The Fortunes Of Glencore

“‘For he who reads the clouded skies,
And knows the utterings of the deep,
Can surely see in human eyes
The sorrows that so heart-locked sleep.’

The human system is just a kind of universe of its own; and the very same faculties that investigate the laws of nature in one case is good in the other.”

“I don’t think the author of ‘King Arthur’ supports your theory,” said Upton, gently.

“Blackmoor was an ass; but maybe he was as great a bosthoon in physic as in poetry,” rejoined Billy, promptly.

“Well, Doctor,” said Sir Horace, with one of those plaintive sighs in which he habitually opened the narrative of his own suffering, “let us descend to meaner things, and talk of myself. You see before you one who, in some degree, is the reproach of medicine. That file of prescriptions beside you will show that I have consulted almost every celebrity in Europe; and that I have done so unsuccessfully, it is only necessary that you should look on these worn looks – these wasted fingers – this sickly, feeble frame. Vouchsafe me a patient hearing for a few moments, while I give you some insight into one of the most intricate cases, perhaps, that has ever engaged the faculty.”

It is not our intention to follow Sir Horace through his statement, which in reality comprised a sketch of half the ills that the flesh is heir to. Maladies of heart, brain, liver, lungs, the nerves, the arteries, even the bones, contributed their aid to swell the dreary catalogue, which, indeed, contained the usual contradictions and exaggerations incidental to such histories. We could not assuredly expect from our reader the patient attention with which Billy listened to this narrative. Never by a word did he interrupt the description; not even a syllable escaped him as he sat; and even when Sir Horace had finished speaking, he remained with slightly drooped head and clasped hands in deep meditation.

“It’s a strange thing,” said he, at last; “but the more I see of the aristocracy, the more I ‘m convinced that they ought to have doctors for themselves alone, just as they have their own tailors and coachmakers, – chaps that could devote themselves to the study of physic for the peerage, and never think of any other disorders but them that befall people of rank. Your mistake, Sir Horace, was in consulting the regular middle-class practitioner, who invariably imagined there must be a disease to treat.”

“And you set me down as a hypochondriac, then,” said Upton, smiling.

“Nothing of the kind! You have a malady, sure enough, but nothing organic. ‘Tis the oceans of tinctures, the sieves full of pills, the quarter-casks of bitters you ‘re takin’, has played the divil with you. The human machine is like a clock, and it depends on the proportion the parts bear to each other, whether it keeps time. You may make the spring too strong, or the chain too thick, or the balance too heavy for the rest of the works, and spoil everything just by over security. That’s what your doctors was doing with their tonics and cordials. They didn’t see, here’s a poor washy frame, with a wake circulation and no vigor. If we nourish him, his heart will go quicker, to be sure; but what will his brain be at? There’s the rub! His brain will begin to go fast too, and already it’s going the pace. ‘T is soothin’ and calmin’ you want; allaying the irritability of an irrascible, fretful nature, always on the watch for self-torment. Say-bathin’, early hours, a quiet mopin’ kind of life, that would, maybe, tend to torpor and sleepiness, – them’s the first things you need; and for exercise, a little work in the garden that you ‘d take interest in.”

“And no physic?” asked Sir Horace.

“Sorra screed! not as much as a powder or a draught, – barrin’,” said he, suddenly catching the altered expression of the sick man’s face, “a little mixture of hyoscyamus I’ ll compound for you myself. This, and friction over the region of the heart, with a mild embrocation, is all my tratement!”

“And you have hopes of my recovery?” asked Sir Horace, faintly.

“My name isn’t Billy Traynor if I’d not send you out of this hale and hearty before two months. I read you like a printed book.”

“You really give me great confidence, for I perceive you understand the tone of my temperament. Let us try this same embrocation at once; I’ll most implicitly obey you in everything.”

“My head on a block, then, but I’ll cure you,” said Billy, who determined that no scruples on his side should mar the trust reposed in him by the patient. “But you must give yourself entirely up to me; not only as to your eatin’ and drinkin’, but your hours of recreation and study, exercise, amusement, and all, must be at my biddin’. It is the principle of harmony between the moral and physical nature constitutes the whole sacret of my system. To be stimulatin’ the nerves, and lavin’ the arteries dormant, is like playing a jig to minuet time, – all must move in simultaneous action; and the cerebellum, the great flywheel of the whole, must be made to keep orderly time. D’ye mind?”

“I follow you with great interest,” said Sir Horace, to whose subtle nature there was an intense pleasure in the thought of having discovered what he deemed a man of original genius under this unpromising exterior. “There is but one bar to these arrangements: I must leave this at once; I ought to go to-day. I must be off to-morrow.”

“Then I’ll not take the helm when I can’t pilot you through the shoals,” said Billy. “To begin my system, and see you go away before I developed my grand invigoratin’ arcanum, would be only to destroy your confidence in an elegant discovery.”

“Were I only as certain as you seem to be – ” began

Sir Horace, and then stopped.

“You ‘d stay and be cured, you were goin’ to say. Well, if you did n’t feel that same trust in me, you ‘d be right to go; for it is that very confidence that turns the balance. Ould Babbington used to say that between a good physician and a bad one there was just the difference between a pound and a guinea. But between the one you trust and the one you don’t, there’s all the way between Billy Traynor and the Bank of Ireland!”

“On that score every advantage is with you,” said Upton, with all the winning grace of his incomparable manner; “and I must now bethink me how I can manage to prolong my stay here.” And with this he fell into a musing fit, letting drop occasionally some stray word or two, to mark the current of his thoughts: “The Duke of Headwater’s on the thirteenth; Ardroath Castle the Tuesday after; More-hampton for the Derby day. These easily disposed of. Prince Boratinsky, about that Warsaw affair, must be attended to; a letter, yes, a letter, will keep that question open. Lady Grencliffe is a difficulty; if I plead illness, she ‘ll say I ‘m not strong enough to go to Russia. I ‘ll think it over.” And with this he rested his head on his hands, and sank into profound reflection. “Yes, Doctor,” said he, at length, as though summing up his secret calculations, “health is the first requisite. If you can but restore me, you will be – I am above the mere personal consideration – you will be the means of conferring an important service on the King’s Government. A variety of questions, some of them deep and intricate, are now pending, of which I alone understand the secret meaning. A new hand would infallibly spoil the game; and yet, in my present condition, how could I hear the fatigues of long interviews, ministerial deliberations, incessant note-writing, and evasive conversations?”

“Utterly unpossible!” exclaimed the doctor.

“As you observe, it is utterly impossible,” rejoined Sir Horace, with one of his own dubious smiles; and then, in a manner more natural, resumed: “We public men have the sad necessity of concealing the sufferings on which others trade for sympathy. We must never confess to an ache or a pain, lest it be rumored that we are unequal to the fatigues of office; and so is it that we are condemned to run the race with broken health and shattered frame, alleging all the while that no exertion is too much, no effort too great for us.”

“And maybe, after all, it’s that very struggle that makes you more than common men,” said Billy. “There’s a kind of irritability that keeps the brain at stretch, and renders it equal to higher efforts than ever accompany good everyday health. Dyspepsia is the soul of a prose-writer, and a slight ossification of the aortic valves is a great help to the imagination.”

“Do you really say so?” asked Sir Horace, with all the implicit confidence with which he accepted any marvel that had its origin in medicine.

“Don’t you feel it yourself, sir?” asked Billy. “Do you ever pen a reply to a knotty state-paper as nately as when you’ve the heartburn? – are you ever as epigrammatic as when you’re driven to a listen slipper? – and when do you give a minister a jobation as purtily as when you are laborin’ under a slight indigestion? Not that it would sarve a man to be permanently in gout or the colic; but for a spurt like a cavalry charge, there’s nothing like eatin’ something that disagrees with you.”

“An ingenious notion,” said the diplomatist, smiling.

“And now I ‘ll take my lave,” said Billy, rising. “I’m going out to gather some mountain-colchicum and sorrel, to make a diaphoretic infusion; and I’ve to give Master Charles his Greek lesson; and blister the colt, – he’s thrown out a bone spavin; and, after that, Handy Care’s daughter has the shakin’ ague, and the smith at the forge is to be bled, – all before two o ‘dock, when ‘the lord’ sends for me. But the rest of the day, and the night too, I’m your honor’s obaydient.”

And with a low bow, repeated in a more reverential man-ner at the door, Billy took his leave and retired.

CHAPTER X. A DISCLOSURE

“Have you seen Upton?” asked Glencore eagerly of Harcourt as he entered his bedroom.

“Yes; he vouchsafed me an audience during his toilet, just as the old kings of France were accustomed to honor a favorite with one.”

“And is he full of miseries at the dreary place, the rough fare and deplorable resources of this wild spot?”

“Quite the reverse; he is charmed with everything and everybody. The view from his window is glorious; the air has already invigorated him. For years he has not breakfasted with the same appetite; and he finds that of all the places he has ever chanced upon, this is the one veritable exact spot which suits him.”

“This is very kind on his part,” said Glencore, with a faint smile. “Will the humor last, Harcourt? That is the question.”

“I trust it will, – at least it may well endure for the short period he means to stay; although already he has extended that, and intends remaining till next week.”

“Better still,” said Glencore, with more animation of voice and manner. “I was already growing nervous about the brief space in which I was to crowd in all that I want to say to him; but if he will consent to wait a day or two, I hope I shall be equal to it.”

“In his present mood there is no impatience to be off; on the contrary, he has been inquiring as to all the available means of locomotion, and by what convenience he is to make various sea and land excursions.”

“We have no carriage, – we have no roads, even,” said Glencore, peevishly.

“He knows all that; but he is concerting measures about a certain turf-kish, I think they call it, which, by the aid of pillows to lie on, and donkeys to drag, can be made a most useful vehicle; while, for longer excursions, he has suggested a ‘conveniency’ of wheels and axles to the punt, rendering it equally eligible on land or water. Then he has been designing great improvements in horticulture, and giving orders about a rake, a spade, and a hoe for himself. I ‘m quite serious,” said Harcourt, as Glencore smiled with a kind of droll incredulity. “It is perfectly true; and as he hears that the messenger occasionally crosses the lough to the post, when there are no letters there, he hints at a little simple telegraph for Leenane, which should announce what the mail contains, and which might be made useful to convey other intelligence. In fact, all my changes here will be as for nothing to his reforms, and between us you ‘ll not know your own house again, if you even be able to live in it.”

“You have already done much to make it more habitable, Harcourt,” said Glencore, feelingly; “and if I had not the grace to thank you for it, I ‘m not the less grateful. To say truth, my old friend, I half doubted whether it was an act of friendship to attach me ever so lightly to a life of which I am well weary. Ceasing as I have done for years back to feel interest in anything, I dread whatever may again recall me to the world of hopes and fears, – that agitated sea of passion wherein I have no longer vigor to contend. To speak to me, then, of plans to carry out, schemes to accomplish, was to point to a future of activity and exertion; and!” – here he dropped his voice to a deep and mournful tone – “can have but one future, – the dark and dreary one before the grave!”

Harcourt was too deeply impressed by the solemnity of these words to venture on a reply, and he sat silently contemplating the sorrow-struck but placid features of the sick man.

“There is nothing to prevent a man struggling, and successfully too, against mere adverse fortune,” continued Glencore. “I feel at times that if I had been suddenly reduced to actual beggary, – left without a shilling in the world, – there are many ways in which I could eke out subsistence. A great defeat to my personal ambition I could resist. The casualty that should exclude me from a proud position and public life, I could bear up against with patience, and I hope with dignity. Loss of fortune, loss of influence, loss of station, loss of health even, dearer than them all, can be borne. There is but one intolerable ill, one that no time alleviates, no casuistry diminishes, – loss of honor! Ay, Harcourt, rank and riches do little for him who feels himself the inferior of the meanest that elbows him in a crowd; and the man whose name is a scoff and a jibe has but one part to fill, – to make himself forgotten.”

“I hope I ‘m not deficient in a sense of personal honor, Glencore,” said Harcourt; “but I must say that I think your reasoning on this point is untenable and wrong.”

“Let us not speak more of it,” said Glencore, faintly. “I know not how I have been led to allude to what it is better to bear in secret than to confide even to friendship;” and he pressed the strong fingers of the other as he spoke, in his own feeble grasp. “Leave me now, Harcourt, and send Upton here. It may be that the time is come when I shall be able to speak to him.”

“You are too weak to-day, Glencore, – too much agitated. Pray defer this interview.”

“No, Harcourt; these are my moments of strength. The little energy now left to me is the fruit of strong excitement. Heaven knows how I shall be to-morrow.”

Harcourt made no further opposition, but left the room in search of Upton.

It was full an hour later when Sir Horace Upton made his appearance in Glencore’s chamber, attired in a purple dressing-gown, profusely braided with gold, loose trousers as richly brocaded, and a pair of real Turkish slippers, resplendent with costly embroidery; a small fez of blue velvet, with a deep gold tassel, covered the top of his head, at either side of which his soft silky hair descended in long massy waves, apparently negligently, but in reality arranged with all the artistic regard to effect of a consummate master. From the gold girdle at his waist depended a watch, a bunch of keys, a Turkish purse, an embroidered tobacco-bag, a gorgeously chased smelling-bottle, and a small stiletto, with a topaz handle. In one hand he carried a meerschaum, the other leaned upon a cane, and with all the dependence of one who could not walk without its aid. The greeting was cordial and affectionate on both sides; and when Sir Horace, after a variety of preparations to ensure his comfort, at length seated himself beside the bed, his features beamed with all their wonted gentleness and kindness.