Davenport Dunn, a Man of Our Day. Volume 1

“I ‘m your man,” said Conway, as he followed Sybella into the carriage. And away they drove.

CHAPTER XXIII. A BREAKFAST-TABLE

When, punctual to the appointed time, Charles Conway presented himself at Mr. Dunn’s door, he learned to his astonishment that that gentleman had gone out an hour before to breakfast with the Chief Secretary in the Park.

“But I came by invitation to breakfast with your master,” said he.

“Possibly so,” said Clowes, scanning the simply clad soldier before him. “He never mentioned it to me; that’s all I know.”

Conway stood for a moment, half uncertain what to say; then, with a quiet smile, he said, “Pray tell him that I was here, – my name is Conway.”

“As to the breakfast part of the matter,” said Clowes, who felt “rather struck” by something in the soldier’s manner, as he afterwards expressed it, “I ‘m just about to take mine; you might as well join me.”

Conway looked him full in the face, – such a stare was it as a man gives when he questions the accuracy of his own senses; a slight flush then rose to his cheek, and his lip curled, and then, with a saucy laugh that seemed to combat the passing irritation he was suffering, he said, “It’s not a bad notion, after all; I’m your man.”

Now, though Mr. Clowes had anticipated a very different reception to his politeness, he said nothing, but led the way into his sanctum, trusting to the locality and its arrangement to have their due effect upon his guest. Indeed, in this respect, he did but fair justice to the comforts around him.

The breakfast-table, placed close to a cheerful fire, was spread with every luxury of that meal. A small spirit lamp burned under a dish of most appetizing cutlets, in the midst of various kinds of bread, and different sorts of preserves. The grateful odor of mocha mingled with the purer perfume of fresh flowers, which, although in midwinter, were never wanting at Mr. Clowes’s breakfast-table, while in the centre rose a splendid pineapple, the first of the season, duly offered by the gardener to the grand vizier of Davenport Dunn.

“I can promise you a better breakfast than he would have given you,” said Clowes, as he motioned his guest to a seat, while he significantly jerked his thumb towards Dunn’s study. “He takes tea and dry toast, and he quite forgets to order anything else. He has some crank or other about beginning the day with a light meal; quite a mistake, – don’t you think so?”

“This is not the most favorable moment to make me a convert to that opinion,” said Conway, laughing. “I must confess I incline to your side of the controversy.”

“There are herrings there,” said Clowes, “and a spatchcock coming. You see,” continued he, returning to the discussion, “he overworks – he does too much – taxes his powers beyond their strength – beyond any man’s strength;” and here Mr. Clowes threw himself back in his chair, and looked pompously before him, as though to say, Even Clowes would n’t have constitution for what he does. – “A man must have his natural rest, sir, and his natural support;” and in evidence of the last, he re-helped himself to the Strasburg pâté.

“Your words are wisdom, and washed down with such Bordeaux I ‘d like to see who ‘d gainsay them,” said Conway, with a droll twinkle of the eye.

“Better coffee, that, I fancy, than you got in the Crimea,” said Clowes, pointing to the coffee-pot.

“I suspect Lord Raglan himself never saw such a breakfast as this. May I ask if it be your every-day meal?”

“We change slightly with the seasons. Oysters and Sauterne suit spring; and then, when summer sets in, we lean towards the subacid fruits and claret-cup. Dash your pineapple with a little rum, – it’s very old, and quite a liqueur.”

“This must be a very jolly life of yours,” said Conway, as he lighted his cigarette and placed his feet on the fender.

“You ‘d prefer it to the trenches or the rifle-pits, I suspect,” said Clowes, laughing, “and small blame to you. It was out there you lost your arm, I suppose?”

Conway nodded, and puffed on in silence.

“A bad business, – a bad business we ‘re making of it all! The Crimea was a mistake; we should have marched direct to Moscow, – Moscow or St Petersburg, – I don’t care which.”

“Nor should I, if we could get there,” said Conway, quietly.

“Get there, – and why not? Fifty thousand British bayonets are a match for the world in arms. It is a head we want, sir, – capacity to deal with the great questions of strategy. Even you yourself must have remarked that we have no generalship, – no guidance – ”

“I won’t say that,” said Conway, quietly. “We’re knocking hard at Sebastopol, and all we can say is we have n’t found the weak spot yet.”

“The weak spot! Why, it ‘s all weak, – earthworks, nothing but earthworks! Now, don’t tell me that Wellington would have minded earthworks! Ah, we have fallen upon sad times!” sighed he, piteously. “Our land commanders say earthworks are impregnable; our admirals say stone walls can’t be attacked.”

Conway laughed again, and lighted a fresh cigarette.

“And what pension have you for that?” asked Clowes, glancing at the empty sleeve.

“A mere trifle; I can’t exactly tell you, for I have not applied for it”

“I would, though; I ‘d have it out of them, and I ‘d have whatever I could, besides. They ‘d not give you the Bath; that they keep for gentlemen – ”

Conway took his cigar from his lips, and while his cheek burned, he seemed about to reply; then, resuming his smoking, he lay back and said nothing.

“After all,” said Clowes, “there must be distinctions of rank. One regrets, one deplores, but can’t help it Look at all the attempts at equality, and see their failures. No, sir, you have your place in the social scale, and I have mine.”

Now, when Mr. Clowes had enunciated this sentiment, he seemed suddenly to be struck by its severity; for he added, “Not but that every man is respectable in his own rank; don’t imagine that I look down upon you.”

Conway’s eyes opened widely as he stared at him, and he puffed his cigar a little more energetically, but never spoke.

“You ‘ve done with the service, I suppose?” said Clowes, after a while.

“I’m afraid so,” said Conway, sighing.

“Well, he” – and he jerked his thumb towards Dunn’s room – “he is the man to help you to something snug. He can give away places every hour of the day. Ay, sir,” said he, warming, “he can make anything, from an archbishop to a barony constable.”

“I rather fear that my capacity for employment might not be found very remarkable. I have idle habits and ways,” said Conway, smiling.

“Bad things, my friend, – bad things for any man, but especially for a poor one. I myself began life in an humble way, – true, I assure you; but with industry, zeal, and attention, I am what you see me.”

“That is encouraging, certainly,” said Conway, gravely.

“It is so, and I mention it for your advantage.”

Charles Conway now arose, and threw the half-smoked cigar into the fire. The movement betokened impatience, and, sooth to say, he was half angry with himself; for, while disposed to laugh at the vanity and conceit of the worthy butler, he still felt that he was his guest, and that such ridicule was ill applied to one whose salt he had eaten.

“You’re not going without seeing him?” said Clowes. “He ‘s sure to be in before noon. We are to receive the Harbor Commissioners exactly at twelve.”

“I have a call to make, and at some distance off in the country, this morning.”

“Well, if I can be of any use to you, just tell me,” said Clowes, good-naturedly. “My position here – one of trust and confidence, you may imagine – gives me many an opportunity to serve a friend; and I like you. I was taken with your manner as you came into the hall this morning, and I said to myself, ‘There ‘s good stuff in that young fellow, whoever he is.’ And I ain’t wrong. You have some blood in you, I’ll be bound.”

“We used to be rather bumptious about family,” said Conway, laughing; “but I suspect the world has taught us to get rid of some of our conceit.”

“Never mind the world. Pride of birth is a generous prejudice. I have never forgotten that my grandfather, on the mother’s side, was a drysalter. But can I be of any use to you? that’s the question.”

“I ‘m inclined to think not; though I ‘m just as grateful to you. Mr. Dunn asked me here this morning, I suspect, to talk over the war with me. Men naturally incline to hear what an eyewitness has to say, and he may have fancied I could have mentioned some new fact, or suggested some new expedient, which in these days seems such a fashionable habit, when everybody has his advice to proffer.”

“No, no,” said Clowes, shaking his head; “it could n’t be that. We have been opposed to this war from the beginning. It was all a mistake, a dead mistake. Aberdeen agreed with us, but we were outvoted. They would have a fight. They said we wanted something to get cotton-spinning out of our blood; and, egad! I suspect they’ve got it.

“Our views,” continued Clowes, pompously, “were either a peace or a march to St. Petersburg. This French alliance is a rotten thing, sir. That Corsican will double on us. The very first moment any turn of fortune gives France an advantage, he ‘ll make peace, and leave us all the obloquy of a reluctant assent. That’s his view, – that’s mine, too; and we are seldom mistaken.”

“For all that, I wish I were back there again,” said Conway. “With every one of its hardships – and they were no trifles – it was a better life than this lounging one I lead now. Tell Mr. Dunn that I was here. Say that I enjoyed your excellent hospitality and pleasant company; and accept my hearty thanks for both.” And with a cordial shake of the hand, Conway wished him “Good-bye,” and departed.