Mr. Hankes rose to withdraw; and as he moved towards the door, his eye caught the oaken box, with three large seals placed by his own hand.
“You have scarcely had time to think about these papers, sir; but they will have their importance when that peerage case comes to be discussed. The Lackingtons were Conways – ”
“Let me have a look at them,” said Dunn, rapidly.
Hankes broke open the paper bands, and unlocked the box. For some time he searched through the documents as they lay, and then emptying them all upon the table, he went over them more carefully, one by one. “Good heavens!” cried he, “how can this be?”
“What do you mean?” exclaimed Dunn; “you do not pretend that they are missing?”
“They are gone, – they are not here!” said the other, almost fainting from agitation.
“But these are the seals you yourself fastened on the box.”
“I know it, – I see it; and I can make nothing of it.”
“Mr. Hankes, Mr. Hankes, this is serious,” said Dunn, as he bent upon the affrighted man a look of heart-searching significance.
“I swear before Heaven – I take my most solemn oath – ”
“Never mind swearing; how could they have been extricated? That is the question to be solved.”
Hankes examined the seals minutely; they were his own. He scrutinized the box on every side to see if any other mode of opening it existed; but there was none. He again went through the papers, – opening, shaking, sifting them, one by one; and then, with a low, faint sigh, he sank down upon a chair, the very image of misery and dismay. “Except it was the devil himself – ”
“The devil has plenty of far more profitable work on hand, sir,” said Dunn, sternly; and then, in a calmer tone, added, “Is it perfectly certain that you ever saw the documents you allude to? and when?”
“Saw them? Why, I held them in my hands for several minutes. It was I myself replaced them in the box before sealing it.”
“And what interval of time occurred between your reading them and sealing them up?”
“A minute, – half a minute, perhaps; stay,” cried he, suddenly, “I remember now that I left the room to call the landlord. Miss Kellett remained behind.”
With a dreadful imprecation Dunn struck his forehead with his hand, and sank into his seat. “What cursed folly,” cried he, bitterly, “and what misfortune and ruin may it beget!”
“It was then that she took them, – that was the very moment,” muttered Hankes, as he followed on his own dreary thoughts.
“My father was right,” said Dunn, below his breath; “that girl will bring sorrow on us yet.”
“But, after all, what value could they have in her eyes? She knows nothing about the questions they refer to; she could not decipher the very titles of the documents.”
“I ought to have known, – I ought to have foreseen it,” cried Dunn, passionately. “What has my whole life been but a struggle against the blunders, the follies, and the faults of those who should have served me! Other men are fortunate in their agents. It was reserved for me to have nothing but incapables, or worse.”
“If you mean to include me in either of these categories, sir, will you please to say which?” said Hankes, reddening with anger.
“Take your choice, – either, or both!” said Dunn, savagely.
“A man must be very strong in honesty that can afford to speak in this fashion of others,” said Hankes, his voice tremulous with rage. “At all events, the world shall declare whether he be right or not.”
“How do you mean, ‘the world shall declare’? Is it that what has passed between us here can be made matter for public notoriety? Would you dare – ”
“Oh, I would dare a great deal, sir, if I was pushed to it,” said Hankes, scoffingly. “I would dare, for instance, to let the world we are speaking of into some of the mysteries of modern banking. I have a vast amount of information to give as to the formation of new companies, – how shares are issued, cancelled, and reissued. I could tell some amusing anecdotes about title-deeds of estates that never were transferred – ”
Why is it that Mr. Hankes, now in the full flood of his sarcasm, stops so suddenly? What has arrested his progress; and why does he move so hurriedly towards the door, which Dunn has, however, already reached before him and locked? Was it something in the expression of Dunn’s features that alarmed him? – truly, there was in his look what might have appalled a stouter heart, – or was it that Dunn had suddenly taken something, he could not discern what, from a drawer, and hastily hidden it in his pocket?
“Merciful heavens!” cried Hankes, trembling all over, “you would not dare – ”
“Like yourself, sir, I would dare much if pushed to it,” said Dunn, in a voice that now had recovered all its wonted composure. “But come, Hankes, it is not a hasty word or an ungenerous speech is to break up the ties of a long friendship. I was wrong; I was unjust; I ask your pardon for it. You have served me too faithfully and too well to be requited thus. Give me your hand, and say you forgive me.”
“Indeed, sir, I must own I scarcely expected – that is, I never imagined – ”
“Come, come, do not do it grudgingly; tell me, frankly, all is forgiven.”
Hankes took the outstretched hand, and muttered some broken, unintelligible words.
“There, now, sit down and think no more of this folly.” He opened a large pocket-book as he spoke, and searching for some time amongst its contents, at last took forth a small slip of paper. “Ay, here it is,” said he: “‘Sale of West Indian estates; resident commissionership; two thousand per annum, with allowance for house,’ &c. Sir Hepton Wallis was to have it. Would this suit you, Hankes? The climate agrees with many constitutions.”
“Oh, as to the climate,” said Hankes, trembling with eagerness and delight, “I ‘d not fear it.”
“And then with ample leave of absence from time to time, and a retiring allowance, after six years’ service, of – if I remember aright – twelve hundred a year. What say you? It must be filled up soon. Shall I write your name instead of Sir Hepton’s?”
“Oh, sir, this is, indeed, generosity!”
“No, Hankes, mere justice; nothing more. The only merit I can lay claim to in the matter is the sacrifice I make in separating myself from a well-tried and trusted adherent.”
“These reports shall be ready immediately, sir,” said Hankes. “I ‘ll not go to bed to-night – ”
“We have ample time for everything, Hankes; don’t fatigue yourself, and be here at twelve to-morrow.”
CHAPTER XXIII. ANNESLEY BEECHER IN A NEW PART
About five weeks have elapsed since we last sojourned with Grog Davis and his party at the little village of Holbach. Five weeks are a short period in human life, but often enough has it sufficed to include great events, and to make marvellous changes in a man’s fortunes! Now, the life they all led here might seem well suited to exclude such calculations. Nothing seemed less likely to elicit vicissitudes. It was a calm, tame monotony; each day so precisely like its predecessor that it was often hard to remember how the week stole on. The same landscape, with almost the same effects of sun and shadow, stretched daily before their eyes; the same gushing water foamed and fretted; the same weeds bent their heads to the flood; the self-same throbbing sounds of busy mills mingled with the rushing streams; the very clouds, as they dragged themselves lazily up the mountain side, and then broke into fragments on the summit, seemed the same; and yet in that little world of three people there was the endless conflict of hope and fear, and all the warring interests which distract great masses of men filled their hearts and engaged their minds.
At first Beecher chafed and fretted at the delay; Lizzy appeared but rarely; and when she did it was with a strange reserve, almost amounting to constraint, that he could not comprehend. She did not seem angry or offended with him, simply more distant. Her high spirits, too, were gone; no more the light-hearted, gay, and playful creature he remembered, she was calm even to seriousness. A look of thoughtful preoccupation marked her as she sat silently gazing on the landscape, or watching the eddies of the circling river. There was nothing – save a slight increase of paleness – to denote sorrow in her appearance; her features were placid, and her expression tranquil. If her voice had lost its ringing music, it had acquired a tone of deep and melting softness that seemed to leave an echo in the heart that heard it. To this change, which at first chilled and repelled Beecher, he grew day by day to accustom himself. If her mood was one less calculated to enliven and to cheer him, it was yet better adapted to make his confidence. He could talk to her more freely of himself than heretofore. No longer did he stand in dread of the sharp and witty epigrams with which she used to quiz his opinions and ridicule his notions of life. She would listen to him now with patience, if not with interest, and she would hear him with attention as he talked for hours on the one sole theme he loved, – himself. And, oh, young ladies, – not that you need any counsels of mine in such matters; but if, perchance, my words of advice should have any weight with you, – let me impress this lesson on your hearts: that for the man who is not actually in love with you, but only “spooney,” there is no such birdlime as the indulgence of his selfishness. Let him talk away about his dogs and his horses, his exploits in China or the Crimea, his fishings in Norway, his yachtings in the Levant; let him discourse about his own affairs, of business as well as pleasure; how briefs are pouring in or patients multiply; hear him as he tells you of his sermon before the bishop, or his examination at Burlington House, – trust me, no theme will make him so eloquent nor you so interesting. Of all “serials,” – as the phrase is, – there is none can be carried out to so many “numbers” as Egotism; and though the snowball grows daily bigger, it rolls along even more easily.
I am not going to say that Lizzy Davis did this of “prepense;” I am even candid enough to acknowledge to you that I am not quite sure I can understand her. She had ways of acting and thinking peculiarly her own. She was not always what the French call conséquente, but she was marvellously quick to discover she was astray, and “try back.” She was one of those people who have more difficulty in dealing with themselves than with others. She had an instinctive appreciation of those whose natures she came in contact with, joined to a strong desire to please; and, lastly, there was scarcely a human temperament with which she could not sympathize somewhere. She let Beecher talk on, because it pleased him, and pleasing him became, at last, a pleasure to herself. When he recalled little traits of generosity, the kind things he had done here, the good-natured acts he had done there, she led him on to feel a more manly pride in himself than when recounting tales of his sharp practices on the turf and his keen exploits in the ring.
Beecher saw this leaning on her part, and ascribed it all to her “ignorance of the world,” and firmly believed that when she saw more of life she would think more highly of his intellect than even of his heart. Poor fellow! they were beautifully balanced, and phrenology for once would have its triumph in showing the mental and the moral qualities in equilibrium. After the first week they were always together, for Davis was continually on the road, – now to Neuwied, now to Höchst. The letters and telegrams that he despatched and received were incredible in number; and when jested with on the amount of his correspondence by Beecher, his only answer was, “It’s all your business, my boy, – the whole concerns you.” Now, Annesley Beecher was far too much of a philosopher to trouble his head about anything which could be avoided, and to find somebody who devoted himself to his interests, opened and read the dunning appeals of creditors, answered their demands by “renewals,” or cajoled them by promises, was one of the highest luxuries he could imagine. Indeed, if Grog would only fight for him and go to jail for him, he ‘d have deemed his happiness complete. “And who knows,” thought he, “but it may come to that yet? I seem to have thrown a sort of fascination over the old fellow that may lead him any lengths.”
Meanwhile there was extending over himself another web of fascination not the less complete that he never perceived it His first waking thought was of Lizzy. As he came down to breakfast, his dress showed how studiously he cultivated appearance. The breakfast over, he sat down to his German lesson beside her with a patient perseverance that amazed him. There he was, with addled head and delighted heart, conjugating “Ich liebe,” and longing for the day when he should reach the imperative mood; and then they walked long country walks into the dark beech woods, along grassy alleys where no footfall sounded, or they strayed beside some river’s bank, half fancying that none had ever strolled over the same sward before. And how odd it was to see the Honorable Annesley Beecher, the great lion of the Guards’ Club, the once celebrity of the Coventry, carrying a little basket on his arm, like a stage peasant in a comic opera, with the luncheon, or, mayhap, bearing a massive stone in his arms to bridge a stream for Lizzy to cross. Poor fellow! he did these things with a good will, and even in his awkwardness there was that air of “gentleman” which never left him; and then he would laugh so heartily at his own inaptitude, and join in’ Lizzy’s mirth at the mischances that befell him. And was it not delightful, through all these charming scenes, on the high mountain-aide, in the deep heather, or deep in some tangled glen, with dog-roses and honeysuckle around them, he could still talk of himself, and she could listen?
For the life of him he could not explain how it was that the time slipped over so pleasantly. As he himself said, “there was not much to see, and nothing to do,” and yet, somehow, the day was always too short for either. He wanted to write to his brother, to his sister-in-law, to Dunn, to his man of business, – meaning the Jew who raised money for him, – but never could find time. He was so puzzled by the problem that he actually asked Lizzy to explain it; but she only laughed.
Now and then, when he chanced to be all alone, a sudden thought would strike him that he was leading a life of inglorious idleness. He would count up how many weeks it was since he had seen a “Bell’s Life,” and try to calculate what races were coming off that very same day; then he would draw a mind-picture of Tattersall’s on a settling day, and wonder who were the defaulters, and who were getting passports for the Continent; and he would wind up his astonishment by thinking that Grog was exactly leading the game indolent existence, “although we have that ‘grand book with the martingale,’ and might be smashing the bank at Baden every night.”
That a man should have the cap of Fortunatus, and yet never try it on, even just for the experiment’s sake, was downright incredible. You might not want money, – not that he had ever met the man in that predicament yet, – you might, perhaps, have no very strong desire for this, that, or t’ other; yet, somehow, “the power was such a jolly thing!” The fact that you could go in and win whenever you pleased was a marvellously fine consideration. As for himself, – so he reasoned, – he did not exactly know why, but he thought his present life a very happy one. He never was less beset with cares: he had no duns; there was not a tailor in Bond Street knew his address; the very Jews had not traced him; he was as free as air. Like most men accustomed to eat and drink of the best, the simple fare of an humble inn pleased him. Grog, whenever he saw him, was good-humored and gay; and as for Lizzy, “of all the girls he had ever met, she was the only one ever understood him.”
As Annesley Beecher comprehended his own phrase, being “understood” was no such bad thing. It meant, in the first place, a generous appreciation of all motives for good, even though they never went beyond motives; a hopeful trust in some unseen, unmanifested excellence of character; a broadcast belief that, making a due allowance for temptations, human frailties, and the doctrine of chances, – this latter most of all, – the balance would always be found in favor of good versus evil; and, secondly, that all the imputed faults and vices of such natures as his were little else than the ordinary weaknesses of “the best of us.” Such is being “understood,” good reader; and, however it may chance with others, I hope that “you and I may.”
But Lizzy Davis understood him even better and deeper than all this. She knew him, if not better than I do myself, at least, better than I am able to depict to you. Apart, then, from the little “distractions” I have mentioned, Beecher was very happy. It had been many a long day since he felt himself so light-hearted and so kindly-minded to the world at large. He neither wished any misfortune to befall Holt’s “stable” or Shipman’s “three-year old;” he did not drop off to sleep hoping that Beverley might break down or “Nightcap” spring a back sinew; and, stranger than all, he actually could awake of a morning and not wish himself the Viscount Lackington. Accustomed as he was to tell Lizzy everything, to ask her advice about all that arose, and her explanation for all that puzzled him, he could not help communicating this new phenomenon of his temperament, frankly acknowledging that it was a mystery he could not fathom.
“Nothing seems ever to puzzle you, Lizzy,” – he had learned to call her Lizzy some time back, – “so just tell me what can you make of it? Ain’t it strange?”
“It is strange,” said she, with a faint smile, in which a sort of sad meaning mingled.
“So strange,” resumed he, “that had any one said to me, ‘Beecher, you ‘ll spend a couple of months in a little German inn, with nothing to do, nothing to see, and, what’s more, it will not bore you,’ I ‘d have answered, ‘Take you fifty to one in hundreds on the double event, – thousands if you like it better,’ – and see, hang me if I should n’t have lost!”
“Perhaps not. If you had a heavy wager on the matter, it is likely you would not have come.”
“Who knows! Everything is Fate in this world. Ah, you may laugh; but it is, though. What else, I ask you – what brings you here just now? – why am I walking along the river with you beside me?”
“Partly, because, I hope, you find it pleasant,” said she, with a droll gravity, while something in her eyes seemed to betoken that her own thoughts amused her.
“There must be more than that,” said he, thoughtfully, for he felt the question a knotty one, and rather liked to show that he did not skulk the encounter with such difficulties.
“Partly, perhaps, because it pleases me,” said she, in the same quiet tone.
He shook his head doubtingly; he had asked for an explanation, and neither of these supplied that want. “At all events, Lizzy, there is one thing you will admit, – if it is Fate, one can’t help it, – eh?”
“If you mean by that that you must walk along here at my side, whether you will or not, just try, for experiment’s sake, if you could not cross over the stream and leave me to go back alone.”
“Leave you to go back alone!” cried he, upon whom the last words were ever the most emphatic. “But why so, Lizzy; are you angry with me? – are you weary of me?”
“No, I ‘m not angry with you,” said she, gently.
“Wearied, then – tired of me – bored?”
“Must I pay you compliments on your agreeability, Mr. Beecher?”
“There it is again,” broke he in, pettishly. “It was only yesterday you consented to call me Annesley, and you have gone back from it already, – forgotten it all!”
“No, I forget very seldom – unfortunately.” This last word was uttered to herself and for herself.
“You will call me Annesley, then?” asked he, eagerly.
“Yes, if you wish it, – Annesley.” There was a pause before she spoke the last word; and when she did utter it, her accent faltered slightly, and a faint blush tinged her cheek.
As for Beecher, his heart swelled high and proudly; he felt at that moment a strange warm glow within him that counterfeited courage; for an instant he thought he would have liked something perilous to confront, – something in encountering which he might stand forth before Lizzy as a Paladin. Was it that some mysterious voice within him whispered, “She loves you; her heart is yours”? and, oh, if so, what a glorious sentiment must there be in that passion, if love can move a nature like this, and mould it to one great or generous ambition!
“Lizzy, I want to talk to you seriously,” said he, drawing her arm within his own. “I have long wanted to tell you something; and if you can hear it without displeasure, I swear to you I ‘d not change with Lackington to-morrow! Not that it’s such good fun being a younger son, – few men know that better than myself; still, I repeat, that if you only say ‘yes’ to me, I pledge you my oath I ‘d rather hear it than be sure I was to win the Oaks, – ay, by Heaven! Oaks and Derby, too! You know now what I mean, dearest Lizzy, and do not, I beseech you, keep me longer in suspense.”
She made no answer; her cheek became very pale, and a convulsive shudder passed over her; but she was calm and unmoved the next instant.
“If you love another, Lizzy,” said he, and his lips trembled violently, “say so frankly. It’s only like all my other luck in life, though nothing was ever as heavy as this.”
There was an honesty, a sincerity in the tone, of these words that seemed to touch her; for she stole a side look at his face, and the expression of her glance was of kindly pity.
“Is it true, then, that you do love another, Lizzy?” repeated he, with even deeper emotion.
“No!” said she, with a slow utterance.
“Will you not tell me, dearest Lizzy, if – if – I am to have any hope? I know well enough that you need n’t take a poor beggar of a younger son. I know where a girl of your beauty may choose. Far better than you do I know that you might have title, rank, fortune; and as for me, all I have is a miserable annuity Lackington allows me, just enough to starve on, – not that I mean to go on, however, as I have been doing; no, no, by Jove! I ‘m round the corner now, and I intend to make play, and ‘take up my running.’ Your father and I understand what we’re about.”
What a look was that Lizzy gave him! What a piercing significance must the glance have had that sent the blood so suddenly to his face and forehead, and made him falter, and then stop.
“One thing I ‘ll swear to you, Lizzy, – swear it by all that is most solemn,” cried he, at last: “if you consent to share fortunes with me, I ‘ll never engage in anything – no matter how sure or how safe – without your full concurrence. I have been buying experience this many a year, and pretty sharply has it cost me. They make a gentleman pay his footing, I promise you; but I do know a thing or two at last; I have had my eyes opened!”
Oh, Annesley Beecher, can you not see how you are damaging your own cause? You have but to look at that averted head, or, bending round, to catch a glimpse of those fair features, and mark the haughty scorn upon them, to feel that you are pleading against yourself.
“And what may be this knowledge of which you are so proud?” said she, coldly.
“Oh, as to that,” said he, in some confusion at the tone she had assumed, “it concerns many a thing you never heard of. The turf, and the men that live by it, make a little world of their own; they don’t bother their heads about parties or politics, – don’t care a farthing who ‘s ‘in’ or who ‘s ‘out.’ They keep their wits – and pretty sharp wits they are – for what goes on in Scott’s stable, and how Holt stands for the St. Léger. They ‘d rather hear how Velocipede eat his corn, than hear all the Cabinet secrets of Europe; and for that matter, so would I.”
“I do not blame you for not caring for State secrets, – it is very possible they would interest you little; but surely you might imagine some more fitting career than what, after all, is a mere trading on the weakness of others. To make of an amusement a matter of profit is, in my eyes, mean; it is contemptible.”
“That’s not the way to look on it at all. The first men in England have race-horses.”
“And precisely in the fact of their great wealth do they soar above all the ignoble associations the turf obliges to those who live by it.”
“Well, I ‘ll give it up; there’s my word on’t I ‘ll never put my foot in Tattersall’s yard again. I ‘ll take my name off the Turf Club, – is that enough?”
She could not help smiling at the honest zeal of this sacrifice; but the smile had none of the scorn her features displayed before.
“Oh, Lizzy!” cried he, enthusiastically, “if I was sure we could just live on here as we are doing, – never leave this little valley, nor see more of the world than we do daily, – I’d not exchange the life for a duke’s fortune – ”
“And Holt’s stable,” added she, laughing. “Come, you must not omit the real bribe.”
He laughed heartily at this sally, and owned it was the grand temptation.
“You are certainly very good-tempered, Annesley,” said she, after a pause.
“I don’t think I am,” said he, half piqued, for he thought the remark contained a sort of disparagement of that sharpness on which he chiefly prided himself. “I am very hot at times.”
“I meant that you bore with great good-humor from me what you might, if so disposed, have fairly enough resented as an impertinence. What do I, what could I, know of that play-world of which you spoke? How gentlemen and men of fashion regard these things must needs be mysteries to me; I only wished to imply that you might make some better use of your faculties, and that knowledge of life you possess, than in conning over a betting-book or the ‘Racing Calendar.’”
“So I mean to do. That’s exactly what I ‘m planning.”
“Here’s the soup cooling and the sherry getting hot,” cried Grog, as he shouted from the window of the little inn, and waved his napkin to attract their notice.
“There’s papa making a signal to us,” said Lizzy; “did you suspect it was so late?”
“Seven o’clock, by Jove!” cried Beecher, as he gave her his hand to cross the stepping-stones. “What a fuss he ‘ll make about our keeping the dinner back!”
“I have eaten all the caviare and the pickles, and nearly finished a bottle of Madeira, waiting for you,” said Grog; “so, no dressing, but come in at once.”
“Oh, dearest Lizzy!” cried Beecher, as they gained the porch, “just one word, – only one word, – to make me the happiest fellow in the world or the most miserable.” But Lizzy sprang up the stairs, and was in her room almost ere his words were uttered.
“If I had bad but another moment,” muttered Beecher to himself, “just one moment more, I’d have shown her that I meant to turn over a new leaf, – that I was n’t going to lead the life I have done. I ‘d have told her – though, I suppose, old Grog would murder me if he knew it – of our grand martingale, and how we mean to smash the bank at Baden. No deception about that, – no ‘cross’ there. She can’t bring up grooms and jockeys and stable-helpers against me now. It will all be done amongst ourselves, – a family party, and no mistake!”
All things considered, Annesley Beecher, it was just as well for you that you had not that “one moment” you wished for.