Part 18 (2/2)
He had long learned to perceive how much more temperament has to do, in the management of great events, than talent or capacity, and his opinion of men was chiefly founded on this quality of their nature. It was, then, with an almost pitying estimate of Glenoore that he now entered the room where the sick man lay.
Anxious to be alone with him, Glenoore had dismissed all the attendants from his room, and sat, propped up by pillows, eagerly awaiting his approach.
Upton moved through the dimly lighted room like one familiar to the atmosphere of illness, and took his seat beside the bed with that noiseless quiet which in _him_ was a kind of instinct.
It was several minutes before Glencore spoke, and then, in a low, faint voice, he said, ”Are we alone, Upton?”
”Yes,” said the other, gently pressing the wasted fingers which lay on the counterpane before him.
”You forgive me, Upton,” said he,--and the words trembled as he uttered them,--”You forgive me, Upton, though I cannot forgive myself.”
”My dear friend, a pa.s.sing moment of impatience is not to breach the friends.h.i.+p of a lifetime. Your calmer judgment would, I know, not be unjust to me.”
”But how am I to repair the wrong I have done you?”
”By never alluding to it,--never thinking of it again, Glenoore.”
”It is so unworthy, so ign.o.ble in me!” cried Glenoore, bitterly; and a tear fell over his eyelid and rested on his wan and worn cheek.
”Let us never think of it, my dear Glenoore. Life has real troubles enough for either of us, not to dwell on those which we may fas.h.i.+on out of our emotions. I promise you, I have forgotten the whole incident.”
Glenoore sighed heavily, but did not speak; at last he said, ”Be it so, Upton,” and, covering his face with his hand, lay still and silent.
”Well,” said he, after a long pause, ”the die is cast, Upton: I have told him!”
”Told the boy?” said Upton.
He nodded an a.s.sent. ”It is too late to oppose me now, Upton,--the thing is done. I didn't think I had strength for it; but revenge is a strong stimulant, and I felt as though once more restored to health, as I proceeded. Poor fellow! he bore it like a man. Like a man, do I say? No, but better than man ever bore such crus.h.i.+ng tidings.”
”He asked me to stop once, while his head reeled, and said, 'In a minute I shall be myself again,' and so he was, too; you should have seen him, Upton, as he rose to leave me. So much of dignity was there in his look that my heart misgave me; and I told him that still, as my son, he should never want a friend and a protector. He grew deadly pale, and caught at the bed for support. Another moment, and I 'd not have answered for myself. I was already relenting; but I thought of _her_, and my resolution came back in all its force. Still, I dared not look on him. The sight of that wan cheek, those quivering lips and gla.s.sy eyes, would certainly have unmanned me. I turned away. When I looked round, he was gone!' As he ceased to speak, a clammy perspiration burst forth over his face and forehead, and he made a sign to Upton to wet his lips.
”It is the last pang she is to cost me, Upton, but it is a sore one!”
said he, in a low, hoa.r.s.e whisper.
”My dear Glencore, this is all little short of madness; even as revenge it is a failure, since the heaviest share of the penalty recoils upon yourself.”
”How so?” cried he, impetuously.
”Is it thus that an ancient name is to go out forever? Is it in this wise that a house n.o.ble for centuries is to crumble into ruin? I will not again urge upon you the cruel wrong you are doing. Over that boy's inheritance you have no more right than over mine,--you cannot rob him of the protection of the law. No power could ever give you the disposal of his destiny in this wise.”
”I have done it, and I will maintain it, sir,” cried Glencore; ”and if the question is, as you vaguely hint, to be one of law--”
”No, no, Glencore; do not mistake me.”
”Hear me out, sir,” said he, pa.s.sionately. ”If it is to be one of law, let Sir Horace Upton give his testimony,--tell all that he knows,--and let us see what it will avail him. You may--it is quite open to you--place us front to front as enemies. You may teach the boy to regard me as one who has robbed him of his birthright, and train him up to become my accuser in a court of justice. But my cause is a strong one, it cannot be shaken; and where you hope to brand _me_ with tyranny, you will but visit b.a.s.t.a.r.dy upon _him_. Think twice, then, before you declare this combat. It is one where all your craft will not sustain you.”
”My dear Glencore, it is not in this spirit that we can speak profitably to each other. If you will not hear my reasons calmly and dispa.s.sionately, to what end am I here? You have long known me as one who lays claim to no more rigid morality than consists with the theory of a worldly man's experiences. I affect no high-flown sentiments. I am as plain and practical as may be; and when I tell you that you are wrong in this affair, I mean to say that what you are about to do is not only bad, but impolitic. In your pursuit of a victim, you are immolating yourself.”
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