Davenport Dunn, a Man of Our Day. Volume 1

“He dropped down on his knees beside him, and caught him by the hand, and cried out, ‘George, my own dear fellow, – George, speak to me;’ but George never spoke another word.”

“And Davis, – Captain Davis, – what did he do?”

“He shook hands with Jones, and said something in French that made him laugh; and then going over to where the body lay, he said, ‘Colonel Humphrey,’ says he, ‘you ‘re a witness that all was fair and honorable, and that if this unhappy affair ever comes to be – ’ and then the Colonel moved his hand for him to be off, and not speak to him. And so the Captain took his advice, and got into the saddle; but I heard him mutter something about ‘teaching the Colonel better manners next time they met.”

“And then he rode away?”

“Yes; he turned into the wood, at a walking pace, for he was lighting his cigar. I saw no more of him, after that, for they called me to help them with the body, and it was all we could do, four of us, to carry him to the road where the carriage was standing.”

“Did you ever hear them mention my name amongst them?” asked Beecher, tremblingly.

“No, sir; nobody spoke of you but my master, when he handed me the note.”

“What a sad business it has all been!” exclaimed Beecher, half aloud.

“I suppose it would go hard with the Captain, sir, if he was caught?” said Rivers, inquiringly.

Again Beecher read over the note, pondering every word as he went “What a sad business!” murmured he, “and all for nothing, or next to nothing!” Then, as if suddenly rousing himself to action, he said, “Rivers, we must get away at once. Take this passport to the police, and then look after a horse-box for the next train to Liege. We shall start at two o’clock.”

“That’s just what the Captain said, sir. ‘Don’t delay in Brussels,’ says he; ‘and don’t you go a-talking about this morning’s work. If they have you up for examination, mind that you saw nothing, you heard nothing, you know nothing.’”

“Send Miss Davis’s maid here,” said Beecher; “and then see about those things I ‘ve mentioned to you.”

Mademoiselle Annette was a French Swiss, who very soon apprehended that a “difficulty” had occurred somewhere, which was to be kept secret from her young mistress; and though she smiled with a peculiar significance at the notion of Miss Davis travelling under Beecher’s protection, she did so with all the decorum of her gifted class.

“You ‘ll explain everything, Annette,” said Beecher, who in his confusion was eager to throw any amount of burden or responsibility upon another; “you’ll tell her whatever you like as to the cause of his going away, and I ‘ll swear to it.”

“Monsieur need not give himself any trouble,” was the ready answer; “all shall be cared for.”

CHAPTER XXXI. EXPLANATIONS

What a sad pity it is that the great faculty of “making things comfortable,” that gifted power which blends the announcement with the explanation of misfortune, should be almost limited to that narrow guild in life to which Mademoiselle Annette belonged! The happy knack of half-informing and all-mystifying would be invaluable on the Treasury benches; and great proficients as some of our public men are in this walk, how immeasurably do they fall short of the dexterity of the “soubrette”!

So neatly and so cleverly had Annette performed her task, that when Miss Davis met Beecher at breakfast, she felt that a species of reserve was necessary as to the reasons of her father’s flight; that, as he had not directly communicated with herself, her duty was simply to accept of the guidance he had dictated to her. Besides this, let it be owned, she had not yet rallied from the overwhelming astonishment of her first meeting with her father, so utterly was he unlike all that her imagination had pictured him! Nothing could be more affectionate, nothing kinder, than his reception; a thoughtful anxiety for her comfort pervaded all he said. The gloomy old Tirlemont even caught up an air of home as she passed the threshold; but still he was neither in look, manner, nor appearance what she fancied. All his self-restraint could not gloss over his vulgarity, nor all his reserve conceal his defects in breeding. His short, dictatorial manner with the servants, – his ever-present readiness to confront nobody saw what peril, – a suspectful insistence upon this or that mark of deference as a right of which he might possibly be defrauded, – all gave to his bearing a tone of insolent defiance that at once terrified and repelled her.

To all her eager questionings as to their future life, where and how it was to be passed, he would only answer vaguely or evasively. He met her inquiries about the families and friends of her schoolfellows in the same way. Of her pleasures and pursuits, her love of music, and her skill in drawing, he could not even speak with those conventionalities that disguise ignorance or indifference. Of the great world – the “swells” he would have called them – he only knew such as were on the turf. Of the opera, he might possibly tell the price of a stall, but not the name of a singer; and as to his own future, what or where it should be, Grog no more knew than who would be first favorite for the Léger a century hence. To “fence off” any attempt “to pump him” in the ring, to dodge a clever cross-examiner in a court of justice, Davis would have proved himself second to none, – these were games of skill, which he could play with the best, – but it was a very different task to thread his way through the geography of a land he had not so much as heard of, and be asked to act as guide through regions whose very names were new to him.

The utmost that Lizzy could glean from that long first evening’s talk was, that her father had few or no political ambitions, rather shunned the great world, cared little for dukes or duchesses, nor set any great store on mere intellectual successes. “Perhaps,” thought she, “he has tried and found the hollowness of them all; perhaps he is weary of public life; perhaps he ‘d like the quiet pleasures of a country house, and that calm existence described as the chateau life of England. Would that he were only more frank with me, and let us know each other better!”

We entreat our readers to forgive us this digression, necessary as it is to show that Lizzy, whatever her real doubts and anxieties, felt bound not to display them, but accept Beecher’s counsel as her father’s will.

“And so we start for Aix-la-Chapelle by two?” said she, calmly.

“Yes; and I represent papa,” said Beecher. “I hope you feel impressed with a due reverence for my authority.”

“Much will depend upon the way you exercise it,” said she; “I could very easily be a rebel if I suspected the justice of the Crown.”

“Come, come,” said he, laughing, “don’t threaten me! my viceroyship will be very short-lived, – he ‘ll perhaps be at Aix before us.”

“And I suppose all my dreams of extravagance here are defeated,” said she. “Annette and I have been plotting and planning such rare devices in ‘toilette,’ not exactly aware where or upon whom the captivations were to be exercised. I actually revelled in the thought of all the smart fineries my Pensionnat life has denied me hitherto.”

There was that blending of levity with seriousness in her tone that totally puzzled Beecher; and so was it through all she said, – there ran the same half-mocking vein that left him quite unable even to fathom her meaning. He muttered out something about “dress” and “smart things” being to be found everywhere, and that most probably they should visit even more pretentious cities than Brussels erelong.

“Which means that you know perfectly well where we are going, but won’t tell it. Well, I resign myself to my interesting part of ‘Captive Princess’ all the more submissively, since every place is new to me, every town an object of interest, every village a surprise.”

“You ‘d like to see the world, – the real, the great world, I mean?” asked Beecher.

“Oh, how much!” cried she, clasping her hands in eagerness, as she arose.

Beecher watched her as she walked up and down the room, every movement of her graceful figure displaying dignity and pride, her small and beautifully shaped head slightly thrown back, while, as her hand held the folds of her dress, her march had something almost stage-like in its sweeping haughtiness. “And how she would become it!” muttered he, below his breath, but yet leaving the murmured sounds half audible.

“What are you saying, sir? Any disparaging sentiment on school-girl conceit or curiosity?”

“Something very like the opposite,” said Beecher. “I was whispering to myself that Grantley House and Rocksley Castle were the proper sphere for you.”

“Are these very splendid?” asked she, calmly.

“The best houses in England. Of their owners, one is a Duke with two hundred thousand a year, the other an Earl with nearly as much.”

“And what do they do with it?”

“Everything; all that money can have – and what is there it cannot? – is there. Gorgeous houses, horses, dress, dinners, pictures, plate, the best people to visit them, the best cook, the best deer-park, the fastest yacht at Cowes, the best hunting-stable at Melton.”

“I should like that; it sounds very fascinating, all of it. How it submerges at once, too, all the petty cares and contrivances, perpetually asking, ‘Can we do this?’ ‘Dare we do that?’ It makes existence the grand, bold, free thing one dreams it ought to be.”

“You ‘re right there; it does make life very jolly.”

“Are you very rich?” asked she, abruptly.

“No, by Jove! poor as a church mouse,” said he, laughing at the strangeness of the question, whose sincere simplicity excluded all notion of impertinence. “I’m what they call a younger son, which means one who arrives in the world when the feast is over. I have a brother with a very tidy fortune, if that were of any use to me.”

“And is it not the same? You share your goods together, I suppose?”

“I should be charmed to share mine with him, on terms of reciprocity,” said Beecher; “but I ‘m afraid he ‘d not like it.”

“So that he is rich, and you poor?”

“Exactly so.”

“And this is called brotherhood? I own I don’t understand it.”

“Well, it has often puzzled me too,” said Beecher, laughingly; “but I believe, if I had been born first, I should have had no difficulty in it whatever.”

“And papa?” asked she, suddenly, – “what was he, – an elder or a younger son?”

It was all that Beecher could do to maintain a decent gravity at this question. To be asked about Grog Davis’s parentage seemed about the drollest of all possible subjects of inquiry; but, with an immense effort of self-restraint, he said, —

“I never exactly knew; I rather suspect, however, he was an only child.”