Henry Dunbar

n at the Dolphin is almost a recompense for the pains and penalties of the voyage home from India. Mr. Dunbar, from the sublime height of h

ery little, and sat for the best part of the time crumbling his bread in a strange absent manner, and watching his companion's face. He only spoke when his old master addressed him;

ling bubbles had vanished from the clear amber wine; but although Moselle at half-a-guinea a bottle could scarcely have been a very common beverage t

old valet. He had been accustomed, five-and-thirty years ago, to be familiar with the man, and to make a confidant and companion of him, and he fell into the same manner now, naturally; as if the five-and-thirty years

ion of the money-market. I want bright looks, man, to welcome me back to my native country. I've seen dark faces enough out yonde

tcast

the sight of them is worse than the pain of death to him, he must look nevertheless. I read a story the other day - at least my girl was reading it to me; poor child! she tries to soften me with these things sometimes - and the man who wrote the story said it was well for the most miserable of us to pray, 'Lord, keep my memory green!' But what if the memory is a record of crime, Mr. Dunbar? Can we pray that those memories m

must speak, rather than from the desire to upbraid Henry Dunbar. He had not looked at the Anglo–Indian; h

contemplation of the street; but he turned round with a ge

re upon your own account, with a view to terrify me, or to extort money from me, you have made a mistake. If you think to make a fool of me by any maudlin sentimentality, you make a still greater mistake. I give you fair warning. If you expect any advantage from me, you must make yourself agreeable to me. I am a rich man, and k

irst time. He was very pale, and there were strange hard li

, Mr. Dunbar. I will not offend you again, believe me. I have not led a very sober life of late years: I've had a touch of delirium tremens, and

's see about the trains. I don't wa

ordered the time-table;

e said; "and I don't care about travelling by a slow

s, turning over the leaves of

here to Winchester?"

reabouts, I believ

re, and a house near St. Cross. If you'll order a carriage and pair to be got ready immediately, we'll drive over to Winchester. I'll go and see my old friend Michael Marston; we'

nd despatch-box, and Joseph Wilmot's carpet-bag. It was three o'clock when the carriage drove away from the entrance of t

ots, and admiring the lovely English landscape, the spreading pastures, the glimp

by a manner that was almost unnaturally gay. A close observer would have detected that his laugh was a little forced, his loudest merriment wanting in geniality: but Henry Dunbar was not a close observer. People in Calcutta, who courted and admired the r

ached Winchester, they were on excellent terms with each other. Joseph Wilmot was thoroughly at home with his patron; and as the two men were dressed in the same fashi

the house could provide. The luggage was taken up to a priva

righter in the sanctified shade than other flowers that flaunt in the unhallowed sunshine. There are low old-fashioned houses, with Tudor windows and ponderous porches, grey gables crowned with yellow stone-moss, high garden-walls, queer nooks and corners, deep window-seats in paint

d out: now hiding in dim groves of spreading elms: now creeping from the darkness, with a murmuring voice and stealthy gliding m

ral wall, the two men, still arm-in-arm, stopped to make an

and hear that Alice is dead and buried; that of all your old companions there is only one left to greet you; and that even t

than ten, years. His widow, an elderl

und prowling about the quadrangle, Very little was said. One of the men asked t

rm, towards the shady groves and spreadin

d slow, called after them in a

the cathedral, gentlemen;

two men were out of hearing,

r said, as he and his companion walked along a pathway, under the shadow of a moss

streamlet rippled along amidst wild flowers and trembling rushes; the ground beneath

m St. Cross came here sometimes, but not often. Enthusiastic disciples of old Izaak Walton now and then invad

ntle waving of the leaves, the long melodious note of a lonely

ng, and smoking a cigar as he listened. They went into the long arcade beneath the ove