Henry Dunbar: A NovelBraddon, M. E. (Mary Elizabeth)
General
Henry Dunbar: A Novel
Braddon, M. E. (Mary Elizabeth)
Fiction
"The weeks and months crept by. The revelation of Joseph Wilmot's guilt
left me free to return to my old position in the house of Dunbar,
Dunbar, and Balderby. But I had no heart to go back to the old business
now the hope that had made my commonplace city life so bright seemed
for ever broken. I was surprised, however, into a confession of the
truth by the good-natured junior partner, who lived near us on Clapham
Common, and who dropped in sometimes as he went by my mother's gate, to
while away an idle half-hour in some political discussion.
"He insisted upon my returning to the office directly he heard the
secret of my resignation. The business was now entirely his; for there
had been no one to succeed Henry Dunbar, and Mr. John Lovell had sold
the dead man's interest on behalf of his client, Lady Jocelyn. I went
back to my old post, but not to remain long in my old position; for a
week after my return Mr. Balderby made me an offer which I considered
as generous as it was flattering, and which I ultimately and somewhat
reluctantly accepted.
"By means of this new and most liberal arrangement, which demanded from
me a very moderate amount of capital, I became junior partner in the
firm, which was now conducted under the names of Dunbar, Dunbar,
Balderby, and Austin. The double Dunbar was still essential to us,
though the last of the male Dunbars was dead and buried under the
chancel of Lisford Church. The old name was the legitimate stamp of our
dignity as one of the oldest Anglo-Indian banking firms in the city of
London.
"My new life was smooth enough, and there was so much business to be
got through, so much responsibility vested in my hands—for Mr. Balderby
was getting fat and lazy, as regarded affairs in the City, though
untiring in the production of more forced pine-apples and hothouse
grapes than he could consume or give away—that I had not much leisure
in which to think of the one sorrow of my life. A City man may break
his heart for disappointed love, but he must do it out of business
hours if he pretends to be an honourable man: for every sorrowful
thought which wanders to the loved and lost is a separate treason
against the 'house' he serves.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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