HENRY DUN BAR.

Bruce Herald, Volume III, Issue 58, 18 May 1865, Page 7

HENRY DUN BAR.

By the- Author -off ' Aurora Floyd).'" ( Lady Audley's. Secret,' &c., &c. (.Continued from Qur last!) CHAPTER VIII. The First: Stage on the -Journey Home.. Joseph Wilinot obeyed his old master, and ordered a very excellent luncheon, which was served in the best style of the Dolphin ; and a sojourn at the Dolphin is in itself almost a recompense for the pains and penalties of the voyage home from India. Mr Dunbar, from the sublime height of his own grandeur, stooped to be very friendly with his old valet, and insisted upon Joseph's sitting down with him at the well-spread, table. But although the Anglo-Indian did ample justice to the luncheon, and washed down a patchcock and a lobster-salad with several glasses of iced Moselle, the reprobate ate and drank very little, and. sat for the most part of the time crumbling his bread in a strange absent manner, and watching his companion's face. He only spoke when his old master

addressed him, and then in a constrained, half-mechanical way, which might have excited the wonder of any one less supremely indifferent than was Henry Dunbar to the feelings of his fellowcreatures. The Anglo-Indian finished his luncheon? loft the table, and walked to the window, but Joseph. Wilmot still sat with a full glass before him. The sparkling bubbles had vanished from the clear amber wine, but although: Moselle at half-a-guinea a bottle could' scarcely have been a very Gommon beverage to the ex-convict, he seemed to t have no appreciation of the vintage.. He sat with his head bent and his elbow on his knee— brooding, brooding, brooding. Henry Dunbar amused himself for about ten minutes looking out at the busy street — the brightest, airiest, lightest, prettiest Hio'h street in- all England perhaps — and then turned ■■ away from, the window, and looked at his old valet. He had been accustomed, five-and-thirty years ago, to be familiar with the- man, and to make a confident and. companion, of him, and he fell into the same manner now naturally, as if the five-and-thirty years had never been, as if Joseph Wilmot had never been wronged by him ; he fell into the old way, and treated his companion with that haughty affability which: a monarch might be supposed to exhibit towards, his prime favorite... '^Q-ink your- winej. Wilmot,? he exclaimed ; * don't sit meditating there, as if you were a greafr speculator brooding over the stagnation-, of the money market. I want bright, looks, man,, to welcome me back to my native country. I've seen dark faces enough out yonder,. and; I want to see smiling and pleasanter faces here. You actually look as black as if you had committed; a murder, or were plotting one.' The outcast smiled. 1 I've so much reason.; to look, pleasant, haven't I V he said in the same tone he had used when he declared, his acceptance of the bankers-b ounty; ' Fve-sucha pleasant Hfe ; before me,. and- such agreeable recolr lections to: look back upon.. A. man's memory seems to. me like^ a, book of pictures that he must be continually, looking at- whether he will, or not; ; andif, the pictures are horrible,. if he- shudders, as he looks, at them, if" the sight of them, is- worse than the pain of death to. him,. he must look nevertheless.. I read a. story the other day— at least> my girL was-reading, it to me ; poor child ! she tries .to soften; me. with these things sometimes— and.the man •who wrote the story said.it was well for the most miserable of, us to pray, 'Lord, keep my memory green!' But what if the' memory is a record, of crime,. Mr Dunbar '? Can we pray that those memories may be kept green?. Wouldn't it be better, to pray that, our brains and hearts may wither, leaving us no power to look back upon the past ? Ii: I could, have forgotten, the wrong you. did. me five-andrthirty years a°-o I might have been. a different man.; but I couldn't forget it. Every day and. every hour I. have remembered, it.. My memory is just as fresh, to-day as it four-and- thirty years ago, when my 1

wrong's were not more than a twelvemonth old.' • Joseph Wilmot had* said all this almost as if he had yielded to an uncontrollable impulse, and spoke because he must speak, rather than from the desire to upbraid Henry Dunbaf. He had not looked at the Anglo-Indian, he had not changed.! his attitude, but had' spokeni with his head still bent, and his eyes fixed upon the ground. Mr Dunbar had gone back' to the wins dow, and had resumed his contemplation of the street ; but he turned sharply round with a hasty gesture of angry impatience when Joseph Wilmot had finished speaking. 4 Now, listen to me, Wilmot,' he said. 1 If the firm of St Gundolph Lane sent you, down here to annoy and insult m a directly I set foot on British ground, they have chosen a very nice way of testifying their respect for-their chief, and they have made a mistake which they shall repent having made sooner or later. If you came here upon your own account with, a view to terrify me, or to extort money from me, you have made a mistake. If you think to make a fool of me by any maudlin sentimentality, you make a still greater mistake. I give you fair warning. If you expect any advantage from me, you must make yourself agreeable to me. lam a rich man, and know how to recompense those who please me ; but I will not be I bored or tormented by any man alive.

least of all by you. Ii you choose to make yourself useful, you can stay ; if you don't choose to do so, the sooner you leave this room the better for yourself, if you wish to "escape the humiliation of being turned out by the waiter.' At the end of this speech Joseph Wilmot looked up for the first time. He was very pale, and there were strange hard lines about his compressed lips, and a new light in his eyes. 'lama poor weak fool,' he said quietly, ' very weak and very foolish when I think there can be anything in that old story to touch your heart, Mr Dunbar. I will not [ offend you again, believe me. I have not \ led a sober life of late years. I've had a ' touch of delirium tremens, and my nerves ■ are not as strong as they used to be ; but I'll not annoy you again. I'm quite ready to make myself useful in any way you may require. 1 , l Get me a time-table, then/ said Henry „ Dunbar, ' and let us see about the trains. I don't want to stay here in Southampton • all day,' L Joseph Wilmot rang the bell, and ' ordered the time-table. Henry Dunbar ' studied it. \ 'There is no express before ten o'clock ' at night,' he said; and I. do'nt care for travelling by a slow train. Now ' what am I to do wityh myself in the in- ' terim V ' He was silent for a few moments, turning : over the leaves of Bradshaw's Guide, ! and thinking. : How far is it from here to Winchester 1 * he asked presently. ' Ten miles, or thereabouts, I believe/ L Joseph answered. * ' ■ l Ten miles ! Very well then, Wilmot, I'll tell you what I'll do. I've a friend in ; the neighborhood of Winchester, an old college companion, a man who has a fine [ estate in' Hampshire, and a house near St. f Cross. If you'll order a carriage and pair ; to be got ready immediately, we'll drive , "over to Winchester. I'll go and see my ! ?old friend Michael Marston ; we'll dine at . ; the George, and go up to London by the • express train which leaves Winchester at '. h quarter-past ten. Go and order the car- ! riage, and lose no time about it ; that's a , > ;gpod fellow.' ; | Half an hour after this, the two men . Ueffe Southampton in an open carriage, ;. j with* the 'banker's despatch-box, . and Jos Wilmot's carpet-bag. It was three [ o'clock when the carriage drove away from . the entrance of the Dolphin Hotel : it „ wan f ed' five minutes to four when Mr. > Dunbar and his companion entered the ' ,spacious dining-room oi the George. s ■ Throughout the drive the banker had ' been in very- excellent spirits, smoking , cheroots, and- admiring the lovely English ! landscape, the spreading pastures, the ) glimpses of; distant woodland, the hills ; beyond the gray cathedral, city, purple in ; the distance,. L. : He had. talked a good deal, making r himself; very familiar with his humble b friend; But he had not talked so much r ar so loudly as. Josephs Wilmot.. A.

gloomy memories seemed to have melted .way from this man's mind. His former Qoody silence had been succeeded by a oanner that was almost unnaturally gay. L close observer would have detected that lis laugh was a little forced, his loudest nerriment wanting in geniality : : but Senry Dunbar ; was not a close observer. People in Calcutta, who courted andadirired the rich; banker, had been wont to praise the aristocratic ease of his manner, svhich was not often disturbed by any vulgar demonstration of his own emotions, and very rarely ruffled by any sympathy with the joys, or pity for the sorrows, of his fellow-creatures. His companion's ready wit and know- 1 ledge of the world — the very worst part of the world unhappily — amused the languid Anglo-Indian ; and by the time the tra«vellers reached Winchester, they were on excellent terms with each other. Joseph Wilmot was thoroughly at home with his patron ; and as the two men were dressed in the same fashion, and had pretty much the same nonchalance of manner, it would have beejft ; very difficult for a stranger to hnve discovered which was the servant and ! which the master. One of them ordered dinner for eight o'clock, the best the house could provide. The luggage was taken up to a private room, and the two men. walked away from the hotel arm-in-arm.

They walked under the shadow of a low stone colonnade, and then turned aside by the market-place, and made their way into the precincts of the cathedral. There are quaint old eoutyards, and shadowy quadrangles hereabouts -, there are pleasant gardens, where the flowers seem to grow brighter in the sanctified shade than other flowers that flaunt in the unhallowed sunsbine. There are low, old-fashioned houses, with Tudor windows, and ponderous porches, gray gables crowned with yellow stone-moss, high garden-walls, queer nooks and corners, deep windowseats in painted oriels, great oaken beams supporting low dark ceiling's, heavy clusters of chimneys half borne down by the weight of the ivy that clings about them : and, over all, the shadow of the great cathedral broods," like a sheltering* wing, preserving the cool quiet of these cosy sanctuaries. Beyond this holy shelter fair pastures stretch away to the feet of the grassy hills, and a winding stream of water wanders in and out: now hiding in dim groves of spreading elms : now creeping from the darkness with a murmuring voice and stealthy gliding motion, to change its very nature, and become the noisiest brook that ever babbled over sun-lit pebbles on its way to the blue sea. In one of the gray stone quadrangles close under the cathedral wall, the two men, still arm-in-arm, stopped to make an inquiry about Mr. Michael Marston, of the Ferns, St. Cross. Alas ! Ben Bolt, it is a fine thing to sail away to foreign shores and prosper there ; but it is not so pleasant to come home. and hear that Alice is dead and buried j that of all your old companions there is only one left to greet you; and that even the brook which rippled through your boyish dreams, as you lay asleep amongst the rushes on its brink, has dried up for ever ! Mr. Michael, Marston had been dead more than ten years. His widow, who was an elderly lady, was still living at the Ferns. This was the information which the two men obtained from a verger, whom they found prowling about the quadrangle. Very little was said. One of the men merely asked the necessary questions. But neither of them expressed either regret or surprise. They walked away silently, still arm-in-arm, towards the shady groves and spreading pastures beyond the cathedral precincts. The verger, who was elderly and slow, called after them in a feeble voice as they went away : ' ' ' Maybe you would like to see the cathedral, gentlemen ; it's w«ll worth the seeing.' But he received no answer. The two men were out of hearing, or did not care to reply to him. ' We'll take a stroll towards Stf. Cross, and get an appetite for dinner,' Mr. Dunbar said, as he and his companion walked along a pathway, under the shadow of a moss-grown, wall,^ across a patch ofj

meadow-land, and away into- the holyquiet of a grove.. A- serene stillness reigned beneath 1 the-* shelter of the spreading- branches. The; winding, streamlet rippled along amidst; the wild-flowers and trembling rushes,, the ground beneath the feet of these two. idle wanderers was a soft bed of moss and. rarely- trodden grass. . , It was a lonely place, this grove j for itr, lay between the meadows and the highroad. Eeeble old pensioners ±rom St.. Cross came here sometimes, but not often.. Enthusiastic disciples of old Isaac Walton now and then invaded the holy quietc of the place : but not often, The lovliest; spots on earth. are those where man, seldom comes.. This spot was most lovely because of its ; solitude. Only the gentle waving of the; leaves, .the long melodious note of a lonely - bird, and the low whisper of the streamlet, . broke the silence. The two men went into the grove arm— in arm. One of them was talking,, the^ other listening, and smoking a cigar as he. listened. They went into the long arcade -. beneath the. over-arching trees, and the; sombre shadows closed about them, and; hid them. from the world.