The Fortunes Of Glencore

“Faix, it was an elegant life, – that is, when the weather was anyways good. With a bright sun shinin’ and a fine fresh breeze blowin’ the white clouds away over the Atlantic, my road was a right cheery one, and I went along inventin’ stories, sometimes fairy tales, sometimes makin’ rhymes to myself, but always happy and contented. There wasn’t a bit of the way I had n’t a name for in my own mind, either some place I read about, or some scene in a story of my own; but better than all, there was a dog, – a poor starved lurcher he was, – with a bit of the tail cut off; he used to meet me, as regular as the clock, on the side of Currah-na-geelah, and come beside me down to the ford every day in the year. No temptation nor flattery would bring him a step farther. I spent three-quarters of an hour once trying it, but to no good; he took leave of me on the bank of the river, and went away back with his head down, as if he was grievin’ over something. Was n’t that mighty curious?”

“Perhaps, like ourselves, Billy, he wasn’t quite sure of his passport,” said the other, dryly.

“Faix, may be so,” replied he, with perfect seriousness. “My notion was that he was a kind of an outlaw, a chap that maybe bit a child of the family, or ate a lamb of a flock given him to guard. But indeed his general appearance and behavior was n’t like that; he had good manners, and, starved as he was, he never snapped the bread out of my fingers, but took it gently, though his eyes was dartin’ out of his head with eagerness all the while.”

“A great test of good breeding, truly,” said the youth, sadly. “It must be more than a mere varnish when it stands the hard rubs of life in this wise.”

“‘Tis the very notion occurred to myself. It was the dhrop of good blood in him made him what he was.”

Stealthy and fleeting as was the look that accompanied these words, the youth saw it, and blushed to the very top of his forehead. “The night grows milder,” said he, to relieve the awkwardness of the moment by any remark.

“It’s a mighty grand sight out there now,” replied the other; “there’s three miles if there’s an inch of white foam dashing down to the sea, that breaks over the bar with a crash like thunder; big trees are sweepin’ past, and pieces of vine trellises, and a bit of a mill-wheel, all carried off just like twigs on a stream.”

“Would money tempt those fellows, I wonder, to venture out on such a night as this?”

“To be sure; and why not? The daily fight poverty maintains with existence dulls the sense of every danger but what comes of want. Don’t I know it myself? The poor man has no inimy but hunger; for, ye see, the other vexations and troubles of life, there’s always a way of gettin’ round them. You can chate even grief, and you can slip away from danger; but there’s no circumventin’ an empty stomach.”

“What a tyrant is then your rich man!” sighed the youth, heavily.

“That he is. ‘Dives honoratus. Pulcher rex denique regum.’ You may do as you please if ye’r rich as a Begum.”

“A free translation, rather, Billy,” said the other, laughing.

“Or ye might render it this way,” said Billy, —

“If ye ‘ve money enough and to spare in the bank,The world will give ye both beauty and rank.

And I ‘ve nothing to say agin it,” continued he. “The raal stimulus to industhry in life, is to make wealth powerful. Gettin’ and heapin’ up money for money’s sake is a debasin’ kind of thing; but makin’ a fortune, in order that you may extind your influence, and mowld the distinies of others, – that’s grand.”

“And see what comes of it!” cried the youth, bitterly. “Mark the base and unworthy subserviency it leads to; see the race of sycophants it begets.”

“I have you there, too,” cried Billy, with all the exultation of a ready debater. “Them dirty varmint ye speak of is the very test of the truth I ‘m tellin’ ye. ‘T is because they won’t labor – because they won’t work – that they are driven to acts of sycophancy and meanness. The spirit of industhry saves a man even the excuse of doin’ anything low!”

“And how often, from your own lips, have I listened to praises at your poor humble condition; rejoicings that your lot in life secured you against the cares of wealth and grandeur!”

“And you will again, plaze God! if I live, and you pre-sarve your hearin’. What would I be if I was rich, but an ould – an ould voluptuary?” said Billy, with great emphasis on a word he had some trouble in discovering. “Atin’ myself sick with delicacies, and drinkin’ cordials all day long. How would I know the uses of wealth? Like all other vulgar creatures, I ‘d be buyin’ with my money the respect that I ought to be buyin’ with my qualities. It’s the very same thing you see in a fair or a market, – the country girls goin’ about, hobbled and crippled with shoes on, that, if they had bare feet, could walk as straight as a rush. Poverty is not ungraceful itself. It’s tryin’ to be what isn’t natural, spoils people entirely.”

“I think I hear voices without. Listen!” cried the youth.

“It ‘s only the river; it’s risin’ every minute.”

“No, that was a shout. I heard it distinctly. Ay, the boatmen hear it now!”

“It is a travelling-carriage. I see the lamps,” cried one of the men, as he stood at the door and looked landward. “They may as well keep the road; there’s no crossing the Magra to-night!”

By this time the postilions’ whips commenced that chorus of cracking by which they are accustomed to announce all arrivals of importance.

“Tell them to go back, Beppo,” said the chief of the raftsmen to one of his party. “If we might try to cross with the mail-bags in a boat, there’s not one of us would attempt the passage on the raft.”

To judge from the increased noise and uproar, the travellers’ impatience had now reached its highest point; but to this a slight lull succeeded, probably occasioned by the parley with the boatman.

“They’ll give us five Napoleons for the job,” said Beppo, entering, and addressing his Chief.

“Per Dio, that won’t support our families if we leave them fatherless,” muttered the other. “Who and what are they that can’t wait till morning?”

“Who knows?” said Beppo, with a genuine shrug of native indifference. “Princes, belike!”

“Princes or beggars, we all have lives to save!” mumbled out an old man, as he reseated himself by the fire. Meanwhile the courier had entered the hut, and was in earnest negotiation with the chief, who, however, showed no disposition to run the hazard of the attempt.

“Are you all cowards alike?” said the courier, in all the insolence of his privileged order; “or is it a young fellow of your stamp that shrinks from the risk of a wet jacket?”

This speech was addressed to the youth, whom he had mistaken for one of the raftsmen.

“Keep your coarse speeches for those who will bear them, my good fellow,” said the other, boldly, “or mayhap the first wet jacket here will be one with gold lace on the collar.”

“He’s not one of us; he’s a traveller,” quickly interposed the chief, who saw that an angry scene was brewing. “He’s only waiting to cross the river,” muttered he in a whisper, “when some one comes rich enough to hire the raft.”

“Sacre bleu! Then he shan’t come with us; that I’ll promise him,” said the courier, whose offended dignity roused all his ire. “Now, once for all, my men, will you earn a dozen Napoleons, or not? Here they are for you if you land us safely at the other side; and never were you so well paid in your lives for an hour’s labor.”

The sight of the gold, as it glistened temptingly in his outstretched hand, appealed to their hearts far more eloquently than all his words, and they gathered in a group together to hold counsel.

“And you, are you also a distinguished stranger?” said the courier, addressing Billy, who sat warming his hands by the embers of the fire.

“Look you, my man,” cried the youth, “all the gold in your master’s leathern bag there can give you no claim to insult those who have offered you no offence. It is enough that you know that we do not belong to the raft to suffer us to escape your notice.”

“Sacristi!” exclaimed the courier, in a tone of insolent mockery, “I have travelled the road long enough to learn that one does not need an introduction before addressing a vagabond.”

“Vagabond!” cried the youth, furiously; and he sprang at the other with the bound of a tiger. The courier quickly parried the blow aimed at him, and, closely grappled, they both now reeled out of the hut in terrible conflict. With that terror of the knife that figures in all Italian quarrels, the boatmen did not dare to interfere, but looked on as, wrestling with all their might, the combatants struggled, each endeavoring to push the other towards the stream. Billy, too, restrained by force, could not come to the rescue, and could only by words, screamed out in all the wildness of his agony, encourage his companion. “Drop on your knee – catch him by the legs – throw him back – back into the stream. That’s it – that’s it! Good luck to ye!” shouted he, madly, as he fought like a lion with those about him. Slipping in the slimy soil, they had both now come to their knees; and after a struggle of some minutes’ duration, rolled, clasped in each other’s fierce embrace, down the slope into the river. A plash, and a cry half smothered, were heard, and all was over.

While some threw themselves on the frantic creature, whose agony now overtopped his reason, and who fought to get free, with the furious rage of despair, others, seizing lanterns and torches, hurried along the bank of the torrent to try and rescue the combatants. A sudden winding of the river at the place gave little hope to the search, and it was all but certain that the current must already have swept them down far beyond any chance of succor. Assisted by the servants of the traveller, who speedily were apprised of the disaster, the search was continued for hours, and morning at length began to break over the dreary scene, without one ray of hope. By the gray cold dawn, the yellow flood could be seen for a considerable distance, and the banks too, over which a gauzy mist was hanging; but not a living thing was there! The wild torrent swept along his murky course with a deep monotonous roar. Trunks of trees and leafy branches rose and sank in the wavy flood, but nothing suggested the vaguest hope that either had escaped. The traveller’s carriage returned to Spezia, and Billy, now bereft of reason, was conveyed to the same place, fast tied with cords, to restrain him from a violence that threatened his own life and that of any near him.

In the evening of that day a peasant’s car arrived at Spezia, conveying the almost lifeless courier, who had been found on the river’s bank, near the mouth of the Magra. How he had reached the spot, or what had become of his antagonist, he knew not. Indeed, the fever which soon set in placed him beyond the limit of all questioning, and his incoherent cries and ravings only betrayed the terrible agonies his mind must have passed through.

If this tragic incident, heightened by the actual presence of two of the actors – one all but dead, the other dying – engaged the entire interest and sympathy of the little town, the authorities were actively employed in investigating the event, and ascertaining, so far as they could, to which side the chief blame inclined.

The raftsmen had all been arrested, and were examined carefully, one by one; and now it only remained to obtain from the traveller himself whatever information he could contribute to throw light on the affair.

His passport, showing that he was an English peer, obtained for him all the deference and respect foreign officials are accustomed to render to that title, and the Prefect announced that if it suited his convenience, he would wait on his Lordship at his hotel to receive his deposition.

“I have nothing to depose, no information to give,” was the dry and not over-courteous response; but as the visit, it was intimated, was indispensable, he named his hour to admit him.

The bland and polite tone of the Prefect was met by a manner of cold but well-bred ease which seemed to imply that the traveller only regarded the incident in the light of an unpleasant interruption to his journey, but in which he took no other interest. Even the hints thrown out that he ought to consider himself aggrieved and his dignity insulted, produced no effect upon him.

“It was my intention to have halted a few days at Massa, and I could have obtained another courier in the interval,” was the cool commentary he bestowed on the incident.

“But your Lordship would surely desire investigation. A man is missing; a great crime may have been committed – ”

“Excuse my interrupting; but as I am not, nor can be supposed to be, the criminal, – nor do I feel myself the victim, – while I have not a claim to the character of witness, you would only harass me with interrogatories I could not answer, and excite me to take interest, or at least bestow attention, on what cannot concern me.”

“Yet there are circumstances in this case which give it the character of a preconcerted plan,” said the Prefect, thoughtfully.

“Perhaps so,” said the other, in a tone of utter indifference.

“Certainly, the companion of the man who is missing, and of whom no clew can be discovered, is reported to have uttered your name repeatedly in his ravings.”

“My name, – how so?” cried the stranger, hurriedly.

“Yes, my Lord, the name of your passport, – Lord Glen-core. Two of those I have placed to watch beside his bed have repeated the same story, and told how he has never ceased to mutter the name to himself in his wanderings.”

“Is this a mere fancy?” said the stranger, over whose sickly features a flush now mantled. “Can I see him?”

“Of course. He is in the hospital, and too ill to be removed; but if you will visit him there, I will accompany you.”

It was only when a call was made upon Lord Glencore for some bodily exertion that his extreme debility became apparent. Seated at ease in a chair, his manner seemed merely that of natural coolness and apathy; he spoke as one who would not suffer his nature to be ruffled by any avoidable annoyance; but now, as he arose from his seat, and endeavored to walk, one side betrayed unmistakable signs of palsy, and his general frame exhibited the last stage of weakness.

“You see, sir, that the exertion costs its price,” said he, with a sad, sickly smile. “I am the wreck of what once was a man noted for his strength.”

The other muttered some words of comfort and compassion, and they descended the stairs together.

“I do not know this man,” said Lord Glencore, as he gazed on the flushed and fevered face of the sick man, whose ill-trimmed and shaggy beard gave additional wild-ness to his look; “I have never, to my knowledge, seen him before.”

The accents of the speaker appeared to have suddenly struck some chord in the sufferer’s intelligence, for he struggled for an instant, and then, raising himself on his elbow, stared fixedly at him. “Not know me?” cried he, in English; “‘t is because sorrow and sickness has changed me, then.”

“Who are you? Tell me your name?” said Glencore, eagerly.

“I’m Billy Traynor, my Lord, the one you remember, the doctor – ”

“And my boy!” screamed Glencore, wildly.

The sick man threw up both his arms in the air, and fell backward with a cry of despair; while Glencore, tottering for an instant, sank with a low groan, and fell senseless on the ground.

CHAPTER XLVII. A FRAGMENT OF A LETTER

Long before Lord Glencore had begun to rally from an attack which had revived all the symptoms of his former illness, Billy Traynor had perfectly recovered, and was assiduously occupied in attending him. Almost the first tidings which Glencore could comprehend assured him that the boy was safe, and living at Massa under the protection of the Chevalier Stubber, and waiting eagerly for Billy to join him. A brief extract from one of the youth’s letters to his warm-hearted follower will suffice to show how he himself regarded the incident which befell, and the fortune that lay before him.

It was a long swim, of a dark night too, Master Billy; and whenever the arm of a tree would jostle me, as it floated past, I felt as though that “blessed” courier was again upon me, and turned to give fight at once. If it were not that the river took a sudden bend as it nears the sea, I must infallibly have been carried out; but I found myself quite suddenly in slack water, and very soon after it shallowed so much that I could walk ashore. The thought of what became of my adversary weighed more heavily on me when I touched land; indeed, while my own chances of escape were few, I took his fate easily enough. With all its dangers, it was a glorious time, as, hurrying downward in the torrent, through the dark night, the thunder growling overhead, the breakers battering away on the bar, I was the only living thing there to confront that peril! What an emblem of my own fate in everything! A headlong course, an unknown ending, darkness – utter and day less darkness – around me, and not one single soul to say, “Courage!” There is something splendidly exciting in the notion of having felt thoughts that others have never felt, – of having set footsteps in that un tracked sand where no traveller has ever ventured. This impression never left me as I buffeted the murky waves, and struck out boldly through the surfy stream. Nay, more, it will never leave me while I live. I have now proved myself to my own heart! I have been, and for a considerable time too, face to face with death. I have regarded my fate as certain, and yet have I not quailed in spirit or flinched in coolness. No, Billy; I reviewed every step of my strange and wayward life. I bethought me of my childhood, with all its ambitious longings, and my boyish days as sorrow first broke upon me, and I felt that there was a fitness in this darksome and mysterious ending to a life that touched on no other existence. For am I not as much alone in the great world as when I swam there in the yellow flood of the Magra?

As the booming breakers of the sea met my ear, and I saw that I was nearing the wide ocean, I felt as might a soldier when charging an enemy’s battery at speed. I was wildly mad with impatience to get forward, and shouted till my voice rang out above the din around me. How the mad cheer echoed in my own heart! It was the trumpet-call of victory.

Was it reaction from all this excitement – the depression that follows past danger – that made me feel low and miserable afterwards? I know I walked along towards Lavenza in listlessness, and when a gendarme stopped to question me, and asked for my passport, I had not even energy to tell him how I came there. Even the intense desire to see that spot once more, – to walk that garden and sit upon that terrace, – all had left me; it was as though the waves had drowned the spirit, and left the limbs to move unguided. He led me beside the walls of the villa, by the little wicket itself, and still I felt no touch of feeling, no memory came back on me; I was indifferent to all! and yet you know how many a weary mile I have come just to see them once more, – to revisit a spot where the only day-dream of my life lingered, and where I gave way to the promptings of a hope that have not often warmed this sad heart.

What a sluggish swamp has this nature of mine become, when it needs a hurricane of passion to stir it! Here I am, living, breathing, walking, and sleeping, but without one sentiment that attaches me to existence; and yet do I feel as though whatever endangered life, or jeoparded fame would call me up to an effort and make me of some value to myself.

I went yesterday to see my old studio: sorry things were those strivings of mine, – false endeavors to realize conceptions that must have some other interpreter than marble. Forms are but weak appeals, words are coarse ones; music alone, my dear friend, is the true voice of the heart’s meanings.

How a little melody that a peasant girl was singing last night touched me! It was one that she used to warble, humming as we walked, like some stray waif thrown up by memory on the waste of life.

So then, at last, I feel I am not a sculptor; still as little, with all your teaching, am I a scholar. The world of active life offers to me none of its seductions; I only recognize what there is in it of vulgar contention and low rivalry. I cannot be any of the hundred things by which men eke out subsistence, and yet I long for the independence of being the arbiter of my own daily life. What is to become of me? Say, dearest, best of friends, – say but the word, and let me try to obey you. What of our old plans of ‘savagery’? The fascinations of civilized habits have made no stronger hold upon me since we relinquished that grand idea. Neither you nor I assuredly have any places assigned us at the feast of this old-world life; none have bidden us to it, nor have we even the fitting garments to grace it!

There are moments, however, – one of them is on me while I write, – wherein I should like to storm that strong citadel of social exclusion, and test its strength. Who are they who garrison it? Are they better, and wiser, and purer than their fellows? Are they lifted by the accidents of fortune above the casualties and infirmities of nature? and are they more gentle-minded, more kindly-hearted, and more forgiving than others? This I should wish to know and learn for myself. Would they admit us, for the nonce, to see and judge them? let the Bastard and the Beggar sit down at their board, and make brotherhood with them? I trow not, Billy. They would hand us over to the police!

And my friend the courier was not so far astray when he called us vagabonds!

If I were free, I should, of course, be with you; but I am under a kind of mild bondage here, of which I don’t clearly comprehend the meaning. The chief minister has taken me, in some fashion, under his protection, and I am given to understand that no ill is intended me; and, indeed, so far as treatment and moderate liberty are concerned, I have every reason to be satisfied. Still is there something deeply wounding in all this mysterious “consideration.” It whispers to me of an interest in me on the part of those who are ashamed to avow it, – of kind feelings held in check by self-esteem. Good Heavens! what have I done, that this humiliation should be my portion? There is no need of any subtlety to teach me what I am, and what the world insists I must remain. There is no ambition I dare to strive for, no affection my heart may cherish, no honorable contest I may engage in, but that the utterance of one fatal word may not bar the gate against my entrance, and send me back in shame and confusion. Had I of myself incurred this penalty, there would be in me that stubborn sense of resistance that occurs to every one who counts the gain and loss of all his actions; but I have not done so! In the work of my own degradation I am blameless!

I have just been told that a certain Princess de Sabloukoff is to arrive here this evening, and that I am to wait upon her immediately. Good Heavens! can she be – ? The thought has just struck me, and my head is already wandering at the bare notion of it! How I pray that this may not be so; my own shame is enough, and more than I can bear; but to witness that of – I Can you tell me nothing of this? But even if you can, the tidings will come too late; I shall have already seen her.

I am unable to write more now; my brain is burning, and my hand trembles so that I cannot trace the letters. Adieu till this evening.

Midnight.

I was all in error, dear friend. I have seen her; for the last two hours we have conversed together, and my suspicion had no foundation. She evidently knows all my history, and almost gives me to believe that one day or other I may stand free of this terrible shame that oppresses me. If this were possible, what vengeance would be enough to wreak on those who have thus practised on me? Can you imagine any vendetta that would pay off the heart-corroding misery that has made my youth like a sorrowful old age, dried up hope within me, made my ambition to be a snare, and my love a mere mockery? I could spend a life in the search after this revenge, and think it all too short to exhaust it!

I have much to tell you of this Princess, but I doubt if I can remember it. Her manner meant so much, and yet so little; there was such elegance of expression with such perfect ease, – so much of the finest knowledge of life united to a kind of hopeful trust in mankind, that I kept eternally balancing in my mind whether her intelligence or her kindliness had the supremacy. She spoke to me much of the Harleys. Ida was well, and at Florence. She had refused Wahnsdorf’s offer of marriage, and though ardently solicited to let time test her decision, persisted in her rejection.