Davenport Dunn, a Man of Our Day. Volume 1

“I have thought of it,” rejoined Davis, bluntly, but in a tone that by no means invited further inquiry.

“Her style and her manner fit her for the best set anywhere – ”

“That’s where I intend her to be,” broke in Davis.

“I need scarcely tell as clever a fellow as you,” said Beecher, mildly, “that there’s nothing so difficult as to find footing among these people. Great wealth may obtain it, or great patronage. There are women in London who can do that sort of thing; there are just two or three such, and you may imagine how difficult it is to secure their favor.”

“They ‘re all cracked teacups, those women you speak of; one has only to know where the flaw is, and see how easily managed they are!”

Beecher smiled at this remark; he chuckled to himself, too, to see that for once the wily Grog Davis had gone out of his depth, and adventured to discuss people and habits of which he knew nothing; but, unwilling to prolong a controversy so delicate, he hurried away to his room to dress. Davis, too, retired on a similar errand, and a student of life might have been amused to have taken a peep into the two dressing-rooms. As for Beecher, it was but the work of a few minutes to array himself in dinner costume. It was a routine task that he performed without a thought on its details. All was ready at his hand; and even to the immaculate tie, which seemed the work of patience and skill, he despatched the whole performance in less than a quarter of an hour. Not so Davis: he ransacked drawers and portmanteaus; covered the bed, the chairs, and the table with garments; tried on and took off again; endeavored to make colors harmonize, or hit upon happy contrasts. He was bent on appearing a “swell;” and, unquestionably, when he did issue forth, with a canary-colored vest, and a green coat with gilt buttons, his breast a galaxy of studs and festooned chains, it would have been unfair to say he had not succeeded.

Beecher had but time to compliment him on his “get up,” when Miss Davis entered. Though her dress was simply the quiet costume of a young unmarried girl, there was in her carriage and bearing, as she came in, all the graceful ease of the best society; and lighted up by the lamps of the apartment, Beecher saw, to his astonishment, the most beautiful girl he had ever beheld. It was not alone the faultless delicacy of her face, but there was that mingled gentleness and pride, that strange blending of softness and seriousness, which sit so well on the high-born, giving a significance to every gesture or word of those whose every movement is so measured, and every syllable so carefully uttered. “Why was n’t she a countess in her own right?” thought he; “that girl might have all London at her feet.”

The dinner went on very pleasantly. Davis, too much occupied in listening to his daughter or watching the astonishment of Beecher, scarcely ever spoke; but the others chatted away about whatever’ came uppermost in a light and careless tone that delighted him.

Beecher was not sorry at the opportunity of a little dis-play. He was glad to show Davis that in the great world of society he could play no insignificant part; and so he put forth all his little talents as a talker, with choice anecdotes of “smart people,” and the sayings and doings of a set which, to Grog, were as much myths as the inscriptions on an Assyrian monument. Lizzy Davis evidently took interest in his account of London and its life. She liked, too, to hear about the families of her schoolfellows, some of whom bore “cognate” names, and she listened with actual eagerness to descriptions of the gorgeous splendor and display of a town “season.”

“And I am to see all these fine things, and know all these fine people, papa?” asked she.

“Yes, I suppose so, – one of these days, at least,” muttered Grog, not caring to meet Beecher’s eye.

“I don’t think you care for this kind of life so much as Mr. Beecher, pa. Is their frivolity too great for your philosophy?”

“It ain’t that!” muttered Grog, growing confused.

“Then do tell me, now, something of the sort of people you are fond of; the chances are that I shall like them just as well as the others.”

Beecher and Davis exchanged glances of most intense significance; and were it not from downright fear, Beecher would have burst out laughing.

“Then I will ask Mr. Beecher,” said she, gayly. “You ‘ll not be so churlish as papa, I ‘m certain. You ‘ll tell me what his world is like?”

“Well, it’s a very smart world too,” said Beecher, slyly enjoying the malicious moment of worrying Grog with impunity. “Not so many pretty women in it, perhaps, but plenty of movement, plenty of fun, – eh, Davis? Are you fond of horses, Miss Davis?”

“Passionately; and I flatter myself I can ride too. By the way, is it true, papa, you have brought a horse from England for me?”

“Who could have told you that?” said Davis, almost sternly.

“My maid heard it from a groom that has just arrived, but with such secrecy that I suppose I have destroyed all the pleasure of the surprise you intended me; never mind, dearest pa, I am just as grateful – ”

“Grateful for nothing,” broke in Davis. “The groom is a prating rascal, and your maid ought to mind her own affairs.” Then reddening to his temples with shame at his ill-temper, he added, “There is a horse, to be sure, but he ain’t much of a lady’s palfrey.”

“What would you say to her riding Klepper in the Allée Verte, – it might be a rare stroke?” asked Beecher, in a whisper to Davis.

“Do you think that she is to be brought into our knaveries? Is that all you have learned from what I ‘ve been saying to you?” whispered Davis, with a look of such savage ferocity that Beecher grew sick at heart with terror.

“I ‘m sorry to break in upon such confidential converse,” said she, laughingly, “but pray remember we are losing the first scene of the opera.”

“I ‘m at your orders,” said Beecher, as, with his accustomed easy gallantry, he stepped forward to offer her his arm.

The opera was a favorite one, and the house was crowded in every part. As in all cities of a certain rank, the occupants of the boxes, with a few rare exceptions, were the same well-known people who, night after night, follow along the worn track of pleasure. To them the stage is but a secondary object, to which attention only wanders at intervals. The house itself, the brilliant blaze of beauty, the splendor of diamonds, the display of dress, and, more than all these, the subtle by-play of intrigue, detectable only by eyes deep-skilled and trained, – these form the main attractions of a scene wherein our modern civilization is more strikingly exhibited than in any other situation.

Scarcely had Lizzy Davis taken her seat than a low murmur of wondering admiration ran through the whole house, and, in the freedom which our present-day habits license, every opera-glass was turned towards her. Totally unconscious of the admiration she was exciting, her glances ranged freely over the theatre in every part, and her eyes were directed from object to object in amazement at the gorgeousness of the scene around her. Seated far back in the box, entirely screened from view, her father, too, perceived nothing of that strange manifestation wherein a sort of homage is blended with a degree of impertinence, but watched the stage with intense eagerness. Very different from the feelings of either father or daughter were the feelings of Annesley Beecher. He knew well the opera and its habits, and as thoroughly saw that it is to the world of fashion what Tattersall’s or the turf is to the world of sport, – the great ring where every match is booked, every engagement registered, and every new aspirant for success canvassed and discussed. There was not a glance turned towards the unconscious girl at his side but he could read its secret import. How often had it been his own lot to stare up from his stall at some fair face, unknown to that little world which arrogates to itself all knowledge, and mingle his criticism with all the impertinences fashion loves to indulge in! The steady stare of some, the unwilling admiration of others, the ironical gaze of more, were all easy of interpretation by him, and for the very first time in his life he became aware of the fact that it was possible to be unjust with regard to the unknown.

As the piece proceeded, and her interest in the play increased, a slightly heightened color and an expression of half eagerness gave her beauty all that it had wanted before of animation, and there was now an expression of such captivation on her face that, carried away by that mysterious sentiment which sways masses, sending its secret spell from heart to heart, the whole audience turned from the scene to watch its varying effects upon that beautiful countenance. The opera was “Rigoletto,” and she continued to translate to her father the touching story of that sad old man, who, lost to every sentiment of honor, still cherished in his heart of hearts his daughter’s love. The terrible contrast between his mockery of the world and his affection for his home, the bitter consciousness of how he treated others, conjuring up the terrors of what yet might be his own fate, came to him in her words, as the stage revealed their action, and gradually he leaned over in his eagerness till his head projected outside the box.

“There – was n’t I right about her?” said a voice from one of the stalls beneath. “That’s Grog Davis. I know the fellow well.”

“I ‘ve won my wager,” said another. “There ‘s old Grog leaning over her shoulder, and there can’t be much doubt about her now.”

“Annesley Beecher at one side, and Grog Davis at the other,” said a third, make the case very easy reading. “I ‘ll go round and get presented to her.”

“Let us leave this, Davis,” whispered Beecher, while he trembled from head to foot, – “let us leave this at once. Come down to the crush-room, and I ‘ll find a carriage.”

“Why so – what do you mean?” said Davis; and as suddenly he followed Beecher’s glance towards the pit, whence every eye was turned towards them.

That glance was not to be mistaken. It was the steady and insolent stare the world bestows upon those who have neither champions nor defenders; and Davis returned the gaze with a defiance as insulting.

“For any sake, Davis, let us get away,” whispered Beecher again. “Only think of her, if there should be any exposure!”

“Exposure! – how should there? Who ‘d dare – ”

Before he could finish, the curtain at the back of the box was rudely drawn aside, and a tall, handsome man, with a certain swaggering ease of manner that seemed to assert his right to be there if he pleased, came forward, saying, —

“How goes it, Davis? I just caught a glimpse of that charming – ”

“A word with you, Captain Hamilton,” said Davis, between his teeth, as he pushed the other towards the door.

“As many as you like, old fellow, by and by. For the present, I mean to establish myself here.”

“That you sha’n’t, by Heaven!” cried Davis, as he placed himself in front of him. “Leave this, sir, at once.”

“Why, the fellow is deranged,” said Hamilton, laughing; “or is it jealousy, old boy?”

With a violent push Davis drove him backwards, and ere he could recover, following up the impulse, he thrust him outside the box, hurriedly passing outside, and shutting the door after him.

So rapidly and so secretly had all this occurred, that Lizzy saw nothing of it, all her attention being eagerly fixed on the stage. Not so Beecher. He had marked it all, and now sat listening in terror to the words of high altercation in the lobby. From sounds that boded like insult and outrage, the noise gradually decreased to more measured tones; then came a few words in whisper, and Davis, softly drawing the curtain, stepped gently to his chair at his daughter’s back. A hasty sign to Beecher gave him to understand that all was settled quietly, and the incident was over.

“You ‘ll not think me very churlish if I rob you of one act of the opera, Lizzy?” said Davis, as the curtain fell; “but I have a racking headache, which all this light and heat are only increasing.”

“Let us go at once, dearest papa,” said she, rising. “You should have told me of this before. There, Mr. Beecher, you needn’t leave this – ”

“She’s quite right,” said Davis; “you must remain.”

And the words were uttered with a certain significance that Beecher well understood as a command.

It was past midnight when Annesley Beecher returned to the hotel, and both Davis and his daughter had already gone to their rooms.

“Did your master leave any message for me?” said he to the groom, who acted as Davis’s valet.

“No, sir, not a word.”

“Do you know, would he see me? Could you ask him?” said he.

The man disappeared for a few minutes, and then coming back, said, “Mr. Davis is fast asleep, sir, and I dare not disturb him.”

“Of course not,” said Beecher, and turned away.

“How that fellow can go to bed and sleep, after such a business as that!” muttered Beecher, as he drew his chair towards the fire, and sat ruminating over the late incident. It was in a spirit of triumphant satisfaction that he called to mind the one solitary point in which he was the superior of Davis, – class and condition, – and he revelled in the thought that men like Grog make nothing but blunders when they attempt the habits of those above them. “With all his shrewdness,” said he to himself, half aloud, “he could not perceive that he has been trying an impossibility. She is beyond them all in beauty, her manners are perfect, her breeding unexceptionable; and yet, there she is, Grog Davis’s daughter! Ay, Grog, my boy, you ‘ll see it one of these days. It ‘s all to no use. Enter her for what stakes you like, she ‘ll be always disqualified. There ‘s only one thing carries these attempts through, – if you could give her a pot of money. Yes, Master Davis, there are fellows – and with good blood in their veins – that, for fifty or sixty thousand pounds, would marry even your daughter.” With this last remark he finished all his reflections, and proceeded to prepare for bed.

Sleep, however, would not come; he was restless and uneasy; the incident in the theatre might get abroad, and his own name be mentioned; or it might be that Hamilton, knowing well who and what Davis was, would look to him, Beecher, for satisfaction. There was another pleasant eventuality, – to be drawn into a quarrel and shot for Grog Davis’s daughter! To be the travelling-companion of such a man was bad enough; to risk being seen with him on railroads and steamboats was surely sufficient; but to be paraded in places of public amusement, to be dragged before the well-dressed world, not as his chance associate, but as a member of his domestic circle, chaperoning his daughter to the opera, was downright intolerable! And thus was it that this man, who had been dunned and insulted by creditors, hunted from place to place by sheriff’s officers, browbeaten by bankruptcy practitioners, stigmatized by the press, haunted all the while by a conscience that whispered there was even worse hanging over him, yet did he feel more real terror from the thought of how he would be regarded by his own “order” for this unseemly intimacy, than shame for all his deeper and graver transgressions.

“No,” said he, at last, springing from his bed, and lighting his candle, “I ‘ll be off. I ‘ll cut my lucky, Master Grog; and here goes to write you half a dozen lines to break the fact to you. I ‘ll call it a sudden thought – a notion – that I ought to see Lackington at once. I ‘ll say that I could n’t think of subjecting Miss Davis to the inconvenience of that rapid mode of travelling I feel to be so imminently necessary. I ‘ll tell him that as I left the theatre, I saw one of Fordyce’s clerks, that the fellow knew me and grinned, and that I know I shall be arrested if I stay here. I ‘ll hint that Hamilton, who is highly connected, will have the English Legation at us all. Confound it, he ‘ll believe none of these. I ‘ll just say” – Here he took his pen and wrote, —

“Dear D., – After we parted last night, a sudden caprice seized me that I ‘d start off at once for Italy. Had you been alone, old fellow, I should never have thought of it;

but seeing that I left you in such charming company, with one whose – [‘No, that won’t do – I must strike out that;

and so he murmured over the lines ending in ‘company.’ and then went on.] – I have no misgivings about being either missed or wanted. – [‘Better, perhaps, missed or regretted.‘] We have been too long friends to – [‘No, we are too old pals, that’s better – he does n’t care much for friendship’] – too old pals to make me suspect you will be displeased with this – this unforeseen – [‘That’s a capital word! – unforeseen what? It’s always calamity comes after unforeseen; but I can’t call it calamity’] —

unforeseen ‘bolt over the ropes,’ and believe me as ever, or believe me ‘close as wax,’

“Yours, A. B.”

“A regular diplomatic touch, I call that note,” said he, as he reread it to himself with much complacency. “Lack-ington thinks me a ‘flat;’ then let any one read that, and say if the fellow that wrote it is a fool.” And now he sealed and directed his epistle, having very nearly addressed it to Grog, instead of to Captain Davis. “His temper won’t be angelic when he gets it,” muttered he, “but I’ll be close to Liege by that time.” And with this very reassuring reflection he jumped into bed again, determining to remain awake till daybreak.

Wearied out at last with watching, Annesley Beecher fell off asleep, and so soundly, too, that it was not till twice spoken to he could arouse and awaken.

“Eh, what is it, Rivers?” cried he, as he saw the trim training-groom at his side. “Anything wrong with the horse?”

“No, sir, nothing; he’s all right, anyhow.”

“What is it, then; any one from town looking for us?”

“No, sir, nobody whatever. It’s the Captain himself – ”

“What of him? Is he ill?”

“Sound as a roach, sir; he’s many a mile off by this. Says he to me, ‘Rivers,’ says he, ‘when you gets back to the Tirlemont, give this note to Mr. Beecher; he ‘ll tell you afterwards what’s to be done. Only,’ says he, ‘don’t forget to rub a little of the white oils on that near hock; very weak,’ says he; ‘be sure it’s very weak, so as not to blister him.’ Ain’t he a wonderful man, sir, to be thinking o’ that at such a moment?”

“Draw the curtain, there, – let me have more light,” cried Beecher, eagerly, as he opened the small and crumpled piece of paper. The contents were in pencil, and very brief, —

“I ‘m off through the Ardennes towards Treves; come up to Aix with my daughter, and wait there till you hear from me. There ‘s a vacant ‘troop’ in the Horse Guards Blue this morning. Rivers can tell you all. – Yours, C. D.”

“What has happened, Rivers?” cried he, in intense anxiety. “Tell me at once.”

“Sir, it don’t take long to tell. It did n’t take very long to do. It was three, or maybe half-past, this morning, the Captain comes to my room, and says, ‘Rivers, get up; be lively,’ says he, ‘dress yourself, and go over to Jonesse, that fellow as has the shooting-gallery, give him this note; he ‘ll just read it, and answer it at once; then run over to Burton’s and order a coupé, with two smart horses, to be here at five; after that come back quickly, for I want a few things packed up.’ He made a sign to me that all was to be ‘dark,’ and so away I went, and before three quarters of an hour was back here again. At five to the minute the carriage came to the corner of the park, and we stepped out quietly; and when we reached it, there was Jonesse inside, with a tidy little box on his knee. ‘Oh, is that it?’ said I, for I knowed what that box meant, – ‘is that it?’

“‘Yes,’ says the Captain, ‘that’s it; get up and make him drive briskly to Boitsfort.’ We were a bit late, I think, for the others was there when we got up, and I heard them grumbling something about being behind time. ‘Egad,’ says the Captain, ‘you ‘ll find we ‘ve come early enough before we’ve done with you.’ They were cruel words, sir, now that I think how he tumbled him over stone dead in a moment.”

“Who dead?”

“That fine, handsome young man, with the light-brown beard, – Hamilton, they said his name was, – and a nicer fellow you could n’t wish to see. I ‘ll never forget him as he lay there stretched on the grass, and the small blue hole in his forehead, – you ‘d not believe it was ever half the size of a bullet, – and his glove in his left hand, all so natural as if he was alive. I believe I ‘d have been standing there yet, looking at him, when the Captain called me, and said, ‘Rivers, take these stirrups up a hole,’ – for he had a saddle-horse all ready for him, – ‘and give this note to Mr. Beecher; he ‘ll give you his orders about Klepper,’ says he, ‘but mind you look to that hock.’”

“And Captain Hamilton was killed?” muttered Beecher, while he trembled from head to foot at the terrible tidings.

“Killed – dead – he never moved a finger after he fell!”

“What did his friend do? Did he say anything? – did he speak?”

“He dropped down on his knees beside him, and caught him by the hand, and cried out, ‘George, my own dear fellow, – George, speak to me;’ but George never spoke another word.”

“And Davis, – Captain Davis, – what did he do?”

“He shook hands with Jones, and said something in French that made him laugh; and then going over to where the body lay, he said, ‘Colonel Humphrey,’ says he, ‘you ‘re a witness that all was fair and honorable, and that if this unhappy affair ever comes to be – ’ and then the Colonel moved his hand for him to be off, and not speak to him. And so the Captain took his advice, and got into the saddle; but I heard him mutter something about ‘teaching the Colonel better manners next time they met.”

“And then he rode away?”

“Yes; he turned into the wood, at a walking pace, for he was lighting his cigar. I saw no more of him, after that, for they called me to help them with the body, and it was all we could do, four of us, to carry him to the road where the carriage was standing.”

“Did you ever hear them mention my name amongst them?” asked Beecher, tremblingly.

“No, sir; nobody spoke of you but my master, when he handed me the note.”

“What a sad business it has all been!” exclaimed Beecher, half aloud.

“I suppose it would go hard with the Captain, sir, if he was caught?” said Rivers, inquiringly.

Again Beecher read over the note, pondering every word as he went “What a sad business!” murmured he, “and all for nothing, or next to nothing!” Then, as if suddenly rousing himself to action, he said, “Rivers, we must get away at once. Take this passport to the police, and then look after a horse-box for the next train to Liege. We shall start at two o’clock.”

“That’s just what the Captain said, sir. ‘Don’t delay in Brussels,’ says he; ‘and don’t you go a-talking about this morning’s work. If they have you up for examination, mind that you saw nothing, you heard nothing, you know nothing.’”

“Send Miss Davis’s maid here,” said Beecher; “and then see about those things I ‘ve mentioned to you.”

Mademoiselle Annette was a French Swiss, who very soon apprehended that a “difficulty” had occurred somewhere, which was to be kept secret from her young mistress; and though she smiled with a peculiar significance at the notion of Miss Davis travelling under Beecher’s protection, she did so with all the decorum of her gifted class.

“You ‘ll explain everything, Annette,” said Beecher, who in his confusion was eager to throw any amount of burden or responsibility upon another; “you’ll tell her whatever you like as to the cause of his going away, and I ‘ll swear to it.”

“Monsieur need not give himself any trouble,” was the ready answer; “all shall be cared for.”

CHAPTER XXXI. EXPLANATIONS

What a sad pity it is that the great faculty of “making things comfortable,” that gifted power which blends the announcement with the explanation of misfortune, should be almost limited to that narrow guild in life to which Mademoiselle Annette belonged! The happy knack of half-informing and all-mystifying would be invaluable on the Treasury benches; and great proficients as some of our public men are in this walk, how immeasurably do they fall short of the dexterity of the “soubrette”!

So neatly and so cleverly had Annette performed her task, that when Miss Davis met Beecher at breakfast, she felt that a species of reserve was necessary as to the reasons of her father’s flight; that, as he had not directly communicated with herself, her duty was simply to accept of the guidance he had dictated to her. Besides this, let it be owned, she had not yet rallied from the overwhelming astonishment of her first meeting with her father, so utterly was he unlike all that her imagination had pictured him! Nothing could be more affectionate, nothing kinder, than his reception; a thoughtful anxiety for her comfort pervaded all he said. The gloomy old Tirlemont even caught up an air of home as she passed the threshold; but still he was neither in look, manner, nor appearance what she fancied. All his self-restraint could not gloss over his vulgarity, nor all his reserve conceal his defects in breeding. His short, dictatorial manner with the servants, – his ever-present readiness to confront nobody saw what peril, – a suspectful insistence upon this or that mark of deference as a right of which he might possibly be defrauded, – all gave to his bearing a tone of insolent defiance that at once terrified and repelled her.