Davenport Dunn, a Man of Our Day. Volume 1

Lady Lackington had scarcely time to deliver a short essay on the class and order of men to which Mr. Davenport Dunn pertained, when the servant returned with the answer. It was a very formal acceptance of the invitation, “Mr. Davenport Dunn presented his compliments,” – and so on.

“Of course, he comes,” said she, throwing the note away. “Do you know, my dear, I half suspect we have been indiscreet; for now that we have caught our elephant, what shall we do with him?”

“I cannot give you one solitary suggestion.”

“These people are not our people, nor are their gods our gods,” said Lady Lackington.

“If we all offer up worship at the same temple, – the Bourse,” said Lady Grace, something sadly, – “we can scarcely dispute about a creed.”

“That is only true in a certain sense,” replied the other. “Money is a necessity to all; the means of obtaining it may, therefore, be common to many. It is in the employment of wealth, in the tasteful expenditure of riches, that we distinguish ourselves from these people. You have only to see the houses they keep, their plate, their liveries, their equipages, and you perceive at once that whenever they rise above some grovelling imitation they commit the most absurd blunders against all taste and propriety. I wish we had Spicer here to see about this dinner, it is one of the very few things he understands; but I suppose we must leave it to the cook himself, and we have the comfort of knowing that the criticism on his efforts will not be of a very high order.”

“We dine at four, I believe,” said Lady Grace, in her habitual tone of sorrow, as she swept from the room with that gesture of profound woe that would have graced a queen in tragedy.

Let us turn for a moment to Mr. Davenport Dunn. Lady Lackington’s invitation had not produced in him either those overwhelming sensations of astonishment or those excessive emotions of delight which she had so sanguinely calculated on. There was a time that a Viscountess asking him thus to dinner had been an event, the very fact being one requiring some effort on his part to believe; but these days were long past. Mr. Dunn had not only dined with great people since that, but had himself been their host and entertainer. Noble lords and baronets had sipped his claret, right honorables praised his sherry, and high dignitaries condescended to inquire where he got “that exquisite port.” The tremulous, faint-hearted, doubting spirit, the suspectful, self-distrusting, humble man, had gone, and in his place there was a bold, resolute nature, confident and able, daily testing his strength against some other in the ring, and as often issuing from the contest satisfied that he had little to fear from any antagonist. He was clever enough to see that the great objects in life are accomplished less by dexterity and address than by a strong, undeviating purpose. The failure of many a gifted man, and the high success of many a commonplace one, had not been without its lesson for him; and it was in the firm resolve to rise a winner that he sat down to the game of life.

Lady Lackington’s invitation was, therefore, neither a cause of pleasure nor astonishment. He remembered having met her somewhere, some time, and he approached the renewed acquaintance without any one of the sentiments her Ladyship had so confidently predicted. Indeed, so little of that flurry of anticipation did he experience, that he had to be reminded her Ladyship was waiting dinner for him, before he could remember the pleasure that was before him.

It may be a very ungallant confession for this true history to make, but we cannot blink saying that Lady Lack-ington and Lady Grace both evidenced by their toilette that they were not indifferent to the impression they were to produce upon their guest.

The Viscountess was dressed in the perfection of that French taste whose chief characteristic is freshness and elegance. She was light, gauzy, and floating, – a sweeping something of Valenciennes and white muslin, – but yet human withal, and very graceful. Her friend, in deep black, with a rich lace veil fastened on her head behind, and draped artistically over one shoulder, was a charming personification of affliction not beyond consolation. When they met, it was with an exchange of looks that said, “This ought to do.”

Lady Lackington debated with herself what precise manner of reception she would award to Mr. Dunn, – whether to impose by the haughty condescension of a fine lady, or fascinate by the graceful charm of an agreeable one. She was “equal to either fortune,” and could calculate on success, whichever road she adopted. While she thus hesitated, he entered.

If his approach had little or nothing of the man of fashion about it, it was still a manner wherein there was little to criticise. It was not bold nor timid, and, without anything like over-confidence, there was yet an air of self-reliance that was not without dignity.

At dinner the conversation ranged over the usual topics of foreign travel, foreign habits, collections, and galleries. Of pictures and statues he had seen much, and evidently with profit and advantage; of people and society he knew next to nothing, and her Ladyship quickly detected this deficiency, and fell back upon it as her stronghold.

“When hard-worked men like myself take a holiday,” said Dunn, “they are but too glad to escape from the realities of life by taking refuge amongst works of art. The painter and the sculptor suggest as much poetry as can consist with their stern notions, and are always real enough to satisfy the demand for fact.”

“But would not what you call your holiday be more pleasantly passed in making acquaintances? You could of course have easy access to the most distinguished society.”

“I’m a bad Frenchman, my Lady, and speak not a word of German or Italian.”

“English is very generally cultivated just now, – the persons best worth talking to can speak it.”

“The restraint of a strange tongue, like the novelty of a court dress, is a sad detractor from all naturalness. At least, in my own little experience with strangers, I have failed to read anything of a man’s character when he addressed me in a language not his own.”

“And was it essential you should have read it?” asked Lady Grace, languidly.

“I am always more at my ease when I know the geography of the land I live in,” said Dunn, smiling.

“I should say you have great gifts in that way, – I mean in deciphering character,” said Lady Lackington.

“Your Ladyship flatters me. I have no pretensions of the kind. Once satisfied of the sincerity of those with whom I come into contact, I never strive to know more, nor have I the faculties to attempt more.”

“But, in your wide-spread intercourse with life, do you not, insensibly as it were, become an adept in reading men’s natures?”

“I don’t think so, my Lady. The more one sees of life the simpler does it seem, not from any study of humanity, but by the easy fact that three or four motives sway the whole world. An unsupplied want of one kind or other – wealth, rank, distinction, affection, it may be – gives the entire impulse to a character, just as a passion imparts the expression to a face; and all the diversities of temperament, like those of countenance, are nothing but the impress of a want, – you may call it a wish. Now it may be,” added he, and as he spoke he stole a glance, quick as lightning, at Lady Grace, “that such experiences are more common to men like myself, – men, I mean, who are intrusted with the charge of others’ interests; but assuredly I have no clew to character save in that one feature, – a want.”

“But I want fifty thousand things,” said Lady Lacking-ton. “I want a deal of money; I want that beautiful villa near Palermo, the ‘Serra Novena;’ I want that Arab pony Kratuloff rides in the park; I want, in short, everything that pleases me every hour of the day.”

“These are not wants that make impulses, no more than a passing shower makes a climate,” said Dunn. “What I speak of is that unceasing, unwearied desire that is with us in joy or sadness, that journeys with us and lives with us, mingling in every action, blending with every thought, and presenting to our minds a constant picture of ourselves under some wished-for aspect different from all we have ever known, where we are surrounded with other impulses and swayed by other passions, and yet still identically ourselves. Lady Grace apprehends me.”

“Perhaps, – at least partly,” said she, fanning herself and concealing her face.

“There are very few exempt from a temptation of this sort, or, if they be, it is because their minds are dissipated on various objects.”

“I hate things to be called temptations, and snares, and the rest of it,” said Lady Lackington; “it is a very tiresome cant. You may tell me while I am waiting for my fish-sauce at dinner, it is a temptation; but if you wish me really to understand the word, tell me of some wonderful speculation, some marvellous scheme for securing millions. Oh, dear Mr. Dunn, you who really know the way, will you just show me the road to – I will be moderate – about twenty thousand pounds?”

“Nothing easier, my Lady, if you are disposed to risk forty.”

“But I am not, sir. I have not the slightest intention to risk one hundred. I ‘m not a gambler.”

“And yet what your Ladyship points at is very like gambling.”

“Pray place that word along with temptation, in the forbidden category; it is quite hateful to me.”

“Have you the same dislike to chance, Lady Grace?” said he, stealing a look at her face with some earnestness.

“No,” said she, in a low voice; “it is all I have to look for.”

“By the way, Mr. Dunn, what are they doing in Parliament about us? Is there not something contemplated by which we can insist upon separate maintenance, or having a suitable settlement, or – ”

“Separation – divorce,” said Lady Grace, solemnly.

“No, my Lady, the law is only repairing an old road, not making a new one. The want of the age is cheapness, – cheap literature, cheap postage, and cheap travelling, and why not cheap divorce? Legislation now professes as its great aim to extend to the poor all the comforts of the rich; and as this is supposed to be one of them – ”

“Have you any reason to doubt it, sir?” asked Lady Grace.

“Luxuries cease to be luxuries when they become common. Cheap divorce will be as unfashionable as cheap pine-apple when a coal-heaver can have it,” said Lady Lackington.

“You mistake, it seems to me, what constitutes the luxury,” interposed Lady Grace. “Every day of the year sees men liberated from prison, yet no one will pretend that the sense of freedom is less dear to every creature thus delivered.”

“Your figure is but too like,” said Dunn. “The divorced wife will be to the world only too much a resemblance of the liberated prisoner. Dark or fair, guilty or innocent, she will carry with her the opprobrium of a public trial, a discussion, and a verdict. Now, how few of us would go through an operation in public for the cure of a malady! Would we not rather hug our sorrows and our sufferings in secrecy than accept health on such conditions?”

“Not when the disease was consuming your very vitals, – not when a perpetual fever racked your brain and boiled in your blood. You’d take little heed of what is called exposure then. The cry of your heart would be, ‘Save me! save me!’” As she spoke, her voice grew louder and wilder, till it became almost a shriek, and, as she ended, she lay back, flushed and panting, in her chair.

“You have made her quite nervous, Mr. Dunn,” said Lady Lackington, as she arose and fanned her.

“Oh, no. It’s nothing. Just let me have a little fresh air, – on the terrace. Will you give me your arm?” said Lady Grace, faintly. And Dunn assisted her as she arose and walked out. “How very delicious this is!” said she, as she leaned over the balcony, and gazed down upon the placid water, streaked with long lines of starlight. “I conclude,” said she, after a little pause, “that scenes like this – moments as peacefully tranquil – are as dear to you, hard-worked men of the world, as they are to the wearied hearts of us poor women, all whose ambitions are so humble in comparison.”

“We are all of us striving for the same goal, I believe,” said he, – “this same search after happiness, the source of so much misery!”

“You are not married, I believe?” said she, in an accent whose very softness had a tone of friendship.

“No; I am as much alone in the world as one well can be,” rejoined he, sorrowfully.

“And have you gone through life without ever meeting one with whom you would have been content to make partnership, – taking her, as those solemn words say, ‘for better, for worse’?”