Loe raamatut: «Davenport Dunn, a Man of Our Day. Volume 2», lehekülg 23

“Ah, Spicer! you here?” said Beecher, half haughtily. “Off to England, I suppose?”

“No, my Lord, I ‘m bound for Rome.”

“So are we, too. Lady Lackington and myself,” added be, correcting at once a familiar sort of a glance that Spicer found time to bestow upon Lizzy. “Do you happen to know if Lady Georgina is there?”

“Yes, my Lord, at the Palazzo Gondi, on the Pintian;” and here Spicer threw into his look an expression of respectful homage to her Ladyship.

“Palazzo Gondi; will you try and remember that address?” said Beecher to his wife. And then, waving his hand to Spicer, he added, “Good-bye, – meet you at Rome some of these days,” and was gone.

CHAPTER XXVIII. AT ROME

In a small and not very comfortably furnished room looking out upon the Pintian Hill at Rome, two ladies were seated, working, – one in deep mourning, whose freshness indicated a recent loss; the other in a strangely fashioned robe of black silk, whose deep cape and rigid absence of ornament recalled something of the cloister. The first was the widowed Viscountess Lackington; the second the Lady Grace Twining, a recent convert to Rome, and now on her way to some ecclesiastical preferment in the Church, either as “Chanoinesse,” or something equally desirable. Lady Lackington looked ill and harassed; there were not on her face any traces of deep sorrow or affliction, but the painful marks of much thought. It was the expression of one who had gone through a season of trial wherein she had to meet events and personages all new and strange to her. It was only during the last few days of Lord Lackington’s illness that she learned the fact of a contested claim to the title, but, brief as was the time, every post brought a mass of letters bearing on this painful topic. While the lawyers, therefore, showered their unpleasant and discouraging tidings, there was nothing to be heard of Beecher; none knew where he was, or how a letter was to reach him. All her own epistles to him remained unacknowledged. Fordyce’s people could not trace him, neither could Mr. Dunn, and there was actually the thought of asking the aid of that inquisitorial service whose detective energies are generally directed in the pursuit of guilt.

If Annesley Beecher might be slow to acknowledge the claims of fraternal affection, there was no one could accuse him of any lukewarmness to his own interests, and though it was now two months and upwards since the Viscount’s death, yet he had never come forward to assert his new rank and station. Whatever suspicions might have weighed down the mind of the Viscountess regarding this mysterious disappearance, the language of all the lawyers’ letters was assuredly ill calculated to assuage. They more than hinted that they suspected some deep game of treachery and fraud. Beecher’s long and close intimacy with the worst characters of the turf – men notorious for their agency in all the blackest intrigues – was continually brought up. His life of difficulty and strait, his unceasing struggle to meet his play engagements, driving him to the most ruinous compacts, all were quoted to show that to a man of such habits and with such counsellors any compromise would be acceptable that offered present and palpable advantages in lieu of a possible and remote future.

The very last letter the Viscountess received from Fordyce contained this startling passage: “It being perfectly clear that Mr. Beecher would only be too ready to avail himself of his newly acquired privileges if he could, we must direct our sole attention to those circumstances which may explain why he could not declare himself the Viscount Lackington. Now, the very confident tone lately assumed by the Conway party seems to point to this mysterious clew, and everything I learn more and more disposes me to apprehend a shameful compromise.”

It was with the letter that contained this paragraph before her Lady Lackington now sat, affecting to be engaged in her work, but in reality reading over, for the fiftieth time, the same gloomy passage.

“Is it not incredible that, constituted as the world now is, with its railroads and its telegraphs, you cannot immediately discover the whereabouts of any missing individual?” said Lady Lackington.

“I really think he must have been murdered,” said Lady Grace, with the gentlest of accents, while she bent her head over the beautiful altar-cloth she was embroidering.

“Nonsense, – absurdity! such a crime would soon have publicity enough.”

Lady Grace gave a smile of compassionate pity at the speech, but said nothing.

“I can’t imagine how you could believe such a thing possible,” said the Viscountess, tartly.

“I can only say, my dear, that no later than last night Monsignore assured me that, through M. Mazzini and the Bible societies, you can make away with any one in Europe, and, indeed, in most parts of the world besides. Don’t smile so contemptuously, my dear. Remember who it is says this. Of course, as he remarks, the foolish newspapers have their own stupid explanations always ready, at one moment calling it a political crime, at another the act of insanity, and so on. They affected this language about Count Rossi, and then about the dear and sainted Archbishop of Paris; but what true believer ever accepted this?”

“Monsignore would not hold this language to me,” said Lady Lackington, haughtily.

“Very probably not, dearest; he spoke in confidence when he mentioned it to me.”

“I mean, that he would hesitate ere he forfeited any respect I entertain for his common-sense by the utterance of such wild absurdity. What is it, Turner?” asked she, suddenly, as her maid entered.

“Four packing-cases have just come, my Lady, with Mr. Spicer’s respectful compliments, and that he will be here immediately, – he has only gone to change his dress.”

“Why don’t he come at once? I don’t care for his dress.”

“No, my Lady, of course not,” said Turner, and retired.

“I must say he has made haste,” said Lady Lackington, languidly. “It was only on the eighth or the ninth, I think, he left this, and as he had to get all my mourning things, – I had actually nothing, – and to go down to Lackington Court, and then to Wales, and after that to the Isle of Wight, what with lawyers and other tiresome people to talk to, he has really not done badly.”

“I hope he has brought the chalice,” sighed Lady Grace.

“I hope he has brought some tidings of my respectable brother-in-law,” said the Viscountess, in a tone that seemed to say where the really important question lay.

“And the caviare, – I trust he has not forgotten the caviare. It is the only thing Monsignore eats at breakfast in Advent.”

An insolent gesture of the head was all the acknowledgment Lady Lackington vouchsafed to this speech. At last she spoke: “When he can get horse-racing out of his head, Spicer is a very useful creature.”

“Very, indeed,” said Lady Grace.

“The absurd notion that he is a sporting character is the parent of so many other delusions; he fancies himself affluent, and, stranger still, imagines he’s a gentleman.” And the idea so amused her Ladyship that she laughed aloud at it.

“Mr. Spicer, my Lady,” said a servant, flinging wide the door; and in a most accurate morning-dress, every detail of which was faultless, that gentleman bowed his way across the room with an amount of eagerness that might possibly exact a shake of the hand, but, if unsuccessful, might easily subside into a colder acceptance. Lady Lackington vouchsafed nothing beyond a faint smile, and the words, “How d’ye do?” as with a slight gesture she motioned to him the precise chair he was to seat himself on. Before taking his place, Mr. Spicer made a formal bow to Lady Grace, who, with a vacant smile, acknowledged the courtesy, and went on with her work.

“You have made very tolerable haste, Spicer,” said Lady Lackington. “I scarcely expected you before Saturday.”

“I have not been to bed for six nights, my Lady.”

“You ‘ll sleep all the better for it to-night, perhaps.”

“We had an awful gale of wind in crossing to Calais, – the passage took eight hours.”

“You relished land travelling all the more for it afterwards.”

“Not so, my Lady; for at Lyons the whole country was flooded, and we were obliged to march eleven miles afoot on a railway embankment, and under a tremendous storm of rain; but even that was not the worst, for in crossing the St. Bernard – ”

“I really don’t care for such moving accidents; I always skip them in the newspapers. What of my mourning, – is much crape worn?”

“A great deal of crape, my Lady, and in ‘bouffes’ down the dress.”

“With bugles or without? I see by your hesitation, sir, you have forgotten about the bugles.”

“No, my Lady, I have them,” said he, proudly; “small acorns of Jet are also worn on points of the flounces, and Madame Frontin suggested that, as your Ladyship dislikes black so much – ”

“But who said as much, sir?” broke she in, angrily.

“And the caviare, Mr. Spicer, – have you remembered the caviare?” lisped out Lady Grace.

“Yes, my Lady; but Fortnum’s people are afraid some of it may prove a failure. There was something, I don’t know what, happened to the fish in the Baltic this year.”

“Who ventured to say black was unbecoming to me?” asked Lady Lackington, changing her question, and speaking more angrily.

“It was Frontin, my Lady, who remarked that you once had said nothing would ever induce you to wear that odious helmet widows sometimes put on.”

“Oh dear; and I have such a fancy for it,” exclaimed Lady Grace.

“You mistake, my dear; you are confounding the occasion with the costume,” said Lady Lackington; and her eyes sparkled with the malice of her remark.

Mr. Spicer’s face exhibited as much enjoyment of the wit as he deemed decorous to the party satirized.

“And now, sir, for the important part of your mission r have you obtained any information about my brother-in-law?”

“Yes, my Lady, I saw him at Chiavenna. He drove up to the post-house to change horses as we were there; he told me, in the few minutes we spoke together, that they were on their way to Rome.”

“Whom do you mean, sir, when you say ‘they’?”

“Lord and Lady Lackington, my Lady.”

“Is he married? Did you say he was married, sir?’” exclaimed she, in a voice discordant above all her efforts to restrain.

“Yes, my Lady; I was, in a manner, presented to her Ladyship, who was, I must say, a very beautiful person – ”

“I want no raptures, sir; are you quite certain she was his wife?”

“His Lordship told me so, my Lady; and when they reached the Hôtel Royal, at Milan, I took occasion to question the courier! whom I knew before, and he told me all about it.”

“Go on, sir.”

“Well, my Lady, they were just married about ten or twelve days when I met them; the ceremony had been performed in some little out-of-the-way spot in the Rhine country, where Mr. Beecher had been staying for the summer, and where, as it happened, he never received any tidings of the late Lord’s death, or the presumption is, he had never made this unfortunate connection.”

“What do you mean by ‘unfortunate connection ‘?”

“Why, one must really call it so, my Lady; the world, at least, will say as much.”

“Who is she, sir?”

“She’s the daughter of one of the most notorious men in England, my Lady, – the celebrated leg, Grog Davis.”

Ah, Mr. Spicer, small and insignificant as you are, you have your sting, and her Ladyship has felt it. These words, slowly uttered in a tone of assumed sorrow, so overcame her they were addressed to, that she covered her face with her handkerchief and sat thus, speechless, for several minutes. To Spicer it was a moment of triumph, – it was a vengeance for all the insults, all the slights she showered upon him, and he only grieved to think how soon her proud spirit would rally from the shock.

Lady Lackington’s face, as she withdrew her handkerchief, was of ashy paleness, and her bloodless lips trembled with emotion. “Have you heard what this man has said, Grace?” whispered she, in a voice so distinct as to be audible throughout the room.

“Yes, dearest; it is most distressing,” said the other, in the softest of accents.

“Distressing! It is an infamy!” cried she. Then suddenly turning to Spicer, with flaring eyes and flushed face, she said, “You have rather a talent for blundering, sir, and it is just as likely this is but a specimen of your powers. I am certain she is not his wife.”

“I can only say, my Lady, that I took pains enough to get the story accurately; and as Kuffner, the courier, was at the marriage – ”

“Marriage!” broke she in, with a sarcastic irony; “why, sir, it is not thus a peer of England selects the person who is to share his dignity.”

“But you forget, my Lady,” interposed Spicer, “that he did n’t know he was a peer – he had not the slightest expectation of being one – at the time. Old Grog knew it – ”

“Have a care, sir, and do not you forget yourself. These familiar epithets are for your associates in the ring, and not for my ears.”

“Well, the Captain, my Lady, – he is as well known by that name as the other, – he had all the information, and kept back the letters, and managed the whole business so cleverly that the first Mr. Beeeher ever knew of his. Lordship’s death was when hearing it from Mr. Twining at Baden.”

“I thought Mr. Twining was in Algiers, or Australia, I forget which,” said Lady Grace, gently.

“Such a marriage must be a mockery, – a mere mockery. He shall break it, – he must break it!” said Lady Lacking-ton, as she walked up and down with the long strides and the step of a tigress in a cage.

“Oh dear! they are so difficult to break!” sighed Lady-Grace. “Mr. Twining always promised me a divorce when the law came in and made it so cheap, and now he says that it’s all a mistake, and until another Bill, or an Act, or something or other, is passed, that it’s a luxury far above persons of moderate fortune.”

“Break it he shall,” muttered Lady Lackington, as she continued her march.

“Of course, dearest, expense doesn’t signify to you,” sighed out Lady Grace.

“And do you mean to tell me, sir,” said Lady Lacking-ton, “that this is the notorious Captain Davis of whose doings we have been reading in every newspaper?”

“Yes, my Lady, he is the notorious” – he was going to say “Grog,” but corrected himself, and added – “Captain Davis, and has been for years back the intimate associate of the present Lord Lackington.”

Mr. Spicer was really enjoying himself on this occasion, nor was it often his fortune to give her Ladyship so much annoyance innocuously. His self-indulgence, however, carried him too far; for Lady Lackington, suddenly turning round, caught the expression of gratified malice on his face.

“Take care, sir, – take care,” she cried, with a menacing gesture of her finger. “There may chance to be a flaw somewhere in your narrative; and if there should, Mr. Spicer, – if there should, – I don’t think Lord Lackington would forget it, – I am sure I sha’n’t.” And with this threatening declaration her Ladyship swept out of the room in most haughty fashion.

“This is all what comes of being obliging,” exclaimed Spicer, unable to control himself any longer. “It was not I that threw Beecher into Grog’s company, – it was not I that made him marry Grog’s daughter. For all that I cared, he might go and be a monk at La Trappe, or marry as many wives as Brigham Young himself.”

“I hope you brought me Lady Gertrude Oscot’s book, Mr. Spicer, – ‘Rays through Oriel Windows’?” said Lady Grace, in one of her sweetest voices. “She is such a charming poetess.”

“I’d lay my life on’t, she’s just as wide-awake as her father,” muttered Spicer to himself.

“As wide-awake? Dear me, what can you mean?”

“That’s she’s fly – up to trap – oh, is n’t she!” went he on, still communing to himself.

“Lady Gertrude Oscot, sir?”

“No; but Grog Davis’s daughter, – the new Viscountess Lackington, – my Lady. I was thinking of her,” said Spicer, suddenly recalled to a sense of where he stood.

“I protest, sir, I cannot understand how two persons so totally dissimilar could occur to any mind at the same moment.” And with this Lady Grace gathered up the details of her embroidery, and courtesying a deep and formal adieu, left the room.

“Haven’t I gone and done it with both of them!” said Spicer, as he took out his cigar-case to choose a cigar; not that he had the slightest intention of lighting it in such a place, – no profanity of the kind ever occurred to him, – all he meant was the mock bravado to himself of an act that seemed to imply so much coolness, such collected courage. As to striking a light, he ‘d as soon have done it in a magazine.

And sticking his cigar in his mouth, he left the house; even in the street he forgot to light it, and strolled along, turning his weed between his lips, and revolving no very pleasant thoughts in his mind: “All the way to England, down to Wales, then the Isle of Wight, seeing no end of people, – lawyers, milliners, agents, proctors, jewellers, and dressmakers – eternal explainings and expostulatings, begging for this, deprecating that; asking this man to be active and the other to be patient; and then back again over the whole breadth of Europe in atrocious weather, sea-sick and land-sick, tossed, Jolted, and shaken, – and all for what, – ay, for what? To be snubbed, outraged, and insulted, treated like a lackey, – no, but ten times worse than any lackey would bear. And why should I bear it? That’s the question. Why should I? Does it signify a brass farthing to me whether the noble house of Lackington quarters its arms with the cogged dice and the marked king of the Davises? What do I care about their tarnished shield? It’s rather cool of my lady to turn upon me!” Well reasoned and true, Mr. Spicer; you have but forgotten one small item in the account, which is the consideration accorded to you by your own set, because you were seen to mingle with those so much above you.

We are told that when farthings are shaken up a sufficiently long time with guineas in a bag, they acquire a sort of yellow lustre, which, though by no means enabling them to pass for guineas, still makes them wonderfully bright farthings, and doubtless would render them very intolerant in the company of their equals. Such was, in a measure, what had happened to Mr. Spicer; and though at first sight the process would seem a gain, it is in reality the reverse, since, after this mock gilding, the coin – whether it be man or farthing – has lost its stamp of truthfulness, and will not “pass” for even the humble value it once represented.

“At all events,” thought Mr. Spicer, as he went along, “her Ladyship has not come off scot free for all her impertinence. I have given her materials for a very miserable morning, and irritated the very sorest spot in all her mind. It was just the very lesson she wanted; there’s nothing will do her so much good in the world.”

It is by no means an uncommon delusion for ill-natured people to fancy that they are great moral physicians, and that the bitters they drop into your wine-glass and my teacup are admirable tonics, which our constitutions require. The drug is not always an evil, but the doctor is detestable.

As Spicer drew nigh one of the great hotels in the Piazza di Spagna, he recognized Beecher’s travelling-carriage just being unloaded at the door. They had arrived at that moment, and the courier was bustling about and giving his orders like one whose master was likely to exact much and pay handsomely.

“The whole of the first floor, Freytag,” said the courier, authoritatively; “every room of it. My Lord cannot bear the disturbance of people lodged near him.”

“He used not to be so particular in the ‘Bench,’” muttered Spicer. “I remember his sleeping one of three in a room.”

“Ah, Mr. Spicer, my Lord said, if I should meet you, to mention he wishes to see you.”

“Do you think he’d receive me now, Kuffner?”

“Well, I ‘ll go and see.”

Mr. Kuffner came speedily back, and, beckoning to Spicer to follow, led the way to Lord Lackington’s room. “He is dressing for dinner, but will see you,” added he, as he introduced him.

The noble Viscount did not turn from the mirror at which he was elaborately arranging his neckcloth as Spicer entered, but satisfied himself with calling out, “Take a chair, Spicer; you ‘ll find one somewhere.”

The tone of the salutation was not more significant than the aspect of this room itself. All the articles of a costly dressing-case of silver-gilt were ranged on one table Essence-bottles, snuff-boxes, pipe-heads, with rings, jewelled buttons, and such-like knick-knackeries covered another; whatever fancy could suggest or superfluity compass of those thousand-and-one trinkets the effeminacy of our age has introduced into male costume, all abounded. Quantities, too, of the most expensive clothes were there, – rich uniforms, fur-lined pelisses, and gold-embroidered waistcoats. And as Mr. Spicer quickly made the tour of these with his eye, his gaze rested at last on my Lord himself, whose dressing-gown of silver brocade would have made a state robe for a Venetian Doge.

“Everything is in confusion just now; but if you ‘ll throw down some of those things, you ‘ll get a chair,” said Beecher, carelessly.

Spicer, however, preferred to take his place at the chimney, on which he leaned in an attitude that might take either the appearance of respect or familiarity, as the emergency required.

“When did you arrive?” asked my Lord.

“About two hours ago,” was the short reply.

Beecher turned to gaze at the man, who answered without more semblance of deference, and now, for the first time, their eyes met. It was, evidently, Spicer’s game, by a bold assertion of former intimacy, to place their future intercourse on its old footing; and just as equally decided was Beecher that no traditions of the past should rise up and obtrude themselves on the present, and so he threw into this quiet, steady stare an amount of haughty resolution, before which Spicer quailed and struck his flag.

“Perhaps I should say three hours, my Lord,” added Spicer, flurriedly; and Beecher turned away with a slight curl on his lip, as though to say, “The conflict was not a very long one.” Spicer marked the expression, and vowed vengeance for it.

“I thought you ‘d have got here two or three days before,” said Beecher, carelessly.

“Vetturino travelling is not like extra-post, my Lord,” said Spicer, fawningly. “You could cover your hundred miles between breakfast and a late dinner, while we thought ourselves wonderful to get over forty from sunrise to midnight.”

“That’s true,” yawned out Beecher; “vetturino work must be detestable.”

“No man could give you a better catalogue of its grievances than your father-in-law, my Lord; he has had a long experience of them. I remember, one winter, we started from Brussels in the deep snow, – there was Baring, Hope, Fisk, Grog, and myself.”

“I don’t care to hear your adventures; and it would be just as agreeable to me were you to call my relative Captain Davis, as to speak of him by a vulgar nickname.”

“Faith, my Lord, I did n’t mean it. It slipped out quite unconsciously, Just as it did awhile ago, – far more awkwardly, by the bye, – when I was talking to Lady Lacking-ton. The dowager, I mean.”

“And what occasion, sir, had you to refer to Captain Davis in her company?” asked Beecher, fiercely.

“She asked me plumply, my Lord, what was her Ladyship’s name, what family she came of, who her connections were, and I told her that I never heard of any of them, except her father, popularly known as Grog Davis, – a man that every one on the turf was acquainted with.”

“You are a malicious scoundrel, Spicer,” said Beecher, whose pale cheek now shook and trembled with passion.

“Well, I don’t think so, my Lord,” said the other, quietly. “It is not, certainly, the character the world gives me. And as to what passed between her Ladyship and myself this afternoon, I did my very best to escape difficulties. I told her that the Brighton affair was almost forgotten now, – it was fully eighteen years since it happened; that as to Charles Herbert’s death, there were two stories, – some averring that poor Charley had actually struck Grog; and then, though the York trial was a public scandal – Well, my Lord, don’t look so angrily at me; it was by no fault of mine these transactions became notorious.”

“And what have you been all your whole life to this Davis but his cad and errand-boy, – a fellow he has sent with a bad horse, – for he would not have trusted you with a good one, – to run for a hack stakes in an obscure county, a lounger about stables and the steps of club-houses, picking up scraps of news from the jocks and selling them to the gentlemen? Does it become you to turn out Kit Davis and run full cry after him?”

It was but rarely that Beecher’s indignation could warm up to the temperature of downright passion; but when it did so, it gave the man a sort of power that few would have recognized in his weak and yielding nature; at all events, Spicer was not the man to stem such a torrent, and so he stared at him with mingled terror and anger.

“I tell you, Mr. Spicer,” added Beecher, more passionately still, “if you hadn’t known Davis was a thousand miles away, you ‘d never have trusted yourself to speak of him in this fashion; but, for your comfort I say it, he ‘ll be here in a day or two.”

“I never said a word of him you ‘d not find in the newspapers,” said Spicer, doggedly.

“When you come to settle accounts together, it will surprise me very much if there won’t be matter for another paragraph in them,” said Beecher, with a sneer.

Spicer winced; he tried to arrange his neckcloth, and then to button his glove, but all his efforts could not conceal a tremor that shook him from head to foot. Now, when Beecher got his “man down,” he never thought he could trample enough upon him; and as he walked the room in hasty strides to and fro, he jeeringly pictured to Spicer the pleasures of his next meeting with Davis: not, indeed, but that all his eloquence was superfluous; it needed no descriptive powers to convince any who enjoyed Grog’s friendship what his enmity might imply.

“I know him as well as you do, my Lord,” said Spicer, as his patience at last gave way; “and I know, besides, there’s more than half the Continent where he can’t set a foot.”

“Perhaps you mentioned that, also, to my sister-in-law,” said Beecher, derisively.

“No, I said nothing about it!” muttered the other.

There was now a pause; each only waited for any, the slightest show of concession to make advances to the other; for although without the slightest particle of good feeling on either side, they well knew the force of the adage that enjoins friendship among knaves. My Lord thoroughly appreciated the utility of a Spicer; well did Spicer understand all the value of a peer’s acquaintance.

Each ruminated long over the situation; and at last Beecher said, “Did poor Lackington leave you anything in his will?”

“A racing snaffle and two whips, my Lord.”

“Poor fellow, he never forgot any one, I ‘m sure,” sighed Beecher.

“He had a wonderful memory, indeed, my Lord; for I had borrowed twenty pounds of him at the Canterbury races some ten years ago, and he said to me, just before he took to bed, ‘Never mind the trifle that’s between us, Spicer; I shall not take it.’”

“Good-hearted, generous fellow!” muttered Beecher.

Spicer’s mouth twitched a little, but he did not speak.

“There never was a better brother, never!” said Beecher, far more intent upon the display of his own affectionate sorrow than in commemorating fraternal virtues. “We never had a word of disagreement in our lives. Poor Lackington! he used to think he was doing the best by me by keeping me so tight, and always threatening to cut me down still lower; he meant it for the best, but you know I could n’t live upon it, the thing was impossible. If I had n’t been one of the ‘wide-awakes,’ I ‘d have gone to the wall at once; and let me tell you, Master Spicer, it wasn’t every fellow would have kept his head over water where I was swimming.”

“That I ‘m convinced of,” said Spicer, gravely.

“Well, it’s a long lane has no turning, Spicer,” said he, oomplacently looking at himself in the glass. “Even a runaway pulls up somewhere; not but I’m sorry from the bottom of my heart for poor Lack, but it will be our own turn one of these days; that’s a match there’s no paying forfeit on, eh, Spicer? it must come off whether we will or not!”

“So it must, my Lord,” sighed out Spicer, sympathetically.

“Ay, by Jove! whether a man leaves twelve thousand a year or only two hundred behind him,” sighed out Beecher, who could not help making the application to himself.

Again did Spicer sigh, and so profoundly, it might have represented grief for the whole peerage.

“I say, old fellow,” said Beecher, clapping him familiarly on the shoulder, “I wish you had n’t told Georgy all that stuff about Davis; these things do no good.”

“I assure you solemnly, my Lord, I said it with the best motives; her Ladyship would certainly learn the whole history somewhere, and so I thought I ‘d just sketch the thing off in a light, easy way.”

“Come, come, Spicer, – no gammon, my lad; you never tried any of your light, easy ways with my sister-in-law. At all events, it’s done, and can’t be undone now,” sighed he, drearily. Then, after a moment, he added, “How did she take the news?”

“Well, at first, my Lord, she wouldn’t believe it, but went on, ‘She’s not his wife, sir; I tell you they’re not married,’ and so on.”

“Well, – and then?”

“Then, my Lord, I assured her that there could be no doubt of the matter; that your Lordship had done me the honor of presenting me – ”

“Which I never did, Master Spicer,” laughed in Beecher, – “you know well enough that I never did; but a fib won’t choke you, old fellow.”

“At all events, I made it clear that you were really married, and to the daughter of a man that would send you home on a shutter if you threw any doubt on it.”

“Wouldn’t he, by Jupiter!” exclaimed Beecher, with all the sincerity of a great fact “Well, after that, how did she take on?”