The times have been That when the brains were out, the man would die,
And there an end--but now they rise again.--Macbeth.
It was a strange thing to see a man like Glanville, with costly tastes,
luxurious habits, great talents, peculiarly calculated for display,
courted by the highest members of the state, admired for his beauty
and genius by half the women in London, yet living in the most ascetic
seclusion from his kind, and indulging in the darkest and most morbid
despondency. No female was ever seen to win even his momentary glance
of admiration. All the senses seemed to have lost, for his palate, their
customary allurements. He lived among his books, and seemed to make his
favourite companions amidst the past. At nearly all hours of the night
he was awake and occupied, and at day-break his horse was always brought
to his door. He rode alone for several hours, and then, on his return,
he was employed till the hour he went to the House, in the affairs and
politics of the day. Ever since his debut, he had entered with
much constancy into the more leading debates, and his speeches were
invariably of the same commanding order which had characterised his
first.
It was singular that, in his parliamentary display, as in his ordinary
conversation, there were none of the wild and speculative opinions, or
the burning enthusiasm of romance, in which the natural inclination of
his mind seemed so essentially to delight. His arguments were always
remarkable for the soundness of the principles on which they were based,
and the logical clearness with which they were expressed. The feverish
fervour of his temperament was, it is true, occasionally shown in a
remarkable energy of delivery, or a sudden and unexpected burst of the
more impetuous powers of oratory; but these were so evidently natural
and spontaneous, and so happily adapted to be impressive of the subject,
rather than irrelevant from its bearings, that they never displeased
even the oldest and coldest cynics and calculators of the House.
It is no uncommon contradiction in human nature (and in Glanville it
seemed peculiarly prominent) to find men of imagination and genius
gifted with the strongest common sense, for the admonition or benefit of
others, even while constantly neglecting to exert it for themselves.
He was soon marked out as the most promising and important of all the
junior members of the House; and the coldness with which he kept aloof
from social intercourse with the party he adopted, only served to
increase their respect, though it prevented their affection.
Lady Roseville’s attachment to him was scarcely a secret; the celebrity
of her name in the world of ton made her least look or action the
constant subject of present remark and after conversation; and there
were too many moments, even in the watchful publicity of society, when
that charming but imprudent person forgot every thing but the romance of
her attachment. Glanville seemed not only perfectly untouched by it,
but even wholly unconscious of its existence, and preserved invariably,
whenever he was forced into the crowd, the same stern, cold,
unsympathizing reserve, which made him, at once, an object of universal
conversation and dislike.
Three weeks after Glanville’s first speech in the House, I called upon
him, with a proposal from Lord Dawton. After we had discussed it, we
spoke on more familiar topics, and, at last, he mentioned Thornton. It
will be observed that we had never conversed respecting that person; nor
had Glanville once alluded to our former meetings, or to his disguised
appearance and false appellation at Paris. Whatever might be the
mystery, it was evidently of a painful nature, and it was not,
therefore, for me to allude to it. This day he spoke of Thornton with a
tone of indifference.
“The man,” he said, “I have known for some time; he was useful to me
abroad, and, notwithstanding his character, I rewarded him well for his
services. He has since applied to me several times for money, which is
spent at the gambling-house as soon as it is obtained. I believe him to
be leagued with a gang of sharpers of the lowest description; and I
am really unwilling any farther to supply the vicious necessities of
himself and his comrades. He is a mean, mercenary rascal, who would
scruple at no enormity, provided he was paid for it!”
Glanville paused for a few moments, and then added, while his cheek
blushed, and his voice seemed somewhat hesitating and embarrassed--“You
remember Mr. Tyrrell, at Paris?”
“Yes,” said I--“he is, at present, in London, and--” Glanville started
as if he had been shot.
“No, no,” he exclaimed, wildly--“he died at Paris, from want--from
starvation.”
“You are mistaken,” said I; “he is now Sir John Tyrrell, and possessed
of considerable property. I saw him myself, three weeks ago.”
Glanville, laying his hand upon my arm, looked in my face with a long,
stern, prying gaze, and his cheek grew more ghastly and livid with every
moment. At last he turned, and muttered something between his teeth; and
at that moment the door opened, and Thornton was announced. Glanville
sprung towards him and seized him by the throat!
“Dog!” he cried, “you have deceived me--Tyrrell lives!”
“Hands off!” cried the gamester, with a savage grin of defiance--“hands
off! or, by the Lord that made me, you shall have gripe for gripe!”
“Ho, wretch!” said Glanville, shaking him violently, while his worn
and slender, yet still powerful frame, trembled with the excess of his
passion; “dost thou dare to threaten me!” and with these words he flung
Thornton against the opposite wall with such force, that the blood
gushed out of his mouth and nostrils. The gambler rose slowly, and
wiping the blood from his face, fixed his malignant and fiery eye upon
his aggressor, with an expression of collected hate and vengeance, that
made my very blood creep.
“It is not my day now,” he said, with a calm, quiet, cold voice, and
then, suddenly changing his manner, he approached me with a sort of bow,
and made some remark on the weather.
Meanwhile, Glanville had sunk on the sofa, exhausted, less by his late
effort than the convulsive passion which had produced it. He rose in
a few moments, and said to Thornton, “Pardon my violence; let this pay
your bruises;” and he placed a long and apparently well filled purse in
Thornton’s hand. That veritable philosophe took it with the same air as
a dog receives the first caress from the hand which has just chastised
him; and feeling the purse between his short, hard fingers, as if to
ascertain the soundness of its condition, quietly slid it into his
breeches pocket, which he then buttoned with care, and pulling his
waistcoat down, as if for further protection to the deposit, he
turned towards Glanville, and said, in his usual quaint style of
vulgarity--“Least said, Sir Reginald, the soonest mended. Gold is a good
plaister for bad bruises. Now, then, your will:--ask and I will answer,
unless you think Mr. Pelham un de trop.”
I was already at the door, with the intention of leaving the room,
when Glanville cried, “Stay, Pelham, I have but one question to ask Mr.
Thornton. Is John Tyrrell still living?”
“He is!” answered Thornton, with a sardonic smile.
“And beyond all want!” resumed Glanville.
“He is!” was the tautological reply.
“Mr. Thornton,” said Glanville, with a calm voice, “I have now done with
you--you may leave the room!”
Thornton bowed with an air of ironical respect, and obeyed the command.
I turned to look at Glanville. His countenance, always better adapted to
a stern, than a soft expression, was perfectly fearful; every line in
it seemed dug into a furrow; the brows were bent over his large and
flashing eyes with a painful intensity of anger and resolve; his teeth
were clenched firmly as if by a vice, and the thin upper lip, which was
drawn from them with a bitter curl of scorn, was as white as death. His
right hand had closed upon the back of the massy chair, over which his
tall nervous frame leant, and was grasping it with an iron force, which
it could not support: it snapped beneath his hand like a hazel stick.
This accident, slight as it was, recalled him to himself. He apologized
with apparent self-possession for his disorder; and, after a few words
of fervent and affectionate farewell on my part, I left him to the
solitude which I knew he desired.