Long before Lizzy had composed herself to sleep—for her heart was torn by a first sorrow, and she lay restless and fevered—her father, mounted on a post-horse, was riding away towards the Rhine. He had desired that the reply to his telegraphic message should be addressed to him at the post-office of Neuwied, and thither he was now bent. It is a strange thing, that when the affections of men of this stamp are deeply moved,—when their sensibilities, long dulled and hardened by the rubs of life, are once evoked,—the feelings excited are less those of gentleness and tenderness than an almost savage desire for some personal conflict. Urging his horse to full speed, Davis spared neither whip nor spur. Alone upon that solitary road, he asked himself aloud if he were less alone in the broad, bleak world? “Is not the 'field' against me wherever I go? I never heard of the fellow that had not some 'moorings'—some anchorage—except myself.” But a brief hour ago and there was one who loved him with all her heart,—who saw, or fancied she saw, a rich mine of generous qualities in his rough manners and blunt address,—who pictured to her mind what such a nature might have been under happier circumstances and with better culture. “And now,” cried he, aloud,—“now she knows me for what I am, how will she bear this? Will she sink under it, will it crush her, or has she enough of my own blood in her veins to meet it courageously? Oh! if she only knew the world as I do,—what a mean coward it is, how it bullies the weak and truckles to the strong, how it frowns down the timid and simpers to the sturdy! Every man—ay, and every woman—can sell his life dearly; and strange it is, one only learns the value of this secret too late. Let a fellow start with it, and see what it does for him. I went at them single-handed; I went down all alone into the ring, and have they beaten me? I had no honorable or right honorable friends to pick me out of a scrape. It would be hard to find three men, with good hats on them, would bail me to the amount of ten pounds; and here I am to-day just as ready to face them all as ever.”
What canting nonsense do we occasionally read in certain quarters to disparage mere personal courage,—“mere personal courage”! We are reminded that the ignoble quality is held in common with the bull-dog, and that in this essential he is our master; we are reminded that it is a low and vulgar attribute that neither elevates nor enlightens, that the meanest creatures are often gifted with it, and the noblest natures void of it. To all this we give a loud and firm denial; and we affirm as steadfastly, that without it there is neither truth nor manliness. The self-reliance that makes a man maintain his word, be faithful to his friendships, and honorable in his dealings, has no root in a heart that shakes with craven fear. The life of a coward is the voyage of a ship with a leak,—eternal contrivance, never-ceasing emergency. All thoughts dashed with a perpetual fear of death, what room is there for one generous emotion, one great or high-hearted ambition?
What a quality must that be, I would ask, that gives even to such a nature as this man's a sort of rugged dignity? Yes, with all his failings and short-comings, and I am not going to hide one of them, his personal courage lifted him out of that category of contempt to which his life assigned him. How well the world understands such men to be the feræ naturæ of humanity! It may shun, deprecate, disparage, but it never despises them. If then of such value be a gift that makes even the bad appear tolerable, there is this evil in the quality, that it disposes men like Davis to be ever on the attack. Their whole policy of life is aggressive.
It was about eight o'clock, on a mellow autumnal morning, as Grog reached Neuwied, and rode down the main street, already becoming thronged with the peasantry for the market: Guiding his horse carefully through the booths of flaunting wares, gay stalls of rural finery, and stands of fruit, he reached the little inn where he meant to breakfast.
The post was not to open for an hour, so that he ordered his meal to be at once got ready, and looked also to the comfort of his beast, somewhat blown by a long stage. His breakfast had been laid in the public room, in which two travellers were seated, whose appearance, even before he heard them speak, proclaimed them to be English. They were both young, fresh-looking, and well favored; that stamp of half-modesty, half-boldness, so essentially British, was on them, and, notwithstanding the entrance of a stranger, they talked away in their native language with all the fearless security your genuine John Bull feels that no confounded foreigner can understand him. It is but fair to admit that Grog's beard and moustaches, his frogged and braided grass-green coat, and his blue spectacles made him resemble anything on earth rather than a subject of Queen Victoria.
In the mere glance Grog bestowed upon them as he passed, he saw the class to which they pertained,—young Oxford or Cambridge men, “out” for their vacation,—an order for which he ever entertained a supreme contempt. He despised their mock shrewdness, their assumed craft, and that affectation of being “fast men,” which in reality never soared above running up a bill at the pastrycook's, thrashing a townsman, and giving a stunning wine-party at their rooms. To what benefit could such miniature vices be turned? It was only “punting” with the Evil One, and Grog thought so and avoided them.
Deep in the “mysterious gutturals” of the “Cologne Gazette,” or busily discussing his carbonadoed beefsteak, Davis gave no heed to the bald, disjointed chat of his neighbors; broken phrases reached him at intervals about proctors and the “little go,” the stroke oar of Brazennose, or some new celebrity of the ballet, when suddenly the name of Annesley Beecher startled him. He now listened attentively, and heard one of them relating to the other that while waiting for his arrival at Aix la-Chapelle, he had devoted himself to watching Beecher and “the stunning girl” that was with him. It appeared from what he said that all Aix was wildly excited by curiosity on her account. That she was neither wife, sister, nor mistress, none disputed. Who was she, then? or what could be the explanation of that mysterious companionship? “You should have seen her at the rooms,” continued the narrator; “she used to make her appearance about eleven—rarely before—dressed with a magnificence that threw all the little German royalties into the shade,—such lace and ornaments! They said, of course, it was all false; I can only tell you that old Lady Bamouth got beside her one night just to examine her scarf, and she proclaimed it real Brussels, and worth I can't say how much; and for the recovery of an opal that fell out of her bracelet one night Beecher gave six hundred francs next morning.”
“Then it was the money was false,” broke in the other; “Beecher is ruined, he hasn't sixpence,—at least I've always heard him mentioned as a fellow regularly cleaned out years ago.”
“He was before my day,” resumed the first; “but I heard the same story you did. But what's the meaning of calling a fellow ruined that can go about the world stopping at first-rate hotels, having carriages, horses, opera-boxes? Why, the waiter at Aix told me that he paid above five hundred florins for flowers. This girl, whoever she was, was wild about moss-roses and pink hyacinths, and they fetched them from Rotterdam for her. Pretty well that for a ruined man!”
“Perhaps it was she herself had the money,” suggested the other, half carelessly.
“That's possible, too; I know that whenever she came down to the wells and took a glass of the waters, she always gave a gold piece to the girl that served her.”
“Then she was not a lady by birth; that trait is quite sufficient to decide the point.”
Davis started as if he had been stung; here, from the lips of these raw youths, was he to receive a lesson in life, and be told that all the cost and splendor by which he purposed to smooth over the difficult approaches to society were fatal blunders and no more,—that the very extravagance so imposing in one of acknowledged station becomes “suspect” in those of dubious rank. Like all men of quick resentments, he soon turned the blame from himself to others. It was Lizzy's fault. What right had she to draw upon herself all the censorious tongues of a watering-place? Why should she have attracted this foolish notoriety? After all, she was new to life and the world, and might be pardoned; but Beecher,—it was just the one solitary thing he did know,—Beecher ought to have warned her against this peril; he ought to have guarded against it himself. Why should such a girl be exposed to the insolent comments of fellows like these? and he measured them deliberately, and thought over in his mind how little trouble it would cost him to put two families into mourning,—mayhap, to throw a life-long misery into some happy home, and change the whole destinies of many he had never seen,—never should see! There was, however, this difficulty, that in doing so he drew a greater publicity upon her,—all whose interests required secrecy and caution. “'Till she have the right to another name than mine, she must not be the talk of newspapers,” said he to himself; and, like many a prudent reflection, it had its sting of pain.
These meditations were rudely cut short by the sound of his own name. It was the elder of the two young men who was discussing the duel at Brussels, and detailing, with all the influence of his superior experience, the various reasons “why no man was called upon to meet such a fellow as Davis.” “I talked it over with Stan worth and Ellis, and they both agreed with me.”
“But what is to be done?” asked the younger.
“You hand him over to the police, or you thrash him right well with a horsewhip, pay five pounds penalty for the assault, and there's an end on't.”
“And is 'Grog' as they call him, the man to put up with that mode of treatment?”
“What can he do? Notoriety must ruin him. The moment it gets abroad that a wolf has been seen near a village, all turn out for the pursuit.”
Had he who uttered this sentiment only cast his eyes towards the stranger at the table in the corner, he would have seen, by the expression of the features, that his simile was not a bad one. Davis shook with passion, and his self-control, to sit still and listen, was almost like a fit.
“All the more ungenerous, then, would be the conduct,” said the younger, “to resent a personal wrong by calling in others to your aid.”
“Don't you see, George,” broke in the other, “that men have their beasts of prey like other animals, and agree to hunt them down, out of common security, for the mischief he causes, and the misery he spreads through the world? One of these fellows in his lair is worse than any tiger that ever crouched in a jungle. And as to dealing with him, as Ellis says, do you ever talk of giving a tiger fair play,—do you make a duel of it, with equal weapons; or do you just shoot him down when you can and how you can?”
Davis arose and drew himself up, and there was a moment of irresolution in his mind, of which, could the two travellers-have read the secret, they would almost as soon have smoked their cigars in the den of a wild beast. And yet there they sat, puffing indolently away the blue cloud, scarcely deigning a passing glance at Grog, as he proceeded to leave the room.
Anatomists assure us that if we but knew the delicate tissues by which the machinery of our life is carried on, how slight the fibres, how complex the functions on which vitality depends, we should not have courage to move, or even speak, lest we should destroy an organization so delicate and sensitive. In like manner, did we but know in life the perils over which we daily pass, the charged mines over which we walk, the volcanoes that are actually throbbing beneath our feet, what terrors would it give to mere existence! It was on the turn of a straw how Davis decided,—a word the more, a look from one of them, a laugh, might have cost a life. With a long-drawn breath, the sigh of a pent-up emotion, Grog found himself in the open air; there was a vague feeling in his mind of having escaped a peril, but what or where or how he could n't remember.
He sat down in the little porch under the clustering vines; the picturesque street, with its carved gables and tasteful balconies, sloped gently down to the Rhine, which ran in swift eddies beneath. It was a fair and pleasant scene, nor was its influence all lost upon him. He was already calmed. The gay dresses and cheerful faces of the peasants, as they passed and repassed, their merry voices, their hearty recognitions and pleasant greetings, gave a happier channel to his thoughts. He thought of Lizzy,—how she would like it, how enjoy it! and then a sudden pang shot through his heart, and he remembered that she, too, was no longer the same. The illusion that had made her life a fairy tale was gone,—dissipated forever. The spell that gave the charm to her existence was broken! What was all the cultivation of mind,—what the fascinations by which she moved the hearts of all around her,—what the accomplishments by which she adorned society, if they only marked the width of that chasm that separated her from the well-born and the wealthy? To be more than their equal in grace, beauty, and genius, less than their inferior in station, was a sad lesson to learn, and this the last night had taught her.
“Ay,” muttered he, below his breath, “she knows who she is now, but she has yet to learn all that others think of her.” How bitterly, at that instant, did he reproach himself for having revealed his secret! A thousand times better to have relinquished all ambition, and preserved the warm and confiding love she bore him. “We might have gone to America,—to Australia. In some far-away country I could easily earn subsistence, and no trace of my former life follow me. She, at least, would not have been lost to me,—her affection would have clung to me through every trial. Mere reverse of fortune—for such and no more had it seemed—would never have chilled the generous glow of her woman's heart, and I need not have shocked her self-love, nor insulted her dignity, by telling her that she was the gambler's daughter.”
As he was thus musing, the two travellers came out and seated themselves in the porch; the elder one, needing a light for his cigar, touched his hat to Davis, and muttered some broken words of German, to request permission to light it from him. Grog bowed a stiff acquiescence; and the younger said, “Not over-courteous,—a red Jew, I take it!”
“A travelling jeweller, I fancy,” said the other; “twig the smart watch-chain.”
Oh, young gentlemen, how gingerly had you trod there if you only knew how thin was the ice under your feet, and how cold the depth beneath it! Davis arose and walked down the street. The mellow notes of a bugle announced the arrival of the post, and the office must now open in a few minutes. Forcing his way through the throng to the open window, he asked if there were any letters for Captain Christopher? None. Any for Captain Davis? None. Any for the Hon. Annesley Beecher? The same reply. He was turning away in disappointment, when a voice called out, “Wait! here's a message just come in from the Telegraph-office. Please to sign the receipt for it.” He wrote the name C. Christopher boldly, and pushed his way through the crowd once more.
If his heart throbbed painfully with the intensity of anxiety, his fingers never trembled as he broke the seal of the despatch. Three brief lines were all that were there; but three brief lines can carry the tidings of a whole destiny. We give it as it stood:—
“William Peach to Christopher, Neuwied, in Nassau.
“The Viscount died yesterday, at four p. m. Lawyers want A. B.'s address immediately.
“Proceedings already begun.”
Davis devoured the lines four—five times over, and then muttered between his teeth, “Safe enough now,—the match as good as over!”
“I say, George,” said one of the young travellers to his companion, “our friend in the green frock must have got news of a prize in the lottery. Did you ever see anything like his eyes? They actually lit up the blue spectacles.”
“Clap the saddle on that black horse,” cried Grog, as he passed into the stable; “give him a glass of Kirsch-wasser and bring him round to the door.”
“He knows how to treat an old poster,” said the ostler; “it's not the first ride he has taken on a courier's saddle.”
When Davis reached the little inn at evening, he was surprised to learn that Annesley Beecher had passed the day alone. Lizzy complained of headache, and kept her room. Grog listened to this with a grave, almost stern look; he partly guessed that the ailment was a mere pretext; he knew better to what to attribute her absence. They dined tête-à-tête; but there was a constraint over each, and there was little of that festive enjoyment that graced the table on the day before. Beecher was revolving in his mind all the confessions that burdened his conscience about Stein and the mystical volume he had bought from him; the large sums he had drawn for were also grievous loads upon his heart, and he knew not in what temper or spirit Davis would hear of them. Grog, too, had many things in his head; not, indeed, that he meant to reveal them, but they were like secret instructions to his own heart, to be referred to for guidance and direction.
They sipped their wine under the trellised vines, and smoked their cigars in an atmosphere fragrant with the jessamine and the rose, the crystal river eddying along at their feet, and the purple mountain glowing in the last tints of declining day. “We want Lizzy to enliven us,” said Davis, after a long silence on both sides. “We 're dull and heavy without her.”
“By Jove! it does make a precious difference whether she's here or not,” said Beecher, earnestly.
“There's a light-heartedness about that girl does one good,” said Davis, as he puffed his cigar. “And she's no fool, either.”
“I should think she's not,” muttered Beecher, half indignantly.
“It could n't be supposed she should know life like you or me, for instance; she hasn't seen the thing,—never mixed with it; but let the time come that she shall take her part in the comedy, you 'll see whether she 'll not act it cleverly.”
“She has head for anything!” chimed in Beecher.
“Ay, and what they call tact too. I don't care what company you place her in; take her among your duchesses to-morrow, and see if she'll not keep her own place,—and that a good one.”
Beecher sighed, but it was not in any despondency.
And now a long silence ensued; not a sound heard save the light noise of the bottle as it passed between them, and the long-drawn puffs of smoke that issued from their lips.
“What did you do with Stein? Did he give you the money?” asked Davis, at last.
“Oh yes, he gave it—he gave it freely enough; in fact, he bled so easily that, as the doctors say, I took a good dash from him. You mentioned two thousand florins, but I thought, as I was about it, a little more would do us no harm, and so I said, 'Lazarus, old fellow, what if we make this for ten thousand—”
“Ten thousand!” said Davis, removing his cigar from his lips and staring earnestly, but yet not angrily, at the other.
“Don't you see that as I have the money with me,” began Beecher, in a tone of apology and terror, “and as the old fellow didn't put 'the screw on' as to discount—”
“No, he's fair enough about that; indeed, so far as my own experience goes, all Jews are. It's your high-class Christian I'm afraid of; but you took the cash?”
“Yes!” said Beecher, timidly, for he was n't sure he was yet out of danger.
“It was well done,—well thought of,” said Grog, blandly. “We 'll want a good round sum to try this new martingale of mine. Opening with five naps, we must be able to bear a run of four hundred and eighty, which, according to the rule of chances, might occur once in seventeen thousand three hundred and forty times.”
“Oh, as to that,” broke in Beecher, “I have hedged famously. I bought old Stein's conjuring-book; what he calls his 'Kleinod,' showing how every game is to be played, when to lay on, when to draw off. Here it is,” said he, producing the volume from his breast-pocket. “I have been over it all day. I tried three problems with the cards myself, but I couldn't make them come up right.”
“How did you get him to part with this?” asked Davis, as he examined the volume carefully.
“Well, I gave him a fancy price,—that is, I am to give it, which makes all the difference,” said Beecher, laughing. “In short, I gave him a bit of stiff, at three months, for one thousand—”
“Florins?”
“No, pounds,—pounds sterling,” said Beecher, with a half-choking effort.
“It was a fancy price,” said Grog, slowly, not the slightest sign of displeasure manifesting itself on his face as he spoke.
“You don't think, then, that it was too much?” faltered out Beecher.
“Perhaps not, under the circumstances,” said Davis, keenly.
“What do you mean by 'under the circumstances'?”
Davis threw his cigar into the stream, pushed bottle and glasses away from him,—far enough to permit him to rest both his arms on the table,—and then, steadfastly fixing his eyes on the other, with a look of intense but not angry significance, said, “How often have I told you, Beecher, that it was no use to try a 'double' with me? Why, man, I know every card in your hand.”
“I give you my sacred word of honor, Grog—”
“To be renewed at three months, I suppose?” said Davis, sneeringly. “No, no, my boy, it takes an earlier rise to get to the blind side of Kit Davis. I 'm not angry with you for trying it,—not a bit, lad; there 's nothing wrong in it but the waste of time.”
“May I be hanged, drawn, and quartered, if I know what you are at, Grog!” exclaimed the other, piteously.
“Well, all I can say is I read you easier than you read me. You gave old Lazarus a thousand pounds for that book after reading that paragraph in the 'Times.'”
“What paragraph?”
“I mean that about your brother's title not being legal.”
“I never saw it,—never heard of it,” cried Beecher, in undisguised terror.
“Well, I suppose I 'm to believe you,” said Davis, half reluctantly. “It was in a letter from the Crimea, stating that so confident are the friends of a certain claimant to the title and estates now enjoyed by Lord Lackington, that they have offered the young soldier who represents the claim any amount of money he pleases to purchase promotion in the service.”
“I repeat to you my word of honor, I never saw nor heard of it”
“Of course, then, I believe you,” said Grog.
Again and again did Beecher reiterate assurances of his good faith; he declared that during all his stay at Aix he had never looked into a newspaper, nor had he received one single letter, except from Davis himself; and Davis believed him, from the simple fact that such a paragraph as he quoted had no existence,—never was in print, never uttered till Grog's own lips had fashioned it.
“But, surely, Grog, it is not a flying rumor—the invention of some penny-a-liner—would find any credence with you?”
“I don't know,” said Davis, slowly; “I won't say I 'd swear to it all, but just as little would I reject it as a fable. At all events, I gave you credit for having trimmed your sails by the tidings; and if you did n't, why, there's no harm done, only you 're not so shrewd a fellow as I thought you.”
Beecher's face grew scarlet; how near, how very near, he was of being “gazetted” the sharp fellow he had been striving for years to become, and now, by his own stupid admission, had he invalidated his claim to that high degree.
“And this is old Stein's celebrated book? I 've heard of it these five-and-thirty years, though I never saw it till now. Well, I won't say you made a bad bargain—”
“Indeed, Grog,—indeed, by George! I 'm as glad as if I won five hundred to hear you say so. To tell you the truth, I was half afraid to own myself the purchaser. I said to myself, 'Davis will chaff me so about this book, he 'll call me all the blockheads in Europe—'”
“No, no, Beecher, you ain't a blockhead, nor will I suffer any one to call you such. There are things—there are people, too, Just as there are games—that you don't know, but before long you 'll be the match of any fellow going. I can put you up to them, and I will. There's my hand on it.”
Beecher grasped the proffered hand, and squeezed it with a warmth there was no denying. What wonderful change had come over Grog he could not guess. Whence this marvellous alteration in his manner towards him? No longer scoffing at his mistaken notions of people, or disparaging his abilities, Davis condescended now to talk and take counsel with him as an equal.
“That 's the king of wines,” said Davis, as he pushed a fresh bottle across the table. “When you can get Marcobrunner like that, where's the Burgundy ever equalled it? Fill up your glass, and drink a bumper to our next venture, whatever it be!”
“'Our next venture, whatever it be!'” echoed Beecher, as he laid the empty glass on the table.
“Another toast,” said Davis, replenishing the glasses. “'May all of our successes be in company.'”
“I drink it with all my heart, old fellow. You 've always stood like a man to me, and I 'll never desert you,” cried Beecher, whose head was never proof against the united force of wine and excitement.
“There never were two fellows on this earth so made to run in double harness,” said Davis, “as you and myself. Let us only lay our heads together, and there's nothing can resist us.”
Grog now launched forth into one of those descriptions which he could throw off with a master's hand, sketching life as a great hunting-ground, and themselves as the hunters. What zest and vigor could he impart to such a picture!—how artfully, too, could he make Beecher the foreground figure, he himself only shadowed forth as an accessory! Listening with eagerness to all he said, Beecher continued to drink deeply; the starry night, the perfumed air, the rippling sounds of the river, all combining with the wine and the converse to make up a dreamland of fascination. Nor was the enchantment less perfect that the objects described passed before him like a series of dissolving views. They represented, all of them, a life of pleasure and enjoyment,—means inexhaustible, means for every extravagance, and, what he relished fully as much, the undisputed recognition by the world to the claim of being a “sharp fellow,”—a character to which Grog's aid was so dexterously contributed as to escape all detection.
Perhaps our reader might not have patience with us were we to follow Davis through all the devious turns and windings of this tortuous discourse. Perhaps, too, we should fail signally were we to attempt to convey in our cold narrative what came from his lips with all the marvellous power of a good story-teller, whose voice could command many an inflection, and whose crafty nature appreciated the temper of the metal beneath his beat If we could master all these, another and a greater difficulty would still remain; for how could we convey, as Davis contrived to do, that through all these gorgeous scenes of worldly success, in the splendor of a life of magnificence, amidst triumphs and conquests, one figure should ever pass before the mind's eye, now participating in the success, now urging its completion, now, as it were, shedding a calm and chastened light over all,—a kind of angelic influence that heightened every enjoyment of the good, and averted every approach of evil?
Do not fancy, I beseech you, that this was a stroke of high art far above the pencil of Grog Davis. Amongst the accidents of his early life the “stage” had figured, and Grog had displayed very considerable talents for the career. It was only at the call of what he considered a higher ambition he had given up “the boards” for “the ring.” Besides this, he was inspired by the Marcobrunner, which had in an equal degree affected the brain of him who listened. If Grog were eloquent, Beecher was ductile. Indeed, so eagerly did he devour all that the other said, that when a moment of pause occurred, he called out, “Go on, old fellow,—go on! I could listen to you forever!”
Nor was it altogether surprising that he should like to hear words of praise and commendation from lips that once only opened in sarcasm and ridicule of him. How pleasant to know, at last, that he was really and truly a great partner in the house of Davis and Co., and not a mere commission agent, and that this partnership—how that idea came to strike him we cannot determine—was to be binding forever. How exalting, too, the sentiment that it was just at the moment when all his future looked gloomiest this friendship was ratified. The Lackington peerage might go, but there was Grog Davis, stanch and true,—the ancient estates be torn from his house, but there was the precious volume of old Lazarus, with wealth untold within its pages. Thus threading his way through these tortuous passages of thought, stumbling, falling, and blundering at every step, that poor brain lost all power of coherency and all guidance, and he wavered between a reckless defiance of the world and a sort of slavish fear of its censure.
“And Lackington, Grog,—Lackington,” cried he, at length,—“he's as proud as Lucifer; what will he say?”
“Not so much as you think!” remarked Grog, dryly. “Lackington will take it easier than you suspect.”
“No, no, you don't know him,—don't know him at all. I wouldn't stand face to face with him this minute for a round sum!”
“I 'd not like it over-much myself!” muttered Davis, with a grim smile.
“It's all from pride of birth and blood, and he 'd say, 'Debts, if you like; go ahead with Jews and the fifty per centers, but, hang it, don't tie a stone round your throat, don't put a double ditch between you and your own rank! Look where I am,' he 'd say,—'look where I am!'”
“Well, I hope he finds it comfortable!” muttered Grog, with a dry malice.
“Look where I am!” resumed Beecher, trying to imitate the pretentious tones of his brother's voice. “And where is it, after all?”
“Where we 'll all be, one day or other,” growled out Grog, who could not help answering his own reflections.
“'And are you sure of where you are?'—that's what I 'd ask him, eh, Grog?—'are you sure of where you are?'”
“That would be a poser, I suspect,” said Davis, who laughed heartily; and the contagion catching Beecher, he laughed till the tears came.
“I might ask him, besides, 'Are you quite sure how long you are to remain where you are?' eh, Grog? What would he say to that?”
“The chances are, he 'd not answer at all,” said Davis, dryly.
“No, no! you mistake him, he's always ready with a reason; and then he sets out by reminding you that he's the head of the house,—a fact that a younger brother does n't need to have recalled to his memory. Oh, Grog, old fellow, if I were the Viscount,—not that I wish any ill to Lack-ington,—not that I 'd really enjoy the thing at any cost to him,—but if I were—”
“Well, let's hear. What then?” cried Davis, as he filled the other's glass to the top,—“what then?”
“Would n't I trot the coach along at a very different pace. It's not poking about Italy, dining with smoke-dried cardinals and snuffy old 'marchesas,' I 'd be; but I 'd have such a stable, old fellow, with Jem Bates to ride and Tom Ward to train them, and yourself, too, to counsel me. Would n't we give Binsleigh and Hawksworth and the rest of them a cold bath, eh?”
“That ain't the style of thing at all, Beecher,” said Grog, deprecatingly; “you ought to go in for the 'grand British nobleman dodge,'—county interests, influence with a party, and a vote in the Lords. If you were to try it, you 'd make a right good speech. It wouldn't be one of those flowery things the Irish fellows do, but a manly, straightforward, genuine English discourse.”
“Do you really think so, Grog?” asked he, eagerly.
“I 'm sure of it I never mistook pace in my life; and I know what's in you as well as if I saw it. The real fact is, you have a turn of speed that you yourself have no notion of, but it will come out one of these days if you 're attacked,—if they say anything about your life on the turf, your former companions, or a word about the betting-ring.”
The charm of this flattery was far more intoxicating than even the copious goblets of Marcobrunner, and Beecher's flushed cheeks and flashing eyes betrayed how it overpowered him. Davis went on:—
“You are one of those fellows that never show 'the stuff they 're made of' till some injustice is done them,—eh?”
“True as a book!” chimed in Beecher.
“Take you fairly, and a child might lead you; but try it on to deny you what you justly have a right to,—let them attempt to dictate to you, and say, 'Do this, and don't do the other,'—little they know on what back they 've put the saddle. You 'll give them such a hoist in the air as they never expected!”
“How you read every line of me!” exclaimed Beecher, in ecstasy.
“And I 'll tell you more; there's not another man breathing knows you but myself. They 've always seen you in petty scrapes and little difficulties, pulling the devil by the last joint of his tail, as Jack Bush says; but let them wait till you come out for a cup race,—the Two Thousand Guinea Stakes,—then I'm not Kit Davis if you won't be one of the first men in England.”
“I hope you 're right, Davis. I almost feel as if you were,” said Beecher, earnestly.
“When did you find me in the wrong, so far as judgment went? Show me one single mistake I ever made in a matter of opinion? Who was it foretold that Bramston would bolt after the Cotteswold if Rugby didn't win? Who told the whole yard at Tattersall's that Grimsby would sell Holt's stable? Who saw that Rickman Turner was a coward, and would n't fight?—and I said it, the very day they gave him 'the Bath' for his services in China! I don't know much about books, nor do I pretend to; but as to men and women—men best—I 'll back myself against all England and the Channel Islands.”
“And I 'll take as much as you 'll spare me out of your book, Grog,” said Beecher, enthusiastically, while he filled his glass and drained it.
“You see,” said Davis, in a low, confidential tone, as if imparting a great secret, “I've always remarked that the way they smash a fellow in Parliament—I don't care in which House—is always by raking up something or other he did years before. If he wrote a play, or a novel, or a book of poems, they 're down on him at once, about his imagination and his fancy,—that means, he never told a word of truth in his life. If he was unfortunate in business, they 're sure to refer to him about some change in the Law of Bankruptcy, and say, 'There's my honorable friend yonder ought to be able to help us by his experiences!' Then, if a fellow has only his wits about him, how he floors them! You see there's a great deal of capital to be made out of one of these attacks. You rise to reply, without any anger or passion; only dignity,—nothing but dignity! You appeal to the House if the assault of the right honorable baronet opposite was strictly in good taste,—whatever that means. You ask why you are signalled out to be the mark of his eloquence, or his wit, or whatever it be; and then you come out with a fine account of yourself, and all the honorable motives that nobody ever suspected you of. That's the moment to praise everything you ever did, or meant to do, or couldn't do; that's the time to show them what a man they have amongst them.”
“Capital, glorious, excellent!” cried Beecher, in delight “Well, suppose now,” said Davis, “there 's a bill about marriages,—they 're always changing the law about them; it's evidently a contract does n't work quite smoothly for all parties,—well, there's sure to be many a spicy remark and impertinent allusion in the debate; it's a sore subject, and every one has a 'raw' on it; and, at last, somebody says something about unequal matches, alliances with an inferior class, 'noble lords that have not scrupled to mingle the ancient blood of their race with the—the thin and washy current that flows in plebeian veins.' I 'm the Lord Chancellor, now,” said Grog, boldly, “and I immediately turn round and fix my eyes upon you. Up you get at once, and say, 'I accept, my Lords,—I accept for myself, and my own case, every word the noble Duke or Marquis has just uttered. It never would have occurred to me to make my personal history the subject of your Lordships' attention; but when thus rudely brought before you,—rudely and gratuitously introduced—'Here you 'd frown at the last speaker, as much as to say, 'You 'll hear more about this outside—'”
“Go on,—go on!” cried Beecher, with impatience.
“'I rise in this place,'—that has always a great impression, to say 'this place,'—'I rise in this place to say that I am prouder in the choice that shares with me the honors of my coronet, than in all the dignity and privilege that same coronet confers.' What a cheer, what a regular hurrah follows that, for they have seen her,—ay, that have they! They have beheld her sweeping down the gilded drawing-room,—the handsomest woman in England! Where's the Duchess with her eyes, her skin, her dignity, and her grace? Does n't she look 'thoroughbred in every vein of her neck'? Where did she get that graceful sweep, that easy-swimming gait, if she had n't it in her very nature'?”
“By Heaven, it's true, every syllable of it!” cried out Beecher, in all the wild ecstasy of delight.
“Where is the man—I don't care what his rank might be—who would n't envy you after you 'd made that speech? You 'd walk down Westminster the proudest man in England after it.”
Beecher's features glowed with a delight that showed he had already anticipated the sense of his popularity.
“And then how the newspapers will praise you! It will be as if you built a bridge over the gulf that separates two distinct classes of people. You 'll be a sort of noble reformer. What was the wisest thing Louis Napoleon ever did? His marriage. Do you mark that he was always following his uncle's footsteps in all his other policy; he saw that the only great mistake he ever made was looking out for a high match, and, like a shrewd fellow, he said, 'I have station, rank, power, and money enough for two. It 's not to win the good favor of a wrinkled old Archduchess or a deaf old Princess, I 'm going to marry. I 'll go in for the whole field. I 'll take the girl that, if I was n't an Emperor, I 'd be proud to call my own.' And signs on 't, they all cried out, 'See if he has n't his heart in the right place; there's an honest drop there! Let him be as ambitious as you like, he married just as you or I would.' Ain't it a fine thing,” exclaimed Grog, enthusiastically, “when one has all the middle classes in one's favor,—the respectable ruck that's always running, but seldom showing a winner? Get these fellows with you, and it's like Baring's name on the back of your bill. And now, Beecher,” said Davis, grasping the other's hand, and speaking with a deep earnestness,—“and now that I 've said what you might have done, I 'll tell you what I will do. I have just been sketching out this line of country to see how you 'd take your fences, nothing more. You 've shown me that you 're the right sort, and I 'm not the man to forget it. If I had seen the shadow of a shade of a dodge about you,—if I 'd have detected one line in your face, or one shake in your voice, like treachery,—so help me! I 'd have thrown you over like winking! You fancied yourself a great man, and was stanch and true to your old friends; and now it's my turn to tell you that I would n't give that empty flask yonder for all your brother Lackington's lease of his peerage! Hear me out I have it from his own lawyers,—from the fellows in Furnival's Inn,—it's up with him; the others are perfectly sure of their verdict There's how it is! And now, Annesley Beecher, you were willing to marry Kit Davis's daughter when you thought you could make her a peeress; now I say, that when you 've nothing, nor haven't a sixpence to bless yourself with, it's Kit himself will give her to you, and say, there's not the other man breathing he'd as soon see the husband of this same Lizzy Davis!”
The burst of emotion with which Beecher met this speech was, indeed, the result of very conflicting feelings. Shock at the terrible tidings of his brother's downfall, and the insult to his house and name, mingled with a burst of gratitude to Davis for his fidelity; but stronger and deeper than these was another sentiment,—for, smile if you will, most sceptical reader, the man was in love, after his fashion. I do not ask of you to believe that he felt as you or I might or ought to feel the tender passion. I do not seek to persuade you that the object of his affection, mingled with all his thoughts, swayed them and etherealized them; that she was the theme of many a heart-woven story, the heroine of many an ecstatic dream: still she was one who could elicit from that nature, in all its selfishness, little traits of generous feeling, little bursts of honest sentiment, that made him appear better to his own heart. And so far has the adage truth with it, virtue is its own reward, in the conscious sense of well doing, in the peaceful calm of an unrepining spirit, and, not least of all, in that sympathy which good men so readily bestow upon even faint efforts to win their suffrage.
And so he sobbed out something that meant grief and gratitude; hope, fear, and uncertainty—worse than fear—all agitating and distracting him by turns.
Very little time did Grog give himself for calmer reflection; away he went at full speed to sketch out their future life. They were to make the tour of Europe, winning all before them. All the joyous part, all the splendor of equipage, retinue, mode of life, and outlay being dictated by Beecher; all the more business detail, the play and the money-getting, devolving upon Davis. Baden, Ems, Wiesbaden, Hamburg, and Aix,—all glowed in the descriptions like fields of foretold glory. How they were to outshine Princes in magnificence and Royal Highnesses in display; the envy of Beecher, of his unvarying luck; the splendor of all his belongings; Lizzy's beauty, tool What a page would he fill in the great gossip calendar of Europe!
Well Davis knew how to feed the craving vanity of that weak nature, whose most ardent desire was to be deemed cunning and sharp, the cautious reserve of prudent men in his company being a tribute to his acuteness, the dearest his heart could covet Oh, if he longed for anything as success, it was for a time when his coming would spread a degree of terror at a play-table, and men would rise rather than risk their fortune against his! Should such a moment ever be his? Was that great triumph ever to befall him? And all this as the husband of Lizzy Davis!
“Ay!” said Grog, as he read and traced each succeeding emotion in that transparent nature,—“ay! that's what may be called life; and when we 've done Europe, smashed every bank on the Continent, we 'll cross the Atlantic, and give Jonathan a 'touch of our quality.' I know all their games well, and I 've had my 'three bullets and a poker' before now on a Mississippi steamer! Your Yankee likes faro, and I've a new cabal to teach him; in short, my boy, there's a roving commission of fun before us, and if it don't pay, my name ain't Davis!”
“Was this your scheme, then, Grog,” asked Beecher, “when you told me at Brussels that you could make a man of me?”
“It was, my boy,” cried Davis, eagerly. “You 've guessed it. There was only one obstacle to the success of the plan at that time, and this exists no longer.”
“What was the obstacle you speak of?”
“Simply, that so long as you fancied yourself next in succession to a peerage, you 'd never lay yourself down regularly to your work; you'd say, 'Lackington can't live forever; he's almost twenty years my senior. I must be the Viscount yet. Why should I, therefore, cumber myself with cares that I have no need of, and involve myself amongst people I'll have to cut one of these days? No, I'll just make a waiting race of it, and be patient.' Now, however, that you can't count upon this prospect,—now that to-morrow or next day will declare to the world that Henry Hastings Beecher is just Henry Hastings Beecher, and not Viscount Lackington, and that the Honorable Annesley is just Annesley, and no more,—now, I say, that you see this clearly with your own eyes, you 'll buckle to, and do your work manfully. And there was another thing—” And here Davis paused, and seemed to meditate.
“What was that, Grog? Be candid, old fellow, and tell me all.”
“So I will, then,” resumed Davis. “That other thing was this. So long as you were the great man in prospective, and might some fine day be a Lord, you could always persuade yourself—or some one else could persuade you—that Kit Davis was hanging on you just for your rank; that he wanted the intimacy of a man in your station, and so on. Now, if you ever came to believe this, there would have been an end of all confidence between us; and without confidence, what can a fellow do for his pal? This was, therefore, the obstacle; and even if you could have got over it, I couldn't. No, hang me if I could! I was always saying to myself, 'It's all very nice and smooth now, Kit, between you and Beecher,—you eat, drink, and sleep together,—but wait till he turns the corner, old fellow, and see if he won't give you the cold shoulder.”
“You could n't believe—”
“Yes, but I could, and did too; and many's the time I said to myself, 'If Beecher was n't a top-sawyer, what a trump he 'd be! He has head for anything, and address for anything.' And do you know,”—here Grog dropped his-voice to a whisper, and spoke as if under great emotion,—“and do you know that I could n't be the same man to you myself just because of your rank? That was the reason I used to be so sulky, so suspicious, and so—ay, actually cruel with you, telling you, as I did, what could n't I do with certain acceptances? Now, look here, Beecher—Light that taper beside you; there's a match in that box at your elbow.”
Unsteady enough was Beecher's hand; indeed, it was not wine alone now made him tremble. An intense agitation shook his frame, and he shivered like one in an ague fit. He couldn't tell what was coming; the theme alone was enough to arrest all process of reasoning on his part. It was like the force of a blow that stunned and stupefied at once.
“There, that will do,” said Grog, as he drew a long pocket-book from his breast-pocket, and searched for some time amongst its contents. “Ay, here they are; two—three—four of them,—insignificant-looking scraps of paper they look; and yet there's a terrible exposure in open court, a dreary sea-voyage over the ocean, and a whole life of a felon's suffering in those few lines.”
“For the love of mercy, Davis, if you have a spark of pity in your heart,—if you have a heart at all,—don't speak in this way to me!” cried Beecher, in a voice almost choked with sobs.
“It is for the last time in my life you'll ever hear such words,” said Grog, calmly. “Read them over carefully; examine them well. Yes, I wish and require it.”
“Oh, I know them well!” said Beecher, with a heavy sigh. “Many's the sleepless night the thought of them has cost me.”
“Go over every line of them; satisfy yourself that they 're the same,—that the words 'Johnstone Howard' are in your own hand.”
Beecher bent over the papers; but, with his dimmed eyes and trembling fingers, it was some time ere he could decipher them. A sigh from the very bottom of his heart was all the reply he could make.
“They'll never cost you another sleepless night, old fellow!” said Davis, as he held them over the flame of the taper. “There's the end of 'em now!”