CHAPTER XX. AN EVENING WITH GROG DAVIS.
It was late at night, and Grog Davis sat alone by a solitary candle in his dreary room. The fire had long burned out, and great pools of wet, driven by the beating rain through the rickety sashes, soaked the ragged carpet that covered the floor, while frequent gusts of storm scattered the slates, and shook the foundations of the frail building.
To all seeming, he paid little attention to the poor and comfortless features of the spot. A short square bottle of Hollands, and a paper of coarse cigars beside him, seemed to offer sufficient defence against such cares, while he gave up his mind to some intricate problem which he was working out with a pack of cards. He dealt, and shuffled, and dealt again, with marvellous rapidity. There was that in each motion of the wrist, in every movement of the finger, that bespoke practised manipulation, and a glance quick as lightning on the board was enough to show him how the game fared.
“Passed twelve times,” muttered he to himself; then added aloud, “Make your game, gentlemen, make your game. The game is made. Red, thirty-two. Now for it, Grog,—man or a mouse, my boy. Mouse it is! by——,” cried he, with an infamous oath. “Red wins! Confound the cards!” cried he, dashing them on the floor. “Two minutes ago I had enough to live on the rest of my days. I appeal to any man in the room,” said he, with a look of peculiar defiance around him, “if he ever saw such ill luck! There's not another fellow breathing ever got it like me!” And as he spoke, he arose and walked up and down the chamber, frowning savagely, and turning glances of insolent meaning on every side of him. At last, approaching the table, he filled out a glass of gin and drank it off; and then, stooping down, he gathered up the cards and reseated himself. “Take you fifty on the first ace,” cried he, addressing an imaginary bettor, while he began to deal out the cards in two separate heaps. “Won!” exclaimed he, delightedly. “Go you double or quits, sir?—Any gentleman with another fifty?—A pony if you like, sir?—Done! Won again, by jingo! This is the only game, after all; decided in a second. I make the bank, gentlemen, two hundred in the bank. Why, where are the bettors this evening? This is only punting, gentlemen. Any one say five hundred—four—three—one hundred—for the first knave?” And the cards fell from his hands with wondrous rapidity. “Now, if no one is inclined to play, let 's have a broiled bone,” said he, rising, and bowing courteously around him.
“Second the motion!” cried a cheery voice, as the door opened and Annesley Beecher entered. “Why, Grog, my hearty, I thought you had a regular flock of pigeons here. I heard you talking as I came up the stairs, and fancied you were doing a smart stroke of work.”
“What robbery have you been at with that white choker and that gimcrack waistcoat?” said Davis, sulkily.
“Dining with Dunn, and a capital dinner he gave me. I 'm puzzled to say whether I like his wine or his cookery best.”
“Were there many there?”
“None but ourselves.”
“Lord! how he must have worked you!” cried Davis, with an insolent grin.
“Ain't such a flat as you think me, Master Grog. Solomon was a wise man, and Samson a strong one, and A. B. can hold his own with most 'in the ruck.'”
A most contemptuous look was the only answer Davis condescended to this speech. At last, after he had lighted a fresh cigar, and puffed it into full work, he said, “Well, what was it he had to say to you?”
“Oh, we talked away of everything; and, by Jupiter! he knows a little of everything. Such a memory, too; remembers every fellow that was in power the last fifty years, and can tell you how he was 'squared,' for it 's all on the 'cross' with them, Grog, just as in the ring. Every fellow rides to order, and half the running one sees is no race! Any hot water to be had?”
“No, there's cold in that jug yonder. Well, go on with Dunn.”
“He is very agreeable, I must say; for, besides having met everybody, he knows all their secret history,—how this one got out of his scrape, and why that went into the hole. You see in a moment how much he must be trusted, and that he can make his book on life as safe as the Bank of England. Fearfully strong that gin is!”
“No, it ain't,” said Grog, rudely; “it's not the velvety tipple Dunn gave you, but it's good British gin, that's what it is.”
“You would n't believe, too, how much he knows about women! He's up to everything that's going on in town. Very strange that, for a fellow like him! Don't you think so?”
Davis made no answer, but puffed away slowly. “And after women, what came next?”
“He talked next—let me see—about books. How he likes Becky Sharp,—how he enjoys her! He says that character will do the same service as the published discovery of some popular fraud; and that the whole race of Beckys now are detected swindlers,—nothing less.”
“And what if they are? Is that going to prevent their cheating? Hasn't the world always its crop of flats coming out in succession like green peas? What did he turn to after that?”
“Then we had a little about the turf.”
“He don't know anything about the turf!” said Grog, with intense contempt.
“I 'm not so sure of that,” said Beecher, cautiously.
“Did he speak of me at all?” said Grog, with a peculiar grin.
“No; only to ask if you were the same Captain Davis that was mentioned in that affair at Brighton.”
“And what did you say?”
“Said! Not knowing, could n't tell, Master Grog. Knew you were a great friend of my brother Lackington's, and always hand and glove with Blanchard and the swells.”
“And how did he take that?”
“Said something about two of the same name, and changed the subject.”
Davis drew near the table, and taking up the cards began to shuffle them slowly, like one seeking some excuse for a moment of uninterrupted reflection. “I've found out the way that Yankee fellow does the king,” said he, at last. “It's not the common bridge that everybody knows. It's a Mississippi touch, and a very neat one. Cut them now wherever you like.”
Beecher cut the cards with all due care, and leaned eagerly over the table.
“King of diamonds!” cried Grog, slapping the card on the board.
“Do it again,” said Beecher, admiringly; and once more Davis performed the dexterous feat.
“It's a nick!” cried Beecher, examining the edge of the card minutely.
“It ain't no such thing!” said Davis, angrily. “I'd give you ten years to find it out, and twenty to do it, and-you 'd fail in both.”
“Let's see the dodge, Grog,” said Beecher, half-coaxingly.
“You don't see my hand till you put yours on the table,” said Davis, fiercely. Then crossing his arms before him, and fixing his red fiery eyes on Beecher's face, he went on, “What do you mean by this fencing—just tell me what you mean by it?”
“I don't understand you,” said Beecher, whose features were now of ashy paleness.
“Then you shall understand me!” cried Davis, with an oath. “Do you want me to believe that Dunn had you to dine with him all alone, just to talk about politics, of which you know nothing, or books, of which you know less; that he 'd give you four precious hours of a Sunday evening to bear your opinions about men or women or things in general? Do you ask me to swallow that, sir?”
“I ask you to swallow nothing,” stammered out Beecher, in whose heart pride and fear were struggling for the mastery. “I have told you what we spoke of. If anything else passed between us, perhaps it was of a private and personal nature; perhaps it referred to family topics; perhaps I might have given a solemn assurance not to reveal the subject of it to any one.”
“You did,—did you?” said Davis, with a sneer.
“I said, perhaps I might have done so. I did n't say I had.”
“And so you think—you fancy—that you 're a going to double on me,” said Davis, rising, and advancing towards him with a sort of insulting menace. “Now, look here, my name ain't Davis but if ever you try it—try it, I say, because, as to doing it, I dare you to your face—but if you just try it, twelve hours won't pass over till the dock of a police court is graced by the Honorable Annesley Beecher on a charge of forgery.”
“Oh, Davis!” cried Beecher, as he placed his hands over the other's lips, and glanced in terror through the room. “There never was anything I did n't tell you,—you 're the only man breathing that knows me.”
“And I do know you, by Heaven, I do!” cried the other, savagely; “and I know you'd sneak out of my hands to-morrow, if you dared; but this I tell you, when you leave mine it will be to exchange into the turnkey's. You fancy that because I see you are a fool that I don't suspect you to be a crafty one. Ah! what a mistake you make there!”
“But listen to me, Grog,—just hear me.”
“My name 's Davis, sir,—Captain Davis,—let me hear you call me anything else!”
“Well, Davis, old fellow,—the best and truest friend ever fellow had in the world,—now what's all this about? I 'll tell you every syllable that passed between Dunn and myself. I'll give you my oath, as solemnly as you can dictate it to me, not to conceal one word. He made me swear never to mention it. It was he that imposed the condition on me. What he said was this: 'It's a case where you need no counsel, and where any counsel would be dangerous. He who once knows your secret will be in a position to dictate to you. Lord Lackington must be your only adviser, since his peril is the same as your own.'”
“Go on,” said Davis, sternly, as the other seemed to pause too long.
Beecher drew a long breath, and, in a voice faint and broken, continued: “It's a claimant to the title,—a fellow who pretends he derives from the elder branch,—the Conway Beechers. All stuff and nonsense,—they were extinct two hundred years ago,—but no matter, the claim is there, and so circumstantially got up, and so backed by documents and the rest of it, that Lackington is frightened,—frightened out of his wits. The mere exposure, the very rumor of the thing, would distract him. He's proud as Lucifer,—and then he's hard up; besides, he wants a loan, and Dunn tells him there's no getting it till this affair is disposed of, and that he has hit on the way to do it.”
“As how?” said Davis, dryly.
“Well,” resumed Beecher, whose utterance grew weaker and less audible at every word, “Lackington, you know, has no children. It 's very unlikely he ever will now; and Dunn's advice is that for a life interest in the title and estates I should bind myself not to marry. That fellow then, if he can make good his claim, comes in as next of kin after me; and as to who or what comes after me,” cried he, with more energy, “it matters devilish little. Once 'toes up' and Annesley Beecher won't fret over the next match that comes off,—eh, Grog, old fellow?” And he endeavored by a forced jocularity to encourage his own sinking heart.
“Here's a shindy!” said Grog, as he mixed himself a fresh tumbler and laid his arms crosswise on the table; “and so it's no less than the whole stakes is on this match?”
“Title and all,” chimed in Beecher.
“I was n't thinking of the title,” said Grog, gruffly, as he relapsed into a moody silence. “Now, what does my Lord say to it all?” asked he, after a long pause.
“Lackington?—Lackington says nothing, or next to nothing. You read the passage in his letter where he says, 'Call on Dunn,' or 'Speak to Dunn,' or something like that,—he did n't even explain about what; and then you may remember the foolish figure we cut on that morning we waited on Dunn ourselves, not being able to say why or how we were there.”
“I remember nothing about cutting a foolish figure anywhere or any time. It's not very much my habit. It ain't my way of business.”
“Well, I can't say as much,” said Beecher, laughing; “and I own frankly I never felt less at ease in my life.”
“That's your way of business,” said Grog, nodding gravely at him.
“Every fellow is n't born as sharp as you, Davis. Samson was a wise man—no, Solomon was a wise man—”
“Leave Samson and Solomon where they are,” said Grog, puffing his cigar. “What we have to look to here is whether there be a claim at all, and then what it's worth. The whole affair may be just a cross between this fellow Dunn and one of his own pals. Now, it's my Lord's business to see to that. You are only the second horse all this while. If my Lord knows that he can be disqualified, he's wide awake enough to square the match, he is. But it maybe that Dunn hasn't put the thing fairly before him. Well, then, you must compare your book with my Lord's. You'll have to go over to him, Beecher.” And the last words were uttered with a solemnity that showed they were the result of a deep deliberation.
“It's all very well, Master Davis, to talk of going over to Italy; but where's the tin to come from?”
“It must be had somehow,” said Davis, sententiously. “Ain't there any fellows about would give you a name to a bit of stiff, at thirty-one days' date?”
“Pumped them all dry long ago!” said Beecher, laughing. “There's not a man in the garrison would join me to spoil a stamp; and, as to the civilians, I scarcely know one who isn't a creditor already.”
“You are always talking to me of a fellow called Kellett,—why not have a shy at him?”
“Poor Paul!” cried Beecher, with a hearty laugh. “Why, Paul Kellett's ruined—cleaned out—sold in the Encumbered what d'ye-call-'ems, and has n't a cross in the world!”
“I ought to have guessed as much,” growled out Grog, “or he'd not have been on such friendly terms with you.”
“A polite speech that, Grog,” said Beecher, smiling.
“It's true, and that's better,” said Davis. “The only fellows that stick close to a man in his poverty are those a little poorer than himself.”
“Not but, if he had it,” said Beecher, following up his own thoughts,—“not but, if he had it, he's just the fellow to do a right good-natured thing.”
“Well, I suppose he's got his name,—they have n't sold that, have they?”
“No, but it's very much like the estate,” said Beecher. “It's far too heavily charged ever to pay off the encumbrances.”
“Who minds that, nowadays? A bad bill is a very useful thing sometimes. It's like a gun warranted to burst, and you can always manage to have it in the right man's hands when it comes the time for the explosion.”
“You are a rum un, Davis,—you are, indeed,” said Beecher, admiringly; for it was in the delivery of such wise maxims that Davis appeared to him truly great.
“Get him down for fifty,—that ain't much,—fifty at three months. My Lord says he 'll stand fifty himself, in that letter I read. It was to help you to a match, to be sure; but that don't matter. There can be no question of marrying now. Let me see how this affair is going to turn. Well, I'll see if I can't do something myself. I've a precious lot of stamped paper there,”—and he pointed to an old secretary,—“if I could hit upon a sharp fellow to work it.”
“You are a trump, Grog!” cried Beecher, delightedly.
“If we had a clear two hundred, we could start to-morrow,” said Grog, laying down his cigar, and staring steadfastly at him.
“Why, would you come, too?” muttered Beecher, who had never so much as imagined the possibility of this companionship on the Continent.
“I expect I would,” said Davis, with a very peculiar grin. “It ain't likely you'd manage an affair like this without advice.”
“Very true,—very true,” said Beecher, hurriedly. “But remember, Lackington is my brother,—we 're both in the same boat.”
“But not with the same skulls,” said Grog. And he grinned a savage grin at the success of his pun.
Beecher, however, so far from appreciating the wit, only understood the remark as a sneer at his intelligence, and half sulkily said,—
“Oh! I'm quite accustomed to that, now,—I don't mind it.”
“That's right,—keep your temper,” said Grog, calmly; “that's the best thing in your book. You 're what they call good-tempered. And,” added he, in the moralizing tone, “though the world does take liberties with the good-tempered fellows, it shies them many a stray favor,—many a sly five-pun'-note into the bargain. I've known fellows go through life—and make a rare good thing of it, too—with no other stock-in-trade than this same good temper.”
Beecher did not pay his habitual attention to Grog's words, but sat pondering over all the possible and impossible objections to a tour in such company. There were times and places where men might be seen talking to such a man as Davis. The betting-ring and the weighing-stand have their privileges, just like the green-room or the “flats,” but in neither case are the intimacies of such localities exactly of a kind for parade before the world. Of all the perils of such a course none knew better than Beecher. What society would think,—what clubs would say of it,—he could picture to his mind at once.
Now, there were very few of life's casualties of which the Honorable Annesley Beecher had not tasted. He knew what it was to have his bills protested, his chattels seized, his person arrested; he had been browbeaten by Bankruptcy Commissioners, and bullied by sheriffs' officers; tradesmen had refused him credit; tailors abjured his custom; he had “burned his fingers” in one or two not very creditable transactions; but still, with all this, there was yet one depth to which he had not descended,—he was never seen in public with a “wrong man.” He had a jerk of the head, a wink, or a glance for the leg who met him in Piccadilly, as every one else had. If he saw him in the garden of the Star and Garter, or the park at Greenwich, he might even condescend to banter him on “looking jolly,” and ask what new “robbery” he was in for; but as to descending to intimacy or companionship openly before the gaze of the world, he 'd as soon have thought of playing cad to a 'bus, or sweep at a crossing.
It was true the Continent was not Hyde Park,—the most strait-laced and well-conducted did fifty things there they had never ventured on at home. Foreign travel had its license, and a passport was a sort of plenary indulgence for many a social transgression; but, with all this, there were a few names—about half a dozen in all Europe—that no man could afford to link his own along with.
As for Grog, he was known everywhere. From Ostend to Odessa his fame extended, and there was scarcely a police prefect in the travelled districts of the Continent that had not a description of his person, and some secret instructions respecting him. From many of the smaller states, whose vigilance is in the ratio of their littleness, he was rigidly excluded; so that in his journeying through Europe, he was often reduced to a zigzag and erratic procedure, not unlike the game known to schoolboys as scotch-hop. In the ten minutes—it was not more—that Beecher passed in recalling these and like facts to his memory, his mind grew more and more perplexed; nor was the embarrassment unperceived by him who caused it. As Davis sipped and smoked, he stole frequent glances at his companion's face, and strove to read what was passing in his mind. “It may be,” thought Grog, “he does n't see his way to raising the money. It may be that his credit is lower in the market than I fancied; or”—and now his fiery eyes grew fiercer and his lip more tense—“or it may be that he doesn't fancy my company. If I was only sure it was that,” muttered he between his teeth; and had Annesley Beecher only chanced to look at him as he said it, the expression of that face would have left a legacy of fear behind it for many a day.
“Help yourself,” said Grog, passing the bottle across the table,—“help yourself, and the gin will help you, for I see you are 'pounded.'”
“Pounded? No, not a bit; nothing of the kind,” said Beecher, blushing. “I was thinking how Lackington would take all this; what my Lady would say to it; whether they 'd regard it seriously, or whether they 'd laugh at my coming out so far about nothing.”
“They'll not laugh, depend on't; take my word for it, they won't laugh,” said Davis, dryly.
“Well, but if it all comes to nothing,—if it be only a plant to extort money?”
“Even that ain't anything to laugh at,” said Davis. “I 've done a little that way myself, and yet I never saw the fellow who was amused by it.”
“So that you really think I ought to go out and see my brother?”
“I'm sure and certain that we must go,” said Davis, just giving the very faintest emphasis to the “we.”
“But it will cost a pot of money, Grog, even though I should travel in the cheapest way,—I mean, the cheapest way possible for a fellow as well known as I am.”
This was a bold stroke; it was meant to imply far more than the mere words announced. It was intended to express a very complicated argument in a mere innuendo.
“That's all gammon,” said Grog, rudely. “We don't live in an age of couriers and extra-post; every man travels by rail nowadays, and nobody cares whether you take a coupé or a horse-box; and as to being known, so am I, and almost as well known as most fellows going.”
This was pretty plain speaking; and Beecher well knew that Davis's frankness was always on the verge of the only one thing that was worse than frankness.
“After all,” said Beecher, after a pause, “let the journey be ever so necessary, I have n't got the money.”
“I know you haven't, neither have I; but we shall get it somehow. You 'll have to try Kellett; you 'll have to try Dunn himself, perhaps. I don't see why you should n't start with him. He knows that you ought to confer with my Lord; and he could scarce refuse your note at three months, if you made it—say fifty.”
“But, Grog,” said Beecher, laying down his cigar, and nerving himself for a great effort of cool courage, “what would suffice fairly enough for one, would be a very sorry allowance for two; and as the whole of my business will be with my own brother,—where of necessity I must be alone with him,—don't you agree with me that a third person would only embarrass matters rather than advance them?”
“No!” said Grog, sternly, while he puffed his cigar in measured time.
“I 'm speaking,” said Beecher, in a tone of apology,—“I'm speaking, remember, from my knowledge of Lackington. He's very high and very proud,—one of those fellows who 'take on,' even with their equals; and with myself, he never forgets to let me feel I'm a younger brother.”
“He would n't take any airs with me,” said Grog, insolently. And Beecher grew actually sick at the bare thought of such a meeting.
“I tell you frankly, Davis,” said he, with the daring of despair, “it wouldn't do. It would spoil all. First and foremost, Lackington would never forgive me for having confided this secret to any one. He'd say, and not unfairly either, 'What has Davis to do with this? It's not the kind of case he is accustomed to deal with; his counsel could n't possibly be essential here.' He does n't know,” added he, rapidly, “your consummate knowledge of the world; he hasn't seen, as I have, how keenly you read every fellow that comes before you.”
“We start on Monday,” said Grog, abruptly, as he threw the end of his cigar into the fire; “so stir yourself, and see about the bills.”
Beecher arose and walked the room with hurried strides, his brow growing darker and his face more menacing at every moment.
“Look here, Davis,” cried he, turning suddenly round and facing the other, “you assume to treat me as if I was a—schoolboy;” and it was evident that he had intended a stronger word, but had not courage to utter it, for Davis's wicked eyes were upon him, and a bitter grin of irony was already on Grog's mouth as he said,—
“Did you ever try a round with me without getting the worst of it? Do you remember any time where you came well out of it? You 've been mauled once or twice somewhat roughly, but with the gloves on,—always with the gloves on. Now, take my advice, and don't drive me to take them off,—don't! You never felt my knuckles yet,—and, by the Lord Harry, if you had, you'd not call out 'Encore.'”
“You just want to bully me,” said Beecher, in a whimpering tone.
“Bully you,—bully you!” said Davis, and his features put on a look of the most intense scorn as he spoke. “Egad!” cried he, with an insolent laugh, “you know very little about either of us.”
“I'd rather you'd do your worst at once than keep threatening me in this fashion.”
“No, you would n't; no—no—nothing of the kind,” said Davis, with a mockery of gentleness in his voice and manner.
“May I be hanged if I would not!” cried Beecher, passionately.
“It ain't hanging now,—they 've made it transportation,” said Davis, with a grin; “and them as has tried it says the old way was easiest.” And in the slang style of the last words there was a terrible significance,—it was as though a voice from the felons' dock was uttering a word of warning. Such was the effect on Beecher that he sank slowly down into a seat, silent and powerless.
“If you had n't been in this uncommon high style tonight,” said Grog, quietly, “I'd have told you some excellent reasons for what I was advising. I got a letter from Spicer this morning. He, and a foreign fellow he calls Count Lienstahl,—it sounds devilish like 'lie and steal,' don't it?—have got a very pretty plant together, and if they could only chance upon a good second-rate horse, they reckon about eight or ten hundred in stakes alone this coming spring. They offer me a share if I could come out to them, and mean to open the campaign at Brussels. Now, there's a thing to suit us all,—'picking for every one,' as they say in the oakum-sheds.”
“Cochin China might be had for five hundred; or there's Spotted Snake, they want to sell him for anything he'll bring,” said Beecher, with animation.
“They could manage five hundred at least, Spicer says. We 're good for about twelve thousand francs, which ought to get us what we're looking for.”
“There's Anchovy Paste—”
“Broke down before and behind.”
“Hop the Twig, own sister to Levanter; ran second for the Colchester Cup—”
“Mares don't answer abroad.”
“Well, what do you say to Mumps?”
“There's the horse for the Continent. A great heavy-headed, thick-jawed beast, with lazy action, and capped hocks. He's the animal to walk into a foreign jockey club. Oh, if we had him!”
“I know where he is!” exclaimed Beecher, in ecstasy. “There 's a Brummagem fellow driving him through Wales,—a bagman,—and he takes him a turn now and then for the county stakes that offer. I 'll lay my head on't we get him for fifty pounds.”
“Come, old fellow,” said Grog, encouragingly, “you have your wits about you, after all. Breakfast here to-morrow, about twelve o'clock, and we 'll see if we can't arrange the whole affair. It's a sure five hundred apiece, as if we had it here;” and he slapped his pockets as he spoke.
Beecher shook his friend's hand with a warmth that showed all his wonted cordiality, and with a hearty “Good-night!” they separated.
Grog had managed cleverly. He had done something by terror, and the rest he had accomplished by temptation. They were the two only impulses to sway that strange temperament.