Some eight or ten days have elapsed since the scene we have Just
recorded,--not one of whose incidents are we about to relate,--and
we are still at Holbach. As happens so frequently in the working of
a mathematical question, proofs are assumed without going over the
demonstrations; so, in real life,--certain postulates being granted,--we
arrive at conclusions which we regard as inevitable.
We are at Holbach, but no longer strolling along its leaf-strewn alleys,
or watching the laughing eddies of its circling river,--we are within
doors. The scene is a small, most comfortably furnished chamber of
the little inn, where an ample supper is laid out on a sideboard, a
card-table occupying the centre of the room, at which two players
are seated, their somewhat “charged” expressions and disordered dress
indicating a prolonged combat,--a fact in part corroborated by the
streak of pinkish dawn that has pierced between the shutters, and now
blends with the sickly glare of the candles. Several packs of cards
litter the floor around them, thrown there in that superstitious passion
only gamblers understand, and a decanter and some glasses stand on the
table beside the players, who are no others than our acquaintances Grog
Davis and Paul Classon.
There is a vulgar but not unwise adage that tells us “dogs do not eat
dogs,” and the maxim has a peculiar application to gamblers. All
sorts and manners of men love to measure their strength with each
other,--swordsmen, swimmers, pedestrians, even hard drinking used to
have its duels of rivalry,--gamblers never. Such an employment of their
skill would seem to their eyes about as absurd as that of a sportsman
who would turn his barrel against his companion instead of the
cock-pheasant before him. Their “game” is of another order. How, then,
explain the curious fact we have mentioned? There are rivalries
that last life-long; there are duels that go on from year to year
of existence, and even to the last leave the question of superiority
undetermined. The game of piquet formed such between these two men. At
every chance meeting in life,--no matter how long the interval or how
brief the passage might be,--they recurred to the old-vexed question,
which fortune seemed to find a pleasure in never deciding definitively.
The fact that each had his own separate theory of the game, would have
given an interest to the encounter; but besides there was now another
circumstance whose import neither were likely to undervalue. Davis had
just paid over to Paul Classon the sum of two hundred napoleons,--the
price of a secret service he was about to perform,--and the sight of
that glowing heap of fresh gold--for there it lay on the corner of the
table--had so stimulated the acquisitiveness of Grog's nature that he
could not resist the temptation to try and regain them. The certainty
that when he should have won them it would only be to restore them to
the loser, for whose expenses on a long Journey they were destined,
detracted nothing from this desire on his part A more unprofitable
debtor than Holy Paul could not be imagined. His very name in a schedule
would reflect discredit on the bankruptcy! But there lay the shining
pieces, fresh from the mint and glittering, and the appeal they made was
to an instinct, not to reason. Was it with the knowledge of this fact
that Paul had left them there instead of putting them up in his pocket?
Had he calculated in his own subtle brain that temptations are
least resistible when they are most tangible? There was that in his
reverence's look which seemed to say as much, and the thoughtless
wantonness of his action as his fingers fiddled with the gold may not
have been entirely without a purpose. They had talked together, and
discussed some knotty matters of business, having concluded which, Davis
proposed cards.
[Illustration: 290]
“Our old combat, I suppose?” said Paul, laughing. “Well, I 'm always
ready.”
And down they sat, hour after hour finding them still in the same hard
straggle, fortune swinging with its pendulous stroke from side to side,
as though to elicit the workings of hope and fear in each alternately.
Meanwhile they drank freely, and from time to time arose to eat at the
side-table in that hurried and greedy way that only gamblers eat, as
though vexed at the hanger that called them from their game. They
were both too great proficients in play to require that absorption
of faculties inferior gamblers need. They could, and did, talk of
everything that came uppermost, the terms of the game dropping through
the conversation like the measured booming of great guns amid the
clattering crash of musketry. Luck for some time had favored Holy Paul;
and while he became blander, softer, and more benign of look, Grog
grew fierce, his eyes fiery, and his words sharp and abrupt. Classon's
polished courtesy chafed and irritated him, but he seemed determined
to control his anger as far as he might, and not give his adversary
the transient advantage of temper. Had spectators been admitted to the
lists, the backers would have most probably taken the Churchman. His
calm countenance, his mild, unexcited eye, his voice so composed and
gentle, must have made Paul the favorite.
“We shall scarcely have time for another game, Kit,”--he'd have called
him Grog, but that he was losing,--“I perceive the day is beginning to
break.”
“So am I, for the matter of that,” said Davis, with a bitter laugh. “You
have won--let me see--forty-six, and twenty-seven, and a hundred and
twelve,--that was a 'thumper,'--and thirty-four, besides that loose cash
there,--about two hundred and forty or fifty naps, Master Paul. A very
pretty-night's work, and more profitable than preaching, I take it.”
“Regarding the matter as a mere monetary question--”
“No gammon,--cut the cards,” broke in Davis; “one game must finish us.
Now, shall we say double or quits?”
“If you really wish me to speak my candid mind, I 'd rather not.”
“I thought as much,” muttered Grog to himself; and then, in a louder
voice, “What shall it be then.--one-hundred and fifty? Come, even if you
should lose, you'll get up winner of a clean hundred.”
“Would that it were at the expense of some one I love less!”
“Answer my question,” said Davis, angrily. “Will you have a hundred and
fifty on the last game,--yes or no?”
“Yes, of course, Kit, if you desire it.”
“Cut again; there is a faced card,” said Davis. And now he dealt with
a slow deliberation that showed what an effort his forced composure was
costing him.
Classon sat back in his chair watching the cards as they fell from the
dealer's hand, but affecting in his half-closed eyes and folded arms the
air of one deep in his own musings.
“I will say this, Davis,” said he, at last, with the slow utterance that
announces a well-matured thought, “you have managed the whole of this
business with consummate skill; you have done it admirably.”
“I believe I have,” said Davis, with a sort of stern decision in his
tone; “and there was more difficulty in the case than you are aware of.”
“There must have been very considerable difficulty,” rejoined Paul,
slowly. “Even in the very little I have seen of him I can detect a man
whose temperament must have presented the greatest embarrassments. He
is proud, very proud, suspectful to any extent. I have five
cards--forty-seven.”
“Not good.”
“Three queens.”
“Four tens.”
“So, then, my tierce in spades is not good, of course. I play one.”
“Fifteen and five, twenty, and the tens ninety-four. The first honor I
have scored this hour. The difficulty I allude to was with my daughter;
she would n't have him.”
“Not have him?--not accept a peer of the realm?”
“Who told her he was a peer? She only knows him as the Honorable
Annesley Beecher.”
“Even so. As the Honorable Annesley Beecher, he is a man of high
connections,--related to some of the first people. A dub--play a club. I
take it that such a man is a very high mark indeed.”
“_She_ wasn't of your mind, that's clear,” said Davis, abruptly; “nor do
I believe it would have signified in the least to have told her that he
_was_ a Lord.”
“Romantic!” muttered Paul.
“No, not a bit.”
“Loved another, perhaps.”
“How should she? She never saw any other except a one-eyed Pole, that
taught her music at that Belgian school, and a sort of hairy dwarf, that
gave lessons in drawing! A hundred and seventeen. It's your deal.”
“And he himself has no suspicion of his brother's death?” said Classon,
as he gave out the cards.
“Not the slightest. He was trying to write a letter to him, to break the
news of his marriage, only yesterday.”
“Cleverly done,--most cleverly done,” said Paul, in ecstasy. “If he had
come to the knowledge, he might very possibly have refused _her_.”
“I rather--suspect--not,” said Grog, dwelling slowly on each word,
while his countenance assumed an expression of fierce and terrible
determination. “A lucky take in, that,--the queen of diamonds: it gives
me seven cards. Refuse her! by Heaven, he'd have had a short experience
of his peerage! Kings and knaves--six, and seven I play--twenty-three.
Piqued again, Holy Paul! No, no; he'd never have dared that.”
Classon shook his head doubtingly.
“You might just as well tell me, Paul Classon, that you 'd refuse to
marry them,” said Davis, as he struck the table with his clenched fist,
“and that I would bear it! I have a way of not being denied what I have
determined on; that has done me good service in life. That blear-eyed
boy--the Attaché at the Legation in Frankfort--wanted to refuse me a
passport for the Honorable Annesley Beecher and Mrs. Beecher, saying
that, until the marriage, there was no such person. But I whispered a
word to him across the table, and he gave it, and there it is now.”
“Going to Italy!” said Classon, as he read from the document which
Grog had thrown down before him; “wonderful fellow,--wonderful
fellow,--forgets nothing!” muttered he to himself.
“Yes, but he does, though; he has just forgotten four kings and suffered
_you_ to count four queens, Master Paul,--a tribute to your agreeability
somewhat too costly.”
“Even to the travelling-carriage, Kit,” resumed Classon, not heeding the
sarcasm; “and a more complete thing I never saw in my life. You picked
it up at Frankfort.”
“Yes, at the Hôtel de Russie; got it for two thousand two hundred
francs,--it cost ten, six months ago. A quint in spades, and the cards
divided; I score thirty-one.”
“And when is he to learn that he has succeeded to the title?”
“When he's across the Alps,--when he is out of the land of rouge et noir
and roulette; he may know it then, as soon as he pleases. I 'm to join
them at Como, or Milan, as I can't well 'show' at Baden, even at
this late time of year. Before I come up he 'll have heard all about
Lacking-ton's death.”
“Will it ever occur to him, Kit, to suspect that you were aware of it?”
“I don't know; perhaps it may,” said Grog, doggedly.
“If so, will the impression not lead to a very precarious state of
relations between you?”
“Maybe so,--seven hearts and five spades, you are 'capoted.' There,
Paul, that doesn't leave so much between us, after all. What if he does
suspect it? The world suspects fifty things about me that no man has
ever yet dared to lay to my charge. If you and I, Master Paul, were to
fret ourselves about the suspicions that are entertained of us, we'd
have a pleasant life of it. Your good health.”
“To yours, my dear Kit; and may I never drink it in worse tipple would
be the only additional pleasure I could suggest to the toast. It is
wonderful Madeira!”
“I have had it in the London Docks since the year '81; every bottle of
it now, seeing that the vines are ruined in the island, is worth from
thirty shillings to five-and-thirty. I won it from Tom Hardiman; he took
the invoice out of his pocket-book and flung it across the table to
me. 'Grog,' says he, 'when you take it out of bond, mind you ask me to
dinner, and give me a bottle of it?' But he's gone, 'toes up,' and so
here's to his memory.”
“'Drunk in solemn silence,' as the newspapers say,” broke in Paul, as he
drained his glass.
“Yes,” said Davis, eying the wine by the light, “that's a tipple this
little inn here is not much accustomed to see under its roof; but if I
were to stay a little longer, I 'd make something of this place. They
never heard of Harvey's sauce, Chili vinegar, Caviare, Stilton; even
Bass and British gin were novelties when I came. There, as well as I can
make it up, you are a winner of fifteen naps; there they are.”
“Dear me, I fancied I stood safe to come off with a hundred!” said Paul,
lugubriously.
“So you did, without counting the points; but you 've lost five hundred
and sixty-four,--ay, and a right good thing you 've made of it, Master
Paul. I 'd like to know how long it is since you earned such a sum
honestly.”
Classon sighed heavily as he swept the cash into his pocket, and said,
“I'm unable to tell you; my memory grows worse every day.”
“When you go back to England, you can always brush it up by the Police
sheet,--that's a comfort,” said Davis, with a savage laugh.
“And what will the noble Viscount have to spend yearly?” asked Classon,
to change the theme.
“Something between eight and ten thousand.”
“A snug thing, Kit,--a very snug thing indeed; and I take it that by
this time o' day he knows the world pretty well.”
“No; nothing of the kind!” said Grog, bluntly; “he's a fool, and must
stay a fool!”
“The more luck his, then, to have Christopher Davis for his
father-in-law.”
“I 'll tell you what's better still, Holy Paul,--to have Lizzy Davis for
his wife. _You_ think she's going to make a great match of it because
he's the Lord Viscount and she is _my_ daughter; but _I_ tell you, and I
'm ready to maintain it too, I never met the man yet was worthy of her.
There may be girls as handsome, though I never saw them,--there may be
others as clever, that I'm no judge of; but this I do know,--that for
pluck, real pluck, you 'll not find her equal in Europe. She'd never
have married him for his rank; no, if it was a dukedom he had to offer
her. She 'd never have taken him for his fortune, if it had been ten
times the amount. No, she would n't consent to it, even to take _me_ out
of my difficulties and set me all straight with the world, because she
fancied that by going on the stage, or some such trumpery, she could
have done that just as well. She'd not have had him for himself, for
she knows he's a fool, just as well as I do. There was only one thing
I found she could n't get over: it was the thought she _dare_ not marry
him; that to thrust herself into the station and rank _he_ occupied
would be to expose herself to insults that must crush her. It was by a
mere chance I discovered that this was a challenge she 'd have rather
died than decline. It was for all the world like saying to myself,
'Don't you go into the ring there, Kit Davis; my Lords and the gentlemen
don't like it.' 'Don't they? Well, let's see how they'll take it, for I
_am_ a-going!' It was _that_ stung her, Paul Classon. _She_ did n't want
all those fine people; _she_ did n't care a brass farthing about their
ways and their doings! _She_ 'd not have thought it a hard lot in life
just to jog on as she is. She did n't want to be called a countess, nor
live like one; but when it was hinted to her, that if she _did_ venture
amongst them, it would be to be driven back with shame and insult, then
her mind was made up at once. Not that she ever confessed as much to me;
no, I found out her secret by watching her closely. The day I told her I
forget what anecdote about some outrageous piece of insolence played off
on some new intruder into the titled class, she suddenly started as
if something had stung her, and her eyes glared like a tiger's; then,
catching me by the hand, she said, 'Don't tell me these things; they
pain me more to hear than real, downright calamities!' That was enough
for _me_. I saw her cards, Paul, and I played through them!”
Classon heaved a deep sigh, and was silent.
“What are you sighing over, Paul?” asked Davis, half morosely.
“I was just sorrowing to myself to think how little all her pluck will
avail her.”
“Stuff and nonsense, sir! It is the very thing to depend on in the
struggle.”
“Ay, if there were a struggle, Kit, but that is exactly what there will
not be. You, for instance, go into Brookes's to-morrow, you have been
duly elected. It was a wet day, only a few at the ballot, and somehow
you got in. Well, you are, to all intents, as much a member as his Grace
there, or the noble Marquis. There's no commotion, no stir when you
enter the room. The men at their newspapers look up, perhaps, but they
read away immediately with only increased attention; the group at the
window talks on too; the only thing noticeable is that nobody talks to
_you_. If you ask for the 'Globe' or the 'Chronicle,' when the reader
shall have finished, he politely hands it at once, and goes away.”
“If he did, I'd follow him--”
“What for?--to ask an explanation where there had been no offence?
To make yourself at once notorious in the worst of all possible ways?
There's nothing so universally detested as the man that makes a 'row;'
witness the horror all well-bred people feel at associating with
Americans, they're never sure how it's to end. Now, if all these
considerations have their weight with men, imagine how they mast be
regarded by women, fifty times more exacting as they are in all the
exigencies of station, and whose freemasonry is a hundred times more
exclusive.”
“That's all rot!” broke in Davis, his passion the more violent as the
arguments of the other seemed so difficult to answer. “You think to
puzzle _me_ by talking of all these grand people and their ways as if
they weren't all men and women. That they are, and a rum lot, too, some
of them! Come,” cried Davis, suddenly, as though a happy thought had
just flashed across his mind, “it was the turn of a straw one day, by
your own account, that you were not a bishop. Now, I 'd like to know, if
that lucky event had really taken place, wouldn't you have been the same
Holy Paul Classon that sits there?”
“Perhaps not, entirely,” said Classon, in his oiliest of voices. “I
trust that I should, in ascending to that exalted station, have cast off
the slough of an inferior existence, and carried up little of my former
self except the friendships of my early years.”
“Do you fancy, Master Paul, that gammon like this can impose upon a man
of my sort?”
“My dear and worthy friend,” rejoined Classon, “the tone in which I
appeal to you is my tribute to your high ability. To an inferior man
I had spoken very different language. Sentiments are not the less
real that they are expressed with a certain embroidery, just as a Bank
post-bill would be very good value though a Choctaw Indian might deem it
a piece of waste-paper.”
“I 'd like to see you try it on with Lizzy in this fashion,” said Davis.
“I don't think even your friend the Choctaw Indian would save you.”
“I should be proud of even defeat at such hands!” exclaimed Paul,
rapturously.
“You 'd have little to be proud of when she 'd have done with you,”
cried Grog, all his good-humor restored by the mere thought of his
daughter.
“Have you spoken to his Lordship about what I mentioned?” said Paul,
half diffidently.
“No,” said Grog; “on reflection, I thought it better not. I 'm sure,
besides, that there's no Church preferment in his gift; and then,
Classon, he knows you, as who does not?”
“'Quæ regio terræ non plena est?' Ay, Grog, you and I have arrived at
what the world calls Fame.”
“Speak for yourself, sir; I acknowledge no partnership in the case. When
I have written letters, they have not been begging ones; and when I have
stretched out my hand, there was no pistol in the palm of it!”
“Very true, Kit; _I_ never had a soul above petty larceny, and _you_ had
a spirit that aspired to transportation for life.”
Davis bounded on his chair, and glowered with a fearful stare at the
speaker, who meanwhile drained the decanter into his glass with an
unmoved serenity.
“Don't be angry, my ancient friend,” said he, blandly. “The cares
of friendship, like the skill of a surgeon, must often pain to be
serviceable. Happy let us call ourselves when no ruder hand wields the
probe or the bistoury!”
“Make an end of canting, I want to speak to you about matters of moment.
You will set out to-day, I hope.”
“Immediately after the marriage.”
“What road do you take?”
“Strasburg, Paris, Marseilles, whence direct to Constantinople by the
first steamer.”
“After that?”
“Across the Black Sea to Balaklava.”
“But when do you reach the Crimea?”
“Balaklava is _in_ the Crimea.”
Davis flushed scarlet. The reflection on his geography wounded him, and
he winced under it.
“Are you quite clear that you understand my instructions?” said he,
testily.
“I wish I was as sure of a deanery,” said Paul, smacking his lips over
the last glass.
“You can scarcely wish over-well to the Church, when you desire to be
one of its dignitaries,” said Davis, with a sarcastic grin.
“Why so, my worthy friend? There is a wise Scotch adage says, 'It taks
a' kind of folk to mak a warld;' and so, various orders of men, with
gifts widely differing, if not discrepant, are advantageously assembled
into what we call corporations.”
“Nonsense,--bosh!” said Grog, impatiently. “If you have no better
command of common-sense where you are going, I have made a precious bad
choice of an agent.”
“See how men misconstrue their own natures!” exclaimed Classon, with a
sort of fervor. “If any one had asked me what gift I laid especial claim
to possess, I protest I should have said 'common-sense;' a little more
common-sense than any one else I ever met.”
“You are modest too.”
“Becomingly so, I hope and believe.”
“Have you any other remarkable traits that you might desire to record?”
“A few, and a very few,” said Paul, with a well-assumed air of humility.
“Nature has blessed me with the very best of tempers. I am never rash,
hasty, or impetuous; I accept the rubs of life with submission; I think
well of every one.”
“Do you, faith!” exclaimed Davis, with a scornful laugh.
“Knowing well that we are all slaves of circumstances, I take motives
where others demand actions, just as I would take a bill at three months
from him who has no cash. It may be paid, or it may not.”
“You'd have passed it ere it became due, eh, Master Paul?”
“Such is possible; I make no claims above human frailty.”
“Is sobriety amongst your other virtues?”
“I rarely transgress its limits, save when alone. It is in the solitary
retirement where I seek reflection that I occasionally indulge. There I
am, so to say, 'Classo cum Classone.' I offer no example to others,--I
shock no outward decorum. If the instinctive appreciation of my
character--which I highly possess--passes that of most men, I owe it to
those undisguised moments when I stand revealed to myself. Wine keeps no
secrets; and Paul Classon drunk appeals to Paul Classon sober. Believe
me, Kit, when I tell you no man knows half the excellent things in his
own heart till he has got tipsy by himself!”
“I wish I had never thought of you for this affair,” said Davis,
angrily.
“Pitt made the same speech to Wolfe, and yet that young general
afterwards took Quebec.”
“What do I care about Wolfe or Quebec? I want a particular service that
a man of moderate brains and a firm purpose can accomplish.”
“And for which Paul Classon pledges himself with his head? Ay, Grog
Davis, that is my bond.”
“The day you come back to me with proof of success, I hand you five
hundred pounds.”
“Cash?”
“Cash,--and more, if all be done to our entire satisfaction. _He_--”
here he jerked up his thumb towards Beecher's room--“_he_ sha'n't forget
you.”
Paul closed his eyes, and muttered something to himself, ending with,
“And 'five pounds for the Cruelty to Animals,--from the Reverend Paul
Classon.' I shall be in funds for them all.”
“Ah, Kit!” said he at last, with a deep-drawn sigh, “what slaves are
we all, and to the meanest accidents too,--the veriest trifles of our
existence. Ask yourself, I beseech you, what is it that continually
opposes your progress in life,--what is your rock ahead? Your name!
nothing but your name!--call yourself Jones, Wilkins, Simpson, Watkins,
and see what an expansion it will give your naturally fine faculties.
Nobody will dare to assert that you or I are the same men we were
five-and-twenty or thirty years ago, and yet _you_ must be Davis and _I_
must be Classon, whether we will or not. I call this hard,--very hard
indeed!”
“Would it be any benefit to me if I could call myself Paul Classon?”
said Grog, with an insolent grin.
“It is not for the saintly man who bears that name to speak boastfully
of its responsibilities--”
“In bills of exchange, I O U's, promissory notes, and so forth,” laughed
in Grog.
“I have, I own, done a little in these ways; but what gifted man ever
lived who has not at some time or other committed his sorrows to paper.
The misfortune in my case was that it was stamped.”
“Do you know, Holy Paul, I think you are the greatest 'hemp' I ever
met.”
“No, Kit, don't say so,--don't, my dear and valued friend; these words
give me deep pain.”
“I do say it, and I maintain it!”
“What good Company you must have kept through life, then!”
“The worst of any man in England. And yet,” resumed he, after a pause,
“I 'm positively ashamed to think that my daughter should be married by
the Reverend Paul Classon.”
“A prejudice, my dear and respected friend,--a prejudice quite beneath
your enlarged and gifted understanding! Will it much signify to you
if he, who one of these days shall say, 'The sentence of this court,
Christopher Davis, is transportation beyond the seas,' be a Justice of
the Common Pleas or a Baron of the Exchequer? No, no, Kit; it is only
your vain, conceited people who fancy that they are not hanged if it was
n't Calcraft tied the noose!”
More than once did Davis change color at this speech, whose
illustrations were selected with special intention and malice.
“Here 's daybreak already!” cried Grog, throwing open the window, and
admitting the pinkish light of an early dawn, and the fresh sharp air of
morning.
“It's chilly enough too,” said Classon, shivering, as he emptied the gin
into his glass.
“I think you 've had enough already,” said Grog, rudely, as he flung
both tumbler and its contents out of the window. “Go, have a wash, and
make yourself a little decent-looking; one would imagine, to see you,
you had passed your night in the 'lock-up'!”
“When you see me next, you 'll fancy I 'm an archdeacon.” So saying, and
guiding himself by the chairs, Paul Classon left the room.
With a quiet step, and firm, neither “overtaken” by liquor nor fatigued
by the night's debauch, Davis hastened to his chamber. So long as he was
occupied with the cares of dressing, his features betrayed no unusual
anxiety; he did, indeed, endeavor to attire himself with more than
ordinary care; and one cravat after another did he fling on the floor,
where a number of embroidered vests were already lying. At length the
toilet was completed, and Grog surveyed himself in the large glass, and
was satisfied. He knew he didn't look like Annesley Beecher and that
“lot,” still less did he resemble the old “swells” of Brookes's and
the Carlton; but he thought there was something military, something
sporting,--a dash of the “nag,” with “Newmarket,”--about him, that might
pass muster anywhere! “At all events, Lizzy won't be ashamed of me,”
muttered he to himself. “Poor, poor Lizzy!” added he, in a broken tone;
and he sank down into a chair, and leaned his head on the table.
A gentle tap came to the door. “Come in,” said he, without raising his
head; and she entered.
As the rich robe of silk rustled across the floor, he never raised his
head; nor even when, bending over, she threw an arm around his neck and
kissed his forehead, did he stir or move.
“I want you to look at me, dearest papa,” said she, softly.
“My poor Lizzy,--my own dear Lizzy!” murmured he, half indistinctly;
then, starting suddenly up, he cried aloud, “Good heavens! is it worth
all this--”
“No, indeed, papa,” burst she in; “it is _not_--it is _not_ worth it!”
“What do you mean?” asked he, abruptly. “What were you thinking of?”
“It was _your_ thoughts I was following out,” said she, drearily.
“How handsome,--how beautiful you are, girl!” exclaimed he, as, holding
both her hands, he surveyed her at full length. “Is this Brussels lace?”
She nodded assent
“And what do you call these buttons?”
“They are opals.”
“How it all becomes you, girl! I'd never like to see you less smartly
dressed! And now.--and now I am to lose you!” And he fell upon her neck,
and clasped her fondly to his heart.
“Oh, my dear father, if you knew--” She could not continue.
“And don't I know!” broke he in. “Do you think that all my hard, bad
experience of life has left me so bereft of feeling! But I 'll tell you
another thing I know, Lizzy,” said he, in a deep, calm voice; “that what
we fancy must break our hearts to do we can bear, and bear patiently,
and, what's more, so learn to conform to, that after a few years of life
we wonder that we ever thought them hardships!”
“We do not change so much without heavy suffering!” said she,
sorrowfully.
“That is possible too,” said he, sighing. Then, suddenly rallying, he
said, “You'll write to me often, very often, Lizzy; I 'll want to hear
how you get on with these great folk; not that I fear anything, only
this, girl, that their jealousy will stimulate their rancor. You are so
handsome, girl! so handsome!”
“I 'm glad of it,” said she, with an air of proud exultation.
“Who's there?” cried Davis, impatiently, as a sharp knock came to the
door. It was the Reverend Paul come to borrow a white neckcloth, none of
his own being sufficiently imposing for such an occasion.
“I am scarcely presentable, Miss Davis. I am sure I address Miss Davis,”
said he, pushing into the room, and bowing ceremoniously at each step.
“There can be but only one so eminently beautiful!”
“There, take what you want, and be off!” cried Davis, rudely.
“Your father usurps all the privileges of long friendship, and emboldens
me to claim some, too, my dear young lady. Let me kiss the fairest hand
in Christendom.” And with a reverential homage all his own, Paul bent
down and touched her hand with his lips.
“This is the Reverend Paul Classon, Lizzy,” said Davis,--“a great
dignitary of the Church, and an old schoolfellow of mine.”
“I am always happy to know a friend of my father's,” said she, smiling
gracefully. “You have only just arrived?”
“This moment!” said he, with a glance towards Grog.
“There, away with you, and finish your dressing,” broke in Davis,
angrily; “I see it is nigh seven o'clock.”
“Past seven, rather; and the company assembled below stairs, and Mr.
Beecher--for I presume it must be he--pacing the little terrace in all
the impatience of a bride-groom. Miss Davis, your servant.” And with a
bow of deep reverence Paul retired.
“There were so many things running in my mind to say to you, Lizzy,”
said Davis, “when that Classon came in.” It was very hard for him not to
add an epithet; but he _did_ escape that peril.
“I own, papa, he did not impress me very favorably.”
“He's a first-rate man, a great scholar, a regular don amongst the
shovel-hats,” said Grog, hastily; “that man was within an ace of being a
bishop. But it was not of _him_ my head was full, girl. I wanted to talk
to you about Beecher and that haughty sister-in-law of his. _She_ 'll
'try-it on' with you, Lizzy; I 'm sure she will!”
“Dearest papa, how often have you told me that in preparing for the
accidents of life we but often exaggerate their importance. I'll not
anticipate evil.”
“Here's Beecher!--here he is!” cried Davis, as he clasped her once more
to his heart; and then, opening the door, led her down the stairs.
There was a full assemblage of all the folk of the little inn, and the
room was crowded. The landlord and his wife, and four buxom daughters
and two sons, were there; and a dapper waiter, with very tight-fitting
trousers, and a housemaid, and three farm-servants, all with big
bouquets in their hands and huge bows of white ribbon on their breasts;
and Mademoiselle Annette, Lizzy's maid, in a lilac, silk and a white
crape bonnet; and Peters, Beecher's man, in a most accurate blue frock,
except his master, looking far more like a gentleman than any one there.
As for Annesley Beecher, no man ever more accurately understood how
to “costume” for every circumstance in life; and whether you saw him
lounging over the rail in Rotten Row, strolling through the Park at
Richmond, sunning himself at Cowes, or yawning through a wet day in a
country-house, his “get-up” was sure to be faultless. Hundreds tried in
vain to catch the inimitable curl of his hat, the unattainable sweep of
his waistcoat-collar; and then there were shades and tones of his color
about him that were especially his own. Of course, I am not about to
describe his appearance on this morning; it is enough if I say that he
bestowed every care upon it, and succeeded. And Paul,--Holy Paul,--how
blandly imposing, how unctuously serene he looked! Marriage was truly
a benediction at such hands. He faltered a little, his dulcet accents
trembled with a modest reluctance, as he asked, “'Wilt thou take--this
woman--'” Could he have changed the Liturgy for the occasion, he had
said, “this angel;” as it was, his voice compensated for the syllables,
and the question was breathed out like air from the Garden of Eden.
And so they were married; and there was a grand breakfast, where all the
household were assembled, and where Paul Classon made a most effective
little speech to “the health of the bride,” interpolating his English
and German with a tact all his own; and then they drove away with four
posters, with all the noise and whip-cracking, the sighs and smiles and
last good-byes, just as if the scene had been Hanover Square, and the
High Priest a Canon of Westminster!