"Not exactly," said Conway, laughing, "not exactly, though even in _that_ respect the calculation is equal."

They now walked the deck step for step together in silence. The conversation had arrived at that point whence, if not actually confidential, it could proceed no further without becoming so, and so each appeared to feel it, and yet neither was disposed to lead the way.

Beecher was one of those men who regard the chance persons they meet with in life just as they would accidental spots where they halt when on a journey,--little localities to be enjoyed at the time, and never, in all likelihood, revisited. In this way they obtained far more of his confidence than if he was sure to be in constant habits of intercourse with them. He felt they were safe depositaries, just as he would have felt a lonely spot in a wood a secure hiding-place for whatever he wanted to conceal. Now he was already--we are unable to say why--disposed to like Conway, and he would gladly have revealed to him much that lay heavily at his heart,--many a weighty care, many a sore misgiving. There was yet remaining in his nature that reverence and respect for honesty of character which survives very often a long course of personal debasement, and he felt that Conway was a man of honor.

Such men he very well knew were usually duped and done,--they were the victims of the sharp set he himself fraternized with; but, with all that, there was something about them that he still clung to, just as he might have clung to a reminiscence of his boy-days.

"I take it," said he, at last, "that each of us have caught it as heavily as most fellows going. _You_, to be sure, worse than myself,--for I was only a younger son."

"_My_ misfortunes," said Conway, "were all of my own making. I squandered a very good fortune in a few years, without ever so much as suspecting I was in any difficulty; and, after all, the worst recollection of the past is, how few kindnesses, how very few good-natured things a fellow does when he leads a life of mere extravagance. I have enriched many a money-lender, I have started half a dozen rascally servants into smart hotel-keepers, but I can scarcely recall five cases of assistance given to personal friends. The truth is, the most selfish fellow in the world is the spendthrift."

"That 's something new to me, I must own," said Beecher, thoughtfully; but Conway paid no attention to the remark. "My notion is this," said Beecher, after a pause,--"do what you will, say what you will, the world won't play fair with you!"

Conway shook his head dissentingly, but made no reply, and another and a longer silence ensued.

"You don't know my brother Lackington?" said Beecher, at length.

"No. I have met him in the world and at clubs, but don't know him."

"I 'll engage, however, you 've always heard him called a clever fellow, a regular sharp fellow, and all that, just because he's the Viscount; but he is, without exception, the greatest flat going,--never saw his way to a good thing yet, and if you told him of one, was sure to spoil it. I 'm going over to see him now," added he, after a pause.

"He 's at Rome, I think, the newspapers say?"

"Yes, he's stopping there for the winter." Another pause followed, and Beecher threw away the end of his cigar, and, sticking an unlighted one in his mouth, walked the deck in deep deliberation. "I 'd like to put a case to you for your opinion," said he, as though screwing himself to a great effort. "If you stood next to a good fortune,--next in reversion, I mean,--and that there was a threat--just a threat, and no more--of a suit to contest your right, would you accept of a life interest in the property to avoid all litigation, and secure a handsome income for your own time?"

"You put the case too vaguely. First of all, a mere threat would not drive me to a compromise."

"Well, call it more than a threat; say that actual proceedings had been taken,--not that I believe they have; but just say so."

"The matter is too complicated for my mere Yes or No to meet it; but on the simple question of whether I should compromise a case of that nature, I'd say No. I'd not surrender my right if I had one, and I 'd not retain possession of that which did n't belong to me."

"Which means, that you 'd reject the offer of a life interest?"

"Yes, on the terms you mention."

"I believe you 're right. Put the bold face on, and stand the battle.

Now the real case is this. My brother Lack-ington has just been served with notice--"

Just as Beecher had uttered the last word, his arm, which rested on the binnacle against which he was standing, was grasped with such force that he almost cried out with the pain, and at the same instant a muttered curse fell upon his ear.

"Go on," said Conway, as he waited to hear more.

Beecher muttered some unintelligible words about feeling suddenly chilled, and "wanting a little brandy," and disappeared down the stairs to the cabin.

"I heard you," cried Davis, as soon as the other entered,--"I heard you!

and if I hadn't heard you with my own ears, I 'd not have believed it!

Have n't I warned you, not once but fifty times, against that confounded peaching tongue of yours? Have n't I told you that if every act of your life was as pure and honest as you know it is not, your own stupid talk would make an indictment against you? You meet a fellow on the deck of a steamer--"

"Stop there!" cried Beecher, whose temper was sorely tried by this attack. "The gentleman I talked with is an old acquaintance; he knows me,--ay, and what's more, he knows _you!_"

"Many a man knows _me_, and does not feel himself much the better for his knowledge!" said Davis, boldly.

"Well, I believe our friend here would n't say he was the exception to that rule," said Beecher, with an ironical laugh.

"Who is he?--what's his name?"

"His name is Conway; he was a lieutenant in the 12th Lancers, but you will remember him better as the owner of Sir Aubrey."

"I remember him perfectly," replied Davis, with all his own composure,--"I remember him perfectly,--a tall, good-looking fellow, with short moustaches. He was--except yourself--the greatest flat I ever met in the betting-ring; and that's a strong word, Mr. Annesley Beecher,--ain't it?"

"I suspect you 'd scarcely like to call him a flat to-day, at least, to his face," said Beecher, angrily.

A look of mingled insolence and contempt was all the answer Davis gave this speech; and then half filling a tumbler with brandy, he drank it off, and said slowly,--

"What _I_ would dare to do, _you_ certainly would never suspect,--that much I 'm well aware of. What _you_ would dare is easily guessed at."

"I don't clearly understand you," said Beecher, timidly.

"_You_ 'd dare to draw me into a quarrel on the chance of seeing me 'bowled over,'" said Davis, with a bitter laugh. "_You_ 'd dare to see me stand opposite another man's pistol, and pray heartily at the same time that his hand might n't shake, nor his wrist falter; but I've got good business habits about me, Master Beecher. If you open that writing-desk, you 'll own few men's papers are in better order, or more neatly kept; and there is no satisfaction I could have to offer any one would n't give me ample time to deposit in the hands of justice seven forged acceptances by the Honorable Annesley Beecher, and the power of attorney counterfeited by the same accomplished gentleman's hand."

Beecher put out his hand to catch the decanter of brandy; but Davis gently removed the bottle, and said, "No, no; that's only Dutch courage, man; nerve yourself up, and learn to stand straight and manfully, and when you say, 'Not guilty,' do it with a bold look at the jury box.'"

Beecher dropped into his seat, and buried his head between his hands.

"I often think," said Davis, as he took out his cigar-case and proceeded to choose a cigar,--"I often think it would be a fine sight when the swells--the fashionable world, as the newspapers call them--would be pressing on to the Old Bailey to see one of their own set in the dock.

What nobs there would be on the Bench! All Brookes's and the Wyndham scattered amongst the bar. The 'Illustrated News' would have a photographic picture of you, and the descriptive fellows would come out strong about the way you recognized your former acquaintances in court.

Egad! old Grog Davis would be quite proud to give his evidence in such company!' How long have you been acquainted with the prisoner in the dock, Mr. Davis?' cried he, aloud, imitating the full and imperious accents of an examining counsel. 'I have known him upwards of fifteen years, my Lord. We went down together to Leeds in the summer of 1840 on a little speculation with cogged dice--'"

Beecher looked up and tried to speak, but his strength failed him, and his head fell heavily down again on the table.

"There, 'liquor up,' as the Yankees say," cried Davis, passing the decanter towards him. "You 're a poor chicken-hearted creature, and don't do much honor to your 'order.'"

"You 'll drive me to despair yet," muttered Beecher, in a voice scarcely above a whisper.

"Not a bit of it, man; there's pluck in despair! You 'll never go that far!"

Beecher grasped his glass convulsively; and as his eyes flashed wildly, he seemed for a moment as if about to hurl it in the other's face.

Davis's look, however, appeared to abash him, and with a low, faint sigh he relinquished his hold, while his head fell forward on his bosom.

Davis now drew near the fire, and with a leg on either side of it, smoked away at his ease.

CHAPTER XXVII. A VISIT OF CONDOLENCE

"I think she will _see_ me," said Davenport Dunn, to the old woman servant who opened the door to him at the Kelletts' cottage, "if you will tell her my name: Mr. Dunn,--Mr. Davenport Dunn."

"She told me she 'd not see anybody, sir," was the obdurate reply.