Davenport Dunn, a Man of Our Day. Volume 1 (of 2)

“To another kind of man I'd have said something about two pauvres femmes délaissées, but he 'd have been frightened, and probably not come.”

“Probably,” said Lady Grace, with a sigh.

“Now, let us try the success of this.” And she rang a bell, and despatched the note.

Lady Lackington had scarcely time to deliver a short essay on the class and order of men to which Mr. Davenport Dunn pertained, when the servant returned with the answer. It was a very formal acceptance of the invitation, “Mr. Davenport Dunn presented his compliments,”—and so on.

“Of course, he comes,” said she, throwing the note away. “Do you know, my dear, I half suspect we have been indiscreet; for now that we have caught our elephant, what shall we do with him?”

“I cannot give you one solitary suggestion.”

“These people are not our people, nor are their gods our gods,” said Lady Lackington.

“If we all offer up worship at the same temple,—the Bourse,” said Lady Grace, something sadly,—“we can scarcely dispute about a creed.”

“That is only true in a certain sense,” replied the other. “Money is a necessity to all; the means of obtaining it may, therefore, be common to many. It is in the employment of wealth, in the tasteful expenditure of riches, that we distinguish ourselves from these people. You have only to see the houses they keep, their plate, their liveries, their equipages, and you perceive at once that whenever they rise above some grovelling imitation they commit the most absurd blunders against all taste and propriety. I wish we had Spicer here to see about this dinner, it is one of the very few things he understands; but I suppose we must leave it to the cook himself, and we have the comfort of knowing that the criticism on his efforts will not be of a very high order.”

“We dine at four, I believe,” said Lady Grace, in her habitual tone of sorrow, as she swept from the room with that gesture of profound woe that would have graced a queen in tragedy.

Let us turn for a moment to Mr. Davenport Dunn. Lady Lackington's invitation had not produced in him either those overwhelming sensations of astonishment or those excessive emotions of delight which she had so sanguinely calculated on. There was a time that a Viscountess asking him thus to dinner had been an event, the very fact being one requiring some effort on his part to believe; but these days were long past. Mr. Dunn had not only dined with great people since that, but had himself been their host and entertainer. Noble lords and baronets had sipped his claret, right honorables praised his sherry, and high dignitaries condescended to inquire where he got “that exquisite port.” The tremulous, faint-hearted, doubting spirit, the suspectful, self-distrusting, humble man, had gone, and in his place there was a bold, resolute nature, confident and able, daily testing his strength against some other in the ring, and as often issuing from the contest satisfied that he had little to fear from any antagonist. He was clever enough to see that the great objects in life are accomplished less by dexterity and address than by a strong, undeviating purpose. The failure of many a gifted man, and the high success of many a commonplace one, had not been without its lesson for him; and it was in the firm resolve to rise a winner that he sat down to the game of life.

Lady Lackington's invitation was, therefore, neither a cause of pleasure nor astonishment. He remembered having met her somewhere, some time, and he approached the renewed acquaintance without any one of the sentiments her Ladyship had so confidently predicted. Indeed, so little of that flurry of anticipation did he experience, that he had to be reminded her Ladyship was waiting dinner for him, before he could remember the pleasure that was before him.

It may be a very ungallant confession for this true history to make, but we cannot blink saying that Lady Lack-ington and Lady Grace both evidenced by their toilette that they were not indifferent to the impression they were to produce upon their guest.

The Viscountess was dressed in the perfection of that French taste whose chief characteristic is freshness and elegance. She was light, gauzy, and floating,—a sweeping something of Valenciennes and white muslin,—but yet human withal, and very graceful. Her friend, in deep black, with a rich lace veil fastened on her head behind, and draped artistically over one shoulder, was a charming personification of affliction not beyond consolation. When they met, it was with an exchange of looks that said, “This ought to do.”

Lady Lackington debated with herself what precise manner of reception she would award to Mr. Dunn,—whether to impose by the haughty condescension of a fine lady, or fascinate by the graceful charm of an agreeable one. She was “equal to either fortune,” and could calculate on success, whichever road she adopted. While she thus hesitated, he entered.

If his approach had little or nothing of the man of fashion about it, it was still a manner wherein there was little to criticise. It was not bold nor timid, and, without anything like over-confidence, there was yet an air of self-reliance that was not without dignity.

At dinner the conversation ranged over the usual topics of foreign travel, foreign habits, collections, and galleries. Of pictures and statues he had seen much, and evidently with profit and advantage; of people and society he knew next to nothing, and her Ladyship quickly detected this deficiency, and fell back upon it as her stronghold.

“When hard-worked men like myself take a holiday,” said Dunn, “they are but too glad to escape from the realities of life by taking refuge amongst works of art. The painter and the sculptor suggest as much poetry as can consist with their stern notions, and are always real enough to satisfy the demand for fact.”

“But would not what you call your holiday be more pleasantly passed in making acquaintances? You could of course have easy access to the most distinguished society.”

“I'm a bad Frenchman, my Lady, and speak not a word of German or Italian.”

“English is very generally cultivated just now,—the persons best worth talking to can speak it.”

“The restraint of a strange tongue, like the novelty of a court dress, is a sad detractor from all naturalness. At least, in my own little experience with strangers, I have failed to read anything of a man's character when he addressed me in a language not his own.”

“And was it essential you should have read it?” asked Lady Grace, languidly.

“I am always more at my ease when I know the geography of the land I live in,” said Dunn, smiling.

“I should say you have great gifts in that way,—I mean in deciphering character,” said Lady Lackington.

“Your Ladyship flatters me. I have no pretensions of the kind. Once satisfied of the sincerity of those with whom I come into contact, I never strive to know more, nor have I the faculties to attempt more.”

“But, in your wide-spread intercourse with life, do you not, insensibly as it were, become an adept in reading men's natures?”

“I don't think so, my Lady. The more one sees of life the simpler does it seem, not from any study of humanity, but by the easy fact that three or four motives sway the whole world. An unsupplied want of one kind or other—wealth, rank, distinction, affection, it may be—gives the entire impulse to a character, just as a passion imparts the expression to a face; and all the diversities of temperament, like those of countenance, are nothing but the impress of a want,—you may call it a wish. Now it may be,” added he, and as he spoke he stole a glance, quick as lightning, at Lady Grace, “that such experiences are more common to men like myself,—men, I mean, who are intrusted with the charge of others' interests; but assuredly I have no clew to character save in that one feature,—a want.”

“But I want fifty thousand things,” said Lady Lacking-ton. “I want a deal of money; I want that beautiful villa near Palermo, the 'Serra Novena;' I want that Arab pony Kratuloff rides in the park; I want, in short, everything that pleases me every hour of the day.”

“These are not wants that make impulses, no more than a passing shower makes a climate,” said Dunn. “What I speak of is that unceasing, unwearied desire that is with us in joy or sadness, that journeys with us and lives with us, mingling in every action, blending with every thought, and presenting to our minds a constant picture of ourselves under some wished-for aspect different from all we have ever known, where we are surrounded with other impulses and swayed by other passions, and yet still identically ourselves. Lady Grace apprehends me.”

“Perhaps,—at least partly,” said she, fanning herself and concealing her face.

“There are very few exempt from a temptation of this sort, or, if they be, it is because their minds are dissipated on various objects.”

“I hate things to be called temptations, and snares, and the rest of it,” said Lady Lackington; “it is a very tiresome cant. You may tell me while I am waiting for my fish-sauce at dinner, it is a temptation; but if you wish me really to understand the word, tell me of some wonderful speculation, some marvellous scheme for securing millions. Oh, dear Mr. Dunn, you who really know the way, will you just show me the road to—I will be moderate—about twenty thousand pounds?”

“Nothing easier, my Lady, if you are disposed to risk forty.”

“But I am not, sir. I have not the slightest intention to risk one hundred. I 'm not a gambler.”

“And yet what your Ladyship points at is very like gambling.”

“Pray place that word along with temptation, in the forbidden category; it is quite hateful to me.”

“Have you the same dislike to chance, Lady Grace?” said he, stealing a look at her face with some earnestness.

“No,” said she, in a low voice; “it is all I have to look for.”

“By the way, Mr. Dunn, what are they doing in Parliament about us? Is there not something contemplated by which we can insist upon separate maintenance, or having a suitable settlement, or—”

“Separation—divorce,” said Lady Grace, solemnly.

“No, my Lady, the law is only repairing an old road, not making a new one. The want of the age is cheapness,—cheap literature, cheap postage, and cheap travelling, and why not cheap divorce? Legislation now professes as its great aim to extend to the poor all the comforts of the rich; and as this is supposed to be one of them—”

“Have you any reason to doubt it, sir?” asked Lady Grace.

“Luxuries cease to be luxuries when they become common. Cheap divorce will be as unfashionable as cheap pine-apple when a coal-heaver can have it,” said Lady Lackington.

“You mistake, it seems to me, what constitutes the luxury,” interposed Lady Grace. “Every day of the year sees men liberated from prison, yet no one will pretend that the sense of freedom is less dear to every creature thus delivered.”

“Your figure is but too like,” said Dunn. “The divorced wife will be to the world only too much a resemblance of the liberated prisoner. Dark or fair, guilty or innocent, she will carry with her the opprobrium of a public trial, a discussion, and a verdict. Now, how few of us would go through an operation in public for the cure of a malady! Would we not rather hug our sorrows and our sufferings in secrecy than accept health on such conditions?”

“Not when the disease was consuming your very vitals,—not when a perpetual fever racked your brain and boiled in your blood. You'd take little heed of what is called exposure then. The cry of your heart would be, 'Save me! save me!'” As she spoke, her voice grew louder and wilder, till it became almost a shriek, and, as she ended, she lay back, flushed and panting, in her chair.

“You have made her quite nervous, Mr. Dunn,” said Lady Lackington, as she arose and fanned her.

“Oh, no. It's nothing. Just let me have a little fresh air,—on the terrace. Will you give me your arm?” said Lady Grace, faintly. And Dunn assisted her as she arose and walked out. “How very delicious this is!” said she, as she leaned over the balcony, and gazed down upon the placid water, streaked with long lines of starlight. “I conclude,” said she, after a little pause, “that scenes like this—moments as peacefully tranquil—are as dear to you, hard-worked men of the world, as they are to the wearied hearts of us poor women, all whose ambitions are so humble in comparison.”

“We are all of us striving for the same goal, I believe,” said he,—“this same search after happiness, the source of so much misery!”

“You are not married, I believe?” said she, in an accent whose very softness had a tone of friendship.

“No; I am as much alone in the world as one well can be,” rejoined he, sorrowfully.

“And have you gone through life without ever meeting one with whom you would have been content to make partnership,—taking her, as those solemn words say, 'for better, for worse'?”

“They are solemn words,” said he, evading her question; “for they pledge that for which it is so hard to promise,—the changeful moods which time and years bring over us. Which of us at twenty can say what he will be at thirty,—still less at fifty? The world makes us many things we never meant to be.”

“So, then, you are not happy?” said she, in the same low voice.

“I have not said so much,” said he, smiling sadly; “are you?”

“Can you ask me? Is not the very confidence wherewith I treat you—strangers as we were an hour back to each other—the best evidence that it is from the very depth of my misery I appeal to you?”

“Make no rash confidences, Lady Grace,” said he, seriously. “They who tell of their heart's sorrows to the world are like those who count their gold before robbers. I have seen a great deal of life, and the best philosophy I have learned from it is to 'bear.' Bear everything that can be borne. You will be surprised what a load you will carry by mere practice of endurance.”

“It is so easy to say to one in pain, 'Have patience,'” said she, bitterly.

“I have practised what I teach for many a year. Be assured of one thing,—the Battle of Life is waged by all. The most favored by fortune—the luckiest, as the world calls them—have their contest and their struggle. It is not for existence, but it is often for what makes existence valuable.”

She sighed deeply, and, after a pause, he went on,—

“We pity the poor, weary, heart-sick litigant, wearing out life in the dreary prosecution of a Chancery suit, dreaming at night of that fortune he is never to see, and waking every day to the same dull round of pursuit. As hope flickers in his heart, suffering grows a habit; his whole nature imbibes the conflicting character of his cause; he doubts and hesitates and hopes and fears and wishes, till his life is one long fever. But infinitely more painful is the struggle of the heart whose affections have been misplaced. These are the suits over which no hope ever throws a ray. It is a long, dreary path, without a halting-place or a goal.”

As he spoke, she covered her face with her handkerchief; but he could perceive that she was weeping.

“I am speaking of what I know,” said he. “I remember once coming closely into relations with a young nobleman whose station, fortune, and personal advantages combined to realize all that one could fancy of worldly blessings. He was just one of those types a novelist would take to represent the most favored class of the most favored land of Europe. He had an ancient name, illustrious in various ways, a splendid fortune, was singularly endowed with abilities, highly accomplished, and handsome, and, more than all, he was gifted with that mysterious power of fascination by which some men contrive to make themselves so appreciated by others that their influence is a sort of magic. Give him an incident to relate,—let him have a passing event to tell, wherein some emotion of pity, some sentiment of devotion played a part,—and without the slightest touch of artifice, without the veriest shade of ingenuity, he could make you listen breathlessly, and hang in rapture on his words. Well, this man—of whom, if I suffer myself to speak, I shall grow wearisome in the praise—this man was heart-broken. Before he succeeded to his title, he was very poor, a subaltern in the army, with little beyond his pay. He fell in love with a very beautiful girl—I never heard her name, but I know that she was a daughter of one of the first houses in England. She returned his affection, and there was one of those thousand cases wherein love has to combat all the odds, and devotion subdue every thought that appeals to worldly pride and vanity.

“She accepted the contest nobly; she was satisfied to brave humble fortune, obscurity, exile,—everything for him—at least she said so, and I believe she thought she could keep her word. When the engagement took place—which was a secret to their families—the London season had just begun.

“It is not for me to tell you what a period of intoxicating pleasure and excitement that is, nor how in that wondrous conflict of wealth, splendor, beauty, and talent, all the fascination of gambling is imparted to a scene where, of necessity, gain and loss are alternating. It demands no common power of head and heart to resist these temptations. Apparently she had not this self-control. The gorgeous festivities about her, the splendor of wealth, and more than even that, the esteem in which it was held, struck her forcibly. She saw that the virtues of humble station met no more recognition than the false lustre of mock gems,—that ordinary gifts, illustrated by riches, became actual graces. She could not shut out the contrast between her lover, poor, unnoticed, and unregarded, and the crowd of fashionable and distinguished youths whose princely fortunes gave them place and pre-eminence. In fact, as he himself told me,—for Allington excused her—Good Heavens! are you ill?” cried be, as with a low, faint cry she sank to the ground.

“Is she dying? Good God! is she dead?” cried Lady Lackington, as she lifted the powerless arm, and held the cold hands within her own.

Lanfranchi was speedily sent for, and saw that it was merely a fainting fit.

“She was quite well previously, was she not?” asked he of Dunn.

“Perfectly so. We were chatting of indifferent matters,—of London, and the season,—when she was seized,” said he. “Is there anything in the air here that disposes to these attacks?”

Lanfranchi looked at him without reply. Possibly they understood each other, for they parted without further colloquy.

CHAPTER XI. “A CONSULTATION.”

It was late in the night as Lord Lackington and his friends reached the villa, a good deal wearied, very jaded, and, if the confession may be made, a little sick of each other; they parted pretty much as the members of such day-long excursions are wont to do,—not at all sorry to have reached home again, and brought their trip of pleasure to an end. Twining, of course, was the same happy-natured, gay, volatile creature that he set out in the morning. Everything went well with him, the world had but one aspect, which was a pleasant one, and he laughed and muttered, “What fun!” as in half-dogged silence the party wended their way through the garden towards the house.

“I hope these little girls may not have caught cold,” said the Viscount, as he stood with Twining on the terrace, after saying “Good-night!”

“I hope so, with all my heart. Charming girls—most fascinating—father so amiable.”

“Isn't that Dunn's apartment we see the light in?” asked the other, half impatiently. “I 'll go and make him a visit.”

“Overjoyed to see you, greatly flattered by the attention,” chimed in Twining; and while he rubbed his hands over the enchanting prospect, Lord Lackington walked away.

Not waiting for any announcement, and turning the handle of the door immediately after he had knocked at it, the Viscount entered. Whether Dunn had heard him or not, he never stirred from the table where he was writing, but continued engrossed by his occupation till his Lordship accosted him.

“I have come to disturb you, I fear, Dunn?”

“Oh! Lord Lackington, your most obedient. Too happy to be honored by your presence at any time. Just returned, I conclude?”

“Yes, only this moment,” said the Viscount, sighing weariedly. “These picnics are stupid inventions; they fatigue and they exhaust. They give little pleasure at the time, and none whatever to look back upon.”

“Your Lordship's picture is rather a dreary one,” said Dunn, smiling.

“Perfectly correct, I assure you; I went simply to oblige some country folks of yours. The O'Reillys,—nice little girls,—very natural, very pretty creatures; but the thing is a bore. I never knew any one who enjoyed it except the gentleman who gets tipsy, and he has an awful retribution in the next day's headache,—the terrible headache of iced rum punch.”

Dunn laughed, because he saw that his Lordship expected as much; and the Viscount resumed,—

“I am vexed, besides, at the loss of time; I wanted to have my morning with you here.”

Dunn bowed graciously, but did not speak.

“We have so much to talk over—so many things to arrange—that I am quite provoked at having thrown away a day; and you, too, are possibly pressed for time?”

He nodded in assent.

“You can give me to-morrow, however?”

“I can give you to-night, my Lord, which will, perhaps, do as well.”

“But to-morrow—”

“Oh, to-morrow, my Lord, I start with Baron Glumthal for Frankfort, to meet the Elector of Darmstadt,—an appointment that cannot be broken.”

“Politically most important, I have no doubt,” said the Viscount, with an undisguised sarcasm in the tone.

“No, my Lord, a mere financial affair,” said Dunn, not heeding the other's manner. “His Highness wants a loan, and we are willing to accommodate him.”

“I wish I could find you in the same liberal spirit. It is the very thing I stand in need of Just now. In fact, Dunn, you must do it.”

The half-coaxing accent of these last words was a strong contrast to the sneer of a few seconds before, and Dunn smiled as he heard them.

“I fancy, my Lord, that if you are still of the same mind as before, you will have little occasion to arrange for a loan in any quarter.”

“Pooh! pooh! the scheme is absurd. It has not one, but fifty obstacles against it. In the first place, you know nothing of this fellow, or whether he can be treated with. As for myself, I do not believe one word about his claim. Why, sir, there's not a titled house in England has not at some period or other been assailed with this sort of menace. It is the stalest piece of knavery going. If you were to poll the peers to-morrow, you 'd not meet two out of ten have not been served with notice of action, or ejectment on the title; in fact, sir, these suits are a profession, and a very lucrative one, too.”

Lord Lackington spoke warmly, and ere he had finished had lashed himself up into a passion. Meanwhile Duun sat patiently, like one who awaited the storm to pass by ere he advanced upon his road.

“I conclude, from your manner, that you do not agree with me?” said the Viscount.

“Your Lordship opines truly. I take a very different view of this transaction. I have had all the documents of Conway's claim before me. Far more competent judges have seen and pronounced upon them. They constitute a most formidable mass of evidence, and, save in a very few and not very important details, present an unbroken chain of testimony.”

“So, then, there is a battery preparing to open fire upon us?” said the Viscount, with a laugh of ill-affected indifference.

“There is a mine whose explosion depends entirely upon your Lordship's discretion. If I say, my Lord, that I never perused a stronger case, I will also say that I never heard of one so easy of management The individual in whose favor these proofs exist has not the slightest knowledge of them. He has not a suspicion that all his worldly prospects put together are worth a ten-pound note. It is only within the last three months that I have succeeded in even discovering where he is.”

“And where is he?”

“Serving as a soldier with his regiment in the Crimea. He was in hospital at Scutari when I first heard, but since that returned to duty with his regiment.”

“What signifies all this? The fellow himself is nothing to us!”

Dunn again waited till this burst of anger had passed, and then resumed,—

“My Lord, understand me well. You can deal with this case now; six months hence it may be clear and clean beyond all your power of interference. If Conway's claim derive, as I have strong ground to believe it, from the elder branch, the estate and the title are both his.”

“You are a hardy fellow, a very hardy fellow, Mr. Dunn, to make such a speech as this!”

“I said, 'If,' my Lord—'If' is everything here. The assumption is that Reginald Conway was summoned by mistake to the House of Peers in Henry the Seventh's reign,—the true Baron Lackington being then an exile. It is from him this Conway's descent claims.”

“I'm not going to constitute myself a Committee of Privileges, sir, and listen to all this jargon; nor can I easily conceive that the unshaken possession of centuries is to be disturbed by the romantic pretensions of a Crimean soldier. I am also aware how men of your cloth conduct these affair to their own especial advantage. They assume to be the arbiters of the destinies of great families, and they expect to be paid for their labors,—eh, is n't it so?”

“I believe your Lordship has very accurately defined our position, though, perhaps, we might not quite agree as to the character of the remuneration.”

“How so? What do you mean?”

“I, for instance, my Lord, would furnish no bill of costs to either party. My relations with your Lordship are such as naturally give me a very deep interest in what concerns you; of Mr. Conway I know nothing.”

“So, then, you are simply moved in this present affair by a principle of pure benevolence; you are to be a sort of providence to the House of Lackington,—eh, is that it?”

“Your Lordship's explanation is most gracious,” said Dunn, bowing.

“Come, now; let us talk seriously,” said the Viscount, in a changed tone. “What is it you propose?”

“What I would suggest, my Lord,” said Dunn, with a marked emphasis on the word, “is this. Submit the documents of this claim—we can obtain copies of the most important of them—to competent opinion, learn if they be of the value I attribute to them, see, in fact, if this claim be prosecuted, whether it is likely to succeed at law, and, if so, anticipate the issue by a compromise.”

“But what compromise?”

“Your Lordship has no heir. Your brother, who stands next in succession, need not marry. This point at once decided, Conway's claim can take its course after Mr. Beecher's demise. The estates secured to your Lordship for life will amply guarantee a loan to the extent you wish.”

“But they are mine, sir; they are mine this moment. I can go into the market to-morrow and raise what amount I please—”

“Take care, my Lord, take care; a single imprudent step might spoil all. If you were to negotiate a mere ten thousand to-morrow, you might be met by the announcement that your whole property was about to be litigated, and your title to it contested. Too late to talk of compromise, then.”

“This sounds very like a threat, Mr. Dunn.”

“Then have I expressed myself most faultily, my Lord; nor was there anything less near my thoughts.”

“Would you like to see my brother? He shall call on you in Dublin; you will be there by—when?”

“Wednesday week, my Lord; and it is a visit would give me much pleasure.”

“If I were to tell you my mind frankly, Dunn,” said the Viscount, in a more assured tone, “I 'd say, I would not give a ten-pound note to buy up this man's whole claim. Annesley, however, has a right to be consulted; he has an interest only second to my own. See him, talk it over with him, and write, to me.”

“Where shall I address you, my Lord?”

“Florence; I shall leave this at once,—to-night,” said Lord Lackington, impatiently; for, somehow,—we are not going to investigate wherefore,—he was impatient to be off, and see no more of those he had been so intimate with.

CHAPTER XII. ANNESLEY BEECHER'S “PAL”

Lord Lackington was not much of a letter-writer; correspondence was not amongst the habits of his day. The society in which he moved, and of which, to some extent, he was a type, cared more for conversational than epistolary graces. They kept their good things for their dinner-parties, and hoarded their smart remarks on life for occasions where the success was a personal triumph. Twice or thrice, however, every year, he was obliged to write. His man of business required to be reminded of this or that necessity for money, and his brother Annesley should also be admonished, or reproved, or remonstrated with, in that tone of superiority and influence so well befitting one who pays an annuity to him who is the recipient. In fact, around this one circumstance were grouped all the fraternal feelings and brotherly interest of these two men. One hundred and twenty-five pounds sterling every half-year represented the ties of blood that united them; and while it offered to the donor the proud reflection of a generous self-sacrifice, it gave to him who received the almost as agreeable occasion for sarcastic allusion to the other's miserly habits and sordid nature, with a contrast of what he himself had done were their places in life reversed.

It was strange enough that the one same incident should have begotten such very opposite emotions; and yet the two phrases, “If you knew all I have done for him,” and the rejoinder, “You 'd not believe the beggarly pittance he allows me,” were correct exponents of their several feelings.

Not impossible is it that each might have made out a good case against the other. Indeed, it was a theme whereon, in their several spheres, they were eloquent; and few admitted to the confidence of either had not heard of the utter impossibility of doing anything for Annesley,—his reckless folly, his profligacy, and his waste; and, on the other hand, “the incredible meanness of Lackington, with at least twelve thousand a year, and no children to provide for, giving me the salary of an upper butler.” Each said far too much in his own praise not to have felt, at least, strong misgivings in his conscience. Each knew far too well that the other had good reason in many things he said; but so long had their plausibilities been repeated, that each ended by satisfying himself he was a paragon of fraternal affection, and, stranger still, had obtained for this opinion a distinct credence in their several sets in society; so that every peer praised the Viscount, and every hard-up younger son pitied poor Annesley, and condemned the “infamous conduct of the old coxcomb his brother.”

“That scampish fellow's conduct is killing poor Lackington,” would say a noble lord.

“Annesley can't stand old Lackington's treatment much longer,” was the commentary of half-pay captains of dragoons.

Had you but listened to Lord Lackington, he would have told you of at least fifty distinct schemes he had contrived for his brother's worldly success, all marred and spoiled by that confounded recklessness, “that utter disregard, sir, of the commonest rules of conduct that every man in life is bound to observe.” He might have been, by this time, colonel of the Fifty-something; he might have been governor of some fortunate island in the Pacific; consul-general at Sunstroke Town, in Africa, where, after three years, you retire with a full pension. If he 'd have gone into the Church,—and there was no reason why he should n't,—there was the living of St. Cuthbert-in-the-Vale, eight hundred a year, ready for him. Every Administration for years back had been entreated in his favor; and from Ordnance clerkships to Commissions in Lunacy he had been offered places in abundance. Sinecures in India and jobs in Ireland had been found out in his behalf, and deputy-somethings created in Bermuda just to provide for him.

The concessions he had made, the proxies he had given, “just for Annesley's sake,” formed a serious charge against the noble Lord's political consistency; and he quoted them as the most stunning evidences of fraternal love, and pointed out where he had gone against his conscience and his party as to a kind of martyrdom that made a man illustrious forever.

As for Annesley, his indictment had, to the full, as many counts. What he might have been,—not in a mere worldly sense, not as regards place, pension, or emolument, but what in integrity, what in fair fame, what in honorable conduct and unblemished character, if Lackington had only dealt fairly with him,—“there was really no saying.” The noble motives which might have prompted, the high aspirations that might have moved him, all the generous impulses of a splendid nature were there, thwarted, baffled, and destroyed by Lackington's confounded stupidity. What the Viscount ought to have done, what precise species of culture he should have devoted to these budding virtues, how he ought to have trained and trellised these tender shoots of aspiring goodness, he never exactly detailed. It was only clear that, whatever the road, he had never taken it; and it was really heart-breaking to hear what the world had lost in public and private virtues, all for Lackington's indolence and folly.

“He never gave me a chance, sir,—not one chance,” would he say. “Why, he knows Palmerston just as well as I know you; he can talk to Lord Derby as freely as I am speaking at this minute; and, would you believe it? he wouldn't say, 'There's Annesley—my brother Annesley—wants that commissionership or that secretary's place. Annesley 's a devilish clever fellow,—up to a thing or two,—ask Grog Davis if he ain't. Just try to get between him and the ropes, that's all; see if he does n't sleep with one eye open. 'Do you tell me there's one of them would refuse him? Grog said to his face, at Epsom Downs, the morning Crocus was scratched, 'My Lord,' says he, 'take all you can get upon Annesley; make your book on him; he's the best horse in your lot, and it's Grog Davis says it.'”

Very true was it that Grog Davis said so. Nay, to enjoy the pleasure of hearing him so discourse was about the greatest gratification of Annesley Beecher's present life. He was poor and discredited. The Turf Club would not have him; he durst not show at Tattersall's. Few would dine, none discount him; and yet that one man's estimate of his gifts sustained him through all. “If Grog be right—and he ought to be, seeing that a more dodgy, crafty fellow never lived—I shall come all round again. He that never backed the wrong horse could n't be far astray about men. He thinks I've running in me yet; he sees that I 'll come out one of these days in top condition, and show my number from the stand-house.” To have had the greatest opinion in Equity favorable to your cause in Chancery, to have known that Thesiger or Kelly said your case was safe, to learn that Faraday had pronounced your analysis correct, or White, of Cowes, had approved of the lines of your new yacht,—would any of them be very reassuring sensations; and yet were they as nothing to the unbounded confidence imparted to Beecher's mind by the encouraging opinion of his friend Grog Davis. It is only justice to say that Beecher's estimate of Davis was a feeling totally free of all the base alloy of any self-interest. With all Grog's great abilities, with talents of the very highest order, he was the reverse of a successful man. Trainer, auctioneer, sporting character, pugilist, publican, and hell-keeper, he had been always unlucky. He had his share of good things,—more than his share. He had been in at some of the “very best-robberies” ever done at Newmarket. The horses he had “nobbled,” the jockeys “squared,” the owners “hocussed,” were legion. All the matches he had “made safe,” all the fights he had sold, would have filled five columns of “Bell's Life.” In whatever called itself “sport” he had dabbled and cheated for years; and yet, there he was, with all his successes and all his experiences, something more than fifteen thousand pounds worse than ruined.

Worthy reader, have you stood by while some enthusiastic admirer of Turner's later works has, in all the fervor of his zeal, encomiumized one of those strange, incomprehensible creations, where cloud and sea, atmosphere, shadow and smoke, seem madly commingled with tall masts piercing the lurid vapor, and storm-clouds drifting across ruined towers? If at first you gladly welcomed any guidance through the wondrous labyrinth, and you accepted gratefully the aid of one who could reconcile seeming incongruities, and explain apparent difficulties, what was your disappointment, at last, to discover that from some defect of organization, some absent power of judgment, you could not follow the elucidation; that you saw no power in this, no poetry in that; that no light gleamed into your soul out of all that darkness, nor any hope into your heart, from the mad confusion of that chaos? Pretty much the same mystification had it been to you to have listened to Annes-ley Beecher's account of his friend Grog Davis. It was evident that he saw the reason for everything,—he could account for all; but, alas! the explanatory gift was denied him. The very utmost you could attain to was a glimmering perception that there were several young men of rank and station who had only half trusted the distinguished Davis, and in their sparing confidence had rescued themselves from his knavery; that very artful combinations occasionally require confederates, and confederates are not always loyal; that Grog occasionally did things with too high a hand,—in plain words, reserved for himself more than his share of the booty; and, in fact, that, with the best intentions and the most decided determination to put others “into the hole,” he fell in himself, and so completely, too, that he had never been able to show his head out of it ever since.

If, therefore, as we have said, Annesley Beecher's explanation of these tangled skeins was none of the clearest, there was nothing daunting to himself in that difficulty. On the contrary, he deemed his intimacy with Grog as one of his greatest privileges. Grog had told him things that he would not tell to another man breathing; he had seen, in Grog's own hand, what would, if not hang him, give him twenty years at Norfolk Island; he knew that Grog had done things no man in England but himself had ever dreamed of; in fact, as Othello's perils had won the fair Desdemona's love, Grog Davis's rascalities had captivated Beecher's admiration; and, as the recruit might gaze upon the thickly studded crosses on the breast of some glorious soldier, so did he venerate the proofs of the thousand-and-one knaveries of one who for thirty-odd years had been a “leg” and a swindler.

Let us present Captain Davis—for by that title was he popularly known—to our reader. He was a short, red-faced—very red-faced—man, with a profusion of orange-red hair, while he wore beard and whiskers in that form so common in our Crimean experiences. He was long-armed and bandy, the legs being singularly short and muscular. He affected dress, and was remarkable for more ostentation of velvet than consisted with ordinary taste, and a far greater display of rings, charms, and watch trinkets than is common even to gentlemen of the “Jewish persuasion.” The expression of the man's face was eminently determination, and his greenish-gray eyes and thin-lipped, compressed mouth plainly declared, “Bet with me or not,—if you give me the shadow of a shade of impertinence I 'll fasten a quarrel upon you of which all your rank and station won't protect you from the consequences. I can hit a sixpence at twenty paces, and I 'll make you feel that fact in every word you say to me. In my brevet rank of the turf you can't disown me, and if you try, mine the fault if you succeed.” He had been out three or four times in very sanguinary affairs, so that the question as to “meeting” him was a settled point. He was one of those men to whom the epithet “dangerous” completely applies; he was dangerous alike to the young fellow entering life, unsuspectful of its wiles and ignorant of its rascalities; dangerous in the easy facility with which he would make foolish wagers, and lend even large sums on the very slightest acquaintance. He seemed so impressed with his theory that everybody ought to have all the enjoyment he liked, there was such a careless good-nature about him, such an uncalculating generosity, an air of such general kindliness, that very young men felt at once at ease in his company; and if there were sundry things in his manner that indicated coarseness or bad breeding, if his address was vulgar and his style “snobbish,” there were sufficient traits of originality about him to form a set-off for these defects, and “Old Grog” was pronounced an “out-and-out good fellow,” and always ready “to help one at a pinch.”

Such was he to the very young men just passing the threshold of life; to the older hands—fellows versed in all its acts and ways—he showed no false colors; such, then, he was, the character which no disguise conceals,—“the leg;” one whose solvency may be counted on more safely than his honesty, and whose dealings, however based on roguery, are still guided by that amount of honor which is requisite for transactions amongst thieves. There was an impression, too,—we have no warranty for saying how far it was well founded,—that Grog was behind the scenes in transactions where many high and titled characters figured; that he was confederate in affairs of more than doubtful integrity; and that, if he liked, he could make revelations such as all the dark days at Tattersall's never equalled. “They 'll never push me to the wall,” he would say, “take my word for it; they 'll not make Grog Davis turn Queen's evidence,” was the boastful exclamation of his after-dinner hours: and he was right. He could have told of strange doings with arsenic in the stable, and, stranger still, with hocussed negus in the back parlor; he had seen the certain favorite for the Oaks carted out stiff and cold on the morning that was to have witnessed her triumph; and he had opened the door for the ruined heir as he left his last thousand on the green baize of the hell table. He was so accustomed to all the vicissitudes of fortune—that is, he was so habituated to aid the goddess in the work of destiny—that nothing surprised him; and his red, carbuncled face and jaundiced eye never betrayed the slightest evidence of anything like emotion or astonishment

How could Beecher have felt any other than veneration for one so gifted? He approached him as might some youthful artist the threshold of Michael Angelo; he felt, when with him, that he was in the presence of one whose maxims were silver and whose precepts were gold, and that to the man who could carry away those experiences the secrets of life were no longer mysteries.

All the delight an old campaigner might have felt had the Great Duke vouchsafed to tell him of his achievements in the Peninsula—how he had planned the masterly defences of Torres Vedras, or conceived the bold advance upon Spain—would have been but a weak representation of the eager enjoyment Beecher experienced when Grog narrated some of his personal recollections: how he had squared Sir Toby at Manchester; the way he had won the York Handicap with a dead horse; and the still prouder day when, by altering the flags at Bolton, he gained twenty-two thousand pounds on the Great National Steeplechase. Nor was it without a certain vaingloriousness that Grog would speak of these, as, cigar in mouth and his hands deep in his breeches pockets, he grunted out, in broken sentences, the great triumphs of his life.

We began this chapter by saying that Lord Lackington was not an impassioned letter-writer; and here we are discoursing about Mr. Davis and his habits, as if these topics could possibly have any relation to the noble Viscount's ways; and yet they are connected, for it was precisely to read one of his Lordship's letters to his friend that Beecher was now Grog's guest, seated opposite to him at the fire, in a very humble room of a very humble cottage on the strand of Irish-town. Grog had sought this retirement after the last settling at Newmarket, and had been, in popular phrase, “missing” since that event.

“Well, it's a long one, at all events,” said Mr. Davis, as he glanced through his double eyeglass at the letter Beecher handed him,—“so long that I 'll be sworn it had no enclosure. When a man sends the flimsy, he spares you the flourish!”

“Right there, Grog. It's all preach and no pay; but read it” And he lighted his cigar, and puffed away.

“'Lake of Como, Oct 15

“What 's the old cove about up at Como so late in the season?”

“Read it, and you 'll know all,” said the other, sententiously.

“'Dear Annesley,—I have been plotting a letter to you these half-dozen weeks; but what with engagements, the heat, and that insurmountable desire to defer whatever can by possibility be put off, all my good intentions have turned out tolerably like some of your own,—pleasant memories, and nothing more. Georgina, too, said—'

“Who's Georgina?”

“My sister-in-law.”

“What's she like,—you never spoke of her?”

“Oh, nothing particular. She was a Ludworth; they 're a proud set, but have n't a brass farthing among them.”

“Why did he marry her?”

“Who knows? He liked her, I believe,” said he, after a pause, as though, failing a good and valid reason, he gave the next best that offered.

“'Georgina, too, said she 'd write, but the chances are her own commissions would have been the burden of her letter. She has never forgotten that bargain of Mechlin lace you once procured her, and always speculates on some future exercise of your skill.'”

Annesley burst into a hearty laugh, and said,—

“It was amongst the trumpery they gave me at Antwerp for a bill of three hundred and fifty pounds; I got a Rubens,—a real Rubens, of course,—an ebony cabinet, and twenty yards of coffee-colored 'point de Bruxelles,' horrid trash; but no matter, I never paid the bill, and Georgina thought the lace a dead bargain at forty louis.”

“So that it squared you both?” said Grog.

“Just so, Master Davis. Read on.”

“'You must see the utter impossibility of my making any increase to your present allowance—'”

“Hang me if I do, then!”

“'—present allowance. The pressure of so many bad years, the charges of aiding the people to emigrate, and the cost of this confounded war, have borne very heavily upon us all, and condemned us to economies that we never dreamed of. For myself, I have withdrawn my subscription from several charities, and will neither give a cup at the Broome Regatta, nor my accustomed ten pounds towards the race ball. I wish I could impress you with the necessity of similar sacrifices: these are times when every man must take his share of the national burdens, and reduce his habits of indulgence in conformity with national exigency.'”

“It 's all very fine to talk of cutting your coat, but when you have n't got any cloth at all, Master Davis—”

“Well, I suppose you must take a little of your neighbor's—if it don't suit you to go naked. This here noble Lord writes 'like a book;' but when he says, 'I 'm not a-goin' to stump it,' there 's no more to be said. You don't want to see the horse take his gallops that you know is to be scratched on the day of the race,—that's a mere piece of idle curiosity, ain't it?”

“Quite true, Grog.”

“Well, it's clear he won't He says he won't, and that's enough.—'We have come abroad for no other reason than economy, and are only looking for a place inexpensive enough for our reduced means.' What's his income?”

“Better than twelve thousand a year.”

“Has he debts?”

“Well, I suppose he may; everybody has.”

“Ay,” said Grog, dryly, and read on.—“'The Continent, however, is not the cheap place it once was,—rent, servants, markets, all are dearer,—and I 'm quite satisfied you find Ireland much less expensive than any other part of Europe,'—which means, 'Stay there,'—eh?”

“No, I don't take it that way,” said Beecher, reddening.

“But I do, and I 'll maintain it,” reiterated Grog. “He's a knowing one, that same noble Viscount; he's not the flat you always thought he was. He can square his own book, he can.—As to any prospect of places, I tell you, frankly, there is none. These competitive humbugs they call examinations do certainly stop a number of importunate people, but the vigilance of Parliament exercises a most overbearing tyranny on the ministers; and then the press! Now, we might tide over the House, Annesley, but the press would surely ruin all. If you were gazetted to-day Consul to the least-known South American republic,—commissioner for the sale of estates in the planet Saturn,—those fellows would have a leader on you to-morrow, showing what you did fifteen years ago at Ascot,—all your outlawries, all your actions in bankruptcy. They 'd begin saying, 'Is this the notorious Hon. Annesley Beecher? or are we mistaken in supposing that the gentleman here referred to is the same lately mentioned in our columns as the friend and associate of the still more famous Grog Davis?'”

“He's cool, he is, the noble Lord,” said Davis, laying down the letter, while Beecher laughed till his eyes ran over with tears. “Now, I 'd trouble his Lordship to tell me,” continued Grog, “which had the worst of that same acquaintance, and which was more profitable to the other. If the famous Grog were to split upon the notorious Annes-ley, who 'd come last out of the bag?”

“You need n't take it so seriously as all that, Grog,” said Beecher, in a placable tone.

“Why, when I'm told that one of the hardest things to be laid to your charge is the knowing me, it's high time to be serious, I think; not but I might just throw a shell into the enemy's own camp. The noble Lord ain't so safe as he fancies. I was head-waiter at Smykes's,—the old Cherry-tree, at Richmond—the night Mat Fortescue was ruined. I could tell the names of the partners even yet, though it's a matter of I won't say how many years ago; and when poor Fortescue blew his brains out, I know the man who drove his phaeton into town and said, 'Fortescue never had a hand light enough for these chestnuts. I always knew what I could do with them if they were my own.'”

“Lackington never said that. I 'll take my oath of it he never did!” cried Beecher, passionately.

“Take your oath of it!” said Davis, with an insulting sneer. “Do you mind the day old Justice Blanchard—it was at the York assizes—said, 'Have a care, Mr. Beecher, what you are about to swear; if you persist in affirming that document, the consequences may be more serious than you apprehend?' And do you remember you did n't swear?”

“I 'll tell you what, Master Grog,” said Beecher, over whose face a sudden paleness now spread, “you may speak of me just as you like. You and I have been companions and pals for many a day; but Lackington is the head of my family, he has his seat in the Peers, he can hold up his head with the best in England, and I 'll not sit here to listen to anything against him.”

“You won't, won't you?” said Grog, placing a hand on either knee, and fixing his fiery gray eyes on the other's face. “Well, then, I 'll tell you that you shall! Sit down, sir,—sit down, I say, and don't budge from that chair till I tell you! Do you see that hand? and that arm,—grasp it, squeeze it,—does n't feel very like the sinews of a fellow that feared hard labor. I was the best ten stone seven man in England the year I fought Black Joe, and I 'm as tough this minute, so that Norfolk Island needn't frighten me; but the Hon. Annesley Beecher would n't like it, I 'll promise him. He 'd have precious pains in the shoulder-blades, and very sore feelings about the small of the back, after the first day's stone-breaking. Now, don't provoke me, that's all. When the world has gone so bad with a man as it has with me the last year or two, it's not safe to provoke him,—it is not.”

“I never meant to anger you, old fellow,” began Annesley.

“Don't do it, then,—don't, I say,” repeated the other, doggedly; and he resumed the letter, saying: “When you 're a-writing the answer to this here letter, just ask Grog Davis to give you a paragraph. Just say, 'Grog, old fellow, I 'm writing to my noble brother; mayhap you have a message of some kind or other for him,' and you 'll see whether he has or not.”

“You 're a rum one, Master Davis,” said Beecher, with a laugh that revealed very little of a heart at ease.

“I'm one that won't stand a fellow that doesn't run straight with me,—that's what I am. And now for the noble Viscount.” And he ran his eyes over the letter without reading aloud. “All this here is only saying what sums he has paid for you, what terrible embarrassment your debts have caused him. Lord love him! it's no new thing to hear of in this life that paying money is no pleasure. And then it finishes, as all the stories usually do, by his swearing he won't do it any more. 'I think,' he says, 'you might come round by a fortunate hit in marriage; but somehow you blundered in every case that I pointed out to you—'”

“That's too bad!” cried Beecher, angrily. “The only thing he ever 'put me on' was an iron-master's widow at Barnstable, and I found that the whole concern was under a contract to furnish rails for a Peruvian line at two pounds ten a ton under the market price of iron.”

“It was I discovered that!” broke in Grog, proudly.

“So it was, old fellow; and you got me off the match without paying forfeit.”

“Well, this here looks better,” continued Grog, reading.

“Young and handsome, one of two daughters of an old Irish provision merchant come abroad for the first time in their life, and consequently new to everything. The name's O'Reilly, of Mary's Abbey, so that you can have no difficulty in accurately learning all about him in Dublin. Knowing that these things are snapped up immediately in the cities, I have induced O'R. to take a villa on the lake here for the present, so that if your inquiries turn out satisfactorily, you can come out at once, and we 'll find the birds where I have landed them.'”

“That's business-like,—that's well and sensibly put,” said Davis, in a voice of no counterfeited admiration.

He read on: “'O'R. talks of forty thousand to each, but, with the prospect of connecting himself with people of station, might possibly come down more handsomely in one case, particularly when brought to see that the other girl's prospects will be proportionately bettered by this alliance; at all events, no time is to be lost in the matter, and you can draw on me, at two months, for fifty pounds, which will carry you out here, and where, if you should not find me, you will have letters of presentation to the O'R.'s. It is not a case requiring either time or money,—though it may call for more energy and determination than you are in the habit of exercising. At the proper moment I shall be ready to contribute all in my power.'

“What does that mean?” said Davis.

“I can't even guess; but no matter, the thing sounds well. You can surely learn all about this O'Reilly?”

“That's easy enough.”

“I say, I say, old fellow,” cried Beecher, as he flung his cigar away and walked up and down the room briskly, “this would put us all on our legs again. Wouldn't I 'go a heavy pot' on Rolfs stable! I 'd take Coulton's three-year-old for the Canterbury to-morrow, I would! and give them twelve to twenty in hundreds on the double event. We'd serve them out, Master Grog—we'd give them such a shower-bath, old boy! They say I'm a flat, but what will they say when A. B.'s number hangs out at the Stand-house?”

“There's not much to do on the turf just now,” said Grog, dryly. “They 've spoiled the turf,” said he, as he lighted his cigar,—“clean spoiled it. Once upon a time the gents was gents, and the legs legs, but nowadays every one 'legs' it, as he can; so I 'd like to see who's to make a livin' out of it!”

“There's truth in that!” chimed in Beecher.

“So that,” resumed Grog, “if you go in for this girl, don't you be making a book; there's plenty better things to be had now than the ring. There's companies, and banks, and speculations on every hand. You buy in at, say thirty, and sell out at eighty, ninety, or a hundred. I 've been a meditating over a new one I 'll tell you about another time,—let us first think about this here marriage,—it ain't impossible.”

“Impossible! I should think not, Master Grog. But you will please to remember that Lackington has no child. I must succeed to the whole thing,—title and all.”

“Good news for the Jews, would n't it be?” cried Davis. “Why, your outlying paper would n't leave much of a margin to live on. You owe upwards of a hundred thousand,—that you do.”

“I could buy the whole concern to-morrow for five-and twenty thousand pounds. They can't touch the entail, old fellow!”

“My word on't, they 'd have it out of you, one way or other; but never mind, there's time enough to think of these things,—just stir yourself about this marriage.”

“I 'll start on Monday. I have one or two trifling matters to look after here, and then I 'm free.”

“What's this in the turn-down of Lackington's letter marked 'Strictly confidential'?