Davenport Dunn, a Man of Our Day. Volume 2

“I see you don’t remember me, Twining,” said Beecher, smiling, and rather amused to mark how completely his good fortune had absorbed his attention.

“Impossible, my Lord-! – never forget a face, – never!”

“Pardon me if I must correct you this once; but it is quite clear you have forgotten me. Come, for whom do you take me?”

“Take you, my Lord, – take you? Quite shocked if I could make a blunder; but really, I feel certain I am speaking with Lord Lackington.”

“There, I knew it!” cried Beecher, laughing out “I knew it, though, by Jove! I was not quite prepared to hear that I looked so old. You know he’s about eighteen years my senior.”

“So he was, my Lord, – so he was,” said Twining, gathering up his gold. “And for a moment, I own, I was disposed to distrust my eyes, not seeing your Lordship in mourning.”

“In mourning? and for whom?”

“For the late Viscount, your Lordship’s brother!”

“Lackington! Is Lackington dead?”

“Why, it’s not possible your Lordship hasn’t heard it? It cannot be that your letters have not brought you the tidings? It happened six – ay, seven weeks ago; and I know that her Ladyship wrote, urgently entreating you to come out to Italy.” Twining continued to detail, in his own peculiar and fitful style, various circumstances about Lord Lackington’s last illness. But Beecher never heard a word of it, but stood stunned and stupefied by the news. It would be too tangled a web were we to inquire into the complicated and confused emotions which then swayed his heart. The immense change in his own fortunes, his sudden accession to rank, wealth, and station, came, accompanied by traits of brotherly love and affection bestowed on him long, long ago, when he was a Harrow boy, and “Lack” came down to see him; and then, in after life, the many kind things he had done for him, – helping him out of this or that difficulty, – services little estimated at the time, but now remembered with more than mere gratitude. “Poor Lackington! and that I should not haver been with you!” muttered he; and then, as if the very words had set another chord in vibration, he started as he thought that he had been duped. Davis knew it all; Davis had intercepted the letters. It was for this he had detained him weeks long in the lonely isolation of that Rhenish village. It was for this his whole manner had undergone such a marked change to him. Hence the trustfulness with which he burned the forged acceptances; the liberality with which he supplied him with money, and then – the marriage! “How they have done me!” cried he, in an agony of bitterness, – “how they have done me! The whole thing was concerted, – a plant from the very beginning; and she was in it!” While he thus continued to mutter to himself imprecations upon his own folly, Twining led him away, and imperceptibly induced him to stroll along one of the unfrequented alleys. At first Beecher’s questions were all about his brother’s illness, – how it began, what they called it, how it progressed. Then he asked after his sister-in-law, – where she then was, and how. By degrees he adverted to Lackington’s affairs; his will, – what he had left, and to whom. Twining was one of the executors, and could tell him everything. The Viscount had provided handsomely, not extravagantly, for his widow, and left everything to his brother! “Poor Lackington, I knew he loved me always!” Twining entered into a somewhat complicated narrative of a purchase the late Viscount had made, or intended to make, in Ireland, – an encumbered estate, – but Beecher paid no attention to the narrative. All his thoughts were centred upon his own position, and how Davis had done him.

“Where could you have been, my Lord, all that time, not to have heard of this?” asked Twining.

“I was in Germany, in Nassau. I was fishing amongst the mountains,” said the other, in confusion.

“Fishing? – great fun, capital fun; like it immensely, – no expense, rods and hooks, – rods and hooks; not like hunting, – hunting perfectly ruinous, – I mean for men like myself, not, of course, for your Lordship.”

“Poor Lackington!” muttered Beecher, half unconsciously.

“Ah!” sighed Twining, sympathetically.

“I was actually on my way out to visit him, but one thing or another occurred to delay me!”

“How unfortunate, my Lord; and, really, his anxieties about you were unceasing. You have not to be told of the importance he attached to the title and name of your house! He was always saying, ‘If Beecher were only married! If we could find a wife for Annesley – ‘”

“A wife!” exclaimed the other, suddenly.

“Yes, my Lord, a wife; excellent thing, marriage, – capital thing, – great fun.”

“But it’s done, sir; I ‘m booked!” cried Beecher, vehemently. “I was married on Sunday last.”

“Wish your Lordship every imaginable joy. I offer my felicitations on the happy event Is the Viscountess here?”

“She is here,” said Beecher, with a dogged sternness.

“May I ask the name of Lady Lackington’s family?” said Twining, obsequiously.

“Name, – name of her family!” echoed Beecher, with a scornful laugh. Then, suddenly stopping, he drew his arm within Twining’s, and in the low voice of a secret confidence, said, “You know the world as well as most men, – a deal better, I should say; now, can you tell me, is a marriage of this kind binding?”

“What kind of marriage do you mean?”

“Why, a private marriage in an inn, without banns, license, or publication of any kind, the ceremony performed by a fellow I suspect is a degraded parson, – at least, I used to hear he was ‘scratched’ years ago, – Classon.”

“Paul Classon, – Holy Paul? – clever fellow, very ingenious. Tried to walk into me once for a subscription to convert the Mandans Indians, – did n’t succeed, – what fun!”

“Surely no ministration of his can mean much, eh?”

“Afraid it does, my Lord; as your late brother used to observe, marriage is one of those bonds in which even a rotten string is enough to bind us. Otherwise, I half suspect some of us would try to slip our cables, – slip our cables and get away! What fun, my Lord, – what fun!”

“I don’t believe such a marriage is worth a rush,” went on Beecher, in that tone of affirmation by which he often stimulated his craven heart to feel a mock confidence. “At least, of this I am certain, there are five hundred fellows in England would find out a way to smash it.”

“And do you want to ‘cryoff my Lord?” asked Twining, abruptly.

“I might, or I might not; that depends. You see, Twining, there’s rather a wide line of country between Annesley Beecher with nothing, and Viscount Lackington with a snug little estate; and if I had only known, last Sunday morning, that I was qualified to run for a cup I’d scarcely have entered for a hack stakes.”

“But then, you are to remember her connections.”

“Connections!” laughed out Beecher, scornfully.

“Well, family, – friends; in short, she may have brothers, – a father?”

“She has a father, by Jove! – she has a father!”

“May I be so bold as to ask – ”

“Oh, you know him well! – all the world knows him, for the matter of that. What do you say to Kit Davis, – Grog!”

“Grog Davis, my Lord? – Grog Davis!”

“Just so,” said Beecher, lighting a cigar with an affected composure he intended to pass off for great courage.

“Grog – Grog – Grog! – wonderful fellow! astonishing fellow! up to everything! and very amusing! I must say, my Lord, – I must say, your Lordship’s father-in-law is a very remarkable man.”

“I rather suspect he is, Twining.”

“Under the circumstances, – the actual circumstances, I should say, my Lord, keep your engagement, – keep your engagement.”

“I understand you, Twining; you don’t fancy Master Grog. Well, I know an opinion of that kind is abroad. Many people are afraid of him; I never was, – eh?” The last little interrogative was evoked by a strange smile that flickered across Twining’s face. “You suspect that I am afraid of him, Twining; now, why should I?”

“Can’t possibly conceive, my Lord, – cannot imagine a reason.”

“He is what is called a dangerous fellow.”

“Very dangerous.”

“Vindictive.”

“To the last. Never abandons a pursuit, they tell me.”

“But we live in an age of civilization, Twining. Men of his stamp can’t take the law in their own hands.”

“I ‘m afraid that is exactly the very thing they do, my Lord; they contrive always to be in the wrong, and consequently have everything their own way;” and so Mr. Twining rubbed his hands, slapped his legs, and laughed away very pleasantly.

“You are rather a Job’s comforter, Twining,” said Beecher, tartly.

“Not very like Job, your Lordship; very little resemblance, I must say, my Lord! Much more occasion for pride than patience, – peerage and a fine property!”

“I ‘m sure I never coveted it; I can frankly say I never desired prosperity at the price of – the price of – By the way, Twining, why not compromise this affair? I don’t see why a handsome sum – I’m quite willing it should be handsome – would n’t put all straight. A clever friend might be able to arrange the whole thing. Don’t you agree with me?”

“Perfectly, my Lord; quite convinced you have taken the correct view.”

“Should you feel any objection to act for me in the matter, – I mean, to see Davis?”

Twining winced like a man in pain.

“Why, after all, it is a mere negotiation.”

“Very true, my Lord.”

“A mere experiment.”

“Just so, my Lord; so is proving a new cannon; but I’d just as soon not sit on the breech for the first fire.”

“It’s wonderful how every one is afraid of this fellow, and I wind him round my finger!”

“Tact, my Lord, – tact and cleverness, that’s it.”

“You see, Twining,” said Beecher, confidentially, “I’m not quite clear that I ‘d like to be off. I have n’t regularly made up my mind about it. There’s a good deal to be said on either side of the question. I’ll tell you what to do: come and breakfast with us to-morrow morning, – I ‘d say dine, but I mean to get away early and push on towards the South; you shall see her, and then – and then we ‘ll have a talk afterwards.”

“Charmed, my Lord, – delighted, – too happy. What ‘s your hour?”

“Let us say eleven. Does that suit you?”

“Perfectly; any hour, – eleven, twelve, one, – whenever your Lordship pleases.”

“Well, good-night, Twining, good-night.”

“Good-night, my Lord, good-night. What fun!” muttered he, slapping his legs as he stepped out to his lodgings.

It was not till he had smoked his fourth cigar, taking counsel from his tobacco, as was his wont, that the new Viscount returned to his hotel. It was then nigh morning, and the house was so buried in sleep that he knocked full half an hour before he gained admittance.

“There’s a gentleman arrived, sir, who asked after you. He didn’t give his name.”

“What is he like, – old, young, short, or tall?”

“Middle-aged, sir, and short, with red beard and moustaches. He drank tea with the lady upstairs, sir, and waited to see you till nigh two o’clock.”

“Oh, I know him,” muttered Beecher, and passed on. When he reached his dressing-room, he found the table covered with a mass of letters addressed to Lord Viscount Lackington, and scrawled over with postmarks; but a card, with the following few words, more strongly engaged his attention: “It’s all right, you are the Viscount – C. D.”

A deep groan burst from Beecher as he dropped the card and sank heavily into a seat. A long, long time slipped over ere he could open the letters and examine their contents. They were almost all from lawyers and men of business, explanation of formalities to be gone through, legal details to be completed, with here and there respectful entreaties to be continued in this or that agency. A very bulky one was entirely occupied with a narrative of the menaced suit on the title, and a list of the papers which would be hereafter required for the defence. It was vexatious to be told of a rebellion ere he had yet seated himself on the throne; and so he tossed the ungracious document to the end of the room, his mood the very reverse of that he had so long pictured to himself it might be.

“I suppose it’s all great luck!” muttered he to himself; “but up to this I see no end of difficulty and trouble.”

CHAPTER XXVI. UNPLEASANT EXPLANATIONS

Beecher had scarcely dropped off to sleep when he was awoke by a heavy, firm tread in the room; he started up, and saw it was Davis.

“How is the noble Viscount?” said Grog, drawing a chair and seating himself. “I came over here post haste when I got the news.”

“Have you told her?” asked Beecher, eagerly.

“Told her! I should think I have. Was it not for the pleasure of that moment that I came here, – here, where they could arrest me this instant and send me off to the fortress of Rastadt? I shot an Austrian officer in the garrison there four years ago.”

“I heard of it,” groaned Beecher, from the utmost depth of his heart “So that she knows it all?”

“She knows that you are a peer of England, and that she is a peeress.”

Beecher looked at the man as he spoke, and never before did he appear to him so insufferably insolent and vulgar. Traits which he had in part forgotten or overlooked now came out in full force, and he saw him in all the breadth of his coarseness. As if he had read what was passing in Beecher’s mind, Davis stared fully at him, resolute and defiant.

“I suppose,” resumed Grog, “it was a pleasure you had reserved for yourself to inform her Ladyship of her step in rank, but I thought she’d just like to hear the news as well from her father.”

Beecher made no answer, but sat buried in thought; at last he said: “Mr. Twining, whom I met accidentally last night, told me of my brother’s death, and told me, besides, that it had occurred fully eight weeks ago.”

“So long as that!” said Davis, dryly.

“Yes, so long as that,” said Beecher, fixing his eyes steadfastly on the other. “He tells me, too, that Lady Lackington wrote twice, or even thrice, to urge me to come on to Italy; that my arrival was looked for hourly. Many other letters were also sent after me, but not one reached my hand. Strange, very strange!”

“I suppose you have them all there now,” said Grog, defiantly, as he pointed to the mass of letters on the dressing-table.

“No, these are all of recent dates, and refer, besides, to others which I have never got.”

“What has become of the others, then?” asked Grog, resolutely.

“That’s the very point I cannot decide, and it is the very question I was about to ask of you.”

“What do you mean?” said Grog, calmly.

“What I mean is this,” said Beecher, “that I am curious to learn how long it is since you knew of my brother’s death?”

“If you ‘d like to hear when I suspected that fact, perhaps I can tell you,” said Grog.

“Well, let me hear so much.”

“It was shortly after your arrival at Holbach.”

“Ah! I thought so – I thought as much!” cried Beecher triumphantly.

“Wait a bit, – wait a bit; don’t be sure you have won the game, I ‘ve a card in my hand yet. When you endorsed certain large bills for Lazarus Stein at Aix, you signed your name ‘Lackington.’ Oh, there’s no denying it, I have them here in this pocket-book. Now, either your brother was dead, or you committed a forgery.”

“You know well, sir,” said Beecher, haughtily, “at whose instance and persuasion I wrote myself Lackington.’”

“I know it! I know nothing about it. But before we carry this controversy further, let me give you a hint: drop this haughty tone you have just taken with me, – it won’t do, – I tell you it won’t. If you ‘re the Lord Viscount to the world, you know deuced well what you are to me, and what, if you push me to it, I could make you to them.”

“Captain Davis, I am inclined to think that we had better come to an understanding at once,” said Beecher, with a degree of firmness he could rarely assume. “Our relations cannot be what they have hitherto been. I will no longer submit to dictation nor control at your hands. Our roads in life lie in opposite directions; we need seldom to meet, never to cross each other. If Lady Lackington accepts the same view of these matters as myself, well; if not, it will not be difficult to suggest an arrangement satisfactory to each of us.”

“And so you think to come the noble Lord over me, do you?” said Grog, with an irony perfectly savage in look and tone. “I always knew you were a fool, but that you could carry your stupid folly that far I never imagined. You want to tell me – if you had the pluck you would tell me – that you are ashamed of having married my daughter, and I tell you that out of your whole worthless, wretched, unmanly life, it is the one sole redeeming action. That she stooped to marry you is another matter, – she that, at this very moment, confers more honor upon your rank than it can ever bestow upon her! Ay! start if you will, but don’t sneer; for if you do, by the eternal Heaven above us, it will be the last laugh you ‘ll ever indulge in!” A sudden movement of his hand towards the breast of his coat gave such significance to the words that Beecher sprang from his seat and approached the bell-rope. “Sit down there, – there, in that chair,” cried Grog, in the thickened accents of passion. “I have n’t done with you. If you call a servant into the room, I’ ll fling you out of the window. If you imagined, when I burned your forged acceptances, that I had n’t another evidence against you stronger than all, you mistook Kit Davis. What! did you think to measure yourself against me? Nature never meant you for that, my Lord Viscount, – never!”

If Davis was carried away by the impetuosity of his savage temper in all this, anger never disabled him from keenly watching Beecher and scanning every line in his face. To his amazement, therefore, did he remark that he no longer exhibited the same extent of fear he had hitherto done. No, he was calmer and more collected than Grog had ever seen him in a moment of trial.

“When your passion has blown over,” said Beecher, quietly, “you will perhaps tell me what it is you want or require of me.”

“Want of you, – want of you!” reiterated Davis, more abashed by the other’s demeanor than he dared to confess, even to himself, – “what can I want of you? or, if I do want anything, it is that you will remember who you are, and who am I. It is not to remember that you are a Lord, and I a leg, – it is not that I mean, – you ‘re not very like to forget it; it is to call to mind that I have the same grip of you I have had any day these ten years, and that I could show up the Viscount Lackington just as easily as the Honorable Annesley Beecher.”

If Beecher’s cheek grew paler, it was only for a moment, and, with an amount of calm dignity of which Grog had not believed him capable, he said, —

“There’s not any use in your employing this language towards me, – there’s not the slightest necessity for me to listen to it. I conclude, after what has passed between us, we cannot be friends: there’s no need, however, of our being enemies.”

“Which means, ‘I wish you a very good-morning, Kit Davis,’ don’t it?” said Grog, with a grin.

Beecher gave a smile that might imply anything.

“Ah! so that’s it?” cried Davis, endeavoring, by any means, to provoke a reply.

Beecher made no answer, but proceeded in most leisurely style with his dressing. #

“Well, that’s candid, anyhow,” said Grog, sternly. “Now, I ‘ll be as frank with you: I thought a few days back that I ‘d done rather a good thing of it, but I find that I backed the wrong horse after all. You are the Viscount, now, but you won’t be so this day six months.”

Beecher turned his head round, and gave a smile of the most insolent incredulity.

“Ay, I know you’ll not believe it, because it is I that tell you; but there came out a fellow from Fordyce’s with the same story, and when you open your letters you ‘ll see it again.”

Beecher’s courage now deserted him, and the chair on which he leaned shook under his grasp.

“Here’s how it is,” said Grog, in a calm, deliberate tone: “Dunn – that same fellow we called on one day together – has fallen upon a paper – a title, or a patent, or a writ, or something – that shows you have no claim to the Viscounty, and that it ought to go, along with the estates, to some man who represents the elder branch. Now Dunn, it seems, was some way deep with your brother. He had been buying land for him, and not paying, or paying the money and not getting the land, – at all events, he was n’t on the square with him; and seeing that you might probably bring him to book, he just says, ‘Don’t go into accounts with me, and here’s your title; give me any trouble, and I ‘ll go over to the enemy.’”

“But there can be no such document.”

“Fordyce’s people say there is. Hankes, Dunn’s own agent, told them the substance of it; and it seems it was on the list of proofs, but they never could lay a hand on it.”

Beecher heard no more, but taking up the lawyer’s letter, which he had thrown so indignantly from him the night before, he began patiently to read it.

“Who can make head or tail of all this?” cried he, in angry impatience. “The fellow writes as if I was a scrivener’s clerk, and knew all their confounded jargon. Mere schemes to extort money these!”

“Not always. There’s now and then a real charge in the gun, and it’s too late to know it when you ‘re hit,” cried Grog, quietly.

“Why do not Fordyce’s people send out a proper person to communicate with myself directly,” said Beecher, haughtily. “They did, and I saw him,” said Grog, boldly.

Beecher grew crimson, and his lip trembled with a convulsive movement. It was very hard indeed to restrain himself, but, with an effort, he succeeded, and simply said, “And then – ”

“And then,” resumed Davis, “I packed him off again.”

“What authority had you to thrust yourself forward in this manner?” cried Beecher, passionately. “What authority? – the interest of my daughter, the Viscountess Lackington,” said Grog, with a mingled insolence and mockery. “You may safely swear it was out of no special regard for you. What authority?” And with this he burst out into a laugh of sarcastic defiance.

“It need not offend you,” said Beecher, “if I say that a question like this must be intrusted to very different hands from yours.”

“You think so, eh?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“Well, I am not; so far from it, that I’m ready to declare if I can’t pull you through, there’s not that man living who can. Lawyers can meet lawyers. If one wins a trick here, the other scores one there. This fellow has a deed, – that one has a codicil. It is always the same game; and they ‘re in no hurry to finish, for they are playing on velvet. What ‘s really wanting is some one that does n’t care a rush for a little risk, – ready to bribe this man, – square the other, – burn a parish register, if need be, and come at – at any document that may be required, – at the peril of passing his days at Norfolk Island.”

“You fancy that the whole world is like the ring at Ascot,” said Beecher, sneeringly.

“And ain’t it? What’s the difference, I’d like to know? Is it noble lords like yourself would prove the contrary?”

“I will see Fordyce myself,” said Beecher, coldly.

“You needn’t be at the trouble,” said Davis, calmly. “There’s two ways of doing the thing: one is a compromise with the claimant, who turns out to be that young Conway, the ‘Smasher.’”

“Young Conway, the one-armed fellow?”

“Just so. The other is, to get hold of Dunn’s papers. Now, I have despatched a trusty hand to the Crimea to see about the first of these plans. As for the other, I ‘ll do it myself.”

“How so?”

“Just this way: you shall give me a written authority to demand from Dunn all your family papers and documents, making me out to be your agent for the Irish estates.” Beecher started, and a slight cast of derision marked his lip; but there was that in Grog’s face that speedily suppressed every temptation to sneer, and he grew sick with terror. “Dunn will be for holding out,” resumed Davis. “He ‘ll be for writing to yourself for explanations, instructions, and so forth; and if I were a fellow of his own sort, I ‘d have to agree; but, being what I am, – Kit Davis, you see, – I’ll Just say: ‘No gammon, my old gent. We don’t mean to lose this match, nor don’t mean to let you nobble us. Be on the square, and it will be all the better for yourself.’ We ‘ll soon understand each other.”