The Fortunes Of Glencore

“The Count de Wahnsdorf knows that he need make no apologies to Madame de Sabloukoff,” said she, calmly; “but it were just as graceful, perhaps, to affect them. My dear Count,” continued she, but in a tone perfectly free from all touch of irritation, “I have asked to see and speak with you on matters purely your own – ”

“You want to dissuade me from this marriage,” said he, interrupting; “but I fancy that I have already listened to everything that can be urged on that affair. If you have any argument other than the old one about misalliance and the rest of it, I ‘ll hear it patiently; though I tell you beforehand that I should like to learn that a connection with an imperial house had some advantage besides that of a continual barrier to one’s wishes.”

“I understand,” said she, quietly, “that you named the terms on which you would abandon this project, – is it not so?”

“Who told you that?” cried he, angrily. “Is this another specimen of the delicacy with which ministers treat a person of my station?”

“To discuss that point, Count, would lead us wide of our mark. Am I to conclude that my informant was correct?”

“How can I tell what may have been reported to you?” said he, almost rudely.

“You shall hear and judge for yourself,” was the calm answer. “Count Kollorath informed me that you offered to abandon this marriage on condition that you were appointed to the command of the Pahlen Hussars.”

The young man’s face became scarlet with shame, and he tried twice to speak, but unavailingly.

With a merciless slowness of utterance, and a manner of the most unmoved sternness, she went on: “I did not deem the proposal at all exorbitant. It was a price that they could well afford to pay.”

“Well, they refused me,” said he, bluntly.

“Not exactly refused you,” said she, more gently. “They reminded you of the necessity of conforming – of at least appearing to conform – to the rules of the service; that you had only been a few months in command of a squadron; that your debts, which were considerable, had been noised about the world, so that a little time should elapse, and a favorable opportunity present itself, before this promotion could be effected.”

“How correctly they have instructed you in all the details of this affair!” said he, with a scornful smile.

“It is a rare event when I am misinformed, sir,” was her cold reply; “nor could it redound to the advantage of those who ask my advice to afford me incorrect information.”

“Then I am quite unable to perceive what you want with me.” cried he. “It is plain enough you are in possession of all that I could tell you. Or is all this only the prelude to some menace or other?”

She made no other answer to this rude question than by a smile so dubious in its meaning, it might imply scorn, or pity, or even sorrow.

“You must not wonder if I be angry,” continued he, in an accent that betokened shame at his own violence. “They have treated me so long as a fool that they have made me something worse than one.”

“I am not offended by your warmth, Count,” said she, softly. “It is at least the guarantee of your sincerity. I tell you, therefore, I have no threat to hold over you. It will be enough that I can show you the impolicy of this marriage, – I don’t want to use a stronger word, – what estrangement it will lead to as regards your own family, how inadequately it will respond to the sacrifices it must cost.”

“That consideration is for me to think of, madam,” said he, proudly.

“And for your friends also,” interposed she, softly.

“If by my friends you mean those who have watched every occasion of my life to oppose my plans and thwart my wishes, I conclude that they will prove themselves as vigilant now as heretofore; but I am getting somewhat weary of this friendship.”

“My dear Count, give me a patient – if possible, an indulgent – hearing for five minutes, or even half that time, and I hope it will save us both a world of misconception. If this marriage that you are so eager to contract were an affair of love, – of that ardent, passionate love which recognizes no obstacle nor acknowledges any barrier to its wishes, – I could regard the question as one of those everyday events in life whose uniformity is seldom broken by a new incident; for love stories have a terrible sameness in them.” She smiled as she said this, and in such a way as to make him smile at first, and then laugh heartily.

“But if,” resumed she, seriously, – “if I only see in this project a mere caprice, half – more than half – based upon the pleasure of wounding family pride, or of coercing those who have hitherto dictated to you; if, besides this, I perceive that there is no strong affection on either side, none of that impetuous passion which the world accepts as ‘the attenuating circumstance’ in rash marriages – ”

“And who has told you that I do not love Ida, or that she is not devoted with her whole heart to me?” cried he, interrupting her.

“You yourself have told the first. You have shown by the price you have laid on the object the value at which you estimate it. As for the latter part of your question – ” She paused, and arranged the folds of her shawl, purposely playing with his impatience, and enjoying it.

“Well,” cried he, “as for the latter part; go on.”

“It scarcely requires an answer. I saw Ida Delia Torre last night in a society of which her affianced husband was not one; and, I will be bold enough to say, hers was not the bearing that bespoke engaged affections.”

“Indeed!” said he, but in a tone that indicated neither displeasure nor surprise.

“It was as I have told you, Count. Surrounded by the youth of Florence, such as you know them, she laughed, and talked, and sang, in all the careless gayety of a heart at ease; or, if at moments a shade of sadness crossed her features, it was so brief that only one observing her closely as myself could mark it.”

“And how did that subtle intelligence of yours interpret this show of sorrow?” said he, in a voice of mockery, but yet of deep anxiety.

“My subtle intelligence was not taxed to guess, for I knew her secret,” said the Princess, with all the strength of conscious power.

“Her secret – her secret!” said he, eagerly. “What do you mean by that?”

The Princess smiled coldly, and said, “I have not yet found my frankness so well repaid that I should continue to extend it.”

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

“The same candor on your part, Count; I ask for no more.”

“But what have I to reveal; what mystery is there that your omniscience has not penetrated?”

“There may be some that your frankness has not avowed, my dear Count.”

“If you refer to what you have called Ida’s secret – ”

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

“Mine! my secret!” exclaimed he. But though the tone was meant to convey great astonishment, the confusion of his manner was far more apparent.

“Your secret, Count,” she repeated slowly, “which has been just as safe in my keeping as if it had been confided to me on honor.”

“I was not aware how much I owed to your discretion, madam,” said he, scoffingly.

“I am but too happy when any services of mine can rescue the fame of a great family from reproach, sir,” replied she, proudly; for all the control she had heretofore imposed upon her temper seemed at last to have yielded to offended dignity. “Happily for that illustrious house – happily for you, too – I am one of a very few who know of Count Wahnsdorf’s doings. To have suffered your antagonist in a duel to be tracked, arrested, and imprisoned in an Austrian fortress, when a word from you had either warned him of his peril or averted the danger, was bad enough; but to have stigmatized his name with cowardice, and to have defamed him because he was your rival, was far worse.”

Wahnsdorf struck the table with his clenched fist till it shook beneath the blow, but never uttered a word, while with increased energy she continued, —

“Every step of this bad history is known to me; every detail of it, from your gross and insulting provocation of this poor friendless youth to the last scene of his committal to a dungeon.”

“And, of course, you have related your interesting narrative to Ida?” cried he.

“No, sir; the respect which I have never lost for those whose name you bear had been quite enough to restrain me, had I not even other thoughts.”

“And what may they be?” asked he.

“To take the first opportunity of finding myself alone with you, to represent how nearly it concerns your honor that this affair should never be bruited abroad; to insist upon your lending every aid to obtain this young man’s liberation; to show that the provocation came from yourself; and, lastly, all-painful though it be, to remove from him the stain you have inflicted, and to reinstate him in the esteem that your calumny may have robbed him of. These were the other thoughts I alluded to.”

“And you fancy that I am to engage in this sea of trouble for the sake of some nameless bastard, while in doing so I compromise myself and my own honor?”

“Do you prefer that it should be done by another, Count Wahnsdorf?” asked she.

“This is a threat, madam.”

“All the speedier will the matter be settled if you understand it as such.”

“And, of course, the next condition will be for me to resign my pretensions to Ida in his favor,” said he, with a savage irony.

“I stipulate for nothing of the sort; Count Wahnsdorf’s pretensions will be to-morrow just where they are to-day.”

“You hold them cheaply, madam. I am indeed unfortunate in all my pursuit of your esteem.”

“You live in a sphere to command it, sir,” was her reply, given with a counterfeited humility; and whether it was the tone of mingled insolence and submission she assumed, or simply the sense of his own unworthiness in her sight, but Wahnsdorf cowered before her like a frightened child. At this moment the servant entered, and presented a visiting-card to the Princess.

“Ah, he comes in an opportune moment,” cried she. “This is the Minister of the Duke of Massa’s household, – the Chevalier Stubber. Yes,” continued she to the servant, “I will receive him.”

If there was not any conspicuous gracefulness in the Chevalier’s approach, there was an air of quiet self-possession that bespoke a sense of his own worth and importance; and while he turned to pay his respects to the young Count, his unpolished manner was not devoid of a certain dignity.

“It is a fortunate chance by which I find you here, Count Wahnsdorf,” said he, “for you will be glad to learn that the young fellow you had that affair with at Massa has just been liberated.”

“When, and how?” cried the Princess, hastily.

“As to the time, it must be about four days ago, as my letters inform me; as to the how, I fancy the Count can best inform you, – he has interested himself greatly in the matter.” The Count blushed deeply, and turned away to hide his face, but not so quickly as to miss the expression of scornful meaning with which the Princess regarded him.

“But I want to hear the details, Chevalier,” said she.

“And I can give you none, madam. My despatches simply mention that the act of arrest was discovered in some way to be informal. Sir Horace Upton proved so much. There then arose a question of giving him up to us; but my master declined the honor, – he would have no trouble, he said, with England or Englishmen; and some say that the youth claims an English nationality. The cabinet of Vienna are, perhaps, like-minded in the matter; at all events, he is free, and will be here to-morrow.”

“Then I shall invite him to dinner, and beg both of you gentlemen to meet him,” said she, with a voice wherein a tone of malicious drollery mingled.

“I am your servant, madam,” said Stubber.

“And I am engaged,” said Wahnsdorf, taking up his shako.

“You are off to Vienna to-night, Count Wahnsdorf,” whispered the Princess-in his ear.

“What do you mean, madam?” said he, in a tone equally low.

“Only that I have a letter written for the Archduchess Sophia, which I desire to intrust to your hands. You may as well read ere I seal it.”

The Count took the letter from her hand, and retired towards the window to read it. While she conversed eagerly with Stubber, she did not fail from time to time to glance towards the other, and mark the expression of his features as he folded and replaced the letter in its envelope, and, slowly approaching her, said, —

“You are most discreet, madam.”

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

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

“It was certainly a pleasant and proud one, sir, as it always must be, to write to a mother in commendation of her son. By the way, Chevalier, you have forgotten to make your compliments to the Count on his promotion – ”

“I have not heard of it, madam; what may it be?” asked Stubber.

“To the command of the Pahlen Hussars, sir, – one of the proudest ‘charges’ of the Empire.”

A rush of blood to Wahnsdorf’s face was as quickly followed by a deadly pallor, and with a broken, faint utterance he said, “Good-bye,” and left the room.

“A fine young fellow, – the very picture of a soldier,” exclaimed Stubber, looking after him.

“A chevalier of the olden time, sir, – the very soul of honor,” said the Princess, enthusiastically. “And now for a little gossip with yourself.”

It is not “in our brief” to record what passed in that chatty interview; plenty of state secrets and state gossip there was, – abundance of that dangerous trifling which mixes up the passions of society with the great game of politics, and makes statecraft feel the impress of men’s whims and caprices. We were just beginning that era, “the policy of resentments,” which has since pervaded Europe, and the Chevalier and the Princess were sufficiently behind the scenes to have many things to communicate; and here we must leave them while we hasten on to other scenes and other actors.

CHAPTER XLIII. DOINGS IN DOWNING STREET

The dull old precincts of Downing Street were more than usually astir. Hackney-coaches and cabs at an early hour, private chariots somewhat later, went to and fro along the dreary pavement, and two cabinet messengers with splashed calèches arrived in hot haste from Dover. Frequent, too, were the messages from the House; a leading Oppositionist was then thundering away against the Government, inveighing against the treacherous character of their foreign policy, and indignantly calling on them for certain despatches to their late envoy at Naples. At every cheer which greeted him from his party a fresh missive would be despatched from the Treasury benches, and the whisper, at first cautiously muttered, grew louder and louder, “Why does not Upton come down?”

So intricate has been the web of our petty entanglements, so complex the threads of those small intrigues by which we have earned our sobriquet of the “perfide Albion,” that it is difficult at this time of day to recall the exact question whose solution, in the words of the orator of the debate, “placed us either at the head of Europe, or consigned to us the fatal mediocrity of a third-rate power.” The prophecy, whichever way read, gives us unhappily no clew to the matter in hand, and we are only left to conjecture that it was an intervention in Spain, or “something about the Poles.” As is usual in such cases, the matter, insignificant enough in itself, was converted into a serious attack on the Government, and all the strength of the Opposition was arrayed to give power and consistency to the assault. As is equally usual, the cabinet was totally unprepared for defence; either they had altogether undervalued the subject, or they trusted to the secrecy with which they had conducted it; whichever of these be the right explanation, each minister could only say to his colleague, “It never came before me; Upton knows all about it.”

“And where is Upton? – why does he not come down?” – were again and again reiterated; while a shower of messages and even mandates invoked his presence.

The last of these was a peremptory note from no less a person than the Premier himself, written in three very significant words, thus: “Come, or go;” and given to a trusty whip, the Hon. Gerald Neville, to deliver.

Armed with this not very conciliatory document, the well-practised tactician drew up to the door of the Foreign Office, and demanded to see the Secretary of State.

“Give him this card and this note, sir,” said he to the well-dressed and very placid young gentleman who acted as his private secretary.

“Sir Horace is very poorly, sir; he is at this moment in a mineral bath; but as the matter you say is pressing, he will see you. Will you pass this way?”

Mr. Neville followed his guide through an infinity of passages, and at length reached a large folding-door, opening one side of which he was ushered into a spacious apartment, but so thoroughly impregnated with a thick and offensive vapor that he could barely perceive, through the mist, the bath in which Upton lay reclined, and the figure of a man, whose look and attitude bespoke the doctor, beside him.

“Ah, my dear fellow,” sighed Upton, extending two dripping fingers in salutation, “you have come in at the death. This is the last of it!”

“No, no; don’t say that,” cried the other, encouragingly. “Have you had any sudden seizure? What is the nature of it?”

“He,” said he, looking round to the doctor, “calls it ‘arachnoidal trismus,’ – a thing, he says, that they have all of them ignored for many a day, though Charlemagne died of it. Ah, Doctor,” – and he addressed a question to him in German.

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

“Yes, Charlemagne, – Melancthon had it, but lingered for years. It is the peculiar affection of great intellectual natures over-taxed and over-worked.”

Whether there was that in the manner of the sick man that inspired hope, or something in the aspect of the doctor that suggested distrust, or a mixture of the two together, but certainly Neville rapidly rallied from the fears which had beset him on entering, and in a voice of a more cheery tone, said, —

“Come, come, Sir Horace, you ‘ll throw off this as you have done other such attacks. You have never been wanting either to your friends or yourself when the hour of emergency called. We are in a moment of such difficulty now, and you alone can rescue us.”

“How cruel of the Duke to write me that!” sighed Upton, as he held up the piece of paper, from which the water had obliterated all trace of the words. “It was so inconsiderate, – eh, Neville?”

“I’m not aware of the terms he employed,” said the other.

This was the very admission that Upton sought to obtain, and in a far more cheery voice he said, —

“If I was capable of the effort, – if Doctor Geimirstad thought it safe for me to venture, – I could set all this to right. These people are all talking ‘without book,’ Neville, – the ever-recurring blunder of an Opposition when they address themselves to a foreign question: they go upon a newspaper paragraph, or the equally incorrect ‘private communication from a friend.’ Men in office alone can attain to truth – exact truth – about questions of foreign policy.”

“The debate is taking a serious turn, however,” interposed Neville. “They reiterate very bold assertions, which none of our people are in a position to contradict. Their confidence is evidently increasing with the show of confusion in our ranks. Something must be done to meet them, and that quickly.”

“Well, I suppose I must go,” sighed Upton; and as he held out his wrist to have his pulse felt, he addressed a few words to the doctor.

“He calls it ‘a life period,’ Neville. He says that he won’t answer for the consequences.”

The doctor muttered on.

“He adds that the trismus may be thus converted into ‘Bi-trismus.’ Just imagine Bi-trismus!”

This was a stretch of fancy clear and away beyond Neville’s apprehension, and he began to feel certain misgivings about pushing a request so full of danger; but from this he was in a measure relieved by the tone in which Upton now addressed his valet with directions as to the dress he intended to wear. “The loose pelisse, with the astrakhan, Giuseppe, and that vest of cramoisie velvet; and if you will just glance at the newspaper, Neville, in the next room, I ‘ll come to you immediately.”

The newspapers of the morning after this interview afford us the speediest mode of completing the incidents; and the concluding sentences of a leading article will be enough to place before our readers what ensued: —

“It was at this moment, and amidst the most enthusiastic cheers of the Treasury bench, that Sir Horace Upton entered the House. Leaning on the arm of Mr. Neville, he slowly passed up and took his accustomed place. The traces of severe illness in his features, and the great debility which his gestures displayed, gave an unusual interest to a scene already almost dramatic in its character. For a moment the great chief of Opposition was obliged to pause in his assault, to let this flood-tide of sympathy pass on; and when at length he did resume, it was plain to see how much the tone of his invective had been tempered by a respect for the actual feeling of the House. The necessity for this act of deference, added to the consciousness that he was in presence of the man whose acts he so strenuously denounced, were too much for the nerves of the orator, and he came to an abrupt conclusion, whose confused and uncertain sentences scarcely warranted the cheers with which his friends rallied him.

“Sir Horace rose at once to reply. His voice was at first so inarticulate that we could but catch the burden of what he said, – a request that the House would accord him all the indulgence which his state of debility and suffering called for. If the first few sentences he uttered imparted a painful significance to the entreaty, it very soon became apparent that he had no occasion to bespeak such indulgence. In a voice that gained strength and fulness as he proceeded, he entered upon what might be called a narrative of the foreign policy of the administration, clearly showing that their course was guided by certain great principles which dictated a line of action firm and undeviating; that the measures of the Government, however modified by passing events in Europe, had been uniformly consistent, – based upon the faith of treaties, but ever mindful of the growing requirements of the age. Through a narrative of singular complexity he guided himself with consummate skill, and though detailing events which occupied every region of the globe, neither confusion nor inconsistency ever marred the recital, and names and places and dates were quoted by him without any artificial aid to memory.”

There was in the polished air, and calm, dispassionate delivery of the speaker, something which seemed to charm the ears of those who for four hours before had been so mercilessly assailed by all the vituperation and insolence of party animosity. It was, so to say, a period of relief and repose, to which even antagonists were not insensible. No man ever understood the advantage of his gifts in this way better than Upton, nor ever was there one who could convert the powers which fascinated society into the means of controlling a popular assembly, with greater assurance of success. He was a man of a strictly logical mind, a close and acute thinker; he was of a highly imaginative temperament, rich in all the resources of a poetic fancy; he was thoroughly well read, and gifted with a ready memory; but, above all these, – transcendently above them all, – he was a “man of the world;” and no one, either in Parliament or out of it, knew so well when it was wrong to say “the right thing.” But let us resume our quotation: —

“For more than three hours did the House listen with breathless attention to a narrative which in no parliamentary experience has been surpassed for the lucid clearness of its details, the unbroken flow of its relation. The orator up to this time had strictly devoted himself to explanation; he now proceeded to what might be called reply. If the House was charmed and instructed before, it was now positively astonished and electrified by the overwhelming force of the speaker’s raillery and invective. Not satisfied with showing the evil consequences that must ensue from any adoption of the measures recommended by the Opposition, he proceeded to exhibit the insufficiency of views always based upon false information.