Davenport Dunn, a Man of Our Day. Volume 1

“I ‘d be content to be thought mad on such terms,” said Conway, good-humoredly, “and not even quarrel with those who said so!”

“I ‘ve got a better scheme than the Crimea in my head,” said Beecher, in a low, cautious voice, like one afraid of being overheard. “I’ve half a mind to tell you, though there ‘s one on board here would come down pretty heavily on me for peaching.”

“Don’t draw any indignation on yourself on my account,” said Conway, smiling. “I’m quite unworthy of the confidence, and utterly unable to profit by it.”

“I ‘m not so sure of that,” responded Beecher. “A fellow who has got it so hot as you have, has always his eyes open ever after. Come a little to this side,” whispered he, cautiously. “Did you remark my going forward two or three times when I came on board?”

“Yes, I perceived that you did so.”

“You never guessed why?”

“No; really I paid no particular attention to it.”

“I ‘ll tell you, then,” whispered he, still lower, “it was to look after a horse I ‘ve got there. ‘Mumps,’ that ran such a capital second for the Yarmouth, and ran a dead heat afterwards with Stanley’s ‘Cross-Bones,’ he’s there!” and his voice trembled between pride and agitation.

“Indeed!” exclaimed Conway, amused at the eagerness of his manner.

“There he is, disguised as a prize bull for the King of Belgium. Nobody suspects him, – nobody could suspect him, he ‘s so well got up, horns and all. Got him on board in the dark in a large roomy box, clap posters to it on the other side, and ‘tool’ him along to Brussels. That’s what I call business! Now, if you wait a week or two, you can lay on him as deep as you like. We’ll let the Belgians ‘in,’ before we ‘ve done with them. We run him under the name of ‘Klepper;’ don’t forget it, – Klepper!”

“I’ve already told you I ‘m unworthy of such a confidence; you only risk yourself when you impart a secret to indiscretion like mine.”

“You’d not blow us?” cried Annesley, in terror.

“The best security against my doing so accidentally is that I may be hundreds of miles away before your races come off.”

For a minute or two Beecher’s misery was extreme. He saw how his rashness had carried him away to a foolish act of good-nature, and had not even reaped thanks for his generosity. What would he not have given to recall his words? – what would he not have done to obliterate their impression? At last a sudden thought seemed to strike him, and he said, —

“There are two of us in ‘the lay,’ and my ‘pal’ is the readiest pistol in Europe.”

“I ‘ll not provoke any display of his skill, depend on ‘t,” said Conway, controlling, as well as he could, the inclination to laugh out.

“He’d tumble you over like winking if you sold him. He ‘d make it as short work with myself if he suspected me.”

“I’d rather have a quieter sort of colleague,” said Conway, dryly.

“Oh! but he’s a rare one to ‘work the oracle.’ Solomon was a wise man – ”

“What infernal balderdash are you at with Solomon and Samson, there?” shouted out Grog Davis, who had just been looking after the horse-box in the bow. “Come down below, and have a glass of brandy-and-water.”

“I ‘ll stay where I am,” said Beecher, sulkily, and walked away in dudgeon from the spot.

“I think I recognize your friend’s voice,” said Conway, when Beecher next joined him. “If I ‘m right, it’s a fellow I ‘ve an old grudge against.”

“Don’t have it out, then, – that ‘s all,” broke in Beecher, hastily. “I ‘d just as soon go into a cage and dispute a bone with one of Van Amburgh’s tigers, as I ‘d ‘bring him to book.’”

“Make your mind easy about that,” said Conway. “I never go in search of old scores. I would only say, don’t leave yourself more in his power than you can easily escape from. As for myself, it’s very unlikely I shall ever see him again.”

“I wish you’d given up the Crimea,” said Beecher, who, by one of the strange caprices of his strange nature, began to feel a sort of liking for Conway.

“Why should I give it up? It’s the only career I ‘m fit for, – if I even be fit for that, which, indeed, the Horse Guards don’t seem to think. But I ‘ve got an old friend in the Piedmontese service who is going out in command of the cavalry, and I ‘m on my way now to Turin to see whether he cannot make me something, – anything, in short, from an aide-de-camp to an orderly. Once before the enemy, it matters wonderfully little what rank a man holds.”

“The chances of his being knocked over are pretty much alike,” said Beecher, “if that’s what you mean.”

“Not exactly,” said Conway, laughing, “not exactly, though even in that respect the calculation is equal.”

They now walked the deck step for step together in silence. The conversation had arrived at that point whence, if not actually confidential, it could proceed no further without becoming so, and so each appeared to feel it, and yet neither was disposed to lead the way. Beecher was one of those men who regard the chance persons they meet with in life just as they would accidental spots where they halt when on a journey, – little localities to be enjoyed at the time, and never, in all likelihood, revisited. In this way they obtained far more of his confidence than if he was sure to be in constant habits of intercourse with them. He felt they were safe depositaries, just as he would have felt a lonely spot in a wood a secure hiding-place for whatever he wanted to conceal. Now he was already – we are unable to say why – disposed to like Conway, and he would gladly have revealed to him much that lay heavily at his heart, – many a weighty care, many a sore misgiving. There was yet remaining in his nature that reverence and respect for honesty of character which survives very often a long course of personal debasement, and he felt that Conway was a man of honor. Such men he very well knew were usually duped and done, – they were the victims of the sharp set he himself fraternized with; but, with all that, there was something about them that he still clung to, just as he might have clung to a reminiscence of his boy-days.

“I take it,” said he, at last, “that each of us have caught it as heavily as most fellows going. You, to be sure, worse than myself, – for I was only a younger son.”

“My misfortunes,” said Conway, “were all of my own making. I squandered a very good fortune in a few years, without ever so much as suspecting I was in any difficulty; and, after all, the worst recollection of the past is, how few kindnesses, how very few good-natured things a fellow does when he leads a life of mere extravagance. I have enriched many a money-lender, I have started half a dozen rascally servants into smart hotel-keepers, but I can scarcely recall five cases of assistance given to personal friends. The truth is, the most selfish fellow in the world is the spendthrift.”

“That ‘s something new to me, I must own,” said Beecher, thoughtfully; but Conway paid no attention to the remark. “My notion is this,” said Beecher, after a pause, – “do what you will, say what you will, the world won’t play fair with you!”

Conway shook his head dissentingly, but made no reply, and another and a longer silence ensued.

“You don’t know my brother Lackington?” said Beecher, at length.

“No. I have met him in the world and at clubs, but don’t know him.”

“I ‘ll engage, however, you ‘ve always heard him called a clever fellow, a regular sharp fellow, and all that, just because he’s the Viscount; but he is, without exception, the greatest flat going, – never saw his way to a good thing yet, and if you told him of one, was sure to spoil it. I ‘m going over to see him now,” added he, after a pause.

“He ‘s at Rome, I think, the newspapers say?”

“Yes, he’s stopping there for the winter.” Another pause followed, and Beecher threw away the end of his cigar, and, sticking an unlighted one in his mouth, walked the deck in deep deliberation. “I ‘d like to put a case to you for your opinion,” said he, as though screwing himself to a great effort. “If you stood next to a good fortune, – next in reversion, I mean, – and that there was a threat – just a threat, and no more – of a suit to contest your right, would you accept of a life interest in the property to avoid all litigation, and secure a handsome income for your own time?”

“You put the case too vaguely. First of all, a mere threat would not drive me to a compromise.”

“Well, call it more than a threat; say that actual proceedings had been taken, – not that I believe they have; but just say so.”

“The matter is too complicated for my mere Yes or No to meet it; but on the simple question of whether I should compromise a case of that nature, I’d say No. I’d not surrender my right if I had one, and I ‘d not retain possession of that which did n’t belong to me.”

“Which means, that you ‘d reject the offer of a life interest?”

“Yes, on the terms you mention.”

“I believe you ‘re right. Put the bold face on, and stand the battle. Now the real case is this. My brother Lack-ington has just been served with notice – ”

Just as Beecher had uttered the last word, his arm, which rested on the binnacle against which he was standing, was grasped with such force that he almost cried out with the pain, and at the same instant a muttered curse fell upon his ear.

“Go on,” said Conway, as he waited to hear more.

Beecher muttered some unintelligible words about feeling suddenly chilled, and “wanting a little brandy,” and disappeared down the stairs to the cabin.

“I heard you,” cried Davis, as soon as the other entered, – “I heard you! and if I hadn’t heard you with my own ears, I ‘d not have believed it! Have n’t I warned you, not once but fifty times, against that confounded peaching tongue of yours? Have n’t I told you that if every act of your life was as pure and honest as you know it is not, your own stupid talk would make an indictment against you? You meet a fellow on the deck of a steamer – ”

“Stop there!” cried Beecher, whose temper was sorely tried by this attack. “The gentleman I talked with is an old acquaintance; he knows me, – ay, and what’s more, he knows you!”

“Many a man knows me, and does not feel himself much the better for his knowledge!” said Davis, boldly.