Along a road pleasantly shaded by linden-trees, Davis strolled
leisurely that afternoon to meet his daughter. It was a mellow autumnal
day,--calm, silent, and half sombre,--one of those days in which the
tranquil aspect of nature has an influence of sad but soothing import,
and even the least meditative minds are led to reflection. Down the
deep valley, where the clear trout-stream eddied along, while the
leafy chestnut-trees threw their shadows over the water; over the
rich pasture-lands, where the spotted cattle roamed; high up the blue
mountains, whose snowy summits mingled with the clouds,--Davis wandered
with his eyes, and felt, he knew not why or how, a something of calming,
subduing effect upon a brain racked with many a scheme, wearied with
many a plot.
As he gazed down upon that fair scene where form and color and odor
were blended into one beauteous whole, a struggling effort of fancy sent
through his mind the question, “Is this, after all, the real prize of
life? Is this peaceful existence worth all the triumphs that we strive
and fight for?” And then came the thought, “Could this be lasting, what
would a nature like mine become, thus left in rust and disuse? Could I
live? or should I enjoy life without that eternal hand-to-hand conflict
with my fellow-men, on which skill and ready wit are exercised?” He
pondered long over this notion, nor could he satisfy himself with any
conclusion.
He thought he could remember a time when he would thoroughly have liked
all this,--when he could have taken leave of the busy world without one
regret, and made the great race of life a mere “walk over;” but now that
he had tasted the poisonous fascination of that combat, where man is
pitted against man, and where even the lust of gain is less stimulating
than a deadly sense of jealous rivalry, it was too late--too late! How
strange, too, did it seem to him, as he looked back upon his wild and
stormy life, with all its perils and all its vicissitudes, to think
that an existence so calm, so uneventful, and so safe, could yet be
had,--that a region existed where craft could find no exercise, where
subtlety might be in disuse! It was to him like a haven that he was
rejoiced to know,--a harbor whose refuge, some one day or other, he
would search out; but there was yet one voyage to make,--one grand
venture,--which, if successful, would be the crowning fortune of his
life!
The sharp crack, crack of a postilion's whip started him from his
musings, and, looking up, he saw a post-carriage approaching at full
speed. He waved his hat as the carriage came near for the men to draw
up, and the next moment Lizzy Davis was in her father's arms. He kissed
her twice, and then, holding her back, gazed with proud delight at her
beautiful features, never more striking than in that moment of joyful
meeting.
“How well you are looking, Lizzy!” said he, with a thick utterance.
“And you too, dear papa,” said she, caressingly. “This quiet rural life
seems to have agreed wonderfully with you. I declare you look five years
younger for it, does he not, Mr. Beecher?”
“Ah, Beecher, how are you?” cried Davis, warmly shaking the other's
hand. “This _is_ jolly, to be all together again,” said he, as, drawing
his daughter's arm within his own, and taking Beecher on the other side,
he told the postilions to move forward, while they would find their way
on foot.
“How did you ever hit upon this spot?” asked Beecher; “we could n't find
it on the map.”
“I came through here some four-and-twenty years ago, and I never forget
a place nor a countenance. I thought at the time it might suit me, some
one day or other, to remember, and you see I was right. You are grown
fatter, Lizzy; at least I fancy so. But come, tell me about your life at
Aix,--was it pleasant? was the place gay?”
“It was charming, papa!” cried she, in ecstasy; “had you only been
with us, I could not have come away. Such delightful rides and drives,
beautiful environs, and then the Cursaal of an evening, with all its
odd people,--not that my guardian, here, fancied so much my laughing at
them.”
“Well, you did n't place much restraint upon yourself, I must say.”
“I was reserved even to prudery; I was the caricature of Anglo-Saxon
propriety,” said she, with affected austerity.
“And what did they think of you, eh?” asked Davis trying to subdue the
pride that would, in spite of him, twinkle in his eye.
“I was the belle of the season. I assure you it is perfectly true!”
“Come, come, Lizzy--”
“Well, ask Mr. Beecher. Be honest now, and confess frankly, were you
not sulky at driving out with me the way the people stared? Didn't you
complain that you never expected to come home from the play without a
duel or something of the kind on your hands? Did you not induce me
to ruin my toilette just to escape what you so delicately called 'our
notoriety'? Oh, wretched man! what triumphs did I not relinquish out of
compliance to your taste for obscurity!”
“By Jove! we divided public attention with Ferouk Khan and his wives. I
don't see that my taste for obscurity obtained any brilliant success.”
“I never heard of such black ingratitude!” cried she, in mock
indignation. “I assure you, pa, I was a martyr to his English notions,
which, to me, seem to have had their origin in Constantinople.”
“Poor Beecher!” said Davis, laughingly.
“Poor Beecher, no, but happy Beecher, envied by thousands. Not indeed,”
added she, with a smile, “that his appearance at this moment suggests
any triumphant satisfaction. Oh, papa, you should have seen him when
the Russian Prince Ezerboffsky asked me to dance, or when the Archduke
Albrecht offered me his horses; or, better still, the evening the
Margrave lighted up his conservatory just to let me see it.”
“Your guardianship had its anxieties, I perceive,” said Davis, dryly.
“I think it had,” said Beecher, sighing. “There were times I 'd have
given five thousand, if I had it, that she had been safe under your own
charge.”
“My dear fellow, I'd have given fifty,” said Davis, “if I did n't know
she was just in as good hands as my own.” There was a racy heartiness in
this speech that thrilled through Beecher's heart, and he could scarcely
credit his ears that it was Grog spoke it. “Ay, Beecher,” added he, as
he drew the other's arm closer to his side, “there was just one man--one
single man in Europe--I 'd have trusted with the charge.”
“Really, gentlemen,” said Lizzy, with a malicious sparkle of the eye,
“I am lost in my conjectures whether I am to regard myself as a sort of
human Koh-i-noor--a priceless treasure--or something so very difficult
to guard, so perilous to protect, as can scarcely be accounted a
flattery. Say, I entreat of you, to which category do I belong?”
“A little to each, I should say,--eh, Beecher?” cried Grog, laughingly.
“Oh, don't appeal to _him_, papa. _He_ only wants to vaunt his heroism
the higher, because the fortress he guarded was so easy of assault!”
Beecher was ill-fitted to engage in such an encounter, and stammered out
some commonplace apology for his own seeming want of gallantry.
“She's too much for us, Beecher,--too much for us. It's a pace we can't
keep up,” muttered Grog in the other's ear. And Beecher nodded a ready
assent to the speech.
“Well,” said Lizzy, gayly, “now that your anxieties are well over, I
do entreat of you to unbend a little, and let us see the lively,
light-hearted Mr. Annesley Beecher, of whose pleasant ways I have heard
so much.”
“I used to be light-hearted enough once, eh, Davis?” said Beecher, with
a sigh. “When you saw me first at the Derby--of, let me see, I don't
remember the year, but it was when Danby's mare Petrilla won,--with
eighteen to one 'given and taken' against her, the day of the
race,--Brown Davy, the favorite, coming in a bad third,--he died the
same night.”
“Was he 'nobbled'?” asked Lizzy, dryly.
“What do you mean?” cried Grog, gruffly. “Where did you learn that
word?”
“Oh, I'm quite strong in your choice vocabulary,” said she, laughingly;
“and you are not to fancy that in the dissipations of Aix I have
forgotten the cares of my education. My guardian there set me a task
every morning,--a page of Burke's Peerage and a column of the 'Racing
Calendar;' and for the ninth Baron of Fitzfoodle, or the fifteenth
winner of the Diddlesworth, you may call on me at a moment.”
The angry shadow on Davis's brow gradually faded away, and he laughed a
real, honest, and good-humored laugh.
“What do you say to the Count, Lizzy?” asked he next. “There was a fine
gentleman, wasn't he?”
“There was the ease and the self-possession of good breeding without the
manners. He was amusing from his own self-content, and a sort of latent
impression that he was taking you in, and when one got tired of that, he
became downright stupid.”
“True as a book, every word of it!” cried Beecher, in hearty gratitude,
for he detested the man, and was envious of his small accomplishments.
“His little caressing ways, too, ceased to be flatteries, when you saw
that, like the cheap bonbons scattered at a carnival, they were made for
the million.”
“Hit him again, he has n't got no friends!” said Beecher, with an
assumed slang in his tone.
“But worst of all was that mockery of good nature,--a false air of
kindliness about him. It was a spurious coinage, so cleverly devised
that you looked at every good guinea afterwards with distrust.”
“How she knows him,--how she reads him!” cried Davis, in delight.
“He was very large print, papa,” said she, smiling.
“Confound me!” cried Beecher, “if I didn't think you liked him, you used
to receive him so graciously; and I'll wager he thinks himself a prime
favorite with you.”
“So he may, if it give him any pleasure,” said she, with a careless
laugh.
Davis marked the expression of Beecher's face as she said these words;
he saw how that distrustful nature was alarmed, and he hastened to
repair the mischief.
“I am sure you never affected to feel any regard for him, Lizzy?” said
Davis.
“Regard for him!” said she, haughtily; “I should think not! Such people
as he are like the hired horses that every one uses, and only asks that
they should serve for the day they have taken them.”
“There, Beecher,” said Davis, with a laugh. “I sincerely hope she's not
going to discuss _your_ character or _mine_.”
“By Jove! I hope not.” And in the tone in which Beecher uttered this
there was an earnestness that made the other laugh heartily.
“Well, here we are. This is your home for the present,” said Davis, as
he welcomed them to the little inn, whose household were all marshalled
to receive them with fitting deference.
The arrangements within doors were even better than the picturesque
exterior promised; and when Lizzy came down to dinner, she was in
raptures about her room, its neatness even to elegance, and the glorious
views that opened before the windows.
“I'm splendidly lodged too,” said Beecher; “and they have given me a
dressing-room, with a little winding-stair to the river, and a bath in
the natural rock. It is downright luxury, all this.”
Davis smiled contentedly as he listened. For days past had he been
busied with these preparations, determined to make the spot appear in
all its most favorable colors. Let us do him justice to own that his
cares met a full success. Flowers abounded in all the rooms; and the
perfumed air, made to seem tremulous by the sounds of falling water,
was inexpressibly calming after the journey. The dinner, too, would
have done honor to a more pretentious “hostel;” and the Steinberger, a
cabinet wine, that the host would not part with except for “love as well
as money,” was perfection. Better than all these,--better than the
fresh trout with its gold and azure speckles,--better than the delicate
Rehbraten with its luscious sauce,--better than the red partridges in
their bed of truffles, and a dessert whose grapes rivalled those of
Fontainebleau,--better, I say, than all, was the happy temper of the
hour! Never were three people more disposed for enjoyment. To Lizzy, it
was the oft dreamed-of home, the quiet repose of a spot surrounded
with all the charm of scenery, coming, too, just as the dissipations
of gayety had begun to weary and pall upon her. To Beeeher, it was the
first moment of all his life in which he tasted peace. Here were neither
duns nor bailiffs. It was a Paradise where no writ had ever wandered,
nor the word “outlawry” had ever been uttered. As for Davis, if he had
not actually won his game, he held in his hand the trump card that he
knew must gain it. What signified, now, a day or even a week more or
less; the labor of his long ambition was all but completed, and he saw
the goal reached that he had striven for years to attain.
Nor were they less pleased with each other. Never had Lizzy seemed to
Beecher's eyes more fascinating than now. In all the blaze of full dress
she never looked more beautiful than in that simple muslin, with
the sky-blue ribbon in her glossy hair, and the boquet of moss
roses coquettishly placed above her ear, for--I mention it out of
accuracy--she wore her hair drawn back, as was the mode about a
century ago, and was somewhat ingenious in her imitation of that
mock-shepherdess _coiffure_ so popular with fine ladies of that time.
She would have ventured on a “patch” if it were not out of fear for
her father; not, indeed, that the delicate fairness of her skin, or the
dazzling brilliancy of her eyes, needed the slightest aid from art.
Was it with some eye to keeping a toilette that she wore a profusion of
rings, many of great price and beauty? I know not her secret; if I did,
I should assuredly tell it, for I suspect none of her coquetries were
without their significance. To complete Beecher's satisfaction, Davis
was in a mood of good humor, such as he had never seen before.
Not a word of contradiction, not one syllable of disparagement fell from
his lips, that Beecher usually watched with an utmost childish terror,
dreading reproof at every moment, and not being over certain when
his opinions would pass without a censure. Instead of this, Grog was
conciliating even to gentleness, constantly referred to Beecher what
he thought of this or that, and even deferred to his better judgment on
points whereon he might have been supposed to be more conversant. Much
valued reader, has it ever been your fortune in life to have had your
opinions on law blandly approved of by an ex-Chancellor, your notions
of medicine courteously confirmed by a great physician, or your naval
tactics endorsed by an admiral of the fleet? If so, you can fully
appreciate the ecstasy of Annesley Beecher as he found all his
experiences of the sporting world corroborated by the “Court above.”
This was the gold medal he had set his heart on for years,--this the
great prize of all his life; and now he had won it, and he was really
a “sharp fellow.” There is an intense delight in the thought of having
realized a dream of ambition, of which, while our own hearts gave us the
assurance of success, the world at large only scoffed at our attempting.
To be able to say, “Yes, here I am, despite all your forebodings and all
your predictions,--I knew it was 'in me'!” is a very proud thing, and
such a moment of vaingloriousness is pardonable enough.
How enjoyable at such a moment of triumph was it to hear Lizzy sing and
play, making that miserable old piano discourse in a guise it had
never dreamed of! She was in one of those moods wherein she blended
the wildest flights of fancy with dashes of quaint humor, now breathing
forth a melody of Spohr's in accents of thrilling pathos, now hitting
off in improvised doggerel a description of Aix and its company,
with mimicries of their voice and manner irresistibly droll. In these
imitations the Count, and even Beecher himself, figured, till Grog,
fairly worn out with laughter, had to entreat her to desist.
As for Beecher, he was a good-tempered fellow, and the little raillery
at himself took nothing from the pleasure of the description, and he
laughed in ready acknowledgment of many a little trait of his own manner
that he never suspected could have been detected by another.
“Ain't she wonderful,--ain't she wonderful?” exclaimed Grog, as she
strolled out into the garden, and left them alone together.
“What I can't make out is, she has no blank days,” said Beecher. “She
was just as you saw her there, the whole time we were at Aix; and while
she's rattling away at the piano, and going on with all manner of fun,
just ask her a serious question,--I don't care about what,----and she'll
answer you as if she had been thinking of nothing else for the whole day
before.”
“Had she been born in _your_ rank of life, Beecher, where would she
be be now,--tell me that?” said Davis; and there was an almost fierce
energy in the words as he spoke them.
“I can tell you one thing,” cried Beecher, in a transport of
delight,--“there's no rank too high for her this minute.”
“Well said, boy,--well said,” exclaimed Davis, warmly; “and here's to
her health.”
“That generous toast and cheer must have been in honor of myself,” said
Lizzy, peeping in at the window, “and in acknowledgment I beg to invite
you both to tea.”