your original purpose? You wish to _see_ Henry
Dunbar?"
"Yes," answered Margaret, thoughtfully; "I want to see him. I want to
look straight into the face of the man whom I believe to be my father's
murderer. I don't know why it is, but this purpose has been uppermost
in my mind ever since I heard of that dreadful journey to Winchester;
ever since I first knew that my father had been murdered while
travelling with Henry Dunbar. It might, as you have said, be wiser to
watch and wait, and to avoid all chance of alarming this man. But I
can't be wise. I want to see him. I want to look in his face, and see
if his eyes can meet mine."
"You shall see him then, dear girl. A woman's instinct is sometimes
worth more than a man's wisdom. You shall see Henry Dunbar. I know that
my old schoolfellow Arthur Lovell will help me, with all his heart and
soul. I have called again upon the Scotland-Yard people, and I gave
them a minute description of the scene in St. Gundolph Lane; but they
only shrugged their shoulders, and said the circumstances looked queer,
but were not strong enough to act upon. If any body can help us, Arthur
Lovell can; for he was present at the inquest and all further
examination of the witnesses at Winchester."
If Margaret Wilmot and Clement Austin had been going upon any other
errand than that which took them to Warwickshire, the journey to
Shorncliffe might have been very pleasant to them.
To Margaret, this comfortable journey in the cushioned corner of a
first-class carriage, respectfully waited upon by the man she loved,
possessed at least the charm of novelty. Her journeys hitherto had been
long wearisome pilgrimages in draughty third-class carriages, with
noisy company, and in an atmosphere pervaded by a powerful effluvium of
various kinds of alcohol.
Her life had been a very hard one, darkened by the ever-brooding shadow
of disgrace. It was new to her to sit quietly looking out at the low
meadows and glimmering white-walled villas, the patches of sparse
woodland, the distant villages, the glimpses of rippling water, shining
in the wintry sun. It was new to her to be loved by people whose minds
were unembittered by the baneful memories of wrong and crime. It was
new to her to hear gentle voices, sweet Christian-like words: it was
new to her to breathe the bright atmosphere that surrounds those who
lead a virtuous, God-fearing life.
But there is little sunshine without its attendant shadow. The shadow
upon Margaret's life now was the shadow of that coming task—that
horrible work which must be done—before she could be free to thank God
for His mercies, and to be happy.
The London train reached Shorncliffe early in the afternoon. Clement
Austin hired a roomy old fly, and carried off his companions to the
Reindeer.
The Reindeer was a comfortable old-fashioned hotel. It had been a very
grand place in the coaching-days, and you entered the hostelry by a
broad and ponderous archway, under which Highflyers and Electrics had
driven triumphantly in the days that were for ever gone.
The house was a roomy old place, with long corridors and wide
staircases; noble staircases, with broad, slippery, oaken banisters and
shallow steps. The rooms were grand and big, with bow windows so
spotless in their cleanness that they had rather a cold effect on a
January day, and were apt to inspire in the vulgar mind the fancy that
a little dirt or smoke would look warmer and more comfortable.
Certainly, if the Reindeer had a fault, it was that it was too clean.
Everything was actually slippery with cleanness, from the
newly-calendered chintz that covered the sofa and the chair-cushions to
the copper coal-scuttle that glittered by the side of the dazzling
brass fender. There were faint odours of soft soap in the bed-chambers,
which no amount of dried lavender could overcome. There was an
effluvium of vitriol about all the brass-work, and there was a good
deal of brass-work in the Reindeer: and if one species of decoration is
more conducive to shivering than another, it certainly is brass-work in
a state of high polish.
There was no dish ever devised by mortal cook which the sojourner at
the Reindeer could not have, according to the preliminary statement of
the landlord; but with whatever ambitious design the sojourner began to
talk about dinner, it always ended, somehow or other, by his ordering a
chicken, a little bit of boiled bacon, a dish of cutlets, and a tart.
There were days upon which divers species of fish were to be had in
Shorncliffe, but the sojourner at the Reindeer rarely happened to hit
upon one of those days.
Clement Austin installed Margaret and the widow in a sitting-room which
would have comfortably accommodated about forty people. There was a
bow-window quite large enough for the requirements of a small family,
and Mrs. Austin settled herself there, while the landlord was
struggling with a refractory fire, and pretending not to know that the
grate was damp.
Clement went through the usual fiction of deliberation as to what he
should have for dinner, and of course ended with the perennial chicken
and cutlets.
"I haven't the fine appetite I had fifteen years ago, Mr. Gilwood," he
said to the landlord, "when my mother yonder, who hasn't grown fifteen
days older in all those fifteen years,—bless her dear motherly
heart!—used to come down to see me at the academy in the Lisford Road,
and give me a dinner in this dear old room. I thought your cutlets the
most ethereal morsels ever dished by mortal cook, Mr. Gilwood, and this
room the best place in all the world. You know Mr. Lovell—Mr. Arthur
Lovell?"
"Yes, sir; and a very nice young gentleman he is."
"He's settled in Shorncliffe, I suppose?"
"Well, I believe he is, sir. There was some talk of his going out to
India, in a Government appointment, sir, or something of that sort; but
I'm given to understand that it's all off now, and that Mr. Arthur is
to go into partnership with his father; and a very clever young lawyer
he is, I've been told."
"So much the better," answered Clement, "for I want to consult him upon
a little matter of business. Good-bye, mother! Take care of Madge, and
make yourselves as comfortable as you can. I think the fire will burn
now, Mr. Gilwood. I shan't be away above an hour, I dare say; and then
I'll come and take you for a walk before dinner. God bless you, my poor
Madge!" Clement whispered, as Margaret followed him to the door of the
room, and looked wistfully after him as he went down the staircase.
Mrs. Austin had once cherished ambitious views with regard to her son's
matrimonial prospects; but she had freely given them up when she found
that he had set his heart upon winning Margaret Wilmot for his wife.
The good mother had made this sacrifice willingly and without
complaint, as she would have made any other sacrifice for her
dearly-beloved only son; and she found the reward of her devotion; for
Margaret, this penniless, friendless girl, had become very dear to
her—a real daughter, not in law, but bound by the sweet ties of
gratitude and affection.
"And I was such a silly old creature, my dear," the widow said to
Margaret, as they sat in the bow-window looking out into the quiet
street; "I was so worldly-minded that I wanted Clement to marry a rich
woman, so that I might have some stuck-up daughter-in-law, who would
despise her husband's mother, and estrange my boy from me, and make my
old age miserable. That's what I wanted, Madge, and what I might have
had, perhaps, if Clem hadn't been wiser than his silly old mother. And,
thanks to him, I've got the sweetest, truest, brightest girl that ever
lived; though you are not as bright as usual to-day, Madge," Mrs.
Austin added, thoughtfully. "You haven't smiled once this morning, my
dear, and you seem as if you'd something on your mind."
"I've been thinking of my poor father," Margaret answered, quietly.
"To be sure, my dear; and I might have known as much, my poor
tender-hearted lamb. I know how unhappy those thoughts always make
you."
Clement Austin had not been at Shorncliffe for three years. He had
visited Maudesley Abbey several times during the lifetime of Percival
Dunbar, for he had been a favourite with the old man; and he had been
four years at a boarding-school kept by a clergyman of the Church of
England in a fine old brick mansion on the Lisford Road.
The town of Shorncliffe was therefore familiar to Mr. Austin; and he
looked neither to the right nor to the left as he walked towards the
archway of St. Gwendoline's Church, near which Mr. Lovell's house was
situated.
He found Arthur at home, and very delighted to see his old
schoolfellow. The two young men went into a little panelled room,
looting into the garden, a cosy little room which Arthur Lovell called
his study; and here they sat together for upwards of an hour,
discussing the circumstances of the murder at Winchester, and the
conduct of Mr. Dunbar since that event.
In the course of that interview, Clement Austin plainly perceived that
Arthur Lovell had come to the same conclusion as himself, though the
young lawyer was slow to express his opinion.
"I cannot bear to think it," he said; "I know Laura Dunbar—that is to
say, Lady Jocelyn—and it is too horrible to me to imagine that her
father is guilty of this crime. What would be that innocent girl's
feelings if it should be so, and if her father's guilt should be
brought home to him!"
"Yes, it would be very terrible for Lady Jocelyn, no doubt," Clement
answered; "but that consideration must not hinder the course of
justice. I think this man's position has served him as a shield from
the very first. People have thought it next to impossible that Henry
Dunbar could be guilty of a crime, while they would have been ready
enough to suspect some penniless vagabond of any iniquity."
Arthur Lovell told Clement that the banker was still at Maudesley,
bound a prisoner by his broken leg, which was going on favourably
enough, but very slowly.
Mr. Dunbar had expressed a wish to go abroad, in spite of his broken
leg, and had only desisted from his design of being conveyed somehow or
other from place to place, when he was told that any such imprudence
might result in permanent lameness.
"Keep yourself quiet, and submit to the necessities of your accident,
and you'll recover quickly," the surgeon told his patient. "Try to
hurry the work of nature, and you'll have cause to repent your
impatience for the remainder of your life."
So Henry Dunbar had been obliged to submit himself to the decrees of
Fate, and to lie day after day, and night after night, upon his bed in
the tapestried chamber, staring at the fire, or the figure of his valet
and attendant; nodding in the easy-chair by the hearth; or listening to
the cinders falling from the grate, and the moaning of the winter wind
amongst the bare branches of the elms.
The banker was getting better and stronger every day, Arthur Lovell
said. His attendants were able to remove him from one chamber to
another; a pair of crutches had been made for him, but he had not yet
been able to make his first feeble trial of them. He was fain to
content himself with being carried to an easy-chair, to sit for a few
hours, wrapped in blankets, with the leopard-skin rug about his legs.
No man could have been more completely a prisoner than this man had
become by the result of the fatal accident near Rugby.
"Providence has thrown him into my power," Margaret said, when Clement
repeated to her the information which he had received from Arthur
Lovell,—"Providence has thrown this man into my power; for he can no
longer escape, and, surrounded by his own servants, he will scarcely
dare to refuse to see me; he will surely never be so unwise as to
betray his terror of me."
"And if he does refuse——"
"If he does, I'll invent some stratagem by which I may see him. But he
will not refuse. When he finds that I am so resolute as to follow him
here, he will not refuse to see me."
This conversation took place during a brief walk which the lovers took
in the wintry dusk, while Mrs. Austin nodded by the fire in that
comfortable half-hour which precedes dinner.