Davenport Dunn, a Man of Our Day. Volume 1

CHAPTER XL. SCHEMES AND PROJECTS

The post-horses ordered for Mr. Dunn’s carriage arrived, duly, at break of day; but from some change of purpose, of whose motive this veracious history can offer no explanation, that gentleman did not take his departure, but merely despatched a messenger to desire Mr. Hankes would come over to the Hermitage.

“I shall remain here to-day, Hankes,” said he, carelessly, “and not impossibly to-morrow also. There’s something in the air here suits me, and I have not felt quite well latterly.”

Mr. Hankes bowed; but not even his long-practised reserve could conceal the surprise he felt at this allusion to health or well-being. Positive illness he could understand, – a fever or a broken leg were intelligible ills; but the slighter casualties of passing indispositions were weaknesses that he could not imagine a business mind could descend to, no more than he could fancy a man’s being turned from pursuing his course because some one had accidentally jostled him in the streets.

Dunn was too acute a reader of men’s thoughts not to perceive the impression his words had produced; but with the indifference he ever bestowed upon inferiors, he went on: —

“Forward my letters here till you hear from me; there’s nothing so very pressing at this moment that cannot wait my return to town. Stay – I was to have had a dinner on Saturday; you’ll have to put them off. Clowes will show you the list; and let some of the evening papers mention my being unavoidably detained in the south, – say nothing about indisposition.”

“Of course not, sir,” said Hankes, quite shocked at such an indiscretion being deemed possible.

“And why, ‘of course,’ Mr. Hankes?” said Dunn, slowly. “I never knew it was amongst the prerogatives of active minds to be exempt from ailment.”

“A bad thing to speak about, sir, – a very bad thing, indeed,” said Hankes, solemnly. “You constantly hear people remark, ‘He was never the same man since that last attack.’”

“Psha!” said Dunn, contemptuously.

“I assure you, sir, I speak the sense of the community. The old adage says, ‘Two removes are as bad as a fire,’ and in the same spirit I would say, ‘Two gouty seizures are equal to a retirement’.”

“Absurdity!” said Dunn, angrily. “I never have acknowledged – I never will acknowledge – any such accountability to the world.”

“They bring us ‘to book’ whether we will or not,” said Hankes, sturdily.

Dunn started at the words, and turned away to hide his face; and well was it he did so, for it was pale as ashes, even to the lips, which were actually livid.

“You may expect me by Sunday morning, Hankes,” – he spoke without turning round, – “and let me have the balance-sheet of the Ossory Bank to look over. We must make no more advances to the gentry down there; we must restrict our discounts.”

“Impossible, sir, impossible! There must be no discontent – for the present, at least,” said Hankes; and his voice sunk to a whisper.

Dunn wheeled round till he stood full before him, and thus they remained for several seconds, each staring steadfastly at the other.

“You don’t mean to say, Hankes – ” He stopped.

“I do, sir,” said the other, slowly, “and I say it advisedly.”

“Then there must be some gross mismanagement, sir,” said Dunn, haughtily. “This must be looked to! Except that loan of forty-seven thousand pounds to Lord Lacking-ton, secured by mortgage on the estate it went to purchase, with what has this Bank supplied us?”

“Remember, sir,” whispered Hankes, cautiously glancing around the room as he spoke, “the loan to the Viscount was advanced by ourselves at six per cent, and the estate was bought in under your own name; so that, in fact, it is to us the Bank have to look as their security.”

“And am I not sufficient for such an amount, Mr. Hankes?” said he, sneeringly.

“I trust you are, sir, and for ten times the sum. Time is everything in these affairs. The ship that would float over the bar at high water would stick fast at half-flood.”

“The ‘Time’ I am anxious for is a very different one,” said Dunn, reflectively. “It is the time when I shall no longer be harassed with these anxieties. Life is not worth the name when it excludes the thought of all enjoyment.”

“Business is business, sir,” said Mr. Hankes, with all the solemnity with which such men deliver platitudes as wisdom.

“Call it slavery, and you ‘ll be nearer the mark,” broke in Dunn. “For what or for whom, let me ask you, do I undergo all this laborious toil? For a world that at the first check or stumble will overwhelm me with slanders. Let me but afford them a pretext, and they will debit me with every disaster their own recklessness has caused, and forget to credit me with all the blessings my wearisome life has conferred upon them.”

“The way of the world, sir,” sighed Hankes, with the same stereotyped philosophy.

“I know well,” continued Dunn, not heeding the other’s commonplace, “that there are men who would utilize the station which I have acquired; they’d soon convert into sterling capital the unprofitable gains that I am content with. They ‘d be cabinet ministers, peers, ambassadors, colonial governors. It’s only men like myself work without wages.”

“‘The laborer is worthy of his hire,’ says the old proverb.” Mr. Hankes was not aware of the authority, but quoted what he believed a popular saying.

“Others there are,” continued Dunn, still deep in his own thoughts, “that would consult their own ease, and, throwing off this drudgery, devote what remained to them of life to the calm enjoyments of a home.”

Mr. Hankes was disposed to add, “Home, sweet home;” but he coughed down the impulse, and was silent.

Dunn walked the room with his arms crossed on his breast and his head bent down, deep in his own reflections, while his lips moved, as if speaking to himself. Meanwhile Mr. Hankes busied himself gathering together his papers, preparatory to departure.

“They ‘ve taken that fellow Redlines. I suppose you ‘ve heard it?” said he, still sorting and arranging the letters.

“No,” said Dunn, stopping suddenly in his walk; “where was he apprehended?”

“In Liverpool. He was to have sailed in the ‘Persia,’ and had his place taken as a German watchmaker going to Boston.”

“What was it he did? I forget,” said Dunn, carelessly.

“He did, as one may say, a little of everything; issued false scrip on the Great Coast Railway, sold and pocketed the price of some thirty thousand pounds’ worth of their plant, mortgaged their securities, and cooked their annual accounts so cleverly that for four years nobody had the slightest suspicion of any mischief.”

“What was it attracted the first attention to these frauds, Hankes?” said Dunn, apparently curious to hear an interesting story.

“The merest accident in the world. He had sent a few lines to the Duke of Wycombe to inquire the character and capacity of a French cook. Pollard, the Duke’s man of business, happened to be in the room when the note came, and his Grace begged he would answer it for him. Pollard, as you are aware, is Chairman of the Coast Line; and when he saw the name ‘Lionel Redlines,’ he was off in a jiffy to the Board room with the news.”

“One would have thought a little foresight might have saved him from such a stupid mistake as this,” said Dunn, gravely. “A mode of living so disproportioned to his well-known means must inevitably have elicited remark.”

“At any other moment, so it would,” said Hankes; “but we live in a gambling age, and no one can say where, when, the remedy be curative or poisonous.” Then, with a quick start round, he said, “Hankes, do you remember that terrific accident which occurred a few years ago in France, – at Angers, I think the place was called? A regiment in marching order had to cross a suspension-bridge, and coming on with the measured tramp of the march, the united force was too much for the strength of the structure; the iron beams gave way, and all were precipitated into the stream below. This is an apt illustration of what we call credit. It will bear, and with success, considerable pressure if it be irregular, dropping, and incidental. Let the forces, however, be at once consentaneous and united, – let the men keep step, – and down comes the bridge! Ah, Hankes, am I not right?”

“I believe you are, sir,” said Hankes, who was not quite certain that he comprehended the illustration.

“His Lordship is waiting breakfast, sir,” said a smartly dressed footman at the door.

“I will be down in a moment. I believe, Hankes, we have not forgotten anything? The Cloyne and Carrick Company had better be wound up; and that waste-land project – let me have the papers to look over. You think we ought to discount those bills of Barrington’s?”

“I’m sure of it, sir. The people at the Royal Bank would take them to-morrow.”

“The credit of the Bank must be upheld, Hankes. The libellous articles of those newspapers are doing us great damage, timid shareholders assail us with letters, and some have actually demanded back their deposits. I have it, Hankes!” cried he, as a sudden thought struck him, – “I have it! Take a special train at once for town, and fetch me the balance-sheet and the list of all convertible securities. You can be back here – let us see – by to-morrow at noon, or, at latest, to-morrow evening. By that time I shall have matured my plan.”

“I should like to hear some hint of what you intend,” said Hankes.

“You shall know all to-morrow,” said he, as he nodded a good-bye, and descended to the breakfast-room. He turned short, however, at the foot of the stairs, and returned to his chamber, where Hankes was still packing up his papers. “On second thoughts, Hankes, I believe I had better tell you now,” said he. “Sit down.”

And they both eat down at the table, end never moved from it for an hour. Twice – even thrice – there cane messages from below, requesting Mr. Dunn’s presence at the breakfast-table, but a hurried “Yes, immediately,” was his reply, and he came not.

At last they rose? Hankes the first, saying, as he looked at his watch, “I shall just be in time. It is a great idea, a very great idea indeed, and does you infinite credit.”

“It ought to have success, Hankes,” said he, calmly.

“Ought, Sir! It will succeed. It is as fine a piece of tactics as I ever heard of. Trust me to carry it out, that’s all.”

“Remember, Hankes, time is everything. Goodby!”

CHAPTER XLI. “A COUNTRY WALK”

What a charming day was that at the Hermitage, – every one pleased, happy, and good-humored! With a frankness that gave universal satisfaction, Mr. Dunn declared he could not tear himself away. Engagements the most pressing, business appointments of the deepest moment, awaited him on every side, but, “No matter what it cost,” said he, “I will have my holiday!” Few flatteries are more successful than those little appeals to the charms and fascinations of a quiet home circle; and when some hard-worked man of the world, some eminent leader at the Bar, or some much-sought physician condescends to tell us that the world of clients must wait while he lingers in our society, the assurance never fails to be pleasing. It is, indeed, complimentary to feel that we are, in all the easy indolence of leisure, enjoying the hours of one whose minutes are valued as guineas; our own value insensibly rises at the thought, and we associate ourselves in our estimate of the great man. When Mr. Davenport Dunn had made this graceful declaration, he added another, not less gratifying, that he was completely at his Lordship’s and Lady Augusta’s orders, as regarded the great project on which they desired to have his opinion.

“The best way is to come down and see the spot yourself, Dunn. We ‘ll walk over there together, and Augusta will acquaint you with our notions as we go along.”

“I ought to mention,” said Dunn, “that yesterday, by the merest chance, I had the opportunity of looking over a little sketch of your project.”

“Oh, Miss Kellett’s!” broke in Lady Augusta, coloring slightly. “It is very clever, very prettily written, but scarcely practical, scarcely business-like enough for a prosaic person like myself. A question of this kind is a great financial problem, not a philanthropic experiment. Don’t you agree with me?”

“Perfectly,” said he, bowing.

“And its merits are to be tested by figures, and not by Utopian dreams of felicity. Don’t you think so?”

He bowed again, and smiled approvingly.

“I am aware,” said she, in a sort of half confusion, “what rashness it would be in me to say this to any one less largely minded than yourself; how I should expose myself to the censure of being narrow-hearted and worldly, and so forth; but I am not afraid of such judgments from you.”

“Nor have you need to dread them,” said he, in a voice a little above a whisper.

“Young ladies, like Miss Kellett, are often possessed by the ambition – a very laudable sentiment, no doubt – of distinguishing themselves by these opinions. It is, as it were, a ‘trick of the time’ we live in, and, with those who do not move in ‘society,’ has its success too.”

The peculiar intonation of that one word “society” gave the whole point and direction of this speech. There was in it that which seemed to say, “This is the real tribunal! Here is the one true court where claims are recognized and shams nonsuited.” Nor was it lost upon Mr. Davenport Dunn. More than once – ay, many a time before – had he been struck by the reference to that Star Chamber of the well-bred world. He had even heard a noble lord on the Treasury benches sneer down a sturdy champion of Manchesterism, by suggesting that in a certain circle, where the honorable gentleman never came, very different opinions prevailed from those announced by him.

While Dunn was yet pondering over this mystic word, Lord Glengariff came to say that, as Miss Kellett required his presence to look over some papers in the library, they might stroll slowly along till he overtook them.

As they sauntered along under the heavy shade of the great beech-trees, the sun streaking at intervals the velvety sward beneath their feet, while the odor of the fresh hay was wafted by on a faint light breeze, Dunn was unconsciously brought back in memory to the “long, long ago,” when he walked the self-same spot in a gloom only short of despair. Who could have predicted the day when he should stroll there, with her at his side, her arm within his own, her voice appealing in tones of confidence and friendship? His great ambitions had grown with his successes, and as he rose higher and higher, his aims continued to mount upwards; but here was a sentiment that dated from the time of his obscurity, here a day-dream that had filled his imagination when from imagination alone could be derived the luxury of triumph, and now it was realized, and now —

Who is to say what strange wild conflict went on within that heart where worldliness felt its sway for once disputed? Did there yet linger there, in the midst of high ambitions, some trait of boyish love, or was it that he felt this hour to be the crowning triumph of his long life of toil?

“If I were not half ashamed to disturb your revery,” said Lady Augusta, smiling, “I’d tell you to look at that view yonder. See where the coast stretches along there, broken by cliff and headland, with those rocky islands breaking the calm sea-line, and say if you saw anything finer in your travels abroad?”

“Was I in a revery? have I been dreaming?” cried he, suddenly, not regarding the scene, but turning his eyes fully upon herself. “And yet you ‘d forgive me were I to confess to you of what it was I was thinking.”

“Then tell it directly, for I own your silence piqued me, and I stopped speaking when I perceived I was not listened to.”

“Perhaps I am too confident when I say you would forgive me?”

“You have it in your power to learn, at all events,” said she, laughingly.

“But not to recall my words if they should have been uttered rashly,” said he, slowly.

“Shall I tell you a great fault you have, – perhaps your greatest?” asked she, quickly.

“Do, I entreat of you.”

“And you pledge yourself to take my candor well, and bear me no malice afterwards?”

“It is a coldness, – a reserve almost amounting to distrust, which seems actually to dominate in your temper. Be frank with me, now, and say fairly, was not this long alley reylying all the thoughts of long ago, and were you not summing up the fifty-one little grudges you had against that poor silly child who used to torment and fret you, and, instead of honestly owning all this, you fell back upon that stern dignity of manner I have just complained of? Besides,” added she, as though hurried away by some strong impulse, “if it would quiet your spirit to know you were avenged, you may feel satisfied.”

“As how?” asked he, eagerly, and not comprehending to what she pointed.

“Simply thus,” resumed she. “As I continued to mark and read of your great career in life, the marvellous successes which met you in each new enterprise, how with advancing fortune you ever showed yourself equal to the demand made upon your genius, I thought with shame and humiliation over even my childish follies, how often I must have grieved – have hurt you! Over and over have I said, ‘Does he ever remember? Can he forgive me?’ And yet there was a sense of exquisite pleasure in the midst of all my sorrow as I thought over all these childish vanities, and said to myself, ‘This man, whom all are now flattering and fawning upon, was the same I used to irritate with my caprices, and worry with my whims!’”

“I never dreamed that you remembered me,” said he, in a voice tremulous with delight.

“Your career made a romance for me,” said she, eagerly. “I could repeat many of those vigorous speeches you made, – those spirited addresses. One, in particular, I remember well; it was when refusing the offer of the Athlone burgesses to represent their town; you alluded so happily to the cares which occupied you, – less striking than legislative duties, but not less important, – or, as you phrased it, yours was like the part of those ‘who sound the depth and buoy the course that thundering three-deckers are to follow.’ Do you remember the passage? And again, that proud humility with which, alluding to the wants of the poor, you said, ‘I, who have carried my musket in the ranks of the people!’ Let me tell you, sir,” added she, playfully, “these are very haughty avowals, after all, and savor just as much of personal pride as the insolent declarations of many a pampered courtier!”

Dunn’s face grew crimson, and his chest swelled with an emotion of intense delight.

“Shall I own to you,” continued she, still running on with what seemed an irrepressible freedom, “that it appears scarcely real to me to be here talking to you about yourself, and your grand enterprises, and your immense speculations. You have been so long to my mind the great genius of wondrous achievements, that I cannot yet comprehend the condescension of your strolling along here as if this world could spare you.”

If Dunn did not speak, it was that his heart was too full for words; but he pressed the round arm that leaned upon him closer to his side, and felt a thrill of happiness through him.

“By the way,” said she, after a pause, “I have a favor to ask of you: papa would be charmed to have a cast of Marochetti’s bust of you, and yet does not like to ask for it. May I venture – ”

“Too great an honor to me,” muttered Dunn. “Would you – I mean, would he – accept – ”

“Yes, I will, and with gratitude; not but I think the likeness hard and harsh. It is, very probably, what you are to that marvellous world of politicians and financiers you live amongst, but not such as your friends recognize you, – what you are to-day, for instance.”

“And what may that be,” asked he, playfully.

“I was going to say an impudence, and I only caught myself in time.”

“Do, then, let me hear it,” said he, eagerly, “for I am quite ready to cap it with another.”

“Yours be the first, then,” said she, laughing. “Is it not customary to put the amendment before the original motion?”

Both Mr. Dunn and his fair companion were destined to be rescued from the impending indiscretion by the arrival of Lord Glengariff, who, mounted on his pony, suddenly appeared beside them.

“Well, Dunn,” cried he, as he came up, “has she made a convert of you? Are you going to advocate the great project here?”

Dunn looked sideways towards Lady Augusta, who, seeing his difficulty, at once said, “Indeed, papa, we never spoke of the scheme. I doubt if either of us as much as remembered there was such a thing.”

“Well, I’m charmed to find that your society could prove so fascinating, Augusta,” said Lord Glengariff, with some slight irritation of manner, “but I must ask of Mr. Dunn to bear with me while I descend to the very commonplace topic which has such interest for me. The very spot we stand on is admirably suited to take a panoramic view of our little bay, the village, and the background. Carry your eyes along towards the rocky promontory on which the stone pines are standing; we begin there.”

Now, most worthy reader, although the noble Lord pledged himself to be brief, and really meant to keep his word, and although he fancied himself to be graphic, – truth is truth, – he was lamentably prolix and confused beyond all endurance. As for Dunn, he listened with an exemplary patience; perhaps his thoughts were rambling away elsewhere, – perhaps he was compensated for the weariness by the occasional glances which met him from eyes now downcast, now bent softly upon him. Meanwhile the old Lord floundered on, amidst crescents and bathing-lodges, yacht stations and fisheries, aiding his memory occasionally with little notes, which, as he contrived to mistake, only served to make the description less intelligible. At length he had got so far as to conjure up a busy, thriving, well-to-do watering-place, sought after by the fashionable world that once had loved Brighton or Dieppe. He had peopled the shore with loungers, and the hotels with visitors; equipages were seen flocking in, and a hissing steamer in the harbor was already sounding the note of departure for Liverpool or Holyhead, when Dunn, suddenly rousing himself from what might have been a revery, said, “And the money, my Lord, – the means to do all this?”