When Davis reached the little inn at evening, he was surprised to learn
that Annesley Beecher had passed the day alone. Lizzy complained of
headache, and kept her room. Grog listened to this with a grave, almost
stern look; he partly guessed that the ailment was a mere pretext; he
knew better to what to attribute her absence. They dined tête-à-tête;
but there was a constraint over each, and there was little of that
festive enjoyment that graced the table on the day before. Beecher was
revolving in his mind all the confessions that burdened his conscience
about Stein and the mystical volume he had bought from him; the large
sums he had drawn for were also grievous loads upon his heart, and he
knew not in what temper or spirit Davis would hear of them. Grog, too,
had many things in his head; not, indeed, that he meant to reveal them,
but they were like secret instructions to his own heart, to be referred
to for guidance and direction.
They sipped their wine under the trellised vines, and smoked their
cigars in an atmosphere fragrant with the jessamine and the rose, the
crystal river eddying along at their feet, and the purple mountain
glowing in the last tints of declining day. “We want Lizzy to enliven
us,” said Davis, after a long silence on both sides. “We 're dull and
heavy without her.”
“By Jove! it does make a precious difference whether she's here or not,”
said Beecher, earnestly.
“There's a light-heartedness about that girl does one good,” said Davis,
as he puffed his cigar. “And she's no fool, either.”
“I should think she's not,” muttered Beecher, half indignantly.
“It could n't be supposed she should know life like you or me, for
instance; she hasn't seen the thing,--never mixed with it; but let
the time come that she shall take her part in the comedy, you 'll see
whether she 'll not act it cleverly.”
“She has head for anything!” chimed in Beecher.
“Ay, and what they call tact too. I don't care what company you place
her in; take her among your duchesses to-morrow, and see if she'll not
keep her own place,--and that a good one.”
Beecher sighed, but it was not in any despondency.
And now a long silence ensued; not a sound heard save the light noise of
the bottle as it passed between them, and the long-drawn puffs of smoke
that issued from their lips.
“What did you do with Stein? Did he give you the money?” asked Davis, at
last.
“Oh yes, he gave it--he gave it freely enough; in fact, he bled so
easily that, as the doctors say, I took a good dash from him. You
mentioned two thousand florins, but I thought, as I was about it, a
little more would do us no harm, and so I said, 'Lazarus, old fellow,
what if we make this for ten thousand--”
“Ten thousand!” said Davis, removing his cigar from his lips and staring
earnestly, but yet not angrily, at the other.
“Don't you see that as I have the money with me,” began Beecher, in a
tone of apology and terror, “and as the old fellow didn't put 'the screw
on' as to discount--”
“No, he's fair enough about that; indeed, so far as my own experience
goes, all Jews are. It's your high-class Christian I'm afraid of; but
you took the cash?”
“Yes!” said Beecher, timidly, for he was n't sure he was yet out of
danger.
“It was well done,--well thought of,” said Grog, blandly. “We 'll want
a good round sum to try this new martingale of mine. Opening with five
naps, we must be able to bear a run of four hundred and eighty, which,
according to the rule of chances, might occur once in seventeen thousand
three hundred and forty times.”
“Oh, as to that,” broke in Beecher, “I have hedged famously. I bought
old Stein's conjuring-book; what he calls his 'Kleinod,' showing how
every game is to be played, when to lay on, when to draw off. Here it
is,” said he, producing the volume from his breast-pocket. “I have been
over it all day. I tried three problems with the cards myself, but I
couldn't make them come up right.”
“How did you get him to part with this?” asked Davis, as he examined the
volume carefully.
“Well, I gave him a fancy price,--that is, I am to give it, which makes
all the difference,” said Beecher, laughing. “In short, I gave him a bit
of stiff, at three months, for one thousand--”
“Florins?”
“No, pounds,--pounds sterling,” said Beecher, with a half-choking
effort.
“It _was_ a fancy price,” said Grog, slowly, not the slightest sign of
displeasure manifesting itself on his face as he spoke.
“You don't think, then, that it was too much?” faltered out Beecher.
“Perhaps not, _under_ the circumstances,” said Davis, keenly.
“What do you mean by 'under the circumstances'?”
Davis threw his cigar into the stream, pushed bottle and glasses
away from him,--far enough to permit him to rest both his arms on the
table,--and then, steadfastly fixing his eyes on the other, with a look
of intense but not angry significance, said, “How often have I told you,
Beecher, that it was no use to try a 'double' with me? Why, man, I know
every card in your hand.”
“I give you my sacred word of honor, Grog--”
“To be renewed at three months, I suppose?” said Davis, sneeringly. “No,
no, my boy, it takes an earlier rise to get to the blind side of Kit
Davis. I 'm not angry with you for trying it,--not a bit, lad; there 's
nothing wrong in it but the waste of time.”
“May I be hanged, drawn, and quartered, if I know what you are at,
Grog!” exclaimed the other, piteously.
“Well, all I can say is _I_ read _you_ easier than _you_ read _me_.
_You_ gave old Lazarus a thousand pounds for that book after reading
that paragraph in the 'Times.'”
“What paragraph?”
“I mean that about your brother's title not being legal.”
“I never saw it,--never heard of it,” cried Beecher, in undisguised
terror.
“Well, I suppose I 'm to believe you,” said Davis, half reluctantly.
“It was in a letter from the Crimea, stating that so confident are the
friends of a certain claimant to the title and estates now enjoyed by
Lord Lackington, that they have offered the young soldier who represents
the claim any amount of money he pleases to purchase promotion in the
service.”
“I repeat to you my word of honor, I never saw nor heard of it”
“Of course, then, I believe you,” said Grog.
Again and again did Beecher reiterate assurances of his good faith;
he declared that during all his stay at Aix he had never looked into
a newspaper, nor had he received one single letter, except from Davis
himself; and Davis believed him, from the simple fact that such a
paragraph as he quoted had no existence,--never was in print, never
uttered till Grog's own lips had fashioned it.
“But, surely, Grog, it is not a flying rumor--the invention of some
penny-a-liner--would find any credence with _you?_”
“I don't know,” said Davis, slowly; “I won't say I 'd swear to it all,
but just as little would I reject it as a fable. At all events, I gave
you credit for having trimmed your sails by the tidings; and if you did
n't, why, there's no harm done, only you 're not so shrewd a fellow as I
thought you.”
Beecher's face grew scarlet; how near, how very near, he was of being
“gazetted” the sharp fellow he had been striving for years to become,
and now, by his own stupid admission, had he invalidated his claim to
that high degree.
“And this is old Stein's celebrated book? I 've heard of it these
five-and-thirty years, though I never saw it till now. Well, I won't say
you made a bad bargain--”
“Indeed, Grog,--indeed, by George! I 'm as glad as if I won five hundred
to hear you say so. To tell you the truth, I was half afraid to own
myself the purchaser. I said to myself, 'Davis will chaff me so about
this book, he 'll call me all the blockheads in Europe--'”
“No, no, Beecher, you ain't a blockhead, nor will I suffer any one to
call you such. There are things--there are people, too, Just as there
are games--that you don't know, but before long you 'll be the match of
any fellow going. I can put you up to them, and I will. There's my hand
on it.”
Beecher grasped the proffered hand, and squeezed it with a warmth there
was no denying. What wonderful change had come over Grog he could not
guess. Whence this marvellous alteration in his manner towards him? No
longer scoffing at his mistaken notions of people, or disparaging his
abilities, Davis condescended now to talk and take counsel with him as
an equal.
“That 's the king of wines,” said Davis, as he pushed a fresh bottle
across the table. “When you can get Marcobrunner like that, where's the
Burgundy ever equalled it? Fill up your glass, and drink a bumper to our
next venture, whatever it be!”
“'Our next venture, whatever it be!'” echoed Beecher, as he laid the
empty glass on the table.
“Another toast,” said Davis, replenishing the glasses. “'May all of our
successes be in company.'”
“I drink it with all my heart, old fellow. You 've always stood like a
man to me, and I 'll never desert you,” cried Beecher, whose head was
never proof against the united force of wine and excitement.
“There never were two fellows on this earth so made to run in double
harness,” said Davis, “as you and myself. Let us only lay our heads
together, and there's nothing can resist us.”
Grog now launched forth into one of those descriptions which he
could throw off with a master's hand, sketching life as a great
hunting-ground, and themselves as the hunters. What zest and vigor could
he impart to such a picture!--how artfully, too, could he make Beecher
the foreground figure, he himself only shadowed forth as an accessory!
Listening with eagerness to all he said, Beecher continued to drink
deeply; the starry night, the perfumed air, the rippling sounds of
the river, all combining with the wine and the converse to make up a
dreamland of fascination. Nor was the enchantment less perfect that the
objects described passed before him like a series of dissolving views.
They represented, all of them, a life of pleasure and enjoyment,--means
inexhaustible, means for every extravagance, and, what he relished fully
as much, the undisputed recognition by the world to the claim of being
a “sharp fellow,”--a character to which Grog's aid was so dexterously
contributed as to escape all detection.
Perhaps our reader might not have patience with us were we to follow
Davis through all the devious turns and windings of this tortuous
discourse. Perhaps, too, we should fail signally were we to attempt
to convey in our cold narrative what came from his lips with all the
marvellous power of a good story-teller, whose voice could command many
an inflection, and whose crafty nature appreciated the temper of the
metal beneath his beat If we could master all these, another and a
greater difficulty would still remain; for how could we convey, as
Davis contrived to do, that through all these gorgeous scenes of worldly
success, in the splendor of a life of magnificence, amidst triumphs
and conquests, one figure should ever pass before the mind's eye, now
participating in the success, now urging its completion, now, as it
were, shedding a calm and chastened light over all,--a kind of angelic
influence that heightened every enjoyment of the good, and averted every
approach of evil?
Do not fancy, I beseech you, that this was a stroke of high art far
above the pencil of Grog Davis. Amongst the accidents of his early
life the “stage” had figured, and Grog had displayed very considerable
talents for the career. It was only at the call of what he considered
a higher ambition he had given up “the boards” for “the ring.” Besides
this, he was inspired by the Marcobrunner, which had in an equal degree
affected the brain of him who listened. If Grog were eloquent, Beecher
was ductile. Indeed, so eagerly did he devour all that the other
said, that when a moment of pause occurred, he called out, “Go on, old
fellow,--go on! I could listen to you forever!”
Nor was it altogether surprising that he should like to hear words of
praise and commendation from lips that once only opened in sarcasm and
ridicule of him. How pleasant to know, at last, that he was really and
truly a great partner in the house of Davis and Co., and not a mere
commission agent, and that this partnership--how that idea came to
strike him we cannot determine--was to be binding forever. How exalting,
too, the sentiment that it was just at the moment when all his future
looked gloomiest this friendship was ratified. The Lackington peerage
might go, but there was Grog Davis, stanch and true,--the ancient
estates be torn from his house, but there was the precious volume of
old Lazarus, with wealth untold within its pages. Thus threading his
way through these tortuous passages of thought, stumbling, falling, and
blundering at every step, that poor brain lost all power of coherency
and all guidance, and he wavered between a reckless defiance of the
world and a sort of slavish fear of its censure.
“And Lackington, Grog,--Lackington,” cried he, at length,--“he's as
proud as Lucifer; what will he say?”
“Not so much as you think!” remarked Grog, dryly. “Lackington will take
it easier than you suspect.”
“No, no, you don't know him,--don't know him at all. I wouldn't stand
face to face with him this minute for a round sum!”
“I 'd not like it over-much myself!” muttered Davis, with a grim smile.
“It's all from pride of birth and blood, and he 'd say, 'Debts, if you
like; go ahead with Jews and the fifty per centers, but, hang it, don't
tie a stone round your throat, don't put a double ditch between you and
your own rank! Look where I am,' he 'd say,--'look where I am!'”
“Well, I hope he finds it comfortable!” muttered Grog, with a dry
malice.
“Look where I am!” resumed Beecher, trying to imitate the pretentious
tones of his brother's voice. “And where is it, after all?”
“Where we 'll all be, one day or other,” growled out Grog, who could not
help answering his own reflections.
“'And are you sure of where you are?'--that's what I 'd ask him, eh,
Grog?--'are you sure of where you are?'”
“That _would_ be a poser, I suspect,” said Davis, who laughed heartily;
and the contagion catching Beecher, he laughed till the tears came.
“I might ask him, besides, 'Are you quite sure how long you are to
remain where you are?' eh, Grog? What would he say to that?”
“The chances are, he 'd not answer at all,” said Davis, dryly.
“No, no! you mistake him, he's always ready with a reason; and then he
sets out by reminding you that he's the head of the house,--a fact that
a younger brother does n't need to have recalled to his memory. Oh,
Grog, old fellow, if I were the Viscount,--not that I wish any ill
to Lack-ington,--not that I 'd really enjoy the thing at any cost to
_him_,--but if I were--”
“Well, let's hear. What then?” cried Davis, as he filled the other's
glass to the top,--“what then?”
“Would n't I trot the coach along at a very different pace. It's not
poking about Italy, dining with smoke-dried cardinals and snuffy old
'marchesas,' I 'd be; but I 'd have such a stable, old fellow, with Jem
Bates to ride and Tom Ward to train them, and yourself, too, to counsel
me. Would n't we give Binsleigh and Hawksworth and the rest of them a
cold bath, eh?”
“That ain't the style of thing at all, Beecher,” said Grog,
deprecatingly; “you ought to go in for the 'grand British nobleman
dodge,'--county interests, influence with a party, and a vote in the
Lords. If you were to try it, you 'd make a right good speech. It
wouldn't be one of those flowery things the Irish fellows do, but a
manly, straightforward, genuine English discourse.”
“Do you really think so, Grog?” asked he, eagerly.
“I 'm sure of it I never mistook pace in my life; and I know what's in
you as well as if I saw it. The real fact is, you have a turn of speed
that you yourself have no notion of, but it will come out one of these
days if you 're attacked,--if they say anything about your life on the
turf, your former companions, or a word about the betting-ring.”
The charm of this flattery was far more intoxicating than even the
copious goblets of Marcobrunner, and Beecher's flushed cheeks and
flashing eyes betrayed how it overpowered him. Davis went on:--
“You are one of those fellows that never show 'the stuff they 're made
of' till some injustice is done them,--eh?”
“True as a book!” chimed in Beecher.
“Take you fairly, and a child might lead you; but try it on to deny you
what you justly have a right to,--let them attempt to dictate to you,
and say, 'Do this, and don't do the other,'--little they know on what
back they 've put the saddle. You 'll give them such a hoist in the air
as they never expected!”
“How you read every line of me!” exclaimed Beecher, in ecstasy.
“And I 'll tell you more; there's not another man breathing knows
you but myself. They 've always seen you in petty scrapes and little
difficulties, pulling the devil by the last joint of his tail, as Jack
Bush says; but let them wait till you come out for a cup race,--the Two
Thousand Guinea Stakes,--then I'm not Kit Davis if you won't be one of
the first men in England.”
“I hope you 're right, Davis. I almost feel as if you were,” said
Beecher, earnestly.
“When did you find me in the wrong, so far as judgment went? Show me one
single mistake I ever made in a matter of opinion? Who was it foretold
that Bramston would bolt after the Cotteswold if Rugby didn't win?
Who told the whole yard at Tattersall's that Grimsby would sell
Holt's stable? Who saw that Rickman Turner was a coward, and would n't
fight?--and I said it, the very day they gave him 'the Bath' for his
services in China! I don't know much about books, nor do I pretend to;
but as to men and women--men best--I 'll back myself against all England
and the Channel Islands.”
“And I 'll take as much as you 'll spare me out of your book, Grog,”
said Beecher, enthusiastically, while he filled his glass and drained
it.
“You see,” said Davis, in a low, confidential tone, as if imparting a
great secret, “I've always remarked that the way they smash a fellow
in Parliament--I don't care in which House--is always by raking up
something or other he did years before. If he wrote a play, or a novel,
or a book of poems, they 're down on him at once, about his imagination
and his fancy,--that means, he never told a word of truth in his life.
If he was unfortunate in business, they 're sure to refer to him about
some change in the Law of Bankruptcy, and say, 'There's my honorable
friend yonder ought to be able to help us by his experiences!' Then,
if a fellow has only his wits about him, how he floors them! You see
there's a great deal of capital to be made out of one of these attacks.
You rise to reply, without any anger or passion; only dignity,--nothing
but dignity! You appeal to the House if the assault of the right
honorable baronet opposite was strictly in good taste,--whatever
that means. You ask why you are signalled out to be the mark of his
eloquence, or his wit, or whatever it be; and then you come out with a
fine account of yourself, and all the honorable motives that nobody ever
suspected you of. That's the moment to praise everything you ever did,
or meant to do, or couldn't do; that's the time to show them what a man
they have amongst them.”
“Capital, glorious, excellent!” cried Beecher, in delight “Well, suppose
now,” said Davis, “there 's a bill about marriages,--they 're always
changing the law about them; it's evidently a contract does n't work
quite smoothly for all parties,--well, there's sure to be many a spicy
remark and impertinent allusion in the debate; it's a sore subject, and
every one has a 'raw' on it; and, at last, somebody says something about
unequal matches, alliances with an inferior class, 'noble lords that
have not scrupled to mingle the ancient blood of their race with
the--the thin and washy current that flows in plebeian veins.' I 'm the
Lord Chancellor, now,” said Grog, boldly, “and I immediately turn round
and fix my eyes upon _you_. Up you get at once, and say, 'I accept, my
Lords,--I accept for myself, and my own case, every word the noble Duke
or Marquis has just uttered. It never would have occurred to me to make
my personal history the subject of your Lordships' attention; but
when thus rudely brought before you,--rudely and gratuitously
introduced--'Here you 'd frown at the last speaker, as much as to say,
'You 'll hear more about this outside--'”
“Go on,--go on!” cried Beecher, with impatience.
“'I rise in this place,'--that has always a great impression, to say
'this place,'--'I rise in this place to say that I am prouder in the
choice that shares with me the honors of my coronet, than in all the
dignity and privilege that same coronet confers.' What a cheer, what
a regular hurrah follows that, for they have seen her,--ay, that have
they! They have beheld her sweeping down the gilded drawing-room,--the
handsomest woman in England! Where's the Duchess with her eyes, her
skin, her dignity, and her grace? Does n't she look 'thoroughbred in
every vein of her neck'? Where did she get that graceful sweep, that
easy-swimming gait, if she had n't it in her very nature'?”
“By Heaven, it's true, every syllable of it!” cried out Beecher, in all
the wild ecstasy of delight.
“Where is the man--I don't care what his rank might be--who would n't
envy you after you 'd made that speech? You 'd walk down Westminster the
proudest man in England after it.”
Beecher's features glowed with a delight that showed he had already
anticipated the sense of his popularity.
“And then how the newspapers will praise you! It will be as if you built
a bridge over the gulf that separates two distinct classes of people.
You 'll be a sort of noble reformer. What was the wisest thing Louis
Napoleon ever did? His marriage. Do you mark that he was always
following his uncle's footsteps in all his other policy; he saw that the
only great mistake he ever made was looking out for a high match, and,
like a shrewd fellow, he said, 'I have station, rank, power, and money
enough for two. It 's not to win the good favor of a wrinkled old
Archduchess or a deaf old Princess, I 'm going to marry. I 'll go in for
the whole field. I 'll take the girl that, if I was n't an Emperor, I 'd
be proud to call my own.' And signs on 't, they all cried out, 'See if
he has n't his heart in the right place; there's an honest drop there!
Let him be as ambitious as you like, he married just as you or I would.'
Ain't it a fine thing,” exclaimed Grog, enthusiastically, “when one
has all the middle classes in one's favor,--the respectable ruck that's
always running, but seldom showing a winner? Get these fellows with you,
and it's like Baring's name on the back of your bill. And now, Beecher,”
said Davis, grasping the other's hand, and speaking with a deep
earnestness,--“and now that I 've said what you might have done, I 'll
tell you what I _will do_. I have just been sketching out this line of
country to see how you 'd take your fences, nothing more. You 've shown
me that you 're the right sort, and I 'm not the man to forget it. If
I had seen the shadow of a shade of a dodge about you,--if I 'd have
detected one line in your face, or one shake in your voice, like
treachery,--so help me! I 'd have thrown you over like winking! You
fancied yourself a great man, and was stanch and true to your old
friends; and now it's my turn to tell you that I would n't give that
empty flask yonder for all your brother Lackington's lease of his
peerage! Hear me out I have it from his own lawyers,--from the fellows
in Furnival's Inn,--it's up with him; the others are perfectly sure of
their verdict There's how it is! And now, Annesley Beecher, you were
willing to marry Kit Davis's daughter when you thought you could make
her a peeress; now I say, that when you 've nothing, nor haven't a
sixpence to bless yourself with, it's Kit himself will give her to
you, and say, there's not the other man breathing he'd as soon see the
husband of this same Lizzy Davis!”
The burst of emotion with which Beecher met this speech was, indeed, the
result of very conflicting feelings. Shock at the terrible tidings of
his brother's downfall, and the insult to his house and name, mingled
with a burst of gratitude to Davis for his fidelity; but stronger and
deeper than these was another sentiment,--for, smile if you will, most
sceptical reader, the man was in love, after _his_ fashion. I do not ask
of you to believe that he felt as you or I might or ought to feel the
tender passion. I do not seek to persuade you that the object of his
affection, mingled with all his thoughts, swayed them and etherealized
them; that she was the theme of many a heart-woven story, the heroine
of many an ecstatic dream: still she was one who could elicit from
that nature, in all its selfishness, little traits of generous feeling,
little bursts of honest sentiment, that made him appear better to his
own heart. And so far has the adage truth with it, virtue is its own
reward, in the conscious sense of well doing, in the peaceful calm of an
unrepining spirit, and, not least of all, in that sympathy which good
men so readily bestow upon even faint efforts to win their suffrage.
And so he sobbed out something that meant grief and gratitude; hope,
fear, and uncertainty--worse than fear--all agitating and distracting
him by turns.
Very little time did Grog give himself for calmer reflection; away he
went at full speed to sketch out their future life. They were to make
the tour of Europe, winning all before them. All the joyous part,
all the splendor of equipage, retinue, mode of life, and outlay being
dictated by Beecher; all the more business detail, the play and the
money-getting, devolving upon Davis. Baden, Ems, Wiesbaden, Hamburg, and
Aix,--all glowed in the descriptions like fields of foretold glory. How
they were to outshine Princes in magnificence and Royal Highnesses in
display; the envy of Beecher, of his unvarying luck; the splendor of all
his belongings; Lizzy's beauty, tool What a page would he fill in the
great gossip calendar of Europe!
Well Davis knew how to feed the craving vanity of that weak nature,
whose most ardent desire was to be deemed cunning and sharp, the
cautious reserve of prudent men in his company being a tribute to
his acuteness, the dearest his heart could covet Oh, if he longed for
anything as success, it was for a time when his coming would spread a
degree of terror at a play-table, and men would rise rather than risk
their fortune against _his!_ Should such a moment ever be his? Was that
great triumph ever to befall him? And all this as the husband of Lizzy
Davis!
“Ay!” said Grog, as he read and traced each succeeding emotion in that
transparent nature,--“ay! that's what may be called life; and when we
've done Europe, smashed every bank on the Continent, we 'll cross the
Atlantic, and give Jonathan a 'touch of our quality.' I know all their
games well, and I 've had my 'three bullets and a poker' before now on
a Mississippi steamer! Your Yankee likes faro, and I've a new cabal to
teach him; in short, my boy, there's a roving commission of fun before
us, and if it don't pay, _my_ name ain't Davis!”
“Was this your scheme, then, Grog,” asked Beecher, “when you told me at
Brussels that you could make a man of me?”
“It was, my boy,” cried Davis, eagerly. “You 've guessed it. There was
only one obstacle to the success of the plan at that time, and this
exists no longer.”
“What was the obstacle you speak of?”
“Simply, that so long as you fancied yourself next in succession to a
peerage, you 'd never lay yourself down regularly to your work; you'd
say, 'Lackington can't live forever; he's almost twenty years my senior.
I must be the Viscount yet. Why should I, therefore, cumber myself with
cares that I have no need of, and involve myself amongst people I'll
have to cut one of these days? No, I'll just make a waiting race of
it, and be patient.' Now, however, that you can't count upon this
prospect,--now that to-morrow or next day will declare to the world that
Henry Hastings Beecher is just Henry Hastings Beecher, and not Viscount
Lackington, and that the Honorable Annesley is just Annesley, and no
more,--now, I say, that you see this clearly with your own eyes, you 'll
buckle to, and do your work manfully. And there was another thing--”
And here Davis paused, and seemed to meditate.
“What was that, Grog? Be candid, old fellow, and tell me all.”
“So I will, then,” resumed Davis. “That other thing was this. So long
as you were the great man in prospective, and might some fine day be
a Lord, you could always persuade yourself--or some one else could
persuade you--that Kit Davis was hanging on you just for your rank; that
he wanted the intimacy of a man in your station, and so on. Now, if
you ever came to believe this, there would have been an end of all
confidence between us; and without confidence, what can a fellow do for
his pal? This was, therefore, the obstacle; and even if you could have
got over it, _I_ couldn't. No, hang me if I could! I was always saying
to myself, 'It's all very nice and smooth now, Kit, between you and
Beecher,--you eat, drink, and sleep together,--but wait till he turns
the corner, old fellow, and see if he won't give you the cold shoulder.”
“You could n't believe--”
“Yes, but I could, and did too; and many's the time I said to myself,
'If Beecher was n't a top-sawyer, what a trump he 'd be! He has head
for anything, and address for anything.' And do you know,”--here
Grog dropped his-voice to a whisper, and spoke as if under great
emotion,--“and do you know that I could n't be the same man to you
myself just because of your rank? That was the reason I used to be so
sulky, so suspicious, and so--ay, actually cruel with you, telling you,
as I did, what could n't I do with certain acceptances? Now, look here,
Beecher--Light that taper beside you; there's a match in that box at
your elbow.”
Unsteady enough was Beecher's hand; indeed, it was not wine alone now
made him tremble. An intense agitation shook his frame, and he shivered
like one in an ague fit. He couldn't tell what was coming; the theme
alone was enough to arrest all process of reasoning on his part. It was
like the force of a blow that stunned and stupefied at once.
“There, that will do,” said Grog, as he drew a long pocket-book from
his breast-pocket, and searched for some time amongst its contents. “Ay,
here they are; two--three--four of them,--insignificant-looking scraps
of paper they look; and yet there's a terrible exposure in open court,
a dreary sea-voyage over the ocean, and a whole life of a felon's
suffering in those few lines.”
“For the love of mercy, Davis, if you have a spark of pity in your
heart,--if you have a heart at all,--don't speak in this way to me!”
cried Beecher, in a voice almost choked with sobs.
“It is for the last time in my life you'll ever hear such words,” said
Grog, calmly. “Read them over carefully; examine them well. Yes, I wish
and require it.”
“Oh, I know them well!” said Beecher, with a heavy sigh. “Many's the
sleepless night the thought of them has cost me.”
“Go over every line of them; satisfy yourself that they 're the
same,--that the words 'Johnstone Howard' are in your own hand.”
Beecher bent over the papers; but, with his dimmed eyes and trembling
fingers, it was some time ere he could decipher them. A sigh from the
very bottom of his heart was all the reply he could make.
“They'll never cost you another sleepless night, old fellow!” said
Davis, as he held them over the flame of the taper. “There's the end of
'em now!”