The Fortunes Of Glencore

“They tell me so, and mine has a good reputation.”

“Then claret be it, and no other wine. Don’t I make myself at home, old fellow, eh?” said he, clapping Upton on the shoulder. “Have I not taken his Majesty’s Embassy by storm, eh?”

“We surrender at discretion, only too glad to receive our vanquisher. Well, and how do you find me looking? Be candid: how do I seem to your eyes?”

“Pretty much as I have seen you these last fifteen years, – not an hour older, at all events. That same delicacy of constitution is a confounded deal better than most men’s strong health, for it never wears out; but I have always said it, Upton will see us all down!”

Sir Horace sighed, as though this were too pleasant to be true.

“Well,” said he, at last, “but you have not told me what good chance has brought you here. Is it the first post-station on the way to India?”

“No; they’ve taken me off the saddle, and given me a staff appointment at Corfu. I ‘m going out second in command there; and whether it was to prevent my teasing them for something else, or that there was really some urgency in the matter, they ordered me off at once.”

“Are they reinforcing the garrison there?” asked Upton.

“No; not so far as I have heard.”

“It were better policy to do so than to send out a ‘commander-in-chief and a drummer of great experience,’” muttered Upton to himself; but Harcourt could not catch the remark. “Have you any news stirring in England? What do the clubs talk about?” asked Sir Horace.

“Glencore’s business occupied them for the last week or so; now, I think, it is yourself furnishes the chief topic for speculation.”

“What of me?” asked Upton, eagerly.

“Why, the rumor goes that you are to have the Foreign Office; Adderley, they say, goes out, and Conway and yourself are the favorites, the odds being slightly on his side.”

“This is all news to me, George,” said Upton, with a degree of animation that had nothing fictitious about it; “I have had a note from Adderley in the last bag, and there’s not a word about these changes.”

“Possibly; but perhaps my news is later. What I allude to is said to have occurred the day I started.”

“Ah, very true; and now I remember that the messenger came round by Vienna, sent there by Adderley, doubtless,” muttered he, “to consult Conway before seeing me; and, I have little doubt, with a letter for me in the event of Conway declining.”

“Well, have you hit upon the solution of it?” said Har-court, who had not followed him through his half-uttered observation.

“Perhaps so,” said Upton, slowly, while he leaned his head upon his hand, and fell into a fit of meditation. Meanwhile, Harcourt’s dinner made its appearance, and the Colonel seated himself at the table with a traveller’s appetite.

“Whenever any one has called you a selfish fellow, Upton,” said he, as he helped himself twice from the same dish, “I have always denied it, and on this good ground, that, had you been so, you had never kept the best cook in Europe, while unable to enjoy his talents. What a rare artist must this be! What’s his name?”

“Pipo, how is he called?” said Upton, languidly.

“Monsieur Carmael, your Excellency.”

“Ah, to be sure; a person of excellent family. I’ve been told he’s from Provence,” said Upton, in the same weary voice.

“I could have sworn to his birthplace,” cried Harcourt; “no man can manage cheese and olives in cookery but a Provençal. Ah, what a glass of Bordeaux! To your good health, Upton, and to the day that you may be able to enjoy this as I do,” said he, as he tossed off a bumper.

“It does me good even to witness the pleasure it yields,” said Upton, blandly.

“By Jove! then, I ‘ll be worth a whole course of tonics to you, for I most thoroughly appreciate all the good things you have given me. By the way, how are you off for dinner company here, – any pleasant people?”

“I have no health for pleasant people, my dear Harcourt; like horse exercise, they only agree with you when you are strong enough not to require them.”

“Then what have you got?” asked the Colonel, somewhat abashed.

“Princes, generals, envoys, and heads of departments.”

“Good heavens! legions of honor and golden fleeces!”

“Just so,” said Upton, smiling at the dismay in the other’s countenance; “I have had such a party as you describe to-day. Are they gone yet, Franchetti?”

“They’re at coffee, your Excellency, but the Prince has ordered his carriage.”

“And you did not go near them?” asked Harcourt, in amazement.

“No; I was poorly, as you see me,” said Upton, smiling. “Pipo tells me, however, that the dinner was a good one, and I am sure they pardon my absence.”

“Foreign ease, I’ve no doubt; though I can’t say I like it,” muttered Harcourt. “At all events, it is not for me to complain, since the accident has given me the pleasure of your society.”

“You are about the only man I could have admitted,” said Upton, with a certain graciousness of look and manner that, perhaps, detracted a little from its sincerity.

Fortunately, not so to Harcourt’s eyes, for he accepted the speech in all honesty and good faith, as he said, “Thank you heartily, my boy. The welcome is better even than the dinner, and that is saying a good deal. No more wine, thank you; I ‘m going to have a cigar, and, with your leave, I ‘ll ask for some brandy and water.”

This was addressed to Franchetti, who speedily reappeared with a liqueur stand and an ebony cigar-case.

“Try these, George; they ‘re better than your own,” said Upton, dryly.

“That I will,” cried Harcourt, laughing; “I’m determined to draw all my resources from the country in occupation, especially as they are superior to what I can obtain from home. This same career of yours, Upton, strikes me as rather a good thing. You have all these things duty free?”

“Yes, we have that privilege,” said Upton, sighing.

“And the privilege of drawing some few thousand pounds per annum, paid messengers to and from England, secret-service money, and the rest of it, eh?”

Upton smiled, and sighed again.

“And what do you do for all that, – I mean, what are you expected to do?”

“Keep your party in when they are in; disconcert the enemy when your friends are out.”

“And is that always a safe game?” asked Harcourt, eagerly.

“Not when played by unskilful players, my dear George. They occasionally make sad work, and get bowled out themselves for their pains; but there’s no great harm in that neither.”

“How do you mean there ‘s no harm in it?”

“Simply, that if a man can’t keep his saddle, he ought n’t to try to ride foremost; but these speculations will only puzzle you, my dear Harcourt. What of Glencore? You said awhile ago that the town was talking of him – how and wherefore was it?”

“Haven’t you heard the story, then?”

“Not a word of it.”

“Well, I’m a bad narrator; besides, I don’t know where to begin; and even if I did, I have nothing to tell but the odds and ends of club gossip, for I conclude nobody knows all the facts but the King himself.”

“If I were given to impatience, George, you would be a most consummate plague to me,” said Upton; “but I am not. Go on, however, in your own blundering way, and leave me to glean what I can in mine.”

Cheered and encouraged by this flattering speech, Harcourt did begin; but, more courteous to him than Sir Horace, we mean to accord him a new chapter for his revelations; premising the while to our reader that the Colonel, like the knife-grinder, had really “no story to tell.”

CHAPTER XXXIX. A VERY BROKEN NARRATIVE

“You want to hear all about Glencore?” said Harcourt, as, seated in the easiest of attitudes in an easy-chair, he puffed his cigar luxuriously; “and when I have told you all I know, the chances are you’ll be little the wiser.” Upton smiled a bland assent to this exordium, but in such a way as to make Harcourt feel less at ease than before.

“I mean,” said the Colonel, “that I have little to offer you beyond the guesses and surmises of club talk. It will be for your own intelligence to penetrate through the obscurity afterwards. You understand me?”

“I believe I understand you,” said Upton, slowly, and with the same quiet smile. Now, this cold, semi-sarcastic manner of Upton was the one sole thing in the world which the honest Colonel could not stand up against; he always felt as though it were the prelude to something cutting or offensive, – some sly impertinence that he could not detect till too late to resent, – some insinuation that might give the point to a whole conversation, and yet be undiscovered by him till the day following. Little as Harcourt was given to wronging his neighbor, he in this instance was palpably unjust; Upton’s manner being nothing more than the impress made upon a very subtle man by qualities very unlike any of his own, and which in their newness amused him. The very look of satire was as often an expression of sorrow and regret that he could not be as susceptible – as easy of deception – as those about him. Let us pardon our worthy Colonel if he did not comprehend this; shrewder heads than his own had made the same mistake. Half to resent this covert slyness, half to arouse himself to any conflict before him, he said, in a tone of determination, “It is only fair to tell you that you are yourself to blame for anything that may have befallen poor Glencore.”

“I to blame! Why, my dear Harcourt, you are surely dreaming.”

“As wide awake as ever I was. If it had not been for a blunder of yours, – an unpardonable blunder, seeing what has come of it, – sending a pack of trash to me about salt and sulphur, while you forwarded a private letter about Glencore to the Foreign Office, all this might not have happened.”

“I remember that it was a most disagreeable mistake. I have paid heavily for it, too. That lotion for the cervical vertebrae has come back all torn, and we cannot make out whether it be a phosphate or a prot’-oxide of bismuth. You don’t happen to remember?”

“I? – of course I know nothing about it. I’d as soon have taken a porcupine for a pillow as I ‘d have adventured on the confounded mixture. But, as I was saying, that blessed letter, written by some Princess or other, as I understand, fell into the King’s hands, and the consequence was that he sent off immediately to Glencore an order to go down to him at Brighton. Naturally enough, I thought he ‘d not go; he had the good and sufficient pretext of his bad health to excuse him. Nobody had seen him abroad in the world for years back, and it was easy enough to say that he could not bear the journey. Nothing of the kind; he received the command as willingly as he might have done an invitation to dinner fifteen years ago, and talked of nothing else for the whole evening after but of his old days and nights in Carlton House; how gracious the Prince used to be to him formerly; how constantly he was a guest at his table; what a brilliant society it was; how full of wit and the rest of it; till, by Jove, what between drinking more wine than he was accustomed to take, and the excitement of his own talking, he became quite wild and unmanageable. He was not drunk, nor anything like it, it was rather the state of a man whose mind had got some sudden shock; for in the midst of perfectly rational conversation, he would fall into paroxysms of violent passion, inveighing against every one, and declaring that he never had possessed one true-hearted, honest friend in his life.

“It was not without great difficulty that I got him back to my lodgings, for we had gone to dine at Richmond. Then we put him to bed, and I sent for Hunter, who came on the instant. Though by this time Glencore was much more calm and composed, Hunter called the case brain fever; had his hair cut quite close, and ice applied to the head. Without any knowledge of his history or even of his name, Hunter pronounced him to be a man whose intellect had received some terrible shock, and that the present was simply an acute attack of a long-existent malady.”

“Did he use any irritants?” asked Upton, anxiously.

“No; he advised nothing but the cold during the night.”

“Ah! what a mistake,” sighed Upton, heavily. “It was precisely the case for the cervical lotion I was speaking of. Of course he was much worse next morning?”

“That he was; not as regarded his reason, however, for he could talk collectedly enough, but he was irritable and passionate to a degree scarcely credible: would not endure the slightest opposition, and so suspectful of everything and everybody that if he overheard a whisper it threw him into a convulsion of anger. Hunter’s opinion was evidently a gloomy one, and he said to me as we went downstairs, ‘He may come through it with life, but scarcely with a sound intellect.’ This was a heavy blow to me, for I could not entirely acquit myself of the fault of having counselled this visit to Brighton, which I now perceived had made such a deep impression upon him. I roused myself, however, to meet the emergency, and walked down to St. James’s to obtain some means of letting the King know that Glencore was too ill to keep his appointment. Fortunately, I met Knighton, who was just setting off to Brighton, and who promised to take charge of the commission. I then strolled over to Brookes’s to see the morning papers, and lounged till about four o’clock, when I turned homeward.

“Gloomy and sad I was as I reached my door, and rang the bell with a cautious hand. They did not hear the summons, and I was forced to ring again, when the door was opened by my servant, who stood pale and trembling before me. ‘He’s gone, sir, – he’s gone,’ cried he, almost sobbing.

“‘Good Heaven!’ cried I. ‘Dead?’

“‘No, sir, gone away, – driven off, no one knows where. I had just gone out to the chemist’s, and was obliged to call round at Doctor Hunter’s about a word in the prescription they could n’t read, and when I came back he was away.’

“I then ascertained that the carriage which had been ordered the day before at a particular hour, and which we had forgotten to countermand, had arrived during my servant’s absence. Glencore, hearing it stop at the door, inquired whose it was, and as suddenly springing out of bed, proceeded to dress himself, which he did, in the suit he had ordered to wait on the King. So apparently reasonable was he in all he said, and such an air of purpose did he assume, that the nurse-tender averred she could not dare to interpose, believing that his attack might possibly be some sort of passing access that he was accustomed to, and knew best how to deal with.

“I did not lose a moment, but, ordering post-horses, pursued him with all speed. On reaching Croydon, I heard he had passed about two hours before; but though I did my best, it was in vain. I arrived at Brighton late at night, only to learn that a gentleman had got out at the Pavilion, and had not left it since.

“I do not believe that all I have ever suffered in my life equalled what I went through in the two weary hours that I passed walking up and down outside that low paling that skirts the Palace garden. The poor fellow, in all his misery, came before me in so many shapes; sometimes wandering in intellect – sometimes awake and conscious of his sufferings – now trying to comport himself as became the presence he was in – now reckless of all the world and everything. What could have happened to detain him so long? What had been the course of events since he passed that threshold? were questions that again and again crossed me.

“I tried to make my way in, – I know not exactly what I meant to do afterwards; but the sentries refused me admittance. I thought of scaling the enclosure, and reaching the Palace through the garden; but the police kept strict watch on every side. At last, it was nigh twelve o’clock, that I heard a sentry challenge some one, and shortly after a figure passed out and walked towards the pier. I followed, determined to make inquiry, no matter of whom. He walked so rapidly, however, that I was forced to run to overtake him. This attracted his notice; he turned hastily, and by the straggling moonlight I recognized Glencore.

“He stood for a moment still, and beckoning me towards him, he took my arm in silence, and we walked onward in the direction of the sea-shore. It was now a wild and gusty night. The clouds drifted fast, shutting out the moon at intervals, and the sea broke harshly along the strand.

“I cannot tell you the rush of strange and painful emotions which came upon me as I thus walked along, while not a word passed between us. As for myself, I felt that the slightest word from me might, perhaps, change the whole current of his thoughts, and thus destroy my only chance of any clew to what was passing within him. ‘Are you cold?’ said he, at length, feeling possibly a slight tremor in my arm. ‘Not cold, exactly,’ said I, ‘but the night is fresh, and I half suspect too fresh for you.’ ‘Feel that,’ said he, placing his hand in mine; and it was burning. ‘The breeze that comes off the sea is grateful to me, for I am like one on fire.’ Then I am certain, my dear Glencore,’ said I, ‘that this is a great imprudence. Let us turn back, towards the inn.’

“He made no reply, but with a rough motion of his arm moved forward as before. ‘Three hours and more,’ said he, with a full and stern utterance, ‘they kept me waiting. There were Ministers with the King; there was some foreign envoy, too, to be presented; and if I had not gone in alone and unannounced, I might still be in the ante-chamber. How he stared at me, Harcourt, and my close-cropped hair. It was that seemed first to strike him, as he said, “Have you had an illness lately?” He looked poorly, too, bloated and pale, and like one who fretted, and I told him so. “We are both changed, sir,” said I, – “sadly changed since we met last. We might almost begin to hope that another change is not far off, – the last and the best one.” I don’t remember what he answered. It was, I think, something about who came along with me from town, and who was with me at Brighton, – I forget exactly; but I know that he sent for Knighton, and made him feel my pulse. “You’ll find it rapid enough, I ‘ve no doubt, Sir William,” said I. “I rose from a sick bed to come here; his Majesty had deigned to wish to see me.” Then the King stopped me, and made a sign to Knighton to withdraw.

“‘Was n’t it a strange situation, Harcourt, to be seated there beside the King, alone? None other present, – all to ourselves, – talking as you and I might talk of what interested us most of all the world; and he showing me that letter, – the letter that ought to have come to me. How he could do it I know not. Neither you nor I, George, could have done so; for, after all, she was, ay, and she is, his wife. He could not avail himself of my stratagem. I said so too, and he answered, “Ay, but I can divorce her if one half of that be true;” and he pointed to the letter. “The Lady Glencore,” said he, “must know everything, and be willing to tell it too. She has paid the heaviest penalty ever woman paid for another. Read that.” And I read it, – ay, I read it four times, five times over; and then my brain began to burn, and a thousand fancies flitted across me, and though he talked on, I heard not a word.

“‘"But that lady is my wife, sir,” broke I in; “and what a part do you assign her! She is to be a spy, a witness, perhaps, in some infamous cause. How shall I, a peer of the realm, endure to see my name thus degraded? Is it Court favor can recompense me for lost or tarnished honor?” “But it will be her own vindication,” said he. Her own vindication, – these were the words, George; she should be clear of all reproach. By Heaven, he said so, that I might declare it before the world. And then it should be proved! – be proved! How base a man can be, even though he wear a crown! Just fancy his proposition! But I spurned it, and said, “You must seek for some one with a longer chance of life, sir, to do this; my days are too brief for such dishonor;” and he was angry with me, and said I had forgotten the presence in which I stood. It was true, I had forgotten it.

“‘He called me a wretched fool, too, as I tore up that letter. That was wrong in me, Harcourt, was it not? I did not see him go, but I found myself alone in the room, and I was picking up the fragments of the letter as they entered. They were less than courteous to me, though I told them who I was, – an ancient barony better than half the modern marquisates. I gave them date and place for a creation that smacked of other services than theirs. Knighton would come with me, but I shook him off. Your Court physician can carry his complaisance even to poison. By George! it is their chief office, and I know well what snares are now in store for me.’

“And thence he went on to say that he would hasten back to his Irish solitude, where none could trace him out. That there his life, at least, would be secure, and no emissaries of the King dare follow him. It was in vain I tried to induce him to return, even for one night, to the hotel; and I saw that to persist in my endeavors would be to hazard the little influence I still possessed over him. I could not, however, leave the poor fellow to his fate without at least the assurance of a home somewhere, and so I accompanied him to Ireland, and left him in that strange old ruin where we once sojourned together. His mind had gradually calmed down, but a deep melancholy had gained entire possession of him, and he passed whole days without a word. I saw that he often labored to recall some of the events of the interview with the King; but his memory had not retained them, and he seemed like one eternally engaged in some problem which his faculties could not solve.

“When I left him and arrived in town, I found the clubs full of the incident, but evidently without any real knowledge of what had occurred; since the version was that Glencore had asked an audience of the King, and gone down to the Pavilion to read to his Majesty a most atrocious narrative of the Queen’s life in Italy, offering to substantiate – through his Italian connection – every allegation it contained, – a proposal that, of course, was only received by the King in the light of an insult; and that this reception, so different from all his expectations, had turned his head and driven him completely insane!

“I believe now I have told you everything as I heard it; indeed, I have given you Glencore’s own words, since, without them, I could not convey to you what he intended to say. The whole affair is a puzzle to me, for I am unable to tell when the poor fellow’s brain was wandering, and when he spoke under the guidance of right reason. You, of course, have the clew to it all.”

“I! How so?” cried Upton.

“You have seen the letter which caused all the trouble; you know its contents, and what it treats of.”

“Very true; I must have read it; but I have not the slightest recollection of what it was about. There was something, I know, about Glencore’s boy, – he was called Greppi, though, and might not have been recognized; and there was some gossip about the Princess of Wales – the Queen, as they call her now – and her ladies; but I must frankly confess it did not interest me, and I have forgotten it all.”

“Is the writer of the letter to be come at?”

“Nothing easier. I’ll take you over to breakfast with her to-morrow morning; you shall catechise her yourself.”

“Oh! she is then – ”

“She is the Princess Sabloukoff, my dear George, and a very charming person, as you will be the first to acknowledge. But as to this interview at Brighton, I fancy – even from the disjointed narrative of Glencore – one can make a guess of what it portended. The King saw that my Lady Glencore – for so we must call her – knew some very important facts about the Queen, and wished to obtain them; and saw, too, that certain scandals, as the phrase goes, which attached to her ladyship, lay at another door. He fancied, not unreasonably, perhaps, that Glencore would be glad to hear this exculpation of his wife; and he calculated that by the boon of this intelligence he could gain over Glencore to assist him in his project for a divorce. Don’t you perceive, Harcourt, of what an inestimable value it would prove, to possess one single gentleman, one man or one woman of station, amid all this rabble that they are summoning throughout the world to bring shame upon England?”