The Fortunes Of Glencore Part 18

"You have hit it perfectly, Harcourt; _suum caique_; and if only we could get the world to see that each of us has his speciality, we should all of us do much better."

By the vigorous tug he gave the bell, and the tone in which he ordered up something to eat, it was plain to see that he scarcely relished the moral Upton had applied to his speech. With the appearance of the good cheer, however, he speedily threw off his momentary displeasure, and as he ate and drank, his honest, manly face lost every trace of annoyance.

Once only did a pa.s.sing shade of anger cross his countenance. It was when, suddenly looking up, he saw Upton's eyes settled on him, and his whole features expressing a most palpable sensation of wonderment and compa.s.sion.

"Ay," cried he, "I know well what's pa.s.sing in your mind this minute.

You are lost in your pitying estimate of such a mere animal as I am; but, hang it all, old fellow, why not be satisfied with the flattering thought that _you_ are of another stamp,--a creature of a different order?"

"It does not make one a whit happier," sighed Upton, who never shrunk from accepting the sentiment as his own.

"I should have thought otherwise," said Harcourt, with a malicious twinkle of the eye; for he fancied that he had at last touched the weak point of his adversary.

"No, my dear Harcourt, the _cra.s.so naturo_ have rather the best of it, since no small share of this world's collisions are actually physical shocks; and that great strong pipkin that encloses your brains will stand much that would smash the poor egg-sh.e.l.l that shrouds mine."

"Whenever you draw a comparison in my favor, I always find at the end I come off worst," said Harcourt, bluntly; and Upton laughed one of his rich, musical laughs, in which there was indeed nothing mirthful, but something that seemed to say that his nature experienced a sense of enjoyment higher, perhaps, than anything merely comic could suggest.

"You came off best this time, Harcourt," said he, good-humoredly; and such a thorough air of frankness accompanied the words that Harcourt was disarmed of all distrust at once, and joined in the laugh heartily.

"But you have not yet told me, Harcourt," said the other, "where you have been, and why you spent your night on the sea."

"The story is not a very long one," replied he; and at once gave a full recital of the events, which our reader has already had before him in our last chapter, adding, in conclusion,

"I have left the boy in a cabin at Belmullet; he is in a high fever, and raving so loud that you could hear him a hundred yards away. I told them to keep cold water on his head, and give him plenty of it to drink,--nothing more,--till I could fetch our doctor over, for it will be impossible to move the boy from where he is for the present."

"Glencore has been asking for him already this morning. He did not desire to see him, but he begged of me to go to him and speak with him."

"And have you told him that he was from home,--that he pa.s.sed the night away from this?"

"No; I merely intimated that I should look after him, waiting for your return to guide myself afterwards."

"I don't suspect that when we took him from the boat the malady had set in; he appeared rather like one overcome by cold and exhaustion. It was about two hours after,--he had taken some food and seemed stronger,--when I said to him, 'Come, Charley, you 'll soon be all right again; I have sent a fellow to look after a pony for you, and you 'll be able to ride back, won't you?'

"'Ride where?' cried he, eagerly.

"'Home, of course,' said I, 'to Glencore.'

"'Home! I have no home,' cried he; and the wild scream he uttered the words with, I 'll never forget. It was just as if that one thought was the boundary between sense and reason, and the instant he had pa.s.sed it, all was chaos and confusion; for now his raving began,--the most frantic imaginations; always images of sorrow, and with a rapidity of utterance there was no following. Of course in such cases the delusions suggest no clew to the cause, but all his fancies were about being driven out of doors an outcast and a beggar, and of his father rising from his sick bed to curse him. Poor boy! Even in this his better nature gleamed forth as he cried, 'Tell him'--and he said the words in a low whisper--'tell him not to anger himself; he is ill, very ill, and should be kept tranquil. Tell him, then, that I am going--going away forever, and he'll hear of me no more.'" As Harcourt repeated the words, his own voice faltered, and two heavy drops slowly coursed down his bronzed cheeks.

"You see," added he, as if to excuse the emotion, "that was n't like raving, for he spoke this just as he might have done if his very heart was breaking."

"Poor fellow!" said Upton; and the words were uttered with real feeling.

"Some terrible scene must have occurred between them," resumed Harcourt; "of that I feel quite certain."

"I suspect you are right," said Upton, bending over his teacup; "and _our_ part, in consequence, is one of considerable delicacy; for until Glencore alludes to what has pa.s.sed, _we_ of course, can take no notice of it. The boy is ill; he is in a fever: we know nothing more."

"I'll leave you to deal with the father; the son shall be my care. I have told Traynor to be ready to start with me after breakfast, and have ordered two stout ponies for the journey. I conclude there will be no objection in detaining the doctor for the night: what think you, Upton?"

"Do _you_ consult the doctor on that head; meanwhile, I 'll pay a visit to Glencore. I 'll meet you in the library." And so saying, Upton rose, and gracefully draping the folds of his dressing-gown, and arranging the waving lock of hair which had escaped beneath his cap, he slowly set out towards the sick man's chamber.

Of all the springs of human action, there was not one in which Sir Horace Upton sympathized so little as pa.s.sion. That any man could adopt a line of conduct from which no other profit could result than what might minister to a feeling of hatred, jealousy, or revenge, seemed to him utterly contemptible. It was not, indeed, the morality of such a course that he called in question, although he would not have contested that point. It was its meanness, its folly, its insufficiency. His experience of great affairs had imbued him with all the importance that was due to temper and moderation. He scarcely remembered an instant where a false move had damaged a negotiation that it could not be traced to some pa.s.sing trait of impatience, or some lurking spirit of animosity biding the hour of its gratification.

He had long learned to perceive how much more temperament has to do, in the management of great events, than talent or capacity, and his opinion of men was chiefly founded on this quality of their nature. It was, then, with an almost pitying estimate of Glenoore that he now entered the room where the sick man lay.

Anxious to be alone with him, Glenoore had dismissed all the attendants from his room, and sat, propped up by pillows, eagerly awaiting his approach.

Upton moved through the dimly lighted room like one familiar to the atmosphere of illness, and took his seat beside the bed with that noiseless quiet which in _him_ was a kind of instinct.

It was several minutes before Glencore spoke, and then, in a low, faint voice, he said, "Are we alone, Upton?"

"Yes," said the other, gently pressing the wasted fingers which lay on the counterpane before him.

"You forgive me, Upton," said he,--and the words trembled as he uttered them,--"You forgive me, Upton, though I cannot forgive myself."

"My dear friend, a pa.s.sing moment of impatience is not to breach the friends.h.i.+p of a lifetime. Your calmer judgment would, I know, not be unjust to me."

"But how am I to repair the wrong I have done you?"

"By never alluding to it,--never thinking of it again, Glenoore."

"It is so unworthy, so ign.o.ble in me!" cried Glenoore, bitterly; and a tear fell over his eyelid and rested on his wan and worn cheek.

"Let us never think of it, my dear Glenoore. Life has real troubles enough for either of us, not to dwell on those which we may fas.h.i.+on out of our emotions. I promise you, I have forgotten the whole incident."

Glenoore sighed heavily, but did not speak; at last he said, "Be it so, Upton," and, covering his face with his hand, lay still and silent.

"Well," said he, after a long pause, "the die is cast, Upton: I have told him!"

"Told the boy?" said Upton.

He nodded an a.s.sent. "It is too late to oppose me now, Upton,--the thing is done. I didn't think I had strength for it; but revenge is a strong stimulant, and I felt as though once more restored to health, as I proceeded. Poor fellow! he bore it like a man. Like a man, do I say? No, but better than man ever bore such crus.h.i.+ng tidings."

"He asked me to stop once, while his head reeled, and said, 'In a minute I shall be myself again,' and so he was, too; you should have seen him, Upton, as he rose to leave me. So much of dignity was there in his look that my heart misgave me; and I told him that still, as my son, he should never want a friend and a protector. He grew deadly pale, and caught at the bed for support. Another moment, and I 'd not have answered for myself. I was already relenting; but I thought of _her_, and my resolution came back in all its force. Still, I dared not look on him. The sight of that wan cheek, those quivering lips and gla.s.sy eyes, would certainly have unmanned me. I turned away. When I looked round, he was gone!' As he ceased to speak, a clammy perspiration burst forth over his face and forehead, and he made a sign to Upton to wet his lips.

"It is the last pang she is to cost me, Upton, but it is a sore one!"

said he, in a low, hoa.r.s.e whisper.

"My dear Glencore, this is all little short of madness; even as revenge it is a failure, since the heaviest share of the penalty recoils upon yourself."

"How so?" cried he, impetuously.

"Is it thus that an ancient name is to go out forever? Is it in this wise that a house n.o.ble for centuries is to crumble into ruin? I will not again urge upon you the cruel wrong you are doing. Over that boy's inheritance you have no more right than over mine,--you cannot rob him of the protection of the law. No power could ever give you the disposal of his destiny in this wise."

"I have done it, and I will maintain it, sir," cried Glencore; "and if the question is, as you vaguely hint, to be one of law--"

"No, no, Glencore; do not mistake me."

"Hear me out, sir," said he, pa.s.sionately. "If it is to be one of law, let Sir Horace Upton give his testimony,--tell all that he knows,--and let us see what it will avail him. You may--it is quite open to you--place us front to front as enemies. You may teach the boy to regard me as one who has robbed him of his birthright, and train him up to become my accuser in a court of justice. But my cause is a strong one, it cannot be shaken; and where you hope to brand _me_ with tyranny, you will but visit b.a.s.t.a.r.dy upon _him_. Think twice, then, before you declare this combat. It is one where all your craft will not sustain you."

"My dear Glencore, it is not in this spirit that we can speak profitably to each other. If you will not hear my reasons calmly and dispa.s.sionately, to what end am I here? You have long known me as one who lays claim to no more rigid morality than consists with the theory of a worldly man's experiences. I affect no high-flown sentiments. I am as plain and practical as may be; and when I tell you that you are wrong in this affair, I mean to say that what you are about to do is not only bad, but impolitic. In your pursuit of a victim, you are immolating yourself."