Long before Lizzy had composed herself to sleep--for her heart was torn
by a first sorrow, and she lay restless and fevered--her father, mounted
on a post-horse, was riding away towards the Rhine. He had desired that
the reply to his telegraphic message should be addressed to him at the
post-office of Neuwied, and thither he was now bent. It is a strange
thing, that when the affections of men of this stamp are deeply
moved,--when their sensibilities, long dulled and hardened by the
rubs of life, are once evoked,--the feelings excited are less those of
gentleness and tenderness than an almost savage desire for some personal
conflict. Urging his horse to full speed, Davis spared neither whip nor
spur. Alone upon that solitary road, he asked himself aloud if he were
less alone in the broad, bleak world? “Is not the 'field' against
me wherever I go? I never heard of the fellow that had not some
'moorings'--some anchorage--except myself.” But a brief hour ago and
there was one who loved him with all her heart,--who saw, or fancied she
saw, a rich mine of generous qualities in his rough manners and blunt
address,--who pictured to her mind what such a nature might have been
under happier circumstances and with better culture. “And now,” cried
he, aloud,--“now she knows me for what I am, how will she bear this?
Will she sink under it, will it crush her, or has she enough of my own
blood in her veins to meet it courageously? Oh! if she only knew the
world as I do,--what a mean coward it is, how it bullies the weak and
truckles to the strong, how it frowns down the timid and simpers to the
sturdy! Every man--ay, and every woman--can sell his life dearly; and
strange it is, one only learns the value of this secret too late. Let
a fellow start with it, and see what it does for him. _I_ went at them
single-handed; _I_ went down all alone into the ring, and have they
beaten _me?_ I had no honorable or right honorable friends to pick _me_
out of a scrape. It would be hard to find three men, with good hats on
them, would bail me to the amount of ten pounds; and here I am to-day
just as ready to face them all as ever.”
What canting nonsense do we occasionally read in certain quarters
to disparage mere personal courage,--“mere personal courage”! We are
reminded that the ignoble quality is held in common with the bull-dog,
and that in this essential he is our master; we are reminded that it is
a low and vulgar attribute that neither elevates nor enlightens, that
the meanest creatures are often gifted with it, and the noblest natures
void of it. To all this we give a loud and firm denial; and we affirm as
steadfastly, that without it there is neither truth nor manliness. The
self-reliance that makes a man maintain his word, be faithful to his
friendships, and honorable in his dealings, has no root in a heart that
shakes with craven fear. The life of a coward is the voyage of a ship
with a leak,--eternal contrivance, never-ceasing emergency. All thoughts
dashed with a perpetual fear of death, what room is there for one
generous emotion, one great or high-hearted ambition?
What a quality must that be, I would ask, that gives even to such
a nature as this man's a sort of rugged dignity? Yes, with all his
failings and short-comings, and I am not going to hide one of them, his
personal courage lifted him out of that category of contempt to which
his life assigned him. How well the world understands such men to be
the _feræ naturæ_ of humanity! It may shun, deprecate, disparage, but it
never despises them. If then of such value be a gift that makes even
the bad appear tolerable, there is this evil in the quality, that it
disposes men like Davis to be ever on the attack. Their whole policy of
life is aggressive.
It was about eight o'clock, on a mellow autumnal morning, as Grog
reached Neuwied, and rode down the main street, already becoming
thronged with the peasantry for the market: Guiding his horse carefully
through the booths of flaunting wares, gay stalls of rural finery, and
stands of fruit, he reached the little inn where he meant to breakfast.
The post was not to open for an hour, so that he ordered his meal to be
at once got ready, and looked also to the comfort of his beast, somewhat
blown by a long stage. His breakfast had been laid in the public room,
in which two travellers were seated, whose appearance, even before he
heard them speak, proclaimed them to be English. They were both
young, fresh-looking, and well favored; that stamp of half-modesty,
half-boldness, so essentially British, was on them, and, notwithstanding
the entrance of a stranger, they talked away in their native language
with all the fearless security your genuine John Bull feels that no
confounded foreigner can understand him. It is but fair to admit that
Grog's beard and moustaches, his frogged and braided grass-green coat,
and his blue spectacles made him resemble anything on earth rather than
a subject of Queen Victoria.
In the mere glance Grog bestowed upon them as he passed, he saw the
class to which they pertained,--young Oxford or Cambridge men, “out”
for their vacation,--an order for which he ever entertained a supreme
contempt. He despised their mock shrewdness, their assumed craft, and
that affectation of being “fast men,” which in reality never soared
above running up a bill at the pastrycook's, thrashing a townsman, and
giving a stunning wine-party at their rooms. To what benefit could such
miniature vices be turned? It was only “punting” with the Evil One, and
Grog thought so and avoided them.
Deep in the “mysterious gutturals” of the “Cologne Gazette,” or busily
discussing his carbonadoed beefsteak, Davis gave no heed to the
bald, disjointed chat of his neighbors; broken phrases reached him
at intervals about proctors and the “little go,” the stroke oar of
Brazennose, or some new celebrity of the ballet, when suddenly the name
of Annesley Beecher startled him. He now listened attentively, and heard
one of them relating to the other that while waiting for his arrival
at Aix la-Chapelle, he had devoted himself to watching Beecher and “the
stunning girl” that was with him. It appeared from what he said that all
Aix was wildly excited by curiosity on her account. That she was neither
wife, sister, nor mistress, none disputed. Who was she, then? or what
could be the explanation of that mysterious companionship? “You should
have seen her at the rooms,” continued the narrator; “she used to make
her appearance about eleven--rarely before--dressed with a magnificence
that threw all the little German royalties into the shade,--such lace
and ornaments! They said, of course, it was all false; I can only tell
you that old Lady Bamouth got beside her one night just to examine her
scarf, and she proclaimed it real Brussels, and worth I can't say how
much; and for the recovery of an opal that fell out of her bracelet one
night Beecher gave six hundred francs next morning.”
“Then it was the money was false,” broke in the other; “Beecher is
ruined, he hasn't sixpence,--at least I've always heard him mentioned as
a fellow regularly cleaned out years ago.”
“He was before my day,” resumed the first; “but I heard the same story
you did. But what's the meaning of calling a fellow ruined that can go
about the world stopping at first-rate hotels, having carriages, horses,
opera-boxes? Why, the waiter at Aix told me that he paid above five
hundred florins for flowers. This girl, whoever she was, was wild about
moss-roses and pink hyacinths, and they fetched them from Rotterdam for
her. Pretty well that for a ruined man!”
“Perhaps it was she herself had the money,” suggested the other, half
carelessly.
“That's possible, too; I know that whenever she came down to the wells
and took a glass of the waters, she always gave a gold piece to the girl
that served her.”
“Then she was not a lady by birth; that trait is quite sufficient to
decide the point.”
Davis started as if he had been stung; here, from the lips of these raw
youths, was he to receive a lesson in life, and be told that all the
cost and splendor by which he purposed to smooth over the difficult
approaches to society were fatal blunders and no more,--that the
very extravagance so imposing in one of acknowledged station becomes
“suspect” in those of dubious rank. Like all men of quick resentments,
he soon turned the blame from himself to others. It was Lizzy's fault.
What right had she to draw upon herself all the censorious tongues of
a watering-place? Why should she have attracted this foolish notoriety?
After all, she was new to life and the world, and might be pardoned;
but Beecher,--it was just the one solitary thing he _did_ know,--Beecher
ought to have warned her against this peril; he ought to have guarded
against it himself. Why should such a girl be exposed to the insolent
comments of fellows like these? and he measured them deliberately, and
thought over in his mind how little trouble it would cost him to put two
families into mourning,--mayhap, to throw a life-long misery into
some happy home, and change the whole destinies of many he had never
seen,--never should see! There was, however, this difficulty, that in
doing so he drew a greater publicity upon her,--all whose interests
required secrecy and caution. “'Till she have the right to another name
than mine, she must not be the talk of newspapers,” said he to himself;
and, like many a prudent reflection, it had its sting of pain.
These meditations were rudely cut short by the sound of his own name.
It was the elder of the two young men who was discussing the duel
at Brussels, and detailing, with all the influence of his superior
experience, the various reasons “why no man was called upon to meet
such a fellow as Davis.” “I talked it over with Stan worth and Ellis,
and they both agreed with me.”
“But what is to be done?” asked the younger.
“You hand him over to the police, or you thrash him right well with a
horsewhip, pay five pounds penalty for the assault, and there's an end
on't.”
“And is 'Grog' as they call him, the man to put up with that mode of
treatment?”
“What can he do? Notoriety must ruin him. The moment it gets abroad that
a wolf has been seen near a village, all turn out for the pursuit.”
Had he who uttered this sentiment only cast his eyes towards the
stranger at the table in the corner, he would have seen, by the
expression of the features, that his simile was not a bad one. Davis
shook with passion, and his self-control, to sit still and listen, was
almost like a fit.
“All the more ungenerous, then, would be the conduct,” said the younger,
“to resent a personal wrong by calling in others to your aid.”
“Don't you see, George,” broke in the other, “that men have their beasts
of prey like other animals, and agree to hunt them down, out of common
security, for the mischief he causes, and the misery he spreads through
the world? One of these fellows in his lair is worse than any tiger that
ever crouched in a jungle. And as to dealing with him, as Ellis says,
do you ever talk of giving a tiger fair play,--do you make a duel of it,
with equal weapons; or do you just shoot him down when you can and how
you can?”
Davis arose and drew himself up, and there was a moment of irresolution
in his mind, of which, could the two travellers-have read the secret,
they would almost as soon have smoked their cigars in the den of a wild
beast. And yet there they sat, puffing indolently away the blue cloud,
scarcely deigning a passing glance at Grog, as he proceeded to leave the
room.
Anatomists assure us that if we but knew the delicate tissues by which
the machinery of our life is carried on, how slight the fibres, how
complex the functions on which vitality depends, we should not have
courage to move, or even speak, lest we should destroy an organization
so delicate and sensitive. In like manner, did we but know in life the
perils over which we daily pass, the charged mines over which we walk,
the volcanoes that are actually throbbing beneath our feet, what terrors
would it give to mere existence! It was on the turn of a straw how Davis
decided,--a word the more, a look from one of them, a laugh, might have
cost a life. With a long-drawn breath, the sigh of a pent-up emotion,
Grog found himself in the open air; there was a vague feeling in his
mind of having escaped a peril, but what or where or how he could n't
remember.
He sat down in the little porch under the clustering vines; the
picturesque street, with its carved gables and tasteful balconies,
sloped gently down to the Rhine, which ran in swift eddies beneath. It
was a fair and pleasant scene, nor was its influence all lost upon
him. He was already calmed. The gay dresses and cheerful faces of the
peasants, as they passed and repassed, their merry voices, their hearty
recognitions and pleasant greetings, gave a happier channel to his
thoughts. He thought of Lizzy,--how _she_ would like it, how enjoy it!
and then a sudden pang shot through his heart, and he remembered that
she, too, was no longer the same. The illusion that had made her life a
fairy tale was gone,--dissipated forever. The spell that gave the charm
to her existence was broken! What was all the cultivation of mind,--what
the fascinations by which she moved the hearts of all around her,--what
the accomplishments by which she adorned society, if they only marked
the width of that chasm that separated her from the well-born and the
wealthy? To be more than their equal in grace, beauty, and genius, less
than their inferior in station, was a sad lesson to learn, and this the
last night had taught her.
“Ay,” muttered he, below his breath, “she knows who she is now, but she
has yet to learn all that others think of her.” How bitterly, at that
instant, did he reproach himself for having revealed his secret! A
thousand times better to have relinquished all ambition, and preserved
the warm and confiding love she bore him. “We might have gone to
America,--to Australia. In some far-away country I could easily earn
subsistence, and no trace of my former life follow me. She, at least,
would not have been lost to me,--her affection would have clung to me
through every trial. Mere reverse of fortune--for such and no more had
it seemed--would never have chilled the generous glow of her woman's
heart, and I need not have shocked her self-love, nor insulted her
dignity, by telling her that she was the gambler's daughter.”
As he was thus musing, the two travellers came out and seated themselves
in the porch; the elder one, needing a light for his cigar, touched
his hat to Davis, and muttered some broken words of German, to request
permission to light it from him. Grog bowed a stiff acquiescence; and
the younger said, “Not over-courteous,--a red Jew, I take it!”
“A travelling jeweller, I fancy,” said the other; “twig the smart
watch-chain.”
Oh, young gentlemen, how gingerly had you trod there if you only knew
how thin was the ice under your feet, and how cold the depth beneath
it! Davis arose and walked down the street. The mellow notes of a bugle
announced the arrival of the post, and the office must now open in a few
minutes. Forcing his way through the throng to the open window, he asked
if there were any letters for Captain Christopher? None. Any for Captain
Davis? None. Any for the Hon. Annesley Beecher? The same reply. He was
turning away in disappointment, when a voice called out, “Wait! here's
a message just come in from the Telegraph-office. Please to sign the
receipt for it.” He wrote the name C. Christopher boldly, and pushed his
way through the crowd once more.
If his heart throbbed painfully with the intensity of anxiety, his
fingers never trembled as he broke the seal of the despatch. Three brief
lines were all that were there; but three brief lines can carry the
tidings of a whole destiny. We give it as it stood:--
“William Peach to Christopher, Neuwied, in Nassau.
“The Viscount died yesterday, at four p. m. Lawyers want A. B.'s address
immediately.
“Proceedings already begun.”
Davis devoured the lines four--five times over, and then muttered
between his teeth, “Safe enough now,--the match as good as over!”
“I say, George,” said one of the young travellers to his companion, “our
friend in the green frock must have got news of a prize in the lottery.
Did you ever see anything like his eyes? They actually lit up the blue
spectacles.”
“Clap the saddle on that black horse,” cried Grog, as he passed into the
stable; “give him a glass of Kirsch-wasser and bring him round to the
door.”
“He knows how to treat an old poster,” said the ostler; “it's not the
first ride he has taken on a courier's saddle.”