ambition — a strong man’s iron will. Everything is possible to him who has sworn to conquer; and for your sake. Laura, for your love I should overcome obstacles that to another man might be invincible. I am going to India, Laura: I am going to carve my way to fame and fortune, for fame and fortune are slaves that come at the brave man’s bidding; they are only masters when the coward calls them. Remember, my beloved one, this wealth that now stands between you and me may not always be yours. Your father is not an old man; he may marry again, and have a son to inherit his wealth. Would to Heaven, Laura, that it might be so! But be that as it may, I despair of nothing if I dare hope for your love. Oh, Laura, dearest, one word to tell me that I may hope! Remember how happy we have been together; little children playing with flowers and butterflies in the gardens at Maudesley; boy and girl, rambling hand-in-hand beside the wandering Avon; man and woman standing in mournful silence by your grandfather’s deathbed. The past is a bond of union betwixt us, Laura. Look back at all those happy days and give me one word, my darling — one word to tell me that you love me.”
Laura Dunbar looked up at him with a sweet smile, and laid her soft white hand in his.
“I do love you, Arthur,” she said, “as dearly as I should have loved my brother had I ever known a brother’s love.”
The young man bowed his head in silence. When he looked up, Laura Dunbar saw that he was very pale.
“You only love me as a brother, Laura?”
“How else should I love you?” she asked, innocently.
Arthur Lovell looked at her with a mournful smile; a tender smile that was exquisitely beautiful, for it was the look of a man who is prepared to resign his own happiness for the sake of her he loves.
“Enough, Laura,” he said, quietly; “I have received my sentence. You do not love me, dearest; you have yet to suffer life’s great fever.”
She clasped her hands, and looked at him beseechingly.
“You are not angry with me, Arthur?” she said.
“Angry with you, my sweet one!”
“And you will still love me?”
“Yes, Laura, with all a brother’s devotion. And if ever you have need of my services, you shall find what it is to have a faithful friend, who holds his life at small value beside your happiness.”
He said no more, for there was the sound of carriage-wheels below the window, and then a loud double-knock at the hall-door.
Laura started to her feet, and her bright face grew pale.
“My father has come!” she exclaimed.
But it was not her father. It was Mr. Balderby, who had just come from St. Gundolph Lane, where he had received Henry Dunbar’s telegraphic despatch.
Every vestige of colour faded out of Laura’s face as she recognized the junior partner of the banking-house.
“Something has happened to my father!” she cried.
“No, no, Miss Dunbar!” exclaimed Mr. Balderby, anxious to reassure her. “Your father has arrived in England safely, and is well, as I believe. He is staying at Winchester; and he has telegraphed to me to go to him there immediately.”
“Something has happened, then?”
“Yes, but not to Mr. Dunbar individually; so far as I can make out by the telegraphic message. I was to come to you here, Miss Dunbar, to tell you not to expect your papa for some few days; and then I am to go on to Winchester, taking a lawyer with me.”
“A lawyer!” exclaimed Laura.
“Yes, I am going to Lincoln’s Inn immediately to Messrs. Walford and Walford, our own solicitors.”
“Let Mr. Lovell go with you,” cried Miss Dunbar; “he always acted as poor grandpapa’s solicitor. Let him go with you.”
“Yes, Mr. Balderby,” exclaimed the young man, “I beg you to allow me to accompany you. I shall be very glad to be of service to Mr. Dunbar.”
Mr. Balderby hesitated for a few moments.
“Well, I really don’t see why you shouldn’t go, if you wish to do so,” he said, presently. “Mr. Dunbar says he wants a lawyer; he doesn’t name any particular lawyer. We shall save time by your going; for we shall be able to catch the eleven o’clock express.”
He looked at his watch.
“There’s not a moment to lose. Good morning, Miss Dunbar. We’ll take care of your papa, and bring him to you in triumph. Come, Lovell.”
Arthur Lovell shook hands with Laura, murmured a few words in her ear, and hurried away with Mr. Balderby.
She had spoken the death-knell of his dearest hopes. He had seen his sentence in her innocent face; but he loved her still.
There was something in her virginal candour, her bright young loveliness, that touched the noblest chords of his heart. He loved her with a chivalrous devotion, which, after all, is as natural to the breast of a young Englishman in these modern days, miscalled degenerate, as when the spotless knight King Arthur loved and wooed his queen.
Chapter 11
The Inquest.
The coroner’s inquest, which had been appointed to take place at noon that day, was postponed until three o’clock in the afternoon, in compliance with the earnest request of Henry Dunbar.
When ever was the earnest request of a millionaire refused?
The coroner, who was a fussy little man, very readily acceded to Mr. Dunbar’s entreaties.
“I am a stranger in England,” the Anglo–Indian said; “I was never in my life present at an inquest. The murdered man was connected with me. He was last seen in my company. It is vitally necessary that I should have a legal adviser to watch the proceedings on my behalf. Who knows what dark suspicions may arise, affecting my name and honour?”
The banker made this remark in the presence of four or five of the jurymen, the coroner, and Mr. Cricklewood, the surgeon who had been called in to examine the body of the man supposed to have been murdered. Every one of those gentlemen protested loudly and indignantly against the idea of the bare possibility that any suspicion, or the shadow of a suspicion, could attach to such a man as Mr. Dunbar.
They knew nothing of him, of course, except that he was Henry Dunbar, chief of the rich banking-house of Dunbar, Dunbar, and Balderby, and that he was a millionaire.
Was it likely that a millionaire would commit a murder?
When had a millionaire ever been known to commit a murder? Never, of course!
The Anglo–Indian sat in his private sitting-room at the George Hotel, writing, and examining his papers — perpetually writing, perpetually sorting and re-sorting those packets
