Kitabı oku: «The Fortunes Of Glencore», sayfa 22

“To be sure, I remember him perfectly, – a strange creature that came out here with that boy you heard me speak of. Pray read on.”

“I stopped at ‘syllables.’ Yes – when these curiously-conceived syllables, then, come under the visionary apertures of your acute understanding, they will disclose to your much-reflecting and nice-discriminating mind as cruel and murderous a deed as ever a miscreant imagination suggested to a diabolically-constructed and nefariously-fashioned organization, showing that Nature in her bland adaptiveness never imposes a mistaken fruit on a genuine arborescence’ – Do you understand him?” asked she.

“Partly, perhaps,” continued he. “Let us have the subject.”

“‘Not to weary your exalted and never-enough-to-be-esteemed intelligence, I will proceed, without further ambiguous or circumgyratory evolutions, to the main body of my allegation. It happened in this way: Charley – your venerated worship knows who I mean – Charley, ever deep in marmorial pursuits, and far progressed in sculptorial excellence, with a genius that Phidias, if he did not envy, would esteem – ’

“Really I cannot go on with these interminable parentheses,” said she; “you must decipher them yourself.” Upton took the letter, and read it, at first hastily, and then, recommencing, with more of care and attention, occasionally stopping to reflect, and consider the details. “This is likely to be a troublesome business,” said he. “This boy has got himself into a serious scrape. Love and a duel are bad enough; but an Austrian state-prison, and a sentence of twenty years in irons, are even worse. So far as I can make out from my not over lucid correspondent, he had conceived a violent affection for a young lady at Massa, to whose favor a young Austrian of high rank at the same time pretended.”

“Wahnsdorf, I’m certain,” broke in the Princess; “and the girl – that Mademoiselle – ”

“Harley,” interposed Sir Horace.

“Just so, – Harley. Pray go on,” said she, eagerly.

“A very serious altercation and a duel were the consequences of this rivalry, and Wahnsdorf has been dangerously wounded; his life is still in peril. The Harleys have been sent out of the country, and my unlucky protégé, handed over to the Austrians, has been tried, condemned, and sentenced to twenty years in Kuffstein, a Tyrol fortress where great severity is practised, – from the neighborhood of which this letter is written, entreating my speedy interference and protection.”

“What can you do? It is not even within your jurisdiction,” said she, carelessly.

“True; nor was the capture by the Austrians within theirs, Princess. It is a case where assuredly everybody was in the wrong, and, therefore, admirably adapted for nice negotiation.”

“Who and what is the youth?”

“I have called him a protégé.”

“Has he no more tender claim to the affectionate solicitude of Sir Horace Upton?” said she, with an easy air of sarcasm.

“None, on my honor,” said he, eagerly; “none, at least, of the kind you infer. His is a very sad story, which I ‘ll tell you about at another time. For the present, I may say that he is English, and as such must be protected by the English authorities. The Government of Massa have clearly committed a great fault in handing him over to the Austrians. Stubber must be ‘brought to book’ for this in the first instance. By this we shall obtain a perfect insight into the whole affair.”

“The Imperial family will never forgive an insult offered to one of their own blood,” said the Princess, haughtily.

“We shall not ask them to forgive anything, my dear Princess. We shall only prevent their natural feelings betraying them into an act of injustice. The boy’s offence, whatever it was, occurred outside the frontier, as I apprehend.”

“How delighted you English are when you can convert an individual case into an international question! You would at any moment sacrifice an ancient alliance to the trumpery claim of an aggrieved tourist,” said she, rising angrily, and swept out of the room ere Sir Horace could arise to open the door for her.

Upton walked slowly to the chimney and rang the bell. “I shall want the calèche and post-horses at eight o’clock, Antoine. Put up some things for me, and get all my furs ready.” And with this he measured forty drops from a small phial he carried in his waistcoat pocket, and sat down to pare his nails with a very diminutive penknife.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. A DIPLOMATIST’S DINNER

Were we writing a drama instead of a true history, we might like to linger for a few moments on the leave-taking between the Princess and Sir Horace Upton. They were indeed both consummate “artists,” and they played their parts to perfection, – not as we see high comedy performed on the stage, by those who grotesque its refinements and exaggerate its dignity; “lashing to storm” the calm and placid lake, all whose convulsive throes are many a fathom deep, and whose wildest workings never bring a ripple to the surface. No, theirs was the true version of well-bred “performance.” A little well-affected grief at separation, brief as it was meant to be; a little half-expressed surprise, on the lady’s part, at the suddenness of the departure; a little, just as vaguely conveyed, complaint on the other side, over the severe requirements of duty, and a very little tenderness – for there was no one to witness it – at the thought of parting; and with a kiss upon her hand, whose respectful courtesy no knight-errant of old could have surpassed, Sir Horace backed from the “presence,” sighed, and slipped away.

Had our reader been a spectator instead of a peruser of the events we have lately detailed, he might have fancied, from certain small asperities of manner, certain quicknesses of reproof and readiness at rejoinder, that here were two people only waiting for a reasonable and decent pretext to go on their separate roads in life. Yet nothing of this kind was the case; the bond between them was not affection, it was simply convenience. Their partnership gave them a strength and a social solvency which would have been sorely damaged had either retired from “the firm;” and they knew it.

What would the Princess’s dinners have been without the polished ease of him who felt himself half the host? What would all Sir Horace Upton’s subtlety avail him, if it were not that he had sources of information which always laid open the game of his adversaries? Singly, each would have had a tough struggle with the world; together, they were more than a match for it.

The highest order of diplomatist, in the estimation of Upton, was the man who, at once, knew what was possible to be done. It was his own peculiar quality to possess this gift; but great as his natural acuteness was, it would not have availed him, without those secret springs of intelligence we have alluded to. There is no saying to what limit he might not have carried this faculty, had it not been that one deteriorating and detracting feature marred and disfigured the fairest form of his mind.

He could not, do all that he would, disabuse himself of a very low estimate of men and their motives. He did not slide into this philosophy, as certain indolent people do, just to save them the trouble of discriminating; he did not acquire it by the hard teachings of adversity. No; it came upon him slowly and gradually, the fruit, as he believed, of calm judgment and much reflection upon life. As little did he accept it willingly; he even labored against the conviction: but, strive as he might, there it was, and there it would remain.

His fixed impression was, that in every circumstance and event in life there was always a dessous des cartes, – a deeper game concealed beneath the surface, – and that it was a mere question of skill and address how much of this penetrated through men’s actions. If this theory unravelled many a tangled web of knavery to him, it also served to embarrass and confuse him in situations where inferior minds had never recognized a difficulty! How much ingenuity did he expend to detect what had no existence! How wearily did he try for soundings where there was no bottom!

Through the means of the Princess he had learned – what some very wise heads do not yet like to acknowledge – that the feeling of the despotic governments towards England was very different from what it had been at the close of the great war with Napoleon. They had grown more dominant and exacting, just as we were becoming every hour more democratic. To maintain our old relations with them, therefore, on the old footing, would be only to involve ourselves in continual difficulty, with a certainty of final failure; and the only policy that remained was to encourage the growth of liberal opinions on the Continent, out of which new alliances might be formed, to recompense us for the loss of the old ones. There is a story told of a certain benevolent prince, whose resources were, unhappily, not commensurate with his good intentions, and whose ragged retinue wearied him with entreaties for assistance. “Be of good cheer,” said he, one day, “I have ordered a field of flax to be sown, and you shall all of you have new shirts.” Such were pretty much the position and policy of England. Out of our crop of Constitutionalism we speculated on a rich harvest, to be afterwards manufactured for our use and benefit. We leave it to deeper heads to say if the result has been all that we calculated on, and, asking pardon for such digression, we join Sir Horace once more.

When Sir Horace Upton ordered post-horses to his carriage, he no more knew where he was going, nor where he would halt, than he could have anticipated what course any conversation might take when once started. He had, to be sure, a certain ideal goal to be reached; but he was one of those men who liked to think that the casual interruptions one meets with in life are less obstruction than opportunity; so that, instead of deeming these subjects for regret or impatience, he often accepted them as indications that there was some profit to be derived from them, – a kind of fatalism more common than is generally believed. When he set out for Sorrento it was with the intention of going direct to Massa; not that this state lay within the limits his functions ascribed to him, – that being probably the very fact which imparted a zest to the journey. Any other man would have addressed himself to his colleague in Tuscany, or wherever he might be; while he, being Sir Horace Upton, took the whole business upon himself in his own way. Young Massy’s case opened to his eyes a great question, viz., what was the position the Austrians assumed to take in Italy? For any care about the youth, or any sympathy with his sufferings, he distressed himself little; not that he was, in any respect, heartless or unfeeling, it was simply that greater interests were before him. Here was one of those “grand issues” that he felt worthy of his abilities, – it was a cause where he was proud to hold a brief.

Resolving all his plans of action methodically, yet rapidly; arranging every detail in his own mind, even to the use of certain expressions he was to employ, – he arrived at the palace of the Embassy, where he desired to halt to take up his letters and make a few preparations before his departure. His Maestro di Casa, Signor Franchetti, was in waiting for his arrival, and respectfully assured him “that all was in readiness, and that his Excellency would be perfectly satisfied. We had, it is true,” continued he, “a difficulty about the fish, but I sent off an express to Baia, and we have secured a sturgeon.”

“What are you raving about, caro Pipo?” said the Minister; “what is all this long story of Baia and the fish?”

“Has your Excellency forgotten that we have a grand dinner to-day, at eight o’clock; that the Prince Maximilian of Bavaria and all the foreign ambassadors are invited?”

“Is this Saturday, Pipo?” said Sir Horace, blandly.

“Yes, your Excellency.”

“Send Mr. Brockett to me,” said Sir Horace, as he slowly mounted the stairs to his own apartment.

Sir Horace was stretched on a sofa, in all the easy luxury of magnificent dressing-gown and slippers, when Mr. Brockett entered; and without any preliminary of greeting he said, with a quiet laugh, “You have let me forget all about the dinner to-day, Brockett!”

“I thought you knew it; you took great trouble about the persons to be asked, and you canvassed whether the Duc de Borodino, being only a Chargé d’Affaires – ”

“There, there; don’t you see the – the inappropriateness of what you are doing? Even in England a man is not asked to criminate himself. How many are coming?”

“Nineteen; the ‘Nonce’ is ill, and has sent an apology.”

“Then the party can be eighteen, Brockett; you must tell them that I am ill, – too ill to come to dinner. I know the Prince Max very well, – he ‘ll not take it badly; and as to Cineselli, we shall see what humor he is in!”

“But they ‘ll know that you arrived here this afternoon; they ‘ll naturally suppose – ”

“They ‘ll naturally suppose – if people ever do anything so intensely stupid as naturally to suppose anything – that I am the best judge of my own health; and so, Mr. Brockett, you may as well con over the terms by which you may best acquaint the company with the reasons for my absence; and if the Prince proposes a visit to me in the evening, let him come; he ‘ll find me here in my own room. Would you do me the kindness to let Antinori fetch his cupping-glasses, and tell Franchetti also that I ‘ll take my chicken grilled, not roasted. I’ll look over the treaty in the evening. One mushroom, only one, he may give me, and the Carlsbad water, at 28 degrees. I ‘m very troublesome, Brockett, but I ‘m sure you ‘ll excuse it. Thanks, thanks;” and he pressed the Secretary’s hand, and gave him a smile, whose blandishment had often done good service, and would do so again!

To almost any other man in the world this interruption to his journey – this sudden tidings of a formally-arranged dinner which he could not or would not attend – would have proved a source of chagrin and dissatisfaction. Not so with Upton; he liked a “contrariety.” Whatever stirred the still waters of life, even though it should be a head-wind, was far more grateful than a calm! He laughed to himself at the various comments his company were sure to pass over his conduct; he pictured to his mind the anger of some and the astonishment of others, and revelled in the thought of the courtier-like indignation such treatment of a Royal Highness was certain to elicit.

“But who can answer for his health?” said he, with an easy laugh to himself. “Who can promise what he may be ten days hence?” The appearance of his dinner – if one may dignify by such a name the half of a chicken, flanked by a roasted apple and a biscuit – cut short his lucubrations; and Sir Horace ate and sipped his Carlsbad with as much enjoyment as many another man has felt over venison and Chambertin.

“Are they arrived, Pipo?” said he, as his servant removed the dessert of two figs and a lime.

“Yes, your Excellency, they are at table.”

“How many are there?”

“Seventeen, sir, and Mr. Brockett.”

“Did the Prince seem to – to feel my absence, Pipo?”

“I thought he appeared very sorry for your Excellency when Mr. Brockett spoke to him, and he whispered something to the aide-de-camp beside him.”

“And the others, how did they take it?”

“Count Tarrocco said he’d retire, sir, that he could not dine where the host was too ill to receive him; but the Duc de Campo Stretto said it was impossible they could leave the room while a ‘Royal Highness’ continued to remain in it; and they all agreed with him.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Upton, in a low tone. “I hope the dinner is a good one?”

“It is exquisite, sir; the Prince ate some of the caviare soup, and was asking a second time for the ‘pain des ortolans’ when I left the room.”

“And the wine, Pipo? have you given them that rare ‘La Rose’?”

“Yes, your Excellency, and the ‘Klausthaller cabinet;’ his Royal Highness asked for it.”

“Go back, then, now. I want for nothing more; only drop in here by and by, and tell me how all goes on. Just light that pastil before you go; there – that will, do.”

And once more his Excellency was left to himself. In that vast palace, – the once home of a royal prince, – no sounds of the distant revelry could reach the remote quarter where he sat, and all was silent and still around him, and Upton was free to ruminate and reflect at ease. There was à sense of haughty triumph in thinking that beneath his roof, at that very moment, were assembled the great representatives of almost every important state of Europe, to whom he had not deigned to accord the honor of his presence; but though this thought did flit across his mind, far more was he intent on reflecting what might be the consequences – good or evil – of the incident. “And then,” said he, aloud, “how will Printing House Square treat us? What a fulminating leader shall we not have, denouncing either our insolence or our incompetence, ending with the words: ‘If, then, Sir Horace Upton be not incapacitated from illness for the discharge of his high functions, it is full time for his Government to withdraw him from a sphere where his caprice and impertinence have rendered him something worse than useless;’ and then will come a flood of petty corroborations, – the tourist tribe who heard of us at Berlin, or called upon as at the Hague, and whose unreturned cards and uninvited wives are counts in the long indictment against us. What a sure road to private friendships is diplomacy! How certain is one of conciliating the world’s good opinion by belonging to it! I wish I had followed the law, or medicine,” muttered he; “they are both abstruse, both interesting; or been a gardener, or a shipwright, or a mathematical instrument maker, or – ” Whatever the next choice might have been we know not, for he dropped off asleep.

From that pleasant slumber, and a dream of Heaven knows what life of Arcadian simplicity, of rippling streams and soft-eyed shepherdesses, he was destined to be somewhat suddenly, if not rudely, aroused, as Franchetti introduced a stranger who would accept no denial.

“Your people were not for letting me up, Upton,” cried a rich, mellow voice; and Harcourt stood before him, bronzed and weather-beaten, as he came off his journey.

“You, George? Is it possible!” exclaimed Sir Horace; “what best of all lucky winds has driven you here? I’m not sure I wasn’t dreaming of you this very moment. I know I have had a vision of angelic innocence and simplicity, which you must have had your part in; but do tell me when did you arrive, and whence – ”

“Not till I have dined, by Jove! I have tasted nothing since daybreak, and then it was only a mere apology for a breakfast.”

“Franchetti, get something, will you?” said Upton, languidly, – “a cutlet, a fowl; anything that can be had at once.”

“Nothing of the kind, Signor Franchetti,” interposed Harcourt; “if I have a wolfs appetite, I have a man’s patience. Let me have a real dinner, – soup, fish, an entrée, – two if you like, – roast beef; and I leave the wind-up to your own discretion, only premising that I like game, and have a weakness for woodcocks. By the way, does this climate suit Bordeaux, Upton?”

“They tell me so, and mine has a good reputation.”

“Then claret be it, and no other wine. Don’t I make myself at home, old fellow, eh?” said he, clapping Upton on the shoulder. “Have I not taken his Majesty’s Embassy by storm, eh?”

“We surrender at discretion, only too glad to receive our vanquisher. Well, and how do you find me looking? Be candid: how do I seem to your eyes?”

“Pretty much as I have seen you these last fifteen years, – not an hour older, at all events. That same delicacy of constitution is a confounded deal better than most men’s strong health, for it never wears out; but I have always said it, Upton will see us all down!”

Sir Horace sighed, as though this were too pleasant to be true.

“Well,” said he, at last, “but you have not told me what good chance has brought you here. Is it the first post-station on the way to India?”

“No; they’ve taken me off the saddle, and given me a staff appointment at Corfu. I ‘m going out second in command there; and whether it was to prevent my teasing them for something else, or that there was really some urgency in the matter, they ordered me off at once.”

“Are they reinforcing the garrison there?” asked Upton.

“No; not so far as I have heard.”

“It were better policy to do so than to send out a ‘commander-in-chief and a drummer of great experience,’” muttered Upton to himself; but Harcourt could not catch the remark. “Have you any news stirring in England? What do the clubs talk about?” asked Sir Horace.

“Glencore’s business occupied them for the last week or so; now, I think, it is yourself furnishes the chief topic for speculation.”

“What of me?” asked Upton, eagerly.

“Why, the rumor goes that you are to have the Foreign Office; Adderley, they say, goes out, and Conway and yourself are the favorites, the odds being slightly on his side.”

“This is all news to me, George,” said Upton, with a degree of animation that had nothing fictitious about it; “I have had a note from Adderley in the last bag, and there’s not a word about these changes.”

“Possibly; but perhaps my news is later. What I allude to is said to have occurred the day I started.”

“Ah, very true; and now I remember that the messenger came round by Vienna, sent there by Adderley, doubtless,” muttered he, “to consult Conway before seeing me; and, I have little doubt, with a letter for me in the event of Conway declining.”

“Well, have you hit upon the solution of it?” said Har-court, who had not followed him through his half-uttered observation.

“Perhaps so,” said Upton, slowly, while he leaned his head upon his hand, and fell into a fit of meditation. Meanwhile, Harcourt’s dinner made its appearance, and the Colonel seated himself at the table with a traveller’s appetite.

“Whenever any one has called you a selfish fellow, Upton,” said he, as he helped himself twice from the same dish, “I have always denied it, and on this good ground, that, had you been so, you had never kept the best cook in Europe, while unable to enjoy his talents. What a rare artist must this be! What’s his name?”

“Pipo, how is he called?” said Upton, languidly.

“Monsieur Carmael, your Excellency.”

“Ah, to be sure; a person of excellent family. I’ve been told he’s from Provence,” said Upton, in the same weary voice.

“I could have sworn to his birthplace,” cried Harcourt; “no man can manage cheese and olives in cookery but a Provençal. Ah, what a glass of Bordeaux! To your good health, Upton, and to the day that you may be able to enjoy this as I do,” said he, as he tossed off a bumper.

“It does me good even to witness the pleasure it yields,” said Upton, blandly.

“By Jove! then, I ‘ll be worth a whole course of tonics to you, for I most thoroughly appreciate all the good things you have given me. By the way, how are you off for dinner company here, – any pleasant people?”

“I have no health for pleasant people, my dear Harcourt; like horse exercise, they only agree with you when you are strong enough not to require them.”

“Then what have you got?” asked the Colonel, somewhat abashed.

“Princes, generals, envoys, and heads of departments.”

“Good heavens! legions of honor and golden fleeces!”

“Just so,” said Upton, smiling at the dismay in the other’s countenance; “I have had such a party as you describe to-day. Are they gone yet, Franchetti?”

“They’re at coffee, your Excellency, but the Prince has ordered his carriage.”

“And you did not go near them?” asked Harcourt, in amazement.

“No; I was poorly, as you see me,” said Upton, smiling. “Pipo tells me, however, that the dinner was a good one, and I am sure they pardon my absence.”

“Foreign ease, I’ve no doubt; though I can’t say I like it,” muttered Harcourt. “At all events, it is not for me to complain, since the accident has given me the pleasure of your society.”

“You are about the only man I could have admitted,” said Upton, with a certain graciousness of look and manner that, perhaps, detracted a little from its sincerity.

Fortunately, not so to Harcourt’s eyes, for he accepted the speech in all honesty and good faith, as he said, “Thank you heartily, my boy. The welcome is better even than the dinner, and that is saying a good deal. No more wine, thank you; I ‘m going to have a cigar, and, with your leave, I ‘ll ask for some brandy and water.”

This was addressed to Franchetti, who speedily reappeared with a liqueur stand and an ebony cigar-case.

“Try these, George; they ‘re better than your own,” said Upton, dryly.

“That I will,” cried Harcourt, laughing; “I’m determined to draw all my resources from the country in occupation, especially as they are superior to what I can obtain from home. This same career of yours, Upton, strikes me as rather a good thing. You have all these things duty free?”

“Yes, we have that privilege,” said Upton, sighing.

“And the privilege of drawing some few thousand pounds per annum, paid messengers to and from England, secret-service money, and the rest of it, eh?”

Upton smiled, and sighed again.

“And what do you do for all that, – I mean, what are you expected to do?”

“Keep your party in when they are in; disconcert the enemy when your friends are out.”

“And is that always a safe game?” asked Harcourt, eagerly.

“Not when played by unskilful players, my dear George. They occasionally make sad work, and get bowled out themselves for their pains; but there’s no great harm in that neither.”

“How do you mean there ‘s no harm in it?”

“Simply, that if a man can’t keep his saddle, he ought n’t to try to ride foremost; but these speculations will only puzzle you, my dear Harcourt. What of Glencore? You said awhile ago that the town was talking of him – how and wherefore was it?”

“Haven’t you heard the story, then?”

“Not a word of it.”

“Well, I’m a bad narrator; besides, I don’t know where to begin; and even if I did, I have nothing to tell but the odds and ends of club gossip, for I conclude nobody knows all the facts but the King himself.”

“If I were given to impatience, George, you would be a most consummate plague to me,” said Upton; “but I am not. Go on, however, in your own blundering way, and leave me to glean what I can in mine.”

Cheered and encouraged by this flattering speech, Harcourt did begin; but, more courteous to him than Sir Horace, we mean to accord him a new chapter for his revelations; premising the while to our reader that the Colonel, like the knife-grinder, had really “no story to tell.”