Davenport Dunn, a Man of Our Day. Volume 2

In vain was he assured that his obstinate refusal to answer the questions of the jury would seriously endanger his safety by arming the public mind against him; he sternly resisted every argument on this score, and curtly said, “There are higher interests at stake than mine here, – it is my daughter, the Viscountess, is to be thought of, not me.” Nor did his reserve end there. Through the long interval which preceded his trial, he confided very sparingly in his lawyer, his interviews with him being mainly occupied in discussing points of law, what was and what was not evidence, and asking for a history of such cases – if any there were – as resembled his own. In fact, it soon appeared that, having mastered certain details, Davis was determined to conduct his own defence, and address the jury in his own behalf.

The interest the public takes in a criminal trial is often mainly dependent on the rank of the persons implicated; not only is sympathy more naturally attracted to those whose condition in life would seem to have removed them from the casualties of crime, but, in such cases, the whole circumstances are sure to be surrounded with features of more dramatic interest. Now, although Davis by no means occupied that station which could conciliate such sympathy, he was widely known, and to men of the first rank in England. The habits of the turf and the ring establish a sort of acquaintanceship, and even intimacy, between men who have no other neutral territory in life; and, through these, Davis was on the most familiar terms with noble lords and honorable gentlemen, who took his bets and pocketed his money as freely as from their equals.

With these, his indomitable resolution, his “pluck” had made him almost a favorite. They well knew, too, how they could count upon these same faculties in any hour of need, and “Old Grog” was the resource in many a difficulty that none but himself could have confronted.

If his present condition excited no very warm anxiety for his fate, it at least created the liveliest curiosity to see the man, to watch how he would comport himself in such a terrible exigency, to hear the sort of defence he would make, and to mark how far his noted courage would sustain him in an ordeal so novel and so appalling. The newspapers also contributed to increase this interest, by daily publishing some curious story or other illustrating Davis’s early life, and, as may be surmised, not always to his advantage on the score of probity and honor. Photographers were equally active; so that when, on the eventful morning, the clerk of the arraigns demanded of the prisoner whether he pleaded guilty or not guilty, the face and features of the respondent were familiar to every one in the Court. Some expected to see him downcast and crestfallen, some looked for a manner of insolent swagger and pretension. He was equally free from either, and in his calm but resolute bearing, as he surveyed bench and jury-box, there was unmistakable dignity and power. If he did not seek the recognitions of his acquaintances throughout the Court, he never avoided them, returning the salutations of the “swells,” as he called them, with the easy indifference he would have accorded them at Newmarket.

I have no pretension to delay my reader by any details of the trial itself. It was a case where all the evidence was purely circumstantial, but wherein the most deliberate and deep-laid scheme could be distinctly traced. With all the force of that consummate skill in narrative which a criminal lawyer possesses, Davis was tracked from his leaving London to his arrival at Chester. Of his two hours spent there the most exact account was given, and although some difficulty existed in proving the identity of the traveller who had taken his place at that station with the prisoner, there was the strongest presumption to believe they were one and the same. As to the dreadful events of the crime itself, all must be inferred from the condition in which the murdered man was found and the nature of the wounds that caused his death. Of these, none could entertain a doubt; the medical witnesses agreed in declaring that life must have been immediately extinguished. Lastly, as to the motive of the crime, – although not essential in a legal point of view, – the prosecutor, in suggesting some possible cause, took occasion to dwell upon the character of the prisoner, and even allude to some early events in his life. Davis abruptly stopped this train of argument, by exclaiming, “None of these are in the indictment, sir. I am here on a charge of murder, and not for having horsewhipped you at Ascot, the year Comas won the Queen’s Cup.”

An interruption so insulting, uttered in a voice that resounded throughout the Court, now led to a passionate appeal from the counsel to the bench, and a rebuke from the Judge to Davis, who reminded him how unbecoming such an outrage was, from one standing in the solemn situation that he did.

“Solemn enough if guilty, my Lord, but only irksome and unpleasant to a man with as easy a conscience as mine,” was the quick reply of Grog, who now eyed the Court in every part with an expression of insolent defiance.

The evidence for the prosecution having closed, Davis arose, and with a calm self-possession addressed the Court: —

“I believe,” said he, “that if I followed the approved method in cases like the present, I’d begin by expressing the great confidence and satisfaction I feel in being tried by a Judge so just and a jury so intelligent as that before me; and then, after a slight diversion as to the blessings of a good conscience, I ‘d give you fifteen or twenty minutes of pathetic lamentation for the good and great man whose untimely death is the cause of this trial. Now, I’m not about to do any of these. Judges are generally upright; juries are, for the most part, painstaking and fair. I conclude, therefore, that I’m as safe with his Lordship and yourselves as with any others; and as to Mr. Davenport Dunn and his virtues, why, gentlemen, like the character of him who addresses you, the least said the better! Not,” added he, sternly, “that I fear comparison with him, – far from it; we were both adventurers, each of us traded upon the weakness of his fellows; the only difference was, that he played a game that could not but win, while I took my risks like a man, and as often suffered as I succeeded. My victims – if that’s the phrase in vogue for them – were young fellows starting in life with plenty of cash and small experience: his were widows, with a miserable pittance, scarcely enough for support; orphan children, with a thousand or two trust money; or, as you might see in the papers, poor governesses eagerly seizing the occasion to provide for the last years of a toilsome life. But my opinion is you have no concern with his character or with mine; you are there to know how he came by his death, and I ‘ll tell you that.”

In a narrative told calmly, without stop or impediment, and utterly free from a word of exaggeration or a sentiment of passion, he narrated how, by an appointment, the nature of which he refused to enter upon, he had met Davenport Dunn on the eventful night in question. The business matter between them, he said, – and of this, too, he declined to give any particular information, – had led to much and angry recrimination, till at length, carried beyond the bounds of all temper and reserve, Davis rashly avowed that he was in the possession of the secret history of all Dunn’s frauds; he showed, by details the most exact, that he knew how for years and years this man had been a swindler and a cheat, and he declared that the time for unmasking him had arrived, and that the world should soon know the stuff he was made of. “There was, I suspected,” continued he, “in the red box at my feet a document whose production in a trial would have saved a friend of my own from ruin, and which Dunn was then carrying up to London to dispose of to the opponent in the suit. I affected to be certain that it was there, and I quickly saw by his confusion that I guessed aright. I proposed terms for it as liberal as he could wish, equal to any he could obtain elsewhere. He refused my offers. I asked then to see and read it, to assure myself that it was the paper I suspected. This, too, he refused. The altercation grew warm; time pressed, for we were not far from the station where I meant to stop, and, driven to half desperation, I declared that I ‘d smash the box, if he would not consent to unlock it. I stooped as I said this, and as my head was bent he drew a pistol and shot me. The ball glanced from my skull and entered my neck. This is the wound,” said he, baring his throat, “and here is the bullet. I was scarcely stunned, and I sprang to my legs and killed him!”.

The sensation of horror the last words created was felt throughout the Court, and manifested by a low murmur of terror and disgust. Davis looked around him with a cold, resolute stare, as if he did not shrink in the least from this show of disapprobation.

“I am well aware,” said he, calmly, “there are many here at this moment would have acted differently. That lady with the lace veil yonder, for instance, would have fainted; the noble Lord next the Bench, there, would have dropped on his knees and begged his life. I see one of the jury, and if I can read a human countenance, his tells me he ‘d have screamed out for the guard. Well, I have nothing to say against any of these ways of treating the matter. None of them occurred to me, and I killed him! The Crown lawyer has told you the rest; that I surrendered myself at once to the police, and never attempted an escape. A legal friend has mentioned to me that witnesses to character are occasionally called in cases like the present, and that I might derive benefit from such testimony. Nothing would be easier for me than this. There is a noble lord, a member of the Cabinet, knows me long and intimately; there’s a venerable bishop now in town could also speak for me. He taught me chicken hazard thirty years ago, and I have never ceased to think affectionately of him. There ‘s a Judge in the adjoining Court who was my chum and companion for two years – Well, my Lord, I have done. I shall call none of them; nor have I anything more to observe.”

The Jury, after a short address from the Judge, retired; and Davis’s lawyer, rising, approached the dock and whispered something to the prisoner.

“What’s the betting?” murmured Grog.

“Even as to the first charge. Two to one for a verdict of manslaughter.”

“Take all you can get for me on the first,” said Grog, “and I’ll take the odds on the other in hundreds. It’s a sort of a hedge for me. There, let’s lose no time; they ‘ll be back soon.”

In a few minutes after this brief conversation, the jury returned into Court. Their finding was Not Guilty of murder, Guilty of manslaughter only.

Davis listened to the decision calmly, and then, having pencilled down a few figures in his note-book, he muttered, “Not so bad, neither; seven hundred on the double event!” So occupied was he in his calculations, that he had not heard a recommendation to mercy, which the jury had appended, though somewhat informally, to their verdict.

“What a pot of money one might have had against that!” said Davis. “Is n’t it strange none of us should ever have thought of it!”

The Judge reserved sentence till he had thought over the recommendation, and the trial was over.

CHAPTER XXXVI. THE END OF ALL THINGS

From the day of Davenport Dunn’s death to the trial of Kit Davis three whole months elapsed, – a short period in the term of human life, but often sufficient to include great events. It only took three months, once on a time, for a certain great Emperor to break up his camp at Boulogne-sur-Mer and lay Austria at his feet! In the same short space the self-same Emperor regained and lost his own great empire. What wonder, then, if three months brought great and important changes to the fortunes of some of the individuals in this story!

I have not any pretension to try to interest my reader for the circumstances by which Charles Conway recovered the ancient title and the estates that rightfully belonged to him, nor to ask his company through the long and intricate course of law proceedings by which this claim was established. Enough to say that amidst the documents which contributed to this success, none possessed the same conclusive force as that discovered so accidentally by Sybella Kellett. It formed the connecting link in a most important chain of evidence, and was in a great measure the cause of ultimate success. It rarely happens that the great mass of the public feels any strong interest in the issue of cases like this; the very rank of the litigants removing them, by reason of their elevation, from so much of common-place sympathy, as well as the fact that the investigation so frequently involves the very driest of details, the general public regards these suits with a sentiment of almost indifference.

Far different was it on the present occasion. Every trial at Bar was watched with deep interest, the newspapers commenting largely on the evidence, and prognosticating in unmistakable terms the result. Crimean Conway was the national favorite, and even the lawyers engaged against him were exposed to a certain unpopularity. At length came the hearing before the Privilege Committee of the Lords, and the decision by which the claim was fully established and Charles Conway declared to be the Viscount Lackington. The announcement created a sort of jubilee. Whether the good public thought that the honors of the Crown were bestowed upon their favorite with a somewhat niggard hand, or whether the romance of the case – the elevation of one who had served in the ranks and was now a peer of the realm – had captivated their imaginations, certain it is they had adopted his cause as their own, and made of his success a popular triumph.

Few people of Europe indulge in such hearty bursts of enthusiasm as our own, and there is no more genuine holiday than that when they can honor one who has conferred credit upon his nation. Conway, whose name but a short time back was unknown, had now become a celebrity, and every paragraph about him was read with the liveliest interest. To learn that he had arrived safely at Constantinople, that he was perfectly recovered from his wounds, that he had dined on a certain day with the Ambassador, and that at a special audience from the Sultan he had been decorated with the first class of the Medjidié, were details that men interchanged when they met as great and gratifying tidings, when suddenly there burst upon the world the more joyful announcement of his marriage: “At the Embassy chapel at Pera, this morning, the Viscount Lackington, better known to our readers as Crimean Conway, was married to Miss Kellett, only daughter of the late Captain Kellett, of Kellett’s Court. A novel feature of the ceremony consisted in the presence of Rifaz Bey, sent by order of the Sultan to compliment the distinguished bridegroom, and to be the bearer of some very magnificent ornaments for the bride. The happy couple are to leave this in H.M.S. ‘Daedalus’ to-morrow for Malta; but, intending to visit Italy before their return, will not probably reach England for two or three months.”

Within a few weeks after, a passage in the “Gazette” announced that Viscount Lackington had been honored with the Bath, and named Aide-de-camp to the Queen. It is not for poor chroniclers like ourselves to obtrude upon good fortune like this, and destroy, by attempted description, all that constitutes its real happiness. The impertinence that presses itself in personal visits on those who seek seclusion is only equalled by that which would endeavor to make history of moments too sacred for recording.

Our story opened of a lovely morning in autumn, – it closes of an evening in the same mellow season, and in the self-same spot, too, the Lake of Como. Long motionless shadows stretched across the calm lake as, many-colored, from the tints of the surrounding woods, it lay bathed in the last rays of a rich sunset. It was the hour when, loaded with perfume, the air moves languidly through the leaves and the grass, and a sense of tender sadness seems to pervade nature. Was it to watch the last changes of the rich coloring, as from a rose pink the mountain summits grew a deep crimson, then faded again to violet, and, after a few minutes of deepest blue, darkened into night, that a small group was gathered silently on the lake terrace of the Villa d’Este? They were but three, – a lady and two gentlemen. She, seated a little apart from the others, appeared to watch the scene before her with intense interest, bending down her head at moments as if to listen, and then resuming her former attitude.

The younger of the men seemed to participate in her anxiety, – if such it could be called, – and peered no less eagerly through the gathering gloom that now spread over the lake. The elder, a short, thick-set figure, displayed his impatience in many a hurried walk of a few paces, and a glance, quick and short, over the water. None of them spoke a word. At last the short man asked, in a gruff, coarse tone, “Are you quite sure she said it was this evening they were to arrive?”

“Quite sure; she read the letter over for me. Besides, my sister Georgina makes no mistakes of this kind, and she ‘d not have moved off to Lugano so suddenly if she was not convinced that they would be here to-night.”

“Well, I will say your grand folk have their own notions of gratitude as they have of everything else. She owes these people the enjoyment of a capital income, which, out of delicacy, they have left her for her life, and the mode she takes to acknowledge the favor is by avoiding to meet them.”

“And what more natural!” broke in the lady’s voice. “Can she possibly forget that they have despoiled her of her title, her station, her very name? In her place, I feel I should have done exactly the same.”

“That’s true,” burst out the younger man. “Lizzy is right. But for them, Georgina had still been the Viscountess Lackington.”

“You have a right to feel it that way,” laughed out the short man, scornfully. “You are both in the same boat as herself, only that they have n’t left you twelve hundred per annum!”

“I hear a boat now; yes, I can mark the sound of the oars,” said the lady.

“What a jolly change would a good squall now make in your fortunes!” said the short man. “A puff of wind and a few gallons of water are small things to stand between a man and twelve thousand a year!”

The suggestion did not seem to find favor with the others, for they made no reply.

“You never sent off your letter, I think?” resumed he, addressing the younger man.

“Of course not, father,” broke in the female voice. “It was an indignity I could not stoop to.”

“Not stoop to?” cried out Grog, for it is needless to say that it was himself, with his daughter and son-in-law, who formed the group. “I like that, – I like our not stooping when it’s crawling we ‘re come to!”

“Ay, by Jove!” muttered Beecher, ruefully, “that it is, and over a rough road too!”

“Well, I’d have sent the letter,” resumed Grog. “I’d have put it this way: ‘You did n’t deal harshly with the Dowager; don’t treat us worse than her.’”

“Father, father!” cried Lizzy, imploringly, “how unlike you all this is!”

“I know it is, girl, – I know it well enough. Since that six months I passed in Newgate I don’t know myself. I ‘m not the man I was, nor I never shall be again. That same dull life and its dreary diet have broken up old Grog.” A heavy sigh closed these words, and for some minutes the silence was unbroken.

“There comes a boat up to the landing-place,” cried Beecher, suddenly.

“I must see them, and I will,” said Lizzy, rising, and drawing her shawl around her. “I have more than a mere curiosity to see this Crimean hero and his heroic wife.” It was hard to say in what spirit the words were uttered, so blended was the ardor and the sarcasm in their tone. “Are you coming, father?”

“I – no. Not a bit of it,” said Grog, rudely. “I’d rather see a promising two-year-old than all the heroes and all the beauties in Europe.”

“And you, Beecher?” asked she, with a half-smile.

“Well, I’ve no great wish on the subject. They have both of them cost me rather too heavily to inspire any warm interest in their behalf.”

The words were scarcely uttered, when the large window of the room adjoining the terrace was flung open, and a great flood of light extended to where they stood: at the same moment a gentleman with a lady on his arm advanced towards them.

“Mr. Annesley Beecher is here, I believe?” said the stranger.

“Yes; that is my name, sir,” was the answer.

“Let me claim a cousin’s privilege to shake your hand, then,” said the other. “You knew me once as Charles Conway, and my wife claims you as a still older friend.”

“My father bore you the warmest affection,” said Sybella, eagerly.

Beecher could but mutter some half-inarticulate words.

“I have done you what you must feel a cruel injury,” said Conway, “but I believe the game was never yet found out where all could rise winners. There is, however, a slight reparation yet in my power. The lawyers tell me that a separate suit will be required to establish our claim to the Irish estates. Take them, therefore;, you shall never be disturbed in their possession by me or mine. All I ask is, let there be no bad blood between us. Let us be friends.”

“You may count upon me, at all events,” said Lizzy, extending her hand to him. “I am, indeed, proud to know you.”

“Nor would I be forgotten in this pleasant compact,” said Sybella, advancing towards Lizzy. “We have less to forgive, my dear cousin, and we can be friends without even an explanation.”

The acquaintance thus happily opened, they continued to walk the terrace together for hours, till at length the chill night air warned Conway that he was still an invalid.

“Till to-morrow, then,” said Sybella, as she kissed Lizzy’s cheek affectionately.

“Till to-morrow!” replied the other, as a heavy tear rolled down her cheek, for hers was a sad heart, as she followed with her eyes their retreating figures.

“Ain’t he a trump!” cried Beecher, as he drew his wife’s arm within his own, and led her along at his side. “He doesn’t believe one syllable about our sending those fellows over to the Crimea to crib the papers; he fancies we were all ‘on the square’ – Oh, I forgot,” broke he in, suddenly, “you were never in the secret yourself. At all events, he’s a splendid fellow, and he’s going to leave the Irish estates with us, and that old house at Kellett’s Court. But where’s your father? I ‘m dying to tell him this piece of news.”

“Here I am,” said Grog, gruffly, as he came forth from a little arbor, where he had been hiding.

“We’re all right, old boy,” burst in Beecher, joyfully. “I tried the cousin dodge with Conway, rubbed him down smoothly, and the upshot is, he has offered us the Irish property.”

Grog gave a short grunt and fixed his eyes steadfastly on his daughter, who, pale and trembling all over, caught her father’s arm for support.

“He felt, naturally enough,” resumed Beecher, “that ours was a deuced hard case.”

“I want to hear what your answer was, – what reply you made him!” gasped out Lizzy, painfully.

“Could there be much doubt about that?” cried Beecher. “I booked the bet at once.”

“No, no, I will not believe it,” said she, in a voice of deep emotion: “you never did so. It was but last night, as we walked here on this very spot, I told you how, in some far-away colony of England, we could not fail to earn an honorable living; that I was well content to bear my share of labor, and you agreed with me that such a life was far better than one of dependence or mere emergency. You surely could not have forgotten this!”

“I did n’t exactly forget it, but I own I fancied twelve hundred a year and a snug old house a better thing than road-making at Victoria or keeping a grammar-school at Auckland.”

“And you had the courage to reason thus to the man who had descended to the ranks as a common soldier to vindicate a name to which nothing graver attached than a life of waste and extravagance! No, no, tell me that you are only jesting with me, Annesley. You never said this!”

“Lizzy’s right – by Heaven, she’s right!” broke in Grog, resolutely.