CHAPTER XLIV.

Bruce Herald, Volume III, Issue 84, 9 November 1865, Page 6

CHAPTER XLIV.

Clem ent'a Story. — Before the Da-ren

1 1 went back to my mother's house a Broken and disappointed man. I had solved the mystery of Margaret's conduct, and at the same time had set an insuper able barrier between myself-and the woman I loved.

• Was there any hope that she would ever be my wife ? Reason told me there was none. In her eyes I must henceforth appear the man who had voluntarily ssc himself to work to discover her father's guilt, and steadily to track him to the "•allows

' Jould she ever again love me with this knowledge in her mind ? Could she ever again look me in the face, and smile at me, remembering- this 1 The very sound of my name must in future be hateful to her.

' I knew the strenth of my noble girl's love for that .reprobate father of hers. I had seen the force of that affection tested by so. many cruel trials. I had witnessed my poor girl's passionate grief at Joseph Wiloiot's- supposed death : and I had seen all the intensity of her anguish when the secret of his existence, which was at the same times- the secuet of his guilt, became known to. her.

* Shei'enouncedme then,, rather than renounce that guilty wretch, I " thought-; she will: hate me now that I have been the means of bringing- his most hideous crime to light.

'Yes,, the crime was hideous — almost unparalleled in horror. The treaelieiy which, had lured the victim to his death seemed almost less horrible than the diabolical art which, had fixed upon the name J*pf the-. murdered man the black stigma of a suspected crime. ,

'But I knew too well th-at, in all the blackness of his guilt, I\farg-iiret Wilaioc would cling to^ jier father as truly,, as tender^, as she had. clung 1 to him in those early days when, tlie-suspicion of his worthlessness had been* only a dark shadow" for ewer broodittg- between the man and his only child. I knew this, and I had no hope thut she would ever forgive me for my part in the vveffeving* of that strang-e chain of evidence which tnade the condemnation of Joseph Wilmot. ' These were the thoughts that tormented me during the first fortnight after my return from the miserable journey to Winchester; these Were the -thoughts for ever revolving* in my tired; brain while I waited for tiding-s from the- detective. * Daring- all that time, it never once occurred to me that there was any chance, however remote, of. Joseph! Wiltnot's escape from his pursuer. ,

' I had seen the science of the detective police so invariably triumphant over the best planned schemes of the mosc audacious criminals, that I should have consideredhad I ever debated the question, which I never did — Joseph Wil mot's evasion of justice an actual impossibility. It was most likely. that he would be taken at Maudesley Abbey entirely unprepared, in, his ignorance of the fatal" discovery at Winchester — an easy prey to the experienced detective. 'Indeed, I thought that his immediateavrest was almost a, certain fcy ; and every morning, when I took up the papers, I expected to see a prominent announcement to the effect that the long* undiscovered Winchester m ystery was at last solved, and that the murderer had been taken by oneof the detective police. But the papers gave no tidings- of Joseph Wilmot; and I was surprised) at the end of a week's time^. to read the account of a detective's skirmish on board a schooner some miles off Hull, which, had, resulted in the drowning* of one Stephen Vallance, an old offender. y The detective's nama was given as Henry Carter. Were there two Henry Carters in the small band of London detective police?, or was it possible that my Henry Carter could have given up so profitable a prize as Joseph Wilmot in order to pursue- unknown criminals upon the high seas V A week after I had read of this mysterious adventure,. Mr Carter made his appearance at Clap^ham, very grave ot, aspect and dejected'of. manner. ' 'It's no- use, sir/ he said; 'it's huimV ; Mating to on officer of my standing in theforce, but I'd. better confess it freely. I've , been sold, sir — sold by a young woman ; too, which makes it three times as mortifying, and a. kind of insult to the male sex. ini general.' * My heart- gave a. great throb. ' ' Do youi mean that Joseph Wilmot has: escaped ?\I asked. ' ' He has,, sir, as clean as ever a man escaped yet. He hasn't left this country, not to my belief, for I've been running up and down between the different outports li u e mad But what of' that ?If he hasn't I left the country, and if he doesn't mean toleave the country, so much the better for hinv and so much the worse for thosethat want to catch him.- It's trying to leave I England that brings most of 'em to grief,. I and Joseph Wilmot's an old enough, hand I to know that. I'll wager he's living as. I quiet' and respectable as any gentleman I ever lived yei..^ I * Mr Carter went on to tell me the whole I story, of his disappointments and mortifi- I cations. I could understand pII now :. the: I moonlit figure in the Winchester street, I the dusky shadow beneath the dripping. I branches in. the grov.e. I could, understand I all now, my poor girl— my poor, brave- I girl. I ' When I was alone, I rendered up my I thanks to- heaven for the escape of Joseph. I Wilmot. I had done nothing to impede I the course of justice, though- 1 had knowa I full well that the punishment of the evil- I doer would crush, the bra ve^knd purest I heart that ever beat in an innocgflt woman's I bosom. I had not dared to attempt any I interposition between Joseph Wilmot; and I the punishment of his crime; but I was, I nevertheless, most heartily thankful that I Providence had suffered him to escape that I hideous earthly doom which, is supposed to I ; be the wisest means- of ridding, society of a I wretch. . ' - I ' But for the wretch himself, surely, long I years of penitence must make a better ex- 1 piatioa of his guilt than that one short I agony— those few spasmodic throes which I reucer his. death such a pleasant spectacle I for a sight-seeing populace. I 'I was glad for the sake of the °-uilty I and miserable creature himself, that Joseph I Wilmot had escaped. I was still «-ladiler I for the sakje of that dear 'hope- which ivas I more to. me than aay hope on em-th,. the I hope of m-iking Margaret my wife. I "There will be no hideous recollection I interwoven with my image now,' I thought: I 'she will forgivß me when I tell her"the l history of my jpurney to Winchester. She I wilLlfit me take her away from the com- 1 panionship that must be loathsome to her,l. in spite of her devotion* She will let nw| tbring her to a happy home as my cherished! wife..' '• • • ; " " ■- ■ I

' I thought this, arid then-in the next moment I feared that Margaret might cling persistently to the dreadful duty of. her life — the duty of shielding: and protecting a criminal — the duty of teaching a wicked ma*n to repent of his sins. : 'I inserted an advertisement in the 'Times' newspaper, assuring Margaret of my unalterable love' and devotion,, which no circumstance could lessen, and imploring her to write to v me: • Of course the advertisement was so worded as to give no ckie to the identity of the person to whom i^was addressed. . The acutest official in Scotland Yard could have gathered nothing from the Hues * From C. to M.,' so like other appeals mads through the same medium. '.But my advertisement remained un~ answered— no letter came from Margaret*. 'The weeks and months crept slower past. ' The story of the evidence of the clothes found at Winchestler > ; was made ptiblic, together with the. Mstory of Joseph Wilmoc's flight and escape.; The business created a considerable 'sensation, and Lord Herriston himself went down to Winchester to witness the exhumation of the remains of the man who had been buried under~the name of J6§ej)li Wilrhot. ' The dead man's facVwas no longer recognisable ; bdt beside the little finger of the left hand there lay a ring — a slender ring of twisted gold, mixed with hair — an insignificant little ring, which had- attracted no attention at the iriquesv But Lord Herriston declared it to be of Indian workmanship, and swore to having- seen;it frequently on the hand/of Henry Dunbar. This was not all j inside ' the ring there was an inscription/' minutely. engraved — 1 In memory of the beloved wife of Henry Dunbar.' The hair, so faded now, had belonged to Laura's mother. , 1 The remains were removed from Winchester to Lisford Church, where Percival Dunbar was buried in a vault beneath the chancel. The murdered man's coffin was placed beside that of his father, and a simple marble tablet recording' the untimely death of Henry Dunbar, cruelly and treacherously assassinated in a grove near Winchester, was erected by order of Lady Jocelyn, who was abroad with her husband when the story of her father's death was reveal ?d to her. ' The weeks and months crept by. The revelation of Joseph Wilmot's guile left me free to return to my old position in the house of Dunbar, Dunbar. and Balderby. But I had no heart to go back to the old business, now the hope that had made my common-place city life so bright seemed for ever broken. I was surprised, however, into a confession of the truth by. the goodnatured junior partner, who lived near us on Clapham Common, and who dropped in sometimes as he went by my mother's gate, to wile away an idle half hour in some political discussion. 1 He insisted upon my returning to the office directly he heard the secret of my resignation. The business was now entirely his ; tor there had been no one to succeed Henry Dunbar, and Mr. John Lovell had sold the dead man's interest on behalf of his client, Lady Jocelyn. I went back to my oH post, but not to remain long in my old position ; for a week after rm return, Mr. Balderby made me an offer which I considered as generous as it was flattering, and which I ultimately and soniewhat reluctantly accepted. ' By neans of this new and most liberal arrangement, which demanded lrom me a very moderate amount of capital, I became junior partner in the firm, which was now conducted under the names of Dunbar, Dunbar, Balderby, and Austin. The double Dunbar was still essential to us, though the last of the male Dunbars was dead and bnried under the chancel of Lisford Church. The old name was the legitimate stamp of our dignity as one of the oldest. Anglos Indian banking firms in the city of London. •* My new lite was smooth enough^ and there was so much business to be got through, so much responsibility vested i:i my hands — for Mr. Baiderby was getting fat and lazy, as regarded affairs in the City, though untiring in the production of more forced pine-apples and hot-house grapes ■. than he could consume or give away—that I had not much leisure in which to. think of the one sorrow of my life. A City man may break his heart for disappointed love, but he must do it out of business hours if he pretends to be an honourable man : for every sorrowful thought which wanders to the loved and lost is a separate treason against the 'house' he serves. ' ;;

'Smoking my after-dinner cigar in the narrow pathways and minature shrubberies of my mother's garden, I could venture to think of my lost Margaret : and I did think of her, and pray for her with as fervent aspirations as ever rose from a man's faithful heart. And in the dusky stillness of the evening, with the faint odour of dewy flowers round m«, and distant stars shining dimly in that farroff opal sky, against which the branches of the elms looked so black and dense, I used to beguile myself — or ic may be that the influence of the scene and hour beguiled ,me — into the thought that my separation from Margaret could be only a temporary one. We loved each other so truly ! And, after all, what under heaven is stronger than love ? I thought ot my .poor girl in some lonely, melancholy place, hiding* with her guilty father; in daily companionship with a miserable wretch, whose life must be made hideous to himself by the memory of his crime. I thought of the self-abnegation, the heroic devotion which made Margaret strong* enough to endure such an existence as this : and out of my belief in the justice of Heaven there grew up in my mind the faith in a happier life in store for my noble girl. ■ • ' My mother supported me in this faith. She knew all Margaret's story now, and she sympathised with my love and admiration' for Joseph Wilmot's daughter. A Wonlah's heart must have been something less than womanly if it could have failed to appreciate my darling's devotion; and my mother was about the last of womankind to be waning in tenderness and compassion for any one who had need of her pity and was worthy of her love. *So we both cherished the thought of the absent girl hrour tninds, tulking_of her constantly on quiet evenings, when we sat opposite to each other in the snug lamplit drawing-room, unhindered by the presence of guests. We did not live by. any means a secluded or gloomy life, for my mother was fond of pleasant society : and I was quite as true to Margaret while associating with agreeable people, and hearing* cheerful voices (fuzzing round me, as I could have been in, a hermitage" whose stillness was only broken by the howling of the stornf. 'It was in the dreariest part of the winter which followed Joseph WilmoVs escape that an incident occurred which gave me a strangely-mingled feeling of pleasureand pain. 1 was sitting one evening* in my mother's breakfast-parlour— a little room situated close to the hall-door — when I heard the ringing of the bell at the garden gate. It was nine o'clock at night, a bitter wintry night, in which I should least have expected any visitor. So I went on read ing my paper while my mother speculated about the matter. . 'Three minutes after the bell had rung our parlour-maid came into the room, and placed something on the table before me. ' ' A parcel, sir,' she said, lingering a little; perhaps in the hope that in my eager curiosity I might immediately open the packet, and give her an opportunity of satisfying her own desire for information. ' I put aside my newspaper, and looked down at the object before me. * Yeo, it was a parcel— -=-a small. obling box— about the size ot those pasteboard receptacles which are usually > associated with Seidlitz. powders — an oblong* box, neatly packed in white paper, secured with several seals, and addressed to Clement Austin, Esq., Willow Rank, Clapham. 'But the- hand, the dear, well-known hand which had addressed the packet — my blood -.thrilled through my veins as I recognised the familiar characters. ' ' Who brought this parctl?' 1 asked, starting from my comfortable easy-chair, and going straight out into the hall. ' The astonished parlour-maid told me that the packet had been given her by a lady,*' a lady who was dressed in black, or dark things,' the girl said, ' and whos« face was quite hidden by a thick veil. Alter leaving the small packet, this lady got into a cab a tew paces from our gate,' the girl added, ' and the cab had tore uff as. fast as it could tear !'

'I went our. into the open road, and looked despairingly London- wards. There was no vestige of any cab : of course there had been ample time for the cao in question- to get tai' beyond reach of pursuit. I felt almost uiaddeued with this disappointment aud vexucion. It was Mm-g-aret, JMarg'aret herselt most likely, who had come to my door y and I had lost the opportunity of seeing her.

' I stood, staring" blankly up and down the road for some ; tiihe,andtlien went back to the" parlour, where my mother, with pardonable weakness, had pounced upon the ''paqiket, " and was examining itvith eyes opened to their widest extent. • ; * ' It is Margaret's hand !' she exclafrned.- - -:' Oh, do open— do, please, open it directly. _ What on earth can it be V. 'I tore off the white paper covering', and rtiWaled. just such an object as I had expected to see — a box, a commonplace pasteboard box, tied securely across and across with thin twine. I cut the twine and opened the box. At the top there was a layer of jeweller's wool, and on that being" removed my mother gave a little shriek of." surprise and admiration. ' The box contained a fortune — a fortune in the sjiape of unset diamonds,, lying: as close tog-ether as their nature would admit — unset diamonds, which glittered and flashed upon us in the lamplight. Inside the lid there was a folded paper, upon which the following' lines were written in the dear hand, the never-to-be-forgotten, hand : . j * * Ever-dearest Clement, — The sad and miserable secret which led to your parting 1 is a secret no longer. You know all, and you have no doubt forgiven, and perhaps in part forgotten, the wretched woman to. whom your -love was once so dear, and to. whom the memory of your love will ever be a consolation and a happiness. It I dared to pray you to think pitifully of that most Unhappy man whose secret is now known to you, I would do so j but I cannot hope for so much mercy from men : I can only hope it from God, who in His supreme wisdom alone can fathom the mysteries of a repentant heart. I beg" of you to deliver to Lady Jocelyn the diamonds I place in your hands. They belong of right to her ; and I regret to say they only represent a part of the money withdrawn from the funds in the name of Henry Dunbar. Good- by, dear and generous friend; this is the last you will ever hear of one whose name must sound odious to the ears of honest mea. Pity, me, and forg-et me ; and may a happier woman be to. you tbafr which I can- never be. <M. W-.' 'This was all. Nothing 1 could be firmer than the tone of this letter, in spite of its pensive g-entleness. My poor girl could not be brought to believe that I should hold it. no disgrace to make her my vife, in spite of the hideous story connected with her name. In my vexation and disappointment, I appealed once more to the unfailing friend of parted or persecuted lovers, the Jupiter of PriiTting'-house Square. * ' Margai'et,' I wrote in the advertisement which adorned the second column of the ' Times ' supplement on twenty consecutive occasions, ' I hold you to your old promise, and consider the circumstances of our parting" as in no manner a release from your old engagement. The greatest wrong you can inflict upon me will be inflicted by your desertion. C. A.' ' This advertisement was as useless as its predecessor. I looked in vain for any answer. 4 I lost no time in fulfilling the commission intrusted to 'me. I went down to ShorncliiFtf, and delivered the box of diamonds into the hands oi John Lovell, the solicitor; for Lady Jocelyn was still on the Continent. He packed the box in paper, and made me seal it with my signet-ring", in the presence of one of his clerks, before he put it away in an iron- safe near his desk. 'When this was done, and when the 'Times' advertisement had been inserted for the twentieth time without eliciting any reply, I gave myself up to a kind of despair about Margaret. She had failed to see my advertisement, I thought ; for she would scarce?y have been so hard- heated as to leave it unanswered. She had failed to see this advertisement, as well as the previous appeal made to her through the same medium, and she would no doubt fail ro see any other. I had reason to know : that she was, or had been, in England, for she would scarcely have intrusted the diamonds to strang'e hands; but itjvas only too likely that she had chosen the very eve of her own and her father's departure for some distant country as the most fittingtime at which to leave the valuable parcel with me. i ■ ' ' Her influence over her- father must be complete,' r thought,. ' or he would/scarcely have consented to surrender, such, a trea-

sure as the diamonds. He has most likely retained enough to pay the passage out to America for himself and Margaret j and my . poor darling- will wander with her wretched father into some remote, corner of the United States, wh«re she will be hidden from me- for ever.' • I remembered with unspeakable pain how wide the world was, and how. easy it would be for the woman I loved to be for ever lost to me^ . • • ' I gave myself up to despair ; it was not resignation, for my life was empty and desolate without Margaret j try as I might to carry my burden quietly, and put a brave . face upon my sorrow. Up to the time of \ Margaret's appearance on that bleak winder's night, I had cherished the hope— or even more than hope — the belief that weshould be reunited t but after that night the old faith in a happy future crumbled away, and the idea that Joseph Wilmot'sdaughter had left England grevvlittle by little into conviction. * I should never see her again*. I fully believed this now. There was never to be^ anymore sunshine- in my life :. and therewas nothing for me to do but to resign myself to the ever* tenor of an. existence- in which tlie- quiet duties of a business career would leave little time for any idle grief or i lamentation. My sorrow was a part of nxy life: but even those who knew me best, failed to fathom the depth of that sorrow. ,To them I seemed only a-, grave businessman, devoted to. the dry details of a. business life;. ' Eighteen months had? passed since the bleak winter's Tiight on which the box of diamonds had been intrusted- to- me;: eighteen months, so. slow and quiet in, their course that I was beginning to feel myself an old man, older than many oldt - men, inasmuch as I had outlived the wreck of the one bright hope- which, had madelife dear to me. It was- midsummer time,, and tlie- counting-house in St. Gundolpl* Lane, and the parlour in which — in virtue of my new position — I had now a right to* work, seemed peculiarly hot and frowsy,, dusty and obnoxious. My work being especially hard at this time knocked me upland I was compelled;, under pain of solemn* threats from my 'mother's pet medicaL attendant, to slay at home, and take .two* or three days' rest. I submitted very unwillingly ; for, however dusty and stifling* the atmosphere in St. Guhdoiph Lane- - might be, it was better to be there, victorious over my sorrow, by means of man'si grandest ally in the battle with black care—to wily hard work — than to be lying on* the sofa in my mother's pleasant drawingroom, listening to the cheery click of two* knitting-needles, and thinking of my wastedi life. 1 1 submitted, however, to* take the threedays'" holiday; and on the second day,, after a couple of hours' penance on the? sofa, I got up, languid and tired still, but; ■ bent oa some employment by which I might escape from the" sad monotony of" my own thoughts. • * I think I'll go into the next room an&L put my papers to rights, mother,' I said* 4My dear indulgent mother remonstrated. I was to rest and keep myself" quiet, she said, and not to- worry myself* about papers and tiresome things of that, kind, whichi appertained only to the office. But I had ray own- way, and went into thelittle room, where- there weite flowersblooming and caged birds sing-ing int theopen window. ' This room was a sort of snuggery^, half library, half breakfast parlour, and.itwas in this room my mother and I had?, been, sitting on the night on which thediamonds had been brought to me. o 'On one side of the fireplace stood mymotlier's work "table, ( on the other the deskr. at which I wrote, whenever I wrote any letters at home — a. ponderous-old-fashioned, office desk, with a row of. drawers on each side, a deep well in the centre-, and underthat a lnrge waste-paper- basket, full of old. envelopes aud torn scraps- of letters. ' I wheeled a comfortable chair up to thedesk, and began my task. It was a very long- one. and involved a great deal of folding, sorting*, and arranging of documents - Which, perhaps, • were scarcely worth thetrouble I took with, theni, - L At any rate, the work kept m«y fingers employed, although my mind still brooded over the old. trouble. . * I sat for nearly- three hours, for it was^ a very long" time since I had had a day's , leisure, ann the accumulation of le. ters, bills^^^ and receipts vms something- formidable.. !-fv^f; (To, be. iaittiTUiact.^ '■'.'' ''• ■■■:':! ho'^l ■; ' -■ .- . ' ■■■;