Part 13 (1/2)
The terrible energy with which he spoke actually frightened Upton, who fancied that his reason had already begun to show signs of decline.
”The world has decreed,” resumed Glencore, ”that in these conflicts all the shame shall be the husband's; but it shall not be so here! _She_ shall have her share, ay, and, by Heaven, not the smaller share either!”
”Why, what would you do?” asked Upton, eagerly.
”Deny my marriage; call her my mistress!” cried Glencore, in a voice shaken with pa.s.sion and excitement.
”But your boy,--your son, Glencore!”
”He shall be a b.a.s.t.a.r.d! You may hold up your hands in horror, and look with all your best got-up disgust at such a scheme; but if you wish to see me swear to accomplish it, I'll do so now before you, ay, on my knees before you! When we eloped from her father's house at Castellamare, we were married by a priest at Capri; of the marriage no trace exists. The more legal ceremony was performed before you, as Charge d'Affaires at Naples,--of that I have the registry here; nor, except my courier, Sanson, is there a living witness. If you determine to a.s.sert it, you will do so without a fragment of proof, since every doc.u.ment that could substantiate it is in my keeping. You shall see them for yourself. She is, therefore, in my power; and will any man dare to tell me how I should temper that power?”
”But your boy, Glencore, your boy!”
”Is my boy's station in the world a prouder one by being the son of the notorious Lady Glencore, or as the offspring of a nameless mistress?
What avail to him that he should have a t.i.tle stained by _her_ shame?
Where is he to go? In what land is he to live, where her infamy has not reached? Is it not a thousand times better that he enter life ign.o.ble and unknown,--to start in the world's race with what he may of strength and power,--than drag on an unhonored existence, shunned by his equals, and only welcome where it is disgrace to find companions.h.i.+p?”
”But you surely have never contemplated all the consequences of this rash resolve. It is the extinction of an ancient t.i.tle, the alienation of a great estate, when once you have declared your boy illegitimate.”
”He is a beggar: I know it; the penalty he must pay is a heavy one. But think of _her_, Upton,--think of the haughty Viscountess, revelling in splendor, and, even in all her shame, the flattered, welcomed guest of that rotten, corrupt society she lives in. Imagine her in all the pride of wealth and beauty, sought after, adulated, wors.h.i.+pped as she is, suddenly struck down by the brand of this disgrace, and left upon the world without fortune, without rank, without even a name. To be shunned like a leper by the very meanest of those it had once been an honor when she recognized them. Picture to yourself this woman, degraded to the position of all that is most vile and contemptible. She, that scarcely condescended to acknowledge as her equals the best-born and the highest, sunk down to the hopeless infamy of a mistress. They tell me she laughed on the day I fainted at seeing her entering the San Carlos at Naples,--laughed as they carried me down the steps into the fresh air!
Will she laugh now, think you? Shall I be called 'Le Pauvre Sire'
when she hears this? Was there ever a vengeance more terrible, more complete?”
”Again, I say, Glencore, you have no right to involve others in the penalty of her fault. Laying aside every higher motive, you can have no more right to deny your boy's claim to his rank and fortune than I or any one else. It cannot be alienated nor extinguished; by his birth he became the heir to your t.i.tle and estates.”
”He has no birth, sir, he is a b.a.s.t.a.r.d: who shall deny it? _You_ may,”
added he, after a second's pause; ”but where's your proof? Is not every probability as much against you as all doc.u.mentary evidence, since none will ever believe that I could rob myself of the succession, and make over my fortune to Heaven knows what remote relation?”
”And do you expect me to become a party to this crime?” asked Upton, gravely.
”You balked me in one attempt at vengeance, and I think you owe me a reparation!”
”Glencore,” said Upton, solemnly, ”we are both of us men of the world,--men who have seen life in all its varied aspects sufficiently to know the hollowness of more than half the pretension men trade upon as principle; we have witnessed mean actions and the very lowest motives amongst the highest in station; and it is not for either of us to affect any overstrained estimate of men's honor and good faith; but I say to you, in all sincerity, that not alone do I refuse you all concurrence in the act you meditate, but I hold myself open to denounce and frustrate it.”
”You do!” cried Glencore, wildly, while with a bound he sat up in his bed, grasping the curtain convulsively for support.
”Be calm, Glencore, and listen to me patiently.”
”You declare that you will use the confidence of this morning against me!” cried Glencore, while the lines in his face became indented more deeply, and his bloodless lips quivered with pa.s.sion. ”You take your part with _her!_”
”I only ask that you would hear me.”
”You owe me four thousand five hundred pounds, Sir Horace Upton,”
said Glencore, in a voice barely above a whisper, but every accent of which was audible.
”I know it, Glencore,” said Upton, calmly. ”You helped me by a loan of that sum in a moment of great difficulty. Your generosity went farther, for you took, what n.o.body else would, my personal security.”
Glencore made no reply, but, throwing back the bedclothes, slowly and painfully arose, and with tottering and uncertain steps approached a table. With a trembling hand he unlocked a drawer, and taking out a paper, opened and scanned it over.