CHAPTER XXVI. THE OSTEND PACKET
It was a wild, stormy night, with fast-flying clouds above, and a heavy rolling sea below, as the “Osprey” steamed away for Ostend, her closed hatchways and tarpaulined sailors, as well as her sea-washed deck and dripping cordage, telling there was “dirty weather outside.” Though the waves broke over the vessel as she lay at anchor, and the short distance between the shore and her gangway had to be effected at peril of life, the captain had his mail, and was decided on sailing. There were but three passengers: two went aboard with the captain; the third was already on deck when they arrived, and leisurely paraded up and down with his cigar, stopping occasionally to look at the lights on shore, or cast a glance towards the wild chaos of waves that raged without.
“Safe now, I suppose, Grog?” muttered Beecher, as the vessel, loosed from her last mooring, turned head to sea out of the harbor.
“I rather suspect you are,” said Davis, as he struck a light for his cigar. “Few fellows would like to swim out here with a judge's warrant in his mouth such a night as this.”
“I don't like it overmuch myself,” said Beecher; “there's a tremendous sea out there, and she's only a cockleshell after all.”
“A very tidy one, sir, in a sea, I promise you,” said the Captain, overhearing, while with his trumpet he bellowed forth some directions to the sailors.
“You've no other passengers than ourselves, have you?” asked Beecher.
“Only that gentleman yonder,” whispered the Captain, pointing towards the stranger.
“Few, I take it, fancy coming out in such weather,” said Beecher.
“Very few, sir, if they have n't uncommonly strong reasons for crossing the water,” replied the Captain.
“I think he had you there!” growled Grog in his ear. “Don't you go poking nonsense at fellows like that. Shut up, I tell you! shut up!”
“I begin to feel it deuced cold here,” said Beecher, shuddering.
“Come down below, then, and have something hot. I 'll make a brew and turn in,” said Davis, as he moved towards the ladder. “Come along.”
“No, I must keep the deck, no matter how cold it is. I suffer dreadfully when I go below. Send me up a tumbler of rum-and-water, Davis, as hot as may be.”
“You 'd better take your friend's advice, sir,” said the Captain. “It will be dirty weather out there, and you 'll be snugger under cover.” Beecher, however, declined; and the Captain, crossing the deck, repeated the same counsel to the other passenger.
“No, I thank you,” said he, gayly; “but if one of your men could spare me a cloak or a cape, I 'd be much obliged, for I am somewhat ill-provided against wet weather.”
“I can let you have a rug, with pleasure,” said Beecher, overhearing the request; while he drew from a recess beneath the binnacle one of those serviceable aids to modern travel in the shape of a strong woollen blanket.
“I accept your offer most willingly, and the more so as I suspect I have had the honor of being presented to you,” said the stranger. “Do I address Mr. Annesley Beecher?”
“Eh?—I'm not aware—I'm not quite sure, by this light,” began Beecher, in considerable embarrassment, which the other as quickly perceived, and remedied by saying,—
“I met you at poor Kellett's. My name is Conway.”
“Oh, Conway,—all right,” said Beecher, laughing. “I was afraid you might be a 'dark horse,' as we say. Now that I know your colors, I'm easy again.”
Conway laughed too at the frankness of the confession, and they turned to walk the deck together.
“You mentioned Kellett. He 's gone 'toes up,' is n't he?” said Beecher.
“He is dead, poor fellow,” said Conway, gravely. “I expected to have met you at his funeral.”
“So I should have been had it come off on a Sunday,” said Beecher, pleasantly; “but as in seeing old Paul 'tucked in' they might have nabbed me, I preferred being reported absent without leave.”
“These were strong reasons, doubtless,” said Conway, dryly.
“I liked the old fellow, too,” said Beecher. “He was a bit of a bore, to be sure, about Arayo Molinos, and Albuera, and Soult, and Beresford, and the rest of 'em; but he was a rare good one to help a fellow at a pinch, and hospitable as a prince.”
“That I 'm sure of!” chimed in Conway.
“I know it, I can swear to it; I used to dine with him every Sunday, regularly as the day came. I'll never forget those little tough legs of mutton,—wherever he found them there's no saying,—and those hard pellets of capers, like big swan-shot, washed down with table beer and whiskey-grog, and poor Kellett thinking all the while he was giving you haunch of venison and red hermitage.”
“He 'd have given them just as freely if he had them,” broke in Conway, half gruffly.
“That he would! He did so when he had it to give,—at least, so they tell me, for I never saw the old place at Kellett's Town, or Castle Kellett—”
“Kellett's Court was the name.”
“Ay, to be sure, Kellett's Court. I wonder how I could forget it, for I'm sure I heard it often enough.”
“One forgets many a thing they ought to remember,” said Conway, significantly.
“Hit him again, he hasn't got no friends!” broke in Beecher, laughing jovially at this rebuke of himself. “You mean, that I ought to have a fresher memory about all old Paul's kindnesses, and you 're right there; but if you knew how hard the world has hit me, how hot they 've been giving it to me these years back, you 'd perhaps not lean so heavily on me. Since the Epsom of '42,” said he, solemnly, “I never had one chance, not one, I pledge you my sacred word of honor. I 've had my little 'innings,' you know, like every one else,—punted for five-pun-notes with the small ones, but never a real chance. Now, I call that hard, deuced hard.”
“I suppose it is hard,” said Conway; but, really, it would have been very difficult to say in what sense his words should be taken.
“And when a fellow finds himself always on the wrong side of the road,” said Beecher, who now fancied that he was taking a moralist's view of life, and spoke with a philosophic solemnity,—“I say, when a fellow sees that, do what he will, he's never on the right horse, he begins to be soured with the world, and to think that it's all a regular 'cross.' Not that I ever gave in. No! ask any of the fellows up at Newmarket—ask the whole ring—ask—” he was going to say Grog Davis, when he suddenly remembered the heavy judgment Conway had already fulminated on that revered authority, and then, quickly correcting himself, he said, “Ask any of the legs you like what stuff A. B. 's made of,—if he ain't hammered iron, and no mistake!”
“But what do you mean when you say you never gave in?” asked Conway, half sternly.
“What do I mean?” said Beecher, repeating the words, half stunned by the boldness of the question,—“what do I mean? Why, I mean that they never saw me 'down,'—that no man can say Annesley Beecher ever said 'die.' Have n't I had my soup piping hot,—spiced and peppered too! Was n't I in for a pot on Blue Nose, when Mope ran a dead heat with Belshazzar for the Cloudeslie,—fifteen to three in fifties twice over, and my horse running in bandages, and an ounce of corrosive sublimate in his stomach! Well, you 'd not believe it,—I don't ask any one to believe it that did n't see it,—but I was as cool as I am here, and I walked up to Lady Tinkerton's drag and ate a sandwich; and when she said, 'Oh! Mr. Beecher, do come and tell me what to bet on,' I said to her, 'Quicksilver's the fastest of metals, but don't back it just now.' They had it all over the course in half an hour: 'Quicksilver's the fastest of metals—'”
“I'm afraid I don't quite catch your meaning.”
“It was alluding to the bucketing, you know. They 'd just given Blue Nose corrosive sublimate, which is a kind of quicksilver.”
“Oh, I perceive,” said Conway.
“Good,—wasn't it?” said Beecher, chuckling. “Let A. B. alone to 'sarve them out,'—that's what all the legs said!” And then he heaved a little sigh, as though to say that, after all, even wit and smartness were only a vanity and a vexation of spirit, and that a “good book” was better than them all.
“I detest the whole concern,” said Conway. “So long as gentlemen bred and trained to run their horses in honorable rivalry, it was a noble sport, and well became the first squirearchy of the world; but when it degenerated into a field for every crafty knave and trickster,—when the low cunning of the gambler succeeded to the bold daring of the true lover of racing,—then the turf became no better than the rouge et noir table, without even the poor consolation of thinking that chance was any element in the result.”
“Why, what would you have? It's a game where the best player wins, that's all,” broke in Beecher.
“If you mean it is always a contest where the best horse carries away the prize, I enter my denial to the assertion. If it were so, the legs would have no existence, and all that classic vocabulary of 'nobbling,' 'squaring,' and so on, have no dictionary.”
“It's all the same the whole world over,” broke in Beecher. “The wide-awake ones will have the best seat on the coach.”
Conway made no reply; but the increased energy with which he puffed his cigar bespoke the impatience he was suffering under.
“What became of the daughter?” asked Beecher, abruptly; and then, not awaiting the answer, went on: “A deuced good-looking girl, if properly togged out, but she had n't the slightest notion of dressing herself.”
“Their narrow fortune may have had something to say to that,” said Conway, gravely.
“Where there's a will, there's a way,—that 's my idea. I was never so hard up in life but I could make my tailor torn me out like a gentleman. I take it,” added he, returning to the former theme, “she was a proud one. Old Kellett was awfully afraid of doing many a thing from the dread of her knowing it. He told me so himself.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Conway, with evident pleasure in the tone.
“I could have helped him fifty ways. I knew fellows who would have 'done' his bills,—small sums, of course,—and have shoved him along pleasantly enough, but she would n't have it at any price.”
“I was not aware of that,” remarked Conway, inviting, by his manner, further revelations.
Beecher, however, mistaking the source of the interest he had thus excited, and believing that his own craft and shrewdness were the qualities that awakened respect, went on to show how conversant he was with all financial operations amongst Jews and money-lenders, proudly declaring that there was not a “man on town” knew the cent per centers as he did.
“I've had my little dealings with them,” said he, with some vanity in the manner. “I 've had my paper done when there was n't a fellow on the 'turf' could raise a guinea. You see,” added he, lowering his voice to a whisper that implied secrecy, “I could do them a service no money could repay. I was up to all that went on in life and at the clubs. When Etheridge got it so heavy at the 'Rag,' I warned Fordyce not to advance him beyond a hundred or two. I was the only gentleman knew Brookdale's horse could win 'the Ripsley.' The legs, of course, knew it well before the race came off. Jemmy could have had ten thousand down for his 'book.' Ah! if you and I had only known each other six years ago, what a stroke of work we might have done together! Even now,” said he, with increased warmth of voice, “there's a deuced deal to be done abroad. Brussels and Florence are far from worked out; not among the foreigners, of course, but our own fellows,—the young Oxford and Cambridge 'saps,'—the green ones waiting for their gazette in the Guards! Where are you bound for?—what are you doing?” asked he, as if a sudden thought had crossed his mind.
“I am endeavoring to get back to the Crimea,” said Conway, smiling at the prospect which the other had with such frankness opened to him.
“The Crimea!” exclaimed Beecher, “why, that is downright madness; they 're fighting away there just as fresh as ever. The very last paper I saw is filled with an account of a Russian sortie against our lines, and a lot of our fellows killed and wounded.”
“Of course there are hard knocks—”
“It's all very well to talk of it that way, but I think you might have been satisfied with what you saw, I 'd just as soon take a cab down to Guy's, or the Middlesex Hospital, and ask one of the house-surgeons to cut me up at his own discretion, as go amongst those Russian savages. I tell you it don't pay,—not a bit of it!”
“I suppose, as to the paying part, you 're quite right; but, remember, there are different modes of estimating the same thing. Now, I like soldiering—”
“No accounting for tastes,” broke in Beecher. “I knew a fellow who was so fond of the Queen's Bench Prison he would n't let his friends clear him out; but, seriously speaking, the Crimea 's a bad book.”
“I should be a very happy fellow to-night if I knew how I could get back there. I 've been trying in various ways for employment in any branch of the service. I 'd rather be a driver in the Wagon Train than whip the neatest four-in-hand over Epsom Downs.”
“There 's only one name for that,” said Beecher; “at least, out of Hanwell.”
“I 'd be content to be thought mad on such terms,” said Conway, good-humoredly, “and not even quarrel with those who said so!”
“I 've got a better scheme than the Crimea in my head,” said Beecher, in a low, cautious voice, like one afraid of being overheard. “I've half a mind to tell you, though there 's one on board here would come down pretty heavily on me for peaching.”
“Don't draw any indignation on yourself on my account,” said Conway, smiling. “I'm quite unworthy of the confidence, and utterly unable to profit by it.”
“I 'm not so sure of that,” responded Beecher. “A fellow who has got it so hot as you have, has always his eyes open ever after. Come a little to this side,” whispered he, cautiously. “Did you remark my going forward two or three times when I came on board?”
“Yes, I perceived that you did so.”
“You never guessed why?”
“No; really I paid no particular attention to it.”
“I 'll tell you, then,” whispered he, still lower, “it was to look after a horse I 've got there. 'Mumps,' that ran such a capital second for the Yarmouth, and ran a dead heat afterwards with Stanley's 'Cross-Bones,' he's there!” and his voice trembled between pride and agitation.
“Indeed!” exclaimed Conway, amused at the eagerness of his manner.
“There he is, disguised as a prize bull for the King of Belgium. Nobody suspects him,—nobody could suspect him, he 's so well got up, horns and all. Got him on board in the dark in a large roomy box, clap posters to it on the other side, and 'tool' him along to Brussels. That's what I call business! Now, if you wait a week or two, you can lay on him as deep as you like. We'll let the Belgians 'in,' before we 've done with them. We run him under the name of 'Klepper;' don't forget it,—Klepper!”
“I've already told you I 'm unworthy of such a confidence; you only risk yourself when you impart a secret to indiscretion like mine.”
“You'd not blow us?” cried Annesley, in terror.
“The best security against my doing so accidentally is that I may be hundreds of miles away before your races come off.”
For a minute or two Beecher's misery was extreme. He saw how his rashness had carried him away to a foolish act of good-nature, and had not even reaped thanks for his generosity. What would he not have given to recall his words?—what would he not have done to obliterate their impression? At last a sudden thought seemed to strike him, and he said,—
“There are two of us in 'the lay,' and my 'pal' is the readiest pistol in Europe.”
“I 'll not provoke any display of his skill, depend on 't,” said Conway, controlling, as well as he could, the inclination to laugh out.
“He'd tumble you over like winking if you sold him. He 'd make it as short work with myself if he suspected me.”
“I'd rather have a quieter sort of colleague,” said Conway, dryly.
“Oh! but he's a rare one to 'work the oracle.' Solomon was a wise man—”
“What infernal balderdash are you at with Solomon and Samson, there?” shouted out Grog Davis, who had just been looking after the horse-box in the bow. “Come down below, and have a glass of brandy-and-water.”
“I 'll stay where I am,” said Beecher, sulkily, and walked away in dudgeon from the spot.
“I think I recognize your friend's voice,” said Conway, when Beecher next joined him. “If I 'm right, it's a fellow I 've an old grudge against.”
“Don't have it out, then,—that 's all,” broke in Beecher, hastily. “I 'd just as soon go into a cage and dispute a bone with one of Van Amburgh's tigers, as I 'd 'bring him to book.'”
“Make your mind easy about that,” said Conway. “I never go in search of old scores. I would only say, don't leave yourself more in his power than you can easily escape from. As for myself, it's very unlikely I shall ever see him again.”
“I wish you'd given up the Crimea,” said Beecher, who, by one of the strange caprices of his strange nature, began to feel a sort of liking for Conway.
“Why should I give it up? It's the only career I 'm fit for,—if I even be fit for that, which, indeed, the Horse Guards don't seem to think. But I 've got an old friend in the Piedmontese service who is going out in command of the cavalry, and I 'm on my way now to Turin to see whether he cannot make me something,—anything, in short, from an aide-de-camp to an orderly. Once before the enemy, it matters wonderfully little what rank a man holds.”
“The chances of his being knocked over are pretty much alike,” said Beecher, “if that's what you mean.”
“Not exactly,” said Conway, laughing, “not exactly, though even in that respect the calculation is equal.”
They now walked the deck step for step together in silence. The conversation had arrived at that point whence, if not actually confidential, it could proceed no further without becoming so, and so each appeared to feel it, and yet neither was disposed to lead the way. Beecher was one of those men who regard the chance persons they meet with in life just as they would accidental spots where they halt when on a journey,—little localities to be enjoyed at the time, and never, in all likelihood, revisited. In this way they obtained far more of his confidence than if he was sure to be in constant habits of intercourse with them. He felt they were safe depositaries, just as he would have felt a lonely spot in a wood a secure hiding-place for whatever he wanted to conceal. Now he was already—we are unable to say why—disposed to like Conway, and he would gladly have revealed to him much that lay heavily at his heart,—many a weighty care, many a sore misgiving. There was yet remaining in his nature that reverence and respect for honesty of character which survives very often a long course of personal debasement, and he felt that Conway was a man of honor. Such men he very well knew were usually duped and done,—they were the victims of the sharp set he himself fraternized with; but, with all that, there was something about them that he still clung to, just as he might have clung to a reminiscence of his boy-days.
“I take it,” said he, at last, “that each of us have caught it as heavily as most fellows going. You, to be sure, worse than myself,—for I was only a younger son.”
“My misfortunes,” said Conway, “were all of my own making. I squandered a very good fortune in a few years, without ever so much as suspecting I was in any difficulty; and, after all, the worst recollection of the past is, how few kindnesses, how very few good-natured things a fellow does when he leads a life of mere extravagance. I have enriched many a money-lender, I have started half a dozen rascally servants into smart hotel-keepers, but I can scarcely recall five cases of assistance given to personal friends. The truth is, the most selfish fellow in the world is the spendthrift.”
“That 's something new to me, I must own,” said Beecher, thoughtfully; but Conway paid no attention to the remark. “My notion is this,” said Beecher, after a pause,—“do what you will, say what you will, the world won't play fair with you!”
Conway shook his head dissentingly, but made no reply, and another and a longer silence ensued.
“You don't know my brother Lackington?” said Beecher, at length.
“No. I have met him in the world and at clubs, but don't know him.”
“I 'll engage, however, you 've always heard him called a clever fellow, a regular sharp fellow, and all that, just because he's the Viscount; but he is, without exception, the greatest flat going,—never saw his way to a good thing yet, and if you told him of one, was sure to spoil it. I 'm going over to see him now,” added he, after a pause.
“He 's at Rome, I think, the newspapers say?”
“Yes, he's stopping there for the winter.” Another pause followed, and Beecher threw away the end of his cigar, and, sticking an unlighted one in his mouth, walked the deck in deep deliberation. “I 'd like to put a case to you for your opinion,” said he, as though screwing himself to a great effort. “If you stood next to a good fortune,—next in reversion, I mean,—and that there was a threat—just a threat, and no more—of a suit to contest your right, would you accept of a life interest in the property to avoid all litigation, and secure a handsome income for your own time?”
“You put the case too vaguely. First of all, a mere threat would not drive me to a compromise.”
“Well, call it more than a threat; say that actual proceedings had been taken,—not that I believe they have; but just say so.”
“The matter is too complicated for my mere Yes or No to meet it; but on the simple question of whether I should compromise a case of that nature, I'd say No. I'd not surrender my right if I had one, and I 'd not retain possession of that which did n't belong to me.”
“Which means, that you 'd reject the offer of a life interest?”
“Yes, on the terms you mention.”
“I believe you 're right. Put the bold face on, and stand the battle. Now the real case is this. My brother Lack-ington has just been served with notice—”
Just as Beecher had uttered the last word, his arm, which rested on the binnacle against which he was standing, was grasped with such force that he almost cried out with the pain, and at the same instant a muttered curse fell upon his ear.
“Go on,” said Conway, as he waited to hear more.
Beecher muttered some unintelligible words about feeling suddenly chilled, and “wanting a little brandy,” and disappeared down the stairs to the cabin.
“I heard you,” cried Davis, as soon as the other entered,—“I heard you! and if I hadn't heard you with my own ears, I 'd not have believed it! Have n't I warned you, not once but fifty times, against that confounded peaching tongue of yours? Have n't I told you that if every act of your life was as pure and honest as you know it is not, your own stupid talk would make an indictment against you? You meet a fellow on the deck of a steamer—”
“Stop there!” cried Beecher, whose temper was sorely tried by this attack. “The gentleman I talked with is an old acquaintance; he knows me,—ay, and what's more, he knows you!”
“Many a man knows me, and does not feel himself much the better for his knowledge!” said Davis, boldly.
“Well, I believe our friend here would n't say he was the exception to that rule,” said Beecher, with an ironical laugh.
“Who is he?—what's his name?”
“His name is Conway; he was a lieutenant in the 12th Lancers, but you will remember him better as the owner of Sir Aubrey.”
“I remember him perfectly,” replied Davis, with all his own composure,—“I remember him perfectly,—a tall, good-looking fellow, with short moustaches. He was—except yourself—the greatest flat I ever met in the betting-ring; and that's a strong word, Mr. Annesley Beecher,—ain't it?”
“I suspect you 'd scarcely like to call him a flat to-day, at least, to his face,” said Beecher, angrily.
A look of mingled insolence and contempt was all the answer Davis gave this speech; and then half filling a tumbler with brandy, he drank it off, and said slowly,—
“What I would dare to do, you certainly would never suspect,—that much I 'm well aware of. What you would dare is easily guessed at.”
“I don't clearly understand you,” said Beecher, timidly.
“You 'd dare to draw me into a quarrel on the chance of seeing me 'bowled over,'” said Davis, with a bitter laugh. “You 'd dare to see me stand opposite another man's pistol, and pray heartily at the same time that his hand might n't shake, nor his wrist falter; but I've got good business habits about me, Master Beecher. If you open that writing-desk, you 'll own few men's papers are in better order, or more neatly kept; and there is no satisfaction I could have to offer any one would n't give me ample time to deposit in the hands of justice seven forged acceptances by the Honorable Annesley Beecher, and the power of attorney counterfeited by the same accomplished gentleman's hand.”
Beecher put out his hand to catch the decanter of brandy; but Davis gently removed the bottle, and said, “No, no; that's only Dutch courage, man; nerve yourself up, and learn to stand straight and manfully, and when you say, 'Not guilty,' do it with a bold look at the jury box.'”
Beecher dropped into his seat, and buried his head between his hands.
“I often think,” said Davis, as he took out his cigar-case and proceeded to choose a cigar,—“I often think it would be a fine sight when the swells—the fashionable world, as the newspapers call them—would be pressing on to the Old Bailey to see one of their own set in the dock. What nobs there would be on the Bench! All Brookes's and the Wyndham scattered amongst the bar. The 'Illustrated News' would have a photographic picture of you, and the descriptive fellows would come out strong about the way you recognized your former acquaintances in court. Egad! old Grog Davis would be quite proud to give his evidence in such company!' How long have you been acquainted with the prisoner in the dock, Mr. Davis?' cried he, aloud, imitating the full and imperious accents of an examining counsel. 'I have known him upwards of fifteen years, my Lord. We went down together to Leeds in the summer of 1840 on a little speculation with cogged dice—'”
Beecher looked up and tried to speak, but his strength failed him, and his head fell heavily down again on the table.
“There, 'liquor up,' as the Yankees say,” cried Davis, passing the decanter towards him. “You 're a poor chicken-hearted creature, and don't do much honor to your 'order.'”
“You 'll drive me to despair yet,” muttered Beecher, in a voice scarcely above a whisper.
“Not a bit of it, man; there's pluck in despair! You 'll never go that far!”
Beecher grasped his glass convulsively; and as his eyes flashed wildly, he seemed for a moment as if about to hurl it in the other's face. Davis's look, however, appeared to abash him, and with a low, faint sigh he relinquished his hold, while his head fell forward on his bosom.
Davis now drew near the fire, and with a leg on either side of it, smoked away at his ease.
CHAPTER XXVII. A VISIT OF CONDOLENCE
“I think she will see me,” said Davenport Dunn, to the old woman servant who opened the door to him at the Kelletts' cottage, “if you will tell her my name: Mr. Dunn,—Mr. Davenport Dunn.”
“She told me she 'd not see anybody, sir,” was the obdurate reply.
“Yes; but I think when you say who it is—”
“She would not see that young man that was in the regiment with her brother, and he was here every day, wet or dry, to ask after her.”
“Well, take in my card now, and I 'll answer for it she'll not refuse me.”
The old woman took the card half sulkily from his hand, and returned in a few minutes to say that Miss Kellett would receive him.
Dressed in mourning of the very humblest and cheapest kind, and with all the signs of recent suffering and sorrow about her, Sybella Kellett yet received Mr. Dunn with a calm and quiet composure for which he was scarcely prepared.
“If I have been importunate, Miss Kellett,” said he, “it is because I desire to proffer my services to you. I feel assured that you will not take ill this assistance on my part I would wish to be thought a friend—”
“You were so to my father, sir,” said she, interrupting, while she held her handkerchief to her eyes.
Dunn's face grew scarlet at these words, but, fortunately for him, she could not see it.
“I had intended to have written to you, sir,” said she, with recovered composure. “I tried to do so this morning, but my head was aching so that I gave it up. I wanted your counsel, and indeed your assistance. I have no need to tell you that I 'm left without means of support. I do not want to burden relatives, with whom, besides, I have had no intercourse for years; and my object was to ask if you could assist me to a situation as governess, or, if not, to something more humble still. I will not be difficult to please,” said she, smiling sadly, “for my pretensions are of the very humblest.”
“I 'm aware how much you underrate them. I 'm no stranger to Miss Kellett's abilities,” said Dunn, bowing.
She scarcely moved her head in acknowledgment of this speech, and went on: “If you could insure me immediate occupation, it would serve to extricate me from a little difficulty at this moment, and relieve me from the embarrassment of declining ungraciously what I cannot accept of. This letter here is an invitation from a lady in Wales to accept the hospitality of her house for the present; and however deeply the kindness touches me, I must not avail myself of it. You may read the letter,” said she, handing it to him.
Dunn perused it slowly, and, folding it up, laid it on the table again.
“It is most kindly worded, and speaks well for the writer,” said he, calmly.
“I feel all its kindness,” said she, with a slight quivering of the lip. “It comes when such is doubly precious, but I have my reasons against accepting it.”
“Without daring to ask, I can assume them, Miss Kellett. I am one of those who believe that all efforts in life to be either good or great should strike root in independence; that he who leans upon another parts with the best features of identity, and loses himself in suiting his tastes to another's.”
She made no reply, but a slight flush on her cheek, and an increased brightness in her eye, showed that she gave her full concurrence to the words.
“It is fortunate, Miss Kellett,” said he, resuming, “that I am the bearer of a proposition which, if you approve of, meets the case at once. I have been applied to by Lord Glengariff to find a lady who would accept the situation of companion to his daughter. He has so far explained the requirements he seeks for, that I can answer for Miss Kellett being exactly everything to fulfil them.”
“Oh, sir!” broke she in, “this is in no wise what I desired. I am utterly unfitted for such a sphere and such associations. Remember how and where my life has been passed. I have no knowledge of life, and no experience of society.”
“Let me interrupt you. Lord Glengariff lives completely estranged from the world in a remote part of the country. Lady Augusta, his only unmarried daughter, is no longer young; they see no company; indeed, their fortune is very limited, and all their habits of the very simplest and least expensive. It was remembering this very seclusion, I was glad to offer you a retreat so likely to meet your wishes.”
“But even my education is not what such persons would look for. I have not one of the graceful accomplishments that adorn society. My skill as a musician is very humble; I cannot sing at all; and though I can read some modern languages, I scarcely speak them.”
“Do not ask me to say how much I am aware of your capacity and acquirements, Miss Kellett. It is about two months back a little volume came into my hands which had once been yours; how it ceased to be so I don't choose to confess; but it was a work on the industrial resources of Ireland, annotated and commented on by you. I have it still. Shall I own to you that your notes have been already used by me in my reports, and that I have adopted some of the suggestions in my recommendations to Government? Nay, if you doubt me, I will give you the proof.”
“I left such a volume as you speak of at Mr. Hawkhaw's, and believed it had been mislaid.”
“It was deliberately stolen, Miss Kellett, that's the truth of it. Mr. Driscoll chanced to see the book, and happened to show it to me. I could not fail to be struck with it, the more as I discovered in your remarks hints and suggestions, coupled with explanations, that none had ever offered me.”
“How leniently you speak of my presumption, sir!”
“Say, rather, how sincerely I applaud your zeal and intelligence,—the book bespeaks both. Now, when I read it, I wished at once to make your acquaintance. There were points wherein you were mistaken; there were others in which you evidently see further than any of us. I felt that if time, and leisure, and opportunity of knowledge were supplied, these were the studies in which you might become really proficient. Lord Glengariff s proposal came at the very moment. It was all I could desire for you,—a quiet home, the society of those whose very breeding is acted kindliness.”
“Oh, sir! do not flatter me into the belief that I am worthy of such advantages.”
“The station will gain most by your association with it, take my word for that.”
How was it that these words sent a color to her cheek and a courage to her heart that made her for a moment forget she was poor and fatherless and friendless? What was it, too, that made them seem less flattery than sound, just, and due acknowledgment? He that spoke them was neither young, nor handsome, nor fascinating in manner; and yet she felt his praise vibrate within her heart strangely and thrillingly.
He spoke much to her about her early life,—what she had read, and how she was led to reflect upon themes so unlikely to attract a young girl's thoughts. By degrees, as her reserve wore off, she ventured to confess what a charm the great men of former days possessed for her imagination,—how their devotion, their courage, their single-heartedness animated her with higher hopes for the time when Ireland should have the aid of those able to guide her destinies and make of her all that her great resources promised.
“The world of contemporaries is seldom just to these,” said Dunn, gravely; “they excite envy rather than attract friendship, and then they have often few of the gifts which conciliate the prejudices around them.”
“What matter if they can live down these prejudices?” cried she, warmly; then blushing at her own eagerness, she said, falteringly, “How have I dared to speak of these things, and to you?”
Dunn arose and walked to the window, and now a long pause occurred in which neither uttered a word.
“Is this cottage yours, Miss Kellett?” said he, at last.
“No; we had rented it, and the time expires in a week or two.”
“And the furniture?”
“It was hired also, except a very few articles of little or no value.”
Dunn again turned away, and seemed lost in deep thought; then, in a voice of some uncertainty and hesitation, said: “Your father's affairs were complicated and confused,—there were questions of law, too, to be determined about them,—so that, for the present, there is no saying exactly how they stand; still, there will be a sum,—a small one, unfortunately, but still a sum available to you, which, for present convenience, you must allow me to advance to you.”
“You forget, sir, that I have a brother. To him, of right, belongs anything that remains to us.”
“I had, indeed, forgotten that,” said Dunn, in some confusion, “and it was just of him I wanted now to speak. He is serving as a soldier with a Rifle regiment in the Crimea. Can nothing be done to bring him favorably before the notice of his superiors? His gallantry has already attracted notice; but as his real station is still unknown, his advancement has been merely that accorded to the humblest merits. I will attend to it. I 'll write about him this very day.”
“How I thank you!” cried she, fervently; and she bent down and pressed her lips to his hand.
A cold shivering passed over Dunn as he felt the hot tears that fell upon his hand, and a strange sense of weakness oppressed him.
“It will make your task the lighter,” cried she, eagerly, “to know that Jack is a soldier in heart and soul,—brave, daring, and high-hearted, but with a nature gentle as a child's. There was a comrade of his here the other day, one whose life he saved—”
“I have seen Conway,” said Dunn, dryly, while he scanned her features closely.
No change of color nor voice showed that she felt the scrutiny, and in a calm tone she went on: “I know so little of these things that I do not know, if my dear brother were made an officer to-morrow, whether his want of private fortune would prevent his acceptance of the rank, but there surely must be steps of advancement open to men poor as he is.”
“You may trust all to me,” interrupted Dunn. “Once that you consider me as your guardian, I will neglect nothing that concerns you.”
“Oh, how have I deserved such kindness!” cried she, trying to smother her emotion.
“You must call me your guardian, too, and write to me as such. The world is of such a temper that it will serve you to be thought my ward. Even Lady Augusta Arden herself will feel the force of it.” There was a kind of rude energy in the way these last words were uttered that gave them a character almost defiant.
“You are, then, decided that I ought to take the situation?” said she. And already her manner had assumed the deference of one seeking direction.
“Yes, for the present it is all that could be desired. There will be no necessity of your continuing there if it should ever be irksome to you. Upon this, as upon all else, I trust you will communicate freely with me.”
“I should approach an actual duty—a task—with far more confidence than I feel in offering to accommodate myself to the ways and tempers of utter strangers.”
“Very true,” said he; “but when I have told you about them they will be strangers no longer. People are easily comprehended who have certain strong ruling passions. They have only one, and that the very simplest of all motives,—pride. Let me tell you of them.” And so he drew his chair to her side, and began to describe the Ardens.
We do not ask the reader to follow Davenport Dunn in his sketch; enough that we say his picture was more truthful than flattering, for he portrayed traits that had often given him offence and suffering. He tried to speak with a sort of disinterested coldness,—a kind of half-pitying indifference about “ways and notions” that people estranged from “much intercourse with the world will fall into;” but his tone was, in spite of himself, severe and resentful, and scarcely compensated by his concluding words, “though, of course, to you they will be amiable and obliging.”
“How I wish I could see them, though only for a minute!” said she, as he finished.
“Have you such confidence, then, in your power of detecting character at sight?” asked he, with a keen and furtive glance.
“My gift is generally enough for my own guidance,” said she, frankly; “but, to be sure, it has only been exercised amongst the country people, and they have fewer disguises than those we call their betters.”
“I may write word, then, that within a week you will be ready,” said Dunn, rising. “You will find in that pocket-book enough for any immediate outlay,—nay, Miss Kellett, it is your own,—I repeat it, all your own. I am your guardian, and no more.” And with a stiffness of manner that almost repelled gratitude, he took his leave and withdrew. As he gained the door, however, he stopped, and after a moment came back into the room. “I should like to see you again before you leave; there are topics I would like to speak with you on. May I come in a day or two?”
“Whenever and as often as you please.”
Dunn took her hand and pressed it tenderly. A deep crimson overspread her face as she said “Good-bye!” and the carriage had rolled away ere she knew that he was gone.
CHAPTER XXVIII. THE HERMITAGE AT GLENGARIFF.
Beside a little arm of the sea, and surrounded by lofty mountains, stood the cottage of Lord Glengariff. It was originally built as a mere fishing-lodge, a resting-place in the bathing-season, or a spot to visit when it was the pleasure of its owners to affect retirement and seclusion. Then would the Earl and his Countess and the Ladies Julia and Jemima come down to the Hermitage with a sort of self-approving humility that seemed to say, “Even we know how to chastise pride, and vanity, and the sinful lusts of the flesh.” Whether it was that these seasons of mortification became more frequent, or that they required more space, we cannot say; but, in course of time, the hermitage extended its limbs, first in one direction, and then in another, till at length it grew to be a very commodious house, with ample rooms and every imaginable comfort, Owing to the character of the architecture, too, it gained in picturesque effect by these successive additions; and in its jutting projections, its deep-shadowed courts, and its irregular line of roof, it presented a very pleasing specimen of that half-Elizabethan cottage so rarely hit upon in any regular plan. As the fortunes of the noble house declined,—the Earl's ancestors had been amongst the most extravagant of Irish gentry,—the ancient castle of Holt-Glengariff, where they had long resided, was sold, and the family settled down to live at the Hermitage. At first the change was supposed to be merely temporary,—“they were going to live in London or in Brighton; they were about to establish themselves in Paris; her Ladyship was ordered to Italy,”—a variety of rumors, in fact, were afloat to explain that the sunshine of their presence in that lonely glen would be but brief and short-lived. All the alterations that might be made in the cottage or its grounds, all the facilities of approach by land and water, all the beneficial changes in the village itself, were alluded to as projects for the day when they would come back there; for my Lord said he “really liked the place,”—a species of avowal that was accepted by the neighborhood as the proudest encomium man could pronounce upon their “happy valley.”
With all these plans and intentions, it was now eighteen years, and the Earl had never quitted the Hermitage for any longer journey than an occasional trip to Dublin. The Countess had taken a longer road than that over the Alps, and lay at rest in the village churchyard. The Ladies Georgina, Arabella, and Julia had married off, and none remained but Lady Augusta Arden, of whom we have already made brief mention to our readers in a former chapter.
We did but scant justice to Lady Augusta when we said that she had once been handsome: she was so still. She had fine eyes and fine teeth; a profusion of brown hair of the very silkiest; her figure was singularly graceful; and, baring a degree of haughtiness,—a family trait,—her manner was unexceptionably good and pleasing. Both the Earl and his daughter had lived too long amongst those greatly inferior to them in rank and fortune not to conceive a very exaggerated estimate of themselves.
No Pasha was ever more absolute than my Lord in the little village beside him; his will was a sort of firman that none dreamed of disputing; and, indeed, the place men occupied in the esteem of their fellows there, was little else than a reflex of how they were regarded at the Hermitage. We never scruple to bestow a sort of derisive pity upon the savage who, having carved his deity out of a piece of wood, sits down to worship him; and yet, what an unconscious imitation of the red man is all our adulation of great folks! We follow him to the very letter, not only in investing the object of our worship with a hundred qualities that he has not, but we make him the butt of our evil passions, and in the day of our anger and disappointment we turn round and rend him! Not that the villagers ever treated my Lord in this wise,—they were still in the stage “of worship;” they had been at “their offices,” fathers and grandfathers, for many a year, and though some were beginning to complain that their knees were getting sore, none dreamed of getting on their legs! The fact was, that even they who liked the religion least thought it was not worth while abjuring the faith of their fathers, especially when they could not guess what was to replace it; and so my Lord dictated and decided and pronounced for the whole neighborhood; and Lady Augusta doctored and model-schooled and loan-funded them to her heart's content. Nay, we are wrong! It was all in the disappointed dreariness of an unsatisfied heart that she took to benevolence! Oh, dear! what a sorry search is that after motives, if one only knew how much philanthropy and active charity have come of a breach of promise to marry! Not that Lady Augusta had ever stood in this position, but either that she had looked too high, or was too hard to please, or from some other cause, but she never married.
The man who has no taste for horsemanship consoles himself for the unenjoyed pleasure by reading of the fractured ribs and smashed collar-bones of the hunting-field. Was it in something of this spirit that Lady Augusta took an especial delight in dwelling in her mind and in her letters on all the disagreeables of her sisters' wedded life? The extravagance of men, their selfishness, their uncomplying habits, the odious tyranny of their tempers, were favorite themes with her, dashed with allusions to every connubial contingency, from alimony to the measles in the nursery! At last, possibly because, by such frequent recurrence to the same subjects, she had no longer anything new to say on them, or perhaps—it is just possible—that the themes themselves had less interest for others than for herself, her sisters seemed to reply less regularly than of old. Their answers were shorter and drier; and they appeared neither to care so much for sympathy and condolence as formerly; and, in fact, as Lady Augusta said to herself, “They were growing inured to ill-treatment!” And if half of us in this world only knew of the miseries we are daily suffering, and which sympathetic friends are crying over, what a deal of delightful affliction might we enjoy that we now are dead to! What oppressive governments do we live under, what cruel taskmasters, what ungrateful publics, not to speak of the more touching sorrows of domestic life,—the undervaluing parents and unsympathizing wives! Well, one thing is a comfort: there are dear kind hearts in mourning over all these for us, anxiously looking for the day we may awaken to a sense of our own misery!
It was of a cheery spring morning, sunlit and breezy, when, in the chirping songs of birds, the rustling leaves, and fast-flowing rivulets, Nature seems to enjoy a more intense vitality, that the Earl sat at breakfast with his daughter. A fairer prospect could hardly be seen than that which lay before the open windows in front of them. The green lawn, dotted with clumps of ancient trees, inclined with many a waving slope to the sea, which in a long narrow arm pierced its way between two jutting headlands,—the one bold, rocky, and precipitous; the other grass-covered and flowery, reflecting its rich tints in the glassy water beneath. The sea was, indeed, calm and still as any lake, and, save when a low, surging sound arose within some rocky cavern, as silent and noiseless. The cattle browsed down to the very water's edge, and the nets of the fishermen hung to dry over the red-berried foliage of the arbutus. They who looked—when they did, perchance, look on this scene—gazed with almost apathy on it. Their eyes never brightened as the changing sunlight cast new effects upon the scene. Nor was this indifference the result of any unconsciousness of its beauty. A few months back it was the theme of all their praises. Landscape-painters and photographers were invited specially to catch its first morning tints, its last mellow glow at sunset. The old Lord said it was finer than Sorrento, equal to anything in Greece. If the Mediterranean were bluer, where was there such emerald verdure,—where such blended coloring of heaths, purple and blue and violet,—in what land did the fragrance of the white thorn so load the warm atmosphere? Such, and such like, were the encomiums they were wont to utter; and wherefore was it that they uttered them no more? The explanation is a brief one. A commission, or a deputation, or a something as important, had come down to examine Bantry Bay, and investigate its fitness to become a packet station for America. In the course of this examination, a scientific member of the body had strayed down to Glengariff, where, being of a speculative as well as of a scientific turn, he was struck by its immense capabilities. What a gem it was, and what might it not be made! It was Ireland in the tropics,—“the Green Isle” in the Indian Ocean! Only imagine such a spot converted into a watering-place! With a lodge for the Queen on that slope sheltered by the ilex-copse, crescents, and casinos, and yacht stations, and ornamental villas rose on every side by his descriptive powers, and the old Earl—for he was dining with him—saw at one glance how he had suddenly become a benefactor of mankind and a millionnaire. “That little angle of the shore yonder, my Lord,—the space between the pointed rock and the stone-pine trees,—is worth fifty thousand pounds; the crescent that would stand there would leave many an untenanted house at Kemp Town. I 'll engage myself to get you a thousand guineas for that small bit of tableland to the right; the Duke of Uxmore is only waiting to hit upon such a spot. Here, too, where we sit, must be the hydropathic establishment. You can't help it, my Lord, you must comply. This park will bring you in a princely revenue. It is gold,—actual gold,—every foot of it! There 's not a Swiss cottage in these woods won't pay cent per cent!”
Mr. Galbraith—such was his name—was of that pictorially gifted order of which the celebrated George Robins was once chief. He knew how to dress his descriptions with the double attraction of the picturesque and the profitable, so that trees seemed to bend under golden fruit, and the sea-washed rocks looked like “nuggets.”
If there be something very seductive in the prospect of growing immensely rich all at once, there is a terrible compensation in the utter indifference inflicted on us as to all our accustomed pleasures in life. The fate of Midas seems at once our own; there is nothing left to us but that one heavy and shining metal of all created blessedness! Lord Glengariff was wont to enjoy the lonely spot he lived in with an intense appreciation of its beauty. He never wearied of watching the changing effects of season on a scene so full of charm; but now he surveyed it with a sense of fidgety impatience, eager for the time when the sounds of bustle and business should replace the stillness that now reigned around him.
“This is from Dunn,” said he, breaking open a large, heavy-sealed letter which had just arrived. His eyes ran hastily along it, and he exclaimed peevishly, “No prospectus yet; no plan issued; nothing whatever announced. 'I have seen Galbraith, and had some conversation with him about your harbor.' My harbor!”
“Go on,” said Lady Augusta, mildly.
“Why, the insolent upstart has not even listened to what was said to him. My harbor! He takes it for granted that we were wanting to make this a packet station for America, and he goes on to say that the place has none of the requisite qualifications,—no depth of water! I wish the fellow were at the bottom of it! Really, this is intolerable. Here is a long lecture to me not to be misled by those 'speculation-mongers who are amongst the rife products of our age.' I ask you, if you ever heard of impertinence like that? This fellow—the arch-charlatan of his day, the quack par excellence of his nation—dares to warn me against the perils of his class and kindred! Only listen to this, Gusty,” cried he, bursting into a fit of half-angry laughter: “'I am disposed to think that, by drawing closer to the present party in power, you could serve your interests much more effectively than by embarking in any schemes of mere material benefit. Allington'—he actually calls him Allington!—'dropped hints to this effect in a confidential conversation we held last evening together, and I am in hopes that, when we meet, you will enter into our views.' Are the coronets of the nobility to be put up to sale like the acres of the squirearchy? or what is it this fellow is driving at?” cried he, flinging down the letter in a rage, and walking up and down the room. “The rule of O'Connell and his followers was mild and gentle and forbearing, compared with the sway of these fellows. In the one case we had a fair stand-up fight,—opinion met opinion, and the struggle was an open one; but here we have an organized association to investigate the state of our resources, to pry into our private affairs, learning what pressure bears upon us here, what weak spot gives way there. They hold our creditors in leash, to slip them on us at any moment; and the threat of a confiscation—for it is just that, and nothing less—is unceasingly hanging over us!”
He stopped short in his torrent of passion, for the white sail of a small fishing-craft that just showed in the offing suddenly diverted his thoughts to that vision of prosperity he so lately revelled in,—that pleasant dream of a thriving watering-place, bright, sunny, and prosperous, the shore dotted with gayly caparisoned donkeys, and the sea speckled with pleasure-boats. All the elements of that gay Elysium came up before him,—the full tide of fortune setting strongly in, and coming to his feet. Galbraith, who revelled in millions, whose rapid calculations rarely descended to ignoble thousands, had constantly impressed upon him that if Dunn only took it up, the project was already accomplished. “He'll start you a company, my Lord, in a week; a splendid prospectus and an admirable set of names on the direction, with a paid-up capital, to begin with, of—say £30,000. He knows to a nicety how many Stock Exchange fellows, how many M.P.'s, how many county gentlemen to have. He 'll stick all the plums in the right place too; and he'll have the shares quoted at a premium before the scrip is well out in the market. Clever fellow, my Lord,—vastly clever fellow, Dunn!” And so the Earl thought, too, till the letter now before him dashed that impression with disappointment.
“I 'll tell you what it is, Gusty,” said he, after a pause,—“we must ask him down here. It is only by an actual inspection of the bay that he can form any just conception of the place. You must write to him for me. This gouty knuckle of mine makes penwork impossible. You can say—Just find a sheet of paper, and I 'll tell you what to say.” Now, the noble Earl was not as ready at dictation as he had fancied; for when Lady Augusta had opened her writing-desk, arranged her writing-materials, and sat, pen in hand, awaiting his suggestions, he was still pacing up and down the room, muttering to himself in broken and unconnected phrases, quite unsuited to the easy flow of composition. “I suppose, Gusty,—I take it for granted,—you must begin, 'My dear sir,'—eh?—or, perhaps, better still, 'Dear Mr. Dunn.'”
“'Dear Mr. Dunn,'” said she, not looking up from the paper, but quietly retouching the last letters with her pen.
“But I don't see why, after all, we should follow this foolish lead,” said he, proudly. “The acceptance he meets from others need not dictate to us, Gusty. I 'd say, 'The Earl of Glengariff'—or, 'I am requested by Lord Glen-gariff—'”
“'My father, Lord Glengariff,'” interposed she, quietly.
“It sounds more civilly, perhaps. Be it so;” and again he walked up and down, in the same hard conflict of composition. At length he burst forth: “There 's nothing on earth more difficult than addressing a man of this sort. You want his intimacy without familiarity. You wish to be able to obtain the benefit of his advice, and yet not incur the infliction of his dictation. In fact, you are perfectly prepared to treat him as a valued guest, provided he never lapses into the delusion that he is your friend. Now, it would take old Metternich to write the sort of note I mean.”
“If I apprehend you, your wish is to ask him down here on a visit of a few days, with the intimation that you have a matter of business to communicate—”
“Yes, yes,” said he, impatiently, “that's very true. The business part of the matter should come in incidentally, and yet the tone of the invitation be such as to let him distinctly understand that he does not come without an express object Now you have my meaning, Gusty,” said he, with the triumphant air of one who had just surmounted a difficulty.
“If I have, then, I am as far as ever from knowing how to convey it,” said she, half peevishly. “I'd simply say, 'Dear Sir,' or, 'Dear Mr. Dunn,—There is a question of great moment to myself, on which your advice and counsel would be most valuable to me. If you could spare me the few days a visit would cost you, and while giving us the great pleasure of your society—'”
“Too flattering, by half. No, no,” broke he in again. “I 'll tell you what would be the effect of all that, Gusty,”—and his voice swelled out full and forcibly,—“the fellow would come here, and, before a week was over, he 'd call me Glengariff!”
She grew crimson over face and forehead and neck, and then almost as quickly pale again; and, rising hastily from the table, said, “Really, you expect too much from my subtlety as a note-writer. I think I 'd better request Mr. Dunn to look out for one of those invaluable creatures they call companions, who pay your bills, correct your French notes, comb the lapdog, and scold your maid for you. She might be, perhaps, equal to all this nice diplomacy.”
“Not a bad notion, by any means, Gusty,” said he, quickly. “A clever woman would be inestimable for all the correspondence we are like to have soon; far better than a man,—less obtrusive, more confidential, not so open to jobbery; a great point,—a very great point. Dunn's the very man, too, to find out the sort of person we want.”
“Something more than governess, and less than lady,” said she, half superciliously.
“The very thing, Gusty,—the very thing. Why, there are women with breeding enough to be maids of honor, and learning sufficient for a professor, whose expectations never rise beyond a paltry hundred a year—what am I saying?—sixty or seventy are nearer the mark. Now for it, Gusty. Make this object the substance of your letter. You can have no difficulty in describing what will suit us. We live in times, unfortunately, when people of birth and station are reduced to straitened circumstances on every hand. It reminds me of what poor Hammersley used to say,—'Do you observe,' said he, 'that whenever there's a great smash on the turf, you 'll always see the coaches horsed with thoroughbreds for the next year or two!'”
“A very unfeeling remark, if it mean anything at all.” “Never mind. Write this letter, and say at the foot of it, 'We should be much pleased if, in your journeys 's out'—he's always coming down to Cork and the neighborhood—you could give us a few days at Glengariff Hermitage. My father has certain communications to make to you, which he is confident would exempt your visit from the reproach of mere idleness.' He'll take that; the fellow is always flattered when you seem impressed by the immensity of his avocations!” And with a hearty chuckle at the weakness he was triumphing over, the old Lord left the room, while his daughter proceeded to compose her letter.