“No,” said he, at last, springing from his bed, and lighting his candle, “I 'll be off. I 'll cut my lucky, Master Grog; and here goes to write you half a dozen lines to break the fact to you. I 'll call it a sudden thought—a notion—that I ought to see Lackington at once. I 'll say that I could n't think of subjecting Miss Davis to the inconvenience of that rapid mode of travelling I feel to be so imminently necessary. I 'll tell him that as I left the theatre, I saw one of Fordyce's clerks, that the fellow knew me and grinned, and that I know I shall be arrested if I stay here. I 'll hint that Hamilton, who is highly connected, will have the English Legation at us all. Confound it, he 'll believe none of these. I 'll just say”—Here he took his pen and wrote,—
“Dear D.,—After we parted last night, a sudden caprice
seized me that I 'd start off at once for Italy. Had you
been alone, old fellow, I should never have thought of it;
but seeing that I left you in such charming company, with
one whose—['No, that won't do—I must strike out that;
and so he murmured over the lines ending in 'company.' and
then went on.]—I have no misgivings about being either
missed or wanted.—['Better, perhaps, missed or
regretted.'] We have been too long friends to—['No, we
are too old pals, that's better—he does n't care much for
friendship']—too old pals to make me suspect you will be
displeased with this—this unforeseen—['That's a
capital word!—unforeseen what? It's always calamity
comes after unforeseen; but I can't call it calamity']—
unforeseen 'bolt over the ropes,' and believe me as ever, or
believe me 'close as wax,'
“Yours, A. B.”
“A regular diplomatic touch, I call that note,” said he, as he reread it to himself with much complacency. “Lack-ington thinks me a 'flat;' then let any one read that, and say if the fellow that wrote it is a fool.” And now he sealed and directed his epistle, having very nearly addressed it to Grog, instead of to Captain Davis. “His temper won't be angelic when he gets it,” muttered he, “but I'll be close to Liege by that time.” And with this very reassuring reflection he jumped into bed again, determining to remain awake till daybreak.
Wearied out at last with watching, Annesley Beecher fell off asleep, and so soundly, too, that it was not till twice spoken to he could arouse and awaken.
“Eh, what is it, Rivers?” cried he, as he saw the trim training-groom at his side. “Anything wrong with the horse?”
“No, sir, nothing; he's all right, anyhow.”
“What is it, then; any one from town looking for us?”
“No, sir, nobody whatever. It's the Captain himself—”
“What of him? Is he ill?”
“Sound as a roach, sir; he's many a mile off by this. Says he to me, 'Rivers,' says he, 'when you gets back to the Tirlemont, give this note to Mr. Beecher; he 'll tell you afterwards what's to be done. Only,' says he, 'don't forget to rub a little of the white oils on that near hock; very weak,' says he; 'be sure it's very weak, so as not to blister him.' Ain't he a wonderful man, sir, to be thinking o' that at such a moment?”