“There, take what you want, and be off!” cried Davis, rudely.
“Your father usurps all the privileges of long friendship, and emboldens me to claim some, too, my dear young lady. Let me kiss the fairest hand in Christendom.” And with a reverential homage all his own, Paul bent down and touched her hand with his lips.
“This is the Reverend Paul Classon, Lizzy,” said Davis, – “a great dignitary of the Church, and an old schoolfellow of mine.”
“I am always happy to know a friend of my father’s,” said she, smiling gracefully. “You have only just arrived?”
“This moment!” said he, with a glance towards Grog.
“There, away with you, and finish your dressing,” broke in Davis, angrily; “I see it is nigh seven o’clock.”
“Past seven, rather; and the company assembled below stairs, and Mr. Beecher – for I presume it must be he – pacing the little terrace in all the impatience of a bride-groom. Miss Davis, your servant.” And with a bow of deep reverence Paul retired.
“There were so many things running in my mind to say to you, Lizzy,” said Davis, “when that Classon came in.” It was very hard for him not to add an epithet; but he did escape that peril.
“I own, papa, he did not impress me very favorably.”
“He’s a first-rate man, a great scholar, a regular don amongst the shovel-hats,” said Grog, hastily; “that man was within an ace of being a bishop. But it was not of him my head was full, girl. I wanted to talk to you about Beecher and that haughty sister-in-law of his. She ‘ll ‘try-it on’ with you, Lizzy; I ‘m sure she will!”
“Dearest papa, how often have you told me that in preparing for the accidents of life we but often exaggerate their importance. I’ll not anticipate evil.”
“Here’s Beecher! – here he is!” cried Davis, as he clasped her once more to his heart; and then, opening the door, led her down the stairs.
There was a full assemblage of all the folk of the little inn, and the room was crowded. The landlord and his wife, and four buxom daughters and two sons, were there; and a dapper waiter, with very tight-fitting trousers, and a housemaid, and three farm-servants, all with big bouquets in their hands and huge bows of white ribbon on their breasts; and Mademoiselle Annette, Lizzy’s maid, in a lilac, silk and a white crape bonnet; and Peters, Beecher’s man, in a most accurate blue frock, except his master, looking far more like a gentleman than any one there.
As for Annesley Beecher, no man ever more accurately understood how to “costume” for every circumstance in life; and whether you saw him lounging over the rail in Rotten Row, strolling through the Park at Richmond, sunning himself at Cowes, or yawning through a wet day in a country-house, his “get-up” was sure to be faultless. Hundreds tried in vain to catch the inimitable curl of his hat, the unattainable sweep of his waistcoat-collar; and then there were shades and tones of his color about him that were especially his own. Of course, I am not about to describe his appearance on this morning; it is enough if I say that he bestowed every care upon it, and succeeded. And Paul, – Holy Paul, – how blandly imposing, how unctuously serene he looked! Marriage was truly a benediction at such hands. He faltered a little, his dulcet accents trembled with a modest reluctance, as he asked, “‘Wilt thou take – this woman – ‘” Could he have changed the Liturgy for the occasion, he had said, “this angel;” as it was, his voice compensated for the syllables, and the question was breathed out like air from the Garden of Eden.
And so they were married; and there was a grand breakfast, where all the household were assembled, and where Paul Classon made a most effective little speech to “the health of the bride,” interpolating his English and German with a tact all his own; and then they drove away with four posters, with all the noise and whip-cracking, the sighs and smiles and last good-byes, just as if the scene had been Hanover Square, and the High Priest a Canon of Westminster!
CHAPTER XXV. STUNNING TIDINGS
A telegram, duly despatched, had prepared the hotel of the Cour de Bade for the arrival of the Honorable Annesley and Mrs. Beecher; and when the well-appointed travelling-carriage came clattering into the porte-cochère at nightfall, there was a dress parade of landlord and waiters ready to receive them.
It was a very long time since Beecher had felt the self-importance of being deemed rich. For many a year back life had been but a series of struggles, and it was a very delightful sensation to him to witness once more all the ready homage, all the obsequious attention which are only rendered to affluence. Herr Bauer had got the despatch just in time to keep his handsomest suite of rooms for him; indeed, he had “sent away the Margraf of Schweinerhausen, who wanted them.” This was gratifying; and, limited as Beecher’s German was, he could catch the muttered exclamations of “Ach Grott, wie schön!” “Wie leiblich!” as his beautiful wife passed up the stairs; and this, too, pleased him. In fact, his was just then the glorious mood that comes once in a lifetime to the luckiest of us, – to be charmed with everything.
To enjoy the sunshine one must have sojourned in shadow; and, certainly, prosperity is never so entrancing as after some experience of its opposite, and Beecher was never wearied of admiring the splendor of the apartment, the wonderful promptitude of the waiters, and the excellence of everything. It must be owned the dinner was in Bauer’s best style, – the bisque, the raebraten, the pheasant, all that could be wished for; and when the imposing host himself uncorked a precious flask of a “Cabinet Steinberger,” Beecher felt it was a very charming world when one had only got to the sunny side of it. Mr. Bauer – a politeness rarely accorded, save to the highest rank – directed the service in person, and vouchsafed to be agreeable during the repast.
“And so your season was a good one, Bauer?” said Beecher.
“Reasonably so, your Excellency. We had the King of Wurtemberg, the Queen of Greece, a couple of archdukes, and a crown prince of something far north, – second rate ones all, but good people, and easily satisfied.”
Beecher gave a significant glance towards Lizzy, and went on: “And who were your English visitors?”
“The old set, your Excellency: the Duke of Middleton, Lord Headlam and his four daughters, Sir Hipsley Keyling, to break the bank, as usual – ”
“And did he?”
“No, Excellency; it broke him.”
“Poor devil! it ain’t so easy to get to windward of those fellows, Bauer; they are too many for us, eh?” said Beecher, chuckling with the consciousness that he had the key to that mysterious secret.
“Well, Excellency, there’s nobody ever does it but one, so long as I have known Baden.”
“And who is he, pray?”
“Mr. Twining, – Adderley Twining, sir; that’s the man can just win what and when and how he pleases.”
“Don’t tell me that, Bauer; he has n’t got the secret. If Twining wins, it ‘s chance, – mere chance, just as you might win.”
“It may be so, your Excellency.”
“I tell you, Bauer, – I know it as a fact, – there’s just one man in Europe has the martingale, and here’s to his health.”
Mr. Bauer was too well skilled in his calling not to guess in whose honor the glass was drained, and smiled a gracious recognition of the toast.
“And your pretty people, Herr Bauer,” broke in Lizzy, – “who were your great beauties this season?”
“We had nothing remarkable, Madame,” said he, bowing.
“No, Master Bauer,” broke in Beecher; “for the luck and the good looks I suspect you should have gone somewhere else this summer.”
Bauer bowed his very deepest acknowledgment. Too conscious of what became him in his station to hazard a flattery in words, he was yet courtier enough to convey his admiration by a look of most meaning deference.
“I conclude that the season is nigh over,” said Lizzy, half languidly, as she looked out on the moonlit promenade, where a few loungers were lingering.
“Yes, Madame; another week will close the rooms. All are hastening away to their winter quarters, – Rome, Paris, or Vienna.”
“How strange it is, all this life of change!” said Lizzy, thoughtfully.
“It is not what it seems,” said Beecher; “for the same people are always meeting again and again, now in Italy, now in England. Ah! I see the Cursaal is being lighted up. How jolly it looks through the trees! Look yonder, Lizzy, where all the lamps are glittering. Many a sad night it cost me, gay as it appears.”
Mr. Bauer withdrew as the dessert was placed on the table, and they were alone.
“Rich fellow that Bauer,” said Beecher; “he lends more money than any Jew in Frankfort. I wonder whether I could n’t tempt him to advance me a few hundreds?”
“Do you want money, then?” asked she, unsuspectingly.
“Want it? No, not exactly, except that every one wants it; people always find a way to spend all they can lay their hands on.”
“I don’t call that wanting it,” said she, half coldly.
“Play me something, Lizzy, here’s a piano; that Sicilian song, – and sing it.” He held out his hand to lead her to the piano, but she only drew her shawl more closely around her, and never moved. “Or, if you like better, that Styrian dance,” continued he.
“I am not in the humor,” said she, calmly.
“Not in the humor? Well, be in the humor. I was never in better spirits in my life. I would n’t change with Davis when he won the Czarewitch. Such a dinner as old Bauer gave us, and such wine! and then this coffee, not to speak of the company, – eh, Lizzy?”
“Yes, Mr. Bauer was most agreeable.”
“I was n’t talking of Mr. Bauer, ma chère, I was thinking of some one else.”
“I did n’t know,” said she, with a half-weary sigh.
Beecher’s cheek flushed up, and he walked to the window and looked out; meanwhile she took up a book and began to read. Along the alley beneath the window troops of people now passed towards the rooms. The hour of play had sounded, and the swell of the band could be heard from the space in front of the Cursaal. As his eyes followed the various groups ascending the steps and disappearing within the building, his imagination pictured the scene inside.
There was always a kind of rush to the tables on the last few nights of the season. It was a sort of gamblers’ theory that they were “lucky,” and Beecher began to con over to himself all the fortunate fellows who had broken the bank in the last week of a season. “I told old Grog I ‘d not go,” muttered he; “I pledged myself I’d not enter the rooms; but, of course, that meant I ‘d not play, – it never contemplated mere looking in and seeing who was there: rather too hard if I were not to amuse myself, particularly when” – here he turned a glance towards Lizzy – “I don’t perceive any very great desire to make the evening pass pleasantly here. Ain’t you going to sing?” asked he, half angrily.
“If you wish it,” said she, coldly.
“Nor play?” continued he, as though not hearing her reply.
“If you desire it,” said she, rising, and taking her place at the piano.
He muttered something, and she began. Her fingers at first strayed in half-careless chords over the instrument; and then, imperceptibly, struck out into a wild, plaintive melody of singular feeling and pathos, – one of those Hungarian airs which, more than any other national music, seem to dispense with words for their expression.
Beecher listened for a few moments, and then, muttering indignantly below his breath, he left the room, banging the door as he went out. Lizzy did not seem to have noticed his departure, but played on, air succeeding air, of the same character and sentiment; but at last she leaned her head upon the instrument and fell into a deep revery. The pale moonlight, as it lay upon the polished floor, was not more motionless. Beecher, meanwhile, had issued forth into the street, crossed the little rustic bridge, and held his way towards the Cursaal. His humor was not an enviable nor an amiable one. It was such a mood as makes a courageous man very dangerous company, but fills an individual of the Beecher type with all that can be imagined of suspicion and distrust. Every thought that crossed his mind was a doubt of somebody or something. He had been duped, cheated, “done,” he did n’t exactly know when, how, or by whom, with what object, or to what extent. But the fact was so. He entered the rooms and walked towards the play-table. There were many of the old faces he remembered to have seen years ago. He exchanged bows and recognitions with several foreigners whose names he had forgotten, and acknowledged suitably the polite obeisance of the croupiers, as they rose to salute him. It was an interesting moment as he entered, and the whole table were intently watching the game of one player, whose single Louis d’or had gone on doubling with each deal, till it had swelled into a sum that formed the limit of the bank. Even the croupiers, models as they are of impassive serenity, showed a touch of human sentiment as the deal began, and seemed to feel that they were in presence of one who stood higher in Fortune’s favor than themselves.
“Won again!” cried out a number of voices; “the thirteenth pass! Who ever saw the like? It is fabulous, monstrous!” Amid the din of incessant commentaries, few of them uttered in the tone of felicitation, a very tall man stretched his arm towards the table, and began to gather in the gold, saying, in a pleasant but hurried voice: “A thousand pardons. I hope you ‘ll excuse me; would n’t inconvenience you for worlds. I think you said” – this was to the banker – “I think you said thirty-eight thousand francs in all; thank you, extremely obliged; a very great run of luck, indeed, – never saw the like before. Would you kindly exchange that note, it is a Frankfort one; quite distressed to give you the trouble; infinitely grateful;” and, bashfully sweeping the glittering coins into his hat, as if ashamed to have interrupted the game, he retired to a side table to count over his winnings. He had just completed a little avenue of gold columns, muttering to himself little congratulations, interspersed with “What fun!” when Beecher, stepping up, accosted him. “The old story, Twining! I never heard nor read of a fellow with such luck as yours!”
“Oh, very good luck, capital luck!” cried Twining, rubbing his lean hands, and then slapping them against his leaner legs. “As your Lordship observes, I do occasionally win; not always, not always, but occasionally. Charmed to see you here, – delighted, – what fun! Late, – somewhat late in the season, – but still lovely weather. Your Lordship only just arrived, I suppose?”
“I see you don’t remember me, Twining,” said Beecher, smiling, and rather amused to mark how completely his good fortune had absorbed his attention.
“Impossible, my Lord-! – never forget a face, – never!”
“Pardon me if I must correct you this once; but it is quite clear you have forgotten me. Come, for whom do you take me?”
“Take you, my Lord, – take you? Quite shocked if I could make a blunder; but really, I feel certain I am speaking with Lord Lackington.”
“There, I knew it!” cried Beecher, laughing out “I knew it, though, by Jove! I was not quite prepared to hear that I looked so old. You know he’s about eighteen years my senior.”
“So he was, my Lord, – so he was,” said Twining, gathering up his gold. “And for a moment, I own, I was disposed to distrust my eyes, not seeing your Lordship in mourning.”
“In mourning? and for whom?”
“For the late Viscount, your Lordship’s brother!”
“Lackington! Is Lackington dead?”
“Why, it’s not possible your Lordship hasn’t heard it? It cannot be that your letters have not brought you the tidings? It happened six – ay, seven weeks ago; and I know that her Ladyship wrote, urgently entreating you to come out to Italy.” Twining continued to detail, in his own peculiar and fitful style, various circumstances about Lord Lackington’s last illness. But Beecher never heard a word of it, but stood stunned and stupefied by the news. It would be too tangled a web were we to inquire into the complicated and confused emotions which then swayed his heart. The immense change in his own fortunes, his sudden accession to rank, wealth, and station, came, accompanied by traits of brotherly love and affection bestowed on him long, long ago, when he was a Harrow boy, and “Lack” came down to see him; and then, in after life, the many kind things he had done for him, – helping him out of this or that difficulty, – services little estimated at the time, but now remembered with more than mere gratitude. “Poor Lackington! and that I should not haver been with you!” muttered he; and then, as if the very words had set another chord in vibration, he started as he thought that he had been duped. Davis knew it all; Davis had intercepted the letters. It was for this he had detained him weeks long in the lonely isolation of that Rhenish village. It was for this his whole manner had undergone such a marked change to him. Hence the trustfulness with which he burned the forged acceptances; the liberality with which he supplied him with money, and then – the marriage! “How they have done me!” cried he, in an agony of bitterness, – “how they have done me! The whole thing was concerted, – a plant from the very beginning; and she was in it!” While he thus continued to mutter to himself imprecations upon his own folly, Twining led him away, and imperceptibly induced him to stroll along one of the unfrequented alleys. At first Beecher’s questions were all about his brother’s illness, – how it began, what they called it, how it progressed. Then he asked after his sister-in-law, – where she then was, and how. By degrees he adverted to Lackington’s affairs; his will, – what he had left, and to whom. Twining was one of the executors, and could tell him everything. The Viscount had provided handsomely, not extravagantly, for his widow, and left everything to his brother! “Poor Lackington, I knew he loved me always!” Twining entered into a somewhat complicated narrative of a purchase the late Viscount had made, or intended to make, in Ireland, – an encumbered estate, – but Beecher paid no attention to the narrative. All his thoughts were centred upon his own position, and how Davis had done him.
“Where could you have been, my Lord, all that time, not to have heard of this?” asked Twining.
“I was in Germany, in Nassau. I was fishing amongst the mountains,” said the other, in confusion.
“Fishing? – great fun, capital fun; like it immensely, – no expense, rods and hooks, – rods and hooks; not like hunting, – hunting perfectly ruinous, – I mean for men like myself, not, of course, for your Lordship.”
“Poor Lackington!” muttered Beecher, half unconsciously.
“Ah!” sighed Twining, sympathetically.
“I was actually on my way out to visit him, but one thing or another occurred to delay me!”
“How unfortunate, my Lord; and, really, his anxieties about you were unceasing. You have not to be told of the importance he attached to the title and name of your house! He was always saying, ‘If Beecher were only married! If we could find a wife for Annesley – ‘”
“A wife!” exclaimed the other, suddenly.
“Yes, my Lord, a wife; excellent thing, marriage, – capital thing, – great fun.”
“But it’s done, sir; I ‘m booked!” cried Beecher, vehemently. “I was married on Sunday last.”
“Wish your Lordship every imaginable joy. I offer my felicitations on the happy event Is the Viscountess here?”
“She is here,” said Beecher, with a dogged sternness.
“May I ask the name of Lady Lackington’s family?” said Twining, obsequiously.
“Name, – name of her family!” echoed Beecher, with a scornful laugh. Then, suddenly stopping, he drew his arm within Twining’s, and in the low voice of a secret confidence, said, “You know the world as well as most men, – a deal better, I should say; now, can you tell me, is a marriage of this kind binding?”
“What kind of marriage do you mean?”
“Why, a private marriage in an inn, without banns, license, or publication of any kind, the ceremony performed by a fellow I suspect is a degraded parson, – at least, I used to hear he was ‘scratched’ years ago, – Classon.”
“Paul Classon, – Holy Paul? – clever fellow, very ingenious. Tried to walk into me once for a subscription to convert the Mandans Indians, – did n’t succeed, – what fun!”
“Surely no ministration of his can mean much, eh?”
“Afraid it does, my Lord; as your late brother used to observe, marriage is one of those bonds in which even a rotten string is enough to bind us. Otherwise, I half suspect some of us would try to slip our cables, – slip our cables and get away! What fun, my Lord, – what fun!”
“I don’t believe such a marriage is worth a rush,” went on Beecher, in that tone of affirmation by which he often stimulated his craven heart to feel a mock confidence. “At least, of this I am certain, there are five hundred fellows in England would find out a way to smash it.”
“And do you want to ‘cryoff my Lord?” asked Twining, abruptly.
“I might, or I might not; that depends. You see, Twining, there’s rather a wide line of country between Annesley Beecher with nothing, and Viscount Lackington with a snug little estate; and if I had only known, last Sunday morning, that I was qualified to run for a cup I’d scarcely have entered for a hack stakes.”
“But then, you are to remember her connections.”
“Connections!” laughed out Beecher, scornfully.
“Well, family, – friends; in short, she may have brothers, – a father?”
“She has a father, by Jove! – she has a father!”
“May I be so bold as to ask – ”
“Oh, you know him well! – all the world knows him, for the matter of that. What do you say to Kit Davis, – Grog!”
“Grog Davis, my Lord? – Grog Davis!”
“Just so,” said Beecher, lighting a cigar with an affected composure he intended to pass off for great courage.
“Grog – Grog – Grog! – wonderful fellow! astonishing fellow! up to everything! and very amusing! I must say, my Lord, – I must say, your Lordship’s father-in-law is a very remarkable man.”
“I rather suspect he is, Twining.”
“Under the circumstances, – the actual circumstances, I should say, my Lord, keep your engagement, – keep your engagement.”
“I understand you, Twining; you don’t fancy Master Grog. Well, I know an opinion of that kind is abroad. Many people are afraid of him; I never was, – eh?” The last little interrogative was evoked by a strange smile that flickered across Twining’s face. “You suspect that I am afraid of him, Twining; now, why should I?”
“Can’t possibly conceive, my Lord, – cannot imagine a reason.”
“He is what is called a dangerous fellow.”
“Very dangerous.”
“Vindictive.”
“To the last. Never abandons a pursuit, they tell me.”
“But we live in an age of civilization, Twining. Men of his stamp can’t take the law in their own hands.”
“I ‘m afraid that is exactly the very thing they do, my Lord; they contrive always to be in the wrong, and consequently have everything their own way;” and so Mr. Twining rubbed his hands, slapped his legs, and laughed away very pleasantly.
“You are rather a Job’s comforter, Twining,” said Beecher, tartly.
“Not very like Job, your Lordship; very little resemblance, I must say, my Lord! Much more occasion for pride than patience, – peerage and a fine property!”
“I ‘m sure I never coveted it; I can frankly say I never desired prosperity at the price of – the price of – By the way, Twining, why not compromise this affair? I don’t see why a handsome sum – I’m quite willing it should be handsome – would n’t put all straight. A clever friend might be able to arrange the whole thing. Don’t you agree with me?”
“Perfectly, my Lord; quite convinced you have taken the correct view.”
“Should you feel any objection to act for me in the matter, – I mean, to see Davis?”
Twining winced like a man in pain.
“Why, after all, it is a mere negotiation.”
“Very true, my Lord.”
“A mere experiment.”
“Just so, my Lord; so is proving a new cannon; but I’d just as soon not sit on the breech for the first fire.”
“It’s wonderful how every one is afraid of this fellow, and I wind him round my finger!”
“Tact, my Lord, – tact and cleverness, that’s it.”
“You see, Twining,” said Beecher, confidentially, “I’m not quite clear that I ‘d like to be off. I have n’t regularly made up my mind about it. There’s a good deal to be said on either side of the question. I’ll tell you what to do: come and breakfast with us to-morrow morning, – I ‘d say dine, but I mean to get away early and push on towards the South; you shall see her, and then – and then we ‘ll have a talk afterwards.”
“Charmed, my Lord, – delighted, – too happy. What ‘s your hour?”
“Let us say eleven. Does that suit you?”
“Perfectly; any hour, – eleven, twelve, one, – whenever your Lordship pleases.”
“Well, good-night, Twining, good-night.”
“Good-night, my Lord, good-night. What fun!” muttered he, slapping his legs as he stepped out to his lodgings.
It was not till he had smoked his fourth cigar, taking counsel from his tobacco, as was his wont, that the new Viscount returned to his hotel. It was then nigh morning, and the house was so buried in sleep that he knocked full half an hour before he gained admittance.
“There’s a gentleman arrived, sir, who asked after you. He didn’t give his name.”
“What is he like, – old, young, short, or tall?”
“Middle-aged, sir, and short, with red beard and moustaches. He drank tea with the lady upstairs, sir, and waited to see you till nigh two o’clock.”
“Oh, I know him,” muttered Beecher, and passed on. When he reached his dressing-room, he found the table covered with a mass of letters addressed to Lord Viscount Lackington, and scrawled over with postmarks; but a card, with the following few words, more strongly engaged his attention: “It’s all right, you are the Viscount – C. D.”
A deep groan burst from Beecher as he dropped the card and sank heavily into a seat. A long, long time slipped over ere he could open the letters and examine their contents. They were almost all from lawyers and men of business, explanation of formalities to be gone through, legal details to be completed, with here and there respectful entreaties to be continued in this or that agency. A very bulky one was entirely occupied with a narrative of the menaced suit on the title, and a list of the papers which would be hereafter required for the defence. It was vexatious to be told of a rebellion ere he had yet seated himself on the throne; and so he tossed the ungracious document to the end of the room, his mood the very reverse of that he had so long pictured to himself it might be.
“I suppose it’s all great luck!” muttered he to himself; “but up to this I see no end of difficulty and trouble.”