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 THE NOVELS OF CHARLES LEYEll. 
 
 aSHitl) an Cntvofluction bu 'Intivrh) Hang. 
 
 THE 
 
 FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY E. J. WHEELER. 
 
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 BOSTON:: 
 
 
 LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. 
 
 
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 Copijri(//il, 1S94, 
 Bv Little, Brown, and Company.
 
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 P E E F A C E. 
 
 I AM unwilling to suffer this tale to leave mj^ 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 
 
 e/, 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 
 
 5 owed much, if not all, of w^hatever j)opularity I have 
 enjoyed, — I have yet felt, or fancied that I felt, that it 
 would be in the delineation of very different scenes, 
 
 g 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. 
 
 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." 
 
 40S328
 
 iv PREFACE. 
 
 I make but little pretension to the claim of interest- 
 ing ; as little do I aspire to the higher credit of in- 
 structing. 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. 
 
 Opportunities of society as well as natural inclination 
 have alike disposed me to such stucUes. I have stood 
 over the game of life very patiently for man}- a year, 
 and though I may have grieved over the narrow fort- 
 une which has prevented me from " cutting in," I have 
 consoled myself by the thought of all the anxieties de- 
 feat might have cost me, all the chagrin I had suffered 
 were I to have risen a loser. Besides tliis, I have 
 learned to know and estimate what are the qualities 
 which win success in life, and what the gifts by wliich 
 men dominate above their fellows. 
 
 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 
 ni}- life ; if I have been able to impart even a portion of 
 that gratification to my reader, T will not deem the 
 effort in vain, nor the " Fortunes of Glencore " a 
 failure. 
 
 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 l)ook (h-awn entirely from life.
 
 PREFACE. V 
 
 This is Billy Traynor. Not only have I had a sitter for 
 tliis picture, but he is alive and hearty at the hour I am 
 writing. For the others, they are purely, entirely ficti- 
 tious. 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 im- 
 planted unconsciously by memory ; originality in the 
 delineation of character being little beyond a new com- 
 bination of old materials derived from that source. 
 
 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 in- 
 dulgence which, " old offender " that I am, has never 
 forsaken me, and subscribe myself. 
 
 Your devoted friend and servant, 
 
 C. L.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 -*- 
 
 Chapter Page 
 
 I. A Lonely Landscape 1 
 
 II. Glencore Castle 12 
 
 III. Billy Traynor — Poet, Pedlar, and Physician 18 
 
 IV. A Visitor 25 
 
 V. Colonel Harcourt's Letter ....... 34 
 
 VL Queer Companionship 39 
 
 VII. A Great Diplomatist 47 
 
 VIII. The Great Man's Arrival 52 
 
 IX. A Medical Visit 61 
 
 X. A Disclosure 69 
 
 XI. Some Lights and Shadows of Diplomatic Life 79 
 
 XII. A XiGHT at Sea 94 
 
 XIII. A "Vow" Accomplished , . 104 
 
 XIV. Billy Traynor ant) the Colonel 112 
 
 XV. A Sick Bed 117 
 
 XVI. The "Project" 121 
 
 XVII. A Tete-X-Tete 130 
 
 XVIII. Billy Traynor as Orator 135 
 
 XIX. The Cascine \t Florence 142 
 
 XX. The Villa Fossombroni 151 
 
 XXI. Some Traits of Life 159 
 
 XXII. An Uptonian Despatch 165 
 
 XXIII. The Tutor and his Pupil 170 
 
 XXIV. How A "Reception" comes to its Close . . 177 
 XXV. A Duke and his Minister 187 
 
 XXVI. Italian Troubles . 197 
 
 XXVII. Carrara 203
 
 vni CONTENTS. 
 
 Chapter Page 
 
 XXVIII. A XiGHT Scene 209 
 
 XXIX. A Council of State 217 
 
 XXX. The Life tiiey led at Massa 223 
 
 XXXI. At Massa 229 
 
 XXXII. The Pavilion in the Garden ..... 236 
 
 XXXIII. XiGiiT Thoughts 242 
 
 XXXIV. A Minister's Letter 249 
 
 XXXV. IIarcourt's Lodgings 254 
 
 XXXVI. A Fevered Mind 26G 
 
 XXX VIL The Villa at Sorrento 274 
 
 XXXVIII. A Diplomatist's Dinner . 284 
 
 XXXIX. A VERY Broken Narrative 295 
 
 XL. Uptonism 30G 
 
 XLI. An Evening in Florence 313 
 
 XLII. Madame de Sabloukoff in the Morning . 325 
 
 XLIII. Doings in Downing Street ...... 335 
 
 XLIV. The Subtleties of Statecraft .... 343 
 
 XLV. Some Sad Reveries 355 
 
 XLVL The Flood in the Magra 364 
 
 XL VII. A Fragment of a Letter 374 
 
 XL VIII. How a Sovereign treats with his Ministei: 380 
 
 XLIX. Social Diplomacies 387 
 
 L. Ante-dinner Reflections 396 
 
 LI. Conflicting Thoughts 401 
 
 LII. Ma.jor Scaresby's Visit 411 
 
 LIIL A Mask in Carnival Time 419 
 
 LIV. The End 434
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 ©riginal ©cstgns bo 15. 3. ©2Ei)eeler. 
 
 PHOTO-ENGRAVED BY WALTER L. COTTS. 
 " She TURNED SUDDENLY AND FIXED HER EYES ON THE 
 
 STRANGER " Frontispiece 
 
 " He 's ALIVE ; HE 's WELL ; IT 's ONLY FATIGUE "... Fuffe 103 
 
 "The YOUTH stood regardless of their comments" . . 215 
 " He sprang at the other with the bound of a tiger " . 370
 
 THE 
 
 FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A LONELY LANDSCAPE. 
 
 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 Gleucore. 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 
 misht 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 land- 
 scape. The small village of Leenane, which stands on the 
 Galway shore, opposite to Gleucore, presents the only trace 
 of habitation in this wikl and desolate district, for the coun- 
 try 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. AVe have said that Gleucore was a ruin ; 
 but still its vast proportions, yet traceable in massive frag- 
 ments 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 ; wliile artificial em- 
 bankments and sloped sides of grass showed the remains of 
 
 1
 
 2 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 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 sa}', four bleak and lofty 
 chambers were rudely furnished, and about as many smaller 
 ones fitted for servant accommodation ; but no effort at em- 
 bellishment, not even the commonest attempt at neatness, 
 was bestowed on the grounds or the garden ; and in this 
 state it remained for some live-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. 
 
 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 ferr}', as 
 it was called, crossed over to the Castle, whence he returned 
 at nightfall, to depart as hurriedly as he came. 
 
 Of those who had seen him in this brief visit the accounts 
 were vague and most contradictory. Some called him hand- 
 some 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. Tlie mode in 
 which the estate was managed gave as little insight into tlie 
 character of the proprietor. If no severity was disj)layed 
 to the few tenants on tlie property, there was no encourage- 
 ment given to their efforts at improvement; a kind of cold 
 neglect was tlie only feature discei'uible, and many went so 
 far as to say tiiat if any cared to forget tlie payment of liis 
 rent, the chances were it might never be demanded of him ; 
 the great security against sueli a vcntiiit', liowever, lay in
 
 A LONELY LANDSCAPE. 3 
 
 the fact that the land was held at a mere nominal rental, and 
 few would have risked his tenure by such an experiment. 
 
 It was little to be wondered at that Lord Gleucore was 
 not better known in that secluded spot, since even in P^ng- 
 land his name was scarcely heard of. His fortune was very 
 limited, and he had no political influence whatever, not pos- 
 sessing a seat in the Upper House ; so that, as he spent his 
 life abroad, he was almost totally forgotten in his own 
 country. 
 
 All that Debrett could tell of him was comprised in a 
 few lines, recording simply that he was sixth Viscount 
 Gleucore and Loughdooner ; born in the month of Februar}', 
 180-, and married in August, 18 — , to Clarissa Isabella, 
 second daughter of Sir Guy Clifford, of AVytchle}', Baronet ; 
 by whom he had issue, Charles Conyngham Massey, born 
 6th June, 18 — . There closed the notice. 
 
 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-da}' world, with its din, and turmoil, and gold-seeking, 
 and '■'progress," men cannot divest themselves of rever- 
 ence for birth and blood, and the veneration for high descent 
 remains an instinct of humanity. Siieer 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 acquii-ed by deeds that 
 date back to centuries, and presented inviolate to the suc- 
 cessor of him who fought at Agiucourt or at Cress}'. If 
 ever this religion shall be impaired, the fault be with those 
 who have derogated from their great prerogative, and for- 
 gotten to make illustrious by example what they have in- 
 herited illustrious b}^ descent. 
 
 When tlie 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 fol-
 
 4 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 lowers used to accompany the old barons, and when the 
 longh itself used to be covered with boats, with the armorial 
 bearings of Gleucore 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. 
 
 Colored as such speculations were with all the imagina- 
 tive warmth of the west, it was a terrible shock to such 
 sanguine fancies when they beheld a middle-aged, sad-look- 
 ing man arrive in a simple postchaise, accompanied by his 
 son, a child of six or seven years of age, and a single ser- 
 vant, — 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 Glen- 
 core was, however, a testimony beyond dispute ; so that 
 nothing remained but to revenge themselves on the uncon- 
 scious 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. 
 
 He never crossed the " Lough," as the inlet of the sea, 
 about three miles in width, was called. He as rigidly ex- 
 cluded the peasantry from the grounds of the Castle ; and, 
 save an old fisherman, who carried his letter-bag to and fro, 
 and a few laliorors in the spring and autumn, none ever in- 
 vaded the forbidden precincts. 
 
 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 per- 
 petual imprisonment ; others, that his wife had deserted him,
 
 A LONELY LANDSCAPE. 5 
 
 and that in his foiioru 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 oi)iiiiou be- 
 tween charges of misanthropy and avarice, — to either of 
 which accusations his lonely and smiple life fully exposed 
 him. 
 
 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 un- 
 spoken of, as though the old towers had once again become 
 the home of the owl and the jackdaw. 
 
 It was now about eight 3'ears 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. 
 
 "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." 
 
 " 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?" 
 
 " He's going to bespeak a quarter of Tim Healey's beef, 
 maybe," said one, with a grin of malicious drollery. 
 
 "Mayhap it 's askin' us all to spend the Christmas he'd 
 be," said another. 
 
 "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. 
 
 "Who has got a horse and a jaunting-car?" cried tlie 
 Corporal, as he jumped on shore. " I want one for Clifden 
 directly." 
 
 " It's fifteen miles — devil a less," cried one. 
 
 "Fifteen! no, but eighteen! Kiely's bridge is bruck 
 down, and you '11 have to go by Gortnamuck." 
 
 " Well, and if he has, can't he take the cut? " 
 
 "He can't."
 
 6 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 . " Why not? Did n't I go that way last week? " 
 
 " Well, and if you did, did n't you lame your baste? " 
 
 " 'T was n't the cut did it." 
 
 " It was — sure I know better — Billy Moore tould me." 
 
 "Billy's a liar!" 
 
 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 — 
 
 " Billy Moore be blowed ! I want to know if I can have 
 a car and horse ? " 
 
 "To be sure! why not? — who says you can't?" chimed 
 in a chorus. 
 
 "If you go to Clifden under five hours my name isn't 
 Terry Lynch," said an old man in rabbitskin breeches. 
 
 "I'll engage, if Barny will give me the blind mare, to 
 drive him there inider four." 
 
 " Bother! " said the Rabbitskin, in a tone of contempt. 
 
 ' ' But where 's the horse ? " cried the Corporal. 
 
 " Ay, that 's it," said another ; " where 's the horse? " 
 
 "Is there none to be found in the village?" asked 
 Craggs, eagerly. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 "But I must goto Clifden; I must be there to-night," 
 said Craggs. 
 
 "It's on foot, then, you'll have to do it," said the 
 Rabbitskin. 
 
 "Lord Glencore "s dangerously ill, and needs a doctor," 
 said the Corporal, bursting out with a piece of most uncom- 
 mon communicativeness. "Is there none of you will give 
 his horse for such an errand ? " 
 
 " Arrah, musha ! — it's a pity!" and such-like expres- 
 sions of compassionate import, were muttered on all sides ; 
 but no more active movement seemed to flow from the con- 
 dolence, 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 beg- 
 ging the loan of a baste ! "
 
 A LONELY LANDSCAPE. 7 
 
 Something like a maledietiou arose to the Corporal's lips ; 
 but restrainiug it, aud with a voice thick from passion, he 
 said, — 
 
 " I'm read}' to pay you — to pay you teu times over the 
 worth of your — " 
 
 " You need n't curse the horse, anj^how," interposed 
 Rabbitskin, while with a siguiticant glance at his friends 
 around him, he slj'ly intimated that it would be as well to 
 adjourn the debate, — a motion as quickly obeyed as it was 
 mooted ; for in less than tive 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. 
 
 "A little livepenny bit, my lord — the last trifle your 
 honor's glory has in the corner of your pocket, that you '11 
 never miss, and that '11 sweeten ould Molly's tay to-night ? 
 There, acushla, have pity on ' the dark,' and that you may 
 see glory — " 
 
 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. 
 
 "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. 
 
 "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 aud mines of gould ? " 
 
 Craggs looked contemptuously at the figure who thus 
 declaimed of Ireland's wealth and grandeur, and, in a sneer- 
 ing tone, said, — 
 
 "And with such riches on every side, why do you go 
 barefoot — why are you in rags, ni}' old fellow?"
 
 8 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 " Is u'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 mj'self here, 
 that them inouutaius yonder is u't of copper and irou and 
 cobalt? Come over with me after I lave the bags at the 
 office, and I '11 show you bits of every one I speak of." 
 
 " I 'd rather you 'd shoAV me a doctor, my worthy fellow,"' 
 said Craggs, sighing. 
 
 "I'm the nearest thiug 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 ? " 
 
 " 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. 
 
 " And why not, when I lave the bags? " said Billy, touch- 
 ing the leather sack as he spoke. 
 
 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. 
 
 "Were you always on the road?" asked the Corporal, 
 curious to learn some particulars of his histor3\ 
 
 " 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." 
 
 " A bear! " exclaimed Craggs. 
 
 "Yes, sir. It was an Italian — one Pipo Chiassi by 
 name — that lost liis beast at Manchester, and persuaded 
 me, as I was about the same stature, to don the sable, and 
 perform in his i)lae('. After that 1 took to writin' for the 
 I)apers — ' Tlie fSkil)bereen Celt ' — and supported myself very 
 well till it broke. But here we are at the office, so I '11 step 
 in, and get my fiddle, too, if you 've no objection."
 
 A LONELY LANDSCAPE. 9 
 
 The Corporal's meditations scarcely were of a kind to re- 
 assure 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 ))e 
 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. 
 
 "This," said he, touching the volume, "is the 'Whole 
 Art and Myster}' of Physic,' by one Fabricius, of Aqua- 
 pendente ; and if we don't find a cure for the case down 
 here, take my word for it, it 's among the morha ignota, as 
 Paracelsus says." 
 
 " 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. 
 
 " 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 sans: : — ■ 
 
 " ' I care not i'ur your trellised vine, 
 
 I love the dark woods on tlie shore, 
 Nor all the towers along the IJhiue 
 
 Are dear to me as old Glencore. 
 The rugged cliff, Ben Creggan higli, 
 
 Re-echoing the Atlantic roar, 
 Are mingling with the seagull's cry 
 
 My welcome back to old Glencore.' 
 
 And then there's a chorus." 
 
 "That's a signal to us to make haste," said the Cor- 
 poral, 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." 
 
 And Billy, perceiving his minstrelsy unattended to, con- 
 soled himself by humming over, for his own amusement, the 
 remainder of his ballad. 
 
 The wind freshened as the night grew darker, and heavy 
 seas repeatedly broke on the bow, and swept over the boat 
 iu spray ey showers.
 
 10 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 a 
 
 It's that confounded song of yours has got the wind 
 up," said Craggs, angrily; ''stand by the sheet, and stop 
 your croning ! " 
 
 "That's an error rulgaris, attributing to music marine 
 disasters," said Billy, calml}' ; "'it arose out of a mistake 
 about one Orpheus." 
 
 " Slack off there! " cried Craggs, as a squall struck the 
 boat, and laid her almost over. 
 
 Bill}', however, had obeyed the mandate promptly, and 
 she soon righted, and held on her course. 
 
 " I Avish they'd show the light again on shore," muttered 
 the Corporal; "the night is black as pitch." 
 
 " 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." 
 
 "And smuggling, too! " added Craggs. 
 
 "Yes, sir; brandy, and tay, and pigtail, for Mister 
 Sheares, in Oughterard." 
 
 " What became of him?" asked Craggs. 
 
 "He made a fortune and died, and his son married a 
 lady ! " 
 
 "Here comes another; throw her head up in the wind," 
 cried Craggs. 
 
 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. 
 
 " 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. 
 
 " Now we're in the smooth water. Corporal," cried Billy ; 
 "let her go a little free." 
 
 And, obedient to the advice, he ran the boat swiftly 
 nlong till she entered a small creek, so sheltered by the 
 liighlands that the water Avithin was still as a mountain 
 tarn. 
 
 " You never made the passage on a worse night, I '11 be 
 bound," said Craggs, as he sprang on shore.
 
 A LONELY LANDSCAPE. 11 
 
 "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 — 
 
 " ' The elemential conflict that with tremendious violence 
 raged, ravaged, and ruined the adamantine foundations of 
 our western coast, on Tuesday, the 23rd of December — ' " 
 
 " Come along, come along," said Craggs ; "we've some- 
 thing else to think of." 
 
 And with this admonition, very curtly bestowed, he 
 stepped out briskly on the path towards Glencore.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 GLENCORE CASTLE. 
 
 "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. 
 
 "Here's all I could get in the way of a doctor," said 
 Craggs, pushing Billy towards them as he spoke. 
 
 " Faix, and ye might have got worse," muttered a very 
 old man ; " Billy Tray nor has the ' lucky hand.' " 
 
 "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. 
 
 "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." 
 
 " 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 heartlistone, 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 uj) on the roof, the better to admit air to the sick 
 man. 
 
 As Billy drew nigh with cautious steps, he perceived that, 
 although worn and wasted b}' long illness, the patient was 
 a man still in the very prime of life. His dark hair and 
 beard, which he wore long, were untingcd witli gray, and his 
 forehead showed no touch of age. His dark eyes were wide
 
 GLENCORE CASTLE. 13 
 
 open, and his lips slightly parted, his whole features exhibit- 
 ing an expression of energetic action, even to Avildncss. 
 Still he was sleeping ; and, as Craggs whispered, he seldom 
 slept otherwise, even when in health. AVith all the quietness 
 of a trained practitioner, Billy took down the watch that was 
 pinned to the curtain and proceeded to count the pulse. 
 
 "A lunidred and thirty-eight," muttered he, as he fin- 
 ished ; and then, gently displacing the bedclothes, laid his 
 hand upon the heart. 
 
 With a long-drawn sigh, like that of utter weariness, the 
 sick man moved his head round and fixed his eyes upon 
 him. 
 
 " The doctor! " said he, in a deep-toned but feeble voice. 
 '' Leave me, Craggs — leave me alone with him." 
 
 And the Corporal slowly retired, turning as he went 
 to look back towards the bed, and evidently going with 
 reluctance. 
 
 "■Is it fever?" asked the sick man, in a faint but un- 
 faltering accent. 
 
 "It's a kind of cerebral congestion, — a matter of them 
 membranes that's over the brain, with, of course, fehrills 
 (jeneralls." 
 
 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. 
 
 " What are you — who are you? " cried he, angrily. 
 
 " What I am is n't so aisy to say ; but who I am is clean 
 beyond me." 
 
 " Are you a doctor? " asked the sick man, fiercely. 
 
 "I'm afear'd I'm not, in the sense of a gradum Unlver- 
 sitatis, — a diplomia ; but sure maybe Paracelsus himself 
 just took to it, like me, having a vocation, as one might 
 say." 
 
 " Ring that bell," said the other, peremptorily. 
 
 And Billy obeyed without speaking. 
 
 "What do yoxi mean by this, Craggs?" said the Vis- 
 count, trembling with passion. " Who have 3'ou brought 
 me ? What beggar have you picked off the highway ? Or 
 is he the travelling fool of the district? "
 
 14 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 But the auger that supplied strength hitherto uow failed 
 to impart energy, aud he sauk back wasted aud exhausted. 
 The Corporal beut over him, aud spoke something iu a 
 low whisper, but whether the words were heard or not, the 
 sick man uow lay still, breathing heavily. 
 
 " Can you do nothing for him? " asked Craggs, peevishly 
 — " nothing but anger him? " 
 
 "To be sui'e 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 temporial artery, 
 to relieve the cerebrum, and then we '11 put cowld on his 
 head, and keep him quiet." 
 
 And with a promptitude that showed at least self-cou- 
 fidence, he proceeded to accomplish the operation, every 
 step of Avbich he effected skilfully and well. 
 
 "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." 
 
 "He looks easier," said Craggs. 
 
 "Ay, aud he feels it," continued Billy. "Just notice 
 the respiratory organs, aud 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." 
 
 Craggs obeyed, but not without a sneer at the direction. 
 
 " All over the head," said Billy ; "all over it, — back aud 
 front, — and with the blessing of the Virgin, I'll have that 
 hair off of him if he is n't cooler towards evening." 
 
 So saying, he covered the sick man with the wetted cloths, 
 aud bathed his hands iu the cooling fluid. 
 
 ' ' Now to exclude the light and save the brain from 
 stiniulntiou and excitation," said Billy, with a pompous 
 enunciation of the last syllables; " aud then quies — rest — 
 peace ! " 
 
 And with this direction, imparted with a caution to en- 
 force its benefits, he moved stealthily towards the door and 
 passed out. 
 
 " "Wliat do you think of him?" asked the Corporal, 
 eagerly. 
 
 " He '11 do — he'll do," said Billy. " He 's a sanouiueous
 
 GLENCORE CASTLE. 15 
 
 temperameut, and he '11 bear the lancet. It 's just like 
 weatheriu' u point at say. If you have a craft that will 
 carry canvas, there's always a chance for you." 
 
 ''He perceived that you were not a doctor," said Craggs, 
 when they reached the corridor. 
 
 "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 Avould 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 ars medicatrix — 
 everybody has n't an eye for a hectic, or an ear for a cough 
 — non contigit cuique adire Corintheum. ' T is n't every one 
 can toss pancakes, as Horace says." 
 
 " 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, ap- 
 proached them. 
 
 "Have j'ou seen my father? What do you think of 
 hun? " asked he, eagerly. 
 
 "'Tis a critical state he's in, your honor," said Billy, 
 bowing; " but I think he'll come round — deplation, depla- 
 tion, dex>latlon — adio^ actio, actio ; relieve the gorged ves- 
 sels, and don't drown the grand hydraulic machine, the 
 heart— them's my sentiments." 
 
 Turning from the speaker with a look of angry impa- 
 tience, the boy whispered some words in the Corporal's eai-. 
 
 "What could I do, sir?" was the answer; " it Avas tliis 
 fellow or nothing." 
 
 " 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 
 nttered loud enough for Billy to overhear them. 
 
 "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
 
 16 THE FOKTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 a little, just rouud the coast, as it might be ; once ye 're 
 beyond that, one man is as good a guide as another, cceteris 
 paribus, that is, with ' equal lights.' " 
 
 " What have you done? Have you given him anything? " 
 broke in the boy, hurriedly. 
 
 '' 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 saft'ron with a pinch 
 of saltpetre in it, to cause diaphoresis, d' ye mind ? Mean- 
 while, 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 ' traitmeut.' 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." 
 
 The boy listened patiently and even attentively to this 
 speech, and Avhen 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." 
 
 Billy bowed an acknowledgment, and followed the 
 Corporal to the kitchen. 
 
 "That's my lord's son, I suppose," said he, as he seated 
 himself, "and a fine young crayture too — ])uer bige/mus, 
 with a grand frontal development." And with this re- 
 flection he addressed himself to the coarse but abundant 
 fare which Craggs placed l)efore him, and with an appetite 
 that showed how much he relished it. 
 
 " Tliis is elegant living ye Iiave here, j\lr. Craggs," said 
 liilly, as he drained his tankard of beer, and placed it
 
 GLENCORE CASTLE. 17 
 
 with a sigh on the table ; " inauy happy years of it to ye — 
 I could n't wish ye anything better." 
 
 "The life is not so bad," said Craggs, "but it's lonely 
 sometimes." 
 
 " 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 baycou for dinner, and my fiddle to amuse me, and 
 I would n't change with the King of Sugar ' Candy.' " 
 
 " I was there," said Craggs, " it 's a fine island." 
 
 " My lord wants to see the doctor," said a woman, 
 entering hastily. 
 
 "And the doctor is ready for him," said Billy, rising 
 and leaving the kitchen with all the dignity he could 
 assume.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 BILLY TRAYNOR — POET, PEDLAR, AND PHYSICIAN. 
 
 "Didn't I tell you how it would be?" said Billy, as be 
 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 '11 be out of danger." 
 
 " Musha, but I'm glad," muttered one; "he'd be a 
 great loss to us." 
 
 "True for you, Patsey; there's eight or nine of us here 
 would miss hhn if he was gone." 
 
 "Troth, he doesn't give much employment, but we 
 could n't spare him," croaked out a third, when the en- 
 trance of the Corporal cut short further conunentary ; 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. 
 
 "It's a dreadful night outside; I would n't like to cross 
 the lough in it," said one. 
 
 "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." 
 
 " Faix, you'll not see Leenane at six o'clock to-morrow." 
 
 " Sorra taste of it," muttered another; "there's a sea 
 runnin' outside now that would swamp a life-boat." 
 
 "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 liave m}' dismissal if I 
 wasn't there as sure as my name is Billy Tra3'noi'." 
 
 " And better for you than lose your life, Billy," said one. 
 
 "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. 3Iy duty," added he, somewhat pretentiousl}'.
 
 BILLY TRAYNOR — POET, PEDLAR, AND PHYSICIAN. 19 
 
 "is to carry the King's mail; and if anything was to 
 obstruckt, or impacle, or delay the correspondience, it 's on 
 me the blame would lie." 
 
 "The letters wouldn't go the faster because you were 
 drowned," broke in the Corporal. 
 
 "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 siutry that dies 
 at his post." 
 
 "If you must and will go, I'll give you the yawl," said 
 Craggs ; " and I '11 go with you myself." 
 
 " Spoke like a British Grenadier," cried Billy, with 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 "Carbineer, if the same to you, master," said the other, 
 quietly ; "I never served in the infantry." 
 
 " Tros Tyriusve mihi," cried Billy ; "which is as much 
 as to say, — 
 
 " ' To storm tlie skies, or lay siege to the moon, 
 Give me oue of tlie Hue, or a heavy dragoon,' 
 
 it's the same to me, as the poet says." 
 
 And a low murmur of the company seemed to accord 
 approval to the sentiment. 
 
 " I wish you 'd give us a tune, Billy," said one, coaxingiy. 
 
 "Or a song would be better," observed another. 
 
 "Faix," cried a third, "'tis himself could do it, and in 
 Frinch or Latin if 3'e wanted it." 
 
 "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." 
 • "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." 
 
 " And which is best, Billy? " asked one of the company. 
 
 " Musha, but I pity your ignorance," said Billy, with 
 a degree of confusion that raised a hearty laugh at his 
 expense. 
 
 "Well, but Where's the song?" exclaimed another.
 
 20 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 " Ay," said Craggs, "we are forgetting the song. Now 
 for it, Billy. Since all is going on so well above stairs, 
 I '11 draw you a gallon of ale, boys, and we '11 drink to the 
 master's speedy recovery." 
 
 It was a rare occasion when the Corporal suffered himself 
 to expand in this fashion, and great was the applause at the 
 unexpected munificence. 
 
 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, how- 
 ever, 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. 
 
 "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 — 
 
 '" A fig for the chansons of France, 
 
 Whose meaning is always a riddle ; 
 Tlie 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 jdin satis ; 
 Just give us something of our own 
 In praise of our Land of Potatoes. 
 
 Tol lol de lol, etc. 
 
 " ' What care I for sorrows of those 
 
 AVho spoak of their heart as a more ; 
 How expect me to feel for the woe.s 
 
 Of him who calls love an amore! 
 Let me liave a few words ahont liome. 
 
 With music who.se strains I'd remember, 
 And I '11 give you all Florence and Rome, 
 Tho' they have a hlue sky in Dcccmher. 
 
 Tol lol do lol, etc.
 
 BILLY TRAYNOR — POET, PEDLAR, AND PHYSICLA.N. 21 
 
 " * With a pretty face close to your own, 
 
 I 'm sure there 's no raysou for sighiug ; 
 Nor when walkin' beside her alone, 
 
 Why the blazes be talking of dying ! 
 That 's the way tho', iu France and in Spain, 
 
 Where love is not real, but acted. 
 You must always purtendyou 're insane. 
 Or at laste that you 're partly distracted. 
 
 Tol lol de lol, etc' " 
 
 It is veiy unlikely that the reader will estimate Billy's 
 impromptu as did the company ; iu 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 irritah'de 
 genus has its soft side, and can enjoy to the uttermost its 
 own successes. It is possible, if Bill}' 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. 
 
 " You're right, there, Jim Morris," said he, turning sud- 
 denh' rouud towards one of the company ; ^ j'ou never said 
 a truer thing than that. The poetic temperament is riches 
 to a poor man. AVherever I go — in all weathers, wet and 
 drear}', 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 have n't tuppence to Iniy tobacco, and without a 
 shoe to m}' foot, and my hair through my hat, I can be 
 dancin' wid princesses, and handin' empresses in to tay." 
 
 " Musha, musha !" muttered the surrounders, as though 
 they were listening to a magician, who in a moment of un- 
 guarded familiarit}' condescended to discuss his own miracu- 
 lous gifts.
 
 22 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 "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, would n'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 pen- 
 knives and scissors, pencil-cases, bodkins, and the like — 
 and 1 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! 
 
 "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 tran- 
 quillity 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 remem- 
 ber the elegant fancies that came through my liead, and the 
 beautiful tilings 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 nuising I fell off asleep ; and it 
 was the sound of voices near th:it first awoke me ! For a min- 
 ute or two I believed I was dreaming, the words came so softly
 
 BILLY TRAYNOR — POET, PEDLAR, AND PHYSICL^X. 23 
 
 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 tliat 
 was speakin'. 
 
 "It's clean beyond vie to tell you what he said; and, 
 maybe, if I could, 3'e would n't be able to follow it, for he 
 Avas discoorsiu' about night and the moon, and all that 
 various poets said about them ; j'e '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 
 droppiu' down, like the clear water filterin' over a rocky 
 ledge, and glitterin' like little spangles over moss and wild- 
 flowers. 
 
 "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 : — 
 
 "'As wheu the moou, refulgent lamp of uight, 
 
 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 lilue vault and bless the useful light.' 
 
 " The Lord forgive me, but when he came to the last 
 words and said, ' useful light,' I could n't restrain myself, 
 but broke out, ' That 's mighty like a bull, anyhow, and 
 reminds me of the ould song, — 
 
 " ' Good luck to the moon, she 's a fine noble creature, 
 And gives us the daylight all night in the dark.' 
 
 "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. 
 
 "'Is it you,' said he, with a quiet laugh, 'that accuses 
 Pope of a bull ? '
 
 24 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCOKE. 
 
 " ' 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 '11 point out a bull in Aristophanes.' 
 
 " ' What have we here? ' said he, turning to the others. 
 
 "'A poor crayture,' says I, 'like Goldsmith's chest of 
 
 drawers, — 
 
 " ' With brains reduced a double debt to pay, 
 To dream by uigbt, sell ShetMeld ware by day.' 
 
 "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 1 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 ; a}', and for many an 
 hour afterwards, when I just think over their kind words 
 and pleasant faces." 
 
 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. 
 
 "There's the bell again," muttered one, "that's from 
 the ' lord's room ; ' " and Craggs, starting up by the instinct 
 of his ortice, hastened oft" to his master's chamber. 
 
 "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." 
 
 "I'm obaydient," said liilly, 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, re- 
 signed himself to sleej) with the practised air of one who 
 needed but very little preparation to secure slumber.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A VISITOR. 
 
 The old Castle of Gleucore coutained but oue spacious 
 room, aud this served all the purposes of drawing-room, 
 diniug-room, and library. It was a long aud lofty chamber, 
 with a raftered ceiling, from which a heavy chandelier hung 
 b}' 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 tj'pe, 
 from the carved oak and ebony console to the white and 
 gold of Versailles taste, aud the modern compromise of com- 
 fort with ugliness which chintz and soft cushions accomplish. 
 Two great screens, thickly covered with prints and draw- 
 ings, most of them political caricatures of some fifty years 
 back, flanked each fireplace, making, as it were, in this case 
 two different apartments. 
 
 At one of those, on a low sofa, sat, or rather lay, Loi-d 
 Glencore, pale and wasted by long illness. His thin hand 
 held a letter, to shade his eyes from the blazing wood-fire, 
 aud the other hand hung listlessly at his side. The expres- 
 sion of the sick man's face was that of deep melancholy — 
 not the mere gloom of recent suffering, but the doop-out 
 traces of a long-carried afllietion, a sorrow which had eateu 
 into his ver}' heart, and made its home there.
 
 26 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 At the second fireplace sat bis 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 w^ood 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. 
 
 "What's that?" cried out the sick man, startled at the 
 sound. 
 
 ' ' 'T is nothing, my lord, but the keys that fell out of 
 my hand," replied the old man, humbly. " Mr. Craggs is 
 away to Leenaue, and I was going to get out the wine for 
 dinner." 
 
 " Where's Mr. Charles?" asked Lord Gleucore. 
 
 "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 didn't like to disturb him." 
 
 "Tired! weary! — with what? Where has he been; 
 what has he been doing?" cried he, hastily. "Charles, 
 Charles, 1 say ! " 
 
 And slowly rising from his seat, and with an air of languid 
 indifference, the boy came towards him. 
 
 Lord Glencore's face darkened as lie gazed on him. 
 
 " Where have you been?" asked he, sternly. 
 
 " Yonder," said the boy, in an accent like the echo of his 
 own. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 "Ha! go and meet him, Charles, — it's Harcourt. Go
 
 A VISITOR. 27 
 
 and receive him, show him his room, and then bring him 
 liere to me." 
 
 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. 
 
 "You're a Massy, that I'll swear to," said he, frankly, 
 as he shook the boy's hand ; " the family face in every line- 
 ament. And how is your father ? " 
 
 "Better; he has had a severe illness." 
 
 " So his letter told me. I was up the Rhine when I re- 
 ceived it, and started at once for Ireland." 
 
 "He has been very impatient for your coming," said the 
 boy ; "he has talked of nothing else." 
 
 "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?" 
 
 " No, he will dine with you. I 'm to show you your room, 
 and then bring you to him." 
 
 "That 's better news than I hoped for, boy. By the way, 
 what 's your name ? " 
 
 " Charles Conyngham." 
 
 "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? " 
 
 "Ben Creggan." 
 
 " AYe must climb that summit some of these days, 
 Charley. I hope you 're a good walker. You shall be iny 
 guide through this wild region' here, for I have a passion for 
 exploi'ings." 
 
 And he talked away rapidly, while he made a brief toilet, 
 and refreshed himself from the fatigues of the road. 
 
 "Now, Charley, I am at your orders; let us descend to 
 the drawing-room." 
 
 " You'll find my father there," said the boy, as he stopped
 
 28 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 short at the door ; and Harcourt, staring at him for a second 
 or two in silence, turned the handle and entered. 
 
 Lord Glencore never turned his head as the other drew 
 nigh, but sat with his forehead resting on the table, extend- 
 ing his hand only in welcome. 
 
 " Mj^ poor fellow ! " said Harcourt, grasping the thin and 
 wasted fingers, — " niy 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? " 
 
 Glencore slowly raised his head, and, pushing back a 
 small velvet skull-cap that he wore, said, — 
 
 " 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 couldn't believe my eyes." 
 
 "In another week the change will be just as great the 
 other way. ' It was some kind of a fever, was it not ? " 
 
 "I believe so," said the other, sighing. 
 
 "And they bled you and blistered you, of course. These 
 fellows are like the farriers — they have but the one system 
 for everything. AVho was your torturer ; where did you 
 get him from ? " 
 
 "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." 
 
 " 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 remem- 
 ber the long meadow, Glencore?" 
 
 "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 
 sliould like the future better -than the past!" 
 
 "How old is Charle}^?" asked Harcourt, anxious to en- 
 gage liim on some otlier theme. 
 
 "He'll be fifteen, 1 tliink, his next birthday; he seems 
 older, does n't lie ? " 
 
 "Yes, the boy is well grown and athletic. What has he 
 been doing — have you had him at a school?"
 
 A VISITOR. 29 
 
 "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." 
 
 " He looks clever ; is he so? " 
 
 " 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 . have n't far to go — this one room serves us for every- 
 thing." 
 
 "You're better lodged than I expected — your letters 
 told me to look for a mere barrack ; and the place stands 
 so well." 
 
 " Yes, the spot was well chosen, although I suppose its 
 founders cared little enough about the picturesque." 
 
 The dinner-table was spread behind one of the massive 
 screens, and, under the careful direction of Craggs aud old 
 Simon, was well and amply supplied, — fish aud game, the 
 delicacies of other localities, being here in abundance. Har- 
 court had a traveller's appetite, and enjo3'ed himself thor- 
 oughly, while Glencore never touched a morsel, and the boy 
 ate sparingly, watching the stranger with that intense curi- 
 osity which comes of living estranged from all society. 
 
 " Charley will treat you to a bottle of Burgundy, Har- 
 court," said Glencore, as they drew round the fire; "he 
 keeps the cellar key." 
 
 " Let us have two, Charley," said Harcourt, as the boy 
 arose to leave the room, " and take care that you carry them 
 steadily." 
 
 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. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 " What a fool you have made of the boy ! " said Har- 
 court, bluntly. "By Jove! it was time I should come 
 here ! "
 
 30 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 When the boy came back be was followed Ijy the old 
 butler, carefully carr3'ing iu a small wicker contrivance, 
 Hlbevnic^ called a cooper, three cobwebbed and well-crusted 
 bottles. 
 
 " Now, Charley," said Harcourt, gayl}', " if you want to 
 see a man thoroughl}' happy, just step up to my room and 
 fetch me a small leather sack you '11 find there of tobacco, 
 and on the dressing-table you '11 see ui}' meerschaum pipe ; 
 be cautious with it, for it belonged to no less a man than 
 Poniatowski, the poor fellow who died at Leipsic." 
 
 The lad stood again irresolute and confused, when a 
 signal from his father motioned him away to acquit the 
 errand. 
 
 "Thank 3'ou," said Harcourt, as he re-entered; "you 
 see I am not vain of m}- meerschaum without reason. The 
 carving of that bnll is a work of real art ; and if you were 
 a connoisseur in such matters, you 'd sa}- the color was per- 
 fect. Have 3'ou given up smoking, Glencore? — you used 
 to be fond of a weed." 
 
 " I care but little for it," said Glencore, sighing. 
 
 " Take to it again, \\\y dear fellow, if onl}- that it is a bond 
 'tween yourself and every one who whiffs his cloud. There 
 are wonderf uU}' few habits — I was going to say enjoyments, 
 and I might say so, but I '11 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." 
 
 " You must tell Charle}' some of 3'our adventures in the 
 ^Vest. — The Colonel has passed two years in the Rocky 
 Mountains," said Glencore to his son. 
 
 ^' 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 tlie wild habits of a prairie hunter, 
 I 'm 3'our mnn. Your father can tell you more of salons and 
 the sreat world, of what may be termed the high game of 
 life — " 
 
 "I have forgotten it, as much as if I had never seen it,"
 
 A VISITOR. 31 
 
 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 wind- 
 ings of his own fancies. 
 
 "Have 3'ou shooting here, Glencore?" asked he at 
 length. 
 
 " There might be, if I were to preserve the game." 
 
 " And you do not. Do you fish? " 
 
 "No; never." 
 
 " You give 3^ourself up to farming, then? " 
 
 "Not even that; the truth is, Harcourt, I literall}" 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, wonder- 
 fully indifferent to what the world is doing at the other side 
 of this little estuary." 
 
 " You of all men living to lead such a life as this ! a fel- 
 low that never could cram occupation enough into his short 
 twenty-four hours," broke in Harcourt. 
 
 Glencore's pale cheek flushed slightly, and an impatient 
 movement of his fingers on the table showed how ill he rel- 
 ished any allusion to his own former life. 
 
 " Charle}^ will show j^ou 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." 
 
 " You '11 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 out- 
 manoeuvre 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 en crop ! " 
 
 The solemn clock over the mantelpiece struck ten, and the 
 boy arose as it ceased. 
 
 "That's Charley's bedtime," said Glencore, "and we 
 are determined to make no stranger of you, George. He '11 
 say good-night."
 
 32 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 And with a manner of mingled shyness and pride the 
 boy held out his hand, which the soldier shook cordially, 
 saying, — 
 
 ''To-morrow, then, Charley, I count upon you for my 
 day, and so that it be not to be passed in the library I '11 
 acquit myself creditably." 
 
 "I like your bo}^ 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 ! " 
 
 ' ' He is a strange fellow ; you '11 not understand him in a 
 moment," said Glencore, smiling half sadly to himself. 
 
 " 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 somehoAv, wherever he has picked it up, he 
 has got a very pretty notion of the importance and rank that 
 same title confers." 
 
 "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 '11 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 knowl- 
 edge of life cannot remedy mau}^ a dilliculty which our 
 ignorance or apathy have served to perpetuate." 
 
 "I'll take the command of the garrison with pleasure," 
 said Harcourt, filling up liis glass, and replenishing the fire. 
 "And now a good night's rest to you, for I half suspect I 
 have already jeopard ied some of it." 
 
 The old campaigner sat till long past midnight. The 
 generous wine, his pipe, the cheerful wood-fire, were all
 
 A VISITOR. 33 
 
 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 phi- 
 losophy, which made him regard the world as a campaign, 
 w^hereiu he who grumbles or repines is but a sorry soldier, 
 and unworthy of his cloth. 
 
 It was not till the last glass was drained that he arose to 
 seek his bed, and presently humming some old air to him- 
 self, he slowly mounted the stairs to his chamber.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 COLOXEL HARCOURT S LETTER. 
 
 As we desire throughout this tale to make the actors them- 
 selves, 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. 
 
 It was addressed to Su- 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 imguarded, the other was cold, cautious, and re- 
 served ; where one believed, the other doubted ; where one 
 was hopeful, the other had nothing but misgivings. Har- 
 court would have twenty times a day wounded the feelings, 
 or jarred against the susceptibilit}', 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 : 
 
 Glencore Castle. 
 Dear Upton, — True to my promise to give you early tidings 
 of our old friend, T sit down to yien a few lines, wliich if a rickety 
 table and some infernal laiii2>l)l;ick for ink sliould make illegible, 
 you'll have to wait for the elucidation till my arrival. T found 
 Glencore terribly altered ; T 'd not liave known him. He used to 
 be muscular and rather full in liabit; he is now a mere skeleton. 
 His hair and mustache were coal black; they ai*e a motley gray.
 
 COLONEL HARCOUKT'S LETTER. 35 
 
 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 whis- 
 per. You remember what a passion he had for dress, and how 
 heartily we all deplored the chance of his being colonel, well know- 
 ing what precious caprices of costly costume would be the conse- 
 quence ; 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 in- 
 dustrious patchwork ; and his trousers are a jiair of our old 
 overalls, the same pattern we wore at Hounslow when the King 
 reviewed us. 
 
 Great as these changes are, they are nothing to the alteration in 
 the poor fellow's disposition. He that was genei'ous to munifi- 
 cence is now an absolute miser, descending to the most pitiful 
 economy and moaning over every trifling outlaJ^ He is ii'ritable, 
 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 
 M'as the object, he suspects a slight in every allusion, and bristles 
 up to resent a mere familiarity as though it were an insult. 
 
 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 hini. 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 thei-e was a touch of the old jovial good fellow, 
 who never was so happy as when sharing his quarters with a com- 
 rade. 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. 
 
 I think I see what is passing within him ; he wants to be con- 
 fidential, 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 '11 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. 
 
 I may be right, or I may be wrong, in this conjecture ; but cer- 
 tain 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 /only shock. 1 said as much t' i)tlier day, in 
 a half-careless way, and he immediately caught it up, and said.
 
 36 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 " Ay, George, Upton is a man one wants now and then in life, and 
 when the moment comes, there is no snch tiling as a substitute for 
 him." In a joking manner, I then remarked, " Why not come over 
 to see him ? " " Leave this ! " cried he ; " ventm-e 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 lly, 
 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 'U back his chambertin against your Excel- 
 lency's, and T 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 con- 
 tinued 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 
 me to his eyes as to mine there are in him. 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. 
 
 I spoke of the boy ; he is a fine lad, — somewhat liaughty, per- 
 haps ; 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 liimself, Glen- 
 core 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 (ilencore, whom he imagines to be aboiit 
 the greatest and most gifted being that eve]- lived. I can scarcely 
 help smiling at the implicitness of this honest faith ; but I take 
 good care not to smile ; on the contrary, T give every possible 
 encouragement to the belief. I conclude the disenchantment will 
 arrive only too early at last. 
 
 You '11 not know what to make of such a lengthy epistle from 
 me, and you '11 doubtless torture tliat fine di]ilomatic intelligence 
 of yours to detect the secret motive of my lonn-wiiidedness ; hut tlie 
 simple fact is, it has rained incessantly for tlic last three days, and
 
 COLONEL IIARCOURT'S LETTER. 37 
 
 promises the same cheering weather for as many more. Glencore 
 does n't fancy that the boy's lessons should be broken in upon, 
 and hinc istce litterce, — that's classical for you. 
 
 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 con- 
 tribute 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 depart- 
 ure, till I can sound my way as to how he 'U 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 '11 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. 
 
 I have some scruples about venturing to offer anything border- 
 ing on a suggestion to a great and wily diplomatist like yourself ; 
 but if an illustrious framer of treaties and protocols would conde- 
 scend 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 you 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. 
 
 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 coup de grace 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. 
 
 Glencore has just sent for me ; but I must close this for the 
 post, or it will be too late. 
 
 Yours ever truly, 
 
 George ITarcourt.
 
 38 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 I open this to say that he sent for me to ask your address, — 
 whether thi'ough the Foreign Office, or direct to Stuttgard. You '11 
 probably not hear for some days, for he writes with extreme diffi- 
 culty, and I leave it to your wise discretion to write to him or not 
 in the interval. 
 
 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 
 di'owsiness 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.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 QUEER COMPANIONSHIP. 
 
 When Harconrt repaired to Glencore's bedroom, where he 
 still lay, wearied aud 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 in, the lips pinched, and in 
 the eyes there shone that unnatural brilliancy which results 
 from an over- wrought and over- excited brain. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 ' ' It strikes me that you were never less equal to the effort 
 than now," said Harcourt, laying his hand on the other's 
 pulse. 
 
 " Don't believe my pulse, George," said Glencore, smil- 
 ing 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, breath- 
 ing and suffering." 
 
 "This place doesn't suit you, Glencore, There are not 
 above two days in the month you can ventiu'e to take the 
 air." 
 
 "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?"
 
 40 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 " I want to see you in a better climate, Gleucore, — in a 
 place where the sun shines occasiouall}'." 
 
 "This suits me," said the other, bluntl}' ; "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." 
 
 Harcourt made no reply, but sat patiently to listen to 
 what was coming. 
 
 "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." 
 
 "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 '11 not know him from 
 the rest." 
 
 Glencore was silent ; if he had heard, he never noticed 
 Harcourt's remark. 
 
 "Has he ever spoken to you about himself, Harcourt?" 
 asked he, after a pause. 
 
 " Never, except when I led the subject in that direction ; 
 and even then reluctantly, as though it were a topic he would 
 avoid." 
 
 " Have you discovered any strong inclination in him for 
 a particular kind of life, or anj' career in preference to 
 another? " 
 
 " None ; and if I were only to credit what I see of him, 
 I 'd say that this dull monotony and tliis drear}^ uneventful 
 existence is what he likes best of all the world." 
 
 " You really think so? " cried Glencore, with an eagerness 
 that seemed out of proportion to the remark. 
 
 " So far as I see," rejoined Harcourt, guardedly, and not 
 wishing to \vt liis observation carry graver consequences 
 than he miglit suspect. 
 
 " So that you deem him capable of i)assing a life of a 
 quiet, unambitious tenor, — neither seeking for distinctions 
 nor fretting after honors?" 
 
 " How should he know of their existence, Glencore?
 
 QUEER COMPANIONSHIP. 41 
 
 What has the boj' ever heard of life and its struggles ? It 's 
 not in Homer or Sallust he 'd learn the strife of parties and 
 public men." 
 
 '• And why need he ever know them?" broke in Gleneore, 
 fiercely. 
 
 " If he does n'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 — " 
 
 " Stop, Harcourt ! " cried Glencore, passionately- " Has 
 anj'thiug of this kind ever escaped you in intercourse with 
 the boy?" 
 
 " Not a word — uot^a syllable." 
 
 "Has he himself ever, by a hint, or by a chance word, 
 implied that he was aware of — " 
 
 Glencore faltered and hesitated, for the word he sought 
 for did not present itself. Harcourt, however, released hijn 
 from all embarrassment by saying, — 
 
 " AVith me the boy is rarely anj'thiug 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 
 hun, and call him ' my lord ' — " 
 
 "' But he is not ' my lord,' " broke in Glencore. 
 
 " Of course he is not ; that I am well aware of." 
 
 "He never will — never shall be," cried Glencore, in a 
 voice to which a long pent-up passion imparted a terrible 
 energy. 
 
 "How! — what do you mean, Glencore?" said Harcourt, 
 eagerly. "Has he any malady; is there any deadly 
 taint?" 
 
 "That there is, by Heaven I " cried the sick man, grasp- 
 ing 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, igno- 
 miny, and sorrow? The loud voice of the herald calls his 
 father Sixth Viscount of Glencore, but a still louder voice 
 proclaims his mother a — " 
 
 With a wild burst of hysteric laughter, he threw himself, 
 face downwards, on the bed ; and now scream after scream
 
 42 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 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 Leenaue, whither he had gone to make a 
 formal resignation of his functions as letter-carrier. 
 
 " This is nothing but an ' accessio 7iervosa,"' 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. 
 
 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 
 orticiated 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. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 " So you're going to take blood from him?" asked Har- 
 court, as he met him on the stairs, where he had awaited his 
 coming one night when it was late. 
 
 "No, sir; 't is 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 in- 
 flammation, which is as different as fireworks is from a 
 bombardment." 
 
 "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. 
 
 Billy Tray nor, too, was flattered by the invitation, and 
 seated himself at the fire with an air at once proud and 
 submissive. 
 
 " 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? "
 
 QUEER COMPANIONSHIP. 43 
 
 " Yer' right," said Billy; " every touch is a blow, every 
 breath of air is a hurricane with him. There 's uo 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." 
 
 "Egad! I think you are right," said Harcourt, pleased 
 with an illustration that suited his own modes of thinking. 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Billy, gaining confidence by the approval ; 
 "a man is a ma-chine, and all the parts ought to be bal- 
 anced, and, as the ancients say, in equllibrlo. If pre-pon- 
 derance 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." 
 
 "That's well put, well explained," said Harcourt, who 
 really thought the illustration appropriate. 
 
 "Now, my lord there," continued Billy, "is all out of 
 balance, every bit of him. Bleed him, and he sinks ; stimu- 
 late him, and he goes ragin' mad. ' T is their physical con- 
 formation makes their character ; and to know how to cure 
 them in sickness, one ought to have some knowledge of them 
 in health." 
 
 "How came you to know all this? You are a very re- 
 markable fellow, Billy." 
 
 "I am, sir; I'm a phenumenon in a small way. And 
 many people thinks, when the}' see and couvarse 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, — com- 
 plately wn-ong." 
 
 " Well, I confess I don't perceive that." 
 
 "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 regu- 
 lar 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 '11 never make a precious stone 
 of it ! "
 
 44 FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 "You've not taken the right way to convince me, by 
 using such an iUustratiou, Billy." 
 
 " I '11 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." 
 
 " Your own services here are the refutation to your argu- 
 ment, Billy," said Harcourt, filling his glass. 
 
 " ' Tis your kindness to say so, sir," said Billy, with grat- 
 ified 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." 
 
 "You have reflected profoundly, I see," said Harcourt. 
 
 " I made a great many observations at one time of my life, 
 — the opportunity was favorable." 
 
 " When and how was that? " 
 
 "I travelled with a baste caravan for two years, sir; and 
 there 's nothing taches one to know mankind like the study 
 of bastes ! " 
 
 " Not complimentary to humanity, certainly," said Har- 
 court, laughing. 
 
 "Yes, but it is, though; for it is by a cou-sideratiou of 
 the fene natune. that you get at the raal nature of mere ani- 
 mal 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 divinus afflatus, the 
 ethereal essence, that makes him the first of creation. 
 There 's all the qualities, good and bad, — love, hate, ven- 
 geance, 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? " 
 
 "Perfectly; fill your pipe." And he pushed the tobacco 
 towards him. 
 
 " I will ; and I '11 drink the memory of the great and good 
 man that first intro-duced the weed amongst us — Here 's 
 Sir Walter Raleigh ! B}' the same token, I was in his house 
 last week." 
 
 " In his house ! where? " 
 
 "Down at Gre3'hall. You Englishmen, savin' your pres-
 
 QUEER COMPANIONSHm 45 
 
 ence, 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 
 say son came on at home." 
 
 " I 'm sorry to see, Billy, that, with all your enlightenment, 
 you have the vulgar prejudice against the Saxon." 
 
 " 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 did n't they take the right 
 one?" 
 
 "But you are unjust, Billy; the ungenerous tone you 
 speak of is fast disappearing. Gentlemen nowadaj's use 
 no disparaging epithets to men poorer or less happily cir- 
 cumstanced than themselves." 
 
 " Faix," said Billy, "it isn't sitting here at the same 
 table with yourself that I ought to gainsay that remark." 
 
 And Harcourt was so struck by the air of good breediug 
 in which he spoke, that he grasped his hand, and shook it 
 warmly. 
 
 " And what is more," continued Billy, " from this day out 
 I'll never think so." 
 
 He drank off his glass as he spoke, giving to the libation 
 all the ceremony of a solemn vow. 
 
 " D' ye hear that? — them 's oars ; there 's a boat coming 
 in." 
 
 "You have sharp hearing, master," said Harcourt, 
 laughing. 
 
 " 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 '11 lay sixpence it 's Pat Morissy is at the bow oar
 
 46 
 
 FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 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." 
 
 The words were scarcely spoken when Craggs entered 
 with a letter in his hand. 
 
 "This is for you, Colonel," said he; "it was marked 
 ' immediate,' and the post-mistress despatched it by an 
 express." 
 
 The letter was a very brief one ; but, in honor to the 
 writer, we shall give it a chapter to itself.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A GREAT DIPLOMATIST. 
 
 My dear Harcourt, — I arrived here yesterday, and by good 
 fortune (flight your letter at F. O., where it was awaiting the 
 departure of the messenger for Germany. 
 
 Your account of poor Glencore is most distressing. At the 
 same time, my knowledge of the man and his temper in a meas- 
 ure 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 diffi- 
 culty, 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. 
 
 There is wonderfully little stirring here, but I keep that little 
 for our meeting. You are aware, my dear friend, wliat 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. 
 
 Yours, ever and faithfully, 
 
 H. U. 
 
 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
 
 48 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 taste, he was simplicity itself in all the requiiemeuts of his 
 life ; and with all a eoui-tier's love of great people, not only 
 tolerating, l;)ut actually preferring the society of men be- 
 neath 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 finel}' formed, and would have been strikingly 
 handsome, were the expression not spoiled by a look of 
 astuteness, — a something that implied a teudenc}' to over- 
 reach, — which marred their repose and injured their uni- 
 formit}'. Not that his manner ever betra^'ed this weakness ; 
 far from it, — his was a most polished courtesy. It was 
 impossible to conceive an address more bland or more con- 
 ciliating. His very gestures, his voice, languid b^' 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 humilit}', 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 actuall}^ 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 othce, 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. 
 AVith 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. AVith women, 
 too, he Avas especialh^ a favorite ; there was a Alachiavelian 
 subtlety which he could throw into small things, a mode 
 of making the veriest trifles little Chinese puzzles of inge- 
 nuity, 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 af- 
 forded himself. 
 
 He had mixed largely in society, not only of his own, but 
 of every country of Europe. He knew every choi'd of that
 
 A GREAT DIPLOMATIST. 49 
 
 complex instrument which people call the world, lilvC 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 ambitious, and so he continued, not 
 disappointed, to the end. 
 
 The most governing notion of his own life was an impres- 
 sion that he had a disease of the chest, some subtle and 
 mysterious aft'ectiou 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 suppo- 
 sition 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. 
 
 It was difficult to say how far he himself believed in this 
 disorder, — the pressure of any momentous event, the neces- 
 sity 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 
 
 4
 
 50 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 seemed as though he kept this mahxdy for the pastime of idle 
 hours, as other men do a uovel or a newspaper, but would 
 never permit it to interfere with the graver business of life. 
 
 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. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 "Upton coming here!" exclaimed Glencore, with an 
 expression of mingled astonishment and confusion; "how 
 do you know that?" 
 
 ' ' He writes me from Long's to say that he '11 be with us 
 by Friday, or, if not, by Saturday." 
 
 " AVhat 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 ? " 
 
 " By Jove ! we '11 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 tilings for the best. 
 Invite him to Chats worth, and the chances are he '11 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 '11 wager my life you '11 not see a 
 ruffle in his temper, nor hear a word of impatience out of his 
 mouth." 
 
 "I know that he is a well-bred gentleman," said Glen- 
 core, half pettishly; "but I have no fancy for putting his 
 good manners to a severe test, particularly at the cost of m}' 
 own feelings." 
 
 "I tell 3^ou again he shall l>e 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
 
 A GREAT DIPLOMATIST. 51 
 
 what with turbot, oysters, grouse-pie, and mountain mutton, 
 I '11 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." 
 
 "One day!" 
 
 "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." 
 
 " 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. 
 
 " I say again, don't distress yom'self about Upton, — 
 leave the care of entertaining him to me. I '11 vouch for it 
 that he leaves us well satisfied with his welcome." 
 
 " It was not of that 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 3^ou 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?" 
 
 " My dear Glencore, you know the man well, and that we 
 are lucky if we can have him on his oivn terms, not to think 
 of imposing ours ; he is sure to have a number of engage- 
 ments while he is in England." 
 
 " Well, be it so," said Glencore, sighing, with the air of 
 a man resigning himself to an inevitable necessity.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE GREAT MAN S ARRIVAL. 
 
 *'NoT come, Craggs ! " said Harcourt, as late on the Satur- 
 day evening the Corporal stepped on shore, after crossing 
 the lough. 
 
 " No, sir, no sign of him. I sent a boy away to the top 
 of ' the Devil's jNIother,' where you have a view of the road 
 for eight miles, but there was nothing to be seen." 
 
 "You left orders at the post-office to have a boat in 
 readiness if he arrived?" 
 
 "Yes, Colonel," said he, with a military salute; and 
 Harcourt now turned moodily towards the Castle. 
 
 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 pain- 
 fully evident. 
 
 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 unwill- 
 ing guest of an unwilling host. 
 
 " Come or not come," muttered he to himself, " I '11 bear 
 this no longer. There is, besides, no reason why I should 
 bear it. 1 'm of no use to the poor fellow ; he does not want, 
 he never sees me. If anything, my presence is kksome 
 to him ; so that, happen what will, I '11 start to-morrow, or 
 next day at farthest." 
 
 He was one of those men to whom deliberation on any 
 subject was no small labor, but Avho, once that they have 
 come to a decision, feel as if they had acquitted a debt, and
 
 THE GREAT MAN'S ARRIVAL. 53 
 
 need give themselves no further trouble in the matter. In 
 the enjoyment of this newly purchased immunit}' he entered 
 the room where Gleueore sat impatiently awaiting him. 
 
 " Another disappointment ! " said the Viscount, anxiously. 
 
 " Yes ; Craggs has just returned, and saj's there 's no sign 
 of a carriage for miles on the Oughterard road." 
 
 "I ought to have known it," said the other, in a voice of 
 guttural sternness. "He was ever the same; an appoint- 
 ment with him was an engagement meant only to be binding 
 on those who expected him." 
 
 ""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 iu 
 travelling." 
 
 ' ' I have said every one of these things over to myself, 
 Harcourt; but the}- 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." 
 
 " Egad," said Harcourt, bluntly, " I don't see the advan- 
 tage 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 b}^ malice prepense." 
 
 " That is precisely why he does it." 
 
 "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 '11 order up the soup, for 
 if we wait any longer we '11 discover Upton to be the most 
 graceless vagabond that ever walked." 
 
 "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, lie 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." 
 
 " AVell, if I don't mistake me much, he'll soon appear to
 
 54 THE FORTUNES OF GLEXCORE. 
 
 plead his owu cause. I hear oars coming speedily in this 
 du-ection." 
 
 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. 
 
 " How picturesque all this, Harcourt," said he, in his soft, 
 low voice ; "a leaf out of ' Rob Roy.' Well, am I not the 
 mu'ror of punctuality, eh ? " 
 
 "We looked for j^ou yesterday, and Glencore has been so 
 impatient." 
 
 "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, Har- 
 court ; what a blessing it is to be such a strong fellow ! " 
 
 "So it is, by Jove ! lam always thankful for it. And 
 you — how do you get on? You look well." 
 
 " Do I?" said he, faintl}", 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 ? " 
 
 " Ay, and I '11 give you such a treat." 
 
 " No, no, my dear Harcourt; a fried mackerel, or a whit- 
 ing and a few crumbs of bread, — nothing more." 
 
 "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 ! " 
 
 "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." 
 
 " Wild — rugged ! I sliould think it is," muttered Harcourt. 
 
 " This pathway, though, does not bespeak much care. I 
 wish our friend yonder would hold his lantern a little lower. 
 How I envy j'ou the kind of life you lead here, — so tranquil, 
 so removed from all bores ! By the way, you get the news- 
 papers tolerably regularly ? " 
 
 "Yes, every day." 
 
 "That's all rigiit. If there be a luxury left to any man
 
 THE GREAT MAN'S ARRIVAL. 55 
 
 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." 
 
 "Come, don't grow faint-hearted. Here we are*, this is 
 Gleucore." 
 
 "Wait a moment. Just let him raise that lantern. 
 Really this is very striking — a very striking scene alto- 
 gether. The doorway excellent, and that little watch-tower, 
 with its lone-star light, a perfect picture." 
 
 " You 'U have time enough to admire all this ; and we are 
 keeping poor Glencore waiting," said Harcourt, impatiently. 
 
 " Very true ; so we are." 
 
 " Glencore's son, Upton," said Harcourt, presenting the 
 boy, who stood, half pride, half bashfulness, in the porch. 
 
 ' ' My dear boy, you see one of your father's oldest friends 
 in the world," said Upton, throAviug one arm on the boy's 
 shoulder, apparently caressing, but as much to aid him- 
 self 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." 
 
 And as he spoke, the door in front of him opened, and the 
 pale, sorrow-struck, and sickh- figure of Glencore stood lie- 
 fore him. Upton, with all Iiis self-command, could scarcely 
 repress an exclamation at the sight of one whom he had 
 seen last in all the pride of 3'outh 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, — 
 
 " Ay, Horace, a sad wreck." 
 
 " Not so, my dear fellow," said the other, taking the thin, 
 cold hand within both liis own; "as seaworthy as ever, 
 after a little drj^-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 carpen- 
 ter. You and I are of another build."
 
 56 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 "And you — bow are you?" asked Glencore, relieved to 
 turn attentiou away from himself, while he drew his arm 
 within the other's. 
 
 " The same poor ailing mortal you always knew me,*' said 
 Upton, languidly'; "doomed to a life of uncongenial labor, 
 condemned to climates totally unsuited to me, I drag along 
 existence, only astonished at the trouble I take to live, know- 
 ing pretty well as I do what life is worth." 
 
 " 'Jolly companions every one! ' By Jove! " said Har- 
 court, " for a pah' of fellows who were born on the sunny 
 side of the road, I must say you are marvellous instances of 
 gratitude." 
 
 ''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." 
 
 As the dinner proceeded, the tone of the conversation 
 grew gradually lighter and pleasanter, Upton had onl}^ 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 verj^ 
 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 witliout 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, — 
 
 "If he felt ill?" 
 
 " Not worse," said he. faintly, " Itut weak — wearj^ ; and 
 I know Upton will forgive me if I say good-night." 
 
 "What a wreck indeed!" exclaimed Upton, as Glen- 
 core left the room with his son. " I 'd not have known 
 him." 
 
 "And \vt until the last half-hour I have not seen him so
 
 THE GREAT MAN'S ARRIVAL. 57 
 
 well for weeks past. I 'm afraid something you said about 
 Alicia Villars affected him," said Harcourt. 
 
 ''My dear Harcourt. how youug 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 
 l/ou would think a painful allusion, than an old weather- 
 beaten sailor would for a breez}' 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 3'our mind, eh, most gallant Colonel? " 
 
 " 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. 
 
 "And of course you understand the source of the 
 sorrow ? " 
 
 "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. 
 
 "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 ! " 
 
 "You knew her," said Harcourt, anxious to divert the 
 discussion from himself. 
 
 " Intimately. Xinetta della Toitc was the belle of Flor- 
 ence — 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 grand- 
 father, — her father was killed in the Russian campaign, — 
 was spending the last remnant of an immense fortune in 
 every species of extravagance. Entertainments that sur- 
 passed those of the Pitti Palace in splendor, fetes 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 tolerablj' high in Italian estimation. I am 
 speaking of some eighteen or twenty years back, before we
 
 58 THE FOETUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 sent out that swarm of domestic economists who, under the 
 somewhat erroneous notion of foreign cheapness, by a sys- 
 tem 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." 
 
 "Which all means that Mny lord' stood cheating better 
 than those who came after him," said Harcourt, bluntly. 
 
 "He did so; and precisely for that very reason he con- 
 veyed 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 remarkalile personal qualities, obtained 
 for him a high place in the old Prince's favor, and Ninetta 
 deio-ned 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 pei-sonages 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 iucomparabl}' 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 
 l)lood — she exacted all the deference and all the homage 
 that she required from others." 
 
 "And they accorded it?" asked Harcourt, half con- 
 temptuously. 
 
 "They did; and so had you also if you had been in
 
 THE GREAT MAN'S ARRIVAL. 59 
 
 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 b}' 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 prom- 
 inently' ; whereas in the other case, the chivalrous devotion is 
 not alloyed b}^ this meaner servitude, and men never lift 
 their heads more haughtily than after they have bowed them 
 in lowly deference to loveliness." 
 
 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. 
 
 '•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 duluess. Can you show me to 
 my room?" said he, as Craggs answered his ring at the 
 bell. 
 
 The Corporal bowed an assent. 
 
 "The Colonel usually retires early, I suppose?" said 
 Upton. 
 
 " Yes, sir; at ten to a minute." 
 
 " 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. AVish him good night 
 for me when he awakes, will you? "
 
 60 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 And so saying, be proceeded on his way, with all that 
 lassitude and exhaustion which it was his custom to throw 
 into everj^ act which demanded the slightest exertion. 
 
 "Any more stairs to mount, Mr. Craggs? " said he, with 
 a bland but sickly smile. 
 
 "Yes, sir; two flights more." 
 
 "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." 
 
 " We could fit up a small room, sir, off the library." 
 
 " Do so, then. A most humane thought; for if I shotdd 
 remain another night — Not at it yet? " cried he, peevishly, 
 at the aspect of an almost perpendicular stair before him. 
 
 "This is the last flight, sir; and j^ou'll have a splendid 
 view for your trouble, when you awake in the morning." 
 
 " There is no view ever repaid the toil of an ascent, Mr. 
 Craggs, whether it be to an attic or the Righi. AVould you 
 kindly tell my servant, Mr. Schofer, 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." 
 
 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.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A MEDICAL VISIT. 
 
 Mr. Schofer moved through the dimly lighted chamber with 
 all the cat-like stealthiness of au accomplished valet, arrau- 
 o-iuo- the various articles of his master's wardrobe, and giv- 
 ing, 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 occupa- 
 tion. Gnus, 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. 
 
 Adjoining the bed stood a smaller table, covered with 
 various medicaments, tinctures, essences, infusions, and ex- 
 tracts, whose subtle qualities he was well skilled in, and but 
 for whose timely assistance he would not have believed him- 
 self 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 en- 
 joyed 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 ' ' Glen-
 
 62 THE FORTUNES OF GLEXCORE. 
 
 core's doctor ; " and Mr. Schofer still glided noiselessly from 
 place to place, prepariug for that event. 
 
 "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." 
 
 "Yes, Excellenz," said Fritz, in a voice of broken ac- 
 centuation. 
 
 "I slept badly," continued his master, in the same com- 
 plaining 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? " 
 
 " Yes, Excellenz," was the brief reply. 
 
 " You have seen the doctor, — what is he like, Fritz? " 
 
 A strange grimace and a shrug of the shouldei-s were Mr. 
 Schofer's only answer. 
 
 "I tliought as much," said Upton, with a heav}' sigh. 
 "They called him the wild growth of the mountains last 
 night, and I fancied what that was like to prove. Is he 
 young?" 
 
 A shake of the head implied not. 
 
 "Nor old?" 
 
 Another similar movement answered the question. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 Mr. Schofer proceeded to the door, and at once presented 
 the obsequious figure of Bill}' 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. Bill}' 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- 
 uess was not the chief characteristic of his nature, he really
 
 A MEDICAL VISIT. 63 
 
 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 ej^es. 
 
 "Place a chair, and leave us, Fritz," said Sir Horace; 
 and then, turning slowly round, smiled as he said, ''I'm 
 happ}^ to make 3'our 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 profes- 
 sional abilitj^" 
 
 "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. 
 
 "You studied in Scotland, I believe?" said he, with one 
 of the most engaging smiles, while he hazarded the question. 
 
 " Indeed, then, I did not, sir," said Billy, with a heavy 
 sigh; "all I know of the ars medicatrix I picked up, — 
 currendo per campos, — as one maj' say, vagabondizing 
 through life, and watching my opportunities. Nature gave 
 me the Hippocratic turn, and I did my best to improve it." 
 
 " So that you never took out a regular diploma? " said Sir 
 Horace, with another and still blander smile. 
 
 " Son-a 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 
 din'nus afflatus, — inside. AVithout you have that, you 're 
 onl}' a rh3'mester or a quack." 
 
 "You would, then, trace a parallel between them?" said 
 Upton, graciousl}'. 
 
 " To be sure, sir! Ould He3Tic saj's that the poet and the 
 physiciau is one : — 
 
 " 'For lie who reads the clouded skies, 
 
 And knows the utteriugs of the deep, 
 Can surely see in human eyes 
 
 The sorrows that so heart-locked sleep.' 
 
 The human system is just a kind of universe of its own; 
 and the verj' same faculties that investigate the laws of 
 nature in one case is good in the other." 
 
 " I don't think the author of ' King Arthur ' supports your 
 theory," said Upton, gentl}'.
 
 64 THE FORTUNES OF GLEXCORE. 
 
 " Blackmoor was an ass; but maybe he was as great a 
 bosthoon in physic as iu poetry," rejoined Bill}', promptly. 
 
 "Well, Doctor," said Sir Horace, with one of those plain- 
 tive 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 shoAv 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 Avorn 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." 
 
 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, con- 
 tained the usual contradictions and exaggerations incidental 
 to such histories. AYe 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 de- 
 scription ; not even a syllable escaped him as he sat ; and 
 even when Su- Horace had finished speaking, he remained 
 with slightly drooped head and clasped hands in deep 
 meditation. 
 
 " 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 phj^sic for the peerage, 
 and never think of any other disorders but them that befall 
 people of rank. Your mistake, Sir Horace, was iu consult- 
 ing tlie regular middle-class practitioner, who invariably 
 imagined there must be a disease to treat." 
 
 "And you set me down as a hypochondriac, then," said 
 Upton, smiling. 
 
 " Nothing of the kind ! You have a malad}^ sure enough, 
 but nothing organic. 'T is the oceans of tinctures, the
 
 A MEDICAL VISIT. 65 
 
 sieves full of pills, the quarter-casks of bitters you 're takin', 
 has played the divil with you. The human mfichiue 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 did n'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 kritability of 
 an irrascible, fretful nature, always on the watch for self- 
 torment. Say-bathiu', 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." 
 
 " And no physic? " asked Sir Horace. 
 
 ' ' Sorra screed ! not as much as a powder or a draught, 
 — barrin'," said he, suddenly catching the altered expres- 
 sion of the sick man's face, " a little mixture of hyoscya- 
 mus I '11 compound for you myself. This, and friction over 
 the region of the heart, with a mild embrocation, is all my 
 tratement ! " 
 
 "And you have hopes of my recovery?" asked Sir 
 Horace, faintly. 
 
 " My name isn't Billy Tray nor if I 'd not send you out 
 of this hale and hearty before two months. I read you like 
 a printed book." 
 
 " 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 '11 most implicitly obey you 
 in everything." 
 
 "My head on a block, then, but I'll cui-e 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 vour hours of recreation and studv, 
 exercise, amusement, and all, must be at my biddiu'. It is 
 
 5
 
 6Q THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 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 simul- 
 taneous action ; and the cerebellum, the great flywheel of 
 the whole, must be made to keep orderly time. D 'ye 
 mind?" 
 
 "I follow you Avith 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-da3\ I must be oft" to-morrow." 
 
 "Then I'll not take the helm when I can't pilot you 
 through the shoals," said Billy. "To begin my S3^stem, 
 and see you go away before I developed my grand invigo- 
 ratin' arcanum, would be only to destroy your contidence in 
 an elegant discovery." 
 
 "Were I only as certain as you seem to be " began 
 
 Su' Horace, and then stopped. 
 
 " 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 j^ou trust and the one 
 you don't, there 's all the wa}" between Bill}' Traynor and 
 the Bank of Ireland ! " 
 
 " On tliat score every advantage is with 3'ou," said Upton, 
 with all the winning grace of his incomparable manner; 
 " and I must now betliink me how I can manage to prolong 
 my sta}' here." And with this he fell into a musing tit, let- 
 ting drop occasionally some stra}'^ word or two, to mark the 
 current of liis thoughts: "The Duke of Headwater's on 
 the thirteenth ; Ardroath Castle the Tuesda}'^ after ; More- 
 liampton for the Der])y day. These easily disposed of. 
 Prince Boratinsky, about that Warsaw affair, must be at- 
 tended to ; a letter, yes, a letter, Avill keep that question 
 open. Lady Grencliffe is a difficulty; if I plead illness, 
 she '11 say I 'in not strong enough to go to Russia. T '11 think
 
 A MEDICAL VISIT. 67 
 
 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 lirst 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, minis- 
 terial deliberations, incessant note-writing, and evasive 
 conversations ? " 
 
 " Utterly unpossible ! " exclaimed the doctor. 
 
 "As 3'ou observe, it is utterly impossible," rejoined Sir 
 Horace, w'ith 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." 
 
 " 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 every- 
 day health. Dyspepsia is the soul of a prose- writer, and a 
 slight ossification of the aortic valves is a great help to the 
 imagination." 
 
 "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. 
 
 " 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
 
 68 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 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." 
 
 " An ingenious notion," said the diplomatist, smiling. 
 
 "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 Carr's daughter 
 has the shakin' ague, and the smith at the forge is to be bled, 
 — all before two o'olock, when ' the lord' sends forme. But 
 the rest of the day, and the night too, I 'm your honor's 
 obaydient." 
 
 And with a low bow, repeated in a more reverential man- 
 ner at the door, BiUy took his leave and retu'ed.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A DISCLOSURE. 
 
 "Have you seen Upton?" asked Gleucore eagerly of 
 Harcourt as he entered his bedroom. 
 
 "Yes; he vouchsafed me an audience during his toilet, 
 just as the old kings of France were accustomed to honor a 
 favorite with one." 
 
 "And is he full of miseries at the dreary place, the rough 
 fare and deplorable resources of this wild spot?" 
 
 "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 break- 
 fasted 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." 
 
 " This is very kind on his part," said Glencore, with a 
 faint smile. " AVill the humor last, Harcourt? That is the 
 question." 
 
 " 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." 
 
 "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 da}' or two, I 
 hope I shall be equal to it." 
 
 " 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." 
 
 "We have no carriage, — we have no roads, even," said 
 Glencore, peevishly.
 
 70 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE, 
 
 ' ' He knows all that ; but be is concerting measures about 
 a certain turf-kisb, 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 ; w^hile, for longer excursions, he has sug- 
 gested 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 giv- 
 ing 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 my changes here will 
 be as for nothing to his reforms, and between us you '11 not 
 know your own house again, if you even be able to live 
 in it." 
 
 " 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 w^eary. 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 accom- 
 plish, was to point to a future of activit}'^ and exertion ; and 
 I " — here he dropped his voice to a deep and mournful 
 tone — "can have but one future, — the dark and dreary 
 one before the grave ! " 
 
 Harcourt was too deeply impressed by the solemnity of 
 these words to venture on a rei)ly, and he sat silentl}' con- 
 templating the sorrow-struck but placid features of the sick 
 man. 
 
 "There is nothing to prevent a man struggling, and suc- 
 cessfully 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
 
 A DISCLOSURE. 71 
 
 ■^yorkl, — there are many ways in which T 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 till, — to make himself forgotten." 
 
 "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." 
 
 "Let us not speak more of it," said Glencore, faintly. 
 "I know not howl 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." 
 
 "You are too weak to-day, Glencore, — too much agitated. 
 Pray defer this interview." 
 
 "No, Harcourt; these are my moments of strength. 
 The little energy now left to me is the fruit of strong excite- 
 ]nent. Heaven knows how I shall be to-morrow." 
 
 Harcourt made no further opposition, but left the room in 
 search of Upton. 
 
 It was full an hour later when Sir Horace Upton made his 
 appearance in Glencore's chamber, attired in a purple dress- 
 ing-gown, profusely braided with gold, loose trousers as 
 richly brocaded, and a pair of real Turkish slippers, resplen- 
 dent 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
 
 72 THE FORTUNES OF GLEXCORE. 
 
 chased smelling-bottle, aud a small stiletto, with a topaz 
 handle. lu oue 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. 
 
 "I'm charmed at what Harcourt has been tellins: me, 
 Upton," said Glencore ; "and that you really can exist in 
 all the savagery of this wild spot." 
 
 "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 ; j^our 
 fare is exquisite ; the quiet is a positive blessing ; and that 
 queer creature, 3"our doctor, is a ver}- remarkable genius." 
 
 " So he is," said Glencore, gravel3\ 
 
 " One of those men of original mould who leave cultiva- 
 tion leagues behind, and arrive at truth by a bound." 
 
 " He certainly treated me with considerable skill." 
 
 "I'm satisfied of it; his conversation is replete with 
 shrewd aud intelligent observation, and he seems to have 
 studied his art more like a philosopher than a mere physi- 
 cian of the schools. And depend upon it, Glencore, the 
 curative art must mainly depend upon the secret instinct 
 which divines tlie 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 
 scarcety lasted a quarter of au hour, when he revealed to me 
 the exact seat of all my sufferings, aud the most perfect 
 picture of my temperament. Aud then his suggestions as to 
 treatment were all so reasonable, so well argued." 
 
 " A clever fellow, no doul)t of it," said Glencore. 
 
 "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 onr 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 tlie mind the continued strain for contrivance;
 
 A DISCLOSURE. 73 
 
 aucl thus do we find the most remarkable men are those, 
 every step of whose knowledge has been gained with a 
 struggle." 
 
 " I suspect you are right," said Gleucore, " 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 everythiug-made-easy and everybody-made-auy- 
 thing. Flippancy is the characteristic of our age, and we 
 owe it to our teaching." 
 
 "By the way, what do you mean to do with Charley?" 
 said Upton. " Do you intend him for P^ton? " 
 
 " I scarcely know, — I make plans only to abandon them," 
 said Gleucore, gloomily. 
 
 "I'm greatly struck with him. He is one of those fel- 
 lows, 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." 
 
 " You have hit him off, Upton, with all your own subtlety ; 
 and it was to speak of that l.)oy I have beeu so eager to see 
 you." 
 
 Gleucore paused as he said these words, and passed his 
 hand over his brow, as though to prepare himself for the 
 task before him. 
 
 "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 dis- 
 posed 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 unansweral)le, and if your denial to aid me was to sever 
 the old friendship between us, I 'd still persist in my deter- 
 mination. 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 liave done more, — I 
 have struggled with myself to abandon it ; but in vain. My
 
 74 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 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 mourn- 
 ful dream. In a word, Upton, all is passionless within 
 me, save one sentiment ; and I drag on life merely for a 
 ' Vendetta.'" 
 
 Upton shook his head mournfully, as the other paused 
 here, and said, — 
 
 " This is disease, Glencore ! " 
 
 "Be it so; the malady is beyond cure," said he, sternly. 
 
 "Trust me it is not so," said Upton, gently; "you 
 listened to my persuasions on a more — " 
 
 "Ay, that 1 did!" cried Glencore, interrupting; "and 
 have I ever ceased to rue the day I did so? But for ?/o?<r 
 arguments, and I had not lived this life of bitter, self- 
 reproaching misery ; but for you, and my vengeance had 
 been sated ere this ! " 
 
 " Eemember, Glencore," said the other, "that you had 
 obtained all the world has decreed as satisfaction. He 
 met you and received your fire ; you shot hiui 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, he could not fire at you ; what, 
 then, was it possible for you to do? " 
 
 "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 
 mine; have some sympath}' for what / suffer! Would all 
 the agony of his whole existence equal one hour of the 
 torment he has bequeathed to me, its shame and ignominy?" 
 
 "These are things which passion can never treat of , my 
 dear Glencore." 
 
 "Passion alone can feel them," said the other, sternly. 
 " Keep subtleties for tliose wlio use like Aveapons. As for 
 me, no casuistry is needed to tell me I am dishonored, and 
 just as little to tell me 1 must be avenged ! If you think 
 differently, it were better not to discuss this question 
 further between us ; but I did think I could have reckoned
 
 A DISCLOSURE. 75 
 
 upon you, for I felt you had barred my first chance of a 
 vengeance." 
 
 "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 diliiculties by 
 a further opposition. 
 
 ''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 ?/o», 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." 
 
 " But you told me you had an unconquerable aversion to 
 the notion of seeking a divorce." 
 
 " 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 
 suft'eriug of all the licensed ribakby 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 lirain 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 ! " 
 
 The terrible energy with which he spoke actually fright- 
 ened Upton, who fancied that his reason had already begun 
 to show signs of decline. 
 
 "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 ! She shall have her share, ay, and, by 
 Heaven, not the smaller share either ! "
 
 76 THE FORTUNES OF GLEXCORE. 
 
 " Why, what would you do?" asked Uptou, eagerly. 
 
 "Deny my marriage; call her my mistress!" cried 
 Gleucore, in a voice shaken with passiou and excitemeut. 
 
 " But your boy, — your son, Gleucore ! " 
 
 "He shall be a bastard! You ma}' 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 ac- 
 complish it, I'll do so now before you, ay, on my knees 
 before you ! AVhen 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 Charge 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, there- 
 fore, in my power ; and will any man dare to tell me how I 
 should temper that power? " 
 
 " But your boy, Gleucore, your boy ! " 
 
 " Is my boy's station in the world a prouder one by being 
 the son of the notorious Lad}' Gleucore, or as the offspring 
 of a nameless mistress? What avail to him that he should 
 have a title stained by her 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 uukuown, — 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?" 
 
 "But you surely have never contemplated all the conse- 
 quences of this rash resolve. It is the extinction of au 
 ancient title, the alienation of a great estate, when once you 
 have declared your boy illegitimate." 
 
 "He is a beggar: I know it; the penalty he must pay 
 is a heavy one. But think of Aey, 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
 
 A DISCLOSUKE. 77 
 
 she is, suddenly struck down by the brand of this disgrace, 
 and left upon the world Avithout 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 hope- 
 less 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 1 Will she laugh now, think 3"0u? Shall I be called ' Le 
 Pauvre Sire ' when she hears this ? Was there ever a ven- 
 geance more terrible, more complete ? " 
 
 "Again, I say, Gleucore, 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 be- 
 came the heir to your title and estates." 
 
 "He has no birth, sir, he is a bastard: who shall deny 
 it? Yoic 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 Avill 
 ever believe that I could rob myself of the succession, and 
 make over my fortune to Heaven knows what remote 
 relation ? " 
 
 " And do you expect me to become a party to this crime? " 
 asked Upton, gravel}'. 
 
 "You balked me in one attempt at vengeance, and I 
 think you owe me a reparation ! " 
 
 " 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 my- 
 self open to denounce and frustrate it."
 
 78 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 "You do!" cried Gleucore, wildly, while with a bound 
 he sat up in his bed, grasping the curtain convulsively for 
 support. 
 
 " Be calm, Gleucore, and listen to me patiently." 
 
 "You declare that you will use the confidence of this 
 morning against me ! " cried Gleucore, while the lines in 
 his face became indented more deeply, and his bloodless 
 lips quivered with passion. " Y^ou take your part with 
 her ! " 
 
 " I only ask that you would hear me." 
 
 "Y^ou owe me four thousand five hundred pounds, Su* 
 Horace Upton," said Gleucore, in a voice barely above a 
 whisper, but every accent of which was audible. 
 
 "1 know it, Gleucore," said Upton, calmly. " Y'ou 
 helped me by a loan of that sum in a moment of great diffi- 
 culty. Youi- generosity went farther, for you took, what 
 nobody else would, my personal security." 
 
 Gleucore made no reply, but, throwing back the bed- 
 clothes, 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. 
 
 "There's your bond, sir," said he, with a hollow, caver- 
 nous voice, as he threw it into the fire, and crushed it down 
 into the flames with a poker. "There is now nothing be- 
 tween 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.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 SOME LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF DIPLOMATIC LIFE. 
 
 There is a trait iu 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 under- 
 standing who has united within herself great talents for 
 society with a high and soaring ambition. 
 
 They who only recognize in the world of politics the dry 
 details of ordinary parliamentary business, poor-law ques- 
 tions, 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 plaj^ed by about 
 twenty mighty gamblers, with the whole world for the table, 
 and kingdoms for counters. In this '•'grand role" 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. 
 
 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 f rom " the lords " than from " the ladies of crea- 
 tion." Whatever be the part tliey 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 
 hah'-sjjlit, 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 l)e 
 changed, and nationalities trafficked ; for, strange as it may
 
 80 THE FORTUNES OF GLEXCORE. 
 
 seem, the stupendous incidents which mould human desti- 
 nies are more under the influence of passion and intrigue 
 than the commonest events of e very-day life. 
 
 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 ILurope. 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. 
 
 The name of his illustrious guide was the Princess Sablou- 
 koff, 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. 
 
 When Sir Horace first met her, he was the junior mem- 
 ber of our Embassy at Naples, and she the distinguished 
 leader of fashion in that city. We are not about to busy 
 ourselves Avith 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 feted 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. 
 
 When Sir Horace was presented to her as an Attache, 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 Cliarg(' 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, —
 
 SOME LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF DIPLOMATIC LIFE. 81 
 
 " My dear Horace, bow charming to see an old friend, if 
 you will be good enough to let me call you so." 
 
 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 
 kucAv 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. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Now, the friendship between a bygone beauty of forty — 
 and we will not say how many more years — and a hack- 
 neyed, 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 fomid "one that iniderstands 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 ever}' phase of that complex machinery by 
 which one-half the world cheats the other. 
 
 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 si)lendid 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. 
 
 6
 
 82 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 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 bj^gone beauty, receive a species of 
 respectful homage, which the wider world without-doors is 
 not alwa^'s ready to accord them. Good breeding, in fact, 
 concedes what mere justice might den}' ; and they who have 
 to fall back upon "souvenirs" for their greatness, always 
 find their advantage in associating with the class whose pre- 
 rogative is good manners. 
 
 The Princess Sabloukoff was not, however, one of those 
 who can live upon the interest of a b3^gone 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 salon" 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 ! 
 
 The Princess and Sir Horace very soon saw that each 
 needed the other. When Robert Macaire accidentally 
 met an accomplished gamester wlio "turned the king" 
 as often as he did, and could reciprocate ever}' trick 
 and artifice witli liim, he threw down the cards, saying, 
 " Embrnssons-nous, nous sommes f reres ! " Now, the illus- 
 tration is a very ignoble one, but it conveys no very inexact 
 idea of the bond whieli united these two distinguished 
 individuals.
 
 SOME LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF DH'LOMATIC LIFE. 83 
 
 Sir Horace was oue of those fine, acute intelligences 
 which may be gapped and blunted if applied to rough work, 
 but are splendid instruments Avhere 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 estab- 
 lish a friendship between them. Dispositions must be, to a 
 certain degree, different between those who are to live to- 
 gether 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. 
 
 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 flatter}' 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 capa- 
 city' as a statesman? 
 
 In the great game of statecraft, diplomatists are not above 
 looking into each other's hands ; but this must always be 
 accomplished b}' means of a confederate. How terribly 
 alike are all human rogueries, whether the scene be a con- 
 ference at Vienna, or the tent of a thimblerig at Ascot I La 
 Sabloukoff was unrivalled in the art. She knew how to 
 push raillery and 2')ersijiage to the ver}' 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 diplomac}'. 
 
 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 ques- 
 tions often asked in that drearv old drawing-room of Down- 
 ing Street, where men's destinies are shaped, and the fate of 
 millions decided, from four o'clock to six of an afternoon.
 
 I 
 84 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 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 Parlia- 
 ment 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. 
 
 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 temporiz- 
 ing ; 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 
 actuall}^ suggesting aid to a Government that a popular 
 orator has proclaimed to be everything that is unjust and 
 ignominious. 
 
 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 sucli an 
 ill-chosen moment to succor Poles or awaken dormant 
 nationalities. 
 
 Upton's proposal was rejected. He was even visited with 
 one of those disagreeable acknowledgments by which the
 
 SOME LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF DIPLOMATIC LIEE. 85 
 
 Foreign Office reminds a speculative minister that he is going 
 tdtra crepidam. When an envoy is snul^bed, he always 
 asks for leave of absence. If the castigation be severe, he 
 invariably, on his return to P^ngland, 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. 
 
 When, therefore, Harcourt's letter reached him, proposing 
 that he should visit Glencore, the project came most oppor- 
 tunel}^ ; 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 ; ]jut we promise our readers that Sir Horace was 
 one of those people whose motives are never tracked without 
 a considerable detail r. The reader knows now why he was 
 at Glencore, — he already knew how. 
 
 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 Ilarcourt 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 Iialf- 
 whispered sentences, over the sick man's case, and his 
 chances of recovery. 
 
 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 conclu- 
 sion 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,
 
 86 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 impetuous uature 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. 
 
 "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 Gleucore's being better than every one 
 else in the world." 
 
 " It is an excellent religion, my dear Harcourt, if it could 
 only last ! " said the diplomat, smiling amiably. 
 
 " And why should n't it last? " asked the other, 
 impatiently. 
 
 "Just because nothing lasts that has its origin in igno- 
 rance. The boy has seen nothing of life, has had no 
 opportunity for forming a judgment or instituting a com- 
 parison between any two objects. The first shot that 
 breaches that same fortress of belief, down will come the 
 whole edifice ! " 
 
 "You'd give a lad to the Jesuits, then, to be trained up 
 in every artifice and distrust?" 
 
 " Far from it, Harcourt. I think their sj^stem 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." 
 
 "And is it in that category you'd class his love for his 
 father? " asked the Colonel. 
 
 "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 
 jJain, 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 vou or I have done ? "
 
 SOME LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF DIPLOMATIC LIFE. 87 
 
 " Why not? or, at least, why should n't he become so after 
 a month or two? " 
 
 "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." 
 
 " 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 
 Gleucore just take courage to send him to Harrow or 
 Rugby, and my life on it, but he '11 be the manliest fellow in 
 the school." 
 
 " I '11 undertake, without Harrow or Rugby, that the boy 
 should become something even greater than that," said 
 Upton, smiling. 
 
 "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." 
 
 "One likes to do a little of everything, Harcourt," said 
 Upton, not at all displeased at this flattery; " and some- 
 how 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? " 
 
 "Never." 
 
 "Just because I'm only an inferior performer, and so I 
 only play when perfectly alone." 
 
 "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." 
 
 "You 're a good soul, and full of amiability, Harcourt," 
 said Upton ; but the words sounded veiy nuich as though 
 he said, "You're a dear, good, sensible creature, without 
 an atom of self-respect or esteem." 
 
 Indeed, so conscious was Harcourt that the expression 
 meant no comi)liment that he actually reddened and looked 
 away. At last he took courage to renew the conversation, 
 and said, — 
 
 "And wliat would you advise for the boy, then?"
 
 88 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 " I 'd scarcely lay down a system; but I '11 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 3'ou '11 get some clew to his 
 nature. Do you understand me?" 
 
 " I'm not quite sure I do; but I believe j'ou'd leave him 
 to something like utter idleness." 
 
 " AVhat to you, my dear Harcourt, would be utter idle- 
 ness, I've no doubt; but not to him, perhaps." 
 
 Again the Colonel looked mortified, but evidently knew 
 not how to resent this new sneer. 
 
 " Well," said he, after a pause, " the lad will not require 
 to be a genius." 
 
 " So much the better for him, probabl}' ; at all events, so 
 much the better for liis friends, and all who are to associate 
 with him." 
 
 Here he looked fixedh' at Upton, who smiled a most cour- 
 teous acquiescence in the opinion, — a politeness that made 
 poor Harcourt perfectly ashamed of his own rudeness, and 
 he continued hurriedly, — 
 
 "He'll have abundance of mone}'. 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." 
 
 " I believe you are right, after all, Harcourt," said Upton, 
 sighing, and now speaking in a far more natural tone; " it 
 is ' rubl)ing through ' with the best of us, and no more ! " 
 
 " If you mean that the process is a ver}- 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 'ni sure I '11 have the same story to tell 
 fifteen or twenty vears hence ; and vet I 'm not a genius ! " 
 
 " No," said Upton, smiling a bland assent. 
 
 "Nor a philosopher either," said Harcourt, irritated at 
 the acknowledgment. 
 
 " Certainly not," chimed in Tipton, with another smile. 
 
 " Nor have T any wish to l)e one or the other," rejoined 
 Harcourt, now really provoked. " I know right well that
 
 SOME LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF DH^LOMATIC LIFE. 89 
 
 if I were in trouble or difficulty to-morrow, — if I wanted a 
 friend to lielp me with a loau of some thousand pounds, — 
 it is not to a genius or a philosopher 1 'd look for the 
 assistance." 
 
 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. 
 
 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. Ilarcourt, 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. 
 
 "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." 
 
 "Egad, that is a great consolation for us slow fellows," 
 said Harcourt, laughing ; " and now what say you to a game 
 at ecarte ; for I believe it is just the one solitary thing I am 
 more than your match in?" ' 
 
 " 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." 
 
 " 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. 
 
 A letter was fortunately not so great an infliction to 
 Upton, who opened his desk at once, and with a rapid hand 
 traced the foUowiuo lines : — 
 
 o 
 
 My 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, impass- 
 able roads, tlie 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
 
 90 THE FORTUNES OF GLEXCORE. 
 
 Caliban, seems to have liit 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 func- 
 tions, but actually performing the humbler ottice of muscular 
 dii-ection, and so forth; in fact, a field-marshal doing duty for a 
 common soldier ! I almost fancy T 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 depart- 
 ment, 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 tlie inquiries at my 
 club are answered by a vague impression that 1 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, AUington says ; but I ventured to remind 
 his Lordship that a policy requiring years to develoj^, and more 
 years still to push to a profitable conclusion, is not to be reduced 
 to the category of mere a propos measures. He was vexed, and 
 replied weakly and angrily. 1 rejoined, and left him. Xext 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 ^'ielnla, or be satisfied to see me in the 
 House and the Opposition ! 
 
 Yoiy tidings of Brekenoff came exactly in the nick. AUington 
 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 Avas so flurried by a fancied detection that he 
 made a full acknowledgment of all. But even at this, Allingtou 
 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 ! 'J'here 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. T always thought Josephine wouM fail in Eng- 
 land. It is, indeed, a widely different thing to succeed in the small 
 Courts of Germany, and our great whirlpool of St. James. You 
 could do it, my dear friend ; but where is the other dare attempt 
 
 it? 
 
 I'ntil I hear from vou again I can come to no resolution. One
 
 SOME LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF DIPLOMATIC LIFE. 91 
 
 thing is clear, — tliey do not, or they will not, see the danger I liave 
 pointed out to them. All the home policy of our country is drift- 
 ing, day by day, towards a democracy : how, in the name of com- 
 mon sense, then, is our foreign policy to be maintained at the 
 standard of the Holy Alliance? A\'hat 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 
 lioine on leave. Yon 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 wei'e 
 the only dinners now in Europe. He hates AUington. This feel- 
 ing, 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 Josepliine's lisp, it is a defect that serves for a distinction. 
 The article in the '• Beau Monde " was clever, prettily w'ritten, and 
 even well worked ont ; 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 I'evieAver 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. 
 
 The flne touch, the keen apergu, 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. 
 
 1 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 tlie best of it, — sensibly, dispassion- 
 ately, 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 ! 
 
 lie ponders over this calamity just as if it were the crushing 
 stroke by which a man's whole career was to be finished forever.
 
 92 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 I'lie 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 nu^ke revo- 
 lutionary governments, smash dynasties, transgress laws, but they 
 cannot oppose convenances! 
 
 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, lias 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 chez 
 nous when we meet. But when is that to be ? \Yho can tell? INIy 
 medico insists upon five full weeks for my cui-e. Allington is very 
 likely, in his present temper, to order me back to my post. You 
 seem to think that yon must be in Berlin when Seckendorf arrives, 
 so that — But I will not darken the future by gloomy fore- 
 bodings. I could 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. ]\Iy last meeting with Glencore was unpleasant. 
 Poor fellow ! his temper is not what it used to be, and he is forget- 
 ful 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 witli this I kiss your hand, beggiug you to accept all 
 " 7nes hominages " et mon estime. 
 
 II. II. 
 
 Your letter must be addressed " Leenane, Ireland." Your last 
 had only " (ilencore " on it, and not very legible either, so that it 
 made what I wished / could do, " the tour of Scotland," before 
 reaching me. 
 
 Sir Horace read over bis letter carefully, as thonoh it had 
 been a despatch, and, when he had done, folded it up with
 
 SOME LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF DIPLOMATIC LIFE. 93 
 
 an ail- 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 hav- 
 ing looked at his face in a pocket-glass, he half closed his 
 eyes in re very. 
 
 Strange, confused visions were they that flitted through 
 his brain. Thoughts of ambition the most dariug, fancies 
 about health, speculations in politics, finance, religion, liter- 
 ature, 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 companion- 
 ship supplies. He could — to steal a figure from our steam 
 language — he could "bank his fires," and await any emer- 
 gency, and, while scarcely consuming any fuel, prepare for 
 the most trying demand upon his powers. A hasty move- 
 ment 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. 
 
 " Is his Lordship worse? " asked Upton. 
 
 ' ' No, su- ; 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." 
 
 " I '11 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.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A NIGHT AT SEA. 
 
 Glencore's chamber presented a scene of confusion and 
 dismaj^ 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. Tra^'nor, the onl}' one whose faculties were unshaken 
 by the shock, sat quietl}^ beside the bed, his fingers firmly 
 compressed upon the orifice of the vessel, while with the other 
 hand he jnotioned to them to keep silence. 
 
 Glencore lay with closed ej^es, breathing long and labored 
 inspirations, and at times con^'Tllsed by a slight shivering. 
 His face, and even his lips, were bloodless, and his ej^elids 
 of a pale, livid hue. So terribly like the approach of death 
 was his whole appearance that Upton whispered in the 
 doctor's ear, — 
 
 "Is it over? Is he dying? " 
 
 "No, Upton," said Glencore; for, with the acute hearing 
 of intense nervousness, he had caught the words. "It is 
 not so easy to die." 
 
 " There, now, — no more talkin', — no discoorsin' — azy 
 and quiet is now the word." 
 
 "Bind it up and leave me, — leave me with him;" and 
 Glencore pointed to Upton. 
 
 " I dar' n't move out of this spot," said Billy, addressing 
 Upton. " You'd have the blood coming out, per saltim, if 
 I took away my finger."
 
 A NIGHT AT SEA. 95 
 
 "You must be patieut, Gleucore," said Uptou, gently; 
 "you know I'm always ready wheu you want me." 
 
 "And you'll not leave this, — you'll not desert nie?" 
 cried the other, eagerly. 
 
 " Certainly not; I have no thought of going away." 
 
 "There, now, hould your prate, both of ye, or, by my 
 conscience, I '11 not take the responsibility upon me, — I will 
 not!" said Billy, angrily. " 'T is just a disgrace and a 
 shame that ye haven't more discretion." 
 
 Gleucore's lips moved with a feeble attempt at a smile, 
 and in his faint voice he said, — 
 
 "We must obey the doctor, Upton; but don't leave 
 me." 
 
 Uptou moved a chau- to the bedside, and sat down without 
 a word. 
 
 "Ye think an artery is like a canal, with a lock-gate 
 to it, I believe," said Billy, in a low, grumbling voice, to 
 Uptou, " 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 ! " 
 
 This summary command was directed to the various ser- 
 vants, 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. 
 
 "Look at him now," whispered Billy to Upton, "and 
 j'ou '11 see what philosophy there is in ascribin' to the heart 
 the source of all our emotions. He lies there azy and com- 
 fortable 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 ! "
 
 96 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 " What was it brought on this attack? " asked Upton, in 
 a whisper. 
 
 "A shindy he had with the hoy. I was n't here; there 
 was nobody by. But when I met Master Charles on the 
 stairs, he flew jjast 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." 
 
 " Has he returned? " asked Upton. 
 
 " Not as I know, sir. "We were too much taken up with 
 the lord to ask for him." 
 
 '' I '11 just step down and see," said Sir Horace, who arose, 
 and left the room on tiptoe. 
 
 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. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 The Avind dashed wildly against the window-panes as he 
 spoke, and the old timbers of the frame rattled fearfully. 
 
 "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. 
 
 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 li;ul 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 witli the place, so tliat even at night 
 Harcourt found no didiculty in detecting tlie path and keep- 
 ing it. About half an hour's brisk walking brought him to 
 the side of the lough, and the narrow flight of steps cut in
 
 A NIGHT AT SEA. 97 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 "To be sure," continued he, after a pause, "I heard a 
 chain rattlin' on the rock soon after I went to bed, and I '11 
 just step down and see if the yawl is all right." 
 
 Scarcely had he left the spot, when his voice was heard 
 calling out from below, — 
 
 ' ' She 's gone ! the yawl is gone ! the lock is broke with 
 a stone, and she 's away ! " 
 
 " How could this be? No boat could live in such a sea," 
 cried Harcourt, eagerly. 
 
 "She could go out fast enough, sir. The wind is north- 
 east, due ; but how long she '11 keep the say is another 
 matter." 
 
 " Then he '11 be lost ! " cried Harcourt, wildly. 
 
 " Who, sir, — who is it? " asked the man. 
 
 "Your master's son!" cried he, wringing his hands in 
 anguish. 
 
 " Oh, murther ! murther ! " screamed the boatman ; "we '11 
 never see him again. ' T is out to say, into the wild ocean, 
 he '11 be blown!" 
 
 " Is there no shelter, — no spot he could make for? " 
 
 "Barrin' the islands, there's not a spot between this and 
 America." 
 
 " But he could make the islands, — you are sure of that? " 
 
 " If the boat was able to live through the say. But sure 
 I know him well ; he '11 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 nisht 
 as this ! " 
 
 7
 
 98 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 "Come, it's no time for lamenting, my man; get the 
 launch ready, and let us follow him. Are you afraid?" 
 
 " 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." 
 
 "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." 
 
 "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. 
 
 " Is your honor used to a boat, or ought I to get another 
 man with me ? " asked the sailor. 
 
 " 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. 
 
 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, 
 
 "Give me a hand now with the halyard," said the boat- 
 man ; " and when the mainsail is set, you '11 see how she'll 
 dance over the top of the waves, and never wet us." 
 
 " She 's too light in the water, if anything," said Harcourt, 
 as the boat bounded buoyantly under the increased press 
 of canvas. 
 
 "Your honor's right; she'd do better witli half a ton 
 of iron in her. Stand by, sir, always, with the peak lial- 
 yards ; get the sail aloft in, when I give you the word." 
 
 " Leave the tiller to me, my man," said Harcourt, taking 
 it as he spoke. " You '11 soon see that I 'm no new hand at 
 the work." 
 
 "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." 
 
 The heavier roll of the waves, and the increased force 
 of the wind, soon showed that they had gained the open
 
 A NIGHT AT SEA. 99 
 
 sea ; while the atmosphere, relieved of the dark shadows 
 of the mountain, seemed lighter and thinner than in shore. 
 
 " We 're to make for the islands, 3^)11 say, sir? " 
 
 " Yes. What distance are they off? " 
 
 "About eighteen miles. Two hours, if the wind lasts. 
 and we can bear it." 
 
 "And could the 3'awl stand this?" said Harcourt, as a 
 lieavy sea struck the bow, and came in a cataract over 
 them. 
 
 " 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 ! " 
 
 "Here's a squall coming," cried Harcourt; "I hear it 
 hissing." 
 
 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. 
 
 "I'd take in a reef, or two reefs," said the man; "but 
 if she could n't rise to the say, she '11 till and go down. We 
 must carry on, at all events." 
 
 " So say I. It 's no time to shorten sail, with such a sea 
 running." 
 
 The boat now flew through the water, the sea itself 
 impelling her, as with every sudden gust the waves struck 
 the stern. 
 
 " 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 laud again, I'll 
 have combings round her to keep her dryer." 
 
 " Here it comes ! — here it comes, sir ! " 
 
 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. 
 
 " That "s as much as she could do," said the sailor; " and 
 I would not like to ax her to do more."
 
 100 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 "I agree with you," said Hareourt, secretly stealing his 
 feet back again into his shoes, which he had just kicked off. 
 
 "It's fresh'uiug it is every minute," said the man; 
 ' ' and I 'm not sure that we could make the islands if it 
 lasts." 
 
 ci^Vell, — what then?" 
 
 "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. 
 
 "The very thing I was wishing for," said Hareourt, 
 touching his cigar to the bright ashes. " How she labors ! 
 Do you think she can stand this? " 
 
 " She can, if it's no worse, sir." 
 
 " But it looks heavier weather outside." 
 
 " As well as I can see, it's only beginuin'." 
 
 Hareourt 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. 
 
 "You have been out on nights as bad as this, I sup- 
 pose?" said Hareourt. 
 
 "Maybe not quite, sir, for it's a great say is runuin' ; 
 and, with the wind off shore, we couldn't have this, if there 
 was n't a storm blowing farther out." 
 
 " From the westward, you mean?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, — a wind coming over the whole ocean, that 
 will soon meet the land wind." 
 
 " And does that often happen?" 
 
 The words were but out, Avhen, Avith 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. 
 
 "The boy! — the boy!" cried Hareourt; "what has 
 become of him? He never could have lived through that 
 squall."
 
 A NIGHT AT SEA. 101 
 
 " If the spar stood, there was an end of us, too," said 
 the sailor; '^ she'd have goue down by the stern, as sui-e as 
 ni}' name is Peter." 
 
 ''It is all over by this time," muttered Harcourt, 
 sorrowfully. 
 
 " Pace to him now! " said the sailor, as he crossed him- 
 self, and went over a prayer. 
 
 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 deaf- 
 ening 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. 
 
 As morning began to break with a grayish blue light to 
 the westward, the wind slightly abated, blowing more stead- 
 ily, too, and less in sudden gusts; while the sea rolled in 
 large round waves, unbroken above, and showing no crest 
 of foam. 
 
 " Do you know where we are? " asked Harcourt. 
 
 " Yes, sir; we 're off the Rooks' Point, and if we hold on 
 well, we '11 soon be in slacker water." 
 
 " Could the boy have reached this, think you? " 
 
 The man shook his head mournfully, without speaking. 
 
 " How far are we from Gleucore? " 
 
 "About eighteen miles, sir; but more by land." 
 
 "You can put me ashore, then, somewhere hereabouts." 
 
 " Yes, sir, in the next bay ; there 's a creek we can easily 
 run into." 
 
 " You are quite sure he couldn't have been blown out to 
 sea?" 
 
 "How could he, sir? There's only one way the wind 
 could dhrive him. If he is n't in the Clough Bay, he 's in 
 glory." 
 
 All the anxiety of that dreary night was nothing to what
 
 102 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 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. 
 
 "Don't curse the boat, yer honor," said Peter, respect- 
 fully, but calmly; "she's behaved well to us this night, or 
 we 'd not be here now." 
 
 "But are we to beat about here forever?" asked the 
 other, angrily. 
 
 " She's doin' well, and we ought to be thankful," said the 
 man ; and his tone, even more than his words, served to re- 
 prove the other's impatience. "I'll try and set the main- 
 sail on her with the remains of the sprit." 
 
 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. 
 
 "There's a boat, sir, dismasted, ahead of us, and drifting 
 out to say." 
 
 " 1 see her ! — I see her ! " cried Harcourt ; "out with the 
 oars, and let's pull for her." 
 
 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 tliem. 
 
 " Slie 's empty! — tlu'ic "s no one in her!" said Peter, 
 mournfully, as, steadying himself by the mast, he cast a 
 look seaward. 
 
 " Row on, — let us get beside her," said Harcourt. 
 
 " iShe's the yawl ! T know lier now," cried the man. 
 
 "And empty? "
 
 f^vijSr^/^' 
 
 cTCe- '<) aA4/v<. : Ae 'J w-e-fl : itJ 
 
 eji'lu fat't^A 
 
 ui-ey.
 
 A NIGHT AT SEA. 103 
 
 "Washed out of her with a say, belike," said Peter, 
 resuming his oar, aud tugging with all his strength. 
 
 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. 
 
 " There 's something in the bottom, — in the stern-sheets ! " 
 screamed Peter. "It's himself! O blessed Virgin, it's 
 himself ! " Aud, with a bound, he sprang from his own 
 boat into the other. 
 
 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, — 
 
 " He 's alive ! — he 's well ! — it 's only fatigue ! " 
 
 Harcourt pressed his hands to his face, aud sank upon his 
 knees in prayer.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A "vow" ACCOMPLISHED. 
 
 Just as Upton had seated himself at that frugal meal of 
 weak tea aud dry toast he called his breakfast, Harcourt sud- 
 denly entered the room, splashed and road-stained from head 
 to foot, and in his whole demeanor indicating the work of a 
 fatiguing journey. 
 
 " Why, I thought to have had my breakfast with you," 
 cried he, impatiently, " and this is like the diet of a conva- 
 lescent 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?" 
 
 "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." 
 
 " And he made a nice mess of the world in consequence," 
 blustered out Harcourt. "A fellow with an honest appe- 
 tite and a sound digestion would never have played false 
 to so many masters." 
 
 "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. 
 
 "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 .love, suoli as I sha' n't forget in a hurry." 
 
 " You have hit it perfectly, Harcourt ; suum cuique; 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." 
 
 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 lio
 
 A "VOW" ACCOMPLISHED. 105 
 
 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 counte- 
 nance. 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. 
 
 "Ay," cried_ he, >'I know well what's passing in your 
 mind this minute. You are lost in your pitting estimate of 
 such a mere auimal as I am ; but, hang it all, old fellow, 
 why not be satisfied with the flattering thought that you are 
 of another stamp, — a creature of a dift'erent order? " 
 
 "It does not make one a whit happier," sighed Upton, 
 who never shrunk from accepting the sentiment as his 
 own. 
 
 "■ 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. 
 
 " No, my dear Harcourt, the c?*assce naturce 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." 
 
 " AYhenever you draw a comparison in my favor, I always 
 find at the end I come off worst," said Harcourt, blunth' ; 
 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. 
 
 "You came off best this time, Harcourt," said he, good- 
 humoredly ; and such a thorough air of frankness accom- 
 panied the words that Harcourt was disarmed of all distrust 
 at once, and joined in the laugh heartil3\ 
 
 " Bat you have not yet told me, Harcourt," said the other, 
 " where you have been, and why you spent your night on 
 the sea." 
 
 " 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.
 
 106 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 ' ' I have left the boy in a cabin at Belmullet ; be is in a high 
 fever, and raving so loud that you could hear him a hun- 
 dred 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." 
 
 " 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." 
 
 "And have you told him that he was from home, — that 
 he passed the night away from this ? " 
 
 "•No; I merely intimated that I should look after him, 
 waiting for your return to guide myself afterwards." 
 
 " 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 exhausticjn. It was about two hours after, — he 
 had taken some food and seemed stronger, — when I said to 
 him, ' Come, Charley, yon '11 soon be all right again ; 1 have 
 sent a fellow to look after a pony for you, and you '11 be able 
 to ride back, won't you? ' 
 
 " ' Ride where? ' cried he, eagerly. 
 
 " ' Home, of course,' said I, ' to Glencore.' 
 
 " ' Home ! I have no home,' cried he ; and the wild scream 
 he uttered the words with, 1 '11 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 rapid- 
 ity of utterance there was no following. Of coui'se 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 I'ising 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 1)C kept trancjuil. Tell him, then, that I am 
 going — going away foi'cver, and lie '11 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
 
 A "VOW" ACCOMPLISHED. 107 
 
 emotion, " that was n't like raving, for be spoke this just as 
 he might have done if his very heart was breaking." 
 
 " Poor fellow ! " said Upton ; and the words were uttered 
 with real feeling. 
 
 " Some terrible scene must have occurred between tliein," 
 resumed Harcourt; " of that I feel quite certain." 
 
 "I suspect you are right," said Upton, bending over his 
 teacup; "and owr part, in consequence, is one of consider- 
 able delicacy ; for until Glencore alludes to what has passed, 
 tee, of course, can take no notice of it. The boy is ill ; he 
 is in a fever : we know nothing more." 
 
 " I'll leave you to deal with the father; the son shall be 
 my care. I have told Traynor to be ready to start witli 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 ? " 
 
 " Do you consult the doctor on that head ; meanwhile, I 'U 
 pay a visit to Glencore. I '11 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. 
 
 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 feel- 
 ing 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 mod- 
 eration. He scarcely rememliered 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. 
 
 He had long learned to perceive how nuieh more tem- 
 perament has to do, in the management of great events, 
 than talent or capacity, and his oi)niion of men was chiefly 
 founded on this quality of their nature. It was, then, with
 
 108 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 an almost pitying estimate of Gleucore that lie now entered 
 the room where the sick man lay. 
 
 Anxious to be alone with him, Gleucore had dismissed 
 all the attendants from his room, and sat, propped up by 
 pillows, eagerly awaiting his approach. 
 
 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 him was a 
 kind of instinct. 
 
 It was several minutes before Gleucore spoke, and tlieu, 
 in a low, faint voice, he said, " Are we alone, Upton ? " 
 
 " Yes," said the other, gently pressing the wasted fingers 
 which lay on the counterpane before him. 
 
 " You forgive me, Uptou," said he, — and the words trem- 
 bled as he uttered them, — " You forgive me, Upton, though 
 I cannot forgive myself." 
 
 " My dear friend, a passing moment of impatience is not 
 to breach the friendship of a lifetime. Your calmer judg- 
 ment would, I know, not be unjust to me." 
 
 " But how am I to repair the wrong I have done you?" 
 
 "By never alluding to it, — never thinking of it again, 
 Gleucore." 
 
 "■It is so unworthy, so ignoble in me! " cried Gleucore, 
 bitterly ; and a tear fell over his eyelid and rested ou his 
 wan and worn cheek. 
 
 " Let us never think of it, my dear Gleucore. 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 liave forgotten the whole incident." 
 
 Gleucore sighed heavil}', but did not speak; at last he 
 said, "Be it so, Upton," and, covering his face with iiis 
 hand, lay still and silent. "Well," said he, after a long 
 pause, " the die is cast, Upton : I have told him ! " 
 
 '-Told the boy?" said Upton. 
 
 He nodded an assent. "It is too late to oppose me 
 now, Upton, — the tiling is done. I didn't think I had 
 strength for it ; but revenge is a strong stimulant, and \ felt 
 as though once more restored to health, as I proceeded. 
 Poor fellow! he bore it like a man. Like a man, do 1 say? 
 No, but better than man ever bore such crushing tidings.
 
 A "VOW" ACCOjVIPLISHED. 109 
 
 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 1 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 Avas already relenting ; 
 but I thought of her^ 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 cer- 
 tainly have unmanned me. I turned away. AVhen 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. 
 
 "It is the last pang she is to cost me, Upton, but it is a 
 sore one ! " said he. in a low. hoarse whisper. 
 
 "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." 
 
 "How so?" cried he. impetuously. 
 
 "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. Xo power could ever give 
 you the disposal of his destiny in this wise." 
 
 " I have done it, and I will maintain it, sir," cried Glen- 
 core ; " and if the question is, as you vaguely hint, to be one 
 of law — " 
 
 " No, no, Glencore ; do not mistake me." 
 
 "Hear me out, sir," said he, passionately. "If it is to 
 be one of law, let Sir Horace Upton give Ms 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 vie with tyranny, you will but visit bas-
 
 110 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 tardy upon hun. Think twice, then, before you declare 
 this combat. It is one where all youi- craft will not sustain 
 you." 
 
 "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 teU you 
 that you are wrong in this aft'air, 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." 
 
 "• Be it so ; I go not alone to the stake; there is another 
 to partake of the torture," cried Glencore, wildly ; and al- 
 ready his flushed cheek and flashing eyes betrayed the 
 approach of a feverish access. 
 
 ''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?" 
 
 " It is already done, sir," broke in Glencore. 
 
 " Wherein, then, can I be of any service to j^ou?" 
 
 " 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 l)e an humble one, and he will need to rely upon his own 
 efforts. You will not refuse me this sen'ice, Upton. I ask 
 it in the name of our old friendship." 
 
 "There is but one objecticjii I could possibly have, and 
 yet that seems to be insurmountable." 
 
 " And what may it be? " cried Glencore. 
 
 " Simply, that in acceding to your request, T make myself
 
 A "VOW" ACCOMPLLSMEI). HI 
 
 an accomplice in your plan^ and thus aid and abet the very 
 sciieme I am repudiating." 
 
 '' What avails your roi)udiatiou if it will not turn me from 
 my resolve? That it will not, I'll swear to 3'ou as solennily 
 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." 
 
 "' I should like a little time to think over it," said Upton, 
 with the air of one struggling witli irresolution. " Let me 
 have this evening to make up my mind ; to-morrow you shall 
 have my answer." 
 
 "Be it so, then," said Glencore ; and, turning his face 
 away, waved a cold farewell with his hand. 
 
 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 opi)oi-- 
 tunity of reflection to Grlencore 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. 
 
 '•I'll give him some hours, at least," thought he, "to 
 ponder over what I have said. Who knows but the argu- 
 ment may seem better in memory than in action? Such 
 things have happened before now." And having iinished 
 this reflection, he turned to peruse the pamphlet of a quack 
 doctor who pledged himself to cure all disorders of the cir- 
 culation by attending to tidal influences, and made the moon 
 herself enter into the materia medica. 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 
 onl}'^ 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.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 BILLY TRAYNOR AND THE COLONEL. 
 
 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 aud thiuly 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, aud heard the sonorous booming of 
 the waves as they broke along the shore. 
 
 " It cheers one to come up out of those drearj^ dells, and 
 hear the pleasant plash of the sea," said Ilarcourt ; and his 
 bright face showed that he felt the enjoyment. 
 
 "So it does, sir," said Billy. "And yet Homer makes 
 his hero go heavy-hearted as he hears the ever-souuding 
 sea." 
 
 "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." 
 
 "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." 
 
 " Come, come. Doctor, no mystification." 
 
 "I don't mean any," broke in Billy. " What I want to 
 say is this, that as we read every character to elicit truth, — 
 ti'uth in the working of human motives, truth in passion.
 
 BILLY TRAYNOR AND THE COLONEL. 113 
 
 truth in all the struggles of our poor weak natures, — 
 why would n't a great janius like Homer, or Shakspcare, 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?" 
 
 Harcourt shook his head doubtfully. 
 
 "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 Avanted 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 he 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 ! " 
 
 "All this may be very fine," said Harcourt, contemptu- 
 ously, "but give me the sentiments of a living man, or one 
 that has lived, in preference to all the imaginar}^ characters- 
 that have ever adorned a stor}'." 
 
 "Just as I suppose that j^ou'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." 
 
 "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 awaj^, as it seemed, from all other habitations. 
 
 "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 
 
 8
 
 114 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 isn't a precipice that he won't climb, uot a cliff that he 
 won't face." 
 
 "Well, if that be his home, the pursuit does not seem a 
 profitable one." 
 
 " 'T is 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. 
 
 "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 ! " 
 
 " And you never heard any explanation of it? " 
 
 " Never; at least, never one that satisfied me." ' 
 
 " Nor ever will you," said Billy, sententiously. 
 
 " And why so? " 
 
 " Because," said he, drawing a long breath, as if prepar- 
 ing for a discourse, — " because there 's no man capable of 
 going into the whole subject ; for it 's not merely an eco- 
 nomical 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 ! " 
 
 "By Jove, Doctor, I must stop you there; I never heard 
 any acknowledgment of this inferiority you speak of." 
 
 "I'd like to get a goold medal for arguin' it out with 
 you," said Billy. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 " 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, Manches- 
 ter ! how ye 'I'e in the heart of every P^nglishman, ricli 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 '11 tell you how, and why, just as
 
 BILLY TRAYNOR AND THE COLONEL. 115 
 
 you, yourself, after a discusshion with me, when you Ihid 
 yourself dead bate, aud not a word to reply, you '11 go home 
 to a good dinner and a bottle of wine, dry clothes aud a 
 bright fire ; and no matter how hard my argument pushed 
 you, you'll remember that I'm in rags, in a dirty cabin, 
 with potatoes to ate and water to drink, and you '11 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'm saying the same thing to myself^ — ' 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 spaeies in them grand qualities that 
 makes us poets, rhetoricians, and the like, in those elegant 
 attributes that, as the poet says, — 
 
 " In all our pursuits 
 Lifts us hif^li above brutes,' " 
 
 — in these, I say again, I 'm his master ! ' " 
 
 As Billy finished his glowing 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 me would dare to 
 say as much to one like you ? Aud, after all, it 's the greatest 
 compliment I could pay you." 
 
 " How so, Billy? I don't exactly see that." 
 
 " Why, that if you weren't a gentleman, — a raal gentle- 
 man, born and bred, — I could never have ventured to tell 
 you what I said now. It is because, in your own refined 
 feelings, you can pardon all the coarseness of mine, that I 
 have my safety." 
 
 "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." 
 
 " '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, Init ahvays was mindin' something else that he 
 had nothin' to say to ; and so, ye see, the priest does be
 
 116 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 thiukin' 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 propert}', 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 1 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 lectui'in' 
 at the Surgeons' HaU." 
 
 " You are certainly a very strange people," said Harcourt. 
 
 " And yet there's another thing stranger still, which is, 
 that your countr3fmen 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 songs of a 
 people, and I don't care who makes the laws.' Look down 
 now in that glen before you, as far as 3'ou can see. There 's 
 Belmullet, and aiu't you glad to be so near your journey's 
 end? for you're mighty tiied of all this discoorsiu'." 
 
 " On the contrary, Billy, even when I disagree Avith what 
 you say, 1 'm pleased to hear your reasons ; at the same 
 time, I 'm glad we are drawiug nigh to this poor boy, and I 
 only trust we may not be too late." 
 
 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 incli 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 kelj), and every other con- 
 vanience any one can require ; and a poorer set of devils 
 than ye '11 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.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A SICK BED. 
 
 Although the cabin in which the sick boy lay was one of 
 the best iu 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 solitar}^ window was 
 mended with an old hat, — thus diminishing the faint light 
 which struggled through the narrow aperture. 
 
 A large net, attached to the rafters, hung down in heavy 
 festoons overhead, the corks and sinks dangling in danger- 
 ous 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. 
 
 "God save all here!" cried Billy, as he preceded the 
 Colonel into the cabin. 
 
 " Save ye kindl}'," 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. N'othing 
 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-stnick as- 
 pect of the scene in the general courtesy of the welcome.
 
 118 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 " He 's no better, your honor, — no better at all," said the 
 man, as Harcourt drew nigh the sick bed. "He does be 
 always ra\an', — ravin' on, — beggin' and implorin' that we 
 won't take him back to the Castle ; and if he falls aslee}., 
 the first thing he says when he wakes up is, ' AVhere am I? 
 — tell me I'm not atGlencore ! ' and he keeps on sereechin', 
 ' Tell me, tell me so ! '" 
 
 Harcourt bent down over the bed and gazed at him. 
 Slowly and languidly the sick boy raised his heavy lids and 
 retm'ued the stare. 
 
 "You know me, Charley, boy, don't you?" said he, 
 softly. 
 
 " Yes," muttered he, in a weak tone. 
 
 " Who am I, Charley? Tell me who is speaking to you." 
 
 "Yes," said he again. 
 
 "Poor fellow!" sighed Harcourt, "he does not know 
 me!" 
 
 " Where's the pain? " asked Billy, suddenly. 
 
 The boy placed his hand on his forehead, and then on his 
 temples. 
 
 " Look up ! look at me ! " 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 Har- 
 court; "he's makin' signs to you to stoop down." 
 
 Harcourt put his ear close to the sick boy's lips, and 
 listened. 
 
 " 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 — " 
 
 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 sup- 
 plied 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 suffer- 
 ing that he calmed down again and seemed to slumber. 
 
 "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."
 
 A SICK BED. 119 
 
 " There may be, but I know nothing of them," said Har- 
 court ; and in the frank air of the speaker the other did not 
 hesitate to repose his trust. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 "He has a dread of home. Some altercation with his 
 father has, doubtless, impressed him with this notion." 
 
 "Ah, that is n'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." 
 
 ' ' There, Harvey himself could n'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 mod- 
 erated, till at last, wearied and worn out, the heart seems 
 to ask for rest ; and then ye '11 remark a settled faint 
 smile coming over the lips, and a clammy coldness in the 
 face." 
 
 " He 's fainting, sir," broke in Biddy. 
 
 "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 wonder- 
 ful poets we 'd be ! " 
 
 " What hopes have you?" whispered Harcourt. 
 
 " The best, the very best. There 's youth and a fine con- 
 stitution to work upon ; and what more does a doctor want? 
 As ould Marsden said, ' You can't destroy these in a fort- 
 night, so the patient must live.' But you must help me, 
 Colonel, and you can help me." 
 
 " Command me in any way. Doctor." 
 
 "Here's the modus, then. You must go back to the 
 Castle and find out, if you can, what happened between his 
 father and him. 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
 
 120 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 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 ma^'be ye won't yell out ! " 
 
 " You '11 not quit him, then." 
 
 " 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 treacher- 
 ous 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 mem- 
 branes, and then it 's regular hide-and-go-seek all over the 
 body. Trackin' a bear is child's play to it." And so say- 
 ing, 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.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE "project." 
 
 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." 
 
 " 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." 
 
 "Upton's right," cried the Colonel, "especially if he 
 added that you should take a glass or two of that admirable 
 Burgundy. M}^ life on 't, but that is the liquor to set a man 
 on his legs again." 
 
 " I did n't remark that this was exactly the effect it pro- 
 duced upon you t' other night," said Upton, with one of his 
 own sly laughs. 
 
 "That comes of drinking it in bad company," retorted 
 Harcourt ; "a man is driven to take two glasses for one." 
 
 As the dinner proceeded, Glencore rallied considerably, 
 taking his part in the conversation, and evidently enjoying 
 the curiously contrasted temperaments at either side of liiin. 
 The one, all subtlety, refinement, and finesse ; the other, 
 out-spoken, rude, and true-hearted ; rarely correct in a ques- 
 tion of taste, but invariably right in every matter of honor- 
 able dealing. Though it was clear enough that Ui)ton 
 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.
 
 122 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 It is in the unrestricted ease of these "little dinners," 
 where two or three old friends are met, that social inter- 
 course 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 pleas- 
 ant stores of thought, what charming memories remain to us, 
 after those small gatherings ! 
 
 How, as I write this, one little room rises to my recol- 
 lection, 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, ram- 
 bling away from theme to theme, contrasting our experiences, 
 balanciug our views in life, and mingling through our con- 
 verse 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 ques- 
 tions of the day ; and Harcourt, with many a blunt inter- 
 ruption, 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 tlie gravest consequences. Upton, too, 
 might liave said something to quiet (Jlencore's mind. " At 
 all events, I'll wait," said he to himself; " for wherever
 
 THE "PROJECT." 123 
 
 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. 
 
 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 ex- 
 plosion 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. 
 
 " We mustn'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 — " 
 
 " 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. 
 
 " I would to Heaven we could exchange," sighed Upton, 
 languidly. 
 
 "The saints forbid!" exclaimed the other; "and it 
 would do us little good if we were able." • 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 "I'd never know what to do with that fine intellect if I 
 had it ; and as for you, 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." 
 
 '• ' 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." 
 
 "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. 
 
 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 tliat Upton hastily 
 asked, — 
 
 " Are you ill, are you in pain, Glencore?"
 
 124 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 " 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 ? " 
 
 " 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." 
 
 ' ' And I had so much to say, — so many things to consult 
 you on," sighed the other. 
 
 " Are you equal to it now? " asked Upton. 
 
 " I must try, at all events. You shall learn my plan." 
 He was silent for some minutes, and sat with his head rest- 
 ing 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 insigniticant, 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 ? " 
 
 " I cannot say that I have experienced what you describe, 
 if, indeed, I fully understand it." 
 
 "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 
 tliis woman. Well, just as if to make my plan more feas- 
 il)le, a circumstance intended for a very different object 
 offers itself to my aid. When my uncle. Sir Miles Ilerrick, 
 heard that I was about to marry a foreigner, he declared 
 that he would never leave me a shilling of his foi'tune. I 
 am not very sure that I cared much for the threat when it 
 was uttered. My friends, however, thought differently ; and 
 tliough they did not attempt to dissuade me from my mar- 
 riage, they suggested that I should try some means of over- 
 coming this prejudice ; at all events, that I should not hurry 
 on the match without an effort to obtain his consent. I 
 agreed, — not very willhigly, 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 needn't tell you tliat the tone in which such 
 things are talked of as often partakes of levity as serious- 
 ness. 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
 
 THE "PROJECT." 125 
 
 remember that original who had the famous schooner-yacht 
 ' The Breeze,' — well, he took me aside after dinner, and said, 
 ' Glencore, I have it, — 1 have just hit upon the expedient. 
 Your uncle and I were old chums at Christ Church fifty 
 years ago. What if we wei'e to tell him that you were going 
 to marry a daughter of mine? I don't think lie '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 — ' 
 
 " ' But perhaps you have a daughter? ' broke I in. 
 
 " 'I have, and she is married already, so there is no risk 
 on that score.' I needn'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 ditticulty, it is very 
 hard to be severe upon his counsels, however unscrupulous 
 they may be. In fact, you accept them as proofs of friend- 
 ship only the stronger, seeing how much they must have cost 
 him to offer." 
 
 Upton smiled dubiously, and Glencore, blushing slightly, 
 said, "You don't concur in this, I perceive." 
 
 "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 ! ' " 
 
 "In this case, however," resumed Glencore, " he took his 
 share of tlie 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 wiudoAV ; ' at 
 the next, in lialf-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 controvers}' that 
 threatened to disturl) a pnrty. I said at last, 'We'll talk it 
 over to-morrow, Clifford, and if your arguments be as good 
 as your heart, then perhai)s they may yet convince me.* 
 This ended the theme, and we parted. I started the next
 
 126 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 day on a shooting excursion into Calabi'ia, and when 1 got 
 back it was not of meeting Clifford I was thinking. I has- 
 tened to meet the DeUa Torres, and then came our elopement. 
 You know the rest. We went to the East, passed the winter 
 in Upper Egypt, and came to Cah'o 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 then- 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 occa- 
 sion, though, as I said before, when it originally occurred it 
 had a very different signification." 
 
 " I don't exactly see how," said Upton. 
 
 " In this wise. My real marriage was never inserted in 
 the Peerage. I '11 now manage that it shall so appear, to 
 give me the opportunity of formally contradicting it, and 
 alluding to the strange persistence with wliicli, having 
 married me some fifteen years ago to a lady wlio never 
 existed, they now are pleased to unite me to one whose 
 character might have secured me against the cahunny. I '11 
 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 ! " 
 
 "But she has surely letters, writings, proofs of some 
 sort." 
 
 "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
 
 THE "PROJECT." 127 
 
 bore the traces of my own hand, I tell you again she is in 
 my power, and never was power less disposed to mercy." 
 
 " 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 her, you throw the heaviest share 
 of the penalty on your own poor boy. I am not her advo- 
 cate now. I will not say one word to mitigate the course of 
 your anger towards her, but remember that you are actually 
 defi'auding him of his birthright. This is not a question 
 where you have a choice. There is no discretionary power 
 left you." 
 
 " I'll do it," said Glencore, with a savage energy. 
 
 " In other words, to wreak a vengeance upon one, you are 
 prepared to immolate another, not only guiltless, but who 
 possesses ever}' claim to your love and affection." 
 
 ' ' 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 ! " 
 
 ' ' And do you mean that this vengeance should outlive 
 you? Suppose, for instance, that she should survive you." 
 
 " It shall be to live on in shame, then," cried he, savagely. 
 
 " And were she to die first? " 
 
 ' ' 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 fi'om my purpose, or weaken 
 my resolution to carry it through. You would apply the 
 craft of your calling to the case, and, by suggesting emer- 
 gencies, 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 ; l)ut I defy Sir Horace Upton, 
 with all his skill and all his cunning, to outwit me." 
 
 There was that in the tone in which he uttered these 
 words, and the exaggerated energy of his manner, that con- 
 vinced Upton, Glencore's reason was not intact. It was not
 
 128 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 what could amount to aberration in the ordinary sense, but 
 sufficient evidence was there to show that judgment had be- 
 come so obscured by passion that the mental power was 
 weakened by the moral. 
 
 "Tell me, therefore, Upton," cried he, "before we part, 
 do you leave this h(^use my friend or my enemy ? " 
 
 " It is as your sincere, attached friend that I now dispute 
 with you, inch by inch, a dangerous position, with a judg- 
 ment under no influence from passion, viewing this question 
 by the coldest of all tests, — mere expediency — ' 
 
 " There it is," broke in Glencore ; " you claim an advan- 
 tage 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 notliing to me, think you, that I am con- 
 tent 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, un- 
 biassed 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 me / 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." 
 
 " In what way can I serve you? " said Upton, calmly. 
 
 " Will you consent to be his guardian? " 
 
 " I wilf." 
 
 Glencore seized the other's hand, and pressed it to his 
 heart, nnd for some seconds he could not speak. 
 
 "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 togetlier as to his future life ; as 
 it is, we can arrange it by letter." 
 
 " lie must leave this," said Upton, thoughtfully. 
 
 " Of course, — at once ! "
 
 THE "PROJECT." 120 
 
 "How far is Harcouit to be informed iu Ibis uuiltcr: 
 have you spoken to him ah'eady ? " 
 
 " No ; nor mean to do so. I should have from him noth- 
 ing but reproaches for having betrayed the boy into false 
 hopes of a station he was never to fill. You nuist tell Il:ii- 
 court. I leave it to yourself to tind the suitable moment." 
 
 " We shall need his assistance," said Upton, whose quick 
 faculties were already busily travelling many a mile of tiie 
 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 yom'self destine for him, — the fortune you mean to 
 give — " 
 
 " It is ah'eady done," said Glencore, laying a sealed letter 
 on the table. " All that I purpose in his behalf you will 
 find there." 
 
 " 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 uow good night."
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 A TETE-A-TETE. 
 
 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 remark- 
 able 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. 
 
 " 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 ? 
 
 Upton nodded assent. 
 
 " 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 hiH title, and 
 your brains, to have such a sin on my conscience ! " 
 
 " We are happily not called on to judge the act," said 
 Upton, cautiously. 
 
 " And why not? Is it not every honest man's duty to re- 
 probate 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 higii 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." 
 
 " It is not impossible th:it I think worse of Glencore's 
 conduct than you do yourself," siiid Upton, gravely.
 
 A TETE-A-TfiTE. 131 
 
 " But you never told him so, I'll be sworn, — you iievt-r 
 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." 
 
 "Then I fancy you'd lose your money, pretty much as 
 you are losing your temper, — that is, without getting any- 
 thing in requital." 
 
 "■ What did you say to him, then? " said Harcourt, slightly 
 abashed. 
 
 " A great deal in the same strain as you have just spoken 
 in, doubtless not as warm in vituperation, but possibly as 
 likel}' 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." 
 
 ''Why, the boy's name was in the Peerage, — I read it 
 there myself." 
 
 " My dear Harcourt, you must have paid very little atten- 
 tion to me a while ago, or you would have understood how 
 that occurred." 
 
 "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." 
 
 "There is not a hardship of the case 1 have not pictured 
 to my own mind as forcibly as you can describe it," said 
 Upton; " but I really do not perceive that any reprol)ation 
 of the past has in the slightest assisted me in proN-iding for 
 the future." 
 
 " And then," murmured Harcourt. — for all the wliile 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." 
 
 "It is precisely that he may have both the one and tlio 
 other that 1 have come to confer with you now," rcpliitl 
 Upton. "Glencore has made a liberal provision for the
 
 132 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 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." 
 
 "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 was n'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." 
 
 " And are the colonies especially inhabited by illegitimate 
 offspring?" said Upton, dryly. 
 
 "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." 
 
 "Not badly said, Harcourt," said Upton, smiling; "but 
 as to the boy, I have other prospects. He has, if I mistake 
 not, verj' good faculties. You estimate them even higher. 
 I don't see why the}' 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." 
 
 " Which means that he ought to be bred up to diplo- 
 macy," said Harcourt. 
 
 " Perhaps," said the other, with a bland inclination of the 
 head. 
 
 " And what can an old diagoon like myself contribute to 
 such an object?" aslvcd Harcourt. 
 
 " You can be of inlinite sendee in many ways," said 
 Upton ; " and for the present I wish to leave the boy in your 
 c.-irc, till I can lenni sonietliing about my own destiny. 
 'I'his, of course, I shiill know in a few days. Meanwhile 
 you '11 look after him, and as soon as his removal becomes
 
 A TETE-A-TETE. 133 
 
 safe you '11 take him away from this, — it does not much 
 matter whither; probably some healthy, secluded spot in 
 AYales, for a week or two, would be advisable. Gleiieore 
 and he must not meet again ; if ever they are to do so, it 
 must be after a considerable lapse of time." 
 
 ' ' Have you thought of a name for him, or is his to be 
 still Massy?" asked Harcourt, bluntly. 
 
 "•He may take the maternal name of Glencore's family, 
 and be called Doyle, and the settlements could be drawn up 
 in that name." 
 
 "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 entu'e scheme," said Harcourt. 
 
 " You must see, my dear Harcourt, that you are only 
 refusing aid to alleviate an evil, and not to devise one. If 
 this boy — " 
 
 "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 yom- orders." 
 
 " Admirably spoken," said Tipton, with a smile. 
 
 "My greatest difficulty of all," said Harcourt, " will be 
 to meet Glencoi-e again after this. I know — I feel — I 
 never can forgive him." 
 
 " 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 danger- 
 ously 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 neces- 
 sary to secure your pity that I should say how seriously the 
 poor fellow is now suffering." 
 
 " I trust he'll not speak to me about this business," said 
 Harcourt, after a pause. 
 
 "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."
 
 134 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 ♦' 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 in- 
 tended. I like that boy ; I feel he has fine stuff in him ; and 
 now — " 
 
 " Come, come, Hai'court, it 's the fault of all soft-hearted 
 fellows, like yourself, that theii- kindliness degenerates into 
 selfishness, and they have such a regard for their own feel- 
 ings 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 
 ffivino; ourselves the airs of chief characters.'' 
 
 "You're at your old game, Upton; you are always 
 ready to wet yourself, provided you give another fellow a 
 ducking." 
 
 " Only if he get a worse one, or take longer to dry after 
 it," remarked Upton, laughing. 
 
 "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." 
 
 "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-bj^e." 
 
 " You don't know where they are going to send you? " 
 
 " I cannot frame even a conjecture," sighed Upton, lan- 
 guidly. " I ought to be in the Brazils for a week or so about 
 that slave ({uestion ; and then tlie sooner I reach Constanti- 
 nople the better." 
 
 " Sba'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. 
 
 " 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.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 BILLY TRAYNOR AS ORATOR. 
 
 Three weeks rolled over, — an interval not without its share 
 of interest for the iuhalntants 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 ueared 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 tm-ned a glance towards the opposite 
 shore, where the Castle stood. 
 
 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 for- 
 ward. At length Craggs came up, and, touching his cap in 
 military fashion, announced all was ready. 
 
 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 oppres- 
 sive 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." 
 
 " A good joui'uey to you, my Lord, and safe back again 
 to us," cried a number together. 
 
 "Eh — what — what was that?" cried he, suddenly; and 
 the tones were shrill and discordant in which he spoke. 
 
 A warning gesture from Craggs imposed silence on the 
 crowd, and not a word was uttered.
 
 136 THE rOKTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 "I thought they said somethmg about coming back 
 again," muttered Gleucore, gloomily. 
 
 "They were wishing you a good journey, my Lord," 
 replied Craggs. 
 
 "Oh, that was it, was it?" And so saying, with bent- 
 doAvn head he walked feebly forward and entered the car- 
 riage. Craggs was speedily on the box, and the next 
 moment they were away. 
 
 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 Avas 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." 
 
 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. 
 
 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 nnich 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. 
 
 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,
 
 BILLY TRAYNOR AS ORATOR. 137 
 
 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." 
 
 " It 's a mighty quiet studious kind of life," said Billy, 
 "but agrees with me wonderfully; fori may say that until 
 now I never was able to give my ' janius ' fair play. Pro- 
 fessional 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. 
 
 " 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. 
 
 " There 's various ways of breakin' up a house," said Billy. 
 " Ye may do so in a moral siuse, or in a physical sinse ; you 
 may obliterate, or extinguish, or, without going so far, you 
 may simply obfuscate, — do you perceave ? " 
 
 " Yes ! " said the sacristan, on whom every eye was now 
 bent, to see if he was able to follow subtleties that had out- 
 witted the rest. 
 
 "And whin I say obfuscate," resumed Billy, "I open a 
 question of disputed etymology, bekase tho' Lucretius thinks 
 the word ohfuscator original, there 's many supposes it comes 
 from oh and fifcus, the dye the ancients used in their wool, 
 as we find in Horace, lanafuco medicata; while Cicero em- 
 ploys it in another sense, and says, facere fucum, which is 
 as much as to say, humbuggin' somebody, — do ye mind?" 
 
 " Begorra, he might guess that anyhow!" muttered a 
 shrewd little tailor, with a significance that provoked hearty 
 laughter. 
 
 "And now," continued Billy, with an air of triumph, 
 *'we'll proceed to the next point." 
 
 "Ye needn't trouble yerself then," said Terry Lynch, 
 " for Peter has gone home." 
 
 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
 
 138 THE FOliTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 with us," said Terry; "it isn't often we see you in these 
 parts." 
 
 " If the honorable company will graciously vouchsafe and 
 condescind to let nie trate them to a half-gallon," said Billy, 
 " it will be the proudest event of my terrestrial existence." 
 
 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. 
 
 " If I was Caesar, or Lucretius, or Nebuchadnezzar, I 
 could n'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?" 
 
 " Begorra, if I was a haythen god, I 'd like a little whisky 
 in it," muttered Terry, dryly. 
 
 " Where was I? " asked Billy, a little disconcerted by this 
 sally, and the laugh it excited. "I was expatiatin' upon 
 celestial convivialities. The nodes coenceque deum^ — them 
 elegant hospitalities where wisdom was moistened with nec- 
 tar, 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 diem jucundam decipere." 
 
 The unknown tongue had now I'estored to Billy all the 
 revei'ence and respect of his auditoi-y, and he continued to 
 expatiate very eloquently on the wholesome advantages to 
 be derived from convivial intercourse, both amongst gods 
 nnd men ; rather slyly intimating tliat either on the score of 
 the Ihiids, or the conversation, his own leanings lay towards 
 " the humanities." 
 
 "For, after all," said he, "'tis our own wakenesses is
 
 BILLY TRAYNOR AS ORATOR. 139 
 
 often the source of our most reiined enjoyments. No, Mrs. 
 Cassidy, ye needn't be blushin'. I'm eonsiderin' my sub- 
 ject in a high ethnological and metaphysical sinse." Mrs. 
 Cassidy's confusion, and the mirth it excited, here inter- 
 rupted the orator. 
 
 "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." 
 
 "Ah!" said Billy, with a sigh, "I have taken my 
 partin' kiss with the Muses ; noii mihi licet increpare digitis 
 lyram : — 
 
 " ' No more to feel poetic fire, 
 
 No more to toucli the souudiu' lyre : 
 But wiser coorses to begiu, 
 I now forsake my violin.' " 
 
 An honest outburst of regret and sorrow broke from the 
 assembly, who eagerly pressed for an explanation of this 
 calamitous change. 
 
 " 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 1 mean music, paintin', and the ladies — is an 
 elegant and very refined subject of cultivation ; but when 
 you raise your cerebrial faculties to gi-ander and loftier con- 
 siderations, 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 '11 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 thej^ had for the art, it 's easy enough to guess, 
 when this craytui'e 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."
 
 140 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 " No, no, no," loudly responded the meeting. 
 
 " Maybe I 'm imposiu' too much of personal details on the 
 house," added he, pompously. 
 
 " Not at all; never a bit," cried the company. 
 
 " Because," resumed he, slowly, " if I did so, I 'd have at 
 least the excuse of say in', lilve the great Pitt, ' These may be 
 my last words from this place.'" 
 
 An unfeigned murmur of sorrow I'an thi'ough the meeting, 
 and he resumed : — 
 
 " Ay, ladies and gintlemin, Billy Tray nor 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." 
 
 ' ' What for ? Where to, Billy ? " broke from a number of 
 voices together. 
 
 " I '11 tell ye," said he, — "at least so far as I can tell ; be- 
 cause 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, con- 
 chology, and the use of the globes." 
 
 "Oh dear! oh dear! " murmured the meeting, in wonder 
 and admiration. 
 
 " I'm not goin' to say that we'll neglect mechanics, meta- 
 physics, 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 ^hoe to my foot, — without 
 breeches, — never mind, I was, as the poet says, nudus num- 
 mis ac vestimentis, — 
 
 " 'I have n't sixpence in my pack, 
 I have n't small clothes to my back,' 
 
 carryin' tlic bag many a weary mile, through sleet and snow, 
 for six pounds tin per annum, and no pinsion for wounds or
 
 BILLY TRAYNOll AS ORATOR. 141 
 
 superannuation ; and now I 'ni to be — it is n't easy to say 
 ^tiat — to the young lord a spacies of humble companion, 
 — not manial, do you mind, nothing manial ; what the Latins 
 called a famulns, which was quite a different thing from a 
 servus. 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." 
 
 If we have been prolix in our office of reporter to Billy 
 Trayuor, our excuse is that his discourse will have contrib- 
 uted 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.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE CASCINE AT FLORENCE. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 e(papages. There were the representatives of every 
 European people, and of nations far away over the seas, 
 
 — splendid Ixussians, 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 thei^ tide ; and altliough a choice military band was 
 performing with exquisite skill the favorite overtures of the 
 day, the noise and tuumlt of conversation almost drowned 
 their notes. Now, the Cascine is to the world of society
 
 THE CASCINE AT FLORENCE. 143 
 
 what the Bourse is to the world of trade. It is the great 
 centre of all uews and intelligence, where markets and bar- 
 gains of intercourse ai-e 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 tiit 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 Ber- 
 lin, — 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 there would mingle a repio- 
 bation of the bad, and a due estimate of the opposite, if it 
 ever occurred at all ; but as surely would they be disap- 
 pointed. Never were censors more lenient, — never were 
 critics so charitable. The ti-ansgressions 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 cir- 
 cumstances ; " for the petty larcenies of fashion they have 
 nothing but whipcord. 
 
 Amidst the various knots where such discussions were 
 carried on, one was eminentl}' 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 H3'de Park ; but 
 in the Bois de Boulogne or the Cascine it must be pro- 
 nounced the acme of elegance. Whatever might have been 
 the differences of national opinion on this point, there could
 
 144 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 assuredly have been none as to the beauty of those who 
 occupied it. 
 
 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 mel- 
 lower 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 simi- 
 larity 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. 
 
 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 Itnly for the first time, there would have seemed 
 something ver}' 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 inti- 
 macy, 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 pre- 
 eminence in this fair cit3\ 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.
 
 THE CASCINE AT FLORENCE. 145 
 
 from five-and-twenty to five-and-thirty, who had not been 
 obliged to leave hers from acts of cruelty or acts of brutal- 
 ity, etc., that only husbands are capable of, or of Avhieh 
 their poor wives are ever the victims. 
 
 If the moral geography of P^urope be ever written, the 
 region soiith 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 societ}'. The story — there must be a 
 story — of his separation is told in various waj's, 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 condemnator}'. 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 re- 
 sources of om* 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. 
 
 La Contessa inhabited a splendid palace, furnished with 
 magnificence ; her gardens were one of the sights of the 
 capital, not only for their floral displaj', but that they con- 
 tained 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, nee Comtesse della Torre. 
 
 The reader thus knows at once, if not actually as much 
 
 10
 
 146 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 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 Span- 
 ish 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 liaughtiuess that told of Versailles and long 
 ago. 
 
 A very creditable specimen of the old noblesse of France 
 was the Duke, and well worthy to be the grandson of one 
 who was Grand Marechal 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 ambas- 
 sador at the court of the Czar Paul ; in every station he 
 had filled sustaining the character of a true and lo3'al gen- 
 tleman, — 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 liand to him as he came forward, which he 
 kissed with all the lowly deference he would have shown to 
 that of his prince. 
 
 '■'■Man cher Due," said she, smiling, "I have such a 
 store of grievances to lay at your door. The essence of 
 ^^olets is not violets, but verbena." 
 
 " Charming Comtesse, I had it direct from Pierrot's." 
 
 "Pierrot is a traitor, then, that's all; and where 's Ida's
 
 THE CASCINE AT FLORENCE. 147 
 
 Arab? is he to be here to-day, or to-iuorrow? When are 
 we to see him ? " 
 
 " Why, I only wrote to the Emir on Tuesday last." 
 
 '■^ Mais a quoi hon l' Emir it 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? " 
 
 " Of course. I 'd not have dared — " 
 
 "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 ! " 
 
 "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 unde- 
 sei-ved misfortunes." 
 
 "Pauvre Reine ! " sighed the Countess, and held her 
 bouquet to her face. 
 
 ' ' What great mass of papers is that you have there, 
 Duke? " resumed she. " Can it be a journal? " 
 
 "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 hear- 
 ing him read out your name in a paragraph here, I carried 
 off his paper to have it translated for me. You read Eng- 
 lish, don't you? " 
 
 "Very imperfectly, and I detest it," said she, impa- 
 tiently; "but Prince Volkoffsky can, I am sure, oblige 
 you." And she turned away her head, in ill humor. 
 
 " It is here somewhere. Parhleu, I thought I marked the 
 place," muttered the Duke, as he handed the paper to the 
 Russian. "Isn't that it?" 
 
 " This is all about theatres, — Madame Pasta and the 
 Haymarket." 
 
 "Ah! well, it is lower down ; here, perhaps." 
 
 " Court news. The Grand Duke of Saxe- Weimar — " 
 
 "No, no; not that." 
 
 " 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.
 
 148 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 " Read ou, Prince. C'est mon man" said she, coldly, 
 while a very slight movement of her upper lip betrayed what 
 might mean scorn or sorrow, or even both. 
 
 The Prince, however, had now run his eyes over the para- 
 graph, and crushing the newspaper in his hand, hurried 
 away from the spot. The Duke as quickly followed, and 
 soon overtook hun." 
 
 " Who gave you this paper, Duke?" cried the Russian, 
 angrily. 
 
 ''It was Lord Selby. He was reading it aloud to a 
 friend." 
 
 " Then he is an infame! and I '11 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 thrust- 
 ing his way through the prancing crowd of moving horses, 
 arrived at a spot where tAvo young men, evidently strangers 
 to the scene, were standing, calmly surveying the bright 
 panorama before them. 
 
 " The Lord Selby," said the Russian, taking off his hat 
 and saluting one of them. 
 
 "That's his Lordship," replied the one he addressed, 
 pointing to his friend. 
 
 ' ' I am the Prince Volkoff sky , 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 explana- 
 tion read out at her own carriage, publicly, before all the 
 world, I desire to tell you that yom- Lordship is unworthy of 
 your rank ; that you are an infame ! and if you do not resent 
 this, a polisson ! " 
 
 " This man is mad, Selby," said the short man, with the 
 coolest air imaginable. 
 
 " 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. 
 
 "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."
 
 THE CASCINE AT FLORENCE. 149 
 
 "There's my card, sir," said the Russian; " and for you 
 too, SU-," said he, presenting another to him who spoke. 
 
 " Where are you to be heard of?" said the short man. 
 
 "At the Russian legation," said the Prince, haughtily, and 
 tui'ned away. 
 
 "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." 
 
 " You did n't give the newspaper as he said — " 
 
 " 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," 
 
 " So, then, the affair is easily settled," said the other, 
 quietly. 
 
 " 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. 
 
 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 Volkoft'sky, who had fully 
 explained to him the event of that afternoon. 
 
 " Well," said Baynton, " we are of opinion j-our friend 
 has conducted himself exceedingly ill, and we are here to 
 receive his excuses." 
 
 "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 ? " 
 
 "Be it so," said Lord Selby : "he '11 see his mistake some 
 time or other, and perhaps regret it. Where shall it be? — 
 and when? " 
 
 "At the Fossombroni Villa, about two miles from this. 
 To-morrow morning, at eight, if that suit you." 
 
 " Quite well. I have no other appointment. Pistols, of 
 course ? " 
 
 "You have the choice, otherwise my friend would have 
 preferred the sword."
 
 150 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 "Take him at his word, Selby," whispered Baynton; 
 " you are equal to any of them with the rapier." 
 
 ' ' If your friend desire the sword, I have uo objection, — 
 I mean the rapier." 
 
 "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. 
 
 " Well-mannered fellow, the Frenchman," said Baynton, 
 as the door closed ; and the other nodded assent, and rang 
 the bell for dinner.
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE VILLA FOSSOMBRONI. 
 
 The grounds of the Villa Fossombroui 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 dissi- 
 pation. 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. 
 
 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 alterca- 
 tions, 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 Fos- 
 sombroui, in a discussion, was the watchword for a duel. 
 
 It was of a splendid spring morning that the two P^nglish- 
 men 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 struc- 
 tures which the country about Florence abounds in. Gloomy, 
 stern, and jail-like without, while within, splendid apart- 
 ments opened into each other in what seems an endless suc- 
 cession. Frescoed walls and gorgeously ornamented ceilings, 
 gilded mouldings and rich tracery, were on every side ;
 
 152 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 and these, too, in chambers where the immense proportions 
 ami 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 re- 
 placed by a variety of swords and sabi'es of every possible 
 size and shape, and several pairs of pistols, arranged with 
 an evident eye to picturesque grouping. 
 
 "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. 
 
 "Strange enough this, by Jove!" muttered the other, 
 reading to himself, half aloud, " ' Francesco Ricordi, ucciso 
 da Gieronimo Gazzi, 29 Settembre, 1818.' " 
 
 " Wliat does that mean?" asked Selby. 
 
 " It is to commemorate some fellow who was killed here 
 in '18." 
 
 " Are they all in the same vein? " asked the other. 
 
 "It would seem so. Here's one: ' Gravameute ferito,' 
 — badly wounded ; with a postscript that he died the same 
 night."" 
 
 "What's this large one here, in black marble?" inquired 
 Selby. 
 
 "To the memory of Carlo Luigi Guiccidrini, ' detto il 
 Caniefice,' called ' the slaugliterer : ' cut down to the fore- 
 head by Pietnj Baldasseroni, on the night of July 8th, 
 1810." 
 
 " 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, tliickset 
 man, dressed in a much-worn dressing-gown and slippers.
 
 THE VILLA FOSSOMBRONL 153 
 
 He removed his skull-cap as he approached, aud said, " The 
 Couut Tasseroui, at 3'Oiir orders." 
 
 "We have come here by appointment," said Baynton. 
 
 "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." 
 
 "You'll have him up there soon, then," said Baynton, 
 pointing towards the chapel. 
 
 " I think not. We have not done it latterly," said the 
 Couut, musingly. "The authorities don't seem to like it; 
 aud, of course, we respect the authorities ! " 
 
 "That's quite evident," said Baynton, who turned 
 to translate the observation to his friend. 
 
 Selby whispered a word in his ear. 
 
 " What does the signore say?" inquired the Count. 
 
 " My friend thinks that they are behind the time." 
 
 "Per Bacclio! 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. 
 
 "How is this fellow to handle a sword, if his right arm 
 be wounded?" said Selby. 
 
 "Don't 3^ou know that these Russians use the left hand 
 indifferently with the right, in all exercises? It may be 
 awkward ior you; but, depend upon it, he'll not be incon- 
 venienced in the least." 
 
 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 Due de 
 BrignoUes 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?" 
 
 "Of course, I knew it was all a mistake on your part.
 
 154 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE 
 
 I told Colonel Baynton, here, you 'd see so yourself, — when 
 it is too late, perhaps." 
 
 "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?" 
 
 "Yes, certainly." 
 
 "Why, when j'ou could have so easily explained this 
 misconception on my part, did you not take the trouble of 
 doing so ? " 
 
 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?" 
 
 " 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.' " 
 
 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, phleg- 
 matic 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. 
 
 Lord Selby and his friend freely accepted the polite invi- 
 tation 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.
 
 THE VILLA FOSSOMBRONI. 155 
 
 By degrees the Russian led the conversation to the ques- 
 tion by which theu- misunderstanding originated. " You 
 know my Lord Glencore, perhaps?" said he. 
 
 "Never saw, scarcely ever heard of him," said Selby, 
 in his dry, laconic tone. 
 
 " Is he mad, or a fool?" asked the Prince, half angrily. 
 
 " I served in a re2;iment once where he commanded a 
 troop," said Baynton ; "and they always said he was a good 
 sort of fellow." 
 
 "You read that paragraph this morning, I conclude?" 
 said the Russian. " Y^ou saw how he dares to stigmatize 
 the honor of his wife, — to degrade her to the rank of a mis- 
 tress, — and, at the same time, to bastardize the son who 
 ought to inherit his rank and title ? " 
 
 " I read it," said Selby, dryly ; " and I had a letter from 
 my lawyer about it this morning." 
 
 ' ' Indeed ! " exclaimed he, anxious to hear more, and yet 
 too delicate to venture on a question. 
 
 " Y'es ; he writes to me for some title-deeds or other. I 
 didn't pay much attention, exactly, to what he says. 
 Glencore's man of business had addressed a letter to him." 
 
 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. 
 
 "A goodish sort of thing for you it ought to be," said 
 Baynton, between the puffs of his tobacco smoke, and with 
 a look towards Selby. 
 
 " I suspect it may," said the other, without the slightest 
 change of tone or demeanor. 
 
 ' ' AVhere is it, — somewhere in the south ? " 
 
 " Mostly, Devon. There's something in "Wales too, if I 
 remember aright." 
 
 "Nothing Irish?" 
 
 "No, thank Heaven, — nothing Irish;" and his grim 
 Lordship made the nearest advance to a smUe of which his 
 implastic features seemed capable. 
 
 " Do I understand you aright, my Lord," said the Prince, 
 " that you receive an accession of fortune by this event?" 
 
 " I shall, if I survive Glencore," was the brief reply.
 
 156 THE FORTUNES OF GLEXCORE. 
 
 " You are related, then? " 
 
 " Some cousiuship, — I forget how it is. Do you remem- 
 ber, Bajmton?" 
 
 "I'm not quite certain. I thiuk 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?" 
 
 " Yes, that 's it," muttered the other, in the tone of a man 
 who was tired of a knotty problem. 
 
 '•And, according to your laws, this Lord Glencore may 
 marry again?" cried the Russian. 
 
 " I should think so, if he has no wife living," said Selby ; 
 " but 1 trust, for my sake, he '11 not." 
 
 " And what if he should, and should be discovered the 
 wedded husband of another?" 
 
 "That would be bigamy," said Selby. "Would they 
 hang him, Baynton?" 
 
 " I think not, — scarcel}'," rejoined the Colonel. 
 
 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 mem- 
 ory was often at fault, too, and Ba3"nton's had ill supplied 
 the deficiency. Again and again did the Russian mutter 
 curses to himself over the apath}' of these ston}' islanders. 
 At moments he fancied that the}' 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 bj' any distrust 
 whatever. 
 
 "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." 
 
 "Do you mean to prolong your sta}' at Florence, my 
 Lord?" asked the Prince, as they arose from the table. 
 
 " I scarcely know. AVhat do you say, Baynton? " 
 
 " A week or so, I fancy," muttered the other. 
 
 " And then on to Rome, perhaps? " 
 
 The two Englishmen looked at each other with an air of as
 
 THE VILLA FOSSOMBRONL 157 
 
 luucb confusion as if subjected to a searching examination 
 in science. 
 
 "Well, I shouldn't wonder," said Selby, at last, with a 
 sigh. 
 
 "Yes, it may come to that," said Baynton, like a man 
 who had just overcome a difficulty. 
 
 " You '11 be in time for the Holy Week and all the cere- 
 monies," said the Prince. 
 
 "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. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 " You hear, Baynton ! " said Selb}^ 
 
 "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 keep- 
 ing 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, b}^ Vall'ombrosa, or 
 trace the sunny vine3'ards along the Val' d' Aruo, 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 won- 
 der, 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. 
 
 Let us not be deemed unjust or ungenerous if we assert 
 that we have met many such as these. They are not in- 
 dividuals, — they are a class; and, strange enough too, a 
 class which almost invariably pertains to a high and distin- 
 guished 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
 
 158 FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 iudifference, 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.
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 SOME TRAITS OF LIFE. 
 
 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 eu- 
 deavoriug 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 uulighted 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." 
 
 "Can no one explain this mystery?" cried the old Prin- 
 cess 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." 
 
 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.
 
 160 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 "Here I am, all impatience. What is it, Scaresby? 
 Tell me quickly," cried she. 
 
 "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." 
 
 " You can't mean that her fortune is in peril? " 
 
 "I suppose that must suffer also. It is her character — 
 her station as one of us — that's shipwrecked here." 
 
 "Go on, go on," cried she, impatiently; "I wish to 
 hear it all." 
 
 " All is very briefly related, then," said he. " The charm- 
 ing Countess, you remember, ran away Avith a countryman 
 of mine, young Glencore, of the 8th Hussars ; I used to 
 know his father intimately." 
 
 " Never mind his father." 
 
 "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. 
 
 "I don't believe a word of it, — I'll never believe it," 
 cried the Princess. 
 
 "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." 
 
 " Yes, yes ; but I repeat that this is an infamous calumn3^ 
 She, a Countess, of a family second to none in all Italy ; 
 her father a Grand d'Espagne. I '11 go to her this moment." 
 
 "She'll not see you. She has just refused to see La 
 Genori," said the ^NFajor, tartly. "Though, if a cracked 
 reputation might have afforded any sympathy, she might 
 have admitted her." 
 
 " What is to be done?" exclaimed the Princess, sorrow- 
 fully. 
 
 "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."
 
 SOME TRAITS OF LIFE. 161 
 
 "I wish I knew what course to take," muttered the 
 Princess. 
 
 "I'll tell you, then. Get half a dozen of your own set 
 together to-morrow morning, vote the whole story an atro- 
 cious 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 estab- 
 lished house breaks, there is generally a crash in the whole 
 community around it." 
 
 While they thus talked, a knot had gathered around the 
 carriage, all eager to hear what opinion the Princess had 
 formed on the catastrophe. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 friend- 
 ship is a rarer thing than is commonly believed, and has 
 little to do with those conventional intimacies which so often 
 bear its name ? 
 
 Assuredly, of all this well-bred, well-dressed, and well- 
 born 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 hea- 
 viest grief of their occupants often being over a lost 
 soiree^ an uuprofited occasion to display toilette and jewels ; 
 w^hile a few, more reflective, discussed what course was to 
 be followed in future, and what recognition extended to 
 the victim. 
 
 The next day Florence sat in committee over the lost 
 Countess. AVitnesses were heard and evidence taken as to 
 
 II
 
 162 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 her case. They all agreed it was a great hardship, — a 
 terrible calamity; but still, if true, what could be done? 
 
 Never was there a society less uugenerously prudish, and 
 yet there were cases — this, one of them — which trans- 
 gressed 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 indict- 
 ment against her, and many a jealous rival was not sorry it 
 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 
 onl}' those who could not enter into competition with her 
 charms who took tlie charitable side. They discussed and 
 debated the question all day ; but while the}' 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 travel- 
 ling-carriage. The next morning large bills of sale, posted 
 over the walls, declared that all the furniture and decorations 
 were to be sold. 
 
 The Countess had left Florence, none knew whither. 
 
 "I must really have those large Sevres jars," said one. 
 
 "And I, the small park phaeton," cried another. 
 
 "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 ? " 
 
 "I wish we were certain of another bad reputation to 
 replace her," grunted out Scaresby ; "they are the only 
 kind (»r people who give good dinners, and never ask for 
 returns." 
 
 And thus these dear friends — guests of a hundred 
 brilliant fetes — discussed the fall of her they once had 
 worshipped. 
 
 It may seem small-minded and narrow to stigmatize such 
 conduct as this. Some may say tliat for the ordinary cour- 
 tesies of society no pledges of friendship are ivcpiired, no 
 real gratitude incurred. Be it so. Still, the revulsion.
 
 SOME TRAITS OF LIFE. 163 
 
 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. 
 
 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 salons 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 w^as 
 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. 
 
 The respectable vagabonds of society are a large family, 
 much larger than is usually supposed. They are often well 
 born, almost alw^ays 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 useful- 
 ness and good ; and, doubtless, these same loungers contri- 
 bute in some mysterious manner to the w'elfare 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 some- 
 thing very similar performed by the respectable class I 
 allude to? Are they not invarialily devouring and destro}'- 
 ing 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 our national charities. 
 
 Vie have been led to these thoughts b}^ 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 wouldn't eon-
 
 164 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 descend to it themselves. To his own he put on the bullying 
 au' of one who said, "How should yoit possibly know what 
 vices such great people have, any more than you know what 
 they have for dinner? / live amongst them, — / understand 
 them, — / am aware that what would be very shocking in 
 you is quite permissible to them. They know how to be 
 wicked; yoxt 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 wroug, 
 that it were a subtle moralist who could have extracted one 
 solitary scrap of uucontaminated meaning from all his 
 muddy lucubrations. 
 
 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 Avould hear no more of either; 
 and so she was forgotten. 
 
 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 for- 
 getting. It forgets not only all it owes to others, — grati- 
 tude, 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."
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 AN UPTONIAN DESPATCH. 
 
 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. 
 
 It was quite a mistake sending me here ; for anything there is 
 to be done, Spencer or Lonsdale would perfectly suffice. / 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 authorit}- turn a deaf 
 ear to. 
 
 It is very kind of you to think of my health. I am still a suf- 
 ferer ; 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 tpm]ipraments. 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 
 
 \
 
 166 THE FORTUNES OF GLEXCORE. 
 
 myself of the politeness. The Duke of San Giiistino 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 Buifeloni, who really 
 seems to have hit off my case. He calls it arterial arthi-iticis, — a 
 kind of inflaniinatorv action of one coat of the arterial system ; 
 liis notion is highly ingenious, and wonderfully borne out by the 
 symptoms. I wish 3'ou 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 ? INIy Italian doctor implies 
 that it is the passing malad}^ 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 ! 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 I go out very little ; my notion is, that the Diplomatist, like the 
 ancient Augur, must not suffer himself to be vulgarized by con- 
 tact. 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 jVIinistry of Foreign Aft'airs. Of my colleagues I see as little 
 as possible, though, wlien we do meet, I feel an unbounded affec- 
 tion 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. 
 
 I now come to the chief portion of your letter. This boy of 
 (ilencore's, I rather like the account you give of him, better than 
 you do yourself. Imaginative and dreamy he may be, but remem- 
 ber what he was, and where we have placed him. A moonstruck, 
 romantic youth at a German University. Is it not painting the 
 lily? 
 
 I merely intended he should go to Gottingen to learn the lan- 
 guage, — always a difficulty, if not abstracted from other and more
 
 AN LTTONLVN DESrATCII. 107 
 
 dulcet sounds. T never meant to have liiin domesticated with 
 some rusty Ilochg-elehrter, eating sauer-kraut in company witli a 
 green-eyed Friiulein, and imbibing love and luetaphysics 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 jnight be left quietly to rear weeds till that time ; and as 
 to dreaminess, it signifies nothing if there be a sti'ong "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. 
 
 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." ]\lay they never make a worse blunder. 
 The man is eminently remarkable. — with his opportunities, mirac- 
 ulous. I am certain, Harcourt, you never felt half the pleasure on 
 arriving at a region well stocked with game, that he did on find- 
 ing himself in a land of Libraries, Museums, and Collections. 
 Fancy the poor fellow's ecstasy at being allowed to range at will 
 througli all ancient literatm-e, 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. 
 
 You need not have taken such trouble about accounts and ex- 
 penditure ; of course, whatever you have done I perfectly approve 
 of. You say that the l)oy has no idea of money or its value. 
 There is both good and evil in this. And now as to his future. T 
 should have no objection Avhatever 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. Be- 
 sides 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 liim at 
 once, and forever, from public gaze. 
 
 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
 
 168 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 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. 
 
 If you really press the question of his coming to me, I will not 
 refuse, seeing that T 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 ? 
 
 Lord Selby, whom you may remember in the Blues formerly, 
 dined here yesterday, and mentioned a communication he had re- 
 ceived from his lawyer with regard to some property in tail, which, 
 if Glencore should leave no heir male, devolved upon him. I tried 
 to find out the whereabouts and the amount of this heritaue ; but, 
 with the admirable indifference that characterizes him, he did not 
 know or care. 
 
 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. Xo 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 wdt. He has left three cards 
 upon me, eacli duly returned ; but I am resolved that our inter- 
 change of courtesies shall proceed no farther. 
 
 1 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. 
 
 Do not mention having heard from me, at the clubs or in 
 society. I am, as T have the right to l)e, on the sick list, and it is 
 as well my rest should remain undisturbed. 
 
 I wish you had any means of making it known that the article 
 in the " Quarterly," on our Foreign relations, is not mine. The 
 newspapei's have coolly assumed me to be the author, and of 
 cours(^ I am not going to give them the tclnt of a personal denial. 
 The fellow who wrote it must be an ass; since had he known what 
 hi' ]ii-ct('iids, he had never revealed it. He who wants to bag liis 
 bird, Colonel, never bangs away at nothing. I have now completed 
 a longer despatch to you than I intend to address to the Noble 
 Seci'etary at F. O., and am yours, very faithfully, 
 
 Horace Upton.
 
 AN UPTONIAN DESPATCH. 169 
 
 Whose Magnesia is it that contains essence of Bark ? Tripley's 
 or Chipley's, 1 think. Find it out for me, and send me a packet 
 thi'ough 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 ou 
 my forehead. They tell me the cautery, if dexterously applied, is 
 better ; but I have not tried it.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THE TUTOR AND HIS PUPIL. 
 
 We are not about to follow up the correspondeuce of Sir 
 Horace by detailing the reply which Harcoiu't sent, and all 
 that thereupon ensued between them. 
 
 We pass over, then, some months of time, and arrive at 
 the late autumn. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 liis own sad thoughts. The other is a 
 short, square-built, almost uncouth figure, overshadowed by 
 a wide straw hat, whicli 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 fea- 
 tures contribute their share. 
 
 It is, indeed, a strange pliysiognomy, 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
 
 THE TUTOR AND lilS PUITL. 171 
 
 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 oc- 
 cupied, his lips are rapidly repeating the words as he reads 
 them. 
 
 ''Do you mean to pass the morning here?" asks the 
 youth, at length, "or where shall I find you later on?" 
 
 "■ I'll do whatever you like best," said the other, in a rich 
 brogue; "I'm agreeable to go or stay, — ad ufrumqae pa- 
 ratus." And Billy Praynor, for it was he, shut up his 
 venerable volume. 
 
 "I don't wish to disturl) you," said the boy, mildly, 
 " you can read, /cannot; I have a fretful, impatient feel- 
 ing over me that perhaps will go off with exercise. I'll 
 set out, then, for a walk, and come back here towards even- 
 ing, then go and dine at the Rocca, and afterwards what- 
 ever you please." 
 
 " 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." 
 
 "I have no taste for chemistry. It alwavs seems to me 
 to end where it began," said the boy, impatienth\ " 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?" 
 
 "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 l)ilin' three thousand years ago? " 
 
 "These things appeal more grandly to my imagination 
 when the myster}' 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." 
 
 "And what prevents you?" said Bill}', eagerly. "Is the 
 grandeur of the phenomenon impaired because it is in ])art 
 intelligible? Ain't 3'ou elevated as a reasoning Ijeing when 
 you get what I may call a peep into God's worksliop, rather 
 than by implicitly accepting results just as any old woman 
 accepts a superstition ? "
 
 172 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 "There is something ignoble in mechanism," said the 
 boy, angrily. 
 
 '' Don't say that, while your heart is beatiu' 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. 'Tis 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." 
 
 " 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 ? " 
 
 ' ' 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." 
 
 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 
 ii-reverence ; that I would no more insult your convictions 
 than 1 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 palatal)le a theory for ignorance." 
 
 " Ay, but I don't want you to be ignorant," said Billy, 
 earnestly; " and there 's no greater mistake than supi)osing 
 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." 
 
 " I certainly am no adept under such circumstances," 
 said the boy. "I have n't told you what hai)pened me in 
 the studio last niglit. I went in without a candle, and, try- 
 ing to grope my way to the table, I overturned the large 
 olive jar, full of clay, against my Niobe, and smashed her 
 to atoms." 
 
 " Smashed Niobe ! " cried Billy, in horror. 
 
 " In pieces. I stood over her sadder than ever she felt 
 herself, and T have not had the courage to enter the studio 
 since."
 
 THE TUTOR AND HIS TUITL. 173 
 
 "Come, come, let us see if she couldn't be restored," 
 said Billy, rising. " Let us go down there together." 
 
 "You may, if 3'ou have any fancy, — there 's the key," 
 said the boy. " 1 '11 return there no more till the rubbish 
 be cleared away." And so saying, he moved off, and was 
 soon out of sight. 
 
 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. 
 
 " C^uitea 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." 
 
 "'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." 
 
 "Then why not come oftener, man? Are you afraid of 
 wearing the steel all away? " 
 
 " 'Tis more afraid I am of gapping the fine edge of your 
 Excellency by contact with my own ruggedness," said Billy, 
 obsequiously. 
 
 "You were intended for a courtier. Doctor," said Sir 
 Horace, smiling. 
 
 " If there was such a thing as a court fool nowadays, 
 I 'd look for the place." 
 
 "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 lament- 
 ably 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. Y"ou '11 have fifty 
 metaphysicians anywhere before you '11 hit on one Moliere. 
 AVill 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." 
 
 " He '11 not make anything, — just for one simple reason, 
 because he could be whatever he pleased."
 
 174 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 " All intellectual speudthrift," sighed Sir Horace. 
 "What a hopeless bankruptcy it leads to!" 
 
 "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 Avas a five-year-old." 
 
 " He ought to have a career," said Sir Horace, thought- 
 fully. " Every man ought to have a calling, if only that he 
 may be able to abandon it." 
 
 "Just as a sailor has a point of departure," said Bill}'. 
 
 "Precisely," said Sir Horace, pleased at being so well 
 appreciated. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 "He has genius and talents both," said Billy; " he has 
 the raw material, and the workshop to manufacture it." 
 
 ' ' I am rejoiced to hear such an account from one so well 
 able to pronounce," said Sir Horace, blandly; and Billy 
 l)owed, and blushed with a sense of happiness that none but 
 humble men, so praised, could ever feel. 
 
 "I should like much to hear what you would advise for 
 him," said Upton. 
 
 " He's so full of promise," said Billy, " that whatever he 
 takes to he '11 be sure to fancy he 'd be better at somotliing 
 else. vSee, now, — it isn't a bull 1 'm sayin', but I'll make 
 a blunder of it if I try to explain." 
 
 " Go on ; I think I apprehend you." 
 
 " By coorse you do. Well, it's that same feelin' makes 
 me cautious of sayin' wliat lie ought to do. For, after all, 
 a variety of capacity implies discursiveness, and discursive- 
 ness is the mother of failure." 
 
 " You speak like an oracle. Doctor."
 
 THE TUTOR AND HIS PUPIL. 175 
 
 " If I do, it 's because the priest is beside me," said Billy, 
 bowing. "My notion is this: I'd let him cultivate his 
 fine o'ifts for a year or two' in any way he liked, — in work 
 or idleness ; for they '11 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, anH better than he '11 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 pnblic life ; set a grand 
 ambition before him, and say, ' Go on.' " 
 
 "He's scarcely the stutf for public life," muttered Sir 
 Horace. 
 
 " He is," said Billy, boldly. 
 
 " He 'd be easily abashed, — easily deterred by failure." 
 
 " Sorra bit. Success might cloy, but failure would never 
 damp him." 
 
 " I can't fancy him a speaker." 
 
 "Rouse him by a strong theme and a flat contradiction, 
 and you'll see what he can do." 
 
 " And then his lounging, idle habits — " 
 
 " He'll do more in two hours than any one else in two 
 days." 
 
 "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 approacli. 
 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 Avell," 
 dismissed the messenger. 
 
 "Will you give me your arm, Doctor?" said he. lan- 
 guidly ; and the elegant vSir 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 thorouglily could 
 appreciate conventionalities ; lie 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
 
 176 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 air of fashionable languor seemed to heighten the absurdity 
 of the contrast. Nay, he actually seemed to bestow an al- 
 most deferential attention to what the other said, bowing 
 blandly his acquiescence, and smiling with an urbanity all 
 his own. 
 
 Of the crowd that passed, nearly all knew the English 
 Minister. Uncovered heads were bent obsequiously ; grace- 
 ful salutations met him as he went ; while a hundred con- 
 jectures ran as to who and what might be his companion. 
 
 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.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 HOW A "reception" COMES TO ITS CLOSE. 
 
 On the evening of that day the haudsome saloons of the 
 great Hotel " Uuiverso " were filled with a brilliant assem- 
 blage to compliment the Princess Sabloiikoff on her arri- 
 val. We have already introduced this lady to the reader, 
 and have uo need to explain the homage and attention 
 of which she was the object. There is nothing which so 
 perfectly illustrates the maxim of Ignotum pro incujnlfico 
 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 affau'S. 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. 
 
 When the Swedish Chancellor uttered his celebrated sar- 
 casm on the governing capacities of Europe, the political 
 salon, as a state engine, was not yet in existence. AVhat 
 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. Des- 
 potic governments are always curious about public opinion ; 
 they dread while affecting to despise it. They, liowever, 
 make a far greater mistake than this, for they imagine its 
 true exponent to be the society of the highest in rank and 
 station. 
 
 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 
 
 12
 
 178 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 treat a popular movement with disdain would tremble at 
 the epigram lauuclied by some ''elegant" of society. The 
 theory is, '' that the masses act^ but never think; the higher 
 ranks think, 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, generall}^ 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 the}^ persevere in maintaining them, they are, 
 doubtless, in some degree, remunerated. 
 
 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 appre- 
 ciated. She is recognized ever3'where 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 
 depositar}' of secrets. Many have something to communi- 
 ^ cate, and are onl}^ at a loss as to tlie 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 with- 
 out a market. Thus it is that these characters exercise a 
 wider sphere of infiuence than might be naturally ascribed to 
 tliem, and possess besides a terrorizing power over society, 
 the chief members of which are at their mercy. 
 
 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.
 
 HOW A "RECEPTION" COMES TO ITS CLOSE. 179 
 
 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 cele- 
 brated incident in Louis Philippe's life ascribed to her a 
 share in a terrible tragedy. "Whether believed or not, the}'^ 
 added to the prestige that attended lier, and she was virtually 
 a "puissance" in European politics. 
 
 To all the iutriguists 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 signalements 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 ^Nlodes " 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. 
 
 If the tone and manner of good society present little suit- 
 able 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 tliat 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 submis-
 
 180 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 sive deference of a courtier. The most lynx-eyed observer 
 could not have detected either iu 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 haught3% but con- 
 descending, 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 w'ere 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. 
 
 She covered over Avhat might have seemed this disparage- 
 ment of her conduct, by always seeking the societ}^ 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 iu 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 trifliug themes, they treated them with a degree of 
 candor and in a spirit that allowed men to speak as unre- 
 servedly as though no ladies were present. 
 
 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 widel}'^ felt 
 than man}' are disposed to believe. 
 
 As the evening wore on, the guests bartered the news 
 and bons mots; scraps of letters from roj^al hands were 
 read ; epigrams from illustrious characters repeated ; racy 
 bits of courtly scandal were related ; and shrewd expla- 
 nations 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
 
 HOW A "IIECEPTION" COMES TO ITS CLOSE. Ibl 
 
 treatment of great questions, one striking feature pre-emi- 
 nently displa^-ed 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 constantl}'^ 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 contempla- 
 tion might have seemed raised to a far loftier level. And 
 then what a mass of ver}' 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 
 pett}" observance omitted or forgotten, have changed the 
 destinies of whole nations. 
 
 It is in such circles as these that incidents of this kind 
 are recounted. Each has some anecdote, trivial and unim- 
 portant 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 mar- 
 riage, not a Coburg alliance to patch up a famil}' 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 with- 
 out remark. 
 
 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. 
 
 " I thought they 'd never go," said she, with a sigh ; '' hut 
 I know wliy they remained, — the}' all thought the Prince of
 
 182 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 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 
 sui'e you are here to meet him." 
 
 Sir Horace bowed, and smiled his acceptance. 
 
 " And your journey, dear Princess," said he, between the 
 puflfs of his smoke, " was it pleasant?" 
 
 "It might have been well enough, but I was obliged to 
 make a great detour. 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." 
 
 " To Massa ! of all earthly places." 
 
 "Even so. They had sent down there, some eight or 
 nine months ago, the young Count Wahnsdorf, the Arch- 
 duchess Sophia's son, who, haviug 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 ? " 
 
 "I am all ears; only waiting anxiously to hear: who is 
 she?" 
 
 " Oh, then, you suspect a woman in the case? " 
 
 "I am sure of it, dear Princess. The very accents of 
 your voice prepared me for a bit of romance." 
 
 " Yes, you are right; he has fallen in love, — so desper- 
 ately in love lliat he is incessant in his appeals to the 
 Duchess to intercede with his family and grant him leave 
 to marry." 
 
 " To man-y whom?" askcMl Sir Horace. 
 
 "That's the very question which he cannot answer liim- 
 self ; 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 hmnble parents, and very 
 small fortunes." 
 
 " Jfelas!" sighed llic diplomatist, pitifully. 
 
 "This angel, it would seem, is untraceable. She arrived 
 with her mother, or what is supposed to be her mother,
 
 IIUW A "KECErriON" COMKS TO ITS CLOSE. 183 
 
 from Corsica ; they landed at Spezzia, with au English pass- 
 port, calling them Madame ;iii<l Mademoiselle Harley. On 
 arriving at Massa they look 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 an}' one. They even so far 
 withdrew themselves from public view that the}' rarely left 
 their own grounds, and usually took their carriage-airing at 
 night. You are not attending, I see." 
 
 "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." 
 
 •• Your P^xcellency mistakes," replied she ; •• the incognito 
 is sometimes, like a feigned despatch in diplomacy, a means 
 of awakening curiosity." 
 
 " CVs ruses ne se font ph(s, Princess, — they were the 
 fashion in Talleyrand's time ; noAv we are satished to mys- 
 tify by no meaning." 
 
 " If the weapons of the old school are not employed, 
 there is another reason, perhai)s," said she, with a dubious 
 smile. 
 
 "That modern arms are too feeble to wield them, you 
 jnean," said he, bowing courteously. " Ah I it is but too 
 trne, 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. 
 
 "And now, recenons a nos iiionfoiis" said she, "or at 
 least to our lambs. This Wahnsdorf is (|uite capable of con- 
 tracting a marriage witliout any permission, if they aj)pear 
 inclined to thwart him ; and the question is, AVhat 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 l)e no end of trouble with 
 your amiable Govennnent, which is never paternal till some 
 one corrects one of her children. If Walmsdorf 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 sympatliizes witli him. In a word,
 
 184 THE FORTUNES OF GLEXCORE. 
 
 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." 
 
 " And you went?" 
 
 "Yes; I passed twenty-four hours. I couldn't stay 
 longer, for I promised the Cardinal Caraffa to be in Rome 
 on tlie iHth, about those Polish nunneries. As to Massa, I 
 oaihei-ed 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 sum- 
 mon two of the servants to the Podesta, 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 coup de main. The place requires a long 
 siege, and I had not time for that." 
 
 " Did you see Wahnsdorf ? " 
 
 "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. The}^ were crossing the 
 Magra with their carriage on a raft, when the cable snapped, 
 and they were all carried down the torrent. He hai)peued 
 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 o])taiiied 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 vouohsnfed him to an ample profit." 
 
 " He told them his name and his rank?" 
 
 "Yes; and he owned that they did not seem at all im- 
 pressed l)y the revelation. He describes them as ver}' 
 haughty, very condescending in manner, tres t/nnides
 
 HOW A "RECEPTION" COMES TO ITS CLOSE. 185 
 
 dames, in fact, but unquestioiuibly boi'u 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 princi- 
 pally in cultivating the arts; they both drew adjnirably, and 
 the young lady had become a most skilful mcxlellist in clay, 
 her whole da}^ 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. 
 
 '' 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 understantl 
 that the nephew of an Emperor need not trouble his head 
 much on that score. He is a very good-looking, well- 
 mannered, weak bo}', 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." 
 
 " Did you give him any hopes? " 
 
 " 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 every- 
 thing, and I to him; and so we parted." 
 
 " I should like to see these people," said Upton, lan- 
 guidly. 
 
 "I'm sm*e of it," rejoined she; "but it is perhaps un- 
 necessary ; " and there was that in the tone which made the 
 words ver}- significant. 
 
 "Chelmsford — he's now Secretary at Turin — might 
 perhaps trace them," said he; "he always knows ever}'- 
 thing of those people who are secrets to the rest of the 
 world." 
 
 " 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 sucli a way 
 as that it can be disavowed if necessary, or abandoned if 
 unsuccessful."
 
 186 THE FORTUNES OE GLENCORE. 
 
 " Said with all your owu tact, Princess," said Sir Horace, 
 smiling. "I can perceive, however, that you have a plan 
 in your head already. Is it not so? " 
 
 "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 ? " 
 
 " Actually three o'clock," said he, standing up. " Really, 
 Princess, I am quite shocked." 
 
 "And so am I," said she, smiling; " o» se compromet 
 si facile iiient dans ce bas monde. Good night." And she 
 courtesied and withdrew before he had time to take his hat 
 and retire.
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 A DUKE AND HIS MINISTER. 
 
 In this age of the world, wheii everybody has been every- 
 where, 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. 
 
 Now, to be sure, ]\Iassa 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 per- 
 fumed wind will still steal at evening, and the blue waters 
 of the ^Mediterranean plnsh Inzily 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 glitter- 
 ing in the sun, and foaming streams gushing from the sides 
 of marble mountains, — there stands ]\Iassa, ruined, de- 
 cayed, 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. 
 
 As you wander there now. passing the deep arch over 
 which, hundreds of feet above you, the ancient fortress
 
 188 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 frowns, and enter the silent streets, 3'ou would find it some- 
 what ditlic'ult to believe how, a very few years back, this 
 was the brilliant residence of a court, — the gay resort of 
 strangers from every laud of Europe, — that showy equi- 
 pages 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 trel- 
 lised shades, where, moodily and slow, some solitar}' figure 
 now steals along, " pondering sad thoughts over the 
 bygone ! " 
 
 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 gratif}' 
 every caprice of a prince whose costly tastes ranged over 
 every theme, and found iu each a pretext for reckless ex- 
 penditure. He was one of those men whom Nature, having 
 gifted largel}', " takes out" the compensation by a disposi- 
 tion of instability and fickleness tliat renders every acquire- 
 ment valueless. He could have been anything, — orator, 
 poet, artist, soldier, statesman ; and yet, in the very diver- 
 sity 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. 
 
 Such a man, under the hard pressure of a uecessit}^ might 
 have done great things ; as it was, born to a princely station, 
 and with a vast fortune, he became a reckless spendthrift, — 
 a di'eamy 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, — de- 
 nouncing ever}' species of pleasure, and ordaining a more 
 Ihau 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
 
 A DUKE AND HIS MINISTER. 189 
 
 and democratic licentiousness in politics, just as he vacil- 
 lated between the darkest bigotry of his church and open 
 infidelity. 
 
 At the time when Ave 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 sub- 
 jects to the unbroken sway of the Priest and the Friar, — u 
 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 brouglit 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 euterjijrise ; and to him we would devote a 
 few lines as we pass. He was an p]uglishman, named 
 Stubber. He had originally come out to Ital}^ 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 as- 
 suredly 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 difiicult 
 circumstances. 
 
 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, Stu})ber spoke out 
 his mind ; and by the very force of strong native sense, and 
 an unswei'ving power of determination, soon impressed his 
 master that his best counsels were to be had from the York- 
 shu-e jockey, and not from the decorated and gilded throng 
 who filled the antechamljers.
 
 190 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 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 arliiter of the 
 most ditlicult points with other states, the highest authority 
 in home affairs, and the absolute ruler over the Duke's house- 
 hold 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 knowl- 
 edge, little hampered by the scruples which conventionali- 
 ties 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, uuiliuch- 
 ing 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. 
 
 AVere we giving a histor}^ 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. 
 
 It was a calm evening of the early autumn, as the Prince, 
 accompanied by Stubber alone, and unattended b}' even a 
 groom, rode along one of the alle3's of the olive wood which 
 skirts the sea-shore beneath Massa. His Highness was 
 unr.sually moody and thoughtful, and as he sauntered care- 
 lessly along, seemed scarcely to notice the objects about him. 
 
 " What month are we in, Stubber?" asked he, at lengtli. 
 
 " September, Altezza," was the short reply. 
 
 '■'• Per Bdcco ! so it is; and in lliis ver}'^ month we were 
 to have been in Bohemia with the Archduke Stephen, — 
 the best shooting in all Euiope, and the largest stock of 
 pheasants in the whol(> Avorld, perhaps ; and I, that love 
 field-sports as no inan ever loved them! Eh, Stubber.''" 
 and he turned abru|)tly round to seek a confii'matiou of 
 what he asserted. Kitlier Stubber did not full}' agree in the 
 judgment, or did not deem it necessary to record his con-
 
 A DUKE AND HIS MINISTER. 191 
 
 curreuce ; but the Prince was oliliged to reiterate his state- 
 ment, adding, "I might say, indeed, it is the one solitary 
 dissipation I have ever permitted myself." 
 
 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 pur- 
 suits not quite so pardonable, in each of which, for the time, 
 his zeal would seem to be exclusive. 
 
 A scarcely audible ejaculation — a something like a grunt 
 — from Stubber, was the only assent to this proposition. 
 
 "And here I am," added the Prince, testily, "the only 
 man of my rank in Europe, perhaps, without society, amuse- 
 ment, or pleasure, condemned to the wearisome details of a 
 petty administration, and actually a slave, — yes, sir, I say, 
 a slave — AVhat 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. 
 
 ' ' 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." 
 
 "They did look very wretched. And why is it not 
 drained? Why is n't everything done as it ought, Stubber, 
 eh?" 
 
 " Why is n't your Highness in Bohemia? " 
 
 "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." 
 
 "Landelli is a hvlro^" said 8tul)ber. "He has money 
 enough to build a new wing to his chateau in Serravezza, 
 and to give fifty thousand seudi of fortune to his daughter, 
 though he can't afford your Highness the common necessa- 
 ries of your station." 
 
 "Per Bacco! Billy, you are right; you imist look into 
 these accounts yourself. They always confuse me."
 
 192 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 "• I have looked into thein, and your Highness shall have 
 two hundred thousand francs to-morrow on your dressing- 
 table, and as much more within the week." 
 
 "Well done, Billy! you are the only fellow who can un- 
 mask these rogueries. If I had only had you with me long 
 ago ! Well ! well ! well ! it is too late to think of it. AVhat 
 shall we do with this money ? Bohemia is out of the ques- 
 tion 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 com- 
 pleted ? 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 '11 
 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 scul})tors. 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 [)eople go to see at Frankfort. Then 
 thei-e'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 ter- 
 raced in a succession of gardens down to the very margin 
 of the sea. Plants and shrubs of other climates wei'e min- 
 gled with those familiar to Italy, making up a picture of 
 singular beauty, by diversity of color and foliage. "Isn't 
 this the 'Ombretta,' Stubber?" 
 
 "Yes, Altezza; but the IVIorelli have left it. It is let 
 now to a stranger, — a French lady. Some call her English, 
 I believe." 
 
 "To be sure; I remember. There was a demand about 
 a formal permission to reside liere. Laiidelli advised me 
 not to sign it, — that she might turn out English, or have 
 some claim upon England, which was (jnite ecjuivalent to 
 placing the Duchy, and all witliiii it, under that blessed 
 thing they call British protection." 
 
 "There are worse things tlian even that," nmttered 
 Stubber.
 
 A DUKE AND IIIS MINLSTER. 193 
 
 " British occupation, perhaps you mean ; well, you may be 
 right. At all events, 1 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." 
 
 "•They seem very fine indeed," said Stubber. 
 
 " I say, sir, that we have none such at the Palace. J '11 
 wager a zecchino they have come from Naples. And look 
 at that magnolia : I tell you, Stubber, this garden is very far 
 superior to <n;rs." 
 
 "Your Highness has not been in the Palace gardens 
 lately, pei'haps. I was there this morning, and they are 
 really in admirable order." 
 
 " I '11 have a peep inside of these grounds, Stubber," said 
 the Duke, who, no longer attentive to the other, only fol- 
 lowed 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 invit- 
 ingly 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 surround- 
 ing 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 connnitted 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 diletlante 
 scorns anatomy, and will not submit to di-udgery ; hence, 
 here are muscles incorrectly developed, and their action ill 
 
 13
 
 194 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 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 wiiich his skill adapted him. Too impatient and too 
 tliseursive to accomplish anything of his own, he was admir- 
 ably lifted 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 Slubber, 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, " Per Bacco ! I have made a good thing of 
 it — there 's life in it now ! " 
 
 "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." 
 
 "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 — " 
 
 " Oh, do not say so ! " cried she, eagerly ; "I feel that I 
 tim in a master's presence." 
 
 The Duke started, partly struck by the energy of her 
 mnnner, in part by the words themselves. It is often ditH- 
 cult for men in his station to believe that they are not known 
 and recognized ; and so he stood wondering at her, and 
 flunking who she could be that did not know liim 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, 1 know what 
 is right, ])ut very often I can't accomplish it."
 
 A DUKE AND HIS MINISTER. 195 
 
 "You are from Carrara, I conclude?" said the young 
 gii'l, timidly, still curious to hear more about him. 
 
 "Pardon me," said he, smiling; "I am a native of 
 Massa, and live here." 
 
 " And are you not a sculptor by profession? " asked she, 
 still more eagerly. 
 
 "No," said he, laughing pleasantly; "I follow a more 
 precarious trade, nor can I mould the clay I work in so 
 deftly." 
 
 " At least you love art," said she, with an enthusiasm 
 heightened by the changes he had effected in her group. 
 
 "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 instruc- 
 tion 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 ? " 
 
 "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. 
 
 "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. 
 
 , "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." 
 
 " We live here, sir, apart from the world. It is for that 
 reason we have selected this residence," replied she, coldly.
 
 196 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 " I shall respect your seclusion, madame," answered he, 
 with a deep bow, " and oul}' 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 " I am culling a souvenir, madame," said he, plucking a 
 moss-ross as the lady passed. 
 
 "I will give you a better one, sir," said she, detaching 
 one from her bouquet, and handing it to him. And so they 
 parted. 
 
 "Per Bacco ! 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 pleasautest of all then- sensations.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 ITALIAN TROUBLES. 
 
 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 then- 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. Xo arrests had asj^et been made, 
 but the authorities were in possession of information with 
 regard to various suspicious characters, and the police pre- 
 pared to act at a moment's notice. 
 
 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, Monsignoie Abbati, occupying the 
 lowest place, in virtue of his liuiii])l(' 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.
 
 198 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 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 die- 
 missed 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. 
 
 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 con- 
 spiracy, which, under the title of the Carbonari, had estab- 
 lished themselves in every corner of Europe. 
 
 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 re- 
 cruited 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 thei-e; 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 lieads how these clianges were to be accom- 
 plished ; they cared little for the real grievances they as- 
 sumed to redress : their work was demolition. It was to 
 the hour of pillage alone they looked for the recompense of 
 their hardiliood. Some, unquestionably, took a different 
 view of the agencies and the ()l)jeets ; dreamy, speculative 
 men, with high aspirations, hoped tliat the cruel wrongs 
 which tyranny inflicted on many a European state might be 
 effectually curbed by a glorious freedom, when eacli man's 
 actions should be made comformable to the benefit of the 
 community, and the will of all be typified in the conduct Oi 
 each. There was, liowever, another class, and to these 
 Stubber had given deep attention. It was a party whose
 
 ITALIAN TROUBLES. 199 
 
 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 great- 
 est effect could not rise above acts of terror and dismay. 
 And thus while the leaders plotted great political convul- 
 sions, and the masses dreamed of sack and pillage, these 
 latter dealt in acts of assasshiation, — 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 ecjual 
 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 them- 
 selves suddenly, carrying away to foreign shores consider- 
 able wealth, and, that, too, under circumstances where the 
 acquisition of property seemed scarcely possible. Others 
 he had seen as suddenly, throwing ofE their political asso- 
 ciates, rise into stations of rank and power ; and one mem- 
 orable 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 rumi- 
 nating on this theme, he sat at the bedside. 
 
 "Is it a dream, Stubber, or have we really heard bad 
 news from Carrara? Has Fraschetti been stabbed, or not?" 
 
 " 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." 
 
 " Which means, that you disbelieve the whole story." 
 
 " Every word of it." 
 
 ' ' And the poniards found at the Bocca di Magra ? " 
 
 " Found by those who placed them there." 
 
 " And the proclamations? " 
 
 " Blundering devices. See, here is one of them, printed 
 on the very papei' supplied to the Government offices. 
 There 's the water-mark, with the crowB and your own 
 cipher on it."
 
 200 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 " Per Bacco! so it is. Let me show this to Laudelli." 
 
 "Wait aAvhile, your Highness; let us trace this a little 
 farther. No arrests have been made ? " 
 
 "None." 
 
 "Nor will an}'. The object in view is already gained; 
 they have terrified you, and secured the next move." 
 
 '• What do you mean?" 
 
 " 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 safet}'^, you have 
 only one course remaining." 
 
 "Which is — " 
 
 " To call in the Austrians." 
 
 " Per Bacco! it is exactly what they have advised. How 
 did you come to know it ? Who is the traitor at the Council- 
 board?" 
 
 " I wish I could tell you the name of one who was not 
 such. Why, youi" Highness, these fellows are not ijour 
 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 Schonbrunn. If wise and moderate counsels prevailed 
 here, if our financial measures prospered, if the people 
 were happy and contented, how long, think you, would 
 Loiubajxly submit to be ruled by the rod and the bayonet? 
 Do you imagine that you will be suffered to give an example 
 to the Peninsula of a good administration? " 
 
 "But so it is," broke in the Prince; "I defy any man 
 to assert the opposite. The country Is prosperous, the 
 people are contented, the laws justly administered, and, 
 I hesitate not to say, myself as popular as any sovereign 
 of Europe." 
 
 " 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 tradi- 
 tions as honest men yet survive amongst them; that the
 
 ITiVLIAN TROUBLES. 201 
 
 laws only exist as au agent of tyranny, arrest and imprison- 
 ment being at the mere caprice of the authorities. Noi- 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 your own popularity, all 
 I say is, don't walk in the Piazza at Carrara after dusk. 
 No, nor even at noonday." 
 
 " And you dare to speak thus to me, 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. 
 
 ' ' And why not, sir ? Of what value could such a man as 
 I ain be to your service, if I were not to tell you what you '11 
 never hear from others, — the plain, simple truth? Is it not 
 clear enough that if I only thought of ray 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 tlie cavalry 
 horses dying from short rations ! " 
 
 " 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/oa 
 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 ! " 
 
 "Take no man's word, sir, for what, wliile 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 Austriaus. Ask for a lirigade 
 and a general. You '11 have them for the asking. They 'd 
 €ome at a word, and try your people at the drum-head, and
 
 202 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 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, pros- 
 per with martial law, nor is a state of siege thought favor- 
 able to commerce. No matter. You '11 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 ! ' " 
 
 "You forget yourself, sir, and you forget )ne ! " said the 
 Duke, sternly, as he drew himself up, and threw a look of 
 insolent pride at the speaker. 
 
 "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 '11 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 Em- 
 pire. 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 '11 say not one word 
 against all the measures of precaution that your Council are 
 bent on importing from Austria." 
 
 "Take your own way; I promise nothing," said the 
 Duke, haughtily ; and, with a motion of his hand, dismissed 
 his adviser.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 / 
 
 CARRARA. 
 
 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, 
 
 — CaiTara offers the very strongest contrast. Built in a 
 little cleft of the Apennines, it is begirt with great moun- 
 tains, — wild, barren, and desolate. Home, dark and pre- 
 cipitous, 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 lilocks of glittering stone. 
 Far down below, crossed and recrossed by splashing torrents, 
 sprinkled with the spra}^ 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 gath- 
 ered for every land and clime, treasures destined to adorn 
 the great galleries of nations, or the splendid palaces of 
 kings. 
 
 Some of these studios are of imposing size and vast pro- 
 portions, and not devoid of a certain architectural preten- 
 sion, — a group, a figure, or a bas-relief usually adorning 
 the space over the door, and by its sul)ject giving some 
 indication of the tastes of the proprietor. Thus, Madonnas
 
 204 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 and saints are of frequent occurrence ; and the majority of 
 the artists display their faith by an image of the saint whose 
 patronage they cUiini. Others exhibit some ideal concep- 
 tion ; and a few denote their nationality by the bust of their 
 sovereign, or some prince of his house. 
 
 One of these buildings, a short distance from the town, 
 and so small as to be little more than a mere crypt, was dis- 
 tinguished 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 crea- 
 tions 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 greet- 
 ing; 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. 
 
 His strict retirement had not, however, exempted him 
 from the jealous suspicions of the authorities ; on the con- 
 trary, 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. 
 
 It was on one of these errands that he stood one morning 
 in 1h(> antechamber of the Podesta's court, awaiting his turn 
 to be called and interrogated. The heat of a crowded 
 chamber, the wearisome delay, — perhaps, too, some vexa- 
 tion at the frequency of these irritating calls, — had par- 
 tially excited him ; and when lie was at length introduced, 
 his manner was confused, and liis replies vague and almost 
 wandering. 
 
 Two strangers, wliose formal permission to reside were 
 then being filled up by a clerk, were acconnnodated with
 
 CARRARA. 205 
 
 seats in the room, and listened with no slight interest t(j a 
 course of inquiry ,so strange and novel to their ears. 
 
 " 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, 
 ah-eady proclaiming that he came of a class whose instincts 
 denote good blood. 
 
 " Greppi, you have a servant, it would seem, whose name 
 is not in your passport. How is this? " 
 
 "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." 
 
 " Does he assist you in your work? " 
 
 "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." 
 
 " His tongue and accent betray a foreign origin, Greppi? " 
 
 "Be it so, — so do mine, perhaps. Are we the less sub- 
 missive to the laws?" 
 
 "The laws can make themselves respected," said the 
 Podesta, sternly. " AVhere is this man, — how is he 
 called?" 
 
 " He is known as Guglielmo, sir. At this moment he is 
 ill ; he has caught the fever of the Campagna, and is con- 
 fined to bed." 
 
 " We shall send to ascertain the fact," was the reply. 
 
 " Then my word is doubted! " said the youth, haughtily. 
 
 The Podesta started, but more in amazement than anger. 
 There was, indeed, enough to astonish him in the haughty 
 ejaculation of the poorly clad boy. 
 
 " I am given to believe that you are not — as your pass- 
 port would imply — a native of Capri, nor a Neapolitan 
 bori.," said the Podesta. 
 
 "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?" 
 
 " You are forgetting where you are, boy ; but 1 may take
 
 206 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 measures to remiud 3^011 of it," said the Podesta, whisperiug 
 to a sergeant of the geudarmes at his side. 
 
 " 1 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 mj^self in all obedience to the laws ; to live 
 quietly and follow my trade. If my presence here give dis- 
 pleasure to the authorities, I will, however sorry, take my 
 departure, though I cannot say whither to." The last words 
 were uttered falteriugly, and in a kind of soliloquy, and 
 only overheard by the two strangers, who now, having 
 received their papers, arose to withdraw. 
 
 "■ 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. 
 
 He took it without a word ; indeed, he was too deeply 
 engaged in his own thoughts to pay much attention to the 
 request. 
 
 " The sergeant will accompany you, my good youth, to 
 your lodgings, and verify what you have stated as to youi- 
 companion. To-morrow you will appear here again, to 
 answer certain questions we shall put to you as to your sub- 
 sistence, and the means by which you live." 
 
 "Is it a crime to have wherewithal to subsist upon?" 
 asked the boy. 
 
 ' ' He whose means of living are disproportionate to his 
 evident station may well be an object of suspicion," said 
 the other, with a sneer. 
 
 " And who is to say what is my station, or what becomes 
 it? Will you take upon you to pronounce upon the ques- 
 tion? " cried the boy, boldly. 
 
 " Mayhap it is what I shall do very soon ! " was the calm 
 answer. 
 
 "Then let me have done with this. I'll leave the place 
 as soon as my friend be able to bear removal." 
 
 " Even that I '11 not promise for." 
 
 " Why, you'll not detain me here by force?" exclaimed 
 the youth. 
 
 A cold, ambiguous smile was the only reply he received to 
 this speech. 
 
 " Well, let us see when this restraint is to begin," cried
 
 CARRARA. 207 
 
 the boy, passionately, as he moved towards the door ; but no 
 impediment was ottered to his departure. On tiie 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 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." 
 
 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. 
 
 "It's going oif now," said he, "but the fit was a long 
 one. This morning it began at eight o'clock ; but I 'm throw- 
 ing it off now, and I '11 soon be better." 
 
 "My poor fellow," said the bo}^, 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." 
 
 " 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? 
 
 ^'•Prudentia" said the youth, scofllngly, "may mean 
 anything, from trickery to downright meanness ; since, by 
 such acts as these, men grow great in life. Prudentia is 
 thrift and self-denial ; but it is more too, — it is a com- 
 promise between a man's dignity and his worldly success ;
 
 208 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 it is the compact that says, Bear tliis^ that that may happen ; 
 and so I '11 none of it." 
 
 " Tell me how you fared with the Prefect," asked Billy. 
 
 "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. 
 
 '' Well, well! " said Billy, " it might be worse." 
 
 "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. You can forgive, — I love better 
 to resist." 
 
 "Mine is the better philosophy, though," said Billy, 
 " since it will last one's lifetime. Forgiveness must dig- 
 nify old age, when your virtue of resistance be no longer 
 possible." 
 
 ' ' I never wish to reach the time when I may be too old 
 for it," said the boy, passionately. 
 
 "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. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 Billy Traynor took up the letter, whose seal was yet un- 
 broken, and having examined it carefully, returned it to him, 
 saying, " You did n't answer his last, I think? " 
 
 "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 hunible path on the 
 mountain side." 
 
 "I'm content if it only lead upwards," said the sick 
 man ; and the woi'ds were uttered firmly, but with the solemn 
 fervor of prayer.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 A NIGHT SCENE. 
 
 As young Massy — for so we like best to call him — sat 
 with the letter in his hand, a card fell to the ground fi-oni 
 between his fingers, and, taking it up, he read the name 
 '•Lord Selby." 
 
 "What does this mean, Billy?" asked he; " whom can 
 it belong to? Oh, I remember now. There were some 
 strano;ers at the Podesta's office this morning when I was 
 there ; and one of them asked me to call at this inn, and 
 speak with them." 
 
 " He has seen the ' Alcibiades,' " exclaimed Billy, eagerly. 
 " He has been at the studio? " 
 
 "How should he?" rejoined the youth. "I have not 
 been there myself for two days : here is the key ! " 
 
 "He has heard of it then, — of that I'm certain; since 
 he could not be in town here an hour without some one tell- 
 ing him of it." 
 
 INIassy 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." 
 
 "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, nnd then, wiping 
 away a heavy tear that had fallen on his cheek, he slowly 
 descended the steps towards the bridge. 
 
 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, 
 
 14
 
 210 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 where, in a species of summer-house, they were seated at 
 their wiue. 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. 
 
 " Give him one of your cigars, Baynton," said the other; 
 "they are better than mine." And Massy accepted, and 
 began smoking without a word. 
 
 " 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. 
 
 "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." 
 
 " On what grounds? " 
 
 " Suspicion, — Heavens knows of what ! " 
 
 "That's infamous, I sa}'. Eh, Baynton?" 
 
 " Detestable," muttered the other. 
 
 " And whereto can you go? " 
 
 ' ' I scarcely know as yet, since the police are in com- 
 munication throughout the whole Peninsula, and they trans- 
 mit your character from state to state." 
 
 " They 'd not credit this in England, Baynton ! " 
 
 "No, not a word of it ! " rejoined the other. 
 
 " You 're a Neapolitan, I think I heard him say." 
 
 " So my passport states." 
 
 " Ah, he won't say that he is one, though," interposed his 
 Lordship, in English. " Do you mind that, Baynton?" 
 
 " Yes, I remarked it," was the reply. 
 
 ' ' And how came you here originally ? " asked Selby , 
 turning towards the youth. 
 
 "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 
 trj^ something of one's own." 
 
 " And have j^ou done anytliing of that kind? " 
 
 " Yes, I have begun. I have attempted two or three." 
 
 " We should like to see them, — eh, Baynton? " 
 
 "Of course, when we've finished our wine. It's not far 
 off, is it?"
 
 A NIGHT SCENE. 211 
 
 "A few minutes' walk; but not worth even that, when 
 the phice is full of things really worth seeing. There 's 
 Danneker's 'Bathing Nymph,' and Canova's ' Dead Cupid,' 
 and Ranch's 'Antigone,' all within reach." 
 
 "Mind that, Baynton ; we must see all these to-morrow. 
 Could you come about with us, and show us what we ought 
 to see?" 
 
 "Who knows if I shall not be on the road to-morrow?" 
 said the youth, smiling faintly. 
 
 " Oh, I think not, if there 's really nothing against you; 
 if it 's only mere suspicion." 
 
 " Just so ! " said the other, and drank off his wine. 
 
 " And you are able to make a good thing of it here, — by 
 copying, I mean ? " asked his Lordship, languidly. 
 
 " I can live," said the youth ; " and as I labor very little 
 and idle a great deal, that is saying enough, perhaps." 
 
 "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. 
 
 " You don't understand English, do you?" asked Selby, 
 with a degree of eagerness very unusual to him. 
 
 "Yes, I am English by birth," was the answer. 
 
 "English! and how came you to call yourself a Neapoli- 
 tan? What was the object of that? " 
 
 "I wished to excite less notice and less observation here, 
 and, if possible, to escape the jealousy with which English- 
 men are regarded by the authorities ; for this I obtained a 
 passport at Naples." 
 
 Baynton eyed him suspiciously as he spoke, and as he 
 sipped his wine continued to regard him with a keen glance. 
 
 " And how did you manage to get a Neapolitan passport? " 
 
 " Our Minister,' Sir Horace Upton, managed that for 
 me." 
 
 " Oh, you are known to Sir Horace, then? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 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.
 
 212 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 "Have you heard from Sir Horace lately ? " asked Lord 
 Selby. 
 
 "I received this letter to-day, but I have uot read it;" 
 and he showed the uuopeued letter as he spoke. 
 
 "The police may, then, have some reasonable suspicions 
 about your residence here," said his Lordship, slowly. 
 
 "My Lord," said Massy, rising, "I have had enough of 
 this kind of examination from the Podesta himself this 
 morning, uot to care to pass my evening in a repetition of it. 
 Who 1 am, what I am, and with what object here, are 
 scarcely matters in which you have any interest, and as- 
 suredly were uot 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. 
 
 " Wait a moment ; pray don't go, — sit down again, — I 
 never meant, — of course I could n't mean so, — eh, Bayn- 
 ton?" said his Lordship, stammering in great confusion. 
 
 "Of course not," broke in Baynton; "his Lordship's 
 inquiries were really prompted by a sincere desu-e to serve 
 you." 
 
 " Just so, — a sincere deske to sei'S'e you." 
 
 " In fact, seeing you, as I may say, in the toils." 
 
 " Exactly so, — in the toils." 
 
 " 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." 
 
 His Lordship nodded assentingly, as though any stronger 
 corroboration might not be exactly graceful on his part, and 
 Baynton went on : — 
 
 " Now you perfectly comprehend why, — you see at once 
 the whole thing ; and I 'm sure, instead of feeling any sore- 
 ness or irritation at my lord's interference, that in point of 
 fact — " 
 
 " Just so," broke in his Lordsliip, pressing Massy into a 
 seat at his side, — "just so; that's it!" 
 
 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
 
 A NIGHT SCENE. 213 
 
 difficulty gracefully. He tried, iudeed, to seem at ease, he 
 endeavored even to be cheerful ; but the efforts were all 
 uusuccessful. 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 Baj'nton, he was onl}^ too happy whenever 
 least reference was made to his opinion, and so they sat and 
 sipped their wine with wonderfully little converse between 
 them. 
 
 " You have a statue, or a group, or something or other, 
 haven't you?" said my lord, after a ver}' long interval. 
 
 "I have a half-tiuished model," said the youth, not with- 
 out a certain u-ritation at the indifference of his questioner. 
 
 "Scarcely light enough to look at it to-night, — eh, 
 Baynton ? " 
 
 ^ Scarcely ! " was the dry answer. 
 
 " We can go in the morning though, eh? " 
 
 The other nodded a cool assent. 
 
 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. 
 
 "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 ! " 
 
 " Devilish costlj' work you'd find it," muttered Baynton. 
 
 "Well, 1 suppose it is, — not more so than a racing 
 stable, after all." 
 
 " Perhaps not." 
 
 "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 couldn't have expected, you know." 
 Then, turning towards the j'outh, 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." 
 
 " And which doubtless some other had calculated on 
 inheriting," said the youth.
 
 214 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 "Well, that may be very true; I never thought about 
 that, — eh, Bayntou ? " 
 
 " Why should you? " was the short response. 
 
 " Gain and loss, loss and gain," muttered the youth, 
 moodily, " are the laws of life." 
 
 " I say, Bayntou, 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?" 
 
 " If you are disposed to take the trouble," said the youth, 
 rising, and blushing modestly ; and the others stood up at 
 the same moment. 
 
 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. 
 
 " What have we here ! " exclaimed Baynton as he saw it; 
 "is this a little temple? " 
 
 "It is my workshop," said the boy, proudly, and pro- 
 duced the key^to open the door. 
 
 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 wild- 
 est passions of the Carbonari, — one of those savage exhor- 
 tations 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. 
 
 " What are all these about?" asked Baynton, as he took 
 up three or four of them in his hand ; but the youth, over- 
 poine with terror, could make no answer. 
 
 " These are all sans-ndotte literature, I take it," said his 
 Lordsliip ; but the youth was stupefied and silent. 
 
 "Has there been any treachery at work here?" asked 
 Baynton. " Is there a scheme to entnij) you? " 
 
 The youth nodded a melancholy and slow assent. 
 
 "But why should you be obnoxious to these people? 
 Have you any enemies amongst them? " 
 
 "I cannot tell," gloomily muttered the youth.
 
 mttfrlCAUPhSc 
 
 ty-n^jf^^tUJu^M'C^ot:^ 'iea<i,la/eiia o^/hei^ cory>/yyie''yiJd .
 
 A NIGHT SCENE. 215 
 
 "And this is your statue?" said Baynton, as, opening 
 a large shutter, he suffered a flood of moonlight to fall on 
 the figure. 
 
 "Fine! — a work of great merit, Baynton," broke in his 
 Lordship, whose apathy was at last overcome by admira- 
 tion. 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. 
 
 "I'll buy this," muttered his Lordship. "I'll give him 
 an order, too, for another work, — leaving the subject to 
 himself." 
 
 " A clever fellow, certainly," replied the other. 
 
 " Whom does he mean the figure to represent? " 
 
 "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 gor- 
 geous 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, embel- 
 lishing 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 ^schylus 
 calls him. This," added he, in a tone of depression, — 
 ' ' this is but a sorry version of what my mind had 
 conceived." 
 
 " I arrest you, Sebastiano Greppi," said a voice from 
 behind ; and suddenly three gendarmes suiTounded 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. 
 
 "Ask them will they take our bail for his appearance, 
 Baynton," said my lord, eagerly.
 
 216 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 " No use, — they 'd only laugh at us," was the reply. 
 
 " Cau we be of any service to you? Is there anythiug 
 we cau do?" asked his Lordship of the boy. 
 
 " You must not communicate with the prisoner, signore," 
 cried the brigadier, " if you don't wish to share his arrest." 
 
 "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 ! " 
 
 "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. 
 
 A cry of horror and rage burst from the bystanders, and 
 as the Englishmen stooped in soitow over the broken statue, 
 the gendarmes secured the boy's wrists with a stout cord, 
 and led him away. 
 
 " Go after them, Baynton ; tell them he is an Englishman, 
 and that if he comes to harm they '11 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?" 
 
 "No use if we did," replied the other; "they'd over- 
 power us afterwards. Come along to the inn ; we '11 see 
 about it in the morning."
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 A COUNCIL OF STATE. 
 
 It was a fine mellow eveniug 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. 
 
 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 them- 
 selves 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, dis- 
 trustful of all, save his own skill in a moment of difficulty. 
 
 "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. 
 
 " I know that, sir," said Billy, cautiously; " I don't see 
 any need of it." , 
 
 " Nor your own, either," remarked the other. 
 
 " Nor even that, sir," responded Billy, calmly. 
 
 "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 frank-
 
 218 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 ness would serve you greatly, you prefer to preserve a mys- 
 tery that I could easily penetrate if I eared for it, to speak- 
 ing opeuly and freely, as a man might with one of his own." 
 
 "We have no mysteries, sir. We have family secrets 
 that don't regard any one but ourselves. My young ward, 
 or pupil, whichever 1 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." 
 
 '' Come, come, all this is very well if you were at liberty, 
 or if you stood on the soil of your own country ; but remem- 
 ber 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 — " 
 
 " We don't know one of them," broke in Billy. 
 
 "Correspondence with others beyond the frontier," con- 
 tinued the Chevalier. 
 
 " Nor that either," interrupted Billy. 
 
 "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." 
 
 ' ' 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 mod- 
 ellin', with good studies around us ; and, more than all, a 
 quiet, secluded little spot, with nothing to distract our at- 
 tention, 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." 
 
 "Do you know the handwriting of this address?" said 
 the Chevalier, showing a sealed letter directed to Sebas- 
 tiano Greppi, Sculptore, Carrara. 
 
 " Maybe I do, maybe I don't," was the gruff reply. 
 " Won't you let me finisli what I was sayin'?"
 
 A COUNCIL OF STATE. 219 
 
 "This letter was found in the possession of the young 
 prisoner, and is of some consequence," continued the other, 
 totally inattentive to the question. 
 
 "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. 
 
 "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. 
 
 "Take this man back to the Fortezza," said he, calmly; 
 and while Billy Traj-nor 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 por- 
 traits 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. 
 
 Stubber had scarcely crossed the threshold of the room 
 when he appeared to appreciate the exact frame of his mas- 
 ter'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. 
 
 " 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? " 
 
 " The wound has onlv been fatal to the breast of his
 
 220 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 surtout, your Highness ; and so adroitly given, besides, that 
 it does not correspond with the incision in his waistcoat." 
 
 "You distrust everyone and everything, Stubber ; and, 
 of course, you attribute all that is going forward to the 
 police." 
 
 "Of course I do, your Highness. They predict events 
 with too much accuracy not to have a hand in their fulfil- 
 ment. 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 w^ound, — who was to be arrested, and 
 the exact nature of the demand the Council would make of 
 your Royal Highness to suppress the troubles." 
 
 " And what was that? " asked the Duke, grasping a paper 
 in his hand as he spoke. 
 
 "An Austrian division, with a half-battery of field- 
 artillery, a judge-advocate to try the prisoners, and a 
 provost-marshal to shoot them." 
 
 " 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 she thinks that the Court at Vienna is playing 
 out here the game that they have not courage to attempt in 
 Lom]):irdy. "What if this Wahnsdorf was a secret agent in 
 the s(;lieiiu;, eh, Stubber?" 
 
 Stubber started with well-affected astonishment, and ap- 
 peared as if astounded at the keen acuteness of the Duke's 
 suggestion. 
 
 "Eh!" cried his Highness, in evident delight. "That 
 never occurred to i/ou, Stubber? I'd wager there's not a 
 man in the Duchy could have hit that plot but myself." 
 
 Stubber nodded sententiously, without a word. 
 
 "I never liked that fellow," resumed the Duke. "I 
 always li:id my suspicion a])out that half-reckless, wasteful 
 manner he had. 1 know that 1 was alone in this opinion, 
 eh, Stubber? It never struck you,?" 
 
 " Never ! your Highness, never ! " replied Stubber, frankly. 
 
 "I can't show you the Sal)loukoff's letter, Stubber, 
 there ai-e certain private details ior my own eye alone ; but
 
 A COUNCIL OF STATE. 221 
 
 she speaks of a young sculptor at Carrara, a certain — Let 
 me fiud his name. Ah ! here it is, Sebastian Greppi, a 
 young artist of promise, for whom she bespeaks our pro- 
 tection. Can you make him out, and let us see him?" 
 
 Stubber bowed in silence. 
 
 "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 
 du'ection of the eye more accurately than in the Roman 
 heads. I 'm certain you never detected what I 'm speaking 
 of, eh, Stubber? " 
 
 Stubber candidly confessed that he had not, and listened 
 patiently while his master descanted critically on the dif- 
 ferent styles of art, and his own especial tact and skill in 
 discriminating between them. 
 
 "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 om- 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 oui* people, 
 it rests on our character for justice." 
 
 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 mocker^^ and derision. 
 Whether Stubber rightly understood their import is more 
 than we are able to say ; but it is very probajble that he 
 was, with all his shrewdness, mystified by one whose nature 
 was a puzzle to himself. 
 
 "Let Marocchi return to Carrara. Sa}' we have taken 
 the matter into our own hands. Change the brigadier iu
 
 222 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 command of the gendarmerie there. Tell the canonico 
 Baldetti that we look to lilm and his deacons for true re- 
 ports 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 
 estafetta to Pietra Santa for the ortolans, for I think we 
 have earned our breakfast by all this attention to state 
 affau'S." And then, with a laugh whose accents gave not 
 the very faintest clew to its meaning, he lay back on his 
 pillow again. 
 
 " And these tw^o prisoners, 3'our Highness, what is to be 
 done with them ? " 
 
 " Whatever yon 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.
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 THE LIFE THEY LED AT MASSA. 
 
 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. 
 
 "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?" 
 
 "I'm thinkin'," said Bill3% gravely, " that as the bastes 
 of the field are guided by theii* 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." 
 
 "In what way does your theory apply here?" cried the 
 other. ' ' How am I to guess whither this current may carry 
 me?" 
 
 " At all events, there's no use wasti^i' your strength by 
 swimmiu' against it," rejoined Billy. 
 
 " 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? " 
 
 " 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
 
 224 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 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." 
 
 "You mistake my meaning," said Massy, sternly, "as 
 you often do, to read me a lesson on a text of your own. 
 When 1 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." 
 
 "/ get mine from y^w," said Traynor, calmly, "and 
 never felt myself a slave on that account." 
 
 " 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." 
 
 "There's one way to conquer it. Don't be broodin' on 
 what's within. Don't be maguifyin' 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, what- 
 ever it be, with a stout spirit to do your best, and a thank- 
 ful, 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 unno- 
 ticed, wearin' out genius in a garret, and carry in' off a God- 
 like intellect to an obscure grave ! " 
 
 " You talk to me as though my crying sin were an over- 
 weening vanity," said the youth, half angrily. 
 
 "Well, it's one of them," said Billy; and the blunt 
 frankness of the avowal threw the boy into a fit of 
 laughing. 
 
 " You certainly do not intend to spoil me, Billy," said he, 
 still laugliing. 
 
 " Why would I do what so many is ready to do for noth- 
 ing? 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 miglit and your stout limbs. Lave the still 
 water and the sliallows to tlie weak and the puny. Tou?'
 
 THE LIFE THEY LED AT MASSA. 225 
 
 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." 
 
 "How you cool down one's ardor; with what pleasnre 
 you check every impulse that nerves one's heart for high 
 daring!" said the youth, bitterly. "These eternal warn- 
 ings — these never-ending forebodings of failure — are sorry 
 stimulants to energy." 
 
 " Isn'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?" 
 
 In a moment the boy's arms were around him, while he 
 cried out, — 
 
 "There, forgive me once more, and let me try if I can- 
 not amend a temper that any but yourself had grown weary 
 of correcting. I'll work — I '11 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 '11 join all your ecstasies over 
 ^schylus, 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 uncer- 
 tainly, — jarring every chord of my existence, making life 
 a sea of stormy conflict? Shall I tell you? " 
 
 He grasped the other's hand with lioth his own as he 
 spoke, and, while his lips quivered in strong emotion, 
 went on : — 
 
 "It is this, then. T 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 
 
 15
 
 226 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 between the life my earliest hopes had pictured, and that 
 which I am destined to, never leaves rue. All your teach- 
 
 ino-s and I have seen how devotedly you have addressed 
 
 VO^irself 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." 
 
 Traynor hung his head heavily as the youth spoke, and 
 a gloomy melancholy settled on his features ; the sad con- 
 viction came home to him of all his counsels being fruit- 
 less, all his teachings in vain ; and as the boy sat wrapped 
 in a wild, dream}' revery of ancestral greatness, the humble 
 peasant brooded darkly over the troubles such a tempera- 
 ment might evoke. 
 
 "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?" 
 
 "Yes, it's a real paradise, and in a garden that would 
 beat Adam's now," exclaimed Traynor; "for there's mar- 
 ble fountains, aud 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 witliout 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 kaj^ 
 and go in and out whenever I plaze. ' And if there 's any- 
 thing wantin',' says he, ' just order it on a slip of paper and 
 send it to me, and j'ou '11 liave it at once.' When I asked 
 if I ought to spake to the librarian liimself, he only laughed,
 
 THE LIFE THEY LED AT MASSA. 227 
 
 and said, ' That 's me ; but I 'm never there. Take my 
 word for it, Doctor, you'll have the place to yourself.' " 
 
 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, dra- 
 matists, 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 grow- 
 ing 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." 
 
 And what of young Mass}' all this while? His life was 
 a dream, too, but of another and very different kind. Vi- 
 sions of a glorious future alternated Avith 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 im- 
 agination grew sluggish, and his mind uncreative. The 
 sense of servitude oppressed him ; and though he essayed to
 
 228 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 subdue himself to the condition of an humble artist, the old 
 pride still rankled in his heart, and spirited him to a haught}' 
 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 I'ich enjoj-ment. 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.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 AT MASSA. 
 
 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. 
 
 " How long are j^ou there? I never noticed you comin' 
 in," said Billy, half -shamed at his detected ardor. 
 
 "But a short time; I was wondering at — ay, Billy, 
 and was envying, too — the concentrated power in which 
 you address yourself to 3'our task. It is the real secret of 
 all success, and somehow it is a frame of mind I cannot 
 achieve." 
 
 " How is the boy Bacchus goin'on?" asked Billy, eagerly. 
 
 " I broke him up yesterday, and it is like a weight oif- my 
 heart that his curly bullet head and sensual lips are not 
 waiting for me as I enter the studio," 
 
 "And the Cleopatra?" asked Traynor, still more 
 anxiously. 
 
 " Smashed, — destroyed. Shall I own to you, Billy, I see 
 at last myself what j^ou have so often hinted to me, — I have 
 no genius for the work ? " 
 
 "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."
 
 230 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 "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? " 
 
 "I'm ready, and at your orders," said Trayuor, closing 
 his book. 
 
 "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 thoroughl}', 
 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?" 
 
 " I 'm ready," was the calm reply. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 "Yes, it's all there to the good," said Billy; "a good 
 round sum too." 
 
 " 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." 
 
 "Leave all that to me, — I'll manage everything; only 
 say when you make up your mind." 
 
 "But it is made up. I have resolved on the step. Few 
 can decide so readily ; for I leave neither home nor country 
 behind." 
 
 "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, nnd
 
 AT MASSA. 231 
 
 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." 
 
 The boy buried his face in his hands and made no answer. 
 At last, raisinti' up his head, he said, — 
 
 " 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 whicli, 
 over, gives the proud feeling of a goal reached, — a feat 
 accomplished." 
 
 " I '11 go w'herever you like ; I '11 be whatever you want 
 me," said Billy, affectionately. 
 
 " Let us lose no time, then. I would not that my present 
 ardor should cool ere we have begun our plan. AV^hat day 
 is this? The seventh. Well, on the eighteenth there is a 
 ship sails from Genoa for Porto Rico. It was the announce- 
 ment 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.' " 
 
 "An unlucky day," muttered Billy, interrupting. 
 
 " 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 you bethink you how to rid 
 ourselves of all useless encumbrances here. Be it my 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 entei-prise." 
 
 Billy Traynor addressed himself wnth a will to the duty 
 allotted him. He rununaged through drawers and desks,
 
 232 THE FOKTUI^ES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 destro^'ed papers and letters, laid aside all the articles which 
 he judged suitable for preservation, aud then hastened off 
 to the studio to arrange for the disposal of the few " stud- 
 ies," for they were scarcely more, which remained of 
 Massy's labors. 
 
 A nearly liuished 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 fig- 
 ures, 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 abandon- 
 ment. 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 iu 
 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. 
 
 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 liad destroyed the boj^'s early fortunes still worked 
 its evil inthiences, poisoning every healthful effort, and dash- 
 ing with a sense of shame every successful step towards 
 fame and honor. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 Having summed up, as it were, his own doubts in this re- 
 mark, he proceeded with his task. While he was thus occu- 
 pied. Massy entered, and threw himself into a chair. 
 
 "There, you may give it up, Traynor. Fate is ever 
 against us, do and decide on what we will. Your con- 
 founded omen of a Friday was right this time." 
 
 " What do you mean? Have you altered your mind?"
 
 AT MASSA. 233 
 
 u 
 
 I expected you to say so," said the other, bitterly. 
 " I kuew that I should meet with this mockery of my resolu- 
 tion, but it is uncalled for. It is not I that have changed ! " 
 
 " What is it, then, has happened, — do they refuse your 
 passport? " 
 
 " 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 occui'red 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 m^'self 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." 
 
 ' ' What answer did Sir Horace give to j^our letter ? " 
 asked Billy. 
 
 "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." 
 
 "I remember the letter was given to the Minister, who 
 has it still in his keeping." 
 
 "What care I," cried Massy, angrily, "in whose hands 
 it may be?"
 
 234 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 '' The Minister is uot here now," said Billy, half speaking 
 to himself, "he is travelling with the Duke ; but when he 
 comes back — " 
 
 "When he comes back!" buist in Massy, impatiently; 
 "with what calm philosophy 3"ou 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 
 jom-ney no other road in life, till at least I shall have tried 
 it!" 
 
 "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 — " 
 
 "This trash!" cried the youth, fiercely. "Who would 
 accept it as a gift?" 
 
 "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." 
 
 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. 
 
 It was late at night when thej^ 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 
 finislied. 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." 
 
 "That mnch can be done by any one," said Massy, 
 haughtily- " I hope never to set eyes on the trumpery 
 things again." 
 
 "But I have promised you would do it," said Traynor, 
 eagerly. 
 
 "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 T might or might not do? " 
 
 " I knew," said Billy, slowly, " that you had a great pro-
 
 AT MASSA. 235 
 
 ject in your head, and that to enable you to attempt it, you 
 would scorn to throw all the toil upon another." 
 
 " I never said I was ashamed of labor," said the youth, 
 reddening with shame. 
 
 " If you had, I would despair of you altogether," rejoined 
 
 the other. 
 
 "Well, what is it that I have to do?" said Massy, 
 
 bluntly. 
 
 "It is to remodel the arm, for I don't think you can 
 mend it ; but you '11 see it yourself." 
 
 " Where is the figiu-e, — in the studio? " 
 
 " 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 '11 find the garden gate open, and by taking the path 
 throuo;h the olive wood vou '11 be there in a few minutes; 
 for I must go over to-morrow to Carrara with the N iobe ; 
 the Academy has bought it for a model." 
 
 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. 
 
 " If you had any pride in your works, you'd be de- 
 lighted to see where the Faun is to be placed. It is in a 
 garden, handsomer even than this here, with terraces ris- 
 ing one over the other, and looking out on the blue sea, 
 from the golden strand of Via Reggio down to the head- 
 lands above Spezia. The great olive wood in the vast 
 plain lies at your feet, and the white cliffs of Serravezza 
 behind you." 
 
 "What care I for all this?" said Massy, gloomily. 
 " Benvenuto could afford to be in love with his own works, 
 — / cannot ! " 
 
 Tray nor saw at once the mood of mind he was in, and 
 stole noiselessly away to his room.
 
 \ 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 THE PAVILION IN THE GARDEN. 
 
 Charles Massy, dressed in the blouse of his daily labor, 
 and with the tools of his craft iu 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 exer- 
 cise 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." 
 
 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 shi'ubs, 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 I'ising on the mountain side, while some 
 beneath descended towards the sea, which, blue as a tur- 
 quoise, 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 onlj*^ 
 Italy can ])rcsent, and Massy drank in all its influences with 
 an eager delight.
 
 THE PAVILION IN THE GARDEN. 237 
 
 " Were I a rich man," said he, " I would buy this para- 
 dise. What iu 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 ! AVhat a life were it, to 
 linger da^'s and hours here, amid such objects of beauty, 
 having one's thoughts ever upwards, and making in imagina- 
 tion 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." 
 
 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, detect- 
 ing, 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 natm-e of the mental opera- 
 tion, 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 ; ditti- 
 culties that once had appeared insurmountable he now en- 
 countered 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. 
 
 It was nigh sunset as he awoke. The distant bell of a
 
 238 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 monasteiy was ringing the hour of evening prayer, the 
 solemn chime of the '' Venti quattro," as he leaned on his 
 arm anil gazed in astonishment around him. The whole 
 seemed like a dream. On every pide were objects new and 
 strange to his eyes, — casts and models he had never seen 
 before ; busts and statues and studies all unknowni to him. 
 At last his eyes rested on the Faun, and he remembered at 
 once Avhere he was. The languor of excessive fatigue, how- 
 ever, 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 " I scarcely know," said he, sighing heavily. " I feel as 
 though this were a dream, and 1 am afraid to awaken from 
 it." 
 
 "Let me give you some wine," said she, bending down 
 to hand him the glass; "you liave over-fatigued yourself. 
 The Faun is by your hand, is it not? " 
 
 He nodded a slow assent. 
 
 ' ' 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? " ft 
 
 " 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." 
 
 A deep flush covered her face at these words, so ])alpably 
 alludhig to herself, and she tried to repeat her question. 
 
 " 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 tilings within me. Tell me, is this //o«?' home?" 
 
 " Yes," said she, smiling faintly. " 1 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."
 
 THE PAVILION IN THE GARDEN. 289 
 
 " I am weak, and weary too," said he, staggering to a 
 seat. "I have overworked myself, perhaps, — I scarcely 
 know. Do not take away your hand." 
 
 ' ' And you are, then, the Sebastian Greppi of whom 
 Carrara is so proud ? " 
 
 "They call me Sebastian Greppi; but I never heard that 
 my name was spoken of with any honor." 
 
 " 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." 
 
 "Let me model j-ours," said the youth, gazing steadfastly 
 at the beautifully shaped one which rested on the chah- 
 beside him. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 "Why are you so kind, so good to me?" said he, 
 faintly, while a tear rose slowly to his eye. 
 
 He arose totteringh', and, taking her arm, walked slowly 
 along at her side. As they went, she spoke kindly and en- 
 couragingly 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." 
 
 The youth stf)pped 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. 
 
 "Oh, do not feel offended with me," cried he, passion- 
 ately. " If you but knew how j^our words have relighted 
 within me the dying-out embers of an almost exliausted 
 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 yester- 
 day I had resolved to abandon this career forever. I was
 
 240 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 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 1 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, glor3ang 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. 
 
 "This is my home," said the girl, "and this is its 
 mistress." 
 
 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?" . 
 
 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. 
 
 "Am 1 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? " 
 
 "You do," said she, reddening painfully. 
 
 " And the memory is not of pleasure? " added the youth. 
 
 "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." 
 
 "It is the accent of Naples, signora," said he, evading 
 her question. 
 
 "And your mother, was she Neapolitan?" 
 
 " I know little of my birth, signora. It is a theme I 
 would not be questioned on."
 
 THE PAVILION IN THE GARDEN. 241 
 
 "■ Aud yon are a sculptor? " 
 
 ''The artist of the Fauu, dearest aunt," broke in the 
 girl, who watched with intense anxiety the changing expres- 
 sions of the youth's features. 
 
 " 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?" 
 
 " When you have told me the reason for which you ask it, 
 perhaps I may," said the youth, half sternly. 
 
 "There, there!" cried she, wildly, ''in every tone, in 
 every gesture, I trace this resemblance. Come nearer to me ; 
 let me see your hands." 
 
 " They are seamed and hardened with toil, lady," said 
 the youth, as he showed them. 
 
 " And yet they look as if there was a time when they did 
 not know labor," said she, eagerly. 
 
 An impatient gesture, as if he would not endure a con- 
 tinuance of this questioning, stopped her, and she said in 
 a faint tone, — 
 
 " I ask your pardon for all this. My excuse and my 
 apology are that your features have recalled a time of sor- 
 row more vividly than any words could. Your voice, too, 
 strengthens the illusion. It may be a mere passing impres- 
 sion ; 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. 
 
 16
 
 CHAFfER XXXIII. 
 
 NIGHT THOUGHTS. 
 
 It was with a proud cousciousuess of Iiaviug well fulfilled 
 bis mission that Billy Trayuor once more bent his steps 
 towards Massa. Besides providing himself with books of 
 travel and maps of the regions the}' Avere 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 tine Avorkmanship, were also amongst his acqui- 
 sitions ; and poor Billy fed his imagination Avith the thought 
 of all the delight these ol)jects were certain to produce. 
 In tliis Ava}' he never wearied admiring them ; and a dozen 
 times a day Avould he unpack them, just to gratify his mind 
 by picturing the enjoyment they were to afford. 
 
 " HoAv 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 oft' my life to see 3'ou so fresh and 
 so hearty. Is it the prospect of the glorious time before us 
 that has giA'en this new spring to yoiu* existence ? " 
 
 " More likely it is the pleasure I feel in seeing j^ou back 
 agnin," said Massy; and his clieek grcAV crimson as he 
 spoke. 
 
 "'Tis too good you are to me, — too good," said Bill}', 
 and his eyes ran oA'ei- in tears, while he turned away his 
 head to hide his emotion; "but sure it is j)art of yourself 
 I do be growing every day I Vwc. At first I could n't bear 
 the thought of going away to live in exile, in a wilderness,
 
 NIGHT THOUGHTS. 243 
 
 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." 
 
 ^ Indeed ! " said the youth, dreamil3\ 
 
 "To be sure I am," resumed Billy; " and I do be think- 
 ing there 's a kind of poethry in carrying away into tlie soli- 
 tary 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." 
 
 '* It might be a happy life," said the other, slowly, almost 
 moodily. 
 
 " 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, pluugin' and snortin', the mad devils, with a 
 force that would sweej) a fortress before them ; and here are 
 we after them, makin' the dai-k woods echo again with our 
 wild yells. That 's what will warm up our blood, till we '11 
 not be afeard to meet an army of dragoons themselves. 
 Them pistols once belonged to Cariatoke, a chief from Scio ; 
 and that blade — a real Damascus — was worn by an Aga of 
 the Janissaries. Isn't it a picture?" 
 
 The youth poised the sword in his hand, and laid it down 
 without a word ; while Bill}' continued to stare at him with 
 an expression of intensest amazement. 
 
 " 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 davlin', 
 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." 
 
 " I scarcel}' know it myself," said the j^outh. *• I feel as 
 though in a dream, and know not what is real and what 
 fiction." 
 
 ' ' How have you passed your time ? What were you doin' 
 while I was awa}'?"
 
 244 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 "Dreamiug, I believe," said the other, with a sigh. 
 " Some embers of my old ambitiou 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." 
 
 " So you were at work again in the studio? " 
 
 " I have been finishing the arm of the P'aun in that pavilion 
 outside the town." A flush of crimson covered his face as 
 he spoke, which Billy as quickly noticed, but misinterpreted. 
 
 "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 centm-y. Did they not tell you so ? " 
 
 "No; not that, not that," said the other, slowly. 
 
 " 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?" 
 
 " Nor that," sighed the youth, heavily, while a faint spot 
 of crimson burned on one cheek, and a feverish lustre lit up 
 his eye. 
 
 " They did n't dispraise what you done, did they? " broke 
 in Billy. "They could not, if the}' 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?" 
 
 "You wiong tlieni, my dear friend; their words were all 
 kindness and affection. They gave me hope, and encourage- 
 ment 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." 
 
 "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. 
 
 " And so I am again a sculptor! " said Massy, rising and
 
 NIGHT THOUGHTS. 245 
 
 walking the room. " Upon this career my whole heart and 
 soul are henceforth to be concentrated ; my fame, my happi- 
 ness 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 l)e, be banished from my heart. I am Sebas- 
 tian 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 far- 
 away 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." 
 
 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. 
 
 " 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 mo- 
 ment'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 desu-es, we shall concentrate all our faculties on our 
 art ; and even the luunljlest may thus outstrip those whose 
 higher gifts reject such discipline." 
 
 "You'll not live longer under the Duke's patronage, 
 then?" said Traynor. 
 
 "Not an hour. T 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
 
 246 THE rOllTUNES OF GLENCOKE. 
 
 from the door, — there, to the left of the olive wood, lower 
 dowu than tlie old ruin. We '11 live there, Billy, aud we '11 
 make of that mean spot a hallowed one, where young en- 
 thusiasts 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. 
 
 " Aud why would n't it be so? " exclaimed Billy, ardently, 
 — "why would n't you be great aud illustrious? " 
 
 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. 
 
 " These visions are like meteor streaks," said he, falter- 
 ingly ; " they leave the sky blacker than they found it ! But 
 come along, let us to work, and we '11 soon forget mere 
 speculation." 
 
 Of the life they now led each day exactl}^ resembled the 
 other. Rising earl}', 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. Tray nor varied the 
 topics with the var3ang humors of the otlier, and thus little 
 of actual conversation took place between them, though 
 their minds joui'neyed along together. To eke out sub- 
 sistence, even liuml)le as theirs, the young sculptor was 
 ol)liged to make small busts and figures for sale, and Billy 
 disposed of them at Lucca and Pisa, making short excur- 
 sions to tliose cities as need required. 
 
 The t<jil 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, Avith every avenue of which he was familiar ; 
 and although Billy noticed his absence, he strictly abstained 
 fi-om the slightest allusion to it. As he delayed longer
 
 NIGHT THOUGHTS. 247 
 
 ;unl louger to return, Tray nor niaiuttiined 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 walk- 
 ing the garden ar(^und 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, Avhisper 
 to her words of love. 
 
 One night, as he loitered thus, he thought he was per- 
 ceived, for as he suddenly emerged from a dark alley into 
 a broad space where the moonlight fell strongly, he saw a 
 figui-e 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 foi- 
 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 tlie long 
 hours of the day with thoughts of her who thus could think 
 of him. 
 
 Life has its triumphant moments, its dream of entrancing, 
 ecstatic delight, when success 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
 
 248 THH FORTUNES OF GLENCOKE. 
 
 uoble endurance ; the trials of temptation met and con- 
 quered ; the glorious victor}' over self-interest, — are all 
 great and ennobling sensations ; but what are they all com- 
 pared 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 
 m3'stery 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.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 A MINISTER S LETTER. 
 
 British Legation, Naples, 
 
 Nov. , 18—. 
 
 Mv DEAR Harcourt, — Not niiiie the fault that your lett(?r lias 
 laiu six weeks unanswered ; but having giveu 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 desole 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 ! 
 
 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 lu' 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 reci[)ient 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 en tableau 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. 
 
 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
 
 250 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 as clean, and their curb-chains as bright, as possible. You never 
 imagined or dreamed of a contingency when it would be desirable 
 tliat tlie animals sliould be all sorebacked, the whole regiment 
 under stoppages, and the trumpeter in a quinsy. Had you been 
 a diiilomatist instead of a dragoon, this view of things might, 
 perliaps, 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 
 
 II , 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 ini})ertinences ; not like the noble lord at this i>lace, or 
 the more subservient viscount at that, but, in 2)lain words, an 
 admirable pul)lic servant, whose reward, whatever courts and 
 cabinets may do, will always be willingly accorded by a grateful 
 nation. 
 
 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 tliat 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 liealth, — of which, by the 
 way, 1 have but an indifferent account to render you. Tliese 
 people here can't hit it off at all, Ilarcourt; 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 Bagneres, proved to me. 
 There is a flux and reflux in us, as in the tidc^s, 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 luunber of ingeniously contrived posi- 
 tions he accomi>lishes an artificial congestion of any part he 
 pleases; and in liis establishment at Bagneres 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 jiassed three mornings suspended by the mid- 
 dle, like the sheep in the decoration of the (Jolden Fleece, and
 
 A MINISTER'S LETTER. 251 
 
 was amazed at the strange sensations I experienced before I was 
 cut down. 
 
 Yon 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 1 can chance upon a man of intelligence and scientihc 
 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 any- 
 thing he hears for the tirst time, and 1 was not sorry at his 
 punishment. 
 
 I wish you would talk over this matter with any clever medical 
 man in your neighborhood, and let me hear the result. 
 
 And so you are surprised, you say, how" little influence English 
 representations exercise over the determinations of foreign cabi- 
 nets. 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 worry- 
 ing 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 litter 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 wliich 
 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. 
 
 Such, my dear friend, in brief, is the state of man}^ of those 
 foreign governments to whom we are so profuse of our wi.se coun- 
 sels. 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, e.stranged from all their instincts 
 and luibits, and full of perils which their very fears will exagger- 
 ate. Constitutional governments, like underdone roast beef, suit 
 our natures and our latitude ; but they would seem lamentable
 
 252 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCOKE. 
 
 experiments when tried south of the Alps. Liberty with us means 
 the right to break heads at a county election, and to print ini- 
 ]>ertinences 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. 
 
 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 ofE~ 
 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 whei-e. They change minis- 
 ters as travellers change the direction of their journey, to discon- 
 cert tlie supposed plans of their enemies ; and they vacillate 
 betwe(>n cruelty and mercy, really not knowing in which lies 
 their safety. Don't fancy that they have any innate j)leasure 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. 
 
 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 l)ore, 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 Cileucore himself, and for the 
 simple reason that he has made me his coniidant. 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 witliout 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 Ijy literary society and savans, but unsuccessfully. 
 For art indeed he showed some disposition, and modelled prettily ; 
 but it never rose above " amateurship." Xow, enthusiasm, although 
 a very excellent ingredient, will no more make an artist than a 
 brisk kitchen fire will, provide a dinnei- where all the materials are 
 wanting. 
 
 I iH'gan to despair of liini, Harcourt. wlien I saw that there 
 were no features about him. He could do everything reasonably 
 well, because there was no liope of his doing anything with real 
 excellence. He wandered away from me to Carraia, 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 indejH'udence." I replied, 
 but he never answered me; and here might have ended all my
 
 A MINISTER'S LETTER. 253 
 
 knowledge of his history, had not a letter, of which I send you an 
 extract, resumed the narrative. The writer is the Princess Sab- 
 loukoff, a hady 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 coimtry immensely. 
 Heat is the first element of daily comfort, and all the appliances 
 to moderate it are ex-officio luxuries ; besides that in India there is 
 a splendid and enlarged selfishness in the mode of life very dif- 
 ferent from the petty egotisms of our rude Northland. 
 
 If you do go, pray take Xaples in the way. The route by 
 Alexandria and Suez, they all tell me, is the best and most 
 expeditious. 
 
 ]\Iellish 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 w^ho played Tony 
 Lumpkin so execrably at Montreal. I have told him it is j^rob- 
 able, and am yours ever, 
 
 H. U.
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 harcourt's lodgings. 
 
 When Harcouvt had finished the reading of that letter we 
 have presented in unr 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 f ui'ther increased by the 
 following heading, in large letters, in the top of a page : 
 " Sulphur Question," and beginning, "My Lord, by a refer- 
 ence to ni}' 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. Tar- 
 iffs, treaties, dues, and duties occmTcd in every line. Thi'ee 
 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." 
 
 The honest Colonel, who was not the quickest of men, 
 was some time before he succeeded in unravelling to his 
 satisfaction the mystery before liim, and recognizing that 
 the papers on his table had been destined for a different 
 address, while the letter of the Princess had, in all proba- 
 bility, been despatched to the Foreign Office, and was now 
 either confounding or amusing tlie authorities in Downing 
 Street. While Ilarcoui't huighed over the blunder, he 
 derived no small gratification from thinking that nothing 
 but great geniuses ever fell into these mistakes, and was 
 altout to write off in this very spirit to Upton, when he 
 snddenl}' bethought liini that, before an answer could 
 ni'rive, he himself would be far away on his journe}^ to 
 Fndia.
 
 HAKCOURT'S LODGINGS. 255 
 
 "I asked nothing," said lie, "that could be dhllcult to 
 reply to. It was pUiin enough, too, that I only wanted such 
 information as he could have given me oft-hand. If I could 
 but assure Glencore that the boy was worth}' of him, — 
 that there was stuft" to give good promise of future excel- 
 lence, that he was honorable and manly in all his dealings, 
 — who knows what eft'ect 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. AVhy he cannot, does not do it. is a mvsterv 
 which I am unable to fathom. He never gave me his conli- 
 dence on this head ; indeed, he gave me something like a 
 rebuft" one evening, when he erroneousl}' 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 famil}' 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 noAv 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 ofter him but this blundering epistle. 
 A}', here 's the letter : — 
 
 '"Dear Harcourt, — Let me have a mutton-chop with you ou 
 the ninth, and give nie. if you can, the evening after it. 
 
 '• Yours, 
 
 '• Glencore. 
 
 " 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 dis- 
 posal." And with this resolve, Harcourt. having given 
 orders for dinner at six, issued forth to stroll down to his 
 clul), and drop in at the Horse Guards, and learn as juueh 
 as lie could of the passing events of the day, — meaning, 
 therein', the details of whatever regarded the army-list, and 
 those who walk in scarlet attire.
 
 256 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 It was ubuul five o'clock of a dreary November afternoon 
 that a hackney-coach drew up at Harcomt's lodgings in 
 Dover Street, and a tall and very sickly looking man, carry- 
 ing his carpet-bag in one hand and a dressing-case in the 
 other, descended and entered the house. 
 
 ''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. 
 
 " Is your master out? " asked he, at length. 
 
 "Yes, sir; but I expect him immediately. Dinner w^as 
 ordered for six, and he'll be back to dress half an horn- 
 before that time." 
 
 '• Dinner for two? " half impatiently asked the other. 
 
 " Yes, sir, for two." 
 
 "And all visitors in the evening denied admittance? 
 Did your master say so ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir; out for every one." 
 
 Glencore now covered his face with his hands, and re- 
 lapsed into silence. At length he lifted his eyes till they 
 fell upon a colored drawing over the chimney. It was an 
 otHcer 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"? 
 
 "No, sir; of m}'^ master's colonel. Lord Glencore, when 
 he commanded the Eiglith, and was said to be the hand- 
 somest man in the service." 
 
 " 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. 
 
 " That never was a likeness ! " said he, bitterly. 
 
 " My master thinks it a wonderful resemblance, sir, — not 
 of what he is now, of course ; but tliat was taken fifteen 
 years ago or more." 
 
 " And is he so changed since that?" asked the sick man, 
 plaintively.
 
 HARCOUKTS LODGINGS. 257 
 
 " 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 was n'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. 
 
 "I scarcely expected 3'ou before six; and how have 3'ou 
 borne the journey ? " cried lie, taking a seat beside the sofa. 
 A gentle motion of the eyebrows gave the reply. 
 
 " Well, well, you'll be all right after the soup. Marcom, 
 serve the dinner at once. I '11 not dress. And mind, no 
 admittance to any one." 
 
 '' You have heard from Upton? " asked Glencore. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And satisfactorily? " asked he, more anxiously. 
 
 "Quite so; but you shall know all by and b}'. I have 
 got mackerel for j^ou. It was a favorite dish of yours long 
 ago, and you shall taste such mutton as your Welsh moun- 
 tains can't equal. I got the haunch from the Ardennes a 
 week ago, and kept it for you." 
 
 ' ' I wish I deserved such generous fare ; but I have only 
 an invalid's stomach," said Glencore, smiling faiuth'. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 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 freel}', and, so far 
 as a more genial air and a more ready smile went, fullj' 
 justified Harcourt's anticipations. 
 
 "By Jove! you're more like yourself than I have seen 
 you this many a day," said the Colonel, as they drew their 
 
 17
 
 258 THE FORTUNES OE GLENCURE. 
 
 chairs towards the fire, and sat with that now banished, but 
 ever to be regretted, little spiiler-table, that once emblema- 
 tized after-dinner blessedness, between them. '' This re- 
 minds one of long ago, Gleucore, and I don't see wh}- we 
 cannot bring to the hour some of the cheerfulness that we 
 ouce boasted." 
 
 A faint, very faint smile, with more of sorrow than joy in 
 it, was the other's only reply. 
 
 "Look at the thing this way, Gleucore," said Harcourt, 
 eagerly. " So long as a mau 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, ' M}' own griefs are 
 enough for me ; 1 '11 take no care or share in yours.' Now, 
 there never was a fellow with less of this selfishness than 
 you-" 
 
 "• 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." 
 
 " So, then, you still hold to this stern resolution? Shall 
 I tell you what I think of it? " 
 
 "Perhaps you had better not do so," said Gleucore, 
 sternly. 
 
 "By Jove! then, I will, just for that menace," said 
 Harcourt. "I said, 'This is vengeauce on Glencore's 
 part.' " 
 
 "To whom, sir, did you make this remark?" 
 
 " To myself, of course. I never alluded to the matter to 
 any other; never." 
 
 "So far, well," said Glencore, solemnly; "for had you 
 done so, we lind novei- exchanged words again ! " 
 
 " My dear fellow," said Harcourt, laying his hand affec- 
 tionately on the other's, " I can well imagine the price a 
 sensitive nature like 3'ours must pay for the friendship of 
 one so little gifted with tact as 1 am. But remember 
 always that thei-e 's tliis advantage in the intercourse : you 
 can afford to hear and bear things from a man of w// stamp, 
 that would be outrages from perhaps the lii)s of a brother. 
 As Upton, in one of liis bland moments, once said to me, 
 'Fellows like you, Harcourt, are the bitters of the human
 
 HAKCUURT'S LODGINGS. 259 
 
 pharmacopoeia, — somewhat hard to take, but very whole- 
 some wheu you're ouce swallowed.'" 
 
 "You are the best of the triad, and no great praise that, 
 either," muttered Gleneore 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, wheu have 
 such ever alleviated the tortm-es 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 bur- 
 dened with a load too great for me to bear. It had bowed 
 me to the earth, and all but crushed me ! The sense of au 
 unaccomplished vengeance was like a debt which, unrequited 
 ere I died, sent me to m}' grave dishonored. Which of you 
 all could tell me how to endure this? What shape could 
 your philosophy' assume ? " 
 
 " Then I guessed aright," broke in Harcourt. " This was 
 done in vengeance." 
 
 " I have no reckoning to render you, sir," said Gleneore, 
 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." 
 
 "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 Parlia- 
 mentary 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?
 
 •2{J0 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 This artist life that he seems to have adopted scarcely 
 promises much." 
 
 " Let me see Upton's letter," said Glencore, gravely. 
 
 "There it is. But I must warn you that the really im- 
 portant 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 suft'ering martyrdom." 
 
 " Is this credible? " cried Glencore. 
 
 " There they are, very eloquent about sulphui*, and certain 
 refugees with long names, and with some curious hints about 
 Spanish flies and the flesh- brush." 
 
 Glencore flung down the papers in indignation, and walked 
 up and down the room without speaking. 
 
 "I'd wager a trifle," cried Harcourt, "that Madame — 
 What 's-her-uame's letter has gone to the Foreign Office in 
 lieu of the despatches ; and, if so, they have certainly gained 
 most by the whole transaction." 
 
 " You have scarcely considered, perhaps, what publicity 
 may thus be given to my private affairs," said Glencore. 
 " "Wlio knows what tliis woman may have said; what 
 allusions her letter may contain ? " 
 
 "Very true; I never did think of that," muttered 
 Harcourt. 
 
 "Who knows what circumstances of my private history 
 are now bnndicd aliout from desk to desk by flippant fools, 
 to be disseminated afterwards over Europe by every 
 courier?" cried he, with increasing passion. 
 
 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 
 fi'om home ? " 
 
 " 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." 
 
 Harcourt took it, and road, "Major Scaresby, from 
 Naples." " What tliink you, Glencore? Ought we to admit 
 this gentleman? It may be that his visit relates to what 
 we have been speaking about."
 
 HARCOUUT'S LODGINGS 261 
 
 " Scaresby — Scaresby — I know the name," muttered 
 Glencore. "To be sure! There was a fellow that huns 
 about Florence and Rome long ago, and called himself 
 Scaresby ; an ill-tongued old scandal-monger people encour- 
 aged in a land where newspapers are not permitted." 
 
 " He affects to have something very pressing to communi- 
 cate. Perhaps it were better to have him up." 
 
 "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." 
 
 Harcourt made a significant sign to his servant, and the 
 moment after the Major was heard ascending the stairs. 
 
 "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." 
 
 "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 — " 
 
 "Just so," broke in Scaresby; "and if it were not that 
 I had given a very sti'ong pledge to Upton, I 'd have given 
 my message to your servant, and gone off to my hotel. 
 But he laid great stress on mj' 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." 
 
 It ran thus : — 
 
 Deae it , — So T find that soine of the despatches have got 
 
 into yoiu- enclosm-e instead of tliat "on his ]\Iajesty's service." I 
 thei'efore send off the insupportable old bore who will deliver this, 
 to rescup thein, and convey tlieni to their fitting' destination. " The 
 extraordinarii>s " will be burdened to some fifty or sixty pounds 
 for it ; but they very rarely are expended so profitably as in get- 
 ting rid of an intoleral)le nuisance. Give him all the things, 
 therefore, and pack him off to Downing Street. T 'in far more 
 uneasy, however, about some prescriptions which T suspect are 
 along with them. One, a lotion for the cervical vertebra', of
 
 262 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 invaluable activity, wliich 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. 
 
 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. [llarcourt 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 w^orth a dinner, lie '11 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 princi^^al ingredient in which is the oil of the 
 star-fish. It will probably produce nausea, vertigo, and even faint- 
 ing for a week or two, but these symptoms decline at last, and, 
 except violent hiccup, no other inconvenience remains. Try it, 
 at aU events. 
 
 Yours ever, 
 H. U. 
 
 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 tow^ards the dark corner 
 of the room, where Glencore lay, apparently asleep. 
 
 "I hope Upton's letter justifies my insistence, Colonel. 
 He certainly gave me to understand that the case was a 
 pressing one," said Scaresby. 
 
 "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. 
 
 " 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 w^ay he 
 does things. I happened to be one of his guests t'other 
 day. He had detained us above an hour Avaiting dinner, 
 when he came in all Hurried 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 what- 
 ever ; indeed, it would suit my book to perfection just now,'
 
 HARCOUKT'S LODGINGS. 263 
 
 'Well, then,' said he, 'get your traps together, and be here 
 withhi 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. 1 take it the matter must be a very emergent 
 one, eh?" 
 
 " It is clear Sir Horace Upton thought so," said Harcourt, 
 rather amused than offended by the other's curiosity. 
 
 " There 's a woman in it, somehow^, I '11 be bound, eh? " 
 
 Harcourt laughed heartily at this sally, and pushed the 
 decanter towards his guest. 
 
 "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." 
 
 "I suppose you must indeed possess a wide experience," 
 said Harcourt. 
 
 "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 didn't 
 want the reference, but could give you date, and name, and 
 place for every incident that has scandalized the w^orld for 
 the last quarter of the century." 
 
 " And do you still possess this wonderful gift, Major?" 
 
 "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 per- 
 mitted 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 quaiterings on his escutcheon. AVhat memory, 
 then, I ask you, could retain all the shortcomings of these 
 people ? "
 
 264 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 "But I'd really not trouble my head with such ignoble 
 delinquents," said Harcourt. 
 
 " 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, maj^ move 
 in any circle the}' please." 
 
 "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." 
 
 " If you want to destroy tigers, you must frequent 
 the jungle," said Scaresby, with one of his heartiest 
 laughs. 
 
 " 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. 
 
 " Eh? ha! very good! devilish smart of 3'our sick friend. 
 Pray present me to him," said Scaresby, rising. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 "Egad! that was neatly said, though; I hope I shall not 
 forget it. One envies these sick fellows, sometimes, the 
 venom the}' get from bad health. But I am forgetting my- 
 self 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 U|)ton's, and. with your permission, will deposit it in your 
 hands afterwards." 
 
 Harcourt accompanied him to the door with thanks. Pro- 
 fuse, 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, miglit involve tliem all in new 
 complications. 
 
 " 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
 
 HARCOURT'S LODGINGS. 265 
 
 amongst his own set, while he is regarded as a wit by 
 those who mistake malevoleuee for humor. I ask no 
 other test of a society than that such a mau is eudured 
 iu it." 
 
 "I sometimes suspect," said Harcourt, "that the world 
 uever believes these fellows to be as ill-uatured as their 
 tongues bespeak them." 
 
 "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 theu- sarcasms soothes his own 
 conscience as he says, ' I could be just as bitter, if I con- 
 sented to be as bad.' ' 
 
 " I cannot at all account for Upton's endm-auce of such 
 a man," said Harcourt. 
 
 " As there are men who fancy that they strengthen theii- 
 animal system by braving every extreme of climate, so Upton 
 imagines that he invigorates his morale 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 
 mankmd. After all," muttered he, with a sigh, "it's 
 only learning the geography of a land too unhealthy to live 
 in." 
 
 Glencore arose as he said this, and, with a nod of leave- 
 taking, retu-ed to his room.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 A FEVERED 3IIND. 
 
 HARCoruT 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. 
 
 Noon passed over, — one o'clock ; it was now nearly half- 
 past, as a carriage drove hastily to the door. 
 
 " At last," cried Glencore, with a deep sigh. 
 
 " Sir Gilbert Bruce, su-, requests to know if you can 
 receive him," said the servant to Harcourt. 
 
 " Another disappointment ! " muttered Glencore, as he 
 left the room, when Harcourt motioned to the servant to 
 introduce the visitor. 
 
 "INFy 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 Lor^l 
 Glencore's address." 
 
 "He is i-esiding in North Wales at present. I can give 
 you liis post town." 
 
 "Yes, but caul be certain tlint he will admit me if I 
 should go down there? He is living, I hear, in strict retire- 
 iiHiit. and I am anxious for a personal interview." 
 
 " I cannot insure you that," said Harcourt. " He does 
 live, as you have heard, entirely estranged from all society, 
 lint if you write to him — " 
 
 " All! there's the difliculty. A letter and its reply takes 
 some days." 
 
 " And is the matter, then, so very imminent?"
 
 A TEVERED MIND. 20 7 
 
 " It is SO ; at least it is thought to be so by an authoiit}' 
 that neither you nor I will be likely to dispute. You know 
 his Lordship intimately, I fancy?" 
 
 "Perhaps I may call myself as much his friend as any 
 man living." 
 
 " 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 cai'es 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 Gleucore ; for immediately on reading it he gave me in- 
 structions to find him out, and send him down to Brighton." 
 
 "I am afi'aid, were j^ou 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 ills retirement." 
 
 "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." 
 
 Harcourt was silent, and stood for some seconds in deep 
 thought ; which the other, mistaking for a sign of unwilling- 
 ness to comply with his request, quickly added, " If my 
 demand occasion you any inconvenience, or if there be the 
 slightest difficulty—" 
 
 "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
 
 268 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 left the room. The next mimite be was in Glencore's room, 
 hurriedl}' narrating to him all that had passed, and asking 
 him what course he should pursue. Glencore heard the story 
 with a greater calm than llarcourt 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." 
 
 "•But are you equal to all this? Have you strength for 
 it?" 
 
 "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 ileedlessly ; 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." 
 
 " Remember, Glencore, that if you say so — " 
 
 " 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. 1 '11 ])e there ; you 
 may answer for me." 
 
 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 sym})athy ! 
 
 If Harcourt was astonished, he was not the less pleased at 
 all tliis. He encouraged Glencore's sense of gratification 1iy 
 every means in his power, and gladly lent himself to all tiie 
 petty anxieties about dress and appearance in whicli lie 
 seemed now immersed. Nothing could exceed, indeed, tiie 
 care he bestowed on these small details ; ever insisting as he 
 did that, liis Majesty being the best-dressed gentleman in 
 Europe, these matters assumed a greater importance in his 
 eyes. 
 
 " I must try to recover somewhat of my former self," 
 said he. "There was a time when 1 came and went freely
 
 A FEVERED MIND. 269 
 
 to Carlton House, wheu I was somewhat more than a mere 
 frequentei- 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." 
 
 AVarming Avith the recollection of a period which, disso- 
 lute and dissipated as it was, yet redeemed by its brilliancy 
 many of its least valuable features, Gleucore 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 Avildest excesses of folly. A good jest upon 
 Eldon, a smart epigram on Sidmouth, a quiz against Van- 
 sittart, was a fortune at Court ; and there grew up thus 
 around the Prince a class who cultivated ridicule so assidu- 
 ously that nothing was too high or too venerable to escape 
 their sarcasms. 
 
 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 Avas not the less permanent. Independently of the 
 charm of being thus admitted to the most choice cii'cle of 
 the land, there was the fascination of intimacy with names 
 that even amongst contemporaries were illustrious. 
 
 "• 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." 
 
 Only too well pleased at this sudden change iu his friend's 
 humor, Harcourt assented. 
 
 The day was a bright and clear one, with a sharp, frosty 
 ail" 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 spu'it that 
 brought back to each much of the youthful sentiments they 
 recorded.
 
 270 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 "If one could only go over it all agiiiu, George," said 
 Gleucore, as they sat after dinner, '' up to three-aud-twenty, 
 or even a year or two later, I 'd not ask to change a day, — 
 scarcely au 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 
 millionuaire. Why could we not have continued so to the 
 end?" 
 
 Harcourt adroitly turned him from the theme which he 
 saw impending, — his de[)arture for the Continent, his resi- 
 dence 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. ^VeW, 
 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 destin3^" 
 
 " 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." 
 
 "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 Avho are the wise and prudent," cried Glencore, with 
 Avarmth. "Had I, for instance, seen this occurrence, trivial 
 as it was, in its true light, what and where might I not have 
 luHMi to-day? "
 
 A FEVERED MLND. 271 
 
 "My dear Glencore, the luckiest fellow that ever lived, 
 were he only to cast a look l)ack on opportunities neglected, 
 and conjunctures unprofited by, would be sure to be miscr- 
 a])le. 1 am far from sayiug that some have not more tlian 
 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 iis carrj' our burdens with as much incon- 
 venience to ourselves as we can." 
 
 "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 
 slowl}'. I have experienced such as this." 
 
 " 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 reall}^ 
 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 '11 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." 
 
 " And why am I to put this mask upon me? For what 
 and for whom have I to wear this disguise ? " cried Glencore, 
 angrily. 
 
 "For yourself! It is in bearing up manfully before the 
 world you '11 gain the courage to sustain your own heart. 
 A}', Glencore, you '11 do it to-morrow. In the presence of 
 ro3'alty you '11 comi)ort yourself witli dignity and reserve, 
 and you '11 come out from the interview higher and stronger 
 in self-esteem." 
 
 "You talk as if I were some country squire who would 
 stand abashed and awe-struck before his King ; but re-
 
 272 THE FOKTUNES OF GLENCOEE. 
 
 member, my worthy Colonel, I have lived a good deal 
 inside the tabernacle, and its mysteries are no secrets to 
 me." 
 
 "Reason the more for what I say!" broke in Harcourt ; 
 ' ' your deference will not obliterate your judgment ; your 
 just respect will not alloy yom* reason." 
 
 "I'll talk to the King, sii', 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. AVhat can royalty do ior me? Upton and yourself 
 may play tlie courtier, and fawn at levees ; you have your 
 petitions to present, yoiu" favors to beg for; you want to 
 get this, or be excused from that : but 1 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." 
 
 " It may be that he has some good counsel to offer." 
 
 " 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 trades- 
 people 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." 
 
 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. 
 
 " Let us stroll out into the cool air," said Harcourt. 
 " See what a gorgeous night of stars it is ! " 
 
 "That you may resume your discourse on patience and 
 resignation!" said Glencore, scotlingly. "No, sir. If I 
 must listen to you, let me have at least the aid of the decan- 
 ter. Your bitter maxims are a l)ad su1»stitute for olives, but 
 I must have wine to swallow them." 
 
 " I never meant them to be so distasteful to you," said 
 Harcourt, good-humoredly. 
 
 " Say, rather, you troubled your liead little whether they 
 were or not," replied Glencore, whose voice was now thick
 
 A FEVE]{ED MINI3. 273 
 
 from passion and drink together. '^ You and Upton, and 
 two or three others, presume to lecture me — 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 that, I 
 hope — that stings you, does it? Well, su-, you'll find me 
 as ready to act as to speak. There 's not a word I utter 
 here I mean to reti-act to-morrow." 
 
 '' My dear Glencore, we have both taken too much 
 wine." 
 
 " Speak for yoiu-self, su-. If you desii-e 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. 
 
 He never spoke a word as Harcourt assisted him to the 
 carriage, nor did he open his lips on the road homewards. 
 
 18
 
 CHAPTER XXX VII. 
 
 THE VILLA AT SORRENTO. 
 
 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 Prin- 
 cess 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 repre- 
 sented 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 wliere 
 chance glimpses through the trees had been infinitely more 
 picturesque. There was, in fact, the olilrusive sense of 
 riches in a thousand ways and places where iiuMr unadorned 
 nature had been far preferable; and yet, with all these 
 faults, sea and sky, rock and foliage, the scented air, the 
 silence, onlj' broken by the tuneful liirds, the rich profusion 
 of color upon a sward strewn with flowers, made of the spot 
 a perfect paiadise. 
 
 In a richly decorated room, whose three windows opened 
 on a marble terrace, sat the Princess. It was December ;
 
 THE VILLA AT SUKKEXTO. 275 
 
 but the sky was cloudless, the sea a perfect mliTor, and the 
 light air that stuTcd 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 ah- 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 i)recautions. 
 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. 
 
 He was writing, and smoking, and talking by tui'ns, the 
 table before him being littered with papers, and even the 
 carpet at his feet strewn with the loose sheets of his compo- 
 sition. 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 nnited 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 miglit puzzle or embai-rass liim ; 
 while for any amount of craft, for any degree of subtlet}', 
 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 road at vsight. It was his especial tact to 
 catch up all this knowledge at once, — ver}' often in a first 
 interview, — and thus, while others were interchanging the 
 customary platitudes of every-day courtesy, he was gleaning
 
 276 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 and recording within himself the traits and characteristics of 
 all around him. 
 
 "A clever fellow, very clever fellow, Cineselli," said 
 he, as he continued to write. "His proposition is — cer- 
 tain 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." 
 
 " Only where you have the blessing of a free press," said 
 the Princess, in a tone of insolent mockery. 
 
 "Quite true, Princess; a free press is a tonic that with 
 an increased dose becomes a stimulant, and occasionally 
 over-excites." 
 
 "It makes your people drunk now and then! " said she, 
 angrily. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 " Ours is a cold one, and I 'm sure it would not suit us." 
 
 "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." 
 
 She would have smiled at the remark, if the sarcasm had 
 not offended her. 
 
 " 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 — " 
 
 "Rather an English habit, I suspect," said she, smiling. 
 
 "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 ! " 
 
 " 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.'"
 
 THE VILLA AT SORRENTO. 277 
 
 " 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." 
 
 " Spies ! If you mean by an odious word to inculpate the 
 honor of a high calling — " 
 
 "Pray forgive my interruption, but I am speaking in all 
 good faith. "When I said ' spy,' it was in the bankrupt mis- 
 ery of a man who had nothing else to offer. I wanted to 
 imply that pure but small stream which conve3's intelli- 
 gence from a fountain to a river it was not meant to feed. 
 AVas n't that a carriage I heard in the ' cour ' ? Oh, pray 
 don't open the window ; there 's an odious Uheccio blowing 
 to-day, and there 's nothing so injurious to the nervous 
 system." 
 
 "A cabinet messenger, your lilxcellency," said a servant, 
 entering. 
 
 ' ' 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 ! " 
 
 "I'm charmed at the prospect of a bag," cried the 
 Princess. 
 
 " May I have the messenger shown in here, Princess? " 
 
 " Certainly; by all means." 
 
 ' ' 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. 
 
 "Ah, Stevins, how d'ye do?" said Upton. "You've 
 had a cold journey over the Cenis." 
 
 "Came by the Splugen, your Excellency. I went round 
 by Vienna, and Maurice Esterhazy took me as far as 
 Milan." 
 
 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 I'pton whispered her, " Ask him to dine." 
 
 "And London, how is it? Very empty, Stevins?" con- 
 tinued he. 
 
 " A desert," was the answer.
 
 278 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 " Where 's Lord Adderley ? " 
 
 j" 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." 
 
 " And Cantworth, where is he? " 
 
 "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." 
 
 " Not gone to India?" 
 
 "No. They've made him a governor or commander-in- 
 chief of something in the Mediterranean ; I forget exactly 
 where or what." 
 
 "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." 
 
 "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." 
 
 " 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. 
 
 " 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 for- 
 eign legations ; novels from Bull's ; top-boots for a tiger ; 
 and a mass of letters," said Stevins, throwing them broadcast 
 over the sofa. 
 
 " No despatches? " cried Upton, eagerly. 
 
 " Not one, by Jove ! " said Stevins. 
 
 " Open one of those Darby's. I '11 take a teaspoonful at 
 once. Will you try it, Stevins ? " 
 
 "Thanks, your Excellency, I never take physic." 
 
 " Well, you dine here, then," said he, with a sly look at 
 the Princess.
 
 THE VILLA AT SORRENTO. 279 
 
 " Not to-day, your Excellency. I diue with Grammont 
 at eight." 
 
 "Then I'll not detain you. Come back here to-morrow 
 about eleven or a little later. Come to breakfast if you 
 like." 
 
 "At what hour?" 
 
 "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. 
 
 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. 
 
 " I am only waiting to be asked," said she ; " but I feared 
 that there might be secrets — " 
 
 " 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. 
 
 "This is strictly private. Am I to read it? " said she. 
 
 "Of course," said he, bowing courteously. And she 
 read : — 
 
 " 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 aromid you. We have never got the right end of that 
 story about the Princess Celestine as yet. Who was he? Xot 
 
 Labinsky. Ull be sworn. Tlie K insists it was Roseville, 
 
 and T hope you may be aide to assui-e me that he is mistaken. 
 He is worse tempered than ever. Tliat Glencore business has ex- 
 asperated him greatly. Couldn't your Princess. — the world 
 calls her yours [" How good of the world, and liow delicate 
 of your friend ! " said slie, smiling superciliously. '* Let us see 
 who the writer is. Oh ! a great man, — the Lord Adderley," and 
 went on with her reading :] could n't your Princess find out 
 something of real consequence to us about the Q "
 
 280 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 " What queen does he meau? " cried she, stopping. 
 " The Queen of Sheba, perhaps," said Upton, biting his 
 lips with anger, while he made an attempt to take the letter 
 
 from her. 
 
 " Pardon ! this is interesting," said she, and went on : 
 
 " A\'e shall want it soon ; that is, if the manufacturing districts 
 will not kindly afford us a diversion by some open-air demonstra- 
 tions 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 toAvns in the North 
 apparently ungarrisoned. They are such poltroons that the 
 chances are they '11 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 ! 
 
 " 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 tlie 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. 
 
 " 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 nuist deal with them as 
 with a public meeting, which may reverse to-morrow the resolu- 
 tions they have adopted to-day. The French will never be for- 
 midable till they are unanimous. They '11 never be unanimous 
 till we declare war with them ! Kemember, T 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 liiive some ortolans in the bag, and believe me yours, 
 
 " Ai>OKi;r,F,Y." 
 
 "There," said she, turning over a number of letters with 
 a mere glance at theii- contents, "these are all trasli, — 
 sliooting and fox-huiding news, which one reads in the news- 
 papers bettei', oi' at least more briefly, narrated, with all that 
 deatli and marriage intelligence which you English are so
 
 THE VILLA AT SORKENTO. 281 
 
 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, Nego- 
 tiator, and PLxtraordinary Diplomatist, living at Naples.' " 
 
 " What can it mean?" said he, languidly. 
 
 " 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 
 unsynnnetrically-designed, and not more ingeniousl3'-cou- 
 ceived syllables — ' Let us see his name," said she, stop- 
 ping suddenly, and turning to the last page, read, " ' AV. T., 
 vidgo, Billy Traynor, — a name cognate to your Worshipful 
 Eminence in times past.' " 
 
 " To be sure, I remember him perfecth% — a strange crea- 
 ture that came out here with that boy you heard me speak 
 of. Pra}' read on." 
 
 " I stopped at ' sj^llables.' Yes — when these curiousl}'- 
 conceived syllables, then, ' come under the visionary aper- 
 tures 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 sug- 
 gested to a diabolicallv-coustructed and nefariously-fashioned 
 organization, showing that Nature in her bland adaptiveness 
 nevei- imposes a mistaken fruit on a genuine arborescence ' 
 — Do you understand him?" asked she. 
 
 "Partly, perhaps," continued he. "Let us have the 
 subject." 
 
 "'Not to wear}' your exalted and never-enough-to-be- 
 esteemed intelligence, I will proceed, without further am- 
 biguous 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 — ' 
 
 " Really I cannot go on with these interminable parenthe- 
 ses," said she ; " j'ou must decipher them j'ourself."
 
 282 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 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 tronblesome 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 corre- 
 spondent, 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." 
 
 " Wahnsdorf , I 'm certain," broke in the Princess ; " and 
 the gui — that Mademoiselle — " 
 
 "Harley," interposed Sir Horace. 
 
 "Just so, — Harley. Pray go on," said she, eagerly. 
 
 "Avery serious altercation and a duel were the conse- 
 quences 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 profer/e, handed 
 over to the Austrians, has been tried, condennied, and 
 sentenced to twenty yeais in Kuft'stein, a Tyrol fortress 
 where great severity is practised, — from the neighborhood of 
 which this letter is written, entreating my speedy interference 
 and protection." 
 
 " What can you do? It is not even Avithiu your juris- 
 diction," said she, carelessly. 
 
 "True; nor was the capture by the Austrians within 
 thei]-s, Princess. It is a case where assuredly everybody 
 was in the wrong, and, therefore, admh-ably adapted for 
 nice negotiation." 
 
 " Who and what is the youth? " 
 
 " I have called him n jyi'ot ('(/(■ ." 
 
 "Has he no moie tender claim to the affectionate solici- 
 tude of Sir Horace Upton ? " said she, with an easy air of 
 sarcasm. 
 
 "None, on my honor," said he, eagerly; "none, at 
 least, of the kind you infer. His is a very sad stor>% which 
 I '11 tell you about at another time. For the present, I may 
 say that he is English, and as such must be protected by 
 the P^nglish authorities. The Government of Massa have
 
 THE VILLA AT SORRENTO. 283 
 
 clearly committed a great fault in handing him over to the 
 Austriaus. Stubber nnist be ^ brought to book ' for this in 
 the first instance. By this we shall obtain a perfect insight 
 into the whole affau*." 
 
 "The Imperial family will never forgive an insult 
 offered to one of their own blood," said the Princess, 
 haughtily. 
 
 " 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 of- 
 fence, whatever it was, occurred outside the frontier, as I 
 apprehend." 
 
 ''How delighted you P^nglish are when you can convert 
 an individual case into an international question ! You 
 would at any moment sacrifice an ancient alliance to the 
 trumper}' claim of an aggrieved tourist," said she, rising 
 angrih', and swept out of the room ere Sir Horace could 
 arise to open the door for her. 
 
 Upton walked slowly to the chimney and rang the bell. 
 " I shall want the caleche 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.
 
 CHAPTER XXX\ III. 
 
 A diplomatist's dinner. 
 
 "Were we writing a diuuia instead of a true history, we 
 might like to linger for a few moments on the leave-taking 
 between the Princess and Su- Horace Upton. The}' 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 rejiuements 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 sur- 
 prise, 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 requu-ements 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 courtes}' no knight-errant of old could have sur- 
 passed. Sir Horace backed from the "presence," sighed, 
 and slii)ped away. 
 
 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 solvenc}' which would have been 
 sorely damaged had either retired from "the lirm ; " and 
 they knew it.
 
 A DIPLOMATIST'S DINNER. 285 
 
 What would the Princess's dinners have been without the 
 polished ease of him who felt himself half the host? AVhat 
 would all Su' 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 w^ould have 
 had a tough struggle with the world ; together, they were 
 more than a match for it. 
 
 The highest order of diplomatist, in the estimation of 
 Upton, was the man Avho, at once, knew what was possible 
 to be done. It was his own peculiar quality to possess this 
 gift ; but great as his natural acuteuess 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 deti'acting featui'e marred and disfigured 
 the faii'est form of his mind. 
 
 He could not, do all that he would, disabuse himself of a 
 ver}' 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 
 acquii'e 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 convic- 
 tion : but, strive as he might, there it was, and there it 
 would remain. 
 
 His fixed impression was, that in every cu'cumstance and 
 event in life there was always a (lessons des cartes, — 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 in- 
 genuity did he expend to detect what had no existence ! 
 How wearily did he try for soundings where there was no 
 bottom ! 
 
 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
 
 286 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 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 ditilcult}^, with a certainty of 
 final failui'e ; and the only policy that remained was to en- 
 courage 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 ft story told of a cer- 
 tain benevolent prince, whose resom-ces were, unhappil}', 
 not commensurate with his good intentions, and whose 
 raooed 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 specu- 
 lated 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. 
 
 Wllen Sir Horace Upton ordered post-horses to his car- 
 riage, 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 l)e derived from them, — a kind of fatalism 
 more common than is generally believed. When he set out for 
 Sorrento it was with tlie intention of going direct to ^lassa ; 
 not that this state lay within the limits liis functions ascribed 
 to him, — that being probably the very fact which imparted 
 a zest to the journe}'. Any other man Avould have addressed 
 liimself to his colleague in Tuscan}', or wherever he might 
 be; while he, being Sir Horace Upton, took the wliole busi- 
 ness upon himself in his own way. Young Massy's case 
 opened to his eyes a great question, viz., what was the posi-
 
 A DIPLOMATIST'S DINNER. 287 
 
 tiou the Austi'ians assumed to ttike 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 intei'ests 
 were before him. Here w^as one of those "grand issues" 
 that he felt worthy of his abilities, — it was a cause where he 
 was proud to hold a brief. 
 
 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 emplo}', — he arrived at the 
 palace of the Embass}', where he desired to halt to take up 
 his letters and make a few preparations before his departure. 
 His Maesti'o di Casa, Signor Franchetti, was in waiting for 
 his arrival, and respectfully assured him " that all was in 
 readiness, and that his Excelleuc}' would be perfectly satis- 
 fied. We had, it is true," continued he, " a difficult}^ about 
 the fish, but I seut off an express to Baia, and we have 
 secured a stiu'geon." 
 
 " AVhat are you raving about, caro Pipo?" said the 
 Minister ; ' ' what is all this long story of Baia and the 
 fish?" 
 
 "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?" 
 
 " Is this Saturday, Pipo?" said Sir Horace, blandly. 
 
 "Yes, your Excellency." 
 
 " Send Mr. Brockett to me," said Sir Horace, as he 
 slowh' mounted the stairs to his own apartment. 
 
 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 ! " 
 
 ' ' I thought you knew it ; you took great trouble about 
 the persons to be asked, and you canvassed whether the Due 
 de Borodino, being only a Charge d'Affaires — " 
 
 "There, there; don't you see the — tlie inappropriateness 
 of what 3'ou are doing? p]ven in England a man is not 
 asked to criminate himself. How many are comin<j;?" 
 
 " Nineteen ; the ' Nonce ' is ill, and has seut an apology."
 
 288 , THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 "Then the party can be eighteen, Brockett ; j-ou must 
 tell them that 1 am ill, — too ill to come to dinner. I know 
 the Prince Max ver}' well, — he '11 not take it badly ; and as 
 to Cineselli, we shall see what humor he is in ! " 
 
 " But they '11 know that you arrived here this afternoon ; 
 they '11 naturally suppose — " 
 
 "They'll naturally suppose — if people ever do anything 
 so intensely stupid as naturally to suppose anything — that 
 I am the best judge of mj' (nvn 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 '11 find me here in my own room. AVould you do 
 me the kindness to let Antinori fetch his cupping-glasses, 
 and tell Franchetti also that I '11 take my chicken grilled, not 
 roasted. I '11 look over the treaty in the evening. One 
 mushi'oom, only one, he may give me, and the Carlsbad 
 water, at 28 degrees. I 'm very troublesome, Brockett, but 
 I 'm sure you '11 excuse it. Thanks, thanks ; " and he 
 pressed the Secretarj^'s hand, and gave him a smile, whose 
 blandishment had often done good service, and would do so 
 again ! 
 
 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 I 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 astonisliment of others, and revelled in the thought of 
 the ccmrtier-like indignation such treatment of a Royal High- 
 ness was certain to elicit. 
 
 "But who can answer for his Iicalth?" 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, tlanked 
 by a roasted apple and a biscuit — cut short liis lucubia- 
 tions ; and Sir Horace ate and sipped his Carlsbad with as
 
 A DIPLUMATIST'S IMNIs'EK. 289 
 
 much enjoyment us many another man has felt over venison 
 and Chambertin. 
 
 " Ai'e they arrived, Pipo?" said he, as his servant re- 
 moved the dessert of two figs and a lime. 
 
 " Yes, your Excellency, they are at table." 
 
 '^ How many are there? " 
 
 "Seventeen, sir, and Mr. Brockett." 
 
 " Did the Prince seem to — to feel my absence, Pipo?" 
 
 " I thought he appeared very sorry for your Excellency 
 when Mr. Brockett spoke to him, and he whispered some- 
 thing to the aide-de-camp beside him," 
 
 "And the others, how did they take it? " 
 
 "Count Tarrocco said he'd retire, sir, that he could not 
 dine where the host was too ill to receive him ; but the Due 
 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." 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha! " laughed Upton, in a low tone. " I hope 
 the dinner is a good one ? " 
 
 "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." 
 
 "And the wine, Pipo? have you given them that rare 
 ' La Rose ' ? " 
 
 "Yes, your Excellency, and the ' Klausthaller cabinet;* 
 his Royal Highness asked for it." 
 
 "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." 
 
 And once more his Elxcellency 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 Avas free to ruminate and reflect at ease. There was 
 a sense of haughty triumph in thinking that beneath his roof, 
 at that very moment, were assembled the great representa- 
 tives of almost every important state of Europe, to wliom 
 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 
 
 19
 
 290 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 or evil — of the iucideiit. " Aud then," said he, aloud, 
 " how will Printing House Square treat us? What a fulmi- 
 nating leader shall Ave not have, denouncing either our inso- 
 lence or our incompetence, ending with the words : ' If, 
 then, Su- 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 corrobo- 
 rations, — 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. AVhat a siu-e road to private friendships is di- 
 plomacy ! 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 mathe- 
 matical instrument maker, or — " AVhatever the next choice 
 might have been we know not, for he dropped off asleep. 
 
 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 some- 
 what suddenly, if not rudely, aroused, as Franchetti intro- 
 duced a stranger who would accept no denial. 
 
 "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. 
 
 "You. George? Is it possible!" exclaimed Sir Horace; 
 "what best of all lucky winds has driven you here? I'm 
 not sure I was n't dreaming of you this very moment. I 
 know I have had :\ vision of angelic innocence and sim- 
 plicity, wliicli you must have li;i<l your part in ; but do tell 
 me when did you arrive, and whence — " 
 
 "Not till I have dined, by Jove I I have tasted nothing 
 since daybreak, and then it was only a mere apology for a 
 breakfast." 
 
 " Fianchetti, get sometliing. will you?" said Upton, lan- 
 guidly, — "a cutlet, a fowl; anythinu- that can 1)0 had at 
 once." 
 
 "Nothing of the kind, Signor Franchetti," interposed
 
 A DIPLOMATIST'S DINNER. 291 
 
 Harcourt ; "if I have a wolf's appetite, I have a man's 
 patience. Let me have a real dinner, — soup, fish, an entree, 
 
 — 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 ? " 
 
 " They tell me so, and mine has a good reputation." 
 
 " Then claret be it, and no other wine. Don't I make mj'- 
 self at home, old fellow, eh?" said he, clapping Upton on 
 the shoulder. "Have I not taken his Majest3''s Embassy 
 by storm, eh ? " 
 
 " We sm-render 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 ej'es?" 
 
 "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 ! " 
 
 Sk Horace sighed, as though this were too pleasant to be 
 true. 
 
 "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 ? " 
 
 "No; thej-'ve taken me off the saddle, and given me a 
 staff appointment at Corfu. I 'm going out second in com- 
 mand there ; and whether it was to prevent mj' teasing them 
 for something else, or that there was really some urgency in 
 the matter, they ordered me off at once." 
 
 "Are they reinforcing the garrison there?" asked 
 Upton. 
 
 " No; not so far as I have heard." 
 
 " It wore l)etter policy to do so than to send out a ' com- 
 mander-in-chief and a drummer of great experience,' " mut- 
 tered 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. 
 
 " Glencore's business occupied thorn for the last week or 
 so ; now, I think, it is yoiuself furnishes the chief topic for 
 speculation." 
 
 " What of me?" asked Upton, eagerly.
 
 292 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 "Why, the rumor goes that you are to have the Foreigu 
 Office ; Adderley, they say, goes out, aud Conway and 
 yourself are the favorites, the odds beiug slightly ou his 
 side." 
 
 " This is all news to me, George," said Uptou, 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." 
 
 ' ' Possibly ; but perhaps m}" news is later. What I allude 
 to is said to have occurred the day I started." 
 
 " 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 me; and, I 
 have little doubt, with a letter for t/ie in the event of Conway 
 declining." 
 
 "Well, have you hit upon the solution of it?" said Har- 
 court, who had not followed him thi-ough his half-uttered 
 observation. 
 
 "Perhaps so," said Uptou, slowl}^, 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. 
 
 " 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 ? " 
 
 " Pipo, how is he called? " said Upton, languidly. 
 
 "Monsieur Carmael, your Excellency." 
 
 "Ah, to be sure; a person of excellent family. I've 
 been told he 's from Provence," said Upton, in the same 
 weary voice. 
 
 " I could have sworn to his birthplace," cried Harcourt; 
 " no man can manage cheese and olives in cookerj' but a 
 Provencal. 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. 
 
 " It does me good even to witness the pleasure it yields,'* 
 said Upton, blandly.
 
 A DIPLOMATIST'S DINXEK. 293 
 
 *'By Jove! then, 1 '11 he 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 otf for dinner 
 company here, — any pleasant people?" 
 
 "■ I have no health for pleasant people, my dear Harcourt ; 
 like horse exercise, they only agree with you when 3'ou are 
 strong enough not to requii'e them." 
 
 " Then what have you got?" asked the Colonel, some- 
 what abashed, 
 
 "Princes, generals, envoys, and heads of departments." 
 
 " Good heavens ! legions of honor and golden fleeces 1 " 
 
 "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 the\' gone yet, Franchetti? " 
 
 "They're at coffee, your Excellenc}', but the Prince has 
 ordered his cai-riage." 
 
 "And you did not go near them?" asked Harcourt, in 
 amazement. 
 
 " 'So; 1 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." 
 
 "Foreign ease, I've no doubt; though I can't say I like 
 it," muttered Hai-court. " At all events, it is not for me to 
 complain, since the accident has given me the pleasure of 
 your society." 
 
 " 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 f]-om its sincerity. 
 
 Fortunately, not so to Harcourt's eyes, for he accepted 
 the speech in all honest}' 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 3'ou ; I 'm going to have a cigar, and, with your leave, 
 I '11 ask for some brandy and water." 
 
 This was addressed to Franchetti, who speedily reappeared 
 with a liqueur stand and an ebony cigar-case. 
 
 " Try these, George ; tliev 're l)etter than your own." said 
 Upton, dryly. 
 
 "That I will," cried Harcourt, laughing; "I'm deter- 
 mined to draw all my resources from the countrj' in occu])a- 
 tion, especiall}^ as they are superior to what I can obtain
 
 294 THE FORTUNES OE GLENCORE. 
 
 from home. This same career of yours, Upton, strikes me 
 as rather a good thing. You have all these things duty 
 free?" 
 
 " Yes, we have that privilege," said Upton, sighing. 
 
 "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 ? " 
 
 Upton smiled, and sighed again. 
 
 ''And what do you do for all that, — I mean, what are 
 you expected to do ? " 
 
 "Keep your party in when they are in; disconcert the 
 enemy when your friends are out." 
 
 "And is that always a safe game?" asked Harcourt, 
 eagerly. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 " How do you mean there 's no harm in it? " 
 
 " Simply, that if a man can't keep his saddle, he ought n't 
 to ti-y to ride foremost; but these speculations will only 
 puzzle you, my dear Harcourt. AVhat of Glencore? You 
 said awhile ago that the town was talking of him — how 
 and wherefore was it ? " 
 
 " Haven't you heard the story, then? " 
 
 "Not a word of it." 
 
 " 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 1 conclude nobody knows 
 all the facts but the King himself." 
 
 " 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 T can in mine/' 
 
 Cheered and encouraged by this flattering speech, Har- 
 coui't did begin; but, more courteous to him than Sir 
 Horace, we mean to accord him a new chapter for his 
 revelations ; premising tlio while to our reader that the 
 Colonel, like the knife-grinder, had really " no story to 
 tell."
 
 CHAPTPm XXXIX. 
 
 A VERY BROKEN NAKKATIVE. 
 
 "You want to hear all about (lleiicore?" said llarcourt, 
 as, seated in the easiest of attitudes in an easy-ehair, he 
 putfed his cigar luxuriously; ''aud when 1 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 llarcourt feel less at ease than before. 
 
 "imean," 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 ob- 
 scurity afterwards. You understand me?" 
 
 "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 tliis instance was palpably 
 unjust ; Upton's manner being nothing more than the im- 
 press 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 tliat 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 l)efore 
 him, he said, in a tone of determination. " It is only fair to 
 tell you that you are yourself to )»lame for anything that 
 may have befallen poor Glencore."
 
 296 THE FOETUXES OF GLENCOKE. 
 
 "I to blauae! Wliy, my dear Harcourt, you are siu'ely 
 clreamiug." 
 
 ' ' 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 sulphiir, while you forwarded a private letter about 
 Gleucore to the P^oreigu Oflice, all this might not have 
 happened." 
 
 '•'' I remember that it was a most disagreeable mistake. 
 I have paid heavily for it, too. That lotion for the cervi- 
 cal 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? " 
 
 ''1? — 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 
 luidei'staud, fell into the King's hands, and the consequence 
 was that he sent off innnediately to Gleucore an order to 
 go down to him at lirighton. 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 hhu abroad 
 in the world for years back, and it was easy enough to sa}' 
 that he could not bear the journey. Nothing of the kind ; 
 he received the command as willingl}' as he might have done 
 an invitation to dinner fifteen j^ears 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, ])y Jove, what between drinking 
 more wine than he was accustomed to take, and the excite- 
 ment of his own talking, he became quite wild and unman- 
 ageable. 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 tiie midst of perfectl}^ rational conversation, 
 he would fall into paroxysms of violent passion, inveighing 
 against every one, and declaring that he never had ])os- 
 sessed one true-hearted, honest friend in his life. 
 
 "It was not without great difficulty that I got him back
 
 A VERY BROKEN NARRATIVE. 297 
 
 to my lodgings, for we bad gone to dine at Richmond. 
 Then we put him to bed, and I sent for Hunter, who came 
 on the instant. Tliougb by this time Glencore was much 
 more cabn and composed. Hunter called the case brain 
 fever ; had his hair cut quite close, and ice applied to the 
 head. AVithout any knowledge of his history or even of his 
 name, Hunter pronounced him to be a man ay hose intellect 
 had received some terrible shock, and that the present was 
 simply an acute attack of a long-existent malady." 
 
 '-' Did he use any irritants?" asked Upton, anxiously. 
 
 "No; he advised nothing but the cold during the night." 
 
 "Ah! what a mistake," sighed Upton, heavily. "It 
 was precisely the case for the cervical lotion I was speak- 
 ing of. Of course he was much worse next morning? " 
 
 "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 ever}'- 
 thing and everybody that if he overheard a whisper it 
 threw him into a convulsion of anger. Hunter's opinion 
 was evidently a gloom}- 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 vir, 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 obtahi 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 tm-ued homeward. 
 
 " Gloomy and sad I was as I reached my door, and rang 
 the bell with a cautious hand. They did not hear the sum- 
 mons, and I was forced to ring again, when the door was 
 opened bj- my servant, who stood pale and trembling be- 
 fore me. ' He 's gone, sir, — he 's gone,' cried he, almost 
 sobbing. 
 
 " ' Good Heaven ! ' cried I. ' Dead ? '
 
 298 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 '' ' No, sir, gone away, — driven off, no one knows where. 
 I had just gone ont to the chemist's, and was obliged to call 
 ronnd at IJoctor Hunter's about a word in the prescription 
 they couldn't read, and when I came back he was away.' 
 
 ' ' 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 pui-pose 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. 
 
 " I did not lose a moment, but, ordering post-horses, pur- 
 sued 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. 
 
 '•'• I do not believe that all I have ever suffered in my life 
 equalled what I went through in tlie 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. 
 
 " I tried to make my way in, — I know not exactly what I 
 meant to do afterwards ; but the sentries refused me admit- 
 tance. I thought of scaling the enclosure, and reaching the 
 Palace through the garden ; but the ])olice kept strict watch 
 on every side. At last, it was nigh twelve o'clock, that I 
 heard a sentry cliallenge some one, and shortly after a figui-e 
 passed out and walked towards the pier. I followed, deter-
 
 A VERY BROKEN NAKKATIVE. 299 
 
 mined to make inquiry, no matter of whom. He walked so 
 i-apidly, however, that 1 was forced to run to overtake him. 
 This attracted his notice ; he tui'ned hastily, and by tiie 
 straggling moonlight 1 recognized Glencore. 
 
 " 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, sluitting out the moon at 
 intervals, and the sea broke harshly along the strand. 
 
 ''1 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 miglit, perhaps, change the wliole 
 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 1 half suspect too fresh for yuii.' ' 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 ou 
 fire.' ' Then I am certain, my dear Glencore,' said I, ' that 
 this is a great imprudence. Let us turn back, towards the 
 inn.' 
 
 " 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 for- 
 eign envoy, too. to be presented ; and if T had not gone in 
 alone and unannounced, T might still be in the ante-cliainber. 
 How he stared at me, Harcourt, and my close-cropped hair. 
 It was tlidf seemed first to strike him, as he said, "Have 
 3'ou had an illness lately?" He looked poorly, too, bloated 
 and pale, and like one wMio fretted, and T told him so. 
 " We are both changed, sir," said I, — " sadly clianged 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 wliat he answered. It was, T think, something 
 about who came along with me from town, and who was 
 with me at Brighton, — I forget exactly ; i)ut I know that he 
 sent for Knighton, and made him feel my pulse. "You'll
 
 300 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCOKE. 
 
 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 stoi)ped me, 
 and made a sign to Knighton to withdraw. 
 
 " '' 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 1 might talk of what inter- 
 ested us most of all the world ; and he showing me that 
 letter, — the letter that ought to have come to me. How he 
 could do it I know not. Neither you nor I, George, could 
 have done so ; for, after all, she was, a}^, and she is, his 
 wife. He could not avail himself of my stratagem. I said 
 so too, and he answered, '' Ay, but I can divorce her if one 
 half of that be ti-ue ; " and he pointed to the letter. " The 
 Lady Gleucore," said he, "must know everything, and be 
 willing to tell it too. She has paid the heaviest penaltj' 
 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. 
 
 "' "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 wit- 
 ness, 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, Cleorge; she 
 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 ! — ])e proved! How base a man can l)e, 
 even though he wear a crown ! Just fancy his proposition ! 
 But I spurned it, and said, " ^'ou must seek for some one 
 with a longer chance of life, sir, to do this ; my days are too 
 ])rief for such dishonor;" and he was angry with me, and 
 said I had forgotten the presence in which I stood. Jt was 
 true, T had forgotten it. 
 
 " 'He called me a wi-etclied fool, too, as I tore up that 
 letter. That Avas wrong in me, Harcoui-t, was it not? 1 
 did not see him go, but I found myself alone in the room, 
 and 1 was picking up tlie fragments of the letter as they
 
 A VERY BROKEN NAKHA'I'IVE. 801 
 
 entered. They were less than courteous to me, tliouuli I 
 told them who I was, — an ancient barony better than half 
 tlie modei-n maniuisates. I gave them date and place for a 
 creation that smacked of other services than theirs. Knigh- 
 ton would come with me, but I shook him oft". Your Court 
 pliysician can carry his complaisance even to poison. By 
 Georoe ! it is their chief office, and I know well what snares 
 are now in store for me.' 
 
 " 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, w^ould 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 assur- 
 ance 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. 
 
 " When I left him and arrived in town, I found the clubs 
 full of the incident, but evidently witliout any real knowl- 
 edge 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 con- 
 tained, — 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, luid turned liis head 
 and driven him completely insane ! 
 
 "I believe now I have told you everything as I Iieard it; 
 indeed, I have given you Glencore's own words, since, with- 
 out 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
 
 302 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 when the poor fellow's brain was wandering, and when he 
 spoke nnder the guidance of right reason. You, of course, 
 have the clew to it all." 
 
 " I ! How so? " cried Upton. 
 
 ' ' You have seen the letter which caused all the trouble ; 
 you know its contents, and what it treats of." 
 
 ' ' ^"ery 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 the}' call her now — and her ladies ; but I must 
 frankly confess it did not interest me, and 1 have forgotten 
 it all." 
 
 " Is the writer of the letter to be come at? " 
 
 "Nothing easier. I'll take you over to breakfast with 
 her to-morrow morning; 3'ou shall catechise her yourself." 
 
 "Oh! she is then — " 
 
 " She is the Princess Sabloukoff, my dear George, and a 
 very charming person, as you will be the first to acknowl- 
 edge. 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 im- 
 portant 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 liim in his project for a divorce. Don't 
 you perceive, Harcourt, of wliat an inestimable value it 
 would prove, to possess one single gentleman, one man or 
 oni' woman of station, amid all this rabble that thej^ are 
 summoning throughout the world to bring shame upon 
 England?" 
 
 "Then you incline to })elieve Lady Glencore blameless?" 
 asked Harcourt, anxiously. 
 
 " I think well of eveiy one, my charming Colonel. It is 
 the onlj' true philosoi)hy in life. Be as severe as you please
 
 A VERY BROKEN NARRATIVE. 303 
 
 on all who injure yourself, but always be lenient to the 
 faults that only damage your friends. You have no idea 
 how mucli practical wisdom the maxim contains, nor what a 
 fund of charity it provides." 
 
 "I'm ashamed to be so stupid, but I must come back to 
 my old question. Is all this story against Gleucore's wife 
 only a calumny ? " 
 
 "And I must fall back upon ni}' old remark, that all the 
 rogues in the world are in jail ; the people j'ou see walk- 
 ing about and at large are unexceptionablj'^ 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 twent3'-four pounder before j'ou venture to put 
 foot on it, — enough that it is quite equal to your own weight ; 
 and so of the world at large, — every]:)ody, or nearly- evei'v- 
 body, has vu'tue enough for all we want with him. Tliis 
 English habit — for it is essentially English — of eternally 
 investigating everything, is like the policy of a man who 
 would lire a round-shot every morning at his house, to see if 
 it were well and securely built." 
 
 " I don't, I can't agree with you," cried Harcourt. 
 
 "Be it so, my dear fellow; only don't give me your 
 reasons, and at least I shall respect j'our motives." 
 
 "What would you do, then, in Gleucore's place? Let me 
 ask you that." 
 
 " 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 aqiiafortis and drinks it off." 
 
 " 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 througli his dai-k 
 fortunes." 
 
 "When a man is in the state Glencore is now in, the best 
 policj'^ is to let him alone. They tell us that when Mui-at's 
 blood was up, tlie Emperor always left him to his own guid-
 
 304 THE FORTUNES OF GLEXCORE. 
 
 auce, since he either did something excessivel}' brilliant, or 
 made such a bhiuder 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 adversar}' move out of his turn." 
 
 "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?" 
 
 " Let them never go far from home, Harcourt, and they '11 
 always find their way back," said Upton ; and his eyes 
 twinkled with quiet drollery. " Come, uoav," 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 '11 do 
 the next best thing, I '11 tell you what advice you 'd give 
 him." 
 
 " Let us hear it, then," said the other. 
 
 "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." 
 
 " Certainly, if the woman has been unjustly dealt with — " 
 
 "There's the rock you always split on: you are ever- 
 lastingly 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 grand- 
 father, 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." 
 
 " From .ill wliich I am to deduce that yon 'd ask no ques- 
 tions, — take her home again, and say nothing." 
 
 " You forget, Harcourt, we are now discussing the line of 
 action >/ou would recommend ; I am only hinting at the best 
 mode of carrj'ing out yout" ideas." 
 
 "Just for tlie pleasure of sliowing me that I did n't know 
 how to walk in the road I made myself," said Harcourt, 
 laughing. 
 
 " What a happy laugh that was, Harcourt ! How i)lainly, 
 too, it said, ' Tlinnk Heaven I'm not like that fellow, with
 
 A VERY BROKEN NARRATIVE. 305 
 
 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. 
 
 "You're abetter 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. 
 
 And Harcourt was right. 
 
 20
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 UPTONISM. 
 
 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 Prin- 
 cess 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. 
 
 "• And that, 1 conclude, is a portrait of the Princess," 
 said Harcourt, as he stood before what had been a flattering 
 likeness twenty years back. 
 
 "Yes, and a wonderful resemblance," said Upton, eying 
 it through his glass. " Fatter and fuller now, perhaps; but 
 it was done after an illness." 
 
 " By Jove ! " muttered Harcourt, " she nnist be beautiful ; 
 I don't think 1 ever saw a handsomer woman ! " 
 
 " You are onlj'^ repeating a European verdict. She is the 
 most perfectly beautiful woman of the Continent." 
 
 " So there is no tlattery in that picture? " 
 
 " Flattery ! Why, my dear fellow, these people, the very 
 cleverest of them, can't imagine an3'thing as lovely as that. 
 They can imitate, — they never invent real beauty." 
 
 "And clever, you say, too?" 
 
 '•'• Esjii'if enough for a dozen reviewers and fift}' fashion- 
 able novelists." And as he spoke he smiled and coquetted 
 with the portrait, as thougli to say, " Don't mind my saying 
 all this to your face." 
 
 •
 
 UPTONISM. 307 
 
 " I suppose her histor}^ is a very interesting one." 
 
 ' ' Her history, my worthy Harcourt ! She has a dozen 
 histories. Such women liave a life of politics, a life of 
 literature, a life of the salons^ 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 fiually rule those who fancy that they rule mankind." 
 
 " Egad, then, it makes one very sorry for poor man- 
 kind," muttered Harcom-t, with a most honest sincerity of 
 voice. 
 
 " AVh}' should it do so, my good Harcourt? Is the refine- 
 ment of a woman's intellect a worse guide than the coarser 
 instincts of a man's natm-e ? Would you not yourself rather 
 ti"ust your destinies to the fair creature j^onder than be left 
 to the leo;islative mercies of that old gentleman there, 
 Hardeuberg, or his fellow on the other side, Metternich?" 
 
 "Grim-looking fellow the Prussian; the other is much 
 better," said Harcourt, rather evading the question. 
 
 "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 2,ive it to us 
 here, that we may enjoy that glorious sea view while we 
 eat." 
 
 "I thought your cook a man of genius, Upton, but this 
 fellow is his master," said Harcom-t, as he tasted his 
 soup. 
 
 "They are brothers, — twins, too; and they have their 
 separate gifts," said Upton, affectedly. " M}' fellow, they 
 tell me, has the finer intelligence ; but he plays deeply, 
 speculates on the Bourse, and it spoils his nerve." 
 
 Harcourt watched the deliver^' 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. 
 
 " ]\Iy r/u'f," resumed Upton, " is a great essayist, who 
 must have time for his efforts. This fellow is a feuUleton
 
 308 THE FORTUNES OF GLEXCORE. 
 
 wi-iter, who is requii-ecl to be new and sparkling every day of 
 the year, — always varied, never profound." 
 
 "And is this your life of every day?" said Harcourt, 
 as he survej^ed the splendid room, and carried his glance 
 towards the terraced gardens that flanked the sea. 
 
 " Pretty much this kind of thing," sighed Upton, 
 wearily. 
 
 " And no great hardship either, I should call it." 
 
 "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 retu-ement of a 
 fii'st-class mission." 
 
 "Is there really, then, nothing to do?" asked Harcourt, 
 innocently. 
 
 "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 their share, — the sorrows 
 of insulted Englishmen, the passport difficulties, the cus- 
 tom-house troubles, the police insults. The Secretary calls 
 at the offices of the Government, carries messages and the 
 answers ; and J, when I have health for it, make my com- 
 pliments to the King in a cocked hat on his bnthday, and 
 have twelve grease-pots illuminated over my door to honor 
 the same festival." 
 
 "And is that all?" 
 
 " Very nearly. In fact, when one does anything more, 
 they generally do wrong; and by a steady persistence in 
 this kind of thing for thu'ty years, you are called ' a safe 
 man, wlio never compromised his Government,' and are 
 certain to be employed by any party in power." 
 
 "I begin to thiuk I might be an envoy myself," said 
 Harcourt. 
 
 "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.'" 
 
 " I don't exactly follow you in that last remark." 
 
 "I scarcely expected you should; and as little can I 
 make it clear to you. Know, however, that in that vener-
 
 UPTONISM. 309 
 
 able pile ia 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 es- 
 senced Minister in his bureau, into one intellectual con- 
 glomerate, 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." 
 
 " But I cannot comprehend how mere subordinates, the 
 underlings of official life, can possibly influence the fortunes 
 of men so much above them." 
 
 ' • 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 dul}" replenished, — yet what a series of pett}- mortifica- 
 tions 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, ni}' dear Harcourt, and its 
 persecutions are equall}' polished." 
 
 "Are 3'ou a favorite there yourself?" asked the other, 
 
 slyly- 
 
 "A prime favorite; they all like vie!" said he, throw- 
 ing himself back in his chair, with an air of easy self-satis- 
 faction; 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 j'our powers to solve. That nature is too com- 
 plex for i/our elucidation; in its intricate web no one 
 thread holds the clew, but all is complicated, crossed, and 
 entangled. 
 
 " Here comes a cabinet messenger again," said Upton, 
 as a courier's caleche drove up, and a well-dressed and 
 well-looking fellow leaped out. 
 
 "Ah, Stanhope, how are you?" said Sir Horace, sliak-
 
 310 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 ing his hand with what from him was warmth. " Do you 
 know Colonel Hareourt? Well, Frank, what news do you 
 bring me? " 
 
 "The best of news." 
 
 " From F'. O., I suppose," said Upton, sighing. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 "Not one of them all, I'd venture to say, has asked 
 whether I have tlie strength or health for it," said Sii' 
 Horace, with a voice of pathetic intonation. 
 
 "Why, as we never knew you want energy for whatever 
 fell to your lot to do, we have the same hope still," said 
 Stanhope. 
 
 "So say I too," cried Hareourt. "Like many a good 
 hunter, he'll do his work best when he is properly 
 weighted." 
 
 "It is quite refreshing to listen to you both — creatures 
 with crocodile digestion — talk to a man who suffers night- 
 mare 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 ! " 
 
 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 evi- 
 dently afforded him pleasure in the perusal. 
 
 "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?" 
 
 " By Jove ! I suspect you are right, after all," said Har- 
 eourt, with an honest energy of voice.
 
 UPTONIS.AI. 311 
 
 " Were I younger, and stronger in health, perhaps," 
 said Upton, " this might have tempted me. Perhaps I can 
 pictm-e to myself what 1 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." 
 
 "And you'd have a brewing of 3'our own, I've no 
 doubt," responded the other. 
 
 "I'd at least have foreseen the time when this compact, 
 this Holy Alliance, should become impossible ; when the 
 developed intelligence of P^urope 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 inau- 
 gurated a new policy, based upon the enlarged views and 
 extended intelligence of mankind." 
 
 " I 'm not certain that I quite apprehend you," muttered 
 Harcourt. 
 
 " 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 ? " 
 
 " England is as great as ever she was," cried Harcourt, 
 boldly. 
 
 "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." 
 
 "They were just about to try him for manslaughter 
 when I left England," said Stanhope, laughing. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 "And I 'm forced to say, I'd have refused you flatly."
 
 312 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 "Yet it is precisely creatures of robust constitution, like 
 you, that should submit themselves to these trials, for the 
 sake of luimanity. Frail organizations, like mine, cannot 
 brave these ordeals. What are they talking of in town? 
 Any gossip afloat?" 
 
 "The change of ministry is the only topic. Glencore's 
 affair has worn itself out." 
 
 " AVhat was that about Gleucore? "asked Upton, half 
 indolently. 
 
 "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 immoderatel}^ over it." 
 
 " And the world, how do they pronounce upon it? " 
 
 "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 Ottlce." 
 
 "I believe I could tell them one who will not," said 
 Upton, with a melancholy smile. "Dine Avith me, both of 
 yon, 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 ges- 
 ture of the hand he waved an adieu, and glided from the 
 room. 
 
 " I'm sorry he's not up to the work of office," said Har- 
 court ; "there's plenty of ability in him." 
 
 "The best man we have," said Stanhope; "so they say 
 at the Office." 
 
 "He's gone to lie down, T take it; he seemed much 
 exhausted. AVhat say you to a walk back to town?" 
 
 "I ask nothing better," said Stanhope; and they started 
 for Naples.
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 AN EVENING IN FLORENCE. 
 
 That happy valley of the Val d'Arno, in which fair Florence 
 stands, possesses, amidst all its virtues, none more conspicu- 
 ous than the blessed forgetfulness of the past, so eminently 
 the gift of those who dwell there. Faults and follies of a 
 few j^ears 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. 
 
 The palace where Lady Gllencore once displayed all her 
 attractions of beauty and toilette, and dispensed a hos- 
 pitalitj^ 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 
 the}" 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 fjrille was observed to open and shut, and trades- 
 people came and went within the building; and, finally, 
 the assurance gained ground that its former owner had 
 returned. 
 
 " Only think who has come back to us," said one of the 
 idlers of the Cascine, as he lounged on the steps of a fash- 
 ionable 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
 
 314 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 bril- 
 liancy 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. 
 
 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-l)oot 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, lire them, light them, 
 and cigar them for the evening. They are an interesting 
 class, and have tliis strong appeal to human sympathy, that 
 not one of them, by any possible effort, could contribute to 
 his own support. 
 
 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 rejiorters 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 abor- 
 tive attempts of nature to fashion something profitable and 
 good? Who knows?
 
 AN EVENING IN FLORENCE. 315 
 
 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 liabits 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 cafes and the 
 Caseine. The salons were eagerly discussing the very same 
 theme. 
 
 In certain social conditions a degree of astuteness is ac- 
 quired 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 ditticulty, — so 
 much may be done, but so little may be fatal ! The Count- 
 ess in the present case enjoyed what in England is reckoned 
 a great privilege, — she was tried by her peers — or " some- 
 thing 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 
 enouoh 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 deliverd 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. 
 
 " 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 ftlencore herself. 
 
 In a large salon, hung with costly tapestries, and fur- 
 nished in the most expensive style, sat two ladies at oppo- 
 site sides of the fire. They were both richly dressed, and
 
 316 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 oue of them (it was Lad}' Gleucore) , as she held a screen 
 before her face, displayed a uumber of valuable riugs on 
 her fino-ers, and a massive bracelet of enamel with a large 
 emerald pendant. The other, not less maguilicentl}' 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 acquaint- 
 ance the Princess Sabloukoff, just escaped from a dinner and 
 reception at the Pitti Palace, and carr3'ing with her some of 
 the proud traditions of the society she had quitted. 
 
 " What hour did you tell them they might come, Nina? " 
 asked she. 
 
 " Not before midnight, my dear Princess ; I wanted to 
 have a talk with j-ou tirst. It is long since we have met, and 
 I have so much to tell you." 
 
 " Cava mla," said the other, carelessly, " I know everj-- 
 thing already. There is nothing 3'ou 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." 
 
 " I can scarce conceive that possible," said the Countess, 
 sighing. 
 
 " Naturall}^ enough, perhaps, because you never knew the 
 greatest of all blessings in this life, which is — liberty. 
 Separation from your husband, m}' dear Nina, did not eman- 
 cipate you from the tu-esome requirements of the world. 
 You got rid of him, to be sure, but not of those who regarded 
 you as his wife. It required the act of courage bj' which 
 you cut with these people forever, to assert the freedom I 
 speak of." 
 
 "I almost shudder at the contest I have provoked, and 
 had you not insisted on it — " 
 
 " You had gone l)ack again to the old slaverj', 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
 
 AN EVENING IN FLORENCE. 317 
 
 tiger-like to her features. " AVbat 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 salons better 
 lighted ; your dinners more choice, — there was the end of it. 
 Your company Avas their company, — your associates were 
 theirs. The homage you received to-day had been yesterday 
 the incense of another. There was not a bouquet nor a flat- 
 tery offered to yoa that had not ita facsimile, doing service in 
 some other quarter. You were ' one of them,' Nina, obliged 
 to follow their laws and subscribe to their ideas ; and while 
 they traded on the wealth of your attractions, you derived 
 nothing from the partnership but the same share as those 
 about you." 
 
 " And how will it be now? " asked the Countess, half in 
 fear, half in hope. 
 
 " How will it be now? I '11 tell you. This house will be 
 the resort of every distinguished man, not of Italy, but of 
 the world at large. Here Avill come the highest of every 
 nation, as to a circle where they can say, and hear, and sug- 
 o;est a thousand things in the freedom of unauthorized inter- 
 course. 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 salons. 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 that ' parfum defemme,' as Balzac calls it, wliich 
 both elevates and entrances." 
 
 " But will not society revenge itself on all this? " 
 
 ' ' It will invent a hundred calumnious reports and shock- 
 ing 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
 
 318 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 great galleiy, 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 Avith illustrious men. They may seem 
 slower of apprehension, less ready at reply, less apt to under- 
 stand ; but there they are. Originals, not Copies of greatness. 
 They represent value." 
 
 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. The}' who constitute 
 a! free port of their house will have certainly abundance of 
 trade, and also invite no small amount of enterprise. 
 
 A little after midnight the salons 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 
 actoi's 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 grati- 
 tude to the Countess for coming back again to that society 
 which scarcely survived her desertion. 
 
 Tliey were not, it is l)ut fair to say, all that the Princess 
 Sabloukoff had depicted them ; l)ut there was still a very 
 fair sj)rinkling of witty, ph'asant 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 salons crowded. They smoked, and
 
 AN EVENING IN FLORENCE. 319 
 
 saug, and laughed, and played ecarte, 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 tlie rooms. 
 
 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. 
 
 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, develop- 
 ing that, and, even to the e^'e, 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 retinement 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 then- fair city? 
 
 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. 
 
 "And so Wahnsdorf never made his appearance? " said 
 the Princess, as she was once more alone with the Countess. 
 
 "I scarcely expected him. He knows the ill-feeling 
 towards his countrymen amongst Italians, and he rarely 
 enters society where he may meet them." 
 
 "It is strange that he should marry oue ! " said she, half 
 musingl)\ 
 
 " He fell in love, — there's the whole secret of it," said
 
 320 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 the Countess. " He fell in love, and his passion encoun- 
 tered certain difficulties. His rank was one of them, Ida's 
 indifference another." 
 
 " And how have they been got over? " 
 
 " Evaded rather than surmounted. He has only his own 
 consent after all." 
 
 " And Ida, does she care for him? " 
 
 " 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 inti- 
 mate 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 con- 
 sented, 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 affah- 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." 
 
 " AVas not this a mere fancy?" said the Princess, com- 
 passionately, for she saw the shuddering emotion these words 
 had cost her. 
 
 " 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 his. I saw him once 
 excited to violent passion ; it was some taunt that AVahns- 
 dorf uttered about men of unknown or ignoble origin ; and 
 then He — he Iiimself seemed to stand before me as I have
 
 AN EVENING IN FLORENCE. 321 
 
 so often seen biui, 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. 
 
 " 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 free- 
 dom 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 laud 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 miser}', unrewarded by the affection by 
 which jealousy sometimes compensates for its tj'ranny, that 
 I escaped, to attach myself to the fortunes of that unhappy 
 Princess whose lot bore some resemblance to my own. 
 
 "I know well that he ascribed my desertion to another 
 cause, and — shall I own it to you ? — I had a savage plea- 
 sure in leaving him to the delusion. It was the only ven- 
 geance 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 Avell, 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 
 me from my home, — I banished him from the world. It is 
 true, I never reckoned on the cruel blow he had 3'et in store 
 for me, and when it fell I was crushed and stunned. Tiiere 
 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. 
 
 21
 
 322 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 " I went awa^Mnto 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." 
 
 "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 m}^ 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 3'ours and that you 
 never forfeited, and then challenge him to oppose your claim 
 to it." 
 
 "And do 3'ou 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? Xo, no; believe me, I had 
 very different reasons. I was resolved that my future life, 
 my name, Ids name, should gain a European notoriety. I am 
 well aware that when a Avoman is made a public talk, when 
 once her name comes sufHciently 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 he. The impertinences of the 
 Press had greater terriers for liis heart than aught else in life, 
 and I resolved that he should taste them." 
 
 "How have you mistaken, how have j'ou misunderstood 
 me, Nina ! " said the Princess, sorrowfully. 
 
 "Not so," cried she, eagerly. "You only saw one ad- 
 vantage in the plan you counselled. T perceived that it 
 contained a double benelit." 
 
 " But remember, dearest Nina, revenge is the most costly 
 of all pleasures, if one pays for it witli nil tluit they possess 
 
 — their tranquillity. I myself might have indulged such
 
 AN EVENING IN FLORENCE. 323 
 
 thoughts as yours ; there were many points alike in our for- 
 tunes : 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." 
 
 "Must I again tell you that in all I have done I cared 
 less how it might sei've me than how it might wound him ? I 
 know you cannot understand this sentiment ; I do not ask of 
 you to sympathize with it. Your talents enabled you to 
 shape out a high and ambitious career for yourself. You 
 loved the great intrigues of state, and were Avell fitted to 
 conduct or control them. None such gifts were mine. 1 
 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." 
 
 ' ' My dearest Nina, with all your self -stimulation you 
 cannot make yourself the vindictive creature you would 
 appear," said the Princess, smiling. 
 
 "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 ver}^ 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 ah- with which he listened to 
 a provocation, — all were alike. Well, the resemblance has 
 cost him dearly. I consented at last to Wahnsdorf's con- 
 tinual entreaty to exclude him from tlie "N^illa, 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." 
 
 "There was no duel, you say?" cried the Princess, 
 eagerly. 
 
 "How could there be? This Greppi never went to the 
 rendezvous. He quitted Massa during the night, and has
 
 324 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 never since been heard of. In this, I own to you, he was 
 not like him." 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." 
 
 ' ' And this account was given you — you yourself — by 
 Wahnsdorf?" repeated the Princess. 
 
 " Yes, to myself. Why should he have concealed it? " 
 " And now he is to marry Ida?" said the Princess, half 
 musingly, to herself. 
 
 " AVe hope, with your 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." 
 
 " His opinion is too flattering," said the Princess, with a 
 cold gravity of manner. 
 
 " 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.
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 MADAME DE SABLOUKOFF IN THE MORNING. 
 
 Madame de Sabloukoff inhabited ' ' the grand apartment " 
 of the Hotel d'ltalie, which is the handsomest quarter of 
 the sreat 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 num- 
 ber of the elect-in-purple, was yet, in her way, what poli- 
 ticians calls a "puissance." 
 
 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 o-reat events of her time. 
 
 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 fore- 
 sight, laid up a treasure in secret kn(jwledge of people and 
 their acts, which made her dreaded and feared where she was 
 once admired and flattered. Perhaps — it is b}' no means 
 improbable — she preferred this latter tribute to the former. 
 
 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 impres- 
 sion of being admitted to an audience of confidence and
 
 326 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 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 inter- 
 view a character of mysterious solemnity. 
 
 Through that solemn portal there had passed, in and out, 
 during the morning, various dignitaries of the land, minis- 
 ters and envoys, and grand "charges" of the Court. The 
 embroidered key of the Chamberlain and the purple stock- 
 ings 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 hm-ried 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 court- 
 yard of the hotel was empty. 
 
 The large clock on the mantelpiece struck three, and 
 Madame de Sabloulioff compared the time with her watch, 
 and by a movement of impatience showed a feeling of dis- 
 pleasure. She was not accustomed to have her appoint- 
 ments lightly treated, and he for whom she had fixed an 
 hour was now thu'ty 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." 
 
 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 hauglitiest obeyed. " Too true," said she, speaking 
 to herself, "time has dealt heavily with us all. But they 
 are no more what the}^ once were than am I. Tlieir old 
 compact of mutual assistance is crumbling away under the 
 pressure of new rivalries and new pretensions. Kings and 
 Kaisers will soon ])e 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.
 
 MADAME DE SABLOUKOFF IN THE MORNING. 327 
 
 She rang the bell violently, and as the servant entered she 
 said, but in a voice of perfect unconcern, — 
 
 "When the Count von Wahnsdorf calls, you Avill tell him 
 that I am engaged, but will receive him to-morrow — " 
 
 " And why not to-day, charining Princess? " said a young 
 man, entering hastily, and whose graceful but somewhat 
 haughty air set off to every advantage his splendid Hunga- 
 rian 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. 
 
 "You are not over exact in keeping an appointment, 
 monsieur," said she, stitHy. "It is somewhat cruel to 
 remind me that my claims in this respect have grown 
 antiquated." 
 
 " 1 fancied myself the soul of punctuality, my dear Prin- 
 cess," said he, adjusting the embroidered pelisse he wore 
 over his shoulder. " You mentioned four as the hour — " 
 
 " I said three o'clock," replied she, coldly. 
 
 "Three, or four, or even five, — what does it signify?" 
 said he, carelessly. " We have not either of us, 1 suspect, 
 much occupation to engage us ; and if I have interfered with 
 your other plans — if you liave plans — A thousand par- 
 dons ! " 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 Avas detained at the riding-school. 
 They have sent me some young horses from the Banat, and 
 I went over to look at them." 
 
 " The Count de Wahnsdorf knows that he need malvje no 
 apologies to jNIadame de Sabloukoff," said she, calmly ; " but 
 it were just as graceful, pei-haps, 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 — " 
 
 "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 '11 Iiear it patiently ; tliough I tell you before- 
 hand that I should lilve to learn that a connection with an 
 imperial house had some advantage besides that of a con- 
 tinu:d liairier to one's wishes."
 
 328 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 "I uuderstand," said she, quietl}', " that you named the 
 terms on which you would abaiidou this project, — is it 
 not so?" 
 
 "Who told 1J0U that?" cried he, angrily. "Is this 
 another specimen of the delicacy with which ministers treat 
 a person of my station ? " 
 
 "To discuss that point, Count, would lead us wide of 
 our mark. Am I to conclude that my informant was 
 correct? " 
 
 "How can I tell what may have been reported to you?" 
 said he, almost rudel3\ 
 
 "You shall hear and judge for yourself," was the calm 
 answer. " Count KoUorath informed me that you offered 
 to abandon this marriage on condition that you were 
 appointed to the command of the Pahlen Hussars." 
 
 The young man's face became scarlet with shame, and he 
 tried twice to speak, but unavailingl3\ 
 
 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." 
 
 "Well, they refused me," said he, bluntly. 
 
 " Not exactly refused you," said she, more gently. 
 "They reminded you of the necessity of conforming — of 
 at least ajipearing 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." 
 
 " IIow correctly they have instructed you in all the 
 details of this affair ! " said he, with a scornful smile. 
 
 "It is a rare event wIkmi I am misinformed, sir," was 
 lier cold reply; "nor could it redound to the advan- 
 tage of those who ask my advice to afford me incorrect 
 information." 
 
 "Then I am quite unable to perceive what you want with 
 wo" cried he. "It is plain enough you are in possession 
 of all that I could tell you. Oi' is all this only the prelude 
 to some menace or other? "
 
 MADAME DE SABLOUKOFF IN THE MORNING. 329 
 
 She made no other answer to this rnde question than bj' a 
 smile so dubious in its meaning, it miglit imply scorn, or 
 pity, or even sorrow. 
 
 "You must not wonder if 1 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." 
 
 '•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." 
 
 " That consideration is for me to think of, madam," said 
 he, proudly. 
 
 " And for your friends also," interposed she, softly. 
 
 '' If by my friends j^ou mean those who have watched 
 ever}' 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." 
 
 "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 recog- 
 nizes no obstacle nor acknowledges any barrier to its wishes, 
 — I could regard the question as one of those everydaj' 
 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 sinile at first, and then laugh heartily. 
 
 " 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 per- 
 ceive that there is no strong affection on either side, none 
 of that impetuous passion which the world accepts as ' the 
 attenuating circumstance ' in rash mari'iages — "
 
 330 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 ' ' Aud who has told 3^011 that I do not love Ida, or that 
 she is not devoted with her whole heart to me ? " cried he, 
 interrupting her. 
 
 "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. 
 
 " Well," cried he, " as for the latter part ; go on." 
 
 "It scarcely requires an answer. I saw Ida Delia Torre 
 last night in a society of which her afhanced husband was not 
 one ; and, I will be bold enough to say, hers was not the 
 bearing that bespoke engaged affections." 
 
 "Indeed!" said he, but in a tone that indicated neither 
 displeasure nor surprise. 
 
 "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 tliat only one observing her closely 
 as myself could mark it." 
 
 " And how did that subtle intelligence of yours interpret 
 this show of sorrow?" said he, in a voice of mocker}^, but 
 yet of deep anxiety. 
 
 "My subtle intelligence was not taxed to guess, for I 
 knew her secret," said the Princess, with all the strength of 
 conscious power. 
 
 " Her secret — her secret ! " said he, eagerly. " What do 
 you mean by that?" 
 
 The Princess smiled coldly, and said, " I have not yet 
 found my frankness so well rei)aid that I should continue to 
 extend it." 
 
 " What is the reward to be, madam? >i'ame it," said he, 
 boldly. 
 
 "The same candor on your i)art. Count; I ask for no 
 more." 
 
 "But what have I to reveal; what mystery is there that 
 your omniscience has not penetrated?" 
 
 " There may be some that your frankness has not avowed, 
 my dear Count."
 
 MADAME DE SABLOUKOFF IN THE MOKNING. 331 
 
 *' If you refer to what you have called Ida's secret — " 
 
 " No," broke she in. " I was now alluding to what 
 might lie called your secret." 
 
 " Mine ! mij secret ! " exclaimed he. But though the tone 
 was meant to convey great astonishment, the confusion of 
 liis manner was far more apparent. 
 
 "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." 
 
 "I was not aware how much I owed to your discretion, 
 madam," said he, scottingly. 
 
 ' ' 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 hereto- 
 fore imposed upon her temper seemed at last to have yielded 
 to offended dignit}^ " 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 antago- 
 nist 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." 
 
 "Wahusdorf struck the table with his clenched fist till it 
 shook beneath the blow, but never uttered a word, while 
 Avith increased energy she continued, — 
 
 " P^very 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." 
 
 " And, of course, you have related your interesting narra- 
 tive to Ida ? " cried he. 
 
 "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." ' 
 
 "And what may they be?" asked he. 
 
 "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
 
 332 THE FOKTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 liberation ; to show that the provocation came from yourself ; 
 and, lastly, all-painful though it be, to remove from him the 
 stain you have indicted, and to reinstate him in the esteem 
 that your calumny may have robbed him of. These were the 
 other thoughts I alluded to." 
 
 "And you fancy that I am to engage in this sea of 
 trouble for the sake of some nameless bastard, wiiile in doing 
 so I compromise myself and my own honor?" 
 
 " Do you prefer that it should be done by another, Count 
 Wahnsdorf?" asked she. 
 
 "This is a threat, madam." 
 
 " All the speedier will the matter be settled if you under- 
 stand it as such." 
 
 "-And, of course, the next condition will be for me to 
 resign my pretensions to Ida in his favor," said lie, with a 
 savage irony. 
 
 " I stipulate for nothing of the sort; Count Wahnsdorf 's 
 pretensions will be to-morrow just where they are to-day." 
 
 " You hold them cheaply, madam. I am indeed unfortu- 
 nate in all my pursuit of your esteem." 
 
 " You live in a sphere to command it, sir," was her repl)^ 
 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. 
 
 " Ah, he comes in an opportune moment," cried she. 
 " Tliis is tlie Minister of the Duke of Massa's household, — 
 the Chevalier Stubber. Yes," continued she to the servant, 
 " r will receive him." 
 
 If there was not any conspicuous gracefulness in the 
 Clu'vaiier's approach, there was an air of quiet self-posses- 
 sion that bespoke a sense of his own worth and importance; 
 and while he turned to pay his respects to the young Count, 
 his unpolislied manner was not devoid of a certain dignity. 
 
 " It is a fortunate chance by which I find you here, Count 
 Wahnsdorf," said he, " for you will be glad to learn tliat 
 the young fellow you had that affair with at Massa has just 
 been liberated."
 
 MADAME DE SABLOUKOEF IN THE MUllNING. 333 
 
 " When, and how? " cried the Princess, hastily. 
 
 "As to the time, it must be about four days ago, as my 
 letters inform me; as to the how, 1 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. 
 
 " But 1 want to hear the details. Chevalier," said she. 
 
 "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 cabi- 
 net of Vienna are, perhaps, like-minded in the matter ; at 
 all events, he is free, and will be here to-morrow." 
 
 " 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. 
 
 "I am your servant, madam," said Stubber. 
 
 "And I am engaged," said AVahnsdorf, taking up his 
 shako. 
 
 "You are off to Vienna to-night. Count AVahnsdorf," 
 whispered the Princess in his ear. 
 
 "What do you mean, madam?" said he, in a tone 
 equally low. 
 
 ' ' Only that I have a letter written for the Archduchess 
 Sophia, which I desire to intrust to j'our hands. You may 
 as well read ere I seal it." 
 
 The Count took the letter from her hand, and retired 
 towards the window to read it. AVhile 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, — 
 
 " You are most discreet, madam." 
 
 " I hope I am just, su-," said she, modestly. 
 
 "This was something of a difficult undertaking, too," 
 said he, with an equivocal smile.
 
 334 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 "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 — " 
 
 "I have not heard of it, madam; what may it be?" 
 asked Stubber. 
 
 " To the command of the Pahlen Hussars, sir, — one of the 
 proudest ' charges ' of the Empire." 
 
 A rush of blood to Wahnsdorf 's face was as quickly 
 followed by a deadly pallor, and with a broken, faint utter- 
 ance he said, " Good-bye," and left the room. 
 
 "A fine young fellow, — the ver}' picture of a soldier," 
 exclaimed Stubber, looking after him. 
 
 "A chevalier of the olden time, sir, — the very soul of 
 honor," said the Princess, enthusiastically. "And now for 
 a little gossip with j^ourself." 
 
 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.
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 DOINGS IX DOWNING STREET. 
 
 The dull old precincts of Downing Street were more than 
 nsuall}' astii". Hackuej'-coaches and cabs at an early hour, 
 private chariots somewhat later, Avent to and fro along the 
 drear}' pavement, and two cabinet messengers with splashed 
 caliches arrived in hot haste from Dover. Frequent, too, 
 were the messages from the House ; a leading Oppositionist 
 was then thundering away against the Government, inveigh- 
 ing against the treacherous character of their foreign polic}', 
 and indignantly calling on them for certain despatches to 
 then- 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, gi-ew louder and louder, •• Why does not Upton 
 come down? " 
 
 So intricate has been the web of our pett}' 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 
 mediocrit}' of a third-rate power." The prophecy, whichevei* 
 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 equall}' usual, the 
 cabinet was totalh' unprepared for defence ; either they had 
 altogether undervalued the subject, or they trusted to the 
 secrecy witli wliich thev had conducted it; whichever of
 
 336 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 these be the right explanation, each minister could only say 
 to his colleague, ''It never came before me; Upton knows 
 all about it." 
 
 '•'• 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. 
 
 The last of these was a peremptory note from no less a 
 person than the Premier himself, written in three very signi- 
 ficant words, thus : " Come, or go ; " and given to a trusty 
 whip, the Hon. Gerald Neville, to deliver. 
 
 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. 
 
 "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. 
 
 " 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? " 
 
 Mr. Neville followed his guide through an infinity of 
 passages, and at length reached a large folding-door, open- 
 ing one side of which he was ushered into a spacious apart- 
 ment, 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. 
 
 "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 ! " 
 
 " No, no; don't say that," cried the other, encouragingly. 
 "Have you had any sudden seizure? What is the nature 
 of it? " 
 
 " 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. All, Doctoi," and he addressed a question to him 
 in German. 
 
 A growled volley of gutturals ensued, and Upton went 
 on : —
 
 DOINGS IN DOWNING STREET. 337 
 
 "Yes, Charlemagne, — Melancthon had it, but lingered 
 for years. It is the peenliar affection of great intellectual 
 natures over-taxed and over-worked." 
 
 "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 wliich 
 had beset him on entering, and in a voice of a more cheery 
 tone, said, — 
 
 "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 emer- 
 gency called. We are in a moment of such difficulty now, 
 and you alone can rescue us." 
 
 "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 ? " 
 
 "I'm not aware of the terms he employed," said the 
 other. 
 
 This was the very admission that Upton sought to obtain, 
 and in a far more cheery voice he said, — 
 
 "If I was capable of the effort, — if Doctor Geiimirstad 
 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." 
 
 "The debate is taking a serious turn, however," inter- 
 posed 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." 
 
 "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. 
 
 22
 
 338 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 "He calls it 'a life period,' Neville. He says that he 
 won't answer for the consequences." 
 
 The doctor muttered on. 
 
 " He adds that the trismus may be thus converted into 
 ' Bi-trismus.' Just imagine Bi-trismus ! " 
 
 This was a stretch of fancy clear and away beyond 
 Neville's apprehension, and he began oo feel certain mis- 
 givings 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 du-ections as to the dress 
 he intended to wear. " The loose pelisse, with the astrakhan, 
 Giuseppe, and that vest of cramoisie velvet ; and if you will 
 just glance at the newspaper, Neville, in the next room, I '11 
 come to you immediately." 
 
 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 : — 
 
 " It was at this moment, and amidst the most enthusiastic 
 cheers of the Treasm-y bench, that Sir Horace Ujiton 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 di'amatic in its 
 character. For a moment the great chief of Ojiposition was 
 obliged to pause in his assaiilt, 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 re- 
 spect for the actual feeling of the House. The necessity for this 
 act of deference, added to the consciousness that he M'as in pres- 
 ence of the man whose acts he so strenuously denounced, were 
 too nuich for the nerves of the orator, and he came to an abrupt 
 conclusion, whose cnnfus'd and uncertain sentences scarcely war- 
 ranted the cheers with which his friends rallied him. 
 
 " 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 Avould 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. lu a voice that gained strength and 
 fulness as he proceeded, he entered upon what might be called a
 
 DOINGS IN DOWNING STREET. 339 
 
 narrative of the foreign policy of the administration, clearly show- 
 ing 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 occu- 
 pied every region of the globe, neither confusion nor inconsis- 
 tency ever marred the recital, and names and places and dates 
 were quoted by him without any artificial aid to memory." 
 
 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 auimosity. 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 con- 
 vert 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 tempera- 
 ment, 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 : — 
 
 " For more than three hours did the House listen with breath- 
 less attention to a nai'rative vVhich 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 in- 
 structed 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 Oppo- 
 sition, he proceeded to exhibit the insufficiency of views always 
 based upon false information.
 
 340 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 " ' We have been taunted,' said he, ' with the charge of foment- 
 ino- discords in foreign lands ; we have been arraigned as disturb- 
 ers of the world's peace, and called the firebrands of Europe ; we 
 are exhibited as parading the Continent with a more than Quix- 
 otic ardor, since we seek less the redress of wrong than the 
 opportunity to display our own powers of interference, — that qual- 
 ity which the learned geutleniau 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 
 liad the temerity to ascribe to us. His has been this indiscrimin- 
 ate ardor, his this unjndging rashness, his this meddling imperti- 
 nence (I am but quoting, not inventing, a phrase), by which, with- 
 ont accurate, without, indeed, any, information, he has ventured 
 to charge the Government with w hat no administration would be 
 o'uilty, of — a cool and deliberate violation of the national law of 
 Europe. 
 
 " ' He has told you, sir, that in our eagerness to distinguish 
 ourselves as universal redressei-s 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 de- 
 vices and insinuations based upon this narrative, a grave and 
 insulting charge iipon 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 Gi-eppi — this image boy, for so with a cour- 
 teous pleasantry he has called him — was a Neapolitan subject, 
 the affiliated envoy of 1 know not what number of secret societies ; 
 that his scnlptural pretensions were but pretexts to conceal his 
 real avocations, — the agency of a bloodthirsty faction ; that liis 
 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. 
 
 "' What a rude task is mine when T must say that for even one 
 oE 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 
 — lam speaking with knowledge, sir — he never mingled in the 
 schemes of plotting politicians; as far removed is he from sympa- 
 thy with such men. as, in the genius of a great artist, he is elevated
 
 DOINGS IN DOWNING STREET. 341 
 
 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 ! ' 
 
 "To the loud cry of 'Name, name,' which now arose. Sir Hor- 
 ace replied : ' If I do not announce the name at this moment, it is 
 because there are cii'cumstances in the history of the youth to 
 which publicity would give ii'reparable 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 desu-e 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 ? ' " 
 
 We have no occasion to continue our quotation farther, 
 and we take up om- history as Su- Horace, overwhelmed by 
 the w^armest praises and congratulations, drove off from the 
 House to his home. Amid all the excitement and enthu- 
 siasm which this brilliant success produced among the min- 
 isterialists, 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. 
 
 AVhat a relief to these agonies had it been, could they 
 have seen Upton as he once more gained the solitude of his 
 chamber, w^here, 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. 
 
 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 thi'ough 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
 
 342 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 rarely dallied in the past; even the present was scarcely 
 full enough for the craving of a spirit that cried ever, 
 "Forward!" 
 
 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 Con- 
 tinent, he hated p]ngiand, he shuddered at the Colonies. 
 " India, perhaps," said he, hesitatingly, — " India, perhaps, 
 might do." To continue as he was, — to remain in ottice, 
 as having reached the topmost round of the ladder, — would 
 have been insupportable indeed ; and j'et how, without 
 longer service at his post, could any man claim a higher 
 reward ?
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 THE SUBTLETIES OF STATECRAFT. 
 
 It was not till Sir Horace liad smoked his third ci^-ar 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. 
 
 A few minutes afterwards he began to prepare for bed. 
 The da}' 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 tu'esome dinner-party, would 
 have seemed bereft of hope. 
 
 The tied-up knocker, the straw-strewn street, the closely 
 drawn curtains ainiounced 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 ! AVith all its melancholy in- 
 fluences, 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 iu obtaining the best article for 
 our money, l)ut 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 princel}' incomes, but hard-worked men of office, 
 up late and early at their duties, — prematurely old, and
 
 344 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 worn out before theii- time ! Something of this same feeling 
 inspires much of the sympath}^ displayed for a sick states- 
 man, — a sentiment not altogether void of a certain misgiving 
 that we have probably over-taxed the energies employed in 
 our behalf. 
 
 Scarcely one in a hundred of those who now called and 
 "left then- 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. Siuce 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 ! 
 
 There was a dash of mystery, too, in the whole incident, 
 which heightened its flavor for public taste ; a vague, indis- 
 tinct 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 need- 
 lessly 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 paragraplis, terrifying timid supporters of the 
 ministry by the dread prospect of a " smash," exciting 
 the hopes of Opposition witli the notion of a great seces- 
 sion, throwing broadcast before tlie 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 tlie Park? 
 
 If, then, the world of London learned on the morning in 
 (luestion that Sir Horace Upton was very ill. it also surmised
 
 THE SUBTLETIES OF STATECRAFT. 345 
 
 — why and wherefore it knows best — that the same Su* 
 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 hippo- 
 potamus at the Zoological Gardens, tliere is nothing youi- 
 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. 
 
 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." 
 
 What an air of confirmation to all these rumors did it 
 give, when the evening papers announced in the most strik- 
 ing 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. 
 
 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
 
 346 THE FORTUNES OF GLEXCORE. 
 
 inquiry, which, by suggesting a number of improbabilities, 
 hopes to arrive at the lilvely, 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 in- 
 disputable, — Upton had resigned. 
 
 To the many who looked up at the sluittered 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, Su- Hor- 
 ace is now penning a note ; a bland half smile rippling his 
 featm'es 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 minia- 
 ture hangs suspended by a narrow ribbon round his neck, 
 and a massive gold bracelet adorns one wrist, — "two 
 souvenu's " 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-com- 
 placent regard that a successful general might bestow on 
 the decorations he had won by his valor. It is essentially 
 vainglorious. 
 
 More than once lias 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 ex[)ress. "Yes, charming Princess," sai<l he, 
 perusing tlie 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 (juite French, after all," muttered he ; 
 " better perhaps : ' has formed the religion of my heart.' ") 
 "I know 3'ou will reproacli m}' precipitancy; I feel how 
 your judgment, unerring as it ever is, will condemn what
 
 THE SUBTLETIES OF STATECRAFT. 347 
 
 may seem a suddeu ebullition of temper; but, I ask, is 
 this amongst the catalogue of my weaknesses V Am J of 
 that clay which is always fissured when heated ? No. You 
 know me better, — t/ou 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 nuist 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. 
 
 " I am quite charmed with your account of poor Lady 
 G , though, as I read, I can detect how all the fascina- 
 tions 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 inno- 
 cence, but what danger might accrue to others from infrac- 
 tions 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 costlj' 
 researches into title which, in a country where confisca- 
 tions were frequent, became at last endless labor. Don't 
 you think that some such measure might be beneficiall}' 
 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 tliat none might dispute? 
 
 "Lawyers tell us that no man's property would stand 
 the test of a searcli 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? 
 
 " I concur in all you say about G himself. He was 
 
 always looking for better security than he needed, — a great
 
 848 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 mistake, whether the iuvestmeut consist of our affections or 
 our mouey. 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 dis- 
 secting motives? or would it not be better to enjoy our 
 moral as we do our material health, without seeking to 
 assure ourselves further? 
 
 "Besides all this, the uutra veiled 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 up- 
 set, 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 requked 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. 
 
 " Glencore's conduct throughout was little short of in- 
 sanitj^ ; like a man who, hearing Jiis banker is insecure, takes 
 refuge in insolvency, he ruins himself to escape embarrass- 
 ment. 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. 
 
 " 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?' 
 
 " 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? AYould 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 
 syinp:itliy ? 
 
 " I^ife, 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! P'or my own part, I have ever felt
 
 THE SUBTLETIES OF STATECRAFT. 349 
 
 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, there- 
 fore, some tact requiied in conforming to these ' irregulari- 
 ties," and unhappily everybody has not got tact. 
 
 " 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 you 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 I You have often 
 told me that if people were not exactly all that strict mora- 
 lists might wish, yet that they made up a society very plea- 
 sant 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 I 
 
 "People 'Who live out of the world, or, what comes to 
 the same thing, in a little world of their own, are ever crav- 
 ing 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 ver}^ charming to arrive at, 
 were it only pratieable ! Oh that poor Glencore had only 
 learned this lesson, instead of writing nonsense verses at 
 Eton ! 
 
 "The murky domesticities of England have no correla- 
 tives in the sunn}' enjoyments of Italian life ; and John 
 Bull has got a fancy that virtue is onl}- 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 ? "
 
 350 THE FORTUNES OF GLEXCORE. 
 
 Just as Upton had written these words, his servant pre- 
 sented him with a visiting-card. 
 
 "Lord Glencore!" exclaimed he, aloud. " "When was 
 he here?" 
 
 " His Lordship is below stairs now, su-. He said he was 
 sure you'd see him." 
 
 " Of coui'se ; show him up at once. Wait a moment ; give 
 me that cane, place those cushions for my feet, draw the cur- 
 tain, and leave the aconite and ether drops near me, — that 
 will do, thank you." 
 
 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, — 
 
 " 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. 
 
 "Of course, my dear Glencore, you knew it," said the 
 other, feelingl}^, for he ivas shocked by the wretched spec- 
 tacle before him; " even were I more seriously indisposed 
 than — " 
 
 "And were you really ill, Upton?" asked Glencore, with 
 a weakly smile. 
 
 ' ' 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 ? " 
 
 "Yes," sighed he, wearily, "I have heard and seen all 
 you sa}' ; 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.' " 
 
 "He was always straining at an antithesis; he fancied 
 he could talk like 8t. Simon, and it really spoiled a very 
 pleasant converser." 
 
 " And so you have been very ill?" said Glencore, slowly, 
 and as though he had not heeded the last remark ; "so have 
 I also ! " 
 
 " You seem to me too feeble to be about, Glencore," said 
 Upton, kindly.
 
 THE SUBTLETIES OF STATECRAFT. 351 
 
 " 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." 
 
 "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." 
 
 "So it is all true, then, — you have resigned?" said 
 Glencore. 
 
 "Perfectly true." 
 
 " 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." 
 
 "I thought so then, and, what is more singular, I think 
 so still." 
 
 "And you throw it up at the very moment people are 
 proclaiming your success! " 
 
 "You shall hear all my reasons, Glencore, for this reso- 
 lution, and will, I feel assured, approve of them; but they 'd 
 only wear}' you now." 
 
 " Let me know them now, Upton ; it is such a relief to me 
 when, even by a momentary interest in anj^hing, I am able 
 to withdraw this poor tii'ed 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. 
 
 ""When I wished for the Secretaryship, my dear Glen- 
 core," said he, " 1 fancied the ofhce 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 democi-atic, rules by the House of Commons. 
 Questions whose treatment demands all the skill of a states-
 
 352 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 man and all the address of a man of the Avorld 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, 
 your whole game is revealed to the world in the shape of a 
 blue-book. 
 
 " 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 ! " 
 
 " 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." 
 
 "Perhaps I did not recognize the fact to its full extent. 
 Perhaps I fancied I could succeed in modifying the system," 
 said Upton, cautiously. 
 
 " A hopeless undertaking ! " said Glencore. 
 
 "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 1 should have a hold over mv colleagues in office. 
 These two conditions were rather difficult to combine, but 
 I accomplished them. 
 
 " I had interested the King so much in my views as to 
 what the Foreign Office ought to bo that an interchange of 
 letters took place, and his Majesty imparted to me his fullest 
 confidence in disparagement of the present sj^stem. This 
 correspondence was a perfect secret to tlie whole Cabinet ; 
 but when it had arrived at a most confidential crisis, I sug-
 
 THE SUBTLETIES OF STATECRAFT. 353 
 
 gested 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 with- 
 out his approval and concurrence, than he declared he would 
 not hold the seals of office another hom\ 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. 
 
 "I only remained for the debate of the other night, for 
 I wanted a little public enthusiasm to mark the fall of the 
 curtain." 
 
 "So that you still hold them as your debtors?" asked 
 Glencore. 
 
 " Without doubt, I do ; my claim is a heavy one." 
 
 " And what would satisfy it? " 
 
 " If my health would stand England," said Upton, 
 leisurely, "I'd take a peerage; but as this murky atmos- 
 phere would suffocate me, and as I don't care for the latter 
 without the political privileges, I have determined to have 
 the ' Garter.' " 
 
 "The Garter! a blue ribbon!" exclaimed Glencore, as 
 though the insufferable coolness with which the pretension 
 was announced might justify any show of astonishment. 
 
 "Yes; I had some thoughts of India, but the journey 
 deters me, — in fact, as I liave 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 Su' Horace seemed to address these last words to 
 himself. 
 
 " Do you ever look upon yourself as the luckiest fellow in 
 Europe, Upton ? " asked Glencore. 
 
 23
 
 354 THE FORTUNES OF GLEXCORE. 
 
 "No," sighed be; "I occasiouall}' 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." 
 
 " But, after all, you have had a most successful 
 career — " 
 
 " 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 com- 
 pletely mystified the hearer, and he sat gazing with wonder- 
 ment at the man before him.
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 SOME SAD REVERIES. 
 
 "Have you any plans, Glencore?" asked Uptou, as they 
 posted along towards Dover. 
 
 " iSToue," was the brief reply. 
 
 " Nor any destination j^ou desire to reach? " 
 
 "Just as" little." 
 
 " Such a state as j'ours, then, I take it, is about the best 
 thing o-oinu' in life. Every move one makes is attended 
 with so many adverse considerations, — every goal so sepa- 
 rated from us b}' unforeseen ditficulties, — that an existence, 
 even without what is called an object, has certain great 
 advantages." 
 
 "I am curious to hear them/' said the other, half 
 cynically. 
 
 "For myself," said Upton, not accepting the challenge, 
 " the brief intervals of comparative happiness I have en- 
 joyed have been in periods when complete repose, almost 
 torpor, has surrounded me, and when the mere existence of 
 the day has engaged my thoughts." 
 
 " What became of memory all this while? " 
 
 " 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 then* own 
 faculties I have no experience." 
 
 " And, of course, no sympathy for them." 
 
 " I will not sa}' that I cannot compassionate sufferings, 
 though I have not felt them." 
 
 " Are you quite sui-e of that?" asked Glencore, almost 
 sternly; "is not your ver}' pity a kind of contemptuous 
 sentiment towards those who sorrow without reason, — the
 
 356 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 strong man's estimate of the weak man's sufferings? Be- 
 lieve me, there is no true condolence where there is not the 
 same experience of woe ! " 
 
 " I should be sorry to lay down so narrow a limit to 
 fellow-feeling," said tjpton. 
 
 " 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?" 
 
 There w^as 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. 
 
 " I am taking my last look at England, Upton," said he, 
 affecting a tone of easy indifference. 
 
 " You surely mean to go back again one of these days?" 
 said Upton. 
 
 " Never, never! " said he, solemnly. " I have made all 
 my arrangements for the future, — every disposition regard- 
 ing 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 
 mj'self. 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 re- 
 jects a name that will only remind him of a wrong ! " 
 
 " 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 preju- 
 dice and passion — " 
 
 "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
 
 SOME SAD REVERIES. 357 
 
 dishonored asinine? The world would have no parallel for 
 such a wretch ! [Mark nie, Upton ! " cried he, fiercely, 
 ' ' there, is no torture I have yet endured would equal the 
 bare possibility of what you hint at." 
 
 "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. AVould 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? " 
 
 "And with what grace should I ask the world to believve 
 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, dis- 
 honored? If she be absolved, what becomes of me ?" 
 
 "This is unworthy of you, Glencore," said Upton, se- 
 verely; " nor, if illness and long* suffering had not impaired 
 your judgment, had 3'ou 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 3'our own unfounded jealousy, that day would 
 be the best and the proudest of your life." 
 
 "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 innoceiice might be proven, I could never avail mj'self 
 of the indication without first declaring my own unworthi- 
 ness to profit by it ; that if the Wife stood forth in all the 
 pride of purity, tlie Husband would be a scotT and a shame 
 throughout the world ! " 
 
 " 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." 
 
 "Your subtlety has outwitted itself, Upton," said Glen- 
 core, with a bitter irony; "it is not the first instance on 
 record where blank cartridge has proved fatal ! "
 
 358 THE rOKTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 "One thiug 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." 
 
 "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 ? " 
 
 "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." 
 
 " 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." 
 
 "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. Tlie straight road is rarely, 
 or never, possible ; even if events were, which they are 
 not, easy to read, they must be taken in coml)ination 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 
 liim, if it suit liis purpose. Now, were he to act in this 
 manner in nil the quiet security of his life on shore, his 
 conduct would be highly blamable. No emergency would 
 warrant liis taking wiiat belonged to another, — no critical 
 moment would drive him to the instinct of self-preservation, 
 .lust the same is the interval between action and reflection, 
 (iive 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." 
 
 "I read the matter differently," said Glencore, sulkily; 
 " I could, perhaps, offer another explanation of your 
 practice."
 
 SOME SAD REVERIES. 359 
 
 "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." 
 
 Glencore sat silent and motionless. 
 
 "Come, shall I say it for you, Glencore? for I think I 
 know what is passing in your mind." 
 
 The other nodded, and he went on, — 
 
 " You would tell me, in plain words, that I keep my craft 
 for myself; my high principle for my friends." 
 
 Glencore only smiled, but Upton continued, — 
 
 "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 ! " 
 
 ' ' 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 gi'eat 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 con- 
 sciousness 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 ! " 
 
 " 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." 
 
 Glencore sat moodily for some moments without speaking ; 
 at last he said, — 
 
 " I feel as though continual change of place and scene 
 would be a relief to me. Let us rendezvous, therefore,
 
 360 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 somewhere for the autumn, and meanwhile I '11 wander about 
 alone." 
 
 " "What direction do j^ou purpose to take? " 
 
 "The Schwarzwald and the Hohleuthal, 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 ! " 
 
 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. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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 liim for their 
 beauty or their tinitlifulness ; he told Iioav he had tried to 
 allure his own inind to the tone that vibrated in " tlie 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. 
 
 " Tieck is right, Upton, when he says there are two 
 natures in us, distinct and apart : one, the ihiaginative and 
 ideal; the other, the actual and the sensual. Many shake
 
 SOME SAD REVERIES. 3G1 
 
 them together and confound them, making of the incon- 
 gruous mixture that vile compound of inconsistency where the 
 beautiful and the true are ever warring with the deformed 
 and the false ; theii* 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 ou no road unsanctioned by 
 high and holy thoughts, caring for no ambitions but such as 
 make us nobler and better. 
 
 "I once bad a thought of such a life; and even the 
 memory of it, like the prayers we have learned in oui' child- 
 hood, 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 his heart and mine!" 
 
 " You have read over those letters I gave 3^ou about 
 him?" asked Upton, who eagerly availed himself of the 
 opportunity to approach an almost forbidden theme. 
 
 " 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 3'et not be heir to 
 the accidents of fortune which make others so lenient to 
 faults ! " 
 
 If Upton heard these words with much interest, no less 
 was he struck by the fact that Glencore made no" inquir3' 
 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
 
 362 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 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 specu- 
 late 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, apiiroaching 
 the actual story of his life, or seeming to attach any interest 
 to his destin3^ 
 
 Upton's shrewd intelligence quickly told him that this 
 reserve was not accidental ; and he deliberated within him- 
 self how far it was safe to invade it. 
 
 At length he resumed the attempt b}^ adroitly alluding to 
 the spiiited resistance the boy had made to his capture, and 
 ibe consequences one might naturally enough ascribe to a 
 proud and high-hearted j^outh thus tyrannicalh' punished. 
 
 "I have heard something," said Upton, "of the sever- 
 ities practised at Kuff stein, and they recall the horrible 
 tales of the Inquisition ; the terrible contrivances to extort 
 confessions, — expedients that often breakdown the intellect 
 whose secrets they would discover; so that one actually 
 shudders at the name of a spot so associated with evil." 
 
 Glencore placed his hands over his face, but did not utter 
 a w'ord ; 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. 
 
 "No more of this, Upton," cried he, sternly; " you do 
 not know the toiture you are giving me." There was a long 
 and painful pause between them, at the end of wliich Glen- 
 core 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, — th(> night when I came to the resolution 
 of this vengeance ! I sent for the boy to my r(»om ; we 
 were alone there together, face to face. It was sucli 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
 
 SOME SAD REVERIES. 3G3 
 
 felt he had a right to do. How he left that room, — cowed, 
 abashed, and degraded, — I have yet before me. Our meet- 
 ing did not exceed many minutes in duration ; neither of 
 us could have endured it longer. Brief as it was, we rati- 
 fied 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 wuth 
 w*hich 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 i)lan 
 out his future, — you would have said that some curse had 
 fallen upon my heart, or it could never have been dead to 
 traits wliich proclaimed him to be my own. In that moment 
 it was my lot to be lilce him who held out his own right 
 hand to be first burned, ere he gave his body to the flames. 
 
 "We parted without an embrace; not even a farewell 
 was spoken between us. AYhile 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, b}' a 
 falsehood, I was about to exclude him. It was as though 
 my own blood hurled a proud defiance to me. 
 
 "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 Avas even a rude 
 one ; and with a mocking smile, as though he read my 
 meaning and despised it, he departed. 
 
 " 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.
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 THE FLOOD IN THE MAGKA. 
 
 "When it rains in Italy it does so with a passionate ardor 
 that bespeaks an uinisual pleasm*e. 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. Moun- 
 tain 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. 
 
 These sudden changes are remarkably frequent along 
 that beautiful tract between Nice and Massa, and which fs 
 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 con- 
 tinually slopes towards the sea, the course of the waters is 
 one of headlong velocity. Of these, the most dangerous by 
 far is the IMagra. The river, which even in dry seasons is a 
 consideral)le 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 ai)proaches 
 the sea, and more than one instance is recorded wliere the 
 stout raft, devoted to the use of ti-avellers, has been carried 
 away to the ocean. 
 
 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
 
 THE FLOOD IN THE MAGRA. 365 
 
 sinks in at every step. This is the shelter of the boatmen 
 who navigate the raft, and who, in reUiys 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 pos- 
 sible 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 then* sad, 
 thoughtful faces bespeak those w^ho are often called upon to 
 meet peril, and who are destined to lives of emergency and 
 hazard. 
 
 It was in the low and miserable hut we speak of, just as 
 night set in of a raw November, that four of these rafts- 
 men sat at then* 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 3'onnger, 
 despite all the poverty of his dress, implied a very different 
 class. 
 
 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 ah- that denoted the Anglo- 
 Saxon. He sat smoking his cigar, his head resting on one 
 hand, and evidentl}' 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 liave 
 not already guessed them. 
 
 If we don't wait," said the elder, " till somebody 
 
 u
 
 366 THE rORTUXES OF GLE.NCORE. 
 
 richer and better off than ourselves comes, we '11 have to pay 
 seven francs for passin' in such a night as this." 
 
 "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 ? " 
 
 "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." 
 
 "The fellow yonder," said the j^outh, "has got good 
 brawny arms and sinewy legs of his own." 
 
 " 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 vine- 
 gar, 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." 
 
 " AVhat a life ! " cried the youth, in an accent of utter pity. 
 
 " Faix, it was an elegant life, — that is, when the weather 
 was anyways good. With a bright sun shiuin' 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' 
 stoi-ies, sometimes fairy tales, sometimes makin' rhymes to 
 myself, hut always happy and contented. There was n'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 dowMi 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. AYasn't that mighty 
 
 Clll-ioUS? "
 
 THE FLOOD IN THE MAGRA. 367 
 
 "Perhaps, like ourselves, Billy, he wasn't quite sure of 
 his passport," said the other, dryly. 
 
 " 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, orate 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." 
 
 " 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." 
 
 "'Tis the very notion occurred to mj'self. It was the 
 dhrop of good blood in him made him what he was." 
 
 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. 
 
 "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." 
 
 "Would money tempt those fellows, I wonder, to veu- 
 tiu'e out on such a night as this?" 
 
 "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 vexa- 
 tions 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 circumveutin' an empty 
 stomach." 
 
 " AVhat a tyrant is tlien your rich man!" sighed the 
 youth, heavily. 
 
 "That he is. 'Dives honoratus. Pulcher rex denique 
 regum.' You may do as 3'ou please if ye 'r rich as a 
 Begum." 
 
 /
 
 368 THE FORTUNES OF GLEXCOEE. 
 
 "A free translation, rather, Billy," said the other, 
 laughing. 
 
 " Or ye might render it this way," said Billy, — 
 " If ye 've uiouey euuugh aud to spare in the bauk, 
 The world will give ye both beauty and rank. 
 
 And I've nothing to say agin it," continued he. " The raal 
 stimulus to iudusthry in life, is to make wealth powerful. 
 Gettin' aud heapin' up money for money's sake is a debasin' 
 kind of thiug ; but makin' a fortune, in order that you may 
 extind your influence, and mowld the distinies of others, — 
 that's grand." 
 
 "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." 
 
 " I have you there, too," cried Billy, with all the exul- 
 tation 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 iudusthry saves a man even the excuse of doin' anything 
 low ! " 
 
 " And how often, from your own lips, have I listened 
 to ])raises at your poor humble condition ; rejoicings that 
 your lot in life secm-ed you against the cares of wealth and 
 ffrandem- ! " 
 
 And 3'ou will again, plaze God! if J live, and you pre- 
 sarve your hearin'. What would I be if I was rich, but an 
 ould — an ould voluptuary?" said Billy, with great empha- 
 sis 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, tliat, if they had bare feet, could walk as straight as a 
 rusl\. Poverty is not ungraceful itself. It 's tryiu' to be 
 what is n't natural, spoils people entirely." 
 
 "I think I hear voices without. Listen!" cried the 
 youth. 
 
 t3
 
 THE FLOOD IX THE MAGRA. 369 
 
 "It's only the river ; it's risin' every minute." 
 
 "No, that was a shout. I heard it distinctly. Ay, the 
 boatmen hear it now ! " 
 
 "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 ! " 
 
 By this time the postilions' whips commenced that chorus 
 of cracking by which they are accustomed to announce all 
 arrivals of importance. 
 
 "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." 
 
 To judge from the increased noise and uproar, the trav- 
 ellers' impatience had now reached its highest point ; but to 
 this a slight lull succeeded, probably occasioned by the par- 
 ley with the boatman. 
 
 " They'll give us five Napoleons for the job," said Beppo, 
 entering, and addressing his chief. 
 
 " Per Dio, that won't support our families if we leave 
 them fatherless," muttered the other. " AVho and what are 
 they that can't wait till morning?" 
 
 "AVho knows?" said Beppo, with a genuine shrug of 
 native indifference. " Princes, belike ! " 
 
 "Princes or beggars, we all have lives to save!" mum- 
 bled out an old man, as he reseated himself b}' 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. 
 
 " Are you all cowards alike? " said the courier, in all the 
 insolence of his privileged order; " or is it a young fellow 
 of 7/on)' stamp that shrinks from the risk of a wet jacket? " 
 
 This speech was addressed to the youth, whom he had 
 mistaken for one of the raftsmen. 
 
 " Keep your coarse speeches for those who will bear 
 them, my good fellow," said the other, boldly, "or may- 
 hap the fiist wet jacket here will be one with gold lace on 
 the collar." 
 
 "He's not one of us; he's a traveller," quickly inter- 
 
 24
 
 370 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 posed 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." 
 
 '■'' Sacre bleu! Then he shan't come with us; that I'll 
 promise him," said the courier, whose offended dignity 
 roused all his ke. "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." 
 
 The sight of the gold, as it glistened temptingly in his 
 'Outstretched hand, appealed to their hearts far more elo- 
 quently than all his words, and they gathered in a group 
 toiiether to hold counsel. 
 
 "And you, are you also a distinguished stranger?" 
 said the courier, addressing Billy, who sat warming his 
 hands by the embers of the fire. 
 
 " Look you, my man," cried the youth, " all the gold in 
 yonr 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." 
 
 " Sacrist If" 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." 
 
 "Vagabond!" cried the j^outh, furiously; and he sprang 
 ;at the other witli the bound of a tiger. The courier quickly 
 parried the blow aimed at him, and, closely grappled, they 
 t)oth 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 tlie other towards the stream. 
 Billy, too, restrained by force, could not come to the rescue, 
 and could only Ity words, screamed out in all the wildness 
 of his agony, encourage liis companion. " Drop on your 
 knee — catch liim by tiie legs — tlu'ow liim back — back into 
 the stream. Tiiat 's it — that's it! Good luck to ye!" 
 shouted he, madly, as hv 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.
 
 WaltcrLCdUPH.Si:. 
 
 C^Cey jyvici'n.a ccl ///c rt/iK't uf-^in^in^ y6i?-uiia/ o/ a ^lae i
 
 THE FLOOD IN THE MAGRA. 371 
 
 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. 
 
 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 morn- 
 ing 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 tlie little town, 
 the authorities were activel}" employed in investigating the 
 event, and ascertaining, so far as they could, to which side 
 the chief blame inclined. 
 
 The raftsmen had all been arrested, and were examined 
 carefully, one by one ; and now it only remained to obtain
 
 372 THE FORTUNES OF GLEXCORE. 
 
 from the traveller himself whatever information he could 
 contribute to throw light on the affair. 
 
 His passport, showing that he was an English peer, 
 obtained for him all the deference and respect foreign offi- 
 cials 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. 
 
 "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. 
 
 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. 
 
 "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. 
 
 " But your Lordship would surely desire investigation. A 
 man is missing ; a great crime may have been committed — " 
 
 "Excuse my interrupting ; but as I am not, nor can be 
 supposed to be, the criminal, — nor do I feel m3'self 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." 
 
 " Yet there are circumstances in this case which give it 
 the character of a preconcerted plan," said the Prefect, 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 " Perhaps so," said the other, in a tone of utter indifference. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 " My name, — how so?" cried the stranger, hurriedly. 
 
 " Yes, my Lord, the name of yoiw passport, — Lord Glen- 
 core. Two of those I liave 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."
 
 THE FLOOD IN THE MAGKA. 373 
 
 "Is this a mere fancy?" said the stranger, over whose 
 sickly features a flush now mantled. " Can I see him? " 
 
 "Of course. He is in the Jiospital, and too ill to be 
 removed ; but if you will visit him there, I will accompany 
 you." 
 
 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. 
 
 " You see, su-, 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." 
 
 The other muttered some words of comfort and compas- 
 sion, and they descended the stairs together. 
 
 "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." 
 
 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." 
 
 "Who are you? Tell me your name?" said Glencore, 
 eagerly. 
 
 "I'm Billy Tray nor, my Lord, the one you remember, 
 the doctor — " 
 
 " And my boy ! " screamed Glencore, wildly. 
 
 The sick man threw up both his arms in tlie 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.
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 A FRAGMENT OF A LETTER. 
 
 Long before Lord Glencore had begun to rally from an 
 attack which had revived all the sj^niptoms 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. 
 
 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 jjast, I 
 felt as though that "blessed" courier was again upon nie, 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; hut 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 i^te easily enough. AVith all its dan- 
 gers, it was a glorious time, as, hurrying downward in the torrent, 
 tln-oiigh the dark night, the tlumder growling overhead, the 
 breakers battering away on the bar, I was the only living thing 
 there to confi-ont that peril ! What an emblem of my own fate 
 in everything ! A lieadlong course, an unknown ending, darkness 
 — utter and dayless 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 mitracked sand where no traveller 
 has ever ventured. This impression never left me as I buffeted
 
 A FRAGMENT OF A LETTER. 375 
 
 the murky waves, and struck out bold!}' tlirougli the surfy stream. 
 Nay, more, it will never leave me while 1 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 
 *cei'tain, and yet have I not quailed in spirit or flinched in coolness. 
 No, l)illy; I reviewed every step of my strange and waj-ward life. 
 I bethought nie of my childhood, with all its ambitious longings, 
 and my bovish days as son-ow 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 ? 
 
 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 charg- 
 ing an enemy's battery at speed. I was wildly mad with impa- 
 tience to get forward, arid shouted till my voice rang out above 
 the din around me. IIow the mad cheer echoed in my own heart ! 
 It was the trumpet-call of victor}-. 
 
 Was it reaction from all this excitement — the depression that 
 follows past danger — that made me feel low and miserable after- 
 wards ? 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 1 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 wiclvet itself, and still T felt no touch of feeling, no memory 
 ^came back on me ; I was indifferent to all ! and yet ijou 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. 
 
 AVhat 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 T feel as though whatever 
 endangered life, or jeoparded fame would call me up to an effort 
 and make me of some value to myself. 
 
 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. . 
 
 How a little melody that a peasant girl was singing last night
 
 376 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 touched me ! It was one that she used to warble, humming as we 
 walked, like some stray waif thrown up by memory on the waste 
 of life. 
 
 So then, at last, I feel I am not a sculptor ; still as little, with 
 all your teaching, am 1 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 rivaky. 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. 
 Xeither 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 ! 
 
 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. AVho 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 tlieir board, and make brotherhood with them ? I trow 
 not, Billy. They would hand us over to the police ! 
 
 And my friend the courier was not so far astray when he called 
 us vagabonds ! 
 
 If I were free, T 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 "con- 
 sideration." It whispers to me of an intei-est 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 / 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 affec- 
 tion 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 nie that
 
 A FRAGMENT OF A LETTER. 377 
 
 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 ! 
 
 I have just been told that a certain Princess de SabloukofE is 
 to arrive here this evening, and that I am to wait upon lier im- 
 mediately. 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 — ! 
 Can you tell me nothing of this? But even if you can, the 
 tidings will come too late ; I shaU have already seen her. 
 
 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. 
 
 Midnight. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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 fineat 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 AVahnsdorf's offer of marriage, and 
 though ai-dently solicited to let time test her decision, persisted in 
 her rejection. 
 
 Whether she knew of my affection or not, I cannot saj- ; but I 
 opine not, for she talked of Ida as one whose haughty nature 
 would decline alliance with even an imperial house if tlun' deemed 
 it a condescension ; so that the refusal of AA'ahnsdorf may have 
 been on this ground. But how can it matter to me ? 
 
 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
 
 378 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 together. As this web of intrigue — for so I cannot but feel it 
 — dra^YS more closely around uie, I grow more and more im- 
 patient to break bounds and be away ! It is evident enough that 
 my destiny is to be the sport of some accident, lucky or unlucky, 
 in the fate of others. Shall I await this? 
 
 And they have giyen 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, 
 
 C. M. 
 
 This letter Billy Traynor read over and over as he sat by 
 Gleucore'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. 
 
 " What is tluit 3'ou are crumpling up there? From whom 
 is the letter?" said Lord Glencore, as Bi% hurriedly en- 
 deavored to conceal the oft-perused epistle. " Nay," cried 
 he, suddenl}' 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 j^ou may leave me to-morrow. I know that 
 both your wish and your dut}' call 3'ou elsewhere. What- 
 ever 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 j-our 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 men- 
 tion me would be but to bring up bitter memories." 
 
 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 nioment to reconcile the father and 
 the son, thus mysteriously separated, his feai-s also whis- 
 pered the danger of any ill-advised step on his part, and the 
 injury he might b}' possibility inflict on one he loved best on 
 earth. 
 
 " You make me this pledge, therefore, before we part," 
 said Lord Glencore, who continued to ruminate on what he
 
 A FRAGMENT OF A LETTER. 379 
 
 had spoken. " It is less for my sake than that of another." 
 Billy took the hand Gleueore tendered towards him respect- 
 fully in his own, and kissed it twice. 
 
 "There are men who have no need of oaths to ratify 
 then- faith and trustfulness. You are one of them, Tray- 
 uor," said Glencore, affectionately. 
 
 Billy tried to speak, but his heart was too full, and he 
 could not utter a word. 
 
 " 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 bui'ied his face 
 between his hands. 
 
 " And in the name of Heaven," muttered Billy to himself 
 as he stole away, " what is it that keeps them apail and 
 won't let them love one another? Sure it was n'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 then- 
 hearts and feelin's as well as in then- grandem- ; and there 
 must be things that v:e never mind nor think of, that are 
 thought to be mortial injuries by them. 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 ! 
 
 " 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 oust, 
 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 
 ^Eschylus. But what's the good o' me puzzlin' myself? 
 If I was to speculate for fiftj' 3'ears, I 'd never be able to 
 think like a lord, after all ! " And with this conclusion he 
 began to prepare for his journey.
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 HOW A SOVEREIGN TREATS WITH HIS MINISTER. 
 
 "What can have brouglit them here, Stubber?" said the 
 Duke of Massa, as he walked to aud 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 w^ell. She it was separated Prince Max 
 from my sister, and that Montenegro affak was all her 
 doing also." 
 
 " I don't suspect — " 
 
 "Don't you? Well, then, /do, sh- ; 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 Frauz called him, — a ' mauvais coucheur,' 
 one of those fellows England employs to get up the embar- 
 rassments she so deeply deplores. Eh, Stubber, that's the 
 phrase : ' While we deeply deplore the condition of the king- 
 dom,' — that's always the exordium to sending out a fleet or 
 an impertinent despatch. But I '11 not endure it here. I 
 have my sovereign rights, my independence, my allies. By 
 the way, have n't my allies taken possession of the Opera 
 House for a barrack ? " 
 
 " Tliat they have, sir; and they threaten an encampment 
 in the Court gardens." 
 
 "An open insult, an outrage! And have yoit endured 
 and submitted to this?" 
 
 " I have refused the permission ; but they may very pos- 
 sibly take no heed of my protest." 
 
 " And you '11 tell me that I am the ruler of this state? " 
 
 " No, but I'll say j^ou miglit, if you liked to be so." 
 
 "How so, Stubl)er? Come, my worthy fellow, what's 
 your plan? You have a plan, I'm certain — but I guess it: 
 tm-n Protestant, hunt out the Jesuits, close the churches,
 
 HOW A SOVEREIGN TREATS WITH HIS MINISTER. 381 
 
 demolish the monasteries, and Bend for an English frigate 
 down to the Marina, where there 's not w^ater to float a 
 fishing-boat. But no, sir, I '11 have no such alliances ; I '11 
 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 '11 abdicate ; 
 that's my last word, — abdicate." 
 
 "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. 
 
 "Another firebrand, — another emissary of English dis- 
 turbance. Hardenberg was perfectly right when he said the 
 English nation pays oft" the meanest subserviency to then- 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 ! " 
 
 " AYe contrive to mix up a fan* share of liberty with our 
 bondage, sir." 
 
 "In your talk, — only in your talk; and in the news- 
 papers, Stubber. I have studied you closely and atten- 
 tively. 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." 
 
 " I rode him," said Stubber, dryly. 
 
 " You rode him?" 
 
 " Yes, sir. I was his jock for the King's Plate. There 
 was a matter of tw^enty-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." 
 
 " Per Bacco! it was a splendid race, and I'm sure I never 
 suspected when I cheered you coming in, that I was welcom- 
 ing my future minister. Eh, Stubber, only fancy what a 
 change ! " 
 
 Stubber only shrugged his shoulders, as though the altera- 
 tion in fortune was no such great prize after all. 
 
 " I w^on 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
 
 382 THE FORTUNES OF GLEXCORE. 
 
 Prince laughed so at dinner about it, and said it was pui'e 
 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 ? " 
 
 " What signifies it, sir, if the Austrian Jiigers are bivou- 
 acked in the theatre ? " 
 
 "Very true, by Jove!" said the Duke, pondering. 
 " Can't we hit upon something, — have you no happy sug- 
 gestion ? I have it, Stubber, — an admirable thought. We '11 
 have Upton to dinner. We '11 make it appear that he has 
 come here specially to treat with us. There is a great cold- 
 ness just now between St. James's and Vienna. Upton will 
 be charmed with the thought of an intrigue ; so will be 
 La Sabloukoff. We '11 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 3'ourself with the 
 invitation." 
 
 And, overjoyed with the notion of his own subtlety, the 
 Prince walked up and down, laughing heartily, and rubbing 
 his hands in glee. 
 
 Stubber, however, was too well versed in the change- 
 ability of his master's nature to exhibit any rash prompti- 
 tude in obeying him. 
 
 "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 ! " 
 
 " 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." 
 
 " Apology, of course, Stubber, — humiliation to any ex- 
 tent. I'll send the Minister Landelli into exile, — to the 
 galleys, if they insist ; but I '11 not pay a scudo, — my royal 
 word on it ! But Avho says that such is the reason of his 
 presence here? " 
 
 " 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 Avith mo."
 
 HOW A SOVEKEIGN TREATS WITH HIS MINISTER. 383 
 
 " Go to him, Stubber, with our invitation. Ask hiui if 
 he likes shooting. Say I am going to Serravezza on Satnr- 
 clay ; sound him if he desires to have the Red Cross of 
 Massa ; hint that I am an ardent admiirer of his public career ; 
 and be sure to tell me something he has said or done, if he 
 come to dinner." 
 
 " There is to be a dinner, then, sir? " asked Stubber, Avith 
 the air of one partly struggling with a conviction. 
 
 "I have said so. Chevalier!" replied the Prince, 
 haughtih', 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 Roseukrantz 
 how cheaplj^ we hold him. Eh, Stubber? It will half kill 
 him to come with the general company ! " 
 
 Stubber gave a faint sigh, as though fresh complicatious 
 and more troubles would be the sole results of this brilliant 
 tactique. 
 
 " 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 ni}^ 
 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 bm-st 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 ! " 
 
 " I hope that this countr}' is more equitabl}' administered," 
 said Stubber, 
 
 " So do I, su\ Were I not impressed witli the full con- 
 viction that the subjects of this realm were in the ver}^ fullest 
 enjoyment of every liberty consistent with public tranquillity, 
 protected in the maintenance of every privilege — By the 
 waj", 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 tlie 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 mo in my saddle ! "
 
 384 THE FORTUNES OF GLEXCORE- 
 
 " If the people had sufficient oecupatiou, they 'd not play 
 ' Trottolo,' " said Stuhher, sternly. 
 
 " And whose the fault if they have not, sh"? How many 
 months have I been entreating to have those terraced gar- 
 dens finished towards the sea? I want that olive wood, too, 
 all stubbed up, and the ground laid out in handsome par- 
 terres. How repeatedly have I asked for a bridge over that 
 ornamental lake ; and as to the island, there 's not a mag- 
 nolia planted in it yet. Public works, indeed ; find me the 
 money, Stubber, and I '11 suggest the works. Then, there 's 
 that villa, the residence of those English people, — have we 
 not made a purchase of it? " 
 
 "No, your Highness; we could not agree about the 
 terms, and I have just heard that the stranger who is travel- 
 ling with Upton is going to buy it." 
 
 " 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 jou knew of and permitted this negotiation 
 to go on? " 
 
 " There is nothing in the law to prevent it, sir. " 
 
 "The law! "What impertinence to tell me of the law! 
 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 ? " 
 
 " I opine that the Act which admits foreigners to possess 
 property in the state was passed in the life of your High- 
 ness's father." 
 
 " I repeal it, then ! It saps the nationality of a people; 
 it is a blow aimed at the very heart of independent sover- 
 eignty. T 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." 
 
 "He may possibly be an Englishman, your Highness; 
 and remember that we have already a troublesome affau* 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." 
 
 " What a tyranny is this English interference! There is 
 not a land, from Sweden to Sicily, where, on some assumed 
 ground of humanity, j'our Government have not dared to 
 impose their opinions ! You presume to assert that all men
 
 HOW A SOVEREIGN TREATS WITH HIS MINISTER. 385 
 
 must feel precisely like j-our clogged and hard-headed coun- 
 trj-meu, 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 j^our bad climate ; and then you say 
 to us, blessed in the enjoj'ment 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 I " 
 
 " The people are far better than then* nobles, — that I 'm 
 sure of," said Stubber, stoutly. 
 
 "You want to preach socialism to me, and hope to con- 
 vert me to that splendid doctrine of communism we hear so 
 much of. You are a dangerous fellow, — a verj'^ dangerous 
 fellow. It was precisely men of your stamp sapped the 
 monarchy in France, and with it all monarchy in Europe." 
 
 " 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." 
 
 " Well thought of, Stubber ; and there was something else 
 in my head, — what was it? " 
 
 "The suppression of the San Lorenzo convent, perhaps; 
 it is all completed, and onlv waits your Highness to sign the 
 deed." 
 
 "What sum does it give us, Stubber, eh?" 
 
 "About one hundred and eighty thousand scudi, sir, of 
 which some twentv thousand go to the National Morto-ao-e 
 Fund." 
 
 " Xot 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." 
 
 " I advised the measure on wiser grounds, sir. It was 
 not fair and just that a set of lazy friars should be leading 
 
 25
 
 386 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 lives of iudoleuce aud abundance in the midst of a hard- 
 worked and ill-fed peasantry." 
 
 "Quite true; and on these wise grounds, as you call 
 them, we have rooted them out. AVe 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. 
 
 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 aud 
 withdrew.
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 SOCIAL DIPLOMACIES. 
 
 "What an insufferable bore, dear Princess!" sighed Sir 
 Horace, as he opened the square-shaped envelope that 
 contained his Ro3'al Highness's invitation to dinner. 
 
 "I mean to be seriously indisposed," said Madame de 
 Sabloukoff; "one gets nothing but chagrin in intercourse 
 with petty Courts." 
 
 "Like provincial journals, they only reproduce what has 
 appeared in the metropolitan papers, and give you old gossip 
 for fresh intelligence." 
 
 "Or, worse again, ask you to take an interest in their 
 miserable ' localisms,' — the microscopic contentions of 
 insect life." 
 
 " They have given us a sentry at the door, I perceive," 
 said Su- Horace, with assumed indifference. 
 
 "A very proper attention ! " remarked the lady, in a tone 
 that more than half implied the compliment was one intended 
 for herself. 
 
 "Have you seen the Chevalier Stubber yet?" asked 
 Upton. 
 
 "No; he has been twice here, but I was dressing, or 
 writing notes. And you?" 
 
 "I told him to come about two o'clock," sighed Sir 
 Horace. " I rather like Stubber." 
 
 This was said in a tone of such condescension that it 
 sounded as though the utterer was confessing to an ami- 
 cable weakness in his nature, — "I rather like Stubber." 
 
 Though there was something meant to invite agreement 
 in the tone, the Princess only accepted the speech with a 
 slight motion of her ej^ebrows, and a look of half unwilling 
 assent.
 
 388 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 "I know he's not of your 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." 
 
 " Rugged and unadorned indeed ! " echoed the lady. 
 
 "And yet never vulgar," rejoined Upton, — " nev^r 
 affecting to be other than he is ; and, stranger still, not 
 self-opinionated and conceited." 
 
 "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 counter- 
 feit. No socialist in Europe has done such service to the 
 cause of democracy as the Prince of Massa ! " 
 
 " 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." 
 
 " He says so himself, I am told." 
 
 "Yes, he says so, and I believe him. He has been 
 employed in situations of considerable trust, and alwa3^s 
 acquitted himself well. Such a man cannot have escaped 
 temptations, and yet even his enemies do not accuse him 
 of venality." 
 
 "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. 
 
 "That's sill}', 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." 
 
 "Perhaps so," said she, dryly. 
 
 " And, after all," said Upton, who seemed rather bent on 
 a system of mild tormenting, — "after all, there is some- 
 thing amiable in the weakness of this display, — it smacks 
 of gratitude ! It is like saying to the world, ' See v^'hat the 
 munificence of my master has made me ! ' "
 
 SOCIAL DIPLOMACIES. 389 
 
 "What a delicate compliment, too, to his nobles, which 
 proclaims tliat for a station of trust and probity the Prince 
 must recruit from the kitchen and the stables. To my 
 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." 
 
 "Just as long as the world thinks so, dear Princess; not 
 an hour longer." 
 
 The Princess arose, and walked the room in evident dis- 
 pleasure. 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, — 
 
 "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 
 tjTanny of their own passions ? " 
 
 "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." 
 
 " It is something that you confess these people have no 
 'prestige,'" said she, triumphantly. "Indeed, their pres- 
 ence in the world of politics, to my thinking, is a mere 
 symbol of change, — an evidence that we are in some stage 
 of transition." 
 
 "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 interna- 
 tional one, and you will see the popular will declaring wars, 
 cementing alliances, and signing peaces in a fashion to 
 make statecraft tremble ! "
 
 390 THE FORTUNES OF GLEXCORE. 
 
 "And you approve of this change, and welcome it?" 
 asked she, derisively. 
 
 " I have never said so, madame. I foresee the hurricane, 
 that 's all. Men like Stubber are to be seen almost every- 
 where 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 
 oiames coeval with the Roman P^mpu-e." 
 
 " You have given me but another reason to detest him," 
 said the Priucess, angrily. " I don't think I shall receive 
 him to-day." 
 
 "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 Gleucore you 
 would arrange the matter." 
 
 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." 
 
 ' ' In such a struggle a woman has more courage than a 
 
 man." 
 
 " Say more boldness, Princess," said Upton, slyly. 
 
 "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." 
 
 "/Si cela se peut" said Upton, with a very equivocal 
 
 smile. 
 
 A look of haughty anger, with a flush of crimson on her 
 cheek, was the only answer she made him. 
 
 " I mean that he is really not in a position to prove or 
 disprove anything. He assumed certain ' levities ' — I sup- 
 pose the word will do — to mean more than levities ; he 
 construed indiscretions into grave faults, and faults into 
 crimes. But that lie 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 wan-
 
 SOCIAL DIPLOMACIES. 391 
 
 deriug intellect that lie can be expected to review the past 
 and deliver judgment on it." 
 
 " The whole moral of which is : what a luckless fate is 
 that of a foreign wife united to an English husband ! " 
 
 "There is much force in the remark," said Upton, calmly. 
 
 "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 ermui is the sure type of virtue, and low 
 spu-its the healthiest condition of the mind, — these are her 
 first lessons : no wonder if she find them hard ones. 
 
 "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 pit- 
 falls, is to make existence little better than a penal servitude, 
 — this is lesson the second. While, to complete her educa- 
 tion, 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 train- 
 ing, i/ou, su', and your countrymen are best able to 
 pronounce." 
 
 "You rather exaggerate our demerits, my dear Princess," 
 said Upton, smiling. '^ We really do not like to be so very 
 odious as you would make us." 
 
 " 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 tlie lot of the least 
 fortunate of her own country. I conclude 3'ou have some 
 influence over him?" 
 
 "As much, perhaps, as any one; but even that says 
 little." 
 
 "Can you not use it, therefore, to make him repair a 
 great wrong ? " 
 
 " You had some plan, I think?" snid he, hesitatingly.
 
 392 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 " Yes ; I have written to her to come down here. I have 
 pretended that her presence is necessary to certain formali- 
 ties 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 Pontremoii 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." 
 
 " You don't know Glencore, — at least as I know him." 
 
 " 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." 
 
 "The very fact that their meeting has been plotted 
 beforehand will suggest distrust." 
 
 " Their manner in meeting will be the best answer to 
 that," said she, resolutely. "There will be no acting 
 between them, depend upon't." 
 
 "He told me that he had destroyed the registry of then- 
 marriage, nor does he know where a single witness of the 
 ceremony could be found." 
 
 "I don't want to know Jioio he could make the amende 
 till I know that he is ready to do it," said she, in the same 
 calm tone. 
 
 "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." 
 
 " 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, peihaps, the effort 
 may have cost him much, his manner did not betray it. 
 He told me that he was illegitimate, that the secret was
 
 SOCIAL DIPLOMACIES. 393 
 
 divulged to him hj his own father, that he had never heard 
 who his mother was, nor what rank iu life she occupied. 
 When 1 said that she was one iu 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 iu 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 vaiu. The 
 hard lesson he had taught himself enabled hmi 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 '11 never see me risk a 
 disappointment iu life by any encouragement I may give to 
 hope.' 
 
 "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 unforgiviugness is reproduced in the bo}-, 
 and I dreaded the very possibility of then- meeting. If ever 
 Lord Glencore avow his marriage and A'indicate his wife's 
 honor, his hardest task will be reconciliation with this 
 boy." 
 
 " 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."
 
 394 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 "Assuredly, wherever a woman is the victun," said 
 she smiliuo"f "for you are so certain to have reasons for 
 distrusting yourself." i 
 
 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, discon- 
 cert 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. 
 
 As the scheme was, however, that of another, he now 
 scrutinized it, and weighed every objection to its accom- 
 plishment, constantly returning to the same difficulty, as he 
 said, — 
 
 " You do not know Glencore." 
 
 " The man who has but one passion, one impulse in life, 
 is rarely a difflcult 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 pre- 
 carious 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 
 hhn ; and all this has been done without reprisal or recrimi- 
 nation ; 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." 
 
 " You must be a sanguine and a hopeful spirit, Princess, 
 if you deem that such elements will unite happily hereafter," 
 said Upton, smiling.
 
 SOCIAL DIPLOMACIES. 395 
 
 " I really never carried my speculations so far," replied 
 she. " It is in actual life, as in that of the stage, quite sutli- 
 cient to accompany the actors to the fall of the curtain." 
 
 " The Chevalier Stubber, madame," said a servant, enter- 
 ing, " wishes to know if you will receive him." 
 
 • ' Yes — no — yes. Tell him to come in," said, she rapidly, 
 as she resumed her seat beside the tire.
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 ANTE-DINNER REFLECTIONS. 
 
 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 some- 
 thing 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 diffi- 
 culties, you might mark in the attention he bestowed all the 
 signs of one receiving very valuable information. 
 
 " You perceive. Princess," said he, at last, " Stubber 
 quite agrees with the Duke of Cloudeslie, — these small states 
 enjoy no real independence." 
 
 " Then why are they not absorbed into the larger nations 
 about them ? " 
 
 " Tliey have their uses; they are like substances inter- 
 posed between conllicting bodies, which receive and dimin- 
 ish the shock of collisions. So that Prussia, when wanting 
 to wound Austria, only pinches Baden ; and Austria, desi- 
 rous of insulting Saxony, ' takes it out' on Sigmaringen." 
 
 "It's a pleasant destiny you assign them," said she, 
 laughing. 
 
 " Stulibcr will tell you I'm not far wrong in my appre- 
 ciation."
 
 ANTE-DINNER REFLECTIONS. 897 
 
 "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 tJiem when you withdraw their courts, and throw 
 their little capitals into the position of provincial towns and 
 even villages? " 
 
 " They will eke out a livelihood somehow, my dear Stubber. 
 Be assured that they '11 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." 
 
 " 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." 
 
 "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." 
 
 " 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." 
 
 " 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? " 
 
 " Enough to eat and drink, a comfoi-table roof over j'ou, 
 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
 
 398 THE FORTUNES OF GLEXCOEE. 
 
 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." 
 
 " My dear Stubber, you are quite a proficient at state- 
 craft," said Upton, with the very least superciliousness in 
 the accent. 
 
 "Well, I don't know, Sir Horace," said the other, mod- 
 estly, " 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." 
 
 " Your foreign policy does not seem quite as unobjection- 
 able as your home management. That was an ugly business 
 about that boy you gave up to the Austrians." 
 
 "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." 
 
 " AYere you, then, present at the ceremony?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; and what's stranger still, I have a voucher 
 for it." 
 
 " A voucher for it. What do you mean? " 
 
 "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 ' lioped I had amused myself well ; ' and so I 
 kept my voucher to myself, and I have it at this very 
 hour." 
 
 " Will you let me see it, Stubber? "
 
 ANTE-DINXER REFLECTIONS. 399 
 
 "To be sure, sii-, you shall have it, if I can lay my haud 
 ou't iu the course of the clay." 
 
 "Let me heg 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." 
 
 "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." 
 
 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. 
 
 "Here, then, are all m}^ 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 mar- 
 riage, and lead us to the knowledge of all those who were 
 present at it." 
 
 " Yet must we well reflect on the use we make of it," said 
 Upton. " Gleucore is now evidently balancing what com'se 
 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." 
 
 " 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." 
 
 "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." 
 
 " I would act more boldly and more promptly," said she. 
 
 " And rouse an opposition, perhaps, that already is be- 
 coming dormant. No. I know Glencore well, and will deal 
 with him more patiently." 
 
 "From the Chevalier Stubber, your Excellency," said a 
 servant, presenting a sealed packet ; and Sh Horace opened 
 it at once. The envelope contained a small and shabby slip 
 of paper, of wliich the writing appeared faint and indistinct. 
 It was dated l-S — , Church of St. Lorenzo, Capri, and went 
 to certifv that GuoUelmo Stubber had been present, on the
 
 400 THE FORTUNES OE GLEXCOEE. 
 
 morning of the 18th August, at the marriage of the Most 
 Noble Signor Massy with the Priueess de la Torre, having 
 in quality as witness signed the registry thereof ; and then 
 went on to state the chcumstance of his attendance at the 
 supper, and the event which ensued. It bore the name of 
 the writer at foot, Basilio Nardoui. prier^t of the aforesaid 
 chm-ch and village. 
 
 "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 un- 
 do every detail of all his plotting. How strange is it that 
 the events of life should so often concui- 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." 
 
 '• This Basilio Xardoni is an acquaintance of mine," said 
 the Princess, bent on pursuing another train of thought ; 
 "he was chaplain to the Canlinal Caraffa, and frequently 
 brought me communications from his Eminence. He can be 
 found, if wanted." 
 
 "It is unlikely — most unlikelv — that we shall requu'e 
 him." 
 
 ••If you mean that Lord Glencore will himsL4f 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 inten- 
 ded, 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." 
 
 " Leave me to deal with Glencore. I think I am about 
 the only one who can treat with him." 
 
 " And now fur this dinner at Coui't. for I Lave clianged 
 my mind, and mean to go," said the Princess. •' It is full 
 time to dress, I believe." 
 
 '• It is almost six o'clock." said Upton, starting up. 
 "We have quite forgotten ourselves."
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 CONFLICTING THOUGHTS. 
 
 The Princess Sabloukoff found — not by any means an 
 unfrequent experience in life — tliat tlie dinner, \Yliose dul- 
 ness slie had dreaded, turned out a very pleasant affair.. 
 The Prince was unusuall}- gracious. He was in good spii'- 
 its, and put forth powers of agi-eeability which had been, 
 successful in one of less distinction than himself. He pos- 
 sessed 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 be- 
 fore him. Great people have few more enviable privileges 
 than that they choose their own topics for conversation. 
 Nothing disagreeable, nothing wearisome, nothing inoppor- 
 tune, can be intruded upon them. When thej^ have no 
 longer anything worth saying, they can change the subject 
 or the company. 
 
 His Highness talked with Madame de Sabloukoff on ques- 
 tions 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 m^-stery of a "great fact;" and 
 then he discussed with Upton the condition of England, and 
 deplored, as all Continental rulers do, the impending down- 
 fall of that kingdom, from the growing force of our ]-estless 
 and daring democracy. He regretted much that Sir Horace 
 was not still in ofBce, 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 
 
 26
 
 402 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 en- 
 chanted with his agreeability. Strong in their self-esteem, 
 they could not be brought to suspect that any artifice could 
 be practised on them, 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 origiualty ; and 
 ere the}' reached the hotel, they had endowed him with 
 almost every moral and mental quality that can dignify 
 manhood. 
 
 "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. 
 
 "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 monarcliy that wants to emulate a republic is simply 
 ridiculous." 
 
 " You P^nglish are obliged to pay dear for your hypoc- 
 risies ; and you ought, for you really love them." And 
 with this taunt the carriage stopped at the door of the inn. 
 
 As Upton passed up the stairs, the waiter handed him a 
 note, wliifh he hastily opened ; it was from Glencore, and 
 in these words : — 
 
 Dear Upton, — T can bear this suspense no longer ; to remain 
 here canvassing with myself all the doubts that beset me is a tor- 
 ture I cannot endure. I leave, therefore, at once for Florence. 
 Once there, — where T 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, 
 
 Glencore.
 
 CONFLICTING TIIUUGIITS. 403 
 
 a 
 
 He is gone, then, — his Lordship has started? " 
 
 " Yes, your Excellency, he is by this time near Lucca, 
 for he gave orders to have horses ready at all the stations." 
 
 " 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." 
 
 Madame de Sabloukoff read the note, and threw it care- 
 lessly on the table. " He wants to forgive himself, and only 
 hesitates how to do so gracefully," said she, sueeringly. 
 
 "I think you are less than just to him," said Upton, 
 mildly; "his is a noble nature, disfigured by one grand 
 defect." 
 
 " 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." 
 
 " 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." 
 
 "You have guessed my meaning correctly," said she; 
 " meanwhile, I must write to hei' not to come here. Shall I 
 say that we will be in Florence in a day or two? " 
 
 " 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.' " 
 
 " But remember the season, — we are in mid- winter; the 
 hotels are closed." 
 
 " The springs are running. Princess ; ' the earth,' as Mos- 
 chus sixys, ' is a mother that never ceases to nourish.' I do 
 suspect I need a little nursing." 
 
 The Princess understood him thoroughly. She well knew 
 that whenever the affairs of Europe followed an unln-oken 
 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
 
 404 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 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. 
 
 " Very well," sighed he, as she finished, " it must be as 
 you say. I '11 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 Panslavie 
 scheme, too, in the Principalities attracts no notice but 
 mine ; 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." 
 
 "What proportion do you admit as to the other sex?" 
 said she, laughing. 
 
 " I only know of one, madame ; " and he kissed her hand 
 with gallantry. " And now for Florence, if you will." 
 
 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 witii the two individuals Avhose 
 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, attract- 
 ing 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 liy the 
 catastrophe of a stor3^ The strange, discordant tones of 
 the huiiuui iieart, 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 i)unislied vice. Tlie nature of a single man can 
 be far more instructive than the liistory of every accident 
 that befalls him.
 
 CONFLICTING THOUGHTS. 405 
 
 It is, then, with regret that we leave the Princess and 
 Su- 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 joui'ney in the more recog- 
 nized high-road of our true story. Not having the con- 
 viction that our sympathy is shared by our readers, we again 
 return to the fortunes of Glencore. 
 
 When Lord Glencore's carriage underwent the usual 
 scrutiny exercised towards travellers at the gate of Florence, 
 and prying officials poked then- 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. 
 
 " 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?" 
 
 "Whisht! whisht!" whispered his companion, in Eng- 
 lish ; ' ' wait till the Prince moves on, and be polite with 
 them all." 
 
 " I am seeking for nothing in the shape of compliment," 
 said the other; "there is no reason wh}', because I am on 
 foot, 1 must be detained for this man." 
 
 Again the other remonstrated, and suggested patience. 
 
 "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." 
 
 "We came a good way on foot to-day, sir," interposed 
 the elder, eagerly, taking the reply on himself, " and we 're 
 tu-ed and weary, and would be deeply obliged if you 'd 
 examine us as soon as ^^ou could." 
 
 " Stand aside and wait your turn," was the stern response. 
 
 "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. 
 
 Aroused by the accent of his own language. Lord Glen- 
 core sat up in his carriage, and leaned out to catch sight 
 of the speaker ; but the shadoAV of the overhanging roof
 
 406 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 concealed him from view. " Can't j^ou 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." 
 
 "There, thank his Excellency for his kindness to you, 
 and go your wa}'," muttered the officer to Billy, who, with- 
 out 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. 
 
 The youth heard that the}" were free to proceed, with a 
 lialf-dogged indifference, and throwing his knapsack on his 
 shoulders, moved away. 
 
 " I asked them if they knew one of her name in the city, 
 and they said ' No,' " said the elder. 
 
 " But they so easily mistake names : how did you call 
 her?" 
 
 "I said ' Harley, — la Signora Harley,'" rejoined the 
 other ; " and they were positive she was not here. They 
 never heard of her." 
 
 " Well, we shall know soon," sighed the youth, heavily. 
 "Is not this an inn, Billy?" 
 
 "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." 
 
 ' ' 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 increas- 
 ing animation. " You shall see what a different fellow I'll 
 be when I throw behind me forever the traditions of this 
 dreary life here." 
 
 " I kiiow well the good stuff that 's in ye," said the other, 
 affectionatel}'. 
 
 " Ay, but you don't know that I have energy as well as 
 pride," said the other. 
 
 "There's nothing beyond your reach if you will only 
 strive to get it," said he again, in the same voice. 
 
 "You're an arrant flatterer, old boy," cried the youth, 
 throwing his arm around him; "but I would not have
 
 CONFLICTING THOUGHTS. 407 
 
 you otherwise for the world. There is u happiness even 
 iu the self-deceptiou of youi- praise that I could not deny 
 myself." 
 
 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 vetturlni, 
 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. 
 
 " 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 salotis." 
 
 " She is rich enough to afford it well," cried another. " I 
 counted twenty servants in white and gold liveries on the 
 stairs alone." 
 
 " Were you there, then? " asked the youth, whom we may 
 at once call by his name of Mass3\ 
 
 "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 coun- 
 tesses, in almost every great house in Florence this evening. 
 The Pergola Theatre, too, is open, and all the boxes crowded 
 with visitors." 
 
 "You are a stranger, as I detect hy j^our accent," said 
 another, ' ' and }■ ou ought to have a look at a scene such as 
 you'll never witness in 3'our own land." 
 
 "What would come of such freedoms with us, Billj'?" 
 whispered Massy. "Would our great lords tolerate, even 
 for a few hours, the association with honest fellows of this 
 stamp ? " 
 
 "There would be danger in the attempt, anyhow," said 
 Billy. 
 
 " 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
 
 408 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 of that immunity ! For one who would use the privilege 
 for mere amusement, how many would turn it to account for 
 private vengeance." 
 
 "Are you quite certain such accidents do not occur 
 here?" 
 
 "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 
 then- 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 '11 buy a mask and a domino, Billy, and so shall you too. 
 Why should we not have a day's fooling, like the rest ? " 
 
 Billy shook his head and laughed, and they soon after- 
 wards parted for the night. 
 
 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 maiTed 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 
 witn(>ss the ruin that he liad 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. 
 
 There are men in whom tlie 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
 
 CONFLICTING THOUGHTS. 409 
 
 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. 
 
 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, tlien, 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 ? 
 
 "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 sa}'. 
 ' What is the strange story of his birth ? Has any one yet 
 got at the truth? Was the father the cruel tja-ant, or the 
 mother the worthless creatm-e, 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 posi- 
 tion to which he is to succeed ! And yet Upton says that 
 the boy's rights are inalienable ; tliat, think how I may, do 
 what I will, the day on which I die, he is the rightful Lord
 
 410 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 Gleucore. His claim may lie dormant, the proofs may be 
 buried, but that, iu 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 mys- 
 teries of the world, he should succeed to prove his claim, — 
 what a memory will he cherish of me ! Will not every sor- 
 row of his youth, every indignity of his manliood, be asso- 
 ciated with my name ? Will he or can he ever forgive him 
 who defamed the mother and despoiled the son? 
 
 In the terrible conflict of such thoughts as these he passed 
 the night ; intervals of violent grief or passion alone break- 
 ing the sad connection of such reflections, till at length the 
 worn-out faculties, incapable of further exercise, wandered 
 away into iiicoherency, and he raved iu all the wildness of 
 insanity. 
 
 It was thus that Upton found him on his arrival.
 
 CHAPTER LII. 
 
 MAJOR SCARESBY S VISIT. 
 
 Down the crowded thoroughfare of the Borgo d' Ognisauti 
 the tide of Carnival mummers poured unceasingly. Hide- 
 ous masks and gay dominos, ludicrous impersonations and 
 absurd satires on costume, abounded, and the entire popula- 
 tion seemed to have given themselves up to merriment, and 
 were fooling it to the top o' their bent. Bauds 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 tliem with showers of flour. It was a season of 
 universal license, and, short of actual outrage, all was per- 
 mitted for the time. Nor did the enjoyment of the scene 
 seem to be confined to the poorer classes of the people, W'ho 
 thus for the uonce assumed equality with their richer neigh- 
 bors ; 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 laugh- 
 ingly along, and grave dignitaries were fain to walk arm-in- 
 arm 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 he had to 
 compromise liis 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 
 iwpular f tiry. seemed to be the greatest trinmpli of the scene. 
 "When such a victim presented himself, all joined in the pur-
 
 412 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 suit: 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. 
 
 An instance of this kind had now atti'acted general atten- 
 tion, 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 he 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 Hotel d'ltalie, followed by the cries and 
 laughter of the populace. 
 
 "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 tlnxn 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." 
 
 " His Excellency will see you, sir," said the man, return- 
 ing quickly with the reply. 
 
 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 think- 
 ing to myself that I could n't be in Florence, since I had not 
 seen you." 
 
 "You are too good, too kind. Sir Horace, to say so," 
 said the other, with a voice whose tones by no means corre- 
 sponded with the words. 
 
 " Yes, Scaresliy, everything in tliis good city is in a man- 
 ner associated with your name. Its intrigues, its quarrels, 
 its loves and jealousies, its mysteries, in fine, have liad no 
 such interpreter as yourself within the memory of man !
 
 MAJOR SCARESBY'S VISIT. 413 
 
 What a pity there were no Searesbys 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. 
 
 "I am much flattered to learn that I have ever en- 
 lightened your Excellency on any subject," said the Major, 
 dryly. 
 
 "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 ? " 
 
 "It is masquerading to-day," said Scaresby, "and, con- 
 sequently, far more natural than at any other period of the 
 whole year. Smeared faces and dirty finery, — exactly its 
 suitable wear I " 
 
 " W^ho are here, Major? Any one that one knows? " 
 
 " Old Millington is here." 
 
 "The Marquis?" 
 
 "Yes, he's here, fresh painted and lacquered; his eyes 
 twinkling with a mock lustre that makes hun look like an old 
 po'-chaise with a pair of new lamps ! " 
 
 "Ha, ha, ha! " laughed Sir Horace, encouragingly. 
 
 " And then — there 's Mabworth." 
 
 "Sir Paul Mab worth?" 
 
 "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 onh^ look up ! " 
 
 ' ' Look down ! you ought to say, Scaresby ; depend 
 upon 't, he 's not on the Opposition benches still ! " 
 
 "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." 
 
 " That is shameful ; a perfect dog in the manger ! " 
 
 "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."
 
 414 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 " Oh, Olga Strejowsky, do you mean? What of her? " 
 
 "Why, there's another husband just turned up. They 
 thought he was killed in the Caucasus, but he was only pass- 
 ing 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 '11 give up his bar- 
 gain, but make no compromise." 
 
 " She 's growing old, I fancy." 
 
 "She's younger than the Sabloukoff by five good years, 
 and they tell me she plays Beauty to this hour." 
 
 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 ! 
 
 " Brignolles danced with her at that celebrated /e/e given 
 by the Prince of Orleans something like eight-and-thu-ty 
 3^ears ago." 
 
 " And how is the dear Duke? " asked Upton, sharply. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 " Not a word of it. Who is the happy fair? " 
 
 " The Nina, as thej' call her now. She was one of the 
 Delia Torres, who married, or did n't marry, Glencore. 
 Don't you remember him? He was Colonel of the Eleventh, 
 and a devil of a martinet he was." 
 
 "T remember him," said Upton, dr^dj^ 
 
 " 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 Avas 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." 
 
 "No, pardon me, there you are mistaken. I knew him 
 intimatelj^; Glencore was as temperate as myself."
 
 MAJOR SCARESBY'S VISIT. 415 
 
 "I have it from Lowther, who used to take hhn home at 
 uight ; he said Gleucore never went to bed sober ! At all 
 events, she hated him, and detested his miserly habits." 
 
 " Another mistake, my dear Major. Gleucore was never 
 what is called a rich man, but he was always a generous 
 one ! " 
 
 " I suppose you'll not deny that he used to thrash her? 
 Ay, and with a horsewhip too ! " 
 
 "Come, come, Scaresby ; this is really too coarse for 
 mere jesting." 
 
 "Jest? By Jove! it was very bitter earnest. She told 
 Brignolles all about it. I 'm not sure she did n 't show him 
 the marks." 
 
 "Take my word for it, Scaresby," said Upton, dropping 
 his voice to a low but measured tone, "this is a base cal- 
 umu}", 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." 
 
 ' ' I can only repeat that I believe it to be perfectly true ! " 
 said Scaresby, calmly. " Nobody here ever doubted the 
 story." 
 
 " 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." 
 
 " 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 superci- 
 lious to all, and treated his wife's relations — who were 
 of far better blood than himself — as though they were 
 canaille." 
 
 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 Gleucore. 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. 
 
 It was almost an hour ere his consciousness returned ; 
 but when it did, and he saw Upton alone at his bedside.
 
 416 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 he pressed his hand withm liis 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. 
 
 '' 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 ! " 
 
 " And he is gone ! " repeated the other, in a tone of deep 
 despondency. 
 
 "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." 
 
 " 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 for- 
 tune makes him my judge? Tell me that, sir. Who has 
 appealed to him for protection? Who has demanded to be 
 righted at his hand ? " 
 
 "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 veracit}^ 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." 
 
 " And am I to sit tamely down under this degradation? " 
 exclaimed Glencore, passionately. "I have never sub- 
 scribed 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." 
 
 " My dear Glencore, there are graver interests, far wor- 
 thier cares, than any this man's name can enter into, which 
 should now engage you."
 
 MAJOR SCARESBY'S VISIT. 417 
 
 " I say he shall have mj^ provocation, and that within an 
 hour ! " cried Glencore, wildly. 
 
 "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." 
 
 Glencore made no reply, but the conflict of his thoughts 
 seemed to agitate him greatly. 
 
 " The man Avho 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 3'ou with confidence." 
 
 "I have need of courage," muttered Glencore; "you 
 say truly. "What was it the doctor said this morning, — 
 aneurism?" 
 
 Upton moved his head with an inclination barely perceptible. 
 
 " What a Nemesis there is in nature," said Glencore, 
 with a sickly attempt to smile, "that passion should beget 
 malady ! I never knew, ph3'sically 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?" 
 
 " He warned you gravely on that point," said Upton, 
 cautiousl}^ 
 
 " 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 ! "
 
 418 ' THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 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.
 
 CHAPTER LIII. 
 
 A MASK IN CARNIVAL TIME. 
 
 From the gorgeous halls of the Pitti Palace down to the 
 humblest chamber in Camaklole, 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 merrj^-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 nmmmer 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 Pulciauo 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." 
 
 Theatres and palaces lay open, all lighted "a (jiorno." 
 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. 
 
 Our task is not to follow the princely equipages as the}'^ 
 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.
 
 420 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 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. 
 
 " 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 ! " 
 
 "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." 
 
 " Yet it is by this very habit of enjoyment that they know 
 how to be happy." 
 
 "To be sure it is," cried Billy ; " they have a ritual for it 
 which we have n't ; as Cicero tells us, ' In jucundis nullum 
 periculum.' But ye see we have no notion of any amuse- 
 ment without a dash of danger through it, if not even 
 cruelty ! " 
 
 "The French know how to reconcile the two natures; 
 they are brave, and light-hearted too." 
 
 "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. 
 
 lie goes into a tent and lie .spends half a-crown, 
 
 Comes out, meets a friend, and for love knocks him down. 
 
 There 's an elegant ])hilosophy 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." 
 
 The tone of the remark, and a certain wild energy of his 
 manner, showed that poor Billy's faculties were sliglitly 
 under the influences of the Tuscan grape ; and the youth 
 smiled at sight of an excess so rare.
 
 A MASK IN CAKNIVAL TIME. 421 
 
 " 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 obser- 
 vances that humble men yield to great ones ! " 
 
 "'Tis what Bacou says, 'There's nothing so hard as 
 unlearuin' anything ; ' and the proof is how few of us ever do. 
 it ! We always go on mixiu' old thoughts with new, — 
 puttin' different kinds of wine into the same glass, and then 
 Avonderin' we are not invigorated ! " 
 
 "You're in a mood for moralizing to-night, I see, Billy," 
 said the other, smiling. 
 
 " 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." 
 
 " 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." 
 
 "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 ! 'T is 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 raj'son 
 and dispute with the temptation, just like one keepin' bad 
 company, and listenin' to impure notions and evil sugges- 
 tions 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 point- 
 ing to a dense crowd that passed along the street. It was a 
 band of music, dressed in a quaint medifeval costume, ou its 
 way to serenade some palace. 
 
 " Let us follow and listen to them, Billy," said tlie 3'outh ; 
 and tliey arose and joined the throng. 
 
 Following hi the wake of the dense mass, tliey f^t last 
 reached the gates of a great palace, and after some waiting 
 gained access to the si)acious 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 tlie quadrangle, the din of a
 
 422 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 large orchestra arose. On a great terrace overhead numer- 
 ous figures were grouped, — indistinctly seen from the light 
 of the salons within, — but whose mysterious movements 
 completed the charm of a very interesting picture. 
 
 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 him- 
 self 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. 
 
 "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 grace- 
 ful figure passed into the place he spoke of. "She looks 
 like one among, but not of, them. How much of heart-weari- 
 ness 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 liis hand, and seemed to feel as though a nearer tie bound 
 him to the fair unknown. How little ministers to the hope ; 
 liow infinitely less again will feed the imagination of a 
 young heart ! 
 
 Between tliem now there was, to his appreciation, some 
 mysterious link. "Yes," he said to himself, "true, I 
 stand unknown, unnoticed ; yet it is to me of all the thou- 
 sands liere she could reveal what is passing in that heart ! 
 1 kuow it, I feel it ! She has a sorrow whose burden I
 
 A MASK IN CARNIVAL TDIE. 423 
 
 might help to bear. There is cruelty, or treachery, or false- 
 hood 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 ! " 
 
 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 be- 
 wilderment 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 build- 
 ing almost completely concealed his figure, and left him 
 free to contemplate her unnoticed. 
 
 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 ! " Ii: another instant he had climbed 
 the balcony and was beside her. 
 
 " I thought we had parted forever, Sebastian," said she; 
 " you told me so on the last night at Massa." 
 
 "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." 
 
 " It is an unkind fortune that has made us meet again," 
 said she, in a voice of deep melancholy. 
 
 "I have never known fortune in any other mood," said 
 he, fiercely. " AVhen clouds show me the edge of their silver 
 linings, I only prepare myself for storm and hurricane."
 
 424 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 " I know you have endured much," said she, in a voice of 
 deeper sadness. 
 
 "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 iguo- 
 miniously 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." 
 
 "By what unhappy accident, what mischance, have you 
 made her 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." 
 
 "How can I tell?" cried he, angrily. "I Avas born, I 
 suppose, under an evil star ; for nothing prospers with me." 
 
 " But can you even guess her reasons? " said she, eagerly. 
 
 " No, except it be the presumption of one in my condition 
 daring to aspire to one in yours; 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 mj^self, and I 
 will not repeat it ;, and she ventured to suggest that, had 
 there not appeared some ambiguity in her own position, / 
 could never have so far forgotten mine as to advance such 
 pretensions — " 
 
 "AYell, and then?" cried the girl, eagerly. 
 
 "Well, and then," said he, deliberately, "I told her I 
 had heard rumors of the kind she alluded to, but to me tliey 
 carried no significance ; that it was for you I cared. The 
 accidents of life around you had no influence on my choice ; 
 you might be all tliat 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 Englisli breeding which you say 
 has mixed with your blood, and if for no other cause would 
 make me distrust you.' 
 
 " ' Stained as it may be,' said T, ' that same English blood 
 is the best pride I possess.' She grew pale with passion as
 
 A MASK IN CARNIVAL TIME. 425 
 
 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 ques- 
 tion its harsh injustice. But tell me, I beseech you, that she 
 is one to whose station these prejudices are the fittiug accom- 
 paniments, and let me feel that it is less myself as the indi- 
 vidual 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." 
 
 " If bu'th and blood can justif}' a prejudice, a Princess 
 of the house of Della'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 3'ou, and which led us to a life of 
 seclusion at Massa. This is the source of that hatred 
 towards all of a nation which slie must ever associate with 
 the greatest misfoi'tunes 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." 
 
 ' ' But you told me that you had not made the pledge," 
 said he, wildly. 
 
 "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 
 jielded, and gave my promise." 
 
 "It matters little to me!" said he, gloomily; "a barrier 
 the more or the less can be of sliglit moment when tliere rolls 
 a wide sea between us ! Had you ever loved me, such a 
 pledge had been impossible." 
 
 " It was you j^ourself, Sebastian, told me we were never to 
 meet again," rejoined she.
 
 426 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 *' Better that we had uever done so!" muttered he. 
 "Nay, perhaps I am -wroug," added he, fiercely; "this 
 meeting may serve to mark how little there ever was between 
 us!" 
 
 " Is this cruelty affected, Sebastian, or is it real?" 
 
 "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 ! " 
 
 "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?" 
 
 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 saloiis, 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 r 
 ' 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 con- 
 vulsions ; and Avhile some were in search of medical aid for 
 her, others, not less eagerly, were endeavoring to detect 
 the delinquent. 
 
 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 exist- 
 ence ; others as anxiously pi-essed on to recount the incident 
 elsewhere ; some, again, moved by curiosity or some better 
 prompting, exerted themselves to investigate wliat amounted 
 to a gross violation of the etiquette of a carnival ; and thus, 
 in the salons, 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. Tlie motion 
 was at once adopted, and a small knot of persons, the 
 friends of the Countess, assumed the task of the scrutiny.
 
 A MASK IN CARNIVAL TIME. 427 
 
 Despite complaints and remonstrances as to the incon- 
 venience and delay thus occasioned, they examined every 
 carriage as it passed out. None, however, but faces famil- 
 iar to the Florentine world were to be met with ; the well- 
 knowu of every ball and fete were there, and if a stranger 
 presented himself, he was sure to be one for whom some 
 acquaintance could bear testimony. 
 
 At a fire in one of the smaller salons stood a small group, 
 of which the Due 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. 
 
 "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 ! " 
 
 "Pardon, monsieur," said the Duke, severely. "We 
 know that a lady whose hospitalit}^ we have been accepting 
 has retired from her company insulted. It is very clearly 
 our duty that this should not pass unpunished." 
 
 "Oughtn't we to have some clearer insight into what 
 constituted the insult? It may have been a practical joke, — 
 a mauvaise plaisanterie, Duke." 
 
 "We have no claim to any confidence not extended to 
 us, SU-," said the Frenchman. "To me it is quite sufficient 
 that the Countess feels aggrieved." 
 
 "Not but w^e shall cut an absurd figure to-morrow, when 
 we own that w^e don't know what we were so indignant 
 about." 
 
 " Only so many of us as have characters for the 'latest 
 intelligence.' " 
 
 To this sally there succeeded a somew'hat awkward pause, 
 Scaresby occupying himself with thoughts of some perfectly 
 safe vengeance. 
 
 "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 
 inquu'ies after his old love ! "
 
 428 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 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. 
 
 " Marsano is a ?nauvais drole," 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." 
 
 "I should apply a harsher epithet to a man capable of 
 such conduct," said the Duke. 
 
 " He 'd not take it patiently, Duke," said the other. 
 
 "It is precisely iu that hope, sir, that I should employ 
 it," said the Duke. 
 
 Again was the conversation assuming a critical turn, and 
 again an interval of ominous silence succeeded. 
 
 "There is but one carriage now in the court, your Excel- 
 lency," 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." 
 
 "Of course not," said the Duke; "but stay, I will go 
 down myself." 
 
 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. 
 
 "Can I be of any use to your master?" said the Duke, 
 approaching. " Is he ill? " 
 
 "I fear he has burst a lilood-vessel, sir," said the man. 
 " He is too weak to answer me." 
 
 " Who is it, — what 's his name? " 
 
 "I am not able to tell you, sir; I only accompanied him 
 from the hotel." 
 
 " 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." 
 
 "There is one here," cried a voice. "I'm a doctor;" 
 and Billy Tiaynor pushed his way to the spot. " Come, 
 Master Charles, get into the coach and help me to lift him 
 out." 
 
 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
 
 A MASK IN CARNIVAL TIME. 429 
 
 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. 
 
 Up the wide stairs and into a spacious salon they now 
 carried the figure, whose drooping head and hanging limlis 
 gave little signs of life. They placed him ou a sofa, and 
 Trayuor, with a ready hand, untied the mask and removed it. 
 " Merciful Heavens," cried he, "it's my Lord himself ! " 
 
 The youth bent down, gazed for a few seconds at the 
 corpse-like face, and fell fainting to the floor. 
 
 "My Lord Glencore himself!" said the Duke, who was 
 himself an old and attached friend. 
 
 " Hush ! not a word," whispered Traynor ; " he 's rallyin' 
 — he 's comin' to ; don't utter a syllable." 
 
 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?" 
 
 "Amongst friends, Avho love and will cherish j^ou. dear 
 Glencore," said the Duke, affectionately. 
 
 "Ah, Brignolles, I remember you. And this, — who is 
 this?" 
 
 "Traynor, my Lord, — Billy Traynor, that will never 
 leave you Avhile he can serve you ! " 
 
 " 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. 
 
 "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?" 
 
 Billv tried, but could not answer. 
 
 "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 ids bosom, and 
 kissing the forehead over and over again. 
 
 " Whom does he fancy it? Whom does he suspect ?"
 
 430 THE rORTUiv^ES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 "This is — look, Brignolles," cried the dj'ing man, in a 
 voice akeady thick with a death-rattle, — " this is the 
 seventh Lord Viscount Glencore. I declare it. And now 
 
 " He fell back, and never spoke more. A single 
 
 shudder shook his feeble frame, and he was dead. 
 
 We have had occasion once before in this veracious his- 
 torjf 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 Avay ; to shroud the disagreeables of life in 
 decent shadow — to ignore or forget them is then- grand 
 prerogative. 
 
 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 likel}" 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 neiglibors 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 prero- 
 gative it is to appreciate others, and be able to guide and 
 iufhience then- 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 Glen- 
 core as for one whose noble nature had been poisoned by 
 an impetuous temper, and over whose best instincts an un- 
 governable self-esteem had ever held the mastery. They 
 had been friends almost from boyhood, and the very world- 
 liest 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 affec- 
 tions when young on very small security, and though it is
 
 A MASK IN CARNIVAL TIME. 431 
 
 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, 
 stu-red 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 
 then* 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 then- nature, not for accidents of 
 station, or the proud rewards of success. There is also 
 another and a ver}^ strange element in the pleasure such 
 memories afford. Our early attachments serve as points of 
 departure by which we measure the distance we have trav- 
 elled in life. "Ay," say we, "we were schoolfellows; I 
 remember how he took the lead of me in this pr that science, 
 how far behind he left me in such a ibing ; 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 bm'den 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 ah'eady set before his ambition. 
 
 But let us return to himself as, alone and sorrow-struck, 
 he sat in his room of the Hotel d'ltalie. 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 sigli 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 !Sabl<nikoff entered.
 
 432 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 " 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 talviug a seat. 
 
 He gave a little easy smile that seemed assent, but did 
 not speak. 
 
 " I perceive you have not opened your letters this morn- 
 ing," 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?" 
 
 "So it is," said Upton, faintly. "Will you be kind 
 enough to read it for me?" 
 
 " Pavilion, Brighton. 
 "Dear Upton, — Let me be the first to congratulate you on 
 an appointment which it affords me the greatest pleasure to 
 confirm — 
 
 "What does he allude to ?" cried she, stopping sud- 
 denly, while a slight tinge of color showed surprise, and a 
 little displeasure, perhaps, mingled in her emotions. 
 
 "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 ! " 
 
 " India! " exclaimed she, in amazement. 
 
 " I mean, my dear Princess, they have given me the 
 Governor-Generalship." 
 
 " Which, of course, you would not accept." 
 
 "Why not, pray?" 
 
 " India ! It is banishment, barbarism, isolation from 
 all that really interests or embellishes existence, — a des- 
 potism that is wanting in the only element which gives a 
 despot dignity, that he founds or strengthens a dynasty." 
 
 "No, no, charming Princess," said he, smiling; "it is 
 a very glorious sovereignty, with unlimited resources and — 
 a very handsome stipend." 
 
 " AVhich, tlierefore, you do not decline," said she, with a 
 very peculiar smile.
 
 A MASK IN CARNIVAL TIME. 433 
 
 " With your companionship, I should call it a paradise," 
 said he. 
 
 " And without such? " 
 
 " Such a sacrifice as one must never shrink from at the 
 call of duty," said he, bowing profoundly. 
 
 The Princess dined that day with the Countess of Glencore, 
 and Su' Horace Upton journeyed towards England. 
 
 28 
 
 y*/t
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Years have goue over, and once more — it is for the last 
 time — we come back to the old castle iu the West, beside 
 the estuary of the Killeries. Neglect aud ruiu 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 comdors and through the deep-arched chambers. 
 Of the damp, discolored walls aud ceilings, large patches 
 litter the floors with fragments of stucco and carved 
 architraves. 
 
 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 neatlj^ 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 desola- 
 tion can be deeper or gloomier ! The sea-sent mists wrap 
 the mountains and even the lough itself in their vapory
 
 THE END. 435 
 
 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. 
 
 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 sur- 
 vived 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 
 Avhich he is reading, is the history of the Glencores, and 
 contains, amongst its family records, many curious pre- 
 dictions and prophecies. The heu-s 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 in- 
 numerable, engaged in plots, conspiracies, luckless under- 
 takings, abortive enterprises, still the}^ 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. 
 
 It was in the encouragement of these gifts that Billy now 
 sought for what cheered the last declining davs of his soli- 
 tary 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 hered- 
 itary 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
 
 436 THE FORTUNES OF GLENCORE. 
 
 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 : — 
 
 " Where are the voices, whispering low, 
 
 Of lovers side by side 1 
 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 Gleucore ? 
 
 "And where 's the step of belted knight, 
 
 That strode the massive floor 1 
 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 '11 never see Gleucore ! 
 
 " 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!" 
 
 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
 
 THE END. 437 
 
 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. 
 
 To this hour he lives, and waits the "coming of 
 Glencore." 
 
 THE END. 
 
 University Press : John Wilson & Son, Cambridge, U.S.A.
 
 I 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 
 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below
 
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