Davenport Dunn, a Man of Our Day. Volume 2

“Make an end of canting, I want to speak to you about matters of moment. You will set out to-day, I hope.”

“Immediately after the marriage.”

“What road do you take?”

“Strasburg, Paris, Marseilles, whence direct to Constantinople by the first steamer.”

“After that?”

“Across the Black Sea to Balaklava.”

“But when do you reach the Crimea?”

“Balaklava is in the Crimea.”

Davis flushed scarlet. The reflection on his geography wounded him, and he winced under it.

“Are you quite clear that you understand my instructions?” said he, testily.

“I wish I was as sure of a deanery,” said Paul, smacking his lips over the last glass.

“You can scarcely wish over-well to the Church, when you desire to be one of its dignitaries,” said Davis, with a sarcastic grin.

“Why so, my worthy friend? There is a wise Scotch adage says, ‘It taks a’ kind of folk to mak a warld;’ and so, various orders of men, with gifts widely differing, if not discrepant, are advantageously assembled into what we call corporations.”

“Nonsense, – bosh!” said Grog, impatiently. “If you have no better command of common-sense where you are going, I have made a precious bad choice of an agent.”

“See how men misconstrue their own natures!” exclaimed Classon, with a sort of fervor. “If any one had asked me what gift I laid especial claim to possess, I protest I should have said ‘common-sense;’ a little more common-sense than any one else I ever met.”

“You are modest too.”

“Becomingly so, I hope and believe.”

“Have you any other remarkable traits that you might desire to record?”

“A few, and a very few,” said Paul, with a well-assumed air of humility. “Nature has blessed me with the very best of tempers. I am never rash, hasty, or impetuous; I accept the rubs of life with submission; I think well of every one.”

“Do you, faith!” exclaimed Davis, with a scornful laugh.

“Knowing well that we are all slaves of circumstances, I take motives where others demand actions, just as I would take a bill at three months from him who has no cash. It may be paid, or it may not.”

“You’d have passed it ere it became due, eh, Master Paul?”

“Such is possible; I make no claims above human frailty.”

“Is sobriety amongst your other virtues?”

“I rarely transgress its limits, save when alone. It is in the solitary retirement where I seek reflection that I occasionally indulge. There I am, so to say, ‘Classo cum Classone.’ I offer no example to others, – I shock no outward decorum. If the instinctive appreciation of my character – which I highly possess – passes that of most men, I owe it to those undisguised moments when I stand revealed to myself. Wine keeps no secrets; and Paul Classon drunk appeals to Paul Classon sober. Believe me, Kit, when I tell you no man knows half the excellent things in his own heart till he has got tipsy by himself!”

“I wish I had never thought of you for this affair,” said Davis, angrily.

“Pitt made the same speech to Wolfe, and yet that young general afterwards took Quebec.”

“What do I care about Wolfe or Quebec? I want a particular service that a man of moderate brains and a firm purpose can accomplish.”

“And for which Paul Classon pledges himself with his head? Ay, Grog Davis, that is my bond.”

“The day you come back to me with proof of success, I hand you five hundred pounds.”

“Cash?”

“Cash, – and more, if all be done to our entire satisfaction. He– ” here he jerked up his thumb towards Beecher’s room – “he sha’n’t forget you.”

Paul closed his eyes, and muttered something to himself, ending with, “And ‘five pounds for the Cruelty to Animals, – from the Reverend Paul Classon.’ I shall be in funds for them all.”

“Ah, Kit!” said he at last, with a deep-drawn sigh, “what slaves are we all, and to the meanest accidents too, – the veriest trifles of our existence. Ask yourself, I beseech you, what is it that continually opposes your progress in life, – what is your rock ahead? Your name! nothing but your name! – call yourself Jones, Wilkins, Simpson, Watkins, and see what an expansion it will give your naturally fine faculties. Nobody will dare to assert that you or I are the same men we were five-and-twenty or thirty years ago, and yet you must be Davis and I must be Classon, whether we will or not. I call this hard, – very hard indeed!”

“Would it be any benefit to me if I could call myself Paul Classon?” said Grog, with an insolent grin.

“It is not for the saintly man who bears that name to speak boastfully of its responsibilities – ”

“In bills of exchange, I O U’s, promissory notes, and so forth,” laughed in Grog.

“I have, I own, done a little in these ways; but what gifted man ever lived who has not at some time or other committed his sorrows to paper. The misfortune in my case was that it was stamped.”

“Do you know, Holy Paul, I think you are the greatest ‘hemp’ I ever met.”

“No, Kit, don’t say so, – don’t, my dear and valued friend; these words give me deep pain.”

“I do say it, and I maintain it!”

“What good Company you must have kept through life, then!”

“The worst of any man in England. And yet,” resumed he, after a pause, “I ‘m positively ashamed to think that my daughter should be married by the Reverend Paul Classon.”

“A prejudice, my dear and respected friend, – a prejudice quite beneath your enlarged and gifted understanding! Will it much signify to you if he, who one of these days shall say, ‘The sentence of this court, Christopher Davis, is transportation beyond the seas,’ be a Justice of the Common Pleas or a Baron of the Exchequer? No, no, Kit; it is only your vain, conceited people who fancy that they are not hanged if it was n’t Calcraft tied the noose!”

More than once did Davis change color at this speech, whose illustrations were selected with special intention and malice.

“Here ‘s daybreak already!” cried Grog, throwing open the window, and admitting the pinkish light of an early dawn, and the fresh sharp air of morning.

“It’s chilly enough too,” said Classon, shivering, as he emptied the gin into his glass.

“I think you ‘ve had enough already,” said Grog, rudely, as he flung both tumbler and its contents out of the window. “Go, have a wash, and make yourself a little decent-looking; one would imagine, to see you, you had passed your night in the ‘lock-up’!”

“When you see me next, you ‘ll fancy I ‘m an archdeacon.” So saying, and guiding himself by the chairs, Paul Classon left the room.

With a quiet step, and firm, neither “overtaken” by liquor nor fatigued by the night’s debauch, Davis hastened to his chamber. So long as he was occupied with the cares of dressing, his features betrayed no unusual anxiety; he did, indeed, endeavor to attire himself with more than ordinary care; and one cravat after another did he fling on the floor, where a number of embroidered vests were already lying. At length the toilet was completed, and Grog surveyed himself in the large glass, and was satisfied. He knew he didn’t look like Annesley Beecher and that “lot,” still less did he resemble the old “swells” of Brookes’s and the Carlton; but he thought there was something military, something sporting, – a dash of the “nag,” with “Newmarket,” – about him, that might pass muster anywhere! “At all events, Lizzy won’t be ashamed of me,” muttered he to himself. “Poor, poor Lizzy!” added he, in a broken tone; and he sank down into a chair, and leaned his head on the table.

A gentle tap came to the door. “Come in,” said he, without raising his head; and she entered.

As the rich robe of silk rustled across the floor, he never raised his head; nor even when, bending over, she threw an arm around his neck and kissed his forehead, did he stir or move.

“I want you to look at me, dearest papa,” said she, softly.

“My poor Lizzy, – my own dear Lizzy!” murmured he, half indistinctly; then, starting suddenly up, he cried aloud, “Good heavens! is it worth all this – ”

“No, indeed, papa,” burst she in; “it is not– it is not worth it!”

“What do you mean?” asked he, abruptly. “What were you thinking of?”

“It was your thoughts I was following out,” said she, drearily.

“How handsome, – how beautiful you are, girl!” exclaimed he, as, holding both her hands, he surveyed her at full length. “Is this Brussels lace?”

She nodded assent

“And what do you call these buttons?”

“They are opals.”

“How it all becomes you, girl! I’d never like to see you less smartly dressed! And now. – and now I am to lose you!” And he fell upon her neck, and clasped her fondly to his heart.

“Oh, my dear father, if you knew – ” She could not continue.

“And don’t I know!” broke he in. “Do you think that all my hard, bad experience of life has left me so bereft of feeling! But I ‘ll tell you another thing I know, Lizzy,” said he, in a deep, calm voice; “that what we fancy must break our hearts to do we can bear, and bear patiently, and, what’s more, so learn to conform to, that after a few years of life we wonder that we ever thought them hardships!”

“We do not change so much without heavy suffering!” said she, sorrowfully.

“That is possible too,” said he, sighing. Then, suddenly rallying, he said, “You’ll write to me often, very often, Lizzy; I ‘ll want to hear how you get on with these great folk; not that I fear anything, only this, girl, that their jealousy will stimulate their rancor. You are so handsome, girl! so handsome!”

“I ‘m glad of it,” said she, with an air of proud exultation.

“Who’s there?” cried Davis, impatiently, as a sharp knock came to the door. It was the Reverend Paul come to borrow a white neckcloth, none of his own being sufficiently imposing for such an occasion.

“I am scarcely presentable, Miss Davis. I am sure I address Miss Davis,” said he, pushing into the room, and bowing ceremoniously at each step. “There can be but only one so eminently beautiful!”

“There, take what you want, and be off!” cried Davis, rudely.

“Your father usurps all the privileges of long friendship, and emboldens me to claim some, too, my dear young lady. Let me kiss the fairest hand in Christendom.” And with a reverential homage all his own, Paul bent down and touched her hand with his lips.

“This is the Reverend Paul Classon, Lizzy,” said Davis, – “a great dignitary of the Church, and an old schoolfellow of mine.”

“I am always happy to know a friend of my father’s,” said she, smiling gracefully. “You have only just arrived?”

“This moment!” said he, with a glance towards Grog.

“There, away with you, and finish your dressing,” broke in Davis, angrily; “I see it is nigh seven o’clock.”

“Past seven, rather; and the company assembled below stairs, and Mr. Beecher – for I presume it must be he – pacing the little terrace in all the impatience of a bride-groom. Miss Davis, your servant.” And with a bow of deep reverence Paul retired.

“There were so many things running in my mind to say to you, Lizzy,” said Davis, “when that Classon came in.” It was very hard for him not to add an epithet; but he did escape that peril.

“I own, papa, he did not impress me very favorably.”

“He’s a first-rate man, a great scholar, a regular don amongst the shovel-hats,” said Grog, hastily; “that man was within an ace of being a bishop. But it was not of him my head was full, girl. I wanted to talk to you about Beecher and that haughty sister-in-law of his. She ‘ll ‘try-it on’ with you, Lizzy; I ‘m sure she will!”

“Dearest papa, how often have you told me that in preparing for the accidents of life we but often exaggerate their importance. I’ll not anticipate evil.”

“Here’s Beecher! – here he is!” cried Davis, as he clasped her once more to his heart; and then, opening the door, led her down the stairs.

There was a full assemblage of all the folk of the little inn, and the room was crowded. The landlord and his wife, and four buxom daughters and two sons, were there; and a dapper waiter, with very tight-fitting trousers, and a housemaid, and three farm-servants, all with big bouquets in their hands and huge bows of white ribbon on their breasts; and Mademoiselle Annette, Lizzy’s maid, in a lilac, silk and a white crape bonnet; and Peters, Beecher’s man, in a most accurate blue frock, except his master, looking far more like a gentleman than any one there.

As for Annesley Beecher, no man ever more accurately understood how to “costume” for every circumstance in life; and whether you saw him lounging over the rail in Rotten Row, strolling through the Park at Richmond, sunning himself at Cowes, or yawning through a wet day in a country-house, his “get-up” was sure to be faultless. Hundreds tried in vain to catch the inimitable curl of his hat, the unattainable sweep of his waistcoat-collar; and then there were shades and tones of his color about him that were especially his own. Of course, I am not about to describe his appearance on this morning; it is enough if I say that he bestowed every care upon it, and succeeded. And Paul, – Holy Paul, – how blandly imposing, how unctuously serene he looked! Marriage was truly a benediction at such hands. He faltered a little, his dulcet accents trembled with a modest reluctance, as he asked, “‘Wilt thou take – this woman – ‘” Could he have changed the Liturgy for the occasion, he had said, “this angel;” as it was, his voice compensated for the syllables, and the question was breathed out like air from the Garden of Eden.

And so they were married; and there was a grand breakfast, where all the household were assembled, and where Paul Classon made a most effective little speech to “the health of the bride,” interpolating his English and German with a tact all his own; and then they drove away with four posters, with all the noise and whip-cracking, the sighs and smiles and last good-byes, just as if the scene had been Hanover Square, and the High Priest a Canon of Westminster!

CHAPTER XXV. STUNNING TIDINGS

A telegram, duly despatched, had prepared the hotel of the Cour de Bade for the arrival of the Honorable Annesley and Mrs. Beecher; and when the well-appointed travelling-carriage came clattering into the porte-cochère at nightfall, there was a dress parade of landlord and waiters ready to receive them.

It was a very long time since Beecher had felt the self-importance of being deemed rich. For many a year back life had been but a series of struggles, and it was a very delightful sensation to him to witness once more all the ready homage, all the obsequious attention which are only rendered to affluence. Herr Bauer had got the despatch just in time to keep his handsomest suite of rooms for him; indeed, he had “sent away the Margraf of Schweinerhausen, who wanted them.” This was gratifying; and, limited as Beecher’s German was, he could catch the muttered exclamations of “Ach Grott, wie schön!” “Wie leiblich!” as his beautiful wife passed up the stairs; and this, too, pleased him. In fact, his was just then the glorious mood that comes once in a lifetime to the luckiest of us, – to be charmed with everything.

To enjoy the sunshine one must have sojourned in shadow; and, certainly, prosperity is never so entrancing as after some experience of its opposite, and Beecher was never wearied of admiring the splendor of the apartment, the wonderful promptitude of the waiters, and the excellence of everything. It must be owned the dinner was in Bauer’s best style, – the bisque, the raebraten, the pheasant, all that could be wished for; and when the imposing host himself uncorked a precious flask of a “Cabinet Steinberger,” Beecher felt it was a very charming world when one had only got to the sunny side of it. Mr. Bauer – a politeness rarely accorded, save to the highest rank – directed the service in person, and vouchsafed to be agreeable during the repast.

“And so your season was a good one, Bauer?” said Beecher.

“Reasonably so, your Excellency. We had the King of Wurtemberg, the Queen of Greece, a couple of archdukes, and a crown prince of something far north, – second rate ones all, but good people, and easily satisfied.”

Beecher gave a significant glance towards Lizzy, and went on: “And who were your English visitors?”

“The old set, your Excellency: the Duke of Middleton, Lord Headlam and his four daughters, Sir Hipsley Keyling, to break the bank, as usual – ”

“And did he?”

“No, Excellency; it broke him.”

“Poor devil! it ain’t so easy to get to windward of those fellows, Bauer; they are too many for us, eh?” said Beecher, chuckling with the consciousness that he had the key to that mysterious secret.

“Well, Excellency, there’s nobody ever does it but one, so long as I have known Baden.”

“And who is he, pray?”

“Mr. Twining, – Adderley Twining, sir; that’s the man can just win what and when and how he pleases.”

“Don’t tell me that, Bauer; he has n’t got the secret. If Twining wins, it ‘s chance, – mere chance, just as you might win.”

“It may be so, your Excellency.”

“I tell you, Bauer, – I know it as a fact, – there’s just one man in Europe has the martingale, and here’s to his health.”

Mr. Bauer was too well skilled in his calling not to guess in whose honor the glass was drained, and smiled a gracious recognition of the toast.

“And your pretty people, Herr Bauer,” broke in Lizzy, – “who were your great beauties this season?”

“We had nothing remarkable, Madame,” said he, bowing.

“No, Master Bauer,” broke in Beecher; “for the luck and the good looks I suspect you should have gone somewhere else this summer.”

Bauer bowed his very deepest acknowledgment. Too conscious of what became him in his station to hazard a flattery in words, he was yet courtier enough to convey his admiration by a look of most meaning deference.

“I conclude that the season is nigh over,” said Lizzy, half languidly, as she looked out on the moonlit promenade, where a few loungers were lingering.

“Yes, Madame; another week will close the rooms. All are hastening away to their winter quarters, – Rome, Paris, or Vienna.”

“How strange it is, all this life of change!” said Lizzy, thoughtfully.

“It is not what it seems,” said Beecher; “for the same people are always meeting again and again, now in Italy, now in England. Ah! I see the Cursaal is being lighted up. How jolly it looks through the trees! Look yonder, Lizzy, where all the lamps are glittering. Many a sad night it cost me, gay as it appears.”

Mr. Bauer withdrew as the dessert was placed on the table, and they were alone.

“Rich fellow that Bauer,” said Beecher; “he lends more money than any Jew in Frankfort. I wonder whether I could n’t tempt him to advance me a few hundreds?”

“Do you want money, then?” asked she, unsuspectingly.

“Want it? No, not exactly, except that every one wants it; people always find a way to spend all they can lay their hands on.”

“I don’t call that wanting it,” said she, half coldly.

“Play me something, Lizzy, here’s a piano; that Sicilian song, – and sing it.” He held out his hand to lead her to the piano, but she only drew her shawl more closely around her, and never moved. “Or, if you like better, that Styrian dance,” continued he.

“I am not in the humor,” said she, calmly.

“Not in the humor? Well, be in the humor. I was never in better spirits in my life. I would n’t change with Davis when he won the Czarewitch. Such a dinner as old Bauer gave us, and such wine! and then this coffee, not to speak of the company, – eh, Lizzy?”

“Yes, Mr. Bauer was most agreeable.”

“I was n’t talking of Mr. Bauer, ma chère, I was thinking of some one else.”

“I did n’t know,” said she, with a half-weary sigh.

Beecher’s cheek flushed up, and he walked to the window and looked out; meanwhile she took up a book and began to read. Along the alley beneath the window troops of people now passed towards the rooms. The hour of play had sounded, and the swell of the band could be heard from the space in front of the Cursaal. As his eyes followed the various groups ascending the steps and disappearing within the building, his imagination pictured the scene inside.

There was always a kind of rush to the tables on the last few nights of the season. It was a sort of gamblers’ theory that they were “lucky,” and Beecher began to con over to himself all the fortunate fellows who had broken the bank in the last week of a season. “I told old Grog I ‘d not go,” muttered he; “I pledged myself I’d not enter the rooms; but, of course, that meant I ‘d not play, – it never contemplated mere looking in and seeing who was there: rather too hard if I were not to amuse myself, particularly when” – here he turned a glance towards Lizzy – “I don’t perceive any very great desire to make the evening pass pleasantly here. Ain’t you going to sing?” asked he, half angrily.

“If you wish it,” said she, coldly.

“Nor play?” continued he, as though not hearing her reply.

“If you desire it,” said she, rising, and taking her place at the piano.

He muttered something, and she began. Her fingers at first strayed in half-careless chords over the instrument; and then, imperceptibly, struck out into a wild, plaintive melody of singular feeling and pathos, – one of those Hungarian airs which, more than any other national music, seem to dispense with words for their expression.

Beecher listened for a few moments, and then, muttering indignantly below his breath, he left the room, banging the door as he went out. Lizzy did not seem to have noticed his departure, but played on, air succeeding air, of the same character and sentiment; but at last she leaned her head upon the instrument and fell into a deep revery. The pale moonlight, as it lay upon the polished floor, was not more motionless. Beecher, meanwhile, had issued forth into the street, crossed the little rustic bridge, and held his way towards the Cursaal. His humor was not an enviable nor an amiable one. It was such a mood as makes a courageous man very dangerous company, but fills an individual of the Beecher type with all that can be imagined of suspicion and distrust. Every thought that crossed his mind was a doubt of somebody or something. He had been duped, cheated, “done,” he did n’t exactly know when, how, or by whom, with what object, or to what extent. But the fact was so. He entered the rooms and walked towards the play-table. There were many of the old faces he remembered to have seen years ago. He exchanged bows and recognitions with several foreigners whose names he had forgotten, and acknowledged suitably the polite obeisance of the croupiers, as they rose to salute him. It was an interesting moment as he entered, and the whole table were intently watching the game of one player, whose single Louis d’or had gone on doubling with each deal, till it had swelled into a sum that formed the limit of the bank. Even the croupiers, models as they are of impassive serenity, showed a touch of human sentiment as the deal began, and seemed to feel that they were in presence of one who stood higher in Fortune’s favor than themselves.

“Won again!” cried out a number of voices; “the thirteenth pass! Who ever saw the like? It is fabulous, monstrous!” Amid the din of incessant commentaries, few of them uttered in the tone of felicitation, a very tall man stretched his arm towards the table, and began to gather in the gold, saying, in a pleasant but hurried voice: “A thousand pardons. I hope you ‘ll excuse me; would n’t inconvenience you for worlds. I think you said” – this was to the banker – “I think you said thirty-eight thousand francs in all; thank you, extremely obliged; a very great run of luck, indeed, – never saw the like before. Would you kindly exchange that note, it is a Frankfort one; quite distressed to give you the trouble; infinitely grateful;” and, bashfully sweeping the glittering coins into his hat, as if ashamed to have interrupted the game, he retired to a side table to count over his winnings. He had just completed a little avenue of gold columns, muttering to himself little congratulations, interspersed with “What fun!” when Beecher, stepping up, accosted him. “The old story, Twining! I never heard nor read of a fellow with such luck as yours!”

“Oh, very good luck, capital luck!” cried Twining, rubbing his lean hands, and then slapping them against his leaner legs. “As your Lordship observes, I do occasionally win; not always, not always, but occasionally. Charmed to see you here, – delighted, – what fun! Late, – somewhat late in the season, – but still lovely weather. Your Lordship only just arrived, I suppose?”