Harcourt passed the morning of the following day in watching the street
for Scaresby's arrival. Glencore's impatience had grown into absolute
fever to obtain the missing letter, and he kept asking every moment at
what hour he had promised to be there, and wondering at his delay.
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, sir, 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.
“My dear Colonel Harcourt,” cried the other, entering, “excuse a very
abrupt call; but I have a most pressing need of your assistance. I hear
you can inform me of Lord Glencore's address.”
“He is residing in North Wales at present. I can give you his post
town.”
“Yes, but can I be certain that he will admit me if I should go down
there? He is living, I hear, in strict retirement, and I am anxious for
a personal interview.”
“I cannot insure you that,” said Harcourt. “He does live, as you have
heard, entirely estranged from all society. But if you write to him--”
“Ah! there's the difficulty. A letter and its reply takes some days.”
“And is the matter, then, so very imminent?”
“It is so; at least it is thought to be so by an authority that neither
you nor I will be likely to dispute. You know his Lordship intimately, I
fancy?”
“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 cares more for the amusing incidents which occasionally
diversify the life of foreign courts than for the great events of
politics. At all events, he devours them with avidity, and seems
conversant with the characters and private affairs of some hundreds
of people he has never seen, nor in all likelihood will ever see! In
turning over the loose pages of one of the despatches from Naples, I
think, he came upon what appeared to be a fragment of a letter. Of
what it was, or what it contained, I have not the slightest knowledge.
Adderley himself has not seen it, nor any one but the King. All I
know is that it concerns in some way Lord Glencore; for immediately on
reading it he gave me instructions to find him out, and send him down to
Brighton.”
“I am afraid, were you to see Glencore, your mission would prove a
failure. He has given up the world altogether, and even a royal command
would scarcely withdraw him from his retirement.”
“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 unwillingness 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 left the room. The next minute he was in Glencore's
room, hurriedly narrating to him all that had passed, and asking him
what course he should pursue. Glencore heard the story with a greater
calm than Harcourt dared to hope for; and seemed pleased at the
reiterated assurance that the King alone had seen the letter referred
to; and when Harcourt abruptly asked what was to be done, he slowly
replied, “I must obey his Majesty's commands. I must go to Brighton.”
“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
needlessly; nor is it in his nature to do so. Tell Bruce that you will
arrange everything, and that I shall present myself to-morrow at the
palace.”
“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. I 'll be 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
sympathy!
If Harcourt was astonished, he was not the less pleased at all this.
He encouraged Glencore's sense of gratification by every means in his
power, and gladly lent himself to all the petty anxieties about dress
and appearance in which he seemed now immersed. Nothing could exceed,
indeed, the care he bestowed on these small details; ever insisting as
he did that, his Majesty being the best-dressed gentleman in Europe,
these matters assumed a greater importance in his eyes.
“I must try to recover somewhat of my former self,” said he. “There was
a time when I came and went freely to Carlton House, when I was somewhat
more than a mere frequenter of the Prince's society. They tell me that
of late he is glad to see any of those who partook of his intimacy of
those times; who can remember the genial spirits who made his table the
most brilliant circle of the world; who can talk to him of Hanger, and
Kelly, and Sheridan, and the rest of them. I spent my days and nights
with them.”
Warming with the recollection of a period which, dissolute and
dissipated as it was, yet redeemed by its brilliancy many of its least
valuable features, Glencore poured forth story after story of a time
when statesmen had the sportive-ness of schoolboys, and the greatest
intellects loved to indulge in the wildest excesses of folly. A
good jest upon Eldon, a smart epigram on Sidmouth, a quiz against
Vansittart, was a fortune at Court; and there grew up thus around the
Prince a class who cultivated ridicule so assiduously that nothing was
too high or too venerable to escape their sarcasms.
Though Glencore was only emerging out of boyhood,--a young subaltern
in the Prince's own regiment,--when he first entered this society,
the impression it had made upon his mind was not the less permanent.
Independently of the charm of being thus admitted to the most choice
circle of the land, there was the fascination of intimacy with names
that even amongst contemporaries were illustrious.
“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 in his friend's humor,
Harcourt assented.
The day was a bright and clear one, with a sharp, frosty air and that
elasticity of atmosphere that invigorates and stimulates. They both soon
felt its influence, and as the hours wore on, pleasant memories of
the past were related, and old friends remembered and talked over in a
spirit that brought back to each much of the youthful sentiments they
recorded.
“If one could only go over it all again, George,” said Glencore, as they
sat after dinner, “up to three-and-twenty, or even a year or two later,
I 'd not ask to change a day,--scarcely an hour. Whatever was deficient
in fact, was supplied by hope. It was a joyous, brilliant time, when
we all made partnership of our good spirits, and traded freely on the
capital. Even Upton was frank and free-hearted then. There were some six
or eight of us, with just fortune enough never to care about money, and
none of us so rich as to be immersed in dreams of gold, as ever happens
with your millionnaire. Why could we not have continued so to the end?”
Harcourt adroitly turned him from the theme which he saw impending,--his
departure for the Continent, his residence there, and his marriage,--and
once more occupied him in stories of his youthful life in London, when
Glencore suddenly came to a stop, and said, “I might have married the
greatest beauty of the time,--of a family, too, second to none in all
England. You know to whom I allude. Well, she would have accepted me;
her father was not averse to the match; a stupid altercation with her
brother, Lord Hervey, at Brookes's one night--an absurd dispute about
some etiquette of the play-table--estranged me from their house. I was
offended at what I deemed their want of courtesy in not seeking me,--for
I was in the right; every one said so. I determined not to call first.
They gave a great entertainment, and omitted me; and rather than stay
in town to publish this affront, I started for the Continent; and out
of that petty incident, a discussion of the veriest trifle imaginable,
there came the whole course of my destiny.”
“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 who are the wise and prudent,” cried
Glencore, with warmth. “Had I, for instance, seen this occurrence,
trivial as it was, in its true light, what and where might I not have
been to-day?”
“My dear Glencore, the luckiest fellow that ever lived, were he only to
cast a look back on opportunities neglected, and conjunctures unprofited
by, would be sure to be miserable. I am far from saying that some have
not more than their share of the world's sorrows; but, take my word for
it, every one has his load, be it greater or less; and, what is worse,
we all of us carry our burdens with as much inconvenience to ourselves
as we can.”
“I know what you would say, Harcourt. It is the old story about giving
way to passion, and suffering temper to get the better of one; but let
me tell you that there are trials where passion is an instinct, and
reason works too slowly. I have experienced such as this.”
“Give yourself but fair play, Glencore, and you will surmount all your
troubles. Come back into the world again,--I don't mean this world of
balls and dinner-parties, of morning calls and afternoons in the Park;
but a really active, stirring life. Come with me to India, and let us
have a raid amongst the jaguars; mix with the pleasant, light-hearted
fellows you 'll meet at every mess, who ask for nothing better than
their own good spirits and good health, to content them with the
world; just look out upon life, and see what numbers are struggling and
swimming for existence, while you, at least, have competence and wealth
for all you wish; and bear in mind that round the table where wit is
flashing and the merriest laughter rings, there is not a man--no, not
one--who hasn't a something heavy in his heart, but yet who'd feel
himself a coward if his face confessed it.”
“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'll
gain the courage to sustain your own heart. Ay, Glencore, you 'll do
it to-morrow. In the presence of royalty you 'll comport yourself with
dignity and reserve, and you 'll come out from the interview higher and
stronger in self-esteem.”
“You talk as if I were some country squire who would stand abashed and
awe-struck before his King; but remember, my worthy Colonel, I have
lived a good deal inside the tabernacle, and its mysteries are no
secrets to _me_.
“Reason the more for what I say!” broke in Harcourt; “your deference
will not obliterate your judgment; your just respect will not alloy your
reason.”
“I'll talk to the King, sir, as I talk to you,” said Glencore,
passionately; “nor is the visit of my seeking. I have long since done
with courts and those who frequent them. What can royalty do for _me?_
Upton and yourself may play the courtier, and fawn at levées; you have
your petitions to present, your favors to beg for; you want to get this,
or be excused from that: but I am no supplicant; I ask for no place, no
ribbon. If the King speak to me about my private affairs, he shall be
answered as I would answer any one who obtrudes his rank into the place
that should only be occupied by friendship.”
“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 tradespeople and pay my debts for me. A man's
private sorrows are his debts,--obligations between himself and his own
heart. Don't tell me, sir, that even a king's prerogative absolves him
from the duties of a gentleman.”
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, scoffingly. “No, sir. If I must listen to you, let me have at
least the aid of the decanter. Your bitter maxims are a bad substitute
for olives, but I must have wine to swallow them.”
“I never meant them to be so distasteful to you,” said Harcourt,
good-humoredly.
“Say, rather, you troubled your head little whether they were or not,”
replied Glencore, whose voice was now thick from passion and drink
together. “You and Upton, and two or three others, presume to lecture
_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, sir, you'll find me as ready to act as to speak. There's not a
word I utter here I mean to retract to-morrow.”
“My dear Glencore, we have both taken too much wine.”
“Speak for yourself, sir. If you desire to make the claret the excuse
for your language, I can only say it's like everything else in your
conduct,--always a subterfuge, always a scapegoat. Oh, George, George, I
never suspected this in you;” and burying his head between his hands, he
burst into tears.
He never spoke a word as Harcourt assisted him to the carriage, nor did
he open his lips on the road homewards.