Part 66 (1/2)
”Take my word for it, Scaresby,” said Upton, dropping his voice to a low but measured tone, ”this is a base calumny, and the Duke of Brignolles no more circulated such a story than I did. He is a man of honor, and utterly incapable of it.”
”I can only repeat that I believe it to be perfectly true!” said Scaresby, calmly. ”n.o.body here ever doubted the story.”
”I cannot say what measure of charity accompanies your zeal for truth in this amiable society, Scaresby, but I can repeat my a.s.sertion that this must be a falsehood.”
”You will find it very hard, nevertheless, to bring any one over to your opinion,” retorted the unappeasable Major. ”He was a fellow everybody hated; proud and supercilious to all, and treated his wife's relations--who were of far better blood than himself--as though they were _canaille_.”
A loud crash, as if of something heavy having fallen, here interrupted their colloquy, and Upton sprang from his seat and hastened into the adjoining room. Close beside the door--so close that he almost fell over it in entering--lay the figure of Lord Glencore. In his efforts to reach the door he had fainted, and there he lay,--a cold, clammy sweat covering his livid features, and his bloodless lips slightly parted.
It was almost an hour ere his consciousness returned; but when it did, and he saw Upton alone at his bedside, he pressed his hand within his own, and said, ”I heard it all, Upton, every word! I tried to reach the room; I got out of bed--and was already at the door--when my brain reeled, and my heart grew faint It may have been malady, it might be pa.s.sion,--I know not; but I saw no more. He is gone,--is he not?” cried he, in a faint whisper.
”Yes, yes,--an hour ago; but you will think nothing of what he said, when I tell you his name. It was Scaresby,--Major Scaresby; one whose bad tongue is the one solitary claim by which he subsists in a society of slanderers!”
”And he is gone!” repeated the other, in a tone of deep despondency.
”Of course he is. I never saw him since; but be a.s.sured of what I have just told you, that his libels carry no reproach. He is a calumniator by temperament.”
”I 'd have shot him, if I could have opened the door,” muttered Glencore between his teeth; but Upton heard the words distinctly. ”What am I to this man,” cried he, aloud, ”or he to me, that I am to be arraigned by him on charges of any kind, true or false? What accident of fortune makes him my judge? Tell me that, sir. Who has appealed to him for protection? Who has demanded to be righted at his hand?”
”Will you not hear me, Glencore, when I say that his slanders have no sting? In the circles wherein he mixes, it is the mere scandal that amuses; for its veracity, there is not one that cares. You, or I, or some one else, supply the name of an actor in a disreputable drama, the plot of which alone interests, not the performer.”
”And am I to sit tamely down under this degradation?” exclaimed Glencore, pa.s.sionately. ”I have never subscribed to this dictation.
There is little, indeed, of life left to me, but there is enough, perhaps, to vindicate myself against men of this stamp. You shall take him a message from me; you shall tell him by what accident I overheard his discoveries.”
”My dear Glencore, there are graver interests, far worthier cares, than any this man's name can enter into, which should now engage you.”
”I say he shall have my provocation, and that within an hour!” cried Glencore, wildly.
”You would give this man and his words a consequence that neither have ever possessed,” said Upton, in a mild and subdued tone. ”Remember, Glencore, when I left with you this morning that paper of Stubber's it was with a distinct understanding that other and wiser thoughts than those of vengeance were to occupy your attention. I never scrupled to place it in your hands; I never hesitated about confiding to you what in a lawyer's phrase would be a proof against you. When an act of justice was to be done, I would not stain it by the faintest shadow of coercion.
I left you free, I leave you still free, from everything but the dictates of your own honor.”
Glencore made no reply, but the conflict of his thoughts seemed to agitate him greatly.
”The man who has pursued a false path in life,” said Upton, calmly, ”has need of much courage to retrace his steps; but courage is not the quality you fail in, Glencore, so that I appeal to you with confidence.”
”I have need of courage,” muttered Glencore; ”you say truly. What was it the doctor said this morning,--aneurism?”
Upton moved his head with an inclination barely perceptible.
”What a Nemesis there is in nature,” said Glencore, with a sickly attempt to smile, ”that pa.s.sion should beget malady! I never knew, physically speaking, that I had a heart--till it was broken. So that,”
resumed he, in a more agreeable tone, ”death may ensue at any moment--on the least excitement?”
”He warned you gravely on that point,” said Upton, cautiously.
”How strange that I should have come through that trial of an hour ago!
It was not that the struggle did not move me. I could have torn that fellow limb from limb, Upton, if I had but the strength! But see,” cried he, feebly, ”what a poor wretch I am; I cannot close these fingers!”
and he held out a worn and clammy hand as he spoke. ”Do with me as you will,” said he, after a pause; ”I ought to have followed your counsels long ago!”
Upton was too subtle an anatomist of human motives to venture by even the slightest word to disturb a train of thought which any interference could only damage. As the other still continued to meditate, and, by his manner and look, in a calmer and more reflective spirit, the wily diplomatist moved noiselessly away, and left him alone.