Beecher did not amongst his gifts possess the pen of a ready writer; but
there was a strange symmetry observable between the composition and
the manual part. The lines were irregular, the letters variously sized,
erasures frequent, blots everywhere, while the spelling displayed a
spirit that soared above orthography. A man unused to writing, in
the cares of composition, is pretty much in the predicament of a bad
horseman in a hunting-field. He has a vague, indistinct motion of
“where” he ought to go, without the smallest conception as to the “how.”
He is balked or “pounded” at every step, always trying back, but never
by any chance hitting off the right road to his object.
Above a dozen sheets of paper lay half scrawled over before him after
two hours of hard labor, and there he still sat pondering over his
weary task. His scheme was simply this: to write a few lines to Dunn,
introducing his father-in-law, and instructing him to afford him all
information and details as to the circumstances of the Irish property,
it being his intention to establish Captain Davis in the position of
his agent in that country; having done which, and given to Grog to
read over, he meant to substitute another in its place, which other was
confidentially to entreat of Dunn to obtain some foreign and far-away
appointment for Davis, and by every imaginable means to induce him
to accept it. This latter document Dunn was to be instructed to burn
immediately after reading. In fact, the bare thought of what would
ensue if Davis saw it, made him tremble all over, and aggravated all the
difficulties of composition. Even the mode of beginning puzzled him,
and there lay some eight or ten sheets scrawled over with a single
line, thus: “Lord Lackington presents his compliments”--“The
Viscount Lackington requests”--“Lord Lackington takes the present
opportunity”--“Dear Dunn”--“Dear Mr. Dunn”--“My dear Mr. Dunn”--“Dear
D.” How nicely and minutely did he weigh over in his mind the value to
be attached to this exordium, and how far the importance of position
counterbalanced the condescension of close intimacy! “Better be
familiar,” said he, at last; “he 's a vulgar dog, and he 'll like it;”
and so he decided for “My dear Dunn.”
“My dear Dunn,--As I know of your influence with the people in
power--too formal that, perhaps,” said he, re-reading it--“as I know
what you can do with the dons in Downing Street--that 's far better--I
want you to book the bearer--no, that is making a flunkey of him--I
want you to secure me a snug thing in the Colonies--or better, a snug
Colonial appointment--for my father-in-law--no, for my friend--no,
for my old and attached follower, Captain Davis--that's devilish
well-rounded, 'old and attached follower, Captain Davis.' When I tell
you that I desire he may get something over the hills and far away, you
'll guess at once--you 'll guess at once why--no, guess the reason--no,
you 'll see with half an eye how the cat jumps.” He threw down his pen
at this, and rubbed his hands in an ecstasy of delight. “Climate does
n't signify a rush, for he's strong as a three-year-old, and has
the digestion of an 'ostrage;' the main thing, little to do, and
opportunities for blind hookey. As to outfit, and some money in hand,
I 'll stand it. Once launched, if there's only a billiard-table or
dice-box in the colony, he 'll not starve.”
“Eh, Grog, my boy,” cried he, with a laugh, “as the parsons say, 'Salary
less an object than a field of profitable labor!' And, by Jove! the
grass will be very short, indeed, where you can't get enough to feed on!
There 's no need to give Dunn a caution about reserve, and so forth with
him,--he knows Grog well.”
Having finished this letter, and placed it carefully in his pocket, he
began the other, which, seeing that it was never to be delivered,
and only shown to Davis himself, cost him very little trouble in the
composition. Still it was not devoid of all difficulty, since, by the
expectations it might create in Grog's mind of obtaining the management
of the Irish property, it would be actually throwing obstacles in the
way of his going abroad. He therefore worded the epistle more carefully,
stating it to be his intention that Captain Davis should be his agent at
some future time not exactly defined, and requesting Dunn to confer with
him as one enjoying his own fullest confidence.
He had but finished the document when a sharp knock at the door
announced Davis. “The very man I wanted,” said Beecher; “sit down and
read that.”
Grog took his double eye-glass from his pocket,--an aid to his sight
only had recourse to when he meant to scrutinize every word and every
letter,--and sat down to read. “Vague enough,” said he, as he concluded.
“Small credentials for most men, but quite sufficient for Kit Davis.”
“I know that,” said Beecher, half timidly; for no sooner in the
redoubted presence than he began to tremble at his own temerity.
“This Mr. Dunn is a practical sort of man, they say, so that we shall
soon understand each other,” said Davis.
“Oh, you'll like him greatly.”
“I don't want to like him,” broke in Grog; “nor do I want him to like
_me_.”
“He's a fellow of immense influence just now; can do what he pleases
with the Ministry.”
“So much the better for him,” said Grog, bluntly.
“And for his friends, sir,” added Beecher. “He has only to send in a
name, and he's sure to get what he asks for, at home or abroad.”
“How convenient!” said Grog; and whether it was an accident or not, he
directed his eyes full on Beecher as he spoke, and as suddenly a deep
blush spread over the other's face. “Very convenient, indeed,” went on
Grog, while his unrelenting glance never wavered nor turned away. As
he stared, so did Beecher's confusion increase, till at last, unable
to endure more, he turned away, sick at heart “My Lord Viscount,”
said Grog, gravely, “let me give you a word of counsel: never commit a
murder; for if you do, your own fears will hang you.”
“I don't understand you,” faltered out Beecher.
“Yes, you do; and right well too,” broke in Grog, boldly. “What
rubbish have you got into your head now, about 'a place' for me? What
nonsensical scheme about making me an inspector of this or a collector
of that? Do you imagine that for any paltry seven or eight hundred a
year I 'm going to enter into recognizance not to do what's worth six
times the amount? Mayhap you 'd like to send me to India or to China.
Oh, that's the dodge, is it?” exclaimed he, as the crimson flush now
extended over Beecher's forehead to the very roots of his hair. “Well,
where is it to be? There 's a place called Bogota, where they always
have yellow fever; couldn't you get me named consul there? Oh dear, oh
dear!” laughed he out, “how you _will_ go on playing that little game,
though you never score a point!”
“I sometimes imagine that you don't know how offensive your language
is,” said Beecher, whose angry indignation had mastered all his fears;
“at least, it is the only explanation I can suggest for your conduct
towards myself!”
“Look at it this way,” said Grog; “if you always lost the game whenever
you played against one particular man, wouldn't you give in at last, and
own him for your master? Well, now, that is exactly what you are doing
with me,--losing, losing on, and yet you won't see that you're beaten.”
“I'll tell you what I see, sir,” said Beecher, haughtily,--“that our
intercourse must cease.”
Was it not strange that this coarse man, reckless in action, headstrong
and violent, felt abashed, for the instant, in presence of the dignified
manner which, for a passing moment, the other displayed. It was the one
sole weapon Grog Davis could not match; and before the “gentleman” he
quailed, but only for a second or two, when he rallied, and said, “I
want the intercourse as little as you do. I am here for the pleasure of
being with my daughter.”
“As for that,” began Beecher, “there is no need--” He stopped abruptly,
something terribly menacing in Grog's face actually arresting his words
in the utterance.
“Take you care what you say,” muttered Grog, as he approached him, and
spoke with a low, guttural growl. “I have n't much patience at the best
of times; don't provoke me _now._”
“Will you take this letter,--yes or no?” said Beecher, resolutely.
“I will: seal and address it,” said Grog, searching for a match to light
the taper, while Beecher folded the letter, and wrote the direction.
Davis continued to break match after match in his effort to strike a
light. Already the dusk of declining day filled the room, and objects
were dimly descried. Beecher's heart beat violently. The thought that
even yet, if he could summon courage for it, he might outwit Grog, sent
a wild thrill through him. What ecstasy, could he only succeed!
“Curse these wax contrivances! the common wooden ones never failed,”
muttered Davis. “There goes the fifth.”
“If you 'll ring for Fisher--”
An exclamation and an oath proclaimed that he had just burned his
finger; but he still persevered.
“At last!” cried he,--“at last!” And just as the flame rose slowly up,
Beecher had slipped the letter in his pocket, and substituted the other
in its place.
“I'll write 'Private and confidential,'” added Beecher, “to show that
the communication is strictly for himself alone.” And now the document
was duly sealed, and the name “Lackington” inscribed in the corner.
“I 'll start to-night,” said Davis, as he placed the letter in his
pocket-book; “I may have to delay a day in London, to see Fordyce. Where
shall I write to you?”
“I'll talk that over with my Lady,” said the other, still trembling with
the remnant of his fears. “We dine at six,” added he, as Davis arose to
leave the room.
“So Lizzy told me,” said Davis.
“You don't happen to know if she invited Twining, do you?”
“No! but I hope she didn't,” said Grog, sulkily.
“Why so? He's always chatty, pleasant, and agreeable,” said Beecher,
whose turn it was now to enjoy the other's irritation.
“He's what I hate most in the world,” said Davis, vindictively; “a swell
that can walk into every leg in the Ring,--that's what he is!” And with
this damnatory estimate of the light-hearted, easy-natured Adderley
Twining, Grog banged the door and departed.
That social sacrament, as some one calls dinner, must have a strange,
mysterious power over our affections and our sympathies; for when these
two men next met each other, with napkins on their knees and soup before
them, their manner was bland, and even cordial. You will probably say,
How could they be otherwise? that was neither the time nor place to
display acrimony or bitterness, nor could they carry out in Lizzy's
presence the unseemly discussion of the morning. Very true; and their
bearing might, consequently, exhibit a calm and decent courtesy; but it
did more,--far more; it was familiar and even friendly, and it is to
the especial influence of the dinner-table that I attribute the happy
change. The blended decorum and splendor--that happy union of tangible
pleasure with suggestive enjoyment, so typified by a well-laid and
well-spread table--is a marvellous peacemaker. Discrepant opinions blend
into harmonious compromise as the savory odors unite into an atmosphere
of nutritious incense, and a wider charity to one's fellows comes
in with the champagne. Where does diplomacy unbend? where do its
high-priests condescend to human feelings and sympathies save at dinner?
Where, save at Mansion House banquets, are great Ministers facetious?
Where else are grave Chancellors jocose and Treasury Lords convivial?
The three who now met were each in their several ways in good spirits:
Grog, because he had successfully reasserted his influence over Beecher;
Beecher, because, while appearing to be defeated, he had duped his
adversary; and Lizzy, for the far better reason that she was looking
her very best, and that she knew it. She had, moreover, passed a very
pleasant morning; for Mr. Twining had made it his business--doubtless,
with much hand-rubbing and many exclamations of “What fun!”--to go
amongst all the tradespeople of Baden, proclaiming the arrival of
a “millionnaire Milor,” and counselling them to repair with all the
temptations of their shops to the hotel. The consequence was that
Lizzy's drawing-room was like a fair till the hour of dressing for
dinner. Jewelry in its most attractive forms, rich lace, silks,
velvets, furs, costly embroideries, inlaid cabinets, gems, ancient
and modern,--all the knick-knackeries which a voluptuous taste has
conceived, all the extravagant inventions of a fashion bent on ruinous
expenditure,--were there; fans sparkling with rubies, riding-whips
incrusted with turquoises, slippers studded over with pearls. There was
nothing wanting; even richly carved meerschaums and walking-sticks were
paraded, in the hope that as objects of art and elegance they might
attract her favor. Her father had found her dazzled and delighted by
all this splendor, and told her that one of the first duties of her high
station was the encouragement of art. “It is to you, and such as you,
these people look for patronage,” said he. “An English peeress is a
princess, and must dispense her wealth generously.”
I am bound to acknowledge, her Ladyship did not shrink from this
responsibility of her station. Without caring for the cost,--as often
without even inquiring the price,--she selected what she wished; and
rows of pearls, diamond bracelets, rings, and head ornaments covered her
dressing-table, while sable and Astrakan cloaks, cashmeres, and Genoa
velvets littered every corner of the room. “After all,” thought she, as
she fixed a jewelled comb in her hair, “it is very nice to be rich; and
while delighting yourself you can make so many others happy.”
Doubtless, too, there was some reason in the reflection; and in
the smiling faces and grateful glances around her she found a ready
confirmation of the sentiment. Happily for her at the moment, she did
not know how soon such pleasures pall, and, as happily for ourselves,
too, is it the law of our being that they should do so, and that no
enjoyment is worth the name which has cost no effort to procure, nor
any happiness a boon which has not demanded an exertion to arrive at.
If Beecher was startled at the sight of all these costly purchases,
his mind was greatly relieved as Grog whispered him that Herr Koch, the
banker, had opened a credit for him, on which he might draw as freely
as he pleased. The word “Lackington” was a talisman which suddenly
converted a sea of storm and peril into a lovely lake only ruffled by a
zephyr.
At last the pleasant dinner drew to a close; and as the coffee was
brought in, the noise of a carriage beneath the windows attracted them.
“That's _my_ trap,” said Davis; “I ordered it for half past eight,
exactly.”
“But there 's no train at this hour,” began Lizzy.
“I know that; but I mean to post all night, and reach Carlsruhe for
the first departure in the morning. I 'm due in London on Monday
morning,--eh, my Lord?”
“Yes, that you are,” said Beecher; “Dublin, Tuesday evening.”
“Just so,” said Davis, as he arose; “and I mean to keep my time like
a pendulum. Can I do any little commission for your Ladyship as I pass
through town,--anything at Howell and James's, anything from Storr's?”
“I never heard of them--”
“Quite time enough, Lizzy,” broke in Beecher; “not to say that we might
stock a very smart warehouse with the contents of the next room. Don't
forget the courier,--he can join us at Rome; and remember, we shall want
a cook. The 'Mowbray' have an excellent fellow, and I 'm sure an extra
fifty would seduce him, particularly as he hates England, detests a
club, and can't abide the 'Sundays;' and my Lady will require something
smarter than Annette as a maid.”
“Oh, I could n't part with Annette!”
“Nor need you; but you must have some one who can dress hair in a
Christian fashion.”
“And what do you call that?” asked Grog, with a stare of insolent
meaning.
“My Lord is quite right in the epithet; for I copied my present coiffure
from a picture of a Jewish girl I bought this morning, and I fancy it
becomes me vastly.”
There was in the easy coquetry of this speech what at once relieved the
awkwardness of a very ticklish moment, and Beecher rewarded her address
with a smile of gratitude.
“And the house in Portland Place to be let?” murmured Davis, as he read
from his note-book. “What of that box in the Isle of Wight?”
“I rather think we shall keep it on; my sister-in-law liked it, and
might wish to go there.”
“Let her buy it or take a lease of it, then,” said Grog. “You 'll see,
when you come to look into it, she has been left right well off.”
Beecher turned away impatiently, and made no reply.
“All that Herefordshire rubbish of model farm and farming-stock had
better be sold at once. You are not going into that humbug like the late
Lord, I suppose?”
“I have come to no determination about Lackington Court as yet,” said
Beecher, coldly.
“The sooner you do, then, the better. There's not a more rotten piece
of expense in the world than southdowns and shorthorns, except it be
Cochin-China hens and blue tulips.”
“Let Fordyce look to my subscriptions at the clubs.”
“Pure waste of money when you are not going back there.”
“But who says that I am not?” asked Beecher, angrily.
“Not yet a bit, at all events,” replied Davis, and with a grin of
malicious meaning so significant that Beecher actually sickened with
terror.
“It will be quite time enough to make further arrangements when I confer
with the members of my family,” said Beecher, haughtily.
To this speech Davis only answered by another grin, that spoke as plain
as words could, “Even the high tone will have no effect upon _me_.”
Luckily this penance was not long to endure, for Lizzy had drawn her
father aside, and was whispering a few last words to him. It was in a
voice so low and subdued they spoke that nothing could be heard; but
Beecher imagined or fancied he heard Grog mutter, “'Pluck' will do it;
'pluck' will do anything.” A long, affectionate embrace, and a fondly
uttered “Good-bye, girl,” followed, and then, shaking hands with
Beecher, Davis lighted his cigar and departed.
Lizzy opened the window, and, leaning over the balcony, watched
the carriage as it sped along the valley, the lights appearing and
disappearing at intervals. What thoughts were hers as she stood there?
Who knows? Did she sorrow after him, the one sole being who had cared
for her through life; did her heart sadden at the sense of desertion;
was the loneliness of her lot in life then uppermost in her mind; or
did she feel a sort of freedom in the thought that now she was to be
self-guided and self-dependent? I know not. I can only say that, though
a slight flush colored her cheek, she shed no tears; and as she closed
the window and returned into the room, her features were calm and
emotionless.
“Why did not papa take the route by Strasburg? It is much the shortest?”
“He couldn't,” said Beecher, with a triumphant bitterness,--“he could
n't. He can't go near Paris.”
“By Verviers, then, and Belgium?” said she, reddening.
“He'd be arrested in Belgium and tried for his life. He has no road left
but down the Rhine to Rotterdam.”
“Poor fellow!” said she, rising, “it must be a real peril that turns
_him_ from his path.” There was an accent on the pronoun that almost
made the speech a sarcasm; at all events, ere Beecher could notice it,
she had left the room.
“Now, if Fortune really meant to do me a good turn,” said Beecher to
himself, “she 'd just shove my respected father-in-law, writing-desk,
pocket-book, and all, into the 'Rheingau,' never to turn up again.” And
with this pious sentiment, half wish, half prayer, he went downstairs
and strolled into the street.
As the bracing night air refreshed him, he walked along briskly towards
Lindenthal, his mind more at ease than before. It was, indeed, no small
boon that the terror of Grog's presence was removed. The man who had
seen him in all his transgressions and his shortcomings was, in reality,
little else than an open volume of conscience, ever wide spread before
him. How could he presume in such a presence to assert one single high
or honorable motive? What honest sentiment dare be enunciate? He felt in
his heart that the Viscount Lackington with ten thousand a year was not
the Honorable Annesley Beecher with three hundred. The noble Lord
could smile at the baits that to the younger son were irresistible
temptations. There was no necessity that _he_ should plot, scheme, and
contrive; or if he did, it should be for a higher prize, or in a higher
sphere and with higher antagonists. And yet Grog would not have it so.
Let him do what he would, there was the inexorable Davis ever ready
to bring down Lackington to the meridian of Beecher! Amidst all
the misfortunes of his life, the ever having known this man was the
worst,--the very worst!
And now he began to go over in his mind some of the most eventful
incidents of this companionship. It was a gloomy catalogue of debauch
and ruin. Young fellows entrapped at the very outset in life, led on to
play, swindled, “hocussed,” menaced with exposure, threatened with who
knows what perils of public scandal if they refused to sign this or
that “promise to pay.” Then all the intrigues to obtain the money; the
stealthy pursuit of the creditor to the day of his advancement or his
marriage; the menaces measured out to the exigencies of the case,--now
a prosecution, now a pistol. What a dreadful labyrinth of wickedness
was it, and how had he threaded through it undetected! He heaved a heavy
sigh as he muttered a sort of thanksgiving that it was all ended at
last,--all over! “If it were not for Grog, these memories need never
come back to me,” said he. “Nobody wants to recall them against me,
and the world will be most happy to dine with the Viscount Lackington
without a thought of the transgressions of Annesley Beecher! If it were
not for Grog,--if it were not for Grog!” and so ran the eternal refrain
at the close of each reflection. “At all events,” said he, “I 'll
'put the Alps between us;'” and early on the following morning the
travelling-carriage stood ready at the door, and amidst the bowings
and reverences of the hotel functionaries, the “happy pair” set out for
Italy.
Do not smile in any derision at the phrase, good reader; the words are
classic by newspaper authority; and whatever popular preachers may aver
to the contrary, we live in a most charming world, where singleness is
blessed and marriage is happy, public speaking is always eloquent, and
soldiery ever gallant. Still, even a sterner critic might have admitted
that the epithet was not misapplied; for there are worse things in life
than to be a viscount with a very beautiful wife, rolling pleasantly
along the Via Mala on Collinge's best patent, with six smoking posters,
on a bright day of November. This for his share; as to hers, I shall not
speak of it. And yet, why should I not? Whatever may be the conflict in
the close citadel of the heart, how much of pleasure is derivable from
the mere aspect of a beautiful country as one drives rapidly along,
swift enough to bring the changes of scene agreeably before the eye,
and yet not too fast to admit of many a look at some spot especially
beautiful. And then how charming to lose oneself in that-dreamland,
where, peopling the landscape with figures of long, long ago, we too
have our part, and ride forth at daybreak from some deep-vaulted portal
in jingling mail, or gaze from some lone tower over the wide expanse
that forms our baronial realm,--visions of ambition, fancies of a lowly,
humble life, alternating as the rock-crowned castle or the sheltered cot
succeed each other! And lastly, that strange, proud sentiment we feel
as we sweep past town and village, where human life goes on in its
accustomed track,--the crowd in the market-place, the little group
around the inn, the heavy wagon unloading at the little quay, the
children hastening on to school,--all these signs of a small, small
world of its own, that we, in our greatness, are never again to gaze
on, our higher destiny bearing us ever onward to grander and more
pretentious scenes.
“And this is Italy?” said Lizzy, half aloud, as, emerging from the
mists of the Higher Alps, the carriage wound its zigzag descent from the
Splügen, little glimpses of the vast plain of Lombardy coming into
view at each turn of the way, and then the picturesque outlines of old
ruinous Chiavenna, its tumble-down houses, half hid in trellised vines,
and farther on, again, the head of the Lake of Como, with its shores of
rugged rock.
“Yes, and this miserable dog-hole here is called Campo Dolcino!” said
Beecher, as he turned over the leaves of his “John Murray.” “That's the
most remarkable thing about these Italians; they have such high-sounding
names for everything, and we are fools enough to be taken in by the
sound.”
“It is a delusion that we are rather disposed to indulge in, generally,”
said Lizzy. “The words, 'your Majesty' or 'your Highness,' have their
own magic in them, even when the representatives respond but little to
the station.”
[Illustration: 342]
“It was your father, I fancy, taught you that lesson,” said he,
peevishly.
“What lesson do you mean?”
“To hold people of high rank cheaply; to imagine that they must be all
cheats and impositions.”
“No,” said she, calmly but resolutely. “If he taught me anything on this
subject, it was to attribute to persons of exalted station very lofty
qualities. What I have to fear is that my expectation will be far above
the reality. I can imagine what they might be, but I 'm not so sure it
is what I shall find them.”
“You had better not say so to my sister-in-law,” said Beecher,
jeeringly.
“It is not my intention,” said she, with the same calm voice.
“I make that remark,” resumed he, “because she has what some people
would call exaggerated notions about the superiority of the well-born
over all inferior classes; indeed, she is scarcely just in her estimate
of low people.”
“Low people are really to be pitied!” said she, with a slight laugh; and
Beecher stole a quick glance at her, and was silent.
He was not able long to maintain this reserve. The truth was, he felt an
invincible desire to recur to the class in life from which Lizzy came,
and to speak disparagingly of all who were humbly born. Not that
this vulgarity was really natural to him,--far from it. With all his
blemishes and defects he was innately too much a gentleman to descend to
this. The secret impulse was to be revenged of Grog Davis; to have the
one only possible vengeance on the man that had “done him;” and even
though that was only to be exacted through Davis's daughter, it
pleased him. And so he went on to tell of the prejudices--absurd, of
course--that persons like Lady Georgina would persist in entertaining
about common people. “You 'll have to be so careful in all your
intercourse with her,” said he; “easy, natural, of course, but never
familiar; she would n't stand it.”
“I will be careful,” said Lizzy, calmly.
“The chances are, she 'll find out some one of the name, and ask you, in
her own half-careless way, 'Are you of the Staffordshire Davises? or do
you belong to the Davises of such a place?'”
“If she should, I can only reply that I don't know,” said Lizzy.
“Oh! but you must n't say that,” laughed out Beecher, who felt a sort of
triumph over what he regarded as his wife's simplicity.
“You would not, surely, have me say that I was related to these people?”
“No, not exactly that; but, still, to say that you didn't know whether
you were or not, would be a terrible blunder! It would amount to a
confession that you were Davises of nowhere at all.”
“Which is about the truth, perhaps,” said she, in the same tone.
“Oh! truth is a very nice thing, but not always pleasant to tell.”
“But don't you think you could save me from an examination in which I am
so certain to acquit myself ill, by simply stating that you have married
a person without rank, station, or fortune? These facts once
understood, I feel certain that her Ladyship will never allude to them
unpleasantly.”
“Then there 's another point,” said Beecher, evidently piqued that he
had not succeeded in irritating her,--“there 's another point, and you
must be especially careful about it,--never, by any chance, let out that
you were educated at a school, or a pensionnat, or whatever they call
it. If there 's anything she cannot abide, it is the thought of a girl
brought up at a school; mind, therefore, only say, 'my governess.'”
She smiled and was silent.
“Then she'll ask you if you had been 'out,' and when you were presented,
and who presented you. She 'll do it so quietly and so naturally, you 'd
never guess that she meant any impertinence by it.”
“So much the better, for I shall not feel offended.”
“As to the drawing-room,” rejoined Beecher, “you must say that you
always lived very retiredly,--never came up to town; that your father
saw very little company.”
“Is not this Chiavenna we 're coming to?” asked Lizzy, a slight--but
very slight--flush rising to her cheek. And now the loud cracking of
the postilions' whips drowned all other sounds as the horses tore along
through the narrow streets, making the frail old houses rock and shiver
as they passed. A miserable-looking vetturino carriage stood at the inn
door, and was dragged hastily out of the way to make room for the more
pretentious equipage. Scarcely had the courier got down than the whole
retinue of the inn was in motion, eagerly asking if “Milordo” would not
alight, if his “Eccellenza” would not take some refreshment.
But his “Eccellenza” would do neither; sooth to say, he was not in the
best of humors, and curtly said, “No, I want nothing but post-horses to
get out of this wretched place.”
“Is n't that like an Englishman?” said a voice from the vetturino
carriage to some one beside him.
“But I know him,” cried the other, leaping out. “It's the new Viscount
Lackington.” And with this he approached the carriage, and respectfully
removing his hat, said, “How d'ye do, my Lord?”
“Ah, Spicer! you here?” said Beecher, half haughtily. “Off to England, I
suppose?”
“No, my Lord, I 'm bound for Rome.”
“So are we, too. Lady Lackington and myself,” added be, correcting at
once a familiar sort of a glance that Spicer found time to bestow upon
Lizzy. “Do you happen to know if Lady Georgina is there?”
“Yes, my Lord, at the Palazzo Gondi, on the Pintian;” and here Spicer
threw into his look an expression of respectful homage to her Ladyship.
“Palazzo Gondi; will you try and remember that address?” said Beecher
to his wife. And then, waving his hand to Spicer, he added,
“Good-bye,--meet you at Rome some of these days,” and was gone.