Charles Lever - Davenport Dunn, a Man of Our Day. Volume 2

“I remember it at school,” said Davis, dryly.

“ You took the clever line, Kit, ‘suum cuique;’ it would never have suited me . You were born to thrive upon men’s weaknesses, mine the part to have a vested interest in their virtues.”

“If you depend upon their virtues for a subsistence, I ‘m not surprised to see you out at elbows,” said Davis, roughly.

“Not so, Kit, – not so,” said the other, blandly, in rebuke. “There ‘s a great deal of weak good-nature always floating about life. The world is full of fellows with ‘Pray take me in’ written upon them.”

“I can only vouch for it very few have come in my way,” said Davis, with a harsh laugh.

“So much the better for them ,” said Paul, gravely.

A pause of considerable duration now ensued between them, broken, at last, by Davis abruptly saying, “Is it not a strange thing, it was only last night I was saying to myself, ‘What the deuce has become of Holy Paul? – the newspapers have seemingly forgotten him. It can’t be that he is dead.’”

“Lazarus only sleepeth,” said Classon; “and, indeed, my last eleven weeks here seem little other than a disturbed sleep.”

Continuing his own train of thought, Davis went on, “If I could chance upon him now, he’s just the fellow I want, or, rather, that I may want.”

“If it is a lampoon or a satire you ‘re thinking of, Kit, I ‘ve given them up; I make no more blistering ointments, but turn all my skill to balsams. They give no trouble in compounding, and pay even better. Ah, Davis, my worthy friend, what a mistake it is to suppose that a man must live by his talents, while his real resource is his temperament. For a life of easy enjoyment, that blessed indolence that never knew a care, it is heart, not head, is needed.”

“All I can say is, that with the fellows I ‘ve been most with, heart had very little to do with them, and the best head was the one that least trusted his neighbors.”

“A narrow view, my dear friend, – a narrow view, take my word for it; as one goes on in life he thinks better of it.”

A malicious grin was all the answer Davis made to this remark. At last he turned his eyes full upon the other, and in a low but distinct voice said: “Let us have no more of this, Paul. If we are to play, let us play, as the Yankees say, without the ‘items,’ – no cheating on either side. Don’t try the Grand Benevolence dodge with me, – don’t. When I said awhile ago, I might want you, it was no more than I meant. You may be able to render me a service, – a great service.”

“Say how,” said Classon, drawing his chair nearer to him, – “say how, Kit, and you’ll not find the terms exorbitant.”

“It’s time enough to talk about the stakes when we are sure the match will come off,” said Davis, cautiously. “All I ‘ll say for the present is, I may want you.”

Classon took out a small and very greasy-looking notebook from his waistcoat-pocket, and with his pencil in hand, said, “About what time are you likely to need me? Don’t be particular as to a day or a week, but just in a rough-guessing sort of way say when.”

“I should say in less than a month from this time, – perhaps within a fortnight.”

“All right,” said Classon, closing his book, after making a brief note. “You smile,” said he, blandly, “at my methodical habits, but I have been a red-tapist all my life, Kit I don’t suppose you ‘ll find any man’s papers, letters, documents, and so forth, in such trim order as mine, – all labelled, dated, and indexed. Ah! there is a great philosophy in this practical equanimity; take my word for it, there is.”

“How far are we from Neuwied here?” asked Davis, half pettishly; for every pretension of his reverend friend seemed to jar upon his nerves.

“About sixteen or eighteen miles, I should say?”

“I must go or send over there to-morrow,” continued Davis. “The postmaster sends me word that several letters have arrived, – some to my address, some to my care. Could you manage to drive across?”

“Willingly; only remember that once I leave this blessed sanctuary I may find the door closed against my return. They ‘ve a strange legislation here – ”

“I know – I ‘ve heard of it,” broke in Davis. “I ‘ll guarantee everything, so that you need have no fears on that score. Start at daybreak, and fetch back all letters you find there for me or for the Honorable Annesley Beecher.”

“The Honorable Annesley Beecher!” said Classon, as he wrote the name in his note-book. “Dear me! the last time I heard that name was – let me see – fully twelve years ago. It was after that affair at Brighton. I wrote an article for the ‘Heart of Oak,’ on the ‘Morality of our Aristocracy.’ How I lashed their vices! how I stigmatized their lives of profligacy and crime!”

“You infernal old hypocrite!” cried Davis, with a half-angry laugh.

“There was no hypocrisy in that, Kit. If I tell you that a statue is bad in drawing, or incorrect in anatomy, I never assert thereby that I myself have the torso of Hercules or the limbs of Antinous.”

“Leave people’s vices alone, then; they ‘re the same as their debts; if you’re not going to pay them, you ‘ve no right to talk about them.”

“Only on public grounds, Kit Our duty to society, my dear friend, has its own requirements!”

“Fiddlestick!” said Davis, angrily, as he pushed his glass from before him; then, after a moment, went on: “Do you start early, so as to be back here before evening, – my mind is running on it. There’s three naps,” said he, placing the gold pieces on the table. “You’ll not want more.”

“Strange magnetism is the touch of gold to one’s palm,” said Classon, as he surveyed the money in the hollow of his hand. “How marvellous that these bits of stamped metal should appeal so forcibly to my inner consciousness!”

“Don’t get drunk with them, that’s all,” said Davis, with a stern savagery of manner, as he arose from his seat. “There’s my passport, – you may have to show it at the office. And now, good-bye, for I have a long letter to write to my daughter.”

Classon poured the last of the Burgundy into a tumbler, and drank it off, and hiccuping out, “I’ll haste me to the Capitol!” left the room.

It was a very wearisome day to Davis as he waited for the return of Paul Classon. Grog’s was not a mind made for small suspicions or petty distrusts, – he was a wholesale dealer in iniquity, and despised minute rogueries; yet he was not altogether devoid of anxiety as hour, by hour went over, and no sign of Classon. He tried to pass the time in his usual mode. He shot with the pistol, he fenced, he whipped the trout-stream, he went over his “martingale” with the cards, but somehow everything went amiss with him. He only hit the bull’s-eye once in three shots; he fenced wide; a pike carried off his tackle; and, worst of all, he detected a flaw in the great “Cabal,” that, if not remediable, must render it valueless.

“A genuine Friday, this!” muttered he, as he sauntered up a little eminence, from which a view might be had of the road for above a mile. “And what nonsense it is people saying they ‘re not superstitions! I suppose I have as little of that kind of humbug about me as my neighbors; yet I would n’t play half-crowns at blind-hookey today. I’d not take the favorite even against a chance horse. I’d not back myself to leap that drain yonder; and why? Just because I ‘m in what the French call guignon . There’s no other word for it that ever I heard. These are the days Fortune says to a man, ‘Shut up, and don’t book a bet!’ It’s a wise fellow takes the warning. I know it so well that I always prepare for a run against me, and as sure as I am here, I feel that something or other is going wrong elsewhere. Not a sign of him, – not a sign!” said he, with a heavy sigh, as he gazed long and earnestly along the line of road. “He has n’t bolted, that I’m sure of; he’d not ‘try that on’ with me . He remembers to this very hour a licking I gave him at school. I know what it is, he’s snug in a wine ‘Schenke.’ He’s in for a big drink, the old beast, as if he could n’t get blind drunk when he came home. I think I see him holding forth to the boors, and telling them what an honor it is to them to sit in his company; that he took a high class at Oxford, and was all but Bishop of – Eh, is that he? No, it ‘s going t’ other way. Confounded fool! – but worse fool myself for trusting him. That’s exactly what people would say: ‘He gave Holy Paul three naps, and expected to see him come back sober!’ Well, so I did; and just answer me this: Is not all the work of this world done by rogues and vagabonds? It suits them to be honest for a while; they ride to order so long as they like the stable. Not a sign of him!” And with a comfortless sigh he turned back to the house.