Kitabı oku: «Davenport Dunn, a Man of Our Day. Volume 1», sayfa 13

CHAPTER XV. A HOME SCENE

When Paul Kellett described Mr. Davenport Dunn’s almost triumphal entry into Dublin, he doubtless fancied in his mind the splendors that awaited him at home; the troops of servants in smart liveries, the homage of his household, and the costly entertainment which most certainly should celebrate his arrival. Public rumor had given to the hospitalities of that house a wide extended fame. The fashionable fishmonger of the capital, his Excellency’s “purveyor” of game, the celebrated Italian warehouse, all proclaimed him their best customer. “Can’t let you have that turbot, sir, till I hear from Mr. Dunn.” “Only two pheasants to be had, sir, and ordered for Mr. Dunn.” “The white truffles only taken by one gentleman in town. None but Mr. Dunn would pay the price.” The culinary traditions of his establishment threw the Castle into the background, and Kellett revelled in the notion of the great festivity that now welcomed his return. “Lords and earls – the biggest salmon in the market – the first men of the land – and lobster sauce – ancient names and good families – with grouse, and ‘Sneyd’s Twenty-one’ – that ‘s what you may call life! It is wonderful, wonderful!” Now, when Paul enunciated the word “wonderful” in this sense, he meant it to imply that it was shameful, distressing, and very melancholy for the prospects of humanity generally. And then he amused himself by speculating whether Dunn liked it all, – whether the unaccustomed elegance of these great dinners did not distress and pain him rather than give pleasure, and whether the very consciousness of his own low origin wasn’t a poison that mingled in every cup he tasted.

“It’s no use talking,” muttered he to himself; “a man must be bred to it, like everything else. The very servants behind his chair frighten him; he’s, maybe, eating with his knife, or he’s putting salt where he ought to put sugar, or he does n’t take the right kind of wine with his meat. Beecher says he ‘d know any fellow just by that, and then it’s ‘all up’ with him. Wonderful, wonderful!”

How would it have affected these speculations had Kellett known that, while he was indulging them, Dunn had quietly issued by a back door from his house, and, having engaged a car, set out towards Clontarf? A drearier drive of a dreary evening none need wish for. Occasional showers were borne on the gusty wind, swooping past as though hurrying to some elemental congress far away, while along the shore the waves beat with that irregular plash that betokens wild weather at sea. The fitful moonlight rather heightened than diminished the dismal aspect of the scenery. For miles the bleak strand stretched away, no headland nor even a hillock marking the coast; the spectral gable of a ruined church being the only object visible against the leaden sky. Little garlands of paper, the poor tributes of the very poor, decorated the graves and the head-stones, and, as they rustled in the night wind, sounded like ghostly whisperings. The driver piously crossed himself as they passed the “un-cannie” spot, but Dunn took no heed of it. To wrap his cloak tighter about him, to shelter more closely beneath his umbrella, were all that the dreary scene exacted from him; and except when a vivid flash of lightning made the horse swerve from the road and dash down into the rough shingle of the strand, he never adverted to the way or the weather.

“What’s this, – where are we going?” cried he, impatiently.

“‘T is the flash that frightened the beast, yer honner,” said the man; “and if it was plazin’ to you, I ‘d rather tarn back again.”

“Turn back – where to?”

“To town, yer honner.”

“Nothing of the kind; drive on, and quickly too. We have five miles yet before us, and it will be midnight ere we get over them at this rate.”

Sulkily and unwillingly did he obey; and, turning from the shore, they entered upon a low, sandy road that traversed a wide and dreary tract, barely elevated a few feet above the sea. By degrees the little patches of grass and fern disappeared, and nothing stretched on either side but low sand hummocks, scantily covered with rushes. Sea-shells crackled beneath the wheels as they went, and after a while the deep booming of the sea thundering heavily along a sandy shore, apprised them that they had crossed the narrow neck of land which divided two bays.

“Are you quite certain you I ‘ve taken the right road, my man?” cried Dunn, as he observed something like hesitation in the other’s manner.

“It ought to be somewhere hereabout we turn off,” said the man, getting down to examine more accurately from beneath. “There was a little cross put up to show the way, but I don’t see it.”

“But you have been here before. Ton told me you knew the place.”

“I was here onst, and, by the same token, I swore I ‘d never come again. I lamed the best mare I ever put a collar on, dragging through this deep sand. Wirra, wirra! why the blazes would n’t he live where other Christians do! There it is now; I see a light. Ah! bother them, it’s out again.”

Pushing forward as well as he might in the direction he had seen the light, he floundered heavily on, the wheels sinking nearly to the axles, and the horse stumbling at every step.

“Your horse is worth nothing, my good fellow; he has n’t strength to keep his legs,” said Dunn, angrily.

“Good or bad, I ‘ll give you lave to broil me on a gridiron if ever ye catch me coming the same road again. Ould Duun won’t have much company if he waits for me to bring them.”

“I ‘ll take good care not to tempt you!” said Dunn, angrily.

And now they plodded on in moody silence till they issued forth upon a little flat space, bounded on three sides by the sea, in the midst of which a small two-storied house stood, defended from the sea by a rough stone breakwater that rose above the lower windows.

“There it is now, bad luck to it!” said the carman, savagely, for his horse was so completely exhausted that he was obliged to walk at his head and lift him at every step.

“You may remain here till I want you,” said Dunn, getting down and plodding his way through the heavy sand. Flakes of frothy seadrift swept past him as he went, and the wild wind carried the spray far inland in heavy showers, beating against the walls and windows of the lonely house, and making the slates rattle. A low wall of large stones across the door showed that all entrance by that means was denied; and Dunn turned towards the back of the house, where, sheltered by the low wall, a small door was detectable. He knocked several times at this before any answer was returned; when, at last, a harsh voice from within called out, —

“Don’t ye hear who it is? confound ye! Open the door at once!” and Dunn was admitted into a large kitchen, where in a great straw chair beside the fire was seated the remains of a once powerful man, and who, although nearly ninety years of age, still preserved a keen eye, a searching look, and a quick impatience of manner rarely observable at his age.

“Well, father, how are you?” said Dunn, taking him affectionately by both hands, and looking kindly in his face.

“Hearty, – stout and hearty,” said the old man. “When did you arrive?”

“A couple of hours ago. I did not wait for anything but a biscuit and a glass of wine, when I set out here to see you. And you are well?”

“Just as you see: an odd pain or so across the back, and a swimming of the head, – a kind of giddiness now and then, that’s all. Put the light over there till I have a look at you. You ‘re thinner, Davy, – a deal thinner, than when you went away.”

“I have nothing the matter with me; a little tired or so, that’s all,” said Dunn, hastily. “And how are things doing here, father, since I left?”

“There’s little to speak of,” said the old man. “There never is much doing at this season of the year. You heard, of course, that Gogarty has lost his suit; they ‘re moving for a new trial, but they won’t get it. Lanty Moore can’t pay up the rest of the purchase for Slanestown, and I told Hankes to buy it in. Kelly’s murderer was taken on Friday last, near Kilbride, and offers to tell, God knows what, if they won’t hang him; and Sir Gilbert North is to be the new Secretary, if, as the ‘Evening Mail’ says, Mr. Davenport Dunn concurs in the appointment” – and here the old man laughed till his eyes ran over. “That’s all the news, Davy, of the last week; and now tell me yours. The papers say you were dining with kings and queens, and driving about in royal coaches all over the Continent, – was it true, Davy?”

“You got my letters, of course, father?”

“Yes; and I could n’t make out the names, they were all new and strange to me. I want to have from yourself what like the people are, – are they as hard-working, are they as ‘cute as our own? There’s just two things now in the world, – coal and industry, – sorra more than that And so you dined with the King of France?”

“With the Emperor, father. I dined twice; he took me over to Fontainebleau and made me stay the day.”

“You could tell him many a thing he’d never hear from another, Davy; you could explain to him what’s doing here, and how he might imitate it over there, – rooting out the old vermin and getting new stock in the land, – eh, Davy?”

“He needs no counsels, at least from such as me,” said Dunn.

“Faith, he might have worse, far worse. An Encumbered Estate Court would do all his work for him well, and the dirty word ‘Confiscation’ need never be uttered!”

“He knows the road he wants to go,” said Dunn, curtly.

“So he may; but that does n’t prove it ‘s the best way.”

“Whichever path he takes he’ll tread it firmly, father, and that’s more than half the battle. If you only saw what a city he has made Paris – ”

“That’s just what I don’t like. What’s the good of beautifying and gilding or ornamenting what you ‘re going to riddle with grape and smash with round shot? It’s like dressing a sweep in a field-marshal’s uniform, And we all know where it will be to-morrow or next day.”

“That we don’t, sir. You ‘re not aware that these spacious thoroughfares, these wide squares, these extended terraces, are so contrived that columns may march and manoeuvre in them, squadrons charge, and great artillery act through them. The proudest temples of that splendid city serve as bastions; the great Louvre itself is less a palace than a fortress.”

“Ay, ay, ay,” cackled the old man, to whom these revelations opened a new vista of thought. “But what’s the use of it, after all, Davy? He must trust somebody; and when it comes to that with anybody in life, where ‘s his security, tell me that? But let us talk about home. Is it true the Ministry is going out?”

“They’re safer than ever; take my word for it, father, that these fellows know the trick of it better than all that went before them. They ‘ll just do whatever the nation and the ‘Times’ dictate to them; a little slower, mayhap, than they are ordered, but they ‘ll do it They have no embarrassments of a policy of any kind; and the only pretence of a principle they possess is to sit on the Treasury benches.”

“And they ‘re right, Davy, – they ‘re right,” said the old man, energetically.

“I don’t doubt but they are, sir; the duty of the pilot is to take charge of the ship, but not to decide the port she sails for.”

“I wish you were one of them, Davy; they’d suit you, and you ‘d suit them.”

“So we should, sir; and who knows what may turn up? I’m not impatient”

“That’s right, Davy; that’s the lesson I always taught you; wait, – wait!”

“When did you see Driscoll, father?” asked Dunn, after a pause.

“He was here last week; he’s up to his ears about that claim to the Beecher estate, Lord – Lord – What’s his – ”

“Lackington.”

“Yes, Lord Lackington. He says if you were once come home, you ‘d get him leave to search the papers in the Record Tower at the Castle, and that it would be the making of himself if anything came out of it.”

“He’s always mare’s-nesting, sir,” said Dunn, carelessly.

“Faith, he has contrived to feather his own nest, anyhow,” said the old man, laughing. “He lent Lord Glengariff five thousand pounds t’ other day at six per cent, and on as good security as the Bank.”

“Does he pretend to have discovered anything new with respect to that claim?”

“He says there’s just enough to frighten them, and that your help – the two of ye together – could work it well.”

“He has not, then, found out the claimant?”

“He has his name, and the regiment he’s in, but that’s all. He was talking of writing to him.”

“If he’s wise, he’ll let it alone. What chance would a poor soldier in the ranks have against a great lord, if he had all the right in the world on his side?”

“So I told him; but he said we could make a fine thing out of it, for all that; and, somehow, Davy, he’s mighty seldom mistaken.”

“If he be, sir, it is because he has hitherto only meddled with what lay within his power. He can scheme and plot and track out a clew in the little world he has lived in; but let him be careful how he venture upon that wider ocean of life where his craft would be only a cock-boat.”

“He hasn’t your stuff in him, Davy,” cried the old man, in ecstasy; and a very slight flush rose to the other’s cheek at the words, but whether of pride, or shame, or pleasure, it were hard to say. “I ‘ve nothing to offer you, Davy, except a cut of cold pork; could you eat it?” said the old man.

“I’m not hungry, father; I’m tired somewhat, but not hungry.”

“I’m tired, too,” said the old man, sighing; “but, to be sure, it’s time for me, – I ‘ll be eighty-nine if I live till the fourth of next month. That’s a long life, Davy.”

“And it has been an active one, sir.”

“I ‘ve seen great changes in my time, Davy,” continued he, following out his own thoughts. “I was in the Volunteers when we bullied the English, and they ‘ve paid us off for it since, that they have! I was one of the jury when Jackson died in the dock, and if he was alive now, maybe it’s a lord of the Treasury he ‘d be. Everything is changed, and everybody too. Do you remember Kellett, of Kellett’s Court, that used to drive on the Circular Road with six horses?”

Dunn nodded an assent.

“His liveries were light-blue and silver, and Lord Castletown’s was the same; and Kellett said to him one day, ‘My Lord,’ says he, ‘we’re always mistaken for each other; could n’t we hit on a way to prevent it?’ ‘I’m willing,’ says my Lord, ‘if I only knew how.’ ‘Then I ‘ll tell you,’ says Kellett; ‘make your people follow your own example and turn their coats, – that’ll do it,’ says he.” And the old man laughed till his eyes swam. “What’s become of them Kelletts?” added he, sharply.

“Ruined, – sold out”

“To be sure, I remember all about it; and the young fellow, – Paul was his name, – where’s he?”

“He’s not so very young now,” said Dunn, smiling; “he has a clerkship in the Customs, – a poor place it is.”

“I’m glad of it,” said he, fiercely; “there was an old score between us, – that’s his father and me, – and I knew I would n’t die till it was settled.”

“These are not kindly feelings, father,” said Dunn, mildly.

“No; but they ‘re natural ones, and that’s as good,” said the old man, with an energy that seemed to defy his age. “Where would I be now, where would you, if it was only kindness we thought of? There wasn’t a man in all Ireland I wanted to be quite with so much as old Kellett of Kellett’s Court; and you’d not wonder if you knew why; but I won’t tell.”

Davenport Dunn’s cheek grew crimson and then deadly pale, but he never uttered a word.

“And what’s more,” continued the old man, energetically, “I’d pay the debt off to his children and his children’s children with interest, if I could.”

Still was the other silent; and the old man looked angry that he had not succeeded in stimulating the curiosity he had declared he would not gratify.

“Fate has done the work already, sir,” said Dunn, gravely. “Look where we are, and where they!”

“That ‘s true, – that’s true; we have a receipt in full for it all; but I ‘d like to show it to him. I ‘d like to say to him, ‘Mr. Kellett, once upon a time, when my son there was a child – ‘”

“Father, father, these memories can neither make us wiser nor happier,” broke in Dunn, in a voice of deep emotion. “Had I taken upon me to carry through life the burden of resentments, my back had been broken long ago; and from your own prudent counsels I learned that this could never lead to success. The men whom destiny has crushed are like bankrupt debtors, and to pursue them is but to squander your own resources.”

The old man sat moodily, muttering indistinctly to himself, and evidently little moved by the words he had listened to.

“Are you going away already?” cried he, suddenly, as Dunn rose from his chair.

“Yes, sir; I have a busy day before me to-morrow, and need some sleep to prepare for it.”

“What will you be doing to-morrow, Davy?” asked the old man, while a bright gleam of pride lighted up his eyes and illuminated his whole face.

“I have deputations to receive, – half a dozen, at least. The Drainage Commission, too, will want me, and I must contrive to have half an hour for the Inland Navigation people; then the Attorney-General will call about these prosecutions, and I have not made up my mind about them; and the Castle folk will need some clew to my intentions about the new Secretary; there are some twenty provincial editors, besides, waiting for directions, not to speak of private and personal requests, some of which I must not refuse to hear. As to letters, three days won’t get through them; so that you see, father, I do need a little rest beforehand.”

“God bless you, my boy, – God bless you, Davy,” cried the old man, tenderly, grasping his hand in both his own. “Keep the head clear, and trust nobody; that’s the secret, – trust nobody; the only mistakes I ever made in life was when I forgot that rule.” And affectionately kissing him, the father dismissed his son, muttering blessings on him as he went.

CHAPTER XVI. DAVIS VERSUS DUNN

Davenport Dunn had not exaggerated when he spoke of a busy day for the morrow. As early as eight o’clock was he at breakfast, and before nine the long back parlor, with its deep bay-window, was crowded like the waiting-room of a fashionable physician. Indeed, in the faces of anxiety, eagerness, and impatience of those assembled there, there was a resemblance. With a tact which natural shrewdness and long habit could alone confer, Mr. Clowes, the butler, knew exactly where each arrival should be introduced; and while railway directors, bank governors, and great contractors indiscriminately crowded the large dining-room, peers and right honorables filled the front drawing-room, the back one being reserved for law officers of the Crown, and such secret emissaries as came on special mission from the Castle. From the hall, crammed with frieze-coated countryfolk, to the little conservatory on the stairs, where a few ladies were grouped, every space was occupied. Either from previous acquaintance, or guided by the name of the visitor, Mr. Clowes had little difficulty in assigning him his fitting place, dropping, as he accompanied him, some few words, as the rank and station of the individual might warrant his addressing to him. “I ‘ll let Mr. Dunn know your Lordship is here this instant; he is now just engaged with the Chief Baron.” – “He ‘ll see you, Sir Samuel, next.” – “Mr. Wilcox, you have no chance for two hours; the Foyle deputation is just gone in.” – “You need scarcely wait to-day, Mr. Tobin; there are eighteen before you.” – “Colonel Craddock, you are to come on Saturday, and bring the plans with you.” – “Too late, Mr. Dean; his Grace the Archbishop waited till a quarter to eleven, the appointment is now for to-morrow at one.” – “No use in staying, my honest fellow, your own landlord could n’t see Mr. Dunn to-day.” In the midst of such brief phrases as these, while he scattered hopes and disappointments about him, he suddenly paused to read a card, stealing a quick glance at the individual who presented it “‘Mr. Annesley Beecher.’ By appointment, sir?”

“Well, I suppose I might say yes,” muttered the visitor, while he turned to a short and very overdressed person at his side for counsel in the difficulty.

“To be sure – by appointment,” said the other, confidently, while he bestowed on the butler a look of unmistakable defiance.

“And this – gentleman – is with you, sir?” asked the butler, pausing ere he pronounced the designation. “Might I request to have his name?”

“Captain Davis,” said the short man, interposing. “Write it under your own, Beecher.”

While Mr. Annesley Beecher was thus occupied, – and, sooth to say, it was an office he did not discharge with much despatch, – Clowes had ample time to scan the appearance and style of the strangers.

“If you ‘ll step this way, sir,” said Clowes, addressing Beecher only, “I’ll send in your card at once.” And he ushered them as he spoke into the thronged dinner-room, whose crowded company sat silent and moody, each man regarding his neighbor with a kind of reproachful expression, as though the especial cause of the long delay he was undergoing.

“You ought to ‘tip’ that flunkey, Beecher,” said Davis, as soon as they were alone in a window.

“Haven’t the tin, Master Grog!” said the other, laughing; while he added, in a lower voice, “Do you know, Grog, I don’t feel quite comfortable here. Rather mixed company, ain’t it, for a fellow who only goes out of a Sunday?”

“All safe,” muttered Davis. “These all are bank directors or railway swells. I wish we had the robbing of them!”

“Good deal of humbug about all this, ain’t there?” whispered Beecher, as he threw his eyes over the crowded room.

“Of course there is,” replied the other. “While he’s keeping us all kicking our shins here, he’s reading the ‘Times,’ or gossiping with a friend, or weighing a double letter for the post. It was the dentists took up the dodge first, and the nobs followed them.”

“I ‘m not going to stand it much longer, Grog. I tell you I don’t feel comfortable.”

“Stuff and nonsense! You don’t fancy any of these chaps has a writ in his pocket, do you? Why, I can tell you every man in the room. That little fellow, with the punch-colored shorts, is chairman of the Royal Canal Company. I know him, and he knows me. He had me ‘up’ about a roulette-table on board of one of the boats, and if it had n’t been for a trifling incident that occurred to his wife at Boulogne, where she went for the bathing, and which I broke to him in confidence – But stay, he’s coming over to speak to me.”

“How d’ye do, Captain Davis?” said the stranger, with the air of a man resolved to brave a difficulty, while he threw into the manner a tone of haughty patronage.

“Pretty bobbish, Mr. Hailes; and you, the same I hope.”

“Well, thank you. You never paid me that little visit you promised at Leixlip.”

“I ‘ve been so busy of late; up to my ears, as they say. Going to start a new company, and thinking of asking your assistance too.”

“What’s the nature of it?”

“Well, it’s a kind of a mutual self-securing sort of thing against family accidents. You understand, – a species of universal guarantee to insure domestic peace and felicity, – a thing that will come home to us all; and I only want a few good names in the direction, to give the shares a push.”

Beecher looked imploringly, to try and restrain him; but he went on, —

“May I take the liberty to put you down on the committee of management?”

Before any answer could come to this speech, Mr. Clowes called out in a deep voice, —

“Mr. Annesley Beecher and Captain Davis;” and flung wide the door for them to pass out.

“Why did you say that to him, Grog?” whispered Beecher, as they moved along.

“Just because I was watching the way he looked at me. He had a hardy, bold expression on his face that showed he needed a reminder, and so I gave him one. Always have the first blow when you see a fellow means to strike you.”

Mr. Davenport Dunn rose as the visitors entered the’ room, and having motioned to them to be seated, took his place with his back to the fire, – a significant intimation that he did not anticipate a lengthy review. Whether it was that he had not previously settled in his own mind how to open the object of his visit, or that something in Dunn’s manner and appearance unlike what he anticipated had changed his intention; but certain is it that Beecher felt confused and embarrassed, and when reminded by Dunn’s saying, “I am at your service, sir,” he turned a most imploring look towards Davis to come to his rescue. The captain, however, with more tact, paid no attention to the appeal; and Beecher, with an immense effort, stammered out, “I have taken the liberty to call on you. I have come here today in consequence of a letter – that is, my brother, Lord Lackington – You know my brother?”

“I have that honor, sir.”

“Well, in writing to me a few days back, he added a hurried postscript, saying he had just seen you; that you were then starting for Ireland, where, on your arrival, it would be well I should wait upon you at once.”

“Did his Lordship mention with what object, sir?”

“I can’t exactly say that he did. He said something about your being his man of business, thoroughly acquainted with all his affairs, and so, of course, I expected – I believed, at least – that you might be able to lead the way, – to show me the line of country, as one might call it,” added he, with a desperate attempt to regain his ease by recurring to his favorite phraseology.

“Really, sir, my engagements are so numerous that I have to throw myself on the kindness of those who favor me with a call to explain the object of their visit.”

“I haven’t got Lackington’s letter about me; but if I remember aright, all he said was, ‘See Dunn as soon as you can, and he ‘ll put you up to a thing or two,’ or words to that effect.”

“I regret deeply, sir, that the expressions give me no clew to the matter in hand.”

“If this ain’t fencing, my name isn’t Davis,” said Grog, breaking in. “You know well, without any going about the bush, what he comes about; and all this skirmishing is only to see if he’s as well ‘up’ as yourself in his own business. Now then, no more chaff, but go in at once.”

“May I ask who is this gentleman?”

“A friend, – a very particular friend of mine,” said Beecher, quickly, – “Captain Davis.”

“Captain Davis,” repeated Dunn, in a half voice to himself, as if to assist his memory to some effort, – “Captain Davis.”

“Just so,” said Grog, defiantly, – “Captain Davis.”

“Does his Lordship’s letter mention I should have the honor of a call from Captain Davis, sir?”

“No; but as he’s my own intimate friend, – a gentleman who possesses all my confidence, – I thought, indeed, I felt, the importance of having his advice upon any questions that might arise in this interview.”

“I ‘m afraid, sir, you have subjected your friend to a most unprofitable inconvenience.”

“The match postponed till further notice,” whispered Grog.

“I beg pardon, sir,” said Dunn, not overhearing the remark.

“I was a saying that no race would come off to-day, in consequence of the inclemency of the weather,” said Grog, as he adjusted his shirt collar.

“Am I to conclude, then,” said Beecher, “that you have not any communication to make to me?”

“No, you ain’t,” broke in Grog, quickly. “He don’t like me, that’s all, and he has n’t the manliness to say it.”

“On the contrary, sir, I feel all the advantage of your presence on this occasion, all the benefit of that straightforward manner of putting the question which saves us so much valuable time.”

Grog bowed an acknowledgment of the compliment, but with a grin on his face that showed in what spirit he accepted it.

“Lord Lackington did not speak to you about my allowance?” asked Beecher, losing all patience.

“No, sir, not a word.”

“He did not allude to a notion – he did not mention a plan – he did not discuss people called O’Reilly, did he?” asked he, growing more and more confused and embarrassed.

“Not a syllable with reference to such a name escaped him, sir.”

“Don’t you see,” said Grog, rising, “that you ‘ll have to look for the explanation to the second column of the ‘Times,’ where ‘A. B. will hear something to his advantage if he calls without C.D.’?”

Davenport Dunn paid no attention to this remark, but stood calmly impassive before them.

“It comes to this, then, that Lackington has been hoaxing me,” said Beecher, rising, with an expression of ill-temper on his face.

“I should rather suggest another possibility,” said Dunn, politely; “that, knowing how far his Lordship has graciously reposed his own confidence in me, he has generously extended to me the chance of obtaining the same position of trust on the part of his brother, – an honor I am most ambitious to attain. If you are disengaged on Sunday next,” added he, in a low voice, “and would favor me with your company at dinner, alone, – quite alone – ”

Beecher bowed an assent in silence, casting a cautious glance towards Davis, who was scanning the contents of the morning paper.

“Till then,” muttered Dunn, while he added aloud, “A good-morning,” and bowed them both to the door.

“Well, you are a soft un, there’s no denying it,” said Davis, as they gained the street.

“What d’ye mean?” cried Beecher, angrily.

“Why, don’t you see how you spoiled all? I’d have had the whole story out of him, but you would n’t give me time to ‘work the oracle.’ He only wanted to show us how cunning he was, – that he was deep and all that; and when he saw that we were all wonder and amazement about his shrewdness, then he ‘d have gone to business.”

“Not a bit of it, Master Grog; that fellow’s wide awake, I tell you.”

“So much the worse for you, then, that’s all.”

“Why so?”

“Because you’re a going to dine with him on Sunday next, all alone. I heard it, though you did n’t think I was listening, and I saw the look that passed, too, as much as to say, ‘We ‘ll not have that fellow;’ and that’s the reason I say, ‘So much the worse for you.’”

“Why, what can he do, with all his craft? He can’t make me put my name to paper; and if he did, much good would it do him.”