HENRY DUNBAR.

Bruce Herald, Volume III, Issue 72, 24 August 1865, Page 6

HENRY DUNBAR.

By the. Author of ' Aurora Floyd,' ' Lady Audley's Secret,' &c, &c. {Continued from our last.) CHAPTER XXIX. Clement. Austin makes a Sacrifice. '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 Ln veil, who; is also* a solicitor, and a man of someistanding in the county. I. shall run down to Shorncliffe; : see my old friend, .and get his advice; and if you'll bring Margaret down for a few days' change of air, we'll stop at the 1 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 Jier 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 irom the ■blazing; fire-which lit up the cosy drawing-room to the cold gray sky outside the window. 'The beginning' of 'January isn't the pleasantest time in all 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, 1 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?' :.v - 'It isn't pleasant for any one who is concerned in it, mother/ answered the young man, thoughtfully ; i 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 L only look back upon it as the passing' of a black cloud over our eyes, 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 willj my dear boy/ Mrs. Austin said, presently. ' I will trust you with all my heart ; fov I know how good you are. But I don't like secrets, Clem ;. secrets alwaysmake uncomfortable/ No more was said upon this subject, and it was arranged by and by that Mrs Anstin 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. Dunba^ Dunbar, and Balderby. • Margaret had waited very patiently for thi& 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^Ave shall" be- able to- contrive an interview withi Mr Dunbar:. 'He is 1 a prisoner a% ; -Maudesley Abbey, laid up by the effect of his ; accident -the other day y- but ; not to ill tO;v se&- petipleV : Balderbj- says ; therefore I should think we may be- able

to plan an interview between, you anc him. . You still hold to your origina purpose ? You still wish to see Henrj Dunbar V c Yes/ answered Margaret, thoughtfully : ' I want to see him. I want to loot straight into the face of the man whom ] believe to be my fathers 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-wan'tto see him. I want to look in his face, and see if his eyes can meet me/ '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 k,now my old schoolfellow Arthur Lovell wiil help me, with all his heart and soul. I have called again ..upon the Scotland-yard people, and Igave them a minute .description of the scene in; St. (xundolph Lane ;. but they only shrugged, their, shoulders, and said the circumstances looked queer, but were not strong enough to act upon. If anybody can help us; Arthur Lovell can ; for he was present at the inquest, and all further examination of the witnesses at Winchester/ " ; ;If Margaret Wimot and Clement Austin had been going upon any other errand than that which took them to Warwick^ i shire, 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 j 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 oldi 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 bannisters and shallow steps. The rooms were grand and bigj with bow* windows so spotless in their cleanliness that they had rather a cold effect upon 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 cleanliness, 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 briiss work in a'state of high ; polish, ; : C;;V7 ' , ;. ; ■':.,; ; There wa^T^b dish ever devised" by cook which' the sojpurner : at the

Reindeer could not have, according- to th( preliminary statement of the landlord but with whatever ambitious design the sojourner began to talk about dinner, ii 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 oi fish were to be had in Shorn cliffe; 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 Gil wood,' 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 Lovell?' ' Yes, sir ; and a very nice young gen^ tleman he is.' , He's settled in Sboracliffe, I suppose?' ' Well, I believe he is, sir. There was some talk oi his going out to India, in a Government appointment, sir, or something* of that sort; bnt I'm given to understand that it' all off now, and that Mr Arthur Lovell 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 oi business. Good by, 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 daresay ; and then I'll come and take you out for a walk before dinner. God bless you, my poor Madge ! ' Clemenc 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 saccrifice 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 ber — 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 worldyminded 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're 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.' 1 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 favorite > with the old man ; and he had 'been four years at a boarding-school kept by a clergyman of the Church of Erig-; land ih a' "fine old' brick mansion ''on 1 the : Lisford Road. • . 1;

3 The town of Shorncliffe was therefore : familiar to Mr Austin ; and he looked 3 neither to the right nor to the left as he t walked towards the archway of Gwendo--3 line's church, near which Mr Lovell '</ I house was situated. i He found Arthur at home, and very def lighted to see his schoolfellow. The two-- ) young men went into a little panelled? i room, looking into the. garden, ; a icosy little room which: Arthur Lovell called his . sfcndyj and here they sat together for up- . wards of an hour, discussing the circumstances of the murder at Winchester, and the conduct of Mr Dunbar since thatevent.. In the course of that interview, Clement Austin plainly perceived that Arthur Lo«» veil had come to the same conclusion as 1 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 horrib\e 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 tohim!' ' Yes, it would be very terrible for Lady Jocelyn, no doubt/ Clement answered; ' but that consideration must not hinder ;the conrse of justice. I think this man's position has served Mm 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 inquity.' Arthur Lovell told Clement that the banker was still at Maudesly, bound a prisoner by his broken leg, which was going, on favorably 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 toplace, when he was told that any such imprudence might result in permanent lameness. ' Keep yourself quiet, and submit to thenecessities of your accident, and you'll recover quickly,' the surgeon told his patient. 1 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 tosubmit himself to the decrees of Fate, and 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 from the grate, and 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. 1 Providence has thrown him into my power,' Margaret said,J 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 j he will surely never be so unwise as to betray his. terror of me.' 'And if he does refuse— ' * If he does, I will invent some stratagem, by which I may see him. But he will not refuse. When he finds that lam sb reso lute 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 thewintry dusk, while Mrs. Austin : nodded by the fire in that comfortable half-hour which, precedes dinner.

CHAPTER XXX. ; What happened at' Maudesley Abbey. Early the ■:.. next day Clement Austin walked to Maudesley Abbey, m order to procure, all information likely to facilitate : Margaret Wilrnot's grand purpose, ' He stopped "at the gat? of the principal lodge.. ' ;Tii"3 kept it-was ah. old ser-

,„ -. r,l tv l I -i"J&d had known ST gi t m T^earty welcome, time, fehe grave Ha/ i * - *. andhehadnodifi|^ ateV^ "S^l ting her tongue in? °*P on the Sub J GCt ° f d eai; she told him £S £ P n*?7hW and gloomy liau been liked/ „, .■, ■ ,r- . > rmariner was >like^his father's easy affable good # e >. that P eo P le f were always di!winF7.P? nsOns b n dead man a? he llv ! ng : ~ i . , c Th;* ,-« #w words, is the substance of what the -* th y woman said m a £ ood mariv tf ds ' Mrs. Grumbleton gave Qlg^^il the information he required as to th/ 081^* 31 *' 8 da % movements at the pres 4^ t^ me# H enl 7 Dunbar was now in Ijjgfabit of rising about two o'clock in the (j 8 i at which time he was assisted from y bed-room to his sitting-room, where he 7 mained until seven or eight in he evening. He had no visitors, except the surgeon Mr. Daphney, who lived in the Abbey, and a gentleman called Vernon, who had bought Woodbine Cottag*e, in the neighbourhood of Lisford, and who , now and then was admitted to Mr. Dunbar's sitting-room. , . This was all Clement Austin wanted to knov?-. Surely it mig-ht be possible, with a little clever manoeuvreirig-, to thio,v the banker completely off his guard, and to bring about the long-delayed interview between hirri and Margaret Wilinot. Clement returned to the Reindeer, had a brief conversation with Margaret, and made all arrangements. At four o'clock that afternoon Miss Wilmot arid her lover left. the- Reindeer in a fly, at. a quarter to five the fly stopped at the lodge-gates. .. r , 1 1 will walk to the house,' Margaret said, 'my coming will attract less notice. But I may be detained for some time. Clement.. Pray. don't wait for me. Your dear mother will be alarmed if you are very long* absent. Go back to her, and send the fly for me by and by.' 'Nonsense, Madge. I shall wait. for you however long* you may be. Do you think my heart is not as much engaged in anything* that may influence your fate as even your own can be ? I won't go with you to the Abbey, for it will be as well that Henry Dunbar should remain in ignorance of my presence in the neighbour hood. I will walk up and down the road and wait for you.' , . I But you may have to wait so long, Clement.' . . 'No matter how long*. I can wait patiently, but I could not endure to go home and leave you Madge.' They were, standing before the great iron gates as Clement said this. He pressed Margaret's cold hand; he could feel how cold it was, even through' her glove; and then rang the MJ!. .She looked at him as the gate was^opened; she turned and looked at hap with a strangely earnest gaze &s she crossed the boundary of Henry Dunbar's domain, and then walked slowly along the broad avenue. That last look had shown Clement a pale resolute face, something like the countenance of a fair young martyr going quietly to the stake. . , r , He walked away from the, gates, and they shut behind him with a loud clanging noise.. Then he went back to them, and watched Margaret's figure growing dim and distant in the gathering dusk as she approached the Abbey. A faint glow of crimson firelight reddened the graveldrive before the windows of Henry Dunbar's apartments, and there was a footman airing himself under the shadow of the porch, with a glimmer of light shining out of the hall, behind him. I 1 do not suppose I shall have to wait very long for my poor girl,' Clement thought, as he left the gates and walked briskly up and down the shady road. ' Henry Dunbar is a resolute man; and he will refuse to see her to-day, as he refused before.' . Margaret, found, the footman lolling against the .clustered of the Gothic porch, staring thoughtfully at the low evening light, yellow and red behind the rbroWn trunks of the elms, and pickjnghis teletli with -a; gold too thpick. ■The sight of the open hall-door, and this languid footman lolling in c .the, porch, ; suddenly 1 * inspired -poor. Margaret ,Wilmbt with a new idea: 1 r Would it, ; not . be ; possible to'- slip quietly past this, man,

and walk straight into the private apart- \ ments of Mr. Dunbar, unquestioned, uninterrupted ? Clement had pointed out to her the windows of the rooms occupied by the banker. They were on the left-hand side of the entrance-hall. It would be impossible for her to mistake the door leading- to them. It vas dusk, and she was very plainly dressed, with a black straw bonnet and a veil over her face. Surely she might deceive this languid footman by affectingto be some hanger- r oii of the household, which of -course was a large drill. , In, that case she had no right to present herself at the front door certainly, bat then, before the languid footman could recover from the first shock of indignation at her impertinence, she might slip past himj and reach the door leading to those apartments in which the banker hid himself and his guilt. • ; ' \ Marg are£ lingered a little in the avenue, watching for a favourable opportunity in which she might r hazard this great attempt. She waited about five minutes or so. The curve of the avenue, screened her in some wise from the man in the porch, who never happened to- roll his languid eyes towards the spot where she was standing. „ A:, flight of rooks came scudding' through the sky presently; as il very much excited, and cawing, and screeching- as if they had been any ornithological- fire-brigade hm-r-----ing to extinguish the flames of some distant rookery. The footman, who was suffering acutely from the complaint of not knowing* what to do with himself, came out of the porch and stood in the middle of the large gravelled drive, with his back towards Margaret, staring at the birds as they fiew westward. This was her opportunity. The girl hurried to the door with a light step, so light upon the smooth solid gravel that the footman heard nothing until she was on the broad stone stop. ; under the porch,when the fluttering of her skirt, as it brushed against the pillars, roused him from a species of trance or reverie. ' Hi, you there, young woman !' he exclaimed, Without stirring from his post; ' where ara you going to ? .What's the meaning of your coming- to this door? Are .you aware that there's such a place as a 'servants' 'all and a servants' hentrance V But the languid retainer was too late. Margaret's hand was upon the massive knob of the door on the left of the hall before the footman had put this last indignant qtiestion. He listened for an apologetic murmur from the young woman ; but, hearing none, concluded that she had found her way to the servants' hall, where she had most likely some business or other with one of the female members of the household. lA. dressmaker, I dessay,' the footman thought. * Those gals , spend all their /earning in finery and fallalls, instead of behaving like respectable young* women, and saving- up their money against they can go into the public line with a man of their chice.' - • , - He yawned, and went on staring at the rooks, without troubling himself any further about the impertinent young person who had dared to present herself at the grand entrance. , , . Margaret opened the door, and went into the room next the hall: It was a handsome aparcment, lined with books from the floor to i the, ceiling' "• but it' was quite empty, and there'was, rib fire burning in the grate. The girl put. up her veil, and looked about her. She was very, very pale now, arid trembled violently ; but she controlled r her agitation by a, great effort, and went slowly on to the next room. : , : The second room was empty like ' the J first; but the door between it ana the next . chamber was wide open, and. Margaret saw the fire light, shining upon the fp,ded tapestry, and refle.cted 'in the; somite -I depths of the polished oak furniture. She* 1 heard the low sound of the ' light . ashes ; falling on the hearth, and the "snorting breath of a dog 1 . : ■•• ■-' '■- . -:. >.' ■ i She knew that the man she -sought, and had so long sought without avail, was -in: that room. Alone ; for- .there ..: was no ! I; murmur or voices, no- sound of any one movingvin : the apartment. ; That hour, to which Margaret Wilmot had looked as the greati crisis -of her life, had come; arid her

courage failed her all at once, and her heart sank in her breast on the very threshold of the chamber in which she was to stand face to face with Henry Dunbar. 1 The murderer of my father !' she thought ; 'the man whose influence blighted my father's life, and made him what he was. The man, through whose reckless sin my father lived a life that left him, oh ! how sadly unprepared to die ! The man who, knowing this, sent his victim before, an offended God without so much warning as would have given him time to think one prayer. lam going to meet that man face, to face !' Her breath came in faint gasps, and the firelit chamber swam before her eyes as crossed the threshold of that door, and went into the room where' Henry Dunbar was sitting alone before the low fire. He was wrapped in crimson draperies of thick woollen stuff, and the leopard-skin railway rug was muffled about his knees. A dog of the bull- dog breed was lying asleep at the banker's feet, half-hidden in the folds of the leopard-skin. Henry Dunbar's head was bent over the fire, and his. eyes were closed in a kind of dozing sleea, as Margaret Wilmot went into the room. There was an empty chair opposite to that in which the bankar sat ; an oldiaishioned, carved oak chair with a high, back and crimson-morocco cushions. Margaret went softly up. to this chair, and laid her hand upon the oaken framework. Her footsteps made no sound on the thick Turkey carpet; the banker never stirred from his doze, and even the dog at his feet slept on. 'Mr Dunbar! ' cried; Margaret, in a clear, resolute voice,- ' awake! it is 1,, Margaret Wilmot, the daughter of the mail who was murdered in the grove near Winchester ! ' ■ The dog awoke, and snapped at her. The man lifted his head, and at her. Even the fire fire seemed roused by the sound of her voice ; for a little jet of vivid light leapt up out of the smouldering- log and lighted the sacred face face of the banker. Clement Austin had promised Margaret to wait for her, and to wait patiently ; and he meant to keep his promise. But there are some limits even to the patience of a lover, though he were the veriest knighterrant who was ever eager to shiver a lance or hack the edge of a battle-axe for love of his liege lady..; When you have nothing to do but to walk up and down a few yards of hard dusty high road, upon a bleak evening in January, an hour more less is of considerable consequence. Pive o'clock struck about ten minutes after Margaret Wilmot. had entered <the park, and Clement thought, to himself that even if Margaret were successful in obtaining* an interview with the banker, that interview would be over before six. But che faint strokes of Lisford church clock" died away upon the : cold evening wind, and Clement was still pacing up and down, and the fly was still waiting; the horse ; comfortable enough with a rug upon his back and his nose in a bag of oats; the man walking up and down by the side of the vehicle, slapping his gloved hands 'across his shoulders every now and then to keep himself warm. In' that long hour between six and seven, Clement Austin's patience wore itself, almost threadbare. It is one tning to. ride; into the lists on a prancing sreed, caparaispned with embroidered trapping ; worked ■by the hand of your lady-love, -and with the trumpets braying, and .the populace ; shotting, andthe Qu&en of Beauty smiling sweet approval on your prowess: but it is quite another thing to walk up and down a dusty country road, with the winjd biting like" some ravenous animal at the tip of your nose, and no :more consciousness of your legs and arms than if you were; a:- Miss ;Biffin. ; ' By the"time seven o'closk struck, Clement Austin's patience had given up the g-host ; and to impatience had succeeded a vague sense of alarm. Margaret Wil-mot-had gone to force herself into this man's presence, in spite' of his reiterated .refusal to see her. : What if— what if, gdaded : byj her persistance, maddened by the consciousness: of; his own guilt, he should 'attempt any violence ? ' < Oh; no, ; no'; that . was quite impossible. If this -man- was guilty, his crime had been deliberately planned ; and executed with such a diabolical cunning, that he had beenable so far to escape, detection. In his own house, surrounded by prying servants, he would never dare to assail this ; girl by so much as a harsh word. =' ;

But notwithstanding this, Clement wa determined to wait no longer. He would go the Abbey at once, and ascertain the cause of Margaret's delay. He. fang the bell, went into the park, and ran along the avenue to the porch. Lights were shining in Mr Dunbar's windows, but the great hall-door was closely shut. The languid footman came to Clement's summon^, i^ b ■• ' There is a young lady^here/' tllement laid, breathlessly ••..;« a young lady— with Mr Dunbar/ : f ; ;iir /Ho! is that hall ?' asfeed tH* footman) satirically. 'I thought Shbrncliffe town-a ll was afire, at the ve£y least, from the way you rung. . There jwas a young* pusson with Mr Dunbar^ove an hour ago, if that's what you Bean? > 'Above an hour ago f" .cried Clement Austin, heedless of the men's impertinence in his own growing, anxiety j* 'do you m6an to say that the young lady has left?* ' She have left, afjovea hour ago.' , ' She went away ;from the house an hourago ? ' . . .■ i 'More than a hour. ago/ 'Impossible!' Clement said: 'impossible! ' . ' . ■ 'It may be so/ answered the footman, who was of "an ironical turn of mind ; 'but I let her out with my own hands,, and. I saw her go out with my own eyes, notwithstanding/ The man shut the door before Cltment had recovered from his surprise^and left, him standing in the porch ; bewildered,, though he scarcely knew why j frightened,, though ha scarcely knew what; he feared* CHAPTER XXXI. Margaret's Betum. For some minutes Clement Austin lingered in the porch at Maudesley Abbey,, and utterly at a loss as to what he should do next. Margaret had left the Abbey an hour ago, according to the footman's statement,. : but in that case, where had she gone T Clement had been walkicg up and down the road before the iron gates of the park, and they had not been opened once during the hours in which he had waited oustide them. Margaret could not have left the park, therefore, by the principal entrance. If she had; gone away at all, she must havegone out by one of the smaller gates— by the smaller-gates— by the lodge-gate upon the Lisford Road perhaps,, and thus back to Shorncliffe. But then why, in Heaven's name, had Margaret set out to walk home when the fly was waiting for her, full of anxiety to know the result of the step she had taken? She forgot that I was waiting for her perhaps/ Clement thought to himself. She may even have forgotten all about me in the fearful excitement of this night's work/ The young man was by no means pleased by this idea. '■"■' Margaret can love me very little in that case/ he said to himself. 'My first thought, in any great crisis of my life, would be to go to her, and tell her all that had happened to me/ : There were no less than four different means of exit from the park. Clement Austin knew this, and. he knew that it would take him upwards of two hours to go to all four of them. ' I'll make inquiries at the gate upon the Lisford Road/ he said to himself; ' and if I find Margaret has left by that way, I can get the fly round there, and pick her. up between this and Shorncliffe. Poor girl, in her ignorance of this neighborhood, she has no idea of the distance she will have to walk !.' : •Mr, Austin could hot help feeling vexed by Margaret's conduct; but he did all he could to* save the girl from the fatigue she was likely to entail upon -herself through her own folly. He ran to the lodge upon the Lisford Line, and asked the woman who kept it if a lady had gone out about ,an hour before. • The woaijan told him that a young lady had gone out an hour and a half before _.:■••:■"' :■?■: i To be continued. -^