To this speech Davis only answered by another grin, that spoke as plain as words could, “Even the high tone will have no effect upon me.” Luckily this penance was not long to endure, for Lizzy had drawn her father aside, and was whispering a few last words to him. It was in a voice so low and subdued they spoke that nothing could be heard; but Beecher imagined or fancied he heard Grog mutter, “'Pluck' will do it; 'pluck' will do anything.” A long, affectionate embrace, and a fondly uttered “Good-bye, girl,” followed, and then, shaking hands with Beecher, Davis lighted his cigar and departed.
Lizzy opened the window, and, leaning over the balcony, watched the carriage as it sped along the valley, the lights appearing and disappearing at intervals. What thoughts were hers as she stood there? Who knows? Did she sorrow after him, the one sole being who had cared for her through life; did her heart sadden at the sense of desertion; was the loneliness of her lot in life then uppermost in her mind; or did she feel a sort of freedom in the thought that now she was to be self-guided and self-dependent? I know not. I can only say that, though a slight flush colored her cheek, she shed no tears; and as she closed the window and returned into the room, her features were calm and emotionless.
“Why did not papa take the route by Strasburg? It is much the shortest?”
“He couldn't,” said Beecher, with a triumphant bitterness,—“he could n't. He can't go near Paris.”
“By Verviers, then, and Belgium?” said she, reddening.
“He'd be arrested in Belgium and tried for his life. He has no road left but down the Rhine to Rotterdam.”
“Poor fellow!” said she, rising, “it must be a real peril that turns him from his path.” There was an accent on the pronoun that almost made the speech a sarcasm; at all events, ere Beecher could notice it, she had left the room.
“Now, if Fortune really meant to do me a good turn,” said Beecher to himself, “she 'd just shove my respected father-in-law, writing-desk, pocket-book, and all, into the 'Rheingau,' never to turn up again.” And with this pious sentiment, half wish, half prayer, he went downstairs and strolled into the street.
As the bracing night air refreshed him, he walked along briskly towards Lindenthal, his mind more at ease than before. It was, indeed, no small boon that the terror of Grog's presence was removed. The man who had seen him in all his transgressions and his shortcomings was, in reality, little else than an open volume of conscience, ever wide spread before him. How could he presume in such a presence to assert one single high or honorable motive? What honest sentiment dare be enunciate? He felt in his heart that the Viscount Lackington with ten thousand a year was not the Honorable Annesley Beecher with three hundred. The noble Lord could smile at the baits that to the younger son were irresistible temptations. There was no necessity that he should plot, scheme, and contrive; or if he did, it should be for a higher prize, or in a higher sphere and with higher antagonists. And yet Grog would not have it so. Let him do what he would, there was the inexorable Davis ever ready to bring down Lackington to the meridian of Beecher! Amidst all the misfortunes of his life, the ever having known this man was the worst,—the very worst!
And now he began to go over in his mind some of the most eventful incidents of this companionship. It was a gloomy catalogue of debauch and ruin. Young fellows entrapped at the very outset in life, led on to play, swindled, “hocussed,” menaced with exposure, threatened with who knows what perils of public scandal if they refused to sign this or that “promise to pay.” Then all the intrigues to obtain the money; the stealthy pursuit of the creditor to the day of his advancement or his marriage; the menaces measured out to the exigencies of the case,—now a prosecution, now a pistol. What a dreadful labyrinth of wickedness was it, and how had he threaded through it undetected! He heaved a heavy sigh as he muttered a sort of thanksgiving that it was all ended at last,—all over! “If it were not for Grog, these memories need never come back to me,” said he. “Nobody wants to recall them against me, and the world will be most happy to dine with the Viscount Lackington without a thought of the transgressions of Annesley Beecher! If it were not for Grog,—if it were not for Grog!” and so ran the eternal refrain at the close of each reflection. “At all events,” said he, “I 'll 'put the Alps between us;'” and early on the following morning the travelling-carriage stood ready at the door, and amidst the bowings and reverences of the hotel functionaries, the “happy pair” set out for Italy.