Although Twining's reluctance to carry into execution the tone of policy he suggested did not escape Beecher's penetration, the policy itself seemed highly recommendable. Grog out of Europe,—Grog beyond the seas, collecting taxes, imprisoning skippers, hunting runaway negroes, or flogging Caffres,—it mattered not, so that he never crossed his sight again. To be sure, it was not exactly the moment to persuade Davis to expatriate himself when his prospects at home began to brighten, and he saw his daughter a peeress. Still, Dunn was a fellow of such marvellous readiness, such astonishing resources! If any man could “hit off” the way here, it was he. And then, how fortunate! Grog was eagerly pressing Beecher to be accredited to this same Davenport Dunn; he asked that he might be sent to confer and negotiate with him about the pending action at law. What an admirable opportunity was this, then, for Dunn to sound Davis and, if occasion served, tempt him with an offer of place! Besides these reasons, valid and sound so far as they went, there was another impulse that never ceased to urge Beecher forward, and this was a vague shadowy sort of impression that if he could only succeed in his plan he should have outwitted Grog, and “done” him. There was a sense of triumph associated with this thought that made his heart swell with pride. In his passion for double-dealing, he began to think how he could effect his present purpose,—by what zigzag and circuitous road, through what tangled scheme of duplicity and trick. “I have it,—I have it,” cried he at length; and he hastened to his dressing-room, and, having locked the door, he opened his writing-desk and sat down to write. But it is not at the end of a chapter I can presume to insert his Lordship's correspondence.
CHAPTER XXVII. OVERREACHINGS
Beecher did not amongst his gifts possess the pen of a ready writer; but there was a strange symmetry observable between the composition and the manual part. The lines were irregular, the letters variously sized, erasures frequent, blots everywhere, while the spelling displayed a spirit that soared above orthography. A man unused to writing, in the cares of composition, is pretty much in the predicament of a bad horseman in a hunting-field. He has a vague, indistinct motion of “where” he ought to go, without the smallest conception as to the “how.” He is balked or “pounded” at every step, always trying back, but never by any chance hitting off the right road to his object.
Above a dozen sheets of paper lay half scrawled over before him after two hours of hard labor, and there he still sat pondering over his weary task. His scheme was simply this: to write a few lines to Dunn, introducing his father-in-law, and instructing him to afford him all information and details as to the circumstances of the Irish property, it being his intention to establish Captain Davis in the position of his agent in that country; having done which, and given to Grog to read over, he meant to substitute another in its place, which other was confidentially to entreat of Dunn to obtain some foreign and far-away appointment for Davis, and by every imaginable means to induce him to accept it. This latter document Dunn was to be instructed to burn immediately after reading. In fact, the bare thought of what would ensue if Davis saw it, made him tremble all over, and aggravated all the difficulties of composition. Even the mode of beginning puzzled him, and there lay some eight or ten sheets scrawled over with a single line, thus: “Lord Lackington presents his compliments”—“The Viscount Lackington requests”—“Lord Lackington takes the present opportunity”—“Dear Dunn”—“Dear Mr. Dunn”—“My dear Mr. Dunn”—“Dear D.” How nicely and minutely did he weigh over in his mind the value to be attached to this exordium, and how far the importance of position counterbalanced the condescension of close intimacy! “Better be familiar,” said he, at last; “he 's a vulgar dog, and he 'll like it;” and so he decided for “My dear Dunn.”
“My dear Dunn,—As I know of your influence with the people in power—too formal that, perhaps,” said he, re-reading it—“as I know what you can do with the dons in Downing Street—that 's far better—I want you to book the bearer—no, that is making a flunkey of him—I want you to secure me a snug thing in the Colonies—or better, a snug Colonial appointment—for my father-in-law—no, for my friend—no, for my old and attached follower, Captain Davis—that's devilish well-rounded, 'old and attached follower, Captain Davis.' When I tell you that I desire he may get something over the hills and far away, you 'll guess at once—you 'll guess at once why—no, guess the reason—no, you 'll see with half an eye how the cat jumps.” He threw down his pen at this, and rubbed his hands in an ecstasy of delight. “Climate does n't signify a rush, for he's strong as a three-year-old, and has the digestion of an 'ostrage;' the main thing, little to do, and opportunities for blind hookey. As to outfit, and some money in hand, I 'll stand it. Once launched, if there's only a billiard-table or dice-box in the colony, he 'll not starve.”
“Eh, Grog, my boy,” cried he, with a laugh, “as the parsons say, 'Salary less an object than a field of profitable labor!' And, by Jove! the grass will be very short, indeed, where you can't get enough to feed on! There 's no need to give Dunn a caution about reserve, and so forth with him,—he knows Grog well.”
Having finished this letter, and placed it carefully in his pocket, he began the other, which, seeing that it was never to be delivered, and only shown to Davis himself, cost him very little trouble in the composition. Still it was not devoid of all difficulty, since, by the expectations it might create in Grog's mind of obtaining the management of the Irish property, it would be actually throwing obstacles in the way of his going abroad. He therefore worded the epistle more carefully, stating it to be his intention that Captain Davis should be his agent at some future time not exactly defined, and requesting Dunn to confer with him as one enjoying his own fullest confidence.
He had but finished the document when a sharp knock at the door announced Davis. “The very man I wanted,” said Beecher; “sit down and read that.”
Grog took his double eye-glass from his pocket,—an aid to his sight only had recourse to when he meant to scrutinize every word and every letter,—and sat down to read. “Vague enough,” said he, as he concluded. “Small credentials for most men, but quite sufficient for Kit Davis.”