Part 21 (2/2)
”But she has surely letters, writings, proofs of some sort.”
”No, Upton, I have not left a sc.r.a.p in her possession; she has not a line, not a letter to vindicate her. On the night I broke open her writing-desk, I took away everything that bore the traces of my own hand. I tell you again she is in my power, and never was power less disposed to mercy.”
”Once more, my dear friend,” said Upton, ”I am driven to tell you that I cannot be a profitable counsellor in a matter to every detail of which I object. Consider calmly for one moment what you are doing. See how, in your desire to be avenged upon _her_, you throw the heaviest share of the penalty on your own poor boy. I am not her advocate now. I will not say one word to mitigate the course of your anger towards her, but remember that you are actually defrauding him of his birthright. This is not a question where you have a choice. There is no discretionary power left you.”
”I 'll do it,” said Glencore, with a savage energy.
”In other words, to wreak a vengeance upon one, you are prepared to immolate another, not only guiltless, but who possesses every claim to your love and affection.”
”And do you think that if I sacrifice the last tie that attaches me to life, Upton, that I retire from this contest heart-whole? No, far from it; I go forth from the struggle broken, blasted, friendless!”
”And do you mean that this vengeance should outlive you? Suppose, for instance, that she should survive you.”
”It shall be to live on in shame, then,” cried he, savagely.
”And were she to die first?”
”In that case--I have not thought well enough about that. It is possible,--it is just possible; but these are subtleties, Upton, to detach me from my purpose, or weaken my resolution to carry it through. You would apply the craft of your calling to the case, and, by suggesting emergencies, open a road to evasions. Enough for me the present. I neither care to prejudge the future, nor control it. I know,”
cried he, suddenly, and with eyes flas.h.i.+ng angrily as he spoke,--”I know that if you desire to use the confidence I have reposed in you against me, you can give me trouble and even difficulty; but I defy Sir Horace Upton, with all his skill and all his cunning, to outwit me.”
There was that in the tone in which he uttered these words, and the exaggerated energy of his manner, that convinced Upton, Glencore's reason was not intact. It was not what could amount to aberration in the ordinary sense, but sufficient evidence was there to show that judgment had become so obscured by pa.s.sion that the mental power was weakened by the moral.
”Tell me, therefore, Upton,” cried he, ”before we part, do you leave this house my friend or my enemy?”
”It is as your sincere, attached friend that I now dispute with you, inch by inch, a dangerous position, with a judgment under no influence from pa.s.sion, viewing this question by the coldest of all tests,--mere expediency--'
”There it is,” broke in Glencore; ”you claim an advantage over me, because you are devoid of feeling; but this is a case, sir, where the sense of injury gives the instinct of reparation. Is it nothing to me, think you, that I am content to go down dishonored to my grave, but also to be the last of my name and station? Is it nothing that a whole line of honorable ancestry is extinguished at once? Is it nothing that I surrender him who formed my sole solace and companions.h.i.+p in life? You talk of your calm, unbia.s.sed mind; but I tell you, till your brain be on fire like mine, and your heart swollen to very bursting, that you have no right to dictate to _me!_ Besides, it is done! The blow has fallen,”
added he, with a deeper solemnity of voice. ”The gulf that separates us is already created. She and I can meet no more. But why continue this contest? It was to aid me in directing that boy's fortunes I first sought your advice, not to attempt to dissuade me from what I will not be turned from.”
”In what way can I serve you?” said Upton, calmly.
”Will you consent to be his guardian?”
”I will.”
Glencore seized the other's hand, and pressed it to his heart, and for some seconds he could not speak.
”This is all that I ask, Upton,” said he. ”It is the greatest boon friends.h.i.+p could accord me. I need no more. Could you have remained here a day or two more, we could have settled upon some plan together as to his future life; as it is, we can arrange it by letter.”
”He must leave this,” said Upton, thoughtfully.
”Of course,--at once!”
”How far is Harcourt to be informed in this matter; have you spoken to him already?”
”No; nor mean to do so. I should have from _him_ nothing but reproaches for having betrayed the boy into false hopes of a station he was never to fill. You must tell Harcourt. I leave it to yourself to find the suitable moment.”
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