“Is she gone?--where to?” cried Dunn, without answering Mr. Hankes's
profuse salutations and welcomes.
“Yes, sir; she sailed yesterday.”
“Sailed, and for where?”
“For Malta, sir, in the Euxine steamer. Gone to her brother in the
Crimea. One of the people saw her go on board at Southampton.”
“Was she alone?”
“Quite alone, sir. My man was present when she paid the boatman. She had
very little luggage, but they demanded half a guinea--”
“What of Driscoll? Have you traced him?” asked Dunn, impatient at the
minuteness of this detail.
“He left London for Havre on the 12th of last month, sir, with a
passport for Italy. He carried one of Hart-well's circulars for three
hundred pounds, and was to have taken a courier at Paris, but did not.”
“And where is he now?” asked Dunn, abruptly.
“I am unable to say, sir,” said Hankes, almost abjectly, for he felt
self-rebuked in the acknowledgment. “My last tidings of him came from
Como,--a new Hydropathic Institution there.”
“Expecting to find the Viscount Lackington,” said Dunn, with a sardonic
laugh. “Death was before you, Master Driscoll; you did not arrive in
time for even the funeral. I say, Hankes,” added he, quickly, “what of
the new Viscount? Has he answered our letters?”
“Not directly, sir; but there came a short note signed 'C. Christopher,'
stating that his Lordship had been very ill, and was detained at Ems,
and desiring to have a bank post-bill for two hundred forwarded to him
by return.”
“You sent it?”
“Of course, sir; the letter had some details which proved it to be
authentic.”
“And the sum a trifle,” broke in Dunn. “She is scarcely at Malta by
this, Hankes. What am I thinking of? She 'll not reach it before next
Friday or Saturday. Do you remember young Kellett's regiment?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, find it out. I'll write to the Horse Guards tomorrow to have him
promoted,--to give him an Ensigncy in some regiment serving in India.
Whom do you know at Malta, Hankes?”
“I know several, sir; Edmond Grant, in the Storekeeper's Department;
James Hocksley, Second Harbor-Master; Paul Wesley, in the
Under-Secretary's Office.”
“Any of them will do. Telegraph to detain her; that her brother is
coming home; she must not go to the Crimea.” There was a stern fixity of
purpose declared in the way these last words were spoken, which at the
same time warned Hankes from asking any explanation of them. “And now
for business. What news from Arigua,--any ore?”
“Plenty, sir; the new shaft has turned out admirably. It is yielding
upwards of twenty-eight per cent, and Holmes offers thirty pounds a ton
for the raw cobalt.”
“I don't care for that, sir. I asked how were shares,” said Dunn,
peevishly.
“Not so well as might be expected, sir. The shake at Glengariff was felt
widely.”
“What do you mean? The shares fell, but they rose again; they suffered
one of those fluctuations that attend on all commercial or industrial
enterprises; but they rallied even more quickly than they went down.
When I left town yesterday, they were at one hundred and forty-three.”
“I know it, sir. I received your telegram, and I showed it to Bayle and
Childers, but they only smiled, and said, 'So much the better for the
holders.'”
“I defy any man--I don't care what may be his abilities or what his
zeal--to benefit this country!” exclaimed Dunn, passionately. “There
is amongst Irishmen, towards each other, such an amount of narrow
jealousy--mean, miserable, envious rivalry--as would swamp the best
intentions, and destroy the wisest plans that ever were conceived. May
my fate prove a warning to whoever is fool enough to follow me!”
Was it that when Dunn thus spoke he hoped to persuade Mr. Hankes that he
was a noble-hearted patriot, sorrowing over the errors of an ungrateful
country? Did he fancy that his subtle lieutenant, the associate of all
his deep intrigues, the confidant of his darkest schemes, was suddenly
to see in him nothing but magnanimity of soul and single-hearted
devotedness? No, I cannot presume to say that he indulged in any such
delusion. He uttered the words just to please himself,--to flatter
himself! as some men drink off a cordial to give them Dutch courage.
There are others that enunciate grand sentiments, high sounding and
magniloquent, the very music and resonance of their words imparting a
warm glow within them.
It is a common error to imagine that such “stage thunder” is confined to
that after-dinner eloquence in whose benefit the canons of truth-telling
are all repealed. Far from it. The practice enters into every hour of
every-day life, and the greatest knave that ever rogued never cheated
the world half as often as he cheated himself!
As though it had been a glass of brown sherry that he swallowed, Mr.
Dunn felt “better” after he had uttered these fine words. He experienced
a proud satisfaction in thinking what a generous heart beat within
his own waistcoat; and thus reassured, he thought well of the world at
large.
“And Ossory, Mr. Hankes,--how is Ossory?”
“A hundred and fourteen, with a look upwards,” responded Mr. Hankes.
“Since the day of 'the run' deposits have largely increased. Indeed,
I may say we are now the great country gentry bank of the midland. We
discount freely, too, and we lend generously.”
“I shall want some ready money soon, Hankes,” said Dunn, as he paced the
room with his hands behind his back, and his head bent forward. “You 'll
have to sell out some of those Harbor shares.”
“Bantry's, sir? Glumthal's have them as securities!”
“So they have; I forgot. Well, St Columbs, or the Patent Fuel, or that
humbug discovery of Patterson's,--the Irish Asphalt There's an American
fellow, by the way, wants that.”
“They're very low,--very low, all these, sir,” said Hankes,
lugubriously. “They sank so obstinately that I just withdrew our name
quietly, so that we can say any day we have long ceased any connection
with these enterprises.”
“She 'll scarcely make any delay in Malta, Hankes. Your message ought to
be there by Thursday at latest” And then, as if ashamed of showing where
his thoughts were straying, he said, “All kinds of things--odds and ends
of every sort--are jostling each other in my brain to-night.”
“You want rest, sir; you want nine or ten hours of sound sleep.”
“Do I look fatigued or harassed?” asked Dunn, with an eagerness that
almost startled the other.
“A little tired, sir; not more than that,” cautiously answered Hankes.
“But I don't _feel_ tired. I am not conscious of any weariness,” said
he, pettishly. “I suspect that you are not a very acute physiognomist,
Hankes. I have told you,” added he, hastily, “I shall want some twelve
or fifteen thousand pounds soon. Look out, too, for any handsome
country-seat--in the South, I should prefer it--that may be in the
market I 'll not carry out my intentions about Kellett's Court. It is
a tumble-down old concern, and would cost us more in repairs than a
handsome house fit to inhabit.”
“Am I to have the honor of offering my felicitations, sir?” said Hankes,
obsequiously; “are the reports of the newspapers as to a certain happy
event to be relied on?”
“You mean as to my marriage? Yes, perfectly true. I might, in a mere
worldly point of view, have looked higher,--not higher, certainly
not,--but I might have contracted what many would have called a more
advantageous connection; in fact, I might have had any amount of money I
could care for, but I determined for what I deemed the wiser course. You
are probably not aware that this is a very long attachment. Lady Augusta
and myself have been as good as engaged to each other for--for a number
of years. She was very young when we met first,--just emerging from
early girlhood; but the sentiment of her youthful choice has never
varied, and, on _my_ part, the attachment has been as constant.”
“Indeed, sir!” said Hankes, sorely puzzled what to make of this
declaration.
“I know,” said Dunn, returning rapidly to the theme, “that nothing
will seem less credible to the world at large than a man of _my_ stamp
marrying for love! The habit is to represent us as a sort of human
monster, a creature of wily, money-getting faculties, shrewd,
over-reaching, and successful. They won't give us feelings, Hankes. They
won't let us understand the ties of affection and the charms of a home.
Well,” said he, after a long pause, “there probably never lived a man
more mistaken, more misconceived by the world than myself.”
Hankes heaved a heavy sigh; it was, he felt, the safest thing he could
do, for he did not dare to trust himself with a single word. The sigh,
however, was a most profound one, and, plainly as words, declared the
compassionate contempt he entertained for a world so short-sighted and
so meanly minded.
“After all,” resumed Dunn, “it is the penalty every man must pay for
eminence. The poor little nibblers at the rind of fortune satisfy their
unsuccess when they say, 'Look at him with all his money!'”
Another and deeper sigh here broke from Hankes, who was really losing
all clew to the speaker's reflections.
“I'm certain, Hankes, you have heard observations of this kind five
hundred times.”
“Ay, have I, sir,” answered he, in hurried confusion,--“five thousand!”
“Well, and what was your reply, sir? How did you meet such remarks?”
said Dunn, sternly.
“Put them down, sir,--put them down at once; that is, I acknowledged
that there was a sort of fair ground; I agreed in thinking that,
everything considered, and looking to what we saw every day around us in
life--and Heaven knows it is a strange world, and the more one sees of
it the less he knows--”
“I 'm curious to hear,” said Dunn, with a stern fixedness of manner, “in
what quarter you heard these comments on my character.”
Hankes trembled from head to foot. He was in the witness-box, and felt
that one syllable might place him in the dock.
“You never heard one word of the kind in your life, sir, and you _know_
it,” said Dunn, with a savage energy of tone that made the other sick
with fear. “If ever there was a man whose daily life refuted such a
calumny, it was myself.”
Dunn's emotions were powerful, and he walked the room from end to end
with long and determined strides. Suddenly halting at last, he looked
Hankes steadily in the face, and said,--
“It was the Kellett girl dared thus to speak of me, was it not? The
truth, sir,--the truth; I _will_ have it out of you!”
“Well, I must own you are right. It was Miss Kellett.”
Heaven forgive you, Mr. Hankes, for the lie, inasmuch as you never
intended to tell it till it was suggested to you.
“Can you recall the circumstance which elicited this remark? I mean,”
said he, with an affected carelessness of manner, “how did it occur? You
were chatting together,--discussing people and events, eh?”
“Yes, sir; just so.”
“And she observed--Do you chance to remember the phrase she used?”
“I give you my word of honor I do not, sir,” said Hankes, with a sincere
earnestness.
“People who fancy themselves clever--and Miss Kellett is one of that
number--have a trick of eliminating every trait of a man's character
from some little bias,--some accidental bend given to his youthful mind.
I am almost certain--nay, I feel persuaded--it was by some such light
that young lady read me. She had heard I was remarkable as a schoolboy
for this, that, or t' other,--I saved my pocket-money, or lent it out at
interest. Come, was it not with the aid of an ingenious explanation of
this kind she interpreted me?”
Mr. Hankes shook his head, and looked blankly disconsolate.
“Not that I value such people's estimate of me,” said Dunn, angrily.
“Calumniate, vilify, depreciate as they will, here I stand, with my foot
on the first step of the peerage. Ay, Hankes, I have made my own terms;
the first 'Gazette' after the new elections will announce Mr. Davenport
Dunn as Lord Castledunn.”
Hankes actually bounded on his chair. Had he been the faithful servant
of some learned alchemist, watching patiently for years the wondrous
manipulations and subtle combinations of his master, following him from
crucible to crucible and from alembic to alembic, till the glorious
moment when, out of smoke and vapor, the yellow glow of the long-sought
metal gleamed before his eyes, he could not have regarded his chief with
a more devoted homage.
Dunn read “worship” in every lineament of the other's face. It was as
honest veneration as his nature could compass, and, sooth to say,
the great man liked it, and sniffed his incense with the-air of Jove
himself.
“I mean to take care of you, Hankes,” said he, with a bland
protectiveness. “I do not readily forget the men who have served me
faithfully. Of course we must draw out of all our enterprises here. I
intend at once to realize--yes, Hankes--to realize a certain comfortable
sum and withdraw.”
These were not very explicit nor very determinate expressions, but they
were amply intelligible to him who heard them.
“To wind up, sir, in short,” said Hankes, significantly.
“Yes, Hankes, 'to wind up.'”
“A difficult matter,--a very difficult matter, sir.”
“Difficulties have never deterred me from anything, Mr. Hankes. The only
real difficulty I acknowledge in life is to choose which of them I
will adopt; that done, the rest is matter of mere detail.” Mr. Dunn now
seated himself at a table, and in the calm and quiet tone with which
he treated every business question, he explained to Hankes his views
on each of the great interests he was concerned in. Shares in home
speculations were to be first exchanged for foreign scrip, and these
afterwards sold. Of the vast securities of private individuals pledged
for loans, or given as guarantees, only such were to be redeemed as
belonged to persons over whom Dunn had no control. Depositary as he was
of family secrets, charged with the mysterious knowledge of facts whose
publication would bring ruin and disgrace on many, this knowledge was to
have its price and its reward; and as he ran his finger down the list
of names so compromised, Hankes could mark the savage exultation of his
look while he muttered unintelligibly to himself.
Dunn stopped at the name of the Viscount Lackington, and, leaning his
head on his hand, said, “Don't let us forget that message to Malta.”
“A heavy charge that, sir,” said Hankes. “The Ossory has got all his
Lordship's titles; and we have set them down, too, for twenty-one
thousand seven hundred above their value.”
“Do you know who is the Viscount Lackington?” asked Dunn, with a strange
significance.
“No, sir.”
“Neither do I,” said Dunn, hurriedly following him. “Mayhap it may cost
some thousands of pounds and some tiresome talk to decide that question;
at all events, it will cost you or me nothing.”
“The Earl of Glengariff's claim must, I suppose, be satisfied, sir?”
“Of course, it must, and the very first of all! But I am not going to
enter minutely into these things now, Hankes. I need a little of that
rest you were just recommending me to take. Be here to-morrow at twelve;
do not mention my arrival to any one, but come over with the Ossory
statement and the two or three other most important returns.”
Mr. Hankes rose to withdraw; and as he moved towards the door, his eye
caught the oaken box, with three large seals placed by his own hand.
“You have scarcely had time to think about these papers, sir; but they
will have their importance when that peerage case comes to be discussed.
The Lackingtons were Conways--”
“Let me have a look at them,” said Dunn, rapidly.
Hankes broke open the paper bands, and unlocked the box. For some time
he searched through the documents as they lay, and then emptying them
all upon the table, he went over them more carefully, one by one. “Good
heavens!” cried he, “how can this be?”
“What do you mean?” exclaimed Dunn; “you do not pretend that they are
missing?”
“They are gone,--they are not here!” said the other, almost fainting
from agitation.
“But these are the seals you yourself fastened on the box.”
“I know it,--I see it; and I can make nothing of it.”
“Mr. Hankes, Mr. Hankes, this is serious,” said Dunn, as he bent upon
the affrighted man a look of heart-searching significance.
“I swear before Heaven--I take my most solemn oath--”
“Never mind swearing; how could they have been extricated? That is the
question to be solved.”
Hankes examined the seals minutely; they were his own. He scrutinized
the box on every side to see if any other mode of opening it existed;
but there was none. He again went through the papers,--opening, shaking,
sifting them, one by one; and then, with a low, faint sigh, he sank down
upon a chair, the very image of misery and dismay. “Except it was the
devil himself--”
“The devil has plenty of far more profitable work on hand, sir,” said
Dunn, sternly; and then, in a calmer tone, added, “Is it perfectly
certain that you ever saw the documents you allude to? and when?”
“Saw them? Why, I held them in my hands for several minutes. It was I
myself replaced them in the box before sealing it.”
“And what interval of time occurred between your reading them and
sealing them up?”
“A minute,--half a minute, perhaps; stay,” cried he, suddenly, “I
remember now that I left the room to call the landlord. Miss Kellett
remained behind.”
With a dreadful imprecation Dunn struck his forehead with his hand, and
sank into his seat. “What cursed folly,” cried he, bitterly, “and what
misfortune and ruin may it beget!”
“It was then that she took them,--that was the very moment,” muttered
Hankes, as he followed on his own dreary thoughts.
“My father was right,” said Dunn, below his breath; “that girl will
bring sorrow on us yet.”
“But, after all, what value could they have in her eyes? She knows
nothing about the questions they refer to; she could not decipher the
very titles of the documents.”
“I ought to have known,--I ought to have foreseen it,” cried Dunn,
passionately. “What has my whole life been but a struggle against the
blunders, the follies, and the faults of those who should have served
me! Other men are fortunate in their agents. It was reserved for me to
have nothing but incapables, or worse.”
“If you mean to include _me_ in either of these categories, sir, will
you please to say which?” said Hankes, reddening with anger.
“Take your choice,--either, or both!” said Dunn, savagely.
“A man must be very strong in honesty that can afford to speak in this
fashion of others,” said Hankes, his voice tremulous with rage. “At all
events, the world shall declare whether he be right or not.”
“How do you mean, 'the world shall declare'? Is it that what has passed
between us here can be made matter for public notoriety? Would you
dare--”
“Oh, I would dare a great deal, sir, if I was pushed to it,” said
Hankes, scoffingly. “I would dare, for instance, to let the world we are
speaking of into some of the mysteries of modern banking. I have a vast
amount of information to give as to the formation of new companies,--how
shares are issued, cancelled, and reissued. I could tell some amusing
anecdotes about title-deeds of estates that never were transferred--”
Why is it that Mr. Hankes, now in the full flood of his sarcasm, stops
so suddenly? What has arrested his progress; and why does he move so
hurriedly towards the door, which Dunn has, however, already reached
before him and locked? Was it something in the expression of Dunn's
features that alarmed him?--truly, there was in his look what might
have appalled a stouter heart,--or was it that Dunn had suddenly taken
something, he could not discern what, from a drawer, and hastily hidden
it in his pocket?
“Merciful heavens!” cried Hankes, trembling all over, “you would not
dare--”
“Like yourself, sir, I would dare much if pushed to it,” said Dunn, in
a voice that now had recovered all its wonted composure. “But come,
Hankes, it is not a hasty word or an ungenerous speech is to break up
the ties of a long friendship. I was wrong; I was unjust; I ask your
pardon for it. You have served me too faithfully and too well to be
requited thus. Give me your hand, and say you forgive me.”
“Indeed, sir, I must own I scarcely expected--that is, I never
imagined--”
“Come, come, do not do it grudgingly; tell me, frankly, all is
forgiven.”
Hankes took the outstretched hand, and muttered some broken,
unintelligible words.
“There, now, sit down and think no more of this folly.” He opened a
large pocket-book as he spoke, and searching for some time amongst its
contents, at last took forth a small slip of paper. “Ay, here it is,”
said he: “'Sale of West Indian estates; resident commissionership; two
thousand per annum, with allowance for house,' &c. Sir Hepton Wallis was
to have it. Would this suit you, Hankes? The climate agrees with many
constitutions.”
“Oh, as to the climate,” said Hankes, trembling with eagerness and
delight, “I 'd not fear it.”
“And then with ample leave of absence from time to time, and a retiring
allowance, after six years' service, of--if I remember aright--twelve
hundred a year. What say you? It must be filled up soon. Shall I write
your name instead of Sir Hepton's?”
“Oh, sir, this is, indeed, generosity!”
“No, Hankes, mere justice; nothing more. The only merit I can lay claim
to in the matter is the sacrifice I make in separating myself from a
well-tried and trusted adherent.”
“These reports shall be ready immediately, sir,” said Hankes. “I 'll not
go to bed to-night--”
“We have ample time for everything, Hankes; don't fatigue yourself, and
be here at twelve to-morrow.”
CHAPTER XXIII. ANNESLEY BEECHER IN A NEW PART.
About five weeks have elapsed since we last sojourned with Grog Davis
and his party at the little village of Holbach. Five weeks are a short
period in human life, but often enough has it sufficed to include great
events, and to make marvellous changes in a man's fortunes! Now,
the life they all led here might seem well suited to exclude such
calculations. Nothing seemed less likely to elicit vicissitudes. It was
a calm, tame monotony; each day so precisely like its predecessor that
it was often hard to remember how the week stole on. The same landscape,
with almost the same effects of sun and shadow, stretched daily before
their eyes; the same gushing water foamed and fretted; the same weeds
bent their heads to the flood; the self-same throbbing sounds of busy
mills mingled with the rushing streams; the very clouds, as they dragged
themselves lazily up the mountain side, and then broke into fragments
on the summit, seemed the same; and yet in that little world of three
people there was the endless conflict of hope and fear, and all the
warring interests which distract great masses of men filled their hearts
and engaged their minds.
At first Beecher chafed and fretted at the delay; Lizzy appeared but
rarely; and when she did it was with a strange reserve, almost amounting
to constraint, that he could not comprehend. She did not seem angry
or offended with him, simply more distant. Her high spirits, too,
were gone; no more the light-hearted, gay, and playful creature he
remembered, she was calm even to seriousness. A look of thoughtful
preoccupation marked her as she sat silently gazing on the landscape,
or watching the eddies of the circling river. There was nothing--save
a slight increase of paleness--to denote sorrow in her appearance; her
features were placid, and her expression tranquil. If her voice had lost
its ringing music, it had acquired a tone of deep and melting softness
that seemed to leave an echo in the heart that heard it. To this change,
which at first chilled and repelled Beecher, he grew day by day to
accustom himself. If her mood was one less calculated to enliven and to
cheer him, it was yet better adapted to make his confidence. He could
talk to her more freely of himself than heretofore. No longer did he
stand in dread of the sharp and witty epigrams with which she used to
quiz his opinions and ridicule his notions of life. She would listen to
him now with patience, if not with interest, and she would hear him
with attention as he talked for hours on the one sole theme he
loved,--himself. And, oh, young ladies,--not that you need any counsels
of mine in such matters; but if, perchance, my words of advice should
have any weight with you,--let me impress this lesson on your hearts:
that for the man who is not actually in love with you, but only
“spooney,” there is no such birdlime as the indulgence of his
selfishness. Let him talk away about his dogs and his horses, his
exploits in China or the Crimea, his fishings in Norway, his yachtings
in the Levant; let him discourse about his own affairs, of business as
well as pleasure; how briefs are pouring in or patients multiply; hear
him as he tells you of his sermon before the bishop, or his examination
at Burlington House,--trust me, no theme will make _him_ so eloquent
nor _you_ so interesting. Of all “serials,”--as the phrase is,--there is
none can be carried out to so many “numbers” as Egotism; and though the
snowball grows daily bigger, it rolls along even more easily.
I am not going to say that Lizzy Davis did this of “prepense;” I am
even candid enough to acknowledge to you that I am not quite sure I can
understand her. She had ways of acting and thinking peculiarly her
own. She was not always what the French call _conséquente_, but she was
marvellously quick to discover she was astray, and “try back.” She was
one of those people who have more difficulty in dealing with themselves
than with others. She had an instinctive appreciation of those whose
natures she came in contact with, joined to a strong desire to please;
and, lastly, there was scarcely a human temperament with which she could
not sympathize somewhere. She let Beecher talk on, because it pleased
_him_, and pleasing _him_ became, at last, a pleasure to herself. When
he recalled little traits of generosity, the kind things he had done
here, the good-natured acts he had done there, she led him on to feel
a more manly pride in himself than when recounting tales of his sharp
practices on the turf and his keen exploits in the ring.
Beecher saw this leaning on her part, and ascribed it all to her
“ignorance of the world,” and firmly believed that when she saw more
of life she would think more highly of his intellect than even of his
heart. Poor fellow! they were beautifully balanced, and phrenology
for once would have its triumph in showing the mental and the moral
qualities in equilibrium. After the first week they were always
together, for Davis was continually on the road,--now to Neuwied, now
to Höchst. The letters and telegrams that he despatched and received
were incredible in number; and when jested with on the amount of
his correspondence by Beecher, his only answer was, “It's all _your_
business, my boy,--the whole concerns _you_.” Now, Annesley Beecher was
far too much of a philosopher to trouble his head about anything which
could be avoided, and to find somebody who devoted himself to his
interests, opened and read the dunning appeals of creditors, answered
their demands by “renewals,” or cajoled them by promises, was one of the
highest luxuries he could imagine. Indeed, if Grog would only fight for
him and go to jail for him, he 'd have deemed his happiness complete.
“And who knows,” thought he, “but it may come to that yet? I seem to
have thrown a sort of fascination over the old fellow that may lead him
any lengths.”
Meanwhile there was extending over himself another web of fascination
not the less complete that he never perceived it His first waking
thought was of Lizzy. As he came down to breakfast, his dress showed how
studiously he cultivated appearance. The breakfast over, he sat down
to his German lesson beside her with a patient perseverance that amazed
him. There he was, with addled head and delighted heart, conjugating
“Ich liebe,” and longing for the day when he should reach the imperative
mood; and then they walked long country walks into the dark beech woods,
along grassy alleys where no footfall sounded, or they strayed beside
some river's bank, half fancying that none had ever strolled over the
same sward before. And how odd it was to see the Honorable Annesley
Beecher, the great lion of the Guards' Club, the once celebrity of the
Coventry, carrying a little basket on his arm, like a stage peasant in
a comic opera, with the luncheon, or, mayhap, bearing a massive stone
in his arms to bridge a stream for Lizzy to cross. Poor fellow! he did
these things with a good will, and even in his awkwardness there was
that air of “gentleman” which never left him; and then he would laugh
so heartily at his own inaptitude, and join in' Lizzy's mirth at the
mischances that befell him. And was it not delightful, through all these
charming scenes, on the high mountain-aide, in the deep heather, or deep
in some tangled glen, with dog-roses and honeysuckle around them, he
could still talk of himself, and she could listen?
For the life of him he could not explain how it was that the time
slipped over so pleasantly. As he himself said, “there was not much to
see, and nothing to do,” and yet, somehow, the day was always too short
for either. He wanted to write to his brother, to his sister-in-law,
to Dunn, to his man of business,--meaning the Jew who raised money for
him,--but never could find time. He was so puzzled by the problem that
he actually asked Lizzy to explain it; but she only laughed.
Now and then, when he chanced to be all alone, a sudden thought would
strike him that he was leading a life of inglorious idleness. He would
count up how many weeks it was since he had seen a “Bell's Life,” and
try to calculate what races were coming off that very same day; then he
would draw a mind-picture of Tattersall's on a settling day, and
wonder who were the defaulters, and who were getting passports for the
Continent; and he would wind up his astonishment by thinking that Grog
was exactly leading the game indolent existence, “although we have that
'grand book with the martingale,' and might be smashing the bank at
Baden every night.”
That a man should have the cap of Fortunatus, and yet never try it on,
even just for the experiment's sake, was downright incredible. You might
not want money,--not that he had ever met the man in that predicament
yet,--you might, perhaps, have no very strong desire for this, that,
or t' other; yet, somehow, “the power was such a jolly thing!” The fact
that you could go in and win whenever you pleased was a marvellously
fine consideration. As for himself,--so he reasoned,--he did not exactly
know why, but he thought his present life a very happy one. He never was
less beset with cares: he had no duns; there was not a tailor in Bond
Street knew his address; the very Jews had not traced him; he was as
free as air. Like most men accustomed to eat and drink of the best, the
simple fare of an humble inn pleased him. Grog, whenever he saw him, was
good-humored and gay; and as for Lizzy, “of all the girls he had ever
met, she was the only one ever understood him.”
As Annesley Beecher comprehended his own phrase, being “understood” was
no such bad thing. It meant, in the first place, a generous appreciation
of all motives for good, even though they never went beyond motives; a
hopeful trust in some unseen, unmanifested excellence of character; a
broadcast belief that, making a due allowance for temptations, human
frailties, and the doctrine of chances,--this latter most of all,--the
balance would always be found in favor of good _versus_ evil; and,
secondly, that all the imputed faults and vices of such natures as _his_
were little else than the ordinary weaknesses of “the best of us.” Such
is being “understood,” good reader; and, however it may chance with
others, I hope that “you and I may.”
But Lizzy Davis understood him even better and deeper than all this.
She knew him, if not better than I do myself, at least, better than I
am able to depict to you. Apart, then, from the little “distractions”
I have mentioned, Beecher was very happy. It had been many a long day
since he felt himself so light-hearted and so kindly-minded to the world
at large. He neither wished any misfortune to befall Holt's “stable”
or Shipman's “three-year old;” he did not drop off to sleep hoping
that Beverley might break down or “Nightcap” spring a back sinew; and,
stranger than all, he actually could awake of a morning and not wish
himself the Viscount Lackington. Accustomed as he was to tell Lizzy
everything, to ask her advice about all that arose, and her explanation
for all that puzzled him, he could not help communicating this new
phenomenon of his temperament, frankly acknowledging that it was a
mystery he could not fathom.
“Nothing seems ever to puzzle you, Lizzy,”--he had learned to call her
Lizzy some time back,--“so just tell me what can you make of it? Ain't
it strange?”
“It _is_ strange,” said she, with a faint smile, in which a sort of sad
meaning mingled.
“So strange,” resumed he, “that had any one said to me, 'Beecher, you
'll spend a couple of months in a little German inn, with nothing to
do, nothing to see, and, what's more, it will not bore you,' I 'd
have answered, 'Take you fifty to one in hundreds on the double
event,--thousands if you like it better,'--and see, hang me if I should
n't have lost!”
“Perhaps not. If you had a heavy wager on the matter, it is likely you
would not have come.”
“Who knows! Everything is Fate in this world. Ah, you may laugh; but it
is, though. What else, I ask you--what brings you here just now?--why am
I walking along the river with you beside me?”
“Partly, because, I hope, you find it pleasant,” said she, with a droll
gravity, while something in her eyes seemed to betoken that her own
thoughts amused her.
“There must be more than that,” said he, thoughtfully, for he felt the
question a knotty one, and rather liked to show that he did not skulk
the encounter with such difficulties.
“Partly, perhaps, because it pleases _me_,” said she, in the same quiet
tone.
He shook his head doubtingly; he had asked for an explanation, and
neither of these supplied that want. “At all events, Lizzy, there is one
thing you will admit,--if it is Fate, one can't help it,--eh?”
“If you mean by that that you must walk along here at my side, whether
you will or not, just try, for experiment's sake, if you could not cross
over the stream and leave me to go back alone.”
“Leave _you_ to go back alone!” cried he, upon whom the last words were
ever the most emphatic. “But why so, Lizzy; are you angry with me?--are
you weary of me?”
“No, I 'm not angry with you,” said she, gently.
“Wearied, then--tired of me--bored?”
“Must I pay you compliments on your agreeability, Mr. Beecher?”
“There it is again,” broke he in, pettishly. “It was only yesterday
you consented to call me Annesley, and you have gone back from it
already,--forgotten it all!”
“No, I forget very seldom--unfortunately.” This last word was uttered to
herself and for herself.
“You will call me Annesley, then?” asked he, eagerly.
“Yes, if you wish it,--Annesley.” There was a pause before she spoke the
last word; and when she did utter it, her accent faltered slightly, and
a faint blush tinged her cheek.
As for Beecher, his heart swelled high and proudly; he felt at that
moment a strange warm glow within him that counterfeited courage; for
an instant he thought he would have liked something perilous to
confront,--something in encountering which he might stand forth before
Lizzy as a Paladin. Was it that some mysterious voice within him
whispered, “She loves you; her heart is yours”? and, oh, if so, what
a glorious sentiment must there be in that passion, if love can move a
nature like this, and mould it to one great or generous ambition!
“Lizzy, I want to talk to you seriously,” said he, drawing her arm
within his own. “I have long wanted to tell you something; and if you
can hear it without displeasure, I swear to you I 'd not change with
Lackington to-morrow! Not that it's such good fun being a younger
son,--few men know that better than myself; still, I repeat, that if you
only say 'yes' to me, I pledge you my oath I 'd rather hear it than be
sure I was to win the Oaks,--ay, by Heaven! Oaks and Derby, too! You
know now what I mean, dearest Lizzy, and do not, I beseech you, keep me
longer in suspense.”
She made no answer; her cheek became very pale, and a convulsive shudder
passed over her; but she was calm and unmoved the next instant.
“If you love another, Lizzy,” said he, and his lips trembled violently,
“say so frankly. It's only like all my other luck in life, though
nothing was ever as heavy as this.”
There was an honesty, a sincerity in the tone, of these words that
seemed to touch her; for she stole a side look at his face, and the
expression of her glance was of kindly pity.
“Is it true, then, that you _do_ love another, Lizzy?” repeated he, with
even deeper emotion.
“No!” said she, with a slow utterance.
“Will you not tell me, dearest Lizzy, if--if--I am to have any hope? I
know well enough that you need n't take a poor beggar of a younger son.
I know where a girl of your beauty may choose. Far better than you do I
know that you might have title, rank, fortune; and as for me, all I
have is a miserable annuity Lackington allows me, just enough to starve
on,--not that I mean to go on, however, as I have been doing; no, no, by
Jove! I 'm round the corner now, and I intend to make play, and 'take up
my running.' Your father and I understand what we're about.”
What a look was that Lizzy gave him! What a piercing significance must
the glance have had that sent the blood so suddenly to his face and
forehead, and made him falter, and then stop.
“One thing I 'll swear to you, Lizzy,--swear it by all that is most
solemn,” cried he, at last: “if you consent to share fortunes with me,
I 'll never engage in anything--no matter how sure or how safe--without
your full concurrence. I have been buying experience this many a
year, and pretty sharply has it cost me. They make a gentleman pay his
footing, I promise you; but I _do_ know a thing or two at last; I _have_
had my eyes opened!”
Oh, Annesley Beecher, can you not see how you are damaging your own
cause? You have but to look at that averted head, or, bending round, to
catch a glimpse of those fair features, and mark the haughty scorn upon
them, to feel that you are pleading against yourself.
“And what may be this knowledge of which you are so proud?” said she,
coldly.
“Oh, as to that,” said he, in some confusion at the tone she had
assumed, “it concerns many a thing you never heard of. The turf, and the
men that live by it, make a little world of their own; they don't bother
their heads about parties or politics,--don't care a farthing who 's
'in' or who 's 'out.' They keep their wits--and pretty sharp wits they
are--for what goes on in Scott's stable, and how Holt stands for the St.
Léger. They 'd rather hear how Velocipede eat his corn, than hear all
the Cabinet secrets of Europe; and for that matter, so would I.”
“I do not blame you for not caring for State secrets,--it is very
possible they would interest you little; but surely you might imagine
some more fitting career than what, after all, is a mere trading on the
weakness of others. To make of an amusement a matter of profit is, in my
eyes, mean; it is contemptible.”
“That's not the way to look on it at all. The first men in England have
race-horses.”
“And precisely in the fact of their great wealth do they soar above all
the ignoble associations the turf obliges to those who live by it.”
“Well, I 'll give it up; there's my word on't I 'll never put my foot in
Tattersall's yard again. I 'll take my name off the Turf Club,--is that
enough?”
She could not help smiling at the honest zeal of this sacrifice; but the
smile had none of the scorn her features displayed before.
“Oh, Lizzy!” cried he, enthusiastically, “if I was sure we could just
live on here as we are doing,--never leave this little valley, nor see
more of the world than we do daily,--I'd not exchange the life for a
duke's fortune--”
“And Holt's stable,” added she, laughing. “Come, you must not omit the
real bribe.”
He laughed heartily at this sally, and owned it was the grand
temptation.
“You are certainly very good-tempered, Annesley,” said she, after a
pause.
“I don't think I am,” said he, half piqued, for he thought the remark
contained a sort of disparagement of that sharpness on which he chiefly
prided himself. “I am very hot at times.”
“I meant that you bore with great good-humor from me what you might, if
so disposed, have fairly enough resented as an impertinence. What do I,
what could I, know of that play-world of which you spoke? How gentlemen
and men of fashion regard these things must needs be mysteries to me;
I only wished to imply that you might make some better use of your
faculties, and that knowledge of life you possess, than in conning over
a betting-book or the 'Racing Calendar.'”
“So I mean to do. That's exactly what I 'm planning.”
“Here's the soup cooling and the sherry getting hot,” cried Grog, as
he shouted from the window of the little inn, and waved his napkin to
attract their notice.
“There's papa making a signal to us,” said Lizzy; “did you suspect it
was so late?”
“Seven o'clock, by Jove!” cried Beecher, as he gave her his hand to
cross the stepping-stones. “What a fuss he 'll make about our keeping
the dinner back!”
[Illustration: 284]
“I have eaten all the caviare and the pickles, and nearly finished a
bottle of Madeira, waiting for you,” said Grog; “so, no dressing, but
come in at once.”
“Oh, dearest Lizzy!” cried Beecher, as they gained the porch, “just one
word,--only one word,--to make me the happiest fellow in the world or
the most miserable.” But Lizzy sprang up the stairs, and was in her room
almost ere his words were uttered.
“If I had bad but another moment,” muttered Beecher to himself, “just
one moment more, I'd have shown her that I meant to turn over a new
leaf,--that I was n't going to lead the life I have done. I 'd have told
her--though, I suppose, old Grog would murder me if he knew it--of
our grand martingale, and how we mean to smash the bank at Baden. No
deception about that,--no 'cross' there. She can't bring up grooms and
jockeys and stable-helpers against me now. It will all be done amongst
ourselves,--a family party, and no mistake!”
All things considered, Annesley Beecher, it was just as well for you
that you had not that “one moment” you wished for.