The Fortunes Of Glencore. Lever Charles James
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 what is due to one whose nerves are in the sad state of mine. You shall hear all my complainings when we meet, dear Princess; and with this I kiss your hand, begging you to accept all “mes hommages” et mon estime,
H. U.
Your letter must be addressed “Leenane, Ireland.” Your last had only “Glencore” on it, and not very legible either, so that it made what I wished I could do, “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 revery.
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-and-take which companionship supplies. He could – to steal a figure from our steam language – he could “bank his fires,” and await any emergency, 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 Upton.
“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-bleed-ing again. Billy Traynor is there now trying to stop it.”
“I’ll go upstairs,” 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 attendants 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 labored inspirations, 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 dar’ n’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,” said Upton, gently; “you know I’m always ready when you want me.”
“And you’ll not leave this, – you’ll not desert me?” cried the other, eagerly.
“Certainly not; I have no thought of going away.”
“There, now, hould your prate, both of ye, or, by my conscience, I ‘ll not take the responsibility upon me, – I will not!” said Billy, angrily. “‘Tis just a disgrace and a shame that ye haven’t more discretion.”
Glencore’s lips moved with a feeble attempt at a smile, and in his faint voice he said, —
“We must obey the doctor, Upton; but don’t leave me.”
Upton moved a chair to the bedside, and sat down without a word.
“Ye think an artery is like a canal, with a lock-gate to it, I believe,” said Billy, in a low, grumbling voice, to Upton, “and you forget all its vermicular motion, as ould Fabricius called it, and that it is only by a coagalum, a kind of barrier, like a mud breakwater, that it can be plugged. Be off out of that, ye spalpeens! be off, every one of yez, and leave us tranquil and paceable!”
This summary command was directed to the various servants, who were still moving about the room in imaginary occupation. The room was at last cleared of all save Upton and Billy, who sat by the bedside, his hand still resting on the sick man’s forehead. Soothed by the stillness, and reduced by the loss of blood, Glencore sank into a quiet sleep, breathing softly and gently as a child.
“Look at him now,” whispered Billy to Upton, “and you ‘ll see what philosophy there is in ascribin’ to the heart the source of all our emotions. He lies there azy and comfortable just because the great bellows is working smoothly and quietly. They talk about the brain, and the spinal nerves, and the soliar plexus; but give a man a wake, washy circulation, and what is he? He’s just like a chap with the finest intentions in the world, but not a sixpence in his pocket to carry them out! A fine well-regulated, steady-batin’ heart is like a credit on the bank, – you draw on it, and your draft is n’t dishonored!”
“What was it brought on this attack?” asked Upton, in a whisper.
“A shindy he had with the boy. I was n’t here; there was nobody by. But when I met Master Charles on the stairs, he flew past me like lightning, and I just saw by a glimpse that something was wrong. He rushed out with his head bare, and his coat all open, and it sleetin’ terribly! Down he went towards the lough, at full speed, and never minded all my callin’ after him.”
“Has he returned?” asked Upton.
“Not as I know, sir. We were too much taken up with the lord to ask for him.”
“I ‘ll just step down and see,” said Sir Horace, who arose, and left the room on tiptoe.
To Upton’s inquiry all made the same answer. None had seen the young lord, – none could give any clew as to whither he had gone. Sir Horace at once hastened to Harcourt’s room, and, after some vigorous shakes, succeeded in awakening the Colonel, and by dint of various repetitions at last put him in possession of all that had occurred.
“We must look after the lad,” cried Harcourt, springing from his bed, and dressing with all haste. “He is a rash, hot-headed fellow; but even if it were nothing else, he might get his death in such a night as this.”
The wind dashed wildly against the window-panes as he spoke, and the old timbers of the frame rattled fearfully.
“Do you remain here, Upton. I’ll go in search of the boy. Take care Glencore hears nothing of his absence.” And with a promptitude that bespoke the man of action, Harcourt descended the stairs and set out.
The night was pitch dark; sweeping gusts of wind bore the rain along in torrents, and the thunder rolled incessantly, its clamor increased by the loud beating of the waves as they broke upon the rocks. Upton had repeated to Harcourt that Billy saw the boy going towards the sea-shore,