Perhaps our reader might not have patience with us were we to follow Davis through all the devious turns and windings of this tortuous discourse. Perhaps, too, we should fail signally were we to attempt to convey in our cold narrative what came from his lips with all the marvellous power of a good story-teller, whose voice could command many an inflection, and whose crafty nature appreciated the temper of the metal beneath his beat If we could master all these, another and a greater difficulty would still remain; for how could we convey, as Davis contrived to do, that through all these gorgeous scenes of worldly success, in the splendor of a life of magnificence, amidst triumphs and conquests, one figure should ever pass before the mind's eye, now participating in the success, now urging its completion, now, as it were, shedding a calm and chastened light over all,—a kind of angelic influence that heightened every enjoyment of the good, and averted every approach of evil?
Do not fancy, I beseech you, that this was a stroke of high art far above the pencil of Grog Davis. Amongst the accidents of his early life the “stage” had figured, and Grog had displayed very considerable talents for the career. It was only at the call of what he considered a higher ambition he had given up “the boards” for “the ring.” Besides this, he was inspired by the Marcobrunner, which had in an equal degree affected the brain of him who listened. If Grog were eloquent, Beecher was ductile. Indeed, so eagerly did he devour all that the other said, that when a moment of pause occurred, he called out, “Go on, old fellow,—go on! I could listen to you forever!”
Nor was it altogether surprising that he should like to hear words of praise and commendation from lips that once only opened in sarcasm and ridicule of him. How pleasant to know, at last, that he was really and truly a great partner in the house of Davis and Co., and not a mere commission agent, and that this partnership—how that idea came to strike him we cannot determine—was to be binding forever. How exalting, too, the sentiment that it was just at the moment when all his future looked gloomiest this friendship was ratified. The Lackington peerage might go, but there was Grog Davis, stanch and true,—the ancient estates be torn from his house, but there was the precious volume of old Lazarus, with wealth untold within its pages. Thus threading his way through these tortuous passages of thought, stumbling, falling, and blundering at every step, that poor brain lost all power of coherency and all guidance, and he wavered between a reckless defiance of the world and a sort of slavish fear of its censure.
“And Lackington, Grog,—Lackington,” cried he, at length,—“he's as proud as Lucifer; what will he say?”
“Not so much as you think!” remarked Grog, dryly. “Lackington will take it easier than you suspect.”
“No, no, you don't know him,—don't know him at all. I wouldn't stand face to face with him this minute for a round sum!”
“I 'd not like it over-much myself!” muttered Davis, with a grim smile.
“It's all from pride of birth and blood, and he 'd say, 'Debts, if you like; go ahead with Jews and the fifty per centers, but, hang it, don't tie a stone round your throat, don't put a double ditch between you and your own rank! Look where I am,' he 'd say,—'look where I am!'”
“Well, I hope he finds it comfortable!” muttered Grog, with a dry malice.
“Look where I am!” resumed Beecher, trying to imitate the pretentious tones of his brother's voice. “And where is it, after all?”