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 stones. 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 plen............