Davenport Dunn, a Man of Our Day. Volume 1

As one by one she placed the humble articles in the box, her tears fell upon them – tears half pleasure and half sorrow – for she thought how “poor dear Jack” would feel as each new object came before him, reminding him of some thoughtful care, some anticipation of this or that casualty; and when at last all seemed packed and nothing forgotten, she arose and crossed the room towards a little shelf, from which she took a small volume, and, kissing it twice fervently, laid it in the box. This done, she knelt down, and with her head between her hands, close pressed and hidden, prayed long and fervently. If her features wore a look of sadness as she arose, it was of sadness not without hope; indeed, her face was like one of those fair Madonnas which Raphael has left us, – faces where trustfulness is more eminently the characteristic than any other quality.

Her long letter was nearly completed, and she sat down to add the last lines to it. It had grown into a sort of Journal of her daily life, its cares and occupations, and she was half shocked at the length to which it extended. “I am not,” wrote she, “so unreasonable as to ask you to write as I have done, but it would be an unspeakable pleasure if you would let me give the public some short extracts from the letters you send me, they are so unlike those our papers teem with. The tone of complaint is, I know, the popular one. Some clever correspondents have struck the key-note with success, and the public only listen with eagerness where the tale is of sufferings which might have been spared, and hardships that need not have been borne. But you, dear Jack, have taken another view of events, and one which, I own, pleases me infinitely more. You say truly, besides, that these narratives, interesting as no doubt they are to all at home here, exercise a baneful influence on the military spirit of our army. Men grow to care too much for newspaper distinction, too little for that noble esprit de camaraderie which is the finest enthusiasm of the service. I could not help feeling as if I heard your voice as I read, ‘I wish they would n’t go on telling us about muddy roads, raw coffee, wet canvas, and short rations; we don’t talk of these things so much amongst ourselves; we came out here to thrash the Russians, and none of us ever dreamed it was to be done without rough usage.’ What you add about the evil effects of the soldier appealing to the civilian public for any redress of his grievances, real or imaginary, is perfectly correct. It is a great mistake.

“You must forgive my having shown your last letter to Mr. Davenport Dunn, who cordially joins me in desiring that you will let me send it to the papers. He remarks truly, that the Irish temperament of making the ludicrous repay the disagreeable is wanting in all this controversy, and that the public mind would experience a great relief if one writer would come forth to show that the bivouac fire is not wanting in pleasant stories, nor even the wet night in the trenches without its burst of light-hearted gayety.

“Mr. Dunn fully approves of your determination not to ‘purchase.’ It would be too hard if you could not obtain your promotion from the ranks after such services as yours; so he says, and so, I suppose, I ought to concur with him; but as this seven hundred pounds lies sleeping at the banker’s while your hard life goes on, I own I half doubt if he be right. I say this to show you, once for all, that I will accept nothing of it I am provided for amply, and I meet with a kindness and consideration for which I was quite unprepared. Of course, I endeavor to make my services requite this treatment, and do my best to merit the good-will shown me.

“I often wonder, dear Jack, when we are to meet, and where. Two more isolated creatures there can scarcely be on earth than ourselves, and we ought, at least, to cling to each other. Not but I feel that, in thus struggling alone with fortune, we are storing up knowledge of ourselves, and experiences of life that will serve us hereafter. When I read in your letters how by many a little trait of character you can endear yourself to your poor comrades, softening the hardship of their lot by charms and graces acquired in another sphere from theirs, I feel doubly strong in going forth amongst the poor families of our neighborhood, and doubly hopeful that even I may carry my share of comfort to some poorer and more neglected.

“The last object I have placed in your box, dearest Jack, – it will be the first to reach your hands, – is my prayer-book. You have often held it with me, long, long ago! Oh, if I dared to wish, it would be for that time again, when we were children, with one heart between us. Let us pray, my dear brother, that we may live to meet and be happy as we then were; but if that is not to be, – if one be destined to remain alone a wanderer here, – pray, my dearest brother, that the lot fall not to me, who am weak-hearted and dependent.

“The day is already beginning to break, and I must close this. My heartfelt prayer and blessings go with it over the seas. Again and again, God bless you.”

Why was it that still she could not seal that letter, but sat gazing sadly on it, while at times she turned to the open pages of poor Jack’s last epistle to her?

CHAPTER XL. SCHEMES AND PROJECTS

The post-horses ordered for Mr. Dunn’s carriage arrived, duly, at break of day; but from some change of purpose, of whose motive this veracious history can offer no explanation, that gentleman did not take his departure, but merely despatched a messenger to desire Mr. Hankes would come over to the Hermitage.

“I shall remain here to-day, Hankes,” said he, carelessly, “and not impossibly to-morrow also. There’s something in the air here suits me, and I have not felt quite well latterly.”

Mr. Hankes bowed; but not even his long-practised reserve could conceal the surprise he felt at this allusion to health or well-being. Positive illness he could understand, – a fever or a broken leg were intelligible ills; but the slighter casualties of passing indispositions were weaknesses that he could not imagine a business mind could descend to, no more than he could fancy a man’s being turned from pursuing his course because some one had accidentally jostled him in the streets.

Dunn was too acute a reader of men’s thoughts not to perceive the impression his words had produced; but with the indifference he ever bestowed upon inferiors, he went on: —

“Forward my letters here till you hear from me; there’s nothing so very pressing at this moment that cannot wait my return to town. Stay – I was to have had a dinner on Saturday; you’ll have to put them off. Clowes will show you the list; and let some of the evening papers mention my being unavoidably detained in the south, – say nothing about indisposition.”

“Of course not, sir,” said Hankes, quite shocked at such an indiscretion being deemed possible.

“And why, ‘of course,’ Mr. Hankes?” said Dunn, slowly. “I never knew it was amongst the prerogatives of active minds to be exempt from ailment.”

“A bad thing to speak about, sir, – a very bad thing, indeed,” said Hankes, solemnly. “You constantly hear people remark, ‘He was never the same man since that last attack.’”

“Psha!” said Dunn, contemptuously.

“I assure you, sir, I speak the sense of the community. The old adage says, ‘Two removes are as bad as a fire,’ and in the same spirit I would say, ‘Two gouty seizures are equal to a retirement’.”

“Absurdity!” said Dunn, angrily. “I never have acknowledged – I never will acknowledge – any such accountability to the world.”

“They bring us ‘to book’ whether we will or not,” said Hankes, sturdily.

Dunn started at the words, and turned away to hide his face; and well was it he did so, for it was pale as ashes, even to the lips, which were actually livid.

“You may expect me by Sunday morning, Hankes,” – he spoke without turning round, – “and let me have the balance-sheet of the Ossory Bank to look over. We must make no more advances to the gentry down there; we must restrict our discounts.”

“Impossible, sir, impossible! There must be no discontent – for the present, at least,” said Hankes; and his voice sunk to a whisper.

Dunn wheeled round till he stood full before him, and thus they remained for several seconds, each staring steadfastly at the other.

“You don’t mean to say, Hankes – ” He stopped.

“I do, sir,” said the other, slowly, “and I say it advisedly.”

“Then there must be some gross mismanagement, sir,” said Dunn, haughtily. “This must be looked to! Except that loan of forty-seven thousand pounds to Lord Lacking-ton, secured by mortgage on the estate it went to purchase, with what has this Bank supplied us?”

“Remember, sir,” whispered Hankes, cautiously glancing around the room as he spoke, “the loan to the Viscount was advanced by ourselves at six per cent, and the estate was bought in under your own name; so that, in fact, it is to us the Bank have to look as their security.”

“And am I not sufficient for such an amount, Mr. Hankes?” said he, sneeringly.

“I trust you are, sir, and for ten times the sum. Time is everything in these affairs. The ship that would float over the bar at high water would stick fast at half-flood.”

“The ‘Time’ I am anxious for is a very different one,” said Dunn, reflectively. “It is the time when I shall no longer be harassed with these anxieties. Life is not worth the name when it excludes the thought of all enjoyment.”

“Business is business, sir,” said Mr. Hankes, with all the solemnity with which such men deliver platitudes as wisdom.

“Call it slavery, and you ‘ll be nearer the mark,” broke in Dunn. “For what or for whom, let me ask you, do I undergo all this laborious toil? For a world that at the first check or stumble will overwhelm me with slanders. Let me but afford them a pretext, and they will debit me with every disaster their own recklessness has caused, and forget to credit me with all the blessings my wearisome life has conferred upon them.”

“The way of the world, sir,” sighed Hankes, with the same stereotyped philosophy.

“I know well,” continued Dunn, not heeding the other’s commonplace, “that there are men who would utilize the station which I have acquired; they’d soon convert into sterling capital the unprofitable gains that I am content with. They ‘d be cabinet ministers, peers, ambassadors, colonial governors. It’s only men like myself work without wages.”

“‘The laborer is worthy of his hire,’ says the old proverb.” Mr. Hankes was not aware of the authority, but quoted what he believed a popular saying.

“Others there are,” continued Dunn, still deep in his own thoughts, “that would consult their own ease, and, throwing off this drudgery, devote what remained to them of life to the calm enjoyments of a home.”

Mr. Hankes was disposed to add, “Home, sweet home;” but he coughed down the impulse, and was silent.

Dunn walked the room with his arms crossed on his breast and his head bent down, deep in his own reflections, while his lips moved, as if speaking to himself. Meanwhile Mr. Hankes busied himself gathering together his papers, preparatory to departure.

“They ‘ve taken that fellow Redlines. I suppose you ‘ve heard it?” said he, still sorting and arranging the letters.

“No,” said Dunn, stopping suddenly in his walk; “where was he apprehended?”

“In Liverpool. He was to have sailed in the ‘Persia,’ and had his place taken as a German watchmaker going to Boston.”

“What was it he did? I forget,” said Dunn, carelessly.

“He did, as one may say, a little of everything; issued false scrip on the Great Coast Railway, sold and pocketed the price of some thirty thousand pounds’ worth of their plant, mortgaged their securities, and cooked their annual accounts so cleverly that for four years nobody had the slightest suspicion of any mischief.”

“What was it attracted the first attention to these frauds, Hankes?” said Dunn, apparently curious to hear an interesting story.

“The merest accident in the world. He had sent a few lines to the Duke of Wycombe to inquire the character and capacity of a French cook. Pollard, the Duke’s man of business, happened to be in the room when the note came, and his Grace begged he would answer it for him. Pollard, as you are aware, is Chairman of the Coast Line; and when he saw the name ‘Lionel Redlines,’ he was off in a jiffy to the Board room with the news.”

“One would have thought a little foresight might have saved him from such a stupid mistake as this,” said Dunn, gravely. “A mode of living so disproportioned to his well-known means must inevitably have elicited remark.”

“At any other moment, so it would,” said Hankes; “but we live in a gambling age, and no one can say where, when, the remedy be curative or poisonous.” Then, with a quick start round, he said, “Hankes, do you remember that terrific accident which occurred a few years ago in France, – at Angers, I think the place was called? A regiment in marching order had to cross a suspension-bridge, and coming on with the measured tramp of the march, the united force was too much for the strength of the structure; the iron beams gave way, and all were precipitated into the stream below. This is an apt illustration of what we call credit. It will bear, and with success, considerable pressure if it be irregular, dropping, and incidental. Let the forces, however, be at once consentaneous and united, – let the men keep step, – and down comes the bridge! Ah, Hankes, am I not right?”

“I believe you are, sir,” said Hankes, who was not quite certain that he comprehended the illustration.