Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  “Who told you so?”

  “You did, when you came out of Mr. Isaac Hartgold’s establishment. I happened to be passing the door as you went in, and I happened to be passing the door again as you came out.”

  “And playing the spy upon me.”

  “Not at all, dear boy. It was merely a coincidence, I assure you. I called at the bank yesterday, cashed my cheques, ascertained your address; called at the Clarendon this morning, was told you’d that minute gone out; looked down Albemarle Street; there you were, sure enough; saw you get into a cab; got into another — a Hansom, and faster than yours — came behind you to the corner of this street.”

  “You followed me,” said Henry Dunbar, bitterly.

  “Don’t call it following, dear friend, because that’s low. Accident brought me into this neighbourhood at the very hour you were coming into this neighbourhood. If you want to quarrel with anything, quarrel with the doctrine of chances, not with me.”

  Henry Dunbar turned away with a sulky gesture. His friend watched him with very much the same malicious grin that had distorted his face under the lamp-lit porch at Maudesley. The Major looked like a vulgar-minded Mephistopheles: there was not even the “divinity of hell” about him.

  “And so you’ve been buying diamonds?” he repeated presently, after a considerable pause.

  “Yes, I have. I am buying them for a necklace for my daughter.”

  “You are so dotingly fond of your daughter!” said the Major with a leer.

  “It is necessary that I should give her a present.”

  “Precisely, and you won’t even trust the business to a jeweller; you insist on doing it all yourself.”

  “I shall do it for less money than a jeweller.”

  “Oh, of course,” answered Major Vernon; “the motive’s as clear as daylight.”

  He was silent for a few minutes, then he laid his hand heavily upon his companion’s shoulder, put his lips close to the banker’s ear, and said, in a loud voice, for it was not easy for him to make himself heard above the jolting of the cab, —

  “Henry Dunbar, you’re a very clever fellow, and I dare say you think yourself a great deal sharper than I am; but, by Heaven, if you try any tricks with me, you’ll find yourself mistaken! You must buy me an annuity. Do you understand? Before you move right or left, or say your soul’s your own, you must buy me an annuity!”

  The banker shook off his companion’s hand, and turned round upon him, pale, stern, and defiant.

  “Take care, Stephen Vallance,” he said; “take care how you threaten me. I should have thought you knew me of old, and would be wise enough to keep a civil tongue in your head, with me. As for what you ask, I shall do it, or I shall let it alone — as I think fit. If I do it, I shall take my own time about it, not yours.”

  “You’re not afraid of me, then?” asked the other, recoiling a little, and much more subdued in his tone.

  “No!”

  “You are very bold.”

  “Perhaps I am. Do you remember the old story of some people who had a goose that laid golden eggs? They were greedy, and, in their besotted avarice, they killed the goose. But they have not gone down to posterity as examples of wisdom. No, Vallance, I’m not afraid of you.”

  Mr. Vallance leaned back in the cab, biting his nails savagely, and thinking. It seemed as if he was trying to find an answer for Mr. Dunbar’s speech: but, if so, he must have failed, for he was silent for the rest of the drive: and when he got out of the vehicle, by-and-by, before the door of the Clarendon, his manner bore an undignified resemblance to that of a half-bred cur who carries his tail between his legs.

  “Good afternoon, Major Vernon,” the banker said, carelessly, as a liveried servant opened the door of the hotel: “I shall be very much engaged during the few days I am likely to remain in town, and shall be unable to afford myself the pleasure of your society.”

  The Major stared aghast at this cool dismissal.

  “Oh,” he murmured, vaguely, “that’s it, is it? Well, of course, you know what’s best for yourself — so, good afternoon!”

  The door closed upon Major Vernon, alias Mr. Stephen Vallance, while he was still staring straight before him, in utter inability to realize his position. But he drew his cashmere shawl still higher up about his ears, took out a gaudy scarlet-morocco cigar-case, lighted another big cigar, and then strolled slowly down the quiet West-end street, with his bushy eyebrows contracted into a thoughtful frown.

  “Cool,” he muttered between his closed lips; “very cool, to say the least of it. Some people would call it audacious. But the story of the goose with the golden eggs is one of childhood’s simple lessons that we’re obliged to remember in after-life. And to think that the Government of this country should have the audacity to offer a measly hundred pounds or so for the discovery of a great crime! The shabbiness of the legislature must answer for it, if criminals remain at large. My friend’s a deep one, a cursedly deep one; but I shall keep my eye upon him ‘My faith is strong in time,’ as the poet observes. My friend carries it with a high hand at present; but the day may come when he may want me; and if ever he does want me, egad, he shall pay me my own price, and it shall be rather a stiff one into the bargain.”

  CHAPTER XXIX.

  GOING AWAY.

  At one o’clock on the appointed Thursday morning, Mr. Dunbar presented himself in the diamond-merchant’s office. Henry Dunbar was not alone. He had called in St. Gundolph Lane, and asked Mr. Balderby to go with him to inspect the diamonds he had bought for his daughter.

  The junior partner opened his eyes to the widest extent as the brilliants were displayed before him, and declared that big senior’s generosity was something more than princely.

  But perhaps Mr. Balderby did not feel so entirely delighted two or three hours afterwards, when Mr. Isaac Hartgold presented himself before the counter in St. Gundolph Lane, whence he departed some time afterwards carrying away with him seventy-five thousand eight hundred pounds in Bank-of-England notes.

  Henry Dunbar walked away from the neighbourhood of Holborn with his coat buttoned tightly across his broad chest, and nearly eighty thousand pounds’ worth of property hidden away in his breast-pockets. He did not go straight back to the Clarendon, but pierced his way across Smithfield, and into a busy smoky street, where he stopped by-and-by at a dingy-looking currier’s shop.

  He went in and selected a couple of chamois skins, very thick and strong. At another shop he bought some large needles, half-a-dozen skeins of stout waxed thread, a pair of large scissors, a couple of strong steel buckles, and a tailor’s thimble. When he had made these purchases, he hailed the first empty cab that passed him, and went back to his hotel.

  He dined, drank the best part of a bottle of Burgundy, and then ordered a cup of strong tea to be taken to his dressing-room. He had fires in his bedroom and dressing-room every night. To-night he retired very early, dismissed the servant who attended upon him, and locked the door of the outer room, the only door communicating with the corridor of the hotel.

  He drank a cup of tea, bathed his head with cold water, and then sat down at a writing-table near the fire.

  But he was not going to write; he pushed aside the writing-materials, and took his purchases of the afternoon from his pocket. He spread the chamois leather out upon the table, and cut the skins into two long strips, about a foot broad. He measured these round his waist, and then began to stitch them together, slowly and laboriously.

  The work was not easy, and it took the banker a very long time to complete it to his own satisfaction. It was past twelve o’clock when he had stitched both sides and one end of the double chamois-leather belt; the other end he left open.

  When he had completed the two sides and the end that was closed, he took four or five little canvas-bags from his pocket. Every one of these canvas-bags was full of loose diamonds.

  A thrill of rapture ran through the banker’s veins as he plunged his fingers in amongst the glittering stone
s. He filled his hands with the bright gems, and let them run from one hand to the other, like streams of liquid light. Then, very slowly and carefully, he began to drop the diamonds into the open end of the chamois-leather belt.

  When he had dropped a few into the belt, he stitched the leather across and across, quilting-in the stones. This work took him so long, that it was four o’clock in the morning when he had quilted the last diamond into the belt. He gave a long sigh of relief as he threw the waste scraps of leather upon the top of the low fire, and watched them slowly smoulder away into black ashes. Then he put the chamois-leather belt under his pillow, and went to bed.

  Henry Dunbar went back to Maudesley Abbey by the express on the morning after the day on which he had completed his purchase of the diamonds. He wore the chamois-leather belt buckled tightly round his waist next to his inner shirt, and was able to defy the swell-mob, had those gentry been aware of the treasures which he carried about with him.

  He wrote from Warwickshire to one of the best and most fashionable jewellers at the West End, and requested that a person who was thoroughly skilled in his business might be sent down to Maudesley Abbey, duly furnished with drawings of the newest designs in diamond necklaces, earrings, &c.

  But when the jeweller’s agent came, two or three days afterwards, Mr. Dunbar could find no design that suited him; and the man returned to London without having received an order, and without having even seen the brilliants which the banker had bought.

  “Tell your employer that I will retain two or three of these designs,” Mr. Dunbar said, selecting the drawings as he spoke; “and if, upon consideration, I find that one of them will suit me, I will communicate with your establishment. If not, I shall take the diamonds to Paris, and get them made up there.”

  The jeweller ventured to suggest the inferiority of Parisian workmanship as compared with that of a first-rate English establishment; but Mr. Dunbar did not condescend to pay any attention to the young man’s remonstrance.

  “I shall write to your employer in due course,” he said, coldly. “Good morning.”

  Major Vernon had returned to the Rose and Crown at Lisford. The deed which transferred to him the possession of Woodbine Cottage was speedily executed, and he took up his abode there. His establishment was composed of the old housekeeper, who had waited on the deceased admiral, and a young man-of-all-work, who was nephew to the housekeeper, and who had also been in the service of the late owner of the cottage.

  From his new abode Mr. Vernon was able to keep a tolerably sharp look-out upon the two great houses in his neighbourhood — Maudesley Abbey and Jocelyn’s Rock. Country people know everything about their neighbours; and Mrs. Manders, the housekeeper, had means of communication with both “the Abbey” and “the Rock;” for she had a niece who was under-housemaid in the service of Henry Dunbar, and a grandson who was a helper in Sir Philip Jocelyn’s stables. Nothing could have better pleased the new inhabitant of Woodbine Cottage, who was speedily on excellent terms with his housekeeper.

  From her he heard that a jeweller’s assistant had been to Maudesley, and had submitted a portfolio of designs to the millionaire.

  “Which they do say,” Mrs. Manders continued, “that Mr. Dunbar had laid out nigh upon half-a-million of money in diamonds; and that he is going to give his daughter, Lady Jocelyn, a set of jewels such as the Queen upon her throne never set eyes on. But Mr. Dunbar is rare and difficult to please, it seems; for the young man from the jeweller’s, he says to Mrs. Grumbleton at the western lodge, he says, ‘Your master is not easy to satisfy, ma’am,’ he says; from which Mrs. Grumbleton gathers that he had not took a order from Mr. Dunbar.”

  Major Vernon whistled softly to himself when Mrs. Manders retired, after having imparted this piece of information.

  “You’re a clever fellow, dear friend,” he muttered, as he lighted his cigar; “you’re a stupendous fellow, dear boy; but your friend can see through less transparent blinds than this diamond business. It’s well planned — it’s neat, to say the least of it. And you’ve my best wishes, dear boy; but — you must pay for them — you must pay for them, Henry Dunbar.”

  This little conversation between the new tenant of Woodbine Cottage and his housekeeper occurred on the very evening on which Major Vernon took possession of his new abode. The next day was Sunday — a cold wintry Sunday; for the snow had been falling all through the last three days and nights, and lay deep on the ground, hiding the low thatched roofs, and making feathery festoons about the leafless branches, until Lisford looked like a village upon the top of a twelfth-cake. While the Sabbath-bells were ringing in the frosty atmosphere, Major Vernon opened the low white gate of his pleasant little garden, and went out upon the high-road.

  But not towards the church. Major Vernon was not going to church on this bright winter’s morning. He went the other way, tramping through the snow, towards the eastern gate of Maudesley Park. He went in by the low iron gate, for there was a bridle-path by this part of the park — that very bridle-path by which Philip Jocelyn had ridden to Lisford so often in the autumn weather.

  Major Vernon struck across this path, following the tracks of late footsteps in the deep snow, and thus took the nearest way to the Abbey. There he found all very quiet. The supercilious footman who admitted him to the hall seemed doubtful whether he should admit him any farther.

  “Mr. Dunbar are hup,” he said; “and have breakfasted, to the best of my knowledge, which the breakfast ekewpage have not yet been removed.”

  “So much the better,” Major Vernon answered, coolly. “You may bring up some fresh coffee, John; for I haven’t made much of a breakfast myself; and if you’ll tell the cook to devil the thigh of a turkey, with plenty of cayenne-pepper and a squeeze of lemon, I shall be obliged. You need’nt trouble yourself; I know my way.”

  The Major opened the door leading to Mr. Dunbar’s apartments, and walked without ceremony into the tapestried chamber, where he found the banker sitting near a table, upon which a silver coffee service, a Dresden cup and saucer, and two or three covered dishes gave evidence that Mr. Dunbar had been breakfasting. Cold meats, raised pies, and other comestibles were laid out upon the carved-oak sideboard.

  The Major paused upon the threshold of the chamber and gravely contemplated his friend.

  “It’s comfortable!” he exclaimed; “to say the least of it, it’s very comfortable, dear boy!”

  The dear boy did not look particularly pleased as he lifted his eyes to his visitor’s face.

  “I thought you were in London?” he said.

  “Which shows how very little you trouble yourself about the concerns of your neighbours,” answered Major Vernon, “for if you had condescended to inquire about the movements of your humble friend, you would have been told that he had bought a comfortable little property in the neighbourhood, and settled down to do the respectable country gentleman for the remainder of his natural life — always supposing that the liberality of his honoured friend enables him to do the thing decently.”

  “Do you mean to say that you have bought property in this neighbourhood?”

  “Yes! I am leasehold proprietor of Woodbine Cottage, near Lisford and Shorncliffe.”

  “And you mean to settle in Warwickshire?”

  “I do.”

  Henry Dunbar smiled to himself as his friend said this.

  “You’re welcome to do so,” he said, “as far as I am concerned.”

  The Major looked at him sharply.

  “Your sentiments are liberality itself, my dear friend. But I must respectfully remind you that the expenses attendant upon taking possession of my humble abode have been very heavy. In plain English, the two thou’ which you so liberally advanced as the first instalment of future bounties, has melted like snow in a rapid thaw. I want another two thou’, friend of my youth and patron of my later years. What’s a thousand or so, more or less, to the senior partner in the house of D., D., and B.? Make it two five this time, and your petitioner will
ever pray, &c. &c. &c. Make it two five, Prince of Maudesley!”

  There is no need for me to record the interview between these two men. It was rather a long one; for, in congenial companionship, Major Vernon had plenty to say for himself: it was only when he felt himself out of his element and unappreciated that the Major wrapped himself in the dignity of silence, at in some mystic mantle, and retired for the time being from the outer world.

  He did not leave Maudesley Abbey until he had succeeded in the object of his visit, and he carried away in his pocket-book cheques to the amount of two thousand five hundred pounds.

  “I flatter myself I was just in the nick of time,” the Major thought, as he walked back to Woodbine Cottage, “for as sure as my name’s what it is, my friend means a bolt. He means a bolt; and the money I’ve had to-day is the last I shall ever receive from that quarter.”

  Almost immediately after Major Vernon’s departure, Henry Dunbar rang the bell for the servant who acted as his valet whenever he required the services of one, which was not often.

  “I shall start for Paris to-night, Jeffreys,” he said to this man. “I want to see what the French jewellers can do before I trust Lady Jocelyn’s necklace into the hands of English workmen. I’m not well, and I want change of air and scene, so I shall start for Paris to-night. Pack a small portmanteau with everything that’s indispensable, but pack nothing unnecessary.”

  “Am I to go with you, sir?” the man asked.

  Henry Dunbar looked at his watch, and seemed to reflect upon this question some moments before he answered.

  “How do the up-trains go on a Sunday?” he asked.

  “There’s an express from the north stops at Rugby at six o’clock, sir. You might meet that, if you left Shorncliffe by the 4:35 train.”

  “I could do that,” answered the banker; “it’s only three o’clock. Pack my portmanteau at once, Jeffreys, and order the carriage to be ready for me at a quarter to four. No, I won’t take you to Paris with me. You can follow me in a day or two with some more things.”