exasperation that fell just short of outright insolence.
âBegone with you, you besom,â said Davenant, raising his hand as if to strike her. âAnd tell Lawrence to bring us some wine.â
âYes, sir,â she said, laughing.
There was a momentâs silence after she had gone. Davenant glanced out of the window, then turned and fixed me with a frank gaze. With a gravity I had not heard before, he said:
âTurner was my friend, Mr. Hartright. Iâll not do anything to injure him. If you want scandal, or gossip, you wonât get it here.â
âI give you my word,â I said, âI am only interested in the truth.â
âIâll tell you that, and gladly,â he said. âBut mind â I speak only of what I know.â He paused; then, pulling two chairs from the wall, muttered: âAnd I could earnestly wish others would the same. Will you sit down?â
âThank you.â
âI sometimes think you could knock on any door in London, and find someone there whose acquaintance with Turner extends, at most, to having once seen him get out of a cab â and who will cheerfully swear on that basis that he was the most crabbed, suspicious, miserable skinflint in creation.â
I laughed; and he acknowledged it with a chuckle, and a curious little bounce of the head, as if I had complimented him on some soldierly skill. He went on:
âBut I knew him for thirty years, and found him as kind and sociable as any man I ever met. You certainly couldnât have asked for a tenderer friend.â He sat down, tugging at the knees of the old-fashioned breeches beneath his smock. âI was sick as a dog, once â the doctors almost gave me up, and most of my family, too â but Turnerâd come every day, to inquire after my health, and wish me better â even, I afterwards discovered, when I was too weak to receive him myself, and he got no more for his pains than two minutesâ conversation with my house-keeper,âHe shook his head, and his eyes sparkled with tears, which he made no effort to hide.
âBut what of his supposed moroseness, and meanness?â I said.
âWhy, as to that â you never saw such a fellow for merriment and hilarity, when he was easy, and among friends. Get up any little social or professional party, and heâd gladly participate, and pay his share â and sometimes, to my knowledge, heâd defray the whole expense himself, without others knowing it.â
âHow then did he get such a reputation?â I asked. I was, I confess, astonished: for this genial figure bore no relation to Travisâs crazed dwarf â or to the misanthropic miser I had heard of at the Academy, or to Lady Eastlakeâs friendless recluse.
âOh, I wonât deny there may have been reason enough, for those who judge a man by his appearance, and never trouble to look beneath the surface,â said Davenant. âHe lived most of his life with his old father, and much of the rest alone; and never learnt good domestic management â and thus could not receive his friends at his own table, as he told me on many occasions he would have liked. And he could be gruff, sometimes, too â especially if he thought you were trying improperly to find out his secrets, or interfere with his habits.â
But why (I immediately thought) should a man be at so much pains to protect his privacy, unless he has something shameful to conceal? I kept the question to myself; but, as if he could look into my mind, Davenant said:
âI donât know if youâve a wife, Mr. Hartright â and, if so, how you live with her, and, if not, how you do without one â but you might well feel that it was no damned business of mine, unless you chose to tell me, and I should heartily agree with you.â
The young manservant entered, carrying a tray with a decanter and two glasses. He stood trembling while Davenant made a