1855.] Chapter XI.-Lights and Shadows of Diplomatic Life. snubbed, he always asks for leave of absence. If the castigation be severe, he invariably, on his return to England, goes to visit the leader of the Opposition. This is the ritual. Sir Horace, however, only observed it in half. He came home; but after his first morning's attendance at the Foreign Office, he disappeared; none saw or heard of him. He knew well all the value of mystery, and he accordingly disappeared from public view altogether. When, therefore, Harcourt's letter reached him, proposing that he should visit Glencore, the project came most opportunely; and that he only accepted it for a day, was in the spirit of his habitual diplomacy, since he then gave himself all the power of an immediate departure, or permitted the option of remaining gracefully, in defiance of all pre-engagements, and all plans to be elsewhere. We have been driven, for the sake of this small fact, to go a great way round in our history; but we promise our reader that Sir Horace was one of those people whose motives are never tracked without a considerable detour. The reader knows now why he was at Glencore-he always knew how. The terrible interview with Glencore brought back a second relapse of greater violence than the first, and it was nigh a fortnight ere he was pronounced out of danger. It was a strange life that Harcourt and Upton led in that dreary interval. Guests of one whose life was in utmost peril, they met in that old gallery each day to talk, in half whispered sentences, over the sick man's case, and his chances of recovery. Harcourt frankly told Upton that the first relapse was the consequence of a scene between Glencore and himself. Upton made no similar confession. He reflected deeply, however, over all that had passed, and came to the conclusion that, in Glencore's present condition, opposition might prejudice his chance of recovery, but never avail to turn him from his project. He also set himself to study the boy's character, and found it, in all respects, the very type of his father's. Great bashfulness united to great boldness, timidity and distrust, were there side by side with a rash, impetuous nature, that would hesitate at nothing in pursuit of an object. Pride, however, was the great principle of his being the good and evil motive of all 703 that was in him. He had pride on every subject. His name, his rank, his station, a consciousness of natural quickness, a sense of aptitude to learn whatever came before him-all gave him the same feeling of pride. "There's a deal of good in that lad," said Harcourt to Upton, one evening as the boy had left the room; "I like his strong affection for his father, and that unbounded faith he seems to have in Glencore's being better than every one else in the world." "It is an excellent religion, my dear Harcourt, if it could only last!" said the diplomate, smiling amiably. "And why shouldn't it last?" asked the other, impatiently. "Just because nothing lasts that has its origin in ignorance. The boy has seen nothing of life. - has had no opportunity for forming a judgment, or instituting a comparison between any two objects. The first shot that breaches that same fortress of belief, down will come the whole edifice!" "You'd give a lad to the Jesuits, then, to be trained up in every artifice and distrust?" "Far from it, Harcourt. I think their system a mistake all through. The science of life must be self-learned, and it is a slow acquisition. All that education can do is to prepare the mind to receive it. Now, to employ the first years of a boy's life by storing him with prejudices, is just to encumber a vessel with a rotten cargo, that she must throw overboard before she can load with a profitable freight." "And is it in that category you'd class his love for his father?" asked the Colonel. "Of course not; but any unnatural or exaggerated estimate of him is a great error, to lead to an equally unfair depreciation when the time of deception is past. To be plain, Harcourt, is that boy fitted to enter one of our great public schools, stand the hard rough usage of his own equals, and buffet it as you or I have done?" "Why not? or, at least, why shouldn't he become so after a month or two?" "Just because in that same month or two he'd either die brokenhearted, or plunge his knife in the heart of some comrade who insulted him." "Not a bit of it. You don't know him at all. Charley is a fine give-andtake fellow; a little proud, perhaps, because he lives apart from all that are his equals. Let Glencore just take courage to send him to Harrow or Rugby, and my life on it, but he'll be the manliest fellow in the school." "I'll undertake, without Harrow or Rugby, that the boy should become something even greater than that,” said Upton, smiling. "Oh, I know you sneer at my ideas of what a young fellow ought to be," said Harcourt; "but somehow you did not neglect these same pursuits yourself. You can shoot as well as most men, and you ride better than any I know of." "One likes to do a little of everything, Harcourt," said Upton, not at all displeased at this flattery; "and someway it never suits a fellow, who really feels that he has fair abilities, to do anything badly; so that it comes to this, one does it well or not at all. Now you never heard me touch the piano?" "Never." "Just because I'm only an inferior performer, and so I only play when perfectly alone." "Egad, if I could only master a waltz, or one of the melodies, I'd be at it whenever any one would listen to me." "You're a good soul, and full of amiability, Harcourt," said Upton; but the words sounded very much as though he said, "You're a dear, good, sensible creature, without an atom of self-respect or esteem." Indeed, so conscious was Harcourt that the expression meant no compliment, that he actually reddened and looked away. At last he took courage to renew the conversation, and said "And what would you advise for the boy, then?" "I'd scarcely lay down a system, but I'll tell you what I would not do. I'd not bore him with mathematics; I'd not put his mind on the stretch in any direction; I'd not stifle the development of any taste that may be struggling within him, but rather encourage and foster it, since it is precisely by such an indication you'll get some clue to his nature. Do you under stand me?" "I'm not quite sure I do; but I believe you'd leave him to something like utter idleness." "What to you, my dear Harcourt, would be utter idleness, I've no doubt, but not to him, perhaps." Again the Colonel looked mortified, but evidently knew not how to resent this new sneer. "Well," said he, after a pause, "the lad will not require to be a ge. nius." "So much the better for him, probably; at all events, so much the better for his friends, and all who are to associate with him." Here he looked fixedly at Upton, who smiled a most courteous acquiescence in the opinion-a politeness that made poor Harcourt perfectly ashamed of his own rudeness, and he continued: hurriedly "He'll have abundance of money. This life of Glencore's here will be like a long minority to him. A fine old name and title, and the deuce is in it if he can't rub through life pleasantly enough with such odds." "I believe you are right, after all, Harcourt," said Upton, sighing, and now speaking in a far more natural tone; "it is rubbing through with the best of us, and no more!" "If you mean that the process is a very irksome one, I enter my dissent at once," broke in Harcourt. "I not ashamed to own that I like prodigiously; and if I be spared to s so, I'm sure I'll have the same story to tell fifteen or twenty years hence, and yet I'm not a genius!" "No!" said Upton, smiling a bland assent. "Nor a philosopher either," said Harcourt, irritated at the acknow ledgment. "Certainly not," chimed in Upton, with another smile. "Nor have I any wish to be one or the other," rejoined Harcourt, now really provoked. "I know right well that if I were in trouble or difficulty to-morrow if I wanted a friend to help me with a loan of some thousand pounds it is not to a genius or a phi losopher I'd look for the assistance." It is ever a chance shot that ex. plodes a magazine, and so is it that a random speech is sure to hit the mark that has escaped all the efforts of skil ful direction. Upton winced and grew pale at these last words, and he fixed his pe netrating grey eyes upon the speaker with a keenness all his own. Har court, however, bore the look without the slightest touch of uneasiness. The honest Colonel had spoken without any hidden meaning, nor had he the 2 1855.] Chapter XI.-Lights and Shadows of Diplomatic Life. slightest intention of a personal application in his words. Of this fact Upton appeared soon to be convinced, for his features gradually recovered their wonted calmness. "How perfectly right you are, my dear Harcourt," said he, mildly. "The man who expects to be happier by the possession of genius, is like one who would like to warm himself through a burning-glass." "Egad, that is a great consolation for us slow fellows," said Harcourt, laughing; "and now what say you to a game at ecarté, for I believe it is just the one solitary thing I am more than your match in ?" "I accept inferiority in a great many others," said Upton, blandly; "but I must decline the challenge, for I have a letter to write, and our post here starts at daybreak.' "Well, I'd rather carry the whole bag than indite one of its contents," said the Colonel, rising, and, with a hearty shake of the hand, he left the room. A letter was fortunately not so great an infliction to Upton, who opened his desk at once, and with a rapid hand traced the following lines : "MY DEAR PRINCESS,-My last will have told you how and why I came here; I wish I but knew in what way to explain why I still remain! Imagine the dreariest desolation of Calabria in a climate of fog and sea-drift-sunless skies, leafless trees, impassable roads— the outdoor comforts, the joys within, depending on a gloomy old house, with a few gloomier inmates, and a host on a sick bed. Yet with all this I believe I am better; the doctor, a strange unsophisticated creature, a cross between Galen and Caliban, seems to have hit off what the great dons of science never could detect the true seat of my malady. He says-and he really reasons out his case ingeniously-that the brain has been working for the inferior nerves, not limiting itself to cerebral functions, but actually performing the humbler office of muscular direction, and soforth; in fact, a field-marshal doing duty for a common soldier! I almost fancy I can corroborate his view, from internal sensations; I have a kind of secret instinct that he is right. Poor brain, why it should do the work of another department, with abundance of occupation of its own, I cannot make out. But, to turn to something else. 705 This is not a bad refuge just_now. They cannot make out where I am, and all the inquiries at my club are answered by a vague impression that I have gone back to Germany, which the people at F. O. are aware is not the case. I have already told you that my suggestion has been negatived in the Cabinet; it was ill-timed, Allington says, but I ventured to remind his lordship that a policy requiring years to develop, and more years still to push to profitable conclusion, is not to be reduced to the category of mere apropos measures. He was vexed, and replied weakly and angrily-I rejoined, and left him. Next day he sent for me, but my reply was, I was leaving town' and I left. I don't want the Bath, because it would be ill-timed;" so that they must give me Vienna, or be satisfied to see me in the House and the Opposition! "Your tidings of Brekenoff came exactly in the nick. Allington said pompously that they were sure of him; so I just said, Ask him if they would like our sending a Consular Agent to Cracow ? It seems that he was so flurried by a fancied detection, that he made a full acknowledgment of all. But even at this Allington takes no alarm. The malady of the Treasury benches is deafness, with a touch of blindness. What a cumbrous piece of bungling machinery is this boasted representative government of ours! No promptitude-no secrecy! Everything debated, and discussed, and discouraged, before begun; every blot-hit for an antagonist to profit by! Even the characters of our public men exposed, and their weaknesses displayed to view, so that every state of Europe may see where to wound us, and through whom! There is no use in the Countess remaining here any longer; the King never noticed her at the last ball; she is angry at it, and if she shows her irritation she'll spoil all. I always thought Josephine would fail in England. It is, indeed, a widely different thing to succeed in the small Courts of Germany and our great whirlpool of St. James. You could do it, my dear friend; but where is the other dare attempt it? "Until I hear from you again I can come to no resolution. One thing is clear, they do not, or they will not, see the danger I have pointed out to them. All the home policy of our country is drifting, day by day, to wards a democracy-how in the name of common sense then is our foreign policy to be maintained at the standard of the holy alliance? What an absurd juxtaposition is there between popular rights and an alliance with the Czar! This peril will overtake them one day or another, and then, to escape from national indignation, the minister, whoever he may be, will be driven to make war. But I can't wait for this; and yet were I to resign, my resignation would not embarass them - it would irritate and annoy, but not disconcert. Brekenoff will surely go home on leave. You ought to meet him; he is certain to be at Ems. It is the refuge of disgraced diplomacy. Try if something cannot be done with him. He used to say formerly your's were the only dinners now in Europe. He hates Allington. This feeling, and his love for white truffles, are I believe the only clues to the man. Be sure, however, that the truffles are Piedmontese; they have a slight flavour of garlic, rather agreeable than otherwise. Like Jose phine's lisp, it is a defect that serves for a distinction. The article in the Beaux Mondes was clever, prettily written, and even well worked out; but state affairs are never really well treated save by those who conduct them. One must have played the game himself to understand all the nice subtleties of the contest. These your mere reviewer or newspaper scribe never attains to; and then he has no reserves-none of those mysterious concealments, that are to negociations like the eloquent pauses of conversation the moment when dialogue ceases and real interchange of ideas begins. "The fine touch, the keen ' 'apercu,' belongs alone to those who have had to exercise these same qualities in the treatment of great questions; and hence it is, that though the public be often much struck, and even enlightened, by the powerful article' or the able leader,' the statesman is rarely taught anything by the journalist, save the force and direction of public opinion. "I had a deal to say to you about poor Glencore, whom you tell me you remember; but how to say it. He is broken-hearted literally brokenhearted-by her desertion of him. It was one. of those ill-assorted leagues which cannot hold together. Why they did not see this, and make the best of it-sensibly, dispassionately, even amicably-it is difficult to say. An Englishman, it would seem, must always hate his wife if she cannot love him; and after all, how involuntary are all affections, and what a severe penalty is this for an unwitting offence. "He ponders over this calamity, just as if it were the crushing stroke by which a man's whole career was to be finished for ever. The stupidity of all stupidities is in these cases to fly from the world, and avoid society. By doing this a man rears a barrier he never can repass; he proclaims aloud his senti ment of the injury, quite forgetting all the offence he is giving to the hundredand-fifty others, who, in the same predicament as himself, are by no means disposed to turn hermits on account of it. Men make revolutionary governments, smash dynasties, transgress laws, but they cannot oppose convenances ! "I need scarcely say that there is nothing to be gained by reasoning with him. He has worked himself up to a chronic fury, and talks of vengeance all day long like a Corsican. For company here I have an old brother-officer of my days of tinsel and pipeclay-an excellent creature whom I amuse my self by tormenting. There is also Glencore's boy-a strange, dreary kind of haughty fellow, an exaggeration of his father in disposition, but with good abilities. There are not the elements of much social agreeability, but you know, dear friend, how little I stand in need of what is called company. Your last letter, charming as it was, has afforded me all the companionship could desire. I have re-read it till I know it by heart. I could almost chide you for that delightful little party in my absence, but of course it was, as all you ever do is, perfectly right; and after all I am, perhaps, not sorry that you had those people when I was away, so that we shall be more chez soi when we meet. But when is that to be? Who can tell? My me dico insists upon five full weeks for my cure. Allington is very likely in his present temper to order me back to my post. You seem to think that you must be in Berlin when Seckendorf ar rives, so that -- But I will not darken the future by gloomy forebodings. I could leave this, that is if any urgency required it, at once, but if possible it is better I should remain, at least a little longer. My last meeting with Glencore was unpleasant. Poor fellow, his temper is not what it used to be, and he is forgetful of "Your letter must be addressed Leenane, Ireland.' Your last had only Glencore' on it, and not very legibly either, so that it made what I wished I could, the tour of Scotland before reaching me." Sir Horace read over his letter carefully as though it had been a despatch, and when he had done, folded it up with an air of satisfaction. He had said nothing that he wished unsaid; and he had mentioned a little about everything he desired to touch upon. He then took his "drops from a queer-looking little phial he carried about with him, and having looked at his face in a pocket-glass, he half closed his eyes in reverie. Strange, confused visions were they that flitted through his brain. Thoughts of ambition the most daring, fancies about health, speculations in politics, finance, religion, literature, the arts, society-all came and went. Plans and projects jostled each other at every instant. Now his brow would darken, and his thin lips close tightly, as some painful impression crossed him; now again a smile, a slight laugh even, betrayed the passing of some amusing conception. It was easy to see how such a nature could suffice to itself, and how little he needed of that give-andtake which companionship supplies. He could to steal a figure from our steam language-he could "bank his fires," and await any energy, and, while scarcely consuming any fuel, prepare for the most trying demand upon his powers. A hasty movement of feet overhead, and the sound of voices talking loudly, aroused him from his reflections, while a servant entered abruptly to say, that Lord Glencore wished to see him immediately. "Is his lordship worse?" asked Up ton. "No sir; but he was very angry with the young lord this evening about something; and they say, that with the passion he opened the bandage on his head, and set the vein a-bleeding again. Billy Traynor is there now trying to stop it." "I'll go up stairs," said Sir Horace, rising, and beginning to fortify himself with caps, and capes, and comforters— precautions that he never omitted when moving from one room to the other. CHAPTER XII. A NIGHT AT SEA. GLENCORE'S chamber presented a scene of confusion and dismay as Upton entered. The sick man had torn off the bandage from his temples, and so roughly as to reopen the half-closed artery, and renew the bleeding. Not alone the bedclothes and the curtains, but the faces of the assistants around him, were stained with blood, which seemed the more ghastly from contrast with their pallid cheeks. They moved hurriedly to and fro, scarcely remembering what they were in search of, and evidently deeming his state of the greatest peril. Traynor, the only one whose faculties were unshaken by the shock, sat quietly beside the bed, his fingers firmly compressed upon the orifice of the vessel, while, with the other hand, he motioned to them to keep silence. Glencore lay with closed eyes, breathing long and laboured inspira tions, and at times convulsed by a slight shivering. His face, and even his lips, were bloodless, and his eyelids of a pale, livid hue. So terribly like the approach of death was his whole appearance, that Upton whispered in the "doctor's ear "Is it over? Is he dying?" "No, Upton," said Glencore, for, with the acute hearing of intense nervousness he had caught the words "It is not so easy to die." "There now-no more talkin'-no discoorsin' — azy and quiet is now the word." "Bind it up and leave me leave me with him;" and Glencore pointed to Upton. "I darn't move out of this spot," said Billy, addressing Upton. "You'd have the blood coming out, per saltim, if I took away my finger." "You must be patient, Glencore," |