Kitabı oku: «Davenport Dunn, a Man of Our Day. Volume 1», sayfa 20

“I suppose, as to the paying part, you ‘re quite right; but, remember, there are different modes of estimating the same thing. Now, I like soldiering – ”

“No accounting for tastes,” broke in Beecher. “I knew a fellow who was so fond of the Queen’s Bench Prison he would n’t let his friends clear him out; but, seriously speaking, the Crimea ‘s a bad book.”

“I should be a very happy fellow to-night if I knew how I could get back there. I ‘ve been trying in various ways for employment in any branch of the service. I ‘d rather be a driver in the Wagon Train than whip the neatest four-in-hand over Epsom Downs.”

“There ‘s only one name for that,” said Beecher; “at least, out of Hanwell.”

“I ‘d be content to be thought mad on such terms,” said Conway, good-humoredly, “and not even quarrel with those who said so!”

“I ‘ve got a better scheme than the Crimea in my head,” said Beecher, in a low, cautious voice, like one afraid of being overheard. “I’ve half a mind to tell you, though there ‘s one on board here would come down pretty heavily on me for peaching.”

“Don’t draw any indignation on yourself on my account,” said Conway, smiling. “I’m quite unworthy of the confidence, and utterly unable to profit by it.”

“I ‘m not so sure of that,” responded Beecher. “A fellow who has got it so hot as you have, has always his eyes open ever after. Come a little to this side,” whispered he, cautiously. “Did you remark my going forward two or three times when I came on board?”

“Yes, I perceived that you did so.”

“You never guessed why?”

“No; really I paid no particular attention to it.”

“I ‘ll tell you, then,” whispered he, still lower, “it was to look after a horse I ‘ve got there. ‘Mumps,’ that ran such a capital second for the Yarmouth, and ran a dead heat afterwards with Stanley’s ‘Cross-Bones,’ he’s there!” and his voice trembled between pride and agitation.

“Indeed!” exclaimed Conway, amused at the eagerness of his manner.

“There he is, disguised as a prize bull for the King of Belgium. Nobody suspects him, – nobody could suspect him, he ‘s so well got up, horns and all. Got him on board in the dark in a large roomy box, clap posters to it on the other side, and ‘tool’ him along to Brussels. That’s what I call business! Now, if you wait a week or two, you can lay on him as deep as you like. We’ll let the Belgians ‘in,’ before we ‘ve done with them. We run him under the name of ‘Klepper;’ don’t forget it, – Klepper!”

“I’ve already told you I ‘m unworthy of such a confidence; you only risk yourself when you impart a secret to indiscretion like mine.”

“You’d not blow us?” cried Annesley, in terror.

“The best security against my doing so accidentally is that I may be hundreds of miles away before your races come off.”

For a minute or two Beecher’s misery was extreme. He saw how his rashness had carried him away to a foolish act of good-nature, and had not even reaped thanks for his generosity. What would he not have given to recall his words? – what would he not have done to obliterate their impression? At last a sudden thought seemed to strike him, and he said, —

“There are two of us in ‘the lay,’ and my ‘pal’ is the readiest pistol in Europe.”

“I ‘ll not provoke any display of his skill, depend on ‘t,” said Conway, controlling, as well as he could, the inclination to laugh out.

“He’d tumble you over like winking if you sold him. He ‘d make it as short work with myself if he suspected me.”

“I’d rather have a quieter sort of colleague,” said Conway, dryly.

“Oh! but he’s a rare one to ‘work the oracle.’ Solomon was a wise man – ”

“What infernal balderdash are you at with Solomon and Samson, there?” shouted out Grog Davis, who had just been looking after the horse-box in the bow. “Come down below, and have a glass of brandy-and-water.”

“I ‘ll stay where I am,” said Beecher, sulkily, and walked away in dudgeon from the spot.

“I think I recognize your friend’s voice,” said Conway, when Beecher next joined him. “If I ‘m right, it’s a fellow I ‘ve an old grudge against.”

“Don’t have it out, then, – that ‘s all,” broke in Beecher, hastily. “I ‘d just as soon go into a cage and dispute a bone with one of Van Amburgh’s tigers, as I ‘d ‘bring him to book.’”

“Make your mind easy about that,” said Conway. “I never go in search of old scores. I would only say, don’t leave yourself more in his power than you can easily escape from. As for myself, it’s very unlikely I shall ever see him again.”

“I wish you’d given up the Crimea,” said Beecher, who, by one of the strange caprices of his strange nature, began to feel a sort of liking for Conway.

“Why should I give it up? It’s the only career I ‘m fit for, – if I even be fit for that, which, indeed, the Horse Guards don’t seem to think. But I ‘ve got an old friend in the Piedmontese service who is going out in command of the cavalry, and I ‘m on my way now to Turin to see whether he cannot make me something, – anything, in short, from an aide-de-camp to an orderly. Once before the enemy, it matters wonderfully little what rank a man holds.”

“The chances of his being knocked over are pretty much alike,” said Beecher, “if that’s what you mean.”

“Not exactly,” said Conway, laughing, “not exactly, though even in that respect the calculation is equal.”

They now walked the deck step for step together in silence. The conversation had arrived at that point whence, if not actually confidential, it could proceed no further without becoming so, and so each appeared to feel it, and yet neither was disposed to lead the way. Beecher was one of those men who regard the chance persons they meet with in life just as they would accidental spots where they halt when on a journey, – little localities to be enjoyed at the time, and never, in all likelihood, revisited. In this way they obtained far more of his confidence than if he was sure to be in constant habits of intercourse with them. He felt they were safe depositaries, just as he would have felt a lonely spot in a wood a secure hiding-place for whatever he wanted to conceal. Now he was already – we are unable to say why – disposed to like Conway, and he would gladly have revealed to him much that lay heavily at his heart, – many a weighty care, many a sore misgiving. There was yet remaining in his nature that reverence and respect for honesty of character which survives very often a long course of personal debasement, and he felt that Conway was a man of honor. Such men he very well knew were usually duped and done, – they were the victims of the sharp set he himself fraternized with; but, with all that, there was something about them that he still clung to, just as he might have clung to a reminiscence of his boy-days.

“I take it,” said he, at last, “that each of us have caught it as heavily as most fellows going. You, to be sure, worse than myself, – for I was only a younger son.”

“My misfortunes,” said Conway, “were all of my own making. I squandered a very good fortune in a few years, without ever so much as suspecting I was in any difficulty; and, after all, the worst recollection of the past is, how few kindnesses, how very few good-natured things a fellow does when he leads a life of mere extravagance. I have enriched many a money-lender, I have started half a dozen rascally servants into smart hotel-keepers, but I can scarcely recall five cases of assistance given to personal friends. The truth is, the most selfish fellow in the world is the spendthrift.”

“That ‘s something new to me, I must own,” said Beecher, thoughtfully; but Conway paid no attention to the remark. “My notion is this,” said Beecher, after a pause, – “do what you will, say what you will, the world won’t play fair with you!”

Conway shook his head dissentingly, but made no reply, and another and a longer silence ensued.

“You don’t know my brother Lackington?” said Beecher, at length.

“No. I have met him in the world and at clubs, but don’t know him.”

“I ‘ll engage, however, you ‘ve always heard him called a clever fellow, a regular sharp fellow, and all that, just because he’s the Viscount; but he is, without exception, the greatest flat going, – never saw his way to a good thing yet, and if you told him of one, was sure to spoil it. I ‘m going over to see him now,” added he, after a pause.

“He ‘s at Rome, I think, the newspapers say?”

“Yes, he’s stopping there for the winter.” Another pause followed, and Beecher threw away the end of his cigar, and, sticking an unlighted one in his mouth, walked the deck in deep deliberation. “I ‘d like to put a case to you for your opinion,” said he, as though screwing himself to a great effort. “If you stood next to a good fortune, – next in reversion, I mean, – and that there was a threat – just a threat, and no more – of a suit to contest your right, would you accept of a life interest in the property to avoid all litigation, and secure a handsome income for your own time?”

“You put the case too vaguely. First of all, a mere threat would not drive me to a compromise.”

“Well, call it more than a threat; say that actual proceedings had been taken, – not that I believe they have; but just say so.”

“The matter is too complicated for my mere Yes or No to meet it; but on the simple question of whether I should compromise a case of that nature, I’d say No. I’d not surrender my right if I had one, and I ‘d not retain possession of that which did n’t belong to me.”

“Which means, that you ‘d reject the offer of a life interest?”

“Yes, on the terms you mention.”

“I believe you ‘re right. Put the bold face on, and stand the battle. Now the real case is this. My brother Lack-ington has just been served with notice – ”

Just as Beecher had uttered the last word, his arm, which rested on the binnacle against which he was standing, was grasped with such force that he almost cried out with the pain, and at the same instant a muttered curse fell upon his ear.

“Go on,” said Conway, as he waited to hear more.

Beecher muttered some unintelligible words about feeling suddenly chilled, and “wanting a little brandy,” and disappeared down the stairs to the cabin.

“I heard you,” cried Davis, as soon as the other entered, – “I heard you! and if I hadn’t heard you with my own ears, I ‘d not have believed it! Have n’t I warned you, not once but fifty times, against that confounded peaching tongue of yours? Have n’t I told you that if every act of your life was as pure and honest as you know it is not, your own stupid talk would make an indictment against you? You meet a fellow on the deck of a steamer – ”

“Stop there!” cried Beecher, whose temper was sorely tried by this attack. “The gentleman I talked with is an old acquaintance; he knows me, – ay, and what’s more, he knows you!”

“Many a man knows me, and does not feel himself much the better for his knowledge!” said Davis, boldly.

“Well, I believe our friend here would n’t say he was the exception to that rule,” said Beecher, with an ironical laugh.

“Who is he? – what’s his name?”

“His name is Conway; he was a lieutenant in the 12th Lancers, but you will remember him better as the owner of Sir Aubrey.”

“I remember him perfectly,” replied Davis, with all his own composure, – “I remember him perfectly, – a tall, good-looking fellow, with short moustaches. He was – except yourself – the greatest flat I ever met in the betting-ring; and that’s a strong word, Mr. Annesley Beecher, – ain’t it?”

“I suspect you ‘d scarcely like to call him a flat to-day, at least, to his face,” said Beecher, angrily.

A look of mingled insolence and contempt was all the answer Davis gave this speech; and then half filling a tumbler with brandy, he drank it off, and said slowly, —

“What I would dare to do, you certainly would never suspect, – that much I ‘m well aware of. What you would dare is easily guessed at.”

“I don’t clearly understand you,” said Beecher, timidly.

“You ‘d dare to draw me into a quarrel on the chance of seeing me ‘bowled over,’” said Davis, with a bitter laugh. “You ‘d dare to see me stand opposite another man’s pistol, and pray heartily at the same time that his hand might n’t shake, nor his wrist falter; but I’ve got good business habits about me, Master Beecher. If you open that writing-desk, you ‘ll own few men’s papers are in better order, or more neatly kept; and there is no satisfaction I could have to offer any one would n’t give me ample time to deposit in the hands of justice seven forged acceptances by the Honorable Annesley Beecher, and the power of attorney counterfeited by the same accomplished gentleman’s hand.”

Beecher put out his hand to catch the decanter of brandy; but Davis gently removed the bottle, and said, “No, no; that’s only Dutch courage, man; nerve yourself up, and learn to stand straight and manfully, and when you say, ‘Not guilty,’ do it with a bold look at the jury box.’”

Beecher dropped into his seat, and buried his head between his hands.

“I often think,” said Davis, as he took out his cigar-case and proceeded to choose a cigar, – “I often think it would be a fine sight when the swells – the fashionable world, as the newspapers call them – would be pressing on to the Old Bailey to see one of their own set in the dock. What nobs there would be on the Bench! All Brookes’s and the Wyndham scattered amongst the bar. The ‘Illustrated News’ would have a photographic picture of you, and the descriptive fellows would come out strong about the way you recognized your former acquaintances in court. Egad! old Grog Davis would be quite proud to give his evidence in such company!’ How long have you been acquainted with the prisoner in the dock, Mr. Davis?’ cried he, aloud, imitating the full and imperious accents of an examining counsel. ‘I have known him upwards of fifteen years, my Lord. We went down together to Leeds in the summer of 1840 on a little speculation with cogged dice – ‘”

Beecher looked up and tried to speak, but his strength failed him, and his head fell heavily down again on the table.

“There, ‘liquor up,’ as the Yankees say,” cried Davis, passing the decanter towards him. “You ‘re a poor chicken-hearted creature, and don’t do much honor to your ‘order.’”

“You ‘ll drive me to despair yet,” muttered Beecher, in a voice scarcely above a whisper.

“Not a bit of it, man; there’s pluck in despair! You ‘ll never go that far!”

Beecher grasped his glass convulsively; and as his eyes flashed wildly, he seemed for a moment as if about to hurl it in the other’s face. Davis’s look, however, appeared to abash him, and with a low, faint sigh he relinquished his hold, while his head fell forward on his bosom.

Davis now drew near the fire, and with a leg on either side of it, smoked away at his ease.

CHAPTER XXVII. A VISIT OF CONDOLENCE

“I think she will see me,” said Davenport Dunn, to the old woman servant who opened the door to him at the Kelletts’ cottage, “if you will tell her my name: Mr. Dunn, – Mr. Davenport Dunn.”

“She told me she ‘d not see anybody, sir,” was the obdurate reply.

“Yes; but I think when you say who it is – ”

“She would not see that young man that was in the regiment with her brother, and he was here every day, wet or dry, to ask after her.”

“Well, take in my card now, and I ‘ll answer for it she’ll not refuse me.”

The old woman took the card half sulkily from his hand, and returned in a few minutes to say that Miss Kellett would receive him.

Dressed in mourning of the very humblest and cheapest kind, and with all the signs of recent suffering and sorrow about her, Sybella Kellett yet received Mr. Dunn with a calm and quiet composure for which he was scarcely prepared.

“If I have been importunate, Miss Kellett,” said he, “it is because I desire to proffer my services to you. I feel assured that you will not take ill this assistance on my part I would wish to be thought a friend – ”

“You were so to my father, sir,” said she, interrupting, while she held her handkerchief to her eyes.

Dunn’s face grew scarlet at these words, but, fortunately for him, she could not see it.

“I had intended to have written to you, sir,” said she, with recovered composure. “I tried to do so this morning, but my head was aching so that I gave it up. I wanted your counsel, and indeed your assistance. I have no need to tell you that I ‘m left without means of support. I do not want to burden relatives, with whom, besides, I have had no intercourse for years; and my object was to ask if you could assist me to a situation as governess, or, if not, to something more humble still. I will not be difficult to please,” said she, smiling sadly, “for my pretensions are of the very humblest.”

“I ‘m aware how much you underrate them. I ‘m no stranger to Miss Kellett’s abilities,” said Dunn, bowing.

She scarcely moved her head in acknowledgment of this speech, and went on: “If you could insure me immediate occupation, it would serve to extricate me from a little difficulty at this moment, and relieve me from the embarrassment of declining ungraciously what I cannot accept of. This letter here is an invitation from a lady in Wales to accept the hospitality of her house for the present; and however deeply the kindness touches me, I must not avail myself of it. You may read the letter,” said she, handing it to him.

Dunn perused it slowly, and, folding it up, laid it on the table again.

“It is most kindly worded, and speaks well for the writer,” said he, calmly.

“I feel all its kindness,” said she, with a slight quivering of the lip. “It comes when such is doubly precious, but I have my reasons against accepting it.”

“Without daring to ask, I can assume them, Miss Kellett. I am one of those who believe that all efforts in life to be either good or great should strike root in independence; that he who leans upon another parts with the best features of identity, and loses himself in suiting his tastes to another’s.”

She made no reply, but a slight flush on her cheek, and an increased brightness in her eye, showed that she gave her full concurrence to the words.

“It is fortunate, Miss Kellett,” said he, resuming, “that I am the bearer of a proposition which, if you approve of, meets the case at once. I have been applied to by Lord Glengariff to find a lady who would accept the situation of companion to his daughter. He has so far explained the requirements he seeks for, that I can answer for Miss Kellett being exactly everything to fulfil them.”

“Oh, sir!” broke she in, “this is in no wise what I desired. I am utterly unfitted for such a sphere and such associations. Remember how and where my life has been passed. I have no knowledge of life, and no experience of society.”

“Let me interrupt you. Lord Glengariff lives completely estranged from the world in a remote part of the country. Lady Augusta, his only unmarried daughter, is no longer young; they see no company; indeed, their fortune is very limited, and all their habits of the very simplest and least expensive. It was remembering this very seclusion, I was glad to offer you a retreat so likely to meet your wishes.”

“But even my education is not what such persons would look for. I have not one of the graceful accomplishments that adorn society. My skill as a musician is very humble; I cannot sing at all; and though I can read some modern languages, I scarcely speak them.”

“Do not ask me to say how much I am aware of your capacity and acquirements, Miss Kellett. It is about two months back a little volume came into my hands which had once been yours; how it ceased to be so I don’t choose to confess; but it was a work on the industrial resources of Ireland, annotated and commented on by you. I have it still. Shall I own to you that your notes have been already used by me in my reports, and that I have adopted some of the suggestions in my recommendations to Government? Nay, if you doubt me, I will give you the proof.”

“I left such a volume as you speak of at Mr. Hawkhaw’s, and believed it had been mislaid.”

“It was deliberately stolen, Miss Kellett, that’s the truth of it. Mr. Driscoll chanced to see the book, and happened to show it to me. I could not fail to be struck with it, the more as I discovered in your remarks hints and suggestions, coupled with explanations, that none had ever offered me.”

“How leniently you speak of my presumption, sir!”

“Say, rather, how sincerely I applaud your zeal and intelligence, – the book bespeaks both. Now, when I read it, I wished at once to make your acquaintance. There were points wherein you were mistaken; there were others in which you evidently see further than any of us. I felt that if time, and leisure, and opportunity of knowledge were supplied, these were the studies in which you might become really proficient. Lord Glengariff s proposal came at the very moment. It was all I could desire for you, – a quiet home, the society of those whose very breeding is acted kindliness.”

“Oh, sir! do not flatter me into the belief that I am worthy of such advantages.”

“The station will gain most by your association with it, take my word for that.”

How was it that these words sent a color to her cheek and a courage to her heart that made her for a moment forget she was poor and fatherless and friendless? What was it, too, that made them seem less flattery than sound, just, and due acknowledgment? He that spoke them was neither young, nor handsome, nor fascinating in manner; and yet she felt his praise vibrate within her heart strangely and thrillingly.

He spoke much to her about her early life, – what she had read, and how she was led to reflect upon themes so unlikely to attract a young girl’s thoughts. By degrees, as her reserve wore off, she ventured to confess what a charm the great men of former days possessed for her imagination, – how their devotion, their courage, their single-heartedness animated her with higher hopes for the time when Ireland should have the aid of those able to guide her destinies and make of her all that her great resources promised.

“The world of contemporaries is seldom just to these,” said Dunn, gravely; “they excite envy rather than attract friendship, and then they have often few of the gifts which conciliate the prejudices around them.”

“What matter if they can live down these prejudices?” cried she, warmly; then blushing at her own eagerness, she said, falteringly, “How have I dared to speak of these things, and to you?”

Dunn arose and walked to the window, and now a long pause occurred in which neither uttered a word.

“Is this cottage yours, Miss Kellett?” said he, at last.

“No; we had rented it, and the time expires in a week or two.”

“And the furniture?”

“It was hired also, except a very few articles of little or no value.”

Dunn again turned away, and seemed lost in deep thought; then, in a voice of some uncertainty and hesitation, said: “Your father’s affairs were complicated and confused, – there were questions of law, too, to be determined about them, – so that, for the present, there is no saying exactly how they stand; still, there will be a sum, – a small one, unfortunately, but still a sum available to you, which, for present convenience, you must allow me to advance to you.”

“You forget, sir, that I have a brother. To him, of right, belongs anything that remains to us.”

“I had, indeed, forgotten that,” said Dunn, in some confusion, “and it was just of him I wanted now to speak. He is serving as a soldier with a Rifle regiment in the Crimea. Can nothing be done to bring him favorably before the notice of his superiors? His gallantry has already attracted notice; but as his real station is still unknown, his advancement has been merely that accorded to the humblest merits. I will attend to it. I ‘ll write about him this very day.”

“How I thank you!” cried she, fervently; and she bent down and pressed her lips to his hand.

A cold shivering passed over Dunn as he felt the hot tears that fell upon his hand, and a strange sense of weakness oppressed him.

“It will make your task the lighter,” cried she, eagerly, “to know that Jack is a soldier in heart and soul, – brave, daring, and high-hearted, but with a nature gentle as a child’s. There was a comrade of his here the other day, one whose life he saved – ”

“I have seen Conway,” said Dunn, dryly, while he scanned her features closely.

No change of color nor voice showed that she felt the scrutiny, and in a calm tone she went on: “I know so little of these things that I do not know, if my dear brother were made an officer to-morrow, whether his want of private fortune would prevent his acceptance of the rank, but there surely must be steps of advancement open to men poor as he is.”

“You may trust all to me,” interrupted Dunn. “Once that you consider me as your guardian, I will neglect nothing that concerns you.”

“Oh, how have I deserved such kindness!” cried she, trying to smother her emotion.

“You must call me your guardian, too, and write to me as such. The world is of such a temper that it will serve you to be thought my ward. Even Lady Augusta Arden herself will feel the force of it.” There was a kind of rude energy in the way these last words were uttered that gave them a character almost defiant.

“You are, then, decided that I ought to take the situation?” said she. And already her manner had assumed the deference of one seeking direction.

“Yes, for the present it is all that could be desired. There will be no necessity of your continuing there if it should ever be irksome to you. Upon this, as upon all else, I trust you will communicate freely with me.”

“I should approach an actual duty – a task – with far more confidence than I feel in offering to accommodate myself to the ways and tempers of utter strangers.”

“Very true,” said he; “but when I have told you about them they will be strangers no longer. People are easily comprehended who have certain strong ruling passions. They have only one, and that the very simplest of all motives, – pride. Let me tell you of them.” And so he drew his chair to her side, and began to describe the Ardens.

We do not ask the reader to follow Davenport Dunn in his sketch; enough that we say his picture was more truthful than flattering, for he portrayed traits that had often given him offence and suffering. He tried to speak with a sort of disinterested coldness, – a kind of half-pitying indifference about “ways and notions” that people estranged from “much intercourse with the world will fall into;” but his tone was, in spite of himself, severe and resentful, and scarcely compensated by his concluding words, “though, of course, to you they will be amiable and obliging.”

“How I wish I could see them, though only for a minute!” said she, as he finished.

“Have you such confidence, then, in your power of detecting character at sight?” asked he, with a keen and furtive glance.

“My gift is generally enough for my own guidance,” said she, frankly; “but, to be sure, it has only been exercised amongst the country people, and they have fewer disguises than those we call their betters.”

“I may write word, then, that within a week you will be ready,” said Dunn, rising. “You will find in that pocket-book enough for any immediate outlay, – nay, Miss Kellett, it is your own, – I repeat it, all your own. I am your guardian, and no more.” And with a stiffness of manner that almost repelled gratitude, he took his leave and withdrew. As he gained the door, however, he stopped, and after a moment came back into the room. “I should like to see you again before you leave; there are topics I would like to speak with you on. May I come in a day or two?”

“Whenever and as often as you please.”

Dunn took her hand and pressed it tenderly. A deep crimson overspread her face as she said “Good-bye!” and the carriage had rolled away ere she knew that he was gone.