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diff --git a/old/33556-h.htm.2021-01-25 b/old/33556-h.htm.2021-01-25 new file mode 100644 index 0000000..585bee1 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/33556-h.htm.2021-01-25 @@ -0,0 +1,20678 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <title> + The Fortunes of Glencore, by Charles James Lever + </title> + <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +Project Gutenberg's The Fortunes Of Glencore, by Charles James Lever + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Fortunes Of Glencore + +Author: Charles James Lever + +Illustrator: E. J. Wheeler and W. Cubitt Cooke + +Release Date: August 27, 2010 [EBook #33556] +Last Updated: February 28, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + +<p> +<br /><br /> +</p> +<h1> +THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE +</h1> +<p> +<br /> +</p> +<h2> +By Charles James Lever +</h2> +<p> +<br /> +</p> +<h3> +With Illustrations By E. J. Wheeler and W. Cubitt Cooke +</h3> +<h4> +<br /><br /> Boston: Little, Brown, And Company. <br /><br /> 1902 <br /> +</h4> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/frontispiece.jpg" alt="frontispiece" width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +<br /> <br /> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/titlepage.jpg" alt="titlepage" width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +<br /> <br /> <br /> +</p> +<hr /> +<p> +<br /> <br /> +</p> +<blockquote> +<p class="toc"> +<big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> +</p> +<p> +<br /> <a href="#link2H_PREF"> PREFACE. </a><br /><br /> <a +href="#link2H_4_0002"> <b>THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE</b> </a><br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a> A LONELY LANDSCAPE +<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a> GLENCORE +CASTLE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. </a> BILLY +TRAYNOR—POET, PEDLAR, AND PHYSICIAN <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. </a> A VISITOR <br /><br /> +<a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a> COLONEL HARCOUUT'S +LETTER <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. </a> QUEER +COMPANIONSHIP <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. </a> A +GREAT DIPLOMATIST <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. </a> THE +GREAT MAN'S ARRIVAL <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. </a> A +MEDICAL VISIT <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. </a> A +DISCLOSURE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. </a> SOME +LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF DIPLOMATIC LIFE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0012"> +CHAPTER XII. </a> A NIGHT AT SEA <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. </a> A “VOW” ACCOMPLISHED +<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. </a> BILLY +TRAYNOR AND THE COLONEL <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. +</a> A SICK BED <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER +XVI. </a> THE “PROJECT” <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0017"> +CHAPTER XVII. </a> A TÊTE-À-TÊTE <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII. </a> BILLY TRAYNOR AS +ORATOR <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. </a> THE +CASCINE AT FLORENCE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX. </a> THE +VILLA FOSSOMBRONI <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI. </a> SOME +TRAITS OF LIFE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII. </a> AN +UPTONIAN DESPATCH <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII. +</a> THE TUTOR AND HIS PUPIL <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV. </a> HOW A “RECEPTION” + COMES TO ITS CLOSE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV. </a> A +DUKE AND HIS MINISTER <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI. +</a> ITALIAN TROUBLES <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0027"> +CHAPTER XXVII. </a> CARRARA <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0028"> +CHAPTER XXVIII. </a> A NIGHT SCENE <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXIX. </a> A COUNCIL OF STATE +<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XXX. </a> THE +LIFE THEY LED AT MASSA <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XXXI. +</a> AT MASSA <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER +XXXII. </a> THE PAVILION IN THE GARDEN <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER XXXIII. </a> NIGHT THOUGHTS +<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER XXXIV. </a> A +MINISTER'S LETTER <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER XXXV. </a> HARCOURT'S +LODGINGS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER XXXVI. </a> A +FEVERED MIND <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER XXXVII. </a> THE +VILLA AT SORRENTO <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER XXXVIII. + </a> A DIPLOMATIST'S DINNER <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER XXXIX. </a> A VERY BROKEN +NARRATIVE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER XL. </a> UPTONISM +<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0041"> CHAPTER XLI. </a> AN +EVENING IN FLORENCE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0042"> CHAPTER XLIII. +</a> MADAME DE SABBLOUKOFF IN THE MORNING <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0043"> CHAPTER XLIII. </a> DOINGS IN DOWNING +STREET <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0044"> CHAPTER XLIV. </a> THE +SUBTLETIES OF STATECRAFT <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0045"> CHAPTER +XLV. </a> SOME SAD REVERIES <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0046"> +CHAPTER XLVI. </a> THE FLOOD IN THE MAGRA <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0047"> CHAPTER XLVII. </a> A FRAGMENT OF A +LETTER <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0048"> CHAPTER XLVIII. </a> HOW +A SOVEREIGN TREATS WITH HIS MINISTER <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0049"> +CHAPTER XLIX. </a> SOCIAL DIPLOMACIES <br /><br /> <a +href="#link2HCH0050"> CHAPTER L. </a> ANTE-DINNER REFLECTIONS +<br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0051"> CHAPTER LI. </a> CONFLICTING +THOUGHTS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0052"> CHAPTER LII. </a> MAJOR +SCARESBY'S VISIT <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0053"> CHAPTER LIII. </a> A +MASK IN CARNIVAL TIME <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0054"> CHAPTER LIV. +</a> THE END <br /><br /> +</p> +</blockquote> +<p> +<br /> <br /> +</p> +<hr /> +<p> +<br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +PREFACE. +</h2> +<p> +I am unwilling to suffer this tale to leave my hands without a word of +explanation to my reader. If I have never disguised from myself the +grounds of any humble success I have attained to as a writer of fiction; +if I have always had before me the fact that to movement and action, the +stir of incident, and a certain light-heartedness and gayety of +temperament, more easy to impart to others than to repress in one's self, +I have owed much, if not all, of whatever popularity I have enjoyed, I +have yet felt, or fancied that I felt, that it would be in the delineation +of very different scenes, and the portraiture of very different emotions, +that I should reap what I would reckon as a real success. This conviction, +or impression if you will, has become stronger with years and with the +knowledge of life; years have imparted, and time has but confirmed me in, +the notion that any skill I possess lies in the detection of character, +and the unravelment of that tangled skein which makes up human motives. +</p> +<p> +I am well aware that no error is more common than to mistake one's own +powers; nor does anything more contribute to this error than a sense of +self-depreciation for what the world has been pleased to deem successful +in us. To test my conviction, or to abandon it as a delusion forever, I +have written the present story of “Glencore.” + </p> +<p> +I make but little pretension to the claim of interesting; as little do I +aspire to the higher credit of instructing. All I have attempted-all I +have striven to accomplish-is the faithful portraiture of character, the +close analysis of motives, and correct observation as to some of the +manners and modes of thought which mark the age we live in. +</p> +<p> +Opportunities of society as well as natural inclination have alike +disposed me to such studies. I have stood over the game of life very +patiently for many a year, and though I may have grieved over the narrow +fortune which has prevented me from “cutting in,” I have consoled myself +by the thought of all the anxieties defeat might have cost me, all the +chagrin I had suffered were I to have risen a loser. Besides this, I have +learned to know and estimate what are the qualities which win success in +life, and what the gifts by which men dominate above their fellows. +</p> +<p> +If in the world of well-bred life the incidents and events be fewer, +because the friction is less than in the classes where vicissitudes of +fortune are more frequent, the play of passion, the moods of temper, and +the changeful varieties of nature are often very strongly developed, +shadowed and screened though they be by the polished conventionalities of +society. To trace and mark these has long constituted one of the pleasures +of my life; if I have been able to impart even a portion of that +gratification to my reader, I will not deem the effort in vain, nor the +“Fortunes of Glencore” a failure. +</p> +<p> +Let me add that although certain traits of character in some of the +individuals of my story may seem to indicate sketches of real personages, +there is but one character in the whole book drawn entirely from life. +</p> +<p> +This is Billy Traynor. Not only have I had a sitter for this picture, but +he is alive and hearty at the hour I am writing. For the others, they are +purely, entirely fictitious. Certain details, certain characteristics, I +have of course borrowed,—as he who would mould a human face must +needs have copied an eye, a nose, or a chin from some existent model; but +beyond this I have not gone, nor, indeed, have I found, in all my +experience of life, that fiction ever suggests what has not been implanted +unconsciously by memory; originality in the delineation of character being +little beyond a new combination of old materials derived from that source. +</p> +<p> +I wish I could as easily apologize for the faults and blemishes of my +story as I can detect and deplore them; but, like the failings in one's +nature, they are very often difficult to correct, even when acknowledged. +I have, therefore, but to throw myself once more upon the indulgence +which, “old offender” that I am, has never forsaken me, and subscribe +myself, +</p> +<p> +Your devoted friend and servant, +</p> +<p> +C. L. <br /> <br /> +</p> +<hr /> +<p> +<br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<h1> +THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE +</h1> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER I. A LONELY LANDSCAPE +</h2> +<p> +Where that singularly beautiful inlet of the sea known in the west of +Ireland as the Killeries, after narrowing to a mere strait, expands into a +bay, stands the ruin of the ancient Castle of Glencore. With the bold +steep sides of Ben Creggan behind, and the broad blue Atlantic in front, +the proud keep would seem to have occupied a spot that might have bid +defiance to the boldest assailant. The estuary itself here seems entirely +landlocked, and resembles, in the wild, fantastic outline of the mountains +around, a Norwegian fiord, rather than a scene in our own tamer landscape. +The small village of Leenane, which stands on the Galway shore, opposite +to Glencore, presents the only trace of habitation in this wild and +desolate district, for the country around is poor, and its soil offers +little to repay the task of the husbandman. Fishing is then the chief, if +not the sole, resource of those who pass their lives in this solitary +region; and thus in every little creek or inlet of the shore may be seen +the stout craft of some hardy venturer, and nets, and tackle, and +such-like gear, lie drying on every rocky eminence. We have said that +Glencore was a ruin; but still its vast proportions, yet traceable in +massive fragments of masonry, displayed specimens of various eras of +architecture, from the rudest tower of the twelfth century to the more +ornate style of a later period; while artificial embankments and sloped +sides of grass showed the remains of what once had been terrace and +“parterre,” the successors, it might be presumed, of fosse and parapet. +Many a tale of cruelty and oppression, many a story of suffering and +sorrow, clung to those old walls, for they had formed the home of a +haughty and a cruel race, the last descendant of which died at the close +of the past century. The Castle of Glencore, with the title, had now +descended to a distant relation of the house, who had repaired and so far +restored the old residence as to make it habitable,—that is to say, +four bleak and lofty chambers were rudely furnished, and about as many +smaller ones fitted for servant accommodation; but no effort at +embellishment, not even the commonest attempt at neatness, was bestowed on +the grounds or the garden; and in this state it remained for some +five-and-twenty or thirty years, when the tidings reached the little +village of Leenane that his lordship was about to return to Glencore, and +fix his residence there. +</p> +<p> +Such an event was of no small moment in such a locality, and many were the +speculations as to what might be the consequence of his coming. Little, or +indeed nothing, was known of Lord Glencore; his only visit to the +neighborhood had occurred many years before, and lasted but for a day. He +had arrived suddenly, and, taking a boat at the ferry, as it was called, +crossed over to the Castle, whence he returned at nightfall, to depart as +hurriedly as he came. +</p> +<p> +Of those who had seen him in this brief visit the accounts were vague and +most contradictory. Some called him handsome and well built; others said +he was a dark-looking, downcast man, with a sickly and forbidding aspect. +None, however, could record one single word he had spoken, nor could even +gossips pretend to say that he gave utterance to any opinion about the +place or the people. The mode in which the estate was managed gave as +little insight into the character of the proprietor. If no severity was +displayed to the few tenants on the property, there was no encouragement +given to their efforts at improvement; a kind of cold neglect was the only +feature discernible, and many went so far as to say that if any cared to +forget the payment of his rent, the chances were it might never be +demanded of him; the great security against such a venture, however, lay +in the fact that the land was held at a mere nominal rental, and few would +have risked his tenure by such an experiment. +</p> +<p> +It was little to be wondered at that Lord Glencore was not better known in +that secluded spot, since even in England his name was scarcely heard of. +His fortune was very limited, and he had no political influence whatever, +not possessing a seat in the Upper House; so that, as he spent his life +abroad, he was almost totally forgotten in his own country. +</p> +<p> +All that Debrett could tell of him was comprised in a few lines, recording +simply that he was sixth Viscount Glencore and Loughdooner; born in the +month of February, 180-, and married in August, 18—, to Clarissa +Isabella, second daughter of Sir Guy Clifford, of Wytchley, Baronet; by +whom he had issue, Charles Conyngham Massey, born 6th June, 18—. +There closed the notice. +</p> +<p> +Strange and quaint things are these short biographies, with little beyond +the barren fact that “he had lived” and “he had died;” and yet, with all +the changes of this work-a-day world, with its din, and turmoil, and +gold-seeking, and “progress,” men cannot divest themselves of reverence +for birth and blood, and the veneration for high descent remains an +instinct of humanity. Sneer as men will at “heaven-born legislators,” + laugh as you may at the “tenth transmitter of a foolish face,” there is +something eminently impressive in the fact of a position acquired by deeds +that date back to centuries, and preserved inviolate to the successor of +him who fought at Agincourt or at Cressy. If ever this religion shall be +impaired, the fault be with those who have derogated from their great +prerogative, and forgotten to make illustrious by example what they have +inherited illustrious by descent. +</p> +<p> +When the news first reached the neighborhood that a lord was about to take +up his residence in the Castle, the most extravagant expectations were +conceived of the benefits to arise from such a source. The very humblest +already speculated on the advantages his wealth was to diffuse, and the +thousand little channels into which his affluence would be directed. The +ancient traditions of the place spoke of a time of boundless profusion, +when troops of mounted followers used to accompany the old barons, and +when the lough itself used to be covered with boats, with the armorial +bearings of Glencore floating proudly from their mastheads. There were old +men then living who remembered as many as two hundred laborers being daily +employed on the grounds and gardens of the Castle; and the most fabulous +stories were told of fortunes accumulated by those who were lucky enough +to have saved the rich earnings of that golden period. +</p> +<p> +Colored as such speculations were with all the imaginative warmth of the +west, it was a terrible shock to such sanguine fancies when they beheld a +middle-aged, sad-looking man arrive in a simple postchaise, accompanied by +his son, a child of six or seven years of age, and a single servant,—a +grim-looking old dragoon corporal, who neither invited intimacy nor +rewarded it. It was not, indeed, for a long time that they could believe +that this was “my lord,” and that this solitary attendant was the whole of +that great retinue they had so long been expecting; nor, indeed, could any +evidence less strong than Mrs. Mulcahy's, of the Post-office, completely +satisfy them on the subject. The address of certain letters and newspapers +to the Lord Viscount Glencore was, however, a testimony beyond dispute; so +that nothing remained but to revenge themselves on the unconscious author +of their self-deception for the disappointment he gave them. This, it is +true, required some ingenuity, for they scarcely ever saw him, nor could +they ascertain a single fact of his habits or mode of life. +</p> +<p> +He never crossed the “Lough,” as the inlet of the sea, about three miles +in width, was called. He as rigidly excluded the peasantry from the +grounds of the Castle; and, save an old fisherman, who carried his +letter-bag to and fro, and a few laborers in the spring and autumn, none +ever invaded the forbidden precincts. +</p> +<p> +Of course, such privacy paid its accustomed penalty; and many an +explanation, of a kind little flattering, was circulated to account for so +ungenial an existence. Some alleged that he had committed some heavy crime +against the State, and was permitted to pass his life there, on the +condition of perpetual imprisonment; others, that his wife had deserted +him, and that in his forlorn condition he had sought out a spot to live +and die in, unnoticed and unknown; a few ascribed his solitude to debt; +while others were divided in opinion between charges of misanthropy and +avarice,—to either of which accusations his lonely and simple life +fully exposed him. +</p> +<p> +In time, however, people grew tired of repeating stories to which no new +evidence added any features of interest. They lost the zest for a scandal +which ceased to astonish, and “my lord” was as much forgotten, and his +existence as unspoken of, as though the old towers had once again become +the home of the owl and the jackdaw. +</p> +<p> +It was now about eight years since “the lord” had taken up his abode at +the Castle, when one evening, a raw and gusty night of December, the +little skiff of the fisherman was seen standing in for shore,—a +sight somewhat uncommon, since she always crossed the “Lough” in time for +the morning's mail. +</p> +<p> +“There's another man aboard, too,” said a bystander from the little group +that watched the boat, as she neared the harbor; “I think it's Mr. +Craggs.” + </p> +<p> +“You 're right enough, Sam,—it's the Corporal; I know his cap, and +the short tail of hair he wears under it. What can bring him at this time +of night?” + </p> +<p> +“He's going to bespeak a quarter of Tim Healey's beef, maybe,” said one, +with a grin of malicious drollery. +</p> +<p> +“Mayhap it's askin' us all to spend the Christmas he'd be,” said another. +</p> +<p> +“Whisht! or he 'll hear you,” muttered a third; and at the same instant +the sail came clattering down, and the boat glided swiftly past, and +entered a little natural creek close beneath where they stood. +</p> +<p> +“Who has got a horse and a jaunting-car?” cried the Corporal, as he jumped +on shore. “I want one for Clifden directly.” + </p> +<p> +“It's fifteen miles—devil a less,” cried one. +</p> +<p> +“Fifteen! no, but eighteen! Kiely's bridge is brack down, and you 'll have +to go by Gortnamuck.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, and if he has, can't he take the cut?” + </p> +<p> +“He can't.” + </p> +<p> +“Why not? Did n't I go that way last week?” + </p> +<p> +“Well, and if you did, did n't you lame your baste?” + </p> +<p> +“'T was n't the cut did it.” + </p> +<p> +“It was—sure I know better—Billy Moore tould me.” + </p> +<p> +“Billy's a liar!” + </p> +<p> +Such and such-like comments and contradictions were very rapidly +exchanged, and already the debate was waxing warm, when Mr. Craggs's +authoritative voice interposed with— +</p> +<p> +“Billy Moore be blowed! I want to know if I can have a car and horse?” + </p> +<p> +“To be sure! why not?—who says you can't?” chimed in a chorus. +</p> +<p> +“If you go to Clifden under five hours my name isn't Terry Lynch,” said an +old man in rabbitskin breeches. +</p> +<p> +“I 'll engage, if Barny will give me the blind mare, to drive him there +under four.” + </p> +<p> +“Bother!” said the Rabbitskin, in a tone of contempt. +</p> +<p> +“But where's the horse?” cried the Corporal. +</p> +<p> +“Ay, that's it,” said another; “where's the horse?” + </p> +<p> +“Is there none to be found in the village?” asked Craggs, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“Divil a horse, barrin' an ass. Barny's mare has the staggers the last +fortnight, and Mrs. Kyle's pony broke his two knees on Tuesday carrying +sea-weed up the rocks.” + </p> +<p> +“But I must go to Clifden; I must be there to-night,” said Craggs. +</p> +<p> +“It's on foot, then, you'll have to do it,” said the Rabbitskin. +</p> +<p> +“Lord Glencore's dangerously ill, and needs a doctor,” said the Corporal, +bursting out with a piece of most uncommon communicativeness. “Is there +none of you will give his horse for such an errand?” + </p> +<p> +“Arrah, musha!—it's a pity!” and such-like expressions of +compassionate import, were muttered on all sides; but no more active +movement seemed to flow from the condolence, while in a lower tone were +added such expressions as, “Sorra mend him—if he wasn't a naygar, +wouldn't he have a horse of his own? It's a droll lord he is, to be +begging the loan of a baste!” + </p> +<p> +Something like a malediction arose to the Corporal's lips; but restraining +it, and with a voice thick from passion, he said,— +</p> +<p> +“I 'm ready to pay you—to pay you ten times over the worth of your—” + </p> +<p> +“You need n't curse the horse, anyhow,” interposed Rabbitskin, while with +a significant glance at his friends around him, he slyly intimated that it +would be as well to adjourn the debate,—a motion as quickly obeyed +as it was mooted; for in less than five minutes Craggs was standing beside +the quay, with no other companion than a blind beggar-woman, who, +perfectly regardless of his distress, continued energetically to draw +attention to her own. +</p> +<p> +“A little fivepenny bit, my lord—the last trifle your honor's glory +has in the corner of your pocket, that you 'll never miss, and that 'll +sweeten ould Molly's tay to-night? There, acushla, have pity on 'the +dark,' and that you may see glory—” + </p> +<p> +But Craggs did not wait for the remainder, but, deep in his own thoughts, +sauntered down towards the village. Already had the others retreated +within their homes; and now all was dark and cheerless along the little +straggling street. +</p> +<p> +“And this is a Christian country!—this a land that people tell you +abounds in kindness and good-nature!” said he, in an accent of sarcastic +bitterness. +</p> +<p> +“And who'll say the reverse?” answered a voice from behind, and, turning, +he beheld the little hunchbacked fellow who carried the mail on foot from +Oughterard, a distance of sixteen miles, over a mountain, and who was +popularly known as “Billy the Bag,” from the little leather sack which +seemed to form part of his attire. “Who 'll stand up and tell me it's not +a fine country in every sense,—for natural beauties, for +antiquities, for elegant men and lovely females, for quarries of marble +and mines of gould?” + </p> +<p> +Craggs looked contemptuously at the figure who thus declaimed of Ireland's +wealth and grandeur, and, in a sneering tone, said,— +</p> +<p> +“And with such riches on every side, why do you go barefoot—why are +you in rags, my old fellow?” + </p> +<p> +“Is n't there poor everywhere? If the world was all gould and silver, what +would be the precious metals—tell me that? Is it because there's a +little cripple like myself here, that them mountains yonder is n't of +copper and iron and cobalt? Come over with me after I lave the bags at the +office, and I 'll show you bits of every one I speak of.” + </p> +<p> +“I'd rather you'd show me a doctor, my worthy fellow,” said Craggs, +sighing. +</p> +<p> +“I'm the nearest thing to that same going,” replied Billy. “I can breathe +a vein against any man in the barony. I can't say, that for any articular +congestion of the aortic valves, or for a sero-pulmonic diathesis—d'ye +mind?—that there isn't as good as me; but for the ould school of +physic, the humoral diagnostic touch, who can beat me?” + </p> +<p> +“Will you come with me across the lough, and see my lord, then?” said +Craggs, who was glad even of such aid in his emergency. +</p> +<p> +“And why not, when I lave the bags?” said Billy, touching the leather sack +as he spoke. +</p> +<p> +If the Corporal was not without his misgivings as to the skill and +competence of his companion, there was something in the fluent volubility +of the little fellow that overawed and impressed him, while his words were +uttered in a rich mellow voice, that gave them a sort of solemn +persuasiveness. +</p> +<p> +“Were you always on the road?” asked the Corporal, curious to learn some +particulars of his history. +</p> +<p> +“No, sir; I was twenty things before I took to the bags. I was a poor +scholar for four years; I kept school in Erris; I was 'on' the ferry in +Dublin with my fiddle for eighteen months; and I was a bear in Liverpool +for part of a winter.” + </p> +<p> +“A bear!” exclaimed Craggs. “Yes, sir. It was an Italian—one Pipo +Chiassi by name—that lost his beast at Manchester, and persuaded me, +as I was about the same stature, to don the sable, and perform in his +place. After that I took to writin' for the papers—'The Skibbereen +Celt'—and supported myself very well till it broke. But here we are +at the office, so I 'll step in, and get my fiddle, too, if you 've no +objection.” + </p> +<p> +The Corporal's meditations scarcely were of a kind to reassure him, as he +thought over the versatile character of his new friend; but the case +offered no alternative—it was Billy or nothing—since to reach +Clifden on foot would be the labor of many hours, and in the interval his +master should be left utterly alone. While he was thus musing, Billy +reappeared, with a violin under one arm and a much-worn quarto under the +other. +</p> +<p> +“This,” said he, touching the volume, “is the 'Whole Art and Mystery of +Physic,' by one Fabricius, of Aquapendente; and if we don't find a cure +for the case down here, take my word for it, it's among the <i>morba +ignota</i>, as Paracelsus says.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, come along,” said Craggs, impatiently, and set off at a speed that, +notwithstanding Billy's habits of foot-travel, kept him at a sharp trot. A +few minutes more saw them, with canvas spread, skimming across the lough, +towards Glencore. +</p> +<p> +“Glencore—Glencore!” muttered Billy once or twice to himself, as the +swift boat bounded through the hissing surf. “Did you ever hear Lady +Lucy's Lament?” And he struck a few chords with his fingers as he sang:— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“'I care not for your trellised vine, +I love the dark woods on the shore, +Nor all the towers along the Rhine +Are dear to me as old Glencore. + +The ragged cliff, Ben Creggan high, +Re-echoing the Atlantic roar, +Are mingling with the seagull's cry +My welcome back to old Glencore.' +</pre> +<p> +And then there's a chorus.” + </p> +<p> +“That's a signal to us to make haste,” said the Corporal, pointing to a +bright flame which suddenly shot up on the shore of the lough. “Put out an +oar to leeward there, and keep her up to the wind.” + </p> +<p> +And Billy, perceiving his minstrelsy unattended to, consoled himself by +humming over, for his own amusement, the remainder of his ballad. +</p> +<p> +The wind freshened as the night grew darker, and heavy seas repeatedly +broke on the bow, and swept over the boat in sprayey showers. +</p> +<p> +“It's that confounded song of yours has got the wind up,” said Craggs, +angrily; “stand by the sheet, and stop your croning!” + </p> +<p> +“That's an <i>error vulgaris</i>, attributing to music marine disasters,” + said Billy, calmly; “it arose out of a mistake about one Orpheus.” + </p> +<p> +“Slack off there!” cried Craggs, as a squall struck the boat, and laid her +almost over. +</p> +<p> +Billy, however, had obeyed the mandate promptly, and she soon righted, and +held on her course. +</p> +<p> +“I wish they'd show the light again on shore,” muttered the Corporal; “the +night is black as pitch.” + </p> +<p> +“Keep the top of the mountain a little to windward, and you 're all +right,” said Billy. “I know the lough well; I used to come here all hours, +day and night, once, spearing salmon.” + </p> +<p> +“And smuggling, too!” added Craggs. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, sir; brandy, and tay, and pigtail, for Mister Sheares, in +Oughterard.” + </p> +<p> +“What became of him?” asked Craggs. +</p> +<p> +“He made a fortune and died, and his son married a lady!” + </p> +<p> +“Here comes another; throw her head up in the wind,” cried Craggs. +</p> +<p> +This time the order came too late; for the squall struck her with the +suddenness of a shot, and she canted over till her keel lay out of water, +and, when she righted, it was with the white surf boiling over her. +</p> +<p> +“She's a good boat, then, to stand that,” said Billy, as he struck a light +for his pipe, with all the coolness of one perfectly at his ease; and +Craggs, from that very moment, conceived a favorable opinion of the little +hunchback. +</p> +<p> +“Now we're in the smooth water, Corporal,” cried Billy; “let her go a +little free.” + </p> +<p> +And, obedient to the advice, he ran the boat swiftly along till she +entered a small creek, so sheltered by the highlands that the water within +was still as a mountain tarn. +</p> +<p> +“You never made the passage on a worse night, I 'll be bound,” said +Craggs, as he sprang on shore. +</p> +<p> +“Indeed and I did, then,” replied Billy. “I remember—it was two days +before Christmas—we were blown out to say in a small boat, not more +than the half of this, and we only made the west side of Arran Island +after thirty-six hours' beating and tacking. I wrote an account of it for +the 'Tyrawly Regenerator,' commencing with— +</p> +<p> +“'The elemential conflict that with tremendious violence raged, ravaged, +and ruined the adamantine foundations of our western coast, on Tuesday, +the 23rd of December—'” + </p> +<p> +“Come along, come along,” said Craggs; “we've something else to think of.” + </p> +<p> +And with this admonition, very curtly bestowed, he stepped out briskly on +the path towards Glencore. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER II. GLENCORE CASTLE +</h2> +<p> +When the Corporal, followed by Billy, entered the gloomy hall of the +Castle, they found two or three country people conversing in a low but +eager voice together, who speedily turned towards them, to learn if the +doctor had come. +</p> +<p> +“Here 's all I could get in the way of a doctor,” said Craggs, pushing +Billy towards them as he spoke. +</p> +<p> +“Faix, and ye might have got worse,” muttered a very old man; “Billy +Traynor has the lucky hand.'” + </p> +<p> +“How is my lord, now, Nelly?” asked the Corporal of a woman who, with bare +feet, and dressed in the humblest fashion of the peasantry, appeared. +</p> +<p> +“He's getting weaker and weaker, sir; I believe he's sinking. I'm glad +it's Billy is come; I'd rather see him than all the doctors in the +country.” + </p> +<p> +“Follow me,” said Craggs, giving a signal to step lightly; and he led the +way up a narrow stone stair, with a wall on either hand. Traversing a +long, low corridor, they reached a door, at which having waited for a +second or two to listen, Craggs turned the handle and entered. The room +was very large and lofty, and, seen in the dim light of a small lamp upon +the hearthstone, seemed even more spacious than it was. The oaken floor +was uncarpeted, and a very few articles of furniture occupied the walls. +In one corner stood a large bed, the heavy curtains of which had been +gathered up on the roof, the better to admit air to the sick man. +</p> +<p> +As Billy drew nigh with cautious steps, he perceived that, although worn +and wasted by long illness, the patient was a man still in the very prime +of life. His dark hair and beard, which he wore long, were untinged with +gray, and his forehead showed no touch of age. His dark eyes were wide +open, and his lips slightly parted, his whole features exhibiting an +expression of energetic action, even to wildness. Still he was sleeping; +and, as Craggs whispered, he seldom slept otherwise, even when in health. +With all the quietness of a trained practitioner, Billy took down the +watch that was pinned to the curtain and proceeded to count the pulse. +</p> +<p> +“A hundred and thirty-eight,” muttered he, as he finished; and then, +gently displacing the bedclothes, laid his hand upon the heart. +</p> +<p> +With a long-drawn sigh, like that of utter weariness, the sick man moved +his head round and fixed his eyes upon him. +</p> +<p> +“The doctor!” said he, in a deep-toned but feeble voice. “Leave me, Craggs—leave +me alone with him.” + </p> +<p> +And the Corporal slowly retired, turning as he went to look back towards +the bed, and evidently going with reluctance. +</p> +<p> +“Is it fever?” asked the sick man, in a faint but unfaltering accent. +</p> +<p> +“It's a kind of cerebral congestion,—a matter of them membranes +that's over the brain, with, of course, <i>febrilis generalis</i>.” + </p> +<p> +The accentuation of these words, marked as it was by the strongest +provincialism of the peasant, attracted the sick man's attention, and he +bent upon him a look at once searching and severe. +</p> +<p> +“What are you—who are you?” cried he, angrily. +</p> +<p> +“What I am is n't so aisy to say; but who I am is clean beyond me.” + </p> +<p> +“Are you a doctor?” asked the sick man, fiercely. +</p> +<p> +“I'm afear'd I'm not, in the sense of a <i>gradum Universitatis</i>,—a +diplomia; but sure maybe Paracelsus himself just took to it, like me, +having a vocation, as one might say.” + </p> +<p> +“Ring that bell,” said the other, peremptorily. +</p> +<p> +And Billy obeyed without speaking. +</p> +<p> +“What do you mean by this, Craggs?” said the Viscount, trembling with +passion. “Who have you brought me? What beggar have you picked off the +highway? Or is he the travelling fool of the district?” + </p> +<p> +But the anger that supplied strength hitherto now failed to impart energy, +and he sank back wasted and exhausted. The Corporal bent over him, and +spoke something in a low whisper, but whether the words were heard or not, +the sick man now lay still, breathing heavily. +</p> +<p> +“Can you do nothing for him?” asked Craggs, peevishly—“nothing but +anger him?” + </p> +<p> +“To be sure I can if you let me,” said Billy, producing a very ancient +lancet-case of boxwood tipped with ivory. “I'll just take a dash of blood +from the temporal artery, to relieve the cerebrum, and then we'll put +cowld on his head, and keep him quiet.” + </p> +<p> +And with a promptitude that showed at least self-confidence, he proceeded +to accomplish the operation, every step of which he effected skilfully and +well. +</p> +<p> +“There, now,” said he, feeling the pulse, as the blood continued to flow +freely, “the circulation is relieved at once; it's the same as opening a +sluice in a mill-dam. He 's better already.” + </p> +<p> +“He looks easier,” said Craggs. +</p> +<p> +“Ay, and he feels it,” continued Billy. “Just notice the respiratory +organs, and see how easy the intercostials is doing their work now. Bring +me a bowl of clean water, some vinegar, and any ould rags you have.” + </p> +<p> +Craggs obeyed, but not without a sneer at the direction. +</p> +<p> +“All over the head,” said Billy; “all over it,—back and front,—and +with the blessing of the Virgin, I'll have that hair off of him if he is +n't cooler towards evening.” + </p> +<p> +So saying, he covered the sick man with the wetted cloths, and bathed his +hands in the cooling fluid. +</p> +<p> +“Now to exclude the light and save the brain from stimulation and +excitation,” said Billy, with a pompous enunciation of the last syllables; +“and then <i>quies</i>—rest—peace!” + </p> +<p> +And with this direction, imparted with a caution to enforce its benefits, +he moved stealthily towards the door and passed out. +</p> +<p> +“What do you think of him?” asked the Corporal, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“He 'll do—he 'll do,” said Billy. “He's a sanguineous temperament, +and he'll bear the lancet. It's just like weatherin' a point at say. If +you have a craft that will carry canvas, there's always a chance for you.” + </p> +<p> +“He perceived that you were not a doctor,” said Craggs, when they reached +the corridor. +</p> +<p> +“Did he, faix?” cried Billy, half indignantly. “He might have perceived +that I did n't come in a coach; that I had n't my hair powdered, nor gold +knee-buckles in my smallcloths; but, for all that, it would be going too +far to say that I was n't a doctor! 'T is the same with physic and poetry—you +take to it, or you don't take to it! There's chaps, ay, and far from +stupid ones either, that could n't compose you ten hexameters if ye'd put +them on a hot griddle for it; and there's others that would talk rhyme +rather than rayson! And so with the <i>ars medicatrix</i>—everybody +has n't an eye for a hectic, or an ear for a cough—<i>non contigit +cuique adire Corintheum</i>. 'T is n't every one can toss pancakes, as +Horace says.” + </p> +<p> +“Hush—be still!” muttered Craggs, “here's the young master.” And as +he spoke, a youth of about fifteen, well grown and handsome, but poorly, +even meanly clad, approached them. +</p> +<p> +“Have you seen my father? What do you think of him?” asked he, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“'Tis a critical state he's in, your honor,” said Billy, bowing; “but I +think he 'll come round—<i>deplation, deplation, deplation—actio, +actio, actio</i>; relieve the gorged vessels, and don't drown the grand +hydraulic machine, the heart—them's my sentiments.” + </p> +<p> +Turning from the speaker with a look of angry impatience, the boy +whispered some words in the Corporal's ear. +</p> +<p> +“What could I do, sir?” was the answer; “it was this fellow or nothing.” + </p> +<p> +“And better, a thousand times better, nothing,” said the boy, “than trust +his life to the coarse ignorance of this wretched quack.” And in his +passion the words were uttered loud enough for Billy to overhear them. +</p> +<p> +“Don't be hasty, your honor,” said Billy, submissively, “and don't be +unjust. The realms of disaze is like an unknown tract of country, or a +country that's only known a little, just round the coast, as it might be; +once ye're beyond that, one man is as good a guide as another, <i>coeteris +paribus</i>, that is, with 'equal lights.'” + </p> +<p> +“What have you done? Have you given him anything?” broke in the boy, +hurriedly. +</p> +<p> +“I took a bleeding from him, little short of sixteen ounces, from the +temporial,” said Billy, proudly, “and I'll give him now a concoction of +meadow saffron with a pinch of saltpetre in it, to cause diaphoresis, d'ye +mind? Meanwhile, we're disgorging the arachnoid membranes with cowld +applications, and we're relievin' the cerebellum by repose. I challenge +the Hall,” added Billy, stoutly, “to say is n't them the grand principles +of 'traitment.' Ah! young gentleman,” said he, after a few seconds' pause, +“don't be hard on me, because I 'm poor and in rags, nor think manely of +me because I spake with a brogue, and maybe bad grammar, for, you see, +even a crayture of my kind can have a knowledge of disaze, just as he may +have a knowledge of nature, by observation. What is sickness, after all, +but just one of the phenomenons of all organic and inorganic matter—a +regular sort of shindy in a man's inside, like a thunderstorm, or a +hurry-cane outside? Watch what's coming, look out and see which way the +mischief is brewin', and make your preparations. That's the great study of +physic.” + </p> +<p> +The boy listened patiently and even attentively to this speech, and when +Billy had concluded, he turned to the Corporal and said, “Look to him, +Craggs, and let him have his supper, and when he has eaten it send him to +my room.” + </p> +<p> +Billy bowed an acknowledgment, and followed the Corporal to the kitchen. +</p> +<p> +“That's my lord's son, I suppose,” said he, as he seated himself, “and a +fine young crayture too—<i>puer ingenuus</i>, with a grand frontal +development.” And with this reflection he addressed himself to the coarse +but abundant fare which Craggs placed before him, and with an appetite +that showed how much he relished it. +</p> +<p> +“This is elegant living ye have here, Mr. Craggs,” said Billy, as he +drained his tankard of beer, and placed it with a sigh on the table; “many +happy years of it to ye—I could n't wish ye anything better.” + </p> +<p> +“The life is not so bad,” said Craggs, “but it's lonely sometimes.” + </p> +<p> +“Life need never be lonely so long as a man has health and his faculties,” + said Billy; “give me nature to admire, a bit of baycon for dinner, and my +fiddle to amuse me, and I would n't change with the King of Sugar +'Candy.'” + </p> +<p> +“I was there,” said Craggs, “it's a fine island.” + </p> +<p> +“My lord wants to see the doctor,” said a woman, entering hastily. +</p> +<p> +“And the doctor is ready for him,” said Billy, rising and leaving the +kitchen with all the dignity he could assume. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER III. BILLY TRAYNOR—POET, PEDLAR, AND PHYSICIAN +</h2> +<p> +“Didn't I tell you how it would be?” said Billy, as he re-entered the +kitchen, now crowded by the workpeople, anxious for tidings of the sick +man. “The head is re-leaved, the congestive symptoms is allayed, and when +the artarial excitement subsides, he 'll be out of danger.” + </p> +<p> +“Musha, but I 'm glad,” muttered one; “he 'd be a great loss to us.” + </p> +<p> +“True for you, Patsey; there's eight or nine of us here would miss him if +he was gone.” + </p> +<p> +“Troth, he doesn't give much employment, but we couldn't spare him,” + croaked out a third, when the entrance of the Corporal cut short further +commentary; and the party gathered around the cheerful turf fire with that +instinctive sense of comfort impressed by the swooping wind and rain that +beat against the windows. +</p> +<p> +“It's a dreadful night outside; I would n't like to cross the lough in +it,” said one. +</p> +<p> +“Then that's just what I'm thinking of this minit,” said Billy. “I'll have +to be up at the office for the bags at six o'clock.” + </p> +<p> +“Faix, you 'll not see Leenane at six o'clock to-morrow.” + </p> +<p> +“Sorra taste of it,” muttered another; “there's a sea runnin' outside now +that would swamp a life-boat.” + </p> +<p> +“I'll not lose an illigant situation of six pounds ten a year, and a pair +of shoes at Christmas, for want of a bit of courage,” said Billy; “I'd +have my dismissal if I wasn't there as sure as my name is Billy Traynor.” + </p> +<p> +“And better for you than lose your life, Billy,” said one. +</p> +<p> +“And it's not alone myself I'd be thinking of,” said Billy; “but every man +in this world, high and low, has his duties. <i>My</i> duty,” added he, +somewhat pretentiously, “is to carry the King's mail; and if anything was +to obstruckt, or impade, or delay the correspondience, it's on me the +blame would lie.” + </p> +<p> +“The letters wouldn't go the faster because you were drowned,” broke in +the Corporal. +</p> +<p> +“No, sir,” said Billy, rather staggered by the grin of approval that met +this remark—“no, sir, what you ob-sarve is true; but nobody reflects +on the sintry that dies at his post.” + </p> +<p> +“If you must and will go, I'll give you the yawl,” said Craggs; “and I 'll +go with you myself.” + </p> +<p> +“Spoke like a British Grenadier,” cried Billy, with enthusiasm. +</p> +<p> +“Carbineer, if the same to you, master,” said the other, quietly; “I never +served in the infantry.” + </p> +<p> +“<i>Tros Tyriusve mihi</i>,” cried Billy; “which is as much as to say,— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“'To storm the skies, or lay siege to the moon, +Give me one of the line, or a heavy dragoon,' +</pre> +<p> +it's the same to me, as the poet says.” + </p> +<p> +And a low murmur of the company seemed to accord approval to the +sentiment. +</p> +<p> +“I wish you 'd give us a tune, Billy,” said one, coaxingly. +</p> +<p> +“Or a song would be better,” observed another. +</p> +<p> +“Faix,” cried a third, “'tis himself could do it, and in Frinch or Latin +if ye wanted it.” + </p> +<p> +“The Germans was the best I ever knew for music,” broke in Craggs. “I was +brigaded with Arentschild's Hanoverians in Spain; and they used to sit +outside the tents every evening, and sing. By Jove! how they did sing—all +together, like the swell of a church organ.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, you're right,” said Billy, but evidently yielding an unwilling +assent to this doctrine. “The Germans has a fine national music, and they +'re great for harmony. But harmony and melody is two different things.” + </p> +<p> +“And which is best, Billy?” asked one of the company. +</p> +<p> +“Musha, but I pity your ignorance,” said Billy, with a degree of confusion +that raised a hearty laugh at his expense. +</p> +<p> +“Well, but where's the song?” exclaimed another. +</p> +<p> +“Ay,” said Craggs, “we are forgetting the song. Now for it, Billy. Since +all is going on so well above stairs, I'll draw you a gallon of ale, boys, +and we 'll drink to the master's speedy recovery.” + </p> +<p> +It was a rare occasion when the Corporal suffered himself to expand in +this fashion, and great was the applause at the unexpected munificence. +</p> +<p> +Billy at the same moment took out his fiddle and began that process of +preparatory screwing and scraping which, no matter how distressing to the +surrounders, seems to afford intense delight to performers on this +instrument. In the present case, it is but fair to say, there was neither +comment nor impatience; on the contrary, they seemed to accept these +convulsive throes of sound as an earnest of the grand flood of melody that +was coming. That Billy was occupied with other thoughts than those of +tuning was, however, apparent, for his lips continued to move rapidly; and +at moments he was seen to beat time with his foot, as though measuring out +the rhythm of a verse. +</p> +<p> +“I have it now, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, making a low obeisance to +the company; and so saying, he struck up a very popular tune, the same to +which a reverend divine wrote his words of “The night before Larry was +Stretched;” and in a voice of a deep and mellow fulness, managed with +considerable taste, sang— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“'A fig for the chansons of France, +Whose meaning is always a riddle; +The music to sing or to dance +Is an Irish tune played on the fiddle. + +To your songs of the Rhine and the Rhone +I 'm ready to cry out I am satis; +Just give us something of our own +In praise of our Land of Potatoes. + +Tol lol de lol, etc. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“'What care I for sorrows of those +Who speak of their heart as a cuore; +How expect me to feel for the woes +Of him who calls love an amore! + +Let me have a few words about home, +With music whose strains I 'd remember, +And I 'll give you all Florence and Rome, +Tho' they have a blue sky in December. + +Tol lol de lol, etc. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“'With a pretty face close to your own, +I 'm sore there's no rayson for sighing; +Nor when walkin' beside her alone, +Why the blazes be talking of dying! + +That's the way tho', in France and in Spain, +Where love is not real, but acted, +You must always portend you 're insane, +Or at laste that you 're partly distracted. + +Tol lol de lol, etc.'” + </pre> +<p> +It is very unlikely that the reader will estimate Billy's impromptu as did +the company; in fact, it possessed the greatest of all claims to their +admiration, for it was partly incomprehensible, and by the artful +introduction of a word here and there, of which his hearers knew nothing, +the poet was well aware that he was securing their heartiest approval. Nor +was Billy insensible to such flatteries. The <i>irritabile genus</i> has +its soft side, and can enjoy to the uttermost its own successes. It is +possible, if Billy had been in another sphere, with much higher gifts, and +surrounded by higher associates, that he might have accepted the homage +tendered him with more graceful modesty, and seemed at least less +confident of his own merits; but under no possible change of places or +people could the praise have bestowed more sincere pleasure. +</p> +<p> +“You're right, there, Jim Morris,” said he, turning suddenly round towards +one of the company; “you never said a truer thing than that. The poetic +temperament is riches to a poor man. Wherever I go—in all weathers, +wet and dreary, and maybe footsore, with the bags full, and the mountain +streams all flowin' over—I can just go into my own mind, just the +way you'd go into an inn, and order whatever you wanted. I don't need to +be a king, to sit on a throne; I don't want ships, nor coaches, nor +horses, to convay me to foreign lands. I can bestow kingdoms. When I +haven't tuppence to buy tobacco, and without a shoe to my foot, and my +hair through my hat, I can be dancin' wid princesses, and handin' +empresses in to tay.” + </p> +<p> +“Musha, musha!” muttered the surrounders, as though they were listening to +a magician, who in a moment of unguarded familiarity condescended to +discuss his own miraculous gifts. +</p> +<p> +“And,” resumed Billy, “it isn't only what ye are to yourself and your own +heart, but what ye are to others, that without that sacret bond between +you, wouldn't think of you at all. I remember, once on a time, I was in +the north of England travelling, partly for pleasure, and partly with a +view to a small speculation in Sheffield ware—cheap penknives and +scissors, pencil-cases, bodkins, and the like—and I wandered about +for weeks through what they call the Lake Country, a very handsome place, +but nowise grand or sublime, like what we have here in Ireland—more +wood, forest timber, and better-off people, but nothing beyond that! +</p> +<p> +“Well, one evening—it was in August—I came down by a narrow +path to the side of a lake, where there was a stone seat, put up to see +the view from, and in front was three wooden steps of stairs going down +into the water, where a boat might come in. It was a lovely spot, and well +chosen, for you could count as many as five promontories running out into +the lake; and there was two islands, all wooded to the water's edge; and +behind all, in the distance, was a great mountain, with clouds on the top; +and it was just the season when the trees is beginnin' to change their +colors, and there was shades of deep gold, and dark olive, and russet +brown, all mingling together with the green, and glowing in the lake below +under the setting sun, and all was quiet and still as midnight; and over +the water the only ripple was the track of a water-hen, as she scudded +past between the islands; and if ever there was peace and tranquillity in +the world it was just there! Well, I put down my pack in the leaves, for I +did n't like to see or think of it, and I stretched myself down at the +water's edge, and I fell into a fit of musing. It's often and often I +tried to remember the elegant fancies that came through my head, and the +beautiful things that I thought I saw that night out on the lake fornint +me! Ye see I was fresh and fastin'; I never tasted a bit the whole day, +and my brain, maybe, was all the better; for somehow janius, real janius, +thrives best on a little starvation. And from musing I fell off asleep; +and it was the sound of voices near that first awoke me! For a minute or +two I believed I was dreaming, the words came so softly to my ear, for +they were spoken in a low, gentle voice, and blended in with the slight +splash of oars that moved through the water carefully, as though not to +lose a word of him that was speakin'. +</p> +<p> +“It's clean beyond <i>me</i> to tell you what he said; and, maybe, if I +could, ye would n't be able to follow it, for he was discoorsin' about +night and the moon, and all that various poets said about them; ye'd think +that he had books, and was reading out of them, so glibly came the verses +from his lips. I never listened to such a voice before, so soft, so sweet, +so musical, and the words came droppin' down, like the clear water +filterin' over a rocky ledge, and glitterin' like little spangles over +moss and wild-flowers. +</p> +<p> +“It wasn't only in English but Scotch ballads, too, and once or twice in +Italian that he recited, till at last he gave out, in all the fulness of +his liquid voice, them elegant lines out of Pope's Homer:— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“'As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night, +O'er heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred light, +When not a breath disturbs the deep serene, +And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene, +Around her throne the vivid planets roll, +And stars unnumbered gild the glowing pole: +O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed, +And top with silver every mountain's head; +Then shine the vales; the rocks in prospect rise— +A flood of glory bursts from all the skies; +The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight, +Eye the blue vault and bless the useful light.' +</pre> +<p> +“The Lord forgive me, but when he came to the last words and said, 'useful +light,' I couldn't restrain myself, but broke out, 'That's mighty like a +bull, anyhow, and reminds me of the ould song,— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“'Good luck to the moon, she's a fine noble creature, +And gives us the daylight all night in the dark.' +</pre> +<p> +“Before I knew where I was, the boat glided in to the steps, and a tall +man, a little stooped in the shoulders, stood before me. +</p> +<p> +“'Is it you,' said he, with a quiet laugh, 'that accuses Pope of a bull?' +</p> +<p> +“'It is,' says I; 'and, what's more, there isn't a poet from Horace +downwards that I won't show bulls in; there's bulls in Shakspeare and in +Milton; there's bulls in the ancients; I 'll point out a bull in +Aristophanes.' +</p> +<p> +“'What have we here?' said he, turning to the others. +</p> +<p> +“'A poor crayture,' says I, 'like Goldsmith's chest of drawers,— +</p> +<p> +“'With brains reduced a doable debt to pay, To dream by night, sell +Sheffield ware by day.' +</p> +<p> +“Well, with that he took a fit of laughing, and handing the rest out of +the boat, he made me come along at his side, discoorsin' me about my +thravels, and all I seen, and all I read, till we reached an elegant +little cottage on a bank right over the lake; and then he brought me in +and made me take tay with the family; and I spent the night there; and +when I started the next morning there was n't a 'screed' of my pack that +they did n't buy, penknives, and whistles, and nut-crackers, and all, +just, as they said, for keepsakes. Good luck to them, and happy hearts, +wherever they are, for they made mine happy that day; ay, and for many an +hour afterwards, when I just think over their kind words and pleasant +faces.” + </p> +<p> +More than one of the company had dropped off asleep during Billy's +narrative, and of the others, their complaisance as listeners appeared +taxed to the utmost, while the Corporal snored loudly, like a man who had +a right to indulge himself to the fullest extent. +</p> +<p> +“There's the bell again,” muttered one, “that's from the 'lord's room;'” + and Craggs, starting up by the instinct of his office, hastened off to his +master's chamber. +</p> +<p> +“My lord says you are to remain here,” said he, as he re-entered a few +minutes later; “he is satisfied with your skill, and I'm to send off a +messenger to the post, to let them know he has detained you.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm obaydient,” said Billy, with a low bow; “and now for a brief +repose!” And so saying, he drew a long woollen nightcap from his pocket, +and putting it over his eyes, resigned himself to sleep with the practised +air of one who needed but very little preparation to secure slumber. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER IV. A VISITOR +</h2> +<p> +The old Castle of Glencore contained but one spacious room, and this +served all the purposes of drawing-room, dining-room, and library. It was +a long and lofty chamber, with a raftered ceiling, from which a heavy +chandelier hung by a massive chain of iron. Six windows, all in the same +wall, deeply set and narrow, admitted a sparing light. In the opposite +wall stood two fireplaces, large, massive, and monumental, the carved +supporters of the richly-chased pediment being of colossal size, and the +great shield of the house crowning the pyramid of strange and uncouth +objects that were grouped below. The walls were partly occupied by +bookshelves, partly covered by wainscot, and here and there displayed a +worn-out portrait of some bygone warrior or dame, who little dreamed how +much the color of their effigies should be indebted to the sad effects of +damp and mildew. The furniture consisted of every imaginable type, from +the carved oak and ebony console to the white and gold of Versailles +taste, and the modern compromise of comfort with ugliness which chintz and +soft cushions accomplish. Two great screens, thickly covered with prints +and drawings, most of them political caricatures of some fifty years back, +flanked each fireplace, making, as it were, in this case two different +apartments. +</p> +<p> +At one of those, on a low sofa, sat, or rather lay, Lord Glencore, pale +and wasted by long illness. His thin hand held a letter, to shade his eyes +from the blazing wood-fire, and the other hand hung listlessly at his +side. The expression of the sick man's face was that of deep melancholy—not +the mere gloom of recent suffering, but the deep-cut traces of a +long-carried affliction, a sorrow which had eaten into his very heart, and +made its home there. +</p> +<p> +At the second fireplace sat his son, and, though a mere boy, the +lineaments of his father marked the youth's face with a painful exactness. +The same intensity was in the eyes, the same haughty character sat on the +brow; and there was in the whole countenance the most extraordinary +counterpart of the gloomy seriousness of the older face. He had been +reading, but the fast-falling night obliged him to desist, and he sat now +contemplating the bright embers of the wood fire in dreamy thought. Once +or twice was he disturbed from his revery by the whispered voice of an old +serving-man, asking for something with that submissive manner assumed by +those who are continually exposed to the outbreaks of another's temper; +and at last the boy, who had hitherto scarcely deigned to notice the +appeals to him, flung a bunch of keys contemptuously on the ground, with a +muttered malediction on his tormentor. +</p> +<p> +“What's that?” cried out the sick man, startled at the sound. +</p> +<p> +“'Tis nothing, my lord, but the keys that fell out of my hand,” replied +the old man, humbly. “Mr. Craggs is away to Leenane, and I was going to +get out the wine for dinner.” + </p> +<p> +“Where's Mr. Charles?” asked Lord Glencore. +</p> +<p> +“He's there beyant,” muttered the other, in a low voice, while he pointed +towards the distant fireplace; “but he looks tired and weary, and I did +n't like to disturb him.” + </p> +<p> +“Tired! weary!—with what? Where has he been; what has he been +doing?” cried he, hastily. “Charles, Charles, I say!” + </p> +<p> +And slowly rising from his seat, and with an air of languid indifference, +the boy came towards him. +</p> +<p> +Lord Glencore's face darkened as he gazed on him. +</p> +<p> +“Where have you been?” asked he, sternly. +</p> +<p> +“Yonder,” said the boy, in an accent like the echo of his own. +</p> +<p> +“There's Mr. Craggs, now, my lord,” said the old butler, as he looked out +of the window, and eagerly seized the opportunity to interrupt the scene; +“there he is, and a gentleman with him.” + </p> +<p> +“Ha! go and meet him, Charles,—it's Harcourt. Go and receive him, +show him his room, and then bring him here to me.” + </p> +<p> +The boy heard without a word, and left the room with the same slow step +and the same look of apathy. Just as he reached the hall the stranger was +entering it. He was a tall, well-built man, with the mingled ease and +stiffness of a soldier in his bearing; his face was handsome, but somewhat +stern, and his voice had that tone which implies the long habit of +command. +</p> +<p> +“You're a Massy, that I'll swear to,” said he, frankly, as he shook the +boy's hand; “the family face in every lineament. And how is your father?” + </p> +<p> +“Better; he has had a severe illness.” + </p> +<p> +“So his letter told me. I was up the Rhine when I received it, and started +at once for Ireland.” + </p> +<p> +“He has been very impatient for your coming,” said the boy; “he has talked +of nothing else.” + </p> +<p> +“Ay, we are old friends. Glencore and I have been schoolfellows, chums at +college, and messmates in the same regiment,” said he, with a slight touch +of sorrow in his tone. “Will he be able to see me now? Is he confined to +bed?” + </p> +<p> +“No, he will dine with you. I 'm to show you your room, and then bring you +to him.” + </p> +<p> +“That 's better news than I hoped for, boy. By the way, what's your name?” + </p> +<p> +“Charles Conyngham.” + </p> +<p> +“To be sure, Charles; how could I have forgotten it! So, Charles, this is +to be my quarters; and a glorious view there is from this window. What's +the mountain yonder?” + </p> +<p> +“Ben Creggan.” + </p> +<p> +“We must climb that summit some of these days, Charley. I hope you 're a +good walker. You shall be my guide through this wild region here, for I +have a passion for explorings.” + </p> +<p> +And he talked away rapidly, while he made a brief toilet, and refreshed +himself from the fatigues of the road. +</p> +<p> +“Now, Charley, I am at your orders; let us descend to the drawing-room.” + </p> +<p> +“You 'll find my father there,” said the boy, as he stopped short at the +door; and Harcourt, staring at him for a second or two in silence, turned +the handle and entered. +</p> +<p> +Lord Glencore never turned his head as the other drew nigh, but sat with +his forehead resting on the table, extending his hand only in welcome. +</p> +<p> +“My poor fellow!” said Harcourt, grasping the thin and wasted fingers,—“my +poor fellow, how glad I am to be with you again!” And he seated himself at +his side as he spoke. “You had a relapse after you wrote to me?” + </p> +<p> +Glencore slowly raised his head, and, pushing back a small velvet +skull-cap that he wore, said,— +</p> +<p> +“You 'd not have known me, George. Eh? see how gray I am! I saw myself in +the glass to-day for the first time, and I really could n't believe my +eyes.” + </p> +<p> +“In another week the change will be just as great the other way. It was +some kind of a fever, was it not?” + </p> +<p> +“I believe so,” said the other, sighing. +</p> +<p> +“And they bled you and blistered you, of course. These fellows are like +the farriers—they have but the one system for everything. Who was +your torturer; where did you get him from?” + </p> +<p> +“A practitioner of the neighborhood, the wild growth of the mountain,” + said Glencore, with a sickly smile; “but I must n't be ungrateful; he +saved my life, if that be a cause for gratitude.” + </p> +<p> +“And a right good one, I take it. How like you that boy is, Glencore! I +started back when he met me. It was just as if I was transported again to +old school-days, and had seen yourself as you used to be long ago. Do you +remember the long meadow, Glencore?” + </p> +<p> +“Harcourt,” said he, falteringly, “don't talk to me of long ago,—at +least not now;” and then, as if thinking aloud, added, “How strange that a +man without a hope should like the future better than the past!” + </p> +<p> +“How old is Charley?” asked Harcourt, anxious to engage him on some other +theme. +</p> +<p> +“He 'll be fifteen, I think, his next birthday; he seems older, does n't +he?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, the boy is well grown and athletic. What has he been doing—have +you had him at a school?” + </p> +<p> +“At a school!” said Glencore, starting; “no, he has lived always here with +myself. I have been his tutor; I read with him every day, till that +illness seized me.” + </p> +<p> +“He looks clever; is he so?” + </p> +<p> +“Like the rest of us, George, he may learn, but he can't be taught. The +old obstinacy of the race is strong in him, and to rouse him to rebel all +you have to do is to give him a task; but his faculties are good, his +apprehension quick, and his memory, if he would but tax it, excellent. +Here 's Craggs come to tell us of dinner; give me your arm, George, we +haven't far to go—this one room serves us for everything.” + </p> +<p> +“You're better lodged than I expected—your letters told me to look +for a mere barrack; and the place stands so well.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, the spot was well chosen, although I suppose its founders cared +little enough about the picturesque.” + </p> +<p> +The dinner-table was spread behind one of the massive screens, and, under +the careful direction of Craggs and old Simon, was well and amply +supplied,—fish and game, the delicacies of other localities, being +here in abundance. Har-court had a traveller's appetite, and enjoyed +himself thoroughly, while Glencore never touched a morsel, and the boy ate +sparingly, watching the stranger with that intense curiosity which comes +of living estranged from all society. +</p> +<p> +“Charley will treat you to a bottle of Burgundy, Har-court,” said +Glencore, as they drew round the fire; “he keeps the cellar key.” + </p> +<p> +“Let us have two, Charley,” said Harcourt, as the boy arose to leave the +room, “and take care that you carry them steadily.” + </p> +<p> +The boy stood for a second and looked at his father, as if interrogating, +and then a sudden flush suffused his face as Glencore made a gesture with +his hand for him to go. +</p> +<p> +“You don't perceive how you touched him to the quick there, Harcourt? You +talked to him as to how he should carry the wine; he thought that office +menial and beneath him, and he looked at me to know what he should do.” + </p> +<p> +“What a fool you have made of the boy!” said Harcourt, bluntly. “By Jove! +it was time I should come here!” + </p> +<p> +When the boy came back he was followed by the old butler, carefully +carrying in a small wicker contrivance, <i>Hibernicè</i> called a cooper, +three cobwebbed and well-crusted bottles. +</p> +<p> +“Now, Charley,” said Jarcourt, gayly, “if you want to see a man thoroughly +happy, just step up to my room and fetch me a small leather sack you 'll +find there of tobacco, and on the dressing-table you 'll see my meerschaum +pipe; be cautious with it, for it belonged to no less a man than +Poniatowski, the poor fellow who died at Leipsic.” + </p> +<p> +The lad stood again irresolute and confused, when a signal from his father +motioned him away to acquit the errand. +</p> +<p> +“Thank you,” said Harcourt, as he re-entered; “you see I am not vain of my +meerschaum without reason. The carving of that bull is a work of real art; +and if you were a connoisseur in such matters, you 'd say the color was +perfect. Have you given up smoking, Glencore?—you used to be fond of +a weed.” + </p> +<p> +“I care but little for it,” said Glencore, sighing. +</p> +<p> +“Take to it again, my dear fellow, if only that it is a bond 'tween +yourself and every one who whiffs his cloud. There are wonderfully few +habits—I was going to say enjoyments, and I might say so, but I 'll +call them habits—that consort so well with every condition and every +circumstance of life, that become the prince and the peasant, suit the +garden of the palace and the red watch-fire of the bivouac, relieve the +weary hours of a calm at sea, or refresh the tired hunter in the +prairies.” + </p> +<p> +“You must tell Charley some of your adventures in the West.—The +Colonel has passed two years in the Rocky Mountains,” said Glencore to his +son. +</p> +<p> +“Ay, Charley, I have knocked about the world as much as most men, and +seen, too, my share of its wonders. If accidents by sea and land can +interest you, if you care for stories of Indian life and the wild habits +of a prairie hunter, I 'm your man. Your father can tell you more of <i>salons</i> +and the great world, of what may be termed the high game of life—” + </p> +<p> +“I have forgotten it, as much as if I had never seen it,” said Glencore, +interrupting, and with a severity of voice that showed the theme +displeased him. And now a pause ensued, painful perhaps to the others, but +scarcely felt by Harcourt, as he smoked away peacefully, and seemed lost +in the windings of his own fancies. +</p> +<p> +“Have you shooting here, Glencore?” asked he at length. +</p> +<p> +“There might be, if I were to preserve the game.” + </p> +<p> +“And you do not. Do you fish?” + </p> +<p> +“No; never.” + </p> +<p> +“You give yourself up to farming, then?” + </p> +<p> +“Not even that; the truth is, Harcourt, I literally do nothing. A few +newspapers, a stray review or so, reach me in these solitudes, and keep me +in a measure informed as to the course of events; but Charley and I con +over our classics together, and scrawl sheets of paper with algebraic +signs, and puzzle our heads over strange formulas, wonderfully indifferent +to what the world is doing at the other side of this little estuary.” + </p> +<p> +“You of all men living to lead such a life as this! a fellow that never +could cram occupation enough into his short twenty-four hours,” broke in +Harcourt. +</p> +<p> +Glencore's pale cheek flushed slightly, and an impatient movement of his +fingers on the table showed how ill he relished any allusion to his own +former life. +</p> +<p> +“Charley will show you to-morrow all the wonders of our erudition. +Harcourt,” said he, changing the subject; “we have got to think ourselves +very learned, and I hope you 'll be polite enough not to undeceive us.” + </p> +<p> +“You 'll have a merciful critic, Charley,” said the Colonel, laughing, +“for more reasons than one. Had the question been how to track a wolf or +wind an antelope, to outmanoeuvre a scout party or harpoon a calf-whale, +I'd not yield to many; but if you throw me amongst Greek roots or double +equations, I 'm only Samson with his hair <i>en crop!</i>” + </p> +<p> +The solemn clock over the mantelpiece struck ten, and the boy arose as it +ceased. +</p> +<p> +“That's Charley's bedtime,” said Glencore, “and we are determined to make +no stranger of you, George. He 'll say good-night.” + </p> +<p> +And with a manner of mingled shyness and pride the boy held out his hand, +which the soldier shook cordially, saying,— +</p> +<p> +“To-morrow, then, Charley, I count upon you for my day, and so that it be +not to be passed in the library I 'll acquit myself creditably.” + </p> +<p> +“I like your boy, Glencore,” said he, as soon as they were alone. “Of +course I have seen very little of him; and if I had seen more I should be +but a sorry judge of what people would call his abilities. But he is a +good stamp: 'Gentleman' is written on him in a hand that any can read; +and, by Jove! let them talk as they will, but that's half the battle of +life!” + </p> +<p> +“He is a strange fellow; you'll not understand him in a moment,” said +Glencore, smiling half sadly to himself. +</p> +<p> +“Not understand him, Glencore? I read him like print, man. You think that +his shy, bashful manner imposes upon me; not a bit of it; I see the fellow +is as proud as Lucifer. All your solitude and estrangement from the world +have n't driven out of his head that he's to be a Viscount one of these +days; and somehow, wherever he has picked it up, he has got a very pretty +notion of the importance and rank that same title confers.” + </p> +<p> +“Let us not speak of this now, Harcourt; I'm far too weak to enter upon +what it would lead to. It is, however, the great reason for which I +entreated you to come here. And to-morrow—at all events in a day or +two—we can speak of it fully. And now I must leave you. You 'll have +to rough it here, George; but as there is no man can do so with a better +grace, I can spare my apologies; only, I beg, don't let the place be worse +than it need be. Give your orders; get what you can; and see if your tact +and knowledge of life cannot remedy many a difficulty which our ignorance +or apathy have served to perpetuate.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll take the command of the garrison with pleasure,” said Harcourt, +filling up his glass, and replenishing the fire. “And now a good night's +rest to you, for I half suspect I have already jeopardied some of it.” + </p> +<p> +The old campaigner sat till long past midnight. The generous wine, his +pipe, the cheerful wood-fire, were all companionable enough, and well +suited thoughts which took no high or heroic range, but were chiefly +reveries of the past,—some sad, some pleasant, but all tinged with +the one philosophy, which made him regard the world as a campaign, wherein +he who grumbles or repines is but a sorry soldier, and unworthy of his +cloth. +</p> +<p> +It was not till the last glass was drained that he arose to seek his bed, +and presently humming some old air to himself, he slowly mounted the +stairs to his chamber. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER V. COLONEL HARCOUUT'S LETTER +</h2> +<p> +As we desire throughout this tale to make the actors themselves, wherever +it be possible, the narrators, using their words in preference to our own, +we shall now place before the reader a letter written by Colonel Harcourt +about a week after his arrival at Glencore, which will at least serve to +rescue him and ourselves from the task of repetition. +</p> +<p> +It was addressed to Sir Horace Upton, Her Majesty's Envoy at Stuttgard, +one who had formerly served in the same regiment with Glencore and +himself, but who left the army early to follow the career of diplomacy, +wherein, still a young man, he had risen to the rank of a minister. It is +not important, at this moment, to speak more particularly of his +character, than that it was in almost every respect the opposite of his +correspondent's. Where the one was frank, open, and unguarded, the other +was cold, cautious, and reserved; where one believed, the other doubted; +where one was hopeful, the other had nothing but misgivings. Harcourt +would have twenty times a day wounded the feelings, or jarred against the +susceptibility, of his best friend; Upton could not be brought to trench +upon the slightest prejudice of his greatest enemy. We might continue this +contrast to every detail of their characters; but enough has now been +said, and we proceed to the letter in question: +</p> +<p> +Glencore Castle. Dear Upton,—True to my promise to give you early +tidings of our old friend, I sit down to pen a few lines, which if a +rickety table and some infernal lampblack for ink should make illegible, +you 'll have to wait for the elucidation till my arrival. I found Glencore +terribly altered; I 'd not have known him. He used to be muscular and +rather full in habit; he is now a mere skeleton. His hair and mustache +were coal black; they are a motley gray. +</p> +<p> +He was straight as an arrow—pretentiously erect, many thought; he is +stooped now, and bent nearly double. His voice, too, the most clear and +ringing in the squadron, is become a hoarse whisper. You remember what a +passion he had for dress, and how heartily we all deplored the chance of +his being colonel, well knowing what precious caprices of costly costume +would be the consequence; well, a discharged corporal in a cast-off mufti +is stylish compared to him. I don't think he has a hat—I have only +seen an oilskin cap; but his coat, his one coat, is a curiosity of +industrious patchwork; and his trousers are a pair of our old overalls, +the same pattern we wore at Hounslow when the King reviewed us. +</p> +<p> +Great as these changes are, they are nothing to the alteration in the poor +fellow's disposition. He that was generous to munificence is now an +absolute miser, descending to the most pitiful economy and moaning over +every trifling outlay. He is irritable, too, to a degree. Far from the +jolly, light-hearted comrade, ready to join in the laugh against himself, +and enjoy a jest of which he was the object, he suspects a slight in every +allusion, and bristles up to resent a mere familiarity as though it were +an insult. +</p> +<p> +Of course I put much of this down to the score of illness, and of bad +health before he was so ill; but, depend upon it, he's not the man we knew +him. Heaven knows if he ever will be so again. The night I arrived here he +was more natural, more like himself, in fact, than he has ever been since. +His manner was heartier, and in his welcome there was a touch of the old +jovial good fellow, who never was so happy as when sharing his quarters +with a comrade. Since that he has grown punctilious, anxiously asking me +if I am comfortable, and teasing me with apologies for what I don't miss, +and excuses about things that I should never have discovered wanting. +</p> +<p> +I think I see what is passing within him; he wants to be confidential, and +he does n't know how to go about it. I suppose he looks on me as rather a +rough father to confess to; he is n't quite sure what kind of sympathy, if +any, he 'll meet with from me, and he more than half dreads a certain +careless, outspoken way in which I have now and then addressed his boy, of +whom more anon. +</p> +<p> +I may be right, or I may be wrong, in this conjecture; but certain it is, +that nothing like confidential conversation has yet passed between us, and +each day seems to render the prospect of such only less and less likely. I +wish from my heart you were here; you are just the fellow to suit him,—just +calculated to nourish the susceptibilities that <i>I</i> only shock. I +said as much t' other day, in a half-careless way, and he immediately +caught it up, and said, +</p> +<p> +“Ay, George, Upton is a man one wants now and then in life, and when the +moment comes, there is no such thing as a substitute for him.” In a joking +manner, I then remarked, “Why not come over to see him?” “Leave this!” + cried he; “venture in the world again; expose myself to its brutal +insolence, or still more brutal pity!” In a torrent of passion, he went on +in this strain, till I heartily regretted that I had ever touched this +unlucky topic. +</p> +<p> +I date his greatest reserve from that same moment; and I am sure he is +disposed to connect me with the casual suggestion to go over to Stuttgard, +and deems me, in consequence, one utterly deficient in all true feeling +and delicacy. +</p> +<p> +I need n't tell you that my stay here is the reverse of a pleasure. I 'm +never what fine people call bored anywhere; and I could amuse myself +gloriously in this queer spot. I have shot some half-dozen seals, hooked +the heaviest salmon I ever saw rise to a fly, and have had rare coursing,—not +to say that Glencore's table, with certain reforms I have introduced, is +very tolerable, and his cellar unimpeachable. I'll back his chambertin +against your Excellency's, and I have discovered a bin of red hermitage +that would convert a whole vineyard of the smallest Lafitte into Sneyd's +claret; but with all these seductions, I can't stand the life of continued +restraint I 'm reduced to. Glencore evidently sent for me to make some +revelations, which, now that he sees me, he cannot accomplish. For aught I +know, there may be as many changes in <i>me</i> to <i>his</i> eyes as to +<i>mine</i> there are in <i>him</i>. I only can vouch for it, that if I +ride three stone heavier, I have n't the worse place, and I don't detect +any striking falling off in my appreciation of good fare and good fellows. +</p> +<p> +I spoke of the boy; he is a fine lad,—somewhat haughty, perhaps; a +little spoiled by the country people calling him the young lord; but a +generous fellow, and very like Glencore when he first joined us at +Canterbury. By way of educating him himself, Glencore has been driving +Virgil and decimal fractions into him; and the boy, bred in the country,—never +out of it for a day,—can't load a gun or tie a hackle. Not the worst +thing about the lad is his inordinate love for Glencore, whom he imagines +to be about the greatest and most gifted being that ever lived. I can +scarcely help smiling at the implicitness of this honest faith; but I take +good care not to smile; on the contrary, I give every possible +encouragement to the belief. I conclude the disenchantment will arrive +only too early at last. +</p> +<p> +You 'll not know what to make of such a lengthy epistle from me, and you +'ll doubtless torture that fine diplomatic intelligence of yours to detect +the secret motive of my long-windedness; but the simple fact is, it has +rained incessantly for the last three days, and promises the same cheering +weather for as many more. Glencore doesn't fancy that the boy's lessons +should be broken in upon, and <i>hinc istæ litteræ</i>,—that's +classical for you. +</p> +<p> +I wish I could say when I am likely to beat my retreat. I 'd stay—not +very willingly, perhaps, but still I 'd stay—if I thought myself of +any use; but I cannot persuade myself that I am such. Glencore is now +about again, feeble of course, and much pulled down, but able to go about +the house and the garden. I can contribute nothing to his recovery, and I +fear as little to his comfort. I even doubt if he desires me to prolong my +visit; but such is my fear of offending him, that I actually dread to +allude to my departure, till I can sound my way as to how he 'll take it. +This fact alone will show you how much he is changed from the Glencore of +long ago. Another feature in him, totally unlike his former self, struck +me the other evening. We were talking of old messmates—Croydon, +Stanhope, Loftus, and yourself—and instead of dwelling, as he once +would have done, exclusively on your traits of character and disposition, +he discussed nothing but your abilities, and the capacity by which you +could win your way to honors and distinction. I need n't say how, in such +a valuation, you came off best. Indeed, he professes the highest esteem +for your talents, and says, “You'll see Upton either a cabinet minister or +ambassador at Paris yet;” and this he repeated in the same words last +night, as if to show it was not dropped as a mere random observation. +</p> +<p> +I have some scruples about venturing to offer anything bordering on a +suggestion to a great and wily diplomatist like yourself; but if an +illustrious framer of treaties and protocols would condescend to take a +hint from an old dragoon colonel, I 'd say that a few lines from your +crafty pen might possibly unlock this poor fellow's heart, and lead him to +unburthen to <i>you</i> what he evidently cannot persuade himself to +reveal to me. I can see plainly enough that there is something on his +mind; but I know it just as a stupid old hound feels there is a fox in the +cover, but cannot for the life of him see how he's to “draw” him. +</p> +<p> +A letter from you would do him good, at all events; even the little gossip +of your gossiping career would cheer and amuse him. He said very +plaintively, two nights ago, “They 've all forgotten me. When a man +retires from the world he begins to die, and the great event, after all, +is only the <i>coup de grace</i> to a long agony of torture.” Do write to +him, then; the address is “Glencore Castle, Leenane, Ireland,” where, I +suppose, I shall be still a resident for another fortnight to come. +</p> +<p> +Glencore has just sent for me; but I must close this for the post, or it +will be too late. +</p> +<p> +Yours ever truly, +</p> +<p> +George Harcourt. +</p> +<p> +I open this to say that he sent for me to ask your address,—whether +through the Foreign Office, or direct to Stuttgard. You 'll probably not +hear for some days, for he writes with extreme difficulty, and I leave it +to your wise discretion to write to him or not in the interval. +</p> +<p> +Poor fellow, he looks very ill to-day. He says that he never slept the +whole night, and that the laudanum he took to induce drowsiness only +excited and maddened him. I counselled a hot jorum of mulled porter before +getting into bed; but he deemed me a monster for the recommendation, and +seemed quite disgusted besides. Could n't you send him over a despatch? I +think such a document from Stuttgard ought to be an unfailing soporific. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER VI. QUEER COMPANIONSHIP +</h2> +<p> +When Harcourt repaired to Glencore's bedroom, where he still lay, wearied +and feverish after a bad night, he was struck by the signs of suffering in +the sick man's face. The cheeks were bloodless and fallen iq, the lips +pinched, and in the eyes there shone that unnatural brilliancy which +results from an over-wrought and over-excited brain. +</p> +<p> +“Sit down here, George,” said he, pointing to a chair beside the bed; “I +want to talk to you. I thought every day that I could muster courage for +what I wish to say; but somehow, when the time arrived, I felt like a +criminal who entreats for a few hours more of life, even though it be a +life of misery.” + </p> +<p> +“It strikes me that you were never less equal to the effort than now,” + said Harcourt, laying his hand on the other's pulse. +</p> +<p> +“Don't believe my pulse, George,” said Glencore, smiling faintly. “The +machine may work badly, but it has wonderful holding out. I 've gone +through enough,” added he, gloomily, “to kill most men, and here I am +still, breathing and suffering.” + </p> +<p> +“This place doesn't suit you, Glencore. There are not above two days in +the month you can venture to take the air.” + </p> +<p> +“And where would you have me go, sir?” he broke in, fiercely. “Would you +advise Paris and the Boulevards, or a palace in the Piazza di Spagna at +Rome; or perhaps the Chiaja at Naples would be public enough? Is it that I +may parade disgrace and infamy through Europe that I should leave this +solitude?” + </p> +<p> +“I want to see you in a better climate, Glencore,—in a place where +the sun shines occasionally.” + </p> +<p> +“This suits me,” said the other, bluntly; “and here I have the security +that none can invade,—none molest me. But it is not of myself I wish +to speak,—it is of my boy.” + </p> +<p> +Harcourt made no reply, but sat patiently to listen to what was coming. +</p> +<p> +“It is time to think of him,” added Glencore, slowly. “The other day,—it +seems but the other day,—and he was a mere child; a few years more,—to +seem when past like a long dreary night,—and he will be a man.” + </p> +<p> +“Very true,” said Harcourt; “and Charley is one of those fellows who only +make one plunge from the boy into all the responsibilities of manhood. +Throw him into a college at Oxford, or the mess of a regiment to-morrow, +and this day week you'll not know him from the rest.” + </p> +<p> +Glencore was silent; if he had heard, he never noticed Harcourt's remark. +</p> +<p> +“Has he ever spoken to you about himself, Harcourt?” asked he, after a +pause. +</p> +<p> +“Never, except when I led the subject in that direction; and even then +reluctantly, as though it were a topic he would avoid.” + </p> +<p> +“Have you discovered any strong inclination in him for a particular kind +of life, or any career in preference to another?” + </p> +<p> +“None; and if I were only to credit what I see of him, I 'd say that this +dull monotony and this dreary uneventful existence is what he likes best +of all the world.” + </p> +<p> +“You really think so?” cried Glencore, with an eagerness that seemed out +of proportion to the remark. +</p> +<p> +“So far as I see,” rejoined Harcourt, guardedly, and not wishing to let +his observation carry graver consequences than he might suspect. +</p> +<p> +“So that you deem him capable of passing a life of a quiet, unambitious +tenor,—neither seeking for distinctions nor fretting after honors?” + </p> +<p> +“How should he know of their existence, Glencore? What has the boy ever +heard of life and its struggles? It's not in Homer or Sallust he 'd learn +the strife of parties and public men.” + </p> +<p> +“And why need he ever know them?” broke in Glencore, fiercely. +</p> +<p> +“If he doesn't know them now, he's sure to be taught them hereafter. A +young fellow who will succeed to a title and a good fortune—” + </p> +<p> +“Stop, Harcourt!” cried Glencore, passionately. “Has anything of this kind +ever escaped you in intercourse with the boy?” + </p> +<p> +“Not a word—not a syllable.” + </p> +<p> +“Has he himself ever, by a hint, or by a chance word, implied that he was +aware of—” + </p> +<p> +Glencore faltered and hesitated, for the word he sought for did not +present itself. Harcourt, however, released him from all embarrassment by +saying,— +</p> +<p> +“With me the boy is rarely anything but a listener; he hears me talk away +of tiger-shooting and buffalo-hunting, scarcely ever interrupting me with +a question. But I can see in his manner with the country people, when they +salute him, and call him 'my lord'—” + </p> +<p> +“But he is not 'my lord,'” broke in Glencore. +</p> +<p> +“Of course he is not; that I am well aware of.” + </p> +<p> +“He never will—never shall be,” cried Glencore, in a voice to which +a long pent-up passion imparted a terrible energy. +</p> +<p> +“How!—what do you mean, Glencore?” said Harcourt, eagerly. “Has he +any malady; is there any deadly taint?” + </p> +<p> +“That there is, by Heaven!” cried the sick man, grasping the curtain with +one hand, while he held the other firmly clenched upon his forehead,—“a +taint, the deadliest that can stain a human heart! Talk of station, rank, +title—what are they, if they are to be coupled with shame, ignominy, +and sorrow? The loud voice of the herald calls his father Sixth Viscount +of Glencore, but a still louder voice proclaims his mother a—” + </p> +<p> +With a wild burst of hysteric laughter, he threw himself, face downwards, +on the bed; and now scream after scream burst from him, till the room was +filled by the servants, in the midst of whom appeared Billy, who had only +that same day returned from Leenane, whither he had gone to make a formal +resignation of his functions as letter-carrier. +</p> +<p> +“This is nothing but an <i>accessio nervosa,</i>” said Billy; “clear the +room, ladies and gentlemen, and lave me with the patient.” And Harcourt +gave the signal for obedience by first taking his departure. +</p> +<p> +Lord Glencore's attack was more serious than at first it was apprehended, +and for three days there was every threat of a relapse of his late fever; +but Billy's skill was once more successful, and on the fourth day he +declared that the danger was past. During this period, Harcourt's +attention was for the first time drawn to the strange creature who +officiated as the doctor, and who, in despite of all the detracting +influences of his humble garb and mean attire, aspired to be treated with +the deference due to a great physician. +</p> +<p> +“If it's the crown and the sceptre makes the king,” said he, “'tis the +same with the science that makes the doctor; and no man can be despised +when he has a rag of ould Galen's mantle to cover his shoulders.” + </p> +<p> +“So you're going to take blood from him?” asked Harcourt, as he met him on +the stairs, where he had awaited his coming one night when it was late. +</p> +<p> +“No, sir; 'tis more a disturbance of the great nervous centres than any +derangement of the heart and arteries,” said Billy, pompously; “that's +what shows a real doctor,—to distinguish between the effects of +excitement and inflammation, which is as different as fireworks is from a +bombardment.” + </p> +<p> +“Not a bad simile, Master Billy; come in and drink a glass of +brandy-and-water with me,” said Harcourt, right glad at the prospect of +such companionship. +</p> +<p> +Billy Traynor, too, was flattered by the invitation, and seated himself at +the fire with an air at once proud and submissive. +</p> +<p> +“You've a difficult patient to treat there,” said Harcourt, when he had +furnished his companion with a pipe, and twice filled his glass; “he's +hard to manage, I take it?” + </p> +<p> +“Yer' right,” said Billy; “every touch is a blow, every breath of air is a +hurricane with him. There 's no such thing as traitin' a man of that +timperament; it's the same with many of them ould families as with our +racehorses,—they breed them too fine.” + </p> +<p> +“Egad! I think you are right,” said Harcourt, pleased with an illustration +that suited his own modes of thinking. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, sir,” said Billy, gaining confidence by the approval; “a man is a +ma-chine, and all the parts ought to be balanced, and, as the ancients +say, <i>in equilibrio</i>. If preponderance here or there, whether it be +brain or spinal marrow, cardiac functions or digestive ones, you disthroy +him, and make that dangerous kind of constitution that, like a horse with +a hard mouth, or a boat with a weather helm, always runs to one side.” + </p> +<p> +“That's well put, well explained,” said Harcourt, who really thought the +illustration appropriate. +</p> +<p> +“Now, my lord there,” continued Billy, “is all out of balance, every bit +of him. Bleed him, and he sinks; stimulate him, and he goes ragin' mad. 'T +is their physical conformation makes their character; and to know how to +cure them in sickness, one ought to have some knowledge of them in +health.” + </p> +<p> +“How came you to know all this? You are a very remarkable fellow, Billy.” + </p> +<p> +“I am, sir; I'm a phenumenon in a small way. And many people thinks, when +they see and convarse with me, what a pity it is I hav' n't the advantages +of edication and instruction; and that's just where they 're wrong,—complately +wrong.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I confess I don't perceive that.” + </p> +<p> +“I'll show you, then. There's a kind of janius natural to men like myself,—in +Ireland I mean, for I never heerd of it elsewhere,—that's just like +our Irish emerald or Irish diamond,—wonderful if one considers where +you find it, astonishin' if you only think how azy it is to get, but a +regular disappointment, a downright take-in, if you intend to have it cut +and polished and set. No, sir; with all the care and culture in life, you +'ll never make a precious stone of it!” + </p> +<p> +“You've not taken the right way to convince me, by using such an +illustration, Billy.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll try another, then,” said Billy. “We are like Willy-the-Whisps, +showing plenty of light where there's no road to travel, but of no manner +of use on the highway, or in the dark streets of a village where one has +business.” + </p> +<p> +“Your own services here are the refutation to your argument, Billy,” said +Harcourt, filling his glass. +</p> +<p> +“'Tis your kindness to say so, sir,” said Billy, with gratified pride; +“but the sacrat was, he thrusted me,—that was the whole of it. All +the miracles of physic is confidence, just as all the magic of eloquence +is conviction.” + </p> +<p> +“You have reflected profoundly, I see,” said Harcourt. +</p> +<p> +“I made a great many observations at one time of my life,—the +opportunity was favorable.” + </p> +<p> +“When and how was that?” + </p> +<p> +“I travelled with a baste caravan for two years, sir; and there's nothing +taches one to know mankind like the study of bastes!” + </p> +<p> +“Not complimentary to humanity, certainly,” said Harcourt, laughing. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, but it is, though; for it is by a consideration of the <i>fero +naturo</i> that you get at the raal nature of mere animal existence. You +see there man in the rough, as a body might say, just as he was turned out +of the first workshop, and before he was infiltrated with the <i>divinus +afflatus</i>, the ethereal essence, that makes him the first of creation. +There 's all the qualities, good and bad,—love, hate, vengeance, +gratitude, grief, joy, ay, and mirth,—there they are in the brutes; +but they 're in no subjection, except by fear. Now, it's out of man's +motives his character is moulded, and fear is only one amongst them. D' ye +apprehend me?” + </p> +<p> +“Perfectly; fill your pipe.” And he pushed the tobacco towards him. +</p> +<p> +“I will; and I 'll drink the memory of the great and good man that first +intro-duced the weed amongst us—Here's Sir Walter Raleigh! By the +same token, I was in his house last week.” + </p> +<p> +“In his house! where?” + </p> +<p> +“Down at Greyhall. You Englishmen, savin' your presence, always forget +that many of your celebrities lived years in Ireland; for it was the same +long ago as now,—a place of decent banishment for men of janius, a +kind of straw-yard where ye turned out your intellectual hunters till the +sayson came on at home.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm sorry to see, Billy, that, with all your enlightenment, you have the +vulgar prejudice against the Saxon.” + </p> +<p> +“And that's the rayson I have it, because it is vulgar,” said Billy, +eagerly. “Vulgar means popular, common to many; and what's the best test +of truth in anything but universal belief, or whatever comes nearest to +it? I wish I was in Parliament—I just wish I was there the first +night one of the nobs calls out 'That 's vulgar;' and I 'd just say to +him, 'Is there anything as vulgar as men and women? Show me one good thing +in life that is n't vulgar! Show me an object a painter copies, or a poet +describes, that is n't so!' Ayeh,” cried he, impatiently, “when they +wanted a hard word to fling at us, why didn't they take the right one?” + </p> +<p> +“But you are unjust, Billy; the ungenerous tone you speak of is fast +disappearing. Gentlemen nowadays use no disparaging epithets to men poorer +or less happily circumstanced than themselves.” + </p> +<p> +“Faix,” said Billy, “it isn't sitting here at the same table with yourself +that I ought to gainsay that remark.” + </p> +<p> +And Harcourt was so struck by the air of good breeding in which he spoke, +that he grasped his hand, and shook it warmly. +</p> +<p> +“And what is more,” continued Billy, “from this day out I 'll never think +so.” + </p> +<p> +He drank off his glass as he spoke, giving to the libation all the +ceremony of a solemn vow. +</p> +<p> +“D' ye hear that?—them's oars; there's a boat coming in.” + </p> +<p> +“You have sharp hearing, master,” said Harcourt, laughing. +</p> +<p> +“I got the gift when I was a smuggler,” replied he. “I could put my ear to +the ground of a still night, and tell you the tramp of a revenue boot as +well as if I seen it. And now I'll lay sixpence it's Pat Morissy is at the +bow oar there; he rows with a short jerking stroke there 's no timing. +That's himself, and it must be something urgent from the post-office that +brings him over the lough to-night.” + </p> +<p> +The words were scarcely spoken when Craggs entered with a letter in his +hand. +</p> +<p> +“This is for you, Colonel,” said he; “it was marked 'immediate,' and the +post-mistress despatched it by an express.” + </p> +<p> +The letter was a very brief one; but, in honor to the writer, we shall +give it a chapter to itself. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER VII. A GREAT DIPLOMATIST +</h2> +<p> +My dear Harcourt,—I arrived here yesterday, and by good fortune +caught your letter at F. O., where it was awaiting the departure of the +messenger for Germany. +</p> +<p> +Your account of poor Glencore is most distressing. At the same time, my +knowledge of the man and his temper in a measure prepared me for it. You +say that he wishes to see me, and intends to write. Now, there is a small +business matter between us, which his lawyer seems much disposed to push +on to a difficulty, if not to worse. To prevent this, if possible,—at +all events to see whether a visit from me might not be serviceable,—I +shall cross over to Ireland on Tuesday, and be with you by Friday, or at +latest Saturday. Tell him that I am coming, but only for a day. My +engagements are such that I must be here again early in the following +week. On Thursday I go down to Windsor. +</p> +<p> +There is wonderfully little stirring here, but I keep that little for our +meeting. You are aware, my dear friend, what a poor, shattered, +broken-down fellow I am; so that I need not ask you to give me a +comfortable quarter for my one night, and some shell-fish, if easily +procurable, for my one dinner. +</p> +<p> +Yours, ever and faithfully, +</p> +<p> +H. U. +</p> +<p> +We have already told our reader that the note was a brief one, and yet was +it not altogether uncharacteristic. Sir Horace Upton—it will spare +us both some repetition if we present him at once—was one of a very +composite order of human architecture; a kind of being, in fact, of which +many would deny the existence, till they met and knew them, so full of +contradictions, real and apparent, was his nature. Chivalrous in sentiment +and cunning in action, noble in aspiration and utterly sceptical as +regards motives, one half of his temperament was the antidote to the +other. Fastidious to a painful extent in matters of taste, he was +simplicity itself in all the requirements of his life; and with all a +courtier's love of great people, not only tolerating, but actually +preferring the society of men beneath him. In person he was tall, and with +that air of distinction in his manner that belongs only to those who unite +natural graces with long habits of high society. His features were finely +formed, and would have been strikingly handsome, were the expression not +spoiled by a look of astuteness,—a something that implied a tendency +to overreach,—which marred their repose and injured their +uniformity. Not that his manner ever betrayed this weakness; far from it,—his +was a most polished courtesy. It was impossible to conceive an address +more bland or more conciliating. His very gestures, his voice, languid by +a slight habit of indisposition, seemed as though exerted above their +strength in the desire to please, and making the object of his attentions +to feel himself the mark of peculiar honor. There ran through all his +nature, through everything he did or said or thought, a certain haughty +humility, which served, while it assigned an humble place to himself, to +mark out one still more humble for those about him. There were not many +things he could not do; indeed, he had actually done most of those which +win honor and distinction in life. He had achieved a very gallant but +brief military career in India, made a most brilliant opening in +Parliament, where his abilities at once marked him out for office, was +suspected to be the writer of the cleverest political satire, and more +than suspected to be the author of “the novel” of the day. With all this, +he had great social success. He was deep enough for a ministerial dinner, +and “fast” enough for a party of young Guardsmen at Greenwich. With women, +too, he was especially a favorite; there was a Machiavelian subtlety which +he could throw into small things, a mode of making the veriest trifles +little Chinese puzzles of ingenuity, that flattered and amused them. In a +word, he had great adaptiveness, and it was a quality he indulged less for +the gratification of others than for the pleasure it afforded himself. +</p> +<p> +He had mixed largely in society, not only of his own, but of every country +of Europe. He knew every chord of that complex instrument which people +call the world, like a master; and although a certain jaded and wearied +look, a tone of exhaustion and fatigue, seemed to say that he was tired of +it all, that he had found it barren and worthless, the real truth was, he +enjoyed life to the full as much as on the first day in which he entered +it; and for this simple reason,—that he had started with an humble +opinion of mankind, their hopes, fears, and ambitions, and so he +continued, not disappointed, to the end. +</p> +<p> +The most governing notion of his own life was an impression that he had a +disease of the chest, some subtle and mysterious affection which had +defied the doctors, and would go on to defy them to the last. He had been +dangerously wounded in the Burmese war, and attributed the origin of his +malady to this cause. Others there were who said that the want of +recognition to his services in that campaign was the direst of all the +injuries he had received. And true it was, a most brilliant career had met +with neither honors nor advancement, and Upton left the service in +disgust, carrying away with him only the lingering sufferings of his +wound. To suggest to him that his malady had any affinity to any known +affection was to outrage him, since the mere supposition would reduce him +to a species of equality with some one else,—a thought infinitely +worse than any mere physical suffering; and, indeed, to avoid this +shocking possibility, he vacillated as to the locality of his disorder, +making it now in the lung, now in the heart, at one time in the bronchial +tubes, at another in the valves of the aorta. It was his pleasure to +consult for this complaint every great physician of Europe, and not alone +consult, but commit himself to their direction, and this with a credulity +which he could scarcely have summoned in any other cause. +</p> +<p> +It was difficult to say how far he himself believed in this disorder,—the +pressure of any momentous event, the necessity of action, never finding +him unequal to any effort, no matter how onerous. Give him a difficulty,—a +minister to outwit, a secret scheme to unravel, a false move to profit by,—and +he rose above all his pulmonary symptoms, and could exert himself with a +degree of power and perseverance that very few men could equal, none +surpass. Indeed it seemed as though he kept this malady for the pastime of +idle hours, as other men do a novel or a newspaper, but would never permit +it to interfere with the graver business of life. +</p> +<p> +We have, perhaps, been prolix in our description; but we have felt it the +more requisite to be thus diffuse, since the studious simplicity which +marked all his manner might have deceived our reader, and which the +impression of his mere words have failed to convey. +</p> +<p> +“You will be glad to hear Upton is in England, Glen-core,” said Harcourt, +as the sick man was assisted to his seat in the library, “and, what is +more, intends to pay you a visit.” + </p> +<p> +“Upton coming here!” exclaimed Glencore, with an expression of mingled +astonishment and confusion; “how do you know that?” + </p> +<p> +“He writes me from Long's to say that he 'll be with us by Friday, or, if +not, by Saturday.” + </p> +<p> +“What a miserable place to receive him!” exclaimed Glencore. “As for you, +Harcourt, you know how to rough it, and have bivouacked too often under +the stars to care much for satin curtains. But think of Upton here! How is +he to eat, where is he to sleep?” + </p> +<p> +“By Jove! we 'll treat him handsomely. Don't you fret yourself about his +comforts; besides, I 've seen a great deal of Upton, and, with all his +fastidiousness and refinement, he's a thorough good fellow at taking +things for the best. Invite him to Chatsworth, and the chances are he'll +find fault with twenty things,—with the place, the cookery, and the +servants; but take him down to the Highlands, lodge him in a shieling, +with bannocks for breakfast and a Fyne herring for supper, and I 'll wager +my life you 'll not see a ruffle in his temper, nor hear a word of +impatience out of his mouth.” + </p> +<p> +“I know that he is a well-bred gentleman,” said Glencore, half pettishly; +“but I have no fancy for putting his good manners to a severe test, +particularly at the cost of my own feelings.” + </p> +<p> +“I tell you again he shall be admirably treated; he shall have my room; +and, as for his dinner, Master Billy and I are going to make a raid +amongst the lobster-pots. And what with turbot, oysters, grouse-pie, and +mountain mutton, I 'll make the diplomatist sorrow that he is not +accredited to some native sovereign in the Arran islands, instead of some +'mere German Hertzog.' He can only stay one day.” + </p> +<p> +“One day!” + </p> +<p> +“That's all; he is over head and ears in business, and he goes down to +Windsor on Thursday, so that there is no help for it.” + </p> +<p> +“I wish I may be strong enough; I hope to Heaven that I may rally—” + Glencore stopped suddenly as he got thus far, but the agitation the words +cost him seemed most painful. +</p> +<p> +“I say again, don't distress yourself about Upton,—leave the care of +entertaining him to <i>me</i>. I 'll vouch for it that he leaves us well +satisfied with his welcome.” + </p> +<p> +“It was not of <i>that</i> I was thinking,” said he, impatiently; “I have +much to say to him,—things of great importance. It may be that I +shall be unequal to the effort; I cannot answer for my strength for a day,—not +for an hour. Could you not write to him, and ask him to defer his coming +till such time as he can spare me a week, or at least some days?” + </p> +<p> +“My dear Glencore, you know the man well, and that we are lucky if we can +have him on his <i>own</i> terms, not to think of imposing <i>ours</i>; he +is sure to have a number of engagements while he is in England.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, be it so,” said Glencore, sighing, with the air of a man resigning +himself to an inevitable necessity. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER VIII. THE GREAT MAN'S ARRIVAL. +</h2> +<p> +“Not come, Craggs!” said Harcourt, as late on the Saturday evening the +Corporal stepped on shore, after crossing the lough. +</p> +<p> +“No, sir, no sign of him. I sent a boy away to the top of 'the Devil's +Mother,' where you have a view of the road for eight miles, but there was +nothing to be seen.” + </p> +<p> +“You left orders at the post-office to have a boat in readiness if he +arrived?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, Colonel,” said he, with a military salute; and Harcourt now turned +moodily towards the Castle. +</p> +<p> +Glencore had scarcely ever been a very cheery residence, but latterly it +had become far gloomier than before. Since the night of Lord Glencore's +sudden illness, there had grown up a degree of constraint between the two +friends which to a man of Harcourt's disposition was positive torture. +They seldom met, save at dinner, and then their reserve was painfully +evident. +</p> +<p> +The boy, too, in unconscious imitation of his father, grew more and more +distant; and poor Harcourt saw himself in that position, of all others the +most intolerable,—the unwilling guest of an unwilling host. +</p> +<p> +“Come or not come,” muttered he to himself, “I 'll bear this no longer. +There is, besides, no reason why I should bear it. I 'm of no use to the +poor fellow; he does not want, he never sees me. If anything, my presence +is irksome to him; so that, happen what will, I 'll start to-morrow, or +next day at farthest.” + </p> +<p> +He was one of those men to whom deliberation on any subject was no small +labor, but who, once that they have come to a decision, feel as if they +had acquitted a debt, and need give themselves no further trouble in the +matter. In the enjoyment of this newly purchased immunity he entered the +room where Glencore sat impatiently awaiting him. +</p> +<p> +“Another disappointment!” said the Viscount, anxiously. +</p> +<p> +“Yes; Craggs has just returned, and says there's no sign of a carriage for +miles on the Oughterard road.” + </p> +<p> +“I ought to have known it,” said the other, in a voice of guttural +sternness. “He was ever the same; an appointment with him was an +engagement meant only to be binding on those who expected him.” + </p> +<p> +“Who can say what may have detained him? He was in London on business,—public +business, too; and even if he had left town, how many chance delays there +are in travelling.” + </p> +<p> +“I have said every one of these things over to myself, Harcourt; but they +don't satisfy me. This is a habit with Upton. I 've seen him do the same +with his Colonel, when he was a subaltern; I 've heard of his arrival late +to a Court dinner, and only smiling at the dismay of the horrified +courtiers.” + </p> +<p> +“Egad,” said Harcourt, bluntly, “I don't see the advantage of the +practice. One is so certain of doing fifty things in this daily life to +annoy one's friends, through mere inadvertence or forgetfulness, that I +think it is but sorry fun to incur their ill-will by malice prepense.” + </p> +<p> +“That is precisely why he does it.” + </p> +<p> +“Come, come, Glencore; old Rixson was right when he said, 'Heaven help the +man whose merits are canvassed while they wait dinner for him.' I 'll +order up the soup, for if we wait any longer we 'll discover Upton to be +the most graceless vagabond that ever walked.” + </p> +<p> +“I know his qualities, good and bad,” said Glencore, rising, and pacing +the room with slow, uncertain steps; “few men know him better. None need +tell me of his abilities; none need instruct me as to his faults. What +others do by accident, <i>he</i> does by design. He started in life by +examining how much the world would bear from him; he has gone on, +profiting by the experience, and improving on the practice.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, if I don't mistake me much, he 'll soon appear to plead his own +cause. I hear oars coming speedily in this direction.” + </p> +<p> +And so saying, Harcourt hurried away to resolve his doubts at once. As he +reached the little jetty, over which a large signal-fire threw a strong +red light, he perceived that he was correct, and was just in time to grasp +Upton's hand as he stepped on shore. +</p> +<p> +“How picturesque all this, Harcourt,” said he, in his soft, low voice; “a +leaf out of 'Rob Roy.' Well, am I not the mirror of punctuality, eh?” + </p> +<p> +“We looked for you yesterday, and Glencore has been so impatient.” + </p> +<p> +“Of course he has; it is the vice of your men who do nothing. How is he? +Does he dine with us? Fritz, take care those leather pillows are properly +aired, and see that my bath is ready by ten o 'clock. Give me your arm, +Harcourt; what a blessing it is to be such a strong fellow!” + </p> +<p> +“So it is, by Jove! I am always thankful for it. And you—how do you +get on? You look well.” + </p> +<p> +“Do I?” said he, faintly, and pushing back his hair with an almost +fine-ladylike affectation. “I 'm glad you say so. It always rallies me a +little to hear I 'm better. You had my letter about the fish?” + </p> +<p> +“Ay, and I'll give you such a treat.” + </p> +<p> +“No, no, my dear Harcourt; a fried mackerel, or a whiting and a few crumbs +of bread,—nothing more.” + </p> +<p> +“If you insist, it shall be so; but I promise you I'll not be of your +mess, that's all. This is a glorious spot for turbot—and such +oysters!” + </p> +<p> +“Oysters are forbidden me, and don't let me have the torture of +temptation. What a charming place this seems to be!—very wild, very +rugged.” + </p> +<p> +“Wild—rugged! I should think it is,” muttered Harcourt. +</p> +<p> +“This pathway, though, does not bespeak much care. I wish our friend +yonder would hold his lantern a little lower. How I envy you the kind of +life you lead here,—so tranquil, so removed from all bores! By the +way, you get the newspapers tolerably regularly?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, every day.” + </p> +<p> +“That's all right. If there be a luxury left to any man after the age of +forty, it is to be let alone. It's the best thing I know of. What a +terrible bit of road! They might have made a pathway.” + </p> +<p> +“Come, don't grow faint-hearted. Here we are; this is Glencore.” + </p> +<p> +“Wait a moment. Just let him raise that lantern. Really this is very +striking—a very striking scene altogether. The doorway excellent, +and that little watch-tower, with its lone-star light, a perfect picture.” + </p> +<p> +“You 'll have time enough to admire all this; and we are keeping poor +Glencore waiting,” said Harcourt, impatiently. +</p> +<p> +“Very true; so we are.” + </p> +<p> +“Glencore's son, Upton,” said Harcourt, presenting the boy, who stood, +half pride, half bashfulness, in the porch. +</p> +<p> +“My dear boy, you see one of your father's oldest friends in the world,” + said Upton, throwing one arm on the boy's shoulder, apparently caressing, +but as much to aid himself in ascending the stair. “I'm charmed with your +old Schloss here, my dear,” said he, as they moved along. “Modern +architects cannot attain the massive simplicity of these structures. They +have a kind of confectionery style with false ornament, and inappropriate +decoration, that bears about the same relation to the original that a suit +of Drury Lane tinfoil does to a coat of Milanese mail armor. This gallery +is in excellent taste.” + </p> +<p> +And as he spoke, the door in front of him opened, and the pale, +sorrow-struck, and sickly figure of Glencore stood before him. Upton, with +all his self-command, could scarcely repress an exclamation at the sight +of one whom he had seen last in all the pride of youth and great personal +powers; while Glencore, with the instinctive acuteness of his morbid +temperament, as quickly saw the impression he had produced, and said, with +a deep sigh,— +</p> +<p> +“Ay, Horace, a sad wreck.” + </p> +<p> +“Not so, my dear fellow,” said the other, taking the thin, cold hand +within both his own; “as seaworthy as ever, after a little dry-docking and +refitting. It is only a craft like that yonder,” and he pointed to +Harcourt, “that can keep the sea in all weathers, and never care for the +carpenter. You and I are of another build.” + </p> +<p> +“And you—how are you?” asked Glencore, relieved to turn attention +away from himself, while he drew his arm within the other's. +</p> +<p> +“The same poor ailing mortal you always knew me,” said Upton, languidly; +“doomed to a life of uncongenial labor, condemned to climates totally +unstated to me, I drag along existence, only astonished at the trouble I +take to live, knowing pretty well as I do what life is worth.” + </p> +<p> +“'Jolly companions every one!' By Jove!” said Har-court, “for a pair of +fellows who were born on the sunny side of the road, I must say you are +marvellous instances of gratitude.” + </p> +<p> +“That excellent hippopotamus,” said Upton, “has no-thought for any +calamity if it does not derange his digestion! How glad I am to see the +soup! Now, Glencore, you shall witness no invalid's appetite.” + </p> +<p> +As the dinner proceeded, the tone of the conversation grew gradually +lighter and pleasanter. Upton had only to permit his powers to take their +free course to be agreeable, and now talked away on whatever came +uppermost, with a charming union of reflectiveness and repartee. If a very +rigid purist might take occasional Gallicisms in expression, and a +constant leaning to French modes of thought, none could fail to be +delighted with the graceful ease with which he wandered from theme to +theme, adorning each with some trait of that originality which was his +chief characteristic. Harcourt was pleased without well knowing how or +why, while to Glencore it brought back the memory of the days of happy +intercourse with the world, and all the brilliant hours of that polished +circle in which he had lived. To the pleasure, then, which his powers +conferred, there succeeded an impression of deep melancholy, so deep as to +attract the notice of Harcourt, who hastily asked,— +</p> +<p> +“If he felt ill?” + </p> +<p> +“Not worse,” said he, faintly, “but weak—weary; and I know Upton +will forgive me if I say good-night.” + </p> +<p> +“What a wreck indeed!” exclaimed Upton, as Glencore left the room with his +son. “I'd not have known him.” + </p> +<p> +“And yet until the last half-hour I have not seen him so well for weeks +past. I 'm afraid something you said about Alicia Villars affected him,” + said Harcourt. +</p> +<p> +“My dear Harcourt, how young you are in all these things,” said Upton, as +he lighted his cigarette. “A poor heart-stricken fellow, like Glencore, no +more cares for what <i>you</i> would think a painful allusion, than an old +weather-beaten sailor would for a breezy morning on the Downs at Brighton. +His own sorrows lie too deeply moored to be disturbed by the light winds +that ruffle the surface. And to think that all this is a woman's doing! Is +n't that what's passing in your mind, eh, most gallant Colonel?” + </p> +<p> +“By Jove, and so it was! They were the very words I was on the point of +uttering,” said Harcourt, half nettled at the ease with which the other +read him. +</p> +<p> +“And of course you understand the source of the sorrow?” + </p> +<p> +“I'm not quite so sure of that,” said Harcourt, more and more piqued at +the tone of bantering superiority with which the other spoke. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, you do, Harcourt; I know you better than you know yourself. Your +thoughts were these: Here's a fellow with a title, a good name, good +looks, and a fine fortune, going out of the world of a broken heart, and +all for a woman!” + </p> +<p> +“You knew her,” said Harcourt, anxious to divert the discussion from +himself. +</p> +<p> +“Intimately. Ninetta della Torre was the belle of Florence—what am I +saying? of all Italy—when Glencore met her, about eighteen years +ago. The Palazzo della Torre was the best house in Florence. The old +Prince, her grandfather,—her father was killed in the Russian +campaign,—was spending the last remnant of an immense fortune in +every species of extravagance. Entertainments that surpassed those of the +Pitti Palace in splendor, fêtes that cost fabulous sums, banquets +voluptuous as those of ancient Rome, were things of weekly occurrence. Of +course every foreigner, with any pretension to distinction, sought to be +presented there, and we English happened just at that moment to stand +tolerably high in Italian estimation. I am speaking of some eighteen or +twenty years back, before we sent out that swarm of domestic economists +who, under the somewhat erroneous notion of foreign cheapness, by a system +of incessant higgle and bargain, cutting down every one's demand to the +measure of their own pockets, end by making the word 'Englishman' a +synonym for all that is mean, shabby, and contemptible. The English of +that day were of another class; and assuredly their characteristics, as +regards munificence and high dealing, must have been strongly impressed +upon the minds of foreigners, seeing how their successors, very different +people, have contrived to trade upon the mere memory of these qualities +ever since.” + </p> +<p> +“Which all means that 'my lord' stood cheating better than those who came +after him,” said Harcourt, bluntly. +</p> +<p> +“He did so; and precisely for that very reason he conveyed the notion of a +people who do not place money in the first rank of all their speculations, +and who aspire to no luxury that they have not a just right to enjoy. But +to come back to Glencore. He soon became a favored guest at the Palazzo +della Torre. His rank, name, and station, combined with very remarkable +personal qualities, obtained for him a high place in the old Prince's +favor, and Ninetta deigned to accord him a little more notice than she +bestowed on any one else. I have, in the course of my career, had occasion +to obtain a near view of royal personages and their habits, and I can say +with certainty that never in any station, no matter how exalted, have I +seen as haughty a spirit as in that girl. To the pride of her birth, rank, +and splendid mode of life were added the consciousness of her surpassing +beauty, and the graceful charm of a manner quite unequalled. She was +incomparably superior to all around her, and, strangely enough, she did +not offend by the bold assertion of this superiority. It seemed her due, +and no more. Nor was it the assumption of mere flattered beauty. Her house +was the resort of persons of the very highest station, and in the midst of +them—some even of royal blood—she exacted all the deference +and all the homage that she required from others.” + </p> +<p> +“And they accorded it?” asked Harcourt, half contemptuously. +</p> +<p> +“They did; and so had you also if you had been in their place! Believe me, +most gallant Colonel, there is a wide difference between the empty +pretension of mere vanity and the daring assumption of conscious power. +This girl saw the influence she wielded. As she moved amongst us she +beheld the homage, not always willing, that awaited her. She felt that she +had but to distinguish any one man there, and he became for the time as +illustrious as though touched by the sword or ennobled by the star of his +sovereign. The courtier-like attitude of men, in the presence of a very +beautiful woman, is a spectacle full of interest. In the homage vouchsafed +to mere rank there enters always a sense of humiliation, and in the +observances of respect men tender to royalty, the idea of vassalage +presents itself most prominently; whereas in the other case, the +chivalrous devotion is not alloyed by this meaner servitude, and men never +lift their heads more haughtily than after they have bowed them in lowly +deference to loveliness.” + </p> +<p> +A thick, short snort from Harcourt here startled the speaker, who, +inspired by the sounds of his own voice and the flowing periods he +uttered, had fallen into one of those paroxysms of loquacity which now and +then befell him. That his audience should have thought him tiresome or +prosy, would, indeed, have seemed to him something strange; but that his +hearer should have gone off asleep, was almost incredible. +</p> +<p> +“It is quite true,” said Upton to himself; “he snores 'like a warrior +taking his rest.' What wonderful gifts some fellows are endowed with! and, +to enjoy life, there is none of them all like dulness. Can you show me to +my room?” said he, as Craggs answered his ring at the bell. +</p> +<p> +The Corporal bowed an assent. +</p> +<p> +“The Colonel usually retires early, I suppose?” said Upton. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, sir; at ten to a minute.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah! it is one—nearly half-past one—now, I perceive,” said he, +looking at his watch. “That accounts for his drowsiness,” muttered he, +between his teeth. “Curious vegetables are these old campaigners. Wish him +good night for me when he awakes, will you?” + </p> +<p> +And so saying, he proceeded on his way, with all that lassitude and +exhaustion which it was his custom to throw into every act which demanded +the slightest exertion. +</p> +<p> +“Any more stairs to mount, Mr. Craggs?” said he, with a bland but sickly +smile. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, sir; two flights more.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, dear! couldn't you have disposed of me on the lower floor?—I +don't care where or how, but something that requires no climbing. It +matters little, however, for I'm only here for a day.” + </p> +<p> +“We could fit up a small room, sir, off the library.” + </p> +<p> +“Do so, then. A most humane thought; for if I <i>should</i> remain another +night—Not at it yet?” cried he, peevishly, at the aspect of an +almost perpendicular stair before him. +</p> +<p> +“This is the last flight, sir; and you'll have a splendid view for your +trouble, when you awake in the morning.” + </p> +<p> +“There is no view ever repaid the toil of an ascent, Mr. Craggs, whether +it be to an attic or the Righi. Would you kindly tell my servant, Mr. +Schöfer, where to find me, and let him fetch the pillows, and put a little +rosemary in a glass of water in the room,—it corrects the odor of +the night-lamp. And I should like my coffee early,—say at seven, +though I don't wish to be disturbed afterwards. Thank you, Mr. Craggs,—good-night. +Oh! one thing more. You have a doctor here: would you just mention to him +that I should like to see him to-morrow about nine or half-past? Good +night, good night.” + </p> +<p> +And with a smile worthy of bestowal upon a court beauty, and a gentle +inclination of the head, the very ideal of gracefulness, Sir Horace +dismissed Mr. Craggs, and closed the door. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER IX. A MEDICAL VISIT +</h2> +<p> +Mr. Schöfer moved through the dimly lighted chamber with all the cat-like +stealthiness of an accomplished valet, arranging the various articles of +his master's wardrobe, and giving, so far as he was able, the semblance of +an accustomed spot to this new and strange locality. Already, indeed, it +was very unlike what it had been during Harcourt's occupation. Guns, +whips, fishing-tackle, dog-leashes, and landing-nets had all disappeared, +as well as uncouth specimens of costume for boating or the chase; and in +their place were displayed all the accessories of an elaborate toilet, +laid out with a degree of pomp and ostentation somewhat in contrast to the +place. A richly embroidered dressing-gown lay on the back of a chair, +before which stood a pair of velvet slippers worked in gold. On the table +in front of these, a whole regiment of bottles, of varied shape and color, +were ranged, the contents being curious essences and delicate odors, every +one of which entered into some peculiar stage of that elaborate process +Sir Horace Upton went through, each morning of his life, as a preparation +for the toils of the day. +</p> +<p> +Adjoining the bed stood a smaller table, covered with various medicaments, +tinctures, essences, infusions, and extracts, whose subtle qualities he +was well skilled in, and but for whose timely assistance he would not have +believed himself capable of surviving throughout the day. Beside these was +a bulky file of prescriptions, the learned documents of doctors of every +country of Europe, all of whom had enjoyed their little sunshine of favor, +and all of whom had ended by “mistaking his case.” These had now been +placed in readiness for the approaching consultation with “Glencore's +doctor;” and Mr. Schöfer still glided noiselessly from place to place, +preparing for that event. +</p> +<p> +“I 'm not asleep, Fritz,” said a weak, plaintive voice from the bed. “Let +me have my aconite,—eighteen drops; a full dose to-day, for this +journey has brought back the pains.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, Excellenz,” said Fritz, in a voice of broken accentuation. +</p> +<p> +“I slept badly,” continued his master, in the same complaining tone. “The +sea beat so heavily against the rocks, and the eternal plash, plash, all +night irritated and worried me. Are you giving me the right tincture?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, Excellenz,” was the brief reply. +</p> +<p> +“You have seen the doctor,—what is he like, Fritz?” + </p> +<p> +A strange grimace and a shrug of the shoulders were Mr. Schöfer's only +answer. +</p> +<p> +“I thought as much,” said Upton, with a heavy sigh. “They called him the +wild growth of the mountains last night, and I fancied what that was like +to prove. Is he young?” + </p> +<p> +A shake of the head implied not. +</p> +<p> +“Nor old?” + </p> +<p> +Another similar movement answered the question. +</p> +<p> +“Give me a comb, Fritz, and fetch the glass here.” And now Sir Horace +arranged his silky hair more becomingly, and having exchanged one or two +smiles with his image in the mirror, lay back on the pillow, saying, “Tell +him I am ready to see him.” + </p> +<p> +Mr. Schöfer proceeded to the door, and at once presented the obsequious +figure of Billy Traynor, who, having heard some details of the rank and +quality of his new patient, made his approaches with a most deferential +humility. It was true, Billy knew that my Lord Glencore's rank was above +that of Sir Horace, but to his eyes there was the far higher distinction +of a man of undoubted ability,—a great speaker, a great writer, a +great diplomatist; and Billy Traynor, for the first time in his life, +found himself in the presence of one whose claims to distinction stood +upon the lofty basis of personal superiority. Now, though bashful-ness was +not the chief characteristic of his nature, he really felt abashed and +timid as he drew near the bed, and shrank under the quick but searching +glance of the sick man's cold gray eyes. +</p> +<p> +“Place a chair, and leave us, Fritz,” said Sir Horace; and then, turning +slowly round, smiled as he said, “I'm happy to make your acquaintance, +sir. My friend, Lord Glencore, has told me with what skill you treated +him, and I embrace the fortunate occasion to profit by your professional +ability.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm your humble slave, sir,” said Billy, with a deep, rich brogue; and +the manner of the speaker, and his accent, seemed so to surprise Upton +that he continued to stare at him fixedly for some seconds without +speaking. +</p> +<p> +“You studied in Scotland, I believe?” said he, with one of the most +engaging smiles, while he hazarded the question. +</p> +<p> +“Indeed, then, I did not, sir,” said Billy, with a heavy sigh; “all I know +of the <i>ars medicâtrix</i> I picked up,—<i>currendo per campos</i>,—as +one may say, vagabondizing through life, and watching my opportunities. +Nature gave me the Hippocratic turn, and I did my best to improve it.” + </p> +<p> +“So that you never took out a regular diploma?” said Sir Horace, with +another and still blander smile. +</p> +<p> +“Sorra one, sir! I 'm a doctor just as a man is a poet,—by sheer +janius! 'T is the study of nature makes both one and the other; that is, +when there's the raal stuff,—the <i>divinus afflatus</i>,—inside. +Without you have that, you 're only a rhymester or a quack.” + </p> +<p> +“You would, then, trace a parallel between them?” said Upton, graciously. +</p> +<p> +“To be sure, sir! Ould Heyric says that the poet and the physician is one:— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“'For he who reads the clouded skies, +And knows the utterings of the deep, +Can surely see in human eyes +The sorrows that so heart-locked sleep.' +</pre> +<p> +The human system is just a kind of universe of its own; and the very same +faculties that investigate the laws of nature in one case is good in the +other.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't think the author of 'King Arthur' supports your theory,” said +Upton, gently. +</p> +<p> +“Blackmoor was an ass; but maybe he was as great a bosthoon in physic as +in poetry,” rejoined Billy, promptly. +</p> +<p> +“Well, Doctor,” said Sir Horace, with one of those plaintive sighs in +which he habitually opened the narrative of his own suffering, “let us +descend to meaner things, and talk of myself. You see before you one who, +in some degree, is the reproach of medicine. That file of prescriptions +beside you will show that I have consulted almost every celebrity in +Europe; and that I have done so unsuccessfully, it is only necessary that +you should look on these worn looks—these wasted fingers—this +sickly, feeble frame. Vouchsafe me a patient hearing for a few moments, +while I give you some insight into one of the most intricate cases, +perhaps, that has ever engaged the faculty.” + </p> +<p> +It is not our intention to follow Sir Horace through his statement, which +in reality comprised a sketch of half the ills that the flesh is heir to. +Maladies of heart, brain, liver, lungs, the nerves, the arteries, even the +bones, contributed their aid to swell the dreary catalogue, which, indeed, +contained the usual contradictions and exaggerations incidental to such +histories. We could not assuredly expect from our reader the patient +attention with which Billy listened to this narrative. Never by a word did +he interrupt the description; not even a syllable escaped him as he sat; +and even when Sir Horace had finished speaking, he remained with slightly +drooped head and clasped hands in deep meditation. +</p> +<p> +“It's a strange thing,” said he, at last; “but the more I see of the +aristocracy, the more I 'm convinced that they ought to have doctors for +themselves alone, just as they have their own tailors and coachmakers,—-chaps +that could devote themselves to the study of physic for the peerage, and +never think of any other disorders but them that befall people of rank. +Your mistake, Sir Horace, was in consulting the regular middle-class +practitioner, who invariably imagined there must be a disease to treat.” + </p> +<p> +“And you set me down as a hypochondriac, then,” said Upton, smiling. +</p> +<p> +“Nothing of the kind! You have a malady, sure enough, but nothing organic. +'Tis the oceans of tinctures, the sieves full of pills, the quarter-casks +of bitters you 're takin', has played the divil with you. The human +machine is like a clock, and it depends on the proportion the parts bear +to each other, whether it keeps time. You may make the spring too strong, +or the chain too thick, or the balance too heavy for the rest of the +works, and spoil everything just by over security. That's what your +doctors was doing with their tonics and cordials. They didn't see, here's +a poor washy frame, with a wake circulation and no vigor. If we nourish +him, his heart will go quicker, to be sure; but what will his brain be at? +There's the rub! His brain will begin to go fast too, and already it's +going the pace. 'T is soothin' and calmin' you want; allaying the +irritability of an irrascible, fretful nature, always on the watch for +self-torment. Say-bathin', early hours, a quiet mopin' kind of life, that +would, maybe, tend to torpor and sleepiness,—them's the first things +you need; and for exercise, a little work in the garden that you 'd take +interest in.” + </p> +<p> +“And no physic?” asked Sir Horace. +</p> +<p> +“Sorra screed! not as much as a powder or a draught,—barrin',” said +he, suddenly catching the altered expression of the sick man's face, “a +little mixture of hyoscyamus I' ll compound for you myself. This, and +friction over the region of the heart, with a mild embrocation, is all my +tratement!” + </p> +<p> +“And you have hopes of my recovery?” asked Sir Horace, faintly. +</p> +<p> +“My name isn't Billy Traynor if I'd not send you out of this hale and +hearty before two months. I read you like a printed book.” + </p> +<p> +“You really give me great confidence, for I perceive you understand the +tone of my temperament. Let us try this same embrocation at once; I'll +most implicitly obey you in everything.” + </p> +<p> +“My head on a block, then, but I'll cure you,” said Billy, who determined +that no scruples on his side should mar the trust reposed in him by the +patient. “But you must give yourself entirely up to me; not only as to +your eatin' and drinkin', but your hours of recreation and study, +exercise, amusement, and all, must be at my biddin'. It is the principle +of harmony between the moral and physical nature constitutes the whole +sacret of my system. To be stimulatin' the nerves, and lavin' the arteries +dormant, is like playing a jig to minuet time,—all must move in +simultaneous action; and the cerebellum, the great flywheel of the whole, +must be made to keep orderly time. D'ye mind?” + </p> +<p> +“I follow you with great interest,” said Sir Horace, to whose subtle +nature there was an intense pleasure in the thought of having discovered +what he deemed a man of original genius under this unpromising exterior. +“There is but one bar to these arrangements: I must leave this at once; I +ought to go to-day. I must be off to-morrow.” + </p> +<p> +“Then I'll not take the helm when I can't pilot you through the shoals,” + said Billy. “To begin my system, and see you go away before I developed my +grand invigoratin' arcanum, would be only to destroy your confidence in an +elegant discovery.” + </p> +<p> +“Were I only as certain as you seem to be——” began +</p> +<p> +Sir Horace, and then stopped. +</p> +<p> +“You 'd stay and be cured, you were goin' to say. Well, if you did n't +feel that same trust in me, you 'd be right to go; for it is that very +confidence that turns the balance. Ould Babbington used to say that +between a good physician and a bad one there was just the difference +between a pound and a guinea. But between the one you trust and the one +you don't, there's all the way between Billy Traynor and the Bank of +Ireland!” + </p> +<p> +“On that score every advantage is with you,” said Upton, with all the +winning grace of his incomparable manner; “and I must now bethink me how I +can manage to prolong my stay here.” And with this he fell into a musing +fit, letting drop occasionally some stray word or two, to mark the current +of his thoughts: “The Duke of Headwater's on the thirteenth; Ardroath +Castle the Tuesday after; More-hampton for the Derby day. These easily +disposed of. Prince Boratinsky, about that Warsaw affair, must be attended +to; a letter, yes, a letter, will keep that question open. Lady Grencliffe +<i>is</i> a difficulty; if I plead illness, she 'll say I 'm not strong +enough to go to Russia. I 'll think it over.” And with this he rested his +head on his hands, and sank into profound reflection. “Yes, Doctor,” said +he, at length, as though summing up his secret calculations, “health is +the first requisite. If you can but restore me, you will be—I am +above the mere personal consideration—you will be the means of +conferring an important service on the King's Government. A variety of +questions, some of them deep and intricate, are now pending, of which I +alone understand the secret meaning. A new hand would infallibly spoil the +game; and yet, in my present condition, how could I hear the fatigues of +long interviews, ministerial deliberations, incessant note-writing, and +evasive conversations?” + </p> +<p> +“Utterly unpossible!” exclaimed the doctor. +</p> +<p> +“As you observe, it is utterly impossible,” rejoined Sir Horace, with one +of his own dubious smiles; and then, in a manner more natural, resumed: +“We public men have the sad necessity of concealing the sufferings on +which others trade for sympathy. We must never confess to an ache or a +pain, lest it be rumored that we are unequal to the fatigues of office; +and so is it that we are condemned to run the race with broken health and +shattered frame, alleging all the while that no exertion is too much, no +effort too great for us.” + </p> +<p> +“And maybe, after all, it's that very struggle that makes you more than +common men,” said Billy. “There's a kind of irritability that keeps the +brain at stretch, and renders it equal to higher efforts than ever +accompany good everyday health. Dyspepsia is the soul of a prose-writer, +and a slight ossification of the aortic valves is a great help to the +imagination.” + </p> +<p> +“Do you really say so?” asked Sir Horace, with all the implicit confidence +with which he accepted any marvel that had its origin in medicine. +</p> +<p> +“Don't you feel it yourself, sir?” asked Billy. “Do you ever pen a reply +to a knotty state-paper as nately as when you've the heartburn?—are +you ever as epigrammatic as when you're driven to a listen slipper?—and +when do you give a minister a jobation as purtily as when you are laborin' +under a slight indigestion? Not that it would sarve a man to be +permanently in gout or the colic; but for a spurt like a cavalry charge, +there's nothing like eatin' something that disagrees with you.” + </p> +<p> +“An ingenious notion,” said the diplomatist, smiling. +</p> +<p> +“And now I 'll take my lave,” said Billy, rising. “I'm going out to gather +some mountain-colchicum and sorrel, to make a diaphoretic infusion; and +I've to give Master Charles his Greek lesson; and blister the colt,—he's +thrown out a bone spavin; and, after that, Handy Care's daughter has the +shakin' ague, and the smith at the forge is to be bled,—all before +two o 'dock, when 'the lord' sends for me. But the rest of the day, and +the night too, I'm your honor's obaydient.” + </p> +<p> +And with a low bow, repeated in a more reverential man-ner at the door, +Billy took his leave and retired. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER X. A DISCLOSURE +</h2> +<p> +“Have you seen Upton?” asked Glencore eagerly of Harcourt as he entered +his bedroom. +</p> +<p> +“Yes; he vouchsafed me an audience during his toilet, just as the old +kings of France were accustomed to honor a favorite with one.” + </p> +<p> +“And is he full of miseries at the dreary place, the rough fare and +deplorable resources of this wild spot?” + </p> +<p> +“Quite the reverse; he is charmed with everything and everybody. The view +from his window is glorious; the air has already invigorated him. For +years he has not breakfasted with the same appetite; and he finds that of +all the places he has ever chanced upon, this is the one veritable exact +spot which suits him.” + </p> +<p> +“This is very kind on his part,” said Glencore, with a faint smile. “Will +the humor last, Harcourt? That is the question.” + </p> +<p> +“I trust it will,—at least it may well endure for the short period +he means to stay; although already he has extended that, and intends +remaining till next week.” + </p> +<p> +“Better still,” said Glencore, with more animation of voice and manner. “I +was already growing nervous about the brief space in which I was to crowd +in all that I want to say to him; but if he will consent to wait a day or +two, I hope I shall be equal to it.” + </p> +<p> +“In his present mood there is no impatience to be off; on the contrary, he +has been inquiring as to all the available means of locomotion, and by +what convenience he is to make various sea and land excursions.” + </p> +<p> +“We have no carriage,—we have no roads, even,” said Glencore, +peevishly. +</p> +<p> +“He knows all that; but he is concerting measures about a certain +turf-kish, I think they call it, which, by the aid of pillows to lie on, +and donkeys to drag, can be made a most useful vehicle; while, for longer +excursions, he has suggested a 'conveniency' of wheels and axles to the +punt, rendering it equally eligible on land or water. Then he has been +designing great improvements in horticulture, and giving orders about a +rake, a spade, and a hoe for himself. I 'm quite serious,” said Harcourt, +as Glencore smiled with a kind of droll incredulity. “It is perfectly +true; and as he hears that the messenger occasionally crosses the lough to +the post, when there are no letters there, he hints at a little simple +telegraph for Leenane, which should announce what the mail contains, and +which might be made useful to convey other intelligence. In fact, all <i>my</i> +changes here will be as for nothing to <i>his</i> reforms, and between us +you 'll not know your own house again, if you even be able to live in it.” + </p> +<p> +“You have already done much to make it more habitable, Harcourt,” said +Glencore, feelingly; “and if I had not the grace to thank you for it, I 'm +not the less grateful. To say truth, my old friend, I half doubted whether +it was an act of friendship to attach me ever so lightly to a life of +which I am well weary. Ceasing as I have done for years back to feel +interest in anything, I dread whatever may again recall me to the world of +hopes and fears,—that agitated sea of passion wherein I have no +longer vigor to contend. To speak to me, then, of plans to carry out, +schemes to accomplish, was to point to a future of activity and exertion; +and!”—here he dropped his voice to a deep and mournful tone—“can +have but one future,—the dark and dreary one before the grave!” + </p> +<p> +Harcourt was too deeply impressed by the solemnity of these words to +venture on a reply, and he sat silently contemplating the sorrow-struck +but placid features of the sick man. +</p> +<p> +“There is nothing to prevent a man struggling, and successfully too, +against mere adverse fortune,” continued Glencore. “I feel at times that +if I had been suddenly reduced to actual beggary,—left without a +shilling in the world,—there are many ways in which I could eke out +subsistence. A great defeat to my personal ambition I could resist. The +casualty that should exclude me from a proud position and public life, I +could bear up against with patience, and I hope with dignity. Loss of +fortune, loss of influence, loss of station, loss of health even, dearer +than them all, can be borne. There is but one intolerable ill, one that no +time alleviates, no casuistry diminishes,—loss of honor! Ay, +Harcourt, rank and riches do little for him who feels himself the inferior +of the meanest that elbows him in a crowd; and the man whose name is a +scoff and a jibe has but one part to fill,—to make himself +forgotten.” + </p> +<p> +“I hope I 'm not deficient in a sense of personal honor, Glencore,” said +Harcourt; “but I must say that I think your reasoning on this point is +untenable and wrong.” + </p> +<p> +“Let us not speak more of it,” said Glencore, faintly. “I know not how I +have been led to allude to what it is better to bear in secret than to +confide even to friendship;” and he pressed the strong fingers of the +other as he spoke, in his own feeble grasp. “Leave me now, Harcourt, and +send Upton here. It may be that the time is come when I shall be able to +speak to him.” + </p> +<p> +“You are too weak to-day, Glencore,—too much agitated. Pray defer +this interview.” + </p> +<p> +“No, Harcourt; these are my moments of strength. The little energy now +left to me is the fruit of strong excitement. Heaven knows how I shall be +to-morrow.” + </p> +<p> +Harcourt made no further opposition, but left the room in search of Upton. +</p> +<p> +It was full an hour later when Sir Horace Upton made his appearance in +Glencore's chamber, attired in a purple dressing-gown, profusely braided +with gold, loose trousers as richly brocaded, and a pair of real Turkish +slippers, resplendent with costly embroidery; a small fez of blue velvet, +with a deep gold tassel, covered the top of his head, at either side of +which his soft silky hair descended in long massy waves, apparently +negligently, but in reality arranged with all the artistic regard to +effect of a consummate master. From the gold girdle at his waist depended +a watch, a bunch of keys, a Turkish purse, an embroidered tobacco-bag, a +gorgeously chased smelling-bottle, and a small stiletto, with a topaz +handle. In one hand he carried a meerschaum, the other leaned upon a cane, +and with all the dependence of one who could not walk without its aid. The +greeting was cordial and affectionate on both sides; and when Sir Horace, +after a variety of preparations to ensure his comfort, at length seated +himself beside the bed, his features beamed with all their wonted +gentleness and kindness. +</p> +<p> +“I'm charmed at what Harcourt has been telling me, Upton,” said Glencore; +“and that you really can exist in all the savagery of this wild spot.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm in ecstasy with the place, Glencore. My memory cannot recall the same +sensations of health and vigor I have experienced since I came here. Your +cook is first-rate; your fare is exquisite; the quiet is a positive +blessing; and that queer creature, your doctor, is a very remarkable +genius.” + </p> +<p> +“So he is,” said Glencore, gravely. +</p> +<p> +“One of those men of original mould who leave cultivation leagues behind, +and arrive at truth by a bound.” + </p> +<p> +“He certainly treated me with considerable skill.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm satisfied of it; his conversation is replete with shrewd and +intelligent observation, and he seems to have studied his art more like a +philosopher than a mere physician of the schools. And depend upon it, +Glencore, the curative art must mainly depend upon the secret instinct +which divines the malady, less by the rigid rules of acquired skill than +by that prerogative of genius, which, however exerted, arrives at its goal +at once. Our conversation had scarcely lasted a quarter of an hour, when +he revealed to me the exact seat of all my sufferings, and the most +perfect picture of my temperament. And then his suggestions as to +treatment were all so reasonable, so well argued.” + </p> +<p> +“A clever fellow, no doubt of it,” said Glencore. +</p> +<p> +“But he is far more than that, Glencore. Cleverness is only a +manufacturing quality,—that man supplies the raw article also. It +has often struck me as very singular that such heads are not found in <i>our</i> +class,—they belong to another order altogether. It is possible that +the stimulus of necessity engenders the greatest of all efforts, calling +to the operations of the mind the continued strain for contrivance; and +thus do we find the most remarkable men are those, every step of whose +knowledge has been gained with a struggle.” + </p> +<p> +“I suspect you are right,” said Glencore, “and that our old system of +school education, wherein all was rough, rugged, and difficult, turned out +better men than the present-day habit of everything-made-easy and +everybody-made-any-thing. Flippancy is the characteristic of our age, and +we owe it to our teaching.” + </p> +<p> +“By the way, what do you mean to do with Charley?” said Upton. “Do you +intend him for Eton?” + </p> +<p> +“I scarcely know,—I make plans only to abandon them,” said Glencore, +gloomily. +</p> +<p> +“I'm greatly struck with him. He is one of those fellows, however, who +require the nicest management, and who either rise superior to all around +them, or drop down into an indolent, dreamy existence, conscious of power, +but too bashful or too lazy to exert it.” + </p> +<p> +“You have hit him off, Upton, with all your own subtlety; and it was to +speak of that boy I have been so eager to see you.” + </p> +<p> +Glencore paused as he said these words, and passed his hand over his brow, +as though to prepare himself for the task before him. +</p> +<p> +“Upton,” said he, at last, in a voice of deep and solemn meaning, “the +resolution I am about to impart to you is not unlikely to meet your +strenuous opposition; you will be disposed to show me strong reasons +against it on every ground; you may refuse me that amount of assistance I +shall ask of you to carry out my purpose; but if your arguments were all +unanswerable, and if your denial to aid me was to sever the old friendship +between us, I 'd still persist in my determination. For more than two +years the project has been before my mind. The long hours of the day, the +longer ones of the night, have found me deep in the consideration of it. I +have repeated over to myself everything that my ingenuity could suggest +against it; I have said to my own heart all that my worst enemy could +utter, were he to read the scheme and detect my plan; I have done more,—I +have struggled with myself to abandon it; but in vain. My heart is linked +to it; it forms the one sole tie that attaches me to life. Without it, the +apathy that I feel stealing over me would be complete, and my existence +become a mournful dream. In a word, Upton, all is passionless within me, +save one sentiment; and I drag on life merely for a '<i>Vendetta</i>.'” + </p> +<p> +Upton shook his head mournfully, as the other paused here, and said,— +</p> +<p> +“This is disease, Glencore!” + </p> +<p> +“Be it so; the malady is beyond cure,” said he, sternly. +</p> +<p> +“Trust me it is not so,” said Upton, gently; “you listened to my +persuasions on a more—” + </p> +<p> +“Ay, that I did!” cried Glencore, interrupting; “and have I ever ceased to +rue the day I did so? But for <i>your</i> arguments, and I had not lived +this life of bitter, self-reproaching misery; but for you, and my +vengeance had been sated ere this!” + </p> +<p> +“Remember, Glencore,” said the other, “that you had obtained all the world +has decreed as satisfaction. He met you and received your fire; you shot +him through the chest,—not mortally, it is true, but to carry to his +grave a painful, lingering disease. To have insisted on his again meeting +you would have been little less than murder. No man could have stood your +friend in such a quarrel. I told you so then, I repeat it now, <i>he</i> +could not fire at you; what, then, was it possible for you to do?” + </p> +<p> +“Shoot him,—shoot him like a dog!” cried Glencore, while his eyes +gleamed like the glittering eyes of an enraged beast. “You talk of his +lingering life of pain: think of <i>mine</i>; have some sympathy for what +<i>I</i> suffer! Would all the agony of <i>his</i> whole existence equal +one hour of the torment he has bequeathed to me, its shame and ignominy?” + </p> +<p> +“These are things which passion can never treat of, my dear Glencore.” + </p> +<p> +“Passion alone can feel them,” said the other, sternly. “Keep subtleties +for those who use like weapons. As for me, no casuistry is needed to tell +me I am dishonored, and just as little to tell me I must be avenged! If <i>you</i> +think differently, it were better not to discuss this question further +between us; but I did think I could have reckoned upon you, for I felt you +had barred my first chance of a vengeance.” + </p> +<p> +“Now, then, for your plan, Glencore,” said Upton, who, with all the +dexterity of his calling, preferred opening a new channel in the +discussion, to aggravating difficulties by a further opposition. +</p> +<p> +“I must rid myself of her! There's my plan!” cried Glencore, savagely. +“You have it all in that resolution. Of no avail is it that I have +separated my fortune from hers, so long as she bears my name, and renders +it infamous in every city of Europe. Is it to <i>you</i>, who live in the +world,—who mix with men of every country,—that I need tell +this? If a man cannot throw off such a shame, he must sink under it.” + </p> +<p> +“But you told me you had an unconquerable aversion to the notion of +seeking a divorce.” + </p> +<p> +“So I had; so I have! The indelicate, the ignominious course of a trial at +law, with all its shocking exposure, would be worse than a thousand +deaths! To survive the suffering of all the licensed ribaldry of some +gowned coward aspersing one's honor, calumniating, inventing, and, when +invention failed, suggesting motives, the very thought of which in secret +had driven a man to madness! To endure this—to read it—to know +it went published over the wide globe, till one's shame became the gossip +of millions—and then—with a verdict extorted from pity, +damages awarded to repair a broken heart and a sullied name—to carry +this disgrace before one's equals, to be again discussed, sifted, and +cavilled at! No, Upton; this poor shattered brain would give way under +such a trial; to compass it in mere fancy is already nigh to madness! It +must be by other means than these that I attain my object!” + </p> +<p> +The terrible energy with which he spoke actually frightened Upton, who +fancied that his reason had already begun to show signs of decline. +</p> +<p> +“The world has decreed,” resumed Glencore, “that in these conflicts all +the shame shall be the husband's; but it shall not be so here! <i>She</i> +shall have her share, ay, and, by Heaven, not the smaller share either!” + </p> +<p> +“Why, what would you do?” asked Upton, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“Deny my marriage; call her my mistress!” cried Glencore, in a voice +shaken with passion and excitement. +</p> +<p> +“But your boy,—your son, Glencore!” + </p> +<p> +“He shall be a bastard! You may hold up your hands in horror, and look +with all your best got-up disgust at such a scheme; but if you wish to see +me swear to accomplish it, I'll do so now before you, ay, on my knees +before you! When we eloped from her father's house at Castellamare, we +were married by a priest at Capri; of the marriage no trace exists. The +more legal ceremony was performed before you, as Chargé d'Affaires at +Naples,—of that I have the registry here; nor, except my courier, +Sanson, is there a living witness. If you determine to assert it, you will +do so without a fragment of proof, since every document that could +substantiate it is in my keeping. You shall see them for yourself. She is, +therefore, in my power; and will any man dare to tell me how I should +temper that power?” + </p> +<p> +“But your boy, Glencore, your boy!” + </p> +<p> +“Is my boy's station in the world a prouder one by being the son of the +notorious Lady Glencore, or as the offspring of a nameless mistress? What +avail to him that he should have a title stained by <i>her</i> shame? +Where is he to go? In what land is he to live, where her infamy has not +reached? Is it not a thousand times better that he enter life ignoble and +unknown,—to start in the world's race with what he may of strength +and power,—than drag on an unhonored existence, shunned by his +equals, and only welcome where it is disgrace to find companionship?” + </p> +<p> +“But you surely have never contemplated all the consequences of this rash +resolve. It is the extinction of an ancient title, the alienation of a +great estate, when once you have declared your boy illegitimate.” + </p> +<p> +“He is a beggar: I know it; the penalty he must pay is a heavy one. But +think of <i>her</i>, Upton,—think of the haughty Viscountess, +revelling in splendor, and, even in all her shame, the flattered, welcomed +guest of that rotten, corrupt society she lives in. Imagine her in all the +pride of wealth and beauty, sought after, adulated, worshipped as she is, +suddenly struck down by the brand of this disgrace, and left upon the +world without fortune, without rank, without even a name. To be shunned +like a leper by the very meanest of those it had once been an honor when +she recognized them. Picture to yourself this woman, degraded to the +position of all that is most vile and contemptible. She, that scarcely +condescended to acknowledge as her equals the best-born and the highest, +sunk down to the hopeless infamy of a mistress. They tell me she laughed +on the day I fainted at seeing her entering the San Carlos at Naples,—laughed +as they carried me down the steps into the fresh air! Will she laugh now, +think you? Shall I be called 'Le Pauvre Sire' when she hears this? Was +there ever a vengeance more terrible, more complete?” + </p> +<p> +“Again, I say, Glencore, you have no right to involve others in the +penalty of her fault. Laying aside every higher motive, you can have no +more right to deny your boy's claim to his rank and fortune than I or any +one else. It cannot be alienated nor extinguished; by his birth he became +the heir to your title and estates.” + </p> +<p> +“He has no birth, sir, he is a bastard: who shall deny it? <i>You</i> +may,” added he, after a second's pause; “but where's your proof? Is not +every probability as much against you as all documentary evidence, since +none will ever believe that I could rob myself of the succession, and make +over my fortune to Heaven knows what remote relation?” + </p> +<p> +“And do you expect me to become a party to this crime?” asked Upton, +gravely. +</p> +<p> +“You balked me in one attempt at vengeance, and I think you owe me a +reparation!” + </p> +<p> +“Glencore,” said Upton, solemnly, “we are both of us men of the world,—men +who have seen life in all its varied aspects sufficiently to know the +hollowness of more than half the pretension men trade upon as principle; +we have witnessed mean actions and the very lowest motives amongst the +highest in station; and it is not for either of us to affect any +overstrained estimate of men's honor and good faith; but I say to you, in +all sincerity, that not alone do I refuse you all concurrence in the act +you meditate, but I hold myself open to denounce and frustrate it.” + </p> +<p> +“You do!” cried Glencore, wildly, while with a bound he sat up in his bed, +grasping the curtain convulsively for support. +</p> +<p> +“Be calm, Glencore, and listen to me patiently.” + </p> +<p> +“You declare that you will use the confidence of this morning against me!” + cried Glencore, while the lines in his face became indented more deeply, +and his bloodless lips quivered with passion. “You take your part with <i>her!</i>” + </p> +<p> +“I only ask that you would hear me.” + </p> +<p> +“You owe me four thousand five hundred pounds, Sir Horace Upton,” said +Glencore, in a voice barely above a whisper, but every accent of which was +audible. +</p> +<p> +“I know it, Glencore,” said Upton, calmly. “You helped me by a loan of +that sum in a moment of great difficulty. Your generosity went farther, +for you took, what nobody else would, my personal security.” + </p> +<p> +Glencore made no reply, but, throwing back the bedclothes, slowly and +painfully arose, and with tottering and uncertain steps approached a +table. With a trembling hand he unlocked a drawer, and taking out a paper, +opened and scanned it over. +</p> +<p> +“There's your bond, sir,” said he, with a hollow, cavernous voice, as he +threw it into the fire, and crushed it down into the flames with a poker. +“There is now nothing between us. You are free to do your worst!” And as +he spoke, a few drops of dark blood trickled from his nostril, and he fell +senseless upon the floor. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XI. SOME LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF DIPLOMATIC LIFE +</h2> +<p> +There is a trait in the lives of great diplomatists of which it is just +possible some one or other of my readers may not have heard, which is, +that none of them have ever attained to any great eminence without an +attachment—we can find no better word for it—to some woman of +superior understanding who has united within herself great talents for +society with a high and soaring ambition. +</p> +<p> +They who only recognize in the world of politics the dry details of +ordinary parliamentary business, poor-law questions, sanitary rules, +railroad bills, and colonial grants can form but a scanty notion of the +excitement derived from the high interests of party, and the great game +played by about twenty mighty gamblers, with the whole world for the +table, and kingdoms for counters. In this “grand rôle” women perform no +ignoble part; nay, it were not too much to say that theirs is the very +motive-power of the whole vast machinery. +</p> +<p> +Had we any right to step beyond the limits of our story for illustration, +it would not be difficult to quote names enough to show that we are +speaking not at hazard, but “from book,” and that great events derive far +less of their impulse from “the lords” than from “the ladies of creation.” + Whatever be the part they take in these contests, their chief attention is +ever directed, not to the smaller battle-field of home questions, but to +the greater and wider campaign of international politics. Men may wrangle +and hair-split, and divide about a harbor bill or a road cession; but +women occupy themselves in devising how thrones may be shaken and +dynasties disturbed,—how frontiers may be changed, and nationalities +trafficked; for, strange as it may seem, the stupendous incidents which +mould human destinies are more under the influence of passion and intrigue +than the commonest events of every-day life. +</p> +<p> +Our readers may, and not very unreasonably, begin to suspect that it was +in some moment of abstraction we wrote “Glencore” at the head of these +pages, and that these speculations are but the preface to some very +abstruse reflections upon the political condition of Europe. But no; they +are simply intended as a prelude to the fact that Sir Horace Upton was not +exempt from the weakness of his order, and that he, too, reposed his trust +upon a woman's judgment. +</p> +<p> +The name of his illustrious guide was the Princess Sabloukoff, by birth a +Pole, but married to a Russian of vast wealth and high family, from whom +she separated early in life, to mingle in the world with all the +“prestige” of position, riches, and—greater than either—extreme +beauty, and a manner of such fascination as made her name of European +celebrity. +</p> +<p> +When Sir Horace first met her, he was the junior member of our Embassy at +Naples, and she the distinguished leader of fashion in that city. We are +not about to busy ourselves with the various narratives which professed to +explain her influence at Court, or the secret means to which she owed her +ascendency over royal highnesses, and her sway over cardinals. Enough that +she possessed such, and that the world knew it. The same success attended +her at Vienna and at Paris. She was courted and sought after everywhere; +and if her arrival was not fêted with the public demonstrations that await +royalty, it was assuredly an event recognized with all that could flatter +her vanity or minister to her self-esteem. +</p> +<p> +When Sir Horace was presented to her as an Attaché, she simply bowed and +smiled. He renewed his acquaintance some ten years later as a Secretary, +when she vouchsafed to say she remembered him. A third time, after a lapse +of years, he came before her as a Chargé d'Affaires, when she conversed +with him; and lastly, when time had made him a Minister, and with less +generosity had laid its impress upon herself, she gave him her hand, and +said,— +</p> +<p> +“My dear Horace, how charming to see an old friend, if you will be good +enough to let me call you so.” + </p> +<p> +And he was so; he accepted the friendship as frankly as it was proffered. +He knew that time was when he could have no pretension to this +distinction: but the beautiful Princess was no longer young; the +fascinations she had wielded were already a kind of Court tradition; +archdukes and ambassadors were no more her slaves; nor was she the terror +of jealous queens and Court favorites. Sir Horace knew all this; but he +also knew that, she being such, his ambition had never dared to aspire to +her friendship, and it was only in her days of declining fortune that he +could hope for such distinction. +</p> +<p> +All this may seem very strange and very odd, dear reader; but we live in +very strange and very odd times, and more than one-half the world is only +living on “second-hand,”—second-hand shawls and second-hand +speeches, second-hand books, and Court suits and opinions are all rife; +and why not second-hand friendships? +</p> +<p> +Now, the friendship between a bygone beauty of forty—and we will not +say how many more years—and a hackneyed, half-disgusted man of the +world, of the same age, is a very curious contract. There is no love in +it; as little is there any strong tie of esteem: but there is a wonderful +bond of self-interest and mutual convenience. Each seems to have at last +found “one that understands him;” similarity of pursuit has engendered +similarity of taste. They have each seen the world from exactly the same +point of view, and they have come out of it equally heart-wearied and +tired, stored with vast resources of social knowledge, and with a keen +insight into every phase of that complex machinery by which one-half the +world cheats the other. +</p> +<p> +Madame de Sabloukoff was still handsome; she had far more than what is +ill-naturedly called the remains of good looks. She had a brilliant +complexion, lustrous dark eyes, and a profusion of the most beautiful +hair. She was, besides, a most splendid dresser. Her toilet was the very +perfection of taste, and if a little inclining to over-magnificence, not +the less becoming to one whose whole air and bearing assumed something of +queenly dignity. +</p> +<p> +In the world of society there is a very great prestige attends those who +have at some one time played a great part in life. The deposed king, the +ex-minister, the banished general, and even the bygone beauty, receive a +species of respectful homage, which the wider world without-doors is not +always ready to accord them. Good breeding, in fact, concedes what mere +justice might deny; and they who have to fall back upon “souvenirs” for +their greatness, always find their advantage in associating with the class +whose prerogative is good manners. +</p> +<p> +The Princess Sabloukoff was not, however, one of those who can live upon +the interest of a bygone fame. She saw that, when the time of coquetry and +its fascinations has passed, still, with faculties like hers, there was +yet a great game to be played. Hitherto she had only studied characters; +now she began to reflect upon events. The transition was an easy one, to +which her former knowledge contributed largely its assistance. There was +scarcely a royalty, hardly a leading personage, in Europe she did not know +personally and well. She had lived in intimacy with ministers, and +statesmen, and great politicians. She knew them in all that “life of the +<i>salon</i>” where men alternately expand into frankness, and practise +the wily devices of their crafty callings. She had seen them in all the +weaknesses, too, of inferior minds, eager after small objects, tormented +by insignificant cares. They who habitually dealt with these mighty +personages only beheld them in their dignity of station, or surrounded by +the imposing accessories of office. What an advantage, then, to regard +them closer and nearer,—to be aware of their shortcomings, and +acquainted with the secret springs of their ambitions! +</p> +<p> +The Princess and Sir Horace very soon saw that each needed the other. When +Robert Macaire accidentally met an accomplished gamester who “turned the +king” as often as he did, and could reciprocate every trick and artifice +with him, he threw down the cards, saying, “Embrassons-nous, nous sommes +frères!” Now, the illustration is a very ignoble one, but it conveys no +very inexact idea of the bond which united these two distinguished +individuals. +</p> +<p> +Sir Horace was one of those fine, acute intelligences which may be gapped +and blunted if applied to rough work, but are splendid instruments where +you would cut cleanly and cut deep. She saw this at once. He, too, +recognized in her a wonderful knowledge of life, joined to vast powers of +employing it with profit. No more was wanting to establish a friendship +between them. Dispositions must be, to a certain degree, different between +those who are to live together as friends, but tastes must be alike. +Theirs were so. They had the same veneration for the same things, the same +regard for the same celebrities, and the same contempt for the small +successes which were engaging the minds of many around them. If the +Princess had a real appreciation of the fine abilities of Sir Horace, he +estimated at their full value all the resources of her wondrous tact and +skill, and the fascinations which even yet surrounded her. +</p> +<p> +Have we said enough to explain the terms of this alliance, or must we make +one more confession, and own that her insidious praise—a flattery +too delicate and fine ever to be committed to absolute eulogy—convinced +Sir Horace that she alone, of all the world, was able to comprehend the +vast stores of his knowledge, and the wide measure of his capacity as a +statesman? +</p> +<p> +In the great game of statecraft, diplomatists are not above looking into +each other's hands; but this must always be accomplished by means of a +confederate. How terribly alike are all human rogueries, whether the scene +be a conference at Vienna, or the tent of a thimblerig at Ascot! La +Sabloukoff was unrivalled in the art. She knew how to push raillery and <i>persiflage</i> +to the very frontiers of truth, and even peep over and see what lay +beyond. Sir Horace traded on the material with which she supplied him, and +acquired the reputation of being all that was crafty and subtle in +diplomacy. +</p> +<p> +How did Upton know this? Whence came he by that? What mysterious source of +information is he possessed of? Who could have revealed such a secret to +him? were questions often asked in that dreary old drawing-room of Downing +Street, where men's destinies are shaped, and the fate of millions +decided, from four o'clock to six of an afternoon. +</p> +<p> +Often and often were the measures of the Cabinet shaped by the tidings +which arrived with all the speed of a foreign courier; over and over again +were the speeches in Parliament based upon information received from him. +It has even happened that the news from his hand has caused the telegraph +of the Admiralty to signalize the “Thunderer” to put to sea with all +haste. In a word, he was the trusted agent of our Government, whether +ruled by a Whig or a Tory, and his despatches were ever regarded as a sure +warranty for action. +</p> +<p> +The English Minister at a Foreign Court labors under one great +disadvantage, which is, that his policy, and all the consequences that are +to follow it, are rarely, if ever, shaped with any reference to the state +of matters then existing in his own country. Absorbed as he is in great +European questions, how can he follow with sufficient attention the course +of events at home, or recognize, in the signs and tokens of the division +list, the changeful fortunes of party? He may be advising energy when the +cry is all for temporizing; counselling patience and submission, when the +nation is eager for a row; recommend religious concessions in the very +week that Exeter Hall is denouncing toleration; or actually suggesting aid +to a Government that a popular orator has proclaimed to be everything that +is unjust and ignominious. +</p> +<p> +It was Sir Horace Upton's fortune to have fallen into one of these +embarrassments. He had advised the Home Government to take some measures, +or at least look with favor on certain movements of the Poles in Russia, +in order the better to obtain some concessions then required from the +Cabinet of the Czar. The Premier did not approve of the suggestion, nor +was it like to meet acceptance at home. We were in a pro-Russian fever at +the moment. Some mob disturbances at Norwich, a Chartist meeting at +Stockport, and something else in Wales, had frightened the nation into a +hot stage of conservatism; and never was there such an ill-chosen moment +to succor Poles or awaken dormant nationalities. +</p> +<p> +Upton's proposal was rejected. He was even visited with one of those +disagreeable acknowledgments by which the Foreign Office reminds a +speculative minister that he is going <i>ultra crepidam</i>. When an envoy +is snubbed, he always asks for leave of absence. If the castigation be +severe, he invariably, on his return to England, goes to visit the Leader +of the Opposition. This is the ritual. Sir Horace, however, only observed +it in half. He came home; but after his first morning's attendance at the +Foreign Office, he disappeared; none saw or heard of him. He knew well all +the value of mystery, and he accordingly disappeared from public view +altogether. +</p> +<p> +When, therefore, Harcourt's letter reached him, proposing that he should +visit Glencore, the project came most opportunely; and that he only +accepted it for a day, was in the spirit of his habitual diplomacy, since +he then gave himself all the power of an immediate departure, or permitted +the option of remaining gracefully, in defiance of all pre-engage-ments, +and all plans to be elsewhere. We have been driven, for the sake of this +small fact, to go a great way round in our history; but we promise our +readers that Sir Horace was one of those people whose motives are never +tracked without a considerable <i>détour</i>. The reader knows now why he +was at Glencore,—he already knew how. +</p> +<p> +The terrible interview with Glencore brought back a second relapse of +greater violence than the first, and it was nigh a fortnight ere he was +pronounced out of danger. It was a strange life that Harcourt and Upton +led in that dreary interval. Guests of one whose life was in utmost peril, +they met in that old gallery each day to talk, in half-whispered +sentences, over the sick man's case, and his chances of recovery. +</p> +<p> +Harcourt frankly told Upton that the first relapse was the consequence of +a scene between Glencore and himself. Upton made no similar confession. He +reflected deeply, however, over all that had passed, and came to the +conclusion that, in Glencore's present condition, opposition might +prejudice his chance of recovery, but never avail to turn him from his +project. He also set himself to study the boy's character, and found it, +in all respects, the very type of his father's. Great bashfulness, united +to great boldness, timidity, and distrust, were there side by side with a +rash, impetuous nature that would hesitate at nothing in pursuit of an +object. Pride, however, was the great principle of his being,—the +good and evil motive of all that was in him. He had pride on every +subject. His name, his rank, his station, a consciousness of natural +quickness, a sense of aptitude to learn whatever came before him,—all +gave him the same feeling of pride. +</p> +<p> +“There's a deal of good in that lad,” said Harcourt to Upton, one evening, +as the boy had left the room; “I like his strong affection for his father, +and that unbounded faith he seems to have in Glencore's being better than +every one else in the world.” + </p> +<p> +“It is an excellent religion, my dear Harcourt, if it could only last!” + said the diplomat, smiling amiably. +</p> +<p> +“And why should n't it last?” asked the other, impatiently. +</p> +<p> +“Just because nothing lasts that has its origin in ignorance. The boy has +seen nothing of life, has had no opportunity for forming a judgment or +instituting a comparison between any two objects. The first shot that +breaches that same fortress of belief, down will come the whole edifice!” + </p> +<p> +“You 'd give a lad to the Jesuits, then, to be trained up in every +artifice and distrust?” + </p> +<p> +“Far from it, Harcourt. I think their system a mistake all through. The +science of life must be self-learned, and it is a slow acquisition. All +that education can do is to prepare the mind to receive it. Now, to employ +the first years of a boy's life by storing him with prejudices, is just to +encumber a vessel with a rotten cargo that she must throw overboard before +she can load with a profitable freight.” + </p> +<p> +“And is it in that category you'd class his love for his father?” asked +the Colonel. +</p> +<p> +“Of course not; but any unnatural or exaggerated estimate of him is a +great error, to lead to an equally unfair depreciation when the time of +deception is past. To be plain, Harcourt, is that boy fitted to enter one +of our great public schools, stand the hard, rough usage of his own +equals, and buffet it as you or I have done?” + </p> +<p> +“Why not? or, at least, why should n't he become so after a month or two?” + </p> +<p> +“Just because in that same month or two he'd either die broken-hearted, or +plunge his knife into the heart of some comrade who insulted him.” + </p> +<p> +“Not a bit of it. You don't know him at all. Charley is a fine +give-and-take fellow; a little proud, perhaps, because he lives apart from +all that are his equals. Let Glencore just take courage to send him to +Harrow or Rugby, and my life on it, but he 'll be the manliest fellow in +the school.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll undertake, without Harrow or Rugby, that the boy should become +something even greater than that,” said Upton, smiling. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, I know you sneer at my ideas of what a young fellow ought to be,” + said Harcourt; “but, somehow, you did not neglect these same pursuits +yourself. You can shoot as well as most men, and you ride better than any +I know of.” + </p> +<p> +“One likes to do a little of everything, Harcourt,” said Upton, not at all +displeased at this flattery; “and somehow it never suits a fellow, who +really feels that he has fair abilities, to do anything badly; so that it +comes to this: one does it well, or not at all. Now, you never heard me +touch the piano?” + </p> +<p> +“Never.” + </p> +<p> +“Just because I'm only an inferior performer, and so I only play when +perfectly alone.” + </p> +<p> +“Egad, if I could only master a waltz, or one of the melodies, I'd be at +it whenever any one would listen to me.” + </p> +<p> +“You're a good soul, and full of amiability, Harcourt,” said Upton; but +the words sounded very much as though he said, “You're a dear, good, +sensible creature, without an atom of self-respect or esteem.” + </p> +<p> +Indeed, so conscious was Harcourt that the expression meant no compliment +that he actually reddened and looked away. At last he took courage to +renew the conversation, and said,— +</p> +<p> +“And what would you advise for the boy, then?” + </p> +<p> +“I 'd scarcely lay down a system; but I 'll tell you what I would not do. +I 'd not bore him with mathematics; I 'd not put his mind on the stretch +in any direction; I 'd not stifle the development of any taste that may be +struggling within him, but rather encourage and foster it, since it is +precisely by such an indication you 'll get some clew to his nature. Do +you understand me?” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm not quite sure I do; but I believe you'd leave him to something like +utter idleness.” + </p> +<p> +“What to <i>you</i>, my dear Harcourt, would be utter idleness, I've no +doubt; but not to him, perhaps.” + </p> +<p> +Again the Colonel looked mortified, but evidently knew not how to resent +this new sneer. +</p> +<p> +“Well,” said he, after a pause, “the lad will not require to be a genius.” + </p> +<p> +“So much the better for him, probably; at all events, so much the better +for his friends, and all who are to associate with him.” + </p> +<p> +Here he looked fixedly at Upton, who smiled a most courteous acquiescence +in the opinion,—a politeness that made poor Harcourt perfectly +ashamed of his own rudeness, and he continued hurriedly,— +</p> +<p> +“He'll have abundance of money. The life Glencore leads here will be like +a long minority to him. A fine old name and title, and the deuce is in it +if he can't rub through life pleasantly enough with such odds.” + </p> +<p> +“I believe you are right, after all, Harcourt,” said Upton, sighing, and +now speaking in a far more natural tone; “it <i>is</i> 'rubbing through' +with the best of us, and no more!” + </p> +<p> +“If you mean that the process is a very irksome one, I enter my dissent at +once,” broke in Harcourt. “I 'm not ashamed to own that I like life +prodigiously; and if I be spared to say so, I 'm sure I 'll have the same +story to tell fifteen or twenty years hence; and yet I 'm not a genius!” + </p> +<p> +“No,” said Upton, smiling a bland assent. +</p> +<p> +“Nor a philosopher either,” said Harcourt, irritated at the +acknowledgment. +</p> +<p> +“Certainly not,” chimed in Upton, with another smile. +</p> +<p> +“Nor have I any wish to be one or the other,” rejoined Harcourt, now +really provoked. “I know right well that if I were in trouble or +difficulty to-morrow,—if I wanted a friend to help me with a loan of +some thousand pounds,—it is not to a genius or a philosopher I 'd +look for the assistance.” + </p> +<p> +It is ever a chance shot that explodes a magazine, and so is it that a +random speech is sure to hit the mark that has escaped all the efforts of +skilful direction. +</p> +<p> +Upton winced and grew pale at these last words, and he fixed his +penetrating gray eyes upon the speaker with a keenness all his own. +Harcourt, however, bore the look without the slightest touch of +uneasiness. The honest Colonel had spoken without any hidden meaning, nor +had he the slightest intention of a personal application in his words. Of +this fact Upton appeared soon to be convinced, for his features gradually +recovered their wonted calmness. +</p> +<p> +“How perfectly right you are, my dear Harcourt,” said he, mildly. “The man +who expects to be happier by the possession of genius is like one who +would like to warm himself through a burning-glass.” + </p> +<p> +“Egad, that is a great consolation for us slow fellows,” said Harcourt, +laughing; “and now what say you to a game at <i>écarté</i>; for I believe +it is just the one solitary thing I am more than your match in?” + </p> +<p> +“I accept inferiority in a great many others,” said Upton, blandly; “but I +must decline the challenge, for I have a letter to write, and our post +here starts at daybreak.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I'd rather carry the whole bag than indite one of its contents,” + said the Colonel, rising; and, with a hearty shake of the hand, he left +the room. +</p> +<p> +A letter was fortunately not so great an infliction to Upton, who opened +his desk at once, and with a rapid hand traced the following lines:— +</p> +<p> +Mv dear Princess,—My last will have told you how and when I came +here; I wish I but knew in what way to explain why I still remain! Imagine +the dreariest desolation of Calabria in a climate of fog and sea-drift: +sunless skies, leafless trees, impassable roads, the out-door comforts; +the joys within depending on a gloomy old house, with a few gloomier +inmates, and a host on a sick bed. Yet, with all this, I believe I am +better; the doctor, a strange, unsophisticated creature, a cross between +Galen and Caliban, seems to have hit off what the great dons of science +never could detect,—the true seat of my malady. He says—and he +really reasons out his case ingeniously—that the brain has been +working for the inferior nerves, not limiting itself to cerebral +functions, but actually performing the humbler office of muscular +direction, and so forth; in fact, a field-marshal doing duty for a common +soldier! I almost fancy I can corroborate his view, from internal +sensations; I have a kind of secret instinct that he is right. Poor brain! +why it should do the work of another department, with abundance of +occupation of its own, I cannot make out. But to turn to something else. +This is not a bad refuge just now. They cannot make out where I am, and +all the inquiries at my club are answered by a vague impression that I +have gone back to Germany, which the people at F. O. are aware is not the +case. I have already told you that my suggestion has been negatived in the +Cabinet: it was ill-timed, Allington says; but I ventured to remind his +Lordship that a policy requiring years to develop, and more years still to +push to a profitable conclusion, is not to be reduced to the category of +mere <i>à propos</i> measures. He was vexed, and replied weakly and +angrily. I rejoined, and left him. Next day he sent for me, but my reply +was, “I was leaving town;” and I left. I don't want the Bath, because it +would be “ill-timed;” so that they must give me Vienna, or be satisfied to +see me in the House and the Opposition! +</p> +<p> +Your tidings of Brekenoff came exactly in the nick. Allington said +pompously that they were sure of him; so I just said, “Ask him if they +would like our sending a Consular Agent to Cracow?” It seems that he was +so flurried by a fancied detection that he made a full acknowledgment of +all. But even at this, Allington takes no alarm. The malady of the +Treasury benches is deafness, with a touch of blindness. What a cumbrous +piece of bungling machinery is this boasted “representative government” of +ours! No promptitude, no secrecy! Everything debated, and discussed, and +discouraged, before begun; every blot-hit for an antagonist to profit by! +Even the characters of our public men exposed, and their weaknesses +displayed to view, so that every state of Europe may see where to wound +us, and through whom! There is no use in the Countess remaining here any +longer; the King never noticed her at the last ball; she is angry at it, +and if she shows her irritation she 'll spoil all. I always thought +Josephine would fail in England. It is, indeed, a widely different thing +to succeed in the small Courts of Germany, and our great whirlpool of St. +James. <i>You</i> could do it, my dear friend; but where is the other dare +attempt it? +</p> +<p> +Until I hear from you again I can come to no resolution. One thing is +clear,—they do not, or they will not, see the danger I have pointed +out to them. All the home policy of our country is drifting, day by day, +towards a democracy: how, in the name of common sense, then, is our +foreign policy to be maintained at the standard of the Holy Alliance? What +an absurd juxtaposition is there between popular rights and an alliance +with the Czar! This peril will overtake them one day or another, and then, +to escape from national indignation, the minister, whoever he may be, will +be driven to make war. But I can't wait for this; and yet, were I to +resign, my resignation would not embarrass them,—it would irritate +and annoy, but not disconcert. Brekenoff will surely go home on leave. You +ought to meet him; he is certain to be at Ems. It is the refuge of +disgraced diplomacy. Try if something cannot be done with him. He used to +say formerly yours were the only dinners now in Europe. He hates +Allington. This feeling, and his love for white truffles, are, I believe, +the only clews to the man. Be sure, however, that the truffles are +Piedmontese; they have a slight flavor of garlic, rather agreeable than +otherwise. Like Josephine's lisp, it is a defect that serves for a +distinction. The article in the “Beau Monde” was clever, prettily written, +and even well worked out; but state affairs are never really well treated +save by those who conduct them. One must have played the game himself to +understand all the nice subtleties of the contest. These, your mere +reviewer or newspaper scribe never attains to; and then he has no +reserves,—none of those mysterious concealments that are to +negotiations like the eloquent pauses of conversation: the moment when +dialogue ceases, and the real interchange of ideas begins. +</p> +<p> +The fine touch, the keen <i>aperçu</i>, belongs alone to those who have +had to exercise these same qualities in the treatment of great questions; +and hence it is that though the Public be often much struck, and even +enlightened, by the powerful “article” or the able “leader,” the Statesman +is rarely taught anything by the journalist, save the force and direction +of public opinion. +</p> +<p> +I had a deal to say to you about poor Glencore, whom you tell me you +remember; but, how to say it? He is broken-hearted—literally +broken-hearted—by her desertion of him. It was one of those +ill-assorted leagues which cannot hold together. Why they did not see +this, and make the best of it,—sensibly, dispassionately, even +amicably,—it is difficult to say. An Englishman, it would seem, must +always hate his wife if she cannot love him; and, after all, how +involuntary are all affections, and what a severe penalty is this for an +unwitting offence! +</p> +<p> +He ponders over this calamity just as if it were the crushing stroke by +which a man's whole career was to be finished forever. +</p> +<p> +The stupidity of all stupidities is in these cases to fly from the world +and avoid society. By doing this a man rears a barrier he never can +repass; he proclaims aloud his sentiment of the injury, quite forgetting +all the offence he is giving to the hundred and fifty others who, in the +same predicament as himself, are by no means disposed to turn hermits on +account of it. Men make revolutionary governments, smash dynasties, +transgress laws, but they cannot oppose <i>convenances!</i> +</p> +<p> +I need scarcely say that there is nothing to be gained by reason-ing with +him. He has worked himself up to a chronic fury, and talks of vengeance +all day long, like a Corsican. For company here I have an old brother +officer of my days of tinsel and pipe-clay,—an excellent creature, +whom I amuse myself by tormenting. There is also Glencore's boy,—a +strange, dreamy kind of haughty fellow, an exaggeration of his father in +disposition, but with good abilities. These are not the elements of much +social agreeability; but you know, dear friend, how little I stand in need +of what is called company. Your last letter, charming as it was, has +afforded me all the companionship I could desire. I have re-read it till I +know it by heart. I could almost chide you for that delightful little +party in my absence, but of course it was, as all you ever do is, +perfectly right; and, after all, I am, perhaps, not sorry that you had +those people when I was away, so that we shall be more <i>chez nous</i> +when we meet. But when is that to be? Who can tell? My medico insists upon +five full weeks for my cure. Allington is very likely, in his present +temper, to order me back to my post. You seem to think that you must be in +Berlin when Seckendorf arrives, so that—But I will not darken the +future by gloomy forebodings. I <i>could</i> leave this—that is, if +any urgency required it—at once; but, if possible, it is better I +should remain at least a little longer. My last meeting with Glencore was +unpleasant. Poor fellow! his temper is not what it used to be, and he is +forgetful of what is due to one whose nerves are in the sad state of mine. +You shall hear all my complainings when we meet, dear Princess; and with +this I kiss your hand, begging you to accept all “<i>mes hommages” et mon +estime</i>, +</p> +<p> +H. U. +</p> +<p> +Your letter must be addressed “Leenane, Ireland.” Your last had only +“Glencore” on it, and not very legible either, so that it made what I +wished <i>I</i> could do, “the tour of Scotland,” before reaching me. +</p> +<p> +Sir Horace read over his letter carefully, as though it had been a +despatch, and, when he had done, folded it up with an air of satisfaction. +He had said nothing that he wished unsaid, and he had mentioned a little +about everything he desired to touch upon. He then took his “drops” from a +queer-looking little phial he carried about with him, and having looked at +his face in a pocket-glass, he half closed his eyes in revery. +</p> +<p> +Strange, confused visions were they that flitted through his brain. +Thoughts of ambition the most daring, fancies about health, speculations +in politics, finance, religion, literature, the arts, society,—all +came and went. Plans and projects jostled each other at every instant. Now +his brow would darken, and his thin lips close tightly, as some painful +impression crossed him; now again a smile, a slight laugh even, betrayed +the passing of some amusing conception. It was easy to see how such a +nature could suffice to itself, and how little he needed of that +give-and-take which companionship supplies. He could—to steal a +figure from our steam language—he could “bank his fires,” and await +any emergency, and, while scarcely consuming any fuel, prepare for the +most trying demand upon his powers. A hasty movement of feet overhead, and +the sound of voices talking loudly, aroused him from his reflections, +while a servant entered abruptly to say that Lord Glencore wished to see +him immediately. +</p> +<p> +“Is his Lordship worse?” asked Upton. +</p> +<p> +“No, sir; but he was very angry with the young lord this evening about +something, and they say that with the passion he opened the bandage on his +head, and set the vein a-bleed-ing again. Billy Traynor is there now +trying to stop it.” + </p> +<p> +“I'll go upstairs,” said Sir Horace, rising, and beginning to fortify +himself with caps, and capes, and comforters,—precautions that he +never omitted when moving from one room to the other. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XII. A NIGHT AT SEA +</h2> +<p> +Glencore's chamber presented a scene of confusion and dismay as Upton +entered. The sick man had torn off the bandage from his temples, and so +roughly as to reopen the half-closed artery, and renew the bleeding. Not +alone the bedclothes and the curtains, but the faces of the attendants +around him, were stained with blood, which seemed the more ghastly from +contrast with their pallid cheeks. They moved hurriedly to and fro, +scarcely remembering what they were in search of, and evidently deeming +his state of the greatest peril. Traynor, the only one whose faculties +were unshaken by the shock, sat quietly beside the bed, his fingers firmly +compressed upon the orifice of the vessel, while with the other hand he +motioned to them to keep silence. +</p> +<p> +Glencore lay with closed eyes, breathing long and labored inspirations, +and at times convulsed by a slight shivering. His face, and even his lips, +were bloodless, and his eyelids of a pale, livid hue. So terribly like the +approach of death was his whole appearance that Upton whispered in the +doctor's ear,— +</p> +<p> +“Is it over? Is he dying?” + </p> +<p> +“No, Upton,” said Glencore; for, with the acute hearing of intense +nervousness, he had caught the words. “It is not so easy to die.” + </p> +<p> +“There, now,—no more talkin',—no discoorsin'—azy and +quiet is now the word.” + </p> +<p> +“Bind it up and leave me,—leave me with <i>him</i>;” and Glencore +pointed to Upton. +</p> +<p> +“I dar' n't move out of this spot,” said Billy, addressing Upton. “You'd +have the blood coming out, <i>per saltim</i>, if I took away my finger.” + </p> +<p> +“You must be patient, Glencore,” said Upton, gently; “you know I'm always +ready when you want me.” + </p> +<p> +“And you'll not leave this,—you'll not desert me?” cried the other, +eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“Certainly not; I have no thought of going away.” + </p> +<p> +“There, now, hould your prate, both of ye, or, by my conscience, I 'll not +take the responsibility upon me,—I will not!” said Billy, angrily. +“'Tis just a disgrace and a shame that ye haven't more discretion.” + </p> +<p> +Glencore's lips moved with a feeble attempt at a smile, and in his faint +voice he said,— +</p> +<p> +“We must obey the doctor, Upton; but don't leave me.” + </p> +<p> +Upton moved a chair to the bedside, and sat down without a word. +</p> +<p> +“Ye think an artery is like a canal, with a lock-gate to it, I believe,” + said Billy, in a low, grumbling voice, to Upton, “and you forget all its +vermicular motion, as ould Fabricius called it, and that it is only by a +coagalum, a kind of barrier, like a mud breakwater, that it can be +plugged. Be off out of that, ye spalpeens! be off, every one of yez, and +leave us tranquil and paceable!” + </p> +<p> +This summary command was directed to the various servants, who were still +moving about the room in imaginary occupation. The room was at last +cleared of all save Upton and Billy, who sat by the bedside, his hand +still resting on the sick man's forehead. Soothed by the stillness, and +reduced by the loss of blood, Glencore sank into a quiet sleep, breathing +softly and gently as a child. +</p> +<p> +“Look at him now,” whispered Billy to Upton, “and you 'll see what +philosophy there is in ascribin' to the heart the source of all our +emotions. He lies there azy and comfortable just because the great bellows +is working smoothly and quietly. They talk about the brain, and the spinal +nerves, and the soliar plexus; but give a man a wake, washy circulation, +and what is he? He's just like a chap with the finest intentions in the +world, but not a sixpence in his pocket to carry them out! A fine +well-regulated, steady-batin' heart is like a credit on the bank,—you +draw on it, and your draft is n't dishonored!” + </p> +<p> +“What was it brought on this attack?” asked Upton, in a whisper. +</p> +<p> +“A shindy he had with the boy. I was n't here; there was nobody by. But +when I met Master Charles on the stairs, he flew past me like lightning, +and I just saw by a glimpse that something was wrong. He rushed out with +his head bare, and his coat all open, and it sleetin' terribly! Down he +went towards the lough, at full speed, and never minded all my callin' +after him.” + </p> +<p> +“Has he returned?” asked Upton. +</p> +<p> +“Not as I know, sir. We were too much taken up with the lord to ask for +him.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll just step down and see,” said Sir Horace, who arose, and left the +room on tiptoe. +</p> +<p> +To Upton's inquiry all made the same answer. None had seen the young lord,—none +could give any clew as to whither he had gone. Sir Horace at once hastened +to Harcourt's room, and, after some vigorous shakes, succeeded in +awakening the Colonel, and by dint of various repetitions at last put him +in possession of all that had occurred. +</p> +<p> +“We must look after the lad,” cried Harcourt, springing from his bed, and +dressing with all haste. “He is a rash, hot-headed fellow; but even if it +were nothing else, he might get his death in such a night as this.” + </p> +<p> +The wind dashed wildly against the window-panes as he spoke, and the old +timbers of the frame rattled fearfully. +</p> +<p> +“Do you remain here, Upton. I'll go in search of the boy. Take care +Glencore hears nothing of his absence.” And with a promptitude that +bespoke the man of action, Harcourt descended the stairs and set out. +</p> +<p> +The night was pitch dark; sweeping gusts of wind bore the rain along in +torrents, and the thunder rolled incessantly, its clamor increased by the +loud beating of the waves as they broke upon the rocks. Upton had repeated +to Harcourt that Billy saw the boy going towards the sea-shore, and in +this direction he now followed. His frequent excursions had familiarized +him with the place, so that even at night Harcourt found no difficulty in +detecting the path and keeping it. About half an hour's brisk walking +brought him to the side of the lough, and the narrow flight of steps cut +in the rock, which descended to the little boat-quay. Here he halted, and +called out the boy's name several times. The sea, however, was running +mountains high, and an immense drift, sweeping over the rocks, fell in +sheets of scattered foam beyond them; so that Harcourt's voice was drowned +by the uproar. A small shealing under the shelter of the rock formed the +home of a boatman; and at the crazy door of this humble cot Harcourt now +knocked violently. +</p> +<p> +The man answered the summons at once, assuring him that he had not heard +or seen any one since the night closed in; adding, at the same time, that +in such a tempest a boat's crew might have landed without his knowing it. +</p> +<p> +“To be sure,” continued he, after a pause, “I heard a chain rattlin' on +the rock soon after I went to bed, and I 'll Just step down and see if the +yawl is all right.” + </p> +<p> +Scarcely had he left the spot, when his voice was heard calling out from +below,— +</p> +<p> +“She's gonel the yawl is gone! the lock is broke with a stone, and she's +away!” + </p> +<p> +“How could this be? No boat could live in such a sea,” cried Harcourt, +eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“She could go out fast enough, sir. The wind is northeast, due; but how +long she'll keep the say is another matter.” + </p> +<p> +“Then he 'll be lost!” cried Harcourt, wildly. +</p> +<p> +“Who, sir,—who is it?” asked the man. +</p> +<p> +“Your master's son!” cried he, wringing his hands in anguish. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, murther! murther!” screamed the boatman; “we 'll never see him again. +'T is out to say, into the wild ocean, he'll be blown!” + </p> +<p> +“Is there no shelter,—no spot he could make for?” + </p> +<p> +“Barrin' the islands, there's not a spot between this and America.” + </p> +<p> +“But he could make the islands,—you are sure of that?” + </p> +<p> +“If the boat was able to live through the say. But sure I know him well; +he 'll never take in a reef or sail, but sit there, with the helm hard up, +just never carin' what came of him! Oh, musha! musha! what druv him out +such a night as this!” + </p> +<p> +“Come, it's no time for lamenting, my man; get the launch ready, and let +us follow him. Are you afraid?” + </p> +<p> +“Afraid!” replied the man, with a touch of scorn in his voice; “faix, it's +little fear troubles me. But, may be, you won't like to be in her yourself +when she's once out. I 've none belongin' to me,—father, mother, +chick or child; but you may have many a one that's near to you.” + </p> +<p> +“My ties, are, perhaps, as light as your own,” said Harcourt. “Come, now, +be alive. I'll put ten gold guineas in your hand if you can overtake him.” + </p> +<p> +“I'd rather see his face than have two hundred,” said the man, as, +springing into the boat, he began to haul out the tackle from under the +low half-deck, and prepare for sea. +</p> +<p> +“Is your honor used to a boat, or ought I to get another man with me?” + asked the sailor. +</p> +<p> +“Trust me, my good fellow; I have had more sailing than yourself, and in +more treacherous seas too,” said Harcourt, who, throwing off his cloak, +proceeded to help the other, with an address that bespoke a practised +hand. +</p> +<p> +The wind blew strongly off the shore, so that scarcely was the foresail +spread than the boat began to move rapidly through the water, dashing the +sea over her bows, and plunging wildly through the waves. +</p> +<p> +“Give me a hand now with the halyard,” said the boatman; “and when the +mainsail is set, you 'll see how she 'll dance over the top of the waves, +and never wet us.” + </p> +<p> +“She 's too light in the water, if anything,” said Harcourt, as the boat +bounded buoyantly under the increased press of canvas. +</p> +<p> +“Your honor's right; she'd do better with half a ton of iron in her. Stand +by, sir, always, with the peak halyards; get the sail aloft in, when I +give you the word.” + </p> +<p> +“Leave the tiller to me, my man,” said Harcourt, taking it as he spoke. +“You 'll soon see that I 'm no new hand at the work.” + </p> +<p> +“She's doing it well,” said the man. “Keep her up! keep her up! there's a +spit of land runs out here; in a few minutes more we'll have say room +enough.” + </p> +<p> +The heavier roll of the waves, and the increased force of the wind, soon +showed that they had gained the open sea; while the atmosphere, relieved +of the dark shadows of the mountain, seemed lighter and thinner than in +shore. +</p> +<p> +“We 're to make for the islands, you say, sir?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes. What distance are they off?” + </p> +<p> +“About eighteen miles. Two hours, if the wind lasts, and we can bear it.” + </p> +<p> +“And could the yawl stand this?” said Harcourt, as a heavy sea struck the +bow, and came in a cataract over them. +</p> +<p> +“Better than ourselves, if she was manned. Luff! luff!—that's it!” + And as the boat turned up to wind, sheets of spray and foam flew over her. +“Master Charles hasn't his equal for steerin', if he wasn't alone. Keep +her there!—now! steady, sir!” + </p> +<p> +“Here's a squall coming,” cried Harcourt; “I hear it hissing.” + </p> +<p> +Down went the peak, but scarcely in time, for the wind, catching the sail, +laid the boat gunwale under. After a struggle, she righted, but with +nearly one-third of her filled with water. +</p> +<p> +“I'd take in a reef, or two reefs,” said the man; “but if she could n't +rise to the say, she 'll fill and go down. We must carry on, at all +events.” + </p> +<p> +“So say I. It's no time to shorten sail, with such a sea running.” + </p> +<p> +The boat now flew through the water, the sea itself impelling her, as with +every sudden gust the waves struck the stern. +</p> +<p> +“She's a brave craft,” said Harcourt, as she rose lightly over the great +waves, and plunged down again into the trough of the sea; “but if we ever +get to land again, I'll have combings round her to keep her dryer.” + </p> +<p> +“Here it comes!—here it comes, sir!” + </p> +<p> +Nor were the words well out, when, like a thunder-clap, the wind struck +the sail, and bent the mast over like a whip. For an instant it seemed as +if she were going down by the prow; but she righted again, and, shivering +in every plank, held on her way. +</p> +<p> +“That 's as much as she could do,” said the sailor; “and I would not like +to ax her to do more.” + </p> +<p> +“I agree with you,” said Harcourt, secretly stealing his feet back again +into his shoes, which he had just kicked off. +</p> +<p> +“It's freshening it is every minute,” said the man; “and I'm not sure that +we could make the islands if it lasts.” + </p> +<p> +“Well,—what then?” + </p> +<p> +“There's nothing for it but to be blown out to say,” said he, calmly, as, +having filled his tobacco-pipe, he struck a light and began to smoke. +</p> +<p> +“The very thing I was wishing for,” said Harcourt, touching his cigar to +the bright ashes. “How she labors! Do you think she can stand this?” + </p> +<p> +“She can, if it's no worse, sir.” “But it looks heavier weather outside.” + </p> +<p> +“As well as I can see, it's only beginnin'.” + </p> +<p> +Harcourt listened with a species of admiration to the calm and measured +sentiment of the sailor, who, fully conscious of all the danger, yet +never, by a word or gesture, showed that he was flurried or excited. +</p> +<p> +“You have been out on nights as bad as this, I suppose?” said Harcourt. +</p> +<p> +“Maybe not quite, sir, for it's a great say is runnin'; and, with the wind +off shore, we could n't have this, if there was n't a storm blowing +farther out.” + </p> +<p> +“From the westward, you mean?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, sir,—a wind coming over the whole ocean, that will soon meet +the land wind.” + </p> +<p> +“And does that often happen?” + </p> +<p> +The words were but out, when, with a loud report like a cannon-shot, the +wind reversed the sail, snapping the strong sprit in two, and bringing +down the whole canvas clattering into the boat. With the aid of a hatchet, +the sailor struck off the broken portion of the spar, and soon cleared the +wreck, while the boat, now reduced to a mere foresail, labored heavily, +sinking her prow in the sea at every bound. Her course, too, was now +altered, and she flew along parallel to the shore, the great cliffs +looming through the darkness, and seeming as if close to them. +</p> +<p> +“The boy!—the boy!” cried Harcourt; “what has become of him? He +never could have lived through that squall.” + </p> +<p> +“If the spar stood, there was an end of us, too,” said the sailor; “she'd +have gone down by the stern, as sure as my name is Peter.” + </p> +<p> +“It is all over by this time,” muttered Harcourt, sorrowfully. +</p> +<p> +“Pace to him now!” said the sailor, as he crossed himself, and went over a +prayer. +</p> +<p> +The wind now raged fearfully; claps, like the report of cannon, struck the +frail boat at intervals, and laid her nearly keel uppermost; while the +mast bent like a whip, and every rope creaked and strained to its last +endurance. The deafening noise close at hand told where the waves were +beating on the rock-bound coast, or surging with the deep growl of thunder +through many a cavern. They rarely spoke, save when some emergency called +for a word. Each sat wrapped up in his own dark reveries, and unwilling to +break them. Hours passed thus,—long, dreary hours of darkness, that +seemed like years of suffering, so often in this interval did life hang in +the balance. +</p> +<p> +As morning began to break with a grayish blue light to the westward, the +wind slightly abated, blowing more steadily, too, and less in sudden +gusts; while the sea rolled in large round waves, unbroken above, and +showing no crest of foam. +</p> +<p> +“Do you know where we are?” asked Harcourt. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, sir; we 're off the Rooks' Point, and if we hold on well, we 'll +soon be in slacker water.” + </p> +<p> +“Could the boy have reached this, think you?” + </p> +<p> +The man shook his head mournfully, without speaking. +</p> +<p> +“How far are we from Glencore?” + </p> +<p> +“About eighteen miles, sir; but more by land.” + </p> +<p> +“You can put me ashore, then, somewhere hereabouts.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, sir, in the next bay; there's a creek we can easily run into.” + </p> +<p> +“You are quite sure he couldn't have been blown out to sea?” + </p> +<p> +“How could he, sir? There's only one way the wind could dhrive him. If he +isn't in the Clough Bay, he's in glory.” + </p> +<p> +All the anxiety of that dreary night was nothing to what Harcourt now +suffered, in his eagerness to round the Rooks' Point, and look in the bay +beyond it. Controlling it as he would, still would it break out in words +of impatience and even anger. +</p> +<p> +“Don't curse the boat, yer honor,” said Peter, respectfully, but calmly; +“she's behaved well to us this night, or we 'd not be here now.” + </p> +<p> +“But are we to beat about here forever?” asked the other, angrily. +</p> +<p> +“She's doin' well, and we ought to be thankful,” said the man; and his +tone, even more than his words, served to reprove the other's impatience. +“I'll try and set the mainsail on her with the remains of the sprit.” + </p> +<p> +Harcourt watched him, as he labored away to repair the damaged rigging; +but though he looked at him, his thoughts were far away with poor Glencore +upon his sick bed, in sorrow and in suffering, and perhaps soon to hear +that he was childless. From these he went on to other thoughts. What could +have occurred to have driven the boy to such an act of desperation? +Harcourt invented a hundred imaginary causes, to reject them as rapidly +again. The affection the boy bore to his father seemed the strongest +principle of his nature. There appeared to be no event possible in which +that feeling would not sway and control him. As he thus ruminated, he was +aroused by the sudden cry of the boatman. +</p> +<p> +“There's a boat, sir, dismasted, ahead of us, and drifting out to say.” + </p> +<p> +“I see her!—I see her!” cried Harcourt; “out with the oars, and +let's pull for her.” + </p> +<p> +Heavily as the sea was rolling, they now began to pull through the immense +waves, Harcourt turning his head at every instant to watch the boat, which +now was scarcely half a mile ahead of them. +</p> +<p> +“She's empty!—there's no one in her!” said Peter, mournfully, as, +steadying himself by the mast, he cast a look seaward. +</p> +<p> +“Row on,—let us get beside her,” said Harcourt. +</p> +<p> +“She's the yawl!—I know her now,” cried the man. +</p> +<p> +“And empty?” + </p> +<p> +“Washed out of her with a say, belike,” said Peter, resuming his oar, and +tugging with all his strength. +</p> +<p> +A quarter of an hour's hard rowing brought them close to the dismasted +boat, which, drifting broadside on the sea, seemed at every instant ready +to capsize. +</p> +<p> +“There's something in the bottom,—in the stern-sheets!” screamed +Peter. “It's himself! O blessed Virgin, it's himself!” And, with a bound, +he sprang from his own boat into the other. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0001" id="linkimage-0001"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/glen0126.jpg" alt="126 " width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +The next instant he had lifted the helpless body of the boy from the +bottom of the boat, and, with a shout of joy, screamed out,— +</p> +<p> +“He's alive!—he's well!—it's only fatigue!” + </p> +<p> +Harcourt pressed his hands to his face, and sank upon his knees in prayer. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XIII. A “VOW” ACCOMPLISHED +</h2> +<p> +Just as Upton had seated himself at that fragal meal of weak tea and dry +toast he called his breakfast, Harcourt suddenly entered the room, +splashed and road-stained from head to foot, and in his whole demeanor +indicating the work of a fatiguing journey. +</p> +<p> +“Why, I thought to have had my breakfast with you,” cried he, impatiently, +“and this is like the diet of a convalescent from fever. Where is the +salmon—where the grouse pie—where are the cutlets—and +the chocolate—and the poached eggs—and the hot rolls, and the +cherry bounce?” + </p> +<p> +“Say, rather, where are the disordered livers, worn-out stomachs, fevered +brains, and impatient tempers, my worthy Colonel?” said Upton, blandly. +“Talleyrand himself once told me that he always treated great questions +starving.” + </p> +<p> +“And he made a nice mess of the world in consequence,” blustered out +Harcourt. “A fellow with an honest appetite and a sound digestion would +never have played false to so many masters.” + </p> +<p> +“It is quite right that men like you should read history in this wise,” + said Upton, smiling, as he dipped a crust in his tea and ate it. +</p> +<p> +“Men like me are very inferior creatures, no doubt,” broke in Harcourt, +angrily; “but I very much doubt if men like you had come eighteen miles on +foot over a mountain this morning, after a night passed in an open boat at +sea,—ay, in a gale, by Jove, such as I sha' n't forget in a hurry.” + </p> +<p> +“You have hit it perfectly, Harcourt; <i>suum caique</i>; and if only we +could get the world to see that each of us has his speciality, we should +all of us do much better.” + </p> +<p> +By the vigorous tug he gave the bell, and the tone in which he ordered up +something to eat, it was plain to see that he scarcely relished the moral +Upton had applied to his speech. With the appearance of the good cheer, +however, he speedily threw off his momentary displeasure, and as he ate +and drank, his honest, manly face lost every trace of annoyance. Once only +did a passing shade of anger cross his countenance. It was when, suddenly +looking up, he saw Upton's eyes settled on him, and his whole features +expressing a most palpable sensation of wonderment and compassion. +</p> +<p> +“Ay,” cried he, “I know well what's passing in your mind this minute. You +are lost in your pitying estimate of such a mere animal as I am; but, hang +it all, old fellow, why not be satisfied with the flattering thought that +<i>you</i> are of another stamp,—a creature of a different order?” + </p> +<p> +“It does not make one a whit happier,” sighed Upton, who never shrunk from +accepting the sentiment as his own. +</p> +<p> +“I should have thought otherwise,” said Harcourt, with a malicious twinkle +of the eye; for he fancied that he had at last touched the weak point of +his adversary. +</p> +<p> +“No, my dear Harcourt, the <i>crasso naturo</i> have rather the best of +it, since no small share of this world's collisions are actually physical +shocks; and that great strong pipkin that encloses your brains will stand +much that would smash the poor egg-shell that shrouds mine.” + </p> +<p> +“Whenever you draw a comparison in my favor, I always find at the end I +come off worst,” said Harcourt, bluntly; and Upton laughed one of his +rich, musical laughs, in which there was indeed nothing mirthful, but +something that seemed to say that his nature experienced a sense of +enjoyment higher, perhaps, than anything merely comic could suggest. +</p> +<p> +“You came off best this time, Harcourt,” said he, good-humoredly; and such +a thorough air of frankness accompanied the words that Harcourt was +disarmed of all distrust at once, and joined in the laugh heartily. +</p> +<p> +“But you have not yet told me, Harcourt,” said the other, “where you have +been, and why you spent your night on the sea.” + </p> +<p> +“The story is not a very long one,” replied he; and at once gave a full +recital of the events, which our reader has already had before him in our +last chapter, adding, in conclusion, +</p> +<p> +“I have left the boy in a cabin at Belmullet; he is in a high fever, and +raving so loud that you could hear him a hundred yards away. I told them +to keep cold water on his head, and give him plenty of it to drink,—nothing +more,—till I could fetch our doctor over, for it will be impossible +to move the boy from where he is for the present.” + </p> +<p> +“Glencore has been asking for him already this morning. He did not desire +to see him, but he begged of me to go to him and speak with him.” + </p> +<p> +“And have you told him that he was from home,—that he passed the +night away from this?” + </p> +<p> +“No; I merely intimated that I should look after him, waiting for your +return to guide myself afterwards.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't suspect that when we took him from the boat the malady had set +in; he appeared rather like one overcome by cold and exhaustion. It was +about two hours after,—he had taken some food and seemed stronger,—when +I said to him, 'Come, Charley, you 'll soon be all right again; I have +sent a fellow to look after a pony for you, and you 'll be able to ride +back, won't you?' +</p> +<p> +“'Ride where?' cried he, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“'Home, of course,' said I, 'to Glencore.' +</p> +<p> +“'Home! I have no home,' cried he; and the wild scream he uttered the +words with, I 'll never forget. It was just as if that one thought was the +boundary between sense and reason, and the instant he had passed it, all +was chaos and confusion; for now his raving began,—the most frantic +imaginations; always images of sorrow, and with a rapidity of utterance +there was no following. Of course in such cases the delusions suggest no +clew to the cause, but all his fancies were about being driven out of +doors an outcast and a beggar, and of his father rising from his sick bed +to curse him. Poor boy! Even in this his better nature gleamed forth as he +cried, 'Tell him'—and he said the words in a low whisper—'tell +him not to anger himself; he is ill, very ill, and should be kept +tranquil. Tell him, then, that I am going—going away forever, and +he'll hear of me no more.'” As Harcourt repeated the words, his own voice +faltered, and two heavy drops slowly coursed down his bronzed cheeks. “You +see,” added he, as if to excuse the emotion, “that was n't like raving, +for he spoke this just as he might have done if his very heart was +breaking.” + </p> +<p> +“Poor fellow!” said Upton; and the words were uttered with real feeling. +</p> +<p> +“Some terrible scene must have occurred between them,” resumed Harcourt; +“of that I feel quite certain.” + </p> +<p> +“I suspect you are right,” said Upton, bending over his teacup; “and <i>our</i> +part, in consequence, is one of considerable delicacy; for until Glencore +alludes to what has passed, <i>we</i> of course, can take no notice of it. +The boy is ill; he is in a fever: we know nothing more.” + </p> +<p> +“I'll leave you to deal with the father; the son shall be my care. I have +told Traynor to be ready to start with me after breakfast, and have +ordered two stout ponies for the journey. I conclude there will be no +objection in detaining the doctor for the night: what think you, Upton?” + </p> +<p> +“Do <i>you</i> consult the doctor on that head; meanwhile, I 'll pay a +visit to Glencore. I 'll meet you in the library.” And so saying, Upton +rose, and gracefully draping the folds of his dressing-gown, and arranging +the waving lock of hair which had escaped beneath his cap, he slowly set +out towards the sick man's chamber. +</p> +<p> +Of all the springs of human action, there was not one in which Sir Horace +Upton sympathized so little as passion. That any man could adopt a line of +conduct from which no other profit could result than what might minister +to a feeling of hatred, jealousy, or revenge, seemed to him utterly +contemptible. It was not, indeed, the morality of such a course that he +called in question, although he would not have contested that point. It +was its meanness, its folly, its insufficiency. His experience of great +affairs had imbued him with all the importance that was due to temper and +moderation. He scarcely remembered an instant where a false move had +damaged a negotiation that it could not be traced to some passing trait of +impatience, or some lurking spirit of animosity biding the hour of its +gratification. +</p> +<p> +He had long learned to perceive how much more temperament has to do, in +the management of great events, than talent or capacity, and his opinion +of men was chiefly founded on this quality of their nature. It was, then, +with an almost pitying estimate of Glenoore that he now entered the room +where the sick man lay. +</p> +<p> +Anxious to be alone with him, Glenoore had dismissed all the attendants +from his room, and sat, propped up by pillows, eagerly awaiting his +approach. +</p> +<p> +Upton moved through the dimly lighted room like one familiar to the +atmosphere of illness, and took his seat beside the bed with that +noiseless quiet which in <i>him</i> was a kind of instinct. +</p> +<p> +It was several minutes before Glencore spoke, and then, in a low, faint +voice, he said, “Are we alone, Upton?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes,” said the other, gently pressing the wasted fingers which lay on the +counterpane before him. +</p> +<p> +“You forgive me, Upton,” said he,—and the words trembled as he +uttered them,—“You forgive me, Upton, though I cannot forgive +myself.” + </p> +<p> +“My dear friend, a passing moment of impatience is not to breach the +friendship of a lifetime. Your calmer judgment would, I know, not be +unjust to me.” + </p> +<p> +“But how am I to repair the wrong I have done you?” + </p> +<p> +“By never alluding to it,—never thinking of it again, Glenoore.” + </p> +<p> +“It is so unworthy, so ignoble in me!” cried Glenoore, bitterly; and a +tear fell over his eyelid and rested on his wan and worn cheek. +</p> +<p> +“Let us never think of it, my dear Glenoore. Life has real troubles enough +for either of us, not to dwell on those which we may fashion out of our +emotions. I promise you, I have forgotten the whole incident.” + </p> +<p> +Glenoore sighed heavily, but did not speak; at last he said, “Be it so, +Upton,” and, covering his face with his hand, lay still and silent. +“Well,” said he, after a long pause, “the die is cast, Upton: I have told +him!” + </p> +<p> +“Told the boy?” said Upton. +</p> +<p> +He nodded an assent. “It is too late to oppose me now, Upton,—the +thing is done. I didn't think I had strength for it; but revenge is a +strong stimulant, and I felt as though once more restored to health, as I +proceeded. Poor fellow! he bore it like a man. Like a man, do I say? No, +but better than man ever bore such crushing tidings.” + </p> +<p> +“He asked me to stop once, while his head reeled, and said, 'In a minute I +shall be myself again,' and so he was, too; you should have seen him, +Upton, as he rose to leave me. So much of dignity was there in his look +that my heart misgave me; and I told him that still, as my son, he should +never want a friend and a protector. He grew deadly pale, and caught at +the bed for support. Another moment, and I 'd not have answered for +myself. I was already relenting; but I thought of <i>her</i>, and my +resolution came back in all its force. Still, I dared not look on him. The +sight of that wan cheek, those quivering lips and glassy eyes, would +certainly have unmanned me. I turned away. When I looked round, he was +gone!' As he ceased to speak, a clammy perspiration burst forth over his +face and forehead, and he made a sign to Upton to wet his lips. +</p> +<p> +“It is the last pang she is to cost me, Upton, but it is a sore one!” said +he, in a low, hoarse whisper. +</p> +<p> +“My dear Glencore, this is all little short of madness; even as revenge it +is a failure, since the heaviest share of the penalty recoils upon +yourself.” + </p> +<p> +“How so?” cried he, impetuously. +</p> +<p> +“Is it thus that an ancient name is to go out forever? Is it in this wise +that a house noble for centuries is to crumble into ruin? I will not again +urge upon you the cruel wrong you are doing. Over that boy's inheritance +you have no more right than over mine,—you cannot rob him of the +protection of the law. No power could ever give you the disposal of his +destiny in this wise.” + </p> +<p> +“I have done it, and I will maintain it, sir,” cried Glencore; “and if the +question is, as you vaguely hint, to be one of law—” + </p> +<p> +“No, no, Glencore; do not mistake me.” + </p> +<p> +“Hear me out, sir,” said he, passionately. “If it is to be one of law, let +Sir Horace Upton give his testimony,—tell all that he knows,—and +let us see what it will avail him. You may—it is quite open to you—place +us front to front as enemies. You may teach the boy to regard me as one +who has robbed him of his birthright, and train him up to become my +accuser in a court of justice. But my cause is a strong one, it cannot be +shaken; and where you hope to brand <i>me</i> with tyranny, you will but +visit bastardy upon <i>him</i>. Think twice, then, before you declare this +combat. It is one where all your craft will not sustain you.” + </p> +<p> +“My dear Glencore, it is not in this spirit that we can speak profitably +to each other. If you will not hear my reasons calmly and dispassionately, +to what end am I here? You have long known me as one who lays claim to no +more rigid morality than consists with the theory of a worldly man's +experiences. I affect no high-flown sentiments. I am as plain and +practical as may be; and when I tell you that you are wrong in this +affair, I mean to say that what you are about to do is not only bad, but +impolitic. In your pursuit of a victim, you are immolating yourself.” + </p> +<p> +“Be it so; I go not alone to the stake; there is another to partake of the +torture,” cried Glencore, wildly; and already his flushed cheek and +flashing eyes betrayed the approach of a feverish access. +</p> +<p> +“If I am not to have any influence with you, then,” resumed Upton, “I am +here to no purpose. If to all that I say—to arguments you cannot +answer—you obstinately persist in opposing an insane thirst for +revenge, I see not why you should desire my presence. You have resolved to +do this great wrong?” + </p> +<p> +“It is already done, sir,” broke in Glencore. +</p> +<p> +“Wherein, then, can I be of any service to you?” + </p> +<p> +“I am coming to that. I had come to it before, had you not interrupted me. +I want you to be guardian to the boy. I want you to replace me in all that +regards authority over him. You know life well, Upton. You know it not +alone in its paths of pleasure and success, but you understand thoroughly +the rugged footway over which humble men toil wearily to fortune. None can +better estimate a man's chances of success, nor more surely point the road +by which he is to attain it. The provision which I destine for him will be +an humble one, and he will need to rely upon his own efforts. You will not +refuse me this service, Upton. I ask it in the name of our old +friendship.” + </p> +<p> +“There is but one objection I could possibly have, and yet that seems to +be insurmountable.” + </p> +<p> +“And what may it be?” cried Glencore. +</p> +<p> +“Simply, that in acceding to your request, I make myself an accomplice in +your plan, and thus aid and abet the very scheme I am repudiating.” + </p> +<p> +“What avails your repudiation if it will not turn me from my resolve? That +it will not, I 'll swear to you as solemnly as ever an oath was taken. I +tell you again, the thing is done. For the consequences which are to +follow on it you have no responsibility; these are my concern.” + </p> +<p> +“I should like a little time to think over it,” said Upton, with the air +of one struggling with irresolution. “Let me have this evening to make up +my mind; to-morrow you shall have my answer.” + </p> +<p> +“Be it so, then,” said Glencore; and, turning his face away, waved a cold +farewell with his hand. +</p> +<p> +We do not purpose to follow Sir Horace as he retired, nor does our task +require that we should pry into the secret recesses of his wily nature; +enough if we say that in asking for time, his purpose was rather to afford +another opportunity of reflection to Glencore than to give himself more +space for deliberation. He had found, by the experience of his calling, +that the delay we often crave for, to resolve a doubt, has sufficed to +change the mind of him who originated the difficulty. +</p> +<p> +“I'll give him some hours, at least,” thought he, “to ponder over what I +have said. Who knows but the argument may seem better in memory than in +action? Such things have happened before now.” And having finished this +reflection, he turned to peruse the pamphlet of a quack doctor who pledged +himself to cure all disorders of the circulation by attending to tidal +influences, and made the moon herself enter into the <i>materia medica</i>. +What Sir Horace believed, or did not believe, in the wild rhapsodies of +the charlatan, is known only to himself. Whether his credulity was fed by +the hope of obtaining relief, or whether his fancy only was aroused by the +speculative images thus suggested, it is impossible to say. It is not +altogether improbable that he perused these things as Charles Fox used to +read all the trashiest novels of the Minerva Press, and find, in the very +distorted and exaggerated pictures, a relief and a relaxation which more +correct views of life had failed to impart. Hard-headed men require +strange indulgences. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XIV. BILLY TRAYNOR AND THE COLONEL +</h2> +<p> +It was a fine breezy morning as the Colonel set out with Billy Traynor for +Belmullet. The bridle-path by which they travelled led through a wild and +thinly inhabited tract,—now dipping down between grassy hills, now +tracing its course along the cliffs over the sea. Tall ferns covered the +slopes, protected from the west winds, and here and there little copses of +stunted oak showed the traces of what once had been forest. It was, on the +whole, a silent and dreary region, so that the travellers felt it even +relief as they drew nigh the bright blue sea, and heard the sonorous +booming of the waves as they broke along the shore. +</p> +<p> +“It cheers one to come up out of those dreary dells, and hear the pleasant +plash of the sea,” said Harcourt; and his bright face showed that he felt +the enjoyment. +</p> +<p> +“So it does, sir,” said Billy. “And yet Homer makes his hero go +heavy-hearted as he hears the ever-sounding sea.” + </p> +<p> +“What does that signify, Doctor?” said Harcourt, impatiently. “Telling me +what a character in a fiction feels affects me no more than telling me +what he does. Why, man, the one is as unreal as the other. The fellow that +created him fashioned his thoughts as well as his actions.” + </p> +<p> +“To be sure he did; but when the fellow is a janius, what he makes is as +much a crayture as either you or myself.” + </p> +<p> +“Come, come, Doctor, no mystification.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't mean any,” broke in Billy. “What I want to say is this, that as +we read every character to elicit truth,—truth in the working of +human motives, truth in passion, truth in all the struggles of our poor +weak natures,—why would n't a great janius like Homer, or +Shakspeare, or Milton, be better able to show us this in some picture +drawn by themselves, than you or I be able to find it out for ourselves?” + </p> +<p> +Harcourt shook his head doubtfully. +</p> +<p> +“Well, now,” said Billy, returning to the charge, “did you ever see a +waxwork model of anatomy? Every nerve and siny of a nerve was there,—not +a vein nor an artery wanting. The artist that made it all just wanted to +show you where everything was; but he never wanted you to believe it was +alive, or ever had been. But with janius it's different. He just gives you +some traits of a character, he points him out to you passing,—just +as I would to a man going along the street,—and there he is alive +for ever and ever; not like you and me, that will be dead and buried +to-morrow or next day, and the most known of us three lines in a parish +registhry, but he goes down to posterity an example, an illustration—or +a warning, maybe—to thousands and thousands of living men. Don't +talk to me about fiction! What <i>he</i> thought and felt is truer than +all that you and I and a score like us ever did or ever will do. The +creations of janius are the landmarks of humanity; and well for us is it +that we have such to guide us!” + </p> +<p> +“All this may be very fine,” said Harcourt, contemptuously, “but give <i>me</i> +the sentiments of a living man, or one that has lived, in preference to +all the imaginary characters that have ever adorned a story.” + </p> +<p> +“Just as I suppose that you'd say that a soldier in the Blues, or some +big, hulking corporal in the Guards, is a finer model of the human form +than ever Praxiteles chiselled.” + </p> +<p> +“I know which I 'd rather have alongside of me in a charge, Doctor,” said +Harcourt, laughing; and then, to change the topic, he pointed to a lone +cabin on the sea-shore, miles away, as it seemed, from all other +habitations. +</p> +<p> +“That's Michel Cady's, sir,” said Traynor; “he lives by birds,—hunting +them saygulls and cormorants through the crevices of the rocks, and +stealing the eggs. There isn't a precipice that he won't climb, not a +cliff that he won't face.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, if that be his home, the pursuit does not seem a profitable one.” + </p> +<p> +“'Tis as good as breaking stones on the road for four-pence a day, or +carrying sea-weed five miles on your back to manure the potatoes,” said +Billy, mournfully. +</p> +<p> +“That's exactly the very thing that puzzles me,” said Harcourt, “why, in a +country so remarkable for fertility, every one should be so miserably +poor!” + </p> +<p> +“And you never heard any explanation of it?” + </p> +<p> +“Never; at least, never one that satisfied me.” + </p> +<p> +“Nor ever will you,” said Billy, sententiously. +</p> +<p> +“And why so?” + </p> +<p> +“Because,” said he, drawing a long breath, as if preparing for a +discourse,—“because there's no man capable of going into the whole +subject; for it's not merely an economical question or a social one, but +it is metaphysical, and religious, and political, and ethnological, and +historical,—ay, and geographical too! You have to consider, first, +who and what are the aborigines. A conquered people that never gave in +they were conquered. Who are the rulers? A Saxon race that always felt +that they were infarior to them they ruled over!” + </p> +<p> +“By Jove, Doctor, I must stop you there; I never heard any acknowledgment +of this inferiority you speak of.” + </p> +<p> +“I'd like to get a goold medal for arguin' it out with you,” said Billy. +</p> +<p> +“And, after all, I don't see how it would resolve the original doubt,” + said Harcourt. “I want to know why the people are so poor, and I don't +want to hear of the battle of Clontarf, or the Danes at Dundalk.” + </p> +<p> +“There it is, you'd like to narrow down a great question of race, +language, traditions, and laws to a little miserable dispute about labor +and wages. O Manchester, Manchester! how ye're in the heart of every +Englishman, rich or poor, gentle or simple! You say you never heard of any +confession of inferiority. Of course you did n't; but quite the reverse,—a +very confident sense of being far better than the poor Irish; and I'll +tell you how, and why, just as you, yourself, after a discusshion with me, +when you find yourself dead bate, and not a word to reply, you 'll go home +to a good dinner and a bottle of wine, dry clothes and a bright fire; and +no matter how hard my argument pushed you, you'll remember that <i>I'm</i> +in rags, in a dirty cabin, with potatoes to ate and water to drink, and +you 'll say, at all events, 'I 'm better off than he is;' and there's your +superiority, neither more or less,—there it is! And all the while, +<i>I'm</i> saying the same thing to <i>myself</i>,—'Sorrow matter +for his fine broadcloth, and his white linen, and his very best roast beef +that he's atin',—I 'm his master! In all that dignifies the spacies +in them grand qualities that makes us poets, rhetoricians, and the like, +in those elegant attributes that, as the poet says,— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“In all our pursuits +Lifts us high above brutes,'” + </pre> +<p> +—in these, I say again, I 'm his master!'” + </p> +<p> +As Billy finished his growing panegyric upon his country and himself, he +burst out in a joyous laugh, and cried, “Did ye ever hear conceit like +that? Did ye ever expect to see the day that a ragged poor blackguard like +<i>me</i> would dare to say as much to one like <i>you?</i> And, after +all, it's the greatest compliment I could pay you.” + </p> +<p> +“How so, Billy? I don't exactly see <i>that</i>.” + </p> +<p> +“Why, that if you weren't a gentleman,—a raal gentleman, born and +bred,—I could never have ventured to tell you what I said now. It is +because, in <i>your own</i> refined feelings, you can pardon all the +coarseness of <i>mine</i>, that I have my safety.” + </p> +<p> +“You're as great a courtier as you are a scholar, Billy,” said Harcourt, +laughing; “meanwhile, I'm not likely to be enlightened as to the cause of +Irish poverty.” + </p> +<p> +“'T is a whole volume I could write on the same subject,” said Billy; “for +there's so many causes in operation, com-binin', and assistin', and +aggravatin' each other. But if you want the head and front of the mischief +in one word, it is this, that no Irishman ever gave his heart and sowl to +his own business, but always was mindin' something else that he had +nothin' to say to; and so, ye see, the priest does be thinkin' of +politics, the parson's thinkin' of the priest, the people are always on +the watch for a crack at the agent or the tithe-proctor, and the landlord, +instead of looking after his property, is up in Dublin dinin' with the +Lord-Leftinint and abusin' his tenants. I don't want to screen myself, nor +say I'm better than my neighbors, for though I have a larned profession to +live by, I 'd rather be writin' a ballad, and singin' it too, down Thomas +Street, than I 'd be lecturin' at the Surgeons' Hall.” + </p> +<p> +“You are certainly a very strange people,” said Harcourt. +</p> +<p> +“And yet there's another thing stranger still, which is, that your +countrymen never took any advantage of our eccentricities, to rule us by; +and if they had any wit in their heads, they 'd have seen, easy enough, +that all these traits are exactly the clews to a nation's heart. That's +what Pitt meant when he said, 'Let me make the <i>songs</i> of a people, +and I don't care who makes the <i>laws</i>.' Look down now in that glen +before you, as far as you can see. There's Belmullet, and ain't you glad +to be so near your journey's end? for you're mighty tired of all this +discoorsin'.” + </p> +<p> +“On the contrary, Billy, even when I disagree with what you say, I'm +pleased to hear your reasons; at the same time, I 'm glad we are drawing +nigh to this poor boy, and I only trust we may not be too late.” + </p> +<p> +Billy muttered a pious concurrence in the wish, and they rode along for +some time in silence. “There's the Bay of Belmullet now under your feet,” + cried Billy, as he pulled up short, and pointed with his whip seaward. +“There's five fathoms, and fine anchoring ground on every inch ye see +there. There's elegant shelter from tempestuous winds. There's a coast +rich in herrings, oysters, lobsters, and crabs; farther out there's cod, +and haddock, and mackerel in the sayson. There's sea wrack for kelp, and +every other con-vanience any one can require; and a poorer set of devils +than ye 'll see when we get down there, there's nowhere to be found. Well, +well! 'if idleness is bliss, it's folly to work hard.'” And with this +paraphrase, Billy made way for the Colonel, as the path had now become too +narrow for two abreast, and in this way they descended to the shore. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XV. A SICK BED +</h2> +<p> +Although the cabin in which the sick boy lay was one of the best in the +village, its interior presented a picture of great poverty. It consisted +of a single room, in the middle of which a mud wall of a few feet in +height formed a sort of partition, abutting against which was the bed,—the +one bed of the entire family,—now devoted to the guest. Two or three +coarsely fashioned stools, a rickety table, and a still more rickety +dresser comprised all the furniture. The floor was uneven and fissured, +and the solitary window was mended with an old hat,—thus diminishing +the faint light which struggled through the narrow aperture. +</p> +<p> +A large net, attached to the rafters, hung down in heavy festoons +overhead, the corks and sinks dangling in dangerous proximity to the heads +underneath. Several spars and oars littered one corner, and a newly +painted buoy filled another; but, in spite of all these encumbrances, +there was space around the fire for a goodly company of some eight or nine +of all ages, who were pleasantly eating their supper from a large pot of +potatoes that smoked and steamed in front of them. +</p> +<p> +“God save all here!” cried Billy, as he preceded the Colonel into the +cabin. +</p> +<p> +“Save ye kindly,” was the courteous answer, in a chorus of voices; at the +same time, seeing a gentleman at the door, the whole party arose at once +to receive him. Nothing could have surpassed the perfect good-breeding +with which the fisherman and his wife did the honors of their humble home; +and Harcourt at once forgot the poverty-struck aspect of the scene in the +general courtesy of the welcome. +</p> +<p> +“He 's no better, your honor,—no better at all,” said the man, as +Harcourt drew nigh the sick bed. “He does be always ravin',—ravin' +on,—beggin' and implorin' that we won't take him back to the Castle; +and if he falls asleep, the first thing he says when he wakes up is, +'Where am I?—tell me I'm not at Glencore!' and he keeps on +screechin', 'Tell me, tell me so!'” + </p> +<p> +Harcourt bent down over the bed and gazed at him. Slowly and languidly the +sick boy raised his heavy lids and returned the stare. +</p> +<p> +“You know me, Charley, boy, don't you?” said he, softly. +</p> +<p> +“Yes,” muttered he, in a weak tone. +</p> +<p> +“Who am I, Charley? Tell me who is speaking to you.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes,” said he again. +</p> +<p> +“Poor fellow!” Bighed Harcourt, “he does <i>not</i> know me!” + </p> +<p> +“Where's the pain?” asked Billy, suddenly. +</p> +<p> +The boy placed his hand on his forehead, and then on his temples. +</p> +<p> +“Look up! look at <i>me!</i>” said Billy. “Ay, there it is! the pupil does +not contract,—there's mischief in the brain. He wants to say +something to you, sir,” said he to Harcourt; “he's makin' signs to you to +stoop down.” + </p> +<p> +Harcourt put his ear close to the sick boy's lips, and listened. +</p> +<p> +“No, my dear child, of course not,” said he, after a pause. “You shall +remain here, and I will stay with you too. In a few days your father will +come—” + </p> +<p> +A wild yell, a shriek that made the cabin ring, now broke from the boy, +followed by another, and then a third; and then with a spring he arose +from the bed, and tried to escape. Weak and exhausted as he was, such was +the strength supplied by fever, it was all that they could do to subdue +him and replace him in the bed; violent convulsions followed this severe +access, and it was not till after hours of intense suffering that he +calmed down again and seemed to slumber. +</p> +<p> +“There's more than we know of here, Colonel,” said Billy, as he drew him +to one side. “There's moral causes as well as malady at work.” + </p> +<p> +“There may be, but I know nothing of them,” said Harcourt; and in the +frank air of the speaker the other did not hesitate to repose his trust. +</p> +<p> +“If we hope to save him, we ought to find out where the mischief lies,” + said Billy; “for, if ye remark, his ravin' is always upon one subject; he +never wanders from that.” + </p> +<p> +“He has a dread of home. Some altercation with his father has, doubtless, +impressed him with this notion.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah, that isn't enough, we must go 'deeper; we want a clew to the part of +the brain engaged. Meanwhile, here's at him, with the antiphlogistic +touch;” and he opened his lancet-case, and tucked up his cuffs. “Houlde +the basin, Biddy.” + </p> +<p> +“There, Harvey himself couldn't do it nater than that. It's an elegant +study to be feelin' a pulse while the blood is flowin'. It comes at first +like a dammed-up cataract, a regular out-pouring, just as a young girl +would tell her love, all wild and tumultuous; then, after a time, she gets +more temperate, the feelings are relieved, and the ardor is moderated, +till at last, wearied and worn out, the heart seems to ask for rest; and +then ye'll remark a settled faint smile coming over the lips, and a clammy +coldness in the face.” + </p> +<p> +“He's fainting, sir,” broke in Biddy. +</p> +<p> +“He is, ma'am, and it's myself done it,” said Billy. “Oh, dear, oh, dear! +If we could only do with the moral heart what we can with the raal +physical one, what wonderful poets we 'd be!” + </p> +<p> +“What hopes have you?” whispered Harcourt. +</p> +<p> +“The best, the very best. There 's youth and a fine constitution to work +upon; and what more does a doctor want? As ould Marsden said, 'You can't +destroy these in a fortnight, so the patient must live.' But you must help +me, Colonel, and you <i>can</i> help me.” + </p> +<p> +“Command me in any way, Doctor.” + </p> +<p> +“Here's the <i>modus</i>, then. You must go back to the Castle and find +out, if you can, what happened between his father and <i>him</i>. It does +not signify now, nor will it for some days; but when he comes to the +convalescent stage, it's then we 'll need to know how to manage him, and +what subjects to keep him away from. 'T is the same with the brain as with +a sprained ankle; you may exercise if you don't twist it; but just come +down once on the wrong spot, and maybe ye won't yell out!” + </p> +<p> +“You 'll not quit him, then.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm a senthry on his post, waiting to get a shot at the enemy if he shows +the top of his head. Ah, sir, if ye only knew physic, ye 'd acknowledge +there 's nothing as treacherous as dizaze. Ye hunt him out of the brain, +and then he is in the lungs. Ye chase him out of that, and he skulks in +the liver. At him there, and he takes to the fibrous membranes, and then +it's regular hide-and-go-seek all over the body. Trackin' a bear is +child's play to it.” And so saying, Billy held the Colonel's stirrup for +him to mount, and giving his most courteous salutation, and his best +wishes for a good journey, he turned and re-entered the cabin. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XVI. THE “PROJECT” + </h2> +<p> +It was not without surprise that Harcourt saw Glencore enter the +drawing-room a few minutes before dinner. Very pale and very feeble, he +slowly traversed the room, giving a hand to each of his guests, and +answering the inquiries for his health by a sickly smile, while he said, +“As you see me.” + </p> +<p> +“I am going to dine with you to-day, Harcourt,” said he, with an attempt +at gayety of manner. “Upton tells me that a little exertion of this kind +will do me good.” + </p> +<p> +“Upton's right,” cried the Colonel, “especially if he added that you +should take a glass or two of that admirable Burgundy. My life on 't but +that is the liquor to set a man on his legs again.” + </p> +<p> +“I did n't remark that this was exactly the effect it produced upon you t' +other night,” said Upton, with one of his own sly laughs. +</p> +<p> +“That comes of drinking it in bad company,” retorted Harcourt; “a man is +driven to take two glasses for one.” + </p> +<p> +As the dinner proceeded, Glencore rallied considerably, taking his part in +the conversation, and evidently enjoying the curiously contrasted +temperaments at either side of him. The one, all subtlety, refinement, and +finesse; the other, out-spoken, rude, and true-hearted; rarely correct in +a question of taste, but invariably right in every matter of honorable +dealing. Though it was clear enough that Upton relished the eccentricities +whose sallies he provoked, it was no less easy to see how thoroughly he +appreciated the frank and manly nature of the old soldier; nor could all +the crafty habits of his acute mind overcome the hearty admiration with +which he regarded him. +</p> +<p> +It is in the unrestricted ease of these “little dinners,” where two or +three old friends are met, that social intercourse assumes its most +charming form. The usages of the great world, which exact a species of +uniformity of breeding and manners, are here laid aside, and men talk with +all the bias and prejudices of their true nature, dashing the topics +discussed with traits of personality, and even whims, that are most +amusing. How little do we carry away of tact or wisdom from the grand +banquets of life; and what pleasant stores of thought, what charming +memories remain to us, after those small gatherings! +</p> +<p> +How, as I write this, one little room rises to my recollection, with its +quaint old sideboard of carved oak; its dark-brown cabinets, curiously +sculptured; its heavy old brocade curtains, and all its queer devices of +knick-knackery, where such meetings once were held, and where, throwing +off the cares of life,—shut out from them, as it were, by the +massive folds of the heavy drapery across the door,—. we talked in +all the fearless freedom of old friendship, rambling away from theme to +theme, contrasting our experiences, balancing our views in life, and +mingling through our converse the racy freshness of a boy's enjoyment with +the sager counsels of a man's reflectiveness. Alas! how very early is it +sometimes in life that we tread “the banquet-hall deserted.” But to our +story: the evening wore pleasantly on; Upton talked, as few but himself +could do, upon the public questions of the day; and Harcourt, with many a +blunt interruption, made the discourse but more easy and amusing. The +soldier was, indeed, less at his ease than the others. It was not alone +that many of the topics were not such as he was most familiar with, but he +felt angry and indignant at Glencore's seeming indifference as to the fate +of his son. Not a single reference to him even occurred; his name was +never even passingly mentioned. Nothing but the careworn, sickly face, the +wasted form and dejected expression before him, could have restrained +Harcourt from alluding to the boy. He bethought him, however, that any +indiscretion on his part might have the gravest consequences. Upton, too, +might have said something to quiet Glencore's mind. “At all events, I'll +wait,” said he to himself; “for wherever there is much delicacy in a +negotiation, I generally make a mess of it.” The more genially, therefore, +did Glencore lend himself to the pleasure of the conversation, the more +provoked did Harcourt feel at his heartlessness, and the more did the +struggle cost him to control his own sentiments. +</p> +<p> +Upton, who detected the secret working of men's minds with a marvellous +exactness, saw how the poor Colonel was suffering, and that, in all +probability, some unhappy explosion would at last ensue, and took an +opportunity of remarking that though all this chit-chat was delightful for +them, Glencore was still a sick man. +</p> +<p> +“We must n't forget, Harcourt,” said he, “that a chicken-broth diet +includes very digestible small-talk; and here we are leading our poor +friend through politics, war, diplomacy, and the rest of it, just as if he +had the stomach of an old campaigner and—” + </p> +<p> +“And the brain of a great diplomatist! Say it out, man, and avow honestly +the share of excellence you accord to each of us,” broke in Harcourt, +laughing. +</p> +<p> +“I would to Heaven we could exchange,” sighed Upton, languidly. +</p> +<p> +“The saints forbid!” exclaimed the other; “and it would do us little good +if we were able.” + </p> +<p> +“Why so?” + </p> +<p> +“I'd never know what to do with that fine intellect if I had it; and as +for <i>you</i>, what with your confounded pills and mixtures, your +infernal lotions and embrocations, you'd make my sound system as bad as +your own in three months' time.” + </p> +<p> +“You are quite wrong, my dear Harcourt; I should treat the stomach as you +would do the brain,—give it next to nothing to do, in the hopes it +might last the longer.” + </p> +<p> +“There now, good night,” said Harcourt; “he's always the better for +bitters, whether he gives or takes them.” And with a good-humored laugh he +left the room. +</p> +<p> +Glencore's eyes followed him as he retired; and then, as they closed, an +expression as of long-repressed suffering settled down on his features so +marked that Upton hastily asked,— +</p> +<p> +“Are you ill, are you in pain, Glencore?” + </p> +<p> +“In pain? Yes,” said he, “these two hours back I have been suffering +intensely; but there's no help for it! Must you really leave this +to-morrow, Upton?” + </p> +<p> +“I must. This letter from the Foreign Office requires my immediate +presence in London, with a very great likelihood of being obliged to start +at once for the Continent.” + </p> +<p> +“And I had so much to say,—so many things to consult you on,” sighed +the other. +</p> +<p> +“Are you equal to it now?” asked Upton. +</p> +<p> +“I must try, at all events. You shall learn my plan.” He was silent for +some minutes, and sat with his head resting on his hand, in deep +reflection. At last he said, “Has it ever occurred to you, Upton, that +some incident of the past, some circumstance in itself insignificant, +should rise up, as it were, in after life to suit an actual emergency, +just as though fate had fashioned it for such a contingency?” + </p> +<p> +“I cannot say that I have experienced what you describe, if, indeed, I +fully understand it.” + </p> +<p> +“I'll explain better by an instance. You know now,”—here his voice +became slow, and the words fell with a marked distinctness,—“you +know now what I intend by this woman. Well, just as if to make my plan +more feasible, a circumstance intended for a very different object offers +itself to my aid. When my uncle, Sir Miles Herrick, heard that I was about +to marry a foreigner, he declared that he would never leave me a shilling +of his fortune. I am not very sure that I cared much for the threat when +it was uttered. My friends, however, thought differently; and though they +did not attempt to dissuade me from my marriage, they suggested that I +should try some means of overcoming this prejudice; at all events, that I +should not hurry on the match without an effort to obtain his consent. I +agreed,—not very willingly, indeed,—and so the matter +remained. The circumstance was well known amongst my two or three most +intimate friends, and constantly discussed by them. I need n't tell you +that the tone in which such things are talked of as often partakes of +levity as seriousness. They gave me all manner of absurd counsels, one +more outrageously ridiculous than the other. At last, one day,—we +were picnicking at Baia,—Old Clifford,—you remember that +original who had the famous schooner-yacht 'The Breeze,'—well, he +took me aside after dinner, and said, 'Glencore, I have it,—I have +just hit upon the expedient. Your uncle and I were old chums at Christ +Church fifty years ago. What if we were to tell him that you were going to +marry a daughter of mine? I don't think he'd object. I 'm half certain he +'d not. I have been abroad these five-and-thirty years. Nobody in England +knows much about me now. Old Herrick can't live forever; he is my senior +by a good ten or twelve years; and if the delusion only lasts his time—' +</p> +<p> +“'But perhaps you have a daughter?' broke I in. +</p> +<p> +“'I have, and she is married already, so there is no risk on that score.' +I need n't repeat all that he said for, nor that I urged against, the +project; for though it was after dinner, and we all had drunk very freely, +the deception was one I firmly rejected. When a man shows a great desire +to serve you on a question of no common difficulty, it is very hard to be +severe upon his counsels, however unscrupulous they may be. In fact, you +accept them as proofs of friendship only the stronger, seeing how much +they must have cost him to offer.” + </p> +<p> +Upton smiled dubiously, and Glencore, blushing slightly, said, “You don't +concur in this, I perceive.” + </p> +<p> +“Not exactly,” said Upton, in his silkiest of tones; “I rather regard +these occasions as I should do the generosity of a man who, filling my +hand with base money, should say, 'Pass it if you can!'” + </p> +<p> +“In this case, however,” resumed Glencore, “he took his share of the +fraud, or at least was willing to do so, for I distinctly said 'No' to the +whole scheme. He grew very warm about it; at one moment appealing to my +'good sense, not to kick seven thousand a year out of the window;' at the +next, in half-quarrelsome mood, asking 'if it were any objection I had to +be connected with his family.' To get rid of a very troublesome subject, +and to end a controversy that threatened to disturb a party, I said at +last, 'We 'll talk it over to-morrow, Clifford, and if your arguments be +as good as your heart, then perhaps they may yet convince me.' This ended +the theme, and we parted. I started the next day on a shooting excursion +into Calabria, and when I got back it was not of meeting Clifford I was +thinking. I hastened to meet the Delia Torres, and then came our +elopement. You know the rest. We went to the East, passed the winter in +Upper Egypt, and came to Cairo in spring, where Charley was born. I got +back to Naples after a year or two, and then found that my uncle had just +died, and in consequence of my marrying the daughter of his old and +attached friend, Sir Guy Clifford, had reversed the intention of his will, +and by a codicil left me his sole heir. It was thus that my marriage, and +even my boy's birth, became inserted in the Peerage; my solicitor, in his +vast eagerness for my interests, having taken care to indorse the story +with his own name. The disinherited nephews and nieces, the half-cousins +and others, soon got wind of the real facts, and contested the will, on +the ground of its being executed under a delusion. I, of course, would not +resist their claim, and satisfied myself by denying the statement as to my +marriage; and so, after affording the current subject of gossip for a +season, I was completely forgotten, the more as we went to live abroad, +and never mixed with English. And now, Upton, it is this same incident I +would utilize for the present occasion, though, as I said before, when it +originally occurred it had a very different signification.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't exactly see how,” said Upton. +</p> +<p> +“In this wise. My real marriage was never inserted in the Peerage. I'll +now manage that it shall so appear, to give me the opportunity of formally +contradicting it, and alluding to the strange persistence with which, +having married me some fifteen years ago to a lady who never existed, they +now are pleased to unite me to one whose character might have secured me +against the calumny. I 'll threaten an action for libel, etc., obtain a +most full, explicit, and abject apology, and then, when this has gone the +round of all the journals of Europe, her doom is sealed!” + </p> +<p> +“But she has surely letters, writings, proofs of some sort.” + </p> +<p> +“No, Upton, I have not left a scrap in her possession; she has not a line, +not a letter to vindicate her. On the night I broke open her writing-desk, +I took away everything that bore the traces of my own hand. I tell you +again she is in my power, and never was power less disposed to mercy.” + </p> +<p> +“Once more, my dear friend,” said Upton, “I am driven to tell you that I +cannot be a profitable counsellor in a matter to every detail of which I +object. Consider calmly for one moment what you are doing. See how, in +your desire to be avenged upon <i>her</i>, you throw the heaviest share of +the penalty on your own poor boy. I am not her advocate now. I will not +say one word to mitigate the course of your anger towards her, but +remember that you are actually defrauding him of his birthright. This is +not a question where you have a choice. There is no discretionary power +left you.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll do it,” said Glencore, with a savage energy. +</p> +<p> +“In other words, to wreak a vengeance upon one, you are prepared to +immolate another, not only guiltless, but who possesses every claim to +your love and affection.” + </p> +<p> +“And do you think that if I sacrifice the last tie that attaches me to +life, Upton, that I retire from this contest heart-whole? No, far from it; +I go forth from the struggle broken, blasted, friendless!” + </p> +<p> +“And do you mean that this vengeance should outlive you? Suppose, for +instance, that she should survive you.” + </p> +<p> +“It shall be to live on in shame, then,” cried he, savagely. +</p> +<p> +“And were she to die first?” + </p> +<p> +“In that case—I have not thought well enough about that. It is +possible,—it is just possible; but these are subtleties, Upton, to +detach me from my purpose, or weaken my resolution to carry it through. +You would apply the craft of your calling to the case, and, by suggesting +emergencies, open a road to evasions. Enough for me the present. I neither +care to prejudge the future, nor control it. I know,” cried he, suddenly, +and with eyes flashing angrily as he spoke,—“I know that if you +desire to use the confidence I have reposed in you against me, you can +give me trouble and even difficulty; but I defy Sir Horace Upton, with all +his skill and all his cunning, to outwit me.” + </p> +<p> +There was that in the tone in which he uttered these words, and the +exaggerated energy of his manner, that convinced Upton, Glencore's reason +was not intact. It was not what could amount to aberration in the ordinary +sense, but sufficient evidence was there to show that judgment had become +so obscured by passion that the mental power was weakened by the moral. +</p> +<p> +“Tell me, therefore, Upton,” cried he, “before we part, do you leave this +house my friend or my enemy?” + </p> +<p> +“It is as your sincere, attached friend that I now dispute with you, inch +by inch, a dangerous position, with a judgment under no influence from +passion, viewing this question by the coldest of all tests,—mere +expediency—' +</p> +<p> +“There it is,” broke in Glencore; “you claim an advantage over me, because +you are devoid of feeling; but this is a case, sir, where the sense of +injury gives the instinct of reparation. Is it nothing to me, think you, +that I am content to go down dishonored to my grave, but also to be the +last of my name and station? Is it nothing that a whole line of honorable +ancestry is extinguished at once? Is it nothing that I surrender him who +formed my sole solace and companionship in life? You talk of your calm, +unbiassed mind; but I tell you, till your brain be on fire like mine, and +your heart swollen to very bursting, that you have no right to dictate to +<i>me!</i> Besides, it is done! The blow has fallen,” added he, with a +deeper solemnity of voice. “The gulf that separates us is already created. +She and I can meet no more. But why continue this contest? It was to aid +me in directing that boy's fortunes I first sought your advice, not to +attempt to dissuade me from what I will not be turned from.” + </p> +<p> +“In what way can I serve you?” said Upton, calmly. +</p> +<p> +“Will you consent to be his guardian?” + </p> +<p> +“I will.” + </p> +<p> +Glencore seized the other's hand, and pressed it to his heart, and for +some seconds he could not speak. +</p> +<p> +“This is all that I ask, Upton,” said he. “It is the greatest boon +friendship could accord me. I need no more. Could you have remained here a +day or two more, we could have settled upon some plan together as to his +future life; as it is, we can arrange it by letter.” + </p> +<p> +“He must leave this,” said Upton, thoughtfully. +</p> +<p> +“Of course,—at once!” + </p> +<p> +“How far is Harcourt to be informed in this matter; have you spoken to him +already?” + </p> +<p> +“No; nor mean to do so. I should have from <i>him</i> nothing but +reproaches for having betrayed the boy into false hopes of a station he +was never to fill. You must tell Harcourt. I leave it to yourself to find +the suitable moment.” + </p> +<p> +“We shall need his assistance,” said Upton, whose quick faculties were +already busily travelling many a mile of the future. “I 'll see him +to-night, and try what can be done. In a few days you will have turned +over in your mind what you yourself destine for him,—the fortune you +mean to give—” + </p> +<p> +“It is already done,” said Glencore, laying a sealed letter on the table. +“All that I purpose in his behalf you will find there.” + </p> +<p> +“All this detail is too much for you, Glencore,” said the other, seeing +that a weary, depressed expression had come over him, while his voice grew +weaker with every word. “I shall not leave this till late to-morrow, so +that we can meet again. And now good night.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XVII. A TÊTE-À-TÊTE +</h2> +<p> +When Harcourt was aroused from his sound sleep by Upton, and requested in +the very blandest tones of that eminent diplomatist to lend him every +attention of his “very remarkable faculties,” he was not by any means +certain that he was not engaged in a strange dream; nor was the suspicion +at all dispelled by the revelations addressed to him. +</p> +<p> +“Just dip the end of that towel in the water, Upton, and give it to me,” + cried he at last; and then, wiping his face and forehead, said, “Have I +heard you aright,—there was no marriage?” + </p> +<p> +Upton nodded assent. +</p> +<p> +“What a shameful way he has treated this poor boy, then!” cried the other. +“I never heard of anything equal to it in cruelty, and I conclude it was +breaking this news to the lad that drove him out to sea on that night, and +brought on this brain fever. By Jove, I 'd not take <i>his</i> title, and +<i>your</i> brains, to have such a sin on my conscience!” + </p> +<p> +“We are happily not called on to judge the act,” said Upton, cautiously. +</p> +<p> +“And why not? Is it not every honest man's duty to reprobate whatever he +detects dishonorable or disgraceful? I do judge him, and sentence him too, +and I say, moreover, that a more cold-blooded piece of cruelty I never +heard of. He trains up this poor boy from childhood to fancy himself the +heir to his station and fortune; he nurses in him all the pride that only +a high rank can cover; and then, when the lad's years have brought him to +the period when these things assume all their value, he sends for him to +tell him he is a bastard.” + </p> +<p> +“It is not impossible that I think worse of Glencore's conduct than you do +yourself,” said Upton, gravely. +</p> +<p> +“But you never told him so, I'll be sworn,—you never said to him it +was a rascally action. I'll lay a hundred pounds on it, you only +expostulated on the inexpediency, or the inconvenience, or some such +trumpery consideration, and did not tell him, in round numbers, that what +he had done was an infamy.” + </p> +<p> +“Then I fancy you'd lose your money, pretty much as you are losing your +temper,—that is, without getting anything in requital.” + </p> +<p> +“What did you say to him, then?” said Harcourt, slightly abashed. +</p> +<p> +“A great deal in the same strain as you have just spoken in, doubtless not +as warm in vituperation, but possibly as likely to produce an effect; nor +is it in the least necessary to dwell upon that. What Glencore has done, +and what I have said about it, both belong to the past. They are over,—they +are irrevocable. It is to what concerns the present and the future I wish +now to address myself, and to interest you.” + </p> +<p> +“Why, the boy's name was in the Peerage,—I read it there myself.” + </p> +<p> +“My dear Harcourt, you must have paid very little attention to me a while +ago, or you would have understood how that occurred.” + </p> +<p> +“And here were all the people, the tenantry on the estate, calling him the +young lord, and the poor fellow growing up with the proud consciousness +that the title was his due.” + </p> +<p> +“There is not a hardship of the case I have not pictured to my own mind as +forcibly as you can describe it,” said Upton; “but I really do not +perceive that any reprobation of the past has in the slightest assisted me +in providing for the future.” + </p> +<p> +“And then,” murmured Harcourt,—for all the while he was pursuing his +own train of thought, quite irrespective of all Upton was saying,—“and +then he turns him adrift on the world without friend or fortune.” + </p> +<p> +“It is precisely that he may have both the one and the other that I have +come to confer with you now,” replied Upton. “Glencore has made a liberal +provision for the boy, and asked me to become his guardian. I have no +fancy for the trust, but I did n't see how I could decline it. In this +letter he assigns to him an income, which shall be legally secured to him. +He commits to me the task of directing his education, and suggesting some +future career, and for both these objects I want your counsel.” + </p> +<p> +“Education,—prospects,—why, what are you talking about? A poor +fellow who has not a name, nor a home, nor one to acknowledge him,—what +need has he of education, or what chance of prospects? I'd send him to +sea, and if he wasn't drowned before he came to manhood, I'd give him his +fortune, whatever it was, and say, 'Go settle in some of the colonies.' +You have no right to train him up to meet fresh mortifications and insults +in life; to be flouted by every fellow that has a father, and outraged by +every cur whose mother was married.” + </p> +<p> +“And are the colonies especially inhabited by illegitimate offspring?” + said Upton, dryly. +</p> +<p> +“At least he'd not be met with a rebuff at every step he made. The rude +life of toil would be better than the polish of a civilization that could +only reflect upon him.” + </p> +<p> +“Not badly said, Harcourt,” said Upton, smiling; “but as to the boy, I +have other prospects. He has, if I mistake not, very good faculties. You +estimate them even higher. I don't see why they should be neglected. If he +merely possess the mediocrity of gifts which make men tolerable lawyers +and safe doctors, why, perhaps, he may turn them into some channel. If he +really can lay claim to higher qualities, they must not be thrown away.” + </p> +<p> +“Which means that he ought to be bred up to diplomacy,” said Harcourt. +</p> +<p> +“Perhaps,” said the other, with a bland inclination of the head. +</p> +<p> +“And what can an old dragoon like myself contribute to such an object?” + asked Harcourt. +</p> +<p> +“You can be of infinite service in many ways,” said Upton; “and for the +present I wish to leave the boy in your care, till I can learn something +about my own destiny. This, of course, I shall know in a few days. +Meanwhile you 'll look after him, and as soon as his removal becomes safe +you 'll take him away from this,—it does not much matter whither; +probably some healthy, secluded spot in Wales, for a week or two, would be +advisable. Glencore and he must not meet again; if ever they are to do so, +it must be after a considerable lapse of time.” + </p> +<p> +“Have you thought of a name for him, or is his to be still Massy?” asked +Harcourt, bluntly. +</p> +<p> +“He may take the maternal name of Glencore's family, and be called Doyle, +and the settlements could be drawn up in that name.” + </p> +<p> +“I'll be shot if I like to have any share in the whole transaction! Some +day or other it will all come out, and who knows how much blame may be +imputed to us, perhaps for actually advising the entire scheme,” said +Harcourt. +</p> +<p> +“You must see, my dear Harcourt, that you are only refusing aid to +alleviate an evil, and not to devise one. If this boy—” + </p> +<p> +“Well—well—I give in. I'd rather comply at once than be +preached into acquiescence. Even when you do not convince me, I feel +ashamed to oppose myself to so much cleverness; so, I repeat, I 'm at your +orders.” + </p> +<p> +“Admirably spoken,” said Upton, with a smile. +</p> +<p> +“My greatest difficulty of all,” said Harcourt, “will be to meet Glencore +again after this. I know—I feel—I never can forgive him.” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps he will not ask forgiveness, Harcourt,” said the other, with one +of his slyest of looks. “Glencore is a strange, self-opinionated fellow, +and has amongst other odd notions that of going the road he likes best +himself. Besides, there is another consideration here, and with no man +will it weigh more than with yourself. Glencore has been dangerously ill,—at +this moment we can scarcely say that he has recovered; his state is yet +one of anxiety and doubt. You are the last who would forget such +infirmity; nor is it necessary to secure your pity that I should say how +seriously the poor fellow is now suffering.” + </p> +<p> +“I trust he'll not speak to me about this business,” said Harcourt, after +a pause. +</p> +<p> +“Very probably he will not. He will know that I have already told you +everything, so that there will be no need of any communication from him.” + </p> +<p> +“I wish from my heart and soul I had never come here. I would to Heaven I +had gone away at once, as I first intended. I like that boy; I feel he has +fine stuff in him; and now—” + </p> +<p> +“Come, come, Harcourt, it's the fault of all soft-hearted fellows, like +yourself, that their kindliness degenerates into selfishness, and they +have such a regard for their own feelings that they never agree to +anything that wounds them. Just remember that you and I have very small +parts in this drama, and the best way we can do is to fill them without +giving ourselves the airs of chief characters.” + </p> +<p> +“You're at your old game, Upton; you are always ready to wet yourself, +provided you give another fellow a ducking.” + </p> +<p> +“Only if he get a worse one, or take longer to dry after it,” remarked +Upton, laughing. +</p> +<p> +“Quite true, by Jove!” chimed in the other; “you take special care to come +off best. And now you 're going,” added he, as Upton rose to withdraw, +“and I'm certain that I have not half comprehended what you want from me.” + </p> +<p> +“You shall have it in writing, Harcourt; I'll send you a clear despatch +the first spare moment I can command after I reach town. The boy will not +be fit to move for some time to come, and so good-bye.” + </p> +<p> +“You don't know where they are going to send you?” + </p> +<p> +“I cannot frame even a conjecture,” sighed Upton, languidly. “I ought to +be in the Brazils for a week or so about that slave question; and then the +sooner I reach Constantinople the better.” + </p> +<p> +“Sha' n't they want you at Paris?” asked Harcourt, who felt a kind of +quiet vengeance in developing what he deemed the weak vanity of the other. +</p> +<p> +“Yes,” sighed he again; “but I can't be everywhere.” And so saying, he +lounged away, while it would have taken a far more subtle listener than +Harcourt to say whether he was mystifying the other, or the dupe of his +own self-esteem. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XVIII. BILLY TRAYNOR AS ORATOR +</h2> +<p> +Three weeks rolled over,—an interval not without its share of +interest for the inhabitants of the little village of Leenane, since on +one morning Mr. Craggs had made his appearance on his way to Clifden, and +after an absence of two days returned to the Castle. The subject for +popular discussion and surmise had not yet declined, when a boat was seen +to leave Glencore, heavily laden with trunks and travelling gear; and as +she neared the land, the “lord” was detected amongst the passengers, +looking very ill,—almost dying; he passed up the little street of +the village, scarcely noticing the uncovered heads which saluted him +respectfully. Indeed, he scarcely lifted up his eyes, and, as the acute +observers remarked, never once turned a glance towards the opposite shore, +where the Castle stood. +</p> +<p> +He had not reached the end of the village, when a chaise with four horses +arrived at the spot. No time was lost in arranging the trunks and +portmanteaus, and Lord Glencore sat moodily on a bank, listlessly +regarding what went forward. At length Craggs came up, and, touching his +cap in military fashion, announced all was ready. +</p> +<p> +Lord Glencore arose slowly, and looked languidly around him; his features +wore a mingled expression of weariness and anxiety, like one not fully +awakened from an oppressive dream. He turned his eyes on the people, who +at a respectful distance stood around, and in a voice of peculiar +melancholy said, “Good-bye.” + </p> +<p> +“A good journey to you, my Lord, and safe back again to us,” cried a +number together. +</p> +<p> +“Eh—what—what was that?” cried he, suddenly; and the tones +were shrill and discordant in which he spoke. +</p> +<p> +A warning gesture from Craggs imposed silence on the crowd, and not a word +was uttered. +</p> +<p> +“I thought they said something about coming back again,” muttered +Glencore, gloomily. +</p> +<p> +“They were wishing you a good journey, my Lord,” replied Craggs. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, that was it, was it?” And so saying, with bent-down head he walked +feebly forward and entered the carriage. Craggs was speedily on the box, +and the next moment they were away. +</p> +<p> +It is no part of our task to dwell on the sage speculations and wise +surmises of the village on this event. They had not, it is true, much +“evidence” before them, but they were hardy guessers, and there was very +little within the limits of possibility which they did not summon to the +aid of their imaginations. All, however, were tolerably agreed upon one +point,—that to leave the place while the young lord was still unable +to quit his bed, and too weak to sit up, was unnatural and unfeeling; +traits which, “after all,” they thought “not very surprising, since the +likes of them lords never cared for anybody.” + </p> +<p> +Colonel Harcourt still remained at Glencore, and under his rigid sway the +strictest blockade of the coast was maintained, nor was any intercourse +whatever permitted with the village. A boat from the Castle, meeting +another from Leenane, half way in the lough, received the letters and +whatever other resources the village supplied. All was done with the rigid +exactness of a quarantine regulation; and if the mainland had been +scourged with plague, stricter measures of exclusion could scarcely have +been enforced. +</p> +<p> +In comparison with the present occupant of the Castle, the late one was a +model of amiability; and the village, as is the wont in the case, now +discovered a vast number of good qualities in the “lord,” when they had +lost him. After a while, however, the guesses, the speculations, and the +comparisons all died away, and the Castle of Glencore was as much +dreamland to their imaginations as, seen across the lough in the dim +twilight of an autumn evening, its towers might have appeared to their +eyes. +</p> +<p> +It was about a month after Lord Glencore's departure, of a fine, soft +evening in summer, Billy Traynor suddenly appeared in the village. Billy +was one of a class who, whatever their rank in life, are always what +Coleridge would have called “noticeable men.” He was soon, therefore, +surrounded with a knot of eager and inquiring friends, all solicitous to +know something of the life he was leading, what they were doing “beyant at +the Castle.” + </p> +<p> +“It's a mighty quiet studious kind of life,” said Billy, “but agrees with +me wonderfully; for I may say that until now I never was able to give my +'janius' fair play. Professional life is the ruin of the student; and +being always obleeged to be thinkin' of the bags destroyed my taste for +letters.” A grin of self-approval at his own witticism closed this speech. +</p> +<p> +“But is it true, Billy, the lord is going to break up house entirely, and +not come back here?” asked Peter Slevin, the sacristan, whose rank and +station warranted his assuming the task of cross-questioner. +</p> +<p> +“There 's various ways of breakin' up a house,” said Billy. “Ye may do so +in a moral sinse, or in a physical sinse; you may obliterate, or +extinguish, or, without going so far, you may simply obfuscate,—do +you perceave?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes!” said the sacristan, on whom every eye was now bent, to see if he +was able to follow subtleties that had outwitted the rest. +</p> +<p> +“And whin I say <i>obfuscate</i>,” resumed Billy, “I open a question of +disputed etymology, bekase tho' Lucretius thinks the word <i>obfuscator</i> +original, there's many supposes it comes from <i>ob</i> and <i>fucus</i>, +the dye the ancients used in their wool, as we find in Horace, <i>lana +fuco medicata</i>; while Cicero employs it in another sense, and says, <i>facere +fucum</i>, which is as much as to say, humbuggin' somebody,—do ye +mind?” + </p> +<p> +“Begorra, he might guess that anyhow!” muttered a shrewd little tailor, +with a significance that provoked hearty laughter. +</p> +<p> +“And now,” continued Billy, with an air of triumph, “we'll proceed to the +next point.” + </p> +<p> +“Ye needn't trouble yerself then,” said Terry Lynch, “for Peter has gone +home.” + </p> +<p> +And so, to the amusement of the meeting, it turned out to be the case; the +sacristan had retired from the controversy. “Come in here to Mrs. Moore's, +Billy, and take a glass with us,” said Terry; “it isn't often we see you +in these parts.” + </p> +<p> +“If the honorable company will graciously vouchsafe and condescind to let +me trate them to a half-gallon,” said Billy, “it will be the proudest +event of my terrestrial existence.” + </p> +<p> +The proposition was received with a cordial enthusiasm, flattering to all +concerned; and in a few minutes after, Billy Traynor sat at the head of a +long table in the neat parlor of “The Griddle,” with a company of some +fifteen or sixteen very convivially disposed friends around him. +</p> +<p> +“If I was Cæsar, or Lucretius, or Nebuchadnezzar, I couldn't be prouder,” + said Billy, as he looked down the board. “And let moralists talk as they +will, there's a beautiful expansion of sentiment, there's a fine genial +overflowin' of the heart, in gatherin's like this, where we mingle our +feelin's and our philosophy; and our love and our learning walk hand in +hand like brothers—pass the sperits, Mr. Shea. If we look to the +ancient writers, what do we see!—Lemons! bring in some lemons, +Mickey.—What do we see, I say, but that the very highest enjoyment +of the haythen gods was—Hot wather! why won't they send in more hot +wather?” + </p> +<p> +“Begorra, if I was a haythen god, I 'd like a little whisky in it,” + muttered Terry, dryly. +</p> +<p> +“Where was I?” asked Billy, a little disconcerted by this sally, and the +laugh it excited. “I was expatiatin' upon celestial convivialities. The <i>nodes +coenoeque deum</i>,—them elegant hospitalities where wisdom was +moistened with nectar, and wit washed down with ambrosia. It is not, by +coorse, to be expected,” continued he, modestly, “that we mere mortials +can compete with them elegant refections. But, as Ovid says, we can at +least <i>diem jucundam decipere</i>.” + </p> +<p> +The unknown tongue had now restored to Billy all the reverence and respect +of his auditory, and he continued to expatiate very eloquently on the +wholesome advantages to be derived from convivial intercourse, both +amongst gods and men; rather slyly intimating that either on the score of +the fluids, or the conversation, his own leanings lay towards “the +humanities.” + </p> +<p> +“For, after all,” said he, “'tis our own wakenesses is often the source of +our most refined enjoyments. No, Mrs. Cassidy, ye need n't be blushin'. I +'m considerin' my subject in a high ethnological and metaphysical sinse.” + Mrs. Cassidy's confusion, and the mirth it excited, here interrupted the +orator. +</p> +<p> +“The meeting is never tired of hearin' you, Billy,” said Terry Lynch; “but +if it was plazin' to ye to give us a song, we'd enjoy it greatly.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah!” said Billy, with a sigh, “I have taken my partin' kiss with the +Muses; <i>non mihi licet increpare digitis lyram</i>:— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“'No more to feel poetic fire, +No more to touch the soundin' lyre; +But wiser coorses to begin, +I now forsake my violin.'” + </pre> +<p> +An honest outburst of regret and sorrow broke from the assembly, who +eagerly pressed for an explanation of this calamitous change. +</p> +<p> +“The thing is this,” said Billy: “if a man is a creature of mere leisure +and amusement, the fine arts—and by the fine arts I mean music, +paintin', and the ladies—is an elegant and very refined subject of +cultivation; but when you raise your cerebrial faculties to grander and +loftier considerations, to explore the difficult ragions of polemic or +political truth, to investigate the subtleties of the schools, and +penetrate the mysteries of science, then, take my word for it, the fine +arts is just snares,—devil a more than snares! And whether it is +soft sounds seduces you, or elegant tints, or the union of both,—women, +I mane,—you 'll never arrive at anything great or tri-um-phant till +you wane yourself away from the likes of them vanities. Look at the +haythen mythology; consider for a moment who is the chap that represents +Music,—a lame blackguard, with an ugly face, they call Pan. Ay, +indeed, Pan! If you wanted to see what respect they had for the art, it's +easy enough to guess, when this crayture represints it; and as to +Paintin', on my conscience, they have n't a god at all that ever took to +the brush.—Pass up the sperits, Mickey,” said he, somewhat blown and +out of breath by this effort. “Maybe,” said he, “I'm wearin' you.” + </p> +<p> +“No, no, no,” loudly responded the meeting. +</p> +<p> +“Maybe I'm imposin' too much of personal details on the house,” added he, +pompously. +</p> +<p> +“Not at all; never a bit,” cried the company. +</p> +<p> +“Because,” resumed he, slowly, “if I did so, I 'd have at least the excuse +of say in', like the great Pitt, 'These may be my last words from this +place.'” + </p> +<p> +An unfeigned murmur of sorrow ran through the meeting, and he resumed:— +</p> +<p> +“Ay, ladies and gintlemin, Billy Traynor is takin' his 'farewell benefit;' +he's not humbuggin'. I 'm not like them chaps that's always positively +goin', but stays on at the unanimous request of the whole world. No; I'm +really goin' to leave you.” + </p> +<p> +“What for? Where to, Billy?” broke from a number of voices together. +</p> +<p> +“I 'll tell ye,” said he,—“at least so far as I can tell; because it +would n't be right nor decent to 'print the whole of the papers for the +house,' as they say in parliamint. I 'm going abroad with the young lord; +we are going to improve our minds, and cultivate our janiuses, by study +and foreign travel. We are first to settle in Germany, where we 're to +enter a University, and commince a coorse of modern tongues, French, +Sweadish, and Spanish; imbibin' at the same time a smatterin' of science, +such as chemistry, conchology, and the use of the globes.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh dear! oh dear!” murmured the meeting, in wonder and admiration. +</p> +<p> +“I 'm not goin' to say that we 'll neglect mechanics, metaphysics, and +astrology; for we mane to be cosmonopolists in knowledge. As for myself, +ladies and gintlemin, it's a proud day that sees me standin' here to say +these words. I, that was ragged, without a shoe to my foot,—without +breeches,—never mind, I was, as the poet says, <i>nudus nummis ac +vestimentis</i>,— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“'I have n't sixpence in my pack, +I have n't small clothes to my back.' +</pre> +<p> +carryin' the bag many a weary mile, through sleet and snow, for six pounds +tin per annum, and no pinsion for wounds or superannuation; and now I 'm +to be—it is n't easy to say what—to the young lord a spacies +of humble companion,—not maniai, do you mind, nothing manial; what +the Latins called a __famulus, which was quite a different thing from a <i>servus</i>. +The former bein' a kind of domestic adviser, a deputy-assistant, +monitor-general, as a body might say. There, now, if I discoorsed for a +month, I could n't tell you more about myself and my future prospects. I +own to you that I 'm proud of my good luck, and I would n't exchange it to +be Emperor of Jamaica, or King of the Bahamia Islands.” + </p> +<p> +If we have been prolix in our office of reporter to Billy Traynor, our +excuse is that his discourse will have contributed so far to the reader's +enlightenment as to save us the task of recapitulation. At the same time, +it is but justice to the accomplished orator that we should say we have +given but the most meagre outline of an address which, to use the +newspaper phrase, “occupied three hours in the delivery.” The truth was, +Billy was in vein; the listeners were patient, the punch strong: nor is it +every speaker who has had the good fortune of such happy accessories. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XIX. THE CASCINE AT FLORENCE +</h2> +<p> +It was spring, and in Italy! one of those half-dozen days, at very most, +when, the feeling of winter departed, a gentle freshness breathes through +the air; trees stir softly, and as if by magic; the earth becomes carpeted +with flowers, whose odors seem to temper, as it were, the exciting +atmosphere. An occasional cloud, fleecy and jagged, sails lazily aloft, +marking its shadow on the mountain side. In a few days—a few hours, +perhaps—the blue sky will be unbroken, the air hushed, a hot breath +will move among the leaves, or pant over the trickling fountains. +</p> +<p> +In this fast-flitting period,—we dare not call it season,—the +Cascine of Florence is singularly beautiful; on one side, the gentle river +stealing past beneath the shadowing foliage; on the other, the picturesque +mountain towards Fiesole, dotted with its palaces and terraced gardens. +The ancient city itself is partly seen, and the massive Duomo and the +Palazzo Vecchio tower proudly above the trees! What other people of Europe +have such a haunt?—what other people would know so thoroughly how to +enjoy it? The day was drawing to a close, and the Piazzone was now filled +with equipages. There were the representatives of every European people, +and of nations far away over the seas,—splendid Russians, brilliant +French, splenetic, supercilious English, and ponderous Germans, mingled +with the less marked nationalities of Belgium and Holland, and even +America. Everything that called itself Fashion was there to swell the +tide; and although a choice military band was performing with exquisite +skill the favorite overtures of the day, the noise and tumult of +conversation almost drowned their notes. Now, the Cascine is to the world +of society what the Bourse is to the world of trade. It is the great +centre of all news and intelligence, where markets and bargains of +intercourse are transacted, and where the scene of past pleasure is +revived, and the plans of future enjoyment are canvassed. The great and +the wealthy are there, to see and to meet with each other. The proud +equipages lie side by side, like great liners; while phaetons, like fast +frigates, shoot swiftly by, and solitary dandies flit past in varieties of +conveyance to which sea-craft can offer no analogies. All are busy, eager, +and occupied. Scandal holds here its festival, and the misdeeds of every +capital of Europe are now being discussed. The higher themes of politics +occupy but few; the interests of literature attract still less. It is +essentially of the world they talk, and it must be owned they do it like +adepts. The last witticism of Paris,—the last duel at Berlin,—who +has fled from his creditors in England,—who has run away from her +husband at Naples,—all are retailed with a serious circumstantiality +that would lead one to believe that gossip maintained its “own +correspondent” in every city of the Continent. Moralists might fancy, +perhaps, that in the tone these subjects are treated they would mingle a +reprobation of the bad, and a due estimate of the opposite, if it ever +occurred at all; but as surely would they be disappointed. Never were +censors more lenient,—never were critics so charitable. The +transgressions against good-breeding—the “gaucheries” of manner, the +solecisms in dress, language, or demeanor—do indeed meet with sharp +reproof and cutting sarcasm; but, in recompense for such severity, how +gently do they deal with graver offences! For the felonies they can always +discover “the attenuating circumstances;” for the petty larcenies of +fashion they have nothing but whipcord. +</p> +<p> +Amidst the various knots where such discussions were carried on, one was +eminently conspicuous. It was around a handsome open carriage, whose +horses, harnessing, and liveries were all in the most perfect taste. The +equipage might possibly have been deemed showy in Hyde Park; but in the +Bois de Boulogne or the Cascine it must be pronounced the acme of +elegance. Whatever might have been the differences of national opinion on +this point, there could assuredly have been none as to the beauty of those +who occupied it. +</p> +<p> +Though a considerable interval of years divided them, the aunt and her +niece had a wonderful resemblance to each other. They were both—the +rarest of all forms of beauty—blond Italians; that is, with light +hair and soft gray eyes. They had a peculiar tint of skin, deeper and +mellower than we see in Northern lands, and an expression of mingled +seriousness and softness that only pertains to the South of Europe. There +was a certain coquetry in the similarity of their dress, which in many +parts was precisely alike; and although the niece was but fifteen, and the +aunt above thirty, it needed not the aid of flattery to make many mistake +one for the other. +</p> +<p> +Beauty, like all other “Beaux Arts,” has its distinctions. The same public +opinion that enthrones the sculptor or the musician, confers its crown on +female loveliness; and by this acclaim were they declared Queens of +Beauty. To any one visiting Italy for the first time, there would have +seemed something very strange in the sort of homage rendered them: a +reverence and respect only accorded elsewhere to royalties,—a +deference that verged on actual humiliation,—and yet all this +blended with a subtle familiarity that none but an Italian can ever attain +to. The uncovered head, the attitude of respectful attention, the patient +expectancy of notice, the glad air of him under recognition, were all +there; and yet, through these, there was dashed a strange tone of +intimacy, as though the observances were but a thin crust over deeper +feelings. “La Contessa”—for she was especially “the Countess,” as +one illustrious man of our own country was “the Duke”—possessed +every gift which claims preeminence in this fair city. She was eminently +beautiful, young, charming in her manners, with ample fortune; and, +lastly,—ah! good reader, you would surely be puzzled to supply that +“lastly,” the more as we say that in it lies an excellence without which +all the rest are of little worth, and yet with it are objects of worship, +almost of adoration,—she was—separated from her husband! There +must have been an epidemic, a kind of rot, among husbands at one period; +for we scarcely remember a very pretty woman, from five-and-twenty to +five-and-thirty, who had not been obliged to leave hers from acts of +cruelty or acts of brutality, etc., that only husbands are capable of, or +of which their poor wives are ever the victims. +</p> +<p> +If the moral geography of Europe be ever written, the region south of the +Alps will certainly be colored with that tint, whatever it be, that +describes the blessedness of a divorced existence. In other lands, +especially in our own, the separated individual labors under no common +difficulty in his advances to society. The story—there must be a +story—of his separation is told in various ways, all, of course, to +his disparagement. Tyrant or victim, it is hard to say under which title +he comes out best,—so much for the man; but for the woman there is +no plea: judgment is pronounced at once, without the merits. Fugitive, or +fled from,—who inquires? she is one that few men dare to recognize. +The very fact that to mention her name exacts an explanation, is +condemnatory. What a boon to all such must it be that there is a climate +mild enough for their malady, and a country that will suit their +constitution; and not only that, but a region which actually pays homage +to their infirmity, and makes of their martyrdom a triumph! As you go to +Norway for salmon-fishing,—to Bengal to hunt tigers,—to St. +Petersburg to eat caviare, so when divorced, if you really know the +blessing of your state, go take a house on the Arno. Vast as are the +material resources of our globe, the moral ones are infinitely greater; +nor need we despair, some day or other, of finding an island where a +certificate of fraudulent bankruptcy will be deemed a letter of credit, +and an evidence of insolvency be accepted as qualification to open a bank. +</p> +<p> +La Contessa inhabited a splendid palace, furnished with magnificence; her +gardens were one of the sights of the capital, not only for their floral +display, but that they contained a celebrated group by Canova, of which no +copy existed. Her gallery was, if not extensive, enriched with some +priceless treasures of art; and with all these she possessed high rank, +for her card bore the name of La Comtesse de Glencore, née Comtesse della +Torre. +</p> +<p> +The reader thus knows at once, if not actually as much as we do ourselves, +all that we mean to impart to him; and now let us come back to that +equipage around which swarmed the fashion of Florence, eagerly pressing +forward to catch a word, a smile, or even a look, and actually perched on +every spot from which they could obtain a glimpse of those within. A young +Russian Prince, with his arm in a sling, had just recited the incident of +his' late duel; a Neapolitan Minister had delivered a rose-colored epistle +from a Royal Highness of his own court. A Spanish Grandee had deposited +his offering of camellias, which actually covered the front cushions of +the carriage; and now a little lane was formed for the approach of the old +Duke de Brignolles, who made his advance with a mingled courtesy and +haughtiness that told of Versailles and long ago. +</p> +<p> +A very creditable specimen of the old <i>noblesse</i> of France was the +Duke, and well worthy to be the grandson of one who was Grand Maréchal to +Louis XIV. Tall, thin, and slightly stooped from age, his dark eye seemed +to glisten the brighter beneath his shaggy white eyebrows. He had served +with distinction as a soldier, and been an ambassador at the court of the +Czar Paul; in every station he had filled sustaining the character of a +true and loyal gentleman,—a man who could reflect nothing but honor +upon the great country he belonged to. It was amongst the scandal of +Florence that he was the most devoted of La Contessa's admirers; but we +are quite willing to believe that his admiration had nothing in it of +love. At all events, she distinguished him by her most marked notice. He +was the frequent guest of her choicest dinners, and the constant visitor +at her evenings at home. It was, then, with a degree of favor that many an +envious heart coveted, she extended her hand to him as he came forward, +which he kissed with all the lowly deference he would have shown to that +of his prince. +</p> +<p> +“<i>Mon cher Duc</i>” said she, smiling, “I have such a store of +grievances to lay at your door. The essence of violets is not violets, but +verbena.” + </p> +<p> +“Charming Comtesse, I had it direct from Pierrot's.” + </p> +<p> +“Pierrot is a traitor, then, that's all; and where's Ida's Arab? is he to +be here to-day, or to-morrow? When are we to see him?” + </p> +<p> +“Why, I only wrote to the Emir on Tuesday last.” + </p> +<p> +“<i>Mais à quoi bon l'Emir</i> if he can't do impossibilities? Surely the +very thought of him brings up the Arabian Nights and the Calif Haroun. By +the way, thank you for the poignard. It is true Damascus, is it not?” + </p> +<p> +“Of course. I 'd not have dared—” + </p> +<p> +“To be sure not. I told the Archduchess it was. I wore it in my Turkish +dress on Wednesday, and you, false man, would n't come to admire me!” + </p> +<p> +“You know what a sad day was that for me, madam,” said he, solemnly. “It +was the anniversary of her fate who was your only rival in beauty, as she +had no rival in undeserved misfortunes.” + </p> +<p> +“<i>Pauvre Reine!</i>” sighed the Countess, and held her bouquet to her +face. +</p> +<p> +“What great mass of papers is that you have there, Duke?” resumed she. +“Can it be a journal?” + </p> +<p> +“It is an English newspaper, my dear Countess. As I know you do not +receive any of his countrymen, I have not asked your permission to present +the Lord Selby; but hearing him read out your name in a paragraph here, I +carried off his paper to have it translated for me. You read English, +don't you?” + </p> +<p> +“Very imperfectly, and I detest it,” said she, impatiently; “but Prince +Volkoffsky can, I am sure, oblige you.” And she turned away her head, in +ill humor. +</p> +<p> +“It is here somewhere. <i>Parbleu</i>, I thought I marked the place,” + muttered the Duke, as he handed the paper to the Russian. “Is n't that +it?” + </p> +<p> +“This is all about theatres,—Madame Pasta and the Haymarket.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah! well, it is lower down; here, perhaps.” + </p> +<p> +“Court news. The Grand Duke of Saxe-Weimar—” + </p> +<p> +“No, no; not that.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, here it is. 'Great Scandal in High Life.—A very singular +correspondence has just passed, and will soon, we believe, be made public, +between the Heralds' College and Lord Glencore.'” Here the reader stopped, +and lowered his voice at the next word. +</p> +<p> +“Read on, Prince. <i>C'est mon mari</i>,” said she, coldly, while a very +slight movement of her upper lip betrayed what might mean scorn or sorrow, +or even both. +</p> +<p> +The Prince, however, had now run his eyes over the paragraph, and crushing +the newspaper in his hand, hurried away from the spot. The Duke as quickly +followed, and soon overtook him. +</p> +<p> +“Who gave you this paper, Duke?” cried the Russian, angrily. +</p> +<p> +“It was Lord Selby. He was reading it aloud to a friend.” + </p> +<p> +“Then he is an <i>infame!</i> and I 'll tell him so,” cried the other, +passionately. “Which is he? the one with the light moustache, or the +shorter one?” And, without waiting for reply, the Russian dashed between +the carriages, and thrusting his way through the prancing crowd of moving +horses, arrived at a spot where two young men, evidently strangers to the +scene, were standing, calmly surveying the bright panorama before them. +</p> +<p> +“The Lord Selby,” said the Russian, taking off his hat and saluting one of +them. +</p> +<p> +“That's his Lordship,” replied the one he addressed, pointing to his +friend. +</p> +<p> +“I am the Prince Volkoffsky, aide-de-camp to the Emperor,” said the +Russian; “and hearing from my friend the Duke de Brignolles that you have +just given him this newspaper, that he might obtain the translation of a +passage in it which concerns Lady Glencore, and have the explanation read +out at her own carriage, publicly, before all the world, I desire to tell +you that your Lordship is unworthy of your rank; that you are an <i>infame!</i> +and if you do not resent this, a <i>polisson!</i>” + </p> +<p> +“This man is mad, Selby,” said the short man, with the coolest air +imaginable. +</p> +<p> +“Quite sane enough to give your friend a lesson in good manners; and you +too, sir, if you have any fancy for it,” said the Russian. +</p> +<p> +“I'd give him in charge to the police, by Jove! if there were police +here,” said the same one who spoke before; “he can't be a gentleman.” + </p> +<p> +“There 's my card, sir,” said the Russian; “and for you too, sir,” said +he, presenting another to him who spoke. +</p> +<p> +“Where are you to be heard of?” said the short man. +</p> +<p> +“At the Russian legation,” said the Prince, haughtily, and turned away. +</p> +<p> +“You're wrong, Baynton, he is a gentleman,” said Lord Selby, as he +pocketed the card, “though certainly he is not a very mild-tempered +specimen of his order.” + </p> +<p> +“You did n't give the newspaper as he said—” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing of the kind. I was reading it aloud to you when the royal +carriages came suddenly past; and, in taking off my hat to salute, I never +noticed that the old Duke had carried off the paper. I know he can't read +English, and the chances are, he has asked this Scythian gentleman to +interpret for him.” + </p> +<p> +“So, then, the affair is easily settled,” said the other, quietly. +</p> +<p> +“Of course it is,” was the answer; and they both lounged about among the +carriages, which already were thinning, and, after a while, set out +towards the city. +</p> +<p> +They had but just reached the hotel, when a stranger presented himself to +them as the Count de Marny. He had come as the friend of Prince +Volkoffsky, who had fully explained to him the event of that afternoon. +</p> +<p> +“Well,” said Baynton, “we are of opinion your friend has conducted himself +exceedingly ill, and we are here to receive his excuses.” + </p> +<p> +“I am afraid, messieurs,” said the Frenchman, bowing, “that it will +exhaust your patience if you continue to wait for them. Might it not be +better to come and accept what he is quite prepared to offer you,—satisfaction?” + </p> +<p> +“Be it so,” said Lord Selby: “he 'll see his mistake some time or other, +and perhaps regret it. Where shall it be?—and when?” + </p> +<p> +“At the Fossombroni Villa, about two miles from this. To-morrow morning, +at eight, if that suit you.” + </p> +<p> +“Quite well. I have no other appointment. Pistols, of course?” + </p> +<p> +“You have the choice, otherwise my friend would have preferred the sword.” + </p> +<p> +“Take him at his word, Selby,” whispered Baynton; “you are equal to any of +them with the rapier.” + </p> +<p> +“If your friend desire the sword, I have no objection,—I mean the +rapier.” + </p> +<p> +“The rapier be it,” said the Frenchman; and with a polite assurance of the +infinite honor he felt in forming their acquaintance, and the gratifying +certainty that they were sure to possess of his highest consideration, he +bowed, backed, and withdrew. +</p> +<p> +“Well-mannered fellow, the Frenchman,” said Baynton, as the door closed; +and the other nodded assent, and rang the bell for dinner. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XX. THE VILLA FOSSOMBRONI +</h2> +<p> +The grounds of the Villa Fossombroni were, at the time we speak of, the +Chalk Farm, or the Fifteen Acres of Tuscany. The villa itself, long since +deserted by the illustrious family whose name it bore, had fallen into the +hands of an old Pied-montese noble, ruined by a long life of excess and +dissipation. He had served with gallantry in the imperial army of France, +but was dismissed the service for a play transaction in which his conduct +was deeply disgraceful; and the Colonel Count Tasseroni, of the 8th +Hussars of the Guards, was declared unworthy to wear the uniform of a +Frenchman. +</p> +<p> +For a number of years he had lived so estranged from the world that many +believed he had died; but at last it was known that he had gone to reside +in a half-ruined villa near Florence, which soon became the resort of a +certain class of gamblers whose habits would have speedily attracted +notice if practised within the city. The quarrels and altercations, so +inseparable from high play, were usually settled on the spot in which they +occurred, until at last the villa became famous for these meetings, and +the name of Fossombroni, in a discussion, was the watchword for a duel. +</p> +<p> +It was of a splendid spring morning that the two Englishmen arrived at +this spot, which, even on the unpleasant errand that they had come, struck +them with surprise and admiration. The villa itself was one of those vast +structures which the country about Florence abounds in. Gloomy, stern, and +jail-like without, while within, splendid apartments opened into each +other in what seems an endless succession. Frescoed walls and gorgeously +ornamented ceilings, gilded mouldings and rich tracery, were on every +side; and these, too, in chambers where the immense proportions and the +vast space recalled the idea of a royal residence. Passing in by a +dilapidated “grille” which once had been richly gilded, they entered by a +flight of steps a great hall which ran the entire length of the building. +Though lighted by a double range of windows, neglect and dirt had so +dimmed the panes that the place was almost in deep shadow. Still, they +could perceive that the vaulted roof was a mass of stuccoed tracery, and +that the colossal divisions of the wall were of brilliant Sienna marble. +At one end of this great gallery was a small chapel, now partly despoiled +of its religious decorations, which were most irreverently replaced by a +variety of swords and sabres of every possible size and shape, and several +pairs of pistols, arranged with an evident eye to picturesque grouping. +</p> +<p> +“What are all these inscriptions here on the walls, Baynton?” cried Selby, +as he stood endeavoring to decipher the lines on a little marble slab, a +number of which were dotted over the chapel. +</p> +<p> +“Strange enough this, by Jove!” muttered the other, reading to himself, +half aloud, “'Francesco Ricordi, ucciso da Gieronimo Gazzi, 29 Settembre, +1818.'” + </p> +<p> +“What does that mean?” asked Selby. +</p> +<p> +“It is to commemorate some fellow who was killed here in '18.” + </p> +<p> +“Are they all in the same vein?” asked the other. +</p> +<p> +“It would seem so. Here 's one: 'Gravamente ferito,'—badly wounded; +with a postscript that he died the same night.” + </p> +<p> +“What's this large one here, in black marble?” inquired Selby. +</p> +<p> +“To the memory of Carlo Luigi Guiccidrini, 'detto il Carnefice,' called +'the slaughterer:' cut down to the forehead by Pietro Baldasseroni, on the +night of July 8th, 1819.” + </p> +<p> +“I confess any other kind of literature would amuse me as well,” said +Selby, turning back again into the large hall. Baynton had scarcely joined +him when they saw advancing towards them through the gloom a short, +thickset man, dressed in a much-worn dressing-gown and slippers. +</p> +<p> +He removed his skull-cap as he approached, and said, “The Count Tasseroni, +at your orders.” + </p> +<p> +“We have come here by appointment,” said Baynton. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, yes. I know it all. Volkoffsky sent me word. He was here on +Saturday. He gave that French colonel a sharp lesson. Ran the sword clean +through the chest. To be sure, he was wounded too, but only through the +arm; but 'La Marque' has got his passport.” + </p> +<p> +“You'll have him up there soon, then,” said Baynton, pointing towards the +chapel. +</p> +<p> +“I think not. We have not done it latterly,” said the Count, musingly. +“The authorities don't seem to like it; and, of course, we respect the +authorities!” + </p> +<p> +“That's quite evident,” said Baynton, who turned to translate the +observation to his friend. +</p> +<p> +Selby whispered a word in his ear. +</p> +<p> +“What does the signore say?” inquired the Count. +</p> +<p> +“My friend thinks that they are behind the time.” + </p> +<p> +“<i>Per Baccho!</i> Let him be easy as to that. I have known some to think +that the Russian came too soon. I never heard of one who wished him +earlier! There they are now: they always come by the garden.” And so +saying, he hastened off to receive them. +</p> +<p> +“How is this fellow to handle a sword, if his right arm be wounded?” said +Selby. +</p> +<p> +“Don't you know that these Russians use the left hand indifferently with +the right, in all exercises? It may be awkward for <i>you</i>; but, depend +upon it, <i>he'll</i> not be inconvenienced in the least.” + </p> +<p> +As he spoke, the others entered the other end of the hall. The Prince no +sooner saw the Englishmen than he advanced towards them with his hat off. +“My lord,” said he, rapidly, “I have come to make you an apology, and one +which I trust you will accept in all the frankness that I offer it. I have +learned from your friend the Duc de Brignolles how the incident of +yesterday occurred. I see that the only fault committed was my own. Will +you pardon, then, a momentary word of ill-temper, occasioned by what I +wrongfully believed to be a great injury?” + </p> +<p> +“Of course, I knew it was all a mistake on your part. I told Colonel +Baynton, here, you'd see so yourself,—when it is too late, perhaps.” + </p> +<p> +“I thank you sincerely,” said the Russian, bowing; “your readiness to +accord me this satisfaction makes your forgiveness more precious to me. +And now, as another favor, will you permit me to ask you one question?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, certainly.” + </p> +<p> +“Why, when you could have so easily explained this misconception on my +part, did you not take the trouble of doing so?” + </p> +<p> +Selby looked confused, blushed, looked awkwardly from side to side, and +then, with a glance towards his friend, seemed to say, “Will you try and +answer him?” + </p> +<p> +“I think you have hit it yourself, Prince,” said Baynton. “It was the +trouble, the bore of an explanation, deterred him. He hates writing, and +he thought there would be a shower of notes to be replied to, meetings, +discussions, and what not; and so he said, 'Let him have his shot, and +have done with it.'” + </p> +<p> +The Russian looked from one to the other as he listened, and seemed really +as if not quite sure whether this speech was uttered in seriousness or +sarcasm. The calm, phlegmatic faces of the Englishmen,—the almost +apathetic expression they wore,—soon convinced him that the words +were truthfully spoken; and he stood actually confounded with amazement +before them. +</p> +<p> +Lord Selby and his friend freely accepted the polite invitation of the +Prince to breakfast, and they all adjourned to a small but splendidly +decorated room, where everything was already awaiting them. There are few +incidents in life which so much predispose to rapid intimacy as the case +of an averted duel. The revulsion from animosity is almost certain to lead +to, if not actual friendship, what may easily become so. In the present +instance, the very diversities of national character gave a zest and +enjoyment to the meeting; and while the Englishmen were charmed by the +fascination of manners and conversational readiness of their hosts, the +Russians were equally struck with a cool imperturbability and +impassiveness, of which they had never seen the equal. +</p> +<p> +By degrees the Russian led the conversation to the question by which their +misunderstanding originated. “You know my Lord Glencore, perhaps?” said +he. +</p> +<p> +“Never saw, scarcely ever heard of him,” said Selby, in his dry, laconic +tone. +</p> +<p> +“Is he mad, or a fool?” asked the Prince, half angrily. +</p> +<p> +“I served in a regiment once where he commanded a troop,” said Baynton; +“and they always said he was a good sort of fellow.” + </p> +<p> +“You read that paragraph this morning, I conclude?” said the Russian. “You +saw how he dares to stigmatize the honor of his wife,—to degrade her +to the rank of a mistress,—and, at the same time, to bastardize the +son who ought to inherit his rank and title?” + </p> +<p> +“I read it,” said Selby, dryly; “and I had a letter from my lawyer about +it this morning.” + </p> +<p> +“Indeed!” exclaimed he, anxious to hear more, and yet too delicate to +venture on a question. +</p> +<p> +“Yes; he writes to me for some title-deeds or other. I did n't pay much +attention, exactly, to what he says. Glen-core's man of business had +addressed a letter to him.” + </p> +<p> +The Russian bowed, and waited for him to resume; but, apparently, he had +rather fatigued himself by such unusual loquacity, and so he lay back in +his chair, and puffed his cigar in indolent enjoyment. +</p> +<p> +“A goodish sort of thing for <i>you</i> it ought to be,” said Baynton, +between the puffs of his tobacco smoke, and with a look towards Selby. +</p> +<p> +“I suspect it may,” said the other, without the slightest change of tone +or demeanor. +</p> +<p> +“Where is it,—somewhere in the south?” + </p> +<p> +“Mostly, Devon. There's something in Wales too, if I remember aright.” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing Irish?” + </p> +<p> +“No, thank Heaven,—nothing Irish;” and his grim Lordship made the +nearest advance to a smile of which his unplastic features seemed capable. +</p> +<p> +“Do I understand you aright, my Lord,” said the Prince, “that you receive +an accession of fortune by this event?” + </p> +<p> +“I shall, if I survive Glencore,” was the brief reply. +</p> +<p> +“You are related, then?” + </p> +<p> +“Some cousinship,—I forget how it is. Do you remember, Baynton?” + </p> +<p> +“I'm not quite certain. I think it was a Coventry married one of Jack +Conway's sisters, and she afterwards became the wife of Sir something +Massy. Isn't that it?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, that's it,” muttered the other, in the tone of a man who was tired +of a knotty problem. +</p> +<p> +“And, according to your laws, this Lord Glencore may marry again?” cried +the Russian. +</p> +<p> +“I should think so, if he has no wife living,” said Selby; “but I trust, +for <i>my</i> sake, he'll not.” + </p> +<p> +“And what if he should, and should be discovered the wedded husband of +another?” + </p> +<p> +“That would be bigamy,” said Selby. “Would they hang him, Baynton?” + </p> +<p> +“I think not,—scarcely,” rejoined the Colonel. +</p> +<p> +The Prince tried in various ways to obtain some insight into Lord +Glencore's habits, his tastes and mode of life, but all in vain. They +knew, indeed, very little, but even that little they were too indolent to +repeat. Lord Selby's memory was often at fault, too, and Baynton's had ill +supplied the deficiency. Again and again did the Russian mutter curses to +himself over the apathy of these stony islanders. At moments he fancied +that they suspected his eagerness, and had assumed their most guarded +caution against him; but he soon perceived that this manner was natural to +them, not prompted in the slightest degree by any distrust whatever. +</p> +<p> +“After all,” thought the Russian, “how can I hope to stimulate a man who +is not excited by his own increase of fortune? Talk of Turkish fatalism, +these fellows would shame the Moslem.” + </p> +<p> +“Do you mean to prolong your stay at Florence, my Lord?” asked the Prince, +as they arose from the table. +</p> +<p> +“I scarcely know. What do you say, Baynton?” + </p> +<p> +“A week or so, I fancy,” muttered the other. +</p> +<p> +“And then on to Rome, perhaps?” + </p> +<p> +The two Englishmen looked at each other with an air of as much confusion +as if subjected to a searching examination in science. +</p> +<p> +“Well, I shouldn't wonder,” said Selby, at last, with a sigh. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, it may come to that,” said Baynton, like a man who had just overcome +a difficulty. +</p> +<p> +“You 'll be in time for the Holy Week and all the ceremonies,” said the +Prince. +</p> +<p> +“Mind that, Baynton,” said his Lordship, who wasn't going to carry what he +felt to be another man's load; and Baynton nodded acquiescence. +</p> +<p> +“And after that comes the season for Naples,—you have a month or six +weeks, perhaps, of such weather as nothing in all Europe can vie with.” + </p> +<p> +“You hear, Baynton!” said Selby. +</p> +<p> +“I've booked it,” muttered the other; and so they took leave of their +entertainer, and set out towards Florence. Neither you nor I, dear reader, +will gain anything by keeping them company, for they say scarcely a word +by the way. They stop at intervals, and cast their eyes over the glorious +landscape at their feet. Their glances are thrown over the fairest scene +of the fairest of all lands; and whether they turn towards the snow-capt +Apennines, by Vall'ombrosa, or trace the sunny vineyards along the Val' d' +Arno, they behold a picture such as no canvas ever imitated; still, they +are mute and uncommunicative. Whatever of pleasure their thoughts suggest, +each keeps for himself. Objects of wonder, strange sights and new, may +present themselves, but they are not to be startled out of national +dignity by so ignoble a sentiment as surprise. And so they jog onward,—doubtless +richer in reflection than eloquent in communion; and so we leave them. +</p> +<p> +Let us not be deemed unjust or ungenerous if we assert that we have met +many such as these. They are not individuals,—they are a class; and, +strange enough too, a class which almost invariably pertains to a high and +distinguished rank in society. It would be presumptuous to ascribe such +demeanor to insensibility. There is enough in their general conduct to +disprove the assumption. As little is it affectation; it is simply an +acquired habit of stoical indifference, supposed to be—why, Heaven +knows!—the essential ingredient of the best breeding. If the +practice extinguish all emotion, and obliterate all trace of feeling from +the heart, we deplore the system. If it only gloss over the working of +human sympathy, we pity the men. At all events, they are very +uninteresting company, with whom longer dalliance would only be wearisome. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXI. SOME TRAITS OF LIFE +</h2> +<p> +It was the night Lady Glencore received; and, as usual, the street was +crowded with equipages, which somehow seemed to have got into inextricable +confusion,—some endeavoring to turn back, while others pressed +forward,—the court of the palace being closely packed with carriages +which the thronged street held in fast blockade. As the apartments which +faced the street were not ever used for these receptions, the dark +unlighted windows suggested no remark; but they who had entered the +courtyard were struck by the gloomy aspect of the vast building: not only +that the entrance and the stairs were in darkness, but the whole suite of +rooms, usually brilliant as the day, were now in deep gloom. From every +carriage window heads were protruded, wondering at this strange spectacle; +and eager inquiries passed on every side for an explanation. The +explanation of “sudden illness” was rapidly disseminated, but as rapidly +contradicted, and the reply given by the porter to all demands quickly +repeated from mouth to mouth, “Her Ladyship will not receive.” + </p> +<p> +“Can no one explain this mystery?” cried the old Princess Borinsky, as, +heavy with fat and diamonds, she hung out of her carriage window. “Oh, +there 's Major Scaresby; he is certain to know, if it be anything +malicious.” + </p> +<p> +Scaresby was, however, too busy in recounting his news to others to +perceive the signals the old Princess held out; and it was only as her +chasseur, six feet three of green and gold, bent down to give her +Highness's message, that the Major hurried off, in all the importance of a +momentary scandal, to the side of her carriage. +</p> +<p> +“Here I am, all impatience. What is it, Scaresby? Tell me quickly,” cried +she. +</p> +<p> +“A smash, my dear Princess,—nothing more or less,” said he, in a +voice which nature seemed to have invented to utter impertinences, so +harsh and grating, and yet so painfully distinct in all its accents,—“as +complete a smash as ever I heard of.” + </p> +<p> +“You can't mean that her fortune is in peril?” + </p> +<p> +“I suppose that must suffer also. It is her character—her station as +one of us—that's shipwrecked here.” + </p> +<p> +“Go on, go on,” cried she, impatiently; “I wish to hear it all.” + </p> +<p> +“All is very briefly related, then,” said he. “The charming Countess, you +remember, ran away with a countryman of mine, young Glencore, of the 8th +Hussars; I used to know his father intimately.” + </p> +<p> +“Never mind his father.” + </p> +<p> +“That 's exactly what Glencore did. He came over here and fell in love +with the girl, and they ran off together; but they forgot to get married, +Princess. Ha—ha—ha!” And he laughed with a cackle a demon +could not have rivalled. +</p> +<p> +“I don't believe a word of it,—I'll never believe it,” cried the +Princess. +</p> +<p> +“That's exactly what I was recommending to the Mar-quesa Guesteni. I said, +you need n't believe it. Why, how do we go anywhere, nowadays, except by +'not believing' the evil stories that are told of our entertainers.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, yes; but I repeat that this is an infamous calumny. She, a Countess, +of a family second to none in all Italy; her father a Grand d'Espagne. I +'ll go to her this moment.” + </p> +<p> +“She'll not see you. She has just refused to see La Genori,” said the +Major, tartly. “Though, if a cracked reputation might have afforded any +sympathy, she might have admitted <i>her</i>.” + </p> +<p> +“What is to be done?” exclaimed the Princess, sorrowfully. +</p> +<p> +“Just what you suggested a few moments ago,—don't believe it. Hang +me, but good houses and good cooks are growing too scarce to make one +credulous of the ills that can be said of their owners.” + </p> +<p> +“I wish I knew what course to take,” muttered the Princess. +</p> +<p> +“I'll tell you, then. Get half a dozen of your own set together to-morrow +morning, vote the whole story an atrocious falsehood, and go in a body and +tell the Countess your mind. You know as well as I, Princess, that social +credit is as great a bubble as commercial; we should all of us be +bankrupts if our books were seen. Ay, by Jove! and the similitude goes +farther too; for when one old established house breaks, there is generally +a crash in the whole community around it.” + </p> +<p> +While they thus talked, a knot had gathered around the carriage, all eager +to hear what opinion the Princess had formed on the catastrophe. +</p> +<p> +Various were the sentiments expressed by the different speakers,—some +sorrowfully deploring the disaster; others more eagerly inveighing against +the infamy of the man who had proclaimed it. Many declared that they had +come to the determination to discredit the story. Not one, however, +sincerely professed that he disbelieved it. +</p> +<p> +Can it be, as the French moralist asserts, that we have a latent sense of +satisfaction in the misfortunes of even our best friends; or is it, as we +rather suspect, that true friendship is a rarer thing than is commonly +believed, and has little to do with those conventional intimacies which so +often bear its name? +</p> +<p> +Assuredly of all this well-bred, well-dressed, and wellborn company, now +thronging the courtyard of the palace and the street in front of it, the +tone was as much sarcasm as sorrow, and many a witty epigram and smart +speech were launched over a disaster which might have been spared such +levity. At length the space slowly began to thin. Slowly carriage after +carriage drove off,—the heaviest grief of their occupants often +being over a lost <i>soirée</i>, an unprofited occasion to display +toilette and jewels; while a few, more reflective, discussed what course +was to be followed in future, and what recognition extended to the victim. +</p> +<p> +The next day Florence sat in committee over the lost Countess. Witnesses +were heard and evidence taken as to her case. They all agreed it was a +great hardship,—a terrible calamity; but still, if true, what could +be done? +</p> +<p> +Never was there a society less ungenerously prudish, and yet there were +cases—this, one of them—which transgressed all conventional +rule. Like a crime which no statute had ever contemplated, it stood out +self-accused and self-condemned. A few might, perhaps, have been merciful, +but they were overborne by numbers. Lady Glencore's beauty and her vast +fortune were now counts in the indictment against her, and many a jealous +rival was not sorry at this hour of humiliation. The despotism of beauty +is not a very mild sway, after all; and perhaps the Countess had exercised +her rule right royally. At all events, it was the young and the +good-looking who voted her exclusion, and only those who could not enter +into competition with her charms who took the charitable side. They +discussed and debated the question all day; but while they hesitated over +the reprieve, the prisoner was beyond the law. The gate of the palace, +locked and barred all day, refused entrance to every one; at night, it +opened to admit the exit of a travelling-carriage. The next morning large +bills of sale, posted over the walls, declared that all the furniture and +decorations-were to be sold. +</p> +<p> +The Countess had left Florence, none knew whither. +</p> +<p> +“I must really have those large Sèvres jars,” said one. +</p> +<p> +“And I, the small park phaeton,” cried another. +</p> +<p> +“I hope she has not taken Horace with her; he was the best cook in Italy. +Splendid hock she had,—I wonder is there much of it left?” + </p> +<p> +“I wish we were certain of another bad reputation to replace her,” grunted +out Scaresby; “they are the only kind of people who give good dinners, and +never ask for returns.” + </p> +<p> +And thus these dear friends—guests of a hundred brilliant fêtes—discussed +the fall of her they once had worshipped. +</p> +<p> +It may seem small-minded and narrow to stigmatize such conduct as this. +Some may say that for the ordinary courtesies of society no pledges of +friendship are required, no real gratitude incurred. Be it so. Still, the +revulsion, from habits of deference and respect, to disparagement, and +even sarcasm, is a sorry evidence of human kindness; and the threshold, +over which for years we had only passed as guests, might well suggest +sadder thoughts as we tread it to behold desolation. +</p> +<p> +The fair Countess had been the celebrity of that city for many a day. The +stranger of distinction sought her, as much as a matter of course as he +sought presentation to the sovereign. Her <i>salons</i> had the double +eminence of brilliancy in rank and brilliancy in wit; her entertainments +were cited as models of elegance and refinement; and now she was gone! The +extreme of regret that followed her was the sorrow of those who were to +dine there no more; the grief of him who thought he should never have a +house like it. +</p> +<p> +The respectable vagabonds of society are a large family, much larger than +is usually supposed. They are often well born, almost always well +mannered, invariably well dressed. They do not, at first blush, appear to +discharge any very great or necessary function in life; but we must by no +means, from that, infer their inutility. Naturalists tell us that several +varieties of insect existence we rashly set down as mere annoyances, have +their peculiar spheres of usefulness and good; and, doubtless, these same +loungers contribute in some mysterious manner to the welfare of that state +which they only seem to burden. We are told that but for flies, for +instance, we should be infested with myriads of winged tormentors, +insinuating themselves into our meat and drink, and rendering life +miserable. Is there not something very similar performed by the +respectable class I allude to? Are they not invariably devouring and +destroying some vermin a little smaller than themselves, and making thus a +healthier atmosphere for their betters? If good society only knew the debt +it owes to these defenders of its privileges, a “Vagabonds' Home and Aged +Asylum” would speedily figure amongst bur national charities. +</p> +<p> +We have been led to these thoughts by observing how distinctly different +was Major Scaresby's tone in talking of the Countess when he addressed his +betters or spoke in his own class. To the former he gave vent to all his +sarcasm and bitterness; they liked it just because they would n't +condescend to it themselves. To his own he put on the bullying air of one +who said, “How should <i>you</i> possibly know what vices such great +people have, any more than you know what they have for dinner? <i>I</i> +live amongst them,—<i>I</i> understand them,—<i>I</i> am aware +that what would be very shocking in <i>you</i> is quite permissible to <i>them</i>. +<i>They</i> know how to be wicked; <i>you</i> only know how to be gross.” + And thus Scaresby talked, and sneered, and scoffed, making such a hash of +good and evil, such a Maelstrom of right and wrong, that it were a subtle +moralist who could have extracted one solitary scrap of uncontaminated +meaning from all his muddy lucubrations. +</p> +<p> +He, however, effected this much: he kept the memory of her who had gone, +alive by daily calumnies. He embalmed her in poisons, each morning +appearing with some new trait of her extravagance, till the world, grown +sick of himself and his theme, vowed they would hear no more of either; +and so she was forgotten. +</p> +<p> +Ay, good reader, utterly forgotten! The gay world, for so it likes to be +called, has no greater element of enjoyment amongst all its high gifts +than its precious power of forgetting. It forgets not only all it owes to +others,—gratitude, honor, and esteem,—but even the closer +obligations it has contracted with itself. The Palazzo della Torre was for +a fortnight the resort of the curious and the idle. At the sale crowds +appeared to secure some object of especial value to each; and then the +gates were locked, the shutters closed, and a large, ill-written notice on +the door announced that any letters for the proprietor were to be +addressed to “Pietro Arretini, Via del Sole.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXII. AN UPTONIAN DESPATCH +</h2> +<p> +British Legation, Naples. My dear Harcourt,—It would seem that a +letter of mine to you must have miscarried,—a not unfrequent +occurrence when entrusted to our Foreign Office for transmission. Should +it ever reach you, you will perceive how unjustly you have charged me with +neglecting your wishes. I have ordered the Sicilian wine for your friend; +I have obtained the Royal leave for you to shoot in Calabria; and I assure +you it is rather a rare incident in my life to have forgotten nothing +required of me! Perhaps you, who know me well, will do me this justice, +and be the more grateful for my present promptitude. +</p> +<p> +It was quite a mistake sending me here; for anything there is to be done, +Spencer or Lonsdale would perfectly suffice. <i>I</i> ought to have gone +to Vienna,—and so they know at home; but it's the old game played +over again. Important questions! why, my dear friend, there is not a +matter between this country and our own that rises above the capacity of a +Colonel of Dragoons. Meanwhile really great events are preparing in the +East of Europe,—not that I am going to inflict them upon you, nor +ask you to listen to speculations which even those in authority turn a +deaf ear to. +</p> +<p> +It is very kind of you to think of my health. I am still a sufferer; the +old pains rather aggravated than relieved by this climate. You are aware +that, though warm, the weather here has some exciting property, some +excess or other of a peculiar gas in the atmosphere, prejudicial to +certain temperaments. I feel it greatly; and though the season is +midsummer, I am obliged to dress entirely in a light costume of buckskin, +and take Marsalla baths, which refresh me, at least for the while. I have +also taken to smoke the leaves of the nux vomica, steeped in arrack, and +think it agrees with me. The King has most kindly placed a little villa at +Ischia at my disposal; but I do not mean to avail myself of the +politeness. The Duke of San Giustino has also offered me his palace at +Baia; but I don't fancy leaving this just now, where there is a doctor, a +certain Luigi Buffeloni, who really seems to have hit off my case. He +calls it arterial arthriticis,—a kind of inflammatory action of one +coat of the arterial system; his notion is highly ingenious, and +wonderfully borne out by the symptoms. I wish you would ask Brodie, or any +of our best men, whether they have met with this affection; what class it +affects, and what course it usually takes? My Italian doctor implies that +it is the passing malady of men highly excitable, and largely endowed with +mental gifts. He may, or may not, be correct in this. It is only nature +makes the blunder of giving the sharpest swords the weakest scabbards. +What a pity the weapon cannot be worn naked! +</p> +<p> +You ask me if I like this place. I do, perhaps, as well as I should like +anywhere. There is a wonderful sameness over the world just now, +preluding, I have very little doubt, some great outburst of nationality +from all the countries of Europe,—just as periods of Puritanism +succeed intervals of gross licentiousness. +</p> +<p> +Society here is, therefore, what you see it in London or Paris; well-bred +people, like Gold, are current everywhere. There is really little peculiar +to observe. I don't perceive that there is more levity than elsewhere. The +difference is, perhaps, that there is less shame about it, since it is +under the protection of the Church. +</p> +<p> +I go out very little; my notion is, that the Diplomatist, like the ancient +Augur, must not suffer himself to be vulgarized by contact. He can only +lose, not gain, by that mixed intercourse with the world. I have a few who +come when I want them, and go in like manner. They tell me “what is going +on,” far better and more truthfully than paid employees, and they cannot +trace my intentions through my inquiries, and hasten off to retail them at +the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Of my colleagues I see as little as +possible, though, when we do meet, I feel an unbounded affection for them. +So much for my life, dear Harcourt; on the whole, a very tolerable kind of +existence, which if few would envy, still fewer would care to part with. +</p> +<p> +I now come to the chief portion of your letter. This boy of Glencore's, I +rather like the account you give of him, better than you do yourself. +Imaginative and dreamy he may be, but remember what he was, and where we +have placed him. A moonstruck, romantic youth at a German University. Is +it not painting the lily? +</p> +<p> +I merely intended he should go to Göttingen to learn the language,—always +a difficulty, if not abstracted from other and more dulcet sounds. I never +meant to have him domesticated with some rusty Hochgelehrter, eating +sauer-kraut in company with a green-eyed Fraulein, and imbibing love and +metaphysics together. Let him “moon away,” as you call it, my dear +Harcourt. It is wonderfully little consequence what any one does with his +intellect till he be three or four and twenty. Indeed, I half suspect that +the soil might be left quietly to rear weeds till that time; and as to +dreaminess, it signifies nothing if there be a strong “physique.” With a +weak frame, imagination will play the tyrant, and never cease till it +dominates over all the other faculties; but where there is strength and +activity, there is no fear of this. +</p> +<p> +You amuse me with your account of the doctor; and so the Germans have +actually taken him for a savant, and given him a degree “honoris causa.” + May they never make a worse blunder. The man is eminently remarkable,—with +his opportunities, miraculous. I am certain, Harcourt, you never felt half +the pleasure on arriving at a region well stocked with game, that he did +on finding himself in a land of Libraries, Museums, and Collections. Fancy +the poor fellow's ecstasy at being allowed to range at will through all +ancient literature, of which hitherto a stray volume alone had reached +him. Imagine his delight as each day opened new stores of knowledge to +him, surrounded as he was by all that could encourage zeal and reward +research. The boy's treatment of him pleases me much; it smacks of the +gentle blood in his veins. Poor lad, there is something very sad in his +case. +</p> +<p> +You need not have taken such trouble about accounts and expenditure; of +course, whatever you have done I perfectly approve of. You say that the +boy has no idea of money or its value. There is both good and evil in +this. And now as to his future. I should have no objection whatever to +having him attached to my Legation here, and perhaps no great difficulty +in effecting his appointment; but there is a serious obstacle in his +position. The young men who figure at embassies and missions are all +“cognate numbers.” They each of them know who and what the other is, +whence he came, and so on. Now, our poor boy could not stand this ordeal, +nor would it be fair he should be exposed to it. Besides this, it was +never Glencore's wish, but the very opposite to it, that he should be +brought prominently forward in life. He even suggested one of the Colonies +as the means of withdrawing him at once, and forever, from public gaze. +</p> +<p> +You have interested me much by what you say of the boy's progress. His +tastes, I infer, lie in the direction which, in a worldly sense, are least +profitable; but, after all, Harcourt, every one has brains enough, and to +spare, for any career. Let us only decide upon that one most fitted for +him, and, depend upon it, his faculties will day by day conform to his +duties, and his tastes be merely dissipations, just as play or wine is to +coarser natures. +</p> +<p> +If you really press the question of his coming to me, I will not refuse, +seeing that I can take my own time to consider what steps subsequently +should be adopted. How is it that you know nothing of Glencore,—can +he not be traced? +</p> +<p> +Lord Selby, whom you may remember in the Blues formerly, dined here +yesterday, and mentioned a communication he had received from his lawyer +with regard to some property entail, which, if Glencore should leave no +heir male, devolved upon him. I tried to find out the whereabouts and the +amount of this heritage; but, with the admirable indifference that +characterizes him, he did not know or care. +</p> +<p> +As to my Lady, I can give you no information whatever. Her house at +Florence is uninhabited, the furniture is sold off; but no one seems even +to guess whither she has betaken herself. The fast and loose of that +pleasant city are, as I hear, actually houseless since her departure. No +asylum opens there with fire and cigars. A number of the destitute have +come down here in half despair, amongst the rest Scaresby,—Major +Scaresby, an insupportable nuisance of flat stories and stale gossip; one +of those fellows who cannot make even malevolence amusing, and who speak +ill of their neighbors without a single spark of wit. He has left three +cards upon me, each duly returned; but I am resolved that our inter-change +of courtesies shall proceed no farther. +</p> +<p> +I trust I have omitted nothing in reply to your last despatch, except it +be to say that I look for you here about September, or earlier, if as +convenient to you; you will, of course, write to me, however, meanwhile. +</p> +<p> +Do not mention having heard from me, at the clubs or in society. I am, as +I have the right to be, on the sick list, and it is as well my rest should +remain undisturbed. +</p> +<p> +I wish you had any means of making it known that the article in the +“Quarterly,” on our Foreign relations, is not mine. The newspapers have +coolly assumed me to be the author, and of course I am not going to give +them the <i>éclat</i> of a personal denial. The fellow who wrote it must +be an ass; since had he known what he pretends, he had never revealed it. +He who wants to bag his bird, Colonel, never bangs away at nothing. I have +now completed a longer despatch to you than I intend to address to the +Noble Secretary at F. O., and am yours, very faithfully, +</p> +<p> +Horace Upton. +</p> +<p> +Whose Magnesia is it that contains essence of Bark? Tripley's or +Chipley's, I think. Find it out for me, and send me a packet through the +office; put up Fauchard's pamphlet with it, on Spain, and a small box of +those new blisters,—Mouches they are called; they are to be had at +Atkinson's. I have got so accustomed to their stimulating power that I +never write without one or two on my forehead. They tell me the cautery, +if dexterously applied, is better; but I have not tried it. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXIII. THE TUTOR AND HIS PUPIL +</h2> +<p> +We are not about to follow up the correspondence of Sir Horace by +detailing the reply which Harcourt sent, and all that thereupon ensued +between them. +</p> +<p> +We pass over, then, some months of time, and arrive at the late autumn. +</p> +<p> +It is a calm, still morning; the sea, streaked with tinted shadows, is +without a ripple; the ships of many nations that float on it are +motionless, their white sails hung out to bleach, their ensigns drooping +beside the masts. Over the summit of Vesuvius—for we are at Naples—a +light blue cloud hangs, the solitary one in all the sky. A mild, plaintive +song, the chant of some fishermen on the rocks, is the only sound, save +the continuous hum of that vast city, which swells and falls at intervals. +</p> +<p> +Close beside the sea, seated on a rock, are two figures. One is that of a +youth of some eighteen or nineteen years; his features, eminently +handsome, wear an expression of gloomy pride as in deep preoccupation he +gazes out over the bay; to all seeming, indifferent to the fair scene +before him, and wrapped in his own sad thoughts. The other is a short, +square-built, almost uncouth figure, overshadowed by a wide straw hat, +which seems even to diminish his stature; a suit of black, wide and ample +enough for one twice his size, gives his appearance a grotesqueness to +which his features contribute their share. +</p> +<p> +It is, indeed, a strange physiognomy, to which Celt and Calmuc seem +equally to contribute. The low, overhanging forehead, the intensely keen +eye, sparkling with an almost imp-like drollery, are contrasted by a +firmly compressed mouth and a far-projecting under-jaw that imply +sternness even to cruelty; a mass of waving black hair, that covers neck +and shoulders, adds a species of savagery to a head which assuredly has no +need of such aid. Bent down over a large quarto volume, he never lifts his +eyes; but, intently occupied, his lips are rapidly repeating the words as +he reads them. +</p> +<p> +“Do you mean to pass the morning here?” asks the youth, at length, “or +where shall I find you later on?” + </p> +<p> +“I 'll do whatever you like best,” said the other, in a rich brogue; “I 'm +agreeable to go or stay,—<i>ad utrumque pa-ratus</i>.” And Billy +Traynor, for it was he, shut up his venerable volume. +</p> +<p> +“I don't wish to disturb you,” said the boy, mildly, “you can read. I +cannot; I have a fretful, impatient feeling over me that perhaps will go +off with exercise. I'll set out, then, for a walk, and come back here +towards evening, then go and dine at the Rocca, and afterwards whatever +you please.” + </p> +<p> +“If you say that, then,” said Billy, in a voice of evident delight, “we'll +finish the day at the Professor Tadeucci's, and get him to go over that +analysis again.” + </p> +<p> +“I have no taste for chemistry. It always seems to me to end where it +began,” said the boy, impatiently. “Where do all researches tend to? how +are you elevated in intellect? how are your thoughts higher, wider, +nobler, by all these mixings and manipulations?” + </p> +<p> +“Is it nothing to know how thunder and lightning is made; to understand +electricity; to dive into the secrets of that old crater there, and see +the ingredients in the crucible that was bilin' three thousand years ago?” + </p> +<p> +“These things appeal more grandly to my imagination when the mystery of +their forces is unrevealed. I like to think of them as dread +manifestations of a mighty will, rather than gaseous combinations or +metallic affinities.” + </p> +<p> +“And what prevents you?” said Billy, eagerly. “Is the grandeur of the +phenomenon impaired because it is in part intelligible? Ain't you elevated +as a reasoning being when you get what I may call a peep into God's +workshop, rather than by implicitly accepting results just as any old +woman accepts a superstition?” + </p> +<p> +“There is something ignoble in mechanism,” said the boy, angrily. +</p> +<p> +“Don't say that, while your heart is beatin' and your arteries is +contractin; never say it as long as your lungs dilate or collapse. It's +mechanism makes water burst out of the ground, and, swelling into streams, +flow as mighty rivers through the earth. It's mechanism raises the sap to +the topmost bough of the cedar-tree that waves over Lebanon. 'T is the +same power moves planets above, just to show us that as there is nothing +without a cause, there is one great and final 'Cause' behind all.” + </p> +<p> +“And will you tell me,” said the boy, sneeringly, “that a sunbeam pours +more gladness into your heart because a prism has explained to you the +composition of light?” + </p> +<p> +“God's blessings never seemed the less to me because he taught me the +beautiful laws that guide them,” said Billy, reverently; “every little +step that I take out of darkness is on the road, at least, to Him.” + </p> +<p> +In part abashed by the words, in part admonished by the tone of the +speaker, the boy was silent for some minutes. “You know, Billy,” said he, +at length, “that I spoke in no irreverence; that I would no more insult +your convictions than I would outrage my own. It is simply that it suits +my dreamy indolence to like the wonderful better than the intelligible; +and you must acknowledge that there never was so palatable a theory for +ignorance.” + </p> +<p> +“Ay, but I don't want you to be ignorant,” said Billy, earnestly; “and +there's no greater mistake than supposing that knowledge is an impediment +to the play of fancy. Take my word for it, Master Charles, imagination, no +more than any one else, does not work best in the dark.” + </p> +<p> +“I certainly am no adept under such circumstances,” said the boy. “I have +n't told you what happened me in the studio last night. I went in without +a candle, and, trying to grope my way to the table, I overturned the large +olive jar, full of clay, against my Niobe, and smashed her to atoms.” + </p> +<p> +“Smashed Niobe!” cried Billy, in horror. +</p> +<p> +“In pieces. I stood over her sadder than ever she felt herself, and I have +not had the courage to enter the studio since.” + </p> +<p> +“Come, come, let us see if she couldn't be restored,” said Billy, rising. +“Let us go down there together.” + </p> +<p> +“You may, if you have any fancy,—there's the key,” said the boy. “I +'ll return there no more till the rubbish be cleared away.” And so saying, +he moved off, and was soon out of sight. +</p> +<p> +Deeply grieving over this disaster, Billy Traynor hastened from the spot, +but he had only reached the garden of the Chiaja when he heard a faint, +weak voice calling him by his name; he turned, and saw Sir Horace Upton, +who, seated in a sort of portable arm-chair, was enjoying the fresh air +from the sea. +</p> +<p> +“Quite a piece of good fortune to meet you, Doctor,” said he, smiling; +“neither you nor your pupil have been near me for ten days or more.” + </p> +<p> +“'Tis our own loss then, your Excellency,” said Billy, bowing; “even a +chance few minutes in your company is like whetting the intellectual +razor,—I feel myself sharper for the whole day after.” + </p> +<p> +“Then why not come oftener, man? Are you afraid of wearing the steel all +away?” + </p> +<p> +“'T is more afraid I am of gapping the fine edge of your Excellency by +contact with my own ruggedness,” said Billy, obsequiously. +</p> +<p> +“You were intended for a courtier, Doctor,” said Sir Horace, smiling. +</p> +<p> +“If there was such a thing as a court fool nowadays, I'd look for the +place.” + </p> +<p> +“The age is too dull for such a functionary. They'll not find ten men in +any country of Europe equal to the office,” said Sir Horace. “One has only +to see how lamentably dull are the journals dedicated to wit and drollery, +to admit this fact; though written by many hands, how rare it is to chance +upon what provokes a laugh. You 'll have fifty metaphysicians anywhere +before you 'll hit on one Molière. Will you kindly open that umbrella for +me? This autumnal sun, they say, gives sunstroke. And now what do you +think of this boy? He'll not make a diplomatist, that's clear.” + </p> +<p> +“He 'll not make anything,—just for one simple reason, because he +could be whatever he pleased.” + </p> +<p> +“An intellectual spendthrift,” sighed Sir Horace “What a hopeless +bankruptcy it leads to!” + </p> +<p> +“My notion is 'twould be spoiling him entirely to teach him a trade or a +profession. Let his great faculties shoot up without being trimmed or +trained; don't want to twist or twine or turn them at all, but just see +whether he won't, out of his uncurbed nature, do better than all our +discipline could effect. There's no better colt than the one that was +never backed till he was a five-year-old.” + </p> +<p> +“He ought to have a career,” said Sir Horace, thoughtfully. “Every man +ought to have a calling, if only that he may be able to abandon it.” + </p> +<p> +“Just as a sailor has a point of departure,” said Billy. +</p> +<p> +“Precisely,” said Sir Horace, pleased at being so well appreciated. +</p> +<p> +“You are aware, Doctor,” resumed he, after a pause, “that the lad will +have little or no private fortune. There are family circumstances that I +cannot enter into, nor would your own delicacy require it, that will leave +him almost dependent on his own efforts. Now, as time is rolling over, we +should bethink us what direction it were wisest to give his talents; for +he has talents.” + </p> +<p> +“He has genius and talents both,” said Billy; “he has the raw material, +and the workshop to manufacture it.” + </p> +<p> +“I am rejoiced to hear such an account from one so well able to +pronounce,” said Sir Horace, blandly; and Billy bowed, and blushed with a +sense of happiness that none but humble men, so praised, could ever feel. +</p> +<p> +“I should like much to hear what you would advise for him,” said Upton. +</p> +<p> +“He's so full of promise,” said Billy, “that whatever he takes to he 'll +be sure to fancy he 'd be better at something else. See, now,—it isn +'t a bull I 'm sayin', but I 'll make a blunder of it if I try to +explain.” + </p> +<p> +“Go on; I think I apprehend you.” + </p> +<p> +“By coorse you do. Well, it's that same feelin' makes me cautious of +sayin' what he ought to do. For, after all, a variety of capacity implies +discursiveness, and discursiveness is the mother of failure.” + </p> +<p> +“You speak like an oracle, Doctor.” + </p> +<p> +“If I do, it's because the priest is beside me,” said Billy, howmg. “My +notion is this: I'd let him cultivate his fine gifts for a year or two in +any way he liked,—in work or idleness; for they 'll grow in the +fallow as well as in the tilled land. I 'd let him be whatever he liked,—striving +always, as he's sure to be striving, after something higher, and greater, +and better than he'll ever reach; and then, when he has felt both his +strength and his weakness, I 'd try and attach him to some great man in +public life; set a grand ambition before him, and say, 'Go on.'” + </p> +<p> +“He's scarcely the stuff for public life,” muttered Sir Horace. +</p> +<p> +“He is,” said Billy, boldly. +</p> +<p> +“He 'd be easily abashed,—easily deterred by failure.” + </p> +<p> +“Sorra bit. Success might cloy, but failure would never damp him.” + </p> +<p> +“I can't fancy him a speaker.” + </p> +<p> +“Rouse him by a strong theme and a flat contradiction, and you 'll see +what he can do.” + </p> +<p> +“And then his lounging, idle habits—” + </p> +<p> +“He'll do more in two hours than any one else in two days.” + </p> +<p> +“You are a warm admirer, my dear Doctor,” said Sir Horace, smiling +blandly. “I should almost rather have such a friend than the qualities +that win the friendship.—Have you a message for me, Antoine?” said +he to a servant who stood at a little distance, waiting the order to +approach. The man came forward, and whispered a few words. Sir Horace's +cheek gave a faint, the very faintest possible, sign of flush as he +listened, and uttering a brief “Very well,” dismissed the messenger. +</p> +<p> +“Will you give me your arm, Doctor?” said he, languidly; and the elegant +Sir Horace Upton passed down the crowded promenade, leaning on his uncouth +companion, without the slightest consciousness of the surprise and sarcasm +around him. No man more thoroughly could appreciate conventionalities; he +would weigh the effect of appearances to the veriest nicety; but in +practice he seemed either to forget his knowledge or despise it. So that, +as leaning on the little dwarf's arm he moved along, his very air of +fashionable languor seemed to heighten the absurdity of the contrast. Nay, +he actually seemed to bestow an almost deferential attention to what the +other said, bowing blandly his acquiescence, and smiling with an urbanity +all his own. +</p> +<p> +Of the crowd that passed, nearly all knew the English Minister. Uncovered +heads were bent obsequiously; graceful salutations met him as he went; +while a hundred conjectures ran as to who and what might be his companion. +</p> +<p> +He was a Mesmeric Professor, a Writer in Cipher, a Rabbi, an Egyptian +Explorer, an Alchemist, an African Traveller, and, at last, Monsieur +Thiers!—and so the fine world of Naples discussed the humble +individual whom you and I, dear reader, are acquainted with as Billy +Traynor. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXIV. HOW A “RECEPTION” COMES TO ITS CLOSE +</h2> +<p> +On the evening of that day the handsome saloons of the great Hôtel +“Universo” were filled with a brilliant assemblage to compliment the +Princess Sabloukoff on her arrival. We have already introduced this lady +to the reader, and have no need to explain the homage and attention of +which she was the object. There is nothing which so perfectly illustrates +the maxim of <i>ignotum pro magnifico</i> as the career of politics; +certain individuals obtaining, as they do, a pre-eminence and authority +from a species of mysterious prestige about them, and a reputation of +having access at any moment to the highest personage in the world of state +affairs. Doubtless great ministers are occasionally not sorry to see the +public full cry on a false scent, and encourage to a certain extent this +mystification; but still it would be an error to deny to such persons as +we speak of a knowledge, if not actually an influence, in great affairs. +</p> +<p> +When the Swedish Chancellor uttered his celebrated sarcasm on the +governing capacities of Europe, the political <i>salon</i>, as a state +engine, was not yet in existence. What additional energy might it have +given to his remark, had he known that the tea-table was the chapel of +ease to the council-room, and gossip a new power in the state. Despotic +governments are always curious about public opinion; they dread while +affecting to despise it. They, however, make a far greater mistake than +this, for they imagine its true exponent to be the society of the highest +in rank and station. +</p> +<p> +It is not necessary to insist upon an error so palpable, and yet it is one +of which nearly every capital of Europe affords example; and the same +council-chamber that would treat a popular movement with disdain would +tremble at the epigram launched by some “elegant” of society. The theory +is, “that the masses <i>act</i>, but never <i>think</i>; the higher ranks +<i>think</i>, and set the rest in motion.” Whether well or ill founded, +one consequence of the system is to inundate the world with a number of +persons who, no matter what their station or pretensions, are no other +than spies. If it be observed that, generally speaking, there is nothing +worth recording; that society, too much engaged with its own vicissitudes, +troubles itself little with those of the state,—let it be remembered +that the governments which employ these agencies are in a position to +judge of the value of what they receive; and as they persevere in +maintaining them, they are, doubtless, in some degree, remunerated. +</p> +<p> +To hold this high detective employ, a variety of conditions are essential. +The individual must have birth and breeding to gain access to the highest +circles; conciliating manners and ample means. If a lady, she is usually +young and a beauty, or has the fame of having once been such. The +strangest part of all is, that her position is thoroughly appreciated. She +is recognized everywhere for what she is; and yet her presence never seems +to impose a restraint or suggest a caution. She becomes, in reality, less +a discoverer than a depositary of secrets. Many have something to +communicate, and are only at a loss as to the channel. They have found out +a political puzzle, hit a state blot, or unravelled a cabinet mystery. +Others are in possession of some personal knowledge of royalty. They have +marked the displeasure of the Queen Dowager, or seen the anger of the +Crown Prince. Profitable as such facts are, they are nothing without a +market. Thus it is that these characters exercise a wider sphere of +influence than might be naturally ascribed to them, and possess besides a +terrorizing power over society, the chief members of which are at their +mercy. +</p> +<p> +It is, doubtless, not a little humiliating that such should be the +instruments of a government, and that royalty should avail itself of such +agencies; but the fact is so, and perhaps an inquiry into the secret +working of democratic institutions might not make one a whit more proud of +Popular Sovereignty. +</p> +<p> +Amongst the proficients in the great science we speak of, the Princess +held the first place. Mysterious stories ran of her acquaintance with +affairs the most momentous; there were narratives of her complicity in +even darker events. Her name was quoted by Savary in his secret report of +the Emperor Paul's death; an allusion to her was made by one of the +assassins of Murat; and a gloomy record of a celebrated incident in Louis +Philippe's life ascribed to her a share in a terrible tragedy. Whether +believed or not, they added to the prestige that attended her, and she was +virtually a “puissance” in European politics. +</p> +<p> +To all the intriguists in state affairs her arrival was actually a boon. +She could and would give them, out of her vast capital, enough to +establish them successfully in trade. To the minister of police she +brought accurate descriptions of suspected characters,—the <i>signalements</i> +of Carbonari that were threatening half the thrones of Europe. To the +foreign secretary she brought tidings of the favor in which a great +Emperor held him, and a shadowy vision of the grand cross he was one day +to have. She had forbidden books for the cardinal confessor, and a case of +smuggled cigars for the minister of finance. The picturesque language of a +“Journal de Modes” could alone convey the rare and curious details of +dress which she imported for the benefit of the court ladies. In a word, +she had something to secure her a welcome in every quarter,—and all +done with a tact and a delicacy that the most susceptible could not have +resisted. +</p> +<p> +If the tone and manner of good society present little suitable to +description, they are yet subjects of great interest to him who would +study men in their moods of highest subtlety and astuteness. To mere +passing careless observation, the reception of the Princess was a crowded +gathering of a number of well-dressed people, in which the men were in far +larger proportion than the other sex. There was abundance of courtesy; not +a little of that half-flattering compliment which is the small change of +intercourse; some—not much—scandal, and a fair share of +small-talk. It was late when Sir Horace Upton entered, and, advancing to +where the Princess stood, kissed her gloved hand with all the submissive +deference of a courtier. The most lynx-eyed observer could not have +detected either in his manner or in hers that any intimacy existed between +them, much less friendship; least of all, anything still closer. His +bearing was a most studied and respectful homage,—hers a haughty, +but condescending, acceptance of it; and yet, with all this, there was +that in those around that seemed to say, “This man is more master here +than any of us.” He did not speak long with the Princess, but, +respectfully yielding his place to a later arrival, fell back into the +crowd, and soon after took a seat beside one of the very few ladies who +graced the reception. In all, they were very few, we are bound to +acknowledge; for although La Sabloukoff was received at court and all the +embassies, they who felt, or affected to feel, any strictness on the score +of morals avoided rather than sought her intimacy. +</p> +<p> +She covered over what might have seemed this disparagement of her conduct, +by always seeking the society of men, as though their hardy and vigorous +intellects were more in unison with her own than the graceful attributes +of the softer sex; and in this tone did the few lady friends she possessed +appear also to concur. It was their pride to discuss matters of state and +politics; and whenever they condescended to more trifling themes, they +treated them with a degree of candor and in a spirit that allowed men to +speak as unreservedly as though no ladies were present. +</p> +<p> +Let us be forgiven for prolixity, since we are speaking less of +individuals than of a school,—a school, too, on the increase, and +one whose results will be more widely felt than many are disposed to +believe. +</p> +<p> +As the evening wore on, the guests bartered the news and <i>bons mots</i>; +scraps of letters from royal hands were read; epigrams from illustrious +characters repeated; racy bits of courtly scandal were related; and shrewd +explanations hazarded as to how this was to turn out, and that was to end. +It was a very strange language they talked,—so much seemed left for +inference, so much seemed left to surmise. There was a shadowy +indistinctness, as it were, over all; and yet their manner showed a +perfect and thorough appreciation of whatever went forward. Through all +this treatment of great questions, one striking feature pre-eminently +displayed itself,—a keen appreciation of how much the individual +characters, the passions, the prejudices, the very caprices of men in +power modified the acts of their governments; and thus you constantly +heard such remarks as, “If the Duke of Wellington disliked the Emperor +less; or, so long as Metternich has such an attachment to the Queen +Dowager; when we get over Carini's dread of the Archduchess; or, if we +could only reconcile the Prince to a visit from Nesselrode,”—showing +that private personal feelings were swaying the minds of those whose +contemplation might have seemed raised to a far loftier level. And then +what a mass of very small gossip abounded,—incidents so slight and +insignificant that they only were lifted into importance by the actors in +them being Kings and Kaisers! By what accidents great events were +determined; on what mere trifles vast interests depended,—it were, +doubtless, no novelty to record; still, it would startle many to be told +that a casual pique, a passing word launched at hazard, some petty +observance omitted or forgotten, have changed the destinies of whole +nations. +</p> +<p> +It is in such circles as these that incidents of this kind are recounted. +Each has some anecdote, trivial and unimportant it may be, but still +illustrating the life of those who live under the shadow of Royalty. The +Princess herself was inexhaustible in these stores of secret biography; +there was not a dynastic ambition to be consolidated by a marriage, not a +Coburg alliance to patch up a family compact, that she was not well versed +in. She detected in the vaguest movements plans and intentions, and could +read the signs of a policy in indications that others would have passed +without remark. +</p> +<p> +One by one the company retired, and at length Sir Horace found himself the +last guest of the evening. Scarcely had the door closed on the last +departure, when, drawing his arm-chair to the side of the fire opposite to +that where the Princess sat, he took out his cigar-case, and, selecting a +cheroot, deliberately lighted and commenced to smoke it. +</p> +<p> +“I thought they 'd never go,” said she, with a sigh; “but I know why they +remained,—they all thought the Prince of Istria was coming. They saw +his carriage stop here this evening, and heard he had sent up to know if I +received. I wrote on a card, 'To-morrow at dinner, at eight;' so be sure +you are here to meet him.” + </p> +<p> +Sir Horace bowed, and smiled his acceptance. +</p> +<p> +“And your journey, dear Princess,” said he, between the puffs of his +smoke, “was it pleasant?” + </p> +<p> +“It might have been well enough, but I was obliged to make a great <i>détour</i>. +The Duchess detained me at Parma for some letters, and then sent me across +the mountains of Pontremoli—a frightful road—on a secret +mission to Massa.” + </p> +<p> +“To Massa! of all earthly places.” + </p> +<p> +“Even so. They had sent down there, some eight or nine months ago, the +young Count Wahnsdorf, the Archduchess Sophia's son, who, having got into +all manner of dissipation at Vienna, and lost largely at play, it was +judged expedient to exile him for a season; and as the Duke of Modena +offered his aid to their plans, he was named to a troop in a dragoon +regiment, and appointed aide-de-camp to his Royal Highness. Are you +attending; or has your Excellency lost the clew of my story?” + </p> +<p> +“I am all ears; only waiting anxiously to hear: who is she?” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, then, you suspect a woman in the case?” + </p> +<p> +“I am sure of it, dear Princess. The very accents of your voice prepared +me for a bit of romance.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, you are right; he has fallen in love,—so desperately in love +that he is incessant in his appeals to the Duchess to intercede with his +family and grant him leave to marry.” + </p> +<p> +“To marry whom?” asked Sir Horace. +</p> +<p> +“That's the very question which he cannot answer himself; and when pressed +for information, can only reply that 'she is an angel.' Now, angels are +not always of good family; they have sometimes very humble parents, and +very small fortunes.” + </p> +<p> +“<i>Hélas!</i>” sighed the diplomatist, pitifully. +</p> +<p> +“This angel, it would seem, is untraceable. She arrived with her mother, +or what is supposed to be her mother, from Corsica; they landed at +Spezzia, with an English passport, calling them Madame and Mademoiselle +Harley. On arriving at Massa they took a villa close to the town, and +established themselves with all the circumstance of people well-off as to +means. They, however, neither received visits nor made acquaintance with +any one. They even so far withdrew themselves from public view that they +rarely left their own grounds, and usually took their carriage-airing at +night. You are not attending, I see.” + </p> +<p> +“On the contrary, I am an eager listener; only, it is a story one has +heard so often. I never heard of any one preserving the incognito except +where disclosure would have revealed a shame.” + </p> +<p> +“Your Excellency mistakes,” replied she; “the incognito is sometimes, like +a feigned despatch in diplomacy, a means of awakening curiosity.” + </p> +<p> +“<i>Ces ruses ne se font plus</i>, Princess,—they were the fashion +in Talleyrand's time; now we are satisfied to mystify by no meaning.” + </p> +<p> +“If the weapons of the old school are not employed, there is another +reason, perhaps,” said she, with a dubious smile. +</p> +<p> +“That modern arms are too feeble to wield them, you mean,” said he, bowing +courteously. “Ah! it is but too true, Princess;” and he sighed what might +mean regret over the fact, or devotion to herself,—perhaps both. At +all events, his submission served as a treaty of peace, and she resumed. +</p> +<p> +“And now, <i>revenons à nos moutons</i>,” said she, “or at least to our +lambs. This Wahnsdorf is quite capable of contracting a marriage without +any permission, if they appear inclined to thwart him; and the question +is, What can be done? The Duke would send these people away out of his +territory, only that, if they be English, as their passports imply, he +knows that there will be no end of trouble with your amiable Government, +which is never paternal till some one corrects one of her children. If +Wahnsdorf be sent away, where are they to send him? Besides, in all these +cases the creature carries his malady with him, and is sure to marry the +first who sympathizes with him. In a word, there were difficulties on all +sides, and the Duchess sent me over, in observation, as they say, rather +than with any direct plan of extrication.” + </p> +<p> +“And you went?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; I passed twenty-four hours. I couldn't stay longer, for I promised +the Cardinal Caraffa to be in Rome on the 18th, about those Polish +nunneries. As to Massa, I gathered little more than I had heard +beforehand. I saw their villa; I even penetrated as far as the orangery in +my capacity of traveller,—the whole a perfect Paradise. I 'm not +sure I did not get a peep at Eve herself,—at a distance, however. I +made great efforts to obtain an interview, but all unsuccessfully. The +police authorities managed to summon two of the servants to the Podestà, +on pretence of some irregularity in their papers, but we obtained nothing +out of them; and, what is more, I saw clearly that nothing could be +effected by a <i>coup de main</i>. The place requires a long siege, and I +had not time for that.” + </p> +<p> +“Did you see Wahnsdorf?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; I had him to dinner with me alone at the hotel, for, to avoid all +observation, I only went to the Palace after nightfall. He confessed all +his sins to me, and, like every other scapegrace, thought marriage was a +grand absolution for past wickedness. He told me, too, how he made the +acquaintance of these strangers. They were crossing the Magra with their +carriage on a raft, when the cable snapped, and they were all carried down +the torrent. He happened to be a passenger at the time, and did something +very heroic, I 've no doubt, but I cannot exactly remember what; but it +amounted to either being, or being supposed to be, their deliverer. He +thus obtained leave to pay his respects at the villa. But even this +gratitude was very measured; they only admitted him at rare intervals, and +for a very brief visit. In fact, it was plain he had to deal with +consummate tacticians, who turned the mystery of their seclusion and the +honor vouchsafed him to an ample profit.” + </p> +<p> +“He told them his name and his rank?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes; and he owned that they did not seem at all impressed by the +revelation. He describes them as very naughty, very condescending in +manner, <i>très grandes dames</i>, in fact, but unquestionably born to the +class they represent. They never dropped a hint of whence they had come, +or any circumstance of their past lives, but seemed entirely engrossed by +the present, which they spent principally in cultivating the arts; they +both drew admirably, and the young lady had become a most skilful +modellist in clay, her whole day being passed in a studio which they had +just built. I urged him strongly to try and obtain permission for me to +see it, but he assured me it was hopeless,—the request might even +endanger his own position with them. +</p> +<p> +“I could perceive that, though very much in love, Wahns-dorf was equally +taken with the romance of this adventure. He had never been a hero to +himself before, and he was perfectly enchanted by the novelty of the +sensation. He never affected to say that he had made the least impression +on the young lady's heart; but he gave me to understand that the nephew of +an Emperor need not trouble his head much on that score. He is a very +good-looking, well-mannered, weak boy, who, if he only reach the age of +thirty without some great blunder, will pass for a very dignified Prince +for the rest of his life.” + </p> +<p> +“Did you give him any hopes?” + </p> +<p> +“Of course, if he only promised to follow my counsels; and as these same +counsels are yet in the oven, he must needs wait for them. In a word, he +is to write to me everything, and I to him; and so we parted.” + </p> +<p> +“I should like to see these people,” said Upton, languidly. +</p> +<p> +“I'm sure of it,” rejoined she; “but it is perhaps unnecessary;” and there +was that in the tone which made the words very significant. +</p> +<p> +“Chelmsford—he 's now Secretary at Turin—might perhaps trace +them,” said he; “he always knows everything of those people who are +secrets to the rest of the world.” + </p> +<p> +“For the present, I am disposed to think it were better not to direct +attention towards them,” replied she. “What we do here must be done +adroitly, and in such a way as that it can be disavowed if necessary, or +abandoned if unsuccessful.” + </p> +<p> +“Said with all your own tact, Princess,” said Sir Horace, smiling. “I can +perceive, however, that you have a plan in your head already. Is it not +so?” + </p> +<p> +“No,” said she, with a faint sigh; “I took wonderfully little interest in +the affair. It was one of those games where the combinations are so few +you don't condescend to learn it. Are you aware of the hour?” + </p> +<p> +“Actually three o'clock,” said he, standing up. “Really, Princess, I am +quite shocked.” + </p> +<p> +“And so am I,” said she, smiling; “<i>on se compromet si facilement dans +ce bas monde</i>. Good night.” And she courtesied and withdrew before he +had time to take his hat and retire. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXV. A DUKE AND HIS MINISTER +</h2> +<p> +In this age of the world, when everybody has been everywhere, seen +everything, and talked with everybody, it may savor of an impertinence if +we ask of our reader if he has ever been at Massa. It may so chance that +he has not, and, if so, as assuredly has he yet an untasted pleasure +before him. +</p> +<p> +Now, to be sure, Massa is not as it once was. The little Duchy, whose +capital it formed, has been united to a larger state. The distinctive +features of a metropolis, and the residence of a sovereign prince, are +gone. The life and stir and animation which surround a court have +subsided; grass-grown streets and deserted squares replace the busy +movement of former days; a dreamy weariness seems to have fallen over +every one, as though life offered no more prizes for exertion, and that +the day of ambition was set forever. Yet are there features about the spot +which all the chances and changes of political fortune cannot touch. +Dynasties may fall, and thrones crumble, but the eternal Apennines will +still rear their snow-clad summits towards the sky. Along the vast plain +of ancient olives the perfumed wind will still steal at evening, and the +blue waters of the Mediterranean plash lazily among the rocks, over which +the myrtle and the arbutus are hanging. There, amidst them all, half hid +in clustering vines, bathed in soft odors from orange-groves, with +plashing fountains glittering in the sun, and foaming streams gushing from +the sides of marble mountains,—there stands Massa, ruined, decayed, +and deserted, but beautiful in all its desolation, and fairer to gaze on +than many a scene where the tide of human fortune is at the flood. +</p> +<p> +As you wander there now, passing the deep arch over which, hundreds of +feet above you, the ancient fortress frowns, and enter the silent streets, +you would find it somewhat difficult to believe how, a very few years +back, this was the brilliant residence of a court,—the gay resort of +strangers from every land of Europe,—that showy equipages traversed +these weed-grown squares, and highborn dames swept proudly beneath these +leafy alleys. Hard, indeed, to fancy the glittering throng of courtiers, +the merry laughter of light-hearted beauty, beneath these trellised +shades, where, moodily and slow, some solitary figure now steals along, +“pondering sad thoughts over the bygone!” + </p> +<p> +But a few, a very few years ago, and Massa was in the plenitude of its +prosperity. The revenues of the state were large,—more than +sufficient to have maintained all that such a city could require, and +nearly enough to gratify every caprice of a prince whose costly tastes +ranged over every theme, and found in each a pretext for reckless +expenditure. He was one of those men whom Nature, having gifted largely, +“takes out” the compensation by a disposition of instability and +fickleness that renders every acquirement valueless. He could have been +anything,—orator, poet, artist, soldier, statesman; and yet, in the +very diversity of his abilities there was that want of fixity of purpose +that left him ever short of success, till he himself, wearied by repeated +failures, distrusted his own powers, and ceased to exert them. +</p> +<p> +Such a man, under the hard pressure of a necessity, might have done great +things; as it was, born to a princely station, and with a vast fortune, he +became a reckless spendthrift,—a dreamy visionary at one time, an +enthusiastic dilettante at another. There was not a scheme of government +he had not eagerly embraced and abandoned in turn. He had attracted to his +little capital all that Europe could boast of artistic excellence, and as +suddenly he had thrown himself into the most intolerant zeal of Papal +persecution,—denouncing every species of pleasure, and ordaining a +more than monastic self-denial and strictness. There was only one mode of +calculating what he might be, which was, by imagining the very opposite to +what he then was. Extremes were his delight, and he undulated between +Austrian tyranny and democratic licentiousness in politics, just as he +vacillated between the darkest bigotry of his church and open infidelity. +</p> +<p> +At the time when we desire to present him to our readers (the exact year +is not material), he was fast beginning to weary of an interregnum of +asceticism and severity. He had closed theatres, and suppressed all public +rejoicings; and for an entire winter he had sentenced his faithful +subjects to the unbroken sway of the Priest and the Friar,—a species +of rule which had banished all strangers from the Duchy, and threatened, +by the injury to trade, the direst consequences to his capital. To have +brought the question formally before him in all its details would have +ensured the downfall of any minister rash enough for such daring. There +was, indeed, but one man about the court who had courage for the +enterprise; and to him we would devote a few lines as we pass. He was an +Englishman, named Stubber. He had originally come out to Italy with horses +for his Highness, and been induced, by good offers of employment, to +remain. He was not exactly stable-groom, nor trainer, nor was he of the +dignity of master of the stables; but he was something whose attributes +included a little of all, and something more. One thing he assuredly was,—a +consummately clever fellow, who could apply all his native Yorkshire +shrewdness to a new sphere, and make of his homespun faculties the keen +intelligence by which he could guide himself in novel and difficult +circumstances. +</p> +<p> +A certain freedom of speech, with a bold hardihood of character, based, it +is true, upon a conscious sense of honor, had brought him more than once +under the notice of the Prince. His Highness felt such pleasure in the +outspoken frankness of the man that he frequently took opportunities of +conversing with him, and even asking his advice. Never deterred by the +subject, whatever it was, Stubber spoke out his mind; and by the very +force of strong native sense, and an unswerving power of determination, +soon impressed his master that his best counsels were to be had from the +Yorkshire jockey, and not from the decorated and gilded throng who filled +the antechambers. +</p> +<p> +To elevate the groom to the rank of personal attendant, to create him a +Chevalier, and then a Count, were all easy steps to such a Prince. At the +time we speak of, Stubber was chief of the Cabinet,—the trusted +adviser of his master in knottiest questions of foreign politics, the +arbiter of the most difficult points with other states, the highest +authority in home affairs, and the absolute ruler over the Duke's +household and all who belonged to it. He was one of those men of action +who speedily distinguish themselves wherever the game of life is being +played. Smart to discern the character of those around him, prompt to +avail himself of their knowledge, little hampered by the scruples which +conventionalities impose on men bred in a higher station, he generally +attained his object before others had arranged their plans to oppose him. +To these qualities he added a rugged, unflinching honesty, and a loyal +attachment to the person of his Prince. Strong in his own conscious +rectitude, and in the confiding regard of his sovereign, Stubber stood +alone against all the wiles and machinations of his formidable rivals. +</p> +<p> +Were we giving a history of this curious court and its intrigues, we could +relate some strange stories of the mechanism by which states are ruled. We +have, however, no other business with the subject than as it enters into +the domain of our own story, and to this we return. +</p> +<p> +It was a calm evening of the early autumn, as the Prince, accompanied by +Stubber alone, and unattended by even a groom, rode along one of the +alleys of the olive wood which skirts the sea-shore beneath Massa. His +Highness was unusually moody and thoughtful, and as he sauntered +carelessly along, seemed scarcely to notice the objects about him. +</p> +<p> +“What month are we in, Stubber?” asked he, at length. +</p> +<p> +“September, Altezza,” was the short reply. +</p> +<p> +“<i>Per Bacco!</i> so it is; and in this very month we were to have been +in Bohemia with the Archduke Stephen,—the best shooting in all +Europe, and the largest stock of pheasants in the whole world, perhaps; +and I, that love field-sports as no man ever loved them! Eh, Stubber?” and +he turned abruptly round to seek a confirmation of what he asserted. +Either Stubber did not fully agree in the judgment, or did not deem it +necessary to record his concurrence; but the Prince was obliged to +reiterate his statement, adding, “I might say, indeed, it is the one +solitary dissipation I have ever permitted myself.” + </p> +<p> +Now, this was a stereotyped phrase of his Highness, and employed by him +respecting music, literature, field-sports, picture-buying, equipage, +play, and a number of other pursuits not quite so pardonable, in each of +which, for the time, his zeal would seem to be exclusive. +</p> +<p> +A scarcely audible ejaculation—a something like a grunt—from +Stubber, was the only assent to this proposition. +</p> +<p> +“And here I am,” added the Prince, testily, “the only man of my rank in +Europe, perhaps, without society, amusement, or pleasure, condemned to the +wearisome details of a petty administration, and actually a slave,—yes, +sir, I say, a slave—What the deuce is this? My horse is sinking +above his pasterns. Where are we, Stubber?” and with a vigorous dash of +the spurs he extricated himself from the deep ground. +</p> +<p> +“I often told your Highness that these lands were ruined for want of +drainage. You may remark how poor the trees are along here; the fruit, +too, is all deteriorated,—all for want of a little skill and +industry. And, if your Highness remarked the appearance of the people in +that village, every second man has the ague on him.” + </p> +<p> +“They did look very wretched. And why is it not drained? Why isn't +everything done as it ought, Stubber, eh?” + </p> +<p> +“Why is n't your Highness in Bohemia?” + </p> +<p> +“Want of means, my good Stubber; no money. My man, Landelli, tells me the +coffer is empty; and until this new tax on the Colza comes in, we shall +have to live on our credit or our wits,—I forget which, but I +conclude they are about equally productive.” + </p> +<p> +“Landelli is a <i>ladro</i>,” said Stubber. “He has money enough to build +a new wing to his château in Serravezza, and to give fifty thousand scudi +of fortune to his daughter, though he can't afford your Highness the +common necessaries of your station.” + </p> +<p> +“<i>Per Bacco!</i> Billy, you are right; you must look into these accounts +yourself. They always confuse me.” + </p> +<p> +“I <i>have</i> looked into them, and your Highness shall have two hundred +thousand francs to-morrow on your dressing-table, and as much more within +the week.” + </p> +<p> +“Well done, Billy! you are the only fellow who can unmask these rogueries. +If I had only had you with me long ago! Well! well! well! it is too late +to think of it. What shall we do with this money? Bohemia is out of the +question now. Shall we rebuild the San Felice? It is really too small; the +stage is crowded with twenty people on it. There's that gate towards +Carrara, when is it to be completed? There's a figure wanted for the +centre pedestal. As for the fountain, it must be done by the municipality. +It is essentially the interest of the townspeople. You 'd advise me to +spend the money in draining these low lands, or in a grant to that new +company for a pier at Marina; but I 'll not; I have other thoughts in my +head. Why should not this be the centre of art to the whole Peninsula? +Carrara is a city of sculptors. Why not concentrate their efforts here—by +a gallery? I have myself some glorious things,—the best group Canova +ever modelled; the original Ariadne too,—far finer than the thing +people go to see at Frankfort. Then there's Tanderini's Shepherd with the +Goats.—Who lives yonder, Stubber? What a beautiful garden it is!” + And he drew up short in front of a villa whose grounds were terraced in a +succession of gardens down to the very margin of the sea. Plants and +shrubs of other climates were mingled with those familiar to Italy, making +up a picture of singular beauty, by diversity of color and foliage. “Isn't +this the 'Ombretta,' Stubber?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, Altezza; but the Morelli have left it. It is let now to a stranger,—a +French lady. Some call her English, I believe.” + </p> +<p> +“To be sure; I remember. There was a demand about a formal permission to +reside here. Landelli advised me not to sign it,—that she might turn +out English, or have some claim upon England, which was quite equivalent +to placing the Duchy, and all within it, under that blessed thing they +call British protection.” + </p> +<p> +“There are worse things than even that,” muttered Stubber. +</p> +<p> +“British occupation, perhaps you mean; well, you may be right. At all +events, I did not take Landelli's advice, for I gave the permission, and I +have never heard more of her. She must be rich, I take it. See what order +this place is kept in; that conservatory is very large indeed, and the +orange-trees are finer than ours.” + </p> +<p> +“They seem very fine indeed,” said Stubber. +</p> +<p> +“I say, sir, that we have none such at the Palace. I'll wager a zecchino +they have come from Naples. And look at that magnolia: I tell you, +Stubber, this garden is very far superior to ours.” + </p> +<p> +“Your Highness has not been in the Palace gardens lately, perhaps. I was +there this morning, and they are really in admirable order.” + </p> +<p> +“I'll have a peep inside of these grounds, Stubber,” said the Duke, who, +no longer attentive to the other, only followed out his own train of +thought. At the same instant he dismounted, and, without giving himself +any trouble about his horse, made straight for a small wicket which lay +invitingly open in front of him. The narrow skirting of copse passed, the +Duke at once found himself in the midst of a lovely garden, laid out with +consummate skill and taste, and offering at intervals the most beautiful +views of the surrounding scenery. Although much of what he beheld around +him was the work of many years, there were abundant traces of innovation +and improvement. Some of the statues were recently placed, and a small +temple of Grecian architecture seemed to have been just restored. A heavy +curtain hung across the doorway; drawing back which, the Duke entered what +he at once perceived to be a sculptor's studio. Casts and models lay +carelessly about, and a newly begun group stood enshrouded in the wetted +drapery with which artists clothe their unfinished labors. No mean artist +himself, the Duke examined critically the figures before him; nor was he +long in perceiving that the artist had committed more than one fault in +drawing and proportion. “This is amateur work,” said he to himself; “and +yet not without cleverness, and a touch of genius too. Your dilettante +scorns anatomy, and will not submit to drudgery; hence, here are muscles +incorrectly developed, and their action ill expressed.” So saying, he sat +down before the model, and taking up one of the tools at his side, began +to correct some of the errors in the work. It was exactly the kind of task +for which his skill adapted him. Too impatient and too discursive to +accomplish anything of his own, he was admirably fitted to correct the +faults of another, and so he worked away vigorously,—totally +forgetting where he was, how he had come there, and as utterly oblivious +of Stubber, whom he had left without. Growing more and more interested as +he proceeded, he arose at length to take a better view of what he had +done, and, standing some distance off, exclaimed aloud, “<i>Per Bacco!</i> +I have made a good thing of it—there 's life in it now!” + </p> +<p> +“So indeed is there,” cried a gentle voice behind him; and, turning, he +beheld a young and very beautiful girl, whose dress was covered by the +loose blouse of a sculptor. “How I thank you for this!” said she, blushing +deeply, as she courtesied before him. “I have had no teaching, and never +till this moment knew how much I needed it.” + </p> +<p> +“And this is your work, then?” said the Duke, who turned again towards the +model. “Well, there is promise in it. There is even more. Still, you have +hard labor before you, if you would be really an artist. There is a +grammar in these things, and he who would speak the tongue must get over +the declensions. I know but little myself—” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, do not say so!” cried she, eagerly; “I feel that I am in a master's +presence.” + </p> +<p> +The Duke started, partly struck by the energy of her manner, in part by +the words themselves. It is often difficult for men in his station to +believe that they are not known and recognized; and so he stood wondering +at her, and thinking who she could be that did not know him to be the +Prince. “You mistake me,” said he, gently, and with that dignity which is +the birthright of those born to command. “I am but a very indifferent +artist. I have studied a little, it is true; but other pursuits and +idleness have swept away the small knowledge I once possessed, and left +me, as to art, pretty much as I am in morals,—that is, I know what +is right, but very often I can't accomplish it.” + </p> +<p> +“You are from Carrara, I conclude?” said the young girl, timidly, still +curious to hear more about him. +</p> +<p> +“Pardon me,” said he, smiling; “I am a native of Massa, and live here.” + </p> +<p> +“And are you not a sculptor by profession?” asked she, still more eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“No,” said he, laughing pleasantly; “I follow a more precarious trade, nor +can I mould the clay I work in so deftly.” + </p> +<p> +“At least you love art,” said she, with an enthusiasm heightened by the +changes he had effected in her group. +</p> +<p> +“Now it is my turn to question, Signorina,” said he, gayly. “Why, with a +talent like yours, have you not given yourself to regular study? You live +in a land where instruction should not be difficult to obtain. Carrara is +one vast studio; there must be many there who would not alone be willing, +but even proud, to have such a pupil. Have you never thought of this?” + </p> +<p> +“I have thought of it,” said she, pensively, “but my aunt, with whom I +live, desires to see no one, to know no one;—even now,” added she, +blushing deeply, “I find myself conversing with an utter stranger, in a +way—” She stopped, overwhelmed with confusion, and he finished her +sentence for her. +</p> +<p> +“In a way which shows how naturally a love of art establishes a confidence +between those who profess it.” As he spoke, the curtain was drawn back, +and a lady entered, who, though several years older, bore such a likeness +to the young girl that she might readily have been taken for her sister. +</p> +<p> +“It is at length time I should make my excuses for this intrusion, +madame,” said he, turning towards her; and then in a few words explained +how the accidental passing by the spot, and the temptation of the open +wicket, had led him to a trespass, “which,” added he, smiling, “I can only +say I shall be charmed if you will condescend to retaliate. I, too, have +some objects of art, and gardens which are thought worthy of a visit.” + </p> +<p> +“We live here, sir, apart from the world. It is for that reason we have +selected this residence,” replied she, coldly. +</p> +<p> +“I shall respect your seclusion, madame,” answered he, with a deep bow, +“and only beg once more to tender my sincere apologies for the past.” He +moved towards the door as he spoke, the ladies courtesied deeply, and, +with a still lowlier reverence, he passed out. +</p> +<p> +The Duke lingered in the garden, as though unwilling to leave the spot. +For a while some doubt as to whether he had been recognized passed through +his mind, but he soon satisfied himself that such was not the case, and +the singularity of the situation amused him. +</p> +<p> +“I am culling a souvenir, madame,” said he, plucking a moss-ross as the +lady passed. +</p> +<p> +“I will give you a better one, sir,” said she, detaching one from her +bouquet, and handing it to him. And so they parted. +</p> +<p> +“<i>Per Bacco!</i> Stubber, I have seen two very charming women. They are +evidently persons of condition; find out all about them, and let me hear +it to-morrow.” And so say-ing, his Highness rode away, thinking pleasantly +over his adventure, and fancying a hundred ways in which it might be +amusingly carried out. The life of princes is rarely fertile in surprises; +perhaps, therefore, the uncommon and unusual are the pleasantest of all +their sensations. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXVI. ITALIAN TROUBLES +</h2> +<p> +Stubber knew his master well. There was no need for any “perquisitions” on +his part; the ladies, the studio, and the garden were totally forgotten +ere nightfall. Some rather alarming intelligence had arrived from Carrara, +which had quite obliterated every memory of his late adventure. That +little town of artists had long been the resort of an excited class of +politicians, and it was more than rumored that the “Carbonari” had +established there a lodge of their order. Inflammatory placards had been +posted through the town—violent denunciations of the Government—vengeance, +even on the head of the sovereign, openly proclaimed, and a speedy day +promised when the wrongs of an enslaved people should be avenged in blood. +The messenger who brought the alarming tidings to Massa carried with him +many of the inflammatory documents, as well as several knives and +poniards, discovered by the activity of the police in a ruined building at +the sea-shore. No arrests had as yet been made, but the authorities were +in possession of information with regard to various suspicious characters, +and the police prepared to act at a moment's notice. +</p> +<p> +It was an hour after midnight when the Council met; and the Duke sat, +pale, agitated, and terrified, at the table, with Landelli, the Prime +Minister, Caprini, the Secretary for Foreign Affairs, and General +Ferrucio, the War Minister; a venerable ecclesiastic, Monsignore Abbati, +occupying the lowest place, in virtue of his humble station as confessor +of his Highness. He who of all others enjoyed his master's confidence, and +whose ready intelligence was most needed in the emergency, was not +present; his title of Minister of the Household not qualifying him for a +place at the Council. +</p> +<p> +Whatever the result, the deliberation was a long one. Even while it +continued, there was time to despatch a courier to Carrara, and receive +the answer he brought back; and when the Duke returned to his room, it was +already far advanced in the morning. Fatigued and harassed, he dismissed +his valet at once, and desired that Stubber might attend him. When he +arrived, however, his Highness had fallen off asleep, and lay, dressed as +he was, on his bed. +</p> +<p> +Stubber sat noiselessly beside his master, his mind deeply pondering over +the events which, although he had not been present at the Council, had all +been related to him. It was not the first time he had heard of that +formidable conspiracy, which, under the title of the Carbonari, had +established themselves in every corner of Europe. +</p> +<p> +In the days of his humbler fortune he had known several of them +intimately; he had been often solicited to join their band; but while +steadily refusing this, he had detected much which to his keen +intelligence savored of treachery to the cause amongst them. This cause +was necessarily recruited from those whose lives rejected all honest and +patient labor. They were the disappointed men of every station, from the +highest to the lowest. The ruined gentleman, the beggared noble, the +bankrupt trader, the houseless artisan, the homeless vagabond, were all +there; bold, daring, and energetic, fearless as to the present, reckless +as to the future. They sought for any change, no matter what, seeing that +in the convulsion their own condition must be bettered. Few troubled their +heads how these changes were to be accomplished; they cared little for the +real grievances they assumed to redress: their work was demolition. It was +to the hour of pillage alone they looked for the recompense of their +hardihood. Some, unquestionably, took a different view of the agencies and +the objects; dreamy, speculative men, with high aspirations, hoped that +the cruel wrongs which tyranny inflicted on many a European state might be +effectually curbed by a glorious freedom, when each man's actions should +be made comformable to the benefit of the community, and the will of all +be typified in the conduct of each. There was, however, another class, and +to these Stubber had given deep attention. It was a party whose singular +activity and energy were always in the ascendant,—ever suggesting +bold measures whose results could scarcely be more than menaces, and +advocating actions whose greatest effect could not rise above acts of +terror and dismay. And thus while the leaders plotted great political +convulsions, and the masses dreamed of sack and pillage, these latter +dealt in acts of assassination,—the vengeance of the poniard and the +poison-cup. These were the men Stubber had studied with no common +attention. He fancied he saw in them neither the dupes of their own +excited imaginations, nor the reckless followers of rapine, but an order +of men equal to the former by intelligence, but far transcending the last +in crime and infamy. In his own early experiences he had perceived that +more than one of these had expatriated themselves suddenly, carrying away +to foreign shores considerable wealth, and, that, too, under circumstances +where the acquisition of property seemed scarcely possible. Others he had +seen as suddenly, throwing off their political associates, rise into +stations of rank and power; and one memorable case he knew where the +individual had become the chief adviser of the very state whose +destruction he had sworn to accomplish. Such a one he now fancied he had +detected among the advisers of his Prince; and deeply ruminating on this +theme, he sat at the bedside. +</p> +<p> +“Is it a dream, Stubber, or have we really heard bad news from Carrara? +Has Fraschetti been stabbed, or not?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, your Highness, he has been stabbed exactly two inches below where he +was wounded in September last,—then, it was his pocket-book saved +him; now, it was your Highness's picture, which, like a faithful follower, +he always carried about him.” + </p> +<p> +“Which means, that you disbelieve the whole story.” + </p> +<p> +“Every word of it.” + </p> +<p> +“And the poniards found at the Bocca di Magra?” + </p> +<p> +“Found by those who placed them there.” + </p> +<p> +“And the proclamations?” + </p> +<p> +“Blundering devices. See, here is one of them, printed on the very paper +supplied to the Government offices. There 's he water-mark, with the crown +and your own cipher on it.” + </p> +<p> +“<i>Per Bacco!</i>so it is. Let me show this to Landelli.” + </p> +<p> +“Wait awhile, your Highness; let us trace this a little farther. No +arrests have been made?” + </p> +<p> +“None.” + </p> +<p> +“Nor will any. The object in view is already gained; they have terrified +you, and secured the next move.” + </p> +<p> +“What do you mean?” + </p> +<p> +“Simply, that they have persuaded you that this state is the hotbed of +revolutionists; that your own means of security and repression are unequal +to the emergency; that disaffection exists in the army; and that, whether +for the maintenance of the Government or your safety, you have only one +course remaining.” + </p> +<p> +“Which is—” + </p> +<p> +“To call in the Austrians.” + </p> +<p> +“<i>Per Bacco!</i> it is exactly what they have advised. How did you come +to know it? Who is the traitor at the Council-board?” + </p> +<p> +“I wish I could tell you the name of one who was not such. Why, your +Highness, these fellows are not <i>your</i> Ministers, except in so far as +they are paid by you. They are Metternich's people; they receive their +appointments from Vienna, and are only accountable to the cabinet held at +Schönbrunn. If wise and moderate counsels prevailed here, if our financial +measures prospered, if the people were happy and contented, how long, +think you, would Lombardy submit to be ruled by the rod and the bayonet? +Do you imagine that <i>you</i> will be suffered to give an example to the +Peninsula of a good administration?” + </p> +<p> +“But so it is,” broke in the Prince; “I defy any man to assert the +opposite. The country <i>is</i> prosperous, the people <i>are</i> +contented, the laws justly administered, and, I hesitate not to say, +myself as popular as any sovereign of Europe.” + </p> +<p> +“And I tell your Highness, just as distinctly, that the country is ground +down with taxation, even to export duties on the few things we have to +export; that the people are poor to the very verge of starvation; that if +they do not take to the highways as brigands, it is because some +traditions as honest men yet survive amongst them; that the laws only +exist as an agent of tyranny, arrest and imprisonment being at the mere +caprice of the authorities. Nor is there a means by which an innocent man +can demand his trial, and insist on being confronted with his accuser. +Your jails are full, crowded to a state of pestilence with supposed +political offenders, men that, in a free country, would be at large, +toiling industriously for their families, and whose opinions could never +be dangerous, if not festering in the foul air of a dungeon. And as to <i>your +own</i> popularity, all I say is, don't walk in the Piazza at Carrara +after dusk. No, nor even at noonday.” + </p> +<p> +“And you dare to speak thus to <i>me</i>, Stubber!” said the Prince, his +face covered with a deadly pallor as he spoke, and his white lips +trembling, but less in passion than in fear. +</p> +<p> +“And why not, sir? Of what value could such a man as I am be to your +service, if I were not to tell you what you 'll never hear from others,—the +plain, simple truth? Is it not clear enough that if I only thought of my +own benefit, I 'd say whatever you'd like best to hear?—I'd tell +you, like Landelli, that the taxes were well paid, or say, as Cerreccio +did t'other day, that your army would do credit to any state in Europe, +when he well knew at the time that the artillery was in mutiny from +arrears of pay, and the cavalry horses dying from short rations!” + </p> +<p> +“I am well weary of all this,” said the Duke, with a sigh. “If the half of +what I hear of my kingdom every day be but true, my lot in life is worse +than a galley-slave's. One assures me that I am bankrupt; another calls me +a vassal of Austria; a third makes me out a Papal spy; and <i>you</i> aver +that if I venture into the streets of my own town, in the midst of my own +people, I am almost sure to be assassinated!” + </p> +<p> +“Take no man's word, sir, for what, while you can see for yourself, it is +your own duty to ascertain,” said Stubber, resolutely. “If you really only +desire a life of ease and indolence, forgetting what you owe to yourself +and those you rule over, send for the Austrians. Ask for a brigade and a +general. You 'll have them for the asking. They 'd come at a word, and try +your people at the drum-head, and flog and shoot them with as little +disturbance to you as need be. You may pension off the judges; for a +court-martial is a far speedier tribunal, and a corporal's guard is quite +an economy in criminal justice. Trade will not, perhaps, prosper with +martial law, nor is a state of siege thought favorable to commerce. No +matter. You 'll sleep safe so long as you keep within doors, and the band +under your window will rouse the spirit of nationality in your heart, as +it plays, 'God preserve the Emperor!'” + </p> +<p> +“You forget yourself, sir, and you forget <i>me!</i>” said the Duke, +sternly, as he drew himself up, and threw a look of insolent pride at the +speaker. +</p> +<p> +“Mayhap I do, your Highness,” was the ready answer; “and out of that very +forgetfulness let your Highness take a warning. I say, once more, I +distrust the people about you; and as to this conspiracy at Carrara, I'll +wager a round sum on it that it was hatched on t 'other side of the Alps, +and paid for in good florins of the Holy Roman Empire. At all events, give +me time to investigate the matter. Let me have till the end of the week to +examine into it, and, if I find nothing to confirm my views, I 'll say not +one word against all the measures of precaution that your Council are bent +on importing from Austria.” + </p> +<p> +“Take your own way; I promise nothing,” said the Duke, haughtily; and, +with a motion of his hand, dismissed his adviser. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXVII. CARRARA +</h2> +<p> +To all the luxuriant vegetation and cultivated beauty of Massa, glowing in +the “golden glories” of its orange-groves,—steeped in the perfume of +its thousand gardens,—Carrara offers the very strongest contrast. +Built in a little cleft of the Apennines, it is begirt with great +mountains,—wild, barren, and desolate. Some, dark and precipitous, +have no traces in their sides but those of the torrents which are formed +by the melting snows; others show the white caves, as they are called, of +that pure marble which has made the name of the spot famous throughout +Europe. High in the mountain sides, escarped amidst rocks, and zig-zagging +over many a dangerous gorge and deep abyss, are the rough roads trodden by +the weary oxen,—trailing along their massive loads and straining +their stout chests to drag the great white blocks of glittering stone. Far +down below, crossed and recrossed by splashing torrents, sprinkled with +the spray of a hundred cataracts, stands Carrara itself,—a little +marble city of art, every house a studio, every citizen a sculptor. Hither +are sent all the marvellous conceptions of genius,—the models which +mighty imaginations have begotten,—to be converted into imperishable +stone. Here are the grand conceptions gathered for every land and clime, +treasures destined to adorn the great galleries of nations, or the +splendid palaces of kings. +</p> +<p> +Some of these studios are of imposing size and vast proportions, and not +devoid of a certain architectural pretension,—a group, a figure, or +a bas-relief usually adorning the space over the door, and by its subject +giving some indication of the tastes of the proprietor. Thus, Madonnas and +saints are of frequent occurrence; and the majority of the artists display +their faith by an image of the saint whose patronage they claim. Others +exhibit some ideal conception; and a few denote their nationality by the +bust of their sovereign, or some prince of his house. +</p> +<p> +One of these buildings, a short distance from the town, and so small as to +be little more than a mere crypt, was distinguished by the chaste and +simple elegance of its design, and the tasteful ornament with which its +owner had decorated the most minute details of the building. He was a +young artist who had arrived in Carrara friendless and unknown, but whose +abilities had soon obtained for him consideration and employment. At +first, the tasks intrusted to him were the humbler ones of friezes and +decorative art; but at length, his skill becoming acknowledged, to his +hands were confided the choicest conceptions of Danneker, the most rare +creations of Canova. Little or nothing was known of him; his habits were +of the strictest seclusion,—he went into no society, he formed no +friendships. His solitary life, after a while, ceased to attract any +notice; and men saw him pass, and come and go, without question,—almost +without greeting; and, save when some completed work was about to be +packed off to its destination, the name of Sebastian Greppi was rarely +heard in Carrara. +</p> +<p> +His strict retirement had not, however, exempted him from the jealous +suspicions of the authorities; on the contrary, the seeming mystery of his +life had sharpened their curiosity and aroused their zeal; and more than +once was he summoned to the Prefecture to answer some frivolous questions +about his passport or his means of subsistence. +</p> +<p> +It was on one of these errands that he stood one morning in the +antechamber of the Podestà's court, awaiting his turn to be called and +interrogated. The heat of a crowded chamber, the wearisome delay,—perhaps, +too, some vexation at the frequency of these irritating calls,—had +partially excited him; and when he was at length introduced, his manner +was confused, and his replies vague and almost wandering. +</p> +<p> +Two strangers, whose formal permission to reside were then being filled up +by a clerk, were accommodated with seats in the room, and listened with no +slight interest to a course of inquiry so strange and novel to their ears. +</p> +<p> +“Greppi!” cried the harsh voice of the President, “come forward;” and a +youth stood up, dressed in the blue blouse of a common workman, and +wearing the coarse shoes of the very humblest laborer; but yet, in the +calm dignity of his mien and the mild character of his sad but handsome +features, already proclaiming that he came of a class whose instincts +denote good blood. +</p> +<p> +“Greppi, you have a servant, it would seem, whose name is not in your +passport. How is this?” + </p> +<p> +“He is an humble friend who shares my fortunes, sir,” said the artist. +“They asked no passport from him when we crossed the Tuscan frontier; and +he has been here some months without any demand for one.” + </p> +<p> +“Does he assist you in your work?” + </p> +<p> +“He does, sir, by advice and counsel; but he is not a sculptor. Poor +fellow! he never dreamed that his presence here could have attracted any +remark.” + </p> +<p> +“His tongue and accent betray a foreign origin, Greppi?” + </p> +<p> +“Be it so,—so do mine, perhaps. Are we the less submissive to the +laws?” + </p> +<p> +“The laws can make themselves respected,” said the Podestà, sternly. +“Where is this man,—how is he called?” + </p> +<p> +“He is known as Guglielmo, sir. At this moment he is ill; he has caught +the fever of the Campagna, and is confined to bed.” + </p> +<p> +“We shall send to ascertain the fact,” was the reply. +</p> +<p> +“Then my word is doubted!” said the youth haughtily. +</p> +<p> +The Podestà started, but more in amazement than anger. There was, indeed, +enough to astonish him in the haughty ejaculation of the poorly clad boy. +</p> +<p> +“I am given to believe that you are not—as your passport would imply—a +native of Capri, nor a Neapolitan born,” said the Podestà. +</p> +<p> +“If my passport be regular and my conduct blameless, what have you or any +one to do with my birthplace? Is there any charge alleged against me?” + </p> +<p> +“You are forgetting where you are, boy; but I may take measures to remind +you of it,” said the Podestà, whispering to a sergeant of the gendarmes at +his side. +</p> +<p> +“I hope I have said nothing that could offend you,” said the boy, eagerly; +“I scarcely know what I have said. My wish is to submit myself in all +obedience to the laws; to live quietly and follow my trade. If my presence +here give displeasure to the authorities, I will, however sorry, take my +departure, though I cannot say whither to.” The last words were uttered +falteringly, and in a kind of soliloquy, and only overheard by the two +strangers, who now, having received their papers, arose to withdraw. +</p> +<p> +“Will you call at our inn and speak with us? That's my card,” said one, as +he passed out, and gave a visiting-card into the youth's hand. +</p> +<p> +He took it without a word; indeed, he was too deeply engaged in his own +thoughts to pay much attention to the request. +</p> +<p> +“The sergeant will accompany you, my good youth, to your lodgings, and +verify what you have stated as to your companion. To-morrow you will +appear here again, to answer certain questions we shall put to you as to +your subsistence, and the means by which you live.” + </p> +<p> +“Is it a crime to have wherewithal to subsist upon?” asked the boy. +</p> +<p> +“He whose means of living are disproportionate to his evident station may +well be an object of suspicion,” said the other, with a sneer. +</p> +<p> +“And who is to say what is my station, or what becomes it? Will <i>you</i> +take upon you to pronounce upon the question?” cried the boy, boldly. +</p> +<p> +“Mayhap it is what I shall do very soon!” was the calm answer. +</p> +<p> +“Then let me have done with this. I'll leave the place as soon as my +friend be able to bear removal.” + </p> +<p> +“Even that I 'll not promise for.” + </p> +<p> +“Why, you 'll not detain me here by force?” exclaimed the youth. \ +</p> +<p> +A cold, ambiguous smile was the only reply he received to this speech. +</p> +<p> +“Well, let us see when this restraint is to begin,” cried the boy, +passionately, as he moved towards the door; but no impediment was offered +to his departure. On the contrary, the servant, at a signal from the +Prefect, threw wide the two sides of the folding-doors, and the youth +passed out, down the stairs, and into the street. +</p> +<p> +His mind obscured by passion, his heart bursting with indignation, he +threaded his way through many a narrow lane and alley, till he reached a +small rustic bridge, crossing over which he ascended a narrow flight of +steps cut in the solid rock, and gained a little terrace, on which stood a +small cottage of the humblest kind. +</p> +<p> +As usual in Italy, during the summer-time, the glass sashes of the windows +had been removed, and the shutters closed. Opening one of these gently +with his hand, he peeped in, and as suddenly a voice cried out, “Are you +come back? Oh, how my heart was aching to see you here again! Come in +quickly, and let me touch your hand.” + </p> +<p> +The next moment the boy was seated by the bed, where lay a man greatly +emaciated by sickness, and bearing in his worn features the traces of a +severe tertian. +</p> +<p> +“It's going off now,” said he, “but the fit was a long one. This morning +it began at eight o'clock; but I 'm throwing it off now, and I 'll soon be +better.” + </p> +<p> +“My poor fellow,” said the boy, caressing the cold fingers within his own +hands, “it was in these midnight rambles of mine you caught the terrible +malady. As it ever has been, your fidelity is fatal to you. I told you a +thousand times that I was born to hard luck, and carried more than enough +to swamp all who might try to succor me. +</p> +<p> +“And don't I say, as the ould heathen philosopher did of fortune, 'Nullum +numen habes, si sit prudentia'?” Is it necessary to say that the speaker +was Billy Traynor, and the boy his pupil? +</p> +<p> +“<i>Prudentia</i>,” said the youth, scoffingly, “may mean anything, from +trickery to downright meanness; since, by such acts as these, men grow +great in life. <i>Prudentia</i> is thrift and self-denial; but it is more +too,—it is a compromise between a man's dignity and his worldly +success—it is the compact that says, Bear <i>this</i> that <i>that</i> +may happen; and so I 'll none of it.” + </p> +<p> +“Tell me how you fared with the Prefect,” asked Billy. +</p> +<p> +“You shall hear, and judge for yourself,” said the other; and related, as +well as his memory would serve him, the circumstances of his late +interview. +</p> +<p> +“Well, well!” said Billy, “it might be worse.” + </p> +<p> +“I knew you 'd say so, poor fellow!” said the youth, affectionately; “you +accept the rubs of life as cheerfully as I take them with impatience. But, +after all, this is matter of temperament too. <i>You</i> can forgive,—I +love better to resist.” + </p> +<p> +“Mine is the better philosophy, though,” said Billy, “since it will last +one's lifetime. Forgiveness must dignify old age, when your virtue of +resistance be no longer possible.” + </p> +<p> +“I never wish to reach the time when I may be too old for it,” said the +boy, passionately. +</p> +<p> +“Hush! don't say that. It's not for you to determine how long you are to +live, nor in what frame of mind years are to find you.” He paused, and +there was a long unbroken silence between them. +</p> +<p> +“I have been at the post,” said the youth, at last, “and found that +letter, which, by the Neapolitan postmark, must have been despatched many +weeks since.” + </p> +<p> +Billy Traynor took up the letter, whose seal was yet unbroken, and having +examined it carefully, returned it to him, saying, “You did n't answer his +last, I think?” + </p> +<p> +“No; and I half hoped he might have felt offended, and given up the +correspondence. What have we to do with ambassadors or great ministers, +Billy? Ours is not the grand highway in life, but the humble path on the +mountain side.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm content if it only lead upwards,” said the sick man; and the words +were uttered firmly, but with the solemn fervor of prayer. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXVIII. A NIGHT SCENE +</h2> +<p> +As young Massy—for so we like best to call him—sat with the +letter in his hand, a card fell to the ground from between his fingers, +and, taking it up, he read the name “Lord Selby.” + </p> +<p> +“What does this mean, Billy?” asked he; “whom can it belong to? Oh, I +remember now. There were some strangers at the Podestà's office this +morning when I was there; and one of them asked me to call at this inn, +and speak with them.” + </p> +<p> +“He has seen the 'Alcibiades,'” exclaimed Billy, eagerly. “He has been at +the studio?” + </p> +<p> +“How should he?” rejoined the youth. “I have not been there myself for two +days: here is the key!” + </p> +<p> +“He has heard of it then,—of that I'm certain; since he could not be +in town here an hour without some one telling him of it.” Massy smiled +half sadly, and shook his head. “Go and see him, at all events,” said +Billy; “and be sure to put on your coat and a hat; for one would n't know +what ye were at all, in that cap and dirty blouse.” + </p> +<p> +“I'll go as I am, or not at all,” said the other, rising. “I am Sebastian +Greppi, a young sculptor. At least,” added he, bitterly, “I have about the +same right to that name that I have to any other.” He turned abruptly away +as he spoke, and gained the open air. There for a few moments he stood +seemingly irresolute, and then, wiping away a heavy tear that had fallen +on his cheek, he slowly descended the steps towards the bridge. +</p> +<p> +When he reached the inn, the strangers had just dined, but left word that +when he called he should be introduced at once, and Massy followed the +waiter into a small garden, where, in a species of summer-house, they were +seated at their wine. One of them arose courteously as the youth came +forward, and placing a chair for him, and filling out a glass of wine, +invited him to join them. +</p> +<p> +“Give him one of your cigars, Baynton,” said the other; “they are better +than mine.” And Massy accepted, and began smoking without a word. +</p> +<p> +“That fellow at the police-office gave you no further trouble, I hope,” + said my lord, in a half-languid tone, and with that amount of difficulty +that showed he was no master of Italian. +</p> +<p> +“No,” replied Massy; “for the present, he has done nothing more. I 'm not +so certain, however, that to-morrow or next day I shall not be ordered +away from this.” + </p> +<p> +“On what grounds?” + </p> +<p> +“Suspicion,—Heavens knows of what!” + </p> +<p> +“That's infamous, I say. Eh, Baynton?” + </p> +<p> +“Detestable,” muttered the other. +</p> +<p> +“And whereto can you go?” + </p> +<p> +“I scarcely know as yet, since the police are in communication throughout +the whole Peninsula, and they transmit your character from state to +state.” + </p> +<p> +“They 'd not credit this in England, Baynton!” + </p> +<p> +“No, not a word of it!” rejoined the other. +</p> +<p> +“You 're a Neapolitan, I think I heard him say.” + </p> +<p> +“So my passport states.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah, he won't say that he is one, though,” interposed his Lordship, in +English. “Do you mind that, Baynton?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, I remarked it,” was the reply. +</p> +<p> +“And how came you here originally?” asked Selby, turning towards the +youth. +</p> +<p> +“I came here to study and to work. There is always enough to be had to do +in this place, copying the works of great masters; and at one's spare +moments there is time to try something of one's own.” + </p> +<p> +“And have you done anything of that kind?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, I have begun. I have attempted two or three.” + </p> +<p> +“We should like to see them,—eh, Baynton?” + </p> +<p> +“Of course, when we 've finished our wine. It's not far off, is it?” + </p> +<p> +“A few minutes' walk; but not worth even that, when the place is full of +things really worth seeing. There's Danneker's 'Bathing Nymph,' and +Canova's 'Dead Cupid,' and Rauch's 'Antigone,' all within reach.” + </p> +<p> +“Mind that, Baynton; we must see all these to-morrow. Could you come about +with us, and show us what we ought to see?” + </p> +<p> +“Who knows if I shall not be on the road to-morrow?” said the youth, +smiling faintly. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, I think not, if there's really nothing against you; if it's only mere +suspicion.” + </p> +<p> +“Just so!” said the other, and drank off his wine. +</p> +<p> +“And you are able to make a good thing of it here,—by copying, I +mean?” asked his Lordship, languidly. +</p> +<p> +“I can live,” said the youth; “and as I labor very little and idle a great +deal, that is saying enough, perhaps.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm not sure the police are not right about him, after all, Baynton,” + said his Lordship; “he doesn't seem to care much about his trade;” and +Massy was unable to repress a smile at the remark. +</p> +<p> +“You don't understand English, do you?” asked Selby, with a degree of +eagerness very unusual to him. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, I am English by birth,” was the answer. +</p> +<p> +“English! and how came you to call yourself a Neapolitan? What was the +object of that?” + </p> +<p> +“I wished to excite less notice and less observation here, and, if +possible, to escape the jealousy with which Englishmen are regarded by the +authorities; for this I obtained a passport at Naples.” + </p> +<p> +Baynton eyed him suspiciously as he spoke, and as he sipped his wine +continued to regard him with a keen glance. +</p> +<p> +“And how did you manage to get a Neapolitan passport?” + </p> +<p> +“Our Minister, Sir Horace Upton, managed that for me.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, you are known to Sir Horace, then?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes.” + </p> +<p> +A quick interchange of looks between my lord and his friend showed that +they were by no means satisfied that the young sculptor was simply a +worker in marble and a fashioner in modelling-clay. +</p> +<p> +“Have you heard from Sir Horace lately?” asked Lord Selby. +</p> +<p> +“I received this letter to-day, but I have not read it;” and he showed the +unopened letter as he spoke. +</p> +<p> +“The police may, then, have some reasonable suspicions about your +residence here,” said his Lordship, slowly. +</p> +<p> +“My Lord,” said Massy, rising, “I have had enough of this kind of +examination from the Podestà himself this morning, not to care to pass my +evening in a repetition of it. Who I am, what I am, and with what object +here, are scarcely matters in which you have any interest, and assuredly +were not the subjects on which I expected you should address me. I beg now +to take my leave.” He moved towards the garden as he spoke, bowing +respectfully to each. +</p> +<p> +“Wait a moment; pray don't go,—sit down again,—I never meant,—of +course I could n't mean so,—eh, Baynton?” said his Lordship, +stammering in great confusion. +</p> +<p> +“Of course not,” broke in Baynton; “his Lordship's inquiries were really +prompted by a sincere desire to serve you.” + </p> +<p> +“Just so,—a sincere desire to serve you.” + </p> +<p> +“In fact, seeing you, as I may say, in the toils.” + </p> +<p> +“Exactly so,—in the toils.” + </p> +<p> +“He thought very naturally that his influence and his position might,—you +understand,—for these fellows know perfectly well what an English +peer is,—they take a proper estimate of the power of Great Britain.” + </p> +<p> +His Lordship nodded assentingly, as though any stronger corroboration +might not be exactly graceful on his part, and Baynton went on:— +</p> +<p> +“Now you perfectly comprehend why,—you see at once the whole thing; +and I 'm sure, instead of feeling any soreness or irritation at my lord's +interference, that in point of fact—” + </p> +<p> +“Just so,” broke in his Lordship, pressing Massy into a seat at his side,—“just +so; that's it!” + </p> +<p> +It requires no ordinary tact for any man to reseat himself at a table from +which he has risen in anger or irritation, and Massy had far too little +knowledge of life to overcome this difficulty gracefully. He tried, +indeed, to seem at ease, he endeavored even to be cheerful; but the +efforts were all unsuccessful. My lord was no very acute observer at any +time; he was, besides, so constitutionally indolent that the company which +exacted least was ever the most palatable to him. As for Baynton, he was +only too happy whenever least reference was made to his opinion, and so +they sat and sipped their wine with wonderfully little converse between +them. +</p> +<p> +“You have a statue, or a group, or something or other, have n't you?” said +my lord, after a very long interval. +</p> +<p> +“I have a half-finished model,” said the youth, not without a certain +irritation at the indifference of his questioner. +</p> +<p> +“Scarcely light enough to look at it to-night,—eh, Baynton?” + </p> +<p> +“Scarcely!” was the dry answer. +</p> +<p> +“We can go in the morning though, eh?” + </p> +<p> +The other nodded a cool assent. +</p> +<p> +My lord now filled his glass, drank it off, and refilled, with the air of +a man nerving himself for a great undertaking,—and such was indeed +the case. He was about to deliver himself of a sentiment, and the occasion +was one to which Baynton could not lend his assistance. +</p> +<p> +“I have been thinking,” said he, “that if that same estate we spoke of, +Baynton,—that Welsh property, you know, and that thing in Ireland,—should +fall in, I 'd buy some statues and have a gallery!” + </p> +<p> +“Devilish costly work you'd find it,” muttered Baynton. +</p> +<p> +“Well, I suppose it is,—not more so than a racing stable, after +all.” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps not.” + </p> +<p> +“Besides, I look upon that property—if it does ever come to me—as +a kind of windfall; it was one of those pieces of fortune one could n't +have expected, you know.” Then, turning towards the youth, as if to +apologize for a discussion in which he could take no part, he said, “We +were talking of a property which, by the eccentricity of its owner, may +one day become mine.” + </p> +<p> +“And which doubtless some other had calculated on inheriting,” said the +youth. +</p> +<p> +“Well, that may be very true; I never thought about that,—eh, +Baynton?” + </p> +<p> +“Why should you?” was the short response. +</p> +<p> +“Gain and loss, loss and gain,” muttered the youth, moodily, “are the laws +of life.” + </p> +<p> +“I say, Baynton, what a jolly moonlight there is out there in the garden! +Would n't it be a capital time this to see your model, eh?” + </p> +<p> +“If you are disposed to take the trouble,” said the youth, rising, and +blushing modestly; and the others stood up at the same moment. +</p> +<p> +Nothing passed between them as they followed the young sculptor through +many an intricate by-way and narrow lane, and at last reached the little +stream on whose bank stood his studio. +</p> +<p> +“What have we here!” exclaimed Baynton as he saw it; “is this a little +temple?” + </p> +<p> +“It is my workshop,” said the boy, proudly, and produced the key to open +the door. +</p> +<p> +Scarcely had he crossed the threshold, however, than his foot struck a +roll of papers, and, stooping down, he caught up a large placard, headed, +“Morte al Tiranno,” in large capitals. Holding the sheet up to the +moonlight, he saw that it contained a violent and sanguinary appeal to the +wildest passions of the Carbonari,—one of those savage exhortations +to bloodshedding which were taken from the terrible annals of the French +Revolution. Some of these bore the picture of the guillotine at top, +others were headed with cross poniards. +</p> +<p> +“What are all these about?” asked Baynton, as he took up three or four of +them in his hand; but the youth, overcome with terror, could make no +answer. +</p> +<p> +“These are all <i>sans-culotte</i> literature, I take it,” said his +Lordship; but the youth was stupefied and silent. +</p> +<p> +“Has there been any treachery at work here?” asked Baynton. “Is there a +scheme to entrap you?” + </p> +<p> +The youth nodded a melancholy and slow assent. +</p> +<p> +“But why should you be obnoxious to these people? Have you any enemies +amongst them?” + </p> +<p> +“I cannot tell,” gloomily muttered the youth. +</p> +<p> +“And this is your statue?” said Baynton, as, opening a large shutter, he +suffered a flood of moonlight to fall on the figure. +</p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0002" id="linkimage-0002"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/glen0242.jpg" alt="242 " width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +“Fine!—a work of great merit, Baynton,” broke in his Lordship, whose +apathy was at last overcome by admiration. But the youth stood regardless +of their comments, his eyes bent upon the ground; nor did he heed them as +they moved from side to side, examining the statue in all its details, and +in words of high praise speaking their approval. +</p> +<p> +“I'll buy this,” muttered his Lordship. “I'll give him an order, too, for +another work,—leaving the subject to himself.” + </p> +<p> +“A clever fellow, certainly,” replied the other. +</p> +<p> +“Whom does he mean the figure to represent?” + </p> +<p> +“It is Alcibiades as he meets his death,” broke in the youth; “he is +summoned to the door as though to welcome a friend, and he falls pierced +by a poisoned arrow,—there is but legend to warrant the fact. I +cared little for the incident,—I was full of the man, as he +contended with seven chariots in the Olympic games, and proudly rode the +course with his glittering shield of ivory and gold, and his waving locks +all perfumed. I thought of him in his gorgeous panoply, and his +voluptuousness; lion-hearted and danger-seeking, pampering the very flesh +he offered to the spears of the enemy. I pictured him to my mind, +embellishing life with every charm, and daring death in every shape,—beautiful +as Apollo, graceful as the bounding Mercury, bold as Achilles, the lion's +whelp, as Æschylus calls him. This,” added he, in a tone of depression,—“this +is but a sorry version of what my mind had conceived.” + </p> +<p> +“I arrest you, Sebastiano Greppi,” said a voice from behind; and suddenly +three gendarmes surrounded the youth, who stood still and speechless with +terror, while a mean-looking man in shabby black gathered up the printed +proclamations that lay about, and commenced a search for others throughout +the studio. +</p> +<p> +“Ask them will they take our bail for his appearance, Baynton,” said my +lord, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“No use,—they 'd only laugh at us,” was the reply. +</p> +<p> +“Can we be of any service to you? Is there anything we can do?” asked his +Lordship of the boy. +</p> +<p> +“You must not communicate with the prisoner, signore,” cried the +brigadier, “if you don't wish to share his arrest.” + </p> +<p> +“And this, doubtless,” said the man in black, standing, and holding up the +lantern to view the statue,—“this is the figure of Liberty we have +heard of, pierced by the deadly arrow of Tyranny!” + </p> +<p> +“You hear them!” cried the boy, in wild indignation, addressing the +Englishmen; “you hear how these wretches draw their infamous allegations! +But this shall not serve them as a witness.” And with a spring he seized a +large wooden mallet from the floor, and dashed the model in pieces. +</p> +<p> +A cry of horror and rage burst from the bystanders, and as the Englishmen +stooped in sorrow over the broken statue, the gendarmes secured the boy's +wrists with a stout cord, and led him away. +</p> +<p> +“Go after them, Baynton; tell them he is an Englishman, and that if he +comes to harm they 'll hear of it!” cried my lord, eagerly; while he +muttered in a lower tone, “I think we might knock these fellows over and +liberate him at once, eh, Baynton?” + </p> +<p> +“No use if we did,” replied the other; “they'd overpower us afterwards. +Come along to the inn; we'll see about it in the morning.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXIX. A COUNCIL OF STATE +</h2> +<p> +It was a fine mellow evening of the late autumn as two men sat in a large +and handsomely furnished chamber opening upon a vast garden. There was +something in the dim half-light, the heavily perfumed air, rich with the +odor of the orange and the lime, and the stillness, that imparted a sense +of solemnity to the scene, where, indeed, few words were interchanged, and +each seemed to ponder long after every syllable of the other. +</p> +<p> +We have no mysteries with our reader, and we hasten to say that one of +these personages was the Chevalier Stubber,—confidential minister of +the Duke of Massa; the other was our old acquaintance Billy Traynor. If +there was some faint resemblance in the fortunes of these two men, who, +sprung from the humblest walks of life, had elevated themselves by their +talents to a more exalted station, there all likeness between them ended. +Each represented, in some of the very strongest characteristics, a +nationality totally unlike that of the other: the Saxon, blunt, imperious, +and decided; the Celt, subtle, quick-sighted, and suspicious, distrustful +of all, save his own skill in a moment of difficulty. +</p> +<p> +“But you have not told me his real name yet,” said the Chevalier, as he +slowly smoked his cigar, and spoke with the half-listlessness of a +careless inquirer. +</p> +<p> +“I know that, sir,” said Billy, cautiously; “I don't see any need of it.” + </p> +<p> +“Nor your own, either,” remarked the other. +</p> +<p> +“Nor even that, sir,” responded Billy, calmly. +</p> +<p> +“It comes to this, then, my good friend,” rejoined Stubber, “that, having +got yourself into trouble, and having discovered, by the aid of a +countryman, that a little frankness would serve you greatly, you prefer to +preserve a mystery that I could easily penetrate if I cared for it, to +speaking openly and freely, as a man might with one of his own.” + </p> +<p> +“We have no mysteries, sir. We have family secrets that don't regard any +one but ourselves. My young ward, or pupil, whichever I ought to call him, +has, maybe, his own reasons for leading a life of unobtrusive obscurity, +and what one may term an umbrageous existence. It's enough for me to know +that, to respect it.” + </p> +<p> +“Come, come, all this is very well if you were at liberty, or if you stood +on the soil of your own country; but remember where you are now, and what +accusations are hanging over you. I have here beside me very grave charges +indeed,—constant and familiar intercourse with leaders of the +Carbonari—” + </p> +<p> +“We don't know one of them,” broke in Billy. +</p> +<p> +“Correspondence with others beyond the frontier,” continued the Chevalier. +</p> +<p> +“Nor that either,” interrupted Billy. +</p> +<p> +“Treasonable placards found by the police in the very hands of the +accused; insolent conduct to the authorities when arrested; attempted +escape: all these duly certified on oath.” + </p> +<p> +“Devil may care for that; oaths are as plenty with these blaguards as +clasp-knives, and for the same purpose too. Here's what it is, now,” said +he, crossing his arms on the table, and staring steadfastly at the other: +“we came here to study and work, to perfect ourselves in the art of +modellin', with good studies around us; and, more than all, a quiet, +secluded little spot, with nothing to distract our attention, or take us +out of a mind for daily labor. That we made a mistake, is clear enough. +Like everywhere else in this fine country, there's nothing but tyrants on +one side, and assassins on the other; and meek and humble as we lived, we +could n't escape the thievin' blaguards of spies.” + </p> +<p> +“Do you know the handwriting of this address?” said the Chevalier, showing +a sealed letter directed to Sebastiano Greppi, Sculptore, Carrara. +</p> +<p> +“Maybe I do, maybe I don't,” was the gruff reply. “Won't you let me finish +what I was savin'?” + </p> +<p> +“This letter was found in the possession of the young prisoner, and is of +some consequence,” continued the other, totally inattentive to the +question. +</p> +<p> +“I suppose a letter is always of consequence to him it's meant for,” was +the half-sulky reply. “Sure you 're not goin' to break the seal—sure +you don't mean to read it!” exclaimed he, almost springing from his seat +as he spoke. +</p> +<p> +“I don't think I'd ask your permission for anything I think fit to do, my +worthy fellow,” said the other, sternly; and then, passing across the +room, he summoned a gendarme, who waited at the door, to enter. +</p> +<p> +“Take this man back to the Fortezza,” said he, calmly; and while Billy +Traynor slowly followed the guard, the other seated himself leisurely at +the table, lighted his candles, and perused the letter. Whether +disappointed by the contents, or puzzled by the meaning, he sat long +pondering with the document before him. +</p> +<p> +It was late in the night when a messenger came to say that his Highness +desired to see him; and Stubber arose at once, and hastened to the Duke's +chamber. +</p> +<p> +In a room studiously plain and simple in all its furniture, and on a low, +uncurtained bed, lay the Prince, half dressed, a variety of books and +papers littering the table, and even the floor at his side. Maps, prints, +colored drawings,—some representing views of Swiss scenery, others +being portraits of opera celebrities,—were mingled with illuminated +missals and richly-embossed rosaries; while police reports, petitions, +rose-colored billets and bon-bons, made up a mass of confusion wonderfully +typical of the illustrious individual himself. +</p> +<p> +Stubber had scarcely crossed the threshold of the room when he appeared to +appreciate the exact frame of his master's mind. It was the very essence +of his tact to catch in a moment the ruling impulse which swayed for a +time that strange and vacillating nature, and he had but to glance at him +to divine what was passing within. +</p> +<p> +“So then,” broke out the Prince, “here we are actually in the very midst +of revolution. Marocchi has been stabbed in the Piazza of Carrara. Is it a +thing to laugh at, sir?” + </p> +<p> +“The wound has only been fatal to the breast of his surtout, your +Highness; and so adroitly given, besides, that it does not correspond with +the incision in his waistcoat.” + </p> +<p> +“You distrust everyone and everything, Stubber; and, of course, you +attribute all that is going forward to the police.” + </p> +<p> +“Of course I do, your Highness. They predict events with too much accuracy +not to have a hand in their fulfilment. I knew three weeks ago when this +outbreak was to occur, who was to be assassinated,—since that is the +phrase for Marocchi's mock wound,—who was to be arrested, and the +exact nature of the demand the Council would make of your Royal Highness +to suppress the troubles.” + </p> +<p> +“And what was that?” asked the Duke, grasping a paper in his hand as he +spoke. +</p> +<p> +“An Austrian division, with a half-battery of field-artillery, a +judge-advocate to try the prisoners, and a provost-marshal to shoot them.” + </p> +<p> +“And you 'd have me believe that all these disturbances are deliberate +plots of a party who desire Austrian influence in the Duchy?” cried the +Duke, eagerly. “There may be really something in what you suspect. Here's +a letter I have just received from La Sabloukoff,—she 's always +keen-sighted; and <i>she</i> thinks that the Court at Vienna is playing +out here the game that they have not courage to attempt in Lombardy. What +if this Wahnsdorf was a secret agent in the scheme, eh, Stubber?” + </p> +<p> +Stubber started with well-affected astonishment, and appeared as if +astounded at the keen acuteness of the Duke's suggestion. +</p> +<p> +“Eh!” cried his Highness, in evident delight. “That never occurred to <i>you</i>, +Stubber? I'd wager there's not a man in the Duchy could have hit that plot +but myself.” + </p> +<p> +Stubber nodded sententiously, without a word. +</p> +<p> +“I never liked that fellow,” resumed the Duke. “I always had my suspicion +about that half-reckless, wasteful manner he had. I know that I was alone +in this opinion, eh, Stubber? It never struck <i>you?</i>” + </p> +<p> +“Never! your Highness, never!” replied Stubber, frankly. +</p> +<p> +“I can't show you the Sabloukoff's letter, Stubber, there are certain +private details for my own eye alone; but she speaks of a young sculptor +at Carrara, a certain—Let me find his name. Ah! here it is, +Sebastian Greppi, a young artist of promise, for whom she bespeaks our +protection. Can you make him out, and let us see him?” + </p> +<p> +Stubber bowed in silence. +</p> +<p> +“I will give him an order for something. There's a pedestal in the +flower-garden where the Psyche stood. You remember, I smashed the Psyche, +because it reminded me of Camilla Monti. He shall design a figure for that +place. I 'd like a youthful Bacchus. I have a clever sketch of one +somewhere; and it shall be tinted,—slightly tinted. The Greeks +always colored their statues. Strange enough, too; for, do you remark, +Stubber, they never represented the iris of the eye, which the Romans +invariably did. And yet, if you observe closely, you'll see that the +eyelid implies the direction of the eye more accurately than in the Roman +heads. I 'm certain you never detected what I 'm speaking of, eh, +Stubber?” + </p> +<p> +Stubber candidly confessed that he had not, and listened patiently while +his master descanted critically on the different styles of art, and his +own especial tact and skill in discriminating between them. +</p> +<p> +“You'll look after these police returns, then, Stubber,” said he, at last. +“You'll let these people understand that we can suffice for the +administration of our own duchy. We neither want advice from Metternich, +nor battalions from Radetzky. The laws here are open to every man; and if +we have any claim to the gratitude of our people, it rests on our +character for justice.” + </p> +<p> +While he spoke with a degree of earnestness that indicated sincerity, +there was something in the expression of his eye—a half-malicious +drollery in its twinkle—that made it exceedingly difficult to say +whether his words were uttered in honesty of purpose, or in mere mockery +and derision. Whether Stubber rightly understood their import is more than +we are able to say; but it is very probable that he was, with all his +shrewdness, mystified by one whose nature was a puzzle to himself. +</p> +<p> +“Let Marocchi return to Carrara. Say we have taken the matter into our own +hands. Change the brigadier in command of the gendarmerie there. Tell the +<i>canonico</i> Baldetti that we look to <i>him</i> and his deacons for +true reports of any movement that is plotting in the town. I take no steps +with regard to Wahnsdorf for the present, but let him be closely watched. +And then, Stubber, send off an <i>estafetta</i> to Pietra Santa for the +ortolans, for I think we have earned our breakfast by all this attention +to state affairs.” And then, with a laugh whose accents gave not the very +faintest clew to its meaning, he lay back on his pillow again. +</p> +<p> +“And these two prisoners, your Highness, what is to be done with them?” + </p> +<p> +“Whatever you please, Stubber. Give them the third-class cross of Massa, +or a month's imprisonment, at your own good pleasure. Only, no more +business,—no papers to sign, no schemes to unravel; and so good +night.” And the Chevalier retired at once from a presence which he well +knew resented no injury so unmercifully as any invasion of his personal +comfort. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXX. THE LIFE THEY LED AT MASSA +</h2> +<p> +It was with no small astonishment young Massy heard that he and his +faithful follower were not alone restored to liberty, but that an order of +his Highness had assigned them a residence in a portion of the palace, and +a promise of future employment. +</p> +<p> +“This smacks of Turkish rather than of European rule,” said the youth. “In +prison yesterday,—in a palace to-day. My own fortunes are wayward +enough, Heaven knows, not to require any additional ingredient of +uncertainty. What think you, Traynor?” + </p> +<p> +“I'm thinkin',” said Billy, gravely, “that as the bastes of the field are +guided by their instincts to objects that suit their natures, so man +ought, by his reason, to be able to pilot himself in difficulties,—choosin' +this, avoidin' that; seein' by the eye of prophecy where a road would lead +him, and makin' of what seem the accidents of life, steppin'-stones to +fortune.” + </p> +<p> +“In what way does your theory apply here?” cried the other. “How am I to +guess whither this current may carry me?” + </p> +<p> +“At all events, there's no use wastin' your strength by swimmin' against +it,” rejoined Billy. +</p> +<p> +“To be the slave of some despot's whim,—the tool of a caprice that +may elevate me to-day, and to-morrow sentence me to the gallows. The +object I have set before myself in life is to be independent. Is this, +then, the road to it?” + </p> +<p> +“You 're tryin' to be what no man ever was, or will be, to the world's +end, then,” said Billy. “Sure it's the very nature and essence of our life +here below that we are dependent one on the other for kindness, for +affection, for material help in time of difficulty, for counsel in time of +doubt. The rich man and the poor one have their mutual dependencies; and +if it was n't so, cowld-hearted and selfish as the world is, it would be +five hundred times worse.” + </p> +<p> +“You mistake my meaning,” said Massy, sternly, “as you often do, to read +me a lesson on a text of your own. When I spoke of independence, I meant +freedom from the serfdom of another's charity. I would that my life here, +at least, should be of my own procuring.” + </p> +<p> +“<i>I</i> get mine from <i>you</i>,” said Traynor, calmly, “and never felt +myself a slave on that account.” + </p> +<p> +“Forgive me, my dear, kind friend. I could hate myself if I gave you a +moment's pain. This temper of mine does not improve by time.” + </p> +<p> +“There's one way to conquer it. Don't be broodin' on what's within. Don't +be magnifyin' your evil fortunes to your own heart till you come to think +the world all little, and yourself all great. Go out to your daily labor, +whatever it be, with a stout spirit to do your best, and a thankful, +grateful heart that you are able to do it. Never let it out of your mind +that if there's many a one your inferior, winnin' his way up to fame and +fortune before you, there's just as many better than you toilin' away +unseen and unnoticed, wearin' out genius in a garret, and carryin' off a +Godlike intellect to an obscure grave!” + </p> +<p> +“You talk to me as though my crying sin were an overweening vanity,” said +the youth, half angrily. +</p> +<p> +“Well, it's one of them,” said Billy; and the blunt frankness of the +avowal threw the boy into a fit of laughing. +</p> +<p> +“You certainly do not intend to spoil me, Billy,” said he, still laughing. +</p> +<p> +“Why would I do what so many is ready to do for nothing? What does the +crowd that praise the work of a young man of genius care where they 're +leading him to? It's like people callin' out to a strong swimmer, 'Go out +farther and farther,—out to the open say, where the waves is rollin' +big, and the billows is roughest; that's worthy of you, in your strong +might and your stout limbs. Lave the still water and the shallows to the +weak and the puny. <i>Your</i> course is on the mountain wave, over the +bottomless ocean.' It's little they think if he's ever to get back again. +'T is their boast and their pride that they said, 'Go on;' and when his +cold corpse comes washed to shore, all they have is a word of derision and +scorn for one who ventured beyond his powers.” + </p> +<p> +“How you cool down one's ardor; with what pleasure you check every impulse +that nerves one's heart for high daring!” said the youth, bitterly. “These +eternal warnings—these never-ending forebodings of failure—are +sorry stimulants to energy.” + </p> +<p> +“Is n't it better for you to have all your reverses at the hands of a +crayture as humble as me?” said Billy, while the tears glistened in his +eyes. “What good am I, except for this?” + </p> +<p> +In a moment the boy's arms were around him, while he cried out,— +</p> +<p> +“There, forgive me once more, and let me try if I cannot amend a temper +that any but yourself had grown weary of correcting. I'll work—I'll +labor—I'll submit—I'll accept the daily rubs of life, as +others take them, and you shall be satisfied with me. We shall go back to +all our old pursuits, my dear Billy. I'll join all your ecstasies over +Æschylus, and believe as much as I can of Herodotus, to please you. You +shall lead me to all the wonders of the stars, and dazzle me with the +brightness of visions that my intellect is lost in; and in revenge I only +ask that you should sit with me in the studio, and read to me some of +those songs of Horace that move the heart like old wine. Shall I own to +you what it is which sways me thus uncertainly,—jarring every chord +of my existence, making life a sea of stormy conflict? Shall I tell you?” + </p> +<p> +He grasped the other's hand with both his own as he spoke, and, while his +lips quivered in strong emotion, went on:— +</p> +<p> +“It is this, then. I cannot forget, do all that I will, I cannot root out +of my heart what I once believed myself to be. You know what I mean. Well, +there it is still, like the sense of a wrong or foul injustice, as though +I had been robbed and cheated of what never was mine! This contrast +between the life my earliest hopes had pictured, and that which I am +destined to, never leaves me. All your teachings—and I have seen how +devotedly you have addressed yourself to this lesson—have not +eradicated from my nature the proud instincts that guided my childhood. +Often and often have you warmed my blood by thoughts of a triumph to be +achieved by me hereafter,—how men should recognize me as a genius, +and elevate me to honors and rewards; and yet would I barter such success, +ten thousand times told, for an hour of that high station that comes by +birth alone, independent of all effort,—the heirloom of deeds +chronicled centuries back, whose actors have been dust for ages. That is +real pride,” cried he, enthusiastically, “and has no alloy of the petty +vanity that mingles with the sense of a personal triumph.” + </p> +<p> +Traynor hung his head heavily as the youth spoke, and a gloomy melancholy +settled on his features; the sad conviction came home to him of all his +counsels being fruitless, all his teachings in vain; and as the boy sat +wrapped in a wild, dreamy revery of ancestral greatness, the humble +peasant brooded darkly over the troubles such a temperament might evoke. +</p> +<p> +“It is agreed, then,” cried Massy, suddenly, “that we are to accept of +this great man's bounty, live under his roof, and eat his bread. Well, I +accede,—as well his as another's. Have you seen the home they +destine for us?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, it's a real paradise, and in a garden that would beat Adam's now,” + exclaimed Traynor; “for there's marble fountains, and statues, and +temples, and grottos in it; and it's as big as a prairie, and as wild as a +wilderness. And, better than all, there's a little pathway leads to a +private stair that goes up into the library of the palace,—a spot +nobody ever enters, and where you may study the whole day long without +hearin' a footstep. All the books is there that ever was written, and +manuscripts without end besides; and the Minister says I'm to have my own +kay, and go in and out whenever I plaze. 'And if there's anything +wantin',' says be, 'just order it on a slip of paper and send it to me, +and you 'll have it at once.' When I asked if I ought to spake to the +librarian himself, he only laughed, and said, 'That's me; but I'm never +there. Take my word for it, Doctor, you 'll have the place to yourself.'” + </p> +<p> +He spoke truly. Billy Traynor had it, indeed, to himself. There, the gray +dawn of morning, and the last shadows of evening, ever found him, seated +in one of those deep, cell-like recesses of the windows; the table, the +seats, the very floor littered with volumes which, revelling in the luxury +of wealth, he had accumulated around him. His greedy avidity for knowledge +knew no bounds. The miser's thirst for gold was weak in comparison with +that intense craving that seized upon him. Historians, critics, satirists, +poets, dramatists, metaphysicians, never came amiss to a mind bent on +acquiring. The life he led was like the realization of a glorious dream,—the +calm repose, the perfect stillness of the spot, the boundless stores that +lay about him; the growing sense of power, as day by day his intellect +expanded; new vistas opened themselves before him, and new and unproved +sources of pleasure sprang up in his nature. The never-ending variety gave +a zest, too, to his labors that averted all weariness; and at last he +divided his time ingeniously, alternating grave and difficult subjects +with lighter topics,—making, as he said himself, “Aristophanes +digest Plato.” + </p> +<p> +And what of young Massy all this while? His life was a dream, too, but of +another and very different kind. Visions of a glorious future alternated +with sad and depressing thoughts; high darings, and hopeless views of what +lay before him, came and went, and went and came again. The Duke, who had +just taken his departure for some watering-place in Germany, gave him an +order for certain statues, the models for which were to be ready by his +return,—at least, in that sketchy state of which clay is even more +susceptible than canvas. The young artist chafed and fretted under the +restraint of an assigned task. It was gall to his haughty nature to be +told that his genius should accept dictation, and his fancy be fettered by +the suggestions of another. If he tried to combat this rebellious spirit, +and addressed himself steadily to labor, he found that his imagination +grew sluggish, and his mind uncreative. The sense of servitude oppressed +him; and though he essayed to subdue himself to the condition of an humble +artist, the old pride still rankled in his heart, and spirited him to a +haughty resistance. His days thus passed over in vain attempts to work, or +still more unprofitable lethargy. He lounged through the deserted garden, +or lay, half-dreamily, in the long, deep grass, listening to the cicala, +or watching the emerald-backed lizards as they lay basking in the sun. He +drank in all the soft voluptuous influences of a climate which steeps the +senses in a luxurious stupor, making the commonest existence a toil, but +giving to mere indolence all the zest of a rich enjoyment. Sometimes he +wandered into the library, and noiselessly drew nigh the spot where Billy +sat deeply busied in his books. He would gaze silently, half curiously, at +the poor fellow, and then steal noiselessly away, pondering on the +blessings of that poor peasant's nature, and wondering what in his own +organization had denied him the calm happiness of this humble man's life. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXXI. AT MASSA +</h2> +<p> +Billy Traynor sat, deeply sunk in study, in the old recess of the palace +library. A passage in the “Antigone” had puzzled him, and the table was +littered with critics and commentators, while manuscript notes, scrawled +in the most rude hand, lay on every side. He did not perceive, in his +intense preoccupation, that Massy had entered and taken the place directly +in front of him. There the youth sat gazing steadfastly at the patient and +studious features before him. It was only when Traynor, mastering the +difficulty that had so long opposed him, broke out into an enthusiastic +declamation of the text that Massy, unable to control the impulse, laughed +aloud. +</p> +<p> +“How long are you there? I never noticed you comin' in,” said Billy, +half-shamed at his detected ardor. +</p> +<p> +“But a short time; I was wondering at—ay, Billy, and was envying, +too—the concentrated power in which you address yourself to your +task. It is the real secret of all success, and somehow it is a frame of +mind I cannot achieve.” + </p> +<p> +“How is the boy Bacchus goin' on?” asked Billy, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“I broke him up yesterday, and it is like a weight off my heart that his +curly bullet head and sensual lips are not waiting for me as I enter the +studio.” + </p> +<p> +“And the Cleopatra?” asked Traynor, still more anxiously. +</p> +<p> +“Smashed,—destroyed. Shall I own to you, Billy, I see at last myself +what you have so often hinted to me,—I have no genius for the work?” + </p> +<p> +“I never said,—I never thought so,” cried the other; “I only +insisted that nothing was to be done without labor,—hard, +unflinching labor; that easy successes were poor triumphs, and bore no +results.” + </p> +<p> +“There,—there, I'll hear that sermon no more. I'd not barter the +freedom of my own unfettered thoughts, as they come and go, in hours of +listless idleness, for all the success you ever promised me. There are men +toil elevates,—me it wearies to depression, and brings no +compensation in the shape of increased power. Mine is an unrewarding clay,—that's +the whole of it. Cultivation only develops the rank weeds which are deep +sown in the soil. I'd like to travel,—to visit some new land, some +scene where all association with the past shall be broken. What say you?” + </p> +<p> +“I'm ready, and at your orders,” said Traynor, closing his book. +</p> +<p> +“East or west, then, which shall it be? If sometimes my heart yearns for +the glorious scenes of Palestine, full of memories that alone satisfy the +soul's longings, there are days when I pant for the solitude of the vast +savannas of the New World. I feel as if to know one's self thoroughly, +one's nature should be tested by the perils and exigencies of a life +hourly making some demand on courage and ingenuity. The hunter's life does +this. What say you,—shall we try it?” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm ready,” was the calm reply. +</p> +<p> +“We have means for such an enterprise, have we not? You told me, some +short time past, that nearly the whole of our last year's allowance was +untouched.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, it's all there to the good,” said Billy; “a good round sum too.” + </p> +<p> +“Let us get rid of all needless equipment, then,” cried Massy, “and only +retain what beseems a prairie life. Sell everything, or give it away at +once.” + </p> +<p> +“Leave all that to me,—I'll manage everything; only say when you +make up your mind.” + </p> +<p> +“But it is made up. I have resolved on the step. Few can decide so +readily; for I leave neither home nor country behind.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't say that,” burst in Billy; “here's myself, the poorest crayture +that walks the earth, that never knew where he was born or who nursed him, +yet even to me there's the tie of a native land,—there's the soil +that reared warriors and poets and orators that I heard of when a child, +and gloried in as a man; and, better than that, there's the green meadows +and the leafy valleys where kind-hearted men and women live and labor, +spakin' our own tongue and feelin' our own feelin's, and that, if we saw +to-morrow, we 'd know were our own,—heart and hand our own. The +smell of the yellow furze, under a griddle of oaten bread, would be +sweeter to me than all the gales of Araby the Blest; for it would remind +me of the hearth I had my share of, and the roof that covered me when I +was alone in the world.” + </p> +<p> +The boy buried his face in his hands and made no answer. At last, raising +up his head, he said,— +</p> +<p> +“Let us try this life; let us see if action be not better than mere +thought. The efforts of intellect seem to inspire a thirst there is no +slaking. Sleep brings no rest after them. I long for the sense of some +strong peril which, over, gives the proud feeling of a goal reached,—a +feat accomplished.” + </p> +<p> +“I'll go wherever you like; I'll be whatever you want me,” said Billy, +affectionately. +</p> +<p> +“Let us lose no time, then. I would not that my present ardor should cool +ere we have begun our plan. What day is this? The seventh. Well, on the +eighteenth there is a ship sails from Genoa for Porto Rico. It was the +announcement set my heart a-thinking of the project. I dreamed of it two +entire nights. I fancied myself walking the deck on a starlit night, and +framing all my projects for the future. The first thing I saw next morning +was the same placard, 'The “Colombo” will sail for Porto Rico on Friday, +the eighteenth.'” + </p> +<p> +“An unlucky day,” muttered Billy, interrupting. +</p> +<p> +“I have fallen upon few that were otherwise,” said Massy, gloomily; +“besides,” he added, after a pause, “I have no faith in omens, or any care +for superstitions. Come, let us set about our preparations. Do <i>you</i> +bethink you how to rid ourselves of all useless encumbrances here. Be it +<i>my</i> care to jot down the list of all we shall need for the voyage +and the life to follow it. Let us see which displays most zeal for the new +enterprise.” + </p> +<p> +Billy Traynor addressed himself with a will to the duty allotted him. He +rummaged through drawers and desks, destroyed papers and letters, laid +aside all the articles which he judged suitable for preservation, and then +hastened off to the studio to arrange for the disposal of the few +“studies,” for they were scarcely more, which remained of Massy's labors. +</p> +<p> +A nearly finished Faun, the head of a Niobe, the arm and hand of a Jove +launching a thunderbolt, the torso of a dead sailor after shipwreck, lay +amid fragments of shattered figures, grotesque images, some caricatures of +his own works, and crude models of anatomy. The walls were scrawled with +charcoal drawings of groups,—one day to be fashioned in sculpture,—with +verses from Dante, or lines from Tasso, inscribed beneath; proud resolves +to a life of labor figured beside stanzas in praise of indolence and +dreamy abandonment. There were passages of Scripture, too, glorious bursts +of the poetic rapture of the Psalms, intermingled with quaint remarks on +life from Jean Paul or Herder. All that a discordant, incoherent nature +consisted of was there in some shape or other depicted; and as Billy ran +his eye over this curious journal,—for such it was,—he grieved +over the spirit which had dictated it. +</p> +<p> +The whole object of all his teaching had been to give a purpose to this +uncertain and wavering nature, and yet everything showed him now that he +had failed. The blight which had destroyed the boy's early fortunes still +worked its evil influences, poisoning every healthful effort, and dashing +with a sense of shame every successful step towards fame and honor. +</p> +<p> +“Maybe he's right after all,” muttered Billy to himself. “The New World is +the only place for those who have not the roots of an ancient stock to +hold them in the Old. Men can be there whatever is in them, and they can +be judged without the prejudices of a class.” + </p> +<p> +Having summed up, as it were, his own doubts in this remark, he proceeded +with his task. While he was thus occupied, Massy entered, and threw +himself into a chair. +</p> +<p> +“There, you may give it up, Traynor. Fate is ever against us, do and +decide on what we will. Your confounded omen of a Friday was right this +time.” + </p> +<p> +“What do you mean? Have you altered your mind?” + </p> +<p> +“I expected you to say so,” said the other, bitterly. “I knew that I +should meet with this mockery of my resolution, but it is uncalled for. It +is not I that have changed!” + </p> +<p> +“What is it, then, has happened,—do they refuse your passport?” + </p> +<p> +“Not that either; I never got so far as to ask for it. The misfortune is +in this wise: on going to the bank to learn the sum that lay to my credit +and draw for it, I was met by the reply that I had nothing there,—not +a shilling. Before I could demand how this could be the case, the whole +truth suddenly flashed across my memory, and I recalled to mind how one +night, as I lay awake, the thought occurred to me that it was base and +dishonorable in me, now that I was come to manhood, to accept of the means +of life from one who felt shame in my connection with him. 'Why,' thought +I, 'is there to be the bond of dependence where there is no tie of +affection to soften its severity?' And so I arose from my bed, and wrote +to Sir Horace, saying that by the same post I should remit to his banker +at Naples whatever remained of my last year's allowance, and declined in +future to accept of any further assistance. This I did the same day, and +never told you of it,—partly, lest you should try to oppose me in my +resolve; partly,” and here his voice faltered, “to spare myself the pain +of revealing my motives. And now that I have buoyed my heart up with this +project, I find myself without means to attempt it. Not that I regret my +act, or would recall it,” cried he, proudly, “but that the sudden +disappointment is hard to bear. I was feeding my hopes with such projects +for the future when this stunning news met me, and the thought that I am +now chained here by necessity has become a torture.” + </p> +<p> +“What answer did Sir Horace give to your letter?” asked Billy. +</p> +<p> +“I forget; I believe he never replied to it, or if he did, I have no +memory of what he said. Stay,—there was a letter of his taken from +me when I was arrested at Carrara. The seal was unbroken at the time.” + </p> +<p> +“I remember the letter was given to the Minister, who has it still in his +keeping.” + </p> +<p> +“What care I,” cried Massy, angrily, “in whose hands it may be?” + </p> +<p> +“The Minister is not here now,” said Billy, half speaking to himself, “he +is travelling with the Duke; but when he comes back—” + </p> +<p> +“When he comes back!” burst in Massy, impatiently; “with what calm +philosophy you look forward to a remote future. I tell you that this +scheme is now a part and parcel of my very existence. I can turn to no +other project, or journey no other road in life, till at least I shall +have tried it!” + </p> +<p> +“Well, it is going to work in a more humble fashion,” said Billy, calmly. +“Leave me to dispose of all these odds and ends here—” + </p> +<p> +“This trash!” cried the youth, fiercely. “Who would accept it as a gift?” + </p> +<p> +“Don't disparage it; there are signs of genius even in these things; but, +above all, don't meddle with me, but just leave me free to follow my own +way. There now, go back and employ yourself preparing for the road; trust +the rest to me.” + </p> +<p> +Massy obeyed without speaking. It was not, indeed, that he ventured to +believe in Traynor's resources, but he was indisposed to further +discussion, and longed to be in solitude once more. +</p> +<p> +It was late at night when they met again. Charles Massy was seated at a +window of his room, looking out into the starry blue of a cloudless sky, +when Traynor sat down beside him. “Well,” said he, gently, “it's all done +and finished. I have sold off everything, and if you will only repair the +hand of the Faun, which I broke in removing, there's nothing more +wanting.” + </p> +<p> +“That much can be done by any one,” said Massy, haughtily. “I hope never +to set eyes on the trumpery things again.” + </p> +<p> +“But I have promised you would do it,” said Traynor, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“And how—by what right could you pledge yourself for my labor? Nay,” + cried he, suddenly changing the tone in which he spoke, “knowing my wilful +nature, how could you answer for what I might or might not do?” + </p> +<p> +“I knew,” said Billy, slowly, “that you had a great project in your head, +and that to enable you to attempt it, you would scorn to throw all the +toil upon another.” + </p> +<p> +“I never said I was ashamed of labor,” said the youth, reddening with +shame. +</p> +<p> +“If you had, I would despair of you altogether,” rejoined the other. +</p> +<p> +“Well, what is it that I have to do?” said Massy, bluntly. +</p> +<p> +“It is to remodel the arm, for I don't think you can mend it; but you 'll +see it yourself.” + </p> +<p> +“Where is the figure,—in the studio?” + </p> +<p> +“No; it is in a small pavilion of a villa just outside the gates. It was +while I was conveying it there it met this misfortune. There's the name of +the villa on that card. You 'll find the garden gate open, and by taking +the path through the olive wood you 'll be there in a few minutes; for I +must go over to-morrow to Carrara with the Niobe; the Academy has bought +it for a model.” + </p> +<p> +A slight start of surprise and a faint flush bespoke the proud +astonishment with which he heard of this triumph; but he never spoke a +word. +</p> +<p> +“If you had any pride in your works, you'd be delighted to see where the +Faun is to be placed. It is in a garden, handsomer even than this here, +with terraces rising one over the other, and looking out on the blue sea, +from the golden strand of Via Reggio down to the headlands above Spezia. +The great olive wood in the vast plain lies at your feet, and the white +cliffs of Serravezza behind you.” + </p> +<p> +“What care I for all this?” said Massy, gloomily. “Benvenuto could afford +to be in love with his own works,—<i>I</i> cannot!” + </p> +<p> +Traynor saw at once the mood of mind he was in, and stole noiselessly away +to his room. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXXII. THE PAVILION IN THE GARDEN +</h2> +<p> +Charles Massy, dressed in the blouse of his daily labor, and with the +tools of his craft in his hand, set out early in search of the garden +indicated by Billy Traynor. A sense of hope that it was for the last time +he was to exercise his art, that a new and more stirring existence was now +about to open before him, made his step lighter and his spirits higher as +he went. “Once amid the deep woods, and on the wide plains of the New +World, I shall dream no more of what judgment men may pass upon my +efforts. There, if I suffice to myself, I have no other ordeal to meet. +Perils may try me, but not the whims and tastes of other men.” + </p> +<p> +Thus, fancying an existence of unbounded freedom and unfettered action, he +speedily traversed the olive wood, and almost ere he knew it found himself +within the garden. The gorgeous profusion of beautiful flowers, the +graceful grouping of shrubs, the richly perfumed air, laden with a +thousand odors, first awoke him from his day dream, and he stood amazed in +the midst of a scene surpassing all that he had ever conceived of +loveliness. From the terrace, where under a vine trellis he was standing, +he could perceive others above him rising on the mountain side, while some +beneath descended towards the sea, which, blue as a turquoise, lay basking +and glittering below. A stray white sail or so was to be seen, but there +was barely wind to shake the olive leaves, and waft the odors of the +orange and the oleander. It was yet too early for the hum of insect life, +and the tricklings of the tiny fountains that sprinkled the flower-beds +were the only sounds in the stillness. It was in color, outline, effect, +and shadow, a scene such as only Italy can present, and Massy drank in all +its influences with an eager delight. +</p> +<p> +“Were I a rich man,” said he, “I would buy this paradise. What in all the +splendor of man's invention can compare with the gorgeous glory of this +flowery carpet? What frescoed ceiling could vie with these wide-leaved +palms, interlaced with these twining acacias, glimpses of the blue sky +breaking through? And for a mirror, there lies Nature's own,—the +great blue ocean! What a life were it, to linger days and hours here, amid +such objects of beauty, having one's thoughts ever upwards, and making in +imagination a world of which these should be the types. The faintest +fancies that could float across the mind in such an existence would be +pleasures more real, more tangible, than ever were felt in the tamer life +of the actual world.” + </p> +<p> +Loitering along, he at length came upon the little temple which served as +a studio, on entering which, he found his own statue enshrined in the +place of honor. Whether it was the frame of mind in which he chanced to +be, or that place and light had some share in the result, for the first +time the figure struck him as good, and he stood long gazing at his own +work with the calm eye of a critic. At length, detecting, as he deemed, +some defects in design, he drew nigh, and began to correct them. There are +moments in which the mind attains the highest and clearest perception,—seasons +in which, whatever the nature of the mental operation, the faculties +address themselves readily to the task, and labor becomes less a toil than +an actual pleasure. This was such. Massy worked on for hours; his +conceptions grew rapidly under his hand into bold realities, and he saw +that he was succeeding. It was not alone that he had imparted a more +graceful and lighter beauty to his statue, but he felt within himself the +promptings of a spirit that grew with each new suggestion of its own. +Efforts that before had seemed above him he now essayed boldly; +difficulties that once had appeared insurmountable he now encountered with +courageous daring. Thus striving, he lost all sense of fatigue. Hunger and +exhaustion were alike unremembered, and it was already late in the +afternoon, as, overcome by continued toil, he threw himself heavily down, +and sank off into a deep sleep. +</p> +<p> +It was nigh sunset as he awoke. The distant bell of a monastery was +ringing the hour of evening prayer, the solemn chime of the “Venti +quattro,” as he leaned on his arm and gazed in astonishment around him. +The whole seemed like a dream. On every side were objects new and strange +to, his eyes,—casts and models he had never seen before busts and +statues and studies all unknown to him. At last his eyes rested on the +Faun, and he remembered at once where he was. The languor of excessive +fatigue, however, still oppressed him, and he was about to lie back again +in sleep, when, bending gently over him, a young girl, with a low, soft +accent, asked if he felt ill, or only tired. +</p> +<p> +Massy gazed, without speaking, at features regular as the most classic +model, and whose paleness almost gave them the calm beauty of the marble. +His steady stare slightly colored her cheek, and made her voice falter a +little as she repeated her question. +</p> +<p> +“I scarcely know,” said he, sighing heavily. “I feel as though this were a +dream, and I am afraid to awaken from it.” + </p> +<p> +“Let me give you some wine,” said she, bending down to hand him the glass; +“you have over-fatigued yourself. The Faun is by your hand, is it not?” + </p> +<p> +He nodded a slow assent. +</p> +<p> +“Whence did you derive that knowledge of ancient art?” said she, eagerly. +“Your figure has the light elasticity of the classic models, and yet +nothing strained or exaggerated in attitude. Have you studied at Rome?” + </p> +<p> +“I could do better now,” said the youth, as, rising on his elbow, he +strained his eyes to examine her. “I could achieve a real success.” + </p> +<p> +A deep flush covered her face at these words, so palpably alluding to +herself, and she tried to repeat her question. +</p> +<p> +“No,” said he, “I cannot say I have ever studied: all that I have done is +full of faults; but I feel the spring of better things within me. Tell me, +is this <i>your</i> home?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes,” said she, smiling faintly. “I live in the villa here with my aunt. +She has purchased your statue, and wishes you to repair it, and then to +engage in some other work for her. Let me assist you to rise; you seem +very weak.” + </p> +<p> +“I <i>am</i> weak, and weary too,” said he, staggering to a seat. “I have +overworked myself, perhaps,—I scarcely know. Do not take away your +hand.” + </p> +<p> +“And you are, then, the Sebastian Greppi of whom Carrara is so proud?” + </p> +<p> +“They call me Sebastian Greppi; but I never heard that my name was spoken +of with any honor.” + </p> +<p> +“You are unjust to your own fame. We have often heard of you. See, here +are two models taken from your works. They have been my studies for many a +day. I have often wished to see you, and ask if my attempt were rightly +begun. Then here is a hand.” + </p> +<p> +“Let me model yours,” said the youth, gazing steadfastly at the +beautifully shaped one which rested on the chair beside him. +</p> +<p> +“Come with me to the villa, and I will present you to my aunt; she will be +pleased to know you. There, lean on my arm, for I see you are very weak.” + </p> +<p> +“Why are you so kind, so good to me?” said he, faintly, while a tear rose +slowly to his eye. +</p> +<p> +He arose totteringly, and, taking her arm, walked slowly along at her +side. As they went, she spoke kindly and encouragingly to him, praised +what she had seen of his works, and said how frequently she had wished to +know him, and enjoy the benefit of his counsels in art. “For I, too,” said +she, laughing, “would be a sculptor.” + </p> +<p> +The youth stopped to gaze at her with a rapture he could not control. That +one of such a station, surrounded by all the appliances of a luxurious +existence, could devote herself to the toil and labor of art, implied an +amount of devotion and energy that at once elevated her in his esteem. She +blushed deeply at his continued stare, and turned at last away. +</p> +<p> +“Oh, do not feel offended with me,” cried he, passionately. “If you but +knew how your words have relighted within me the dying-out embers of an +almost exhausted ambition,—if you but knew how my heart has gained +courage and hope,—how light and brightness have shone in upon me +after hours and days of gloom! It was but yesterday I had resolved to +abandon this career forever. I was bent on a new life, in a new world +beyond the seas. These few things that a faithful companion of mine had +charged himself to dispose of, were to supply the means of the journey; +and now I think of it no more. I shall remain here to work hard and study, +and try to achieve what may one day be called good. You will sometimes +deign to see what I am doing, to tell me if my efforts are on the road to +success, to give me hope when I am weak-hearted, and courage when I am +faint. I know and feel,” said he, proudly, “that I am not devoid of what +accomplishes success, for I can toil and toil, and throw my whole soul +into my work; but for this I need, at least, one who shall watch me with +an eye of interest, glorying when I win, sorrowing when I am defeated.—Where +are we? What palace is this?” cried he, as they crossed a spacious hall +paved with porphyry and Sienna marble. +</p> +<p> +“This is my home,” said the girl, “and this is its mistress.” + </p> +<p> +Just as she spoke, she presented the youth to a lady, who, reclining on a +sofa beside a window, gazed out towards the sea. She turned suddenly, and +fixed her eyes on the stranger. With a wild start, she sprang up, and, +staring eagerly at him, cried, “Who is this? Where does he come from?” + </p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0003" id="linkimage-0003"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/frontispiece.jpg" alt="Frontispiece " width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +The young girl told his name and what he was; but the words did not fall +on listening ears, and the lady sat like one spell-bound, with eyes +riveted on the youth's face. +</p> +<p> +“Am I like any one you have known, signora?” asked he, as he read the +effect his presence had produced on her. “Do I recall some other +features?” + </p> +<p> +“You do,” said she, reddening painfully. +</p> +<p> +“And the memory is not of pleasure?” added the youth. +</p> +<p> +“Far, far from it; it is the saddest and cruelest of all my life,” + muttered she, half to herself. “What part of Italy are you from? Your +accent is Southern.” + </p> +<p> +“It is the accent of Naples, signora,” said he, evading her question. +</p> +<p> +“And your mother, was she Neapolitan?” + </p> +<p> +“I know little of my birth, signora. It is a theme I would not be +questioned on.” + </p> +<p> +“And you are a sculptor?” + </p> +<p> +“The artist of the Faun, dearest aunt,” broke in the girl, who watched +with intense anxiety the changing expressions of the youth's features. +</p> +<p> +“Your voice even more than your features brings up the past,” said the +lady, as a deadly pallor spread over her own face, and her lips trembled +as she spoke. “Will you not tell me something of your history?” + </p> +<p> +“When you have told me the reason for which you ask it, perhaps I may,” + said the youth, half sternly. +</p> +<p> +“There, there!” cried she, wildly, “in every tone, in every gesture, I +trace this resemblance. Come nearer to me; let me see your hands.” + </p> +<p> +“They are seamed and hardened with toil, lady,” said the youth, as he +showed them. +</p> +<p> +“And yet they look as if there was a time when they did not know labor,” + said she, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +An impatient gesture, as if he would not endure a continuance of this +questioning, stopped her, and she said in a faint tone,— +</p> +<p> +“I ask your pardon for all this. My excuse and my apology are that your +features have recalled a time of sorrow more vividly than any words could. +Your voice, too, strengthens the illusion. It may be a mere passing +impression; I hope and pray it is. Come, Ida, come with me. Do not leave +this, sir, till we speak with you again.” So saying, she took her niece's +arm and left the room. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXXIII. NIGHT THOUGHTS +</h2> +<p> +It was with a proud consciousness of having well fulfilled his mission +that Billy Traynor once more bent his steps towards Massa. Besides +providing himself with books of travel and maps of the regions they were +about to visit, he had ransacked Genoa for weapons, and accoutrements, and +horse-gear. Well knowing the youth's taste for the costly and the +splendid, he had suffered himself to be seduced into the purchase of a +gorgeously embroidered saddle mounting, and a rich bridle, in Mexican +taste; a pair of splendidly mounted pistols, chased in gold and studded +with large turquoises, with a Damascus sabre, the hilt of which was a +miracle of fine workmanship, were also amongst his acquisitions; and poor +Billy fed his imagination with the thought of all the delight these +objects were certain to produce. In this way he never wearied admiring +them; and a dozen times a day would he unpack them, just to gratify his +mind by picturing the enjoyment they were to afford. +</p> +<p> +“How well you are lookin', my dear boy!” cried he, as he burst into the +youth's room, and threw his arms around him; “'tis like ten years off my +life to see you so fresh and so hearty. Is it the prospect of the glorious +time before us that has given this new spring to your existence?” + </p> +<p> +“More likely it is the pleasure I feel in seeing you back again,” said +Massy; and his cheek grew crimson as he spoke. +</p> +<p> +“'Tis too good you are to me,—too good,” said Billy, and his eyes +ran over in tears, while he turned away his head to hide his emotion; “but +sure it is part of yourself I do be growing every day I live. At first I +could n't bear the thought of going away to live in exile, in a +wilderness, as one may say; but now that I see your heart set upon it, and +that your vigor and strength comes back just by the mere anticipation of +it, I'm downright delighted with the plan.” + </p> +<p> +“Indeed!” said the youth, dreamily. +</p> +<p> +“To be sure I am,” resumed Billy; “and I do be thinking there 's a kind of +poethry in carrying away into the solitary pine forest minds stored with +classic lore, to be able to read one's Horace beside the gushing stream +that flows on nameless and unknown, and con over ould Herodotus amidst +adventures stranger than ever he told himself.” + </p> +<p> +“It might be a happy life,” said the other, slowly, almost moodily. +</p> +<p> +“Ay, and it will be,” said Billy, confidently. “Think of yourself, mounted +on that saddle on a wild prairie horse, galloping free as the wind itself +over the wide savannas, with a drove of rushing buffaloes in career before +you, and so eager in pursuit that you won't stop to bring down the +scarlet-winged bustard that swings on the branch above you. There they go, +plungin' and snortin', the mad devils, with a force that would sweep a +fortress before them; and here are we after them, makin' the dark woods +echo again with our wild yells. That's what will warm up our blood, till +we 'll not be afeard to meet an army of dragoons themselves. Them pistols +once belonged to Cariatoké, a chief from Scio; and that blade—a real +Damascus—was worn by an Aga of the Janissaries. Isn't it a picture?” + </p> +<p> +The youth poised the sword in his hand, and laid it down without a word; +while Billy continued to stare at him with an expression of intensest +amazement. +</p> +<p> +“Is it that you don't care for it all now, that your mind is changed, and +that you don't wish for the life we were talkin' over these three weeks? +Say so at once, my own darlin', and here I am, ready and willin' never to +think more of it. Only tell me what's passin' in your heart; I ask no +more.” + </p> +<p> +“I scarcely know it myself,” said the youth. “I feel as though in a dream, +and know not what is real and what fiction.” + </p> +<p> +“How have you passed your time? What were you doin' while I was away?” + </p> +<p> +“Dreaming, I believe,” said the other, with a sigh. “Some embers of my old +ambition warmed up into a flame once more, and I fancied that there was +that in me that by toil and labor might yet win upwards; and that, if so, +this mere life of action would but bring repining and regret, and that I +should feel as one who chose the meaner casket of fate, when both were +within my reach.” + </p> +<p> +“So you were at work again in the studio?” + </p> +<p> +“I have been finishing the arm of the Faun in that pavilion outside the +town.” A flush of crimson covered his face as he spoke, which Billy as +quickly noticed, but misinterpreted. +</p> +<p> +“Ay, and they praised you, I 'll be bound. They said it was the work of +one whose genius would place him with the great ones of art, and that he +who could do this while scarcely more than a boy, might, in riper years, +be the great name of his century. Did they not tell you so?” + </p> +<p> +“No; not that, not that,” said the other, slowly. +</p> +<p> +“Then they bade you go on, and strive and labor hard to develop into life +the seeds of that glorious gift that was in you?” + </p> +<p> +“Nor that,” sighed the youth, heavily, while a faint spot of crimson +burned on one cheek, and a feverish lustre lit up his eye. +</p> +<p> +“They did n't dispraise what you done, did they?” broke in Billy. “They +could not, if they wanted to do it; but sure there's nobody would have the +cruel heart to blight the ripenin' bud of genius,—to throw gloom +over a spirit that has to struggle against its own misgivin's?” + </p> +<p> +“You wrong them, my dear friend; their words were all kindness and +affection. They gave me hope, and encouragement too. They fancy that I +have in me what will one day grow into fame itself; and even you, Billy, +in your most sanguine hopes, have never dreamed of greater success for me +than they have predicted in the calm of a moonlit saunter.” + </p> +<p> +“May the saints in heaven reward them for it!” said Billy, and in his +clasped hands and uplifted eyes was all the fervor of a prayer. “They have +my best blessin' for their goodness,” muttered he to himself. +</p> +<p> +“And so I am again a sculptor!” said Massy, rising and walking the room. +“Upon this career my whole heart and soul are henceforth to be +concentrated; my fame, my happiness are to be those of the artist. From +this day and this hour let every thought of what—not what I once +was, but what I had hoped to be, be banished from my heart. I am Sebastian +Greppi. Never let another name escape your lips to me. I will not, even +for a second, turn from the path in which my own exertions are to win the +goal. Let the faraway land of my infancy, its traditions, its +associations, be but dreams for evermore. Forwards! forwards!” cried he, +passionately; “not a glance, not a look, towards the past.” + </p> +<p> +Billy stared with admiration at the youth, over whose features a glow of +enthusiasm was now diffused, and in broken, unconnected words spoke +encouragement and good cheer. +</p> +<p> +“I know well,” said the youth, “how this same stubborn pride must be +rooted out, how these false, deceitful visions of a stand and a station +that I am never to attain must give place to nobler and higher +aspirations; and you, my dearest friend, must aid me in all this,—unceasingly, +unwearyingly reminding me that to myself alone must I look for anything; +and that if I would have a country, a name, or a home, it is by the toil +of this head and these hands they are to be won. My plan is this,” said +he, eagerly seizing the other's arm, and speaking with immense rapidity: +“A life not alone of labor, but of the simplest; not a luxury, not an +indulgence; our daily meals the humblest, our dress the commonest, nothing +that to provide shall demand a moment's forethought or care; no wants that +shall turn our thoughts from this great object, no care for the +requirements that others need. Thus mastering small ambitions and petty +desires, we shall concentrate all our faculties on our art; and even the +humblest may thus outstrip those whose higher gifts reject such +discipline.” + </p> +<p> +“You 'll not live longer under the Duke's patronage, then?” said Traynor. +</p> +<p> +“Not an hour. I return to that garden no more. There's a cottage on the +mountain road to Serravezza will suit us well: it stands alone and on an +eminence, with a view over the plain and the sea beyond. You can see it +from the door,—there, to the left of the olive wood, lower down than +the old ruin. We 'll live there, Billy, and we 'll make of that mean spot +a hallowed one, where young enthusiasts in art will come, years hence, +when we have passed away, to see the humble home Sebastian lived in,—to +sit upon the grassy seat where he once sat, when dreaming of the mighty +triumphs that have made him glorious.” A wild burst of mocking laughter +rung from the boy's lips as he said this; but its accents were less in +derision of the boast than a species of hysterical ecstasy at the vision +he had conjured up. +</p> +<p> +“And why would n't it be so?” exclaimed Billy, ardently,—“why would +n't you be great and illustrious?” + </p> +<p> +The moment of excitement was now over, and the youth stood pale, silent, +and almost sickly in appearance; great drops of perspiration, too, stood +on his forehead, and his quivering lips were bloodless. +</p> +<p> +“These visions are like meteor streaks,” said he, falteringly; “they leave +the sky blacker than they found it! But come along, let us to work, and we +'ll soon forget mere speculation.” + </p> +<p> +Of the life they now led each day exactly resembled the other. Rising +early, the youth was in his studio at dawn; the faithful Billy, seated +near, read for him while he worked. Watching, with a tact that only +affection ever bestows, each changeful mood of the youth's mind, Traynor +varied the topics with the varying humors of the other, and thus little of +actual conversation took place between them, though their minds journeyed +along together. To eke out subsistence, even humble as theirs, the young +sculptor was obliged to make small busts and figures for sale, and Billy +disposed of them at Lucca and Pisa, making short excursions to these +cities as need required. +</p> +<p> +The toil of the day over, they wandered out towards the seashore, taking +the path which led through the olive road by the garden of the villa. At +times the youth would steal away a moment from his companion, and enter +the little park, with every avenue of which he was familiar; and although +Billy noticed his absence, he strictly abstained from the slightest +allusion to it. As he delayed longer and longer to return, Traynor +maintained the same reserve, and thus there grew up gradually a secret +between them,—a mystery that neither ventured to approach. With a +delicacy that seemed an instinct in his humble nature, Billy would now and +then feign occupation or fatigue to excuse himself from the evening +stroll, and thus leave the youth free to wander as he wished; till at +length it became a settled habit between them to separate at nightfall, to +meet only on the morrow. These nights were spent in walking the garden +around the villa, lingering stealthily amid the trees to watch the room +where she was sitting, to catch a momentary glimpse of her figure as it +passed the window, to hear perchance a few faint accents of her voice. +Hours long would he so watch in the silent night, his whole soul steeped +in a delicious dream wherein her image moved, and came and went, with +every passing fancy. In the calm moonlight he would try to trace her +footsteps in the gravel walk that led to the studio, and, lingering near +them, whisper to her words of love. +</p> +<p> +One night, as he loitered thus, he thought he was perceived, for as he +suddenly emerged from a dark alley into a broad space where the moonlight +fell strongly, he saw a figure on a terrace above him, but without being +able to recognize to whom it belonged. Timidly and fearfully he retired +within the shade, and crept noiselessly away, shocked at the very thought +of discovery. The next day he found a small bouquet of fresh flowers on +the rustic seat beneath the window. At first he scarcely dared to touch +it; but with a sudden flash of hope that it had been destined for himself, +he pressed the flowers to his lips, and hid them in his bosom. Each night +now the same present attracted him to the same place, and thus at once +within his heart was lighted a flame of hope that illuminated all his +being, making his whole life a glorious episode, and filling all the long +hours of the day with thoughts of her who thus could think of him. +</p> +<p> +Life has its triumphant moments, its dream of entrancing, ecstatic +delight, when suocess has crowned a hard-fought struggle, or when the meed +of other men's praise comes showered on us. The triumphs of heroism, of +intellect, of noble endurance; the trials of temptation met and conquered; +the glorious victory over self-interest,—are all great and ennobling +sensations; but what are they all compared with the first consciousness of +being loved, of being to another the ideal we have made of her? To this, +nothing the world can give is equal. From the moment we have felt it, life +changes around us. Its crosses are but barriers opposed to our strong +will, that to assail and storm is a duty. Then comes a heroism in meeting +the every-day troubles of existence, as though we were soldiers in a good +and holy cause. No longer unseen or unmarked in the great ocean of life, +we feel that there is an eye ever turned towards us, a heart ever +throbbing with our own; that our triumphs are its triumphs,—our +sorrows its sorrows. Apart from all the intercourse with the world, with +its changeful good and evil, we feel that we have a treasure that dangers +cannot approach; we know that in our heart of hearts a blessed mystery is +locked up,—a well of pure thoughts that can calm down the most +fevered hour of life's anxieties. So the youth felt, and, feeling so, was +happy. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXXIV. A MINISTER'S LETTER +</h2> +<p> +British Legation, Naples, +</p> +<p> +Nov—, 18—. +</p> +<p> +My dear Harcourt,—Not mine the fault that your letter has lain six +weeks unanswered; but having given up penwork myself for the last eight +months, and Crawley, my private sec., being ill, the delay was +unavoidable. The present communication you owe to the fortunate arrival +here of Captain Mellish, who has kindly volunteered to be my amanuensis. I +am indeed sorely grieved at this delay. I shall be <i>désolé</i> if it +occasion you anything beyond inconvenience. How a private sec. should +permit himself the luxury of an attack of influenza I cannot conceive. We +shall hear of one's hairdresser having the impertinence to catch cold, +to-morrow or next day! +</p> +<p> +If I don't mistake, it was you yourself recommended Crawley to me, and I +am only half grateful for the service. He is a man of small prejudices; +fancies that he ought to have a regular hour for dinner; thinks that he +should have acquaintances; and will persist in imagining himself an +existent something, appertaining to the Legation,—while, in reality, +he is only a shadowy excrescence of my own indolent habits, the recipient +of the trashy superfluities one commits to paper and calls despatches. +Latterly, in my increasing laziness, I have used him for more intimate +correspondence; and, as Doctor Allitore has now denied me all manual +exertion whatever, I am actually wholly dependent on such aid. I'm sure I +long for the discovery of some other mode of transmitting one's +brain-efforts than by the slow process of manuscript,—some +photographic process that, by a series of bright pictures, might display +<i>en tableau</i> what one is now reduced to accomplish by narrative. As +it ever did and ever will happen too, they have deluged me with work when +I crave rest. Every session of Parliament must have its blue-book; and by +the devil's luck they have decided that Italy is to furnish the present +one. +</p> +<p> +You have always been a soldier, and whenever your inspecting general came +his round, your whole care has been to make the troop horses look as fat, +the men's whiskers as trim, their overalls as clean, and their curb-chains +as bright, as possible. You never imagined or dreamed of a contingency +when it would be desirable that the animals should be all sorebacked, the +whole regiment under stoppages, and the trumpeter in a quinsy. Had you +been a diplomatist instead of a dragoon, this view of things might, +perhaps, have presented itself, and the chief object of your desire have +been to show that the system under which you functionated worked as ill as +need be; that the court to which you were accredited abhorred you; its +Ministers snubbed, its small officials slighted you; that all your +communications were ill received, your counsels ill taken; that what you +reprobated was adopted, what you advised rejected; in fact, that the only +result of your presence was the maintenance of a perpetual ill-will and +bad feeling; and that without the aid of a line-of-battle ship, or at +least a frigate, your position was no longer tenable. From the moment, my +dear H——, that you can establish this fact, you start into +life as an able and active Minister, imbued with thoroughly British +principles—an active asserter of what is due to his country's rights +and dignity, not truckling to court favor, or tamely submitting to royal +impertinences; not like the noble lord at this place, or the more +subservient viscount at that, but, in plain words, an admirable public +servant, whose reward, whatever courts and cabinets may do, will always be +willingly accorded by a grateful nation. +</p> +<p> +I am afraid this sketch of a special envoy's career will scarcely tempt +you to exchange for a mission abroad! And you are quite right, my dear +friend. It is a very unrewarding profession. I often wish myself that I +had taken something in the colonies, or gone into the Church, or some +other career which had given me time and opportunity to look after my +health,—of which, by the way, I have but an indifferent account to +render you. These people here can't hit it off at all, Harcourt; they keep +muddling away about indigestion, deranged functions, and the rest of it. +The mischief is in the blood,—I mean, in the undue distribution of +the blood. So Treysenac, the man of Bagnères, proved to me. There is a +flux and reflux in us, as in the tides, and when, from deficient energy or +lax muscular power, that ceases, we are all driven by artificial means to +remedy the defect. Treysenac's theory is position. By a number of +ingeniously contrived positions he accomplishes an artificial congestion +of any part he pleases; and in his establishment at Bagnères you may see +some fifty people strung up by the arms and legs, by the waists or the +ankles, in the most marvellous manner, and with truly fabulous success. I +myself passed three mornings suspended by the middle, like the sheep in +the decoration of the Golden Fleece, and was amazed at the strange +sensations I experienced before I was cut down. +</p> +<p> +You know the obstinacy with which the medical people reject every +discovery in the art, and only sanction its employment when the world has +decreed in its favor. You will, therefore, not be surprised to hear that +Larrey and Cooper, to whom I wrote about Treysenac's theory, sent me very +unsatisfactory, indeed very unseemly, replies. I have resolved, however, +not to let the thing drop, and am determined to originate a Suspensorium +in England, when I can chance upon a man of intelligence and scientific +knowledge to conduct it. Like mesmerism, the system has its antipathies; +and thus yesterday Crawley fainted twice after a few minutes' suspension +by the arms. But he is a bigot about anything he hears for the first time, +and I was not sorry at his punishment. +</p> +<p> +I wish you would talk over this matter with any clever medical man in your +neighborhood, and let me hear the result. +</p> +<p> +And so you are surprised, you say, how little influence English +representations exercise over the determinations of foreign cabinets. I go +farther, and confess no astonishment at all at the no-influence! My dear +dragoon, have you not, some hundred and fifty times in this life, endured +a small martyrdom in seeing a very indifferent rider torment almost to +madness the animal he bestrode, just by sheer ignorance and awkwardness,—now +worrying the flank with incautious heel, now irritating the soft side of +the mouth with incessant jerkings; always counteracting the good impulses, +ever prompting the bad ones of his beast? And have you not, while heartily +wishing yourself in the saddle, felt the utter inutility of administering +any counsels to the rider? You saw, and rightly saw, that even if he +attempted to follow your suggestions, he would do so awkwardly and +inaptly, acting at wrong moments and without that continuity of purpose +which must ever accompany an act of address; and that for his safety, and +even for the welfare of the animal, it were as well they should jog on +together as they had done, trusting that after a time they might establish +a sort of compromise, endurable, if not beneficial, to both. +</p> +<p> +Such, my dear friend, in brief, is the state of many of those foreign +governments to whom we are so profuse of our wise counsels. It were +doubtless much better if they ruled well; but let us see if the road to +this knotty consummation be by the adoption of methods totally new to +them, estranged from all their instincts and habits, and full of perils +which their very fears will exaggerate. Constitutional governments, like +underdone roast beef, suit our natures and our latitude; but they would +seem lamentable experiments when tried south of the Alps. Liberty with us +means the right to break heads at a county election, and to print +impertinences in newspapers. With the Spaniard or the Italian it would be +to carry a poniard more openly, and use it more frequently than at +present. +</p> +<p> +At all events, if it be any satisfaction to you, you may be assured that +the rulers in all these cases are not much better off than those they rule +over. They lead lives of incessant terror, distrust, and anxiety. Their +existence is poisoned by ceaseless fears of treachery,—they know not +where. They change ministers as travellers change the direction of their +journey, to disconcert the supposed plans of their enemies; and they +vacillate between cruelty and mercy, really not knowing in which lies +their safety. Don't fancy that they have any innate pleasure in harsh +measures. The likelihood is, they hate them as much as you do yourself; +but they know no other system; and, to come back to my cavalry +illustration, the only time they tried a snaffle, they were run away with. +</p> +<p> +I trust these prosings will be a warning to you how you touch upon +politics again in a letter to me; but I really did not wish to-be a bore, +and now here I am, ready to answer, as far as in me lies, all your +interrogatories; first premising that I am not at liberty to enter upon +the question of Glencore himself, and for the simple reason that he has +made me his confidant. And now, as to the boy, I could make nothing of +him, Harcourt; and for this reason,—he had not what sailors call +“steerage way” on him. He went wherever you bade, but without an impulse. +I tried to make him care for his career; for the gay world; for the +butterfly life of young diplomacy; for certain dissipations,—excellent +things occasionally to develop nascent faculties. I endeavored to interest +him by literary society and savans, but unsuccessfully. For art indeed he +showed some disposition, and modelled prettily; but it never rose above +“amateurship.” Now, enthusiasm, although a very excellent ingredient, will +no more make an artist than a brisk kitchen fire will provide a dinner +where all the materials are wanting. +</p> +<p> +I began to despair of him, Harcourt, when I saw that there were no +features about him. He could do everything reasonably well, because there +was no hope of his doing anything with real excellence. He wandered away +from me to Carrara, with his quaint companion the Doctor; and after some +months wrote me rather a sturdy letter, rejecting all moneyed advances, +past and future, and saying something very haughty, and of course very +stupid, about the “glorious sense of independence.” I replied, but he +never answered me; and here might have ended all my knowledge of his +history, had not a letter, of which I send you an extract, resumed the +narrative. The writer is the Princess Sabloukoff, a lady of whose +attractions and fascinations you have often heard me speak. When you have +read, and thought over the enclosed, let me have your opinion. I do not, I +cannot, believe in the rumor you allude to. Glencore is not the man to +marry at his time of life, and in his circumstances. Send me, however, all +the particulars you are in possession of. I hope they don't mean to send +you to India, because you seem to dislike it. For my own part, I suspect I +should enjoy that country immensely. Heat is the first element of daily +comfort, and all the appliances to moderate it are <i>ex-officio</i> +luxuries; besides that in India there is a splendid and enlarged +selfishness in the mode of life very different from the petty egotisms of +our rude Northland. +</p> +<p> +If you do go, pray take Naples in the way. The route by Alexandria and +Suez, they all tell me, is the best and most expeditious. +</p> +<p> +Mellish desires me to add his remembrances, hoping you have not forgotten +him. He served in the “Fifth” with you in Canada,—that is, if you be +the same George Harcourt who played Tony Lumpkin so execrably at Montreal. +I have told him it is probable, and am yours ever, +</p> +<p> +H. U. <a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXXV. HARCOURT'S LODGINGS +</h2> +<p> +When Harcourt had finished the reading of that letter we have presented in +our last chapter, he naturally turned for information on the subject which +principally interested him to the enclosure. It was a somewhat bulky +packet, and, from its size, at once promised very full and ample details. +As he opened it, however, he discovered it was in various handwritings; +but his surprise was further increased by the following heading, in large +letters, in the top of a page: “Sulphur Question,” and beginning, “My +Lord, by a reference to my despatch, No. 478, you will perceive that the +difficulties which the Neapolitan Government—” Harcourt turned over +the page. It was all in the same strain. Tariffs, treaties, dues, and +duties occurred in every line. Three other documents of like nature +accompanied this; after which came a very ill-written scrawl on coarse +paper, entitled, “Hints as to diet and daily exercise for his Excellency's +use.” + </p> +<p> +The honest Colonel, who was not the quickest of men, was some time before +he succeeded in unravelling to his satisfaction the mystery before him, +and recognizing that the papers on his table had been destined for a +different address, while the letter of the Princess had, in all +probability, been despatched to the Foreign Office, and was now either +confounding or amusing the authorities in Downing Street. While Harcourt +laughed over the blunder, he derived no small gratification from thinking +that nothing but great geniuses ever fell into these mistakes, and was +about to write off in this very spirit to Upton, when he suddenly +bethought him that, before an answer could arrive, he himself would be far +away on his journey to India. +</p> +<p> +“I asked nothing,” said he, “that could be difficult to reply to. It was +plain enough, too, that I only wanted such information as he could have +given me off-hand. If I could but assure Glencore that the boy was worthy +of him,—that there was stuff to give good promise of future +excellence, that he was honorable and manly in all his dealings,—who +knows what effect such assurance might have had? There are days when it +strikes me Glencore would give half his fortune to have the youth beside +him, and be able to call him his own. Why he cannot, does not do it, is a +mystery which I am unable to fathom. He never gave me his confidence on +this head; indeed, he gave me something like a rebuff one evening, when he +erroneously fancied that I wanted to probe the mysterious secret. It shows +how much he knows of my nature,” added he, laughing. “Why, I'd rather +carry a man's trunk or his portmanteau on my back than his family secrets +in my heart. I could rest and lay down my burden in the one case,—in +the other, there's never a moment of repose! And now Glencore is to be +here this very day—the ninth—to learn my news. The poor fellow +comes up from Wales, just to talk over these matters, and I have nothing +to offer him but this blundering epistle. Ay, here 's the letter:— +</p> +<p> +“Dear Harcourt,—Let me have a mutton-chop with you on the ninth, and +give me, if you can, the evening after it. +</p> +<p> +“Yours, +</p> +<p> +“Glencore.” + </p> +<p> +“A man must be ill off for counsel and advice when he thinks of such aid +as mine. Heaven knows, I never was such a brilliant manager of my own +fortunes that any one should trust his destinies in my hands. Well, he +shall have the mutton-chop, and a good glass of old port after it; and the +evening, or, if he likes it, the night shall be at his disposal.” And with +this resolve, Harcourt, having given orders for dinner at six, issued +forth to stroll down to his club, and drop in at the Horse Guards, and +learn as much as he could of the passing events of the day,—meaning, +thereby, the details of whatever regarded the army-list, and those who +walk in scarlet attire. +</p> +<p> +It was about five o'clock of a dreary November afternoon that a +hackney-coach drew op at Harcourt's lodgings in Dover Street, and a tall +and very sickly looking man, carrying his carpet-bag in one hand and a +dressing-case in the other, descended and entered the house. +</p> +<p> +“Mr. Massy, sir?” said the Colonel's servant, as he ushered him in; for +such was the name Glencore desired to be known by. And the stranger +nodded, and throwing himself wearily down on a sofa, seemed overcome with +fatigue. +</p> +<p> +“Is your master out?” asked he, at length. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, sir; but I expect him immediately. Dinner was ordered for six, and +he 'll be back to dress half an hour before that time.” + </p> +<p> +“Dinner for two?” half impatiently asked the other. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, sir, for two.” + </p> +<p> +“And all visitors in the evening denied admittance? Did your master say +so?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, sir; out for every one.” + </p> +<p> +Glencore now covered his face with his hands, and relapsed into silence. +At length he lifted his eyes till they fell upon a colored drawing over +the chimney. It was an officer in hussar uniform, mounted on a splendid +charger, and seated with all the graceful ease of a consummate horseman. +This much alone he could perceive from where he lay, and indolently +raising himself on one arm, he asked if it were “a portrait of his +master”? +</p> +<p> +“No, sir; of my master's colonel, Lord Glencore, when he commanded the +Eighth, and was said to be the handsomest man in the service.” + </p> +<p> +“Show it to me!” cried he, eagerly, and almost snatched the drawing from +the other's hands. He gazed at it intently and fixedly, and his sallow +cheek once reddened slightly as he continued to look. +</p> +<p> +“That never was a likeness!” said he, bitterly. +</p> +<p> +“My master thinks it a wonderful resemblance, sir,—not of what he is +now, of course; but that was taken fifteen years ago or more.” + </p> +<p> +“And is he so changed since that?” asked the sick man, plaintively. +</p> +<p> +“So I hear, sir. He had a stroke of some kind, or fit of one sort or +another, brought on by fretting. They took away his title, I'm told. They +made out that he had no right to it, that he wasn't the real lord. But +here's the Colonel, sir;” and almost as he spoke, Harcourt's step was on +the stair. The next moment his hand was cordially clasped in that of his +guest. +</p> +<p> +“I scarcely expected you before six; and how have you borne the journey?” + cried he, taking a seat beside the sofa. A gentle motion of the eyebrows +gave the reply. +</p> +<p> +“Well, well, you'll be all right after the soup. Marcom, serve the dinner +at once. I'll not dress. And mind, no admittance to any one.” + </p> +<p> +“You have heard from Upton?” asked Glencore. +</p> +<p> +“Yes.” + </p> +<p> +“And satisfactorily?” asked he, more anxiously. +</p> +<p> +“Quite so; but you shall know all by and by. I have got mackerel for you. +It was a favorite dish of yours long ago, and you shall taste such mutton +as your Welsh mountains can't equal. I got the haunch from the Ardennes a +week ago, and kept it for you.” + </p> +<p> +“I wish I deserved such generous fare; but I have only an invalid's +stomach,” said Glencore, smiling faintly. +</p> +<p> +“You shall be reported well, and fit for duty to-day, or my name is not +George Harcourt. The strongest and toughest fellow that ever lived could +n't stand up against the united effects of low diet and low spirits. To +act generously and think generously, you must live generously, take plenty +of exercise, breathe fresh air, and know what it is to be downright weary +when you go to bed,—not bored, mark you, for that's another thing. +Now, here comes the soup, and you shall tell me whether turtle be not the +best restorative a man ever took after twelve hours of the road.” + </p> +<p> +Whether tempted by the fare, or anxious to gratify the hospitable wishes +of his host, Glencore ate heartily, and drank what for his abstemious +habit was freely, and, so far as a more genial air and a more ready smile +went, fully justified Harcourt's anticipations. +</p> +<p> +“By Jove! you 're more like yourself than I have seen you this many a +day,” said the Colonel, as they drew their chairs towards the fire, and +sat with that now banished, but ever to be regretted, little spider-table, +that once emblematized after-dinner blessedness, between them. “This +reminds one of long ago, Glencore, and I don't see why we cannot bring to +the hour some of the cheerfulness that we once boasted.” + </p> +<p> +A faint, very faint smile, with more of sorrow than joy in it, was the +other's only reply. +</p> +<p> +“Look at the thing this way, Glencore,” said Harcourt, eagerly. “So long +as a man has, either by his fortune or by his personal qualities, the +means of benefiting others, there is a downright selfishness in shutting +himself up in his sorrow, and saying to the world, 'My own griefs are +enough for me; I 'll take no care or share in yours.' Now, there never was +a fellow with less of this selfishness than you—” + </p> +<p> +“Do not speak to me of what I was, my dear friend. There's not a plank of +the old craft remaining. The name alone lingers, and even that will soon +be extinct.” + </p> +<p> +“So, then, you still hold to this stern resolution? Shall I tell you what +I think of it?” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps you had better not do so,” said Glencore, sternly. +</p> +<p> +“By Jove! then, I will, just for that menace,” said Harcourt. “I said, +'This is vengeance on Glencore's part.'” + </p> +<p> +“To whom, sir, did you make this remark?” + </p> +<p> +“To myself, of course. I never alluded to the matter to any other; never.” + </p> +<p> +“So far, well,” said Glencore, solemnly; “for had you done so, we had +never exchanged words again!” + </p> +<p> +“My dear fellow,” said Harcourt, laying his hand affectionately on the +other's, “I can well imagine the price a sensitive nature like yours must +pay for the friendship of one so little gifted with tact as I am. But +remember always that there's this advantage in the intercourse: you can +afford to hear and bear things from a man of <i>my</i> stamp, that would +be outrages from perhaps the lips of a brother. As Upton, in one of his +bland moments, once said to me, 'Fellows like you, Harcourt, are the +bitters of the human pharmacopoeia,—somewhat hard to take, but very +wholesome when you're once swallowed.'” + </p> +<p> +“You are the best of the triad, and no great praise that, either,” + muttered Glencore to himself. After a pause, he continued: “It has not +been from any distrust in your friendship, Harcourt, that I have not +spoken to you before on this gloomy subject. I know well that you bear me +more affection than any one of all those who call themselves my friends; +but when a man is about to do that which never can meet approval from +those who love him, he seeks no counsel, he invites no confidence. Like +the gambler, who risks all on a single throw, he makes his venture from +the impulse of a secret mysterious prompting within, that whispers, 'With +this you are rescued or ruined!' Advice, counsel!” cried he, in bitter +mockery, “tell me, when have such ever alleviated the tortures of a +painful malady? Have you ever heard that the writhings of the sick man +were calmed by the honeyed words of his friends at the bedside? I”—here +his voice became full and loud—“I was burdened with a load too great +for me to bear. It had bowed me to the earth, and all but crushed me! The +sense of an unaccomplished vengeance was like a debt which, unrequited ere +I died, sent me to my grave dishonored. Which of you all could tell me how +to endure this? What shape could your philosophy assume?” + </p> +<p> +“Then I guessed aright,” broke in Harcourt. “This was done in vengeance.” + </p> +<p> +“I have no reckoning to render you, sir,” said Glencore, haughtily; “for +any confidence of mine, you are more indebted to my passion than to my +inclination. I came up here to speak and confer with you about this boy, +whose guardianship you are unable to continue longer. Let us speak of +that.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes,” said Harcourt, in his habitual tone of easy good humor, “they are +going to send me out to India again. I have had eighteen years of it +already; but I have no Parliamentary influence, nor could I trace a +fortieth cousinship with the House of Lords; but, after all, it might be +worse. Now, as to this lad, what if I were to take him out with me? This +artist life that he seems to have adopted scarcely promises much.” + </p> +<p> +“Let me see Upton's letter,” said Glencore, gravely. +</p> +<p> +“There it is. But I must warn you that the really important part is +wanting; for instead of sending us, as he promised, the communication of +his Russian Princess, he has stuffed in a mass of papers intended for +Downing Street, and a lot of doctor's prescriptions, for whose loss he is +doubtless suffering martyrdom.” + </p> +<p> +“Is this credible?” cried Glencore. +</p> +<p> +“There they are, very eloquent about sulphur, and certain refugees with +long names, and with some curious hints about Spanish flies and the +flesh-brush.” + </p> +<p> +Glencore flung down the papers in indignation, and walked up and down the +room without speaking. +</p> +<p> +“I'd wager a trifle,” cried Harcourt, “that Madame—What +'s-her-name's letter has gone to the Foreign Office in lien of the +despatches; and, if so, they have certainly gained most by the whole +transaction.” + </p> +<p> +“You have scarcely considered, perhaps, what publicity may thus be given +to my private affairs,” said Glencore. “Who knows what this woman may have +said; what allusions her letter may contain?” + </p> +<p> +“Very true; I never did think of that,” muttered Harcourt. +</p> +<p> +“Who knows what circumstances of my private history are now bandied about +from desk to desk by flippant fools, to be disseminated afterwards over +Europe by every courier?” cried he, with increasing passion. +</p> +<p> +Before Harcourt could reply, the servant entered, and whispered a few +words in his ear. “But you already denied me,” said Harcourt. “You told +him that I was from home?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, sir; but he said that his business was so important that he 'd wait +for your return, if I could not say where he might find you. This is his +card.” + </p> +<p> +Harcourt took it, and read, “Major Scaresby, from Naples.” “What think +you, Glencore? Ought we to admit this gentleman? It may be that this visit +relates to what we have been speaking about.” + </p> +<p> +“Scaresby—Scaresby—I know the name,” muttered Glencore. “To be +sure! There was a fellow that hung about Florence and Rome long ago, and +called himself Scaresby; an ill-tongued old scandal-monger people +encouraged in a land where newspapers are not permitted.” + </p> +<p> +“He affects to have something very pressing to communicate. Perhaps it +were better to have him up.” + </p> +<p> +“Don't make me known to him, then, or let me have to talk to him,” said +Glencore, throwing himself down on a sofa; “and let his visit be as brief +as you can manage.” + </p> +<p> +Harcourt made a significant sign to his servant, and the moment after the +Major was heard ascending the stairs. +</p> +<p> +“Very persistent of me, you'll say, Colonel Harcourt. Devilish tenacious +of my intentions, to force myself thus upon you!” said the Major, as he +bustled into the room, with a white leather bag in his hand; “but I +promised Upton I'd not lie down on a bed till I saw you.” + </p> +<p> +“All the apologies should come from my side, Major,” said Harcourt, as he +handed him to a chair; “but the fact was, that having an invalid friend +with me, quite incapable of seeing company, and having matters of some +importance to discuss with him—” + </p> +<p> +“Just so,” broke in Scaresby; “and if it were not that I had given a very +strong pledge to Upton, I 'd have given my message to your servant, and +gone off to my hotel. But he laid great stress on my seeing you, and +obtaining certain papers which, if I understand aright, have reached you +in mistake, being meant for the Minister at Downing Street. Here's his own +note, however, which will explain all.” + </p> +<p> +It ran thus:— +</p> +<p> +Dear H———,—So I find that some of the despatches +have got into your enclosure instead of that “on his Majesty's service.” I +therefore send off the insupportable old bore who will deliver this, to +rescue them, and convey them to their fitting destination. “The +extraordinaries” will be burdened to some fifty or sixty pounds for it; +but they very rarely are expended so profitably as in getting rid of an +intolerable nuisance. Give him all the things, therefore, and pack him off +to Downing Street. I'm far more uneasy, however, about some prescriptions +which I suspect are along with them. One, a lotion for the cervical +vertebrae, of invaluable activity, which you may take a copy of, but +strictly, on honor, for your own use only. Scaresby will obtain the +Princess's letter, and hand it to you. It is certain not to have been +opened at F. O., as they never read anything not alluded to in the private +correspondence. +</p> +<p> +This blunder has done me a deal of harm. My nerves are not in a state to +stand such shocks; and though, in fact, you are not the culpable party, I +cannot entirely acquit you for having in part occasioned it. [Harcourt +laughed good-humoredly at this, and continued:] If you care for it, old S. +will give you all the last gossip from these parts, and be the channel of +yours to me. But don't dine him; he's not worth a dinner. He 'll only +repay sherry and soda-water, and one of those execrable cheroots you used +to be famed for. Amongst the recipes, let me recommend you an admirable +tonic, the principal ingredient in which is the oil of the star-fish. It +will probably produce nausea, vertigo, and even fainting for a week or +two, but these symptoms decline at last, and, except violent hiccup, no +other inconvenience remains. Try it, at all events. +</p> +<p> +Yours ever, H. U. +</p> +<p> +While Harcourt perused this short epistle, Scaresby, on the invitation of +his host, had helped himself freely to the Madeira, and a plate of +devilled biscuits beside it, giving, from time to time, oblique glances +towards the dark corner of the room, where Glencore lay, apparently +asleep. +</p> +<p> +“I hope Upton's letter justifies my insistence, Colonel. He certainly gave +me to understand that the case was a pressing one,” said Scaresby. +</p> +<p> +“Quite so, Major Scaresby; and I have only to reiterate my excuses for +having denied myself to you. But you are aware of the reason;” and he +glanced towards where Glen-Core was lying. +</p> +<p> +“Very excellent fellow, Upton,” said the Major, sipping his wine, “but +very—what shall I call it?—eccentric; very odd; not like any +one else, you know, in the way he does things. I happened to be one of his +guests t'other day. He had detained us above an hour waiting dinner, when +he came in all flurried and excited, and, turning to me, said, 'Scaresby, +have you any objection to a trip to England at his Majesty's expense?' and +as I replied, 'None whatever; indeed, it would suit my book to perfection +just now.' +</p> +<p> +“'Well, then,' said he, 'get your traps together, and be here within an +hour. I 'll have all in readiness for you.' I did not much fancy starting +off in this fashion, and without my dinner, too; but egad! he's one of +those fellows that don't stand parleying, and so I just took him at his +word, and here I am. I take it the matter must be a very emergent one, +eh?” + </p> +<p> +“It is clear Sir Horace Upton thought so,” said Harcourt, rather amused +than offended by the other's curiosity. +</p> +<p> +“There's a woman in it, somehow, I 'll be bound, eh?” + </p> +<p> +Harcourt laughed heartily at this sally, and pushed the decanter towards +his guest. +</p> +<p> +“Not that I'd give sixpence to know every syllable of the whole +transaction,” said Scaresby. “A man that has passed, as I have, the last +twenty-five years of his life between Rome, Florence, and Naples, has +devilish little to learn of what the world calls scandal.” + </p> +<p> +“I suppose you must indeed possess a wide experience,” said Harcourt. +</p> +<p> +“Not a man in Europe, sir, could tell you as many dark passages of good +society! I kept a kind of book once,—a record of fashionable +delinquencies; but I had to give it up. It took me half my day to +chronicle even the passing events; and then my memory grew so retentive by +practice, I did n't want the reference, but could give you date, and name, +and place for every incident that has scandalized the world for the last +quarter of the century.” + </p> +<p> +“And do you still possess this wonderful gift, Major?” + </p> +<p> +“Pretty well; not, perhaps, to the same extent I once did. You see, +Colonel Harcourt,”—here his voice became low and confidential,—“some +twenty, or indeed fifteen years back, it was only persons of actual +condition that permitted themselves the liberty to do these things; but, +hang it, sir! now you have your middle-class folk as profligate as their +betters. Jones, or Smith, or Thompson runs away with his neighbor's wife, +cheats at cards, and forges his friend's name, just as if he had the best +blood in his veins, and fourteen quarterings on his escutcheon. What +memory, then, I ask you, could retain all the shortcomings of these +people?” + </p> +<p> +“But I 'd really not trouble my head with such ignoble delinquents,” said +Harcourt. +</p> +<p> +“Nor do I, sir, save when, as will sometimes happen, they have a footing, +with one leg at least, in good society. For, in the present state of the +world, a woman with a pretty face, and a man with a knowledge of +horseflesh, may move in any circle they please.” + </p> +<p> +“You're a severe censor of the age we live in, I see,” said Harcourt, +smiling. “At the same time, the offences could scarcely give you much +uneasiness, or you 'd not take up your residence where they most abound.” + </p> +<p> +“If you want to destroy tigers, you must frequent the jungle,” said +Scaresby, with one of his heartiest laughs. +</p> +<p> +“Say, rather, if you have the vulture's appetite, you must go where there +is carrion!” cried Glencore, with a voice to which passion lent a savage +vehemence. +</p> +<p> +“Eh? ha! very good! devilish smart of your sick friend. Pray present me to +him,” said Scaresby, rising. +</p> +<p> +“No, no, never mind him,” whispered Harcourt, pressing him down into his +seat. “At some other time, perhaps. He is nervous and irritable. +Conversation fatigues him, too.” + </p> +<p> +“Egad! that was neatly said, though; I hope I shall not forget it. One +envies these sick fellows, sometimes, the venom they get from bad health. +But I am forgetting myself in the pleasure of your society,” added he, +rising from the table, as he finished off the last glass in the decanter. +“I shall call at Downing Street to-morrow for that letter of Upton's, and, +with your permission, will deposit it in your hands afterwards.” + </p> +<p> +Harcourt accompanied him to the door with thanks. Profuse, indeed, was he +in his recognitions, desiring to get him clear off the ground before any +further allusions on his part, or rejoinders from Glencore, might involve +them all in new complications. +</p> +<p> +“I know that fellow well,” cried Glencore, almost ere the door closed on +him. “He is just what I remember him some twenty years ago. Dressed up in +the cast-off vices of his betters, he has passed for a man of fashion +amongst his own set, while he is regarded as a wit by those who mistake +malevolence for humor. I ask no other test of a society than that such a +man is endured in it.” + </p> +<p> +“I sometimes suspect,” said Harcourt, “that the world never believes these +fellows to be as ill-natured as then-tongues bespeak them.” + </p> +<p> +“You are wrong, George; the world knows them well. The estimation they are +held in is, for the reflective flattery by which each listener to their +sarcasms soothes his own conscience as he says, 'I could be just as +bitter, if I consented to be as bad.'” +</p> +<p> +“I cannot at all account for Upton's endurance of such a man,” said +Harcourt. +</p> +<p> +“As there are men who fancy that they strengthen their animal system by +braving every extreme of climate, so Upton imagines that he invigorates +his <i>morale</i> by associating with all kinds and descriptions of +people; and there is no doubt that in doing so he extends the sphere of +his knowledge of mankind. After all,” muttered he, with a sigh, “it 's +only learning the geography of a land too unhealthy to live in.” + </p> +<p> +Glencore arose as he said this, and, with a nod of leave-taking, retired +to his room. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXXVI. A FEVERED MIND +</h2> +<p> +Harcourt passed the morning of the following day in watching the street +for Scaresby's arrival. Glencore's impatience had grown into absolute +fever to obtain the missing letter, and he kept asking every moment at +what hour he had promised to be there, and wondering at his delay. +</p> +<p> +Noon passed over,—one o'clock; it was now nearly half-past, as a +carriage drove hastily to the door. +</p> +<p> +“At last,” cried Glencore, with a deep sigh. +</p> +<p> +“Sir Gilbert Bruce, sir, requests to know if you can receive him,” said +the servant to Harcourt. +</p> +<p> +“Another disappointment!” muttered Glencore, as he left the room, when +Harcourt motioned to the servant to introduce the visitor. +</p> +<p> +“My dear Colonel Harcourt,” cried the other, entering, “excuse a very +abrupt call; but I have a most pressing need of your assistance. I hear +you can inform me of Lord Glencore's address.” + </p> +<p> +“He is residing in North Wales at present. I can give you his post town.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, but can I be certain that he will admit me if I should go down +there? He is living, I hear, in strict retirement, and I am anxious for a +personal interview.” + </p> +<p> +“I cannot insure you that,” said Harcourt. “He does live, as you have +heard, entirely estranged from all society. But if you write to him—” + </p> +<p> +“Ah! there's the difficulty. A letter and its reply takes some days.” + </p> +<p> +“And is the matter, then, so very imminent?” + </p> +<p> +“It is so; at least it is thought to be so by an authority that neither +you nor I will be likely to dispute. You know his Lordship intimately, I +fancy?” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps. I may call myself as much his friend as any man living.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, then, I may confide to you my business with him. It happened that, +a few days back, Lord Adderley was on a visit with the King at Brighton, +when a foreign messenger arrived with despatches. They were, of course, +forwarded to him there; and as the King has a passion for that species of +literature, he opened them all himself. Now, I suspect that his Majesty +cares more for the amusing incidents which occasionally diversify the life +of foreign courts than for the great events of politics. At all events, he +devours them with avidity, and seems conversant with the characters and +private affairs of some hundreds of people he has never seen, nor in all +likelihood will ever see! In turning over the loose pages of one of the +despatches from Naples, I think, he came upon what appeared to be a +fragment of a letter. Of what it was, or what it contained, I have not the +slightest knowledge. Adderley himself has not seen it, nor any one but the +King. All I know is that it concerns in some way Lord Glencore; for +immediately on reading it he gave me instructions to find him out, and +send him down to Brighton.” + </p> +<p> +“I am afraid, were you to see Glencore, your mission would prove a +failure. He has given up the world altogether, and even a royal command +would scarcely withdraw him from his retirement.” + </p> +<p> +“At all events, I must make the trial. You can let me have his address, +and perhaps you would do more, and give me some sort of introduction to +him,—something that might smooth down the difficulty of a first +visit.” + </p> +<p> +Harcourt was silent, and stood for some seconds in deep thought; which the +other, mistaking for a sign of unwillingness to comply with his request, +quickly added, “If my demand occasion you any inconvenience, or if there +be the slightest difficulty—” + </p> +<p> +“Nay, nay, I was not thinking of that,” said Harcourt. “Pray excuse me for +a moment. I will fetch you the address you spoke of;” and without waiting +for more, he left the room. The next minute he was in Glencore's room, +hurriedly narrating to him all that had passed, and asking him what course +he should pursue. Glencore heard the story with a greater calm than +Harcourt dared to hope for; and seemed pleased at the reiterated assurance +that the King alone had seen the letter referred to; and when Harcourt +abruptly asked what was to be done, he slowly replied, “I must obey his +Majesty's commands. I must go to Brighton.” + </p> +<p> +“But are you equal to all this? Have you strength for it?” + </p> +<p> +“I think so; at all events, I am determined to make the effort. I was a +favorite with his Majesty long ago. He will say nothing to hurt me +needlessly; nor is it in his nature to do so. Tell Bruce that you will +arrange everything, and that I shall present myself to-morrow at the +palace.” + </p> +<p> +“Remember, Glencore, that if you say so—” + </p> +<p> +“I must be sure and keep my word. Well, so I mean, George. I was a +courtier once upon a time, and have not outlived my deference to a +sovereign. I 'll be there; you may answer for me.” + </p> +<p> +From the moment that Glencore had come to this resolve, a complete change +seemed to pass over the nature of the man. It was as though a new spring +had been given to his existence. The reformation that all the +blandishments of friendship, all the soft influences of kindness, could +never accomplish, was more than half effected by the mere thought of an +interview with a king, and the possible chance of a little royal sympathy! +</p> +<p> +If Harcourt was astonished, he was not the less pleased at all this. He +encouraged Glencore's sense of gratification by every means in his power, +and gladly lent himself to all the petty anxieties about dress and +appearance in which he seemed now immersed. Nothing could exceed, indeed, +the care he bestowed on these small details; ever insisting as he did +that, his Majesty being the best-dressed gentleman in Europe, these +matters assumed a greater importance in his eyes. +</p> +<p> +“I must try to recover somewhat of my former self,” said he. “There was a +time when I came and went freely to Carlton House, when I was somewhat +more than a mere frequenter of the Prince's society. They tell me that of +late he is glad to see any of those who partook of his intimacy of those +times; who can remember the genial spirits who made his table the most +brilliant circle of the world; who can talk to him of Hanger, and Kelly, +and Sheridan, and the rest of them. I spent my days and nights with them.” + </p> +<p> +Warming with the recollection of a period which, dissolute and dissipated +as it was, yet redeemed by its brilliancy many of its least valuable +features, Glencore poured forth story after story of a time when statesmen +had the sportive-ness of schoolboys, and the greatest intellects loved to +indulge in the wildest excesses of folly. A good jest upon Eldon, a smart +epigram on Sidmouth, a quiz against Vansittart, was a fortune at Court; +and there grew up thus around the Prince a class who cultivated ridicule +so assiduously that nothing was too high or too venerable to escape their +sarcasms. +</p> +<p> +Though Glencore was only emerging out of boyhood,—a young subaltern +in the Prince's own regiment,—when he first entered this society, +the impression it had made upon his mind was not the less permanent. +Independently of the charm of being thus admitted to the most choice +circle of the land, there was the fascination of intimacy with names that +even amongst contemporaries were illustrious. +</p> +<p> +“I feel in such spirits to-day, George,” cried Glencore at length, “that I +vote we go and pass the day at Richmond. We shall escape the possibility +of being bored by your acquaintance. We shall have a glorious stroll +through the fields, and a pleasant dinner afterwards at the Star and +Garter.” + </p> +<p> +Only too well pleased at this sudden change in his friend's humor, +Harcourt assented. +</p> +<p> +The day was a bright and clear one, with a sharp, frosty air and that +elasticity of atmosphere that invigorates and stimulates. They both soon +felt its influence, and as the hours wore on, pleasant memories of the +past were related, and old friends remembered and talked over in a spirit +that brought back to each much of the youthful sentiments they recorded. +</p> +<p> +“If one could only go over it all again, George,” said Glencore, as they +sat after dinner, “up to three-and-twenty, or even a year or two later, I +'d not ask to change a day,—scarcely an hour. Whatever was deficient +in fact, was supplied by hope. It was a joyous, brilliant time, when we +all made partnership of our good spirits, and traded freely on the +capital. Even Upton was frank and free-hearted then. There were some six +or eight of us, with just fortune enough never to care about money, and +none of us so rich as to be immersed in dreams of gold, as ever happens +with your millionnaire. Why could we not have continued so to the end?” + </p> +<p> +Harcourt adroitly turned him from the theme which he saw impending,—his +departure for the Continent, his residence there, and his marriage,—and +once more occupied him in stories of his youthful life in London, when +Glencore suddenly came to a stop, and said, “I might have married the +greatest beauty of the time,—of a family, too, second to none in all +England. You know to whom I allude. Well, she would have accepted me; her +father was not averse to the match; a stupid altercation with her brother, +Lord Hervey, at Brookes's one night—an absurd dispute about some +etiquette of the play-table—estranged me from their house. I was +offended at what I deemed their want of courtesy in not seeking me,—for +I was in the right; every one said so. I determined not to call first. +They gave a great entertainment, and omitted me; and rather than stay in +town to publish this affront, I started for the Continent; and out of that +petty incident, a discussion of the veriest trifle imaginable, there came +the whole course of my destiny.” + </p> +<p> +“To be sure,” said Harcourt, with assumed calm, “every man's fortune in +life is at the sport of some petty incident or other, which at the time he +undervalues.” + </p> +<p> +“And then we scoff at those men who scrutinize each move, and hesitate +over every step in life, as triflers and little-minded; while, if your +remark be just, it is exactly they who are the wise and prudent,” cried +Glencore, with warmth. “Had I, for instance, seen this occurrence, trivial +as it was, in its true light, what and where might I not have been +to-day?” + </p> +<p> +“My dear Glencore, the luckiest fellow that ever lived, were he only to +cast a look back on opportunities neglected, and conjunctures unprofited +by, would be sure to be miserable. I am far from saying that some have not +more than their share of the world's sorrows; but, take my word for it, +every one has his load, be it greater or less; and, what is worse, we all +of us carry our burdens with as much inconvenience to ourselves as we +can.” + </p> +<p> +“I know what you would say, Harcourt. It is the old story about giving way +to passion, and suffering temper to get the better of one; but let me tell +you that there are trials where passion is an instinct, and reason works +too slowly. I have experienced such as this.” + </p> +<p> +“Give yourself but fair play, Glencore, and you will surmount all your +troubles. Come back into the world again,—I don't mean this world of +balls and dinner-parties, of morning calls and afternoons in the Park; but +a really active, stirring life. Come with me to India, and let us have a +raid amongst the jaguars; mix with the pleasant, light-hearted fellows you +'ll meet at every mess, who ask for nothing better than their own good +spirits and good health, to content them with the world; just look out +upon life, and see what numbers are struggling and swimming for existence, +while you, at least, have competence and wealth for all you wish; and bear +in mind that round the table where wit is flashing and the merriest +laughter rings, there is not a man—no, not one—who hasn't a +something heavy in his heart, but yet who'd feel himself a coward if his +face confessed it.” + </p> +<p> +“And why am I to put this mask upon me? For what and for whom have I to +wear this disguise?” cried Glencore, angrily. +</p> +<p> +“For yourself! It is in bearing up manfully before the world you'll gain +the courage to sustain your own heart. Ay, Glencore, you 'll do it +to-morrow. In the presence of royalty you 'll comport yourself with +dignity and reserve, and you 'll come out from the interview higher and +stronger in self-esteem.” + </p> +<p> +“You talk as if I were some country squire who would stand abashed and +awe-struck before his King; but remember, my worthy Colonel, I have lived +a good deal inside the tabernacle, and its mysteries are no secrets to <i>me</i>. +</p> +<p> +“Reason the more for what I say!” broke in Harcourt; “your deference will +not obliterate your judgment; your just respect will not alloy your +reason.” + </p> +<p> +“I'll talk to the King, sir, as I talk to you,” said Glencore, +passionately; “nor is the visit of my seeking. I have long since done with +courts and those who frequent them. What can royalty do for <i>me?</i> +Upton and yourself may play the courtier, and fawn at levées; you have +your petitions to present, your favors to beg for; you want to get this, +or be excused from that: but I am no supplicant; I ask for no place, no +ribbon. If the King speak to me about my private affairs, he shall be +answered as I would answer any one who obtrudes his rank into the place +that should only be occupied by friendship.” + </p> +<p> +“It may be that he has some good counsel to offer.” + </p> +<p> +“Counsel to offer me!” burst in Glencore, with increased warmth. “I would +no more permit any man to give me advice unasked than I would suffer him +to go to my tradespeople and pay my debts for me. A man's private sorrows +are his debts,—obligations between himself and his own heart. Don't +tell me, sir, that even a king's prerogative absolves him from the duties +of a gentleman.” + </p> +<p> +While he uttered these words, he continued to fill and empty his +wine-glass several times, as if passion had stimulated his thirst; and now +his flashing eyes and his heightened color betrayed the effect of wine. +</p> +<p> +“Let us stroll out into the cool air,” said Harcourt. “See what a gorgeous +night of stars it is!” + </p> +<p> +“That you may resume your discourse on patience and resignation!” said +Glencore, scoffingly. “No, sir. If I must listen to you, let me have at +least the aid of the decanter. Your bitter maxims are a bad substitute for +olives, but I must have wine to swallow them.” + </p> +<p> +“I never meant them to be so distasteful to you,” said Harcourt, +good-humoredly. +</p> +<p> +“Say, rather, you troubled your head little whether they were or not,” + replied Glencore, whose voice was now thick from passion and drink +together. “You and Upton, and two or three others, presume to lecture <i>me</i>—who, +because gifted, if you call it gifted—I'd say cursed—ay, sir, +cursed with coarser natures—temperaments where higher sentiments +have no place—fellows that can make what they feel subordinate to +what they want—you appreciate <i>that</i>, I hope—<i>that</i> +stings you, does it? Well, sir, you'll find me as ready to act as to +speak. There's not a word I utter here I mean to retract to-morrow.” + </p> +<p> +“My dear Glencore, we have both taken too much wine.” + </p> +<p> +“Speak for yourself, sir. If you desire to make the claret the excuse for +your language, I can only say it's like everything else in your conduct,—always +a subterfuge, always a scapegoat. Oh, George, George, I never suspected +this in you;” and burying his head between his hands, he burst into tears. +</p> +<p> +He never spoke a word as Harcourt assisted him to the carriage, nor did he +open his lips on the road homewards. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXXVII. THE VILLA AT SORRENTO +</h2> +<p> +In one of the most sequestered nooks of Sorrento, almost escarped out of +the rocky cliff, and half hid in the foliage of orange and oleander trees, +stood the little villa of the Princess Sabloukoff. The blue sea washed the +white marble terrace before the windows, and the arbutus, whose odor +scented the drawing-room, dipped its red berries in the glassy water. The +wildest and richest vegetation abounded on every side. Plants and shrubs +of tropical climes mingled with the hardier races of Northern lands; and +the cedar and the plantain blended their leaves with the sycamore and the +ilex; while, as if to complete the admixture, birds and beasts of remote +countries were gathered together; and the bustard, the ape, and the +antelope mixed with the peacock, the chamois, and the golden pheasant. The +whole represented one of those capricious exhibitions by which wealth so +often associates itself with the beautiful, and, despite all errors in +taste, succeeds in making a spot eminently lovely. So was it. There was +often light where a painter would have wished shadow. There were gorgeous +flowers where a poet would have desired nothing beyond the blue +heather-bell. There were startling effects of view, managed where chance +glimpses through the trees had been infinitely more picturesque. There +was, in fact, the obtrusive sense of riches in a thousand ways and places +where mere unadorned nature had been far preferable; and yet, with all +these faults, sea and sky, rock and foliage, the scented air, the silence, +only broken by the tuneful birds, the rich profusion of color upon a sward +strewn with flowers, made of the spot a perfect paradise. +</p> +<p> +In a richly decorated room, whose three windows opened on a marble +terrace, sat the Princess. It was December; but the sky was cloudless, the +sea a perfect mirror, and the light air that stirred the leaves soft and +balmy as the breath of May. Her dress was in keeping with the splendor +around her: a rich robe of yellow silk fastened up the front with large +carbuncle buttons; sleeves of deep Valenciennes lace fell far over her +jewelled fingers; and a scarf of golden embroidery, negligently thrown +over an arm of her chair, gave what a painter would call the warm color to +a very striking picture. Farther from the window, and carefully protected +from the air by a screen, sat a gentleman whose fur-lined pelisse and +velvet skull-cap showed that he placed more faith in the almanac than in +the atmosphere. From his cork-soled boots to his shawl muffled about the +throat, all proclaimed that distrust of the weather that characterizes the +invalid. No treachery of a hot sun, no seductions of that inveterate +cheat, a fine day in winter, could inveigle Sir Horace Upton into any +forgetfulness of his precautions. He would have regarded such as a +palpable weakness on his part,—a piece of folly perfectly unbecoming +in a man of his diplomatic standing and ability. +</p> +<p> +He was writing, and smoking, and talking by turns, the table before him +being littered with papers, and even the carpet at his feet strewn with +the loose sheets of his composition. There was not in his air any of the +concentration, or even seriousness, of a man engaged in an important +labor; and yet the work before him employed all his faculties, and he gave +to it the deepest attention of abilities of which very few possessed the +equal. To great powers of reasoning and a very strong judgment he united a +most acute knowledge of men; not exactly of mankind in the mass, but of +that especial order with whom he had habitually to deal. Stolid, +commonplace stupidity might puzzle or embarrass him; while for any amount +of craft, for any degree of subtlety, he was an over-match. The plain +matter-of-fact intelligence occasionally gained a slight advantage over +him at first; the trained and polished mind of the most astute negotiator +was a book he could read at sight. It was his especial tact to catch up +all this knowledge at once,—very often in a first interview,—and +thus, while others were interchanging the customary platitudes of +every-day courtesy, he was gleaning and recording within himself the +traits and characteristics of all around him. +</p> +<p> +“A clever fellow, very clever fellow, Cineselli,” said he, as he continued +to write. “His proposition is—certain commercial advantages, and +that we, on our side, leave him alone to deal his own way with his own +rabble. I see nothing against it, so long as they continue to be rabble; +but grubs grow into butterflies, and very vulgar populace have now and +then emerged into what are called liberal politicians.” + </p> +<p> +“Only where you have the blessing of a free press,” said the Princess, in +a tone of insolent mockery. +</p> +<p> +“Quite true, Princess; a free press is a tonic that with an increased dose +becomes a stimulant, and occasionally over-excites.” + </p> +<p> +“It makes your people drunk now and then!” said she, angrily. +</p> +<p> +“They always sleep it off over-night,” said he, softly. “They very rarely +pay even the penalty of the morning headache for the excess, which is +exactly why it will not answer in warmer latitudes.” + </p> +<p> +“Ours is a cold one, and I 'm sure it would not suit us.” + </p> +<p> +“I'm not so certain of that,” said he, languidly. “I think it is eminently +calculated for a people who don't know how to read.” + </p> +<p> +She would have smiled at the remark, if the sarcasm had not offended her. +</p> +<p> +“Your Lordship will therefore see,” muttered he, reading to himself as he +wrote, “that in yielding this point we are, while apparently making a +concession, in reality obtaining a very considerable advantage—” + </p> +<p> +“Rather an English habit, I suspect,” said she, smiling. +</p> +<p> +“Picked up in the course of our Baltic trade, Princess. In sending us your +skins, you smuggled in some of your sentiments; and Russian tallow has +enlightened the nation in more ways than one!” + </p> +<p> +“You need it all, my dear chevalier,” said she, with a saucy smile. +“Harzewitch told me that your diplomatic people were inferior to those of +the third-rate German States; that, in fact, they never had any +'information.'” + </p> +<p> +“I know what he calls 'information,' Princess; and his remark is just. Our +Government is shockingly mean, and never would keep up a good system of +spies.” + </p> +<p> +“Spies! If you mean by an odious word to inculpate the honor of a high +calling—” + </p> +<p> +“Pray forgive my interruption, but I am speaking in all good faith. When I +said 'spy,' it was in the bankrupt misery of a man who had nothing else to +offer. I wanted to imply that pure but small stream which conveys +intelligence from a fountain to a river it was not meant to feed. Was n't +that a carriage I heard in the 'cour'? Oh, pray don't open the window; +there's an odious <i>libeccio</i> blowing to-day, and there's nothing so +injurious to the nervous system.” + </p> +<p> +“A cabinet messenger, your Excellency,” said a servant, entering. +</p> +<p> +“What a bore! I hoped I was safe from a despatch for at least a month to +come. I really believe they have no veneration for old institutions in +England. They don't even celebrate Christmas!” + </p> +<p> +“I'm charmed at the prospect of a bag,” cried the Princess. +</p> +<p> +“May I have the messenger shown in here, Princess?” + </p> +<p> +“Certainly; by all means.” + </p> +<p> +“Happy to see your Excellency; hope your Ladyship is in good health,” said +a smart-looking young fellow, who wore a much-frogged pelisse, and sported +a very well-trimmed moustache. +</p> +<p> +“Ah, Stevins, how d'ye do?” said Upton. “You've had a cold journey over +the Cenis.” + </p> +<p> +“Came by the Splugen, your Excellency. I went round by Vienna, and Maurice +Esterhazy took me as far as Milan.” + </p> +<p> +The Princess stared with some astonishment. That the messenger should thus +familiarly style one of that great family was indeed matter of wonderment +to her; nor was it lessened as Upton whispered her, “Ask him to dine.” + </p> +<p> +“And London, how is it? Very empty, Stevins?” continued he. +</p> +<p> +“A desert,” was the answer. +</p> +<p> +“Where's Lord Adderley?” + </p> +<p> +“At Brighton. The King can't do without him,—greatly to Adderley's +disgust; for he is dying to have a week's shooting in the Highlands.” + </p> +<p> +“And Cantworth, where is he?” + </p> +<p> +“He's off for Vienna, and a short trip to Hungary. I met him at dinner at +the mess while waiting for the Dover packet. By the way, I saw a friend of +your Excellency's,—Harcourt.” + </p> +<p> +“Not gone to India?” + </p> +<p> +“No. They've made him a governor or commander-in-chief of something in the +Mediterranean; I forget exactly where or what.” + </p> +<p> +“You have brought me a mighty bag, Stevins,” said Upton, sighing. “I had +hoped for a little ease and rest now that the House is up.” + </p> +<p> +“They are all blue-books, I believe,” replied Stevins. “There's that +blacking your Excellency wrote about, and the cricket-bats; the lathe must +come out by the frigate, and the down mattress at the same time.” + </p> +<p> +“Just do me the favor to open the bag, my dear Stevins. I am utterly +without aid here,” said Upton, sighing drearily; and the other proceeded +to litter the table and the floor with a variety of strange and +incongruous parcels. +</p> +<p> +“Report of factory commissioners,” cried he, throwing down a weighty +quarto. “Yarmouth bloaters; Atkinson's cerulean paste for the eyebrows; +Worcester sauce; trade returns for Tahiti; a set of shoemaking tools; +eight bottles of Darby's pyloric corrector; buffalo flesh-brushes,—devilish +hard they seem; Hume's speech on the reduction of foreign legations; +novels from Bull's; top-boots for a tiger; and a mass of letters,” said +Stevins, throwing them broadcast over the sofa. +</p> +<p> +“No despatches?” cried Upton, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“Not one, by Jove!” said Stevins. +</p> +<p> +“Open one of those Darby's. I 'll take a teaspoonful at once. Will you try +it, Stevins?” + </p> +<p> +“Thanks, your Excellency, I never take physic.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, you dine here, then,” said he, with a sly look at the Princess. +</p> +<p> +“Not to-day, your Excellency. I dine with Grammont at eight.” + </p> +<p> +“Then I'll not detain you. Come back here to-morrow about eleven or a +little later. Come to breakfast if you like.” + </p> +<p> +“At what hour?” + </p> +<p> +“I don't know,—at any hour,” sighed Upton, as he opened one of his +letters and began to read; and Stevins bowed and withdrew, totally +unnoticed and unrecognized as he slipped from the room. +</p> +<p> +One after another Upton threw down, after reading half a dozen lines, +muttering some indistinct syllables over the dreary stupidity of +letter-writers in general. Occasionally he came upon some pressing appeal +for money,—some urgent request for even a small remittance by the +next post; and these he only smiled at, while he refolded them with a +studious care and neatness. “Why will you not help me with this chaos, +dear Princess?” said he, at last. +</p> +<p> +“I am only waiting to be asked,” said she; “but I feared that there might +be secrets—” + </p> +<p> +“From you?” said he, with a voice of deep tenderness, while his eyes +sparkled with an expression far more like raillery than affection. The +Princess, however, had either not seen or not heeded it, for she was +already deep in the correspondence. +</p> +<p> +“This is strictly private. Am I to read it?” said she. +</p> +<p> +“Of course,” said he, bowing courteously. And she read:— +</p> +<p> +“Dear Upton,—Let us have a respite from tariffs and trade-talk for a +month or two, and tell me rather what the world is doing around you. We +have never got the right end of that story about the Princess Celestine as +yet. Who was he? Not Labinsky, I'll be sworn. The K—— insists +it was Roseville, and I hope you may be able to assure me that he is +mistaken. He is worse tempered than ever. That Glencore business has +exasperated him greatly. Could n't your Princess,—the world calls +her yours [“How good of the world, and how delicate of your friend!” said +she, smiling superciliously. “Let us see who the writer is. Oh! a great +man,—the Lord Adderley,” and went on with her reading:] couldn't +your Princess find out something of real consequence to us about the Q——” + </p> +<p> +“What queen does he mean?” cried she, stopping. +</p> +<p> +“The Queen of Sheba, perhaps,” said Upton, biting his lips with anger, +while he made an attempt to take the letter from her. +</p> +<p> +“Pardon! this is interesting,” said she, and went on: +</p> +<p> +“We shall want it soon; that is, if the manufacturing districts will not +kindly afford us a diversion by some open-air demonstrations and a +collision with the troops. We have offered them a most taking bait, by +announcing wrongfully the departure of six regiments for India; thus +leaving the large towns in the North apparently ungarrisoned. They are +such poltroons that the chances are they 'll not bite! You were right +about Emerson. We have made his brother a Bishop, and he voted with us on +the Arms Bill. Cole is a sterling patriot and an old Whig. He says nothing +shall seduce him from his party, save a Lordship of the Admiralty. +Corruption everywhere, my dear Upton, except on the Treasury benches! +</p> +<p> +“Holecroft insists on being sent to Petersburg; and having ascertained +that the Emperor will not accept him, I have induced the K——to +nominate him to the post. 'Non culpa nostra,' etc. He can scarcely vote +against us after such an evidence of our good-will. Find out what will +give most umbrage to your Court, and I will tell you why in my next. +</p> +<p> +“Don't bother yourself about the Greeks. The time is not come yet, nor +will it till it suit our policy to loosen the ties with Russia. As to +France, there is not, nor will there be, in our time at least, any +Government there. We must deal with them as with a public meeting, which +may reverse to-morrow the resolutions they have adopted to-day. The French +will never be formidable till they are unanimous. They 'll never be +unanimous till we declare war with them! Remember, I don't want anything +serious with Cineselli. Irritate and worry as much as you can. Send even +for a ship or two from Malta; but go no farther. I want this for our +radicals at home. Our own friends are in the secret. Write me a short +despatch about our good relations with the Two Sicilies; and send me some +news in a private letter. Let me have some ortolans in the bag, and +believe me yours, +</p> +<p> +“Adderley.” + </p> +<p> +“There,” said she, turning over a number of letters with a mere glance at +their contents, “these are all trash,—shooting and fox-hunting news, +which one reads in the newspapers better, or at least more briefly, +narrated, with all that death and marriage intelligence which you English +are so fond of parading before the world. But what is this literary gem +here? Where did the paper come from? And that wonderful seal, and still +more wonderful address?—'To his Worshipful Excellency the Truly +Worthy and Right Honorable Sir Horace Upton, Plenipotentiary, Negotiator, +and Extraordinary Diplomatist, living at Naples.'” + </p> +<p> +“What can it mean?” said he, languidly. +</p> +<p> +“You shall hear,” said she, breaking the massive seal of green wax, which, +to the size of a crown piece, ornamented one side of the epistle. “It is +dated Schwats, Tyrol, and begins: 'Venerated and Reverend Excellency, when +these unsymmetrically-designed, and not more ingeniously-conceived +syllables—' Let us see his name,” said she, stop-ping suddenly, and +turning to the last page, read, “'W. T., <i>vulgo</i>, Billy Traynor,—a +name cognate to your Worshipful Eminence in times past.'” + </p> +<p> +“To be sure, I remember him perfectly,—a strange creature that came +out here with that boy you heard me speak of. Pray read on.” + </p> +<p> +“I stopped at 'syllables.' Yes—when these curiously-conceived +syllables, then, come under the visionary apertures of your acute +understanding, they will disclose to your much-reflecting and +nice-discriminating mind as cruel and murderous a deed as ever a miscreant +imagination suggested to a diabolically-constructed and +nefariously-fashioned organization, showing that Nature in her bland +adaptiveness never imposes a mistaken fruit on a genuine arborescence'—Do +you understand him?” asked she. +</p> +<p> +“Partly, perhaps,” continued he. “Let us have the subject.” + </p> +<p> +“'Not to weary your exalted and never-enough-to-be-esteemed intelligence, +I will proceed, without further ambiguous or circumgyratory evolutions, to +the main body of my allegation. It happened in this way: Charley—your +venerated worship knows who I mean—Charley, ever deep in marmorial +pursuits, and far progressed in sculptorial excellence, with a genius that +Phidias, if he did not envy, would esteem—' +</p> +<p> +“Really I cannot go on with these interminable parentheses,” said she; +“you must decipher them yourself.” Upton took the letter, and read it, at +first hastily, and then, recommencing, with more of care and attention, +occasionally stopping to reflect, and consider the details. “This is +likely to be a troublesome business,” said he. “This boy has got himself +into a serious scrape. Love and a duel are bad enough; but an Austrian +state-prison, and a sentence of twenty years in irons, are even worse. So +far as I can make out from my not over lucid correspondent, he had +conceived a violent affection for a young lady at Massa, to whose favor a +young Austrian of high rank at the same time pretended.” + </p> +<p> +“Wahnsdorf, I'm certain,” broke in the Princess; “and the girl—that +Mademoiselle—” + </p> +<p> +“Harley,” interposed Sir Horace. +</p> +<p> +“Just so,—Harley. Pray go on,” said she, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“A very serious altercation and a duel were the consequences of this +rivalry, and Wahnsdorf has been dangerously wounded; his life is still in +peril. The Harleys have been sent out of the country, and my unlucky <i>protégé</i>, +handed over to the Austrians, has been tried, condemned, and sentenced to +twenty years in Kuffstein, a Tyrol fortress where great severity is +practised,—from the neighborhood of which this letter is written, +entreating my speedy interference and protection.” + </p> +<p> +“What can you do? It is not even within your jurisdiction,” said she, +carelessly. +</p> +<p> +“True; nor was the capture by the Austrians within theirs, Princess. It is +a case where assuredly everybody was in the wrong, and, therefore, +admirably adapted for nice negotiation.” + </p> +<p> +“Who and what is the youth?” + </p> +<p> +“I have called him a <i>protégé</i>.” + </p> +<p> +“Has he no more tender claim to the affectionate solicitude of Sir Horace +Upton?” said she, with an easy air of sarcasm. +</p> +<p> +“None, on my honor,” said he, eagerly; “none, at least, of the kind you +infer. His is a very sad story, which I 'll tell you about at another +time. For the present, I may say that he is English, and as such must be +protected by the English authorities. The Government of Massa have clearly +committed a great fault in handing him over to the Austrians. Stubber must +be 'brought to book' for this in the first instance. By this we shall +obtain a perfect insight into the whole affair.” + </p> +<p> +“The Imperial family will never forgive an insult offered to one of their +own blood,” said the Princess, haughtily. +</p> +<p> +“We shall not ask them to forgive anything, my dear Princess. We shall +only prevent their natural feelings betraying them into an act of +injustice. The boy's offence, whatever it was, occurred outside the +frontier, as I apprehend.” + </p> +<p> +“How delighted you English are when you can convert an individual case +into an international question! You would at any moment sacrifice an +ancient alliance to the trumpery claim of an aggrieved tourist,” said she, +rising angrily, and swept out of the room ere Sir Horace could arise to +open the door for her. +</p> +<p> +Upton walked slowly to the chimney and rang the bell. “I shall want the +calèche and post-horses at eight o'clock, Antoine. Put up some things for +me, and get all my furs ready.” And with this he measured forty drops from +a small phial he carried in his waistcoat pocket, and sat down to pare his +nails with a very diminutive penknife. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXXVIII. A DIPLOMATIST'S DINNER +</h2> +<p> +Were we writing a drama instead of a true history, we might like to linger +for a few moments on the leave-taking between the Princess and Sir Horace +Upton. They were indeed both consummate “artists,” and they played their +parts to perfection,—not as we see high comedy performed on the +stage, by those who grotesque its refinements and exaggerate its dignity; +“lashing to storm” the calm and placid lake, all whose convulsive throes +are many a fathom deep, and whose wildest workings never bring a ripple to +the surface. No, theirs was the true version of well-bred “performance.” A +little well-affected grief at separation, brief as it was meant to be; a +little half-expressed surprise, on the lady's part, at the suddenness of +the departure; a little, just as vaguely conveyed, complaint on the other +side, over the severe requirements of duty, and a very little tenderness—for +there was no one to witness it—at the thought of parting; and with a +kiss upon her hand, whose respectful courtesy no knight-errant of old +could have surpassed, Sir Horace backed from the “presence,” sighed, and +slipped away. +</p> +<p> +Had our reader been a spectator instead of a peruser of the events we have +lately detailed, he might have fancied, from certain small asperities of +manner, certain quicknesses of reproof and readiness at rejoinder, that +here were two people only waiting for a reasonable and decent pretext to +go on their separate roads in life. Yet nothing of this kind was the case; +the bond between them was not affection, it was simply convenience. Their +partnership gave them a strength and a social solvency which would have +been sorely damaged had either retired from “the firm;” and they knew it. +</p> +<p> +What would the Princess's dinners have been without the polished ease of +him who felt himself half the host? What would all Sir Horace Upton's +subtlety avail him, if it were not that he had sources of information +which always laid open the game of his adversaries? Singly, each would +have had a tough struggle with the world; together, they were more than a +match for it. +</p> +<p> +The highest order of diplomatist, in the estimation of Upton, was the man +who, at once, knew what was <i>possible</i> to be done. It was his own +peculiar quality to possess this gift; but great as his natural acuteness +was, it would not have availed him, without those secret springs of +intelligence we have alluded to. There is no saying to what limit he might +not have carried this faculty, had it not been that one deteriorating and +detracting feature marred and disfigured the fairest form of his mind. +</p> +<p> +He could not, do all that he would, disabuse himself of a very low +estimate of men and their motives. He did not slide into this philosophy, +as certain indolent people do, just to save them the trouble of +discriminating; he did not acquire it by the hard teachings of adversity. +No; it came upon him slowly and gradually, the fruit, as he believed, of +calm judgment and much reflection upon life. As little did he accept it +willingly; he even labored against the conviction: but, strive as he +might, there it was, and there it would remain. +</p> +<p> +His fixed impression was, that in every circumstance and event in life +there was always a <i>dessous des cartes</i>,—a deeper game +concealed beneath the surface,—and that it was a mere question of +skill and address how much of this penetrated through men's actions. If +this theory unravelled many a tangled web of knavery to him, it also +served to embarrass and confuse him in situations where inferior minds had +never recognized a difficulty! How much ingenuity did he expend to detect +what had no existence! How wearily did he try for soundings where there +was no bottom! +</p> +<p> +Through the means of the Princess he had learned—what some very wise +heads do not yet like to acknowledge—that the feeling of the +despotic governments towards England was very different from what it had +been at the close of the great war with Napoleon. They had grown more +dominant and exacting, just as we were becoming every hour more +democratic. To maintain our old relations with them, therefore, on the old +footing, would be only to involve ourselves in continual difficulty, with +a certainty of final failure; and the only policy that remained was to +encourage the growth of liberal opinions on the Continent, out of which +new alliances might be formed, to recompense us for the loss of the old +ones. There is a story told of a certain benevolent prince, whose +resources were, unhappily, not commensurate with his good intentions, and +whose ragged retinue wearied him with entreaties for assistance. “Be of +good cheer,” said he, one day, “I have ordered a field of flax to be sown, +and you shall all of you have new shirts.” Such were pretty much the +position and policy of England. Out of our crop of Constitutionalism we +speculated on a rich harvest, to be afterwards manufactured for our use +and benefit. We leave it to deeper heads to say if the result has been all +that we calculated on, and, asking pardon for such digression, we join Sir +Horace once more. +</p> +<p> +When Sir Horace Upton ordered post-horses to his carriage, he no more knew +where he was going, nor where he would halt, than he could have +anticipated what course any conversation might take when once started. He +had, to be sure, a certain ideal goal to be reached; but he was one of +those men who liked to think that the casual interruptions one meets with +in life are less obstruction than opportunity; so that, instead of deeming +these subjects for regret or impatience, he often accepted them as +indications that there was some profit to be derived from them,—a +kind of fatalism more common than is generally believed. When he set out +for Sorrento it was with the intention of going direct to Massa; not that +this state lay within the limits his functions ascribed to him,—that +being probably the very fact which imparted a zest to the journey. Any +other man would have addressed himself to his colleague in Tuscany, or +wherever he might be; while he, being Sir Horace Upton, took the whole +business upon himself in his own way. Young Massy's case opened to his +eyes a great question, viz., what was the position the Austrians assumed +to take in Italy? For any care about the youth, or any sympathy with his +sufferings, he distressed himself little; not that he was, in any respect, +heartless or unfeeling, it was simply that greater interests were before +him. Here was one of those “grand issues” that he felt worthy of his +abilities,—it was a cause where he was proud to hold a brief. +</p> +<p> +Resolving all his plans of action methodically, yet rapidly; arranging +every detail in his own mind, even to the use of certain expressions he +was to employ,—he arrived at the palace of the Embassy, where he +desired to halt to take up his letters and make a few preparations before +his departure. His Maestro di Casa, Signor Franchetti, was in waiting for +his arrival, and respectfully assured him “that all was in readiness, and +that his Excellency would be perfectly satisfied. We had, it is true,” + continued he, “a difficulty about the fish, but I sent off an express to +Baia, and we have secured a sturgeon.” + </p> +<p> +“What are you raving about, caro Pipo?” said the Minister; “what is all +this long story of Baia and the fish?” + </p> +<p> +“Has your Excellency forgotten that we have a grand dinner to-day, at +eight o'clock; that the Prince Maximilian of Bavaria and all the foreign +ambassadors are invited?” + </p> +<p> +“Is this Saturday, Pipo?” said Sir Horace, blandly. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, your Excellency.” + </p> +<p> +“Send Mr. Brockett to me,” said Sir Horace, as he slowly mounted the +stairs to his own apartment. +</p> +<p> +Sir Horace was stretched on a sofa, in all the easy luxury of magnificent +dressing-gown and slippers, when Mr. Brockett entered; and without any +preliminary of greeting he said, with a quiet laugh, “You have let me +forget all about the dinner to-day, Brockett!” + </p> +<p> +“I thought you knew it; you took great trouble about the persons to be +asked, and you canvassed whether the Duc de Borodino, being only a Chargé +d'Affaires—” + </p> +<p> +“There, there; don't you see the—the inappropriateness of what you +are doing? Even in England a man is not asked to criminate himself. How +many are coming?” + </p> +<p> +“Nineteen; the 'Nonce' is ill, and has sent an apology.” + </p> +<p> +“Then the party can be eighteen, Brockett; you must tell them that I am +ill,—too ill to come to dinner. I know the Prince Max very well,—he +'ll not take it badly; and as to Cineselli, we shall see what humor he is +in!” + </p> +<p> +“But they 'll know that you arrived here this afternoon; they 'll +naturally suppose—” + </p> +<p> +“They 'll naturally suppose—if people ever do anything so intensely +stupid as naturally to suppose anything—that I am the best judge of +my own health; and so, Mr. Brockett, you may as well con over the terms by +which you may best acquaint the company with the reasons for my absence; +and if the Prince proposes a visit to me in the evening, let him come; he +'ll find me here in my own room. Would you do me the kindness to let +Antinori fetch his cupping-glasses, and tell Franchetti also that I 'll +take my chicken grilled, not roasted. I'll look over the treaty in the +evening. One mushroom, only one, he may give me, and the Carlsbad water, +at 28 degrees. I 'm very troublesome, Brockett, but I 'm sure you 'll +excuse it. Thanks, thanks;” and he pressed the Secretary's hand, and gave +him a smile, whose blandishment had often done good service, and would do +so again! +</p> +<p> +To almost any other man in the world this interruption to his journey—this +sudden tidings of a formally-arranged dinner which he could not or would +not attend—would have proved a source of chagrin and +dissatisfaction. Not so with Upton; he liked a “contrariety.” Whatever +stirred the still waters of life, even though it should be a head-wind, +was far more grateful than a calm! He laughed to himself at the various +comments his company were sure to pass over his conduct; he pictured to +his mind the anger of some and the astonishment of others, and revelled in +the thought of the courtier-like indignation such treatment of a Royal +Highness was certain to elicit. +</p> +<p> +“But who can answer for his health?” said he, with an easy laugh to +himself. “Who can promise what he may be ten days hence?” The appearance +of his dinner—if one may dignify by such a name the half of a +chicken, flanked by a roasted apple and a biscuit—cut short his +lucubrations; and Sir Horace ate and sipped his Carlsbad with as much +enjoyment as many another man has felt over venison and Chambertin. +</p> +<p> +“Are they arrived, Pipo?” said he, as his servant removed the dessert of +two figs and a lime. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, your Excellency, they are at table.” + </p> +<p> +“How many are there?” + </p> +<p> +“Seventeen, sir, and Mr. Brockett.” + </p> +<p> +“Did the Prince seem to—to feel my absence, Pipo?” + </p> +<p> +“I thought he appeared very sorry for your Excellency when Mr. Brockett +spoke to him, and he whispered something to the aide-de-camp beside him.” + </p> +<p> +“And the others, how did they take it?” + </p> +<p> +“Count Tarrocco said he'd retire, sir, that he could not dine where the +host was too ill to receive him; but the Duc de Campo Stretto said it was +impossible they could leave the room while a 'Royal Highness' continued to +remain in it; and they all agreed with him.” + </p> +<p> +“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Upton, in a low tone. “I hope the dinner is a good +one?” + </p> +<p> +“It is exquisite, sir; the Prince ate some of the caviare soup, and was +asking a second time for the 'pain des ortolans' when I left the room.” + </p> +<p> +“And the wine, Pipo? have you given them that rare 'La Rose'?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, your Excellency, and the 'Klausthaller cabinet;' his Royal Highness +asked for it.” + </p> +<p> +“Go back, then, now. I want for nothing more; only drop in here by and by, +and tell me how all goes on. Just light that pastil before you go; there—that +will, do.” + </p> +<p> +And once more his Excellency was left to himself. In that vast palace,—the +once home of a royal prince,—no sounds of the distant revelry could +reach the remote quarter where he sat, and all was silent and still around +him, and Upton was free to ruminate and reflect at ease. There was à sense +of haughty triumph in thinking that beneath his roof, at that very moment, +were assembled the great representatives of almost every important state +of Europe, to whom he had not deigned to accord the honor of his presence; +but though this thought did flit across his mind, far more was he intent +on reflecting what might be the consequences—good or evil—of +the incident. “And then,” said he, aloud, “how will Printing House Square +treat us? What a fulminating leader shall we not have, denouncing either +our insolence or our incompetence, ending with the words: 'If, then, Sir +Horace Upton be not incapacitated from illness for the discharge of his +high functions, it is full time for his Government to withdraw him from a +sphere where his caprice and impertinence have rendered him something +worse than useless;' and then will come a flood of petty corroborations,—the +tourist tribe who heard of us at Berlin, or called upon as at the Hague, +and whose unreturned cards and uninvited wives are counts in the long +indictment against us. What a sure road to private friendships is +diplomacy! How certain is one of conciliating the world's good opinion by +belonging to it! I wish I had followed the law, or medicine,” muttered he; +“they are both abstruse, both interesting; or been a gardener, or a +shipwright, or a mathematical instrument maker, or—” Whatever the +next choice might have been we know not, for he dropped off asleep. +</p> +<p> +From that pleasant slumber, and a dream of Heaven knows what life of +Arcadian simplicity, of rippling streams and soft-eyed shepherdesses, he +was destined to be somewhat suddenly, if not rudely, aroused, as +Franchetti introduced a stranger who would accept no denial. +</p> +<p> +“Your people were not for letting me up, Upton,” cried a rich, mellow +voice; and Harcourt stood before him, bronzed and weather-beaten, as he +came off his journey. +</p> +<p> +“You, George? Is it possible!” exclaimed Sir Horace; “what best of all +lucky winds has driven you here? I'm not sure I wasn't dreaming of you +this very moment. I know I have had a vision of angelic innocence and +simplicity, which you must have had your part in; but do tell me when did +you arrive, and whence—” + </p> +<p> +“Not till I have dined, by Jove! I have tasted nothing since daybreak, and +then it was only a mere apology for a breakfast.” + </p> +<p> +“Franchetti, get something, will you?” said Upton, languidly,—“a +cutlet, a fowl; anything that can be had at once.” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing of the kind, Signor Franchetti,” interposed Harcourt; “if I have +a wolfs appetite, I have a man's patience. Let me have a real dinner,—soup, +fish, an entrée,—two if you like,—roast beef; and I leave the +wind-up to your own discretion, only premising that I like game, and have +a weakness for woodcocks. By the way, does this climate suit Bordeaux, +Upton?” + </p> +<p> +“They tell me so, and mine has a good reputation.” + </p> +<p> +“Then claret be it, and no other wine. Don't I make myself at home, old +fellow, eh?” said he, clapping Upton on the shoulder. “Have I not taken +his Majesty's Embassy by storm, eh?” + </p> +<p> +“We surrender at discretion, only too glad to receive our vanquisher. +Well, and how do you find me looking? Be candid: how do I seem to your +eyes?” + </p> +<p> +“Pretty much as I have seen you these last fifteen years,—not an +hour older, at all events. That same delicacy of constitution is a +confounded deal better than most men's strong health, for it never wears +out; but I have always said it, Upton will see us all down!” + </p> +<p> +Sir Horace sighed, as though this were too pleasant to be true. +</p> +<p> +“Well,” said he, at last, “but you have not told me what good chance has +brought you here. Is it the first post-station on the way to India?” + </p> +<p> +“No; they've taken me off the saddle, and given me a staff appointment at +Corfu. I 'm going out second in command there; and whether it was to +prevent my teasing them for something else, or that there was really some +urgency in the matter, they ordered me off at once.” + </p> +<p> +“Are they reinforcing the garrison there?” asked Upton. +</p> +<p> +“No; not so far as I have heard.” + </p> +<p> +“It were better policy to do so than to send out a 'commander-in-chief and +a drummer of great experience,'” muttered Upton to himself; but Harcourt +could not catch the remark. “Have you any news stirring in England? What +do the clubs talk about?” asked Sir Horace. +</p> +<p> +“Glencore's business occupied them for the last week or so; now, I think, +it is yourself furnishes the chief topic for speculation.” + </p> +<p> +“What of me?” asked Upton, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“Why, the rumor goes that you are to have the Foreign Office; Adderley, +they say, goes out, and Conway and yourself are the favorites, the odds +being slightly on his side.” + </p> +<p> +“This is all news to me, George,” said Upton, with a degree of animation +that had nothing fictitious about it; “I have had a note from Adderley in +the last bag, and there's not a word about these changes.” + </p> +<p> +“Possibly; but perhaps my news is later. What I allude to is said to have +occurred the day I started.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah, very true; and now I remember that the messenger came round by +Vienna, sent there by Adderley, doubtless,” muttered he, “to consult +Conway before seeing <i>me</i>; and, I have little doubt, with a letter +for <i>me</i> in the event of Conway declining.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, have you hit upon the solution of it?” said Har-court, who had not +followed him through his half-uttered observation. +</p> +<p> +“Perhaps so,” said Upton, slowly, while he leaned his head upon his hand, +and fell into a fit of meditation. Meanwhile, Harcourt's dinner made its +appearance, and the Colonel seated himself at the table with a traveller's +appetite. +</p> +<p> +“Whenever any one has called you a selfish fellow, Upton,” said he, as he +helped himself twice from the same dish, “I have always denied it, and on +this good ground, that, had you been so, you had never kept the best cook +in Europe, while unable to enjoy his talents. What a rare artist must this +be! What's his name?” + </p> +<p> +“Pipo, how is he called?” said Upton, languidly. +</p> +<p> +“Monsieur Carmael, your Excellency.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah, to be sure; a person of excellent family. I've been told he's from +Provence,” said Upton, in the same weary voice. +</p> +<p> +“I could have sworn to his birthplace,” cried Harcourt; “no man can manage +cheese and olives in cookery but a Provençal. Ah, what a glass of +Bordeaux! To your good health, Upton, and to the day that you may be able +to enjoy this as I do,” said he, as he tossed off a bumper. +</p> +<p> +“It does me good even to witness the pleasure it yields,” said Upton, +blandly. +</p> +<p> +“By Jove! then, I 'll be worth a whole course of tonics to you, for I most +thoroughly appreciate all the good things you have given me. By the way, +how are you off for dinner company here,—any pleasant people?” + </p> +<p> +“I have no health for pleasant people, my dear Harcourt; like horse +exercise, they only agree with you when you are strong enough not to +require them.” + </p> +<p> +“Then what have you got?” asked the Colonel, somewhat abashed. +</p> +<p> +“Princes, generals, envoys, and heads of departments.” + </p> +<p> +“Good heavens! legions of honor and golden fleeces!” + </p> +<p> +“Just so,” said Upton, smiling at the dismay in the other's countenance; +“I have had such a party as you describe to-day. Are they gone yet, +Franchetti?” + </p> +<p> +“They're at coffee, your Excellency, but the Prince has ordered his +carriage.” + </p> +<p> +“And you did not go near them?” asked Harcourt, in amazement. +</p> +<p> +“No; I was poorly, as you see me,” said Upton, smiling. “Pipo tells me, +however, that the dinner was a good one, and I am sure they pardon my +absence.” + </p> +<p> +“Foreign ease, I've no doubt; though I can't say I like it,” muttered +Harcourt. “At all events, it is not for <i>me</i> to complain, since the +accident has given me the pleasure of your society.” + </p> +<p> +“You are about the only man I could have admitted,” said Upton, with a +certain graciousness of look and manner that, perhaps, detracted a little +from its sincerity. +</p> +<p> +Fortunately, not so to Harcourt's eyes, for he accepted the speech in all +honesty and good faith, as he said, “Thank you heartily, my boy. The +welcome is better even than the dinner, and that is saying a good deal. No +more wine, thank you; I 'm going to have a cigar, and, with your leave, I +'ll ask for some brandy and water.” + </p> +<p> +This was addressed to Franchetti, who speedily reappeared with a liqueur +stand and an ebony cigar-case. +</p> +<p> +“Try these, George; they 're better than your own,” said Upton, dryly. +</p> +<p> +“That I will,” cried Harcourt, laughing; “I'm determined to draw all my +resources from the country in occupation, especially as they are superior +to what I can obtain from home. This same career of yours, Upton, strikes +me as rather a good thing. You have all these things duty free?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, we have that privilege,” said Upton, sighing. +</p> +<p> +“And the privilege of drawing some few thousand pounds per annum, paid +messengers to and from England, secret-service money, and the rest of it, +eh?” + </p> +<p> +Upton smiled, and sighed again. +</p> +<p> +“And what do you do for all that,—I mean, what are you expected to +do?” + </p> +<p> +“Keep your party in when they are in; disconcert the enemy when your +friends are out.” + </p> +<p> +“And is that always a safe game?” asked Harcourt, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“Not when played by unskilful players, my dear George. They occasionally +make sad work, and get bowled out themselves for their pains; but there's +no great harm in that neither.” + </p> +<p> +“How do you mean there 's no harm in it?” + </p> +<p> +“Simply, that if a man can't keep his saddle, he ought n't to try to ride +foremost; but these speculations will only puzzle you, my dear Harcourt. +What of Glencore? You said awhile ago that the town was talking of him—how +and wherefore was it?” + </p> +<p> +“Haven't you heard the story, then?” + </p> +<p> +“Not a word of it.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I'm a bad narrator; besides, I don't know where to begin; and even +if I did, I have nothing to tell but the odds and ends of club gossip, for +I conclude nobody knows all the facts but the King himself.” + </p> +<p> +“If I were given to impatience, George, you would be a most consummate +plague to me,” said Upton; “but I am not. Go on, however, in your own +blundering way, and leave me to glean what I can <i>in mine</i>.” + </p> +<p> +Cheered and encouraged by this flattering speech, Harcourt did begin; but, +more courteous to him than Sir Horace, we mean to accord him a new chapter +for his revelations; premising the while to our reader that the Colonel, +like the knife-grinder, had really “no story to tell.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XXXIX. A VERY BROKEN NARRATIVE +</h2> +<p> +“You want to hear all about Glencore?” said Harcourt, as, seated in the +easiest of attitudes in an easy-chair, he puffed his cigar luxuriously; +“and when I have told you all I know, the chances are you'll be little the +wiser.” Upton smiled a bland assent to this exordium, but in such a way as +to make Harcourt feel less at ease than before. +</p> +<p> +“I mean,” said the Colonel, “that I have little to offer you beyond the +guesses and surmises of club talk. It will be for your own intelligence to +penetrate through the obscurity afterwards. You understand me?” + </p> +<p> +“I believe I understand you,” said Upton, slowly, and with the same quiet +smile. Now, this cold, semi-sarcastic manner of Upton was the one sole +thing in the world which the honest Colonel could not stand up against; he +always felt as though it were the prelude to something cutting or +offensive,—some sly impertinence that he could not detect till too +late to resent,—some insinuation that might give the point to a +whole conversation, and yet be undiscovered by him till the day following. +Little as Harcourt was given to wronging his neighbor, he in this instance +was palpably unjust; Upton's manner being nothing more than the impress +made upon a very subtle man by qualities very unlike any of his own, and +which in their newness amused him. The very look of satire was as often an +expression of sorrow and regret that he could not be as susceptible—as +easy of deception—as those about him. Let us pardon our worthy +Colonel if he did not comprehend this; shrewder heads than his own had +made the same mistake. Half to resent this covert slyness, half to arouse +himself to any conflict before him, he said, in a tone of determination, +“It is only fair to tell you that you are yourself to blame for anything +that may have befallen poor Glencore.” + </p> +<p> +“I to blame! Why, my dear Harcourt, you are surely dreaming.” + </p> +<p> +“As wide awake as ever I was. If it had not been for a blunder of yours,—an +unpardonable blunder, seeing what has come of it,—sending a pack of +trash to me about salt and sulphur, while you forwarded a private letter +about Glencore to the Foreign Office, all this might not have happened.” + </p> +<p> +“I remember that it was a most disagreeable mistake. I have paid heavily +for it, too. That lotion for the cervical vertebrae has come back all +torn, and we cannot make out whether it be a phosphate or a prot'-oxide of +bismuth. You don't happen to remember?” + </p> +<p> +“I?—of course I know nothing about it. I'd as soon have taken a +porcupine for a pillow as I 'd have adventured on the confounded mixture. +But, as I was saying, that blessed letter, written by some Princess or +other, as I understand, fell into the King's hands, and the consequence +was that he sent off immediately to Glencore an order to go down to him at +Brighton. Naturally enough, I thought he 'd not go; he had the good and +sufficient pretext of his bad health to excuse him. Nobody had seen him +abroad in the world for years back, and it was easy enough to say that he +could not bear the journey. Nothing of the kind; he received the command +as willingly as he might have done an invitation to dinner fifteen years +ago, and talked of nothing else for the whole evening after but of his old +days and nights in Carlton House; how gracious the Prince used to be to +him formerly; how constantly he was a guest at his table; what a brilliant +society it was; how full of wit and the rest of it; till, by Jove, what +between drinking more wine than he was accustomed to take, and the +excitement of his own talking, he became quite wild and unmanageable. He +was not drunk, nor anything like it, it was rather the state of a man +whose mind had got some sudden shock; for in the midst of perfectly +rational conversation, he would fall into paroxysms of violent passion, +inveighing against every one, and declaring that he never had possessed +one true-hearted, honest friend in his life. +</p> +<p> +“It was not without great difficulty that I got him back to my lodgings, +for we had gone to dine at Richmond. Then we put him to bed, and I sent +for Hunter, who came on the instant. Though by this time Glencore was much +more calm and composed, Hunter called the case brain fever; had his hair +cut quite close, and ice applied to the head. Without any knowledge of his +history or even of his name, Hunter pronounced him to be a man whose +intellect had received some terrible shock, and that the present was +simply an acute attack of a long-existent malady.” + </p> +<p> +“Did he use any irritants?” asked Upton, anxiously. +</p> +<p> +“No; he advised nothing but the cold during the night.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah! what a mistake,” sighed Upton, heavily. “It was precisely the case +for the cervical lotion I was speaking of. Of course he was much worse +next morning?” + </p> +<p> +“That he was; not as regarded his reason, however, for he could talk +collectedly enough, but he was irritable and passionate to a degree +scarcely credible: would not endure the slightest opposition, and so +suspectful of everything and everybody that if he overheard a whisper it +threw him into a convulsion of anger. Hunter's opinion was evidently a +gloomy one, and he said to me as we went downstairs, 'He may come through +it with life, but scarcely with a sound intellect.' This was a heavy blow +to <i>me</i>, for I could not entirely acquit myself of the fault of +having counselled this visit to Brighton, which I now perceived had made +such a deep impression upon him. I roused myself, however, to meet the +emergency, and walked down to St. James's to obtain some means of letting +the King know that Glencore was too ill to keep his appointment. +Fortunately, I met Knighton, who was just setting off to Brighton, and who +promised to take charge of the commission. I then strolled over to +Brookes's to see the morning papers, and lounged till about four o'clock, +when I turned homeward. +</p> +<p> +“Gloomy and sad I was as I reached my door, and rang the bell with a +cautious hand. They did not hear the summons, and I was forced to ring +again, when the door was opened by my servant, who stood pale and +trembling before me. 'He's gone, sir,—he's gone,' cried he, almost +sobbing. +</p> +<p> +“'Good Heaven!' cried I. 'Dead?' +</p> +<p> +“'No, sir, gone away,—driven off, no one knows where. I had just +gone out to the chemist's, and was obliged to call round at Doctor +Hunter's about a word in the prescription they could n't read, and when I +came back he was away.' +</p> +<p> +“I then ascertained that the carriage which had been ordered the day +before at a particular hour, and which we had forgotten to countermand, +had arrived during my servant's absence. Glencore, hearing it stop at the +door, inquired whose it was, and as suddenly springing out of bed, +proceeded to dress himself, which he did, in the suit he had ordered to +wait on the King. So apparently reasonable was he in all he said, and such +an air of purpose did he assume, that the nurse-tender averred she could +not dare to interpose, believing that his attack might possibly be some +sort of passing access that he was accustomed to, and knew best how to +deal with. +</p> +<p> +“I did not lose a moment, but, ordering post-horses, pursued him with all +speed. On reaching Croydon, I heard he had passed about two hours before; +but though I did my best, it was in vain. I arrived at Brighton late at +night, only to learn that a gentleman had got out at the Pavilion, and had +not left it since. +</p> +<p> +“I do not believe that all I have ever suffered in my life equalled what I +went through in the two weary hours that I passed walking up and down +outside that low paling that skirts the Palace garden. The poor fellow, in +all his misery, came before me in so many shapes; sometimes wandering in +intellect—sometimes awake and conscious of his sufferings—now +trying to comport himself as became the presence he was in—now +reckless of all the world and everything. What could have happened to +detain him so long? What had been the course of events since he passed +that threshold? were questions that again and again crossed me. +</p> +<p> +“I tried to make my way in,—I know not exactly what I meant to do +afterwards; but the sentries refused me admittance. I thought of scaling +the enclosure, and reaching the Palace through the garden; but the police +kept strict watch on every side. At last, it was nigh twelve o'clock, that +I heard a sentry challenge some one, and shortly after a figure passed out +and walked towards the pier. I followed, determined to make inquiry, no +matter of whom. He walked so rapidly, however, that I was forced to run to +overtake him. This attracted his notice; he turned hastily, and by the +straggling moonlight I recognized Glencore. +</p> +<p> +“He stood for a moment still, and beckoning me towards him, he took my arm +in silence, and we walked onward in the direction of the sea-shore. It was +now a wild and gusty night. The clouds drifted fast, shutting out the moon +at intervals, and the sea broke harshly along the strand. +</p> +<p> +“I cannot tell you the rush of strange and painful emotions which came +upon me as I thus walked along, while not a word passed between us. As for +myself, I felt that the slightest word from me might, perhaps, change the +whole current of his thoughts, and thus destroy my only chance of any clew +to what was passing within him. 'Are you cold?' said he, at length, +feeling possibly a slight tremor in my arm. 'Not cold, exactly,' said I, +'but the night is fresh, and I half suspect too fresh for <i>you</i>.' +'Feel that,' said he, placing his hand in mine; and it was burning. 'The +breeze that comes off the sea is grateful to me, for I am like one on +fire.' Then I am certain, my dear Glencore,' said I, 'that this is a great +imprudence. Let us turn back, towards the inn.' +</p> +<p> +“He made no reply, but with a rough motion of his arm moved forward as +before. 'Three hours and more,' said he, with a full and stern utterance, +'they kept me waiting. There were Ministers with the King; there was some +foreign envoy, too, to be presented; and if I had not gone in alone and +unannounced, I might still be in the ante-chamber. How he stared at me, +Harcourt, and my close-cropped hair. It was <i>that</i> seemed first to +strike him, as he said, “Have you had an illness lately?” He looked +poorly, too, bloated and pale, and like one who fretted, and I told him +so. “We are both changed, sir,” said I,—“sadly changed since we met +last. We might almost begin to hope that another change is not far off,—the +last and the best one.” I don't remember what he answered. It was, I +think, something about who came along with me from town, and who was with +me at Brighton,—I forget exactly; but I know that he sent for +Knighton, and made him feel my pulse. “You'll find it rapid enough, I 've +no doubt, Sir William,” said I. “I rose from a sick bed to come here; his +Majesty had deigned to wish to see me.” Then the King stopped me, and made +a sign to Knighton to withdraw. +</p> +<p> +“'Was n't it a strange situation, Harcourt, to be seated there beside the +King, alone? None other present,—all to ourselves,—talking as +you and I might talk of what interested us most of all the world; and <i>he</i> +showing me that letter,—the letter that ought to have come to <i>me</i>. +How he could do it I know not. Neither you nor I, George, could have done +so; for, after all, she was, ay, and she <i>is</i>, his wife. He could not +avail himself of <i>my</i> stratagem. I said so too, and he answered, “Ay, +but I can divorce her if one half of that be true;” and he pointed to the +letter. “The Lady Glencore,” said he, “must know everything, and be +willing to tell it too. She has paid the heaviest penalty ever woman paid +for another. Read that.” And I read it,—ay, I read it four times, +five times over; and then my brain began to burn, and a thousand fancies +flitted across me, and though he talked on, I heard not a word. +</p> +<p> +“'"But that lady is my wife, sir,” broke I in; “and what a part do you +assign her! She is to be a spy, a witness, perhaps, in some infamous +cause. How shall I, a peer of the realm, endure to see my name thus +degraded? Is it Court favor can recompense me for lost or tarnished +honor?” “But it will be her own vindication,” said he. Her own +vindication,—these were the words, George; <i>she</i> should be +clear of all reproach. By Heaven, he said so, that I might declare it +before the world. And then it should be proved!—be proved! How base +a man can be, even though he wear a crown! Just fancy his proposition! But +I spurned it, and said, “You must seek for some one with a longer chance +of life, sir, to do this; my days are too brief for such dishonor;” and he +was angry with me, and said I had forgotten the presence in which I stood. +It was true, I had forgotten it. +</p> +<p> +“'He called me a wretched fool, too, as I tore up that letter. That was +wrong in me, Harcourt, was it not? I did not see him go, but I found +myself alone in the room, and I was picking up the fragments of the letter +as they entered. They were less than courteous to me, though I told them +who I was,—an ancient barony better than half the modern +marquisates. I gave them date and place for a creation that smacked of +other services than theirs. Knighton would come with me, but I shook him +off. Your Court physician can carry his complaisance even to poison. By +George! it is their chief office, and I know well what snares are now in +store for me.' +</p> +<p> +“And thence he went on to say that he would hasten back to his Irish +solitude, where none could trace him out. That there his life, at least, +would be secure, and no emissaries of the King dare follow him. It was in +vain I tried to induce him to return, even for one night, to the hotel; +and I saw that to persist in my endeavors would be to hazard the little +influence I still possessed over him. I could not, however, leave the poor +fellow to his fate without at least the assurance of a home somewhere, and +so I accompanied him to Ireland, and left him in that strange old ruin +where we once sojourned together. His mind had gradually calmed down, but +a deep melancholy had gained entire possession of him, and he passed whole +days without a word. I saw that he often labored to recall some of the +events of the interview with the King; but his memory had not retained +them, and he seemed like one eternally engaged in some problem which his +faculties could not solve. +</p> +<p> +“When I left him and arrived in town, I found the clubs full of the +incident, but evidently without any real knowledge of what had occurred; +since the version was that Glencore had asked an audience of the King, and +gone down to the Pavilion to read to his Majesty a most atrocious +narrative of the Queen's life in Italy, offering to substantiate—through +his Italian connection—every allegation it contained,—a +proposal that, of course, was only received by the King in the light of an +insult; and that this reception, so different from all his expectations, +had turned his head and driven him completely insane! +</p> +<p> +“I believe now I have told you everything as I heard it; indeed, I have +given you Glencore's own words, since, without them, I could not convey to +you what he intended to say. The whole affair is a puzzle to me, for I am +unable to tell when the poor fellow's brain was wandering, and when he +spoke under the guidance of right reason. You, of course, have the clew to +it all.” + </p> +<p> +“I! How so?” cried Upton. +</p> +<p> +“You have seen the letter which caused all the trouble; you know its +contents, and what it treats of.” + </p> +<p> +“Very true; I must have read it; but I have not the slightest recollection +of what it was about. There was something, I know, about Glencore's boy,—he +was called Greppi, though, and might not have been recognized; and there +was some gossip about the Princess of Wales—the Queen, as they call +her now—and her ladies; but I must frankly confess it did not +interest me, and I have forgotten it all.” + </p> +<p> +“Is the writer of the letter to be come at?” + </p> +<p> +“Nothing easier. I'll take you over to breakfast with her to-morrow +morning; you shall catechise her yourself.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh! she is then—” + </p> +<p> +“She is the Princess Sabloukoff, my dear George, and a very charming +person, as you will be the first to acknowledge. But as to this interview +at Brighton, I fancy—even from the disjointed narrative of Glencore—one +can make a guess of what it portended. The King saw that my Lady Glencore—for +so we must call her—knew some very important facts about the Queen, +and wished to obtain them; and saw, too, that certain scandals, as the +phrase goes, which attached to her ladyship, lay at another door. He +fancied, not unreasonably, perhaps, that Glencore would be glad to hear +this exculpation of his wife; and he calculated that by the boon of this +intelligence he could gain over Glencore to assist him in his project for +a divorce. Don't you perceive, Harcourt, of what an inestimable value it +would prove, to possess one single gentleman, one man or one woman of +station, amid all this rabble that they are summoning throughout the world +to bring shame upon England?” + </p> +<p> +“Then you incline to believe Lady Glencore blameless?” asked Harcourt, +anxiously. +</p> +<p> +“I think well of every one, my charming Colonel. It is the only true +philosophy in life. Be as severe as you please on all who injure yourself, +but always be lenient to the faults that only damage your friends. You +have no idea how much practical wisdom the maxim contains, nor what a fund +of charity it provides.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm ashamed to be so stupid, but I must come back to my old question. Is +all this story against Glencore's wife only a calumny?” + </p> +<p> +“And I must fall back upon my old remark, that all the rogues in the world +are in jail; the people you see walking about and at large are +unexceptionably honest,—every man of them. Ah, my dear +deputy-assistant, adjutant, or commissary, or whatever it be, can you not +perceive the more than folly of these perquisitions into character? You +don't require that the ice should be strong enough to sustain a +twenty-four pounder before you venture to put foot on it,—enough +that it is quite equal to your own weight; and so of the world at large,—everybody, +or nearly everybody, has virtue enough for all we want with him. This +English habit—for it is essentially English—of eternally +investigating everything, is like the policy of a man who would fire a +round-shot every morning at his house, to see if it were well and securely +built.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't, I can't agree with you,” cried Harcourt. +</p> +<p> +“Be it so, my dear fellow; only don't give me your reasons, and at least I +shall respect your motives.” + </p> +<p> +“What would you do, then, in Glencore's place? Let me ask you that.” + </p> +<p> +“You may as well inquire how I should behave if I were a quadruped. Don't +you perceive that I never could, by any possibility, place myself in such +a false position? The man who, in a case of difficulty, takes counsel from +his passions, is exactly like one, who being thirsty, fills himself out a +bumper of aquafortis and drinks it off.” + </p> +<p> +“I wish with all my heart you 'd give up aphorisms, and just tell me how +we could serve this poor fellow; for I feel that there is a gleam of light +breaking through his dark fortunes.” + </p> +<p> +“When a man is in the state Glencore is now in, the best policy is to let +him alone. They tell us that when Murat's blood was up, the Emperor always +left him to his own guidance, since he either did something excessively +brilliant, or made such a blunder as recalled him to subjection again. Let +us treat our friend in this fashion, and wait. Oh, my worthy Colonel, if +you but knew what a secret there is in that same waiting policy. Many a +game is won by letting the adversary move out of his turn.” + </p> +<p> +“If all this subtlety be needed to guide a man in the plain road of life, +what is to become of poor simple fellows like myself?” + </p> +<p> +“Let them never go far from home, Harcourt, and they 'll always find their +way back,” said Upton; and his eyes twinkled with quiet drollery. “Come, +now,” said he, with perfect good-nature of look and voice, “If I won't +tell you what I should counsel Glencore in this emergency, I 'll do the +next best thing, I' ll tell you what advice you'd give him.” + </p> +<p> +“Let us hear it, then,” said the other. +</p> +<p> +“You'd send him abroad to search out his wife; ask her forgiveness for all +the wrong he has done her; call out any man that whispered the shadow of a +reproach against her; and go back to such domesticity as it might please +Heaven to accord him.” + </p> +<p> +“Certainly, if the woman has been unjustly dealt with—” + </p> +<p> +“There's the rock you always split on: you are everlastingly in search of +a character. Be satisfied when you have eaten a hearty breakfast, and +don't ask for a bill of health. Researches are always dangerous. My great +grandfather, who had a passion for genealogy, was cured of it by +discovering that the first of the family was a staymaker! Let the lesson +not be lost on us.” + </p> +<p> +“From all which I am to deduce that you 'd ask no questions,—take +her home again, and say nothing.” + </p> +<p> +“You forget, Harcourt, we are now discussing the line of action <i>you</i> +would recommend; I am only hinting at the best mode of carrying out <i>your</i> +ideas.” + </p> +<p> +“Just for the pleasure of showing me that I did n't know how to walk in +the road I made myself,” said Harcourt, laughing. +</p> +<p> +“What a happy laugh that was, Harcourt! How plainly, too, it said, 'Thank +Heaven I 'm not like that fellow, with all his craft!' And you are right +too, my dear friend; if the devil were to walk the world now, he 'd be +bored beyond endurance, seeing nothing but the old vices played over again +and again. And so it is with all of us who have a spice of his nature; +we'd give anything to see one new trick on the cards. Good night, and +pleasant dreams to you!” And with a sigh that had in its cadence something +almost painful, he gave his two fingers to the honest grasp of the other, +and withdrew. +</p> +<p> +“You're a better fellow than you think yourself, or wish any one else to +believe you,” muttered Harcourt, as he puffed his cigar; and he ruminated +over this reflection till it was bedtime. +</p> +<p> +And Harcourt was right. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XL. UPTONISM +</h2> +<p> +About noon on the following day, Sir Horace Upton and the Colonel drove up +to the gate of the villa at Sorrento, and learned, to their no small +astonishment, that the Princess had taken her departure that morning for +Como. If Upton heard these tidings with a sense of pain, nothing in his +manner betrayed the sentiment; on the contrary, he proceeded to do the +honors of the place like its owner. He showed Harcourt the grounds and the +gardens, pointed out all the choice points of view, directed his attention +to rare plants and curious animals; and then led him within doors to +admire the objects of art and luxury which abounded there. +</p> +<p> +“And that, I conclude, is a portrait of the Princess,” said Harcourt, as +he stood before what had been a flattering likeness twenty years back. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, and a wonderful resemblance,” said Upton, eying it through his +glass. “Fatter and fuller now, perhaps; but it was done after an illness.” + </p> +<p> +“By Jove!” muttered Harcourt, “she must be beautiful; I don't think I ever +saw a handsomer woman!” + </p> +<p> +“You are only repeating a European verdict. She is the most perfectly +beautiful woman of the Continent.” + </p> +<p> +“So there is no flattery in that picture?” + </p> +<p> +“Flattery! Why, my dear fellow, these people, the very cleverest of them, +can't imagine anything as lovely as that. They can imitate,—they +never invent real beauty.” + </p> +<p> +“And clever, you say, too?” + </p> +<p> +“<i>Esprit</i> enough for a dozen reviewers and fifty fashionable +novelists.” And as he spoke he smiled and coquetted with the portrait, as +though to say, “Don't mind my saying all this to your face.” + </p> +<p> +“I suppose her history is a very interesting one.” + </p> +<p> +“Her history, my worthy Harcourt! She has a dozen histories. Such women +have a life of politics, a life of literature, a life of the <i>salons</i>, +a life of the affections, not to speak of the episodes of jealousy, +ambition, triumph, and sometimes defeat, that make up the brilliant web of +their existence. Some three or four such people give the whole character +and tone to the age they live in. They mould its interests, sway its +fashions, suggest its tastes, and they finally rule those who fancy that +they rule mankind.” + </p> +<p> +“Egad, then, it makes one very sorry for poor mankind,” muttered Harcourt, +with a most honest sincerity of voice. +</p> +<p> +“Why should it do so, my good Harcourt? Is the refinement of a woman's +intellect a worse guide than the coarser instincts of a man's nature? +Would you not yourself rather trust your destinies to the fair creature +yonder than be left to the legislative mercies of that old gentleman +there, Hardenberg, or his fellow on the other side, Metternich?” + </p> +<p> +“Grim-looking fellow the Prussian; the other is much better,” said +Harcourt, rather evading the question. +</p> +<p> +“I confess I prefer the Princess,” said Upton, as he bowed before the +portrait in deepest courtesy. “But here comes breakfast. I have ordered +them to give it to us here, that we may enjoy that glorious sea view while +we eat.” + </p> +<p> +“I thought your cook a man of genius, Upton, but this fellow is his +master,” said Harcourt, as he tasted his soup. +</p> +<p> +“They are brothers,—twins, too; and they have their separate gifts,” + said Upton, affectedly. “My fellow, they tell me, has the finer +intelligence; but he plays deeply, speculates on the Bourse, and it spoils +his nerve.” + </p> +<p> +Harcourt watched the delivery of this speech to catch if there were any +signs of raillery in the speaker; he felt that there was a kind of mockery +in the words; but there was none in the manner, for there was not any in +the mind of him who uttered them. +</p> +<p> +“My <i>chef</i>,” resumed Upton, “is a great essayist, who must have time +for his efforts. This fellow is a <i>feuilleton</i> writer, who is +required to be new and sparkling every day of the year,—always +varied, never profound.” + </p> +<p> +“And is this your life of every day?” said Harcourt, as he surveyed the +splendid room, and carried his glance towards the terraced gardens that +flanked the sea. +</p> +<p> +“Pretty much this kind of thing,” sighed Upton, wearily. +</p> +<p> +“And no great hardship either, I should call it.” + </p> +<p> +“No, certainly not,” said the other, hesitatingly. “To one like myself, +for instance, who has no health for the wear and tear of public life, and +no heart for its ambitions, there is a great deal to like in the quiet +retirement of a first-class mission.” + </p> +<p> +“Is there really, then, nothing to do?” asked Harcourt, innocently. +</p> +<p> +“Nothing, if you don't make it for yourself. You can have a harvest if you +like to sow. Otherwise, you may lie in fallow the year long. The +subordinates take the petty miseries of diplomacy for <i>their</i> share,—the +sorrows of insulted Englishmen, the passport difficulties, the +custom-house troubles, the police insults. The Secretary calls at the +offices of the Government, carries messages and the answers; and I, when I +have health for it, make my compliments to the King in a cocked hat on his +birthday, and have twelve grease-pots illuminated over my door to honor +the same festival.” + </p> +<p> +“And is that all?” + </p> +<p> +“Very nearly. In fact, when one does anything more, they generally do +wrong; and by a steady persistence in this kind of thing for thirty years, +you are called 'a safe man, who never compromised his Government,' and are +certain to be employed by any party in power.” + </p> +<p> +“I begin to think I might be an envoy myself,” said Harcourt. +</p> +<p> +“No doubt of it; we have two or three of your calibre in Germany this +moment,—men liked and respected; and, what is of more consequence, +well looked upon at 'the Office.'” + </p> +<p> +“I don't exactly follow you in that last remark.” + </p> +<p> +“I scarcely expected you should; and as little can I make it clear to you. +Know, however, that in that venerable pile in Downing Street called the +Foreign Office, there is a strange, mysterious sentiment,—partly +tradition, partly prejudice, partly toadyism,—which bands together +all within its walls, from the whiskered porter at the door to the +essenced Minister in his bureau, into one intellectual conglomerate, that +judges of every man in 'the Line'—as they call diplomacy—with +one accord. By that curious tribunal, which hears no evidence, nor ever +utters a sentence, each man's merits are weighed; and to stand well in the +Office is better than all the favors of the Court, or the force of great +abilities.” + </p> +<p> +“But I cannot comprehend how mere subordinates, the underlings of official +life, can possibly influence the fortunes of men so much above them.” + </p> +<p> +“Picture to yourself the position of an humble guest at a great man's +table; imagine one to whose pretensions the sentiments of the servants' +hall are hostile: he is served to all appearance like the rest of the +company; he gets his soup and his fish like those about him, and his +wine-glass is duly replenished,—yet what a series of petty +mortifications is he the victim of; how constantly is he made to feel that +he is not in public favor; how certain, too, if he incur an awkwardness, +to find that his distresses are exposed. The servants' hall is the Office, +my dear Harcourt, and its persecutions are equally polished.” + </p> +<p> +“Are you a favorite there yourself?” asked the other, slyly. +</p> +<p> +“A prime favorite; they all like <i>me!</i>” said he, throwing himself +back in his chair, with an air of easy self-satisfaction; and Harcourt +stared at him, curious to know whether so astute a man was the dupe of his +own self-esteem, or merely amusing himself with the simplicity of another. +Ah, my good Colonel, give up the problem; it is an enigma far above your +powers to solve. That nature is too complex for <i>your</i> elucidation; +in its intricate web no one thread holds the clew, but all is complicated, +crossed, and entangled. +</p> +<p> +“Here comes a cabinet messenger again,” said Upton, as a courier's <i>calèche</i> +drove up, and a well-dressed and well-looking fellow leaped out. +</p> +<p> +“Ah, Stanhope, how are you?” said Sir Horace, shaking his hand with what +from him was warmth. “Do you know Colonel Harcourt? Well, Frank, what news +do you bring me?” + </p> +<p> +“The best of news.” + </p> +<p> +“From F. O., I suppose,” said Upton, sighing. +</p> +<p> +“Just so. Adderley has told the King you are the only man capable to +succeed him. The Press says the same, and the clubs are all with you.” + </p> +<p> +“Not one of them all, I'd venture to say, has asked whether I have the +strength or health for it,” said Sir Horace, with a voice of pathetic +intonation. +</p> +<p> +“Why, as we never knew you want energy for whatever fell to your lot to +do, we have the same hope still,” said Stanhope. +</p> +<p> +“So say I too,” cried Harcourt. “Like many a good hunter, he 'll do his +work best when he is properly weighted.” + </p> +<p> +“It is quite refreshing to listen to you both—creatures with +crocodile digestion—talk to a man who suffers nightmare if he +over-eat a dry biscuit at supper. I tell you frankly, it would be the +death of me to take the Foreign Office. I 'd not live through the season,—the +very dinners would kill me; and then, the House, the heat, the turmoil, +the worry of opposition, and the jaunting back and forward to Brighton or +to Windsor!” + </p> +<p> +While he muttered these complaints, he continued to read with great +rapidity the letters which Stanhope had brought him, and which, despite +all his practised coolness, had evidently afforded him pleasure in the +perusal. +</p> +<p> +“Adderley bore it,” continued he, “just because he was a mere machine, +wound up to play off so many despatches, like so many tunes; and then, he +permitted a degree of interference on the King's part I never could have +suffered; and he liked to be addressed by the King of Prussia as 'Dear +Adderley.' But what do I care for all these vanities? Have I not seen +enough of the thing they call the great world? Is not this retreat better +and dearer to me than all the glare and crash of London, or all the pomp +and splendor of Windsor?” + </p> +<p> +“By Jove! I suspect you are right, after all,” said Harcourt, with an +honest energy of voice. +</p> +<p> +“Were I younger, and stronger in health, perhaps,” said Upton, “this might +have tempted me. Perhaps I can picture to myself what I might have made of +it; for you may perceive, George, these people have done nothing: they +have been pouring hot water on the tea-leaves Pitt left them,—no +more.” + </p> +<p> +“And you 'd have a brewing of your own, I 've no doubt,” responded the +other. +</p> +<p> +“I'd at least have foreseen the time when this compact, this Holy +Alliance, should become impossible; when the developed intelligence of +Europe would seek something else from their rulers than a well-concocted +scheme of repression. I 'd have provided for the hour when England must +either break with her own people or her allies; and I 'd have inaugurated +a new policy, based upon the enlarged views and extended intelligence of +mankind.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm not certain that I quite apprehend you,” muttered Harcourt. +</p> +<p> +“No matter; but you can surely understand that if a set of mere +mediocrities have saved England, a batch of clever men might have done +something more. She came out of the last war the acknowledged head of +Europe: does she now hold that place, and what will she be at the next +great struggle?” + </p> +<p> +“England is as great as ever she was,” cried Harcourt, boldly. +</p> +<p> +“Greater in nothing is she than in the implicit credulity of her people!” + sighed Upton. “I only wish I could have the same faith in my physicians +that she has in hers! By the way, Stanhope, what of that new fellow they +have got at St. Leonard's? They tell me he builds you up in some +preparation of gypsum, so that you can't move or stir, and that the +perfect repose thus imparted to the system is the highest order of +restorative.” + </p> +<p> +“They were just about to try him for manslaughter when I left England,” + said Stanhope, laughing. +</p> +<p> +“As often the fate of genius in these days as in more barbarous times,” + said Upton. “I read his pamphlet with much interest. If you were going +back, Harcourt, I 'd have begged of you to try him.” + </p> +<p> +“And I 'm forced to say, I'd have refused you flatly.” + </p> +<p> +“Yet it is precisely creatures of robust constitution, like you, that +should submit themselves to these trials, for the sake of humanity. Frail +organizations, like mine, cannot brave these ordeals. What are they +talking of in town? Any gossip afloat?” + </p> +<p> +“The change of ministry is the only topic. Glencore's affair has worn +itself out.” + </p> +<p> +“What was that about Glencore?” asked Upton, half indolently. +</p> +<p> +“A strange story; one can scarcely believe it. They say that Glencore, +hearing of the King's great anxiety to be rid of the Queen, asked an +audience of his Majesty, and actually suggested, as the best possible +expedient, that his Majesty should deny the marriage. They add that he +reasoned the case so cleverly, and with such consummate craft and skill, +it was with the greatest difficulty that the King could be persuaded that +he was deranged. Some say his Majesty was outraged beyond endurance; +others, that he was vastly amused, and laughed immoderately over it.” + </p> +<p> +“And the world, how do they pronounce upon it?” + </p> +<p> +“There are two great parties,—one for Glencore's sanity the other +against; but, as I said before, the cabinet changes have absorbed all +interest latterly, and the Viscount and his case are forgotten; and when I +started, the great question was, who was to have the Foreign Office.” + </p> +<p> +“I believe I could tell them one who will not,” said Upton, with a +melancholy smile. “Dine with me, both of you, to-day, at seven; no +company, you know. There is an opera in the evening, and my box is at your +service, if you like to go; and so, till then;” and with a little gesture +of the hand he waved an adieu, and glided from the room. +</p> +<p> +“I'm sorry he's not up to the work of office,” said Har-court; “there's +plenty of ability in him.” + </p> +<p> +“The best man we have,” said Stanhope; “so they say at the Office.” + </p> +<p> +“He's gone to lie down, I take it; he seemed much exhausted. What say you +to a walk back to town?” + </p> +<p> +“I ask nothing better,” said Stanhope; and they started for Naples. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XLI. AN EVENING IN FLORENCE +</h2> +<p> +That happy valley of the Val d'Arno, in which fair Florence stands, +possesses, amidst all its virtues, none more conspicuous than the blessed +forgetfulness of the past, so eminently the gift of those who dwell there. +Faults and follies of a few years back have so faded by time as to be +already historical; and as, in certain climates, rocks and stones become +shrined by lichens, and moss-covered in a year or two, so here, in equally +brief space, bygones are shrouded and shadowed in a way that nothing short +of cruelty and violence could once more expose to view. +</p> +<p> +The palace where Lady Glencore once displayed all her attractions of +beauty and toilette, and dispensed a hospitality of princely splendor, had +remained for a course of time close barred and shut up. The massive gate +was locked, the windows shuttered, and curious tourists were told that +there were objects of interest within, but it was impossible to obtain +sight of them. The crowds who once flocked there at nightfall, and whose +equipages filled the court, now drove on to other haunts, scarcely +glancing as they passed at the darkened casements of the grim old edifice; +when at length the rumor ran that “some one” had arrived there. Lights +were seen in the porter's lodge, the iron <i>grille</i> was observed to +open and shut, and tradespeople came and went within the building; and, +finally, the assurance gained ground that its former owner had returned. +</p> +<p> +“Only think who has come back to us,” said one of the idlers of the +Cascine, as he lounged on the steps of a fashionable carriage,—“La +Nina!” And at once the story went far and near, repeated at every corner, +and discussed in every circle; so that had a stranger to the place but +caught the passing sounds, he would have heard that one name uttered in +every group he encountered. La Nina! and why not the Countess of Glencore, +or, at least, the Countess de la Torre? As when exiled royalists assume +titles in accordance with fallen fortunes, so, in Italy, injured fame +seeks sympathy in the familiarity of the Christian name, and “Society” at +once accepts the designation as that of those who throw themselves upon +the affectionate kindness of the world, rather than insist upon its +reverence and respect. +</p> +<p> +Many of her former friends were still there; but there was also a numerous +class, principally foreigners, who only knew of her by repute. The +traditions of her beauty, her gracefulness, the charms of her demeanor, +and the brilliancy of her diamonds, abounded. Her admirers were of all +ages, from those who worshipped her loveliness to that not less +enthusiastic section who swore by her cook; and it was indeed “great +tidings” to hear that she had returned. +</p> +<p> +Some statistician has asserted that no less than a hundred thousand people +awake every day in London, not one of whom knows where he will pass the +night. Now, Florence is but a small city, and the lacquered-boot class +bear but a slight proportion to the shoeless herd of humanity. Yet there +is a very tolerable sprinkling of well-dressed, well-got-up individuals, +who daily arise without the very vaguest conception of who is to house +them, fire them, light them, and cigar them for the evening. They are an +interesting class, and have this strong appeal to human sympathy, that not +one of them, by any possible effort, could contribute to his own support. +</p> +<p> +They toil not, neither do they spin. They have the very fewest of social +qualities; they possess no conversational gifts; they are not even +moderately good reporters of the passing events of the day. And yet, +strange to say, the world they live in seems to have some need of them. +Are they the last relics of a once gifted class,—worn out, effete, +and exhausted,—degenerated like modern Greeks from those who once +shook the Parthenon? Or are they what anatomists call “rudimentary +structures,”—the first abortive attempts of nature to fashion +something profitable and good? Who knows? +</p> +<p> +Amidst this class the Nina's arrival was announced as the happiest of all +tidings; and speculation immediately set to work to imagine who would be +the favorites of the house; what would be its habits and hours; would she +again enter the great world of society, or would she, as her quiet, +unannounced arrival portended, seek a less conspicuous position? Nor was +this the mere talk of the cafés and the Cascine. The <i>salons</i> were +eagerly discussing the very same theme. +</p> +<p> +In certain social conditions a degree of astuteness is acquired as to who +may and who may not be visited, that, in its tortuous intricacy of +reasons, would puzzle the craftiest head that ever wagged in Equity. Not +that the code is a severe one; it is exactly in its lenity lies its +difficulty,—so much may be done, but so little may be fatal! The +Countess in the present case enjoyed what in England is reckoned a great +privilege,—she was tried by her peers—or “something more.” + They were, however, all nice discriminators as to the class of case before +them, and they knew well what danger there was in admitting to their +“guild” any with a little more disgrace than their neighbors. It was +curious enough that she, in whose behalf all this solicitude was excited, +should have been less than indifferent as to the result; and when, on the +third day of the trial, a verdict was delivered in her favor, and a shower +of visiting-cards at the porter's lodge declared that the act of her +recognition had passed, her orders were that the cards should be sent back +to their owners, as the Countess had not the honor of their acquaintance. +</p> +<p> +“Les grands coups se font respecter toujours,” was the maxim of a great +tactician in war and politics; and the adage is no less true in questions +of social life. We are so apt to compute the strength of resources by the +amount of pretension that we often yield the victory to the mere +declaration of force. We are not, however, about to dwell on this theme,—our +business being less with those who discussed her, than with the Countess +of Glencore herself. +</p> +<p> +In a large <i>salon</i>, hung with costly tapestries, and furnished in the +most expensive style, sat two ladies at opposite sides of the fire. They +were both richly dressed, and one of them (it was Lady Glencore), as she +held a screen before her face, displayed a number of valuable rings on her +fingers, and a massive bracelet of enamel with a large emerald pendant. +The other, not less magnificently attired, wore an imperial portrait +suspended by a chain around her neck, and a small knot of white and green +ribbon on her shoulder, to denote her quality of a lady in waiting at +Court. There was something almost queenly in the haughty dignity of her +manner, and an air of command in the tone with which she addressed her +companion. It was our acquaintance the Princess Sabloukoff, just escaped +from a dinner and reception at the Pitti Palace, and carrying with her +some of the proud traditions of the society she had quitted. +</p> +<p> +“What hour did you tell them they might come, Nina?” asked she. +</p> +<p> +“Not before midnight, my dear Princess; I wanted to have a talk with you +first. It is long since we have met, and I have so much to tell you.” + </p> +<p> +“<i>Cara mia</i>,” said the other, carelessly, “I know everything already. +There is nothing you have done, nothing that has happened to you, that I +am not aware of. I might go further, and say that I have looked with +secret pleasure at the course of events which to your short-sightedness +seemed disastrous.” + </p> +<p> +“I can scarce conceive that possible,” said the Countess, sighing. +</p> +<p> +“Naturally enough, perhaps, because you never knew the greatest of all +blessings in this life, which is—liberty. Separation from your +husband, my dear Nina, did not emancipate you from the tiresome +requirements of the world. You got rid of <i>him</i>, to be sure, but not +of those who regarded you as his wife. It required the act of courage by +which you cut with these people forever, to assert the freedom I speak +of.” + </p> +<p> +“I almost shudder at the contest I have provoked, and had you not insisted +on it—” + </p> +<p> +“You had gone back again to the old slavery, to be pitied and +compassionated, and condoled with, instead of being feared and envied,” + said the other; and as she spoke, her flashing eyes and quivering brows +gave an expression almost tiger-like to her features. “What was there +about your house and its habits distinctive before? What gave you any +pre-eminence above those that surround you? You were better looking, +yourself; better dressed; your <i>salons</i> better lighted; your dinners +more choice,—there was the end of it. <i>Your</i> company was <i>their</i> +company,—<i>your</i> associates were <i>theirs</i>. The homage <i>you</i> +received to-day had been yesterday the incense of another. There was not a +bouquet nor a flattery offered to <i>you</i> that had not its <i>facsimile</i>, +doing service in some other quarter. You were 'one of them,' Nina, obliged +to follow their laws and subscribe to their ideas; and while <i>they</i> +traded on the wealth of your attractions, <i>you</i> derived nothing from +the partnership but the same share as those about you.” + </p> +<p> +“And how will it be now?” asked the Countess, half in fear, half in hope. +</p> +<p> +“How will it be now? I 'll tell you. This house will be the resort of +every distinguished man, not of Italy, but of the world at large. Here +will come the highest of every nation, as to a circle where they can say, +and hear, and suggest a thousand things in the freedom of unauthorized +intercourse. You will not drain Florence alone, but all the great cities +of Europe, of its best talkers and deepest thinkers. The statesman and the +author, and the sculptor and the musician, will hasten to a neutral +territory, where for the time a kind of equality will prevail. The weary +minister, escaping from a Court festival, will come here to unbend; the +witty converser will store himself with his best resources for your <i>salons</i>. +There will be all the freedom of a club to these men, with the added charm +of that fascination your presence will confer; and thus, through all their +intercourse, will be felt the '<i>parfum de femme</i>,' as Balzac calls +it, which both elevates and entrances.” + </p> +<p> +“But will not society revenge itself on all this?” “It will invent a +hundred calumnious reports and shocking stories; but these, like the +criticisms on an immoral play, will only serve to fill the house. Men—even +the quiet ones—will be eager to see what it is that constitutes the +charm of these gatherings; and one charm there is that never misses its +success. Have you ever experienced, in visiting some great gallery, or, +still more, some choice collection of works of art, a strange, mysterious +sense of awe for objects which you rather knew to be great by the +testimony of others, than felt able personally to appreciate? You were +conscious that the picture was painted by Raphael, or the cup carved by +Cellini, and, independently of all the pleasure it yielded you, arose a +sense of homage to its actual worth. The same is the case in society with +illustrious men. They may seem slower of apprehension, less ready at +reply, less apt to understand; but there they are, Originals, not Copies +of greatness. They represent value.” + </p> +<p> +Have we said enough to show our reader the kind of persuasion by which +Madame de Sabloukoff led her friend into this new path? The flattery of +the argument was, after all, its success; and the Countess was fascinated +by fancying herself something more than the handsomest and the +best-dressed woman in Florence. They who constitute a free port of their +house will have certainly abundance of trade, and also invite no small +amount of enterprise. +</p> +<p> +A little after midnight the <i>salons</i> began to fill, and from the +Opera and the other theatres flocked in all that was pleasant, +fashionable, and idle of Florence. The old beau, painted, padded, and +essenced, came with the younger and not less elaborately dressed +“fashionable,” great in watch-chains and splendid in waistcoat buttons; +long-haired artists and moustached hussars mingled with close-shaven +actors and pale-faced authors; men of the world, of politics, of finance, +of letters, of the turf,—all were there. There was the gossip of the +Bourse and the cabinet, the green-room and the stable. The scandal of +society, the events of club life, the world's doings in dinners, divorces, +and duels, were all revealed and discussed, amidst the most profuse +gratitude to the Countess for coming back again to that society which +scarcely survived her desertion. +</p> +<p> +They were not, it is but fair to say, all that the Princess Sabloukoff had +depicted them; but there was still a very fair sprinkling of witty, +pleasant talkers. The ease of admission permitted any former intimate to +present his friend, and thus at once, on the very first night of +receiving, the Countess saw her <i>salons</i> crowded. They smoked, and +sang, and laughed, and played écarte, and told good stories. They drew +caricatures, imitated well-known actors, and even preachers, talking away +with a volubility that left few listeners; and then there was a supper +laid out on a table too small to accommodate even by standing, so that +each carried away his plate, and bivouacked with others of his friends, +here and there, through the rooms. +</p> +<p> +All was contrived to impart a sense of independence and freedom; all, to +convey an impression of “license” special to the place, that made the most +rigid unbend, and relaxed the gravity of many who seldom laughed. +</p> +<p> +As in certain chemical compounds a mere drop of some one powerful +ingredient will change the whole property of the mass, eliciting new +elements, correcting this, developing that, and, even to the eye, +announcing by altered color the wondrous change accomplished, so here the +element of womanhood, infinitely small in proportion as it was, imparted a +tone and a refinement to this orgie which, without it, had degenerated +into coarseness. The Countess's beautiful niece, Ida Delia Torre, was also +there, singing at times with all an artist's excellence the triumphs of +operatic music; at others, warbling over those “canzonettes” which to +Italian ears embody all that they know of love of country. How could such +a reception be other than successful; or how could the guests, as they +poured forth into the silent street at daybreak, do aught but exult that +such a house was added to the haunts of Florence,—so lovely a group +had returned to adorn their fair city? +</p> +<p> +In a burst of this enthusiastic gratitude they sang a serenade before they +separated; and then, as the closed curtains showed them that the inmates +had left the windows, they uttered the last “felice Notte,” and departed. +</p> +<p> +“And so Wahnsdorf never made his appearance?” said the Princess, as she +was once more alone with the Countess. +</p> +<p> +“I scarcely expected him. He knows the ill-feeling towards his countrymen +amongst Italians, and he rarely enters society where he may meet them.” + </p> +<p> +“It is strange that he should marry one!” said she, half musingly. +</p> +<p> +“He fell in love,—there's the whole secret of it,” said the +Countess. “He fell in love, and his passion encountered certain +difficulties. His rank was one of them, Ida's indifference another.” + </p> +<p> +“And how have they been got over?” + </p> +<p> +“Evaded rather than surmounted. He has only his own consent after all.” + </p> +<p> +“And Ida, does she care for him?” + </p> +<p> +“I suspect not; but she will marry him. Pique will often do what affection +would fail in. The secret history of the affair is this: There was a youth +at Massa, who, while he lived there, made our acquaintance and became even +intimate at the Villa: he was a sculptor of some talent, and, as many +thought, of considerable promise. I engaged him to give Ida lessons in +modelling, and, in this way, they were constantly together. Whether Ida +liked him or not I cannot say; but it is beyond a doubt that he loved her. +In fact, everything he produced in his art only showed what his mind was +full of,—her image was everywhere. This aroused Wahnsdorf's +jealousy, and he urged me strongly to dismiss Greppi, and shut my doors to +him. At first I consented, for I had a strange sense, not exactly of +dislike, but misgiving, of the youth. I had a feeling towards him that if +I attempted to convey to you, it would seem as though in all this affair I +had suffered myself to be blinded by passion, not guided by reason. There +were times that I felt a deep interest in the youth: his genius, his +ardor, his very poverty engaged my sympathy; and then, stronger than all +these, was a strange, mysterious sense of terror at sight of him, for he +was the very image of one who has worked all the evil of my life.” + </p> +<p> +“Was not this a mere fancy?” said the Princess, compassionately, for she +saw the shuddering emotion these words had cost her. +</p> +<p> +“It was not alone his look,” continued the Countess, speaking now with +impetuous eagerness, “it was not merely his features, but their every play +and movement; his gestures when excited; the very voice was <i>his</i>. I +saw him once excited to violent passion; it was some taunt that Wahnsdorf +uttered about men of unknown or ignoble origin; and then He—he +himself seemed to stand before me as I have so often seen him, in his +terrible outbursts of rage. The sight brought back to me the dreadful +recollection of those scenes,—scenes,” said she, looking wildly +around her, “that if these old walls could speak, might freeze your heart +where you are sitting. +</p> +<p> +“You have heard, but you cannot know, the miserable life we led together; +the frantic jealousy that maddened every hour of his existence; how, in +all the harmless freedom of our Italian life, he saw causes of suspicion +and distrust; how, by his rudeness to this one, his coldness to that, he +estranged me from all who have been my dearest intimates and friends, +dictating to me the while the custom of a land and a people I had never +seen nor wished to see; till at last I was left a mockery to some, an +object of pity to others, amidst a society where once I reigned supreme,—and +all for a man that I had ceased to love! It was from this same life of +misery, unrewarded by the affection by which jealousy sometimes +compensates for its tyranny, that I escaped, to attach myself to the +fortunes of that unhappy Princess whose lot bore some resemblance to my +own. +</p> +<p> +“I know well that he ascribed my desertion to another cause, and—shall +I own it to you?—I had a savage pleasure in leaving him to the +delusion. It was the only vengeance within my reach, and I grasped it with +eagerness. Nothing was easier for me than to disprove it,—a mere +word would have shown the falsehood of the charge; but I would not utter +it. I knew his nature well, and that the insult to his name and the stain +to his honor would be the heaviest of all injuries to him; and they were +so. He drove <i>me</i> from my home,—I banished <i>him</i> from the +world. It is true, I never reckoned on the cruel blow he had yet in store +for me, and when it fell I was crushed and stunned. There was now a +declared war between us,—each to do their worst to the other. It was +less succumbing before him, than to meditate and determine on the future, +that I fled from Florence. It was not here and in such a society I should +have to blush for any imputation. But I had always held my place proudly, +perhaps too proudly, here, and I did not care to enter upon that campaign +of defence—that stooping to cultivate alliances, that humble game of +conciliation—that must ensue. +</p> +<p> +“I went away into banishment. I went to Corsica, and thence to Massa. I +was meditating a journey to the East. I was even speculating on +establishing myself there for the rest of my life, when your letters +changed my plans. You once more kindled in my heart a love of life by +instilling a love of vengeance. You suggested to me the idea of coming +back here boldly, and confronting the world proudly.” + </p> +<p> +“Do not mistake me, Nina,” said the Princess, “the 'Vendetta' was the last +thing in my thoughts. I was too deeply concerned for you to be turned away +from my object by any distracting influence. It was that you should give a +bold denial—the boldest—to your husband's calumny, I +counselled your return. My advice was: Disregard, and, by disregarding, +deny the foul slander he has invented. Go back to the world in the rank +that is yours and that you never forfeited, and then challenge him to +oppose your claim to it.” + </p> +<p> +“And do you think that for such a consideration as this—the honor to +bear the name of a man I loathe—that I 'd face that world I know so +well? No, no; believe me, I had very different reasons. I was resolved +that my future life, <i>my</i> name, <i>his</i> name, should gain a +European notoriety. I am well aware that when a woman is made a public +talk, when once her name comes sufficiently often before the world, let it +be for what you will,—her beauty, her will, her extravagance, her +dress,—from that hour her fame is perilled, and the society she has +overtopped take their vengeance in slandering her character. To be before +the world as a woman is to be arraigned. If ever there was a man who +dreaded such a destiny for his wife, it was <i>he</i>. The impertinences +of the Press had greater terrors for his heart than aught else in life, +and I resolved that he should taste them.” + </p> +<p> +“How have you mistaken, how have you misunderstood me, Nina!” said the +Princess, sorrowfully. +</p> +<p> +“Not so,” cried she, eagerly. “You only saw one advantage in the plan you +counselled. <i>I</i> perceived that it contained a double benefit.” + </p> +<p> +“But remember, dearest Nina, revenge is the most costly of all pleasures, +if one pays for it with all that they possess—their tranquillity. I +myself might have indulged such thoughts as yours; there were many points +alike in our fortunes: but to have followed such a course would be like +the wisdom of one who inoculates himself with a deadly malady that he may +impart the poison to another.” + </p> +<p> +“Must I again tell you that in all I have done I cared less how it might +serve <i>me</i> than how it might wound <i>him?</i> I know you cannot +understand this sentiment; I do not ask of you to sympathize with it. <i>Your</i> +talents enabled you to shape out a high and ambitious career for yourself. +You loved the great intrigues of state, and were well fitted to conduct or +control them. None such gifts were mine. I was and I am still a mere +creature of society. I never soared, even in fancy, beyond the triumphs +which the world of fashion decrees. A cruel destiny excluded me from the +pleasures of a life that would have amply satisfied me, and there is +nothing left but to avenge myself on the cause.” + </p> +<p> +“My dearest Nina, with all your self-stimulation you cannot make yourself +the vindictive creature you would appear,” said the Princess, smiling. +</p> +<p> +“How little do you know my Italian blood!” said the other, passionately. +“That boy—he was not much more than boy—that Greppi was, as I +told you, the very image of Glencore. The same dark skin, the same heavy +brow, the same cold, stern look, which even a smile did not enliven; even +to the impassive air with which he listened to a provocation,—all +were alike. Well, the resemblance has cost him dearly. I consented at last +to Wahnsdorf's continual entreaty to exclude him from the Villa, and +charged the Count with the commission. I am not sure that he expended an +excess of delicacy on the task; I half fear me that he did the act more +rudely than was needed. At all events, a quarrel was the result, and a +challenge to a duel. I only knew of this when all was over; believe me, I +should never have permitted it. However, the result was as safe in the +hands of Fate. The youth fled from Massa; and though Wahnsdorf followed +him, they never met.” + </p> +<p> +“There was no duel, you say?” cried the Princess, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“How could there be? This Greppi never went to the rendezvous. He quitted +Massa during the night, and has never since been heard of. In this, I own +to you, he was not like <i>him.</i>” And, as she said the words, the tears +swam in her eyes, and rolled down her cheeks. “May I ask you how you +learned all this?” “From Wahnsdorf; on his return, in a week or two, he +told me all. Ida, at first, would not believe it; but how could she +discredit what was plain and palpable? Greppi was gone. All the inquiries +of the police were in vain as to his route; none could guess how he had +escaped.” + </p> +<p> +“And this account was given you—you yourself—by Wahnsdorf?” + repeated the Princess. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, to myself. Why should he have concealed it?” “And now he is to marry +Ida?” said the Princess, half musingly, to herself. +</p> +<p> +“We hope, with <i>your</i> aid, that it may be so. The family difficulties +are great; Wahnsdorf s rank is not ours; but he persists in saying that to +your management nothing is impossible.” + </p> +<p> +“His opinion is too flattering,” said the Princess, with a cold gravity of +manner. +</p> +<p> +“But you surely will not refuse us your assistance?” “You may count upon +me even for more than you ask,” said the Princess, rising. “How late it +is! day is breaking already!” And so, with a tender embrace, they parted. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0042" id="link2HCH0042"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XLIII. MADAME DE SABBLOUKOFF IN THE MORNING +</h2> +<p> +Madame de Sabloukoff inhabited “the grand apartment” of the Hôtel +d'Italie, which is the handsomest quarter of the great hotel of Florence. +The same suite which had once the distinguished honor of receiving a Czar +and a King of Prussia, and Heaven knows how many lesser potentates! was +now devoted to one who, though not of the small number of the +elect-in-purple, was yet, in her way, what politicians calls a +“puissance.” + </p> +<p> +As in the drama a vast number of agencies are required for the due +performance of a piece, so, on the greater stage of life, many of the +chief motive powers rarely are known to the public eye. The Princess was +of this number. She was behind the scenes, in more than one sense, and had +her share in the great events of her time. +</p> +<p> +While her beauty lasted, she had traded on the great capital of +attractions which were unsurpassed in Europe. As the perishable flower +faded, she, with prudential foresight, laid up a treasure in secret +knowledge of people and their acts, which made her dreaded and feared +where she was once admired and flattered. Perhaps—it is by no means +improbable—she preferred this latter tribute to the former. +</p> +<p> +Although the strong sunlight was tempered by the closed jalousies and the +drawn muslin curtains, she sat with her back to the window, so that her +features were but dimly visible in the darkened atmosphere of the room. +There was something of coquetry in this; but there was more,—there +was a dash of semi-secrecy in the air of gloom and stillness around, which +gave to each visitor who presented himself,—and she received but one +at a time,—an impression of being admitted to an audience of +confidence and trust. The mute-like servant who waited in the corridor +without, and who drew back a massive curtain on your entrance, also aided +the delusion, imparting to the interview a character of mysterious +solemnity. +</p> +<p> +Through that solemn portal there had passed, in and out, during the +morning, various dignitaries of the land, ministers and envoys, and grand +“chargés” of the Court. The embroidered key of the Chamberlain and the +purple stockings of a Nuncio had come and gone; and now there was a Brief +pause, for the groom in waiting had informed the crowd in the antechamber +that the Princess could receive no more. Then there was a hurried +scrawling of great names in a large book, a shower of visiting-cards, and +all was over; the fine equipages of fine people dashed off, and the +courtyard of the hotel was empty. +</p> +<p> +The large clock on the mantelpiece struck three, and Madame de Sabloukoff +compared the time with her watch, and by a movement of impatience showed a +feeling of displeasure. She was not accustomed to have her appointments +lightly treated, and he for whom she had fixed an hour was now thirty +minutes behind his time. She had been known to resent such unpunctuality, +and she looked as though she might do so again. “I remember the day when +his grand-uncle descended from his carriage to speak to me,” muttered she; +“and that same grand-uncle was an emperor.” + </p> +<p> +Perhaps the chance reflection of her image in the large glass before her +somewhat embittered the recollection, for her features flushed, and as +suddenly grew pale again. It may have been that her mind went rapidly back +to a period when her fascination was a despotism that even the highest and +the haughtiest obeyed. “Too true,” said she, speaking to herself, “time +has dealt heavily with us all. But <i>they</i> are no more what they once +were than am I. Their old compact of mutual assistance is crumbling away +under the pressure of new rivalries and new pretensions. Kings and Kaisers +will soon be like bygone beauties. I wonder will they bear their altered +fortune as heroically?” It is but just to say that her tremulous accents +and quivering lip bore little evidence of the heroism she spoke of. +</p> +<p> +She rang the bell violently, and as the servant entered she said, but in a +voice of perfect unconcern,— +</p> +<p> +“When the Count von Wahnsdorf calls, you will tell him that I am engaged, +but will receive him to-morrow—” + </p> +<p> +“And why not to-day, charming Princess?” said a young man, entering +hastily, and whose graceful but somewhat haughty air set off to every +advantage his splendid Hungarian costume. “Why not now?” said he, stooping +to kiss her hand with respectful gallantry. She motioned to the servant to +withdraw, and they were alone. +</p> +<p> +“You are not over exact in keeping an appointment, monsieur,” said she, +stiffly. “It is somewhat cruel to remind me that my claims in this respect +have grown antiquated.” + </p> +<p> +“I fancied myself the soul of punctuality, my dear Princess,” said he, +adjusting the embroidered pelisse he wore over his shoulder. “You +mentioned four as the hour—” + </p> +<p> +“I said three o'clock,” replied she, coldly. +</p> +<p> +“Three, or four, or even five,—what does it signify?” said he, +carelessly. “We have not either of us, I suspect, much occupation to +engage us; and if I have interfered with your other plans—if you +have plans—A thousand pardons!” cried he, suddenly, as the deep +color of her face and her flashing eye warned him that he had gone too +far; “but the fact is, I was detained at the riding-school. They have sent +me some young horses from the Banat, and I went over to look at them.” + </p> +<p> +“The Count de Wahnsdorf knows that he need make no apologies to Madame de +Sabloukoff,” said she, calmly; “but it were just as graceful, perhaps, to +affect them. My dear Count,” continued she, but in a tone perfectly free +from all touch of irritation, “I have asked to see and speak with you on +matters purely your own—” + </p> +<p> +“You want to dissuade me from this marriage,” said he, interrupting; “but +I fancy that I have already listened to everything that can be urged on +that affair. If you have any argument other than the old one about +misalliance and the rest of it, I 'll hear it patiently; though I tell you +beforehand that I should like to learn that a connection with an imperial +house had some advantage besides that of a continual barrier to one's +wishes.” + </p> +<p> +“I understand,” said she, quietly, “that you named the terms on which you +would abandon this project,—is it not so?” + </p> +<p> +“Who told <i>you</i> that?” cried he, angrily. “Is this another specimen +of the delicacy with which ministers treat a person of my station?” + </p> +<p> +“To discuss that point, Count, would lead us wide of our mark. Am I to +conclude that my informant was correct?” + </p> +<p> +“How can I tell what may have been reported to you?” said he, almost +rudely. +</p> +<p> +“You shall hear and judge for yourself,” was the calm answer. “Count +Kollorath informed me that you offered to abandon this marriage on +condition that you were appointed to the command of the Pahlen Hussars.” + </p> +<p> +The young man's face became scarlet with shame, and he tried twice to +speak, but unavailingly. +</p> +<p> +With a merciless slowness of utterance, and a manner of the most unmoved +sternness, she went on: “I did not deem the proposal at all exorbitant. It +was a price that they could well afford to pay.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, they refused me,” said he, bluntly. +</p> +<p> +“Not exactly refused you,” said she, more gently. “They reminded you of +the necessity of conforming—of at least appearing to conform—to +the rules of the service; that you had only been a few months in command +of a squadron; that your debts, which were considerable, had been noised +about the world, so that a little time should elapse, and a favorable +opportunity present itself, before this promotion could be effected.” + </p> +<p> +“How correctly they have instructed you in all the details of this +affair!” said he, with a scornful smile. +</p> +<p> +“It is a rare event when I am misinformed, sir,” was her cold reply; “nor +could it redound to the advantage of those who ask my advice to afford me +incorrect information.” + </p> +<p> +“Then I am quite unable to perceive what you want with <i>me</i>.” cried +he. “It is plain enough you are in possession of all that I could tell +you. Or is all this only the prelude to some menace or other?” + </p> +<p> +She made no other answer to this rude question than by a smile so dubious +in its meaning, it might imply scorn, or pity, or even sorrow. +</p> +<p> +“You must not wonder if I be angry,” continued he, in an accent that +betokened shame at his own violence. “They have treated me so long as a +fool that they have made me something worse than one.” + </p> +<p> +“I am not offended by your warmth, Count,” said she, softly. “It is at +least the guarantee of your sincerity. I tell you, therefore, I have no +threat to hold over you. It will be enough that I can show you the +impolicy of this marriage,—I don't want to use a stronger word,—what +estrangement it will lead to as regards your own family, how inadequately +it will respond to the sacrifices it must cost.” + </p> +<p> +“That consideration is for me to think of, madam,” said he, proudly. +</p> +<p> +“And for your friends also,” interposed she, softly. +</p> +<p> +“If by my friends you mean those who have watched every occasion of my +life to oppose my plans and thwart my wishes, I conclude that they will +prove themselves as vigilant now as heretofore; but I am getting somewhat +weary of this friendship.” + </p> +<p> +“My dear Count, give me a patient—if possible, an indulgent—hearing +for five minutes, or even half that time, and I hope it will save us both +a world of misconception. If this marriage that you are so eager to +contract were an affair of love,—of that ardent, passionate love +which recognizes no obstacle nor acknowledges any barrier to its wishes,—I +could regard the question as one of those everyday events in life whose +uniformity is seldom broken by a new incident; for love stories have a +terrible sameness in them.” She smiled as she said this, and in such a way +as to make him smile at first, and then laugh heartily. +</p> +<p> +“But if,” resumed she, seriously,—“if I only see in this project a +mere caprice, half—more than half—based upon the pleasure of +wounding family pride, or of coercing those who have hitherto dictated to +you; if, besides this, I perceive that there is no strong affection on +either side, none of that impetuous passion which the world accepts as +'the attenuating circumstance' in rash marriages—” + </p> +<p> +“And who has told you that I do not love Ida, or that she is not devoted +with her whole heart to <i>me?</i>” cried he, interrupting her. +</p> +<p> +“You yourself have told the first. You have shown by the price you have +laid on the object the value at which you estimate it. As for the latter +part of your question—” She paused, and arranged the folds of her +shawl, purposely playing with his impatience, and enjoying it. +</p> +<p> +“Well,” cried he, “as for the latter part; go on.” + </p> +<p> +“It scarcely requires an answer. I saw Ida Delia Torre last night in a +society of which her affianced husband was not one; and, I will be bold +enough to say, hers was not the bearing that bespoke engaged affections.” + </p> +<p> +“Indeed!” said he, but in a tone that indicated neither displeasure nor +surprise. +</p> +<p> +“It was as I have told you, Count. Surrounded by the youth of Florence, +such as you know them, she laughed, and talked, and sang, in all the +careless gayety of a heart at ease; or, if at moments a shade of sadness +crossed her features, it was so brief that only one observing her closely +as myself could mark it.” + </p> +<p> +“And how did that subtle intelligence of yours interpret this show of +sorrow?” said he, in a voice of mockery, but yet of deep anxiety. +</p> +<p> +“My subtle intelligence was not taxed to guess, for I knew her secret,” + said the Princess, with all the strength of conscious power. +</p> +<p> +“Her secret—her secret!” said he, eagerly. “What do you mean by +that?” + </p> +<p> +The Princess smiled coldly, and said, “I have not yet found my frankness +so well repaid that I should continue to extend it.” + </p> +<p> +“What is the reward to be, madam? Name it,” said he, boldly. +</p> +<p> +“The same candor on your part, Count; I ask for no more.” + </p> +<p> +“But what have I to reveal; what mystery is there that your omniscience +has not penetrated?” + </p> +<p> +“There may be some that your frankness has not avowed, my dear Count.” + </p> +<p> +“If you refer to what you have called Ida's secret—” + </p> +<p> +“No,” broke she in. “I was now alluding to what might be called <i>your</i> +secret.” + </p> +<p> +“Mine! <i>my</i> secret!” exclaimed he. But though the tone was meant to +convey great astonishment, the confusion of his manner was far more +apparent. +</p> +<p> +“Your secret, Count,” she repeated slowly, “which has been just as safe in +my keeping as if it had been confided to me on honor.” + </p> +<p> +“I was not aware how much I owed to your discretion, madam,” said he, +scoffingly. +</p> +<p> +“I am but too happy when any services of mine can rescue the fame of a +great family from reproach, sir,” replied she, proudly; for all the +control she had heretofore imposed upon her temper seemed at last to have +yielded to offended dignity. “Happily for that illustrious house—happily +for you, too—I am one of a very few who know of Count Wahnsdorf's +doings. To have suffered your antagonist in a duel to be tracked, +arrested, and imprisoned in an Austrian fortress, when a word from you had +either warned him of his peril or averted the danger, was bad enough; but +to have stigmatized his name with cowardice, and to have defamed him +because he was your rival, was far worse.” + </p> +<p> +Wahnsdorf struck the table with his clenched fist till it shook beneath +the blow, but never uttered a word, while with increased energy she +continued,— +</p> +<p> +“Every step of this bad history is known to me; every detail of it, from +your gross and insulting provocation of this poor friendless youth to the +last scene of his committal to a dungeon.” + </p> +<p> +“And, of course, you have related your interesting narrative to Ida?” + cried he. +</p> +<p> +“No, sir; the respect which I have never lost for those whose name you +bear had been quite enough to restrain me, had I not even other thoughts.” + </p> +<p> +“And what may they be?” asked he. +</p> +<p> +“To take the first opportunity of finding myself alone with you, to +represent how nearly it concerns your honor that this affair should never +be bruited abroad; to insist upon your lending every aid to obtain this +young man's liberation; to show that the provocation came from yourself; +and, lastly, all-painful though it be, to remove from him the stain you +have inflicted, and to reinstate him in the esteem that your calumny may +have robbed him of. These were the other thoughts I alluded to.” + </p> +<p> +“And you fancy that I am to engage in this sea of trouble for the sake of +some nameless bastard, while in doing so I compromise myself and my own +honor?” + </p> +<p> +“Do you prefer that it should be done by another, Count Wahnsdorf?” asked +she. +</p> +<p> +“This is a threat, madam.” + </p> +<p> +“All the speedier will the matter be settled if you understand it as +such.” + </p> +<p> +“And, of course, the next condition will be for me to resign my +pretensions to Ida in his favor,” said he, with a savage irony. +</p> +<p> +“I stipulate for nothing of the sort; Count Wahnsdorf's pretensions will +be to-morrow just where they are to-day.” + </p> +<p> +“You hold them cheaply, madam. I am indeed unfortunate in all my pursuit +of your esteem.” + </p> +<p> +“You live in a sphere to command it, sir,” was her reply, given with a +counterfeited humility; and whether it was the tone of mingled insolence +and submission she assumed, or simply the sense of his own unworthiness in +her sight, but Wahnsdorf cowered before her like a frightened child. At +this moment the servant entered, and presented a visiting-card to the +Princess. +</p> +<p> +“Ah, he comes in an opportune moment,” cried she. “This is the Minister of +the Duke of Massa's household,—the Chevalier Stubber. Yes,” + continued she to the servant, “I will receive him.” + </p> +<p> +If there was not any conspicuous gracefulness in the Chevalier's approach, +there was an air of quiet self-possession that bespoke a sense of his own +worth and importance; and while he turned to pay his respects to the young +Count, his unpolished manner was not devoid of a certain dignity. +</p> +<p> +“It is a fortunate chance by which I find you here, Count Wahnsdorf,” said +he, “for you will be glad to learn that the young fellow you had that +affair with at Massa has just been liberated.” + </p> +<p> +“When, and how?” cried the Princess, hastily. +</p> +<p> +“As to the time, it must be about four days ago, as my letters inform me; +as to the how, I fancy the Count can best inform you,—he has +interested himself greatly in the matter.” The Count blushed deeply, and +turned away to hide his face, but not so quickly as to miss the expression +of scornful meaning with which the Princess regarded him. +</p> +<p> +“But I want to hear the details, Chevalier,” said she. +</p> +<p> +“And I can give you none, madam. My despatches simply mention that the act +of arrest was discovered in some way to be informal. Sir Horace Upton +proved so much. There then arose a question of giving him up to us; but my +master declined the honor,—he would have no trouble, he said, with +England or Englishmen; and some say that the youth claims an English +nationality. The cabinet of Vienna are, perhaps, like-minded in the +matter; at all events, he is free, and will be here to-morrow.” + </p> +<p> +“Then I shall invite him to dinner, and beg both of you gentlemen to meet +him,” said she, with a voice wherein a tone of malicious drollery mingled. +</p> +<p> +“I am your servant, madam,” said Stubber. +</p> +<p> +“And I am engaged,” said Wahnsdorf, taking up his shako. +</p> +<p> +“You are off to Vienna to-night, Count Wahnsdorf,” whispered the +Princess-in his ear. +</p> +<p> +“What do you mean, madam?” said he, in a tone equally low. +</p> +<p> +“Only that I have a letter written for the Archduchess Sophia, which I +desire to intrust to your hands. You may as well read ere I seal it.” + </p> +<p> +The Count took the letter from her hand, and retired towards the window to +read it. While she conversed eagerly with Stubber, she did not fail from +time to time to glance towards the other, and mark the expression of his +features as he folded and replaced the letter in its envelope, and, slowly +approaching her, said,— +</p> +<p> +“You are most discreet, madam.” + </p> +<p> +“I hope I am just, sir,” said she, modestly. +</p> +<p> +“This was something of a difficult undertaking, too,” said he, with an +equivocal smile. +</p> +<p> +“It was certainly a pleasant and proud one, sir, as it always must be, to +write to a mother in commendation of her son. By the way, Chevalier, you +have forgotten to make your compliments to the Count on his promotion—” + </p> +<p> +“I have not heard of it, madam; what may it be?” asked Stubber. +</p> +<p> +“To the command of the Pahlen Hussars, sir,—one of the proudest +'charges' of the Empire.” + </p> +<p> +A rush of blood to Wahnsdorf's face was as quickly followed by a deadly +pallor, and with a broken, faint utterance he said, “Good-bye,” and left +the room. +</p> +<p> +“A fine young fellow,—the very picture of a soldier,” exclaimed +Stubber, looking after him. +</p> +<p> +“A chevalier of the olden time, sir,—the very soul of honor,” said +the Princess, enthusiastically. “And now for a little gossip with +yourself.” + </p> +<p> +It is not “in our brief” to record what passed in that chatty interview; +plenty of state secrets and state gossip there was,—abundance of +that dangerous trifling which mixes up the passions of society with the +great game of politics, and makes statecraft feel the impress of men's +whims and caprices. We were just beginning that era, “the policy of +resentments,” which has since pervaded Europe, and the Chevalier and the +Princess were sufficiently behind the scenes to have many things to +communicate; and here we must leave them while we hasten on to other +scenes and other actors. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0043" id="link2HCH0043"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XLIII. DOINGS IN DOWNING STREET +</h2> +<p> +The dull old precincts of Downing Street were more than usually astir. +Hackney-coaches and cabs at an early hour, private chariots somewhat +later, went to and fro along the dreary pavement, and two cabinet +messengers with splashed <i>calèches</i> arrived in hot haste from Dover. +Frequent, too, were the messages from the House; a leading Oppositionist +was then thundering away against the Government, inveighing against the +treacherous character of their foreign policy, and indignantly calling on +them for certain despatches to their late envoy at Naples. At every cheer +which greeted him from his party a fresh missive would be despatched from +the Treasury benches, and the whisper, at first cautiously muttered, grew +louder and louder, “Why does not Upton come down?” + </p> +<p> +So intricate has been the web of our petty entanglements, so complex the +threads of those small intrigues by which we have earned our sobriquet of +the “perfide Albion,” that it is difficult at this time of day to recall +the exact question whose solution, in the words of the orator of the +debate, “placed us either at the head of Europe, or consigned to us the +fatal mediocrity of a third-rate power.” The prophecy, whichever way read, +gives us unhappily no clew to the matter in hand, and we are only left to +conjecture that it was an intervention in Spain, or “something about the +Poles.” As is usual in such cases, the matter, insignificant enough in +itself, was converted into a serious attack on the Government, and all the +strength of the Opposition was arrayed to give power and consistency to +the assault. As is equally usual, the cabinet was totally unprepared for +defence; either they had altogether undervalued the subject, or they +trusted to the secrecy with which they had conducted it; whichever of +these be the right explanation, each minister could only say to his +colleague, “It never came before <i>me</i>; Upton knows all about it.” + </p> +<p> +“And where is Upton?—why does he not come down?”—were again +and again reiterated; while a shower of messages and even mandates invoked +his presence. +</p> +<p> +The last of these was a peremptory note from no less a person than the +Premier himself, written in three very significant words, thus: “Come, or +go;” and given to a trusty whip, the Hon. Gerald Neville, to deliver. +</p> +<p> +Armed with this not very conciliatory document, the well-practised +tactician drew up to the door of the Foreign Office, and demanded to see +the Secretary of State. +</p> +<p> +“Give him this card and this note, sir,” said he to the well-dressed and +very placid young gentleman who acted as his private secretary. +</p> +<p> +“Sir Horace is very poorly, sir; he is at this moment in a mineral bath; +but as the matter you say is pressing, he will see you. Will you pass this +way?” + </p> +<p> +Mr. Neville followed his guide through an infinity of passages, and at +length reached a large folding-door, opening one side of which he was +ushered into a spacious apartment, but so thoroughly impregnated with a +thick and offensive vapor that he could barely perceive, through the mist, +the bath in which Upton lay reclined, and the figure of a man, whose look +and attitude bespoke the doctor, beside him. +</p> +<p> +“Ah, my dear fellow,” sighed Upton, extending two dripping fingers in +salutation, “you have come in at the death. This is the last of it!” + </p> +<p> +“No, no; don't say that,” cried the other, encouragingly. “Have you had +any sudden seizure? What is the nature of it?” + </p> +<p> +“He,” said he, looking round to the doctor, “calls it 'arachnoidal +trismus,'—a thing, he says, that they have all of them ignored for +many a day, though Charlemagne died of it. Ah, Doctor,”—and he +addressed a question to him in German. +</p> +<p> +A growled volley of gutturals ensued, and Upton went on:— +</p> +<p> +“Yes, Charlemagne,—Melancthon had it, but lingered for years. It is +the peculiar affection of great intellectual natures over-taxed and +over-worked.” + </p> +<p> +Whether there was that in the manner of the sick man that inspired hope, +or something in the aspect of the doctor that suggested distrust, or a +mixture of the two together, but certainly Neville rapidly rallied from +the fears which had beset him on entering, and in a voice of a more cheery +tone, said,— +</p> +<p> +“Come, come, Sir Horace, you 'll throw off this as you have done other +such attacks. You have never been wanting either to your friends or +yourself when the hour of emergency called. We are in a moment of such +difficulty now, and you alone can rescue us.” + </p> +<p> +“How cruel of the Duke to write me that!” sighed Upton, as he held up the +piece of paper, from which the water had obliterated all trace of the +words. “It was so inconsiderate,—eh, Neville?” + </p> +<p> +“I'm not aware of the terms he employed,” said the other. +</p> +<p> +This was the very admission that Upton sought to obtain, and in a far more +cheery voice he said,— +</p> +<p> +“If I was capable of the effort,—if Doctor Geimirstad thought it +safe for me to venture,—I could set all this to right. These people +are all talking 'without book,' Neville,—the ever-recurring blunder +of an Opposition when they address themselves to a foreign question: they +go upon a newspaper paragraph, or the equally incorrect 'private +communication from a friend.' Men in office alone can attain to truth—exact +truth—about questions of foreign policy.” + </p> +<p> +“The debate is taking a serious turn, however,” interposed Neville. “They +reiterate very bold assertions, which none of our people are in a position +to contradict. Their confidence is evidently increasing with the show of +confusion in our ranks. Something must be done to meet them, and that +quickly.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I suppose I must go,” sighed Upton; and as he held out his wrist to +have his pulse felt, he addressed a few words to the doctor. +</p> +<p> +“He calls it 'a life period,' Neville. He says that he won't answer for +the consequences.” + </p> +<p> +The doctor muttered on. +</p> +<p> +“He adds that the trismus may be thus converted into 'Bi-trismus.' Just +imagine Bi-trismus!” + </p> +<p> +This was a stretch of fancy clear and away beyond Neville's apprehension, +and he began to feel certain misgivings about pushing a request so full of +danger; but from this he was in a measure relieved by the tone in which +Upton now addressed his valet with directions as to the dress he intended +to wear. “The loose pelisse, with the astrakhan, Giuseppe, and that vest +of <i>cramoisie</i> velvet; and if you will just glance at the newspaper, +Neville, in the next room, I 'll come to you immediately.” + </p> +<p> +The newspapers of the morning after this interview afford us the speediest +mode of completing the incidents; and the concluding sentences of a +leading article will be enough to place before our readers what ensued:— +</p> +<p> +“It was at this moment, and amidst the most enthusiastic cheers of the +Treasury bench, that Sir Horace Upton entered the House. Leaning on the +arm of Mr. Neville, he slowly passed up and took his accustomed place. The +traces of severe illness in his features, and the great debility which his +gestures displayed, gave an unusual interest to a scene already almost +dramatic in its character. For a moment the great chief of Opposition was +obliged to pause in his assault, to let this flood-tide of sympathy pass +on; and when at length he did resume, it was plain to see how much the +tone of his invective had been tempered by a respect for the actual +feeling of the House. The necessity for this act of deference, added to +the consciousness that he was in presence of the man whose acts he so +strenuously denounced, were too much for the nerves of the orator, and he +came to an abrupt conclusion, whose confused and uncertain sentences +scarcely warranted the cheers with which his friends rallied him. +</p> +<p> +“Sir Horace rose at once to reply. His voice was at first so inarticulate +that we could but catch the burden of what he said,—a request that +the House would accord him all the indulgence which his state of debility +and suffering called for. If the first few sentences he uttered imparted a +painful significance to the entreaty, it very soon became apparent that he +had no occasion to bespeak such indulgence. In a voice that gained +strength and fulness as he proceeded, he entered upon what might be called +a narrative of the foreign policy of the administration, clearly showing +that their course was guided by certain great principles which dictated a +line of action firm and undeviating; that the measures of the Government, +however modified by passing events in Europe, had been uniformly +consistent,—based upon the faith of treaties, but ever mindful of +the growing requirements of the age. Through a narrative of singular +complexity he guided himself with consummate skill, and though detailing +events which occupied every region of the globe, neither confusion nor +inconsistency ever marred the recital, and names and places and dates were +quoted by him without any artificial aid to memory.” + </p> +<p> +There was in the polished air, and calm, dispassionate delivery of the +speaker, something which seemed to charm the ears of those who for four +hours before had been so mercilessly assailed by all the vituperation and +insolence of party animosity. It was, so to say, a period of relief and +repose, to which even antagonists were not insensible. No man ever +understood the advantage of his gifts in this way better than Upton, nor +ever was there one who could convert the powers which fascinated society +into the means of controlling a popular assembly, with greater assurance +of success. He was a man of a strictly logical mind, a close and acute +thinker; he was of a highly imaginative temperament, rich in all the +resources of a poetic fancy; he was thoroughly well read, and gifted with +a ready memory; but, above all these,—transcendently above them all,—he +was a “man of the world;” and no one, either in Parliament or out of it, +knew so well when it was wrong to say “the right thing.” But let us resume +our quotation:— +</p> +<p> +“For more than three hours did the House listen with breathless attention +to a narrative which in no parliamentary experience has been surpassed for +the lucid clearness of its details, the unbroken flow of its relation. The +orator up to this time had strictly devoted himself to explanation; he now +proceeded to what might be called reply. If the House was charmed and +instructed before, it was now positively astonished and electrified by the +overwhelming force of the speaker's raillery and invective. Not satisfied +with showing the evil consequences that must ensue from any adoption of +the measures recommended by the Opposition, he proceeded to exhibit the +insufficiency of views always based upon false information. +</p> +<p> +“'We have been taunted,' said he, 'with the charge of fomenting discords +in foreign lands; we have been arraigned as disturbers of the world's +peace, and called the firebrands of Europe; we are exhibited as parading +the Continent with a more than Quixotic ardor, since we seek less the +redress of wrong than the opportunity to display our own powers of +interference,—that quality which the learned gentleman has +significantly stigmatized as a spirit of meddling impertinence, offensive +to the whole world of civilization. Let me tell him, sir, that the very +debate of this night has elicited, and from himself too, the very outrages +he has had the temerity to ascribe to us. His has been this indiscriminate +ardor, his this unjudging rashness, his this meddling impertinence (I am +but quoting, not inventing, a phrase), by which, without accurate, +without, indeed, any, information, he has ventured to charge the +Government with what no administration would be guilty, of—a cool +and deliberate violation of the national law of Europe. +</p> +<p> +“'He has told you, sir, that in our eagerness to distinguish ourselves as +universal redressers of injury, we have “ferreted out”—I take his +own polished expression—the case of an obscure boy in an obscure +corner of Italy, converted a commonplace and very vulgar incident into a +tale of interest, and, by a series of artful devices and insinuations +based upon this narrative, a grave and insulting charge upon one of the +oldest of our allies. He has alleged that throughout the whole of those +proceedings we had not the shadow of pretence for our interference; that +the acts imputed occurred in a land over which we had no control, and in +the person of an individual in whom we had no interest; that this +Sebastiano Greppi—this image boy, for so with a courteous pleasantry +he has called him—was a Neapolitan subject, the affiliated envoy of +I know not what number of secret societies; that his sculptural +pretensions were but pretexts to conceal his real avocations,—the +agency of a bloodthirsty faction; that his crime was no less than an act +of high treason; and that Austrian gentleness and mercy were never more +conspicuously illustrated than in the commutation of a death-sentence to +one of perpetual imprisonment. +</p> +<p> +“'What a rude task is mine when I must say that for even one of these +assertions there is not the slightest foundation in fact. Greppi's offence +was not a crime against the state; as little was it committed within the +limits of the Austrian territory. He is not the envoy, or even a member, +of any revolutionary club; he never—I am speaking with knowledge, +sir—he never mingled in the schemes of plotting politicians; as far +removed is he from sympathy with such men, as, in the genius of a great +artist, he is elevated above the humble path to which the learned +gentleman's raillery would sentence him. For the character of “an image +vendor,” the learned gentleman must look nearer home; and, lastly, this +youth is an Englishman, and born of a race and a blood that need feel no +shame in comparison with any I see around me!' +</p> +<p> +“To the loud cry of 'Name, name,' which now arose, Sir Horace replied: 'If +I do not announce the name at this moment, it is because there are +circumstances in the history of the youth to which publicity would give +irreparable pain. These are details which I have no right to bring under +discussion, and which must inevitably thus become matters of town-talk. To +any gentleman of the opposite side who may desire to verify the assertions +I have made to the House, I would, under pledge of secrecy, reveal the +name. I would do more; I would permit him to confide it to a select number +of friends equally pledged with himself. This is surely enough?'” + </p> +<p> +We have no occasion to continue our quotation farther, and we take up our +history as Sir Horace, overwhelmed by the warmest praises and +congratulations, drove off from the House to his home. Amid all the +excitement and enthusiasm which this brilliant success produced among the +ministerialists, there was a kind of dread lest the overtaxed powers of +the orator should pay the heavy penalty of such an effort. They had all +heard how he came from a sick chamber; they had all seen him, trembling, +faint, and almost voiceless, as he stole up to his place, and they began +to fear lest they had, in the hot zeal of party, imperilled the ablest +chief in their ranks. +</p> +<p> +What a relief to these agonies had it been, could they have seen Upton as +he once more gained the solitude of his chamber, where, divested of all +the restraints of an audience, he walked leisurely up and down, smoking a +cigar, and occasionally smiling pleasantly as some “conceit” crossed his +mind. +</p> +<p> +Had there been any one to mark him there, it is more than likely that he +would have regarded him as a man revelling in the after-thought of a great +success,—one who, having come gloriously through the combat, was +triumphantly recalling to his memory every incident of the fight. How +little had they understood Sir Horace Upton who would have read him in +this wise! That daring and soaring nature rarely dallied in the past; even +the present was scarcely full enough for the craving of a spirit that +cried ever, “Forward!” + </p> +<p> +What might be made of that night's success; how best it should be turned +to account!—these were the thoughts which beset him, and many were +the devices which his subtlety hit on to this end. There was not a goal +his ambition could point to but which became associated with some +deteriorating ingredient. He was tired of the Continent, he hated England, +he shuddered at the Colonies. “India, perhaps,” said he, hesitatingly,—“India, +perhaps, might do.” To continue as he was,—to remain in office, as +having reached the topmost round of the ladder,—would have been +insupportable indeed; and yet how, without longer service at his post, +could any man claim a higher reward? +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0044" id="link2HCH0044"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XLIV. THE SUBTLETIES OF STATECRAFT +</h2> +<p> +It was not till Sir Horace had smoked his third cigar that he seated +himself at his writing-table. He then wrote rapidly a brief note, of which +he proceeded to make a careful copy. This he folded and placed in an +envelope, addressing it to his Grace the Duke of Cloudeslie. +</p> +<p> +A few minutes afterwards he began to prepare for bed. The day was already +breaking, and yet that sick man was unwearied and unwasted; not a trace of +fatigue on features that, under the infliction of a tiresome dinner-party, +would have seemed bereft of hope. +</p> +<p> +The tied-up knocker, the straw-strewn street, the closely drawn curtains +announced to London the next morning that the distinguished minister was +seriously ill; and from an early hour the tide of inquirers, in carriages +and on foot, passed silently along that dreary way. High and mighty were +the names inscribed in the porter's book; royal dukes had called in +person; and never was public solicitude more widely manifested. There is +something very flattering in the thought of a great intelligence being +damaged and endangered in our service! With all its melancholy influences, +there is a feeling of importance suggested by the idea that for us and our +interests a man of commanding powers should have jeoparded his life. There +is a very general prejudice, not alone in obtaining the best article for +our money, but the most of it also; and this sentiment extends to the +individuals employed in the public service; and it is doubtless a very +consolatory reflection to the tax-paying classes that the great +functionaries of state are not indolent recipients of princely incomes, +but hard-worked men of office, up late and early at their duties,—prematurely +old, and worn out before their time! Something of this same feeling +inspires much of the sympathy displayed for a sick statesman,—a +sentiment not altogether void of a certain misgiving that we have probably +over-taxed the energies employed in our behalf. +</p> +<p> +Scarcely one in a hundred of those who now called and “left their names” + had ever seen Sir Horace Upton in their lives. Few are more removed from +public knowledge than the men who fill even the highest places in our +diplomacy. He was, therefore, to the mass a mere name. Since his accession +to office little or nothing had been heard of him, and of that little, the +greater part was made up of sneering allusions to his habits of indolence; +impertinent hints about his caprices and his tastes. Yet now, by a grand +effort in the “House,” and a well got-up report of a dangerous illness the +day after, was he the most marked man in all the state,—the theme of +solicitude throughout two millions of people! +</p> +<p> +There was a dash of mystery, too, in the whole incident, which heightened +its flavor for public taste; a vague, indistinct impression—it did +not even amount to rumor—was abroad, that Sir Horace had not been +“fairly treated” by his colleagues; either that they could, if they wished +it, have defended the cause themselves, or that they had needlessly called +him from a sick bed to come to the rescue, or that some subtle trap had +been laid to ensnare him. These were vulgar beliefs, which, if they +obtained little credence in the higher region of club-life, were +extensively circulated, and not discredited, in less distinguished +circles. How they ever got abroad at all; how they found their ways into +newspaper paragraphs, terrifying timid supporters of the ministry by the +dread prospect of a “smash,” exciting the hopes of Opposition with the +notion of a great secession, throwing broadcast before the world of +readers every species of speculation, all kinds of combination,—who +knows how all this happened? Who, indeed, ever knew how things a thousand +times more secret ever got wind and became club-talk ere the actors in the +events had finished an afternoon's canter in the Park? +</p> +<p> +If, then, the world of London learned on the morning in question that Sir +Horace Upton was very ill, it also surmised—why and wherefore it +knows best—that the same Sir Horace was an ill-used man. Now, of all +the objects of public sympathy and interest, next after a foreign emperor +on a visit at Buckingham Palace, or a newly arrived hippopotamus at the +Zoological Gardens, there is nothing your British public is so fond of as +“an ill-used man.” It is essential, however, to his great success that he +be ill-used in high places; that his enemies and calumniators should have +been, if not princes, at least dukes and marquises and great dignitaries +of the state. Let him only be supposed to be martyred by these, and there +is no saying where his popularity may be carried. A very general +impression is current that the mass of the nation is more or less +“ill-used,”—denied its natural claims and just rewards. To hit upon, +therefore, a good representation of this hard usage, to find a tangible +embodiment of this great injustice, is a discovery that is never +unappreciated. +</p> +<p> +To read his speech of the night before, and to peruse the ill-scrawled +bulletin of his health at the hall door in the morning, made up the +measure of his popularity, and the world exclaimed, “Think of the man they +have treated in this fashion!” Every one framed the indictment to his own +taste; nor was the wrong the less grievous that none could give it a name. +Even cautious men fell into the trap, and were heard to say, “If all we +hear be true, Upton has not been fairly treated.” + </p> +<p> +What an air of confirmation to all these rumors did it give, when the +evening papers announced in the most striking type: Resignation of Sir +Horace Upton. If the terms in which he communicated that step to the +Premier were not before the world, the date, the very night of the debate, +showed that the resolution had been come to suddenly. +</p> +<p> +Some of the journals affected to be in the whole secret of the +transaction, and only waiting the opportune moment to announce it to the +world. The dark, mysterious paragraphs in which journalists show their +no-meanings abounded, and menacing hints were thrown out that the country +would no longer submit to.—Heaven knows what. There was, besides all +this, a very considerable amount of that catechetical inquiry, which, by +suggesting a number of improbabilities, hopes to arrive at the likely, and +thus, by asking questions where they had a perfect confidence they would +never be answered, they seemed to overwhelm their adversaries with shame +and discomfiture. The great fact, however, was indisputable,—Upton +had resigned. +</p> +<p> +To the many who looked up at the shuttered windows of his sad-looking +London house, this reflection occurred naturally enough,—How little +the poor sufferer, on his sick bed, cared for the contest that raged +around him; how far away were, in all probability, his thoughts from that +world of striving and ambition whose waves came to his door-sills. Let us, +in that privilege which belongs to us, take a peep within the curtained +room, where a bright fire is blazing, and where, seated behind a screen, +Sir Horace is now penning a note; a bland half smile rippling his features +as some pleasant conceit has flashed across his mind. We have rarely seen +him looking so well. The stimulating events of the last few days have done +for him more than all the counsels of his doctors, and his eyes are +brighter and his cheeks fuller than usual. A small miniature hangs +suspended by a narrow ribbon round his neck, and a massive gold bracelet +adorns one wrist,—“two souvenirs” which he stops to contemplate as +he writes; nor is there a touch of sorrowful meaning in the glance he +bestows upon them,—the look rather seems the self-complacent regard +that a successful general might bestow on the decorations he had won by +his valor. It is essentially vainglorious. +</p> +<p> +More than once has he paused to read over the sentence he has written, and +one may see, by the motion of his lips as he reads, how completely he has +achieved the sentiment he would express. “Yes, charming Princess,” said +he, perusing the lines before him, “I've once more to throw myself at your +feet, and reiterate the assurances of a devotion which has formed the +happiness of my existence.” (“That does not sound quite French, after +all,” muttered he; “better perhaps: 'has formed the religion of my +heart.'”) “I know you will reproach my precipitancy; I feel how your +judgment, unerring as it ever is, will condemn what may seem a sudden +ebullition of temper; but, I ask, is this amongst the catalogue of my +weaknesses? Am I of that clay which is always fissured when heated? No. <i>You</i> +know me better,—<i>you</i> alone of all the world have the clew to a +heart whose affections are all your own. The few explanations of all that +has happened must be reserved for our meeting. Of course, neither the +newspapers nor the reviews have any conception of the truth. Four words +will set your heart at ease, and these you must have: 'I have done +wisely;' with that assurance you have no more to fear. I mean to leave +this in all secrecy by the end of the week. I shall go over to Brussels, +where you can address me under the name of Richard Bingham. I shall only +remain there to watch events for a day or two, and thence on to Geneva. +</p> +<p> +“I am quite charmed with your account of poor Lady G———, +though, as I read, I can detect how all the fascinations you tell of were +but reflected glories. Your view of her situation is admirable, and, by +your skilful tactique, it is she herself that ostracizes the society that +would only have accepted her on sufferance. How true is your remark as to +the great question at issue,—not her guilt or innocence, but what +danger might accrue to others from infractions that invite publicity. The +cabinet were discussing t' other day a measure by which sales of estated +property could be legalized without those tiresome and costly researches +into title which, in a country where confiscations were frequent, became +at last endless labor. Don't you think that some such measure might be +beneficially adopted as regards female character? Could there not be +invented a species of social guarantee which, rejecting all investigation +into bygones after a certain limit, would confer a valid title that none +might dispute? +</p> +<p> +“Lawyers tell us that no man's property would stand the test of a search +for title. Are we quite certain how far the other sex are our betters in +this respect; and might it not be wise to interpose a limit beyond which +research need not proceed? +</p> +<p> +“I concur in all you say about G———himself. He was +always looking for better security than he needed,—a great mistake, +whether the investment consist of our affections or our money. Physicians +say that if any man could only see the delicate anatomy on which his life +depends, and watch the play of those organs that sustain him, he would not +have courage to move a step or utter a loud word. Might we not carry the +analogy into morals, and ask, is it safe or prudent in us to investigate +too deeply? are we wise in dissecting motives? or would it not be better +to enjoy our moral as we do our material health, without seeking to assure +ourselves further? +</p> +<p> +“Besides all this, the untravelled Englishman—and such was Glencore +when he married—never can be brought to understand the harmless +levities of foreign life. Like a fresh-water sailor, he always fancies the +boat is going to upset, and he throws himself out at the first 'jobble'! I +own to you frankly, I never knew the case in question; 'how far she went,' +is a secret to me. I might have heard the whole story. It required some +address in me to escape it; but I do detest these narrations, where truth +is marred by passion, and all just inferences confused and confounded with +vague and absurd suspicions. +</p> +<p> +“Glencore's conduct throughout was little short of insanity; like a man +who, hearing his banker is insecure, takes refuge in insolvency, he ruins +himself to escape embarrassment. They tell me here that the shock has +completely deranged his intellect, and that he lives a life of melancholy +isolation in that old castle in Ireland. +</p> +<p> +“How few men in this world can count the cost of their actions, and make +up that simple calculation, 'How much shall I have to pay for it?' +</p> +<p> +“Take any view one pleases of the case, would it not have been better for +him to have remained in the world and of it? Would not its pleasures, even +its cares, have proved better 'distractions' than his own brooding +thoughts? If a man have a secret ailment, does he parade it in public? +Why, then, this exposure of a pain for which there is no sympathy? +</p> +<p> +“Life, after all, is only a system of compensations. Wish it to be +whatever you please, but accept it as it really is, and make the best of +it! For my own part, I have ever felt like one who, having got a most +disastrous account of a road he was about to travel, is delightfully +surprised to find the way better and the inns more comfortable than he +looked for. In the main, men and women are very good; our mistake is, +expecting to find people always in our own humor. Now, if one is very +rich, this is practical enough; but the mass must be content to encounter +disparity of mood and difference of taste at every step. There is, +therefore, some tact required in conforming to these 'irregularities,' and +unhappily everybody has not got tact. +</p> +<p> +“You, charming Princess, have tact; but you have beauty, wit, fascination, +rank,—all that can grace high station, and all that high station can +reflect upon great natural gifts; that <i>you</i> should see the world +through a rose-tinted medium is a very condition of your identity; and +there is truth, as well as good philosophy, in this view! You have often +told me that if people were not exactly all that strict moralists might +wish, yet that they made up a society very pleasant and livable withal, +and that there was also a floating capital of kindness and good feeling +quite sufficient to trade upon, and even grow richer by negotiating! +</p> +<p> +“People who live out of the world, or, what comes to the same thing, in a +little world of their own, are ever craving after perfectibility,—just +as, in time of peace, nations only accept in their armies six-foot +grenadiers and gigantic dragoons. Let the pressure of war or emergency +arise, however, or, in other words, let there be the real business of life +to be done, then the standard is lowered at once, and the battle is sought +and won by very inferior agency. Now, show troops and show qualities are +very much alike; they are a measure of what would be very charming to +arrive at, were it only practicable! Oh that poor Glencore had only +learned this lesson, instead of writing nonsense verses at Eton! +</p> +<p> +“The murky domesticities of England have no correlatives in the sunny +enjoyments of Italian life; and John Bull has got a fancy that virtue is +only cultivated where there are coal fires, stuff curtains, and a window +tax. Why, then, in the name of Doctors' Commons, does he marry a +foreigner?” + </p> +<p> +Just as Upton had written these words, his servant presented him with a +visiting-card. +</p> +<p> +“Lord Glencore!” exclaimed he, aloud. “When was he here?” + </p> +<p> +“His Lordship is below stairs now, sir. He said he was sure you'd see +him.” + </p> +<p> +“Of course; show him up at once. Wait a moment; give me that cane, place +those cushions for my feet, draw the curtain, and leave the aconite and +ether drops near me,—that will do, thank you.” + </p> +<p> +Some minutes elapsed ere the door was opened; the slow footfall of one +ascending the stairs, step by step, was heard, accompanied by the labored +respiration of a man breathing heavily; and then Lord Glencore entered, +his form worn and emaciated, and his face pale and colorless. With a +feeble, uncertain voice, he said,— +</p> +<p> +“I knew you 'd see me, Upton, and I would n't go away!” And with this he +sank into a chair and sighed deeply. +</p> +<p> +“Of course, my dear Glencore, you knew it,” said the other, feelingly, for +he was shocked by the wretched spectacle before him; “even were I more +seriously indisposed than—” + </p> +<p> +“And were you really ill, Upton?” asked Glencore, with a weakly smile. +</p> +<p> +“Can you ask the question? Have you not seen the evening papers, read the +announcement on my door, seen the troops of inquirers in the streets?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes,” sighed he, wearily, “I have heard and seen all you say; and yet I +bethought me of a remark I once heard from the Duke of Orleans: 'Monsieur +Upton is a most active minister when his health permits; and when it does +not, he is the most mischievous intriguant in Europe.'” + </p> +<p> +“He was always straining at an antithesis; he fancied he could talk like +St. Simon, and it really spoiled a very pleasant converser.” + </p> +<p> +“And so you have been very ill?” said Glencore, slowly, and as though he +had not heeded the last remark; “so have I also!” + </p> +<p> +“You seem to me too feeble to be about, Glencore,” said Upton, kindly. +</p> +<p> +“I am so, if it were of any consequence,—I mean, if my life could +interest or benefit any one. My head, however, will bear solitude no +longer; I must have some one to talk to. I mean to travel; I will leave +this in a day or so.” + </p> +<p> +“Come along with me, then; my plan is to make for Brussels, but it must +not be spoken of, as I want to watch events there before I remove farther +from England.” + </p> +<p> +“So it is all true, then,—you have resigned?” said Glencore. +</p> +<p> +“Perfectly true.” + </p> +<p> +“What a strange step to take! I remember, more than twenty years ago, your +telling me that you'd rather be Foreign Secretary of England than the +monarch of any third-rate Continental kingdom.” + </p> +<p> +“I thought so then, and, what is more singular, I think so still.” + </p> +<p> +“And you throw it up at the very moment people are proclaiming your +success!” + </p> +<p> +“You shall hear all my reasons, Glencore, for this resolution, and will, I +feel assured, approve of them; but they 'd only weary you now.” + </p> +<p> +“Let me know them now, Upton; it is such a relief to me when, even by a +momentary interest in anything, I am able to withdraw this poor tired +brain from its own distressing thoughts.” He spoke these words not only +with strong feeling, but even imparted to them a tone of entreaty, so that +Upton could not but comply. +</p> +<p> +“When I wished for the Secretaryship, my dear Glencore,” said he, “I +fancied the office as it used to be in olden times, when one played the +great game of diplomacy with kings and ministers for antagonists, and the +world at large for spectators; when consummate skill and perfect secrecy +were objects of moment, and when grand combinations rewarded one's labor +with all the certainty of a mathematical problem. Every move on the board +could be calculated beforehand, no disturbing influences could derange +plans that never were divulged till they were accomplished. All that is +past and gone; our Constitution, grown every day more and more democratic, +rules by the House of Commons. Questions whose treatment demands all the +skill of a statesman and all the address of a man of the world come to be +discussed in open Parliament; correspondence is called for, despatches and +even private notes are produced; and while the State you are opposed to +revels in the security of secrecy, <i>your</i> whole game is revealed to +the world in the shape of a blue-book. +</p> +<p> +“Nor is this all: the debaters on these nice and intricate questions, +involving the most far-reaching speculation of statesmanship, are men of +trade and enterprise, who view every international difficulty only in its +relation to their peculiar interests. National greatness, honor, and +security are nothing,—the maintenance of that equipoise which +preserves peace is nothing,—the nice management which, by the +exhibition of courtesy here, or of force there, is nothing compared to +alliances that secure us ample supplies of raw material, and abundant +markets for manufactures. Diplomacy has come to this!” + </p> +<p> +“But you must have known all this before you accepted office; you had seen +where the course of events led to, and were aware that the House ruled the +country.” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps I did not recognize the fact to its full extent. Perhaps I +fancied I could succeed in modifying the system,” said Upton, cautiously. +</p> +<p> +“A hopeless undertaking!” said Glencore. +</p> +<p> +“I'm not quite so certain of that,” said Upton, pausing for a while as he +seemed to reflect. When he resumed, it was in a lighter and more flippant +tone: “To make short of it, I saw that I could not keep office on these +conditions, but I did not choose to go out as a beaten man. For my pride's +sake I desired that my reasons should be reserved for myself alone; for my +actual benefit it was necessary that I should have a hold over my +colleagues in office. These two conditions were rather difficult to +combine, but I accomplished them. +</p> +<p> +“I had interested the King so much in my views as to what the Foreign +Office ought to be that an interchange of letters took place, and his +Majesty imparted to me his fullest confidence in disparagement of the +present system. This correspondence was a perfect secret to the whole +Cabinet; but when it had arrived at a most confidential crisis, I +suggested to the King that Cloudeslie should be consulted. I knew well +that this would set the match to the train. No sooner did Cloudeslie learn +that such a correspondence had been carried on for months without his +knowledge, views stated, plans promulgated, and the King's pleasure taken +on questions not one of which should have been broached without his +approval and concurrence, than he declared he would not hold the seals of +office another hour. The King, well knowing his temper, and aware what a +terrific exposure might come of it, sent for me, and asked what was to be +done. I immediately suggested my own resignation as a sacrifice to the +difficulty and to the wounded feelings of the Duke. Thus did I achieve +what I sought for. I imposed a heavy obligation on the King and the +Premier, and I have secured secrecy as to my motives, which none will ever +betray. +</p> +<p> +“I only remained for the debate of the other night, for I wanted a little +public enthusiasm to mark the fall of the curtain.” + </p> +<p> +“So that you still hold them as your debtors?” asked Glencore. +</p> +<p> +“Without doubt, I do; my claim is a heavy one.” + </p> +<p> +“And what would satisfy it?” + </p> +<p> +“If my health would stand England,” said Upton, leisurely, “I'd take a +peerage; but as this murky atmosphere would suffocate me, and as I don't +care for the latter without the political privileges, I have determined to +have the 'Garter.'” + </p> +<p> +“The Garter! a blue ribbon!” exclaimed Glencore, as though the +insufferable coolness with which the pretension was announced might +justify any show of astonishment. +</p> +<p> +“Yes; I had some thoughts of India, but the journey deters me,—in +fact, as I have enough to live on, I 'd rather devote the remainder of my +days to rest, and the care of this shattered constitution.” It is +impossible to convey to the reader the tender and affectionate compassion +with which Sir Horace seemed to address these last words to himself. +</p> +<p> +“Do you ever look upon yourself as the luckiest fellow in Europe, Upton?” + asked Glencore. +</p> +<p> +“No,” sighed he; “I occasionally fancy I have been hardly dealt with by +fortune. I have only to throw my eyes around me, and see a score of men, +richer and more elevated than myself, not one of whom has capacity for +even a third-rate task, so that really the self-congratulation you speak +of has not occurred to me.” + </p> +<p> +“But, after all, you have had a most successful career—” + </p> +<p> +“Look at the matter this way, Glencore; there are about six—say six +men in all Europe—who have a little more common sense than all the +rest of the world: I could tell you the names of five of them.” If there +was a supreme boastfulness in the speech, the modest delivery of it +completely mystified the hearer, and he sat gazing with wonderment at the +man before him. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0045" id="link2HCH0045"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XLV. SOME SAD REVERIES +</h2> +<p> +“Have you any plans, Glencore?” asked Upton, as they posted along towards +Dover. +</p> +<p> +“None,” was the brief reply. +</p> +<p> +“Nor any destination you desire to reach?” + </p> +<p> +“Just as little.” + </p> +<p> +“Such a state as yours, then, I take it, is about the best thing going in +life. Every move one makes is attended with so many adverse +considerations,—every goal so separated from us by unforeseen +difficulties,—that an existence, even without what is called an +object, has certain great advantages.” + </p> +<p> +“I am curious to hear them,” said the other, half cynically. +</p> +<p> +“For myself,” said Upton, not accepting the challenge, “the brief +intervals of comparative happiness I have enjoyed have been in periods +when complete repose, almost torpor, has surrounded me, and when the mere +existence of the day has engaged my thoughts.” + </p> +<p> +“What became of memory all this while?” + </p> +<p> +“Memory!” said Upton, laughing, “I hold my memory in proper subjection. It +no more dares obtrude upon me uncalled for than would my valet come into +my room till I ring for him. Of the slavery men endure from their own +faculties I have no experience.” + </p> +<p> +“And, of course, no sympathy for them.” + </p> +<p> +“I will not say that I cannot compassionate sufferings, though I have not +felt them.” + </p> +<p> +“Are you quite sure of that?” asked Glencore, almost sternly; “is not your +very pity a kind of contemptuous sentiment towards those who sorrow +without reason,—the strong man's estimate of the weak man's +sufferings? Believe me, there is no true condolence where there is not the +same experience of woe!” + </p> +<p> +“I should be sorry to lay down so narrow a limit to fellow-feeling,” said +Upton. +</p> +<p> +“You told me a few moments back,” said Glencore, “that your memory was +your slave. How, then, can you feel for one like me, whose memory is his +master? How understand a path that never wanders out of the shadow of the +past?” + </p> +<p> +There was such an accent of sorrow impressed upon these words that Upton +did not desire to prolong a discussion so painful; and thus, for the +remainder of the way, little was interchanged between them. They crossed +the strait by night, and as Upton stole upon deck after dusk, he found +Glencore seated near the wheel, gazing intently at the lights on shore, +from which they were fast receding. +</p> +<p> +“I am taking my last look at England, Upton,” said he, affecting a tone of +easy indifference. +</p> +<p> +“You surely mean to go back again one of these days?” said Upton. +</p> +<p> +“Never, never!” said he, solemnly. “I have made all my arrangements for +the future,—every disposition regarding my property; I have +neglected nothing, so far as I know, of those claims which, in the shape +of relationship, the world has such reverence for; and now I bethink me of +myself. I shall have to consult you, however, about this boy,” said he, +faltering in the words. “The objection I once entertained to his bearing +my name exists no longer; he may call himself Massy, if he will. The +chances are,” added he, in a lower and more feeling voice, “that he +rejects a name that will only remind him of a wrong!” + </p> +<p> +“My dear Glencore,” said Upton, with real tenderness, “do I apprehend you +aright? Are you at last convinced that you have been unjust? Has the +moment come in which your better judgment rises above the evil counsels of +prejudice and passion—” + </p> +<p> +“Do you mean, am I assured of her innocence?” broke in Glencore, wildly. +“Do you imagine, if I were so, that I could withhold my hand from taking a +life so infamous and dishonored as mine? The world would have no parallel +for such a wretch! Mark me, Upton!” cried he, fiercely, “there is no +torture I have yet endured would equal the bare possibility of what you +hint at.” + </p> +<p> +“Good Heavens! Glencore, do not let me suppose that selfishness has so +marred and disfigured your nature that this is true. Bethink you of what +you say. Would it not be the crowning glory of your life to repair a +dreadful wrong, and acknowledge before the world that the fame you had +aspersed was without stain or spot?” + </p> +<p> +“And with what grace should I ask the world to believe me? Is it when +expiating the shame of a falsehood that I should call upon men to accept +me as truthful? Have I not proclaimed her, from one end of Europe to the +other, dishonored? If <i>she</i> be absolved, what becomes of <i>me?</i>” + </p> +<p> +“This is unworthy of you, Glencore,” said Upton, severely; “nor, if +illness and long suffering had not impaired your judgment, had you ever +spoken such words. I say once more, that if the day came that you could +declare to the world that her fame had no other reproach than the +injustice of your own unfounded jealousy, that day would be the best and +the proudest of your life.” + </p> +<p> +“The proud day that published me a calumniator of all that I was most +pledged to defend,—the deliberate liar against the obligation of the +holiest of all contracts! You forget, Upton,—but I do not forget,—that +it was by this very argument you once tried to dissuade me from my act of +vengeance. You told me—ay, in words that still ring in my ears—to +remember that if by any accident or chance her innocence might be proven, +I could never avail myself of the indication without first declaring my +own unworthiness to profit by it; that if the Wife stood forth in all the +pride of purity, the Husband would be a scoff and a shame throughout the +world!” + </p> +<p> +“When I said so,” said Upton, “it was to turn you from a path that could +not but lead to ruin; I endeavored to deter you by an appeal that +interested even your selfishness.” + </p> +<p> +“Your subtlety has outwitted itself, Upton,” said Glencore, with a bitter +irony; “it is not the first instance on record where blank cartridge has +proved fatal!” + </p> +<p> +“One thing is perfectly clear,” said Upton, boldly, “the man who shrinks +from the repair of a wrong he has done, on the consideration of how it +would affect himself and his own interests, shows that he cares more for +the outward show of honor than its real and sustaining power.” + </p> +<p> +“And will you tell me, Upton, that the world's estimate of a man's fame is +not essential to his self-esteem, or that there yet lived one, who would +brave obloquy without, by the force of something within him?” + </p> +<p> +“This I will tell you,” replied Upton, “that he who balances between the +two is scarcely an honest man, and that he who accepts the show for the +substance is not a wise one.” + </p> +<p> +“These are marvellous sentiments to hear from one whose craft has risen to +a proverb, and whose address in life is believed to be not his meanest +gift.” + </p> +<p> +“I accept the irony in all good humor; I go farther, Glencore, I stoop to +explain. When any one in the great and eventful journey of life seeks to +guide himself safely, he has to weigh all the considerations, and +calculate all the combinations adverse to him. The straight road is +rarely, or never, possible; even if events were, which they are not, easy +to read, they must be taken in combination with others, and with their +consequences. The path of action becomes necessarily devious and winding, +and compromises are called for at every step. It is not in the moment of +shipwreck that a man stops to inquire into petty details of the articles +he throws into a long-boat; he is bent on saving himself as best he can. +He seizes what is next to him, if it suit his purpose. Now, were he to act +in this manner in all the quiet security of his life on shore, his conduct +would be highly blamable. No emergency would warrant his taking what +belonged to another,—no critical moment would drive him to the +instinct of self-preservation. Just the same is the interval between +action and reflection. Give me time and forethought, and I will employ +something better and higher than craft. My subtlety, as you like to call +it, is not my best weapon; I only use it in emergency.” + </p> +<p> +“I read the matter differently,” said Glencore, sulkily; “I could, +perhaps, offer another explanation of your practice.” + </p> +<p> +“Pray let me hear it; we are all in confidence here, and I promise you I +will not take badly whatever you say to me.” + </p> +<p> +Glencore sat silent and motionless. +</p> +<p> +“Come, shall I say it for you, Glencore? for I think I know what is +passing in your mind.” + </p> +<p> +The other nodded, and he went on,— +</p> +<p> +“You would tell me, in plain words, that I keep my craft for myself; my +high principle for my friends.” + </p> +<p> +Glencore only smiled, but Upton continued,— +</p> +<p> +“So, then, I have guessed aright; and the very worst you can allege +against this course is, that what I bestow is better than what I retain!” + </p> +<p> +“One of Solomon's proverbs may be better than a shilling; but which would +a hungry man rather have? I want no word-fencing, Upton; still less do I +seek what might sow distrust between us. This much, however, has life +taught me: the great trials of this world are like its great maladies. +Providence has meant them to be fatal. We call in the doctor in the one +case, or the counsellor in the other, out of habit rather than out of +hope. Our own consciousness has already whispered that nothing can be of +use; but we like to do as our neighbors, and so we take remedies and +follow injunctions to the last. The wise man quickly detects by the +character of the means how emergent is the case believed to be, and +rightly judges that recourse to violent measures implies the presence of +great peril. If he be really wise, then he desists at once from what can +only torture his few remaining hours. They can be given to better things +than the agonies of such agency. To this exact point has my case come, and +by the counsels you have given me do I read my danger! Your only remedy is +as bad as the malady it is meant to cure! I cannot take it!” + </p> +<p> +“Accepting your own imagery, I would say,” said Upton, “that you are one +who will not submit to an operation of some pain that he might be cured.” + </p> +<p> +Glencore sat moodily for some moments without speaking; at last he said,— +</p> +<p> +“I feel as though continual change of place and scene would be a relief to +me. Let us rendezvous, therefore, somewhere for the autumn, and meanwhile +I 'll wander about alone.” + </p> +<p> +“What direction do you purpose to take?” + </p> +<p> +“The Schwarzwald and the Hohlenthal, first. I want to revisit a place I +knew in happier days. Memory must surely have something besides sorrows to +render us. I owned a little cottage there once, near Steig. I fished and +read Uhland for a summer long. I wonder if I could resume the same life. I +knew the whole village,—the blacksmith, the schoolmaster, the +Dorfrichter,—all of them. Good, kind souls they were: how they wept +when we parted! Nothing consoled them but my having purchased the cottage, +and promised to come back again!” + </p> +<p> +Upton was glad to accept even this much of interest in the events of life, +and drew Glencore on to talk of the days he had passed in this solitary +region. +</p> +<p> +As in the dreariest landscape a ray of sunlight will reveal some beautiful +effects, making the eddies of the dark pool to glitter, lighting up the +russet moss, and giving to the half-dried lichen a tinge of bright color, +so will, occasionally, memory throw over a life of sorrow a gleam of +happier meaning. Faces and events, forms and accents, that once found the +way to our hearts, come back again, faintly and imperfectly it may be, but +with a touch that revives in us what we once were. It is the one sole +feature in which self-love becomes amiable, when, looking back on our +past, we cherish the thought of a time before the world had made us +sceptical and hard-hearted! +</p> +<p> +Glencore warmed as he told of that tranquil period when poetry gave a +color to his life, and the wild conceptions of genius ran like a thread of +gold through the whole web of existence. He quoted passages that had +struck him for their beauty or their truthfulness; he told how he had +tried to allure his own mind to the tone that vibrated in “the magic music +of verse,” and how the very attempt had inspired him with gentler +thoughts, a softer charity, and a more tender benevolence towards his +fellows. +</p> +<p> +“Tieck is right, Upton, when he says there are two natures in us, distinct +and apart: one, the imaginative and ideal; the other, the actual and the +sensual. Many shake them together and confound them, making of the +incongruous mixture that vile compound of inconsistency where the +beautiful and the true are ever warring with the deformed and the false; +their lives a long struggle with themselves, a perpetual contest between +high hope and base enjoyment. A few keep them apart, retaining, through +their worldliness, some hallowed spot in the heart, where ignoble desires +and mean aspirations have never dared to come. A fewer still have made the +active work of life subordinate to the guiding spirit of purity, +adventuring on no road unsanctioned by high and holy thoughts, caring for +no ambitions but such as make us nobler and better. +</p> +<p> +“I once had a thought of such a life; and even the memory of it, like the +prayers we have learned in our childhood, has a hallowing influence over +after years. If that poor boy, Upton,” and his lips trembled on the words,—“if +that poor boy could have been brought up thus humbly! If he had been +taught to know no more than an existence of such simplicity called for, +what a load of care might it have spared <i>his</i> heart and <i>mine!</i>” + </p> +<p> +“You have read over those letters I gave you about him?” asked Upton, who +eagerly availed himself of the opportunity to approach an almost forbidden +theme. +</p> +<p> +“I have read them over and over,” said Glencore, sadly; “in all the +mention of him I read the faults of my own nature,—a stubborn spirit +of pride that hardens as much as elevates; a resentful temper, too prone +to give way to its own impulses; an over-confidence in himself, too, +always ready to revenge its defeats on the world about him. These are his +defects, and they are mine. Poor fellow, that he should inherit all that I +have of bad, and yet not be heir to the accidents of fortune which make +others so lenient to faults!” + </p> +<p> +If Upton heard these words with much interest, no less was he struck by +the fact that Glencore made no inquiry whatever as to the youth's fate. +The last letter of the packet revealed the story of an eventful duel and +the boy's escape from Massa by night, with his subsequent arrest by the +police; and yet in the face of incidents like these he continued to +speculate on traits of mind and character, nor even adverted to the more +closely touching events of his fate. By many an artful hint and ingenious +device did Sir Horace try to tempt him to some show of curiosity; but all +were fruitless. Glencore would talk freely and willingly of the boy's +disposition and his capacity; he would even speculate on the successes and +failures such a temperament might meet with in life; but still he spoke as +men might speak of a character in a fiction, ingeniously weighing +casualties and discussing chances; never, even by accident, approaching +the actual story of his life, or seeming to attach any interest to his +destiny. +</p> +<p> +Upton's shrewd intelligence quickly told him that this reserve was not +accidental; and he deliberated within himself how far it was safe to +invade it. +</p> +<p> +At length he resumed the attempt by adroitly alluding to the spirited +resistance the boy had made to his capture, and the consequences one might +naturally enough ascribe to a proud and high-hearted youth thus +tyrannically punished. +</p> +<p> +“I have heard something,” said Upton, “of the severities practised at +Kuffstein, and they recall the horrible tales of the Inquisition; the +terrible contrivances to extort confessions,—expedients that often +break down the intellect whose secrets they would discover; so that one +actually shudders at the name of a spot so associated with evil.” + </p> +<p> +Glencore placed his hands over his face, but did not utter a word; and +again Upton went on urging, by every device he could think of, some +indication that might mean interest, if not anxiety, when suddenly he felt +Glencore's hand grasp his arm with violence. +</p> +<p> +“No more of this, Upton,” cried he, sternly; “you do not know the torture +you are giving me.” There was a long and painful pause between them, at +the end of which Glencore spoke, but it was in a voice scarcely above a +whisper, and every accent of which trembled with emotion. “You remember +one sad and memorable night, Upton, in that old castle in Ireland,—the +night when I came to the resolution of this vengeance! I sent for the boy +to my room; we were alone there together, face to face. It was such a +scene as could brook no witness, nor dare I now recall its details as they +occurred. He came in frankly and boldly, as he felt he had a right to do. +How he left that room,—cowed, abashed, and degraded,—I have +yet before me. Our meeting did not exceed many minutes in duration; +neither of us could have endured it longer. Brief as it was, we ratified a +compact between us: it was this,—neither was ever to question or +inquire after the other, as no tie should unite, no interest should bind +us. Had you seen him then, Upton,” cried Glencore, wildly, “the proud +disdain with which he listened to my attempts at excuse, the haughty +distance with which he seemed to reject every thought of complaint, the +stern coldness with which he heard me plan out his future,—you would +have said that some curse had fallen upon my heart, or it could never have +been dead to traits which proclaimed him to be my own. In that moment it +was my lot to be like him who held out his own right hand to be first +burned, ere he gave his body to the flames. +</p> +<p> +“We parted without an embrace; not even a farewell was spoken between us. +While I gloried in his pride, had he but yielded ever so little, had one +syllable of weakness, one tear escaped him, I had given up my project, +reversed all my planned vengeance, and taken him to my heart as my own. +But no! He was resolved on proving by his nature that he was of that stern +race from which, by a falsehood, I was about to exclude him. It was as +though my own blood hurled a proud defiance to me. +</p> +<p> +“As he walked slowly to the door, his glove fell from his hand. I +stealthily caught it up. I wanted to keep it as a memorial of that bitter +hour; but he turned hastily around and plucked it from my hand. The action +was even a rude one; and with a mocking smile, as though he read my +meaning and despised it, he departed. +</p> +<p> +“You now have heard the last secret of my heart in this sad history. Let +us speak of it no more.” And with this, Glencore arose and left the deck. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0046" id="link2HCH0046"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XLVI. THE FLOOD IN THE MAGRA +</h2> +<p> +When it rains in Italy it does so with a passionate ardor that bespeaks an +unusual pleasure. It is no “soft dissolving in tears,” but a perfect +outburst of woe,—wailing in accents the very wildest, and deluging +the land in torrents. Mountain streams that were rivulets in the morning, +before noon arrives are great rivers, swollen and turbid, carrying away +massive rocks from their foundations, and tearing up large trees by the +roots. The dried-up stony bed you have crossed a couple of hours back with +unwetted feet is now the course of a stream that would defy the boldest. +</p> +<p> +These sudden changes are remarkably frequent along that beautiful tract +between Nice and Massa, and which is known as the “Riviera di Levante.” + The rivers, fed from innumerable streams that pour down from the +Apennines, are almost instantaneously swollen; and as their bed +continually slopes towards the sea, the course of the waters is one of +headlong velocity. Of these, the most dangerous by far is the Magra. The +river, which even in dry seasons is a considerable stream, becomes, when +fed by its tributaries, a very formidable body of water, stretching full a +mile in width, and occasionally spreading a vast sheet of foam close to +the very outskirts of Sarzana. The passage of the river is all the more +dangerous at these periods as it approaches the sea, and more than one +instance is recorded where the stout raft, devoted to the use of +travellers, has been carried away to the ocean. +</p> +<p> +Where the great post-road from Genoa to the South passes, a miserable +shealing stands, half hidden in tall osiers, and surrounded with a sedgy, +swampy soil the foot sinks in at every step. This is the shelter of the +boatmen who navigate the raft, and who, in relays by day and night, are in +waiting for the service of travellers. In the dreary days of winter, or in +the drearier nights, it is scarcely possible to imagine a more hopeless +spot; deep in the midst of a low marshy tract, the especial home of +tertian fever, with the wild stream roaring at the very door-sill, and the +thunder of the angry ocean near, it is indeed all that one can picture of +desolation and wretchedness. Nor do the living features of the scene +relieve its gloomy influence. Though strong men, and many of them in the +prime of life, premature age and decay seem to have settled down upon +them. Their lustreless eyes and leaden lips tell of ague, and their sad, +thoughtful faces bespeak those who are often called upon to meet peril, +and who are destined to lives of emergency and hazard. +</p> +<p> +It was in the low and miserable hut we speak of, just as night set in of a +raw November, that four of these raftsmen sat at their smoky fire, in +company with two travellers on foot, whose humble means compelled them to +await the arrival of some one rich enough to hire the raft. Meanly clad +and wayworn were the strangers who now sat endeavoring to dry their +dripping clothes at the blaze, and conversing in a low tone together. If +the elder, dressed in a russet-colored blouse and a broad-leafed hat, his +face almost hid in beard and moustaches, seemed by his short and almost +grotesque figure a travelling showman, the appearance of the younger, +despite all the poverty of his dress, implied a very different class. +</p> +<p> +He was tall and well knit, with a loose activity in all his gestures which +almost invariably characterizes the Englishman; and though his dark hair +and his bronzed cheek gave him something of a foreign look, there was a +calm, cold self-possession in his air that denoted the Anglo-Saxon. He sat +smoking his cigar, his head resting on one hand, and evidently listening +with attention to the words of his companion. The conversation that passed +will save us the trouble of introducing them to our reader, if he have not +already guessed them. +</p> +<p> +“If we don't wait,” said the elder, “till somebody richer and better off +than ourselves comes, we 'll have to pay seven francs for passin' in such +a night as this.” + </p> +<p> +“It is a downright robbery to ask so much,” cried the other, angrily. +“What so great danger is there, or what so great hardship, after all?” + </p> +<p> +“There is both one and the other, I believe,” replied he, in a tone +evidently meant to moderate his passion; “and just look at the poor +craytures that has to do it. They're as weak as a bit of wet paper; they +haven't strength to make themselves heard when they talk out there beside +the river.” + </p> +<p> +“The fellow yonder,” said the youth, “has got good brawny arms and sinewy +legs of his own.” + </p> +<p> +“Ay, and he is starved after all. A cut of rye bread and an onion won't +keep the heart up, nor a jug of red vinegar, though ye call it +grape-juice. On my conscience, I 'm thinkin' that the only people that +preserves their strength upon nothin' is the Irish. I used to carry the +bags over Slieb-na-boregan mountain and the Turk's Causeway on wet +potatoes and buttermilk, and never a day late for eleven years.” + </p> +<p> +“What a life!” cried the youth, in an accent of utter pity. +</p> +<p> +“Faix, it was an elegant life,—that is, when the weather was anyways +good. With a bright sun shinin' and a fine fresh breeze blowin' the white +clouds away over the Atlantic, my road was a right cheery one, and I went +along inventin' stories, sometimes fairy tales, sometimes makin' rhymes to +myself, but always happy and contented. There wasn't a bit of the way I +had n't a name for in my own mind, either some place I read about, or some +scene in a story of my own; but better than all, there was a dog,—a +poor starved lurcher he was,—with a bit of the tail cut off; he used +to meet me, as regular as the clock, on the side of Currah-na-geelah, and +come beside me down to the ford every day in the year. No temptation nor +flattery would bring him a step farther. I spent three-quarters of an hour +once trying it, but to no good; he took leave of me on the bank of the +river, and went away back with his head down, as if he was grievin' over +something. Was n't that mighty curious?” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps, like ourselves, Billy, he wasn't quite sure of his passport,” + said the other, dryly. +</p> +<p> +“Faix, may be so,” replied he, with perfect seriousness. “My notion was +that he was a kind of an outlaw, a chap that maybe bit a child of the +family, or ate a lamb of a flock given him to guard. But indeed his +general appearance and behavior was n't like that; he had good manners, +and, starved as he was, he never snapped the bread out of my fingers, but +took it gently, though his eyes was dartin' out of his head with eagerness +all the while.” + </p> +<p> +“A great test of good breeding, truly,” said the youth, sadly. “It must be +more than a mere varnish when it stands the hard rubs of life in this +wise.” + </p> +<p> +“'Tis the very notion occurred to myself. It was the dhrop of good blood +in him made him what he was.” + </p> +<p> +Stealthy and fleeting as was the look that accompanied these words, the +youth saw it, and blushed to the very top of his forehead. “The night +grows milder,” said he, to relieve the awkwardness of the moment by any +remark. +</p> +<p> +“It's a mighty grand sight out there now,” replied the other; “there's +three miles if there's an inch of white foam dashing down to the sea, that +breaks over the bar with a crash like thunder; big trees are sweepin' +past, and pieces of vine trellises, and a bit of a mill-wheel, all carried +off just like twigs on a stream.” + </p> +<p> +“Would money tempt those fellows, I wonder, to venture out on such a night +as this?” + </p> +<p> +“To be sure; and why not? The daily fight poverty maintains with existence +dulls the sense of every danger but what comes of want. Don't I know it +myself? The poor man has no inimy but hunger; for, ye see, the other +vexations and troubles of life, there's always a way of gettin' round +them. You can chate even grief, and you can slip away from danger; but +there's no circumventin' an empty stomach.” + </p> +<p> +“What a tyrant is then your rich man!” sighed the youth, heavily. +</p> +<p> +“That he is. 'Dives honoratus. Pulcher rex denique regum.' You may do as +you please if ye'r rich as a Begum.” + </p> +<p> +“A free translation, rather, Billy,” said the other, laughing. +</p> +<p> +“Or ye might render it this way,” said Billy,— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“If ye 've money enough and to spare in the bank, +The world will give ye both beauty and rank. +</pre> +<p> +And I 've nothing to say agin it,” continued he. “The raal stimulus to +industhry in life, is to make wealth powerful. Gettin' and heapin' up +money for money's sake is a debasin' kind of thing; but makin' a fortune, +in order that you may extind your influence, and mowld the distinies of +others,—that's grand.” + </p> +<p> +“And see what comes of it!” cried the youth, bitterly. “Mark the base and +unworthy subserviency it leads to; see the race of sycophants it begets.” + </p> +<p> +“I have you there, too,” cried Billy, with all the exultation of a ready +debater. “Them dirty varmint ye speak of is the very test of the truth I +'m tellin' ye. 'T is because they won't labor—because they won't +work—that they are driven to acts of sycophancy and meanness. The +spirit of industhry saves a man even the excuse of doin' anything low!” + </p> +<p> +“And how often, from your own lips, have I listened to praises at your +poor humble condition; rejoicings that your lot in life secured you +against the cares of wealth and grandeur!” + </p> +<p> +“And you will again, plaze God! if <i>I</i> live, and <i>you</i> pre-sarve +your hearin'. What would I be if I was rich, but an ould—an ould +voluptuary?” said Billy, with great emphasis on a word he had some trouble +in discovering. “Atin' myself sick with delicacies, and drinkin' cordials +all day long. How would I know the uses of wealth? Like all other vulgar +creatures, I 'd be buyin' with my money the respect that I ought to be +buyin' with my qualities. It's the very same thing you see in a fair or a +market,—the country girls goin' about, hobbled and crippled with +shoes on, that, if they had bare feet, could walk as straight as a rush. +Poverty is not ungraceful itself. It's tryin' to be what isn't natural, +spoils people entirely.” + </p> +<p> +“I think I hear voices without. Listen!” cried the youth. +</p> +<p> +“It 's only the river; it's risin' every minute.” + </p> +<p> +“No, that was a shout. I heard it distinctly. Ay, the boatmen hear it +now!” + </p> +<p> +“It is a travelling-carriage. I see the lamps,” cried one of the men, as +he stood at the door and looked landward. “They may as well keep the road; +there's no crossing the Magra to-night!” + </p> +<p> +By this time the postilions' whips commenced that chorus of cracking by +which they are accustomed to announce all arrivals of importance. +</p> +<p> +“Tell them to go back, Beppo,” said the chief of the raftsmen to one of +his party. “If we might try to cross with the mail-bags in a boat, there's +not one of us would attempt the passage on the raft.” + </p> +<p> +To judge from the increased noise and uproar, the travellers' impatience +had now reached its highest point; but to this a slight lull succeeded, +probably occasioned by the parley with the boatman. +</p> +<p> +“They'll give us five Napoleons for the job,” said Beppo, entering, and +addressing his Chief. +</p> +<p> +“<i>Per Dio</i>, that won't support our families if we leave them +fatherless,” muttered the other. “Who and what are they that can't wait +till morning?” + </p> +<p> +“Who knows?” said Beppo, with a genuine shrug of native indifference. +“Princes, belike!” + </p> +<p> +“Princes or beggars, we all have lives to save!” mumbled out an old man, +as he reseated himself by the fire. Meanwhile the courier had entered the +hut, and was in earnest negotiation with the chief, who, however, showed +no disposition to run the hazard of the attempt. +</p> +<p> +“Are you all cowards alike?” said the courier, in all the insolence of his +privileged order; “or is it a young fellow of <i>your</i> stamp that +shrinks from the risk of a wet jacket?” + </p> +<p> +This speech was addressed to the youth, whom he had mistaken for one of +the raftsmen. +</p> +<p> +“Keep your coarse speeches for those who will bear them, my good fellow,” + said the other, boldly, “or mayhap the first wet jacket here will be one +with gold lace on the collar.” + </p> +<p> +“He's not one of us; he's a traveller,” quickly interposed the chief, who +saw that an angry scene was brewing. “He's only waiting to cross the +river,” muttered he in a whisper, “when some one comes rich enough to hire +the raft.” + </p> +<p> +“<i>Sacre bleu!</i> Then he shan't come with us; that I'll promise him,” + said the courier, whose offended dignity roused all his ire. “Now, once +for all, my men, will you earn a dozen Napoleons, or not? Here they are +for you if you land us safely at the other side; and never were you so +well paid in your lives for an hour's labor.” + </p> +<p> +The sight of the gold, as it glistened temptingly in his outstretched +hand, appealed to their hearts far more eloquently than all his words, and +they gathered in a group together to hold counsel. +</p> +<p> +“And you, are you also a distinguished stranger?” said the courier, +addressing Billy, who sat warming his hands by the embers of the fire. +</p> +<p> +“Look you, my man,” cried the youth, “all the gold in your master's +leathern bag there can give you no claim to insult those who have offered +you no offence. It is enough that you know that we do not belong to the +raft to suffer us to escape your notice.” + </p> +<p> +“<i>Sacristi!</i>” exclaimed the courier, in a tone of insolent mockery, +“I have travelled the road long enough to learn that one does not need an +introduction before addressing a vagabond.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="linkimage-0004" id="linkimage-0004"> +<!-- IMG --></a> +</p> +<div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> +<img src="images/glen0402.jpg" alt=" 402 " width="100%" /><br /> +</div> +<p> +“Vagabond!” cried the youth, furiously; and he sprang at the other with +the bound of a tiger. The courier quickly parried the blow aimed at him, +and, closely grappled, they both now reeled out of the hut in terrible +conflict. With that terror of the knife that figures in all Italian +quarrels, the boatmen did not dare to interfere, but looked on as, +wrestling with all their might, the combatants struggled, each endeavoring +to push the other towards the stream. Billy, too, restrained by force, +could not come to the rescue, and could only by words, screamed out in all +the wildness of his agony, encourage his companion. “Drop on your knee—catch +him by the legs—throw him back—back into the stream. That's it—that's +it! Good luck to ye!” shouted he, madly, as he fought like a lion with +those about him. Slipping in the slimy soil, they had both now come to +their knees; and after a struggle of some minutes' duration, rolled, +clasped in each other's fierce embrace, down the slope into the river. A +plash, and a cry half smothered, were heard, and all was over. +</p> +<p> +While some threw themselves on the frantic creature, whose agony now +overtopped his reason, and who fought to get free, with the furious rage +of despair, others, seizing lanterns and torches, hurried along the bank +of the torrent to try and rescue the combatants. A sudden winding of the +river at the place gave little hope to the search, and it was all but +certain that the current must already have swept them down far beyond any +chance of succor. Assisted by the servants of the traveller, who speedily +were apprised of the disaster, the search was continued for hours, and +morning at length began to break over the dreary scene, without one ray of +hope. By the gray cold dawn, the yellow flood could be seen for a +considerable distance, and the banks too, over which a gauzy mist was +hanging; but not a living thing was there! The wild torrent swept along +his murky course with a deep monotonous roar. Trunks of trees and leafy +branches rose and sank in the wavy flood, but nothing suggested the +vaguest hope that either had escaped. The traveller's carriage returned to +Spezia, and Billy, now bereft of reason, was conveyed to the same place, +fast tied with cords, to restrain him from a violence that threatened his +own life and that of any near him. +</p> +<p> +In the evening of that day a peasant's car arrived at Spezia, conveying +the almost lifeless courier, who had been found on the river's bank, near +the mouth of the Magra. How he had reached the spot, or what had become of +his antagonist, he knew not. Indeed, the fever which soon set in placed +him beyond the limit of all questioning, and his incoherent cries and +ravings only betrayed the terrible agonies his mind must have passed +through. +</p> +<p> +If this tragic incident, heightened by the actual presence of two of the +actors—one all but dead, the other dying—engaged the entire +interest and sympathy of the little town, the authorities were actively +employed in investigating the event, and ascertaining, so far as they +could, to which side the chief blame inclined. +</p> +<p> +The raftsmen had all been arrested, and were examined carefully, one by +one; and now it only remained to obtain from the traveller himself +whatever information he could contribute to throw light on the affair. +</p> +<p> +His passport, showing that he was an English peer, obtained for him all +the deference and respect foreign officials are accustomed to render to +that title, and the Prefect announced that if it suited his convenience, +he would wait on his Lordship at his hotel to receive his deposition. +</p> +<p> +“I have nothing to depose, no information to give,” was the dry and not +over-courteous response; but as the visit, it was intimated, was +indispensable, he named his hour to admit him. +</p> +<p> +The bland and polite tone of the Prefect was met by a manner of cold but +well-bred ease which seemed to imply that the traveller only regarded the +incident in the light of an unpleasant interruption to his journey, but in +which he took no other interest. Even the hints thrown out that he ought +to consider himself aggrieved and his dignity insulted, produced no effect +upon him. +</p> +<p> +“It was my intention to have halted a few days at Massa, and I could have +obtained another courier in the interval,” was the cool commentary he +bestowed on the incident. +</p> +<p> +“But your Lordship would surely desire investigation. A man is missing; a +great crime may have been committed—” + </p> +<p> +“Excuse my interrupting; but as I am not, nor can be supposed to be, the +criminal,—nor do I feel myself the victim,—while I have not a +claim to the character of witness, you would only harass me with +interrogatories I could not answer, and excite me to take interest, or at +least bestow attention, on what cannot concern me.” + </p> +<p> +“Yet there are circumstances in this case which give it the character of a +preconcerted plan,” said the Prefect, thoughtfully. +</p> +<p> +“Perhaps so,” said the other, in a tone of utter indifference. +</p> +<p> +“Certainly, the companion of the man who is missing, and of whom no clew +can be discovered, is reported to have uttered your name repeatedly in his +ravings.” + </p> +<p> +“My name,—how so?” cried the stranger, hurriedly. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, my Lord, the name of your passport,—Lord Glen-core. Two of +those I have placed to watch beside his bed have repeated the same story, +and told how he has never ceased to mutter the name to himself in his +wanderings.” + </p> +<p> +“Is this a mere fancy?” said the stranger, over whose sickly features a +flush now mantled. “Can I see him?” + </p> +<p> +“Of course. He is in the hospital, and too ill to be removed; but if you +will visit him there, I will accompany you.” + </p> +<p> +It was only when a call was made upon Lord Glencore for some bodily +exertion that his extreme debility became apparent. Seated at ease in a +chair, his manner seemed merely that of natural coolness and apathy; he +spoke as one who would not suffer his nature to be ruffled by any +avoidable annoyance; but now, as he arose from his seat, and endeavored to +walk, one side betrayed unmistakable signs of palsy, and his general frame +exhibited the last stage of weakness. +</p> +<p> +“You see, sir, that the exertion costs its price,” said he, with a sad, +sickly smile. “I am the wreck of what once was a man noted for his +strength.” + </p> +<p> +The other muttered some words of comfort and compassion, and they +descended the stairs together. +</p> +<p> +“I do not know this man,” said Lord Glencore, as he gazed on the flushed +and fevered face of the sick man, whose ill-trimmed and shaggy beard gave +additional wild-ness to his look; “I have never, to my knowledge, seen him +before.” + </p> +<p> +The accents of the speaker appeared to have suddenly struck some chord in +the sufferer's intelligence, for he struggled for an instant, and then, +raising himself on his elbow, stared fixedly at him. “Not know me?” cried +he, in English; “'t is because sorrow and sickness has changed me, then.” + </p> +<p> +“Who are you? Tell me your name?” said Glencore, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“I'm Billy Traynor, my Lord, the one you remember, the doctor—” + </p> +<p> +“And my boy!” screamed Glencore, wildly. +</p> +<p> +The sick man threw up both his arms in the air, and fell backward with a +cry of despair; while Glencore, tottering for an instant, sank with a low +groan, and fell senseless on the ground. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0047" id="link2HCH0047"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XLVII. A FRAGMENT OF A LETTER +</h2> +<p> +Long before Lord Glencore had begun to rally from an attack which had +revived all the symptoms of his former illness, Billy Traynor had +perfectly recovered, and was assiduously occupied in attending him. Almost +the first tidings which Glencore could comprehend assured him that the boy +was safe, and living at Massa under the protection of the Chevalier +Stubber, and waiting eagerly for Billy to join him. A brief extract from +one of the youth's letters to his warm-hearted follower will suffice to +show how he himself regarded the incident which befell, and the fortune +that lay before him. +</p> +<p> +It was a long swim, of a dark night too, Master Billy; and whenever the +arm of a tree would jostle me, as it floated past, I felt as though that +“blessed” courier was again upon me, and turned to give fight at once. If +it were not that the river took a sudden bend as it nears the sea, I must +infallibly have been carried out; but I found myself quite suddenly in +slack water, and very soon after it shallowed so much that I could walk +ashore. The thought of what became of my adversary weighed more heavily on +me when I touched land; indeed, while my own chances of escape were few, I +took his fate easily enough. With all its dangers, it was a glorious time, +as, hurrying downward in the torrent, through the dark night, the thunder +growling overhead, the breakers battering away on the bar, I was the only +living thing there to confront that peril! What an emblem of my own fate +in everything! A headlong course, an unknown ending, darkness—utter +and day less darkness—around me, and not one single soul to say, +“Courage!” There is something splendidly exciting in the notion of having +felt thoughts that others have never felt,—of having set footsteps +in that un tracked sand where no traveller has ever ventured. This +impression never left me as I buffeted the murky waves, and struck out +boldly through the surfy stream. Nay, more, it will never leave me while I +live. I have now proved myself to my own heart! I have been, and for a +considerable time too, face to face with death. I have regarded my fate as +certain, and yet have I not quailed in spirit or flinched in coolness. No, +Billy; I reviewed every step of my strange and wayward life. I bethought +me of my childhood, with all its ambitious longings, and my boyish days as +sorrow first broke upon me, and I felt that there was a fitness in this +darksome and mysterious ending to a life that touched on no other +existence. For am I not as much alone in the great world as when I swam +there in the yellow flood of the Magra? +</p> +<p> +As the booming breakers of the sea met my ear, and I saw that I was +nearing the wide ocean, I felt as might a soldier when charging an enemy's +battery at speed. I was wildly mad with impatience to get forward, and +shouted till my voice rang out above the din around me. How the mad cheer +echoed in my own heart! It was the trumpet-call of victory. +</p> +<p> +Was it reaction from all this excitement—the depression that follows +past danger—that made me feel low and miserable afterwards? I know I +walked along towards Lavenza in listlessness, and when a gendarme stopped +to question me, and asked for my passport, I had not even energy to tell +him how I came there. Even the intense desire to see that spot once more,—to +walk that garden and sit upon that terrace,—all had left me; it was +as though the waves had drowned the spirit, and left the limbs to move +unguided. He led me beside the walls of the villa, by the little wicket +itself, and still I felt no touch of feeling, no memory came back on me; I +was indifferent to all! and yet <i>you</i> know how many a weary mile I +have come just to see them once more,—to revisit a spot where the +only day-dream of my life lingered, and where I gave way to the promptings +of a hope that have not often warmed this sad heart. +</p> +<p> +What a sluggish swamp has this nature of mine become, when it needs a +hurricane of passion to stir it! Here I am, living, breathing, walking, +and sleeping, but without one sentiment that attaches me to existence; and +yet do I feel as though whatever endangered life, or jeoparded fame would +call me up to an effort and make me of some value to myself. +</p> +<p> +I went yesterday to see my old studio: sorry things were those strivings +of mine,—false endeavors to realize conceptions that must have some +other interpreter than marble. Forms are but weak appeals, words are +coarse ones; music alone, my dear friend, is the true voice of the heart's +meanings. +</p> +<p> +How a little melody that a peasant girl was singing last night touched me! +It was one that <i>she</i> used to warble, humming as we walked, like some +stray waif thrown up by memory on the waste of life. +</p> +<p> +So then, at last, I feel I am not a sculptor; still as little, with all +your teaching, am I a scholar. The world of active life offers to me none +of its seductions; I only recognize what there is in it of vulgar +contention and low rivalry. I cannot be any of the hundred things by which +men eke out subsistence, and yet I long for the independence of being the +arbiter of my own daily life. What is to become of me? Say, dearest, best +of friends,—say but the word, and let me try to obey you. What of +our old plans of 'savagery'? The fascinations of civilized habits have +made no stronger hold upon me since we relinquished that grand idea. +Neither you nor I assuredly have any places assigned us at the feast of +this old-world life; none have bidden us to it, nor have we even the +fitting garments to grace it! +</p> +<p> +There are moments, however,—one of them is on me while I write,—wherein +I should like to storm that strong citadel of social exclusion, and test +its strength. Who are they who garrison it? Are they better, and wiser, +and purer than their fellows? Are they lifted by the accidents of fortune +above the casualties and infirmities of nature? and are they more +gentle-minded, more kindly-hearted, and more forgiving than others? This I +should wish to know and learn for myself. Would they admit us, for the +nonce, to see and judge them? let the Bastard and the Beggar sit down at +their board, and make brotherhood with them? I trow not, Billy. They would +hand us over to the police! +</p> +<p> +And my friend the courier was not so far astray when he called us +vagabonds! +</p> +<p> +If I were free, I should, of course, be with you; but I am under a kind of +mild bondage here, of which I don't clearly comprehend the meaning. The +chief minister has taken me, in some fashion, under his protection, and I +am given to understand that no ill is intended me; and, indeed, so far as +treatment and moderate liberty are concerned, I have every reason to be +satisfied. Still is there something deeply wounding in all this mysterious +“consideration.” It whispers to me of an interest in me on the part of +those who are ashamed to avow it,—of kind feelings held in check by +self-esteem. Good Heavens! what have <i>I</i> done, that this humiliation +should be my portion? There is no need of any subtlety to teach me what I +am, and what the world insists I must remain. There is no ambition I dare +to strive for, no affection my heart may cherish, no honorable contest I +may engage in, but that the utterance of one fatal word may not bar the +gate against my entrance, and send me back in shame and confusion. Had I +of myself incurred this penalty, there would be in me that stubborn sense +of resistance that occurs to every one who counts the gain and loss of all +his actions; but I have not done so! In the work of my own degradation I +am blameless! +</p> +<p> +I have just been told that a certain Princess de Sabloukoff is to arrive +here this evening, and that I am to wait upon her immediately. Good +Heavens! can she be—? The thought has just struck me, and my head is +already wandering at the bare notion of it! How I pray that this may not +be so; my own shame is enough, and more than I can bear; but to witness +that of—I Can you tell me nothing of this? But even if you can, the +tidings will come too late; I shall have already seen her. +</p> +<p> +I am unable to write more now; my brain is burning, and my hand trembles +so that I cannot trace the letters. Adieu till this evening. +</p> +<p> +Midnight. +</p> +<p> +I was all in error, dear friend. I have seen her; for the last two hours +we have conversed together, and my suspicion had no foundation. She +evidently knows all my history, and almost gives me to believe that one +day or other I may stand free of this terrible shame that oppresses me. If +this were possible, what vengeance would be enough to wreak on those who +have thus practised on me? Can you imagine any vendetta that would pay off +the heart-corroding misery that has made my youth like a sorrowful old +age, dried up hope within me, made my ambition to be a snare, and my love +a mere mockery? I could spend a life in the search after this revenge, and +think it all too short to exhaust it! +</p> +<p> +I have much to tell you of this Princess, but I doubt if I can remember +it. Her manner meant so much, and yet so little; there was such elegance +of expression with such perfect ease,—so much of the <i>finest</i> +knowledge of life united to a kind of hopeful trust in mankind, that I +kept eternally balancing in my mind whether her intelligence or her +kindliness had the supremacy. She spoke to me much of the Harleys. Ida was +well, and at Florence. She had refused Wahnsdorf's offer of marriage, and +though ardently solicited to let time test her decision, persisted in her +rejection. +</p> +<p> +Whether she knew of my affection or not, I cannot say; but I opine not, +for she talked of Ida as one whose haughty nature would decline alliance +with even an imperial house if they deemed it a condescension; so that the +refusal of Wahnsdorf may have been on this ground. But how can it matter +to <i>me?</i> +</p> +<p> +I am to remain here a week, I think they said. Sir Horace Upton is coming +on his way south, and wishes to see me; but you will be with me ere that +time, and then we can plan our future together. As this web of intrigue—for +so I cannot but feel it—draws more closely around me, I grow more +and more impatient to break bounds and be away! It is evident enough that +<i>my</i> destiny is to be the sport of some accident, lucky or unlucky, +in the fate of others. Shall I await this? +</p> +<p> +And they have given me money, and fine clothes, and a servant to wait upon +me, and treated me like one of condition. Is this but another act of the +drama, the first scene of which was an old ruined castle in Ireland? They +will fail signally if they think so; a heart can be broken only once! They +may even feel sorry for what they have done, but I can never forgive them +for what they have made me! Come to me, dear, kind friend, as soon as you +can; you little know how far your presence reconciles me to the world and +to yourself!—Ever yours, +</p> +<p> +C. M. +</p> +<p> +This letter Billy Traynor read over and over as he sat by Glencore's +bedside. It was his companion in the long, dreary hours of the night, and +he pondered over it as he sat in the darkened room at noonday. +</p> +<p> +“What is that you are crumpling up there? From whom is the letter?” said +Lord Glencore, as Billy hurriedly endeavored to conceal the oft-perused +epistle. “Nay,” cried he, suddenly correcting himself, “you need not tell +me; I asked without forethought.” He paused a few seconds, and then went +on: “I am now as much recovered as I ever hope to be, and you may leave me +to-morrow. I know that both your wish and your duty call you elsewhere. +Whatever future fortune may betide any of us, you at least have been a +true and faithful friend, and shall never want! As I count upon your +honesty to keep a pledge, I reckon on your delicacy not asking the reasons +for it. You will, therefore, not speak of having been with me here. To +mention me would be but to bring up bitter memories.” + </p> +<p> +In the pause which now ensued, Billy Traynor's feelings underwent a sore +trial; for while he bethought him that now or never had come the moment to +reconcile the father and the son, thus mysteriously separated, his fears +also whispered the danger of any ill-advised step on his part, and the +injury he might by possibility inflict on one he loved best on earth. +</p> +<p> +“You make me this pledge, therefore, before we part,” said Lord Glencore, +who continued to ruminate on what he had spoken. “It is less for <i>my</i> +sake than that of another.” Billy took the hand Glencore tendered towards +him respectfully in his own, and kissed it twice. +</p> +<p> +“There are men who have no need of oaths to ratify their faith and +trustfulness. You are one of them, Tray-nor,” said Glencore, +affectionately. +</p> +<p> +Billy tried to speak, but his heart was too full, and he could not utter a +word. +</p> +<p> +“A dying man's words have ever their solemn weight,” said Glencore, “and +mine beseech you not to desert one who has no prize in life equal to your +friendship. Promise me nothing, but do not forget my prayer to you.” And +with this, Lord Glencore turned away, and buried his face between his +hands. +</p> +<p> +“And in the name of Heaven,” muttered Billy to himself as he stole away, +“what is it that keeps them apart and won't let them love one another? +Sure it wasn't in nature that a boy of his years could ever do what would +separate them this way. What could he possibly say or do that his father +might n't forget and forgive by this time? And then if it was n't the +child's fault at all, where's the justice in makin' him pay for another's +crime? Sure enough, great people must be unlike poor craytures like me, in +their hearts and feelin's as well as in their grandeur; and there must be +things that <i>we</i> never mind nor think of, that are thought to be +mortial injuries by <i>them</i>. Ay, and that is raysonable too! We see +the same in the matayrial world. There's fevers that some never takes; and +there's climates some can live in, and no others can bear! +</p> +<p> +“I suppose, now,” said he, with a wise shake of the head, “pride—pride +is at the root of it all, some way or other; and if it is, I may give up +the investigation at onst, for divil a one o' me knows what pride is,—barrin' +it's the delight one feels in consthruin' a hard bit in a Greek chorus, or +hittin' the manin' of a doubtful passage in ould Æschylus. But what's the +good o' me puzzlin' myself? If I was to speculate for fifty years, I 'd +never be able to think like a lord, after all!” And with this conclusion +he began to prepare for his journey. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0048" id="link2HCH0048"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XLVIII. HOW A SOVEREIGN TREATS WITH HIS MINISTER +</h2> +<p> +“What can have brought them here, Stubber?” said the Duke of Massa, as he +walked to and fro in his dressing-room, with an air of considerable +perturbation. “Be assured of one thing, they have come for mischief! I +know that Sabloukoff well. <i>She</i> it was separated Prince Max from my +sister, and that Montenegro affair was all <i>her</i> doing also.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't suspect—” + </p> +<p> +“Don't you? Well, then, <i>I</i> do, sir; and that's enough,” said he, +interrupting. “And as to Upton, he's well known throughout Europe,—a +'mauvais coucheur,' Stubber; that's what the Emperor Franz called him,—a +'mauvais coucheur,' one of those fellows England employs to get up the +embarrassments she so deeply deplores. Eh, Stubber, that's the phrase: +'While we deeply deplore the condition of the kingdom,'—that's +always the exordium to sending out a fleet or an impertinent despatch. But +I'll not endure it here. I have my sovereign rights, my independence, my +allies. By the way, haven't my allies taken possession of the Opera House +for a barrack?” + </p> +<p> +“That they have, sir; and they threaten an encampment in the Court +gardens.” + </p> +<p> +“An open insult, an outrage! And have <i>you</i> endured and submitted to +this?” + </p> +<p> +“I have refused the permission; but they may very possibly take no heed of +my protest.” + </p> +<p> +“And you 'll tell me that I am the ruler of this state?” + </p> +<p> +“No, but I 'll say you might, if you liked to be so.” + </p> +<p> +“How so, Stubber? Come, my worthy fellow, what's your plan? You have a +plan, I'm certain—but I guess it: turn Protestant, hunt out the +Jesuits, close the churches, demolish the monasteries, and send for an +English frigate down to the Marina, where there's not water to float a +fishing-boat. But no, sir, I 'll have no such alliances; I 'll throw +myself upon the loyalty and attachment of my people, and—I'll raise +the taxes. Eh, Stubber? We'll tax the 'colza' and the quarries! If they +demur, we 'll abdicate; that's my last word,—abdicate.” + </p> +<p> +“I wonder who this sick man can be that accompanies Upton,” said Stubber, +who never suffered himself to be moved by his master's violence. +</p> +<p> +“Another firebrand,—another emissary of English disturbance. +Hardenberg was perfectly right when he said the English nation pays off +the meanest subserviency to their own aristocracy by hunting down all that +is noble in every state of Europe. There, sir, he hit the mark in the very +centre. Slaves at home, rebels abroad,—that's your code!” + </p> +<p> +“We contrive to mix up a fair share of liberty with our bondage, sir.” + </p> +<p> +“In your talk,—only in your talk; and in the newspapers, Stubber. I +have studied you closely and attentively. You submit to more social +indignities than any nation, ancient or modern. I was in London in '15, +and I remember, at a race-course,—Ascot, they called it,—the +Prince had a certain horse called Rufus.” + </p> +<p> +“I rode him,” said Stubber, dryly. +</p> +<p> +“<i>You</i> rode him?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, sir. I was his jock for the King's Plate. There was a matter of +twenty-eight started,—the largest field ever known for the Cup,—and +Rufus reared, and, falling back, killed his rider; and the Duke of +Dunrobin sent for me, and told me to mount. That's the way I came to be +there.” + </p> +<p> +“<i>Per Bacco!</i> it was a splendid race, and I'm sure I never suspected +when I cheered you coming in, that I was welcoming my future minister. Eh, +Stubber, only fancy what a change!” + </p> +<p> +Stubber only shrugged his shoulders, as though the alteration in fortune +was no such great prize after all. +</p> +<p> +“I won two thousand guineas on that day, Stubber. Lord Heddleworth paid me +in gold, I remember; for they picked my pocket of three rouleaux on the +course. The Prince laughed so at dinner about it, and said it was pure +patriotism not to suffer exportation of bullion. A great people the +English, that I must say! The display of wealth was the grandest spectacle +I ever beheld; and such beauty too! By the way, Stubber, our ballet here +is detestable. Where did they gather together that gang of horrors?” + </p> +<p> +“What? signifies it, sir, if the Austrian Jagers are bivouacked in the +theatre?” + </p> +<p> +“Very true, by Jove!” said the Duke, pondering. “Can't we hit upon +something,—have you no happy suggestion? I have it, Stubber,—an +admirable thought. We 'll have Upton to dinner. We 'll make it appear that +he has come here specially to treat with us. There is a great coldness +just now between St. James's and Vienna. Upton will be charmed with the +thought of an intrigue; so will be La Sabloukoff. We 'll not invite the +Field-Marshal Rosen-krantz: that will itself offend Austria. Eh, Stubber, +is n't it good? Say to-morrow at six, and go yourself with the +invitation.” + </p> +<p> +And, overjoyed with the notion of his own subtlety, the Prince walked up +and down, laughing heartily, and rubbing his hands in glee. +</p> +<p> +Stubber, however, was too well versed in the changeability of his master's +nature to exhibit any rash promptitude in obeying him. +</p> +<p> +“You must manage to let the English papers speak of this, Stubber. The +'Augsburg Gazette' will be sure to copy the paragraph, and what a +sensation it will create at Vienna!” + </p> +<p> +“I am inclined to think Upton has come here about that young fellow we +gave up to the Austrians last autumn, and for whom he desires to claim +some compensation and an ample apology.” + </p> +<p> +“Apology, of course, Stubber,—humiliation to any extent. I'll send +the Minister Landelli into exile,—to the galleys, if they insist; +but I 'll not pay a scudo,—my royal word on it! But who says that +such is the reason of his presence here?” + </p> +<p> +“I had a hint of it last night, and I received a polite note from Upton +this morning, asking when he might have a few moments' conversation with +me.” + </p> +<p> +“Go to him, Stubber, with our invitation. Ask him if he likes shooting. +Say I am going to Serravezza on Saturday; sound him if he desires to have +the Red Cross of Massa; hint that I am an ardent admirer of his public +career; and be sure to tell me something he has said or done, if he come +to dinner.” + </p> +<p> +“There is to be a dinner, then, sir?” asked Stubber, with the air of one +partly struggling with a conviction. +</p> +<p> +“I have said so, Chevalier!” replied the Prince, haughtily, and in the +tone of a man whose decisions were irrevocable. “I mean to dine in the +state apartments, and to have a reception in the evening, just to show +Rosenkrantz how cheaply we hold him. Eh, Stubber? It will half kill him to +come with the general company!” + </p> +<p> +Stubber gave a faint sigh, as though fresh complications and more troubles +would be the sole results of this brilliant tactique. +</p> +<p> +“If I were well served and faithfully obeyed, there is not a sovereign in +Europe who would boast a more independent position,—protected by my +bold people, environed by my native Apennines, and sustained by the proud +consciousness—the proud consciousness—-that I cannot injure a +state which has not sixpence in the treasury! Eh, Stubber?” cried he, with +a burst of merry laughter. “That's the grand feature of composure and +dignity, to know you can't be worse! and this, we Italian princes can all +indulge in. Look at the Pope himself, he is collecting the imposts a year +in advance!” + </p> +<p> +“I hope that this country is more equitably administered,” said Stubber. +</p> +<p> +“So do I, sir. Were I not impressed with the full conviction that the +subjects of this realm were in the very fullest enjoyment of every liberty +consistent with public tranquillity, protected in the maintenance of every +privilege—By the way, talking of privileges, they must n't play +'Trottolo' on the high roads; they sent one of those cursed wheels flying +between the legs of my horse yesterday, so that if I had n't been an old +cavalry soldier, I must have been thrown! I ordered the whole village to +be fined three hundred scudi, one half of which to be sent to the shrine +of our Lady of Loretta, who really, I believe, kept me in my saddle!” + </p> +<p> +“If the people had sufficient occupation, they 'd not play 'Trottolo,'” + said Stubber, sternly. +</p> +<p> +“And whose the fault if they have not, sir? How many months have I been +entreating to have those terraced gardens finished towards the sea? I want +that olive wood, too, all stubbed up, and the ground laid out in handsome +parterres. How repeatedly have I asked for a bridge over that ornamental +lake; and as to the island, there's not a magnolia planted in it yet. +Public works, indeed; find me the money, Stubber, and I 'll suggest the +works. Then, there 's that villa, the residence of those English people,—have +we not made a purchase of it?” + </p> +<p> +“No, your Highness; we could not agree about the terms, and I have just +heard that the stranger who is travelling with Upton is going to buy it.” + </p> +<p> +“Stepping in between me and an object I have in view! And in my own Duchy, +too! And you have the hardihood to tell me that you knew of and permitted +this negotiation to go on?” + </p> +<p> +“There is nothing in the law to prevent it, sir.” + </p> +<p> +“The law! What impertinence to tell me of the law I Why, sir, it is I am +the law,—I am the head and fountain of all law here; without my +sanction, what can presume to be legal?” + </p> +<p> +“I opine that the Act which admits foreigners to possess property in the +state was passed in the life of your Highness's father.” + </p> +<p> +“I repeal it, then! It saps the nationality of a people; it is a blow +aimed at the very heart of independent sovereignty. I may stand alone in +all Europe on this point, but I will maintain it. And as to this stranger, +let his passport be sent to him on the spot.” + </p> +<p> +“He may possibly be an Englishman, your Highness: and remember that we +have already a troublesome affair on our hands with that other youth, who +in some way claims Upton's protection. Had we not better go more +cautiously to work? I can see and speak with him.” + </p> +<p> +“What a tyranny is this English interference! There is not a land, from +Sweden to Sicily, where, on some assumed ground of humanity, your +Government have not dared to impose their opinions! You presume to assert +that all men must feel precisely like your dogged and hard-headed +countrymen, and that what are deemed grievances in your land should be +thought so elsewhere. You write up a code for the whole world, built out +of the materials of all your national prejudices, your insular conceit,—ay, +and out of the very exigencies of your bad climate; and then you say to +us, blessed in the enjoyment of light hearts and God's sunshine, that we +must think and feel as you do! I am not astonished that my nobles are +discontented with the share you possess of my confidence; they must long +have seen how little suited the maxims of your national policy are to the +habits of a happier population!” + </p> +<p> +“The people are far better than their nobles,—that I 'm sure of,” + said Stubber, stoutly. +</p> +<p> +“You want to preach socialism to me, and hope to convert me to that +splendid doctrine of communism we hear so much of. You are a dangerous +fellow,—a very dangerous fellow. It was precisely men of your stamp +sapped the monarchy in France, and with it all monarchy in Europe.” + </p> +<p> +“If your Highness intends Proserpine to run at Bologna, she ought to be +put in training at once,” said Stubber, gravely; “and we might send up +some of the weeds at the same time, and sell them off.” + </p> +<p> +“Well thought of, Stubber; and there was something else in my head,—what +was it?” + </p> +<p> +“The suppression of the San Lorenzo convent, perhaps; it is all completed, +and only waits your Highness to sign the deed.” + </p> +<p> +“What sum does it give us, Stubber, eh?” + </p> +<p> +“About one hundred and eighty thousand scudi, sir, of which some twenty +thousand go to the National Mortgage Fund.” + </p> +<p> +“Not one crown of it,—not a single bajocco, as I am a Christian +knight and a true gentleman. I need it all, if it were twice as much. If +we incur the anger of the Pope and the Sacred College,—if we risk +the thunders of the Vatican,—let us have the worldly consolation of +a full purse.” + </p> +<p> +“I advised the measure on wiser grounds, sir. It was not fair and just +that a set of lazy friars should be leading lives of indolence and +abundance in the midst of a hard-worked and ill-fed peasantry.” + </p> +<p> +“Quite true; and on these wise grounds, as you call them, we have rooted +them out. We only wish that the game were more plenty, for the sport +amuses us vastly.” And he clapped Stubber familiarly on the shoulder, and +laughed heartily at his jest. +</p> +<p> +It was in this happy frame of mind that Stubber always liked to leave his +master; and so, promising to attend to the different subjects discussed +between them, he bowed and withdrew. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0049" id="link2HCH0049"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER XLIX. SOCIAL DIPLOMACIES +</h2> +<p> +“What an insufferable bore, dear Princess!” sighed Sir Horace, as he +opened the square-shaped envelope that contained his Royal Highnesses +invitation to dinner. +</p> +<p> +“I mean to be seriously indisposed,” said Madame de Sabloukoff; “one gets +nothing but chagrin in intercourse with petty Courts.” + </p> +<p> +“Like provincial journals, they only reproduce what has appeared in the +metropolitan papers, and give you old gossip for fresh intelligence.” + </p> +<p> +“Or, worse again, ask you to take an interest in their miserable +'localisms,'—the microscopic contentions of insect life.” + </p> +<p> +“They have given us a sentry at the door, I perceive,” said Sir Horace, +with assumed indifference. +</p> +<p> +“A very proper attention!” remarked the lady, in a tone that more than +half implied the compliment was one intended for herself. +</p> +<p> +“Have you seen the Chevalier Stubber yet?” asked Upton. +</p> +<p> +“No; he has been twice here, but I was dressing, or writing notes. And +you?” + </p> +<p> +“I told him to come about two o'clock,” sighed Sir Horace. “I rather like +Stubber.” + </p> +<p> +This was said in a tone of such condescension that it sounded as though +the utterer was confessing to an amicable weakness in his nature,—“I +rather like Stubber.” + </p> +<p> +Though there was something meant to invite agreement in the tone, the +Princess only accepted the speech with a slight motion of her eyebrows, +and a look of half unwilling assent. +</p> +<p> +“I know he's not of <i>your</i> world, dear Princess, but he belongs to +that Anglo-Saxon stock we are so prone to associate with all the ideas of +rugged, unadorned virtue.” + </p> +<p> +“Rugged and unadorned indeed!” echoed the lady. +</p> +<p> +“And yet never vulgar,” rejoined Upton,—“never affecting to be other +than he is; and, stranger still, not self-opinionated and conceited.” + </p> +<p> +“I own to you,” said she, haughtily, “that the whole Court here puts me in +mind of Hayti, with its Marquis of Orgeat and its Count Marmalade. These +people, elevated from menial station to a mock nobility, only serve to +throw ridicule upon themselves and the order that they counterfeit. No +socialist in Europe has done such service to the cause of democracy as the +Prince of Massa!” + </p> +<p> +“Honesty is such a very rare quality in this world that I am not surprised +at his Highness prizing it under any garb. Now, Stubber is honest.” + </p> +<p> +“He says so himself, I am told.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, he says so, and I believe him. He has been employed in situations of +considerable trust, and always acquitted himself well. Such a man cannot +have escaped temptations, and yet even his enemies do not accuse him of +venality.” + </p> +<p> +“Good Heavens! what more would he have than his legitimate spoils? He is a +Minister of the Household, with an ample salary; a Master of the Horse; an +inspector of Woods and Forests; a something over Church lands; and a Red +Cross of Massa besides. I am quite 'made up' in his dignities, for they +are all set forth on his visiting-card with what purports to be a coat of +arms at top.” And, as she spoke, she held out the card in derision. +</p> +<p> +“That's silly, I must say,” said Upton, smiling; “and yet, I suppose that +here in Massa it was requisite he should assert all his pretensions thus +openly.” + </p> +<p> +“Perhaps so,” said she, dryly. +</p> +<p> +“And, after all,” said Upton, who seemed rather bent on a system of mild +tormenting,—“after all, there is something amiable in the weakness +of this display,—it smacks of gratitude! It is like saying to the +world, 'See what the munificence of my master has made me!'” + </p> +<p> +“What a delicate compliment, too, to his nobles, which proclaims that for +a station of trust and probity the Prince must recruit from the kitchen +and the stables. To <i>my</i> thinking, there is no such impertinent +delusion as that popular one which asserts that we must seek for +everything in its least likely place,—take ministers out of +counting-houses, and military commanders from shop-boards. For the +treatment of weighty questions in peace or war, the gentleman element is +the first essential.” + </p> +<p> +“Just as long as the world thinks so, dear Princess; not an hour longer.” + </p> +<p> +The Princess arose, and walked the room in evident displeasure. She half +suspected that his objections were only devices to irritate, and she +determined not to prolong the discussion. The temptation to reply proved, +however, too strong for her resolution, and she said,— +</p> +<p> +“The world has thought so for some centuries; and when a passing shade of +doubt has shaken the conviction, have not the people rushed from +revolution into actual bondage, as though any despotism were better than +the tyranny of their own passions?” + </p> +<p> +“I opine,” said Upton, calmly, “that the 'prestige' of the gentleman +consists in his belonging to an 'order.' Now, that is a privilege that +cannot be enjoyed by a mere popular leader. It is like the contrast +between a club and a public meeting.” + </p> +<p> +“It is something that you confess these people have no 'prestige,'” said +she, triumphantly. “Indeed, their presence in the world of politics, to my +thinking, is a mere symbol of change,—an evidence that we are in +some stage of transition.” + </p> +<p> +“So we are, madame; there is nothing more true. Every people of Europe +have outgrown their governments, like young heirs risen to manhood, +ordering household affairs to their will. The popular voice now swells +above the whisper of cabinets. So long as each country limits itself to +home questions, this spirit will attract but slight notice. Let the issue, +however, become a great international one, and you will see the popular +will declaring wars, cementing alliances, and signing peaces in a fashion +to make statecraft tremble!” + </p> +<p> +“And you approve of this change, and welcome it?” asked she, derisively. +</p> +<p> +“I have never said so, madame. I foresee the hurricane, that's all. Men +like Stubber are to be seen almost everywhere throughout Europe. They are +a kind of declaration that, for the government and guidance of mankind, +the possession of a good head and an honest heart is amply sufficient; +that rulers neither need fourteen quarterings nor names coeval with the +Roman Empire.” + </p> +<p> +“You have given me but another reason to detest him,” said the Princess, +angrily. “I don't think I shall receive him to-day.” + </p> +<p> +“But you want to speak with him about that villa; there is some formality +to be gone through before a foreigner can own property here. I think you +promised Glencore you would arrange the matter.” + </p> +<p> +She made no reply, and he continued: “Poor fellow! a very short lease +would suffice for his time; he is sinking rapidly. The conflict his mind +wages between hope and doubt has hastened all the symptoms of his malady.” + </p> +<p> +“In such a struggle a woman has more courage than a man.” + </p> +<p> +“Say more boldness, Princess,” said Upton, slyly. +</p> +<p> +“I repeat, courage, sir. It is fear, and nothing but fear, that agitates +him. He is afraid of the world's sneer; afraid of what society will think, +and say, and write about him; afraid of the petty gossip of the millions +he will never see or hear of. This cowardice it is that checks him in +every aspiration to vindicate his wife's honor and his boy's birth.” + </p> +<p> +“<i>Si cela se peut</i>,” said Upton, with a very equivocal smile. +</p> +<p> +A look of haughty anger, with a flush of crimson on her cheek, was the +only answer she made him. +</p> +<p> +“I mean that he is really not in a position to prove or disprove anything. +He assumed certain 'levities'—I suppose the word will do—to +mean more than levities; he construed indiscretions into grave faults, and +faults into crimes. But that he did all this without sufficient reason, or +that he now has abundant evidence that he was mistaken, I am unable to +say, nor is it with broken faculties and a wandering intellect that he can +be expected to review the past and deliver judgment on it.” + </p> +<p> +“The whole moral of which is: what a luckless fate is that of a foreign +wife United to an English husband!” + </p> +<p> +“There is much force in the remark,” said Upton, calmly. +</p> +<p> +“To have her thoughts, and words, and actions submitted to the standard of +a nation whose moral subtleties she could never comprehend; to be taught +that a certain amount of gloom must be mixed up with life, just as bitters +are taken for tonics; that <i>ennui</i> is the sure type of virtue, and +low spirits the healthiest condition of the mind,—these are her +first lessons: no wonder if she find them hard ones. +</p> +<p> +“To be told that all the harmless familiarities she has seen from her +childhood are dangerous freedoms, all the innocent gayeties of the world +about her are snares and pitfalls, is to make existence little better than +a penal servitude,—this is lesson the second. While, to complete her +education, she is instructed how to assume a censorial rigidity of manner +that would shame a duenna, and a condemnatory tone that assumes to arraign +all the criminals of society, and pass sentence on them. How amiable she +may become in disposition, and how suitable as a companion by this +training, <i>you</i>, sir, and your countrymen are best able to +pronounce.” + </p> +<p> +“You rather exaggerate our demerits, my dear Princess,” said Upton, +smiling. “We really do <i>not</i> like to be so very odious as you would +make us.” + </p> +<p> +“You are excellent people, with whom no one can live,—that's the +whole of it,” said she, with a saucy laugh. “If your friend Lord Glencore +had been satisfied to stay at home and marry one of his own nation, he +might have escaped a deal of unhappiness, and saved a most amiable +creature much more sorrow than falls to the lot of the least fortunate of +her own country. I conclude you have some influence over him?” + </p> +<p> +“As much, perhaps, as any one; but even that says little.” + </p> +<p> +“Can you not use it, therefore, to make him repair a great wrong?” + </p> +<p> +“You had some plan, I think?” said he, hesitatingly. +</p> +<p> +“Yes; I have written to her to come down here. I have pretended that her +presence is necessary to certain formalities about the sale of the villa. +I mean that they should meet, without apprising either of them. I have +sent the boy out of the way to Pontremoli to make me a copy of some +frescoes there; till the success of my scheme be decided, I did not wish +to make him a party to it.” + </p> +<p> +“You don't know Glencore,—at least as I know him.” + </p> +<p> +“There is no reason that I should,” broke she in. “What I would try is an +experiment, every detail of which I would leave to chance. Were this a +case where all the wrong were on one side, and all the forgiveness to come +from the other, friendly aid and interposition might well be needed; but +here is a complication which neither you, nor I, nor any one else can +pretend to unravel. Let them meet, therefore, and let Fate—if that +be the name for it—decide what all the prevention and planning in +the world could never provide for.” + </p> +<p> +“The very fact that their meeting has been plotted beforehand will suggest +distrust.” + </p> +<p> +“Their manner in meeting will be the best answer to that,” said she, +resolutely. “There will be no acting between them, depend upon 't.” + </p> +<p> +“He told me that he had destroyed the registry of their marriage, nor does +he know where a single witness of the ceremony could be found.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't want to know <i>how</i> he could make the <i>amende</i> till I +know that he is ready to do it,” said she, in the same calm tone. +</p> +<p> +“To have arranged a meeting with the boy had perhaps been better than +this. Glencore has not avowed it, but I think I can detect misgivings for +his treatment of the youth.” + </p> +<p> +“This was my first thought, and I spoke to young Massy the evening before +Lord Glencore arrived. I led him to tell me of his boyish days in Ireland +and his home there; a stern resolution to master all emotion seemed to +pervade whatever he said; and though, perhaps, the effort may have cost +him much, his manner did not betray it. He told me that he was +illegitimate, that the secret was divulged to him by his own father, that +he had never heard who his mother was, nor what rank in life she occupied. +When I said that she was one in high station, that she was alive and well, +and one of my own dearest friends, a sudden crimson covered his face, as +quickly followed by a sickly pallor; and though he trembled in every limb, +he never spoke a word. I endeavored to excite in him some desire to learn +more of her, if not to see her, but in vain. The hard lesson he had taught +himself enabled him to repress every semblance of feeling. It was only +when at last, driven to the very limits of my patience, I abruptly asked +him, 'Have you no wish to see your mother?' that his coldness gave way, +and, in a voice tremulous and thick, he said, 'My shame is enough for +myself.' I was burning to say more, to put before him a contingency, the +mere shadow of a possibility that his claim to birth and station might one +day or other be vindicated. I did not actually do so, but I must have let +drop some chance word that betrayed my meaning, for he caught me up +quickly, and said, 'It would come too late, if it came even to-day. I am +that which I am by many a hard struggle; you 'll never see me risk a +disappointment in life by any encouragement I may give to hope.' +</p> +<p> +“I then adverted to his father; but he checked me at once, saying, 'When +the ties that should be closest in life are stained with shame and +dishonor, they are bonds of slavery, not of affection. My debt to Lord +Glencore is the degradation I live in,—none other. His heritage to +me is the undying conflict in my heart between what I once thought I was +and what I now know I am. If we met, it would be to tell him so.' In a +word, every feature of the father's proud unforgivingness is reproduced in +the boy, and I dreaded the very possibility of their meeting. If ever Lord +Glencore avow his marriage and vindicate his wife's honor, his hardest +task will be reconciliation with this boy.” + </p> +<p> +“All, and more than all, the evils I anticipated have followed this insane +vengeance,” said Upton. “I begin to think that one ought to leave a golden +bridge even to our revenge, Princess.” + </p> +<p> +“Assuredly, wherever a woman is the victim,” said she, smiling; “for you +are so certain to have reasons for distrusting yourself.” + </p> +<p> +Upton sat meditating for some time on the plan of the Princess; had it +only originated with himself, it was exactly the kind of project he would +have liked. He knew enough of life to be aware that one can do very little +more than launch events upon the great ocean of destiny; that the +pretension to guide and direct them is oftener a snare than anything else; +that the contingencies and accidents, the complications too, which beset +every move in life, disconcert all one's pre-arrangements, so that it is +rare indeed when we are able to pursue the same path towards any object by +which we have set out. +</p> +<p> +As the scheme was, however, that of another, he now scrutinized it, and +weighed every objection to its accomplishment, constantly returning to the +same difficulty, as he said,— +</p> +<p> +“You do not know Glencore.” + </p> +<p> +“The man who has but one passion, one impulse in life, is rarely a +difficult study,” was the measured reply. “Lord Glencore's vengeance has +worn itself out, exactly as all similar outbreaks of temper do, for want +of opposition. There was nothing to feed, nothing to minister to it. He +sees—I have taken care that he should see—that his bolt has +not struck the mark; that her position is not the precarious thing he +meant to make it, but a station as much protected and fenced round by its +own conventionalities as that of any, the proudest lady in society. For +one that dares to impugn her, there are full fifty ready to condemn <i>him</i>; +and all this has been done without reprisal or recrimination; no +partisanship to arraign his moroseness and his cruelty,—none of that +'coterie' defence which divides society into two sections. This, of +course, has wounded his pride, but it has not stimulated his anger; but, +above all, it has imparted to her the advantage of a dignity of which his +vengeance was intended to deprive her.” + </p> +<p> +“You must be a sanguine and a hopeful spirit, Princess, if you deem that +such elements will unite happily hereafter,” said Upton, smiling. +</p> +<p> +“I really never carried my speculations so far,” replied she. “It is in +actual life, as in that of the stage, quite sufficient to accompany the +actors to the fall of the curtain.” + </p> +<p> +“The Chevalier Stubber, madame,” said a servant, entering, “wishes to know +if you will receive him.” + </p> +<p> +“Yes—no—yes. Tell him to come in,” said, she rapidly, as she +resumed her seat beside the fire. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0050" id="link2HCH0050"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER L. ANTE-DINNER REFLECTIONS +</h2> +<p> +Notwithstanding the strongly expressed sentiments of the Princess with +regard to the Chevalier Stubber, she received him with marked favor, and +gave him her hand to kiss, with evident cordiality. As for Upton, it was +the triumph of his manner to deal with men separated widely from himself +in station and abilities. He could throw such an air of good fellowship +into the smallest attentions, impart such a glow of kindliness to the +veriest commonplaces, that the very craftiest and shrewdest could never +detect. As he leaned his arm, therefore, on Stubber's shoulder, and smiled +benignly on him, you would have said it was the affectionate meeting with +a long-absent brother. But there was something besides this: there was the +expansive confidence accorded to a trusty colleague; and as he asked him +about the Duchy, its taxation, its debt, its alliances and difficulties, +you might mark in the attention he bestowed all the signs of one receiving +very valuable information. +</p> +<p> +“You perceive, Princess,” said he, at last, “Stubber quite agrees with the +Duke of Cloudeslie,—these small states enjoy no real independence.” + </p> +<p> +“Then why are they not absorbed into the larger nations about them?” + </p> +<p> +“They have their uses; they are like substances interposed between +conflicting bodies, which receive and diminish the shock of collisions. So +that Prussia, when wanting to wound Austria, only pinches Baden; and +Austria, desirous of insulting Saxony, 'takes it out' on Sigmaringen.” + </p> +<p> +“It's a pleasant destiny you assign them,” said she, laughing. +</p> +<p> +“Stubber will tell you I'm not far wrong in my appreciation.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'm not for what they call 'mediatizing' them neither, my Lady,” said +Stubber, who generally used the designation to imply his highest degree of +respect. “That may all be very well for the interests of the great states, +and the balance of power, and all that sort of thing; but we ought also to +bestow a thought upon the people of these small countries, especially on +the inhabitants of their cities. What's to become of <i>them</i> when you +withdraw their courts, and throw their little capitals into the position +of provincial towns and even villages?” + </p> +<p> +“They will eke out a livelihood somehow, my dear Stubber. Be assured that +they 'll not starve. Masters of the Horse may have to keep livery stables; +chamberlains turn valets; ladies of the bedchamber descend to the arts of +millinery: but, after all, the change will be but in name, and there will +not be a whit more slavery in the new condition than in the old one.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, I 'm not so sure they 'll take the same comfortable view of it that +you do, Sir Horace,” said Stubber; “nor can I see who can possibly want +livery stables, or smart bonnets, or even a fine butler, when the +resources of the Court are withdrawn, and the city left to its own +devices.” + </p> +<p> +“Stubber suspects,” said Upton, “that the policy which prevails amongst +our great landed proprietors against small holdings is that which at +present influences the larger states of Europe against small kingdoms; and +so far he is right. It is unquestionably the notion of our day that the +influences of government require space for their exercise.” + </p> +<p> +“If the happiness of the people was to be thought of, which of course it +is not,” said Stubber, “I'd say leave them as they are.” + </p> +<p> +“Ah, my dear Stubber, you are now drawing the question into the realm of +the imaginary. What do any of us know about our happiness?” + </p> +<p> +“Enough to eat and drink, a comfortable roof over you, good clothes, +nothing oppressive or unequal in the laws,—these go for a good way +in the kind of thing I mean; and let me observe, sir, it is a great +privilege little states, like little people, enjoy, that they need have no +ambitions. They don't want to conquer anybody; they neither ask for the +mouth of a river here, or an island there; and if only let alone, they 'll +never disturb the peace of the world at large.” + </p> +<p> +“My dear Stubber, you are quite a proficient at state-craft,” said Upton, +with the very least superciliousness in the accent. +</p> +<p> +“Well, I don't know, Sir Horace,” said the other, modestly, “but as my +master's means are about the double of what they were when I entered his +service, and as the people pay about one-sixth less in taxes than they +used to do, mayhap I might say that I have put the saddle on the right +part of the back.” + </p> +<p> +“Your foreign policy does not seem quite as unobjectionable as your home +management. That was an ugly business about that boy you gave up to the +Austrians.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, there were mistakes on all sides. You yourself, Sir Horace, gave +him a false passport; his real name turns out to be Massy: it made an +impression on me, from a circumstance that happened when I was a young +fellow living as pad-groom with Prince Tottskoy. I went over on a lark one +day to Capri, and was witness to a wedding there of a young Englishman +called Massy.” + </p> +<p> +“Were you, then, present at the ceremony?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, sir; and what's stranger still, I have a voucher for it.” + </p> +<p> +“A voucher for it. What do you mean?” + </p> +<p> +“It was this way, sir. There was a great supper for the country people and +the servants, and I was there, and I suppose I took too much of that Capri +wine; it was new and hot at the time, and I got into a row of some sort, +and I beat the Deputato from some place or t' other, and got locked up for +three days; and the priest, a very jolly fellow, gave me under his +handwriting a voucher that I had been a witness of the marriage, and all +the festivities afterwards, just to show my master how everything +happened. But the Prince never asked me for any explanations, and only +said he 'hoped I had amused myself well;' and so I kept my voucher to +myself, and I have it at this very hour.” + </p> +<p> +“Will you let me see it, Stubber?” + </p> +<p> +“To be sure, sir, you shall have it, if I can lay my hand on 't in the +course of the day.” + </p> +<p> +“Let me beg you will go at once and search for it; it may be of more +importance than you know of. Go, my dear Stubber, and look it up.” + </p> +<p> +“I'll not lose a moment, since you wish to have it,” said Stubber; “and I +am sure your ladyship will excuse my abrupt departure.” + </p> +<p> +The Princess assured him that her own interest in the document was not +inferior to that of Sir Horace, and he hastened off to prosecute his +search. +</p> +<p> +“Here, then, are all my plans altered at once,” exclaimed she, as the door +closed after him. “If this paper mean only as much as he asserts, it will +be ample proof of marriage, and lead us to the knowledge of all those who +were present at it.” + </p> +<p> +“Yet must we well reflect on the use we make of it,” said Upton. “Glencore +is now evidently balancing what course to take. As his chances of recovery +grow less each day, he seems to incline more and more to repair the wrong +he has done. Should we show on our side the merest semblance of +compulsion, I would not answer for him.” + </p> +<p> +“So that we have the power, as a last resource, I am content to +diplomatize,” said the Princess; “but you must see him this evening, and +press for a decision.” + </p> +<p> +“He has already asked me to come to him after we return from Court. It +will be late, but it is the hour at which he likes best to talk. If I see +occasion for it, I can allude to what Stubber has told us; but it will be +only if driven by necessity to it.” + </p> +<p> +“I would act more boldly and more promptly,” said she. +</p> +<p> +“And rouse an opposition, perhaps, that already is becoming dormant. No, I +know Glencore well, and will deal with him more patiently.” + </p> +<p> +“From the Chevalier Stubber, your Excellency,” said a servant, presenting +a sealed packet; and Sir Horace opened it at once. The envelope contained +a small and shabby slip of paper, of which the writing appeared faint and +indistinct. It was dated 18—, Church of St. Lorenzo, Capri, and went +to certify that Guglielmo Stubber had been present, on the morning of the +18th August, at the marriage of the Most Noble Signor Massy with the +Princess de la Torre, having in quality as witness signed the registry +thereof; and then went on to state the circumstance of his attendance at +the supper, and the event which ensued. It bore the name of the writer at +foot, Basilio Nardoni, priest of the aforesaid church and village. +</p> +<p> +“Little is Glencore aware that such an evidence as this is in existence,” + said Upton. “The conviction that he had his vengeance in his power led him +into this insane project. He fancied there was not a flaw in that terrible +indictment; and see, here is enough to open the door to truth, and undo +every detail of all his plotting. How strange is it that the events of +life should so often concur to expose the dark schemes of men's hearts; +proofs starting up in un-thought-of places, as though to show how vain was +mere subtlety in conflict with the inevitable law of Fate.” + </p> +<p> +“This Basilio Nardoni is an acquaintance of mine,” said the Princess, bent +on pursuing another train of thought; “he was chaplain to the Cardinal +Caraffa, and frequently brought me communications from his Eminence. He +can be found, if wanted.” + </p> +<p> +“It is unlikely—most unlikely—that we shall require him.” + </p> +<p> +“If you mean that Lord Glencore will himself make all the amends he can +for a gross injury and a fraud, no more is necessary,” said she, folding +the paper, and placing it in her pocket-book; “but if anything short of +this be intended, then there is no exposure too open, no publicity too +wide, to be given to the most cruel wrong the world has ever heard of.” + </p> +<p> +“Leave me to deal with Glencore. I think I am about the only one who can +treat with him.” + </p> +<p> +“And now for this dinner at Court, for I have changed my mind, and mean to +go,” said the Princess. “It is full time to dress, I believe.” + </p> +<p> +“It is almost six o'clock,” said Upton, starting up. “We have quite +forgotten ourselves.” + </p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0051" id="link2HCH0051"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER LI. CONFLICTING THOUGHTS +</h2> +<p> +The Princess Sabloukoff found—not by any means an unfrequent +experience in life—that the dinner, whose dulness she had dreaded, +turned out a very pleasant affair. The Prince was unusually gracious. He +was in good spirits, and put forth powers of agreeability which had been +successful in one of less distinction than himself. He possessed +eminently, what a great orator once panegyrized as a high conversational +element, “great variety,” and could without abruptness pass from subject +to subject, with always what showed he had bestowed thought upon the theme +before him. Great people have few more enviable privileges than that they +choose their own topics for conversation. Nothing disagreeable, nothing +wearisome, nothing inopportune, can be intruded upon them. When they have +no longer anything worth saying, they can change the subject or the +company. +</p> +<p> +His Highness talked with Madame de Sabloukoff on questions of state as he +might have talked with a Metternich; he even invited from her expressions +of opinion that were almost counsels, sentiments that might pass for +warnings. He ranged over the news of the day, relating occasionally some +little anecdote, every actor in which was a celebrity; or now and then +communicating some piece of valueless secrecy, told with all the mystery +of a “great fact;” and then he discussed with Upton the condition of +England, and deplored, as all Continental rulers do, the impending +downfall of that kingdom, from the growing force of our restless and +daring democracy. He regretted much that Sir Horace was not still in +office, but consoled himself by reflecting that the pleasure he enjoyed in +his society had been in that case denied him. In fact, what with +insinuated flatteries, little signs of confidence, and a most marked tone +of cordiality, purposely meant to strike beholders, the Prince conducted +the conversation right royally, and played “Highness” to perfection. +</p> +<p> +And these two crafty, keen-sighted people, did they not smile at the +performance, and did they not, as they drove home at night, amuse +themselves as they recounted the little traits of the great man's dupery? +Not a bit of it. They were charmed with his gracious manner, and actually +enchanted with his agreeability. Strong in their self-esteem, they could +not be brought to suspect that any artifice could be practised on <i>them</i>, +or that the mere trickery and tinsel of high station could be imposed on +them as true value. Nay, they even went further, and discovered that his +Highness was really a very remarkable man, and one who received far less +than the estimation due to him. His flightiness became versatility; his +eccentricity was all originalty; and ere they reached the hotel, they had +endowed him with almost every moral and mental quality that can dignify +manhood. +</p> +<p> +“It is really a magnificent turquoise,” said the Princess, gazing with +admiration at a ring the Prince had taken from his own finger to present +to her. +</p> +<p> +“How absurd is that English jealousy about foreign decorations! I was +obliged to decline the Red Cross of Massa which his Highness proposed to +confer on me. A monarchy that wants to emulate a republic is simply +ridiculous.” + </p> +<p> +“You English are obliged to pay dear for your hypocrisies; and you ought, +for you really love them.” And with this taunt the carriage stopped at the +door of the inn. +</p> +<p> +As Upton passed up the stairs, the waiter handed him a note, which he +hastily opened; it was from Glencore, and in these words:— +</p> +<p> +Dear Upton,—I can bear this suspense no longer; to remain here +canvassing with myself all the doubts that beset me is a torture I cannot +endure. I leave, therefore, at once for Florence. Once there,—where +I mean to see and hear for myself,—I can decide what is to be the +fate of the few days or weeks that yet remain to—Yours, +</p> +<p> +Glencore. +</p> +<p> +“He is gone, then,—his Lordship has started?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, your Excellency, he is by this time near Lucca, for he gave orders +to have horses ready at all the stations.” + </p> +<p> +“Read that, madame,” said Upton, as he once more found himself alone with +the Princess; “you will see that all your plans are disconcerted. He is +off to Florence.” + </p> +<p> +Madame de Sabloukoff read the note, and threw it carelessly on the table. +“He wants to forgive himself, and only hesitates how to do so gracefully,” + said she, sneeringly. +</p> +<p> +“I think you are less than just to him,” said Upton, mildly; “his is a +noble nature, disfigured by one grand defect.” + </p> +<p> +“Your national character, like your language, is so full of incongruities +and contradictions that I am not ashamed to own myself unequal to master +it; but it strikes me that both one and the other usurp freedoms that are +not permitted to others. At all events, I am rejoiced that he has gone. It +is the most wearisome thing in life to negotiate with one too near you. +Diplomacy of even the humblest kind requires distance.” + </p> +<p> +“You agree with the duellist, I perceive,” said he, laughing, “that twelve +paces is a more fatal distance than across a handkerchief: proximity +begets tremor.” + </p> +<p> +“You have guessed my meaning correctly,” said she; “meanwhile, I must +write to <i>her</i> not to come here. Shall I say that we will be in +Florence in a day or two?” + </p> +<p> +“I was just thinking of those Serravezza springs,” said Upton; “they +contain a bi-chloride of potash, which Staub, in his treatise, says, 'is +the element wanting in all nervous organizations.'” + </p> +<p> +“But remember the season,—we are in mid-winter; the hotels are +closed.” + </p> +<p> +“The springs are running, Princess; 'the earth,' as Mos-chus says, 'is a +mother that never ceases to nourish.' I do suspect I need a little +nursing.” + </p> +<p> +The Princess understood him thoroughly. She well knew that whenever the +affairs of Europe followed an unbroken track, without anything eventful or +interesting, Sir Horace fell back upon his maladies for matter of +occupation. She had, however, now occasion for his advice and counsel, and +by no means concurred in his plan of spending some days, if not weeks, in +the dreary mountain solitudes of Serravezza. “You must certainly consult +Zanetti before you venture on these waters,” said she; “they are highly +dangerous if taken without the greatest circumspection;” and she gave a +catalogue of imaginary calamities which had befallen various illustrious +and gifted individuals, to which Upton listened with profound attention. +</p> +<p> +“Very well,” sighed he, as she finished, “it must be as you say. I'll see +Zanetti, for I cannot afford to die just yet. That 'Greek question' will +have no solution without me,—no one has the key of it but myself. +That Panslavic scheme, too, in the Principalities attracts no notice but +<i>mine</i>; and as to Spain, the policy I have devised for that country +requires all the watchfulness I can bestow on it. No, Princess,”—here +he gave a melancholy sigh,—“we must not die at this moment. There +are just four men in Europe; I doubt if she could get on with three.” + </p> +<p> +“What proportion do you admit as to the other sex?” said she, laughing. +</p> +<p> +“I only know of one, madame;” and he kissed her hand with gallantry. “And +now for Florence, if you will.” + </p> +<p> +It is by no means improbable that our readers have a right to an apology +at our hands for the habit we have indulged of lingering along with the +two individuals whose sayings and doings are not directly essential to our +tale; but is not the story of every-day life our guarantee that incidents +and people cross and re-cross the path we are going, attracting our +attention, engaging our sympathy, enlisting our energies, even in our most +anxious periods? Such is the world; and we cannot venture out of reality. +Besides this, we are disposed to think that the moral of a tale is often +more effectively conveyed by the characters than by the catastrophe of a +story. The strange, discordant tones of the human heart, blending, with +melody the purest, sounds of passionate meaning, are in themselves more +powerful lessons than all the records of rewarded virtue and all the +calendars of punished vice. The nature of a single man can be far more +instructive than the history of every accident that befalls him. +</p> +<p> +It is, then, with regret that we leave the Princess and Sir Horace to +pursue their journey alone. We confess a liking for their society, and +would often as soon loiter in the by-paths that they follow as journey in +the more recognized high-road of our true story. Not having the conviction +that our sympathy is shared by our readers, we again return to the +fortunes of Glencore. +</p> +<p> +When Lord Glencore's carriage underwent the usual scrutiny exercised +towards travellers at the gate of Florence, and prying officials poked +their lanterns in every quarter, in all the security of their “caste,” two +foot travellers were rudely pushed aside to await the time till the +pretentious equipage passed on. They were foreigners, and their effects, +which they carried in knapsacks, required examination. +</p> +<p> +“We have come a long way on foot to-day,” said the younger in a tone that +indicated nothing of one asking a favor. “Can't we have this search made +at once?” + </p> +<p> +“Whisht! whisht!” whispered his companion, in English; “wait till the +Prince moves on, and be polite with them all.” + </p> +<p> +“I am seeking for nothing in the shape of compliment,” said the other; +“there is no reason why, because I am on foot, I must be detained for this +man.” + </p> +<p> +Again the other remonstrated, and suggested patience. +</p> +<p> +“What are you grumbling about, young fellow?” cried one of the officers. +“Do you fancy yourself of the same consequence as Milordo? And see, he +must wait his time here.” + </p> +<p> +“We came a good way on foot to-day, sir,” interposed the elder, eagerly, +taking the reply on himself, “and we 're tired and weary, and would be +deeply obliged if you'd examine us as soon as you could.” + </p> +<p> +“Stand aside and wait your turn,” was the stern response. +</p> +<p> +“You almost deserve the fellow's insolence, Billy,” said the youth; “a +crown-piece in his hand had been far more intelligible than your appeal to +his pity.” And he threw himself wearily down on a stone bench. +</p> +<p> +Aroused by the accent of his own language, Lord Glencore sat up in his +carriage, and leaned out to catch sight of the speaker; but the shadow of +the overhanging roof concealed him from view. “Can't you suffer those two +poor fellows to move on?” whispered his Lordship, as he placed a piece of +money in the officer's hand; “they look tired and jaded.” + </p> +<p> +“There, thank his Excellency for his kindness to you, and go your way,” + muttered the officer to Billy, who, without well understanding the words, +drew nigh the window; but the glass was already drawn up, the postilions +were once more in their saddles, and away dashed the cumbrous carriage in +all the noise and uproar that is deemed the proper tribute to rank. +</p> +<p> +The youth heard that they were free to proceed, with a half-dogged +indifference, and throwing his knapsack on his shoulders, moved away. +</p> +<p> +“I asked them if they knew one of her name in the city, and they said, +'No,'” said the elder. +</p> +<p> +“But they so easily mistake names: how did you call her?” + </p> +<p> +“I said 'Harley,—la Signora Harley,'” rejoined the other; “and they +were positive she was not here. They never heard of her.” + </p> +<p> +“Well, we shall know soon,” sighed the youth, heavily. “Is not this an +inn, Billy?” + </p> +<p> +“Ay is it, but not one for our purpose,—it's like a palace. They +told me of the 'Leone d'Oro' as a quiet place and cheap.” + </p> +<p> +“I don't care where or what it be; one day and night here will do all I +want. And then for Genoa, Billy, and the sea, and the world beyond the +sea,” said the youth, with increasing animation. “You shall see what a +different fellow I'll be when I throw behind me forever the traditions of +this dreary life here.” + </p> +<p> +“I know well the good stuff that's in ye,” said the other, affectionately. +</p> +<p> +“Ay, but you don't know that I have energy as well as pride,” said the +other. +</p> +<p> +“There's nothing beyond your reach if you will only strive to get it,” + said he again, in the same voice. +</p> +<p> +“You're an arrant flatterer, old boy,” cried the youth, throwing his arm +around him; “but I would not have you otherwise for the world. There is a +happiness even in the self-deception of your praise that I could not deny +myself.” + </p> +<p> +Thus chatting, they arrived at the humble door of the “Leone d'Oro,” where +they installed themselves for the night. It was a house frequented by +couriers and <i>vetturini</i>, and at the common table for this company +they now took their places for supper. The Carnival was just drawing to +its close, and all the gayeties of that merry season were going forward. +Nothing was talked of but the brilliant festivities of the city, the +splendid balls of the Court, and the magnificent receptions in the houses +of the nobility. +</p> +<p> +“The Palazzo della Torre takes the lead of all,” said one. “There were +upwards of three thousand masks there this evening, I 'm told, and the +gardens were just as full as the <i>salons</i>.” + </p> +<p> +“She is rich enough to afford it well,” cried another. “I counted twenty +servants in white and gold liveries on the stairs alone.” + </p> +<p> +“Were you there, then?” asked the youth, whom we may at once call by his +name of Massy. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, sir; a mask and a domino, such as you see yonder, are passports +everywhere for the next twenty-four hours; and though I 'm only a courier, +I have been chatting with duchesses, and exchanging smart sayings with +countesses, in almost every great house in Florence this evening. The +Pergola Theatre, too, is open, and all the boxes crowded with visitors.” + </p> +<p> +“You are a stranger, as I detect by your accent,” said another, “and you +ought to have a look at a scene such as you'll never witness in your own +land.” + </p> +<p> +“What would come of such freedoms with us, Billy?” whispered Massy. “Would +our great lords tolerate, even for a few hours, the association with +honest fellows of this stamp?” + </p> +<p> +“There would be danger in the attempt, anyhow,” said Billy. +</p> +<p> +“What calumnies would be circulated, what slanderous tales would be sent +abroad, under cover of this secrecy! How many a coward stab would be given +in the shadow of that immunity! For one who would use the privilege for +mere amusement, how many would turn it to account for private vengeance.” + </p> +<p> +“Are you quite certain such accidents do not occur here?” + </p> +<p> +“That society tolerates the custom is the best answer to this. There may +be, for aught we know, many a cruel vengeance executed under favor of this +secrecy. Many may cover their faces to unmask their hearts; but, after +all, they continue to observe a habit which centuries back their +forefathers followed; and the inference fairly is, that it is not baneful. +For my own part, I am glad to have an opportunity of witnessing these +Saturnalia, and to-morrow I 'll buy a mask and a domino, Billy, and so +shall you too. Why should we not have a day's fooling, like the rest?” + </p> +<p> +Billy shook his head and laughed, and they soon afterwards parted for the +night. +</p> +<p> +While young Massy slept soundly, not a dream disturbing the calmness of +his rest, Lord Glencore passed the night in a state of feverish +excitement. Led on by some strange, mysterious influence, which he could +as little account for as resist, he had come back to the city where the +fatal incident of his life had occurred. With what purpose, he could not +tell. It was not, indeed, that he had no object in view. It was rather +that he had so many and conflicting ones that they marred and destroyed +each other. No longer under the guidance of calm reason, his head wandered +from the past to the present and the future, disturbed by passion and +excited by injured self-love. At one moment, sentiments of sorrow and +shame would take the ascendant; and at the next, a vindictive desire to +follow out his vengeance and witness the ruin that he had accomplished. +The unbroken, unrelieved pressure of one thought, for years and years of +time, had at last undermined his reasoning powers; and every attempt at +calm judgment or reflection was sure to be attended with some violent +paroxysm of irrepressible rage. +</p> +<p> +There are men in whom the combative element is so strong that it usurps +all their guidance, and when once they are enlisted in a contest, they +cannot desist till the struggle be decided for or against them. Such was +Glencore. To discover that the terrible injury he had inflicted on his +wife had not crushed her nor driven her with shame from the world, aroused +once more all the vindictive passions of his nature. It was a defiance he +could not withstand. Guilty or innocent, it mattered not; she had braved +him,—at least so he was told,—and as such he had come to see +her with his own eyes. If this was the thought which predominated in his +mind, others there were that had their passing power over him,—moments +of tenderness, moments in which the long past came back again, full of +softening memories; and then he would burst into tears and cry bitterly. +</p> +<p> +If he ventured to project any plan for reconciliation with her he had so +cruelly wronged, he as suddenly bethought him that her spirit was not less +high and haughty than his own. She had, so far as he could learn, never +quailed before his vengeance; how, then, might he suppose would she act in +the presence of his avowed injustice? Was it not, besides, too late to +repair the wrong? Even for his boy's sake, would it not be better if he +inherited sufficient means to support an honorable life, unknown and +unnoticed, than bequeath to him a name so associated with shame and +sorrow? +</p> +<p> +“Who can tell,” he would cry aloud, “what my harsh treatment may not have +made him? what resentment may have taken root in his young heart? what +distrust may have eaten into his nature? If I could but see him and talk +with him as a stranger,—if I could be able to judge him apart from +the influences that my own feelings would create,—even then, what +would it avail me? I have so sullied and tarnished a proud name that he +could never bear it without reproach. 'Who is this Lord Glencore?' people +would say. 'What is the strange story of his birth? Has any one yet got at +the truth? Was the father the cruel tyrant, or the mother the worthless +creature, we hear tell of? Is he even legitimate, and, if so, why does he +walk apart from his equals, and live without recognition by his order?' +This is the noble heritage I am to leave him,—this the proud +position to which he is to succeed! And yet Upton says that the boy's +rights are inalienable; that, think how I may, do what I will, the day on +which I die, he is the rightful Lord Glencore. His claim may lie dormant, +the proofs may be buried, but that, in truth and fact, he will be what all +my subterfuge and all my falsehood cannot deny him. And then, if the day +should come that he asserts his right,—if, by some of those +wonderful accidents that reveal the mysteries of the world, he should +succeed to prove his claim,—what a memory will he cherish of <i>me!</i> +Will not every sorrow of his youth, every indignity of his manhood, be +associated with my name? Will he or can he ever forgive him who defamed +the mother and despoiled the son?” + </p> +<p> +In the terrible conflict of such thoughts as these he passed the night; +intervals of violent grief or passion alone breaking the sad connection of +such reflections, till at length the worn-out faculties, incapable of +further exercise, wandered away into incoherency, and he raved in all the +wildness of insanity. +</p> +<p> +It was thus that Upton found him on his arrival. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0052" id="link2HCH0052"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER LII. MAJOR SCARESBY'S VISIT +</h2> +<p> +Down the crowded thoroughfare of the Borgo d' Ognisanti the tide of +Carnival mummers poured unceasingly. Hideous masks and gay dominos, +ludicrous impersonations and absurd satires on costume, abounded, and the +entire population seemed to have given themselves up to merriment, and +were fooling it to the top o' their bent. Bands of music and +chorus-singers from the theatre filled the air with their loud strains, +and carriages crowded with fantastic figures moved past, pelting the +bystanders with mock sweetmeats, and covering them with showers of flour. +It was a season of universal license, and, short of actual outrage, all +was permitted for the time. Nor did the enjoyment of the scene seem to be +confined to the poorer classes of the people, who thus for the nonce +assumed equality with their richer neighbors; but all, even to the very +highest, mixed in the wild excitement of the pageant, and took the rough +treatment they met with in perfect good-humor. Dukes and princes, white +from head to foot with the snowy shower, went laughingly along, and grave +dignitaries were fain to walk arm-inarm with the most ludicrous +monstrosities, whose gestures turned on them the laughter of all around. +Occasionally—but, it must be owned, rarely—some philosopher of +a sterner school might be seen passing hurriedly along, his severe +features and contemptuous glances owning to little sympathy with the +mummery about him; but even <i>he</i> had to compromise his proud disdain, +and escape, as best he might, from the indiscriminate justice of the +crowd. To detect one of this stamp, to follow, and turn upon him the full +tide of popular fury, seemed to be the greatest triumph of the scene. When +such a victim presented himself, all joined in the pursuit: nuns embraced, +devils environed him, angels perched on his shoulders, mock wild boars +rushed between his legs; his hat was decorated with feathers, his clothes +inundated with showers of meal or flour; hackney-coachmen, dressed as +ladies, fainted in his arms, and semi-naked bacchanals pressed drink to +his lips. In a word, each contributed what he might of attention to the +luckless individual, whose resistance—if he were so impolitic as to +make any—only increased the zest of the persecution. +</p> +<p> +An instance of this kind had now attracted general attention, nor was the +amusement diminished by the discovery that he was a foreigner and an +Englishman. Impertinent allusions to his nation, absurd attempts at his +language, ludicrous travesties of what were supposed to be his native +customs, were showered on him, in company with a hailstorm of mock bonbons +and lime-pellets; till, covered with powder, and outraged beyond all +endurance, he fought his way into the entrance of the Hôtel d'Italie, +followed by the cries and laughter of the populace. +</p> +<p> +“Cursed tomfoolery! Confounded asses!” cried he, as he found himself in a +harbor of refuge. “What the devil fun can they discover in making each +other dirtier than their daily habits bespeak them? I say,” cried he, +addressing a waiter, “is Sir Horace Upton staying here? Well, will you say +Major Scaresby—be correct in the name—Major Scaresby requests +to pay his respects.” + </p> +<p> +“His Excellency will see you, sir,” said the man, returning quickly with +the reply. +</p> +<p> +From the end of a room, so darkened by closed shutters and curtains as to +make all approach difficult, a weak voice called out, “Ah, Scaresby, how +d' ye do? I was just thinking to myself that I could n't be in Florence, +since I had not seen you.” + </p> +<p> +“You are too good, too kind, Sir Horace, to say so,” said the other, with +a voice whose tones by no means corresponded with the words. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, Scaresby, everything in this good city is in a manner associated +with your name. Its intrigues, its quarrels, its loves and jealousies, its +mysteries, in fine, have had no such interpreter as yourself within the +memory of man! What a pity there were no Scaresbys in the Cinque Cento! +How sad there were none of your family here in the Medician period! What a +picture might we then have had of a society fuller even than the present +of moral delinquencies.” There was a degree of pomposity in the manner he +uttered this that served to conceal in a great measure its sarcasm. +</p> +<p> +“I am much flattered to learn that I have ever enlightened your Excellency +on any subject,” said the Major, dryly. +</p> +<p> +“That you have, Scaresby. I was a mere dabbler in moral toxicology when I +heard your first lecture, and, I assure you, I was struck by your +knowledge. And how is the dear city doing?” + </p> +<p> +“It is masquerading to-day,” said Scaresby, “and, consequently, far more +natural than at any other period of the whole year. Smeared faces and +dirty finery,—exactly its suitable wear!” + </p> +<p> +“Who are here, Major? Any one that one knows?” + </p> +<p> +“Old Millington is here.” + </p> +<p> +“The Marquis?” + </p> +<p> +“Yes, he 's here, fresh painted and lacquered; his eyes twinkling with a +mock lustre that makes him look like an old po'-chaise with a pair of new +lamps!” + </p> +<p> +“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Sir Horace, encouragingly. +</p> +<p> +“And then—there's Mabworth.” + </p> +<p> +“Sir Paul Mabworth?” + </p> +<p> +“Ay, the same old bore as ever! He has got off one of Burke's speeches on +the India Bill by heart, and says that he spoke it on the question of the +grant for Maynooth. Oh, if poor Burke could only look up!” + </p> +<p> +“Look down! you ought to say, Scaresby; depend upon't, he 's not on the +Opposition benches still!” + </p> +<p> +“I hate the fellow,” said Scaresby, whose ill-temper was always augmented +by any attempted smartness of those he conversed with. “He has taken +Walmsley's cook away from him, and never gives any one a dinner.” + </p> +<p> +“That is shameful; a perfect dog in the manger!” + </p> +<p> +“Worse; he 's a dog without any manger! For he keeps his house on +board-wages, and there's literally nothing to eat! That poor thing, +Strejowsky.” + </p> +<p> +“Oh, Olga Strejowsky, do you mean? What of her?” + </p> +<p> +“Why, there's another husband just turned up. They thought he was killed +in the Caucasus, but he was only passing a few years in Siberia; and so he +has come back, and claims all the emeralds. You remember, of course, that +famous necklace, and the great drops! They belonged once to the Empress +Catherine, but Mabworth says that he took the concern with all its +dependencies; he 'll give up his bargain, but make no compromise.” + </p> +<p> +“She's growing old, I fancy.” + </p> +<p> +“She's younger than the Sabloukoff by five good years, and they tell me <i>she</i> +plays Beauty to this hour.” + </p> +<p> +Ah, Scaresby, had you known what words were these you have just uttered, +or had you only seen the face of him who heard them, you had rather bitten +your tongue off than suffered it to fashion them! +</p> +<p> +“Brignolles danced with her at that celebrated <i>fête</i> given by the +Prince of Orleans something like eight-and-thirty years ago.” + </p> +<p> +“And how is the dear Duke?” asked Upton, sharply. +</p> +<p> +“Just as you saw him at the Court of Louis XVIII.; he swaggers a little +more as he gets more feeble about the legs, and he shows his teeth when he +laughs, more decidedly since his last journey to Paris. Devilish clever +fellows these modern dentists are! He wants to marry; I suppose you 've +heard it.” + </p> +<p> +“Not a word of it. Who is the happy fair?” + </p> +<p> +“The Nina, as they call her now. She was one of the Delia Torres, who +married, or didn't marry, Glencore. Don't you remember him? He was Colonel +of the Eleventh, and a devil of a martinet he was.” + </p> +<p> +“I remember him,” said Upton, dryly. +</p> +<p> +“Well, he ran off with one of those girls, and some say they were married +at Capri,—as if it signified what happened at Capri! She was a +deuced good-looking girl at the time,—a coquette, you know,—and +Glencore was one of those stiff English fellows that think every man is +making up to his wife; he drank besides.” + </p> +<p> +“No, pardon me, there you are mistaken. I knew him intimately; Glencore +was as temperate as myself.” + </p> +<p> +“I have it from Lowther, who used to take him home at night; <i>he</i> +said Glencore never went to bed sober! At all events, she hated him, and +detested his miserly habits.” + </p> +<p> +“Another mistake, my dear Major. Glencore was never what is called a rich +man, but he was always a generous one!” + </p> +<p> +“I suppose you'll not deny that he used to thrash her? Ay, and with a +horsewhip too!” + </p> +<p> +“Come, come, Scaresby; this is really too coarse for mere jesting.” + </p> +<p> +“Jest? By Jove! it was very bitter earnest. She told Brignolles all about +it. I 'm not sure she didn't show him the marks.” + </p> +<p> +“Take my word for it, Scaresby,” said Upton, dropping his voice to a low +but measured tone, “this is a base calumny, and the Duke of Brignolles no +more circulated such a story than I did. He is a man of honor, and utterly +incapable of it.” + </p> +<p> +“I can only repeat that I believe it to be perfectly true!” said Scaresby, +calmly. “Nobody here ever doubted the story.” + </p> +<p> +“I cannot say what measure of charity accompanies your zeal for truth in +this amiable society, Scaresby, but I can repeat my assertion that this +must be a falsehood.” + </p> +<p> +“You will find it very hard, nevertheless, to bring any one over to your +opinion,” retorted the unappeasable Major. “He was a fellow everybody +hated; proud and supercilious to all, and treated his wife's relations—who +were of far better blood than himself—as though they were <i>canaille</i>.” + </p> +<p> +A loud crash, as if of something heavy having fallen, here interrupted +their colloquy, and Upton sprang from his seat and hastened into the +adjoining room. Close beside the door—so close that he almost fell +over it in entering—lay the figure of Lord Glencore. In his efforts +to reach the door he had fainted, and there he lay,—a cold, clammy +sweat covering his livid features, and his bloodless lips slightly parted. +</p> +<p> +It was almost an hour ere his consciousness returned; but when it did, and +he saw Upton alone at his bedside, he pressed his hand within his own, and +said, “I heard it all, Upton, every word! I tried to reach the room; I got +out of bed—and was already at the door—when my brain reeled, +and my heart grew faint It may have been malady, it might be passion,—I +know not; but I saw no more. He is gone,—is he not?” cried he, in a +faint whisper. +</p> +<p> +“Yes, yes,—an hour ago; but you will think nothing of what he said, +when I tell you his name. It was Scaresby,—Major Scaresby; one whose +bad tongue is the one solitary claim by which he subsists in a society of +slanderers!” + </p> +<p> +“And he is gone!” repeated the other, in a tone of deep despondency. +</p> +<p> +“Of course he is. I never saw him since; but be assured of what I have +just told you, that his libels carry no reproach. He is a calumniator by +temperament.” + </p> +<p> +“I 'd have shot him, if I could have opened the door,” muttered Glencore +between his teeth; but Upton heard the words distinctly. “What am I to +this man,” cried he, aloud, “or he to me, that I am to be arraigned by him +on charges of any kind, true or false? What accident of fortune makes him +my judge? Tell me that, sir. Who has appealed to him for protection? Who +has demanded to be righted at his hand?” + </p> +<p> +“Will you not hear me, Glencore, when I say that his slanders have no +sting? In the circles wherein he mixes, it is the mere scandal that +amuses; for its veracity, there is not one that cares. You, or I, or some +one else, supply the name of an actor in a disreputable drama, the plot of +which alone interests, not the performer.” + </p> +<p> +“And am I to sit tamely down under this degradation?” exclaimed Glencore, +passionately. “I have never subscribed to this dictation. There is little, +indeed, of life left to me, but there is enough, perhaps, to vindicate +myself against men of this stamp. You shall take him a message from me; +you shall tell him by what accident I overheard his discoveries.” + </p> +<p> +“My dear Glencore, there are graver interests, far worthier cares, than +any this man's name can enter into, which should now engage you.” + </p> +<p> +“I say he shall have my provocation, and that within an hour!” cried +Glencore, wildly. +</p> +<p> +“You would give this man and his words a consequence that neither have +ever possessed,” said Upton, in a mild and subdued tone. “Remember, +Glencore, when I left with you this morning that paper of Stubber's it was +with a distinct understanding that other and wiser thoughts than those of +vengeance were to occupy your attention. I never scrupled to place it in +your hands; I never hesitated about confiding to you what in a lawyer's +phrase would be a proof against you. When an act of justice was to be +done, I would not stain it by the faintest shadow of coercion. I left you +free, I leave you still free, from everything but the dictates of your own +honor.” + </p> +<p> +Glencore made no reply, but the conflict of his thoughts seemed to agitate +him greatly. +</p> +<p> +“The man who has pursued a false path in life,” said Upton, calmly, “has +need of much courage to retrace his steps; but courage is not the quality +you fail in, Glencore, so that I appeal to you with confidence.” + </p> +<p> +“I have need of courage,” muttered Glencore; “you say truly. What was it +the doctor said this morning,—aneurism?” + </p> +<p> +Upton moved his head with an inclination barely perceptible. +</p> +<p> +“What a Nemesis there is in nature,” said Glencore, with a sickly attempt +to smile, “that passion should beget malady! I never knew, physically +speaking, that I had a heart—till it was broken. So that,” resumed +he, in a more agreeable tone, “death may ensue at any moment—on the +least excitement?” + </p> +<p> +“He warned you gravely on that point,” said Upton, cautiously. +</p> +<p> +“How strange that I should have come through that trial of an hour ago! It +was not that the struggle did not move me. I could have torn that fellow +limb from limb, Upton, if I had but the strength! But see,” cried he, +feebly, “what a poor wretch I am; I cannot close these fingers!” and he +held out a worn and clammy hand as he spoke. “Do with me as you will,” + said he, after a pause; “I ought to have followed your counsels long ago!” + </p> +<p> +Upton was too subtle an anatomist of human motives to venture by even the +slightest word to disturb a train of thought which any interference could +only damage. As the other still continued to meditate, and, by his manner +and look, in a calmer and more reflective spirit, the wily diplomatist +moved noiselessly away, and left him alone. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0053" id="link2HCH0053"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER LIII. A MASK IN CARNIVAL TIME +</h2> +<p> +From the gorgeous halls of the Pitti Palace down to the humblest chamber +in Camaldole, Florence was a scene of rejoicing. As night closed in, the +crowds seemed only to increase, and the din and clamor to grow louder. It +seemed as though festivity and joy had overflowed from the houses, filling +the streets with merry-makers. In the clear cold air, groups feasted, and +sang, and danced, all mingling and intermixing with a freedom that showed +how thoroughly the spirit of pleasure-seeking can annihilate the +distinctions of class. The soiled and tattered mummer leaned over the +carriage-door and exchanged compliments with the masked duchess within. +The titled noble of a dozen quarterings stopped to pledge a merry company +who pressed him to drain a glass of Monte Pulciano with them. There was a +perfect fellowship between those whom fortune had so widely separated, and +the polished accents of high society were heard to blend with the quaint +and racy expressions of the “people.” + </p> +<p> +Theatres and palaces lay open, all lighted “<i>a giorno</i>.” The whole +population of the city surged and swayed to and fro like a mighty sea in +motion, making the air resound the while with a wild mixture of sounds, +wherein music and laughter were blended. Amid the orgie, however, not an +act, not a word of rudeness, disturbed the general content. It was a +season of universal joy, and none dared to destroy the spell of pleasure +that presided. +</p> +<p> +Our task is not to follow the princely equipages as they rolled in +unceasing tides within the marble courts, nor yet to track the strong +flood that poured through the wide thoroughfares in all the wildest +exuberance of their joy. +</p> +<p> +Our business is with two travellers, who, well weary of being for hours +a-foot, and partly sated with pleasure, sat down to rest themselves on a +bench beside the Arno. +</p> +<p> +“It is glorious fooling, that must be owned, Billy,” said Charles Massy, +“and the spirit is most contagious. How little have you or I in common +with these people! We scarce can catch the accents of the droll allusions, +we cannot follow the strains of their rude songs, and yet we are carried +away like the rest to feel a wild enjoyment in all this din, and glitter, +and movement. How well they do it, too!” + </p> +<p> +“That's all by rayson of concentration,” said 'Billy, gravely. “They are +highly charged with fun. The ould adage says, 'Non semper sunt +Saturnalia,'—It is not every day Morris kills a cow.” + </p> +<p> +“Yet it is by this very habit of enjoyment that they know how to be +happy.” + </p> +<p> +“To be sure it is,” cried Billy; “<i>they</i> have a ritual for it which +<i>we</i> have n't; as Cicero tells us, 'In jucundis nullum periculum.' +But ye see we have no notion of any amusement without a dash of danger +through it, if not even cruelty!” + </p> +<p> +“The French know how to reconcile the two natures; they are brave, and +light-hearted too.” + </p> +<p> +“And the Irish, Mister Charles,—the Irish especially,” said Billy, +proudly; “for I was alludin' to the English in what I said last. The +'versatile ingenium' is all our own. +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +He goes into a tent and he spends half a-crown, +Comes out, meets a friend, and for love knocks him down. +</pre> +<p> +There 's an elegant philosophy in that, now, that a Saxon would never see! +For it is out of the very fulness of the heart, ye may remark, that Pat +does this, just as much as to say, 'I don't care for the expense!' He +smashes a skull just as he would a whole dresser of crockery-ware! There's +something very grand in that recklessness.” + </p> +<p> +The tone of the remark, and a certain wild energy of his manner, showed +that poor Billy's faculties were slightly under the influences of the +Tuscan grape; and the youth smiled at sight of an excess so rare. +</p> +<p> +“How hard it must be,” said Massy, “to go back to the workaday routine of +life after one of these outbursts,—to resume not alone the drudgery, +but all the slavish observances that humble men yield to great ones!” + </p> +<p> +“'Tis what Bacon says, 'There's nothing so hard as unlearnin' anything;' +and the proof is how few of us ever do it! We always go on mucin' old +thoughts with new,—puttin' different kinds of wine into the same +glass, and then wonderin' we are not invigorated!” + </p> +<p> +“You 're in a mood for moralizing to-night, I see, Billy,” said the other, +smiling. +</p> +<p> +“The levities of life always puts me on that thrack, just as too bright a +day reminds me to take out an umbrella with me.” + </p> +<p> +“Yet I do not see that all your observation of the world has indisposed +you to enjoy it, or that you take harsher views of life the closer you +look at it.” + </p> +<p> +“Quite the reverse; the more I see of mankind, the more I 'm struck with +the fact that the very wickedest and worst can't get rid of remorse! 'Tis +something out of a man's nature entirely—something that dwells +outside of him—sets him on to commit a crime; and then he begins to +rayson and dispute with the temptation, just like one keepin' bad company, +and listenin' to impure notions and evil suggestions day after day; as he +does this, he gets to have a taste for that kind of low society,—I +mane with his own bad thoughts,—till at last every other ceases to +amuse him. Look! what's that there; where are they goin' with all the +torches there?” cried he, suddenly, springing up and pointing to a dense +crowd that passed along the street. It was a band of music, dressed in a +quaint mediaeval costume, on its way to serenade some palace. +</p> +<p> +“Let us follow and listen to them, Billy,” said the youth; and they arose +and joined the throng. +</p> +<p> +Following in the wake of the dense mass, they at last reached the gates of +a great palace, and after some waiting gained access to the spacious +courtyard. The grim old statues and armorial bearings shone in the glare +of a hundred torches, and the deep echoes rang with the brazen voices of +the band as, pent up within the quadrangle, the din of a large orchestra +arose. On a great terrace overhead numerous figures were grouped,—indistinctly +seen from the light of the <i>salons</i> within,—but whose +mysterious movements completed the charm of a very interesting picture. +</p> +<p> +Some wrapped in shawls to shroud them from the night air, some, less +cautiously emerging from the rooms within, leaned over the marble +balustrade and showed their jewelled arms in the dim hazy light, while +around and about them gay uniforms and costumes abounded. As Billy gave +himself up to the excitement of the music, young Massy, more interested by +the aspect of the scene, gazed unceasingly at the balcony. There was just +that shadowy indistinctness in the whole that invested it with a kind of +romantic interest, and he could weave stories and incidents from those +whose figures passed and repassed before him. He fancied that in their +gestures he could trace many meanings, and as the bent-down heads +approached, and their hands touched, he fashioned many a tale in his own +mind of moving fortunes. +</p> +<p> +“And see, she comes again to that same dark angle of the terrace,” + muttered he to himself, as, shrouded in a large mantle and with a half +mask on her features, a tall and graceful figure passed into the place he +spoke of. “She looks like one among, but not of, them. How much of +heart-weariness is there in that attitude; how full is it of sad and +tender melancholy! Would that I could see her face! My life on't that it +is beautiful! There, she is tearing up her bouquet; leaf by leaf the +rose-leaves are falling, as though one by one hopes are decaying in her +heart.” He pushed his way through the dense throng till he gained a corner +of the court where a few leaves and flower-stems yet strewed the ground; +carefully gathering up these, he crushed them in his hand, and seemed to +feel as though a nearer tie bound him to the fair unknown. How little +ministers to the hope; how infinitely less again will feed the imagination +of a young heart! +</p> +<p> +Between them now there was, to his appreciation, some mysterious link. +“Yes,” he said to himself, “true, I stand unknown, unnoticed; yet it is to +<i>me</i> of all the thousands here she could reveal what is passing in +that heart! I know it, I feel it! She has a sorrow whose burden I might +help to bear. There is cruelty, or treachery, or falsehood arrayed against +her; and through all the splendor of the scene—all the wild gayety +of the orgie—some spectral image never leaves her side! I would +stake existence on it that I have read her aright!” + </p> +<p> +Of all the intoxications that can entrance the human faculties, there is +none so maddening as that produced by giving full sway to an exuberant +imagination. The bewilderment resists every effort of reason, and in its +onward course carries away its victims with all the force of a mountain +torrent. A winding stair, long unused and partly dilapidated, led to the +end of the terrace where she stood, and Massy, yielding to some strange +impulse, slowly and noiselessly crept up this till he gained a spot only a +few yards removed from her. The dark shadow of the building almost +completely concealed his figure, and left him free to contemplate her +unnoticed. +</p> +<p> +Some event of interest within had withdrawn all from the terrace save +herself; the whole balcony was suddenly deserted, and she alone remained, +to all seeming lost to the scene around her. It was then that she removed +her mask, and suffering it to fall back on her neck, rested her head +pensively on her hand. Massy bent over eagerly to try and catch sight of +her face; the effort he made startled her, she looked round, and he cried +out, “Ida—Ida! My heart could not deceive me!” In another instant he +had climbed the balcony and was beside her. +</p> +<p> +“I thought we had parted forever, Sebastian,” said she; “you told me so on +the last night at Massa.” + </p> +<p> +“And so I meant when I said it,” cried he; “nor is our meeting now of my +planning. I came to Florence, it is true, to see, but not to speak with +you, ere I left Europe forever. For three entire days I have searched the +city to discover where you lived, and chance—I have no better name +for it—chance has led me hither.” + </p> +<p> +“It is an unkind fortune that has made us meet again,” said she, in a +voice of deep melancholy. +</p> +<p> +“I have never known fortune in any other mood,” said he, fiercely. “When +clouds show me the edge of their silver linings, I only prepare myself for +storm and hurricane.” + </p> +<p> +“I know you have endured much,” said she, in a voice of deeper sadness. +</p> +<p> +“You know but little of what I have endured,” rejoined he, sternly. “You +saw me taunted, indeed, with my humble calling, insulted for my low birth, +expelled ignominiously from a house where my presence had been sought for; +and yet all these, grievous enough, are little to other evils I have had +to bear.” + </p> +<p> +“By what unhappy accident, what mischance, have you made <i>her</i> your +enemy, Sebastian? She would not even suffer me to speak to you. She went +so far as to tell me that there was a reason for the dislike,—one +which, if she could reveal, I would never question.” + </p> +<p> +“How can I tell?” cried he, angrily. “I was born, I suppose, under an evil +star; for nothing prospers with me.” + </p> +<p> +“But can you even guess her reasons?” said she, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“No, except it be the presumption of one in <i>my</i> condition daring to +aspire to one in <i>yours</i>; and that, as the world goes, would be +reason enough. It is probable, too, that I did not state these pretensions +of mine over delicately. I told her, with a frankness that was not quite +acceptable, I was one who could not speak of birth or blood. She did not +like the coarse word I applied to myself, and I will not repeat it; and +she ventured to suggest that, had there not appeared some ambiguity in her +own position, <i>I</i> could never have so far forgotten mine as to +advance such pretensions—” + </p> +<p> +“Well, and then?” cried the girl, eagerly. +</p> +<p> +“Well, and then,” said he, deliberately, “I told her I had heard rumors of +the kind she alluded to, but to <i>me</i> they carried no significance; +that it was for <i>you</i> I cared. The accidents of life around you had +no influence on my choice; you might be all that the greatest wealth and +highest blood could make you, or as poor and ignoble as myself, without +any change in my affections. 'These,' said she, 'are the insulting +promptings of that English breeding which you say has mixed with your +blood, and if for no other cause would make me distrust you.' +</p> +<p> +“'Stained as it may be,' said I, 'that same English blood is the best +pride I possess.' She grew pale with passion as I said this, but never +spoke a word; and there we stood, staring haughtily at each other, till +she pointed to the door, and so I left her. And now, Ida, who is she that +treats me thus disdainfully? I ask you not in anger, for I know too well +how the world regards such as me to presume to question its harsh +injustice. But tell me, I beseech you, that she is one to whose station +these prejudices are the fitting accompaniments, and let me feel that it +is less myself as the individual that she wrongs, than the class I belong +to is that which she despises. I can better bear this contumely when I +know that it is an instinct.” + </p> +<p> +“If birth and blood can justify a prejudice, a Princess of the house of +Delia Torre might claim the privilege,” said the girl, haughtily. “No +family of the North, at least, will dispute with our own in lineage; but +there are other causes which may warrant all that she feels towards you +even more strongly, Sebastian. This boast of your English origin, this it +is which has doubtless injured you in her esteem. Too much reason has she +had to cherish the antipathy! Betrayed into a secret marriage by an +Englishman who represented himself as of a race noble as her own, she was +deserted and abandoned by him afterwards. This is the terrible mystery +which I never dared to tell you, and which led us to a life of seclusion +at Massa. This is the source of that hatred towards all of a nation which +she must ever associate with the greatest misfortunes of her life! And +from this unhappy event was she led to make me take that solemn oath that +I spoke of, never to link my fortunes with one of that hated land.” + </p> +<p> +“But you told me that you had not made the pledge,” said he, wildly. +</p> +<p> +“Nor had I then, Sebastian; but since we last met, worked on by +solicitation, I could not resist; tortured by a narrative of such sorrows +as I never listened to before, I yielded, and gave my promise.” + </p> +<p> +“It matters little to <i>me!</i>” said he, gloomily; “a barrier the more +or the less can be of slight moment when there rolls a wide sea between +us! Had you ever loved me, such a pledge had been impossible.” + </p> +<p> +“It was you yourself, Sebastian, told me we were never to meet again,” + rejoined she. +</p> +<p> +“Better that we had never done so!” muttered he. “Nay, perhaps I am +wrong,” added he, fiercely; “this meeting may serve to mark how little +there ever was between us!” + </p> +<p> +“Is this cruelty affected, Sebastian, or is it real?” + </p> +<p> +“It cannot be cruel to echo your own words. Besides,” said he, with an air +of mockery in the words, “she who lives in this gorgeous palace, +surrounded with all the splendors of life, can have little complaint to +make against the cruelty of fortune!” + </p> +<p> +“How unlike yourself is all this!” cried she. “You of all I have ever seen +or known, understood how to rise above the accidents of fate, placing your +happiness and your ambitions in a sphere where mere questions of wealth +never entered. What can have so changed you?” + </p> +<p> +Before he could reply, a sudden movement in the crowd beneath attracted +the attention of both, and a number of persons who had filled the terrace +now passed hurriedly into the <i>salons</i>, where, to judge from the +commotion, an event of some importance had occurred. Ida lost not a moment +in entering, when she was met by the words: “It is she, Nina herself is +ill; some mask—a stranger, it would seem—has said something or +threatened something.” In fact, she had been carried to her room in strong +convulsions; and while some were in search of medical aid for her, others, +not less eagerly, were endeavoring to detect the delinquent. +</p> +<p> +From the gay and brilliant picture of festivity which was presented but a +few minutes back, what a change now came over the scene! Many hurried away +at once, shocked at even a momentary shadow on the sunny road of their +existence; others as anxiously pressed on to recount the incident +elsewhere; some, again, moved by curiosity or some better prompting, +exerted themselves to investigate what amounted to a gross violation of +the etiquette of a carnival; and thus, in the <i>salons</i>, on the +stairs, and in the court itself, the greatest bustle and confusion +prevailed. At length some suggested that the gate of the palace should be +closed, and none suffered to depart without unmasking. The motion was at +once adopted, and a small knot of persons, the friends of the Countess, +assumed the task of the scrutiny. +</p> +<p> +Despite complaints and remonstrances as to the inconvenience and delay +thus occasioned, they examined every carriage as it passed out. None, +however, but faces familiar to the Florentine world were to be met with; +the well-known of every ball and <i>fête</i> were there, and if a stranger +presented himself, he was sure to be one for whom some acquaintance could +bear testimony. +</p> +<p> +At a fire in one of the smaller <i>salons</i> stood a small group, of +which the Duc de Brignolles and Major Scaresby formed a part. Sentiments +of a very different order had detained these two individuals, and while +the former was deeply moved by the insult offered to the Countess, the +latter felt an intense desire to probe the circumstance to the bottom. +</p> +<p> +“Devilish odd it is!” cried Scaresby; “here we have been this last hour +and a half turning a whole house out of the windows, and yet there's no +one to tell us what it's all for, what it 's all about!” + </p> +<p> +“Pardon, monsieur,” said the Duke, severely. “We know that a lady whose +hospitality we have been accepting has retired from her company insulted. +It is very clearly our duty that this should not pass unpunished.” + </p> +<p> +“Oughtn't we to have some clearer insight into what constituted the +insult? It may have been a practical joke,—a <i>mauvaise +plaisanterie</i>, Duke.” + </p> +<p> +“We have no claim to any confidence not extended to us, sir,” said the +Frenchman. “To me it is quite sufficient that the Countess feels +aggrieved.” + </p> +<p> +“Not but we shall cut an absurd figure to-morrow, when we own that we +don't know what we were so indignant about.” + </p> +<p> +“Only so many of us as have characters for the 'latest intelligence.'” + </p> +<p> +To this sally there succeeded a somewhat awkward pause, Scaresby occupying +himself with thoughts of some perfectly safe vengeance. +</p> +<p> +“I shouldn't wonder if it was that Count Marsano—that fellow who +used to be about the Nina long ago—come back again. He was at Como +this summer, and made many inquiries after his old love!” + </p> +<p> +A most insulting stare of defiance was the only reply the old Duke could +make to what he would have been delighted to resent as a personal affront. +</p> +<p> +“Marsano is a <i>mauvais drôle</i>,” said a Russian; “and if a woman +slighted him, or he suspected that she did, he's the very man to execute a +vengeance of the kind.” + </p> +<p> +“I should apply a harsher epithet to a man capable of such conduct,” said +the Duke. +</p> +<p> +“He 'd not take it patiently, Duke,” said the other. +</p> +<p> +“It is precisely in that hope, sir, that I should employ it,” said the +Duke. +</p> +<p> +Again was the conversation assuming a critical turn, and again an interval +of ominous silence succeeded. +</p> +<p> +“There is but one carriage now in the court, your Excellency,” said the +servant, addressing the Duke in a low voice, “and the gentleman inside +appears to be seriously ill. It might be better, perhaps, not to detain +him.” + </p> +<p> +“Of course not,” said the Duke; “but stay, I will go down myself.” + </p> +<p> +There were still a considerable number of persons on foot in the court +when the Duke descended, but only one equipage remained,—a hired +carriage,—at the open door of which a servant was standing, holding +a glass of water for his master. +</p> +<p> +“Can I be of any use to your master?” said the Duke, approaching. “Is he +ill?” + </p> +<p> +“I fear he has burst a blood-vessel, sir,” said the man. “He is too weak +to answer me.” + </p> +<p> +“Who is it,—what 's his name?” + </p> +<p> +“I am not able to tell you, sir; I only accompanied him from the hotel.” + </p> +<p> +“Let us have a doctor at once; he appears to be dying,” said the Duke, as +he placed his fingers on the sick man's wrist. “Let some one go for a +physician.” + </p> +<p> +“There is one here,” cried a voice. “I'm a doctor;” and Billy Traynor +pushed his way to the spot. “Come, Master Charles, get into the coach and +help me to lift him out.” + </p> +<p> +Young Massy obeyed, and not without difficulty they succeeded at last in +disengaging the almost lifeless form of a man whose dark domino was +perfectly saturated with fresh blood; his half mask still covered his +face, and, to screen his features from the vulgar gaze of the crowd, they +suffered it to remain there. +</p> +<p> +Up the wide stairs and into a spacious <i>salon</i> they now carried the +figure, whose drooping head and hanging limbs gave little signs of life. +They placed him on a sofa, and Traynor, with a ready hand, untied the mask +and removed it. “Merciful Heavens,” cried he, “it's my Lord himself!” + </p> +<p> +The youth bent down, gazed for a few seconds at the corpse-like face, and +fell fainting to the floor. +</p> +<p> +“My Lord Glencore himself!” said the Duke, who was himself an old and +attached friend. +</p> +<p> +“Hush! not a word,” whispered Traynor; “he 's rallyin'—he 's comin' +to; don't utter a syllable.” + </p> +<p> +Slowly and languidly the dying man raised his eyelids, and gazed at each +of those around him. From their faces he turned his gaze to the chamber, +viewing the walls and the ceiling all in turn; and then, in an accent +barely audible, he said, “Where am I?” + </p> +<p> +“Amongst friends, who love and will cherish you, dear Glencore,” said the +Duke, affectionately. +</p> +<p> +“Ah, Brignolles, I remember you. And this,—who is this?” + </p> +<p> +“Traynor, my Lord,—Billy Traynor, that will never leave you while he +can serve you!” + </p> +<p> +“Whose tears are those upon my hand,—I feel them hot and burning,” + said the sick man; and Billy stepped back, that the light should fall upon +the figure that knelt beside him. +</p> +<p> +“Don't cry, poor fellow,” said Glencore; “it must be a hard world, or you +have many better and dearer friends than I could have ever been to you. +Who is this?” + </p> +<p> +Billy tried, but could not answer. +</p> +<p> +“Tell him, if you know who it is; see how wild and excited it has made +him,” cried the Duke; for, stretching out both hands, Glencore had caught +the boy's face on either side, and continued to gaze on it, in wild +eagerness. “It' is—it is!” cried he, pressing it to his bosom, and +kissing the forehead over and over again. +</p> +<p> +“Whom does he fancy it? Whom does he suspect?” + </p> +<p> +“This is—look, Brignolles,” cried the dying man, in a voice already +thick with a death-rattle,—“this is the seventh Lord Viscount +Glencore. I declare it. And now———” + </p> +<p> +He fell back, and never spoke more. A single shudder shook his feeble +frame, and he was dead. +</p> +<p> +We have had occasion once before in this veracious history to speak of the +polite oblivion Florentine society so well understands to throw over the +course of events which might cloud, even for a moment, the sunny surface +of its enjoyment. No people, so far as we know, have greater gifts in this +way; to shroud the disagreeables of life in decent shadow—to ignore +or forget them is their grand prerogative. +</p> +<p> +Scarcely, therefore, had three weeks elapsed, than the terrible +catastrophe at the Palazzo della Torre was totally consigned to the +bygones; it ceased to be thought or spoken of, and was as much matter of +remote history as an incident in the times of one of the Medici. Too much +interested in the future to waste time on the past, they launched into +speculations as to whether the Countess would be likely to marry again; +what change the late event might effect in the amount of her fortune; and +how far her position in the world might be altered by the incident. He +who, in the ordinary esteem of society, would have felt less acutely than +his neighbors for Glencore's sad fate,—Upton,—was in reality +deeply and sincerely affected. The traits which make a consummate man of +the world—one whose prerogative it is to appreciate others, and be +able to guide and influence their actions—are, in truth, very high +and rare gifts, and imply resources of fine sentiment as fully as stores +of intellectual wealth. Upton sorrowed over Glencore as for one whose +noble nature had been poisoned by an impetuous temper, and over whose best +instincts an ungovernable self-esteem had ever held the mastery. They had +been friends almost from boyhood, and the very worldliest of men can feel +the bitterness of that isolation in which the “turn of life” too +frequently commences. Such friendships are never made in later life. We +lend our affections when young on very small security, and though it is +true we are occasionally unfortunate, we do now and then make a safe +investment. No men are more prone to attach an exaggerated value to early +friendships than those who, stirred by strong ambitions, and animated by +high resolves, have played for the great stakes in the world's lottery. +Too much immersed in the cares and contests of life to find time to +contract close personal attachments, they fall back upon the memory of +school or college days to supply the want of their hearts. There is a +sophistry, too, that seduces them to believe that then, at least, they +were loved for what they were, for qualities of their nature, not for +accidents of station, or the proud rewards of success. There is also +another and a very strange element in the pleasure such memories afford. +Our early attachments serve as points of departure by which we measure the +distance we have travelled in life. “Ay,” say we, “we were schoolfellows; +I remember how he took the lead of me in this or that science, how far +behind he left me in such a thing; and yet look at us now!” Upton had very +often to fall back upon similar recollections; neither his school nor his +college life had been remarkable for distinction; but it was always +perceived that every attainment he achieved was such as would be available +in after life. Nor did he ever burden himself with the toils of +scholarship while there lay within his reach stores of knowledge that +might serve to contest the higher and greater prizes that he had already +set before his ambition. +</p> +<p> +But let us return to himself as, alone and sorrow-struck, he sat in his +room of the Hôtel d'Italie. Various cares and duties consequent on +Glencore's death had devolved entirely upon him. Young Massy had suddenly +disappeared from Florence on the morning after the funeral, and was seen +no more, and Upton was the only one who could discharge any of the +necessary duties of such a moment. The very nature of the task thus +imposed upon him had its own depressing influence on his mind; the gloomy +pomp of death—the terrible companionship between affliction and +worldliness—the tear of the mourner—the heart-broken sigh +drowned in the sharp knock of the coffin-maker. He had gone through it +all, and sat moodily pondering over the future, when Madame de Sabloukoff +entered. +</p> +<p> +“She 's much better this morning, and I think we can go over and dine with +her to-day,” said she, removing her shawl and taking a seat. +</p> +<p> +He gave a little easy smile that seemed assent, but did not speak. +</p> +<p> +“I perceive you have not opened your letters this morning,” said she, +turning towards the table, littered over with letters and despatches of +every size and shape! “This seems to be from the King,—is that his +mode of writing 'G. R.' in the corner?” + </p> +<p> +“So it is,” said Upton, faintly. “Will you be kind enough to read it for +me?” + </p> +<p> +“Pavilion, Brighton. +</p> +<p> +“Dear Upton,—Let me be the first to congratulate you on an +appointment which it affords me the greatest pleasure to confirm— +</p> +<p> +“What does he allude to?” cried she, stopping suddenly, while a slight +tinge of color showed surprise, and a little displeasure, perhaps, mingled +in her emotions. +</p> +<p> +“I have not the very remotest conception,” said Upton, calmly. “Let us see +what that large despatch contains; it comes from the Duke of Agecombe. +Oh,” said he, with a great effort to appear as calm and unmoved as +possible, “I see what it is, they have given me India!” + </p> +<p> +“India!” exclaimed she, in amazement. +</p> +<p> +“I mean, my dear Princess, they have given me the Governor-Generalship.” + </p> +<p> +“Which, of course, you would not accept.” + </p> +<p> +“Why not, pray?” + </p> +<p> +“India!” It is banishment, barbarism, isolation from all that really +interests or embellishes existence,—a despotism that is wanting in +the only element which gives a despot dignity, that he founds or +strengthens a dynasty.” + </p> +<p> +“No, no, charming Princess,” said he, smiling; “it is a very glorious +sovereignty, with unlimited resources and—a very handsome stipend.” + </p> +<p> +“Which, therefore, you do not decline,” said she, with a very peculiar +smile. +</p> +<p> +“With your companionship, I should call it a paradise,” said he. +</p> +<p> +“And without such?” + </p> +<p> +“Such a sacrifice as one must never shrink from at the call of duty,” said +he, bowing profoundly. +</p> +<p> +The Princess dined that day with the Countess of Glencore, and Sir Horace +Upton journeyed towards England. +</p> +<p> +<a name="link2HCH0054" id="link2HCH0054"> +<!-- H2 anchor --> </a> +</p> +<div style="height: 4em;"> +<br /><br /><br /><br /> +</div> +<h2> +CHAPTER LIV. THE END +</h2> +<p> +Tears have gone over, and once more—it is for the last time—we +come back to the old castle in the West, beside the estuary of the +Killeries. Neglect and ruin have made heavy inroads on it. The battlements +of the great tower have fallen. Of the windows, the stormy winds of the +Atlantic have left only the stone mullions. The terrace is cumbered with +loose stones and fallen masonry. Not a trace of the garden remains, save +in the chance presence of some flowering plant or shrub, half-choked by +weeds, and wearing out a sad existence in uncared-for solitude. The +entrance-gate is closely barred and fastened, but a low portal, in a side +wing, lies open, entering by which we can view the dreary desolation +within. The apartments once inhabited by Lord Glencore are all dismantled +and empty. The wind and the rain sweep at will along the vaulted corridors +and through the deep-arched chambers. Of the damp, discolored walls and +ceilings, large patches litter the floors with fragments of stucco and +carved architraves. +</p> +<p> +One small chamber, on the ground-floor, maintains a habitable aspect. Here +a bed and a few articles of furniture, some kitchen utensils and a little +bookshelf, all neatly and orderly arranged, show that some one calls this +a home! Sad and lonely enough is it! Not a sound to break the weary +stillness, save the deep roar of the heavy sea; not a living voice, save +the wild shrill cry of the osprey, as he soars above the barren cliffs! It +is winter, and what desolation can be deeper or gloomier! The sea-sent +mists wrap the mountains and even the lough itself in their vapory shroud. +The cold thin rain falls unceasingly; a cheerless, damp, and heavy +atmosphere dwells even within doors; and the gray half light gives a +shadowy indistinctness even to objects at hand, disposing the mind to sad +and dreary imaginings. +</p> +<p> +In a deep straw chair, beside the turf fire, sits a very old man, with a +large square volume upon his knee. Dwarfed by nature and shrunk by years, +there is something of almost goblin semblance in the bright lustre of his +dark eyes, and the rapid motion of his lips as he reads to himself half +aloud. The almost wild energy of his features has survived the wear and +tear of time, and, old as he is, there is about him a dash of vigor that +seems to defy age. Poor Billy Traynor is now upwards of eighty; but his +faculties are clear, his memory unclouded, and, like Moses, his eye not +dimmed. “The Three Chronicles of Loughdooner,” in which he is reading, is +the history of the Glencores, and contains, amongst its family records, +many curious predictions and prophecies. The heirs of that ancient house +were, from time immemorial, the sport of fortune, enduring vicissitudes +without end. No reverses seemed ever too heavy to rally from; no depth of +evil fate too deep for them to extricate themselves. Involved in +difficulties innumerable, engaged in plots, conspiracies, luckless +undertakings, abortive enterprises, still they contrived to survive all +around them, and come out with, indeed, ruined fortunes and beggared +estate, but still with life, and with what is the next to life itself, an +unconquerable energy of character. +</p> +<p> +It was in the encouragement of these gifts that Billy now sought for what +cheered the last declining days of his solitary life. His lord, as he ever +called him, had been for years and years away in a distant colony, living +under another name. Dwelling amongst the rough settlers of a wild remote +tract, a few brief lines at long intervals were the only tidings that +assured Billy he was yet living; yet were they enough to convince him, +coupled with the hereditary traits of his house, that some one day or +other he would come back again to resume his proud place and the noble +name of his ancestors. More than once had it been the fate of the +Glencores to see “the hearth cold, and the roof-tree blackened;” and Billy +now muttered the lines of an old chronicle where such a destiny was +bewailed:— +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“Where are the voices, whispering low, +Of lovers side by side? +And where the haughty dames who swept +Thy terraces in pride? +Where is the wild and joyous mirth +That drown'd th' Atlantic's roar, +Making the rafters ring again +With welcome to Glencore? +“And where's the step of belted knight, +That strode the massive floor? +And where's the laugh of lady bright, +We used to hear of yore? +The hound that bayed, the prancing steed, +Impatient at the door, +May bide the time for many a year— +They 'll never see Glencore! +</pre> +<p> +“And he came back, after all,—Lord Hugo,—and was taken +prisoner at Ormond by Cromwell, and sentenced to death!” said Billy. +“Sentenced to death!—but never shot! Nobody knew why, or ever will +know. After years and years of exile he came back, and was at the Court of +Charles, but never liked,—they say dangerous! That 's exactly the +word,—dangerous!” + </p> +<p> +He started up from his revery, and, taking his stick, issued from the +room. The mist was beginning to rise, and he took his way towards the +shore of the lough, through the wet and tangled grass. It was a long and +toilsome walk for one so old as he was, but he went manfully onward, and +at last reached the little jetty where the boats from the mainland were +wont to put in. All was cheerless and leaden-hued over the wide waste of +water; a surging swell swept heavily along, but not a sail was to be seen. +Far across the lough he could descry the harbor of Leenane, where the +boats were at anchor, and see the lazy smoke as it slowly rose in the +thick atmosphere. Seated on a stone at the water's edge, Billy watched +long and patiently, his eyes turning at times towards the bleak +mountain-road, which for miles was visible. At last, with a weary sigh, he +arose, and muttering, “He won't come to-day,” turned back again to his +lonely home. +</p> +<p> +To this hour he lives, and waits the “coming of Glencore.” + </p> +<p> +THE END. <br /> <br /> +</p> +<hr /> +<p> +<br /> <br /> +</p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Fortunes Of Glencore, by Charles James Lever + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE *** + +***** This file should be named 33556-h.htm or 33556-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/3/3/5/5/33556/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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