Just as Upton had seated himself at that fragal meal of weak tea and
dry toast he called his breakfast, Harcourt suddenly entered the room,
splashed and road-stained from head to foot, and in his whole demeanor
indicating the work of a fatiguing journey.
“Why, I thought to have had my breakfast with you,” cried he,
impatiently, “and this is like the diet of a convalescent from fever.
Where is the salmon--where the grouse pie--where are the cutlets--and
the chocolate--and the poached eggs--and the hot rolls, and the cherry
bounce?”
“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 appetite 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 Jove, such as I sha' n't forget in a
hurry.”
“You have hit it perfectly, Harcourt; _suum caique_; 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 he scarcely relished the
moral Upton had applied to his speech. With the appearance of the good
cheer, however, he speedily threw off his momentary displeasure, and as
he ate and drank, his honest, manly face lost every trace of annoyance.
Once only did a passing shade of anger cross his countenance. It was
when, suddenly looking up, he saw Upton's eyes settled on him, and his
whole features expressing a most palpable sensation of wonderment and
compassion.
“Ay,” cried he, “I know well what's passing in your mind this minute.
You are lost in your pitying estimate of such a mere animal as I am;
but, hang it all, old fellow, why not be satisfied with the flattering
thought that _you_ are of another stamp,--a creature of a different
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 _crasso naturo_ 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.”
“Whenever you draw a comparison in my favor, I always find at the end
I come off worst,” said Harcourt, bluntly; and Upton laughed one of his
rich, musical laughs, in which there was indeed nothing mirthful, but
something that seemed to say that his nature experienced a sense of
enjoyment higher, perhaps, than anything merely comic could suggest.
“You came off best this time, Harcourt,” said he, good-humoredly; and
such a thorough air of frankness accompanied the words that Harcourt was
disarmed of all distrust at once, and joined in the laugh heartily.
“But 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,
“I have left the boy in a cabin at Belmullet; he is in a high fever, and
raving so loud that you could hear him a hundred yards away. I told
them to keep cold water on his head, and give him plenty of it to
drink,--nothing more,--till I could fetch our doctor over, for it will
be impossible to move the boy from where he is for the present.”
“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 exhaustion. It
was about two hours after,--he had taken some food and seemed
stronger,--when I said to him, 'Come, Charley, you 'll soon be all right
again; I have sent a fellow to look after a pony for you, and you 'll be
able to ride back, won't you?'
“'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, I 'll never forget. It was just as if that one thought was
the boundary between sense and reason, and the instant he had passed it,
all was chaos and confusion; for now his raving began,--the most frantic
imaginations; always images of sorrow, and with a rapidity of utterance
there was no following. Of course in such cases the delusions suggest
no clew to the cause, but all his fancies were about being driven out
of doors an outcast and a beggar, and of his father rising from his sick
bed to curse him. Poor boy! Even in this his better nature gleamed forth
as he cried, 'Tell him'--and he said the words in a low whisper--'tell
him not to anger himself; he is ill, very ill, and should be kept
tranquil. Tell him, then, that I am going--going away forever, and he'll
hear of me no more.'” As Harcourt repeated the words, his own voice
faltered, and two heavy drops slowly coursed down his bronzed cheeks.
“You see,” added he, as if to excuse the emotion, “that was n't like
raving, for he spoke this just as he might have done if his very heart
was breaking.”
“Poor fellow!” said Upton; and the words were uttered with real feeling.
“Some terrible scene must have occurred between them,” resumed Harcourt;
“of that I feel quite certain.”
“I suspect you are right,” said Upton, bending over his teacup; “and
_our_ part, in consequence, is one of considerable delicacy; for until
Glencore alludes to what has passed, _we_ 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 with me after breakfast, and have
ordered two stout ponies for the journey. I conclude there will be no
objection in detaining the doctor for the night: what think you, Upton?”
“Do _you_ consult the doctor on that head; meanwhile, I 'll pay a visit
to Glencore. I 'll meet you in the library.” And so saying, Upton rose,
and gracefully draping the folds of his dressing-gown, and arranging the
waving lock of hair which had escaped beneath his cap, he slowly set out
towards the sick man's chamber.
Of all the springs of human action, there was not one in which Sir
Horace Upton sympathized so little as passion. That any man could adopt
a line of conduct from which no other profit could result than what
might minister to a feeling of hatred, jealousy, or revenge, seemed to
him utterly contemptible. It was not, indeed, the morality of such a
course that he called in question, although he would not have contested
that point. It was its meanness, its folly, its insufficiency. His
experience of great affairs had imbued him with all the importance that
was due to temper and moderation. He scarcely remembered an instant
where a false move had damaged a negotiation that it could not be traced
to some passing trait of impatience, or some lurking spirit of animosity
biding the hour of its gratification.
He had long learned to perceive how much more temperament has to do, in
the management of great events, than talent or capacity, and his opinion
of men was chiefly founded on this quality of their nature. It was,
then, with an almost pitying estimate of Glenoore that he now entered
the room where the sick man lay.
Anxious to be alone with him, Glenoore had dismissed all the attendants
from his room, and sat, propped up by pillows, eagerly awaiting his
approach.
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 Glencore spoke, and then, 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, Upton,” said he,--and the words trembled 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 judgment 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, Glenoore.”
“It is so unworthy, so ignoble in me!” cried Glenoore, bitterly; and a
tear fell over his eyelid and rested on his wan and worn cheek.
“Let us never think of it, my dear Glenoore. Life has real troubles
enough for either of us, not to dwell on those which we may fashion out
of our emotions. I promise you, I have forgotten the whole incident.”
Glenoore sighed heavily, but did not speak; at last he said, “Be it
so, Upton,” and, covering his face with his hand, lay still and silent.
“Well,” said he, after a long pause, “the die is cast, Upton: I have
told him!”
“Told the boy?” said Upton.
He nodded an assent. “It is too late to oppose me now, Upton,--the thing
is done. I didn't think I had strength for it; but revenge is a strong
stimulant, and I felt as though once more restored to health, as I
proceeded. Poor fellow! he bore it like a man. Like a man, do I say? No,
but better than man ever bore such crushing tidings.”
“He asked me to stop once, while his head reeled, and said, 'In a minute
I shall be myself again,' and so he was, too; you should have seen him,
Upton, as he rose to leave me. So much of dignity was there in his
look that my heart misgave me; and I told him that still, as my son,
he should never want a friend and a protector. He grew deadly pale,
and caught at the bed for support. Another moment, and I 'd not have
answered for myself. I was already relenting; but I thought of _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 certainly have unmanned me. I turned away. When I looked round, he
was gone!' As he ceased to speak, a clammy perspiration burst forth over
his face and forehead, and he made a sign to Upton to wet his lips.
“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. No power could ever give you the disposal
of his destiny in this wise.”
“I have done it, and I will maintain it, sir,” cried Glencore; “and if
the question is, as you vaguely hint, to be one of law--”
“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 his testimony,--tell all that he knows,--and
let us see what it will avail him. You may--it is quite open to
you--place us front to front as enemies. You may teach the boy to regard
me as one who has robbed him of his birthright, and train him up to
become my accuser in a court of justice. But my cause is a strong one,
it cannot be shaken; and where you hope to brand _me_ with tyranny,
you will but visit bastardy upon _him_. Think twice, then, before you
declare this combat. It is one where all your 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 tell you that you are wrong
in this affair, I mean to say that what you are about to do is not only
bad, but impolitic. In your pursuit of a victim, you are immolating
yourself.”
“Be it so; I go not alone to the stake; there is another to partake of
the torture,” cried Glencore, wildly; and already his flushed cheek and
flashing eyes betrayed the approach of a feverish access.
“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 you?”
“I am coming to that. I had come to it before, had you not interrupted
me. I want you to be guardian to the boy. I want you to replace me in
all that regards authority over him. You know life well, Upton. You know
it not alone in its paths of pleasure and success, but you understand
thoroughly the rugged footway over which humble men toil wearily to
fortune. None can better estimate a man's chances of success, nor more
surely point the road by which he is to attain it. The provision which I
destine for him will be an humble one, and he will need to rely upon his
own efforts. You will not refuse me this service, Upton. I ask it in the
name of our old friendship.”
“There is but one objection 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, I make myself an accomplice
in your plan, and thus aid and abet the very scheme I am repudiating.”
“What avails your repudiation if it will not turn me from my resolve?
That it will not, I 'll swear to you as solemnly as ever an oath was
taken. I tell you again, the thing is done. For the consequences which
are to follow on it you have no responsibility; these are my concern.”
“I should like a little time to think over it,” said Upton, with the air
of one struggling with irresolution. “Let me have this evening to make
up my mind; to-morrow you shall have my answer.”
“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 opportunity of reflection to Glencore than to give
himself more space for deliberation. He had found, by the experience of
his calling, that the delay we often crave for, to resolve a doubt, has
sufficed to change the mind of him who originated the difficulty.
“I'll give him some hours, at least,” thought he, “to ponder over what I
have said. Who knows but the argument may seem better in memory than in
action? Such things have happened before now.” And having finished
this reflection, he turned to peruse the pamphlet of a quack doctor who
pledged himself to cure all disorders of the circulation by attending
to tidal influences, and made the moon herself enter into the _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 only was aroused by the speculative images thus suggested, it is
impossible to say. It is not altogether improbable that he perused
these things as Charles Fox used to read all the trashiest novels of the
Minerva Press, and find, in the very distorted and exaggerated pictures,
a relief and a relaxation which more correct views of life had failed to
impart. Hard-headed men require strange indulgences.