“She did n’t say a word, but rocked from side to side, this way, – like one going to faint; and, indeed, her color all went, and she was pale as a corpse; and then she took long breaths, and muttered below her voice, ‘This is worst of all!’ After that she rallied, and certainly gave it to your Lordship in round style, but always winding it up with, ‘Break it he shall, and must, if it was the Archbishop of Canterbury married them.’”
“Very fine talking, Master Spicer, but matrimony is a match where you can’t scratch and pay forfeits. I wish you could,” muttered he to himself. “I wish you had the presence of mind and the pluck to have told her that it was my affair, and not hers. As to the honor of the Lackingtons and all that lot, she is n’t a Lackington any more than you are, – she ‘s a De Tracey; good blood, no better, but she isn’t one of us, and you ought to have told her so.”
“I own I ‘d not have had courage for that!” said Spicer, candidly.
“That’s what I’d have said in your place, Spicer. The present Viscount Lackington is responsible to himself, and not to the late Lord’s widow; and, what’s more, he is no flat, without knowledge of men and the world, but a fellow with both eyes open, and who has gone through as smart a course of education as any man in the ring. Take up the Racing Calendar, and show me any one, since Huckaback beat Crim. Con., that ever got it so ‘hot’ as I have. No, no, my Lady, it won’t do, preaching to me about ‘life.’ If I don’t know a thing or two, who does? If you ‘d have had your wits about you, Spicer, that’s what you ‘d have told her.”
“I’m not so ready at a pinch as you are, my Lord,” muttered Spicer, who affected sullenness.
“Few are, Master Spicer, – very few are, I can tell you;” and in the pleasure of commending and complimenting himself and his own great gifts, Beecher speedily ceased to remember. What so lately had annoyed him. “Dine here at seven, Spicer,” said he, at last, “and I’ll present you to my Lady. She ‘ll be amused with you.” Though the last words were uttered in a way that made their exact significance somewhat doubtful, Mr. Spicer never sought to canvass them; he accepted the invitation in good part, for he was one of those men who, though they occasionally “quarrel with their bread-and-butter,” are wise enough never to fall out with their truffles.
CHAPTER XXIX. THE TWO VISCOUNTESSES
When the new Viscount had dismissed Mr. Spicer, he set out to visit his sister-in-law. Any one who has been patient enough to follow the stages of this history will readily imagine that he did not address himself to the task before him with remarkable satisfaction. If it had been a matter to be bought off by money, he would readily have paid down a good round sum as forfeit. It was no use fortifying himself, as he tried to do, by all the commonplaces he kept repeating to his own heart, saying, “She ain’t my guardian. I’m no ward to be responsible to her. She can exercise no control over me or my property. She ‘s the dowager, and no more.” All the traditions of his younger brother life rose up in rebellion against these doctrines, and he could think of her as nothing but the haughty Viscountess, who had so often pronounced the heaviest censures upon his associates and his mode of living. A favorite theory of his was it, also, in olden time, to imagine that, but for Georgina, Lackington would have done this, that, and t’other for him; that she it was who thwarted all his brother’s generous impulses, and brought him to look with stern disfavor on his life of debt and dissipation. These memories rushed now fully to his mind, and, assuredly, added no sentiment of pleasure to his expectation of the meeting. More than once did he come to a halt, and deliberate whether, seeing how unpleasant such an interview must prove, he need incur the pain of it. “I could write to her, or I could send Lizzy to say that I was confined to bed, and ill. Would n’t that be a flare up! By Jove! if I could only see the match as it came off between them, I ‘d do that. Not but I know Georgy would win; she ‘d come out so strong as ‘Grande Dame;’ the half-bred ‘un would have no chance. Still, there would be a race, and a close one, for Lizzy has her own turn of speed; and if she had the breeding – ” And as he got thus far in his ruminations, he had reached the Palazzo Gondi, where his sister-in-law lived. With a sort of sullen courage he rang the bell, and was shown in; her Ladyship was dressing, but would be down in a moment.
Beecher had now some minutes alone, and he passed them scrutinizing the room and its appurtenances. All was commoner and more homely than he looked for. Not many indications of comfort; scarcely any of luxury. What might this mean? Was her settlement so small as to exact this economy, or was it a voluntary saving? If so, it was the very reverse of all her former tastes, for she was essentially one who cultivated splendor and expense. This problem was still puzzling him, when the door opened, and she entered. He advanced rapidly to meet her, and saluted her on each cheek. There was a strange affectation of cordiality on each side. Prize-fighters shake hands ere they double them up into catapults for each other’s heads; but the embrace here was rather more like the kiss the victim on the scaffold bestows upon his executioner.
Seated side by side on the sofa, for a few minutes neither uttered a word; at last she said, in a calm, low voice, “We had hoped to see you before this, —he looked anxiously for your coming.”
Beecher heaved a heavy sigh; in that unhappy delay was comprised all the story of his calamities. And how to begin – how to open the narrative?
“I wrote as many as five letters,” resumed she; “some addressed to Fordyce’s, others to the care of Mr. Davenport Dunn.”
“Not one of them ever reached me.”
“Very strange, indeed,” said she, with the smile of faintest incredulity; “letters so seldom miscarry nowadays. Stranger, still, that none of your other correspondents should have apprised you of your brother’s state; there was ample time to have done it.”
“I know nothing of it I vow to Heaven I had not the slightest suspicion of it!”
“Telegraphs, too, are active agencies in these days, and I wrote to Fordyce to use every exertion to acquaint you.”
“I can only repeat what I have said already, that I was utterly ignorant of everything till I arrived at Baden; there I accidentally met Twining – ”
“Spicer told me about it,” said she abruptly, as though it was not necessary to discuss any point conceded on both sides. “Your coming,” continued she, “was all the more eagerly looked for because it was necessary you should be, so far as possible, prepared for the suit we are threatened with; actions at law for ejectments on title are already announced, and great – the very greatest – inconvenience has resulted for want of formal instructions on your part.”
“Is the thing really serious, Georgy?” asked he, with an unfeigned anxiety of manner.
“If you only will take the trouble of reading Fordyce’s two last letters, – they are very long, I confess, and somewhat difficult to understand, – you will at least see that his opinion is the reverse of favorable. In fact, he thinks the English estates are gone.”
“Oh, Georgy dearest! but you don’t believe that?”
“The Irish barony and certain lands in Cork,” resumed she, calmly, “are not included in the demand they profess to make; nor, of course, have they any claim as to the estates purchased by Lord Lackington through Mr. Dunn.”
“But the title?”
“The Viscounty goes with the English property.”
“Good heavens! a title we have held undisturbed, unquestioned, since Edward the Third’s time. I cannot bring myself to conceive it!”
“Great reverses of condition can be borne with dignity when they are not of our own incurring,” said she, with a stern and pointed significance.
“I’m afraid I cannot boast of possessing all your philosophy,” said he, touchily.
“So much the worse. You would need it, and even more, too, if all that I have heard be true.”
There was no mistaking this inference, and Beecher only hesitated whether he should accept battle at once, or wait for another broadside.
“Not but,” broke she in, “if you could assure me that the rumors were untrue, – that you have been calumniated, and I misinformed, – if, I say, you were enabled to do this, the tidings would help greatly to sustain me through this season of trouble.”
“You must speak more plainly, Georgina, if I am to understand you.”
“Are you married, Annesley?” said she, abruptly.
“Yes. I hope I am of an age to enter the holy estate without leave from my relations.”
“It is true, then?” said she, with a deep, full voice.
“Perfectly true. And then?” There was an open defiance in this tone of questioning which seemed actually to sting her.
“And then?” repeated she, after him, – “‘and then?’ You are right to say, ‘and then?’ – if that means ‘What next?’”
Beecher turned pale and red, as fear and passion swayed him alternately; but he never spoke.
“Is it really a marriage?” broke she in again, “or is it some mockery enacted by a degraded priest, and through the collusion of some scheming sharpers. Oh, Annesley! tell me frankly how you have been tricked into this ignominious contract!” And her accents, as she spoke this, assumed a tone of imploring affection that actually moved him. To this a sense of offended dignity quickly succeeded with him, and he said, —
“I cannot permit you to continue in this strain; I am rightfully, legally married, and the lady who shares my lot is as much the Viscountess Lackington as you are.”
She covered her face with both her hands, and sat thus for several minutes.
“Perhaps it is all for the best,” muttered she, in a low but audible accent, – “perhaps it is all for the best. Loss of rank, station, and name will fall the more lightly on those who so little understood how to maintain them with dignity.”
“And if I am threatened with the loss of my title and fortune,” cried Beecher, passionately, “is it exactly the time to heap these insults on me?”
Partly from the firmness of his manner as he uttered these words, partly that they were not devoid of truthful meaning, she accepted the reproof almost submissively.
“You must go over to England at once, Beecher,” said she, calmly. “You must place yourself immediately in Fordyce’s hands, and secure the best advice the Bar affords. I would go with you myself, but that – ” The deep flush that spread over Beecher’s face as she paused here made the moment one of intense pain to each. “No matter,” resumed she; “there is only one danger I would warn you against. You dropped the word ‘compromise;’ now, Annesley, let nothing induce you to descend to this. Such a suggestion could only have come from those whose habits of life accept expediency in lieu of principle. Maintain your rights proudly and defiantly so long as they pertain to you; if law should at last declare that we are only usurpers – ” She tried to finish, but the words seemed as if they would choke her, and after an effort almost convulsive she burst into tears. Scarcely less moved, Beecher covered his face with his hands and turned away.
“I will do whatever you advise me, Georgina,” said he at length, as he seated himself on the sofa at her side. “If you say I ought to go to England, I ‘ll set off at once.”
“Yes; you must be in London; you must be where you can have daily, hourly access to your lawyers; but you must also determine that this contest shall be decided by law, and law alone. I cannot, will not, believe that your rights are invalid. I feel assured that the House of Lords will maintain the cause of an acknowledged member of their order against the claims of an obscure pretender. This sympathy, however, will only be with you so long as you are true to yourself. Let the word ‘compromise’ be but uttered, and the generous sentiment will be withdrawn; therefore, Annesley,” – here she dropped her voice, and spoke more impressively, – “therefore, I should say, go over to England alone; be free to exercise untrammelled your own calm judgment, – keep your residence a secret from all save your law advisers, – see none else.”
“You mean, then, that I should go without my wife?”
“Yes!” said she, coldly; “if she accompany you, her friends, her father, with whom she will of course correspond, will know of your whereabouts, and flock round you with their unsafe counsels; this is most to be avoided.”
“But how is it to be managed, Georgina; she cannot surely stop here, at an hotel too, while I am away in England?”
“I can see nothing against such an arrangement; not having had the pleasure of seeing and knowing Lady Lack-ington, I am unable to guess any valid reasons against this plan. Is she young?”
“Not twenty.”
“Handsome, of course?” said she, with a slight but supercilious curl of the lip.
“Very handsome, – beautiful,” answered he, but in a voice that denoted no rapture.
Lady Lackington mused for a moment or two; it seemed as if she were discussing within her own mind a problem, stating and answering objections as they arose, for she muttered such broken words as, “Dangerous, of course – in Rome especially – but impossible for her to go to England – all her relations – anything better than that – must make the best of it;” then turning to Beecher with an air of one whose determination was taken, she said: “She must stay with me till you return.” Before he had rallied from his surprise at this resolution, she added, “Come over to tea this evening, and let me see her.”
Beecher pressed her hand cordially, as though to imply a gratitude above words; but in reality he turned away to conceal all the emotions this new position of difficulty occasioned, merely calling out, “We ‘ll come very early,” as he departed.
Lizzy heard that Spicer was to be their guest at dinner, and they themselves to take tea with the Viscountess. Lackington, with equal indifference. She had scarcely seen Mr. Spicer, and was not over-pleased with her brief impression; of her Ladyship she had only heard, but even that much had not inspired her to anticipate a pleasant meeting.
There was, however, in her husband’s manner, a sort of fidgety anxiety that showed he attached to the coming interview an amount of importance she could by no means understand. He continued to throw out such hints as to “Georgina’s notions” on this or that point; and, while affecting a half ridicule, really showed how seriously he regarded them. Even to Lizzy’s dress his cares extended; and he told her to be mindful that nothing in her costume should attract special criticism or remark.
Beecher was far more uneasy than even his looks betrayed. He dreaded to dwell upon the haughty demeanor his sister-in-law would so certainly assume, and the sort of inspection to which his wife was to be subjected. In his heart he wished that Lizzy had been less beautiful, less attractive, or, as he ungraciously styled it to himself, “less showy.” He well knew how damaging would all her brilliant qualities become to the eyes of one herself a belle and a beauty in times past. He discussed over and over with himself whether it might not be better to acquaint Lizzy of the kind of dress parade that awaited her, or leave wholly to chance the events of the interview. For once in his life he took a wise resolve, and said nothing on the matter.
The dinner passed off somewhat heavily, – Beecher silent and preoccupied, Lizzy thoughtful and indisposed to converse, and Spicer vexed, in spite of all his resolutions to the contrary, by what he had insultingly called to himself “the airs of Grog Davis’s daughter;” and yet nothing could be less just than to stigmatize by such a phrase a manner quiet, calm, and unpretentious, and totally removed from all affectation.
For a while Beecher bestowed a watchful attention on Spicer, uneasy lest by some adroit piece of malice he might either irritate Lizzy or lead her covertly into some imprudent disclosures; but he soon saw that it would have required a hardier spirit than Mr. Spicer’s to have adventured on impertinence in that quarter, and, lighting his cigar, he sat moodily down by the window to think on the future.
Left with the field thus open, Spicer canvassed within himself how best to profit by the opportunity. Should he declare himself an old friend of her father’s, – his associate and his colleague? Should he dexterously intimate that, knowing all about her family and antecedents, she could not do better than secure his friendship? Should he not also slyly suggest that, married to a man like Beecher, the counsels of one prudent and wily as himself would prove invaluable? “Now or never,” thought he, as he surveyed her pale features, and interpreted their expression as implying timidity and fear.
“Your first visit to Rome, I believe?” said he, as he searched for a cigar amidst the heap on the table.
A cold assent followed.
“Wonderful place; not merely for its old monuments and ruins, though they are curious too, but its strange society, – all nations and all ranks of each mixed and mingled together: great swells and snobs, grand ladies, princes, cardinals and ambassadors, thrown together with artistes, gamblers, and fast ones of either sex, – a regular fair of fine company, with, plenty of amusement and lots of adventure.”
“Indeed!” said she, languidly.
“Just the place your father would like,” said he, dropping his voice to a half-whisper.
“In what way, pray?” asked she, quietly.
“Why, in the way of trade, of course,” said he, laughing. “For the fine-lady part of the matter he ‘d not care for it, – that never was his line of country, – but for the young swells that thought themselves sporting characters, for the soft young gents that fancied they could play, Grog was always ready. I ask your pardon for the familiar nickname, but we ‘ve known each other about thirty years. He always called me Ginger. Haven’t you heard him speak of old Ginger?”
“Never, sir.”
“Strange that; but perhaps he did not speak of his pals to you?”
“No, never.”
“That was so like him. I never saw his equal to hunt over two different kinds of country. He could get on the top of a bus and go down to St. John’s Wood, or to Putney, after a whole night at Crawley’s, and with an old shooting-jacket and Jim-crow on him, and a garden-rake in his hand, you ‘d never suspect he was the fellow who had cleared out the company and carried off every shilling at billiards and blind-hookey. Poor old Kit, how fond I am of him!”
A stare, whose meaning Spicer could not fathom, was the only reply to the speech.
“And he was so fond of me! I was the only one of them all he could trust. He liked Beech – I mean his Lordship there; he was always attached to him, but whenever it was really a touch-and-go thing, a nice operation, then he’d say, ‘Where’s Ginger? give me Ginger!’ The adventures we’ve had together would make a book; and do you know that more than once I thought of writing them, or getting a fellow to write them, for it’s all the same. I’d have called it ‘Grog and Ginger.’ Wouldn’t that take?”
She made no reply; her face was, perhaps, a thought paler, but unchanged in expression.
“And then the scenes we’ve gone through! – dangerous enough some of them; he rather liked that, and I own it never was my taste.”
“I am surprised to hear you say so, sir,” said she, in a low but very distinct voice; “I’d have imagined exactly the reverse.”
“Indeed! and may I make so bold as to ask why?”
“Simply, sir, that a gentleman so worldly-wise as yourself must always be supposed to calculate eventualities, and not incur, willingly at least, those he has no mind for. To be plain, sir, I ‘m at a loss to understand how one not fond of peril should hazard the chance of being thrown out of a window, – don’t start, I ‘m only a woman, and cannot do it, nor, though I have rung for the servant, am I going to order him. For this time it shall be the door.” And, rising proudly, she walked toward the window; but ere she reached it, Spicer was gone.
“What’s become of Spicer, Lizzy?” said Beecher, indolently, as his eyes traversed the room in search of him.
“He has taken his leave,” said she, in a voice as careless.
“He’s tiresome, I think,” yawned he; “at least, I find him so.”
She made no reply, but sat down to compose her thoughts, somewhat ruffled by the late scene.
“Ain’t it time to order the carriage? I told Georgy we’d come early,” added he, after a pause.
“I almost think I’ll not go to-night,” said she, in a low voice.
“Not go! You don’t mean that when my sister-in-law sends you a message to come and see her that you ‘ll refuse!” cried he, in a mixture of anger and astonishment.
“I’m afraid I could be guilty of so great an enormity,” said she, smiling superciliously.
“It’s exactly the word for it, whatever you may think,” said he, doggedly. “All I can say is, that you don’t know Georgina, or you’d never have dreamt of it.”
“In that case it is better I should know her; so I’ll get my bonnet and shawl at once.”
She was back in the room in a moment, and they set out for the Palazzo Gondi.
What would not Beecher have given, as they drove along, for courage to counsel and advise her, – to admonish as to this, and caution as to that? And yet he did not dare to utter a word, and she was as silent.
It would not be very easy to say exactly what sort of person Lady Georgina expected in her sister-in-law; indeed, she had pictured her in so many shapes to herself that there was not an incongruity omitted in the composition, and she fancied her bold, daring, timid, awkward, impertinent, and shy alternately, and, in this conflict of anticipation, it was that Lizzy entered. So utterly overcome was Lady Georgina by astonishment, that she actually advanced to meet her in some confusion, and then, taking her hand, led her to a seat on the sofa beside her.
While the ordinary interchange of commonplaces went on, – and nothing could be more ordinary or commonplace than the words of their greeting, – each calmly surveyed the other. What thoughts passed in their minds, what inferences were drawn, and what conclusions formed in this moment, it is not for me to guess. To women alone pertains that marvellous freemasonry that scans character at a glance, and investigates the sincerity of a disposition and the value of a lace flounce with the same practised facility. If Lady Georgina was astonished by the striking beauty of her sister-in-law, she was amazed still more by her manner and her tone. Where could she have learned that graceful repose, – that simplicity, which is the very highest art? Where and how had she caught up that gentle quietude which breathes like a balmy odor over the well-bred world? How had she acquired that subtlety by which wit is made to sparkle and never to startle; and what training had told her how to weave through all she said the flattery of a wish to please?
Woman of the world as she was, Lady Lackington had seen no such marvel as this. It was no detraction from its merit that it might be all acting, for it was still “high art.” Not a fault could she detect in look, gesture, or tone, and yet all seemed as easy and unstudied as possible. Her Ladyship knew well that the practice of society confers all these advantages; but here was one who had never mixed with the world, who, by her own confession, “knew no one,” and yet was a mistress of every art that rules society.
Lady Georgina had yet to learn that there are instincts stronger than all experience, and that, in the common intercourse of life, Tact is Genius.
Though Lizzy was far more deeply versed in every theme on which it was her Ladyship’s pleasure to talk than herself, – though she knew more of painting, of music, and of literature, than the Viscountess, she still seemed like one gleaning impressions as they conversed, and at each moment acquiring nearer and clearer views; and yet even this flattery was so nicely modulated that it escaped detection.
There was a mystery in the case her Ladyship determined to fathom. “No woman of her class,” as she phrased it, could have been thus trained without some specific object. The stage had latterly been used as a sort of show mart where young girls display their attractive graces, at times with immense success. Could this have been the goal for which she had been destined? She adroitly turned the conversation to that topic, but Lizzy’s answers soon negatived the suspicion. Governesses, too, were all-accomplished in these days; but here there was less of acquirement exhibited than of all the little arts and devices of society.
“Is my trial nearly over?” whispered Lizzy in Beecher’s ear as he passed beside her chair. “I’d rather hear a verdict of Guilty at once than to submit to further examining.”
A look of caution, most imploringly given, was all his reply.
Though Lady Lackington had neither heard question nor answer, her quick glance had penetrated something like a meaning in them, and her lip curled impatiently as she said to Beecher, “Have you spoke to Lady Lackington of our plans for her, – I mean during your absence?”
He muttered a sullen “No, not yet,” and turned away.
“It was an arrangement that will, I hope, meet your approval,” said Lady Georgina, half coldly, “since Beecher must go over to England for some weeks; and as you could not with either comfort or propriety remain alone in your hotel, our plan was that you should come here.”
Lizzy merely turned her eyes on Beecher, but there was that in their expression that plainly said, “Is this your resolve?” He only moved away, and did not speak.
“Not but if any of your own family,” continued Lady Lackington, “could come out here, and that you might prefer their company, – that would be an arrangement equally satisfactory. Is such an event likely?”
“Nothing less so, my Lady,” said Lizzy. “My father has affairs of urgency to treat at this moment.”
“Oh, I did not exactly allude to your father, – you might have sisters.”
“I have none.”
“An aunt, perhaps?”
“I never heard of one.”
“Lizzy, you are aware, Georgina,” broke in Beecher, whose voice trembled at every word, “was brought up abroad, – she never saw any of her family.”
“How strange! I might even say, how unfortunate!” sighed her Ladyship, superciliously.
“Stranger, and more unfortunate still, your Ladyship would perhaps say, if I were to tell you that I never so much as heard of them.”
“I am not certainly prepared to say that the circumstance is one to be boastful of,” said Lady Lackington, who resented the look of haughty defiance of the other.
“I assure your Ladyship that you are mistaken in attributing to me such a sentiment. I have nothing of which to be boastful.”
“Your present position, Lady Lackington, might inspire a very natural degree of pride.”
“It has not done so yet, my Lady. My experience of the elevated class to which I have been raised has been too brief to impress me; a wider knowledge will probably supply this void.”
“And yet,” said Lady Georgina, sarcastically, “it is something, – the change from Miss Davis to the Viscountess Lackington.”
“When that change becomes more real, more actual, my Lady,” said Lizzy, boldly, “it will, assuredly, bear its fruits; when, in being reminded of what I was and whence I came, I can only detect the envious malevolence that would taunt me with what is no fault of mine, but a mere accident of fortune, – when I hear these things with calm composure, and in my rank as a peeress feel the equal of those who would disparage me, – then, indeed, I may be proud.”
“Such a day may never come,” said Lady Georgina, coldly.
“Very possibly, my Lady. It has cost me no effort to win this station you seem to prize so highly; it will not exact one to forego all its great advantages.”
“What a young lady to be so old a philosopher! I ‘m sure Lord Lackington never so much as suspected the wisdom he acquired in his wife. It may, however, be a family trait.”
“My father was so far wise, my Lady, that he warned me of the reception that awaited me in my new station; but, in his ignorance of that great world, he gave me, rather, to believe that I should meet insinuated slights and covert impertinences than open insults. Perhaps I owe it to my vulgar origin that I really like the last the best; at least, they show me that my enemies are not formidable.”
“Your remarks have convinced me that it would be quite superfluous in me to offer my protection to a lady so conversant with life and the world.”
“They will, at least, serve to show your Ladyship that I would not have accepted the protection.”
“But, Lizzy dearest, you don’t know what you are saying. Lady Georgina can establish your position in society as none other can.”
“I mean to do that without aid.”
“Just as her father, Mr. Grog, would force his way into the stand-house,” whispered Lady Lackington, but still loud enough for Lizzy to overhear.
“Not exactly as your Ladyship would illustrate it,” said Lizzy, smiling; “but, in seeing the amount of those gifts which have won the suffrages of society, I own that I am not discouraged. I am told,” said she, with a great air of artlessness, “that no one is more popular than your Ladyship.”
Lady Lackington arose, and stared at her with a look of open insolence; and then turning, whispered something in Beecher’s ear.
“After all,” muttered he, “she did not begin it. Get your shawl, Lizzy,” added he, aloud; “my sister keeps early hours, and we must not break in on them.”
Lady Lackington and Lizzy courtesied to each other like ladies of high comedy; it seemed, indeed, a sort of rivalry whose reverence should be most formal and most deferential.
“Have n’t you gone and done it!” cried Beecher, as they gained the street. “Georgina will never forget this so long as she lives.”
“And if she did I ‘d take care to refresh her memory,” said Lizzy, laughing; and the mellow sounds rang out as if from a heart that never knew a care.
“I shall require to set out for England to-morrow,” said Beecher, moodily, so soon as they had reached the hotel. The speech was uttered to induce a rejoinder, but she made none.