“What can have brought them here, Stubber?” said the Duke of Massa, as

he walked to and fro in his dressing-room, with an air of considerable

perturbation. “Be assured of one thing, they have come for mischief!

I know that Sabloukoff well. _She_ it was separated Prince Max from my

sister, and that Montenegro affair was all _her_ doing also.”

“I don't suspect--”

“Don't you? Well, then, _I_ do, sir; and that's enough,” said he,

interrupting. “And as to Upton, he's well known throughout Europe,--a

'mauvais coucheur,' Stubber; that's what the Emperor Franz called

him,--a 'mauvais coucheur,' one of those fellows England employs to get

up the embarrassments she so deeply deplores. Eh, Stubber, that's the

phrase: 'While we deeply deplore the condition of the kingdom,'--that's

always the exordium to sending out a fleet or an impertinent

despatch. But I'll not endure it here. I have my sovereign rights, my

independence, my allies. By the way, haven't my allies taken possession

of the Opera House for a barrack?”

“That they have, sir; and they threaten an encampment in the Court

gardens.”

“An open insult, an outrage! And have _you_ endured and submitted to

this?”

“I have refused the permission; but they may very possibly take no heed

of my protest.”

“And you 'll tell me that I am the ruler of this state?”

“No, but I 'll say you might, if you liked to be so.”

“How so, Stubber? Come, my worthy fellow, what's your plan? You have

a plan, I'm certain--but I guess it: turn Protestant, hunt out the

Jesuits, close the churches, demolish the monasteries, and send for an

English frigate down to the Marina, where there's not water to float

a fishing-boat. But no, sir, I 'll have no such alliances; I 'll throw

myself upon the loyalty and attachment of my people, and--I'll raise

the taxes. Eh, Stubber? We'll tax the 'colza' and the quarries! If they

demur, we 'll abdicate; that's my last word,--abdicate.”

“I wonder who this sick man can be that accompanies Upton,” said

Stubber, who never suffered himself to be moved by his master's

violence.

“Another firebrand,--another emissary of English disturbance. Hardenberg

was perfectly right when he said the English nation pays off the meanest

subserviency to their own aristocracy by hunting down all that is

noble in every state of Europe. There, sir, he hit the mark in the very

centre. Slaves at home, rebels abroad,--that's your code!”

“We contrive to mix up a fair share of liberty with our bondage, sir.”

“In your talk,--only in your talk; and in the newspapers, Stubber. I

have studied you closely and attentively. You submit to more social

indignities than any nation, ancient or modern. I was in London in '15,

and I remember, at a race-course,--Ascot, they called it,--the Prince

had a certain horse called Rufus.”

“I rode him,” said Stubber, dryly.

“_You_ rode him?”

“Yes, sir. I was his jock for the King's Plate. There was a matter of

twenty-eight started,--the largest field ever known for the Cup,--and

Rufus reared, and, falling back, killed his rider; and the Duke of

Dunrobin sent for me, and told me to mount. That's the way I came to be

there.”

“_Per Bacco!_ it was a splendid race, and I'm sure I never suspected

when I cheered you coming in, that I was welcoming my future minister.

Eh, Stubber, only fancy what a change!”

Stubber only shrugged his shoulders, as though the alteration in fortune

was no such great prize after all.

“I won two thousand guineas on that day, Stubber. Lord Heddleworth paid

me in gold, I remember; for they picked my pocket of three rouleaux on

the course. The Prince laughed so at dinner about it, and said it was

pure patriotism not to suffer exportation of bullion. A great people

the English, that I must say! The display of wealth was the grandest

spectacle I ever beheld; and such beauty too! By the way, Stubber, our

ballet here is detestable. Where did they gather together that gang of

horrors?”

“What? signifies it, sir, if the Austrian Jagers are bivouacked in the

theatre?”

“Very true, by Jove!” said the Duke, pondering. “Can't we hit upon

something,--have you no happy suggestion? I have it, Stubber,--an

admirable thought. We 'll have Upton to dinner. We 'll make it appear

that he has come here specially to treat with us. There is a great

coldness just now between St. James's and Vienna. Upton will be charmed

with the thought of an intrigue; so will be La Sabloukoff. We 'll not

invite the Field-Marshal Rosen-krantz: that will itself offend Austria.

Eh, Stubber, is n't it good? Say to-morrow at six, and go yourself with

the invitation.”

And, overjoyed with the notion of his own subtlety, the Prince walked up

and down, laughing heartily, and rubbing his hands in glee.

Stubber, however, was too well versed in the changeability of his

master's nature to exhibit any rash promptitude in obeying him.

“You must manage to let the English papers speak of this, Stubber.

The 'Augsburg Gazette' will be sure to copy the paragraph, and what a

sensation it will create at Vienna!”

“I am inclined to think Upton has come here about that young fellow we

gave up to the Austrians last autumn, and for whom he desires to claim

some compensation and an ample apology.”

“Apology, of course, Stubber,--humiliation to any extent. I'll send the

Minister Landelli into exile,--to the galleys, if they insist; but I

'll not pay a scudo,--my royal word on it! But who says that such is the

reason of his presence here?”

“I had a hint of it last night, and I received a polite note from Upton

this morning, asking when he might have a few moments' conversation with

me.”

“Go to him, Stubber, with our invitation. Ask him if he likes shooting.

Say I am going to Serravezza on Saturday; sound him if he desires to

have the Red Cross of Massa; hint that I am an ardent admirer of his

public career; and be sure to tell me something he has said or done, if

he come to dinner.”

“There is to be a dinner, then, sir?” asked Stubber, with the air of one

partly struggling with a conviction.

“I have said so, Chevalier!” replied the Prince, haughtily, and in the

tone of a man whose decisions were irrevocable. “I mean to dine in the

state apartments, and to have a reception in the evening, just to show

Rosenkrantz how cheaply we hold him. Eh, Stubber? It will half kill him

to come with the general company!”

Stubber gave a faint sigh, as though fresh complications and more

troubles would be the sole results of this brilliant tactique.

“If I were well served and faithfully obeyed, there is not a sovereign

in Europe who would boast a more independent position,--protected by

my bold people, environed by my native Apennines, and sustained by the

proud consciousness--the proud consciousness---that I cannot injure a

state which has not sixpence in the treasury! Eh, Stubber?” cried he,

with a burst of merry laughter. “That's the grand feature of composure

and dignity, to know you can't be worse! and this, we Italian princes

can all indulge in. Look at the Pope himself, he is collecting the

imposts a year in advance!”

“I hope that this country is more equitably administered,” said Stubber.

“So do I, sir. Were I not impressed with the full conviction that the

subjects of this realm were in the very fullest enjoyment of every

liberty consistent with public tranquillity, protected in the

maintenance of every privilege--By the way, talking of privileges,

they must n't play 'Trottolo' on the high roads; they sent one of those

cursed wheels flying between the legs of my horse yesterday, so that

if I had n't been an old cavalry soldier, I must have been thrown! I

ordered the whole village to be fined three hundred scudi, one half of

which to be sent to the shrine of our Lady of Loretta, who really, I

believe, kept me in my saddle!”

“If the people had sufficient occupation, they 'd not play 'Trottolo,'”

said Stubber, sternly.

“And whose the fault if they have not, sir? How many months have I been

entreating to have those terraced gardens finished towards the sea? I

want that olive wood, too, all stubbed up, and the ground laid out in

handsome parterres. How repeatedly have I asked for a bridge over that

ornamental lake; and as to the island, there's not a magnolia planted

in it yet. Public works, indeed; find me the money, Stubber, and I 'll

suggest the works. Then, there 's that villa, the residence of those

English people,--have we not made a purchase of it?”

“No, your Highness; we could not agree about the terms, and I have just

heard that the stranger who is travelling with Upton is going to buy

it.”

“Stepping in between me and an object I have in view! And in my own

Duchy, too! And you have the hardihood to tell me that you knew of and

permitted this negotiation to go on?”

“There is nothing in the law to prevent it, sir.”

“The law! What impertinence to tell me of the law I Why, sir, it is I

am the law,--I am the head and fountain of all law here; without my

sanction, what can presume to be legal?”

“I opine that the Act which admits foreigners to possess property in the

state was passed in the life of your Highness's father.”

“I repeal it, then! It saps the nationality of a people; it is a blow

aimed at the very heart of independent sovereignty. I may stand alone

in all Europe on this point, but I will maintain it. And as to this

stranger, let his passport be sent to him on the spot.”

“He may possibly be an Englishman, your Highness: and remember that we

have already a troublesome affair on our hands with that other youth,

who in some way claims Upton's protection. Had we not better go more

cautiously to work? I can see and speak with him.”

“What a tyranny is this English interference! There is not a land,

from Sweden to Sicily, where, on some assumed ground of humanity, your

Government have not dared to impose their opinions! You presume to

assert that all men must feel precisely like your dogged and hard-headed

countrymen, and that what are deemed grievances in your land should be

thought so elsewhere. You write up a code for the whole world, built

out of the materials of all your national prejudices, your insular

conceit,--ay, and out of the very exigencies of your bad climate; and

then you say to us, blessed in the enjoyment of light hearts and God's

sunshine, that we must think and feel as you do! I am not astonished

that my nobles are discontented with the share you possess of my

confidence; they must long have seen how little suited the maxims of

your national policy are to the habits of a happier population!”

“The people are far better than their nobles,--that I 'm sure of,” said

Stubber, stoutly.

“You want to preach socialism to me, and hope to convert me to that

splendid doctrine of communism we hear so much of. You are a dangerous

fellow,--a very dangerous fellow. It was precisely men of your stamp

sapped the monarchy in France, and with it all monarchy in Europe.”

“If your Highness intends Proserpine to run at Bologna, she ought to be

put in training at once,” said Stubber, gravely; “and we might send up

some of the weeds at the same time, and sell them off.”

“Well thought of, Stubber; and there was something else in my

head,--what was it?”

“The suppression of the San Lorenzo convent, perhaps; it is all

completed, and only waits your Highness to sign the deed.”

“What sum does it give us, Stubber, eh?”

“About one hundred and eighty thousand scudi, sir, of which some twenty

thousand go to the National Mortgage Fund.”

“Not one crown of it,--not a single bajocco, as I am a Christian knight

and a true gentleman. I need it all, if it were twice as much. If we

incur the anger of the Pope and the Sacred College,--if we risk the

thunders of the Vatican,--let us have the worldly consolation of a full

purse.”

“I advised the measure on wiser grounds, sir. It was not fair and just

that a set of lazy friars should be leading lives of indolence and

abundance in the midst of a hard-worked and ill-fed peasantry.”

“Quite true; and on these wise grounds, as you call them, we have rooted

them out. We only wish that the game were more plenty, for the sport

amuses us vastly.” And he clapped Stubber familiarly on the shoulder,

and laughed heartily at his jest.

It was in this happy frame of mind that Stubber always liked to leave

his master; and so, promising to attend to the different subjects

discussed between them, he bowed and withdrew.

CHAPTER XLIX. SOCIAL DIPLOMACIES

“What an insufferable bore, dear Princess!” sighed Sir Horace, as he

opened the square-shaped envelope that contained his Royal Highnesses

invitation to dinner.

“I mean to be seriously indisposed,” said Madame de Sabloukoff; “one

gets nothing but chagrin in intercourse with petty Courts.”

“Like provincial journals, they only reproduce what has appeared in the

metropolitan papers, and give you old gossip for fresh intelligence.”

“Or, worse again, ask you to take an interest in their miserable

'localisms,'--the microscopic contentions of insect life.”

“They have given us a sentry at the door, I perceive,” said Sir Horace,

with assumed indifference.

“A very proper attention!” remarked the lady, in a tone that more than

half implied the compliment was one intended for herself.

“Have you seen the Chevalier Stubber yet?” asked Upton.

“No; he has been twice here, but I was dressing, or writing notes. And

you?”

“I told him to come about two o'clock,” sighed Sir Horace. “I rather

like Stubber.”

This was said in a tone of such condescension that it sounded as though

the utterer was confessing to an amicable weakness in his nature,--“I

rather like Stubber.”

Though there was something meant to invite agreement in the tone, the

Princess only accepted the speech with a slight motion of her eyebrows,

and a look of half unwilling assent.

“I know he's not of _your_ world, dear Princess, but he belongs to that

Anglo-Saxon stock we are so prone to associate with all the ideas of

rugged, unadorned virtue.”

“Rugged and unadorned indeed!” echoed the lady.

“And yet never vulgar,” rejoined Upton,--“never affecting to be other

than he is; and, stranger still, not self-opinionated and conceited.”

“I own to you,” said she, haughtily, “that the whole Court here puts me

in mind of Hayti, with its Marquis of Orgeat and its Count Marmalade.

These people, elevated from menial station to a mock nobility, only

serve to throw ridicule upon themselves and the order that they

counterfeit. No socialist in Europe has done such service to the cause

of democracy as the Prince of Massa!”

“Honesty is such a very rare quality in this world that I am not

surprised at his Highness prizing it under any garb. Now, Stubber is

honest.”

“He says so himself, I am told.”

“Yes, he says so, and I believe him. He has been employed in situations

of considerable trust, and always acquitted himself well. Such a man

cannot have escaped temptations, and yet even his enemies do not accuse

him of venality.”

“Good Heavens! what more would he have than his legitimate spoils? He

is a Minister of the Household, with an ample salary; a Master of the

Horse; an inspector of Woods and Forests; a something over Church lands;

and a Red Cross of Massa besides. I am quite 'made up' in his dignities,

for they are all set forth on his visiting-card with what purports to

be a coat of arms at top.” And, as she spoke, she held out the card in

derision.

“That's silly, I must say,” said Upton, smiling; “and yet, I suppose

that here in Massa it was requisite he should assert all his pretensions

thus openly.”

“Perhaps so,” said she, dryly.

“And, after all,” said Upton, who seemed rather bent on a system of mild

tormenting,--“after all, there is something amiable in the weakness of

this display,--it smacks of gratitude! It is like saying to the world,

'See what the munificence of my master has made me!'”

“What a delicate compliment, too, to his nobles, which proclaims that

for a station of trust and probity the Prince must recruit from the

kitchen and the stables. To _my_ thinking, there is no such impertinent

delusion as that popular one which asserts that we must seek

for everything in its least likely place,--take ministers out of

counting-houses, and military commanders from shop-boards. For the

treatment of weighty questions in peace or war, the gentleman element is

the first essential.”

“Just as long as the world thinks so, dear Princess; not an hour

longer.”

The Princess arose, and walked the room in evident displeasure. She half

suspected that his objections were only devices to irritate, and she

determined not to prolong the discussion. The temptation to reply

proved, however, too strong for her resolution, and she said,--

“The world has thought so for some centuries; and when a passing shade

of doubt has shaken the conviction, have not the people rushed from

revolution into actual bondage, as though any despotism were better than

the tyranny of their own passions?”

“I opine,” said Upton, calmly, “that the 'prestige' of the gentleman

consists in his belonging to an 'order.' Now, that is a privilege that

cannot be enjoyed by a mere popular leader. It is like the contrast

between a club and a public meeting.”

“It is something that you confess these people have no 'prestige,'” said

she, triumphantly. “Indeed, their presence in the world of politics,

to my thinking, is a mere symbol of change,--an evidence that we are in

some stage of transition.”

“So we are, madame; there is nothing more true. Every people of Europe

have outgrown their governments, like young heirs risen to manhood,

ordering household affairs to their will. The popular voice now swells

above the whisper of cabinets. So long as each country limits itself

to home questions, this spirit will attract but slight notice. Let the

issue, however, become a great international one, and you will see the

popular will declaring wars, cementing alliances, and signing peaces in

a fashion to make statecraft tremble!”

“And you approve of this change, and welcome it?” asked she, derisively.

“I have never said so, madame. I foresee the hurricane, that's all. Men

like Stubber are to be seen almost everywhere throughout Europe. They

are a kind of declaration that, for the government and guidance of

mankind, the possession of a good head and an honest heart is amply

sufficient; that rulers neither need fourteen quarterings nor names

coeval with the Roman Empire.”

“You have given me but another reason to detest him,” said the Princess,

angrily. “I don't think I shall receive him to-day.”

“But you want to speak with him about that villa; there is some

formality to be gone through before a foreigner can own property here. I

think you promised Glencore you would arrange the matter.”

She made no reply, and he continued: “Poor fellow! a very short lease

would suffice for his time; he is sinking rapidly. The conflict his

mind wages between hope and doubt has hastened all the symptoms of his

malady.”

“In such a struggle a woman has more courage than a man.”

“Say more boldness, Princess,” said Upton, slyly.

“I repeat, courage, sir. It is fear, and nothing but fear, that agitates

him. He is afraid of the world's sneer; afraid of what society will

think, and say, and write about him; afraid of the petty gossip of the

millions he will never see or hear of. This cowardice it is that checks

him in every aspiration to vindicate his wife's honor and his boy's

birth.”

“_Si cela se peut_,” said Upton, with a very equivocal smile.

A look of haughty anger, with a flush of crimson on her cheek, was the

only answer she made him.

“I mean that he is really not in a position to prove or disprove

anything. He assumed certain 'levities'--I suppose the word will do--to

mean more than levities; he construed indiscretions into grave faults,

and faults into crimes. But that he did all this without sufficient

reason, or that he now has abundant evidence that he was mistaken, I am

unable to say, nor is it with broken faculties and a wandering intellect

that he can be expected to review the past and deliver judgment on it.”

“The whole moral of which is: what a luckless fate is that of a foreign

wife United to an English husband!”

“There is much force in the remark,” said Upton, calmly.

“To have her thoughts, and words, and actions submitted to the standard

of a nation whose moral subtleties she could never comprehend; to be

taught that a certain amount of gloom must be mixed up with life,

just as bitters are taken for tonics; that _ennui_ is the sure type of

virtue, and low spirits the healthiest condition of the mind,--these are

her first lessons: no wonder if she find them hard ones.

“To be told that all the harmless familiarities she has seen from her

childhood are dangerous freedoms, all the innocent gayeties of the world

about her are snares and pitfalls, is to make existence little better

than a penal servitude,--this is lesson the second. While, to complete

her education, she is instructed how to assume a censorial rigidity of

manner that would shame a duenna, and a condemnatory tone that assumes

to arraign all the criminals of society, and pass sentence on them. How

amiable she may become in disposition, and how suitable as a companion

by this training, _you_, sir, and your countrymen are best able to

pronounce.”

“You rather exaggerate our demerits, my dear Princess,” said Upton,

smiling. “We really do _not_ like to be so very odious as you would make

us.”

“You are excellent people, with whom no one can live,--that's the whole

of it,” said she, with a saucy laugh. “If your friend Lord Glencore had

been satisfied to stay at home and marry one of his own nation, he might

have escaped a deal of unhappiness, and saved a most amiable creature

much more sorrow than falls to the lot of the least fortunate of her own

country. I conclude you have some influence over him?”

“As much, perhaps, as any one; but even that says little.”

“Can you not use it, therefore, to make him repair a great wrong?”

“You had some plan, I think?” said he, hesitatingly.

“Yes; I have written to her to come down here. I have pretended that

her presence is necessary to certain formalities about the sale of the

villa. I mean that they should meet, without apprising either of them. I

have sent the boy out of the way to Pontremoli to make me a copy of some

frescoes there; till the success of my scheme be decided, I did not wish

to make him a party to it.”

“You don't know Glencore,--at least as I know him.”

“There is no reason that I should,” broke she in. “What I would try is

an experiment, every detail of which I would leave to chance. Were this

a case where all the wrong were on one side, and all the forgiveness

to come from the other, friendly aid and interposition might well be

needed; but here is a complication which neither you, nor I, nor any one

else can pretend to unravel. Let them meet, therefore, and let Fate--if

that be the name for it--decide what all the prevention and planning in

the world could never provide for.”

“The very fact that their meeting has been plotted beforehand will

suggest distrust.”

“Their manner in meeting will be the best answer to that,” said she,

resolutely. “There will be no acting between them, depend upon 't.”

“He told me that he had destroyed the registry of their marriage, nor

does he know where a single witness of the ceremony could be found.”

“I don't want to know _how_ he could make the _amende_ till I know that

he is ready to do it,” said she, in the same calm tone.

“To have arranged a meeting with the boy had perhaps been better than

this. Glencore has not avowed it, but I think I can detect misgivings

for his treatment of the youth.”

“This was my first thought, and I spoke to young Massy the evening

before Lord Glencore arrived. I led him to tell me of his boyish days

in Ireland and his home there; a stern resolution to master all emotion

seemed to pervade whatever he said; and though, perhaps, the effort may

have cost him much, his manner did not betray it. He told me that he

was illegitimate, that the secret was divulged to him by his own father,

that he had never heard who his mother was, nor what rank in life she

occupied. When I said that she was one in high station, that she was

alive and well, and one of my own dearest friends, a sudden crimson

covered his face, as quickly followed by a sickly pallor; and though he

trembled in every limb, he never spoke a word. I endeavored to excite

in him some desire to learn more of her, if not to see her, but in

vain. The hard lesson he had taught himself enabled him to repress

every semblance of feeling. It was only when at last, driven to the very

limits of my patience, I abruptly asked him, 'Have you no wish to see

your mother?' that his coldness gave way, and, in a voice tremulous and

thick, he said, 'My shame is enough for myself.' I was burning to say

more, to put before him a contingency, the mere shadow of a possibility

that his claim to birth and station might one day or other be

vindicated. I did not actually do so, but I must have let drop some

chance word that betrayed my meaning, for he caught me up quickly, and

said, 'It would come too late, if it came even to-day. I am that which

I am by many a hard struggle; you 'll never see me risk a disappointment

in life by any encouragement I may give to hope.'

“I then adverted to his father; but he checked me at once, saying,

'When the ties that should be closest in life are stained with shame and

dishonor, they are bonds of slavery, not of affection. My debt to Lord

Glencore is the degradation I live in,--none other. His heritage to me

is the undying conflict in my heart between what I once thought I was

and what I now know I am. If we met, it would be to tell him so.' In a

word, every feature of the father's proud unforgivingness is reproduced

in the boy, and I dreaded the very possibility of their meeting. If

ever Lord Glencore avow his marriage and vindicate his wife's honor, his

hardest task will be reconciliation with this boy.”

“All, and more than all, the evils I anticipated have followed this

insane vengeance,” said Upton. “I begin to think that one ought to leave

a golden bridge even to our revenge, Princess.”

“Assuredly, wherever a woman is the victim,” said she, smiling; “for you

are so certain to have reasons for distrusting yourself.”

Upton sat meditating for some time on the plan of the Princess; had

it only originated with himself, it was exactly the kind of project he

would have liked. He knew enough of life to be aware that one can do

very little more than launch events upon the great ocean of destiny;

that the pretension to guide and direct them is oftener a snare than

anything else; that the contingencies and accidents, the complications

too, which beset every move in life, disconcert all one's

pre-arrangements, so that it is rare indeed when we are able to pursue

the same path towards any object by which we have set out.

As the scheme was, however, that of another, he now scrutinized it, and

weighed every objection to its accomplishment, constantly returning to

the same difficulty, as he said,--

“You do not know Glencore.”

“The man who has but one passion, one impulse in life, is rarely a

difficult study,” was the measured reply. “Lord Glencore's vengeance has

worn itself out, exactly as all similar outbreaks of temper do, for want

of opposition. There was nothing to feed, nothing to minister to it. He

sees--I have taken care that he should see--that his bolt has not struck

the mark; that her position is not the precarious thing he meant to

make it, but a station as much protected and fenced round by its own

conventionalities as that of any, the proudest lady in society. For one

that dares to impugn her, there are full fifty ready to condemn _him_;

and all this has been done without reprisal or recrimination; no

partisanship to arraign his moroseness and his cruelty,--none of that

'coterie' defence which divides society into two sections. This, of

course, has wounded his pride, but it has not stimulated his anger; but,

above all, it has imparted to her the advantage of a dignity of which

his vengeance was intended to deprive her.”

“You must be a sanguine and a hopeful spirit, Princess, if you deem that

such elements will unite happily hereafter,” said Upton, smiling.

“I really never carried my speculations so far,” replied she. “It is in

actual life, as in that of the stage, quite sufficient to accompany the

actors to the fall of the curtain.”

“The Chevalier Stubber, madame,” said a servant, entering, “wishes to

know if you will receive him.”

“Yes--no--yes. Tell him to come in,” said, she rapidly, as she resumed

her seat beside the fire.

CHAPTER L. ANTE-DINNER REFLECTIONS

Notwithstanding the strongly expressed sentiments of the Princess with

regard to the Chevalier Stubber, she received him with marked favor, and

gave him her hand to kiss, with evident cordiality. As for Upton, it was

the triumph of his manner to deal with men separated widely from himself

in station and abilities. He could throw such an air of good fellowship

into the smallest attentions, impart such a glow of kindliness to the

veriest commonplaces, that the very craftiest and shrewdest could never

detect. As he leaned his arm, therefore, on Stubber's shoulder, and

smiled benignly on him, you would have said it was the affectionate

meeting with a long-absent brother. But there was something besides

this: there was the expansive confidence accorded to a trusty colleague;

and as he asked him about the Duchy, its taxation, its debt, its

alliances and difficulties, you might mark in the attention he bestowed

all the signs of one receiving very valuable information.

“You perceive, Princess,” said he, at last, “Stubber quite agrees with

the Duke of Cloudeslie,--these small states enjoy no real independence.”

“Then why are they not absorbed into the larger nations about them?”

“They have their uses; they are like substances interposed between

conflicting bodies, which receive and diminish the shock of collisions.

So that Prussia, when wanting to wound Austria, only pinches Baden; and

Austria, desirous of insulting Saxony, 'takes it out' on Sigmaringen.”

“It's a pleasant destiny you assign them,” said she, laughing.

“Stubber will tell you I'm not far wrong in my appreciation.”

“I 'm not for what they call 'mediatizing' them neither, my Lady,” said

Stubber, who generally used the designation to imply his highest degree

of respect. “That may all be very well for the interests of the great

states, and the balance of power, and all that sort of thing; but we

ought also to bestow a thought upon the people of these small countries,

especially on the inhabitants of their cities. What's to become of

_them_ when you withdraw their courts, and throw their little capitals

into the position of provincial towns and even villages?”

“They will eke out a livelihood somehow, my dear Stubber. Be assured

that they 'll not starve. Masters of the Horse may have to keep livery

stables; chamberlains turn valets; ladies of the bedchamber descend to

the arts of millinery: but, after all, the change will be but in name,

and there will not be a whit more slavery in the new condition than in

the old one.”

“Well, I 'm not so sure they 'll take the same comfortable view of it

that you do, Sir Horace,” said Stubber; “nor can I see who can possibly

want livery stables, or smart bonnets, or even a fine butler, when

the resources of the Court are withdrawn, and the city left to its own

devices.”

“Stubber suspects,” said Upton, “that the policy which prevails amongst

our great landed proprietors against small holdings is that which at

present influences the larger states of Europe against small kingdoms;

and so far he is right. It is unquestionably the notion of our day that

the influences of government require space for their exercise.”

“If the happiness of the people was to be thought of, which of course it

is not,” said Stubber, “I'd say leave them as they are.”

“Ah, my dear Stubber, you are now drawing the question into the realm of

the imaginary. What do any of us know about our happiness?”

“Enough to eat and drink, a comfortable roof over you, good clothes,

nothing oppressive or unequal in the laws,--these go for a good way

in the kind of thing I mean; and let me observe, sir, it is a great

privilege little states, like little people, enjoy, that they need have

no ambitions. They don't want to conquer anybody; they neither ask for

the mouth of a river here, or an island there; and if only let alone,

they 'll never disturb the peace of the world at large.”

“My dear Stubber, you are quite a proficient at state-craft,” said

Upton, with the very least superciliousness in the accent.

“Well, I don't know, Sir Horace,” said the other, modestly, “but as my

master's means are about the double of what they were when I entered his

service, and as the people pay about one-sixth less in taxes than they

used to do, mayhap I might say that I have put the saddle on the right

part of the back.”

“Your foreign policy does not seem quite as unobjectionable as your home

management. That was an ugly business about that boy you gave up to the

Austrians.”

“Well, there were mistakes on all sides. You yourself, Sir Horace, gave

him a false passport; his real name turns out to be Massy: it made an

impression on me, from a circumstance that happened when I was a young

fellow living as pad-groom with Prince Tottskoy. I went over on a

lark one day to Capri, and was witness to a wedding there of a young

Englishman called Massy.”

“Were you, then, present at the ceremony?”

“Yes, sir; and what's stranger still, I have a voucher for it.”

“A voucher for it. What do you mean?”

“It was this way, sir. There was a great supper for the country people

and the servants, and I was there, and I suppose I took too much of that

Capri wine; it was new and hot at the time, and I got into a row of

some sort, and I beat the Deputato from some place or t' other, and got

locked up for three days; and the priest, a very jolly fellow, gave

me under his handwriting a voucher that I had been a witness of the

marriage, and all the festivities afterwards, just to show my master how

everything happened. But the Prince never asked me for any explanations,

and only said he 'hoped I had amused myself well;' and so I kept my

voucher to myself, and I have it at this very hour.”

“Will you let me see it, Stubber?”

“To be sure, sir, you shall have it, if I can lay my hand on 't in the

course of the day.”

“Let me beg you will go at once and search for it; it may be of more

importance than you know of. Go, my dear Stubber, and look it up.”

“I'll not lose a moment, since you wish to have it,” said Stubber; “and

I am sure your ladyship will excuse my abrupt departure.”

The Princess assured him that her own interest in the document was not

inferior to that of Sir Horace, and he hastened off to prosecute his

search.

“Here, then, are all my plans altered at once,” exclaimed she, as the

door closed after him. “If this paper mean only as much as he asserts,

it will be ample proof of marriage, and lead us to the knowledge of all

those who were present at it.”

“Yet must we well reflect on the use we make of it,” said Upton.

“Glencore is now evidently balancing what course to take. As his chances

of recovery grow less each day, he seems to incline more and more to

repair the wrong he has done. Should we show on our side the merest

semblance of compulsion, I would not answer for him.”

“So that we have the power, as a last resource, I am content to

diplomatize,” said the Princess; “but you must see him this evening, and

press for a decision.”

“He has already asked me to come to him after we return from Court. It

will be late, but it is the hour at which he likes best to talk. If I

see occasion for it, I can allude to what Stubber has told us; but it

will be only if driven by necessity to it.”

“I would act more boldly and more promptly,” said she.

“And rouse an opposition, perhaps, that already is becoming dormant. No,

I know Glencore well, and will deal with him more patiently.”

“From the Chevalier Stubber, your Excellency,” said a servant,

presenting a sealed packet; and Sir Horace opened it at once. The

envelope contained a small and shabby slip of paper, of which the

writing appeared faint and indistinct. It was dated 18--, Church of

St. Lorenzo, Capri, and went to certify that Guglielmo Stubber had been

present, on the morning of the 18th August, at the marriage of the Most

Noble Signor Massy with the Princess de la Torre, having in quality

as witness signed the registry thereof; and then went on to state

the circumstance of his attendance at the supper, and the event which

ensued. It bore the name of the writer at foot, Basilio Nardoni, priest

of the aforesaid church and village.

“Little is Glencore aware that such an evidence as this is in

existence,” said Upton. “The conviction that he had his vengeance in his

power led him into this insane project. He fancied there was not a flaw

in that terrible indictment; and see, here is enough to open the door to

truth, and undo every detail of all his plotting. How strange is it that

the events of life should so often concur to expose the dark schemes of

men's hearts; proofs starting up in un-thought-of places, as though to

show how vain was mere subtlety in conflict with the inevitable law of

Fate.”

“This Basilio Nardoni is an acquaintance of mine,” said the Princess,

bent on pursuing another train of thought; “he was chaplain to the

Cardinal Caraffa, and frequently brought me communications from his

Eminence. He can be found, if wanted.”

“It is unlikely--most unlikely--that we shall require him.”

“If you mean that Lord Glencore will himself make all the amends he can

for a gross injury and a fraud, no more is necessary,” said she, folding

the paper, and placing it in her pocket-book; “but if anything short of

this be intended, then there is no exposure too open, no publicity too

wide, to be given to the most cruel wrong the world has ever heard of.”

“Leave me to deal with Glencore. I think I am about the only one who can

treat with him.”

“And now for this dinner at Court, for I have changed my mind, and mean

to go,” said the Princess. “It is full time to dress, I believe.”

“It is almost six o'clock,” said Upton, starting up. “We have quite

forgotten ourselves.”

CHAPTER LI. CONFLICTING THOUGHTS

The Princess Sabloukoff found--not by any means an unfrequent experience

in life--that the dinner, whose dulness she had dreaded, turned out a

very pleasant affair. The Prince was unusually gracious. He was in good

spirits, and put forth powers of agreeability which had been successful

in one of less distinction than himself. He possessed eminently, what a

great orator once panegyrized as a high conversational element, “great

variety,” and could without abruptness pass from subject to subject,

with always what showed he had bestowed thought upon the theme before

him. Great people have few more enviable privileges than that they

choose their own topics for conversation. Nothing disagreeable, nothing

wearisome, nothing inopportune, can be intruded upon them. When they

have no longer anything worth saying, they can change the subject or the

company.

His Highness talked with Madame de Sabloukoff on questions of state

as he might have talked with a Metternich; he even invited from her

expressions of opinion that were almost counsels, sentiments that

might pass for warnings. He ranged over the news of the day, relating

occasionally some little anecdote, every actor in which was a celebrity;

or now and then communicating some piece of valueless secrecy, told with

all the mystery of a “great fact;” and then he discussed with Upton the

condition of England, and deplored, as all Continental rulers do,

the impending downfall of that kingdom, from the growing force of our

restless and daring democracy. He regretted much that Sir Horace was not

still in office, but consoled himself by reflecting that the pleasure he

enjoyed in his society had been in that case denied him. In fact, what

with insinuated flatteries, little signs of confidence, and a most

marked tone of cordiality, purposely meant to strike beholders, the

Prince conducted the conversation right royally, and played “Highness”

to perfection.

And these two crafty, keen-sighted people, did they not smile at the

performance, and did they not, as they drove home at night, amuse

themselves as they recounted the little traits of the great man's

dupery? Not a bit of it. They were charmed with his gracious manner, and

actually enchanted with his agreeability. Strong in their self-esteem,

they could not be brought to suspect that any artifice could be

practised on _them_, or that the mere trickery and tinsel of high

station could be imposed on them as true value. Nay, they even went

further, and discovered that his Highness was really a very remarkable

man, and one who received far less than the estimation due to him. His

flightiness became versatility; his eccentricity was all originalty; and

ere they reached the hotel, they had endowed him with almost every moral

and mental quality that can dignify manhood.

“It is really a magnificent turquoise,” said the Princess, gazing with

admiration at a ring the Prince had taken from his own finger to present

to her.

“How absurd is that English jealousy about foreign decorations! I was

obliged to decline the Red Cross of Massa which his Highness proposed

to confer on me. A monarchy that wants to emulate a republic is simply

ridiculous.”

“You English are obliged to pay dear for your hypocrisies; and you

ought, for you really love them.” And with this taunt the carriage

stopped at the door of the inn.

As Upton passed up the stairs, the waiter handed him a note, which he

hastily opened; it was from Glencore, and in these words:--

Dear Upton,--I can bear this suspense no longer; to remain here

canvassing with myself all the doubts that beset me is a torture

I cannot endure. I leave, therefore, at once for Florence. Once

there,--where I mean to see and hear for myself,--I can decide what is

to be the fate of the few days or weeks that yet remain to--Yours,

Glencore.

“He is gone, then,--his Lordship has started?”

“Yes, your Excellency, he is by this time near Lucca, for he gave orders

to have horses ready at all the stations.”

“Read that, madame,” said Upton, as he once more found himself alone

with the Princess; “you will see that all your plans are disconcerted.

He is off to Florence.”

Madame de Sabloukoff read the note, and threw it carelessly on the

table. “He wants to forgive himself, and only hesitates how to do so

gracefully,” said she, sneeringly.

“I think you are less than just to him,” said Upton, mildly; “his is a

noble nature, disfigured by one grand defect.”

“Your national character, like your language, is so full of

incongruities and contradictions that I am not ashamed to own myself

unequal to master it; but it strikes me that both one and the other

usurp freedoms that are not permitted to others. At all events, I am

rejoiced that he has gone. It is the most wearisome thing in life to

negotiate with one too near you. Diplomacy of even the humblest kind

requires distance.”

“You agree with the duellist, I perceive,” said he, laughing, “that

twelve paces is a more fatal distance than across a handkerchief:

proximity begets tremor.”

“You have guessed my meaning correctly,” said she; “meanwhile, I must

write to _her_ not to come here. Shall I say that we will be in Florence

in a day or two?”

“I was just thinking of those Serravezza springs,” said Upton; “they

contain a bi-chloride of potash, which Staub, in his treatise, says, 'is

the element wanting in all nervous organizations.'”

“But remember the season,--we are in mid-winter; the hotels are closed.”

“The springs are running, Princess; 'the earth,' as Mos-chus says, 'is

a mother that never ceases to nourish.' I do suspect I need a little

nursing.”

The Princess understood him thoroughly. She well knew that whenever the

affairs of Europe followed an unbroken track, without anything eventful

or interesting, Sir Horace fell back upon his maladies for matter of

occupation. She had, however, now occasion for his advice and counsel,

and by no means concurred in his plan of spending some days, if not

weeks, in the dreary mountain solitudes of Serravezza. “You must

certainly consult Zanetti before you venture on these waters,” said

she; “they are highly dangerous if taken without the greatest

circumspection;” and she gave a catalogue of imaginary calamities which

had befallen various illustrious and gifted individuals, to which Upton

listened with profound attention.

“Very well,” sighed he, as she finished, “it must be as you say. I'll

see Zanetti, for I cannot afford to die just yet. That 'Greek question'

will have no solution without me,--no one has the key of it but myself.

That Panslavic scheme, too, in the Principalities attracts no notice

but _mine_; and as to Spain, the policy I have devised for that country

requires all the watchfulness I can bestow on it. No, Princess,”--here

he gave a melancholy sigh,--“we must not die at this moment. There are

just four men in Europe; I doubt if she could get on with three.”

“What proportion do you admit as to the other sex?” said she, laughing.

“I only know of one, madame;” and he kissed her hand with gallantry.

“And now for Florence, if you will.”

It is by no means improbable that our readers have a right to an apology

at our hands for the habit we have indulged of lingering along with the

two individuals whose sayings and doings are not directly essential

to our tale; but is not the story of every-day life our guarantee

that incidents and people cross and re-cross the path we are going,

attracting our attention, engaging our sympathy, enlisting our energies,

even in our most anxious periods? Such is the world; and we cannot

venture out of reality. Besides this, we are disposed to think that the

moral of a tale is often more effectively conveyed by the characters

than by the catastrophe of a story. The strange, discordant tones of

the human heart, blending, with melody the purest, sounds of passionate

meaning, are in themselves more powerful lessons than all the records of

rewarded virtue and all the calendars of punished vice. The nature of

a single man can be far more instructive than the history of every

accident that befalls him.

It is, then, with regret that we leave the Princess and Sir Horace to

pursue their journey alone. We confess a liking for their society, and

would often as soon loiter in the by-paths that they follow as journey

in the more recognized high-road of our true story. Not having the

conviction that our sympathy is shared by our readers, we again return

to the fortunes of Glencore.

When Lord Glencore's carriage underwent the usual scrutiny exercised

towards travellers at the gate of Florence, and prying officials poked

their lanterns in every quarter, in all the security of their “caste,”

two foot travellers were rudely pushed aside to await the time till the

pretentious equipage passed on. They were foreigners, and their effects,

which they carried in knapsacks, required examination.

“We have come a long way on foot to-day,” said the younger in a tone

that indicated nothing of one asking a favor. “Can't we have this search

made at once?”

“Whisht! whisht!” whispered his companion, in English; “wait till the

Prince moves on, and be polite with them all.”

“I am seeking for nothing in the shape of compliment,” said the other;

“there is no reason why, because I am on foot, I must be detained for

this man.”

Again the other remonstrated, and suggested patience.

“What are you grumbling about, young fellow?” cried one of the officers.

“Do you fancy yourself of the same consequence as Milordo? And see, he

must wait his time here.”

“We came a good way on foot to-day, sir,” interposed the elder, eagerly,

taking the reply on himself, “and we 're tired and weary, and would be

deeply obliged if you'd examine us as soon as you could.”

“Stand aside and wait your turn,” was the stern response.

“You almost deserve the fellow's insolence, Billy,” said the youth; “a

crown-piece in his hand had been far more intelligible than your appeal

to his pity.” And he threw himself wearily down on a stone bench.

Aroused by the accent of his own language, Lord Glencore sat up in his

carriage, and leaned out to catch sight of the speaker; but the shadow

of the overhanging roof concealed him from view. “Can't you suffer those

two poor fellows to move on?” whispered his Lordship, as he placed a

piece of money in the officer's hand; “they look tired and jaded.”

“There, thank his Excellency for his kindness to you, and go your way,”

muttered the officer to Billy, who, without well understanding the

words, drew nigh the window; but the glass was already drawn up, the

postilions were once more in their saddles, and away dashed the cumbrous

carriage in all the noise and uproar that is deemed the proper tribute

to rank.

The youth heard that they were free to proceed, with a half-dogged

indifference, and throwing his knapsack on his shoulders, moved away.

“I asked them if they knew one of her name in the city, and they said,

'No,'” said the elder.

“But they so easily mistake names: how did you call her?”

“I said 'Harley,--la Signora Harley,'” rejoined the other; “and they

were positive she was not here. They never heard of her.”

“Well, we shall know soon,” sighed the youth, heavily. “Is not this an

inn, Billy?”

“Ay is it, but not one for our purpose,--it's like a palace. They told

me of the 'Leone d'Oro' as a quiet place and cheap.”

“I don't care where or what it be; one day and night here will do all I

want. And then for Genoa, Billy, and the sea, and the world beyond the

sea,” said the youth, with increasing animation. “You shall see what a

different fellow I'll be when I throw behind me forever the traditions

of this dreary life here.”

“I know well the good stuff that's in ye,” said the other,

affectionately.

“Ay, but you don't know that I have energy as well as pride,” said the

other.

“There's nothing beyond your reach if you will only strive to get it,”

said he again, in the same voice.

“You're an arrant flatterer, old boy,” cried the youth, throwing his arm

around him; “but I would not have you otherwise for the world. There is

a happiness even in the self-deception of your praise that I could not

deny myself.”

Thus chatting, they arrived at the humble door of the “Leone d'Oro,”

where they installed themselves for the night. It was a house frequented

by couriers and _vetturini_, and at the common table for this company

they now took their places for supper. The Carnival was just drawing to

its close, and all the gayeties of that merry season were going forward.

Nothing was talked of but the brilliant festivities of the city, the

splendid balls of the Court, and the magnificent receptions in the

houses of the nobility.

“The Palazzo della Torre takes the lead of all,” said one. “There were

upwards of three thousand masks there this evening, I 'm told, and the

gardens were just as full as the _salons_.”

“She is rich enough to afford it well,” cried another. “I counted twenty

servants in white and gold liveries on the stairs alone.”

“Were you there, then?” asked the youth, whom we may at once call by his

name of Massy.

“Yes, sir; a mask and a domino, such as you see yonder, are passports

everywhere for the next twenty-four hours; and though I 'm only a

courier, I have been chatting with duchesses, and exchanging smart

sayings with countesses, in almost every great house in Florence this

evening. The Pergola Theatre, too, is open, and all the boxes crowded

with visitors.”

“You are a stranger, as I detect by your accent,” said another, “and you

ought to have a look at a scene such as you'll never witness in your own

land.”

“What would come of such freedoms with us, Billy?” whispered Massy.

“Would our great lords tolerate, even for a few hours, the association

with honest fellows of this stamp?”

“There would be danger in the attempt, anyhow,” said Billy.

“What calumnies would be circulated, what slanderous tales would be sent

abroad, under cover of this secrecy! How many a coward stab would

be given in the shadow of that immunity! For one who would use the

privilege for mere amusement, how many would turn it to account for

private vengeance.”

“Are you quite certain such accidents do not occur here?”

“That society tolerates the custom is the best answer to this. There may

be, for aught we know, many a cruel vengeance executed under favor of

this secrecy. Many may cover their faces to unmask their hearts; but,

after all, they continue to observe a habit which centuries back their

forefathers followed; and the inference fairly is, that it is not

baneful. For my own part, I am glad to have an opportunity of witnessing

these Saturnalia, and to-morrow I 'll buy a mask and a domino, Billy,

and so shall you too. Why should we not have a day's fooling, like the

rest?”

Billy shook his head and laughed, and they soon afterwards parted for

the night.

While young Massy slept soundly, not a dream disturbing the calmness

of his rest, Lord Glencore passed the night in a state of feverish

excitement. Led on by some strange, mysterious influence, which he could

as little account for as resist, he had come back to the city where the

fatal incident of his life had occurred. With what purpose, he could not

tell. It was not, indeed, that he had no object in view. It was rather

that he had so many and conflicting ones that they marred and destroyed

each other. No longer under the guidance of calm reason, his head

wandered from the past to the present and the future, disturbed by

passion and excited by injured self-love. At one moment, sentiments of

sorrow and shame would take the ascendant; and at the next, a vindictive

desire to follow out his vengeance and witness the ruin that he had

accomplished. The unbroken, unrelieved pressure of one thought, for

years and years of time, had at last undermined his reasoning powers;

and every attempt at calm judgment or reflection was sure to be attended

with some violent paroxysm of irrepressible rage.

There are men in whom the combative element is so strong that it usurps

all their guidance, and when once they are enlisted in a contest, they

cannot desist till the struggle be decided for or against them. Such was

Glencore. To discover that the terrible injury he had inflicted on

his wife had not crushed her nor driven her with shame from the world,

aroused once more all the vindictive passions of his nature. It was a

defiance he could not withstand. Guilty or innocent, it mattered not;

she had braved him,--at least so he was told,--and as such he had come

to see her with his own eyes. If this was the thought which predominated

in his mind, others there were that had their passing power over

him,--moments of tenderness, moments in which the long past came back

again, full of softening memories; and then he would burst into tears

and cry bitterly.

If he ventured to project any plan for reconciliation with her he had

so cruelly wronged, he as suddenly bethought him that her spirit was not

less high and haughty than his own. She had, so far as he could learn,

never quailed before his vengeance; how, then, might he suppose would

she act in the presence of his avowed injustice? Was it not, besides,

too late to repair the wrong? Even for his boy's sake, would it not be

better if he inherited sufficient means to support an honorable life,

unknown and unnoticed, than bequeath to him a name so associated with

shame and sorrow?

“Who can tell,” he would cry aloud, “what my harsh treatment may not

have made him? what resentment may have taken root in his young heart?

what distrust may have eaten into his nature? If I could but see him and

talk with him as a stranger,--if I could be able to judge him apart from

the influences that my own feelings would create,--even then, what would

it avail me? I have so sullied and tarnished a proud name that he could

never bear it without reproach. 'Who is this Lord Glencore?' people

would say. 'What is the strange story of his birth? Has any one yet

got at the truth? Was the father the cruel tyrant, or the mother the

worthless creature, we hear tell of? Is he even legitimate, and, if so,

why does he walk apart from his equals, and live without recognition

by his order?' This is the noble heritage I am to leave him,--this the

proud position to which he is to succeed! And yet Upton says that the

boy's rights are inalienable; that, think how I may, do what I will, the

day on which I die, he is the rightful Lord Glencore. His claim may lie

dormant, the proofs may be buried, but that, in truth and fact, he will

be what all my subterfuge and all my falsehood cannot deny him. And

then, if the day should come that he asserts his right,--if, by some

of those wonderful accidents that reveal the mysteries of the world,

he should succeed to prove his claim,--what a memory will he cherish

of _me!_ Will not every sorrow of his youth, every indignity of his

manhood, be associated with my name? Will he or can he ever forgive him

who defamed the mother and despoiled the son?”

In the terrible conflict of such thoughts as these he passed the night;

intervals of violent grief or passion alone breaking the sad connection

of such reflections, till at length the worn-out faculties, incapable

of further exercise, wandered away into incoherency, and he raved in all

the wildness of insanity.

It was thus that Upton found him on his arrival.

CHAPTER LII. MAJOR SCARESBY'S VISIT

Down the crowded thoroughfare of the Borgo d' Ognisanti the tide of

Carnival mummers poured unceasingly. Hideous masks and gay dominos,

ludicrous impersonations and absurd satires on costume, abounded, and

the entire population seemed to have given themselves up to merriment,

and were fooling it to the top o' their bent. Bands of music and

chorus-singers from the theatre filled the air with their loud strains,

and carriages crowded with fantastic figures moved past, pelting the

bystanders with mock sweetmeats, and covering them with showers of

flour. It was a season of universal license, and, short of actual

outrage, all was permitted for the time. Nor did the enjoyment of the

scene seem to be confined to the poorer classes of the people, who thus

for the nonce assumed equality with their richer neighbors; but all,

even to the very highest, mixed in the wild excitement of the pageant,

and took the rough treatment they met with in perfect good-humor.

Dukes and princes, white from head to foot with the snowy shower, went

laughingly along, and grave dignitaries were fain to walk arm-inarm

with the most ludicrous monstrosities, whose gestures turned on them

the laughter of all around. Occasionally--but, it must be owned,

rarely--some philosopher of a sterner school might be seen passing

hurriedly along, his severe features and contemptuous glances owning

to little sympathy with the mummery about him; but even _he_ had to

compromise his proud disdain, and escape, as best he might, from the

indiscriminate justice of the crowd. To detect one of this stamp, to

follow, and turn upon him the full tide of popular fury, seemed to be

the greatest triumph of the scene. When such a victim presented himself,

all joined in the pursuit: nuns embraced, devils environed him, angels

perched on his shoulders, mock wild boars rushed between his legs; his

hat was decorated with feathers, his clothes inundated with showers of

meal or flour; hackney-coachmen, dressed as ladies, fainted in his arms,

and semi-naked bacchanals pressed drink to his lips. In a word, each

contributed what he might of attention to the luckless individual, whose

resistance--if he were so impolitic as to make any--only increased the

zest of the persecution.

An instance of this kind had now attracted general attention, nor was

the amusement diminished by the discovery that he was a foreigner and an

Englishman. Impertinent allusions to his nation, absurd attempts at his

language, ludicrous travesties of what were supposed to be his native

customs, were showered on him, in company with a hailstorm of mock

bonbons and lime-pellets; till, covered with powder, and outraged

beyond all endurance, he fought his way into the entrance of the Hôtel

d'Italie, followed by the cries and laughter of the populace.

“Cursed tomfoolery! Confounded asses!” cried he, as he found himself in

a harbor of refuge. “What the devil fun can they discover in making each

other dirtier than their daily habits bespeak them? I say,” cried he,

addressing a waiter, “is Sir Horace Upton staying here? Well, will you

say Major Scaresby--be correct in the name--Major Scaresby requests to

pay his respects.”

“His Excellency will see you, sir,” said the man, returning quickly with

the reply.

From the end of a room, so darkened by closed shutters and curtains as

to make all approach difficult, a weak voice called out, “Ah, Scaresby,

how d' ye do? I was just thinking to myself that I could n't be in

Florence, since I had not seen you.”

“You are too good, too kind, Sir Horace, to say so,” said the other,

with a voice whose tones by no means corresponded with the words.

“Yes, Scaresby, everything in this good city is in a manner associated

with your name. Its intrigues, its quarrels, its loves and jealousies,

its mysteries, in fine, have had no such interpreter as yourself within

the memory of man! What a pity there were no Scaresbys in the Cinque

Cento! How sad there were none of your family here in the Medician

period! What a picture might we then have had of a society fuller even

than the present of moral delinquencies.” There was a degree of

pomposity in the manner he uttered this that served to conceal in a

great measure its sarcasm.

“I am much flattered to learn that I have ever enlightened your

Excellency on any subject,” said the Major, dryly.

“That you have, Scaresby. I was a mere dabbler in moral toxicology when

I heard your first lecture, and, I assure you, I was struck by your

knowledge. And how is the dear city doing?”

“It is masquerading to-day,” said Scaresby, “and, consequently, far more

natural than at any other period of the whole year. Smeared faces and

dirty finery,--exactly its suitable wear!”

“Who are here, Major? Any one that one knows?”

“Old Millington is here.”

“The Marquis?”

“Yes, he 's here, fresh painted and lacquered; his eyes twinkling with

a mock lustre that makes him look like an old po'-chaise with a pair of

new lamps!”

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Sir Horace, encouragingly.

“And then--there's Mabworth.”

“Sir Paul Mabworth?”

“Ay, the same old bore as ever! He has got off one of Burke's speeches

on the India Bill by heart, and says that he spoke it on the question of

the grant for Maynooth. Oh, if poor Burke could only look up!”

“Look down! you ought to say, Scaresby; depend upon't, he 's not on the

Opposition benches still!”

“I hate the fellow,” said Scaresby, whose ill-temper was always

augmented by any attempted smartness of those he conversed with. “He has

taken Walmsley's cook away from him, and never gives any one a dinner.”

“That is shameful; a perfect dog in the manger!”

“Worse; he 's a dog without any manger! For he keeps his house on

board-wages, and there's literally nothing to eat! That poor thing,

Strejowsky.”

“Oh, Olga Strejowsky, do you mean? What of her?”

“Why, there's another husband just turned up. They thought he was killed

in the Caucasus, but he was only passing a few years in Siberia; and so

he has come back, and claims all the emeralds. You remember, of course,

that famous necklace, and the great drops! They belonged once to the

Empress Catherine, but Mabworth says that he took the concern with all

its dependencies; he 'll give up his bargain, but make no compromise.”

“She's growing old, I fancy.”

“She's younger than the Sabloukoff by five good years, and they tell me

_she_ plays Beauty to this hour.”

Ah, Scaresby, had you known what words were these you have just uttered,

or had you only seen the face of him who heard them, you had rather

bitten your tongue off than suffered it to fashion them!

“Brignolles danced with her at that celebrated _fête_ given by the

Prince of Orleans something like eight-and-thirty years ago.”

“And how is the dear Duke?” asked Upton, sharply.

“Just as you saw him at the Court of Louis XVIII.; he swaggers a little

more as he gets more feeble about the legs, and he shows his teeth when

he laughs, more decidedly since his last journey to Paris. Devilish

clever fellows these modern dentists are! He wants to marry; I suppose

you 've heard it.”

“Not a word of it. Who is the happy fair?”

“The Nina, as they call her now. She was one of the Delia Torres, who

married, or didn't marry, Glencore. Don't you remember him? He was

Colonel of the Eleventh, and a devil of a martinet he was.”

“I remember him,” said Upton, dryly.

“Well, he ran off with one of those girls, and some say they were

married at Capri,--as if it signified what happened at Capri! She was

a deuced good-looking girl at the time,--a coquette, you know,--and

Glencore was one of those stiff English fellows that think every man is

making up to his wife; he drank besides.”

“No, pardon me, there you are mistaken. I knew him intimately; Glencore

was as temperate as myself.”

“I have it from Lowther, who used to take him home at night; _he_ said

Glencore never went to bed sober! At all events, she hated him, and

detested his miserly habits.”

“Another mistake, my dear Major. Glencore was never what is called a

rich man, but he was always a generous one!”

“I suppose you'll not deny that he used to thrash her? Ay, and with a

horsewhip too!”

“Come, come, Scaresby; this is really too coarse for mere jesting.”

“Jest? By Jove! it was very bitter earnest. She told Brignolles all

about it. I 'm not sure she didn't show him the marks.”

“Take my word for it, Scaresby,” said Upton, dropping his voice to a low

but measured tone, “this is a base calumny, and the Duke of Brignolles

no more circulated such a story than I did. He is a man of honor, and

utterly incapable of it.”

“I can only repeat that I believe it to be perfectly true!” said

Scaresby, calmly. “Nobody here ever doubted the story.”

“I cannot say what measure of charity accompanies your zeal for truth in

this amiable society, Scaresby, but I can repeat my assertion that this

must be a falsehood.”

“You will find it very hard, nevertheless, to bring any one over to your

opinion,” retorted the unappeasable Major. “He was a fellow everybody

hated; proud and supercilious to all, and treated his wife's

relations--who were of far better blood than himself--as though they

were _canaille_.”

A loud crash, as if of something heavy having fallen, here interrupted

their colloquy, and Upton sprang from his seat and hastened into the

adjoining room. Close beside the door--so close that he almost fell over

it in entering--lay the figure of Lord Glencore. In his efforts to

reach the door he had fainted, and there he lay,--a cold, clammy sweat

covering his livid features, and his bloodless lips slightly parted.

It was almost an hour ere his consciousness returned; but when it did,

and he saw Upton alone at his bedside, he pressed his hand within his

own, and said, “I heard it all, Upton, every word! I tried to reach

the room; I got out of bed--and was already at the door--when my brain

reeled, and my heart grew faint It may have been malady, it might be

passion,--I know not; but I saw no more. He is gone,--is he not?” cried

he, in a faint whisper.

“Yes, yes,--an hour ago; but you will think nothing of what he said,

when I tell you his name. It was Scaresby,--Major Scaresby; one whose

bad tongue is the one solitary claim by which he subsists in a society

of slanderers!”

“And he is gone!” repeated the other, in a tone of deep despondency.

“Of course he is. I never saw him since; but be assured of what I have

just told you, that his libels carry no reproach. He is a calumniator by

temperament.”

“I 'd have shot him, if I could have opened the door,” muttered Glencore

between his teeth; but Upton heard the words distinctly. “What am I to

this man,” cried he, aloud, “or he to me, that I am to be arraigned

by him on charges of any kind, true or false? What accident of fortune

makes him my judge? Tell me that, sir. Who has appealed to him for

protection? Who has demanded to be righted at his hand?”

“Will you not hear me, Glencore, when I say that his slanders have no

sting? In the circles wherein he mixes, it is the mere scandal that

amuses; for its veracity, there is not one that cares. You, or I, or

some one else, supply the name of an actor in a disreputable drama, the

plot of which alone interests, not the performer.”

“And am I to sit tamely down under this degradation?” exclaimed

Glencore, passionately. “I have never subscribed to this dictation.

There is little, indeed, of life left to me, but there is enough,

perhaps, to vindicate myself against men of this stamp. You shall take

him a message from me; you shall tell him by what accident I overheard

his discoveries.”

“My dear Glencore, there are graver interests, far worthier cares, than

any this man's name can enter into, which should now engage you.”

“I say he shall have my provocation, and that within an hour!” cried

Glencore, wildly.

“You would give this man and his words a consequence that neither have

ever possessed,” said Upton, in a mild and subdued tone. “Remember,

Glencore, when I left with you this morning that paper of Stubber's it

was with a distinct understanding that other and wiser thoughts than

those of vengeance were to occupy your attention. I never scrupled to

place it in your hands; I never hesitated about confiding to you what in

a lawyer's phrase would be a proof against you. When an act of justice

was to be done, I would not stain it by the faintest shadow of coercion.

I left you free, I leave you still free, from everything but the

dictates of your own honor.”

Glencore made no reply, but the conflict of his thoughts seemed to

agitate him greatly.

“The man who has pursued a false path in life,” said Upton, calmly,

“has need of much courage to retrace his steps; but courage is not the

quality you fail in, Glencore, so that I appeal to you with confidence.”

“I have need of courage,” muttered Glencore; “you say truly. What was it

the doctor said this morning,--aneurism?”

Upton moved his head with an inclination barely perceptible.

“What a Nemesis there is in nature,” said Glencore, with a sickly

attempt to smile, “that passion should beget malady! I never knew,

physically speaking, that I had a heart--till it was broken. So that,”

resumed he, in a more agreeable tone, “death may ensue at any moment--on

the least excitement?”

“He warned you gravely on that point,” said Upton, cautiously.

“How strange that I should have come through that trial of an hour ago!

It was not that the struggle did not move me. I could have torn that

fellow limb from limb, Upton, if I had but the strength! But see,” cried

he, feebly, “what a poor wretch I am; I cannot close these fingers!”

and he held out a worn and clammy hand as he spoke. “Do with me as you

will,” said he, after a pause; “I ought to have followed your counsels

long ago!”

Upton was too subtle an anatomist of human motives to venture by even

the slightest word to disturb a train of thought which any interference

could only damage. As the other still continued to meditate, and, by

his manner and look, in a calmer and more reflective spirit, the wily

diplomatist moved noiselessly away, and left him alone.

CHAPTER LIII. A MASK IN CARNIVAL TIME

From the gorgeous halls of the Pitti Palace down to the humblest chamber

in Camaldole, Florence was a scene of rejoicing. As night closed in, the

crowds seemed only to increase, and the din and clamor to grow louder.

It seemed as though festivity and joy had overflowed from the houses,

filling the streets with merry-makers. In the clear cold air, groups

feasted, and sang, and danced, all mingling and intermixing with a

freedom that showed how thoroughly the spirit of pleasure-seeking can

annihilate the distinctions of class. The soiled and tattered mummer

leaned over the carriage-door and exchanged compliments with the masked

duchess within. The titled noble of a dozen quarterings stopped to

pledge a merry company who pressed him to drain a glass of Monte

Pulciano with them. There was a perfect fellowship between those whom

fortune had so widely separated, and the polished accents of high

society were heard to blend with the quaint and racy expressions of the

“people.”

Theatres and palaces lay open, all lighted “_a giorno_.” The whole

population of the city surged and swayed to and fro like a mighty sea in

motion, making the air resound the while with a wild mixture of sounds,

wherein music and laughter were blended. Amid the orgie, however, not

an act, not a word of rudeness, disturbed the general content. It was a

season of universal joy, and none dared to destroy the spell of pleasure

that presided.

Our task is not to follow the princely equipages as they rolled in

unceasing tides within the marble courts, nor yet to track the strong

flood that poured through the wide thoroughfares in all the wildest

exuberance of their joy.

Our business is with two travellers, who, well weary of being for hours

a-foot, and partly sated with pleasure, sat down to rest themselves on a

bench beside the Arno.

“It is glorious fooling, that must be owned, Billy,” said Charles Massy,

“and the spirit is most contagious. How little have you or I in

common with these people! We scarce can catch the accents of the droll

allusions, we cannot follow the strains of their rude songs, and yet we

are carried away like the rest to feel a wild enjoyment in all this din,

and glitter, and movement. How well they do it, too!”

“That's all by rayson of concentration,” said 'Billy, gravely. “They

are highly charged with fun. The ould adage says, 'Non semper sunt

Saturnalia,'--It is not every day Morris kills a cow.”

“Yet it is by this very habit of enjoyment that they know how to be

happy.”

“To be sure it is,” cried Billy; “_they_ have a ritual for it which _we_

have n't; as Cicero tells us, 'In jucundis nullum periculum.' But ye see

we have no notion of any amusement without a dash of danger through it,

if not even cruelty!”

“The French know how to reconcile the two natures; they are brave, and

light-hearted too.”

“And the Irish, Mister Charles,--the Irish especially,” said Billy,

proudly; “for I was alludin' to the English in what I said last. The

'versatile ingenium' is all our own.

He goes into a tent and he spends half a-crown,

Comes out, meets a friend, and for love knocks him down.

There 's an elegant philosophy in that, now, that a Saxon would never

see! For it is out of the very fulness of the heart, ye may remark, that

Pat does this, just as much as to say, 'I don't care for the expense!'

He smashes a skull just as he would a whole dresser of crockery-ware!

There's something very grand in that recklessness.”

The tone of the remark, and a certain wild energy of his manner, showed

that poor Billy's faculties were slightly under the influences of the

Tuscan grape; and the youth smiled at sight of an excess so rare.

“How hard it must be,” said Massy, “to go back to the workaday routine

of life after one of these outbursts,--to resume not alone the drudgery,

but all the slavish observances that humble men yield to great ones!”

“'Tis what Bacon says, 'There's nothing so hard as unlearnin' anything;'

and the proof is how few of us ever do it! We always go on mucin' old

thoughts with new,--puttin' different kinds of wine into the same glass,

and then wonderin' we are not invigorated!”

“You 're in a mood for moralizing to-night, I see, Billy,” said the

other, smiling.

“The levities of life always puts me on that thrack, just as too bright

a day reminds me to take out an umbrella with me.”

“Yet I do not see that all your observation of the world has indisposed

you to enjoy it, or that you take harsher views of life the closer you

look at it.”

“Quite the reverse; the more I see of mankind, the more I 'm struck with

the fact that the very wickedest and worst can't get rid of remorse!

'Tis something out of a man's nature entirely--something that dwells

outside of him--sets him on to commit a crime; and then he begins

to rayson and dispute with the temptation, just like one keepin' bad

company, and listenin' to impure notions and evil suggestions day after

day; as he does this, he gets to have a taste for that kind of low

society,--I mane with his own bad thoughts,--till at last every other

ceases to amuse him. Look! what's that there; where are they goin' with

all the torches there?” cried he, suddenly, springing up and pointing

to a dense crowd that passed along the street. It was a band of music,

dressed in a quaint mediaeval costume, on its way to serenade some

palace.

“Let us follow and listen to them, Billy,” said the youth; and they

arose and joined the throng.

Following in the wake of the dense mass, they at last reached the gates

of a great palace, and after some waiting gained access to the spacious

courtyard. The grim old statues and armorial bearings shone in the glare

of a hundred torches, and the deep echoes rang with the brazen voices of

the band as, pent up within the quadrangle, the din of a large

orchestra arose. On a great terrace overhead numerous figures were

grouped,--indistinctly seen from the light of the _salons_ within,--but

whose mysterious movements completed the charm of a very interesting

picture.

Some wrapped in shawls to shroud them from the night air, some, less

cautiously emerging from the rooms within, leaned over the marble

balustrade and showed their jewelled arms in the dim hazy light, while

around and about them gay uniforms and costumes abounded. As Billy gave

himself up to the excitement of the music, young Massy, more interested

by the aspect of the scene, gazed unceasingly at the balcony. There was

just that shadowy indistinctness in the whole that invested it with a

kind of romantic interest, and he could weave stories and incidents from

those whose figures passed and repassed before him. He fancied that in

their gestures he could trace many meanings, and as the bent-down heads

approached, and their hands touched, he fashioned many a tale in his own

mind of moving fortunes.

“And see, she comes again to that same dark angle of the terrace,”

muttered he to himself, as, shrouded in a large mantle and with a half

mask on her features, a tall and graceful figure passed into the place

he spoke of. “She looks like one among, but not of, them. How much of

heart-weariness is there in that attitude; how full is it of sad and

tender melancholy! Would that I could see her face! My life on't that

it is beautiful! There, she is tearing up her bouquet; leaf by leaf the

rose-leaves are falling, as though one by one hopes are decaying in

her heart.” He pushed his way through the dense throng till he gained a

corner of the court where a few leaves and flower-stems yet strewed the

ground; carefully gathering up these, he crushed them in his hand, and

seemed to feel as though a nearer tie bound him to the fair unknown. How

little ministers to the hope; how infinitely less again will feed the

imagination of a young heart!

Between them now there was, to his appreciation, some mysterious link.

“Yes,” he said to himself, “true, I stand unknown, unnoticed; yet it is

to _me_ of all the thousands here she could reveal what is passing in

that heart! I know it, I feel it! She has a sorrow whose burden I might

help to bear. There is cruelty, or treachery, or falsehood arrayed

against her; and through all the splendor of the scene--all the wild

gayety of the orgie--some spectral image never leaves her side! I would

stake existence on it that I have read her aright!”

Of all the intoxications that can entrance the human faculties, there is

none so maddening as that produced by giving full sway to an exuberant

imagination. The bewilderment resists every effort of reason, and in its

onward course carries away its victims with all the force of a mountain

torrent. A winding stair, long unused and partly dilapidated, led to the

end of the terrace where she stood, and Massy, yielding to some strange

impulse, slowly and noiselessly crept up this till he gained a spot only

a few yards removed from her. The dark shadow of the building almost

completely concealed his figure, and left him free to contemplate her

unnoticed.

Some event of interest within had withdrawn all from the terrace

save herself; the whole balcony was suddenly deserted, and she alone

remained, to all seeming lost to the scene around her. It was then that

she removed her mask, and suffering it to fall back on her neck, rested

her head pensively on her hand. Massy bent over eagerly to try and catch

sight of her face; the effort he made startled her, she looked round,

and he cried out, “Ida--Ida! My heart could not deceive me!” In another

instant he had climbed the balcony and was beside her.

“I thought we had parted forever, Sebastian,” said she; “you told me so

on the last night at Massa.”

“And so I meant when I said it,” cried he; “nor is our meeting now of my

planning. I came to Florence, it is true, to see, but not to speak with

you, ere I left Europe forever. For three entire days I have searched

the city to discover where you lived, and chance--I have no better name

for it--chance has led me hither.”

“It is an unkind fortune that has made us meet again,” said she, in a

voice of deep melancholy.

“I have never known fortune in any other mood,” said he, fiercely. “When

clouds show me the edge of their silver linings, I only prepare myself

for storm and hurricane.”

“I know you have endured much,” said she, in a voice of deeper sadness.

“You know but little of what I have endured,” rejoined he, sternly.

“You saw me taunted, indeed, with my humble calling, insulted for my low

birth, expelled ignominiously from a house where my presence had been

sought for; and yet all these, grievous enough, are little to other

evils I have had to bear.”

“By what unhappy accident, what mischance, have you made _her_ your

enemy, Sebastian? She would not even suffer me to speak to you. She

went so far as to tell me that there was a reason for the dislike,--one

which, if she could reveal, I would never question.”

“How can I tell?” cried he, angrily. “I was born, I suppose, under an

evil star; for nothing prospers with me.”

“But can you even guess her reasons?” said she, eagerly.

“No, except it be the presumption of one in _my_ condition daring to

aspire to one in _yours_; and that, as the world goes, would be reason

enough. It is probable, too, that I did not state these pretensions of

mine over delicately. I told her, with a frankness that was not quite

acceptable, I was one who could not speak of birth or blood. She did not

like the coarse word I applied to myself, and I will not repeat it; and

she ventured to suggest that, had there not appeared some ambiguity

in her own position, _I_ could never have so far forgotten mine as to

advance such pretensions--”

“Well, and then?” cried the girl, eagerly.

“Well, and then,” said he, deliberately, “I told her I had heard rumors

of the kind she alluded to, but to _me_ they carried no significance;

that it was for _you_ I cared. The accidents of life around you had no

influence on my choice; you might be all that the greatest wealth and

highest blood could make you, or as poor and ignoble as myself, without

any change in my affections. 'These,' said she, 'are the insulting

promptings of that English breeding which you say has mixed with your

blood, and if for no other cause would make me distrust you.'

“'Stained as it may be,' said I, 'that same English blood is the best

pride I possess.' She grew pale with passion as I said this, but never

spoke a word; and there we stood, staring haughtily at each other, till

she pointed to the door, and so I left her. And now, Ida, who is she

that treats me thus disdainfully? I ask you not in anger, for I know too

well how the world regards such as me to presume to question its harsh

injustice. But tell me, I beseech you, that she is one to whose station

these prejudices are the fitting accompaniments, and let me feel that

it is less myself as the individual that she wrongs, than the class I

belong to is that which she despises. I can better bear this contumely

when I know that it is an instinct.”

“If birth and blood can justify a prejudice, a Princess of the house of

Delia Torre might claim the privilege,” said the girl, haughtily. “No

family of the North, at least, will dispute with our own in lineage; but

there are other causes which may warrant all that she feels towards you

even more strongly, Sebastian. This boast of your English origin, this

it is which has doubtless injured you in her esteem. Too much reason has

she had to cherish the antipathy! Betrayed into a secret marriage by an

Englishman who represented himself as of a race noble as her own, she

was deserted and abandoned by him afterwards. This is the terrible

mystery which I never dared to tell you, and which led us to a life of

seclusion at Massa. This is the source of that hatred towards all of a

nation which she must ever associate with the greatest misfortunes of

her life! And from this unhappy event was she led to make me take that

solemn oath that I spoke of, never to link my fortunes with one of that

hated land.”

“But you told me that you had not made the pledge,” said he, wildly.

“Nor had I then, Sebastian; but since we last met, worked on by

solicitation, I could not resist; tortured by a narrative of such

sorrows as I never listened to before, I yielded, and gave my promise.”

“It matters little to _me!_” said he, gloomily; “a barrier the more or

the less can be of slight moment when there rolls a wide sea between us!

Had you ever loved me, such a pledge had been impossible.”

“It was you yourself, Sebastian, told me we were never to meet again,”

rejoined she.

“Better that we had never done so!” muttered he. “Nay, perhaps I am

wrong,” added he, fiercely; “this meeting may serve to mark how little

there ever was between us!”

“Is this cruelty affected, Sebastian, or is it real?”

“It cannot be cruel to echo your own words. Besides,” said he, with an

air of mockery in the words, “she who lives in this gorgeous palace,

surrounded with all the splendors of life, can have little complaint to

make against the cruelty of fortune!”

“How unlike yourself is all this!” cried she. “You of all I have ever

seen or known, understood how to rise above the accidents of fate,

placing your happiness and your ambitions in a sphere where mere

questions of wealth never entered. What can have so changed you?”

Before he could reply, a sudden movement in the crowd beneath attracted

the attention of both, and a number of persons who had filled the

terrace now passed hurriedly into the _salons_, where, to judge from

the commotion, an event of some importance had occurred. Ida lost not

a moment in entering, when she was met by the words: “It is she, Nina

herself is ill; some mask--a stranger, it would seem--has said something

or threatened something.” In fact, she had been carried to her room in

strong convulsions; and while some were in search of medical aid

for her, others, not less eagerly, were endeavoring to detect the

delinquent.

From the gay and brilliant picture of festivity which was presented but

a few minutes back, what a change now came over the scene! Many hurried

away at once, shocked at even a momentary shadow on the sunny road of

their existence; others as anxiously pressed on to recount the incident

elsewhere; some, again, moved by curiosity or some better prompting,

exerted themselves to investigate what amounted to a gross violation of

the etiquette of a carnival; and thus, in the _salons_, on the stairs,

and in the court itself, the greatest bustle and confusion prevailed. At

length some suggested that the gate of the palace should be closed,

and none suffered to depart without unmasking. The motion was at once

adopted, and a small knot of persons, the friends of the Countess,

assumed the task of the scrutiny.

Despite complaints and remonstrances as to the inconvenience and delay

thus occasioned, they examined every carriage as it passed out. None,

however, but faces familiar to the Florentine world were to be met with;

the well-known of every ball and _fête_ were there, and if a stranger

presented himself, he was sure to be one for whom some acquaintance

could bear testimony.

At a fire in one of the smaller _salons_ stood a small group, of which

the Duc de Brignolles and Major Scaresby formed a part. Sentiments of a

very different order had detained these two individuals, and while

the former was deeply moved by the insult offered to the Countess, the

latter felt an intense desire to probe the circumstance to the bottom.

“Devilish odd it is!” cried Scaresby; “here we have been this last hour

and a half turning a whole house out of the windows, and yet there's no

one to tell us what it's all for, what it 's all about!”

“Pardon, monsieur,” said the Duke, severely. “We know that a lady

whose hospitality we have been accepting has retired from her company

insulted. It is very clearly our duty that this should not pass

unpunished.”

“Oughtn't we to have some clearer insight into what constituted the

insult? It may have been a practical joke,--a _mauvaise plaisanterie_,

Duke.”

“We have no claim to any confidence not extended to us, sir,” said

the Frenchman. “To me it is quite sufficient that the Countess feels

aggrieved.”

“Not but we shall cut an absurd figure to-morrow, when we own that we

don't know what we were so indignant about.”

“Only so many of us as have characters for the 'latest intelligence.'”

To this sally there succeeded a somewhat awkward pause, Scaresby

occupying himself with thoughts of some perfectly safe vengeance.

“I shouldn't wonder if it was that Count Marsano--that fellow who used

to be about the Nina long ago--come back again. He was at Como this

summer, and made many inquiries after his old love!”

A most insulting stare of defiance was the only reply the old Duke

could make to what he would have been delighted to resent as a personal

affront.

“Marsano is a _mauvais drôle_,” said a Russian; “and if a woman slighted

him, or he suspected that she did, he's the very man to execute a

vengeance of the kind.”

“I should apply a harsher epithet to a man capable of such conduct,”

said the Duke.

“He 'd not take it patiently, Duke,” said the other.

“It is precisely in that hope, sir, that I should employ it,” said the

Duke.

Again was the conversation assuming a critical turn, and again an

interval of ominous silence succeeded.

“There is but one carriage now in the court, your Excellency,” said the

servant, addressing the Duke in a low voice, “and the gentleman inside

appears to be seriously ill. It might be better, perhaps, not to detain

him.”

“Of course not,” said the Duke; “but stay, I will go down myself.”

There were still a considerable number of persons on foot in the court

when the Duke descended, but only one equipage remained,--a hired

carriage,--at the open door of which a servant was standing, holding a

glass of water for his master.

“Can I be of any use to your master?” said the Duke, approaching. “Is he

ill?”

“I fear he has burst a blood-vessel, sir,” said the man. “He is too weak

to answer me.”

“Who is it,--what 's his name?”

“I am not able to tell you, sir; I only accompanied him from the hotel.”

“Let us have a doctor at once; he appears to be dying,” said the Duke,

as he placed his fingers on the sick man's wrist. “Let some one go for a

physician.”

“There is one here,” cried a voice. “I'm a doctor;” and Billy Traynor

pushed his way to the spot. “Come, Master Charles, get into the coach

and help me to lift him out.”

Young Massy obeyed, and not without difficulty they succeeded at last

in disengaging the almost lifeless form of a man whose dark domino was

perfectly saturated with fresh blood; his half mask still covered his

face, and, to screen his features from the vulgar gaze of the crowd,

they suffered it to remain there.

Up the wide stairs and into a spacious _salon_ they now carried the

figure, whose drooping head and hanging limbs gave little signs of life.

They placed him on a sofa, and Traynor, with a ready hand, untied

the mask and removed it. “Merciful Heavens,” cried he, “it's my Lord

himself!”

The youth bent down, gazed for a few seconds at the corpse-like face,

and fell fainting to the floor.

“My Lord Glencore himself!” said the Duke, who was himself an old and

attached friend.

“Hush! not a word,” whispered Traynor; “he 's rallyin'--he 's comin' to;

don't utter a syllable.”

Slowly and languidly the dying man raised his eyelids, and gazed at each

of those around him. From their faces he turned his gaze to the chamber,

viewing the walls and the ceiling all in turn; and then, in an accent

barely audible, he said, “Where am I?”

“Amongst friends, who love and will cherish you, dear Glencore,” said

the Duke, affectionately.

“Ah, Brignolles, I remember you. And this,--who is this?”

“Traynor, my Lord,--Billy Traynor, that will never leave you while he

can serve you!”

“Whose tears are those upon my hand,--I feel them hot and burning,” said

the sick man; and Billy stepped back, that the light should fall upon

the figure that knelt beside him.

“Don't cry, poor fellow,” said Glencore; “it must be a hard world, or

you have many better and dearer friends than I could have ever been to

you. Who is this?”

Billy tried, but could not answer.

“Tell him, if you know who it is; see how wild and excited it has made

him,” cried the Duke; for, stretching out both hands, Glencore had

caught the boy's face on either side, and continued to gaze on it, in

wild eagerness. “It' is--it is!” cried he, pressing it to his bosom, and

kissing the forehead over and over again.

“Whom does he fancy it? Whom does he suspect?”

“This is--look, Brignolles,” cried the dying man, in a voice already

thick with a death-rattle,--“this is the seventh Lord Viscount Glencore.

I declare it. And now------”

He fell back, and never spoke more. A single shudder shook his feeble

frame, and he was dead.

We have had occasion once before in this veracious history to speak of

the polite oblivion Florentine society so well understands to throw over

the course of events which might cloud, even for a moment, the sunny

surface of its enjoyment. No people, so far as we know, have greater

gifts in this way; to shroud the disagreeables of life in decent

shadow--to ignore or forget them is their grand prerogative.

Scarcely, therefore, had three weeks elapsed, than the terrible

catastrophe at the Palazzo della Torre was totally consigned to the

bygones; it ceased to be thought or spoken of, and was as much matter

of remote history as an incident in the times of one of the Medici. Too

much interested in the future to waste time on the past, they launched

into speculations as to whether the Countess would be likely to marry

again; what change the late event might effect in the amount of her

fortune; and how far her position in the world might be altered by the

incident. He who, in the ordinary esteem of society, would have felt

less acutely than his neighbors for Glencore's sad fate,--Upton,--was

in reality deeply and sincerely affected. The traits which make a

consummate man of the world--one whose prerogative it is to appreciate

others, and be able to guide and influence their actions--are, in truth,

very high and rare gifts, and imply resources of fine sentiment as fully

as stores of intellectual wealth. Upton sorrowed over Glencore as for

one whose noble nature had been poisoned by an impetuous temper, and

over whose best instincts an ungovernable self-esteem had ever held

the mastery. They had been friends almost from boyhood, and the very

worldliest of men can feel the bitterness of that isolation in which the

“turn of life” too frequently commences. Such friendships are never made

in later life. We lend our affections when young on very small security,

and though it is true we are occasionally unfortunate, we do now

and then make a safe investment. No men are more prone to attach an

exaggerated value to early friendships than those who, stirred by strong

ambitions, and animated by high resolves, have played for the great

stakes in the world's lottery. Too much immersed in the cares and

contests of life to find time to contract close personal attachments,

they fall back upon the memory of school or college days to supply the

want of their hearts. There is a sophistry, too, that seduces them to

believe that then, at least, they were loved for what they were, for

qualities of their nature, not for accidents of station, or the proud

rewards of success. There is also another and a very strange element in

the pleasure such memories afford. Our early attachments serve as points

of departure by which we measure the distance we have travelled in life.

“Ay,” say we, “we were schoolfellows; I remember how he took the lead of

me in this or that science, how far behind he left me in such a thing;

and yet look at us now!” Upton had very often to fall back upon

similar recollections; neither his school nor his college life had

been remarkable for distinction; but it was always perceived that every

attainment he achieved was such as would be available in after life. Nor

did he ever burden himself with the toils of scholarship while there

lay within his reach stores of knowledge that might serve to contest the

higher and greater prizes that he had already set before his ambition.

But let us return to himself as, alone and sorrow-struck, he sat in

his room of the Hôtel d'Italie. Various cares and duties consequent

on Glencore's death had devolved entirely upon him. Young Massy had

suddenly disappeared from Florence on the morning after the funeral, and

was seen no more, and Upton was the only one who could discharge any of

the necessary duties of such a moment. The very nature of the task

thus imposed upon him had its own depressing influence on his mind; the

gloomy pomp of death--the terrible companionship between affliction and

worldliness--the tear of the mourner--the heart-broken sigh drowned in

the sharp knock of the coffin-maker. He had gone through it all, and sat

moodily pondering over the future, when Madame de Sabloukoff entered.

“She 's much better this morning, and I think we can go over and dine

with her to-day,” said she, removing her shawl and taking a seat.

He gave a little easy smile that seemed assent, but did not speak.

“I perceive you have not opened your letters this morning,” said she,

turning towards the table, littered over with letters and despatches of

every size and shape! “This seems to be from the King,--is that his mode

of writing 'G. R.' in the corner?”

“So it is,” said Upton, faintly. “Will you be kind enough to read it for

me?”

“Pavilion, Brighton.

“Dear Upton,--Let me be the first to congratulate you on an appointment

which it affords me the greatest pleasure to confirm--

“What does he allude to?” cried she, stopping suddenly, while a slight

tinge of color showed surprise, and a little displeasure, perhaps,

mingled in her emotions.

“I have not the very remotest conception,” said Upton, calmly. “Let

us see what that large despatch contains; it comes from the Duke of

Agecombe. Oh,” said he, with a great effort to appear as calm and

unmoved as possible, “I see what it is, they have given me India!”

“India!” exclaimed she, in amazement.

“I mean, my dear Princess, they have given me the Governor-Generalship.”

“Which, of course, you would not accept.”

“Why not, pray?”

“India!” It is banishment, barbarism, isolation from all that really

interests or embellishes existence,--a despotism that is wanting in the

only element which gives a despot dignity, that he founds or strengthens

a dynasty.”

“No, no, charming Princess,” said he, smiling; “it is a very glorious

sovereignty, with unlimited resources and--a very handsome stipend.”

“Which, therefore, you do not decline,” said she, with a very peculiar

smile.

“With your companionship, I should call it a paradise,” said he.

“And without such?”

“Such a sacrifice as one must never shrink from at the call of duty,”

said he, bowing profoundly.

The Princess dined that day with the Countess of Glencore, and Sir

Horace Upton journeyed towards England.

CHAPTER LIV. THE END

Tears have gone over, and once more--it is for the last time--we come

back to the old castle in the West, beside the estuary of the Killeries.

Neglect and ruin have made heavy inroads on it. The battlements of

the great tower have fallen. Of the windows, the stormy winds of the

Atlantic have left only the stone mullions. The terrace is cumbered with

loose stones and fallen masonry. Not a trace of the garden remains, save

in the chance presence of some flowering plant or shrub, half-choked

by weeds, and wearing out a sad existence in uncared-for solitude. The

entrance-gate is closely barred and fastened, but a low portal, in

a side wing, lies open, entering by which we can view the dreary

desolation within. The apartments once inhabited by Lord Glencore are

all dismantled and empty. The wind and the rain sweep at will along the

vaulted corridors and through the deep-arched chambers. Of the damp,

discolored walls and ceilings, large patches litter the floors with

fragments of stucco and carved architraves.

One small chamber, on the ground-floor, maintains a habitable aspect.

Here a bed and a few articles of furniture, some kitchen utensils and

a little bookshelf, all neatly and orderly arranged, show that some one

calls this a home! Sad and lonely enough is it! Not a sound to break

the weary stillness, save the deep roar of the heavy sea; not a living

voice, save the wild shrill cry of the osprey, as he soars above the

barren cliffs! It is winter, and what desolation can be deeper or

gloomier! The sea-sent mists wrap the mountains and even the lough

itself in their vapory shroud. The cold thin rain falls unceasingly; a

cheerless, damp, and heavy atmosphere dwells even within doors; and the

gray half light gives a shadowy indistinctness even to objects at hand,

disposing the mind to sad and dreary imaginings.

In a deep straw chair, beside the turf fire, sits a very old man, with

a large square volume upon his knee. Dwarfed by nature and shrunk by

years, there is something of almost goblin semblance in the bright

lustre of his dark eyes, and the rapid motion of his lips as he reads to

himself half aloud. The almost wild energy of his features has survived

the wear and tear of time, and, old as he is, there is about him a dash

of vigor that seems to defy age. Poor Billy Traynor is now upwards of

eighty; but his faculties are clear, his memory unclouded, and, like

Moses, his eye not dimmed. “The Three Chronicles of Loughdooner,” in

which he is reading, is the history of the Glencores, and contains,

amongst its family records, many curious predictions and prophecies.

The heirs of that ancient house were, from time immemorial, the sport of

fortune, enduring vicissitudes without end. No reverses seemed ever

too heavy to rally from; no depth of evil fate too deep for them to

extricate themselves. Involved in difficulties innumerable, engaged in

plots, conspiracies, luckless undertakings, abortive enterprises, still

they contrived to survive all around them, and come out with, indeed,

ruined fortunes and beggared estate, but still with life, and with what

is the next to life itself, an unconquerable energy of character.

It was in the encouragement of these gifts that Billy now sought for

what cheered the last declining days of his solitary life. His lord,

as he ever called him, had been for years and years away in a distant

colony, living under another name. Dwelling amongst the rough settlers

of a wild remote tract, a few brief lines at long intervals were the

only tidings that assured Billy he was yet living; yet were they enough

to convince him, coupled with the hereditary traits of his house, that

some one day or other he would come back again to resume his proud place

and the noble name of his ancestors. More than once had it been the fate

of the Glencores to see “the hearth cold, and the roof-tree blackened;”

and Billy now muttered the lines of an old chronicle where such a

destiny was bewailed:--

“Where are the voices, whispering low,

Of lovers side by side?

And where the haughty dames who swept

Thy terraces in pride?

Where is the wild and joyous mirth

That drown'd th' Atlantic's roar,

Making the rafters ring again

With welcome to Glencore?

“And where's the step of belted knight,

That strode the massive floor?

And where's the laugh of lady bright,

We used to hear of yore?

The hound that bayed, the prancing steed,

Impatient at the door,

May bide the time for many a year--

They 'll never see Glencore!

“And he came back, after all,--Lord Hugo,--and was taken prisoner at

Ormond by Cromwell, and sentenced to death!” said Billy. “Sentenced to

death!--but never shot! Nobody knew why, or ever will know. After years

and years of exile he came back, and was at the Court of Charles, but

never liked,--they say dangerous! That 's exactly the word,--dangerous!”

He started up from his revery, and, taking his stick, issued from the

room. The mist was beginning to rise, and he took his way towards the

shore of the lough, through the wet and tangled grass. It was a long and

toilsome walk for one so old as he was, but he went manfully onward, and

at last reached the little jetty where the boats from the mainland were

wont to put in. All was cheerless and leaden-hued over the wide waste

of water; a surging swell swept heavily along, but not a sail was to be

seen. Far across the lough he could descry the harbor of Leenane, where

the boats were at anchor, and see the lazy smoke as it slowly rose

in the thick atmosphere. Seated on a stone at the water's edge, Billy

watched long and patiently, his eyes turning at times towards the bleak

mountain-road, which for miles was visible. At last, with a weary sigh,

he arose, and muttering, “He won't come to-day,” turned back again to

his lonely home.

To this hour he lives, and waits the “coming of Glencore.”

THE END.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Fortunes Of Glencore, by Charles James Lever