CHAPTER XXVII. OVERREACHINGS
Beecher did not amongst his gifts possess the pen of a ready writer; but there was a strange symmetry observable between the composition and the manual part. The lines were irregular, the letters variously sized, erasures frequent, blots everywhere, while the spelling displayed a spirit that soared above orthography. A man unused to writing, in the cares of composition, is pretty much in the predicament of a bad horseman in a hunting-field. He has a vague, indistinct motion of “where” he ought to go, without the smallest conception as to the “how.” He is balked or “pounded” at every step, always trying back, but never by any chance hitting off the right road to his object.
Above a dozen sheets of paper lay half scrawled over before him after two hours of hard labor, and there he still sat pondering over his weary task. His scheme was simply this: to write a few lines to Dunn, introducing his father-in-law, and instructing him to afford him all information and details as to the circumstances of the Irish property, it being his intention to establish Captain Davis in the position of his agent in that country; having done which, and given to Grog to read over, he meant to substitute another in its place, which other was confidentially to entreat of Dunn to obtain some foreign and far-away appointment for Davis, and by every imaginable means to induce him to accept it. This latter document Dunn was to be instructed to burn immediately after reading. In fact, the bare thought of what would ensue if Davis saw it, made him tremble all over, and aggravated all the difficulties of composition. Even the mode of beginning puzzled him, and there lay some eight or ten sheets scrawled over with a single line, thus: “Lord Lackington presents his compliments”—“The Viscount Lackington requests”—“Lord Lackington takes the present opportunity”—“Dear Dunn”—“Dear Mr. Dunn”—“My dear Mr. Dunn”—“Dear D.” How nicely and minutely did he weigh over in his mind the value to be attached to this exordium, and how far the importance of position counterbalanced the condescension of close intimacy! “Better be familiar,” said he, at last; “he 's a vulgar dog, and he 'll like it;” and so he decided for “My dear Dunn.”
“My dear Dunn,—As I know of your influence with the people in power—too formal that, perhaps,” said he, re-reading it—“as I know what you can do with the dons in Downing Street—that 's far better—I want you to book the bearer—no, that is making a flunkey of him—I want you to secure me a snug thing in the Colonies—or better, a snug Colonial appointment—for my father-in-law—no, for my friend—no, for my old and attached follower, Captain Davis—that's devilish well-rounded, 'old and attached follower, Captain Davis.' When I tell you that I desire he may get something over the hills and far away, you 'll guess at once—you 'll guess at once why—no, guess the reason—no, you 'll see with half an eye how the cat jumps.” He threw down his pen at this, and rubbed his hands in an ecstasy of delight. “Climate does n't signify a rush, for he's strong as a three-year-old, and has the digestion of an 'ostrage;' the main thing, little to do, and opportunities for blind hookey. As to outfit, and some money in hand, I 'll stand it. Once launched, if there's only a billiard-table or dice-box in the colony, he 'll not starve.”
“Eh, Grog, my boy,” cried he, with a laugh, “as the parsons say, 'Salary less an object than a field of profitable labor!' And, by Jove! the grass will be very short, indeed, where you can't get enough to feed on! There 's no need to give Dunn a caution about reserve, and so forth with him,—he knows Grog well.”
Having finished this letter, and placed it carefully in his pocket, he began the other, which, seeing that it was never to be delivered, and only shown to Davis himself, cost him very little trouble in the composition. Still it was not devoid of all difficulty, since, by the expectations it might create in Grog's mind of obtaining the management of the Irish property, it would be actually throwing obstacles in the way of his going abroad. He therefore worded the epistle more carefully, stating it to be his intention that Captain Davis should be his agent at some future time not exactly defined, and requesting Dunn to confer with him as one enjoying his own fullest confidence.
He had but finished the document when a sharp knock at the door announced Davis. “The very man I wanted,” said Beecher; “sit down and read that.”
Grog took his double eye-glass from his pocket,—an aid to his sight only had recourse to when he meant to scrutinize every word and every letter,—and sat down to read. “Vague enough,” said he, as he concluded. “Small credentials for most men, but quite sufficient for Kit Davis.”
“I know that,” said Beecher, half timidly; for no sooner in the redoubted presence than he began to tremble at his own temerity.
“This Mr. Dunn is a practical sort of man, they say, so that we shall soon understand each other,” said Davis.
“Oh, you'll like him greatly.”
“I don't want to like him,” broke in Grog; “nor do I want him to like me.”
“He's a fellow of immense influence just now; can do what he pleases with the Ministry.”
“So much the better for him,” said Grog, bluntly.
“And for his friends, sir,” added Beecher. “He has only to send in a name, and he's sure to get what he asks for, at home or abroad.”
“How convenient!” said Grog; and whether it was an accident or not, he directed his eyes full on Beecher as he spoke, and as suddenly a deep blush spread over the other's face. “Very convenient, indeed,” went on Grog, while his unrelenting glance never wavered nor turned away. As he stared, so did Beecher's confusion increase, till at last, unable to endure more, he turned away, sick at heart “My Lord Viscount,” said Grog, gravely, “let me give you a word of counsel: never commit a murder; for if you do, your own fears will hang you.”
“I don't understand you,” faltered out Beecher.
“Yes, you do; and right well too,” broke in Grog, boldly. “What rubbish have you got into your head now, about 'a place' for me? What nonsensical scheme about making me an inspector of this or a collector of that? Do you imagine that for any paltry seven or eight hundred a year I 'm going to enter into recognizance not to do what's worth six times the amount? Mayhap you 'd like to send me to India or to China. Oh, that's the dodge, is it?” exclaimed he, as the crimson flush now extended over Beecher's forehead to the very roots of his hair. “Well, where is it to be? There 's a place called Bogota, where they always have yellow fever; couldn't you get me named consul there? Oh dear, oh dear!” laughed he out, “how you will go on playing that little game, though you never score a point!”
“I sometimes imagine that you don't know how offensive your language is,” said Beecher, whose angry indignation had mastered all his fears; “at least, it is the only explanation I can suggest for your conduct towards myself!”
“Look at it this way,” said Grog; “if you always lost the game whenever you played against one particular man, wouldn't you give in at last, and own him for your master? Well, now, that is exactly what you are doing with me,—losing, losing on, and yet you won't see that you're beaten.”
“I'll tell you what I see, sir,” said Beecher, haughtily,—“that our intercourse must cease.”
Was it not strange that this coarse man, reckless in action, headstrong and violent, felt abashed, for the instant, in presence of the dignified manner which, for a passing moment, the other displayed. It was the one sole weapon Grog Davis could not match; and before the “gentleman” he quailed, but only for a second or two, when he rallied, and said, “I want the intercourse as little as you do. I am here for the pleasure of being with my daughter.”
“As for that,” began Beecher, “there is no need—” He stopped abruptly, something terribly menacing in Grog's face actually arresting his words in the utterance.
“Take you care what you say,” muttered Grog, as he approached him, and spoke with a low, guttural growl. “I have n't much patience at the best of times; don't provoke me now.”
“Will you take this letter,—yes or no?” said Beecher, resolutely.
“I will: seal and address it,” said Grog, searching for a match to light the taper, while Beecher folded the letter, and wrote the direction. Davis continued to break match after match in his effort to strike a light. Already the dusk of declining day filled the room, and objects were dimly descried. Beecher's heart beat violently. The thought that even yet, if he could summon courage for it, he might outwit Grog, sent a wild thrill through him. What ecstasy, could he only succeed!
“Curse these wax contrivances! the common wooden ones never failed,” muttered Davis. “There goes the fifth.”
“If you 'll ring for Fisher—”
An exclamation and an oath proclaimed that he had just burned his finger; but he still persevered.
“At last!” cried he,—“at last!” And just as the flame rose slowly up, Beecher had slipped the letter in his pocket, and substituted the other in its place.
“I'll write 'Private and confidential,'” added Beecher, “to show that the communication is strictly for himself alone.” And now the document was duly sealed, and the name “Lackington” inscribed in the corner.
“I 'll start to-night,” said Davis, as he placed the letter in his pocket-book; “I may have to delay a day in London, to see Fordyce. Where shall I write to you?”
“I'll talk that over with my Lady,” said the other, still trembling with the remnant of his fears. “We dine at six,” added he, as Davis arose to leave the room.
“So Lizzy told me,” said Davis.
“You don't happen to know if she invited Twining, do you?”
“No! but I hope she didn't,” said Grog, sulkily.
“Why so? He's always chatty, pleasant, and agreeable,” said Beecher, whose turn it was now to enjoy the other's irritation.
“He's what I hate most in the world,” said Davis, vindictively; “a swell that can walk into every leg in the Ring,—that's what he is!” And with this damnatory estimate of the light-hearted, easy-natured Adderley Twining, Grog banged the door and departed.
That social sacrament, as some one calls dinner, must have a strange, mysterious power over our affections and our sympathies; for when these two men next met each other, with napkins on their knees and soup before them, their manner was bland, and even cordial. You will probably say, How could they be otherwise? that was neither the time nor place to display acrimony or bitterness, nor could they carry out in Lizzy's presence the unseemly discussion of the morning. Very true; and their bearing might, consequently, exhibit a calm and decent courtesy; but it did more,—far more; it was familiar and even friendly, and it is to the especial influence of the dinner-table that I attribute the happy change. The blended decorum and splendor—that happy union of tangible pleasure with suggestive enjoyment, so typified by a well-laid and well-spread table—is a marvellous peacemaker. Discrepant opinions blend into harmonious compromise as the savory odors unite into an atmosphere of nutritious incense, and a wider charity to one's fellows comes in with the champagne. Where does diplomacy unbend? where do its high-priests condescend to human feelings and sympathies save at dinner? Where, save at Mansion House banquets, are great Ministers facetious?
Where else are grave Chancellors jocose and Treasury Lords convivial?
The three who now met were each in their several ways in good spirits: Grog, because he had successfully reasserted his influence over Beecher; Beecher, because, while appearing to be defeated, he had duped his adversary; and Lizzy, for the far better reason that she was looking her very best, and that she knew it. She had, moreover, passed a very pleasant morning; for Mr. Twining had made it his business—doubtless, with much hand-rubbing and many exclamations of “What fun!”—to go amongst all the tradespeople of Baden, proclaiming the arrival of a “millionnaire Milor,” and counselling them to repair with all the temptations of their shops to the hotel. The consequence was that Lizzy's drawing-room was like a fair till the hour of dressing for dinner. Jewelry in its most attractive forms, rich lace, silks, velvets, furs, costly embroideries, inlaid cabinets, gems, ancient and modern,—all the knick-knackeries which a voluptuous taste has conceived, all the extravagant inventions of a fashion bent on ruinous expenditure,—were there; fans sparkling with rubies, riding-whips incrusted with turquoises, slippers studded over with pearls. There was nothing wanting; even richly carved meerschaums and walking-sticks were paraded, in the hope that as objects of art and elegance they might attract her favor. Her father had found her dazzled and delighted by all this splendor, and told her that one of the first duties of her high station was the encouragement of art. “It is to you, and such as you, these people look for patronage,” said he. “An English peeress is a princess, and must dispense her wealth generously.”
I am bound to acknowledge, her Ladyship did not shrink from this responsibility of her station. Without caring for the cost,—as often without even inquiring the price,—she selected what she wished; and rows of pearls, diamond bracelets, rings, and head ornaments covered her dressing-table, while sable and Astrakan cloaks, cashmeres, and Genoa velvets littered every corner of the room. “After all,” thought she, as she fixed a jewelled comb in her hair, “it is very nice to be rich; and while delighting yourself you can make so many others happy.”
Doubtless, too, there was some reason in the reflection; and in the smiling faces and grateful glances around her she found a ready confirmation of the sentiment. Happily for her at the moment, she did not know how soon such pleasures pall, and, as happily for ourselves, too, is it the law of our being that they should do so, and that no enjoyment is worth the name which has cost no effort to procure, nor any happiness a boon which has not demanded an exertion to arrive at. If Beecher was startled at the sight of all these costly purchases, his mind was greatly relieved as Grog whispered him that Herr Koch, the banker, had opened a credit for him, on which he might draw as freely as he pleased. The word “Lackington” was a talisman which suddenly converted a sea of storm and peril into a lovely lake only ruffled by a zephyr.
At last the pleasant dinner drew to a close; and as the coffee was brought in, the noise of a carriage beneath the windows attracted them.
“That's my trap,” said Davis; “I ordered it for half past eight, exactly.”
“But there 's no train at this hour,” began Lizzy.
“I know that; but I mean to post all night, and reach Carlsruhe for the first departure in the morning. I 'm due in London on Monday morning,—eh, my Lord?”
“Yes, that you are,” said Beecher; “Dublin, Tuesday evening.”
“Just so,” said Davis, as he arose; “and I mean to keep my time like a pendulum. Can I do any little commission for your Ladyship as I pass through town,—anything at Howell and James's, anything from Storr's?”
“I never heard of them—”
“Quite time enough, Lizzy,” broke in Beecher; “not to say that we might stock a very smart warehouse with the contents of the next room. Don't forget the courier,—he can join us at Rome; and remember, we shall want a cook. The 'Mowbray' have an excellent fellow, and I 'm sure an extra fifty would seduce him, particularly as he hates England, detests a club, and can't abide the 'Sundays;' and my Lady will require something smarter than Annette as a maid.”
“Oh, I could n't part with Annette!”
“Nor need you; but you must have some one who can dress hair in a Christian fashion.”
“And what do you call that?” asked Grog, with a stare of insolent meaning.
“My Lord is quite right in the epithet; for I copied my present coiffure from a picture of a Jewish girl I bought this morning, and I fancy it becomes me vastly.”
There was in the easy coquetry of this speech what at once relieved the awkwardness of a very ticklish moment, and Beecher rewarded her address with a smile of gratitude.
“And the house in Portland Place to be let?” murmured Davis, as he read from his note-book. “What of that box in the Isle of Wight?”
“I rather think we shall keep it on; my sister-in-law liked it, and might wish to go there.”
“Let her buy it or take a lease of it, then,” said Grog. “You 'll see, when you come to look into it, she has been left right well off.”
Beecher turned away impatiently, and made no reply.
“All that Herefordshire rubbish of model farm and farming-stock had better be sold at once. You are not going into that humbug like the late Lord, I suppose?”
“I have come to no determination about Lackington Court as yet,” said Beecher, coldly.
“The sooner you do, then, the better. There's not a more rotten piece of expense in the world than southdowns and shorthorns, except it be Cochin-China hens and blue tulips.”
“Let Fordyce look to my subscriptions at the clubs.”
“Pure waste of money when you are not going back there.”
“But who says that I am not?” asked Beecher, angrily.
“Not yet a bit, at all events,” replied Davis, and with a grin of malicious meaning so significant that Beecher actually sickened with terror.
“It will be quite time enough to make further arrangements when I confer with the members of my family,” said Beecher, haughtily.
To this speech Davis only answered by another grin, that spoke as plain as words could, “Even the high tone will have no effect upon me.” Luckily this penance was not long to endure, for Lizzy had drawn her father aside, and was whispering a few last words to him. It was in a voice so low and subdued they spoke that nothing could be heard; but Beecher imagined or fancied he heard Grog mutter, “'Pluck' will do it; 'pluck' will do anything.” A long, affectionate embrace, and a fondly uttered “Good-bye, girl,” followed, and then, shaking hands with Beecher, Davis lighted his cigar and departed.
Lizzy opened the window, and, leaning over the balcony, watched the carriage as it sped along the valley, the lights appearing and disappearing at intervals. What thoughts were hers as she stood there? Who knows? Did she sorrow after him, the one sole being who had cared for her through life; did her heart sadden at the sense of desertion; was the loneliness of her lot in life then uppermost in her mind; or did she feel a sort of freedom in the thought that now she was to be self-guided and self-dependent? I know not. I can only say that, though a slight flush colored her cheek, she shed no tears; and as she closed the window and returned into the room, her features were calm and emotionless.
“Why did not papa take the route by Strasburg? It is much the shortest?”
“He couldn't,” said Beecher, with a triumphant bitterness,—“he could n't. He can't go near Paris.”
“By Verviers, then, and Belgium?” said she, reddening.
“He'd be arrested in Belgium and tried for his life. He has no road left but down the Rhine to Rotterdam.”
“Poor fellow!” said she, rising, “it must be a real peril that turns him from his path.” There was an accent on the pronoun that almost made the speech a sarcasm; at all events, ere Beecher could notice it, she had left the room.
“Now, if Fortune really meant to do me a good turn,” said Beecher to himself, “she 'd just shove my respected father-in-law, writing-desk, pocket-book, and all, into the 'Rheingau,' never to turn up again.” And with this pious sentiment, half wish, half prayer, he went downstairs and strolled into the street.
As the bracing night air refreshed him, he walked along briskly towards Lindenthal, his mind more at ease than before. It was, indeed, no small boon that the terror of Grog's presence was removed. The man who had seen him in all his transgressions and his shortcomings was, in reality, little else than an open volume of conscience, ever wide spread before him. How could he presume in such a presence to assert one single high or honorable motive? What honest sentiment dare be enunciate? He felt in his heart that the Viscount Lackington with ten thousand a year was not the Honorable Annesley Beecher with three hundred. The noble Lord could smile at the baits that to the younger son were irresistible temptations. There was no necessity that he should plot, scheme, and contrive; or if he did, it should be for a higher prize, or in a higher sphere and with higher antagonists. And yet Grog would not have it so. Let him do what he would, there was the inexorable Davis ever ready to bring down Lackington to the meridian of Beecher! Amidst all the misfortunes of his life, the ever having known this man was the worst,—the very worst!
And now he began to go over in his mind some of the most eventful incidents of this companionship. It was a gloomy catalogue of debauch and ruin. Young fellows entrapped at the very outset in life, led on to play, swindled, “hocussed,” menaced with exposure, threatened with who knows what perils of public scandal if they refused to sign this or that “promise to pay.” Then all the intrigues to obtain the money; the stealthy pursuit of the creditor to the day of his advancement or his marriage; the menaces measured out to the exigencies of the case,—now a prosecution, now a pistol. What a dreadful labyrinth of wickedness was it, and how had he threaded through it undetected! He heaved a heavy sigh as he muttered a sort of thanksgiving that it was all ended at last,—all over! “If it were not for Grog, these memories need never come back to me,” said he. “Nobody wants to recall them against me, and the world will be most happy to dine with the Viscount Lackington without a thought of the transgressions of Annesley Beecher! If it were not for Grog,—if it were not for Grog!” and so ran the eternal refrain at the close of each reflection. “At all events,” said he, “I 'll 'put the Alps between us;'” and early on the following morning the travelling-carriage stood ready at the door, and amidst the bowings and reverences of the hotel functionaries, the “happy pair” set out for Italy.
Do not smile in any derision at the phrase, good reader; the words are classic by newspaper authority; and whatever popular preachers may aver to the contrary, we live in a most charming world, where singleness is blessed and marriage is happy, public speaking is always eloquent, and soldiery ever gallant. Still, even a sterner critic might have admitted that the epithet was not misapplied; for there are worse things in life than to be a viscount with a very beautiful wife, rolling pleasantly along the Via Mala on Collinge's best patent, with six smoking posters, on a bright day of November. This for his share; as to hers, I shall not speak of it. And yet, why should I not? Whatever may be the conflict in the close citadel of the heart, how much of pleasure is derivable from the mere aspect of a beautiful country as one drives rapidly along, swift enough to bring the changes of scene agreeably before the eye, and yet not too fast to admit of many a look at some spot especially beautiful. And then how charming to lose oneself in that-dreamland, where, peopling the landscape with figures of long, long ago, we too have our part, and ride forth at daybreak from some deep-vaulted portal in jingling mail, or gaze from some lone tower over the wide expanse that forms our baronial realm,—visions of ambition, fancies of a lowly, humble life, alternating as the rock-crowned castle or the sheltered cot succeed each other! And lastly, that strange, proud sentiment we feel as we sweep past town and village, where human life goes on in its accustomed track,—the crowd in the market-place, the little group around the inn, the heavy wagon unloading at the little quay, the children hastening on to school,—all these signs of a small, small world of its own, that we, in our greatness, are never again to gaze on, our higher destiny bearing us ever onward to grander and more pretentious scenes.
“And this is Italy?” said Lizzy, half aloud, as, emerging from the mists of the Higher Alps, the carriage wound its zigzag descent from the Splügen, little glimpses of the vast plain of Lombardy coming into view at each turn of the way, and then the picturesque outlines of old ruinous Chiavenna, its tumble-down houses, half hid in trellised vines, and farther on, again, the head of the Lake of Como, with its shores of rugged rock.
“Yes, and this miserable dog-hole here is called Campo Dolcino!” said Beecher, as he turned over the leaves of his “John Murray.” “That's the most remarkable thing about these Italians; they have such high-sounding names for everything, and we are fools enough to be taken in by the sound.”
“It is a delusion that we are rather disposed to indulge in, generally,” said Lizzy. “The words, 'your Majesty' or 'your Highness,' have their own magic in them, even when the representatives respond but little to the station.”
“It was your father, I fancy, taught you that lesson,” said he, peevishly.
“What lesson do you mean?”
“To hold people of high rank cheaply; to imagine that they must be all cheats and impositions.”
“No,” said she, calmly but resolutely. “If he taught me anything on this subject, it was to attribute to persons of exalted station very lofty qualities. What I have to fear is that my expectation will be far above the reality. I can imagine what they might be, but I 'm not so sure it is what I shall find them.”
“You had better not say so to my sister-in-law,” said Beecher, jeeringly.
“It is not my intention,” said she, with the same calm voice.
“I make that remark,” resumed he, “because she has what some people would call exaggerated notions about the superiority of the well-born over all inferior classes; indeed, she is scarcely just in her estimate of low people.”
“Low people are really to be pitied!” said she, with a slight laugh; and Beecher stole a quick glance at her, and was silent.
He was not able long to maintain this reserve. The truth was, he felt an invincible desire to recur to the class in life from which Lizzy came, and to speak disparagingly of all who were humbly born. Not that this vulgarity was really natural to him,—far from it. With all his blemishes and defects he was innately too much a gentleman to descend to this. The secret impulse was to be revenged of Grog Davis; to have the one only possible vengeance on the man that had “done him;” and even though that was only to be exacted through Davis's daughter, it pleased him. And so he went on to tell of the prejudices—absurd, of course—that persons like Lady Georgina would persist in entertaining about common people. “You 'll have to be so careful in all your intercourse with her,” said he; “easy, natural, of course, but never familiar; she would n't stand it.”
“I will be careful,” said Lizzy, calmly.
“The chances are, she 'll find out some one of the name, and ask you, in her own half-careless way, 'Are you of the Staffordshire Davises? or do you belong to the Davises of such a place?'”
“If she should, I can only reply that I don't know,” said Lizzy.
“Oh! but you must n't say that,” laughed out Beecher, who felt a sort of triumph over what he regarded as his wife's simplicity.
“You would not, surely, have me say that I was related to these people?”
“No, not exactly that; but, still, to say that you didn't know whether you were or not, would be a terrible blunder! It would amount to a confession that you were Davises of nowhere at all.”
“Which is about the truth, perhaps,” said she, in the same tone.
“Oh! truth is a very nice thing, but not always pleasant to tell.”
“But don't you think you could save me from an examination in which I am so certain to acquit myself ill, by simply stating that you have married a person without rank, station, or fortune? These facts once understood, I feel certain that her Ladyship will never allude to them unpleasantly.”
“Then there 's another point,” said Beecher, evidently piqued that he had not succeeded in irritating her,—“there 's another point, and you must be especially careful about it,—never, by any chance, let out that you were educated at a school, or a pensionnat, or whatever they call it. If there 's anything she cannot abide, it is the thought of a girl brought up at a school; mind, therefore, only say, 'my governess.'”
She smiled and was silent.
“Then she'll ask you if you had been 'out,' and when you were presented, and who presented you. She 'll do it so quietly and so naturally, you 'd never guess that she meant any impertinence by it.”
“So much the better, for I shall not feel offended.”
“As to the drawing-room,” rejoined Beecher, “you must say that you always lived very retiredly,—never came up to town; that your father saw very little company.”
“Is not this Chiavenna we 're coming to?” asked Lizzy, a slight—but very slight—flush rising to her cheek. And now the loud cracking of the postilions' whips drowned all other sounds as the horses tore along through the narrow streets, making the frail old houses rock and shiver as they passed. A miserable-looking vetturino carriage stood at the inn door, and was dragged hastily out of the way to make room for the more pretentious equipage. Scarcely had the courier got down than the whole retinue of the inn was in motion, eagerly asking if “Milordo” would not alight, if his “Eccellenza” would not take some refreshment.
But his “Eccellenza” would do neither; sooth to say, he was not in the best of humors, and curtly said, “No, I want nothing but post-horses to get out of this wretched place.”
“Is n't that like an Englishman?” said a voice from the vetturino carriage to some one beside him.
“But I know him,” cried the other, leaping out. “It's the new Viscount Lackington.” And with this he approached the carriage, and respectfully removing his hat, said, “How d'ye do, my Lord?”
“Ah, Spicer! you here?” said Beecher, half haughtily. “Off to England, I suppose?”
“No, my Lord, I 'm bound for Rome.”
“So are we, too. Lady Lackington and myself,” added be, correcting at once a familiar sort of a glance that Spicer found time to bestow upon Lizzy. “Do you happen to know if Lady Georgina is there?”
“Yes, my Lord, at the Palazzo Gondi, on the Pintian;” and here Spicer threw into his look an expression of respectful homage to her Ladyship.
“Palazzo Gondi; will you try and remember that address?” said Beecher to his wife. And then, waving his hand to Spicer, he added, “Good-bye,—meet you at Rome some of these days,” and was gone.
CHAPTER XXVIII. AT ROME
In a small and not very comfortably furnished room looking out upon the Pintian Hill at Rome, two ladies were seated, working,—one in deep mourning, whose freshness indicated a recent loss; the other in a strangely fashioned robe of black silk, whose deep cape and rigid absence of ornament recalled something of the cloister. The first was the widowed Viscountess Lackington; the second the Lady Grace Twining, a recent convert to Rome, and now on her way to some ecclesiastical preferment in the Church, either as “Chanoinesse,” or something equally desirable. Lady Lackington looked ill and harassed; there were not on her face any traces of deep sorrow or affliction, but the painful marks of much thought. It was the expression of one who had gone through a season of trial wherein she had to meet events and personages all new and strange to her. It was only during the last few days of Lord Lackington's illness that she learned the fact of a contested claim to the title, but, brief as was the time, every post brought a mass of letters bearing on this painful topic. While the lawyers, therefore, showered their unpleasant and discouraging tidings, there was nothing to be heard of Beecher; none knew where he was, or how a letter was to reach him. All her own epistles to him remained unacknowledged. Fordyce's people could not trace him, neither could Mr. Dunn, and there was actually the thought of asking the aid of that inquisitorial service whose detective energies are generally directed in the pursuit of guilt.
If Annesley Beecher might be slow to acknowledge the claims of fraternal affection, there was no one could accuse him of any lukewarmness to his own interests, and though it was now two months and upwards since the Viscount's death, yet he had never come forward to assert his new rank and station. Whatever suspicions might have weighed down the mind of the Viscountess regarding this mysterious disappearance, the language of all the lawyers' letters was assuredly ill calculated to assuage. They more than hinted that they suspected some deep game of treachery and fraud. Beecher's long and close intimacy with the worst characters of the turf—men notorious for their agency in all the blackest intrigues—was continually brought up. His life of difficulty and strait, his unceasing struggle to meet his play engagements, driving him to the most ruinous compacts, all were quoted to show that to a man of such habits and with such counsellors any compromise would be acceptable that offered present and palpable advantages in lieu of a possible and remote future.
The very last letter the Viscountess received from Fordyce contained this startling passage: “It being perfectly clear that Mr. Beecher would only be too ready to avail himself of his newly acquired privileges if he could, we must direct our sole attention to those circumstances which may explain why he could not declare himself the Viscount Lackington. Now, the very confident tone lately assumed by the Conway party seems to point to this mysterious clew, and everything I learn more and more disposes me to apprehend a shameful compromise.”
It was with the letter that contained this paragraph before her Lady Lackington now sat, affecting to be engaged in her work, but in reality reading over, for the fiftieth time, the same gloomy passage.
“Is it not incredible that, constituted as the world now is, with its railroads and its telegraphs, you cannot immediately discover the whereabouts of any missing individual?” said Lady Lackington.
“I really think he must have been murdered,” said Lady Grace, with the gentlest of accents, while she bent her head over the beautiful altar-cloth she was embroidering.
“Nonsense,—absurdity! such a crime would soon have publicity enough.”
Lady Grace gave a smile of compassionate pity at the speech, but said nothing.
“I can't imagine how you could believe such a thing possible,” said the Viscountess, tartly.
“I can only say, my dear, that no later than last night Monsignore assured me that, through M. Mazzini and the Bible societies, you can make away with any one in Europe, and, indeed, in most parts of the world besides. Don't smile so contemptuously, my dear. Remember who it is says this. Of course, as he remarks, the foolish newspapers have their own stupid explanations always ready, at one moment calling it a political crime, at another the act of insanity, and so on. They affected this language about Count Rossi, and then about the dear and sainted Archbishop of Paris; but what true believer ever accepted this?”
“Monsignore would not hold this language to me,” said Lady Lackington, haughtily.
“Very probably not, dearest; he spoke in confidence when he mentioned it to me.”
“I mean, that he would hesitate ere he forfeited any respect I entertain for his common-sense by the utterance of such wild absurdity. What is it, Turner?” asked she, suddenly, as her maid entered.
“Four packing-cases have just come, my Lady, with Mr. Spicer's respectful compliments, and that he will be here immediately,—he has only gone to change his dress.”
“Why don't he come at once? I don't care for his dress.”
“No, my Lady, of course not,” said Turner, and retired.
“I must say he has made haste,” said Lady Lackington, languidly. “It was only on the eighth or the ninth, I think, he left this, and as he had to get all my mourning things,—I had actually nothing,—and to go down to Lackington Court, and then to Wales, and after that to the Isle of Wight, what with lawyers and other tiresome people to talk to, he has really not done badly.”
“I hope he has brought the chalice,” sighed Lady Grace.
“I hope he has brought some tidings of my respectable brother-in-law,” said the Viscountess, in a tone that seemed to say where the really important question lay.
“And the caviare,—I trust he has not forgotten the caviare. It is the only thing Monsignore eats at breakfast in Advent.”
An insolent gesture of the head was all the acknowledgment Lady Lackington vouchsafed to this speech. At last she spoke: “When he can get horse-racing out of his head, Spicer is a very useful creature.”
“Very, indeed,” said Lady Grace.
“The absurd notion that he is a sporting character is the parent of so many other delusions; he fancies himself affluent, and, stranger still, imagines he's a gentleman.” And the idea so amused her Ladyship that she laughed aloud at it.
“Mr. Spicer, my Lady,” said a servant, flinging wide the door; and in a most accurate morning-dress, every detail of which was faultless, that gentleman bowed his way across the room with an amount of eagerness that might possibly exact a shake of the hand, but, if unsuccessful, might easily subside into a colder acceptance. Lady Lackington vouchsafed nothing beyond a faint smile, and the words, “How d'ye do?” as with a slight gesture she motioned to him the precise chair he was to seat himself on. Before taking his place, Mr. Spicer made a formal bow to Lady Grace, who, with a vacant smile, acknowledged the courtesy, and went on with her work.
“You have made very tolerable haste, Spicer,” said Lady Lackington. “I scarcely expected you before Saturday.”
“I have not been to bed for six nights, my Lady.”
“You 'll sleep all the better for it to-night, perhaps.”
“We had an awful gale of wind in crossing to Calais,—the passage took eight hours.”
“You relished land travelling all the more for it afterwards.”
“Not so, my Lady; for at Lyons the whole country was flooded, and we were obliged to march eleven miles afoot on a railway embankment, and under a tremendous storm of rain; but even that was not the worst, for in crossing the St. Bernard—”
“I really don't care for such moving accidents; I always skip them in the newspapers. What of my mourning,—is much crape worn?”
“A great deal of crape, my Lady, and in 'bouffes' down the dress.”
“With bugles or without? I see by your hesitation, sir, you have forgotten about the bugles.”
“No, my Lady, I have them,” said he, proudly; “small acorns of Jet are also worn on points of the flounces, and Madame Frontin suggested that, as your Ladyship dislikes black so much—”
“But who said as much, sir?” broke she in, angrily.
“And the caviare, Mr. Spicer,—have you remembered the caviare?” lisped out Lady Grace.
“Yes, my Lady; but Fortnum's people are afraid some of it may prove a failure. There was something, I don't know what, happened to the fish in the Baltic this year.”
“Who ventured to say black was unbecoming to me?” asked Lady Lackington, changing her question, and speaking more angrily.
“It was Frontin, my Lady, who remarked that you once had said nothing would ever induce you to wear that odious helmet widows sometimes put on.”
“Oh dear; and I have such a fancy for it,” exclaimed Lady Grace.
“You mistake, my dear; you are confounding the occasion with the costume,” said Lady Lackington; and her eyes sparkled with the malice of her remark.
Mr. Spicer's face exhibited as much enjoyment of the wit as he deemed decorous to the party satirized.
“And now, sir, for the important part of your mission r have you obtained any information about my brother-in-law?”
“Yes, my Lady, I saw him at Chiavenna. He drove up to the post-house to change horses as we were there; he told me, in the few minutes we spoke together, that they were on their way to Rome.”
“Whom do you mean, sir, when you say 'they'?”
“Lord and Lady Lackington, my Lady.”
“Is he married? Did you say he was married, sir?'” exclaimed she, in a voice discordant above all her efforts to restrain.
“Yes, my Lady; I was, in a manner, presented to her Ladyship, who was, I must say, a very beautiful person—”
“I want no raptures, sir; are you quite certain she was his wife?”
“His Lordship told me so, my Lady; and when they reached the Hôtel Royal, at Milan, I took occasion to question the courier! whom I knew before, and he told me all about it.”
“Go on, sir.”
“Well, my Lady, they were just married about ten or twelve days when I met them; the ceremony had been performed in some little out-of-the-way spot in the Rhine country, where Mr. Beecher had been staying for the summer, and where, as it happened, he never received any tidings of the late Lord's death, or the presumption is, he had never made this unfortunate connection.”
“What do you mean by 'unfortunate connection '?”
“Why, one must really call it so, my Lady; the world, at least, will say as much.”
“Who is she, sir?”
“She's the daughter of one of the most notorious men in England, my Lady,—the celebrated leg, Grog Davis.”
Ah, Mr. Spicer, small and insignificant as you are, you have your sting, and her Ladyship has felt it. These words, slowly uttered in a tone of assumed sorrow, so overcame her they were addressed to, that she covered her face with her handkerchief and sat thus, speechless, for several minutes. To Spicer it was a moment of triumph,—it was a vengeance for all the insults, all the slights she showered upon him, and he only grieved to think how soon her proud spirit would rally from the shock.
Lady Lackington's face, as she withdrew her handkerchief, was of ashy paleness, and her bloodless lips trembled with emotion. “Have you heard what this man has said, Grace?” whispered she, in a voice so distinct as to be audible throughout the room.
“Yes, dearest; it is most distressing,” said the other, in the softest of accents.
“Distressing! It is an infamy!” cried she. Then suddenly turning to Spicer, with flaring eyes and flushed face, she said, “You have rather a talent for blundering, sir, and it is just as likely this is but a specimen of your powers. I am certain she is not his wife.”
“I can only say, my Lady, that I took pains enough to get the story accurately; and as Kuffner, the courier, was at the marriage—”
“Marriage!” broke she in, with a sarcastic irony; “why, sir, it is not thus a peer of England selects the person who is to share his dignity.”
“But you forget, my Lady,” interposed Spicer, “that he did n't know he was a peer—he had not the slightest expectation of being one—at the time. Old Grog knew it—”
“Have a care, sir, and do not you forget yourself. These familiar epithets are for your associates in the ring, and not for my ears.”
“Well, the Captain, my Lady,—he is as well known by that name as the other,—he had all the information, and kept back the letters, and managed the whole business so cleverly that the first Mr. Beeeher ever knew of his. Lordship's death was when hearing it from Mr. Twining at Baden.”
“I thought Mr. Twining was in Algiers, or Australia, I forget which,” said Lady Grace, gently.
“Such a marriage must be a mockery,—a mere mockery. He shall break it,—he must break it!” said Lady Lacking-ton, as she walked up and down with the long strides and the step of a tigress in a cage.
“Oh dear! they are so difficult to break!” sighed Lady-Grace. “Mr. Twining always promised me a divorce when the law came in and made it so cheap, and now he says that it's all a mistake, and until another Bill, or an Act, or something or other, is passed, that it's a luxury far above persons of moderate fortune.”
“Break it he shall,” muttered Lady Lackington, as she continued her march.
“Of course, dearest, expense doesn't signify to you,” sighed out Lady Grace.
“And do you mean to tell me, sir,” said Lady Lacking-ton, “that this is the notorious Captain Davis of whose doings we have been reading in every newspaper?”
“Yes, my Lady, he is the notorious”—he was going to say “Grog,” but corrected himself, and added—“Captain Davis, and has been for years back the intimate associate of the present Lord Lackington.”
Mr. Spicer was really enjoying himself on this occasion, nor was it often his fortune to give her Ladyship so much annoyance innocuously. His self-indulgence, however, carried him too far; for Lady Lackington, suddenly turning round, caught the expression of gratified malice on his face.
“Take care, sir,—take care,” she cried, with a menacing gesture of her finger. “There may chance to be a flaw somewhere in your narrative; and if there should, Mr. Spicer,—if there should,—I don't think Lord Lackington would forget it,—I am sure I sha'n't.” And with this threatening declaration her Ladyship swept out of the room in most haughty fashion.
“This is all what comes of being obliging,” exclaimed Spicer, unable to control himself any longer. “It was not I that threw Beecher into Grog's company,—it was not I that made him marry Grog's daughter. For all that I cared, he might go and be a monk at La Trappe, or marry as many wives as Brigham Young himself.”
“I hope you brought me Lady Gertrude Oscot's book, Mr. Spicer,—'Rays through Oriel Windows'?” said Lady Grace, in one of her sweetest voices. “She is such a charming poetess.”
“I'd lay my life on't, she's just as wide-awake as her father,” muttered Spicer to himself.
“As wide-awake? Dear me, what can you mean?”
“That's she's fly—up to trap—oh, is n't she!” went he on, still communing to himself.
“Lady Gertrude Oscot, sir?”
“No; but Grog Davis's daughter,—the new Viscountess Lackington,—my Lady. I was thinking of her,” said Spicer, suddenly recalled to a sense of where he stood.
“I protest, sir, I cannot understand how two persons so totally dissimilar could occur to any mind at the same moment.” And with this Lady Grace gathered up the details of her embroidery, and courtesying a deep and formal adieu, left the room.
“Haven't I gone and done it with both of them!” said Spicer, as he took out his cigar-case to choose a cigar; not that he had the slightest intention of lighting it in such a place,—no profanity of the kind ever occurred to him,—all he meant was the mock bravado to himself of an act that seemed to imply so much coolness, such collected courage. As to striking a light, he 'd as soon have done it in a magazine.
And sticking his cigar in his mouth, he left the house; even in the street he forgot to light it, and strolled along, turning his weed between his lips, and revolving no very pleasant thoughts in his mind: “All the way to England, down to Wales, then the Isle of Wight, seeing no end of people,—lawyers, milliners, agents, proctors, jewellers, and dressmakers—eternal explainings and expostulatings, begging for this, deprecating that; asking this man to be active and the other to be patient; and then back again over the whole breadth of Europe in atrocious weather, sea-sick and land-sick, tossed, Jolted, and shaken,—and all for what,—ay, for what? To be snubbed, outraged, and insulted, treated like a lackey,—no, but ten times worse than any lackey would bear. And why should I bear it? That's the question. Why should I? Does it signify a brass farthing to me whether the noble house of Lackington quarters its arms with the cogged dice and the marked king of the Davises? What do I care about their tarnished shield? It's rather cool of my lady to turn upon me!” Well reasoned and true, Mr. Spicer; you have but forgotten one small item in the account, which is the consideration accorded to you by your own set, because you were seen to mingle with those so much above you.
We are told that when farthings are shaken up a sufficiently long time with guineas in a bag, they acquire a sort of yellow lustre, which, though by no means enabling them to pass for guineas, still makes them wonderfully bright farthings, and doubtless would render them very intolerant in the company of their equals. Such was, in a measure, what had happened to Mr. Spicer; and though at first sight the process would seem a gain, it is in reality the reverse, since, after this mock gilding, the coin—whether it be man or farthing—has lost its stamp of truthfulness, and will not “pass” for even the humble value it once represented.
“At all events,” thought Mr. Spicer, as he went along, “her Ladyship has not come off scot free for all her impertinence. I have given her materials for a very miserable morning, and irritated the very sorest spot in all her mind. It was just the very lesson she wanted; there's nothing will do her so much good in the world.”
It is by no means an uncommon delusion for ill-natured people to fancy that they are great moral physicians, and that the bitters they drop into your wine-glass and my teacup are admirable tonics, which our constitutions require. The drug is not always an evil, but the doctor is detestable.
As Spicer drew nigh one of the great hotels in the Piazza di Spagna, he recognized Beecher's travelling-carriage just being unloaded at the door. They had arrived at that moment, and the courier was bustling about and giving his orders like one whose master was likely to exact much and pay handsomely.
“The whole of the first floor, Freytag,” said the courier, authoritatively; “every room of it. My Lord cannot bear the disturbance of people lodged near him.”
“He used not to be so particular in the 'Bench,'” muttered Spicer. “I remember his sleeping one of three in a room.”
“Ah, Mr. Spicer, my Lord said, if I should meet you, to mention he wishes to see you.”
“Do you think he'd receive me now, Kuffner?”
“Well, I 'll go and see.”
Mr. Kuffner came speedily back, and, beckoning to Spicer to follow, led the way to Lord Lackington's room. “He is dressing for dinner, but will see you,” added he, as he introduced him.
The noble Viscount did not turn from the mirror at which he was elaborately arranging his neckcloth as Spicer entered, but satisfied himself with calling out, “Take a chair, Spicer; you 'll find one somewhere.”
The tone of the salutation was not more significant than the aspect of this room itself. All the articles of a costly dressing-case of silver-gilt were ranged on one table Essence-bottles, snuff-boxes, pipe-heads, with rings, jewelled buttons, and such-like knick-knackeries covered another; whatever fancy could suggest or superfluity compass of those thousand-and-one trinkets the effeminacy of our age has introduced into male costume, all abounded. Quantities, too, of the most expensive clothes were there,—rich uniforms, fur-lined pelisses, and gold-embroidered waistcoats. And as Mr. Spicer quickly made the tour of these with his eye, his gaze rested at last on my Lord himself, whose dressing-gown of silver brocade would have made a state robe for a Venetian Doge.
“Everything is in confusion just now; but if you 'll throw down some of those things, you 'll get a chair,” said Beecher, carelessly.
Spicer, however, preferred to take his place at the chimney, on which he leaned in an attitude that might take either the appearance of respect or familiarity, as the emergency required.
“When did you arrive?” asked my Lord.
“About two hours ago,” was the short reply.
Beecher turned to gaze at the man, who answered without more semblance of deference, and now, for the first time, their eyes met. It was, evidently, Spicer's game, by a bold assertion of former intimacy, to place their future intercourse on its old footing; and just as equally decided was Beecher that no traditions of the past should rise up and obtrude themselves on the present, and so he threw into this quiet, steady stare an amount of haughty resolution, before which Spicer quailed and struck his flag.
“Perhaps I should say three hours, my Lord,” added Spicer, flurriedly; and Beecher turned away with a slight curl on his lip, as though to say, “The conflict was not a very long one.” Spicer marked the expression, and vowed vengeance for it.
“I thought you 'd have got here two or three days before,” said Beecher, carelessly.
“Vetturino travelling is not like extra-post, my Lord,” said Spicer, fawningly. “You could cover your hundred miles between breakfast and a late dinner, while we thought ourselves wonderful to get over forty from sunrise to midnight.”
“That's true,” yawned out Beecher; “vetturino work must be detestable.”
“No man could give you a better catalogue of its grievances than your father-in-law, my Lord; he has had a long experience of them. I remember, one winter, we started from Brussels in the deep snow,—there was Baring, Hope, Fisk, Grog, and myself.”
“I don't care to hear your adventures; and it would be just as agreeable to me were you to call my relative Captain Davis, as to speak of him by a vulgar nickname.”
“Faith, my Lord, I did n't mean it. It slipped out quite unconsciously, Just as it did awhile ago,—far more awkwardly, by the bye,—when I was talking to Lady Lacking-ton. The dowager, I mean.”
“And what occasion, sir, had you to refer to Captain Davis in her company?” asked Beecher, fiercely.
“She asked me plumply, my Lord, what was her Ladyship's name, what family she came of, who her connections were, and I told her that I never heard of any of them, except her father, popularly known as Grog Davis,—a man that every one on the turf was acquainted with.”
“You are a malicious scoundrel, Spicer,” said Beecher, whose pale cheek now shook and trembled with passion.
“Well, I don't think so, my Lord,” said the other, quietly. “It is not, certainly, the character the world gives me. And as to what passed between her Ladyship and myself this afternoon, I did my very best to escape difficulties. I told her that the Brighton affair was almost forgotten now,—it was fully eighteen years since it happened; that as to Charles Herbert's death, there were two stories,—some averring that poor Charley had actually struck Grog; and then, though the York trial was a public scandal—Well, my Lord, don't look so angrily at me; it was by no fault of mine these transactions became notorious.”
“And what have you been all your whole life to this Davis but his cad and errand-boy,—a fellow he has sent with a bad horse,—for he would not have trusted you with a good one,—to run for a hack stakes in an obscure county, a lounger about stables and the steps of club-houses, picking up scraps of news from the jocks and selling them to the gentlemen? Does it become you to turn out Kit Davis and run full cry after him?”
It was but rarely that Beecher's indignation could warm up to the temperature of downright passion; but when it did so, it gave the man a sort of power that few would have recognized in his weak and yielding nature; at all events, Spicer was not the man to stem such a torrent, and so he stared at him with mingled terror and anger.
“I tell you, Mr. Spicer,” added Beecher, more passionately still, “if you hadn't known Davis was a thousand miles away, you 'd never have trusted yourself to speak of him in this fashion; but, for your comfort I say it, he 'll be here in a day or two.”
“I never said a word of him you 'd not find in the newspapers,” said Spicer, doggedly.
“When you come to settle accounts together, it will surprise me very much if there won't be matter for another paragraph in them,” said Beecher, with a sneer.
Spicer winced; he tried to arrange his neckcloth, and then to button his glove, but all his efforts could not conceal a tremor that shook him from head to foot. Now, when Beecher got his “man down,” he never thought he could trample enough upon him; and as he walked the room in hasty strides to and fro, he jeeringly pictured to Spicer the pleasures of his next meeting with Davis: not, indeed, but that all his eloquence was superfluous; it needed no descriptive powers to convince any who enjoyed Grog's friendship what his enmity might imply.
“I know him as well as you do, my Lord,” said Spicer, as his patience at last gave way; “and I know, besides, there's more than half the Continent where he can't set a foot.”
“Perhaps you mentioned that, also, to my sister-in-law,” said Beecher, derisively.
“No, I said nothing about it!” muttered the other.
There was now a pause; each only waited for any, the slightest show of concession to make advances to the other; for although without the slightest particle of good feeling on either side, they well knew the force of the adage that enjoins friendship among knaves. My Lord thoroughly appreciated the utility of a Spicer; well did Spicer understand all the value of a peer's acquaintance.
Each ruminated long over the situation; and at last Beecher said, “Did poor Lackington leave you anything in his will?”
“A racing snaffle and two whips, my Lord.”
“Poor fellow, he never forgot any one, I 'm sure,” sighed Beecher.
“He had a wonderful memory, indeed, my Lord; for I had borrowed twenty pounds of him at the Canterbury races some ten years ago, and he said to me, just before he took to bed, 'Never mind the trifle that's between us, Spicer; I shall not take it.'”
“Good-hearted, generous fellow!” muttered Beecher.
Spicer's mouth twitched a little, but he did not speak.
“There never was a better brother, never!” said Beecher, far more intent upon the display of his own affectionate sorrow than in commemorating fraternal virtues. “We never had a word of disagreement in our lives. Poor Lackington! he used to think he was doing the best by me by keeping me so tight, and always threatening to cut me down still lower; he meant it for the best, but you know I could n't live upon it, the thing was impossible. If I had n't been one of the 'wide-awakes,' I 'd have gone to the wall at once; and let me tell you, Master Spicer, it wasn't every fellow would have kept his head over water where I was swimming.”
“That I 'm convinced of,” said Spicer, gravely.
“Well, it's a long lane has no turning, Spicer,” said he, oomplacently looking at himself in the glass. “Even a runaway pulls up somewhere; not but I'm sorry from the bottom of my heart for poor Lack, but it will be our own turn one of these days; that's a match there's no paying forfeit on, eh, Spicer? it must come off whether we will or not!”
“So it must, my Lord,” sighed out Spicer, sympathetically.
“Ay, by Jove! whether a man leaves twelve thousand a year or only two hundred behind him,” sighed out Beecher, who could not help making the application to himself.
Again did Spicer sigh, and so profoundly, it might have represented grief for the whole peerage.
“I say, old fellow,” said Beecher, clapping him familiarly on the shoulder, “I wish you had n't told Georgy all that stuff about Davis; these things do no good.”
“I assure you solemnly, my Lord, I said it with the best motives; her Ladyship would certainly learn the whole history somewhere, and so I thought I 'd just sketch the thing off in a light, easy way.”
“Come, come, Spicer,—no gammon, my lad; you never tried any of your light, easy ways with my sister-in-law. At all events, it's done, and can't be undone now,” sighed he, drearily. Then, after a moment, he added, “How did she take the news?”
“Well, at first, my Lord, she wouldn't believe it, but went on, 'She's not his wife, sir; I tell you they're not married,' and so on.”
“Well,—and then?”
“Then, my Lord, I assured her that there could be no doubt of the matter; that your Lordship had done me the honor of presenting me—”
“Which I never did, Master Spicer,” laughed in Beecher,—“you know well enough that I never did; but a fib won't choke you, old fellow.”
“At all events, I made it clear that you were really married, and to the daughter of a man that would send you home on a shutter if you threw any doubt on it.”
“Wouldn't he, by Jupiter!” exclaimed Beecher, with all the sincerity of a great fact “Well, after that, how did she take on?”
“She did n't say a word, but rocked from side to side, this way,—like one going to faint; and, indeed, her color all went, and she was pale as a corpse; and then she took long breaths, and muttered below her voice, 'This is worst of all!' After that she rallied, and certainly gave it to your Lordship in round style, but always winding it up with, 'Break it he shall, and must, if it was the Archbishop of Canterbury married them.'”
“Very fine talking, Master Spicer, but matrimony is a match where you can't scratch and pay forfeits. I wish you could,” muttered he to himself. “I wish you had the presence of mind and the pluck to have told her that it was my affair, and not hers. As to the honor of the Lackingtons and all that lot, she is n't a Lackington any more than you are,—she 's a De Tracey; good blood, no better, but she isn't one of us, and you ought to have told her so.”
“I own I 'd not have had courage for that!” said Spicer, candidly.
“That's what I'd have said in your place, Spicer. The present Viscount Lackington is responsible to himself, and not to the late Lord's widow; and, what's more, he is no flat, without knowledge of men and the world, but a fellow with both eyes open, and who has gone through as smart a course of education as any man in the ring. Take up the Racing Calendar, and show me any one, since Huckaback beat Crim. Con., that ever got it so 'hot' as I have. No, no, my Lady, it won't do, preaching to me about 'life.' If I don't know a thing or two, who does? If you 'd have had your wits about you, Spicer, that's what you 'd have told her.”
“I'm not so ready at a pinch as you are, my Lord,” muttered Spicer, who affected sullenness.
“Few are, Master Spicer,—very few are, I can tell you;” and in the pleasure of commending and complimenting himself and his own great gifts, Beecher speedily ceased to remember. What so lately had annoyed him. “Dine here at seven, Spicer,” said he, at last, “and I'll present you to my Lady. She 'll be amused with you.” Though the last words were uttered in a way that made their exact significance somewhat doubtful, Mr. Spicer never sought to canvass them; he accepted the invitation in good part, for he was one of those men who, though they occasionally “quarrel with their bread-and-butter,” are wise enough never to fall out with their truffles.