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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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