It was a wild, stormy night, with fast-flying clouds above, and a heavy
rolling sea below, as the “Osprey” steamed away for Ostend, her closed
hatchways and tarpaulined sailors, as well as her sea-washed deck and
dripping cordage, telling there was “dirty weather outside.” Though the
waves broke over the vessel as she lay at anchor, and the short distance
between the shore and her gangway had to be effected at peril of life,
the captain had his mail, and was decided on sailing. There were but
three passengers: two went aboard with the captain; the third was
already on deck when they arrived, and leisurely paraded up and down
with his cigar, stopping occasionally to look at the lights on shore, or
cast a glance towards the wild chaos of waves that raged without.
“Safe now, I suppose, Grog?” muttered Beecher, as the vessel, loosed
from her last mooring, turned head to sea out of the harbor.
“I rather suspect you are,” said Davis, as he struck a light for his
cigar. “Few fellows would like to swim out here with a judge's warrant
in his mouth such a night as this.”
“I don't like it overmuch myself,” said Beecher; “there's a tremendous
sea out there, and she's only a cockleshell after all.”
“A very tidy one, sir, in a sea, I promise you,” said the Captain,
overhearing, while with his trumpet he bellowed forth some directions to
the sailors.
“You've no other passengers than ourselves, have you?” asked Beecher.
“Only that gentleman yonder,” whispered the Captain, pointing towards
the stranger.
“Few, I take it, fancy coming out in such weather,” said Beecher.
“Very few, sir, if they have n't uncommonly strong reasons for crossing
the water,” replied the Captain.
“I think he had you there!” growled Grog in his ear. “Don't you go
poking nonsense at fellows like that. Shut up, I tell you! shut up!”
“I begin to feel it deuced cold here,” said Beecher, shuddering.
“Come down below, then, and have something hot. I 'll make a brew and
turn in,” said Davis, as he moved towards the ladder. “Come along.”
“No, I must keep the deck, no matter how cold it is. I suffer dreadfully
when I go below. Send me up a tumbler of rum-and-water, Davis, as hot as
may be.”
“You 'd better take your friend's advice, sir,” said the Captain. “It
will be dirty weather out there, and you 'll be snugger under cover.”
Beecher, however, declined; and the Captain, crossing the deck, repeated
the same counsel to the other passenger.
“No, I thank you,” said he, gayly; “but if one of your men could
spare me a cloak or a cape, I 'd be much obliged, for I am somewhat
ill-provided against wet weather.”
“I can let you have a rug, with pleasure,” said Beecher, overhearing the
request; while he drew from a recess beneath the binnacle one of those
serviceable aids to modern travel in the shape of a strong woollen
blanket.
“I accept your offer most willingly, and the more so as I suspect I
have had the honor of being presented to you,” said the stranger. “Do I
address Mr. Annesley Beecher?”
“Eh?--I'm not aware--I'm not quite sure, by this light,” began Beecher,
in considerable embarrassment, which the other as quickly perceived, and
remedied by saying,--
“I met you at poor Kellett's. My name is Conway.”
“Oh, Conway,--all right,” said Beecher, laughing. “I was afraid you
might be a 'dark horse,' as we say. Now that I know your colors, I'm
easy again.”
Conway laughed too at the frankness of the confession, and they turned
to walk the deck together.
“You mentioned Kellett. He 's gone 'toes up,' is n't he?” said Beecher.
“He is dead, poor fellow,” said Conway, gravely. “I expected to have met
you at his funeral.”
“So I should have been had it come off on a Sunday,” said Beecher,
pleasantly; “but as in seeing old Paul 'tucked in' they might have
nabbed me, I preferred being reported absent without leave.”
“These were strong reasons, doubtless,” said Conway, dryly.
“I liked the old fellow, too,” said Beecher. “He was a bit of a bore,
to be sure, about Arayo Molinos, and Albuera, and Soult, and Beresford,
and the rest of 'em; but he was a rare good one to help a fellow at a
pinch, and hospitable as a prince.”
“That I 'm sure of!” chimed in Conway.
“I know it, I can swear to it; I used to dine with him every Sunday,
regularly as the day came. I'll never forget those little tough legs
of mutton,--wherever he found them there's no saying,--and those hard
pellets of capers, like big swan-shot, washed down with table beer and
whiskey-grog, and poor Kellett thinking all the while he was giving you
haunch of venison and red hermitage.”
“He 'd have given them just as freely if he had them,” broke in Conway,
half gruffly.
“That he would! He did so when he had it to give,--at least, so they
tell me, for I never saw the old place at Kellett's Town, or Castle
Kellett--”
“Kellett's Court was the name.”
“Ay, to be sure, Kellett's Court. I wonder how I could forget it, for
I'm sure I heard it often enough.”
“One forgets many a thing they ought to remember,” said Conway,
significantly.
“Hit him again, he hasn't got no friends!” broke in Beecher, laughing
jovially at this rebuke of himself. “You mean, that I ought to have a
fresher memory about all old Paul's kindnesses, and you 're right there;
but if you knew how hard the world has hit _me_, how hot they 've been
giving it to me these years back, you 'd perhaps not lean so heavily on
me. Since the Epsom of '42,” said he, solemnly, “I never had one chance,
not one, I pledge you my sacred word of honor. I 've had my little
'innings,' you know, like every one else,--punted for five-pun-notes
with the small ones, but never a real chance. Now, I call that hard,
deuced hard.”
“I suppose it _is_ hard,” said Conway; but, really, it would have been
very difficult to say in what sense his words should be taken.
“And when a fellow finds himself always on the wrong side of the road,”
said Beecher, who now fancied that he was taking a moralist's view of
life, and spoke with a philosophic solemnity,--“I say, when a fellow
sees that, do what he will, he's never on the right horse, he begins to
be soured with the world, and to think that it's all a regular 'cross.'
Not that I ever gave in. No! ask any of the fellows up at Newmarket--ask
the whole ring--ask--” he was going to say Grog Davis, when he suddenly
remembered the heavy judgment Conway had already fulminated on that
revered authority, and then, quickly correcting himself, he said, “Ask
any of the legs you like what stuff A. B. 's made of,--if he ain't
hammered iron, and no mistake!”
“But what do you mean when you say you never gave in?” asked Conway,
half sternly.
“What do I mean?” said Beecher, repeating the words, half stunned by the
boldness of the question,--“what do I mean? Why, I mean that they never
saw me 'down,'--that no man can say Annesley Beecher ever said 'die.'
Have n't I had my soup piping hot,--spiced and peppered too! Was n't I
in for a pot on Blue Nose, when Mope ran a dead heat with Belshazzar for
the Cloudeslie,--fifteen to three in fifties twice over, and my horse
running in bandages, and an ounce of corrosive sublimate in his stomach!
Well, you 'd not believe it,--I don't ask any one to believe it that
did n't see it,--but I was as cool as I am here, and I walked up to
Lady Tinkerton's drag and ate a sandwich; and when she said, 'Oh!
Mr. Beecher, do come and tell me what to bet on,' I said to her,
'Quicksilver's the fastest of metals, but don't back it just now.' They
had it all over the course in half an hour: 'Quicksilver's the fastest
of metals--'”
“I'm afraid I don't quite catch your meaning.”
“It was alluding to the bucketing, you know. They 'd just given Blue
Nose corrosive sublimate, which is a kind of quicksilver.”
“Oh, I perceive,” said Conway.
“Good,--wasn't it?” said Beecher, chuckling. “Let A. B. alone to 'sarve
them out,'--that's what all the legs said!” And then he heaved a little
sigh, as though to say that, after all, even wit and smartness were only
a vanity and a vexation of spirit, and that a “good book” was better
than them all.
“I detest the whole concern,” said Conway. “So long as gentlemen bred
and trained to run their horses in honorable rivalry, it was a noble
sport, and well became the first squirearchy of the world; but when it
degenerated into a field for every crafty knave and trickster,--when
the low cunning of the gambler succeeded to the bold daring of the true
lover of racing,--then the turf became no better than the _rouge et
noir_ table, without even the poor consolation of thinking that chance
was any element in the result.”
“Why, what would you have? It's a game where the best player wins,
that's all,” broke in Beecher.
“If you mean it is always a contest where the best horse carries away
the prize, I enter my denial to the assertion. If it were so, the legs
would have no existence, and all that classic vocabulary of 'nobbling,'
'squaring,' and so on, have no dictionary.”
“It's all the same the whole world over,” broke in Beecher. “The
wide-awake ones will have the best seat on the coach.”
Conway made no reply; but the increased energy with which he puffed his
cigar bespoke the impatience he was suffering under.
“What became of the daughter?” asked Beecher, abruptly; and then, not
awaiting the answer, went on: “A deuced good-looking girl, if properly
togged out, but she had n't the slightest notion of dressing herself.”
“Their narrow fortune may have had something to say to that,” said
Conway, gravely.
“Where there's a will, there's a way,--that 's my idea. I was never so
hard up in life but I could make my tailor torn me out like a gentleman.
I take it,” added he, returning to the former theme, “she was a proud
one. Old Kellett was awfully afraid of doing many a thing from the dread
of her knowing it. He told me so himself.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Conway, with evident pleasure in the tone.
“I could have helped him fifty ways. I knew fellows who would have
'done' his bills,--small sums, of course,--and have shoved him along
pleasantly enough, but _she_ would n't have it at any price.”
“I was not aware of that,” remarked Conway, inviting, by his manner,
further revelations.
Beecher, however, mistaking the source of the interest he had thus
excited, and believing that his own craft and shrewdness were the
qualities that awakened respect, went on to show how conversant he was
with all financial operations amongst Jews and money-lenders, proudly
declaring that there was not a “man on town” knew the cent per centers
as he did.
“I've had my little dealings with them,” said he, with some vanity in
the manner. “I 've had my paper done when there was n't a fellow on the
'turf' could raise a guinea. You see,” added he, lowering his voice to a
whisper that implied secrecy, “I could do them a service no money could
repay. I was up to all that went on in life and at the clubs. When
Etheridge got it so heavy at the 'Rag,' I warned Fordyce not to advance
him beyond a hundred or two. I was the only gentleman knew Brookdale's
horse could win 'the Ripsley.' The legs, of course, knew it well before
the race came off. Jemmy could have had ten thousand down for his
'book.' Ah! if you and I had only known each other six years ago, what
a stroke of work we might have done together! Even now,” said he, with
increased warmth of voice, “there's a deuced deal to be done abroad.
Brussels and Florence are far from worked out; not among the foreigners,
of course, but our own fellows,--the young Oxford and Cambridge
'saps,'--the green ones waiting for their gazette in the Guards! Where
are you bound for?--what are you doing?” asked he, as if a sudden
thought had crossed his mind.
“I am endeavoring to get back to the Crimea,” said Conway, smiling at
the prospect which the other had with such frankness opened to him.
“The Crimea!” exclaimed Beecher, “why, that is downright madness; they
're fighting away there just as fresh as ever. The very last paper I saw
is filled with an account of a Russian sortie against our lines, and a
lot of our fellows killed and wounded.”
“Of course there are hard knocks--”
“It's all very well to talk of it that way, but I think you might have
been satisfied with what you saw, I 'd just as soon take a cab down to
Guy's, or the Middlesex Hospital, and ask one of the house-surgeons to
cut me up at his own discretion, as go amongst those Russian savages. I
tell you it don't pay,--not a bit of it!”
“I suppose, as to the paying part, you 're quite right; but, remember,
there are different modes of estimating the same thing. Now, I like
soldiering--”
“No accounting for tastes,” broke in Beecher. “I knew a fellow who was
so fond of the Queen's Bench Prison he would n't let his friends clear
him out; but, seriously speaking, the Crimea 's a bad book.”
“I should be a very happy fellow to-night if I knew how I could get back
there. I 've been trying in various ways for employment in any branch
of the service. I 'd rather be a driver in the Wagon Train than whip the
neatest four-in-hand over Epsom Downs.”
“There 's only one name for that,” said Beecher; “at least, out of
Hanwell.”
“I 'd be content to be thought mad on such terms,” said Conway,
good-humoredly, “and not even quarrel with those who said so!”
“I 've got a better scheme than the Crimea in my head,” said Beecher, in
a low, cautious voice, like one afraid of being overheard. “I've half
a mind to tell you, though there 's one on board here would come down
pretty heavily on me for peaching.”
“Don't draw any indignation on yourself on _my_ account,” said Conway,
smiling. “I'm quite unworthy of the confidence, and utterly unable to
profit by it.”
“I 'm not so sure of that,” responded Beecher. “A fellow who has got it
so hot as you have, has always his eyes open ever after. Come a little
to this side,” whispered he, cautiously. “Did you remark my going
forward two or three times when I came on board?”
“Yes, I perceived that you did so.”
“You never guessed why?”
“No; really I paid no particular attention to it.”
“I 'll tell you, then,” whispered he, still lower, “it was to look after
a horse I 've got there. 'Mumps,' that ran such a capital second for the
Yarmouth, and ran a dead heat afterwards with Stanley's 'Cross-Bones,'
he's there!” and his voice trembled between pride and agitation.
“Indeed!” exclaimed Conway, amused at the eagerness of his manner.
“There he is, disguised as a prize bull for the King of Belgium. Nobody
suspects him,--nobody could suspect him, he 's so well got up, horns and
all. Got him on board in the dark in a large roomy box, clap posters to
it on the other side, and 'tool' him along to Brussels. That's what I
call business! Now, if you wait a week or two, you can lay on him as
deep as you like. We'll let the Belgians 'in,' before we 've done
with them. We run him under the name of 'Klepper;' don't forget
it,--Klepper!”
“I've already told you I 'm unworthy of such a confidence; you only risk
yourself when you impart a secret to indiscretion like mine.”
“You'd not blow us?” cried Annesley, in terror.
“The best security against my doing so accidentally is that I may be
hundreds of miles away before your races come off.”
For a minute or two Beecher's misery was extreme. He saw how his
rashness had carried him away to a foolish act of good-nature, and had
not even reaped thanks for his generosity. What would he not have given
to recall his words?--what would he not have done to obliterate their
impression? At last a sudden thought seemed to strike him, and he
said,--
“There are two of us in 'the lay,' and my 'pal' is the readiest pistol
in Europe.”
“I 'll not provoke any display of his skill, depend on 't,” said Conway,
controlling, as well as he could, the inclination to laugh out.
“He'd tumble you over like winking if you sold him. He 'd make it as
short work with myself if he suspected me.”
“I'd rather have a quieter sort of colleague,” said Conway, dryly.
“Oh! but he's a rare one to 'work the oracle.' Solomon was a wise man--”
“What infernal balderdash are you at with Solomon and Samson, there?”
shouted out Grog Davis, who had just been looking after the horse-box in
the bow. “Come down below, and have a glass of brandy-and-water.”
“I 'll stay where I am,” said Beecher, sulkily, and walked away in
dudgeon from the spot.
“I think I recognize your friend's voice,” said Conway, when Beecher
next joined him. “If I 'm right, it's a fellow I 've an old grudge
against.”
“Don't have it out, then,--that 's all,” broke in Beecher, hastily.
“I 'd just as soon go into a cage and dispute a bone with one of Van
Amburgh's tigers, as I 'd 'bring _him_ to book.'”
“Make your mind easy about that,” said Conway. “I never go in search
of old scores. I would only say, don't leave yourself more in his power
than you can easily escape from. As for myself, it's very unlikely I
shall ever see him again.”
“I wish you'd given up the Crimea,” said Beecher, who, by one of the
strange caprices of his strange nature, began to feel a sort of liking
for Conway.
“Why should I give it up? It's the only career I 'm fit for,--if I even
be fit for that, which, indeed, the Horse Guards don't seem to think.
But I 've got an old friend in the Piedmontese service who is going
out in command of the cavalry, and I 'm on my way now to Turin to
see whether he cannot make me something,--anything, in short, from
an aide-de-camp to an orderly. Once before the enemy, it matters
wonderfully little what rank a man holds.”
“The chances of his being knocked over are pretty much alike,” said
Beecher, “if that's what you mean.”
“Not exactly,” said Conway, laughing, “not exactly, though even in
_that_ respect the calculation is equal.”
They now walked the deck step for step together in silence. The
conversation had arrived at that point whence, if not actually
confidential, it could proceed no further without becoming so, and so
each appeared to feel it, and yet neither was disposed to lead the way.
Beecher was one of those men who regard the chance persons they meet
with in life just as they would accidental spots where they halt when on
a journey,--little localities to be enjoyed at the time, and never, in
all likelihood, revisited. In this way they obtained far more of his
confidence than if he was sure to be in constant habits of intercourse
with them. He felt they were safe depositaries, just as he would have
felt a lonely spot in a wood a secure hiding-place for whatever
he wanted to conceal. Now he was already--we are unable to say
why--disposed to like Conway, and he would gladly have revealed to him
much that lay heavily at his heart,--many a weighty care, many a sore
misgiving. There was yet remaining in his nature that reverence and
respect for honesty of character which survives very often a long course
of personal debasement, and he felt that Conway was a man of honor.
Such men he very well knew were usually duped and done,--they were the
victims of the sharp set he himself fraternized with; but, with all
that, there was something about them that he still clung to, just as he
might have clung to a reminiscence of his boy-days.
“I take it,” said he, at last, “that each of us have caught it
as heavily as most fellows going. _You_, to be sure, worse than
myself,--for I was only a younger son.”
“_My_ misfortunes,” said Conway, “were all of my own making. I
squandered a very good fortune in a few years, without ever so much
as suspecting I was in any difficulty; and, after all, the worst
recollection of the past is, how few kindnesses, how very few
good-natured things a fellow does when he leads a life of mere
extravagance. I have enriched many a money-lender, I have started half
a dozen rascally servants into smart hotel-keepers, but I can scarcely
recall five cases of assistance given to personal friends. The truth is,
the most selfish fellow in the world is the spendthrift.”
“That 's something new to me, I must own,” said Beecher, thoughtfully;
but Conway paid no attention to the remark. “My notion is this,” said
Beecher, after a pause,--“do what you will, say what you will, the world
won't play fair with you!”
Conway shook his head dissentingly, but made no reply, and another and a
longer silence ensued.
“You don't know my brother Lackington?” said Beecher, at length.
“No. I have met him in the world and at clubs, but don't know him.”
“I 'll engage, however, you 've always heard him called a clever fellow,
a regular sharp fellow, and all that, just because he's the Viscount;
but he is, without exception, the greatest flat going,--never saw his
way to a good thing yet, and if you told him of one, was sure to spoil
it. I 'm going over to see him now,” added he, after a pause.
“He 's at Rome, I think, the newspapers say?”
“Yes, he's stopping there for the winter.” Another pause followed, and
Beecher threw away the end of his cigar, and, sticking an unlighted one
in his mouth, walked the deck in deep deliberation. “I 'd like to put a
case to you for your opinion,” said he, as though screwing himself to a
great effort. “If you stood next to a good fortune,--next in reversion,
I mean,--and that there was a threat--just a threat, and no more--of a
suit to contest your right, would you accept of a life interest in the
property to avoid all litigation, and secure a handsome income for your
own time?”
“You put the case too vaguely. First of all, a mere threat would not
drive me to a compromise.”
“Well, call it more than a threat; say that actual proceedings had been
taken,--not that I believe they have; but just say so.”
“The matter is too complicated for my mere Yes or No to meet it; but
on the simple question of whether I should compromise a case of that
nature, I'd say No. I'd not surrender my right if I had one, and I 'd
not retain possession of that which did n't belong to me.”
“Which means, that you 'd reject the offer of a life interest?”
“Yes, on the terms you mention.”
“I believe you 're right. Put the bold face on, and stand the battle.
Now the real case is this. My brother Lack-ington has just been served
with notice--”
Just as Beecher had uttered the last word, his arm, which rested on the
binnacle against which he was standing, was grasped with such force that
he almost cried out with the pain, and at the same instant a muttered
curse fell upon his ear.
“Go on,” said Conway, as he waited to hear more.
Beecher muttered some unintelligible words about feeling suddenly
chilled, and “wanting a little brandy,” and disappeared down the stairs
to the cabin.
“I heard you,” cried Davis, as soon as the other entered,--“I heard you!
and if I hadn't heard you with my own ears, I 'd not have believed it!
Have n't I warned you, not once but fifty times, against that confounded
peaching tongue of yours? Have n't I told you that if every act of your
life was as pure and honest as you know it is not, your own stupid talk
would make an indictment against you? You meet a fellow on the deck of a
steamer--”
“Stop there!” cried Beecher, whose temper was sorely tried by this
attack. “The gentleman I talked with is an old acquaintance; he knows
me,--ay, and what's more, he knows _you!_”
“Many a man knows _me_, and does not feel himself much the better for
his knowledge!” said Davis, boldly.
“Well, I believe our friend here would n't say he was the exception to
that rule,” said Beecher, with an ironical laugh.
“Who is he?--what's his name?”
“His name is Conway; he was a lieutenant in the 12th Lancers, but you
will remember him better as the owner of Sir Aubrey.”
“I remember him perfectly,” replied Davis, with all his own
composure,--“I remember him perfectly,--a tall, good-looking fellow,
with short moustaches. He was--except yourself--the greatest flat I
ever met in the betting-ring; and that's a strong word, Mr. Annesley
Beecher,--ain't it?”
“I suspect you 'd scarcely like to call him a flat to-day, at least, to
his face,” said Beecher, angrily.
A look of mingled insolence and contempt was all the answer Davis gave
this speech; and then half filling a tumbler with brandy, he drank it
off, and said slowly,--
“What _I_ would dare to do, _you_ certainly would never suspect,--that
much I 'm well aware of. What _you_ would dare is easily guessed at.”
“I don't clearly understand you,” said Beecher, timidly.
“_You_ 'd dare to draw me into a quarrel on the chance of seeing me
'bowled over,'” said Davis, with a bitter laugh. “_You_ 'd dare to see
me stand opposite another man's pistol, and pray heartily at the same
time that his hand might n't shake, nor his wrist falter; but I've
got good business habits about me, Master Beecher. If you open that
writing-desk, you 'll own few men's papers are in better order, or more
neatly kept; and there is no satisfaction I could have to offer any one
would n't give me ample time to deposit in the hands of justice seven
forged acceptances by the Honorable Annesley Beecher, and the power of
attorney counterfeited by the same accomplished gentleman's hand.”
Beecher put out his hand to catch the decanter of brandy; but Davis
gently removed the bottle, and said, “No, no; that's only Dutch courage,
man; nerve yourself up, and learn to stand straight and manfully, and
when you say, 'Not guilty,' do it with a bold look at the jury box.'”
Beecher dropped into his seat, and buried his head between his hands.
“I often think,” said Davis, as he took out his cigar-case and proceeded
to choose a cigar,--“I often think it would be a fine sight when the
swells--the fashionable world, as the newspapers call them--would be
pressing on to the Old Bailey to see one of their own set in the dock.
What nobs there would be on the Bench! All Brookes's and the Wyndham
scattered amongst the bar. The 'Illustrated News' would have a
photographic picture of you, and the descriptive fellows would come out
strong about the way you recognized your former acquaintances in court.
Egad! old Grog Davis would be quite proud to give his evidence in such
company!' How long have you been acquainted with the prisoner in the
dock, Mr. Davis?' cried he, aloud, imitating the full and imperious
accents of an examining counsel. 'I have known him upwards of fifteen
years, my Lord. We went down together to Leeds in the summer of 1840 on
a little speculation with cogged dice--'”
Beecher looked up and tried to speak, but his strength failed him, and
his head fell heavily down again on the table.
“There, 'liquor up,' as the Yankees say,” cried Davis, passing the
decanter towards him. “You 're a poor chicken-hearted creature, and
don't do much honor to your 'order.'”
“You 'll drive me to despair yet,” muttered Beecher, in a voice scarcely
above a whisper.
“Not a bit of it, man; there's pluck in despair! You 'll never go that
far!”
Beecher grasped his glass convulsively; and as his eyes flashed wildly,
he seemed for a moment as if about to hurl it in the other's face.
Davis's look, however, appeared to abash him, and with a low, faint sigh
he relinquished his hold, while his head fell forward on his bosom.
Davis now drew near the fire, and with a leg on either side of it,
smoked away at his ease.