CHAPTER XLIII. MADAME DE SABBLOUKOFF IN THE MORNING

Madame de Sabloukoff inhabited “the grand apartment” of the Hôtel

d'Italie, which is the handsomest quarter of the great hotel of

Florence. The same suite which had once the distinguished honor of

receiving a Czar and a King of Prussia, and Heaven knows how many lesser

potentates! was now devoted to one who, though not of the small number

of the elect-in-purple, was yet, in her way, what politicians calls a

“puissance.”

As in the drama a vast number of agencies are required for the due

performance of a piece, so, on the greater stage of life, many of the

chief motive powers rarely are known to the public eye. The Princess was

of this number. She was behind the scenes, in more than one sense, and

had her share in the great events of her time.

While her beauty lasted, she had traded on the great capital of

attractions which were unsurpassed in Europe. As the perishable flower

faded, she, with prudential foresight, laid up a treasure in secret

knowledge of people and their acts, which made her dreaded and feared

where she was once admired and flattered. Perhaps--it is by no means

improbable--she preferred this latter tribute to the former.

Although the strong sunlight was tempered by the closed jalousies and

the drawn muslin curtains, she sat with her back to the window, so that

her features were but dimly visible in the darkened atmosphere of

the room. There was something of coquetry in this; but there was

more,--there was a dash of semi-secrecy in the air of gloom and

stillness around, which gave to each visitor who presented himself,--and

she received but one at a time,--an impression of being admitted to an

audience of confidence and trust. The mute-like servant who waited

in the corridor without, and who drew back a massive curtain on

your entrance, also aided the delusion, imparting to the interview a

character of mysterious solemnity.

Through that solemn portal there had passed, in and out, during the

morning, various dignitaries of the land, ministers and envoys, and

grand “chargés” of the Court. The embroidered key of the Chamberlain and

the purple stockings of a Nuncio had come and gone; and now there was

a Brief pause, for the groom in waiting had informed the crowd in the

antechamber that the Princess could receive no more. Then there was

a hurried scrawling of great names in a large book, a shower of

visiting-cards, and all was over; the fine equipages of fine people

dashed off, and the courtyard of the hotel was empty.

The large clock on the mantelpiece struck three, and Madame de

Sabloukoff compared the time with her watch, and by a movement of

impatience showed a feeling of displeasure. She was not accustomed to

have her appointments lightly treated, and he for whom she had fixed

an hour was now thirty minutes behind his time. She had been known to

resent such unpunctuality, and she looked as though she might do so

again. “I remember the day when his grand-uncle descended from his

carriage to speak to me,” muttered she; “and that same grand-uncle was

an emperor.”

Perhaps the chance reflection of her image in the large glass before her

somewhat embittered the recollection, for her features flushed, and as

suddenly grew pale again. It may have been that her mind went rapidly

back to a period when her fascination was a despotism that even the

highest and the haughtiest obeyed. “Too true,” said she, speaking to

herself, “time has dealt heavily with us all. But _they_ are no more

what they once were than am I. Their old compact of mutual assistance is

crumbling away under the pressure of new rivalries and new pretensions.

Kings and Kaisers will soon be like bygone beauties. I wonder will they

bear their altered fortune as heroically?” It is but just to say that

her tremulous accents and quivering lip bore little evidence of the

heroism she spoke of.

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 will tell him that I am

engaged, but will receive him to-morrow--”

“And why not to-day, charming Princess?” said a young man, entering

hastily, and whose graceful but somewhat haughty air set off to every

advantage his splendid Hungarian costume. “Why not now?” said he,

stooping to kiss her hand with respectful gallantry. She motioned to the

servant to withdraw, and they were alone.

“You are not over exact in keeping an appointment, monsieur,” said

she, stiffly. “It is somewhat cruel to remind me that my claims in this

respect have grown antiquated.”

“I fancied myself the soul of punctuality, my dear Princess,” said

he, adjusting the embroidered pelisse he wore over his shoulder. “You

mentioned four as the hour--”

“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, I suspect, much occupation to

engage us; and if I have interfered with your other plans--if you have

plans--A thousand pardons!” cried he, suddenly, as the deep color of her

face and her flashing eye warned him that he had gone too far; “but the

fact is, I was detained at the riding-school. They have sent me some

young horses from the Banat, and I went over to look at them.”

“The Count de Wahnsdorf knows that he need make no apologies to Madame

de Sabloukoff,” said she, calmly; “but it were just as graceful,

perhaps, to affect them. My dear Count,” continued she, but in a tone

perfectly free from all touch of irritation, “I have asked to see and

speak with you on matters purely your own--”

“You want to dissuade me from this marriage,” said he, interrupting;

“but I fancy that I have already listened to everything that can be

urged on that affair. If you have any argument other than the old one

about misalliance and the rest of it, I 'll hear it patiently; though I

tell you beforehand that I should like to learn that a connection with

an imperial house had some advantage besides that of a continual barrier

to one's wishes.”

“I understand,” said she, quietly, “that you named the terms on which

you would abandon this project,--is it not so?”

“Who told _you_ 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

rudely.

“You shall hear and judge for yourself,” was the calm answer. “Count

Kollorath informed me that you offered to abandon this marriage on

condition that you were appointed to the command of the Pahlen Hussars.”

The young man's face became scarlet with shame, and he tried twice to

speak, but unavailingly.

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 appearing to conform--to the

rules of the service; that you had only been a few months in command of

a squadron; that your debts, which were considerable, had been noised

about the world, so that a little time should elapse, and a favorable

opportunity present itself, before this promotion could be effected.”

“How correctly they have instructed you in all the details of this

affair!” said he, with a scornful smile.

“It is a rare event when I am misinformed, sir,” was her cold reply;

“nor could it redound to the advantage of those who ask my advice to

afford me incorrect information.”

“Then I am quite unable to perceive what you want with _me_.” cried he.

“It is plain enough you are in possession of all that I could tell you.

Or is all this only the prelude to some menace or other?”

She made no other answer to this rude question than by a smile so

dubious in its meaning, it might imply scorn, or pity, or even sorrow.

“You must not wonder if I be angry,” continued he, in an accent that

betokened shame at his own violence. “They have treated me so long as a

fool that they have made me something worse than one.”

“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 you mean those who have watched every occasion of my

life to oppose my plans and thwart my wishes, I conclude that they

will prove themselves as vigilant now as heretofore; but I am getting

somewhat weary of this friendship.”

“My dear Count, give me a patient--if possible, an indulgent--hearing

for five minutes, or even half that time, and I hope it will save us

both a world of misconception. If this marriage that you are so eager to

contract were an affair of love,--of that ardent, passionate love which

recognizes no obstacle nor acknowledges any barrier to its wishes,--I

could regard the question as one of those everyday events in life whose

uniformity is seldom broken by a new incident; for love stories have a

terrible sameness in them.” She smiled as she said this, and in such a

way as to make him smile at first, and then laugh heartily.

“But if,” resumed she, seriously,--“if I only see in this project a

mere caprice, half--more than half--based upon the pleasure of wounding

family pride, or of coercing those who have hitherto dictated to you;

if, besides this, I perceive that there is no strong affection on either

side, none of that impetuous passion which the world accepts as 'the

attenuating circumstance' in rash marriages--”

“And who has told you 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 affianced 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 that 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 mockery, 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 repaid that I should continue to extend it.”

“What is the reward to be, madam? Name it,” said he, boldly.

“The same candor on your part, 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.”

“If you refer to what you have called Ida's secret--”

“No,” broke she in. “I was now alluding to what might be called _your_

secret.”

“Mine! _my_ secret!” exclaimed he. But though the tone was meant to

convey great astonishment, the confusion of his 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,

scoffingly.

“I am but too happy when any services of mine can rescue the fame of

a great family from reproach, sir,” replied she, proudly; for all the

control she had heretofore imposed upon her temper seemed at last

to have yielded to offended dignity. “Happily for that illustrious

house--happily for you, too--I am one of a very few who know of Count

Wahnsdorf's doings. To have suffered your antagonist in a duel to be

tracked, arrested, and imprisoned in an Austrian fortress, when a word

from you had either warned him of his peril or averted the danger, was

bad enough; but to have stigmatized his name with cowardice, and to have

defamed him because he was your rival, was far worse.”

Wahnsdorf struck the table with his clenched fist till it shook beneath

the blow, but never uttered a word, while with increased energy she

continued,--

“Every step of this bad history is known to me; every detail of it,

from your gross and insulting provocation of this poor friendless youth

to the last scene of his committal to a dungeon.”

“And, of course, you have related your interesting narrative 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 liberation; to show that the provocation came from

yourself; and, lastly, all-painful though it be, to remove from him the

stain you have inflicted, and to reinstate him in the esteem that your

calumny may have robbed him of. These were the other thoughts I alluded

to.”

“And you fancy that I am to engage in this sea of trouble for the sake

of some nameless bastard, while in doing so I compromise myself and my

own honor?”

“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 understand it as

such.”

“And, of course, the next condition will be for me to resign my

pretensions to Ida in his favor,” said he, with a savage irony.

“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 unfortunate in all my pursuit

of your esteem.”

“You live in a sphere to command it, sir,” was her reply, given with a

counterfeited humility; and whether it was the tone of mingled insolence

and submission she assumed, or simply the sense of his own unworthiness

in her sight, but Wahnsdorf cowered before her like a frightened child.

At this moment the servant entered, and presented a visiting-card to the

Princess.

“Ah, he comes in an opportune moment,” cried she. “This is the Minister

of the Duke of Massa's household,--the Chevalier Stubber. Yes,”

continued she to the servant, “I will receive him.”

If there was not any conspicuous gracefulness in the Chevalier's

approach, there was an air of quiet self-possession that bespoke a sense

of his own worth and importance; and while he turned to pay his respects

to the young Count, his unpolished manner was not devoid of a certain

dignity.

“It is a fortunate chance by which I find you here, Count Wahnsdorf,”

said he, “for you will be glad to learn that the young fellow you had

that affair with at Massa has just been liberated.”

“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, I fancy the Count can best inform you,--he has

interested himself greatly in the matter.” The Count blushed deeply,

and turned away to hide his face, but not so quickly as to miss the

expression of scornful meaning with which the Princess regarded him.

“But I 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 cabinet 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 Wahnsdorf, taking up his shako.

“You are off to Vienna to-night, Count Wahnsdorf,” 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 your 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. While she conversed eagerly with Stubber, she did not fail

from time to time to glance towards the other, and mark the expression

of his features as he folded and replaced the letter in its envelope,

and, slowly approaching her, said,--

“You are most discreet, madam.”

“I hope I am just, sir,” said she, modestly.

“This was something of a difficult undertaking, too,” said he, with an

equivocal smile.

“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 utterance he said, “Good-bye,” and left

the room.

“A fine young fellow,--the very 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 yourself.”

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 IN DOWNING STREET

The dull old precincts of Downing Street were more than usually astir.

Hackney-coaches and cabs at an early hour, private chariots somewhat

later, went to and fro along the dreary pavement, and two cabinet

messengers with splashed _calèches_ arrived in hot haste from Dover.

Frequent, too, were the messages from the House; a leading Oppositionist

was then thundering away against the Government, inveighing against the

treacherous character of their foreign policy, and indignantly calling

on them for certain despatches to their late envoy at Naples. At

every cheer which greeted him from his party a fresh missive would

be despatched from the Treasury benches, and the whisper, at first

cautiously muttered, grew louder and louder, “Why does not Upton come

down?”

So intricate has been the web of our petty entanglements, so complex the

threads of those small intrigues by which we have earned our sobriquet

of the “perfide Albion,” that it is difficult at this time of day to

recall the exact question whose solution, in the words of the orator of

the debate, “placed us either at the head of Europe, or consigned to us

the fatal mediocrity of a third-rate power.” The prophecy, whichever way

read, gives us unhappily no clew to the matter in hand, and we are only

left to conjecture that it was an intervention in Spain, or “something

about the Poles.” As is usual in such cases, the matter, insignificant

enough in itself, was converted into a serious attack on the Government,

and all the strength of the Opposition was arrayed to give power and

consistency to the assault. As is equally usual, the cabinet was totally

unprepared for defence; either they had altogether undervalued the

subject, or they trusted to the secrecy with which they had conducted

it; whichever of these be the right explanation, each minister could

only say to his colleague, “It never came before _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 significant 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, opening one side of which he was

ushered into a spacious apartment, but so thoroughly impregnated with

a thick and offensive vapor that he could barely perceive, through the

mist, the bath in which Upton lay reclined, and the figure of a man,

whose look and attitude bespoke the doctor, beside him.

“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. Ah, Doctor,”--and he addressed a

question to him in German.

A growled volley of gutturals ensued, and Upton went on:--

“Yes, Charlemagne,--Melancthon had it, but lingered for years. It is

the peculiar 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 which 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 emergency 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 Geimirstad thought it safe

for me to venture,--I could set all this to right. These people are

all talking 'without book,' Neville,--the ever-recurring blunder of an

Opposition when they address themselves to a foreign question: they

go upon a newspaper paragraph, or the equally incorrect 'private

communication from a friend.' Men in office alone can attain to

truth--exact truth--about questions of foreign policy.”

“The debate is taking a serious turn, however,” interposed Neville.

“They reiterate very bold assertions, which none of our people are in

a position to contradict. Their confidence is evidently increasing with

the show of confusion in our ranks. Something must be done to meet them,

and that quickly.”

“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.

“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 to feel certain misgivings about pushing a

request so full of danger; but from this he was in a measure relieved

by the tone in which Upton now addressed his valet with directions as to

the dress he intended to wear. “The loose pelisse, with the astrakhan,

Giuseppe, and that vest of _cramoisie_ velvet; and if you will just

glance at the newspaper, Neville, in the next room, I 'll 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

Treasury bench, that Sir Horace Upton entered the House. Leaning on the

arm of Mr. Neville, he slowly passed up and took his accustomed place.

The traces of severe illness in his features, and the great debility

which his gestures displayed, gave an unusual interest to a scene

already almost dramatic in its character. For a moment the great

chief of Opposition was obliged to pause in his assault, to let this

flood-tide of sympathy pass on; and when at length he did resume, it was

plain to see how much the tone of his invective had been tempered by a

respect for the actual feeling of the House. The necessity for this act

of deference, added to the consciousness that he was in presence of the

man whose acts he so strenuously denounced, were too much for the nerves

of the orator, and he came to an abrupt conclusion, whose confused and

uncertain sentences scarcely warranted the cheers with which his friends

rallied him.

“Sir Horace rose at once to reply. His voice was at first so

inarticulate that we could but catch the burden of what he said,--a

request that the House would accord him all the indulgence which his

state of debility and suffering called for. If the first few sentences

he uttered imparted a painful significance to the entreaty, it very soon

became apparent that he had no occasion to bespeak such indulgence. In a

voice that gained strength and fulness as he proceeded, he entered

upon what might be called a narrative of the foreign policy of the

administration, clearly showing that their course was guided by certain

great principles which dictated a line of action firm and undeviating;

that the measures of the Government, however modified by passing events

in Europe, had been uniformly consistent,--based upon the faith of

treaties, but ever mindful of the growing requirements of the age.

Through a narrative of singular complexity he guided himself with

consummate skill, and though detailing events which occupied every

region of the globe, neither confusion nor inconsistency ever marred the

recital, and names and places and dates were quoted by him without any

artificial aid to memory.”

There was in the polished air, and calm, dispassionate delivery of the

speaker, something which seemed to charm the ears of those who for four

hours before had been so mercilessly assailed by all the vituperation

and insolence of party animosity. It was, so to say, a period of relief

and repose, to which even antagonists were not insensible. No man ever

understood the advantage of his gifts in this way better than Upton, nor

ever was there one who could convert the powers which fascinated society

into the means of controlling a popular assembly, with greater assurance

of success. He was a man of a strictly logical mind, a close and acute

thinker; he was of a highly imaginative temperament, rich in all the

resources of a poetic fancy; he was thoroughly well read, and gifted

with a ready memory; but, above all these,--transcendently above them

all,--he was a “man of the world;” and no one, either in Parliament or

out of it, knew so well when it was wrong to say “the right thing.” But

let us resume our quotation:--

“For more than three hours did the House listen with breathless

attention to a narrative which in no parliamentary experience has been

surpassed for the lucid clearness of its details, the unbroken flow of

its relation. The orator up to this time had strictly devoted himself

to explanation; he now proceeded to what might be called reply. If

the House was charmed and instructed before, it was now positively

astonished and electrified by the overwhelming force of the speaker's

raillery and invective. Not satisfied with showing the evil consequences

that must ensue from any adoption of the measures recommended by the

Opposition, he proceeded to exhibit the insufficiency of views always

based upon false information.

“'We have been taunted,' said he, 'with the charge of fomenting discords

in foreign lands; we have been arraigned as disturbers of the world's

peace, and called the firebrands of Europe; we are exhibited as parading

the Continent with a more than Quixotic ardor, since we seek less the

redress of wrong than the opportunity to display our own powers

of interference,--that quality which the learned gentleman has

significantly stigmatized as a spirit of meddling impertinence,

offensive to the whole world of civilization. Let me tell him, sir, that

the very debate of this night has elicited, and from himself too, the

very outrages he has had the temerity to ascribe to us. His has been

this indiscriminate ardor, his this unjudging rashness, his this

meddling impertinence (I am but quoting, not inventing, a phrase),

by which, without accurate, without, indeed, any, information, he has

ventured to charge the Government with what no administration would

be guilty, of--a cool and deliberate violation of the national law of

Europe.

“'He has told you, sir, that in our eagerness to distinguish ourselves

as universal redressers of injury, we have “ferreted out”--I take his

own polished expression--the case of an obscure boy in an obscure corner

of Italy, converted a commonplace and very vulgar incident into a tale

of interest, and, by a series of artful devices and insinuations based

upon this narrative, a grave and insulting charge upon one of the

oldest of our allies. He has alleged that throughout the whole of those

proceedings we had not the shadow of pretence for our interference; that

the acts imputed occurred in a land over which we had no control, and

in the person of an individual in whom we had no interest; that this

Sebastiano Greppi--this image boy, for so with a courteous pleasantry he

has called him--was a Neapolitan subject, the affiliated envoy of I know

not what number of secret societies; that his sculptural pretensions

were but pretexts to conceal his real avocations,--the agency of a

bloodthirsty faction; that his crime was no less than an act of

high treason; and that Austrian gentleness and mercy were never more

conspicuously illustrated than in the commutation of a death-sentence to

one of perpetual imprisonment.

“'What a rude task is mine when I must say that for even one of these

assertions there is not the slightest foundation in fact. Greppi's

offence was not a crime against the state; as little was it committed

within the limits of the Austrian territory. He is not the envoy, or

even a member, of any revolutionary club; he never--I am speaking with

knowledge, sir--he never mingled in the schemes of plotting politicians;

as far removed is he from sympathy with such men, as, in the genius of a

great artist, he is elevated above the humble path to which the learned

gentleman's raillery would sentence him. For the character of “an image

vendor,” the learned gentleman must look nearer home; and, lastly, this

youth is an Englishman, and born of a race and a blood that need feel no

shame in comparison with any I see around me!'

“To the loud cry of 'Name, name,' which now arose, Sir Horace replied:

'If I do not announce the name at this moment, it is because there are

circumstances in the history of the youth to which publicity would give

irreparable pain. These are details which I have no right to bring under

discussion, and which must inevitably thus become matters of town-talk.

To any gentleman of the opposite side who may desire to verify the

assertions I have made to the House, I would, under pledge of secrecy,

reveal the name. I would do more; I would permit him to confide it to

a select number of friends equally pledged with himself. This is surely

enough?'”

We have no occasion to continue our quotation farther, and we take

up our history as Sir Horace, overwhelmed by the warmest praises and

congratulations, drove off from the House to his home. Amid all the

excitement and enthusiasm which this brilliant success produced among

the ministerialists, there was a kind of dread lest the overtaxed powers

of the orator should pay the heavy penalty of such an effort. They

had all heard how he came from a sick chamber; they had all seen him,

trembling, faint, and almost voiceless, as he stole up to his place, and

they began to fear lest they had, in the hot zeal of party, imperilled

the ablest chief in their ranks.

What a relief to these agonies had it been, could they have seen Upton

as he once more gained the solitude of his chamber, where, divested

of all the restraints of an audience, he walked leisurely up and down,

smoking a cigar, and occasionally smiling pleasantly as some “conceit”

crossed his mind.

Had there been any one to mark him there, it is more than likely that

he would have regarded him as a man revelling in the after-thought of a

great success,--one who, having come gloriously through the combat, was

triumphantly recalling to his memory every incident of the fight. How

little had they understood Sir Horace Upton who would have read him in

this wise! That daring and soaring nature rarely dallied in the past;

even the present was scarcely full enough for the craving of a spirit

that cried ever, “Forward!”

What might be made of that night's success; how best it should be turned

to account!--these were the thoughts which beset him, and many were the

devices which his subtlety hit on to this end. There was not a goal

his ambition could point to but which became associated with some

deteriorating ingredient. He was tired of the Continent, he hated

England, he shuddered at the Colonies. “India, perhaps,” said he,

hesitatingly,--“India, perhaps, might do.” To continue as he

was,--to remain in office, as having reached the topmost round of the

ladder,--would have been insupportable indeed; and yet how, without

longer service at his post, could any man claim a higher reward?

CHAPTER XLIV. THE SUBTLETIES OF STATECRAFT

It was not till Sir Horace had smoked his third cigar that he seated

himself at his writing-table. He then wrote rapidly a brief note, of

which he proceeded to make a careful copy. This he folded and placed in

an envelope, addressing it to his Grace the Duke of Cloudeslie.

A few minutes afterwards he began to prepare for bed. The day was

already breaking, and yet that sick man was unwearied and unwasted; not

a trace of fatigue on features that, under the infliction of a tiresome

dinner-party, would have seemed bereft of hope.

The tied-up knocker, the straw-strewn street, the closely drawn curtains

announced to London the next morning that the distinguished minister

was seriously ill; and from an early hour the tide of inquirers, in

carriages and on foot, passed silently along that dreary way. High and

mighty were the names inscribed in the porter's book; royal dukes

had called in person; and never was public solicitude more widely

manifested. There is something very flattering in the thought of a great

intelligence being damaged and endangered in our service! With all its

melancholy influences, there is a feeling of importance suggested by

the idea that for us and our interests a man of commanding powers should

have jeoparded his life. There is a very general prejudice, not alone in

obtaining the best article for our money, but the most of it also;

and this sentiment extends to the individuals employed in the public

service; and it is doubtless a very consolatory reflection to the

tax-paying classes that the great functionaries of state are not

indolent recipients of princely incomes, but hard-worked men of office,

up late and early at their duties,--prematurely old, and worn out before

their time! Something of this same feeling inspires much of the sympathy

displayed for a sick statesman,--a sentiment not altogether void of a

certain misgiving that we have probably over-taxed the energies employed

in our behalf.

Scarcely one in a hundred of those who now called and “left their names”

had ever seen Sir Horace Upton in their lives. Few are more removed from

public knowledge than the men who fill even the highest places in

our diplomacy. He was, therefore, to the mass a mere name. Since his

accession to office little or nothing had been heard of him, and of that

little, the greater part was made up of sneering allusions to his habits

of indolence; impertinent hints about his caprices and his tastes. Yet

now, by a grand effort in the “House,” and a well got-up report of a

dangerous illness the day after, was he the most marked man in all the

state,--the theme of solicitude throughout two millions of people!

There was a dash of mystery, too, in the whole incident, which

heightened its flavor for public taste; a vague, indistinct

impression--it did not even amount to rumor--was abroad, that Sir Horace

had not been “fairly treated” by his colleagues; either that they could,

if they wished it, have defended the cause themselves, or that they had

needlessly called him from a sick bed to come to the rescue, or that

some subtle trap had been laid to ensnare him. These were vulgar

beliefs, which, if they obtained little credence in the higher region

of club-life, were extensively circulated, and not discredited, in less

distinguished circles. How they ever got abroad at all; how they found

their ways into newspaper paragraphs, terrifying timid supporters of

the ministry by the dread prospect of a “smash,” exciting the hopes

of Opposition with the notion of a great secession, throwing broadcast

before the world of readers every species of speculation, all kinds of

combination,--who knows how all this happened? Who, indeed, ever

knew how things a thousand times more secret ever got wind and became

club-talk ere the actors in the events had finished an afternoon's

canter in the Park?

If, then, the world of London learned on the morning in question that

Sir Horace Upton was very ill, it also surmised--why and wherefore it

knows best--that the same Sir Horace was an ill-used man. Now, of

all the objects of public sympathy and interest, next after a foreign

emperor on a visit at Buckingham Palace, or a newly arrived hippopotamus

at the Zoological Gardens, there is nothing your British public is so

fond of as “an ill-used man.” It is essential, however, to his great

success that he be ill-used in high places; that his enemies and

calumniators should have been, if not princes, at least dukes and

marquises and great dignitaries of the state. Let him only be supposed

to be martyred by these, and there is no saying where his popularity may

be carried. A very general impression is current that the mass of the

nation is more or less “ill-used,”--denied its natural claims and just

rewards. To hit upon, therefore, a good representation of this hard

usage, to find a tangible embodiment of this great injustice, is a

discovery that is never unappreciated.

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 striking type: Resignation of Sir

Horace Upton. If the terms in which he communicated that step to the

Premier were not before the world, the date, the very night of the

debate, showed that the resolution had been come to suddenly.

Some of the journals affected to be in the whole secret of the

transaction, and only waiting the opportune moment to announce it to the

world. The dark, mysterious paragraphs in which journalists show their

no-meanings abounded, and menacing hints were thrown out that the

country would no longer submit to.--Heaven knows what. There was,

besides all this, a very considerable amount of that catechetical

inquiry, which, by suggesting a number of improbabilities, hopes to

arrive at the likely, and thus, by asking questions where they had

a perfect confidence they would never be answered, they seemed to

overwhelm their adversaries with shame and discomfiture. The great fact,

however, was indisputable,--Upton had resigned.

To the many who looked up at the shuttered windows of his sad-looking

London house, this reflection occurred naturally enough,--How little the

poor sufferer, on his sick bed, cared for the contest that raged around

him; how far away were, in all probability, his thoughts from that world

of striving and ambition whose waves came to his door-sills. Let us,

in that privilege which belongs to us, take a peep within the curtained

room, where a bright fire is blazing, and where, seated behind a screen,

Sir Horace is now penning a note; a bland half smile rippling his

features as some pleasant conceit has flashed across his mind. We have

rarely seen him looking so well. The stimulating events of the last few

days have done for him more than all the counsels of his doctors,

and his eyes are brighter and his cheeks fuller than usual. A small

miniature hangs suspended by a narrow ribbon round his neck, and a

massive gold bracelet adorns one wrist,--“two souvenirs” which he stops

to contemplate as he writes; nor is there a touch of sorrowful

meaning in the glance he bestows upon them,--the look rather seems the

self-complacent regard that a successful general might bestow on the

decorations he had won by his valor. It is essentially vainglorious.

More than once has he paused to read over the sentence he has written,

and one may see, by the motion of his lips as he reads, how completely

he has achieved the sentiment he would express. “Yes, charming

Princess,” said he, perusing the lines before him, “I've once more to

throw myself at your feet, and reiterate the assurances of a devotion

which has formed the happiness of my existence.” (“That does not sound

quite French, after all,” muttered he; “better perhaps: 'has formed the

religion of my heart.'”) “I know you will reproach my precipitancy; I

feel how your judgment, unerring as it ever is, will condemn what may

seem a sudden ebullition of temper; but, I ask, is this amongst the

catalogue of my weaknesses? Am I of that clay which is always fissured

when heated? No. _You_ know me better,--_you_ alone of all the world

have the clew to a heart whose affections are all your own. The few

explanations of all that has happened must be reserved for our meeting.

Of course, neither the newspapers nor the reviews have any conception

of the truth. Four words will set your heart at ease, and these you

must have: 'I have done wisely;' with that assurance you have no more

to fear. I mean to leave this in all secrecy by the end of the week. I

shall go over to Brussels, where you can address me under the name of

Richard Bingham. I shall only remain there to watch events for a day or

two, and thence on to Geneva.

“I am quite charmed with your account of poor Lady G------, though, as

I read, I can detect how all the fascinations you tell of were but

reflected glories. Your view of her situation is admirable, and, by your

skilful tactique, it is she herself that ostracizes the society that

would only have accepted her on sufferance. How true is your remark as

to the great question at issue,--not her guilt or innocence, but what

danger might accrue to others from infractions that invite publicity.

The cabinet were discussing t' other day a measure by which sales of

estated property could be legalized without those tiresome and costly

researches into title which, in a country where confiscations were

frequent, became at last endless labor. Don't you think that some such

measure might be beneficially adopted as regards female character? Could

there not be invented a species of social guarantee which, rejecting all

investigation into bygones after a certain limit, would confer a valid

title that none might dispute?

“Lawyers tell us that no man's property would stand the test of a search

for title. Are we quite certain how far the other sex are our betters in

this respect; and might it not be wise to interpose a limit beyond which

research need not proceed?

“I concur in all you say about G------himself. He was always looking for

better security than he needed,--a great mistake, whether the investment

consist of our affections or our money. Physicians say that if any man

could only see the delicate anatomy on which his life depends, and watch

the play of those organs that sustain him, he would not have courage to

move a step or utter a loud word. Might we not carry the analogy into

morals, and ask, is it safe or prudent in us to investigate too deeply?

are we wise in dissecting motives? or would it not be better to enjoy

our moral as we do our material health, without seeking to assure

ourselves further?

“Besides all this, the untravelled Englishman--and such was Glencore

when he married--never can be brought to understand the harmless

levities of foreign life. Like a fresh-water sailor, he always fancies

the boat is going to upset, and he throws himself out at the first

'jobble'! I own to you frankly, I never knew the case in question; 'how

far she went,' is a secret to me. I might have heard the whole story.

It required some address in me to escape it; but I do detest these

narrations, where truth is marred by passion, and all just inferences

confused and confounded with vague and absurd suspicions.

“Glencore's conduct throughout was little short of insanity; like a

man who, hearing his banker is insecure, takes refuge in insolvency, he

ruins himself to escape embarrassment. They tell me here that the shock

has completely deranged his intellect, and that he lives a life of

melancholy isolation in that old castle in Ireland.

“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? Would not its

pleasures, even its cares, have proved better 'distractions' than his

own brooding thoughts? If a man have a secret ailment, does he parade

it in public? Why, then, this exposure of a pain for which there is no

sympathy?

“Life, after all, is only a system of compensations. Wish it to be

whatever you please, but accept it as it really is, and make the best

of it! For my own part, I have ever felt like one who, having got a most

disastrous account of a road he was about to travel, is delightfully

surprised to find the way better and the inns more comfortable than he

looked for. In the main, men and women are very good; our mistake is,

expecting to find people always in our own humor. Now, if one is

very rich, this is practical enough; but the mass must be content to

encounter disparity of mood and difference of taste at every step.

There is, therefore, some tact required in conforming to these

'irregularities,' and unhappily everybody has not got tact.

“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! You have

often told me that if people were not exactly all that strict moralists

might wish, yet that they made up a society very pleasant and livable

withal, and that there was also a floating capital of kindness and

good feeling quite sufficient to trade upon, and even grow richer by

negotiating!

“People who live out of the world, or, what comes to the same

thing, in a little world of their own, are ever craving after

perfectibility,--just as, in time of peace, nations only accept in their

armies six-foot grenadiers and gigantic dragoons. Let the pressure of

war or emergency arise, however, or, in other words, let there be the

real business of life to be done, then the standard is lowered at once,

and the battle is sought and won by very inferior agency. Now, show

troops and show qualities are very much alike; they are a measure of

what would be very charming to arrive at, were it only practicable! Oh

that poor Glencore had only learned this lesson, instead of writing

nonsense verses at Eton!

“The murky domesticities of England have no correlatives in the sunny

enjoyments of Italian life; and John Bull has got a fancy that virtue is

only cultivated where there are coal fires, stuff curtains, and a

window tax. Why, then, in the name of Doctors' Commons, does he marry a

foreigner?”

Just as Upton had written these words, his servant presented him with a

visiting-card.

“Lord Glencore!” exclaimed he, aloud. “When was he here?”

“His Lordship is below stairs now, sir. He said he was sure you'd see

him.”

“Of course; show him up at once. Wait a moment; give me that cane, place

those cushions for my feet, draw the curtain, and leave the aconite and

ether drops near me,--that will do, thank you.”

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, feelingly,

for he was shocked by the wretched spectacle 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 say; and yet

I bethought me of a remark I once heard from the Duke of Orleans:

'Monsieur Upton is a most active minister when his health permits; and

when it does not, he is the most mischievous intriguant in Europe.'”

“He was always straining at an antithesis; he fancied he could talk like

St. 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.

“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 resolution, and will,

I feel assured, approve of them; but they 'd only weary you now.”

“Let me know them now, Upton; it is such a relief to me when, even by

a momentary interest in anything, I am able to withdraw this poor tired

brain from its own distressing thoughts.” He spoke these words not only

with strong feeling, but even imparted to them a tone of entreaty, so

that Upton could not but comply.

“When I wished for the Secretaryship, my dear Glencore,” said he, “I

fancied the office as it used to be in olden times, when one played the

great game of diplomacy with kings and ministers for antagonists, and

the world at large for spectators; when consummate skill and perfect

secrecy were objects of moment, and when grand combinations rewarded

one's labor with all the certainty of a mathematical problem. Every move

on the board could be calculated beforehand, no disturbing influences

could derange plans that never were divulged till they were

accomplished. All that is past and gone; our Constitution, grown every

day more and more democratic, rules by the House of Commons. Questions

whose treatment demands all the skill of a statesman and all the

address of a man of the world come to be discussed in open Parliament;

correspondence is called for, despatches and even private notes are

produced; and while the State you are opposed to revels in the security

of secrecy, _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 I should have a hold

over my 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 be that an interchange of letters took place, and his

Majesty imparted to me his fullest confidence in disparagement of the

present system. This correspondence was a perfect secret to the whole

Cabinet; but when it had arrived at a most confidential crisis, I

suggested to the King that Cloudeslie should be consulted. I knew well

that this would set the match to the train. No sooner did Cloudeslie

learn that such a correspondence had been carried on for months without

his knowledge, views stated, plans promulgated, and the King's pleasure

taken on questions not one of which should have been broached without

his approval and concurrence, than he declared he would not hold the

seals of office another hour. The King, well knowing his temper, and

aware what a terrific exposure might come of it, sent for me, and asked

what was to be done. I immediately suggested my own resignation as a

sacrifice to the difficulty and to the wounded feelings of the Duke.

Thus did I achieve what I sought for. I imposed a heavy obligation on

the King and the Premier, and I have secured secrecy as to my motives,

which none will ever betray.

“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 atmosphere 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 have enough to live on, I 'd rather devote the remainder of my days

to rest, and the care of this shattered constitution.” It is impossible

to convey to the reader the tender and affectionate compassion with

which Sir Horace seemed to address these last words to himself.

“Do you ever look upon yourself as the luckiest fellow in Europe,

Upton?” asked Glencore.

“No,” sighed he; “I occasionally fancy I have been hardly dealt with by

fortune. I have only to throw my eyes around me, and see a score of men,

richer and more elevated than myself, not one of whom has capacity for

even a third-rate task, so that really the self-congratulation you speak

of has not occurred to me.”

“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 completely

mystified the hearer, and he sat gazing with wonderment at the man

before him.

CHAPTER XLV. SOME SAD REVERIES

“Have you any plans, Glencore?” asked Upton, as they posted along

towards Dover.

“None,” was the brief reply.

“Nor any destination you desire to reach?”

“Just as little.”

“Such a state as yours, then, I take it, is about the best thing

going in life. Every move one makes is attended with so many adverse

considerations,--every goal so separated from us by unforeseen

difficulties,--that an existence, even without what is called an object,

has certain great advantages.”

“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 enjoyed have been in periods

when complete repose, almost torpor, has surrounded me, and when the

mere existence of the day has engaged my thoughts.”

“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 their

own faculties I have no experience.”

“And, of course, no sympathy for them.”

“I will not say that I cannot compassionate sufferings, though I have

not felt them.”

“Are you quite sure of that?” asked Glencore, almost sternly; “is not

your very pity a kind of contemptuous sentiment towards those who sorrow

without reason,--the strong man's estimate of the weak man's sufferings?

Believe me, there is no true condolence where there is not the same

experience of woe!”

“I should be sorry to lay down so narrow a limit to fellow-feeling,”

said Upton.

“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 was such an accent of sorrow impressed upon these words that Upton

did not desire to prolong a discussion so painful; and thus, for the

remainder of the way, little was interchanged between them. They crossed

the strait by night, and as Upton stole upon deck after dusk, he found

Glencore seated near the wheel, gazing intently at the lights on shore,

from which they were fast receding.

“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 regarding my property; I have neglected

nothing, so far as I know, of those claims which, in the shape of

relationship, the world has such reverence for; and now I bethink me of

myself. I shall have to consult you, however, about this boy,” said he,

faltering in the words. “The objection I once entertained to his bearing

my name exists no longer; he may call himself Massy, if he will. The

chances are,” added he, in a lower and more feeling voice, “that he

rejects a name that will only remind him of a wrong!”

“My dear Glencore,” said Upton, with real tenderness, “do I apprehend

you aright? Are you at last convinced that you have been unjust? Has the

moment come in which your better judgment rises above the evil counsels

of prejudice and passion--”

“Do you mean, am I assured of her innocence?” broke in Glencore, wildly.

“Do you imagine, if I were so, that I could withhold my hand from taking

a life so infamous and dishonored as mine? The world would have no

parallel for such a wretch! Mark me, Upton!” cried he, fiercely, “there

is no torture I have yet endured would equal the bare possibility of

what you hint at.”

“Good Heavens! Glencore, do not let me suppose that selfishness has so

marred and disfigured your nature that this is true. Bethink you of what

you say. Would it not be the crowning glory of your life to repair a

dreadful wrong, and acknowledge before the world that the fame you had

aspersed was without stain or spot?”

“And with what grace should I ask the world to believe me? Is it when

expiating the shame of a falsehood that I should call upon men to accept

me as truthful? Have I not proclaimed her, from one end of Europe to the

other, dishonored? If _she_ be absolved, what becomes of _me?_”

“This is unworthy of you, Glencore,” said Upton, severely; “nor, if

illness and long suffering had not impaired your judgment, had you ever

spoken such words. I say once more, that if the day came that you

could declare to the world that her fame had no other reproach than the

injustice of your own unfounded jealousy, that day would be the best and

the proudest of your life.”

“The proud day that published me a calumniator of all that I was most

pledged to defend,--the deliberate liar against the obligation of the

holiest of all contracts! You forget, Upton,--but I do not forget,--that

it was by this very argument you once tried to dissuade me from my act

of vengeance. You told me--ay, in words that still ring in my ears--to

remember that if by any accident or chance her innocence might be

proven, I could never avail myself of the indication without first

declaring my own unworthiness to profit by it; that if the Wife stood

forth in all the pride of purity, the Husband would be a scoff and a

shame throughout the world!”

“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 Glencore, with a

bitter irony; “it is not the first instance on record where blank

cartridge has proved fatal!”

“One thing is perfectly clear,” said Upton, boldly, “the man who shrinks

from the repair of a wrong he has done, on the consideration of how it

would affect himself and his own interests, shows that he cares more for

the outward show of honor than its real and sustaining power.”

“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. The straight road is

rarely, or never, possible; even if events were, which they are not,

easy to read, they must be taken in combination with others, and with

their consequences. The path of action becomes necessarily devious and

winding, and compromises are called for at every step. It is not in the

moment of shipwreck that a man stops to inquire into petty details of

the articles he throws into a long-boat; he is bent on saving himself as

best he can. He seizes what is next to him, if it suit his purpose. Now,

were he to act in this manner in all the quiet security of his life on

shore, his conduct would be highly blamable. No emergency would warrant

his taking what belonged to another,--no critical moment would drive

him to the instinct of self-preservation. Just the same is the interval

between action and reflection. Give me time and forethought, and I will

employ something better and higher than craft. My subtlety, as you like

to call it, is not my best weapon; I only use it in emergency.”

“I read the matter differently,” said Glencore, sulkily; “I could,

perhaps, offer another explanation of your practice.”

“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 great trials of this world are like its great

maladies. Providence has meant them to be fatal. We call in the doctor

in the one case, or the counsellor in the other, out of habit rather

than out of hope. Our own consciousness has already whispered that

nothing can be of use; but we like to do as our neighbors, and so we

take remedies and follow injunctions to the last. The wise man quickly

detects by the character of the means how emergent is the case believed

to be, and rightly judges that recourse to violent measures implies the

presence of great peril. If he be really wise, then he desists at once

from what can only torture his few remaining hours. They can be given to

better things than the agonies of such agency. To this exact point has

my case come, and by the counsels you have given me do I read my danger!

Your only remedy is as bad as the malady it is meant to cure! I cannot

take it!”

“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, somewhere for the autumn, and

meanwhile I 'll wander about alone.”

“What direction do you purpose to take?”

“The Schwarzwald and the Hohlenthal, first. I want to revisit a place I

knew in happier days. Memory must surely have something besides sorrows

to render us. I owned a little cottage there once, near Steig. I fished

and read Uhland for a summer long. I wonder if I could resume the same

life. I knew the whole village,--the blacksmith, the schoolmaster, the

Dorfrichter,--all of them. Good, kind souls they were: how they wept

when we parted! Nothing consoled them but my having purchased the

cottage, and promised to come back again!”

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 him for their beauty or their truthfulness; he told how he had

tried to allure his own mind to the tone that vibrated in “the magic

music of verse,” and how the very attempt had inspired him with gentler

thoughts, a softer charity, and a more tender benevolence towards his

fellows.

“Tieck is right, Upton, when he says there are two natures in us,

distinct and apart: one, the imaginative and ideal; the other, the

actual and the sensual. Many shake them together and confound them,

making of the incongruous mixture that vile compound of inconsistency

where the beautiful and the true are ever warring with the deformed

and the false; their lives a long struggle with themselves, a perpetual

contest between high hope and base enjoyment. A few keep them apart,

retaining, through their worldliness, some hallowed spot in the heart,

where ignoble desires and mean aspirations have never dared to come. A

fewer still have made the active work of life subordinate to the guiding

spirit of purity, adventuring on no road unsanctioned by high and holy

thoughts, caring for no ambitions but such as make us nobler and better.

“I once had a thought of such a life; and even the memory of it, like

the prayers we have learned in our childhood, has a hallowing influence

over after years. If that poor boy, Upton,” and his lips trembled on the

words,--“if that poor boy could have been brought up thus humbly! If

he had been taught to know no more than an existence of such simplicity

called for, what a load of care might it have spared _his_ heart and

_mine!_”

“You have read over those letters I gave you about him?” asked Upton,

who eagerly availed himself of the opportunity to approach an almost

forbidden theme.

“I have read them over and over,” said Glencore, sadly; “in all the

mention of him I read the faults of my own nature,--a stubborn spirit of

pride that hardens as much as elevates; a resentful temper, too prone to

give way to its own impulses; an over-confidence in himself, too, always

ready to revenge its defeats on the world about him. These are his

defects, and they are mine. Poor fellow, that he should inherit all that

I have of bad, and yet not be heir to the accidents of fortune which

make others so lenient to faults!”

If Upton heard these words with much interest, no less was he struck by

the fact that Glencore made no inquiry whatever as to the youth's fate.

The last letter of the packet revealed the story of an eventful duel and

the boy's escape from Massa by night, with his subsequent arrest by

the police; and yet in the face of incidents like these he continued to

speculate on traits of mind and character, nor even adverted to the

more closely touching events of his fate. By many an artful hint

and ingenious device did Sir Horace try to tempt him to some show

of curiosity; but all were fruitless. Glencore would talk freely and

willingly of the boy's disposition and his capacity; he would even

speculate on the successes and failures such a temperament might meet

with in life; but still he spoke as men might speak of a character in a

fiction, ingeniously weighing casualties and discussing chances; never,

even by accident, approaching the actual story of his life, or seeming

to attach any interest to his destiny.

Upton's shrewd intelligence quickly told him that this reserve was not

accidental; and he deliberated within himself how far it was safe to

invade it.

At length he resumed the attempt by adroitly alluding to the spirited

resistance the boy had made to his capture, and the consequences one

might naturally enough ascribe to a proud and high-hearted youth thus

tyrannically punished.

“I have heard something,” said Upton, “of the severities practised at

Kuffstein, and they recall the horrible tales of the Inquisition; the

terrible contrivances to extort confessions,--expedients that often

break down the intellect whose secrets they would discover; so that one

actually shudders at the name of a spot so associated with evil.”

Glencore placed his hands over his face, but did not utter a word; and

again Upton went on urging, by every device he could think of, some

indication that might mean interest, if not anxiety, when suddenly he

felt Glencore's hand grasp his arm with violence.

“No more of this, Upton,” cried he, sternly; “you do not know the

torture you are giving me.” There was a long and painful pause between

them, at the end of which Glencore spoke, but it was in a voice scarcely

above a whisper, and every accent of which trembled with emotion. “You

remember one sad and memorable night, Upton, in that old castle in

Ireland,--the night when I came to the resolution of this vengeance! I

sent for the boy to my room; we were alone there together, face to face.

It was such a scene as could brook no witness, nor dare I now recall its

details as they occurred. He came in frankly and boldly, as he felt

he had a right to do. How he left that room,--cowed, abashed, and

degraded,--I have yet before me. Our meeting did not exceed many minutes

in duration; neither of us could have endured it longer. Brief as it

was, we ratified a compact between us: it was this,--neither was ever to

question or inquire after the other, as no tie should unite, no interest

should bind us. Had you seen him then, Upton,” cried Glencore, wildly,

“the proud disdain with which he listened to my attempts at excuse,

the haughty distance with which he seemed to reject every thought

of complaint, the stern coldness with which he heard me plan out his

future,--you would have said that some curse had fallen upon my heart,

or it could never have been dead to traits which proclaimed him to be

my own. In that moment it was my lot to be like him who held out his own

right hand to be first burned, ere he gave his body to the flames.

“We parted without an embrace; not even a farewell was spoken between

us. While I gloried in his pride, had he but yielded ever so little,

had one syllable of weakness, one tear escaped him, I had given up my

project, reversed all my planned vengeance, and taken him to my heart as

my own. But no! He was resolved on proving by his nature that he was of

that stern race from which, by a falsehood, I was about to exclude him.

It was as though my own blood hurled a proud defiance to me.

“As he walked slowly to the door, his glove fell from his hand. I

stealthily caught it up. I wanted to keep it as a memorial of that

bitter hour; but he turned hastily around and plucked it from my hand.

The action was even a rude one; and with a mocking smile, as though he

read my meaning and despised it, he departed.

“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 MAGRA

When it rains in Italy it does so with a passionate ardor that bespeaks

an unusual pleasure. It is no “soft dissolving in tears,” but a perfect

outburst of woe,--wailing in accents the very wildest, and deluging the

land in torrents. Mountain streams that were rivulets in the morning,

before noon arrives are great rivers, swollen and turbid, carrying away

massive rocks from their foundations, and tearing up large trees by the

roots. The dried-up stony bed you have crossed a couple of hours back

with unwetted feet is now the course of a stream that would defy the

boldest.

These sudden changes are remarkably frequent along that beautiful tract

between Nice and Massa, and which is known as the “Riviera di Levante.”

The rivers, fed from innumerable streams that pour down from the

Apennines, are almost instantaneously swollen; and as their bed

continually slopes towards the sea, the course of the waters is one of

headlong velocity. Of these, the most dangerous by far is the Magra. The

river, which even in dry seasons is a considerable stream, becomes, when

fed by its tributaries, a very formidable body of water, stretching full

a mile in width, and occasionally spreading a vast sheet of foam close

to the very outskirts of Sarzana. The passage of the river is all the

more dangerous at these periods as it approaches the sea, and more than

one instance is recorded where the stout raft, devoted to the use of

travellers, has been carried away to the ocean.

Where the great post-road from Genoa to the South passes, a miserable

shealing stands, half hidden in tall osiers, and surrounded with a

sedgy, swampy soil the foot sinks in at every step. This is the shelter

of the boatmen who navigate the raft, and who, in relays by day and

night, are in waiting for the service of travellers. In the dreary days

of winter, or in the drearier nights, it is scarcely possible to imagine

a more hopeless spot; deep in the midst of a low marshy tract, the

especial home of tertian fever, with the wild stream roaring at the very

door-sill, and the thunder of the angry ocean near, it is indeed all

that one can picture of desolation and wretchedness. Nor do the living

features of the scene relieve its gloomy influence. Though strong men,

and many of them in the prime of life, premature age and decay seem to

have settled down upon them. Their lustreless eyes and leaden lips tell

of ague, and their sad, thoughtful faces bespeak those who are often

called upon to meet peril, and who are destined to lives of emergency

and hazard.

It was in the low and miserable hut we speak of, just as night set in of

a raw November, that four of these raftsmen sat at their smoky fire, in

company with two travellers on foot, whose humble means compelled them

to await the arrival of some one rich enough to hire the raft. Meanly

clad and wayworn were the strangers who now sat endeavoring to dry their

dripping clothes at the blaze, and conversing in a low tone together.

If the elder, dressed in a russet-colored blouse and a broad-leafed hat,

his face almost hid in beard and moustaches, seemed by his short and

almost grotesque figure a travelling showman, the appearance of the

younger, despite all the poverty of his dress, implied a very different

class.

He was tall and well knit, with a loose activity in all his gestures

which almost invariably characterizes the Englishman; and though his

dark hair and his bronzed cheek gave him something of a foreign look,

there was a calm, cold self-possession in his air that denoted the

Anglo-Saxon. He sat smoking his cigar, his head resting on one hand, and

evidently listening with attention to the words of his companion. The

conversation that passed will save us the trouble of introducing them to

our reader, if he have not already guessed them.

“If we don't wait,” said the elder, “till somebody richer and better

off than ourselves comes, we 'll have to pay seven francs for passin' in

such a night as this.”

“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 youth, “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 vinegar, though ye call it

grape-juice. On my conscience, I 'm thinkin' that the only people that

preserves their strength upon nothin' is the Irish. I used to carry

the bags over Slieb-na-boregan mountain and the Turk's Causeway on wet

potatoes and buttermilk, and never a day late for eleven years.”

“What 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 shinin' and a fine fresh breeze blowin' the

white clouds away over the Atlantic, my road was a right cheery one, and

I went along inventin' stories, sometimes fairy tales, sometimes makin'

rhymes to myself, but always happy and contented. There wasn't a bit of

the way I had n't a name for in my own mind, either some place I read

about, or some scene in a story of my own; but better than all, there

was a dog,--a poor starved lurcher he was,--with a bit of the tail

cut off; he used to meet me, as regular as the clock, on the side of

Currah-na-geelah, and come beside me down to the ford every day in the

year. No temptation nor flattery would bring him a step farther. I spent

three-quarters of an hour once trying it, but to no good; he took leave

of me on the bank of the river, and went away back with his head down,

as if he was grievin' over something. Was n't that mighty curious?”

“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, or ate a lamb of a flock given him to guard. But indeed his

general appearance and behavior was n't like that; he had good manners,

and, starved as he was, he never snapped the bread out of my fingers,

but took it gently, though his eyes was dartin' out of his head with

eagerness all the while.”

“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 myself. 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 venture 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 vexations and troubles of life, there's always a way of gettin'

round them. You can chate even grief, and you can slip away from danger;

but there's no circumventin' an empty stomach.”

“What a tyrant is then your rich man!” sighed the youth, heavily.

“That he is. 'Dives honoratus. Pulcher rex denique regum.' You may do as

you please if ye'r rich as a Begum.”

“A free translation, rather, Billy,” said the other, laughing.

“Or ye might render it this way,” said Billy,--

“If ye 've money enough and to spare in the bank,

The world will give ye both beauty and rank.

And I 've nothing to say agin it,” continued he. “The raal stimulus to

industhry in life, is to make wealth powerful. Gettin' and heapin'

up money for money's sake is a debasin' kind of thing; but makin' a

fortune, in order that you may extind your influence, and mowld the

distinies of others,--that's grand.”

“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 exultation of a ready

debater. “Them dirty varmint ye speak of is the very test of the truth

I 'm tellin' ye. 'T is because they won't labor--because they won't

work--that they are driven to acts of sycophancy and meanness. The

spirit of industhry saves a man even the excuse of doin' anything low!”

“And how often, from your own lips, have I listened to praises at your

poor humble condition; rejoicings that your lot in life secured you

against the cares of wealth and grandeur!”

“And you will again, plaze God! if _I_ 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 emphasis on a word he had some

trouble in discovering. “Atin' myself sick with delicacies, and drinkin'

cordials all day long. How would I know the uses of wealth? Like all

other vulgar creatures, I 'd be buyin' with my money the respect that I

ought to be buyin' with my qualities. It's the very same thing you

see in a fair or a market,--the country girls goin' about, hobbled

and crippled with shoes on, that, if they had bare feet, could walk as

straight as a rush. Poverty is not ungraceful itself. It's tryin' to be

what isn't natural, spoils people entirely.”

“I think I hear voices without. Listen!” cried the youth.

“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 travellers' impatience

had now reached its highest point; but to this a slight lull succeeded,

probably occasioned by the parley 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. “Who and what are they that can't wait

till morning?”

“Who knows?” said Beppo, with a genuine shrug of native indifference.

“Princes, belike!”

“Princes or beggars, we all have lives to save!” mumbled out an old man,

as he reseated himself by the fire. Meanwhile the courier had entered

the hut, and was in earnest negotiation with the chief, who, however,

showed no disposition to run the hazard of the attempt.

“Are you all cowards alike?” said the courier, in all the insolence

of his privileged order; “or is it a young fellow of _your_ 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 mayhap the first wet jacket here

will be one with gold lace on the collar.”

“He's not one of us; he's a traveller,” quickly interposed the chief,

who saw that an angry scene was brewing. “He's only waiting to cross the

river,” muttered he in a whisper, “when some one comes rich enough to

hire the raft.”

“_Sacre bleu!_ Then he shan't come with us; that I'll promise him,” said

the courier, whose offended dignity roused all his ire. “Now, once for

all, my men, will you earn a dozen Napoleons, or not? Here they are for

you if you land us safely at the other side; and never were you so well

paid in your lives for an hour's labor.”

The sight of the gold, as it glistened temptingly in his outstretched

hand, appealed to their hearts far more eloquently than all his words,

and they gathered in a group together to hold counsel.

“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 your master's

leathern bag there can give you no claim to insult those who have

offered you no offence. It is enough that you know that we do not belong

to the raft to suffer us to escape your notice.”

“_Sacristi!_” 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.”

[Illustration: 402]

“Vagabond!” cried the youth, furiously; and he sprang at the other with

the bound of a tiger. The courier quickly parried the blow aimed at him,

and, closely grappled, they both now reeled out of the hut in terrible

conflict. With that terror of the knife that figures in all Italian

quarrels, the boatmen did not dare to interfere, but looked on

as, wrestling with all their might, the combatants struggled, each

endeavoring to push the other towards the stream. Billy, too, restrained

by force, could not come to the rescue, and could only by words,

screamed out in all the wildness of his agony, encourage his companion.

“Drop on your knee--catch him by the legs--throw him back--back into the

stream. That's it--that's it! Good luck to ye!” shouted he, madly, as

he fought like a lion with those about him. Slipping in the slimy soil,

they had both now come to their knees; and after a struggle of some

minutes' duration, rolled, clasped in each other's fierce embrace, down

the slope into the river. A plash, and a cry half smothered, were heard,

and all was over.

While some threw themselves on the frantic creature, whose agony now

overtopped his reason, and who fought to get free, with the furious rage

of despair, others, seizing lanterns and torches, hurried along the bank

of the torrent to try and rescue the combatants. A sudden winding of the

river at the place gave little hope to the search, and it was all but

certain that the current must already have swept them down far beyond

any chance of succor. Assisted by the servants of the traveller, who

speedily were apprised of the disaster, the search was continued for

hours, and morning at length began to break over the dreary scene,

without one ray of hope. By the gray cold dawn, the yellow flood could

be seen for a considerable distance, and the banks too, over which

a gauzy mist was hanging; but not a living thing was there! The wild

torrent swept along his murky course with a deep monotonous roar. Trunks

of trees and leafy branches rose and sank in the wavy flood, but nothing

suggested the vaguest hope that either had escaped. The traveller's

carriage returned to Spezia, and Billy, now bereft of reason, was

conveyed to the same place, fast tied with cords, to restrain him from a

violence that threatened his own life and that of any near him.

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 the little town, the authorities were actively employed

in investigating the event, and ascertaining, so far as they could, to

which side the chief blame inclined.

The raftsmen had all been arrested, and were examined carefully, one

by one; and now it only remained to obtain from the traveller himself

whatever information he could contribute to throw light on the affair.

His passport, showing that he was an English peer, obtained for him all

the deference and respect foreign officials are accustomed to render to

that title, and the Prefect announced that if it suited his convenience,

he would wait on his Lordship at his hotel to receive his deposition.

“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 myself the victim,--while I have not a claim to

the character of witness, you would only harass me with interrogatories

I could not answer, and excite me to take interest, or at least bestow

attention, on what cannot concern me.”

“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 your passport,--Lord Glen-core. Two of those

I have placed to watch beside his bed have repeated the same story,

and told how he has never ceased to mutter the name to himself in his

wanderings.”

“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 hospital, 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, sir, that the exertion costs its price,” said he, with a

sad, sickly smile. “I am the wreck of what once was a man noted for his

strength.”

The other muttered some words of comfort and compassion, 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 Traynor, my Lord, the one you remember, the doctor--”

“And my boy!” screamed Glencore, wildly.

The sick man threw up both his arms in the air, and fell backward with

a cry of despair; while Glencore, tottering for an instant, sank with a

low groan, and fell senseless on the ground.

CHAPTER XLVII. A FRAGMENT OF A LETTER

Long before Lord Glencore had begun to rally from an attack which

had revived all the symptoms of his former illness, Billy Traynor had

perfectly recovered, and was assiduously occupied in attending him.

Almost the first tidings which Glencore could comprehend assured him

that the boy was safe, and living at Massa under the protection of the

Chevalier Stubber, and waiting eagerly for Billy to join him. A brief

extract from one of the youth's letters to his warm-hearted follower

will suffice to show how he himself regarded the incident which befell,

and the fortune that lay before him.

It was a long swim, of a dark night too, Master Billy; and whenever the

arm of a tree would jostle me, as it floated past, I felt as though that

“blessed” courier was again upon me, and turned to give fight at once.

If it were not that the river took a sudden bend as it nears the sea, I

must infallibly have been carried out; but I found myself quite suddenly

in slack water, and very soon after it shallowed so much that I could

walk ashore. The thought of what became of my adversary weighed more

heavily on me when I touched land; indeed, while my own chances of

escape were few, I took his fate easily enough. With all its dangers, it

was a glorious time, as, hurrying downward in the torrent, through the

dark night, the thunder growling overhead, the breakers battering away

on the bar, I was the only living thing there to confront that peril!

What an emblem of my own fate in everything! A headlong course, an

unknown ending, darkness--utter and day less darkness--around me, and

not one single soul to say, “Courage!” There is something splendidly

exciting in the notion of having felt thoughts that others have

never felt,--of having set footsteps in that un tracked sand where no

traveller has ever ventured. This impression never left me as I buffeted

the murky waves, and struck out boldly through the surfy stream. Nay,

more, it will never leave me while I live. I have now proved myself to

my own heart! I have been, and for a considerable time too, face to

face with death. I have regarded my fate as certain, and yet have I not

quailed in spirit or flinched in coolness. No, Billy; I reviewed every

step of my strange and wayward life. I bethought me of my childhood,

with all its ambitious longings, and my boyish days as sorrow first

broke upon me, and I felt that there was a fitness in this darksome and

mysterious ending to a life that touched on no other existence. For am I

not as much alone in the great world as when I swam there in the yellow

flood of the Magra?

As the booming breakers of the sea met my ear, and I saw that I was

nearing the wide ocean, I felt as might a soldier when charging an

enemy's battery at speed. I was wildly mad with impatience to get

forward, and shouted till my voice rang out above the din around me.

How the mad cheer echoed in my own heart! It was the trumpet-call of

victory.

Was it reaction from all this excitement--the depression that follows

past danger--that made me feel low and miserable afterwards? I know

I walked along towards Lavenza in listlessness, and when a gendarme

stopped to question me, and asked for my passport, I had not even energy

to tell him how I came there. Even the intense desire to see that spot

once more,--to walk that garden and sit upon that terrace,--all had

left me; it was as though the waves had drowned the spirit, and left the

limbs to move unguided. He led me beside the walls of the villa, by the

little wicket itself, and still I felt no touch of feeling, no memory

came back on me; I was indifferent to all! and yet _you_ 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.

What a sluggish swamp has this nature of mine become, when it needs a

hurricane of passion to stir it! Here I am, living, breathing, walking,

and sleeping, but without one sentiment that attaches me to existence;

and yet do I feel as though whatever endangered life, or jeoparded fame

would call me up to an effort and make me of some value to myself.

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 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 I a scholar. The world of active life offers to me

none of its seductions; I only recognize what there is in it of vulgar

contention and low rivalry. I cannot be any of the hundred things by

which men eke out subsistence, and yet I long for the independence of

being the arbiter of my own daily life. What is to become of me? Say,

dearest, best of friends,--say but the word, and let me try to obey

you. What of our old plans of 'savagery'? The fascinations of civilized

habits have made no stronger hold upon me since we relinquished that

grand idea. Neither you nor I assuredly have any places assigned us at

the feast of this old-world life; none have bidden us to it, nor have we

even the fitting garments to grace it!

There are moments, however,--one of them is on me while I

write,--wherein I should like to storm that strong citadel of social

exclusion, and test its strength. Who are they who garrison it? Are they

better, and wiser, and purer than their fellows? Are they lifted by the

accidents of fortune above the casualties and infirmities of nature?

and are they more gentle-minded, more kindly-hearted, and more forgiving

than others? This I should wish to know and learn for myself. Would they

admit us, for the nonce, to see and judge them? let the Bastard and the

Beggar sit down at their board, and make brotherhood with them? I trow

not, Billy. They would hand us over to the police!

And my friend the courier was not so far astray when he called us

vagabonds!

If I were free, I should, of course, be with you; but I am under a kind

of mild bondage here, of which I don't clearly comprehend the meaning.

The chief minister has taken me, in some fashion, under his protection,

and I am given to understand that no ill is intended me; and, indeed,

so far as treatment and moderate liberty are concerned, I have every

reason to be satisfied. Still is there something deeply wounding in all

this mysterious “consideration.” It whispers to me of an interest in me

on the part of those who are ashamed to avow it,--of kind feelings held

in check by self-esteem. Good Heavens! what have _I_ done, that this

humiliation should be my portion? There is no need of any subtlety to

teach me what I am, and what the world insists I must remain. There is

no ambition I dare to strive for, no affection my heart may cherish, no

honorable contest I may engage in, but that the utterance of one fatal

word may not bar the gate against my entrance, and send me back in shame

and confusion. Had I of myself incurred this penalty, there would be in

me that stubborn sense of resistance that occurs to every one who counts

the gain and loss of all his actions; but I have not done so! In the

work of my own degradation I am blameless!

I have just been told that a certain Princess de Sabloukoff is to arrive

here this evening, and that I am to wait upon her immediately. Good

Heavens! can she be--? The thought has just struck me, and my head is

already wandering at the bare notion of it! How I pray that this may not

be so; my own shame is enough, and more than I can bear; but to witness

that of--I Can you tell me nothing of this? But even if you can, the

tidings will come too late; I shall have already seen her.

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 _finest_ knowledge

of life united to a kind of hopeful trust in mankind, that I kept

eternally balancing in my mind whether her intelligence or her

kindliness had the supremacy. She spoke to me much of the Harleys.

Ida was well, and at Florence. She had refused Wahnsdorf's offer of

marriage, and though ardently solicited to let time test her decision,

persisted in her rejection.

Whether she knew of my affection or not, I cannot say; but I opine not,

for she talked of Ida as one whose haughty nature would decline alliance

with even an imperial house if they deemed it a condescension; so that

the refusal of Wahnsdorf may have been on this ground. But how can it

matter to _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 together. As this web of

intrigue--for so I cannot but feel it--draws more closely around me, I

grow more and more impatient to break bounds and be away! It is evident

enough that _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 given me money, and fine clothes, and a servant to wait

upon me, and treated me like one of condition. Is this but another

act of the drama, the first scene of which was an old ruined castle in

Ireland? They will fail signally if they think so; a heart can be broken

only once! They may even feel sorry for what they have done, but I can

never forgive them for what they have made me! Come to me, dear, kind

friend, as soon as you can; you little know how far your presence

reconciles me to the world and to yourself!--Ever yours,

C. M.

This letter Billy Traynor read over and over as he sat by Glencore's

bedside. It was his companion in the long, dreary hours of the night,

and he pondered over it as he sat in the darkened room at noonday.

“What is that you are crumpling up there? From whom is the letter?” said

Lord Glencore, as Billy hurriedly endeavored to conceal the oft-perused

epistle. “Nay,” cried he, suddenly correcting himself, “you need not

tell me; I asked without forethought.” He paused a few seconds, and then

went on: “I am now as much recovered as I ever hope to be, and you may

leave me to-morrow. I know that both your wish and your duty call you

elsewhere. Whatever future fortune may betide any of us, you at least

have been a true and faithful friend, and shall never want! As I count

upon your honesty to keep a pledge, I reckon on your delicacy not asking

the reasons for it. You will, therefore, not speak of having been with

me here. To mention me would be but to bring up bitter memories.”

In the pause which now ensued, Billy Traynor's feelings underwent a sore

trial; for while he bethought him that now or never had come the moment

to reconcile the father and the son, thus mysteriously separated, his

fears also whispered the danger of any ill-advised step on his part,

and the injury he might by possibility inflict on one he loved best on

earth.

“You make me this pledge, therefore, before we part,” said Lord

Glencore, who continued to ruminate on what he had spoken. “It is

less for _my_ sake than that of another.” Billy took the hand Glencore

tendered towards him respectfully in his own, and kissed it twice.

“There are men who have no need of oaths to ratify their faith

and trustfulness. You are one of them, Tray-nor,” said Glencore,

affectionately.

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 buried 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 apart and won't let them love one another?

Sure it wasn't in nature that a boy of his years could ever do what

would separate them this way. What could he possibly say or do that his

father might n't forget and forgive by this time? And then if it was

n't the child's fault at all, where's the justice in makin' him pay for

another's crime? Sure enough, great people must be unlike poor craytures

like me, in their hearts and feelin's as well as in their grandeur; and

there must be things that _we_ 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 onst, for divil a one o' me knows what pride

is,--barrin' it's the delight one feels in consthruin' a hard bit in

a Greek chorus, or hittin' the manin' of a doubtful passage in ould

Æschylus. But what's the good o' me puzzlin' myself? If I was to

speculate for fifty years, I 'd never be able to think like a lord,

after all!” And with this conclusion he began to prepare for his

journey.

CHAPTER XLVIII. HOW A SOVEREIGN TREATS WITH HIS MINISTER