“What can have brought them here, Stubber?” said the Duke of Massa, as he walked to and fro in his dressing-room, with an air of considerable perturbation. “Be assured of one thing, they have come for mischief! I know that Sabloukoff well. She it was separated Prince Max from my sister, and that Montenegro affair was all her doing also.”
“I don't suspect—”
“Don't you? Well, then, I do, sir; and that's enough,” said he, interrupting. “And as to Upton, he's well known throughout Europe,—a 'mauvais coucheur,' Stubber; that's what the Emperor Franz called him,—a 'mauvais coucheur,' one of those fellows England employs to get up the embarrassments she so deeply deplores. Eh, Stubber, that's the phrase: 'While we deeply deplore the condition of the kingdom,'—that's always the exordium to sending out a fleet or an impertinent despatch. But I'll not endure it here. I have my sovereign rights, my independence, my allies. By the way, haven't my allies taken possession of the Opera House for a barrack?”
“That they have, sir; and they threaten an encampment in the Court gardens.”
“An open insult, an outrage! And have you endured and submitted to this?”
“I have refused the permission; but they may very possibly take no heed of my protest.”
“And you 'll tell me that I am the ruler of this state?”
“No, but I 'll say you might, if you liked to be so.”
“How so, Stubber? Come, my worthy fellow, what's your plan? You have a plan, I'm certain—but I guess it: turn Protestant, hunt out the Jesuits, close the churches, demolish the monasteries, and send for an English frigate down to the Marina, where there's not water to float a fishing-boat. But no, sir, I 'll have no such alliances; I 'll throw myself upon the loyalty and attachment of my people, and—I'll raise the taxes. Eh, Stubber? We'll tax the 'colza' and the quarries! If they demur, we 'll abdicate; that's my last word,—abdicate.”
“I wonder who this sick man can be that accompanies Upton,” said Stubber, who never suffered himself to be moved by his master's violence.
“Another firebrand,—another emissary of English disturbance. Hardenberg was perfectly right when he said the English nation pays off the meanest subserviency to their own aristocracy by hunting down all that is noble in every state of Europe. There, sir, he hit the mark in the very centre. Slaves at home, rebels abroad,—that's your code!”
“We contrive to mix up a fair share of liberty with our bondage, sir.”
“In your talk,—only in your talk; and in the newspapers, Stubber. I have studied you closely and attentively. You submit to more social indignities than any nation, ancient or modern. I was in London in '15, and I remember, at a race-course,—Ascot, they called it,—the Prince had a certain horse called Rufus.”
“I rode him,” said Stubber, dryly.
“You rode him?”
“Yes, sir. I was his jock for the King's Plate. There was a matter of twenty-eight started,—the largest field ever known for the Cup,—and Rufus reared, and, falling back, killed his rider; and the Duke of Dunrobin sent for me, and told me to mount. That's the way I came to be there.”
“Per Bacco! it was a splendid race, and I'm sure I never suspected when I cheered you coming in, that I was welcoming my future minister. Eh, Stubber, only fancy what a change!”
Stubber only shrugged his shoulders, as though the alteration in fortune was no such great prize after all.
“I won two thousand guineas on that day, Stubber. Lord Heddleworth paid me in gold, I remember; for they picked my pocket of three rouleaux on the course. The Prince laughed so at dinner about it, and said it was pure patriotism not to suffer exportation of bullion. A great people the English, that I must say! The display of wealth was the grandest spectacle I ever beheld; and such beauty too! By the way, Stubber, our ballet here is detestable. Where did they gather together that gang of horrors?”
“What? signifies it, sir, if the Austrian Jagers are bivouacked in the theatre?”
“Very true, by Jove!” said the Duke, pondering. “Can't we hit upon something,—have you no happy suggestion? I have it, Stubber,—an admirable thought. We 'll have Upton to dinner. We 'll make it appear that he has come here specially to treat with us. There is a great coldness just now between St. James's and Vienna. Upton will be charmed with the thought of an intrigue; so will be La Sabloukoff. We 'll not invite the Field-Marshal Rosen-krantz: that will itself offend Austria. Eh, Stubber, is n't it good? Say to-morrow at six, and go yourself with the invitation.”
And, overjoyed with the notion of his own subtlety, the Prince walked up and down, laughing heartily, and rubbing his hands in glee.
Stubber, however, was too well versed in the changeability of his master's nature to exhibit any rash promptitude in obeying him.
“You must manage to let the English papers speak of this, Stubber. The 'Augsburg Gazette' will be sure to copy the paragraph, and what a sensation it will create at Vienna!”
“I am inclined to think Upton has come here about that young fellow we gave up to the Austrians last autumn, and for whom he desires to claim some compensation and an ample apology.”
“Apology, of course, Stubber,—humiliation to any extent. I'll send the Minister Landelli into exile,—to the galleys, if they insist; but I 'll not pay a scudo,—my royal word on it! But who says that such is the reason of his presence here?”
“I had a hint of it last night, and I received a polite note from Upton this morning, asking when he might have a few moments' conversation with me.”
“Go to him, Stubber, with our invitation. Ask him if he likes shooting. Say I am going to Serravezza on Saturday; sound him if he desires to have the Red Cross of Massa; hint that I am an ardent admirer of his public career; and be sure to tell me something he has said or done, if he come to dinner.”
“There is to be a dinner, then, sir?” asked Stubber, with the air of one partly struggling with a conviction.
“I have said so, Chevalier!” replied the Prince, haughtily, and in the tone of a man whose decisions were irrevocable. “I mean to dine in the state apartments, and to have a reception in the evening, just to show Rosenkrantz how cheaply we hold him. Eh, Stubber? It will half kill him to come with the general company!”
Stubber gave a faint sigh, as though fresh complications and more troubles would be the sole results of this brilliant tactique.
“If I were well served and faithfully obeyed, there is not a sovereign in Europe who would boast a more independent position,—protected by my bold people, environed by my native Apennines, and sustained by the proud consciousness—the proud consciousness—-that I cannot injure a state which has not sixpence in the treasury! Eh, Stubber?” cried he, with a burst of merry laughter. “That's the grand feature of composure and dignity, to know you can't be worse! and this, we Italian princes can all indulge in. Look at the Pope himself, he is collecting the imposts a year in advance!”
“I hope that this country is more equitably administered,” said Stubber.
“So do I, sir. Were I not impressed with the full conviction that the subjects of this realm were in the very fullest enjoyment of every liberty consistent with public tranquillity, protected in the maintenance of every privilege—By the way, talking of privileges, they must n't play 'Trottolo' on the high roads; they sent one of those cursed wheels flying between the legs of my horse yesterday, so that if I had n't been an old cavalry soldier, I must have been thrown! I ordered the whole village to be fined three hundred scudi, one half of which to be sent to the shrine of our Lady of Loretta, who really, I believe, kept me in my saddle!”
“If the people had sufficient occupation, they 'd not play 'Trottolo,'” said Stubber, sternly.
“And whose the fault if they have not, sir? How many months have I been entreating to have those terraced gardens finished towards the sea? I want that olive wood, too, all stubbed up, and the ground laid out in handsome parterres. How repeatedly have I asked for a bridge over that ornamental lake; and as to the island, there's not a magnolia planted in it yet. Public works, indeed; find me the money, Stubber, and I 'll suggest the works. Then, there 's that villa, the residence of those English people,—have we not made a purchase of it?”
“No, your Highness; we could not agree about the terms, and I have just heard that the stranger who is travelling with Upton is going to buy it.”
“Stepping in between me and an object I have in view! And in my own Duchy, too! And you have the hardihood to tell me that you knew of and permitted this negotiation to go on?”
“There is nothing in the law to prevent it, sir.”
“The law! What impertinence to tell me of the law I Why, sir, it is I am the law,—I am the head and fountain of all law here; without my sanction, what can presume to be legal?”
“I opine that the Act which admits foreigners to possess property in the state was passed in the life of your Highness's father.”
“I repeal it, then! It saps the nationality of a people; it is a blow aimed at the very heart of independent sovereignty. I may stand alone in all Europe on this point, but I will maintain it. And as to this stranger, let his passport be sent to him on the spot.”
“He may possibly be an Englishman, your Highness: and remember that we have already a troublesome affair on our hands with that other youth, who in some way claims Upton's protection. Had we not better go more cautiously to work? I can see and speak with him.”
“What a tyranny is this English interference! There is not a land, from Sweden to Sicily, where, on some assumed ground of humanity, your Government have not dared to impose their opinions! You presume to assert that all men must feel precisely like your dogged and hard-headed countrymen, and that what are deemed grievances in your land should be thought so elsewhere. You write up a code for the whole world, built out of the materials of all your national prejudices, your insular conceit,—ay, and out of the very exigencies of your bad climate; and then you say to us, blessed in the enjoyment of light hearts and God's sunshine, that we must think and feel as you do! I am not astonished that my nobles are discontented with the share you possess of my confidence; they must long have seen how little suited the maxims of your national policy are to the habits of a happier population!”
“The people are far better than their nobles,—that I 'm sure of,” said Stubber, stoutly.
“You want to preach socialism to me, and hope to convert me to that splendid doctrine of communism we hear so much of. You are a dangerous fellow,—a very dangerous fellow. It was precisely men of your stamp sapped the monarchy in France, and with it all monarchy in Europe.”
“If your Highness intends Proserpine to run at Bologna, she ought to be put in training at once,” said Stubber, gravely; “and we might send up some of the weeds at the same time, and sell them off.”
“Well thought of, Stubber; and there was something else in my head,—what was it?”
“The suppression of the San Lorenzo convent, perhaps; it is all completed, and only waits your Highness to sign the deed.”
“What sum does it give us, Stubber, eh?”
“About one hundred and eighty thousand scudi, sir, of which some twenty thousand go to the National Mortgage Fund.”
“Not one crown of it,—not a single bajocco, as I am a Christian knight and a true gentleman. I need it all, if it were twice as much. If we incur the anger of the Pope and the Sacred College,—if we risk the thunders of the Vatican,—let us have the worldly consolation of a full purse.”
“I advised the measure on wiser grounds, sir. It was not fair and just that a set of lazy friars should be leading lives of indolence and abundance in the midst of a hard-worked and ill-fed peasantry.”
“Quite true; and on these wise grounds, as you call them, we have rooted them out. We only wish that the game were more plenty, for the sport amuses us vastly.” And he clapped Stubber familiarly on the shoulder, and laughed heartily at his jest.
It was in this happy frame of mind that Stubber always liked to leave his master; and so, promising to attend to the different subjects discussed between them, he bowed and withdrew.
“What an insufferable bore, dear Princess!” sighed Sir Horace, as he opened the square-shaped envelope that contained his Royal Highnesses invitation to dinner.
“I mean to be seriously indisposed,” said Madame de Sabloukoff; “one gets nothing but chagrin in intercourse with petty Courts.”
“Like provincial journals, they only reproduce what has appeared in the metropolitan papers, and give you old gossip for fresh intelligence.”
“Or, worse again, ask you to take an interest in their miserable 'localisms,'—the microscopic contentions of insect life.”
“They have given us a sentry at the door, I perceive,” said Sir Horace, with assumed indifference.
“A very proper attention!” remarked the lady, in a tone that more than half implied the compliment was one intended for herself.
“Have you seen the Chevalier Stubber yet?” asked Upton.
“No; he has been twice here, but I was dressing, or writing notes. And you?”
“I told him to come about two o'clock,” sighed Sir Horace. “I rather like Stubber.”
This was said in a tone of such condescension that it sounded as though the utterer was confessing to an amicable weakness in his nature,—“I rather like Stubber.”
Though there was something meant to invite agreement in the tone, the Princess only accepted the speech with a slight motion of her eyebrows, and a look of half unwilling assent.
“I know he's not of your world, dear Princess, but he belongs to that Anglo-Saxon stock we are so prone to associate with all the ideas of rugged, unadorned virtue.”
“Rugged and unadorned indeed!” echoed the lady.
“And yet never vulgar,” rejoined Upton,—“never affecting to be other than he is; and, stranger still, not self-opinionated and conceited.”
“I own to you,” said she, haughtily, “that the whole Court here puts me in mind of Hayti, with its Marquis of Orgeat and its Count Marmalade. These people, elevated from menial station to a mock nobility, only serve to throw ridicule upon themselves and the order that they counterfeit. No socialist in Europe has done such service to the cause of democracy as the Prince of Massa!”
“Honesty is such a very rare quality in this world that I am not surprised at his Highness prizing it under any garb. Now, Stubber is honest.”
“He says so himself, I am told.”
“Yes, he says so, and I believe him. He has been employed in situations of considerable trust, and always acquitted himself well. Such a man cannot have escaped temptations, and yet even his enemies do not accuse him of venality.”
“Good Heavens! what more would he have than his legitimate spoils? He is a Minister of the Household, with an ample salary; a Master of the Horse; an inspector of Woods and Forests; a something over Church lands; and a Red Cross of Massa besides. I am quite 'made up' in his dignities, for they are all set forth on his visiting-card with what purports to be a coat of arms at top.” And, as she spoke, she held out the card in derision.
“That's silly, I must say,” said Upton, smiling; “and yet, I suppose that here in Massa it was requisite he should assert all his pretensions thus openly.”
“Perhaps so,” said she, dryly.
“And, after all,” said Upton, who seemed rather bent on a system of mild tormenting,—“after all, there is something amiable in the weakness of this display,—it smacks of gratitude! It is like saying to the world, 'See what the munificence of my master has made me!'”
“What a delicate compliment, too, to his nobles, which proclaims that for a station of trust and probity the Prince must recruit from the kitchen and the stables. To my thinking, there is no such impertinent delusion as that popular one which asserts that we must seek for everything in its least likely place,—take ministers out of counting-houses, and military commanders from shop-boards. For the treatment of weighty questions in peace or war, the gentleman element is the first essential.”
“Just as long as the world thinks so, dear Princess; not an hour longer.”
The Princess arose, and walked the room in evident displeasure. She half suspected that his objections were only devices to irritate, and she determined not to prolong the discussion. The temptation to reply proved, however, too strong for her resolution, and she said,—
“The world has thought so for some centuries; and when a passing shade of doubt has shaken the conviction, have not the people rushed from revolution into actual bondage, as though any despotism were better than the tyranny of their own passions?”
“I opine,” said Upton, calmly, “that the 'prestige' of the gentleman consists in his belonging to an 'order.' Now, that is a privilege that cannot be enjoyed by a mere popular leader. It is like the contrast between a club and a public meeting.”
“It is something that you confess these people have no 'prestige,'” said she, triumphantly. “Indeed, their presence in the world of politics, to my thinking, is a mere symbol of change,—an evidence that we are in some stage of transition.”
“So we are, madame; there is nothing more true. Every people of Europe have outgrown their governments, like young heirs risen to manhood, ordering household affairs to their will. The popular voice now swells above the whisper of cabinets. So long as each country limits itself to home questions, this spirit will attract but slight notice. Let the issue, however, become a great international one, and you will see the popular will declaring wars, cementing alliances, and signing peaces in a fashion to make statecraft tremble!”
“And you approve of this change, and welcome it?” asked she, derisively.
“I have never said so, madame. I foresee the hurricane, that's all. Men like Stubber are to be seen almost everywhere throughout Europe. They are a kind of declaration that, for the government and guidance of mankind, the possession of a good head and an honest heart is amply sufficient; that rulers neither need fourteen quarterings nor names coeval with the Roman Empire.”
“You have given me but another reason to detest him,” said the Princess, angrily. “I don't think I shall receive him to-day.”
“But you want to speak with him about that villa; there is some formality to be gone through before a foreigner can own property here. I think you promised Glencore you would arrange the matter.”
She made no reply, and he continued: “Poor fellow! a very short lease would suffice for his time; he is sinking rapidly. The conflict his mind wages between hope and doubt has hastened all the symptoms of his malady.”
“In such a struggle a woman has more courage than a man.”
“Say more boldness, Princess,” said Upton, slyly.
“I repeat, courage, sir. It is fear, and nothing but fear, that agitates him. He is afraid of the world's sneer; afraid of what society will think, and say, and write about him; afraid of the petty gossip of the millions he will never see or hear of. This cowardice it is that checks him in every aspiration to vindicate his wife's honor and his boy's birth.”
“Si cela se peut,” said Upton, with a very equivocal smile.
A look of haughty anger, with a flush of crimson on her cheek, was the only answer she made him.
“I mean that he is really not in a position to prove or disprove anything. He assumed certain 'levities'—I suppose the word will do—to mean more than levities; he construed indiscretions into grave faults, and faults into crimes. But that he did all this without sufficient reason, or that he now has abundant evidence that he was mistaken, I am unable to say, nor is it with broken faculties and a wandering intellect that he can be expected to review the past and deliver judgment on it.”
“The whole moral of which is: what a luckless fate is that of a foreign wife United to an English husband!”
“There is much force in the remark,” said Upton, calmly.
“To have her thoughts, and words, and actions submitted to the standard of a nation whose moral subtleties she could never comprehend; to be taught that a certain amount of gloom must be mixed up with life, just as bitters are taken for tonics; that ennui is the sure type of virtue, and low spirits the healthiest condition of the mind,—these are her first lessons: no wonder if she find them hard ones.
“To be told that all the harmless familiarities she has seen from her childhood are dangerous freedoms, all the innocent gayeties of the world about her are snares and pitfalls, is to make existence little better than a penal servitude,—this is lesson the second. While, to complete her education, she is instructed how to assume a censorial rigidity of manner that would shame a duenna, and a condemnatory tone that assumes to arraign all the criminals of society, and pass sentence on them. How amiable she may become in disposition, and how suitable as a companion by this training, you, sir, and your countrymen are best able to pronounce.”
“You rather exaggerate our demerits, my dear Princess,” said Upton, smiling. “We really do not like to be so very odious as you would make us.”
“You are excellent people, with whom no one can live,—that's the whole of it,” said she, with a saucy laugh. “If your friend Lord Glencore had been satisfied to stay at home and marry one of his own nation, he might have escaped a deal of unhappiness, and saved a most amiable creature much more sorrow than falls to the lot of the least fortunate of her own country. I conclude you have some influence over him?”
“As much, perhaps, as any one; but even that says little.”
“Can you not use it, therefore, to make him repair a great wrong?”
“You had some plan, I think?” said he, hesitatingly.
“Yes; I have written to her to come down here. I have pretended that her presence is necessary to certain formalities about the sale of the villa. I mean that they should meet, without apprising either of them. I have sent the boy out of the way to Pontremoli to make me a copy of some frescoes there; till the success of my scheme be decided, I did not wish to make him a party to it.”
“You don't know Glencore,—at least as I know him.”
“There is no reason that I should,” broke she in. “What I would try is an experiment, every detail of which I would leave to chance. Were this a case where all the wrong were on one side, and all the forgiveness to come from the other, friendly aid and interposition might well be needed; but here is a complication which neither you, nor I, nor any one else can pretend to unravel. Let them meet, therefore, and let Fate—if that be the name for it—decide what all the prevention and planning in the world could never provide for.”
“The very fact that their meeting has been plotted beforehand will suggest distrust.”
“Their manner in meeting will be the best answer to that,” said she, resolutely. “There will be no acting between them, depend upon 't.”
“He told me that he had destroyed the registry of their marriage, nor does he know where a single witness of the ceremony could be found.”
“I don't want to know how he could make the amende till I know that he is ready to do it,” said she, in the same calm tone.
“To have arranged a meeting with the boy had perhaps been better than this. Glencore has not avowed it, but I think I can detect misgivings for his treatment of the youth.”
“This was my first thought, and I spoke to young Massy the evening before Lord Glencore arrived. I led him to tell me of his boyish days in Ireland and his home there; a stern resolution to master all emotion seemed to pervade whatever he said; and though, perhaps, the effort may have cost him much, his manner did not betray it. He told me that he was illegitimate, that the secret was divulged to him by his own father, that he had never heard who his mother was, nor what rank in life she occupied. When I said that she was one in high station, that she was alive and well, and one of my own dearest friends, a sudden crimson covered his face, as quickly followed by a sickly pallor; and though he trembled in every limb, he never spoke a word. I endeavored to excite in him some desire to learn more of her, if not to see her, but in vain. The hard lesson he had taught himself enabled him to repress every semblance of feeling. It was only when at last, driven to the very limits of my patience, I abruptly asked him, 'Have you no wish to see your mother?' that his coldness gave way, and, in a voice tremulous and thick, he said, 'My shame is enough for myself.' I was burning to say more, to put before him a contingency, the mere shadow of a possibility that his claim to birth and station might one day or other be vindicated. I did not actually do so, but I must have let drop some chance word that betrayed my meaning, for he caught me up quickly, and said, 'It would come too late, if it came even to-day. I am that which I am by many a hard struggle; you 'll never see me risk a disappointment in life by any encouragement I may give to hope.'
“I then adverted to his father; but he checked me at once, saying, 'When the ties that should be closest in life are stained with shame and dishonor, they are bonds of slavery, not of affection. My debt to Lord Glencore is the degradation I live in,—none other. His heritage to me is the undying conflict in my heart between what I once thought I was and what I now know I am. If we met, it would be to tell him so.' In a word, every feature of the father's proud unforgivingness is reproduced in the boy, and I dreaded the very possibility of their meeting. If ever Lord Glencore avow his marriage and vindicate his wife's honor, his hardest task will be reconciliation with this boy.”
“All, and more than all, the evils I anticipated have followed this insane vengeance,” said Upton. “I begin to think that one ought to leave a golden bridge even to our revenge, Princess.”
“Assuredly, wherever a woman is the victim,” said she, smiling; “for you are so certain to have reasons for distrusting yourself.”
Upton sat meditating for some time on the plan of the Princess; had it only originated with himself, it was exactly the kind of project he would have liked. He knew enough of life to be aware that one can do very little more than launch events upon the great ocean of destiny; that the pretension to guide and direct them is oftener a snare than anything else; that the contingencies and accidents, the complications too, which beset every move in life, disconcert all one's pre-arrangements, so that it is rare indeed when we are able to pursue the same path towards any object by which we have set out.
As the scheme was, however, that of another, he now scrutinized it, and weighed every objection to its accomplishment, constantly returning to the same difficulty, as he said,—
“You do not know Glencore.”
“The man who has but one passion, one impulse in life, is rarely a difficult study,” was the measured reply. “Lord Glencore's vengeance has worn itself out, exactly as all similar outbreaks of temper do, for want of opposition. There was nothing to feed, nothing to minister to it. He sees—I have taken care that he should see—that his bolt has not struck the mark; that her position is not the precarious thing he meant to make it, but a station as much protected and fenced round by its own conventionalities as that of any, the proudest lady in society. For one that dares to impugn her, there are full fifty ready to condemn him; and all this has been done without reprisal or recrimination; no partisanship to arraign his moroseness and his cruelty,—none of that 'coterie' defence which divides society into two sections. This, of course, has wounded his pride, but it has not stimulated his anger; but, above all, it has imparted to her the advantage of a dignity of which his vengeance was intended to deprive her.”
“You must be a sanguine and a hopeful spirit, Princess, if you deem that such elements will unite happily hereafter,” said Upton, smiling.
“I really never carried my speculations so far,” replied she. “It is in actual life, as in that of the stage, quite sufficient to accompany the actors to the fall of the curtain.”
“The Chevalier Stubber, madame,” said a servant, entering, “wishes to know if you will receive him.”
“Yes—no—yes. Tell him to come in,” said, she rapidly, as she resumed her seat beside the fire.
Notwithstanding the strongly expressed sentiments of the Princess with regard to the Chevalier Stubber, she received him with marked favor, and gave him her hand to kiss, with evident cordiality. As for Upton, it was the triumph of his manner to deal with men separated widely from himself in station and abilities. He could throw such an air of good fellowship into the smallest attentions, impart such a glow of kindliness to the veriest commonplaces, that the very craftiest and shrewdest could never detect. As he leaned his arm, therefore, on Stubber's shoulder, and smiled benignly on him, you would have said it was the affectionate meeting with a long-absent brother. But there was something besides this: there was the expansive confidence accorded to a trusty colleague; and as he asked him about the Duchy, its taxation, its debt, its alliances and difficulties, you might mark in the attention he bestowed all the signs of one receiving very valuable information.
“You perceive, Princess,” said he, at last, “Stubber quite agrees with the Duke of Cloudeslie,—these small states enjoy no real independence.”
“Then why are they not absorbed into the larger nations about them?”
“They have their uses; they are like substances interposed between conflicting bodies, which receive and diminish the shock of collisions. So that Prussia, when wanting to wound Austria, only pinches Baden; and Austria, desirous of insulting Saxony, 'takes it out' on Sigmaringen.”
“It's a pleasant destiny you assign them,” said she, laughing.
“Stubber will tell you I'm not far wrong in my appreciation.”
“I 'm not for what they call 'mediatizing' them neither, my Lady,” said Stubber, who generally used the designation to imply his highest degree of respect. “That may all be very well for the interests of the great states, and the balance of power, and all that sort of thing; but we ought also to bestow a thought upon the people of these small countries, especially on the inhabitants of their cities. What's to become of them when you withdraw their courts, and throw their little capitals into the position of provincial towns and even villages?”
“They will eke out a livelihood somehow, my dear Stubber. Be assured that they 'll not starve. Masters of the Horse may have to keep livery stables; chamberlains turn valets; ladies of the bedchamber descend to the arts of millinery: but, after all, the change will be but in name, and there will not be a whit more slavery in the new condition than in the old one.”
“Well, I 'm not so sure they 'll take the same comfortable view of it that you do, Sir Horace,” said Stubber; “nor can I see who can possibly want livery stables, or smart bonnets, or even a fine butler, when the resources of the Court are withdrawn, and the city left to its own devices.”
“Stubber suspects,” said Upton, “that the policy which prevails amongst our great landed proprietors against small holdings is that which at present influences the larger states of Europe against small kingdoms; and so far he is right. It is unquestionably the notion of our day that the influences of government require space for their exercise.”
“If the happiness of the people was to be thought of, which of course it is not,” said Stubber, “I'd say leave them as they are.”
“Ah, my dear Stubber, you are now drawing the question into the realm of the imaginary. What do any of us know about our happiness?”
“Enough to eat and drink, a comfortable roof over you, good clothes, nothing oppressive or unequal in the laws,—these go for a good way in the kind of thing I mean; and let me observe, sir, it is a great privilege little states, like little people, enjoy, that they need have no ambitions. They don't want to conquer anybody; they neither ask for the mouth of a river here, or an island there; and if only let alone, they 'll never disturb the peace of the world at large.”
“My dear Stubber, you are quite a proficient at state-craft,” said Upton, with the very least superciliousness in the accent.
“Well, I don't know, Sir Horace,” said the other, modestly, “but as my master's means are about the double of what they were when I entered his service, and as the people pay about one-sixth less in taxes than they used to do, mayhap I might say that I have put the saddle on the right part of the back.”
“Your foreign policy does not seem quite as unobjectionable as your home management. That was an ugly business about that boy you gave up to the Austrians.”
“Well, there were mistakes on all sides. You yourself, Sir Horace, gave him a false passport; his real name turns out to be Massy: it made an impression on me, from a circumstance that happened when I was a young fellow living as pad-groom with Prince Tottskoy. I went over on a lark one day to Capri, and was witness to a wedding there of a young Englishman called Massy.”
“Were you, then, present at the ceremony?”
“Yes, sir; and what's stranger still, I have a voucher for it.”
“A voucher for it. What do you mean?”
“It was this way, sir. There was a great supper for the country people and the servants, and I was there, and I suppose I took too much of that Capri wine; it was new and hot at the time, and I got into a row of some sort, and I beat the Deputato from some place or t' other, and got locked up for three days; and the priest, a very jolly fellow, gave me under his handwriting a voucher that I had been a witness of the marriage, and all the festivities afterwards, just to show my master how everything happened. But the Prince never asked me for any explanations, and only said he 'hoped I had amused myself well;' and so I kept my voucher to myself, and I have it at this very hour.”
“Will you let me see it, Stubber?”
“To be sure, sir, you shall have it, if I can lay my hand on 't in the course of the day.”
“Let me beg you will go at once and search for it; it may be of more importance than you know of. Go, my dear Stubber, and look it up.”
“I'll not lose a moment, since you wish to have it,” said Stubber; “and I am sure your ladyship will excuse my abrupt departure.”
The Princess assured him that her own interest in the document was not inferior to that of Sir Horace, and he hastened off to prosecute his search.
“Here, then, are all my plans altered at once,” exclaimed she, as the door closed after him. “If this paper mean only as much as he asserts, it will be ample proof of marriage, and lead us to the knowledge of all those who were present at it.”
“Yet must we well reflect on the use we make of it,” said Upton. “Glencore is now evidently balancing what course to take. As his chances of recovery grow less each day, he seems to incline more and more to repair the wrong he has done. Should we show on our side the merest semblance of compulsion, I would not answer for him.”
“So that we have the power, as a last resource, I am content to diplomatize,” said the Princess; “but you must see him this evening, and press for a decision.”
“He has already asked me to come to him after we return from Court. It will be late, but it is the hour at which he likes best to talk. If I see occasion for it, I can allude to what Stubber has told us; but it will be only if driven by necessity to it.”
“I would act more boldly and more promptly,” said she.
“And rouse an opposition, perhaps, that already is becoming dormant. No, I know Glencore well, and will deal with him more patiently.”
“From the Chevalier Stubber, your Excellency,” said a servant, presenting a sealed packet; and Sir Horace opened it at once. The envelope contained a small and shabby slip of paper, of which the writing appeared faint and indistinct. It was dated 18—, Church of St. Lorenzo, Capri, and went to certify that Guglielmo Stubber had been present, on the morning of the 18th August, at the marriage of the Most Noble Signor Massy with the Princess de la Torre, having in quality as witness signed the registry thereof; and then went on to state the circumstance of his attendance at the supper, and the event which ensued. It bore the name of the writer at foot, Basilio Nardoni, priest of the aforesaid church and village.
“Little is Glencore aware that such an evidence as this is in existence,” said Upton. “The conviction that he had his vengeance in his power led him into this insane project. He fancied there was not a flaw in that terrible indictment; and see, here is enough to open the door to truth, and undo every detail of all his plotting. How strange is it that the events of life should so often concur to expose the dark schemes of men's hearts; proofs starting up in un-thought-of places, as though to show how vain was mere subtlety in conflict with the inevitable law of Fate.”
“This Basilio Nardoni is an acquaintance of mine,” said the Princess, bent on pursuing another train of thought; “he was chaplain to the Cardinal Caraffa, and frequently brought me communications from his Eminence. He can be found, if wanted.”
“It is unlikely—most unlikely—that we shall require him.”
“If you mean that Lord Glencore will himself make all the amends he can for a gross injury and a fraud, no more is necessary,” said she, folding the paper, and placing it in her pocket-book; “but if anything short of this be intended, then there is no exposure too open, no publicity too wide, to be given to the most cruel wrong the world has ever heard of.”
“Leave me to deal with Glencore. I think I am about the only one who can treat with him.”
“And now for this dinner at Court, for I have changed my mind, and mean to go,” said the Princess. “It is full time to dress, I believe.”
“It is almost six o'clock,” said Upton, starting up. “We have quite forgotten ourselves.”
The Princess Sabloukoff found—not by any means an unfrequent experience in life—that the dinner, whose dulness she had dreaded, turned out a very pleasant affair. The Prince was unusually gracious. He was in good spirits, and put forth powers of agreeability which had been successful in one of less distinction than himself. He possessed eminently, what a great orator once panegyrized as a high conversational element, “great variety,” and could without abruptness pass from subject to subject, with always what showed he had bestowed thought upon the theme before him. Great people have few more enviable privileges than that they choose their own topics for conversation. Nothing disagreeable, nothing wearisome, nothing inopportune, can be intruded upon them. When they have no longer anything worth saying, they can change the subject or the company.
His Highness talked with Madame de Sabloukoff on questions of state as he might have talked with a Metternich; he even invited from her expressions of opinion that were almost counsels, sentiments that might pass for warnings. He ranged over the news of the day, relating occasionally some little anecdote, every actor in which was a celebrity; or now and then communicating some piece of valueless secrecy, told with all the mystery of a “great fact;” and then he discussed with Upton the condition of England, and deplored, as all Continental rulers do, the impending downfall of that kingdom, from the growing force of our restless and daring democracy. He regretted much that Sir Horace was not still in office, but consoled himself by reflecting that the pleasure he enjoyed in his society had been in that case denied him. In fact, what with insinuated flatteries, little signs of confidence, and a most marked tone of cordiality, purposely meant to strike beholders, the Prince conducted the conversation right royally, and played “Highness” to perfection.
And these two crafty, keen-sighted people, did they not smile at the performance, and did they not, as they drove home at night, amuse themselves as they recounted the little traits of the great man's dupery? Not a bit of it. They were charmed with his gracious manner, and actually enchanted with his agreeability. Strong in their self-esteem, they could not be brought to suspect that any artifice could be practised on them, or that the mere trickery and tinsel of high station could be imposed on them as true value. Nay, they even went further, and discovered that his Highness was really a very remarkable man, and one who received far less than the estimation due to him. His flightiness became versatility; his eccentricity was all originalty; and ere they reached the hotel, they had endowed him with almost every moral and mental quality that can dignify manhood.
“It is really a magnificent turquoise,” said the Princess, gazing with admiration at a ring the Prince had taken from his own finger to present to her.
“How absurd is that English jealousy about foreign decorations! I was obliged to decline the Red Cross of Massa which his Highness proposed to confer on me. A monarchy that wants to emulate a republic is simply ridiculous.”
“You English are obliged to pay dear for your hypocrisies; and you ought, for you really love them.” And with this taunt the carriage stopped at the door of the inn.
As Upton passed up the stairs, the waiter handed him a note, which he hastily opened; it was from Glencore, and in these words:—
Dear Upton,—I can bear this suspense no longer; to remain here canvassing with myself all the doubts that beset me is a torture I cannot endure. I leave, therefore, at once for Florence. Once there,—where I mean to see and hear for myself,—I can decide what is to be the fate of the few days or weeks that yet remain to—Yours,
Glencore.
“He is gone, then,—his Lordship has started?”
“Yes, your Excellency, he is by this time near Lucca, for he gave orders to have horses ready at all the stations.”
“Read that, madame,” said Upton, as he once more found himself alone with the Princess; “you will see that all your plans are disconcerted. He is off to Florence.”
Madame de Sabloukoff read the note, and threw it carelessly on the table. “He wants to forgive himself, and only hesitates how to do so gracefully,” said she, sneeringly.
“I think you are less than just to him,” said Upton, mildly; “his is a noble nature, disfigured by one grand defect.”
“Your national character, like your language, is so full of incongruities and contradictions that I am not ashamed to own myself unequal to master it; but it strikes me that both one and the other usurp freedoms that are not permitted to others. At all events, I am rejoiced that he has gone. It is the most wearisome thing in life to negotiate with one too near you. Diplomacy of even the humblest kind requires distance.”
“You agree with the duellist, I perceive,” said he, laughing, “that twelve paces is a more fatal distance than across a handkerchief: proximity begets tremor.”
“You have guessed my meaning correctly,” said she; “meanwhile, I must write to her not to come here. Shall I say that we will be in Florence in a day or two?”
“I was just thinking of those Serravezza springs,” said Upton; “they contain a bi-chloride of potash, which Staub, in his treatise, says, 'is the element wanting in all nervous organizations.'”
“But remember the season,—we are in mid-winter; the hotels are closed.”
“The springs are running, Princess; 'the earth,' as Mos-chus says, 'is a mother that never ceases to nourish.' I do suspect I need a little nursing.”
The Princess understood him thoroughly. She well knew that whenever the affairs of Europe followed an unbroken track, without anything eventful or interesting, Sir Horace fell back upon his maladies for matter of occupation. She had, however, now occasion for his advice and counsel, and by no means concurred in his plan of spending some days, if not weeks, in the dreary mountain solitudes of Serravezza. “You must certainly consult Zanetti before you venture on these waters,” said she; “they are highly dangerous if taken without the greatest circumspection;” and she gave a catalogue of imaginary calamities which had befallen various illustrious and gifted individuals, to which Upton listened with profound attention.
“Very well,” sighed he, as she finished, “it must be as you say. I'll see Zanetti, for I cannot afford to die just yet. That 'Greek question' will have no solution without me,—no one has the key of it but myself. That Panslavic scheme, too, in the Principalities attracts no notice but mine; and as to Spain, the policy I have devised for that country requires all the watchfulness I can bestow on it. No, Princess,”—here he gave a melancholy sigh,—“we must not die at this moment. There are just four men in Europe; I doubt if she could get on with three.”
“What proportion do you admit as to the other sex?” said she, laughing.
“I only know of one, madame;” and he kissed her hand with gallantry. “And now for Florence, if you will.”
It is by no means improbable that our readers have a right to an apology at our hands for the habit we have indulged of lingering along with the two individuals whose sayings and doings are not directly essential to our tale; but is not the story of every-day life our guarantee that incidents and people cross and re-cross the path we are going, attracting our attention, engaging our sympathy, enlisting our energies, even in our most anxious periods? Such is the world; and we cannot venture out of reality. Besides this, we are disposed to think that the moral of a tale is often more effectively conveyed by the characters than by the catastrophe of a story. The strange, discordant tones of the human heart, blending, with melody the purest, sounds of passionate meaning, are in themselves more powerful lessons than all the records of rewarded virtue and all the calendars of punished vice. The nature of a single man can be far more instructive than the history of every accident that befalls him.
It is, then, with regret that we leave the Princess and Sir Horace to pursue their journey alone. We confess a liking for their society, and would often as soon loiter in the by-paths that they follow as journey in the more recognized high-road of our true story. Not having the conviction that our sympathy is shared by our readers, we again return to the fortunes of Glencore.
When Lord Glencore's carriage underwent the usual scrutiny exercised towards travellers at the gate of Florence, and prying officials poked their lanterns in every quarter, in all the security of their “caste,” two foot travellers were rudely pushed aside to await the time till the pretentious equipage passed on. They were foreigners, and their effects, which they carried in knapsacks, required examination.
“We have come a long way on foot to-day,” said the younger in a tone that indicated nothing of one asking a favor. “Can't we have this search made at once?”
“Whisht! whisht!” whispered his companion, in English; “wait till the Prince moves on, and be polite with them all.”
“I am seeking for nothing in the shape of compliment,” said the other; “there is no reason why, because I am on foot, I must be detained for this man.”
Again the other remonstrated, and suggested patience.
“What are you grumbling about, young fellow?” cried one of the officers. “Do you fancy yourself of the same consequence as Milordo? And see, he must wait his time here.”
“We came a good way on foot to-day, sir,” interposed the elder, eagerly, taking the reply on himself, “and we 're tired and weary, and would be deeply obliged if you'd examine us as soon as you could.”
“Stand aside and wait your turn,” was the stern response.
“You almost deserve the fellow's insolence, Billy,” said the youth; “a crown-piece in his hand had been far more intelligible than your appeal to his pity.” And he threw himself wearily down on a stone bench.
Aroused by the accent of his own language, Lord Glencore sat up in his carriage, and leaned out to catch sight of the speaker; but the shadow of the overhanging roof concealed him from view. “Can't you suffer those two poor fellows to move on?” whispered his Lordship, as he placed a piece of money in the officer's hand; “they look tired and jaded.”
“There, thank his Excellency for his kindness to you, and go your way,” muttered the officer to Billy, who, without well understanding the words, drew nigh the window; but the glass was already drawn up, the postilions were once more in their saddles, and away dashed the cumbrous carriage in all the noise and uproar that is deemed the proper tribute to rank.
The youth heard that they were free to proceed, with a half-dogged indifference, and throwing his knapsack on his shoulders, moved away.
“I asked them if they knew one of her name in the city, and they said, 'No,'” said the elder.
“But they so easily mistake names: how did you call her?”
“I said 'Harley,—la Signora Harley,'” rejoined the other; “and they were positive she was not here. They never heard of her.”
“Well, we shall know soon,” sighed the youth, heavily. “Is not this an inn, Billy?”
“Ay is it, but not one for our purpose,—it's like a palace. They told me of the 'Leone d'Oro' as a quiet place and cheap.”
“I don't care where or what it be; one day and night here will do all I want. And then for Genoa, Billy, and the sea, and the world beyond the sea,” said the youth, with increasing animation. “You shall see what a different fellow I'll be when I throw behind me forever the traditions of this dreary life here.”
“I know well the good stuff that's in ye,” said the other, affectionately.
“Ay, but you don't know that I have energy as well as pride,” said the other.
“There's nothing beyond your reach if you will only strive to get it,” said he again, in the same voice.
“You're an arrant flatterer, old boy,” cried the youth, throwing his arm around him; “but I would not have you otherwise for the world. There is a happiness even in the self-deception of your praise that I could not deny myself.”
Thus chatting, they arrived at the humble door of the “Leone d'Oro,” where they installed themselves for the night. It was a house frequented by couriers and vetturini, and at the common table for this company they now took their places for supper. The Carnival was just drawing to its close, and all the gayeties of that merry season were going forward. Nothing was talked of but the brilliant festivities of the city, the splendid balls of the Court, and the magnificent receptions in the houses of the nobility.
“The Palazzo della Torre takes the lead of all,” said one. “There were upwards of three thousand masks there this evening, I 'm told, and the gardens were just as full as the salons.”
“She is rich enough to afford it well,” cried another. “I counted twenty servants in white and gold liveries on the stairs alone.”
“Were you there, then?” asked the youth, whom we may at once call by his name of Massy.
“Yes, sir; a mask and a domino, such as you see yonder, are passports everywhere for the next twenty-four hours; and though I 'm only a courier, I have been chatting with duchesses, and exchanging smart sayings with countesses, in almost every great house in Florence this evening. The Pergola Theatre, too, is open, and all the boxes crowded with visitors.”
“You are a stranger, as I detect by your accent,” said another, “and you ought to have a look at a scene such as you'll never witness in your own land.”
“What would come of such freedoms with us, Billy?” whispered Massy. “Would our great lords tolerate, even for a few hours, the association with honest fellows of this stamp?”
“There would be danger in the attempt, anyhow,” said Billy.
“What calumnies would be circulated, what slanderous tales would be sent abroad, under cover of this secrecy! How many a coward stab would be given in the shadow of that immunity! For one who would use the privilege for mere amusement, how many would turn it to account for private vengeance.”
“Are you quite certain such accidents do not occur here?”
“That society tolerates the custom is the best answer to this. There may be, for aught we know, many a cruel vengeance executed under favor of this secrecy. Many may cover their faces to unmask their hearts; but, after all, they continue to observe a habit which centuries back their forefathers followed; and the inference fairly is, that it is not baneful. For my own part, I am glad to have an opportunity of witnessing these Saturnalia, and to-morrow I 'll buy a mask and a domino, Billy, and so shall you too. Why should we not have a day's fooling, like the rest?”
Billy shook his head and laughed, and they soon afterwards parted for the night.
While young Massy slept soundly, not a dream disturbing the calmness of his rest, Lord Glencore passed the night in a state of feverish excitement. Led on by some strange, mysterious influence, which he could as little account for as resist, he had come back to the city where the fatal incident of his life had occurred. With what purpose, he could not tell. It was not, indeed, that he had no object in view. It was rather that he had so many and conflicting ones that they marred and destroyed each other. No longer under the guidance of calm reason, his head wandered from the past to the present and the future, disturbed by passion and excited by injured self-love. At one moment, sentiments of sorrow and shame would take the ascendant; and at the next, a vindictive desire to follow out his vengeance and witness the ruin that he had accomplished. The unbroken, unrelieved pressure of one thought, for years and years of time, had at last undermined his reasoning powers; and every attempt at calm judgment or reflection was sure to be attended with some violent paroxysm of irrepressible rage.
There are men in whom the combative element is so strong that it usurps all their guidance, and when once they are enlisted in a contest, they cannot desist till the struggle be decided for or against them. Such was Glencore. To discover that the terrible injury he had inflicted on his wife had not crushed her nor driven her with shame from the world, aroused once more all the vindictive passions of his nature. It was a defiance he could not withstand. Guilty or innocent, it mattered not; she had braved him,—at least so he was told,—and as such he had come to see her with his own eyes. If this was the thought which predominated in his mind, others there were that had their passing power over him,—moments of tenderness, moments in which the long past came back again, full of softening memories; and then he would burst into tears and cry bitterly.
If he ventured to project any plan for reconciliation with her he had so cruelly wronged, he as suddenly bethought him that her spirit was not less high and haughty than his own. She had, so far as he could learn, never quailed before his vengeance; how, then, might he suppose would she act in the presence of his avowed injustice? Was it not, besides, too late to repair the wrong? Even for his boy's sake, would it not be better if he inherited sufficient means to support an honorable life, unknown and unnoticed, than bequeath to him a name so associated with shame and sorrow?
“Who can tell,” he would cry aloud, “what my harsh treatment may not have made him? what resentment may have taken root in his young heart? what distrust may have eaten into his nature? If I could but see him and talk with him as a stranger,—if I could be able to judge him apart from the influences that my own feelings would create,—even then, what would it avail me? I have so sullied and tarnished a proud name that he could never bear it without reproach. 'Who is this Lord Glencore?' people would say. 'What is the strange story of his birth? Has any one yet got at the truth? Was the father the cruel tyrant, or the mother the worthless creature, we hear tell of? Is he even legitimate, and, if so, why does he walk apart from his equals, and live without recognition by his order?' This is the noble heritage I am to leave him,—this the proud position to which he is to succeed! And yet Upton says that the boy's rights are inalienable; that, think how I may, do what I will, the day on which I die, he is the rightful Lord Glencore. His claim may lie dormant, the proofs may be buried, but that, in truth and fact, he will be what all my subterfuge and all my falsehood cannot deny him. And then, if the day should come that he asserts his right,—if, by some of those wonderful accidents that reveal the mysteries of the world, he should succeed to prove his claim,—what a memory will he cherish of me! Will not every sorrow of his youth, every indignity of his manhood, be associated with my name? Will he or can he ever forgive him who defamed the mother and despoiled the son?”
In the terrible conflict of such thoughts as these he passed the night; intervals of violent grief or passion alone breaking the sad connection of such reflections, till at length the worn-out faculties, incapable of further exercise, wandered away into incoherency, and he raved in all the wildness of insanity.
It was thus that Upton found him on his arrival.