will speak to her before her father returns,” he thought; “she will speak the truth to me now fearlessly; for it is her nature to be fearless and candid as a child. But his coming may change her. She is fond of him, and will be ruled by him. Heaven grant he may rule her wisely and gently!”
On the 17th of August, Laura and Mrs. Madden arrived in Portland Place.
Arthur Lovell parted with his beautiful client at the railway station, and drove off to the hotel at which he was in the habit of staying. He called upon Miss Dunbar on the 18th; but found that she was out shopping with Mrs. Madden. He called again, on the morning of the 19th; that bright sunny August morning on which the body of the murdered man lay in the darkened chamber at Winchester.
It was only ten o’clock when the young lawyer made his appearance in the pleasant morning-room occupied by Laura Dunbar whenever she stayed in Portland Place. The breakfast equipage was still upon the table in the centre of the room. Mrs. Madden, who was companion, housekeeper, and confidential maid to her charming young mistress, was officiating at the breakfast-table; Dora Macmahon was sitting near her, with an open book by the side of her breakfast-cup; and Miss Laura Dunbar was lounging in a low easy-chair, near a broad window that opened into a conservatory filled with exotics, that made the air heavy with their almost overpowering perfume.
She rose as Arthur Lovell came into the room, and she looked more like a lily than ever in her long loose morning-dress of soft semi-diaphanous muslin. Her thick auburn hair was twisted into a diadem that crowned her broad white forehead, and added a couple of inches to her height. She held out her little ringed hand, and the jewels on the white fingers scintillated in the sunlight.
“I am so glad to see you, Mr. Lovell,” she said. “Dora and I have been miserable, haven’t we, Dora? London is as dull as a desert. I went for a drive yesterday, and the Lady’s Mile is as lonely as the Great Sahara. There are plenty of theatres open, and there was a concert at one of the opera-houses last night; but that disagreeable Elizabeth wouldn’t allow me to go to any one of those entertainments. Grandpapa would have taken me. Dear grandpapa went everywhere with me.”
Mrs. Madden shook her head solemnly.
“Your gran’pa would have gone after you to the remotest end of this world, Miss Laura, if you’d so much as held your finger up to beckon of him. Your gran’pa spiled you, Miss Laura. A pretty thing it would have been if your pa had come all the way from India to find his only daughter gallivanting at a theaytre.”
Miss Dunbar looked at her old nurse with an arch smile. She was very lovely when she smiled; she was very lovely when she frowned. She was most beautiful always, Arthur Lovell thought.
“But I shouldn’t have been gallivanting, you dear old Madden,” she cried, with a joyous silver laugh, that was like the ripple of a cascade under a sunny sky. “I should only have been sitting quietly in a private box, with my rapid, precious, aggravating, darling old nurse to keep watch and ward over me. Besides, how could papa be angry with me upon the first day of his coming home?”
Mrs. Madden shook her head again even more solemnly than before.
“I don’t know about that, Miss Laura. You mustn’t expect to find Mr. Dunbar like your gran’pa.”
A sudden cloud fell upon the girl’s lovely face.
“Why, Elizabeth,” she said, “you don’t mean that papa will be unkind to me?”
“I don’t know your pa, Miss Laura. I never set eyes upon Mr. Dunbar in my life. But the Indian servant that brought you over, when you was but a bit of a baby, said that your pa was proud and passionate; and that even your poor mar, which he loved her better than any livin’ creature upon this earth, was almost afraid of him.”
The smile had quite vanished from Laura Dunbar’s face by this time, and the blue eyes filled suddenly with tears.
“Oh, what shall I do if my father is unkind to me?” she said, piteously. “I have so looked forward to his coming home. I have counted the very days; and if he is unkind to me — if he does not love me ——”
She covered her face with her hands, and turned away her head. “Laura,” exclaimed Arthur Lovell, addressing her for the first time by her Christian name, “how could any one help loving you? How ——”
He stopped, half ashamed of his passionate enthusiasm. In those few words he had revealed the secret of his heart: but Laura Dunbar was too innocent to understand the meaning of those eager words.
Mrs. Madden understood them perfectly; and she smiled approvingly at the young man.
Arthur Lovell was a great favourite with Laura Dunbar’s nurse. She knew that he adored her young mistress; and she looked upon him as a model of all that is noble and chivalrous.
She began to fidget with the silver tea-canisters; and then looked significantly at Dora Macmahon. But Miss Macmahon did not understand that significant glance. Her dark eyes — and she had very beautiful eyes, with a grave, half-pensive softness in their sombre depths — were fixed upon the two young faces in the sunny window; the girl’s face clouded with a look of sorrowful perplexity, the young man’s face eloquent with tender meaning. Dora Macmahon’s colour went and came as she looked at that earnest countenance, and the fingers which were absently turning the leaves of her book were faintly tremulous.
“Your new bonnet’s come home this morning, Miss Dora,” Elizabeth Madden said, rather sharply. “Perhaps you’d like to come up-stairs and have a look at it.”
“My new bonnet!” murmured Dora, vaguely.
“La, yes, miss; the new bonnet you bought in Regent Street only yesterday afternoon. I never did see such a forgetful wool-gathering young lady in all my life as you are this blessed morning, Miss Dora.”
The absent-minded young lady rose suddenly, bewildered by Mrs. Madden’s animated desire for an inspection of the bonnet. But she very willingly left the room with Laura’s old nurse, who was accustomed to have her mandates obeyed even by the wayward heiress of Maudesley Abbey; and Laura was left alone with the young lawyer.
Miss Dunbar had seated herself once more in the low easy-chair by the window. She sat with her elbow resting on the cushioned arm of the chair, and her head supported by her hand. Her eyes were fixed, and looked straight before her, with a thoughtful gaze that was strange to her: for her nature was as joyous as that of a bird, whose music fills all the wide heaven with one rejoicing psalm.
Arthur Lovell drew his chair nearer to the thoughtful girl.
“Laura,” he said, “why are you so silent? I never saw you so serious before, except after your grandfather’s death.”
“I am thinking of my father,” she answered, in a low, tremulous voice, that was broken by her tears: “I am thinking that, perhaps, he will not love me.”
“Not love you, Laura! who could help loving you? Oh, if I dared — if I could venture — I must speak, Laura Dunbar. My whole life hangs upon the issue, and I will speak. I am not a poor man, Laura; but you are so divided from the rest of the world by your father’s wealth, that I have feared to speak. I have feared to tell you that which you might have discovered for yourself, had you not been as innocent as your own pet doves in the dovecote at Maudesley.”
The girl looked at him with wondering eyes that were still wet with unshed tears.
“I
