The Fortunes Of Glencore

“And yet until the last half-hour I have not seen him so well for weeks past. I ‘m afraid something you said about Alicia Villars affected him,” said Harcourt.

“My dear Harcourt, how young you are in all these things,” said Upton, as he lighted his cigarette. “A poor heart-stricken fellow, like Glencore, no more cares for what you would think a painful allusion, than an old weather-beaten sailor would for a breezy morning on the Downs at Brighton. His own sorrows lie too deeply moored to be disturbed by the light winds that ruffle the surface. And to think that all this is a woman’s doing! Is n’t that what’s passing in your mind, eh, most gallant Colonel?”

“By Jove, and so it was! They were the very words I was on the point of uttering,” said Harcourt, half nettled at the ease with which the other read him.

“And of course you understand the source of the sorrow?”

“I’m not quite so sure of that,” said Harcourt, more and more piqued at the tone of bantering superiority with which the other spoke.

“Yes, you do, Harcourt; I know you better than you know yourself. Your thoughts were these: Here’s a fellow with a title, a good name, good looks, and a fine fortune, going out of the world of a broken heart, and all for a woman!”

“You knew her,” said Harcourt, anxious to divert the discussion from himself.

“Intimately. Ninetta della Torre was the belle of Florence – what am I saying? of all Italy – when Glencore met her, about eighteen years ago. The Palazzo della Torre was the best house in Florence. The old Prince, her grandfather, – her father was killed in the Russian campaign, – was spending the last remnant of an immense fortune in every species of extravagance. Entertainments that surpassed those of the Pitti Palace in splendor, fêtes that cost fabulous sums, banquets voluptuous as those of ancient Rome, were things of weekly occurrence. Of course every foreigner, with any pretension to distinction, sought to be presented there, and we English happened just at that moment to stand tolerably high in Italian estimation. I am speaking of some eighteen or twenty years back, before we sent out that swarm of domestic economists who, under the somewhat erroneous notion of foreign cheapness, by a system of incessant higgle and bargain, cutting down every one’s demand to the measure of their own pockets, end by making the word ‘Englishman’ a synonym for all that is mean, shabby, and contemptible. The English of that day were of another class; and assuredly their characteristics, as regards munificence and high dealing, must have been strongly impressed upon the minds of foreigners, seeing how their successors, very different people, have contrived to trade upon the mere memory of these qualities ever since.”

“Which all means that ‘my lord’ stood cheating better than those who came after him,” said Harcourt, bluntly.

“He did so; and precisely for that very reason he conveyed the notion of a people who do not place money in the first rank of all their speculations, and who aspire to no luxury that they have not a just right to enjoy. But to come back to Glencore. He soon became a favored guest at the Palazzo della Torre. His rank, name, and station, combined with very remarkable personal qualities, obtained for him a high place in the old Prince’s favor, and Ninetta deigned to accord him a little more notice than she bestowed on any one else. I have, in the course of my career, had occasion to obtain a near view of royal personages and their habits, and I can say with certainty that never in any station, no matter how exalted, have I seen as haughty a spirit as in that girl. To the pride of her birth, rank, and splendid mode of life were added the consciousness of her surpassing beauty, and the graceful charm of a manner quite unequalled. She was incomparably superior to all around her, and, strangely enough, she did not offend by the bold assertion of this superiority. It seemed her due, and no more. Nor was it the assumption of mere flattered beauty. Her house was the resort of persons of the very highest station, and in the midst of them – some even of royal blood – she exacted all the deference and all the homage that she required from others.”

“And they accorded it?” asked Harcourt, half contemptuously.

“They did; and so had you also if you had been in their place! Believe me, most gallant Colonel, there is a wide difference between the empty pretension of mere vanity and the daring assumption of conscious power. This girl saw the influence she wielded. As she moved amongst us she beheld the homage, not always willing, that awaited her. She felt that she had but to distinguish any one man there, and he became for the time as illustrious as though touched by the sword or ennobled by the star of his sovereign. The courtier-like attitude of men, in the presence of a very beautiful woman, is a spectacle full of interest. In the homage vouchsafed to mere rank there enters always a sense of humiliation, and in the observances of respect men tender to royalty, the idea of vassalage presents itself most prominently; whereas in the other case, the chivalrous devotion is not alloyed by this meaner servitude, and men never lift their heads more haughtily than after they have bowed them in lowly deference to loveliness.”

A thick, short snort from Harcourt here startled the speaker, who, inspired by the sounds of his own voice and the flowing periods he uttered, had fallen into one of those paroxysms of loquacity which now and then befell him. That his audience should have thought him tiresome or prosy, would, indeed, have seemed to him something strange; but that his hearer should have gone off asleep, was almost incredible.

“It is quite true,” said Upton to himself; “he snores ‘like a warrior taking his rest.’ What wonderful gifts some fellows are endowed with! and, to enjoy life, there is none of them all like dulness. Can you show me to my room?” said he, as Craggs answered his ring at the bell.

The Corporal bowed an assent.

“The Colonel usually retires early, I suppose?” said Upton.

“Yes, sir; at ten to a minute.”

“Ah! it is one – nearly half-past one – now, I perceive,” said he, looking at his watch. “That accounts for his drowsiness,” muttered he, between his teeth. “Curious vegetables are these old campaigners. Wish him good night for me when he awakes, will you?”

And so saying, he proceeded on his way, with all that lassitude and exhaustion which it was his custom to throw into every act which demanded the slightest exertion.

“Any more stairs to mount, Mr. Craggs?” said he, with a bland but sickly smile.

“Yes, sir; two flights more.”

“Oh, dear! couldn’t you have disposed of me on the lower floor? – I don’t care where or how, but something that requires no climbing. It matters little, however, for I’m only here for a day.”

“We could fit up a small room, sir, off the library.”

“Do so, then. A most humane thought; for if I should remain another night – Not at it yet?” cried he, peevishly, at the aspect of an almost perpendicular stair before him.

“This is the last flight, sir; and you’ll have a splendid view for your trouble, when you awake in the morning.”

“There is no view ever repaid the toil of an ascent, Mr. Craggs, whether it be to an attic or the Righi. Would you kindly tell my servant, Mr. Schöfer, where to find me, and let him fetch the pillows, and put a little rosemary in a glass of water in the room, – it corrects the odor of the night-lamp. And I should like my coffee early, – say at seven, though I don’t wish to be disturbed afterwards. Thank you, Mr. Craggs, – good-night. Oh! one thing more. You have a doctor here: would you just mention to him that I should like to see him to-morrow about nine or half-past? Good night, good night.”

And with a smile worthy of bestowal upon a court beauty, and a gentle inclination of the head, the very ideal of gracefulness, Sir Horace dismissed Mr. Craggs, and closed the door.

CHAPTER IX. A MEDICAL VISIT

Mr. Schöfer moved through the dimly lighted chamber with all the cat-like stealthiness of an accomplished valet, arranging the various articles of his master’s wardrobe, and giving, so far as he was able, the semblance of an accustomed spot to this new and strange locality. Already, indeed, it was very unlike what it had been during Harcourt’s occupation. Guns, whips, fishing-tackle, dog-leashes, and landing-nets had all disappeared, as well as uncouth specimens of costume for boating or the chase; and in their place were displayed all the accessories of an elaborate toilet, laid out with a degree of pomp and ostentation somewhat in contrast to the place. A richly embroidered dressing-gown lay on the back of a chair, before which stood a pair of velvet slippers worked in gold. On the table in front of these, a whole regiment of bottles, of varied shape and color, were ranged, the contents being curious essences and delicate odors, every one of which entered into some peculiar stage of that elaborate process Sir Horace Upton went through, each morning of his life, as a preparation for the toils of the day.

Adjoining the bed stood a smaller table, covered with various medicaments, tinctures, essences, infusions, and extracts, whose subtle qualities he was well skilled in, and but for whose timely assistance he would not have believed himself capable of surviving throughout the day. Beside these was a bulky file of prescriptions, the learned documents of doctors of every country of Europe, all of whom had enjoyed their little sunshine of favor, and all of whom had ended by “mistaking his case.” These had now been placed in readiness for the approaching consultation with “Glencore’s doctor;” and Mr. Schöfer still glided noiselessly from place to place, preparing for that event.

“I ‘m not asleep, Fritz,” said a weak, plaintive voice from the bed. “Let me have my aconite, – eighteen drops; a full dose to-day, for this journey has brought back the pains.”

“Yes, Excellenz,” said Fritz, in a voice of broken accentuation.

“I slept badly,” continued his master, in the same complaining tone. “The sea beat so heavily against the rocks, and the eternal plash, plash, all night irritated and worried me. Are you giving me the right tincture?”

“Yes, Excellenz,” was the brief reply.

“You have seen the doctor, – what is he like, Fritz?”

A strange grimace and a shrug of the shoulders were Mr. Schöfer’s only answer.

“I thought as much,” said Upton, with a heavy sigh. “They called him the wild growth of the mountains last night, and I fancied what that was like to prove. Is he young?”

A shake of the head implied not.

“Nor old?”

Another similar movement answered the question.

“Give me a comb, Fritz, and fetch the glass here.” And now Sir Horace arranged his silky hair more becomingly, and having exchanged one or two smiles with his image in the mirror, lay back on the pillow, saying, “Tell him I am ready to see him.”

Mr. Schöfer proceeded to the door, and at once presented the obsequious figure of Billy Traynor, who, having heard some details of the rank and quality of his new patient, made his approaches with a most deferential humility. It was true, Billy knew that my Lord Glencore’s rank was above that of Sir Horace, but to his eyes there was the far higher distinction of a man of undoubted ability, – a great speaker, a great writer, a great diplomatist; and Billy Traynor, for the first time in his life, found himself in the presence of one whose claims to distinction stood upon the lofty basis of personal superiority. Now, though bashful-ness was not the chief characteristic of his nature, he really felt abashed and timid as he drew near the bed, and shrank under the quick but searching glance of the sick man’s cold gray eyes.

“Place a chair, and leave us, Fritz,” said Sir Horace; and then, turning slowly round, smiled as he said, “I’m happy to make your acquaintance, sir. My friend, Lord Glencore, has told me with what skill you treated him, and I embrace the fortunate occasion to profit by your professional ability.”

“I’m your humble slave, sir,” said Billy, with a deep, rich brogue; and the manner of the speaker, and his accent, seemed so to surprise Upton that he continued to stare at him fixedly for some seconds without speaking.

“You studied in Scotland, I believe?” said he, with one of the most engaging smiles, while he hazarded the question.

“Indeed, then, I did not, sir,” said Billy, with a heavy sigh; “all I know of the ars medicâtrix I picked up, —currendo per campos, – as one may say, vagabondizing through life, and watching my opportunities. Nature gave me the Hippocratic turn, and I did my best to improve it.”

“So that you never took out a regular diploma?” said Sir Horace, with another and still blander smile.

“Sorra one, sir! I ‘m a doctor just as a man is a poet, – by sheer janius! ‘T is the study of nature makes both one and the other; that is, when there’s the raal stuff, – the divinus afflatus, – inside. Without you have that, you ‘re only a rhymester or a quack.”

“You would, then, trace a parallel between them?” said Upton, graciously.

“To be sure, sir! Ould Heyric says that the poet and the physician is one: —