CHAPTER LII. MAJOR SCARESBY'S VISIT
Down the crowded thoroughfare of the Borgo d' Ognisanti the tide of Carnival mummers poured unceasingly. Hideous masks and gay dominos, ludicrous impersonations and absurd satires on costume, abounded, and the entire population seemed to have given themselves up to merriment, and were fooling it to the top o' their bent. Bands of music and chorus-singers from the theatre filled the air with their loud strains, and carriages crowded with fantastic figures moved past, pelting the bystanders with mock sweetmeats, and covering them with showers of flour. It was a season of universal license, and, short of actual outrage, all was permitted for the time. Nor did the enjoyment of the scene seem to be confined to the poorer classes of the people, who thus for the nonce assumed equality with their richer neighbors; but all, even to the very highest, mixed in the wild excitement of the pageant, and took the rough treatment they met with in perfect good-humor. Dukes and princes, white from head to foot with the snowy shower, went laughingly along, and grave dignitaries were fain to walk arm-inarm with the most ludicrous monstrosities, whose gestures turned on them the laughter of all around. Occasionally—but, it must be owned, rarely—some philosopher of a sterner school might be seen passing hurriedly along, his severe features and contemptuous glances owning to little sympathy with the mummery about him; but even he had to compromise his proud disdain, and escape, as best he might, from the indiscriminate justice of the crowd. To detect one of this stamp, to follow, and turn upon him the full tide of popular fury, seemed to be the greatest triumph of the scene. When such a victim presented himself, all joined in the pursuit: nuns embraced, devils environed him, angels perched on his shoulders, mock wild boars rushed between his legs; his hat was decorated with feathers, his clothes inundated with showers of meal or flour; hackney-coachmen, dressed as ladies, fainted in his arms, and semi-naked bacchanals pressed drink to his lips. In a word, each contributed what he might of attention to the luckless individual, whose resistance—if he were so impolitic as to make any—only increased the zest of the persecution.
An instance of this kind had now attracted general attention, nor was the amusement diminished by the discovery that he was a foreigner and an Englishman. Impertinent allusions to his nation, absurd attempts at his language, ludicrous travesties of what were supposed to be his native customs, were showered on him, in company with a hailstorm of mock bonbons and lime-pellets; till, covered with powder, and outraged beyond all endurance, he fought his way into the entrance of the Hôtel d'Italie, followed by the cries and laughter of the populace.
“Cursed tomfoolery! Confounded asses!” cried he, as he found himself in a harbor of refuge. “What the devil fun can they discover in making each other dirtier than their daily habits bespeak them? I say,” cried he, addressing a waiter, “is Sir Horace Upton staying here? Well, will you say Major Scaresby—be correct in the name—Major Scaresby requests to pay his respects.”
“His Excellency will see you, sir,” said the man, returning quickly with the reply.
From the end of a room, so darkened by closed shutters and curtains as to make all approach difficult, a weak voice called out, “Ah, Scaresby, how d' ye do? I was just thinking to myself that I could n't be in Florence, since I had not seen you.”
“You are too good, too kind, Sir Horace, to say so,” said the other, with a voice whose tones by no means corresponded with the words.
“Yes, Scaresby, everything in this good city is in a manner associated with your name. Its intrigues, its quarrels, its loves and jealousies, its mysteries, in fine, have had no such interpreter as yourself within the memory of man! What a pity there were no Scaresbys in the Cinque Cento! How sad there were none of your family here in the Medician period! What a picture might we then have had of a society fuller even than the present of moral delinquencies.” There was a degree of pomposity in the manner he uttered this that served to conceal in a great measure its sarcasm.
“I am much flattered to learn that I have ever enlightened your Excellency on any subject,” said the Major, dryly.
“That you have, Scaresby. I was a mere dabbler in moral toxicology when I heard your first lecture, and, I assure you, I was struck by your knowledge. And how is the dear city doing?”
“It is masquerading to-day,” said Scaresby, “and, consequently, far more natural than at any other period of the whole year. Smeared faces and dirty finery,—exactly its suitable wear!”
“Who are here, Major? Any one that one knows?”
“Old Millington is here.”
“The Marquis?”
“Yes, he 's here, fresh painted and lacquered; his eyes twinkling with a mock lustre that makes him look like an old po'-chaise with a pair of new lamps!”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Sir Horace, encouragingly.
“And then—there's Mabworth.”
“Sir Paul Mabworth?”
“Ay, the same old bore as ever! He has got off one of Burke's speeches on the India Bill by heart, and says that he spoke it on the question of the grant for Maynooth. Oh, if poor Burke could only look up!”
“Look down! you ought to say, Scaresby; depend upon't, he 's not on the Opposition benches still!”
“I hate the fellow,” said Scaresby, whose ill-temper was always augmented by any attempted smartness of those he conversed with. “He has taken Walmsley's cook away from him, and never gives any one a dinner.”
“That is shameful; a perfect dog in the manger!”
“Worse; he 's a dog without any manger! For he keeps his house on board-wages, and there's literally nothing to eat! That poor thing, Strejowsky.”
“Oh, Olga Strejowsky, do you mean? What of her?”
“Why, there's another husband just turned up. They thought he was killed in the Caucasus, but he was only passing a few years in Siberia; and so he has come back, and claims all the emeralds. You remember, of course, that famous necklace, and the great drops! They belonged once to the Empress Catherine, but Mabworth says that he took the concern with all its dependencies; he 'll give up his bargain, but make no compromise.”
“She's growing old, I fancy.”
“She's younger than the Sabloukoff by five good years, and they tell me she plays Beauty to this hour.”
Ah, Scaresby, had you known what words were these you have just uttered, or had you only seen the face of him who heard them, you had rather bitten your tongue off than suffered it to fashion them!
“Brignolles danced with her at that celebrated fête given by the Prince of Orleans something like eight-and-thirty years ago.”
“And how is the dear Duke?” asked Upton, sharply.
“Just as you saw him at the Court of Louis XVIII.; he swaggers a little more as he gets more feeble about the legs, and he shows his teeth when he laughs, more decidedly since his last journey to Paris. Devilish clever fellows these modern dentists are! He wants to marry; I suppose you 've heard it.”
“Not a word of it. Who is the happy fair?”
“The Nina, as they call her now. She was one of the Delia Torres, who married, or didn't marry, Glencore. Don't you remember him? He was Colonel of the Eleventh, and a devil of a martinet he was.”
“I remember him,” said Upton, dryly.
“Well, he ran off with one of those girls, and some say they were married at Capri,—as if it signified what happened at Capri! She was a deuced good-looking girl at the time,—a coquette, you know,—and Glencore was one of those stiff English fellows that think every man is making up to his wife; he drank besides.”
“No, pardon me, there you are mistaken. I knew him intimately; Glencore was as temperate as myself.”
“I have it from Lowther, who used to take him home at night; he said Glencore never went to bed sober! At all events, she hated him, and detested his miserly habits.”
“Another mistake, my dear Major. Glencore was never what is called a rich man, but he was always a generous one!”
“I suppose you'll not deny that he used to thrash her? Ay, and with a horsewhip too!”
“Come, come, Scaresby; this is really too coarse for mere jesting.”
“Jest? By Jove! it was very bitter earnest. She told Brignolles all about it. I 'm not sure she didn't show him the marks.”
“Take my word for it, Scaresby,” said Upton, dropping his voice to a low but measured tone, “this is a base calumny, and the Duke of Brignolles no more circulated such a story than I did. He is a man of honor, and utterly incapable of it.”
“I can only repeat that I believe it to be perfectly true!” said Scaresby, calmly. “Nobody here ever doubted the story.”
“I cannot say what measure of charity accompanies your zeal for truth in this amiable society, Scaresby, but I can repeat my assertion that this must be a falsehood.”
“You will find it very hard, nevertheless, to bring any one over to your opinion,” retorted the unappeasable Major. “He was a fellow everybody hated; proud and supercilious to all, and treated his wife's relations—who were of far better blood than himself—as though they were canaille.”
A loud crash, as if of something heavy having fallen, here interrupted their colloquy, and Upton sprang from his seat and hastened into the adjoining room. Close beside the door—so close that he almost fell over it in entering—lay the figure of Lord Glencore. In his efforts to reach the door he had fainted, and there he lay,—a cold, clammy sweat covering his livid features, and his bloodless lips slightly parted.
It was almost an hour ere his consciousness returned; but when it did, and he saw Upton alone at his bedside, he pressed his hand within his own, and said, “I heard it all, Upton, every word! I tried to reach the room; I got out of bed—and was already at the door—when my brain reeled, and my heart grew faint It may have been malady, it might be passion,—I know not; but I saw no more. He is gone,—is he not?” cried he, in a faint whisper.
“Yes, yes,—an hour ago; but you will think nothing of what he said, when I tell you his name. It was Scaresby,—Major Scaresby; one whose bad tongue is the one solitary claim by which he subsists in a society of slanderers!”
“And he is gone!” repeated the other, in a tone of deep despondency.
“Of course he is. I never saw him since; but be assured of what I have just told you, that his libels carry no reproach. He is a calumniator by temperament.”
“I 'd have shot him, if I could have opened the door,” muttered Glencore between his teeth; but Upton heard the words distinctly. “What am I to this man,” cried he, aloud, “or he to me, that I am to be arraigned by him on charges of any kind, true or false? What accident of fortune makes him my judge? Tell me that, sir. Who has appealed to him for protection? Who has demanded to be righted at his hand?”
“Will you not hear me, Glencore, when I say that his slanders have no sting? In the circles wherein he mixes, it is the mere scandal that amuses; for its veracity, there is not one that cares. You, or I, or some one else, supply the name of an actor in a disreputable drama, the plot of which alone interests, not the performer.”
“And am I to sit tamely down under this degradation?” exclaimed Glencore, passionately. “I have never subscribed to this dictation. There is little, indeed, of life left to me, but there is enough, perhaps, to vindicate myself against men of this stamp. You shall take him a message from me; you shall tell him by what accident I overheard his discoveries.”
“My dear Glencore, there are graver interests, far worthier cares, than any this man's name can enter into, which should now engage you.”
“I say he shall have my provocation, and that within an hour!” cried Glencore, wildly.
“You would give this man and his words a consequence that neither have ever possessed,” said Upton, in a mild and subdued tone. “Remember, Glencore, when I left with you this morning that paper of Stubber's it was with a distinct understanding that other and wiser thoughts than those of vengeance were to occupy your attention. I never scrupled to place it in your hands; I never hesitated about confiding to you what in a lawyer's phrase would be a proof against you. When an act of justice was to be done, I would not stain it by the faintest shadow of coercion. I left you free, I leave you still free, from everything but the dictates of your own honor.”
Glencore made no reply, but the conflict of his thoughts seemed to agitate him greatly.
“The man who has pursued a false path in life,” said Upton, calmly, “has need of much courage to retrace his steps; but courage is not the quality you fail in, Glencore, so that I appeal to you with confidence.”
“I have need of courage,” muttered Glencore; “you say truly. What was it the doctor said this morning,—aneurism?”
Upton moved his head with an inclination barely perceptible.
“What a Nemesis there is in nature,” said Glencore, with a sickly attempt to smile, “that passion should beget malady! I never knew, physically speaking, that I had a heart—till it was broken. So that,” resumed he, in a more agreeable tone, “death may ensue at any moment—on the least excitement?”
“He warned you gravely on that point,” said Upton, cautiously.
“How strange that I should have come through that trial of an hour ago! It was not that the struggle did not move me. I could have torn that fellow limb from limb, Upton, if I had but the strength! But see,” cried he, feebly, “what a poor wretch I am; I cannot close these fingers!” and he held out a worn and clammy hand as he spoke. “Do with me as you will,” said he, after a pause; “I ought to have followed your counsels long ago!”
Upton was too subtle an anatomist of human motives to venture by even the slightest word to disturb a train of thought which any interference could only damage. As the other still continued to meditate, and, by his manner and look, in a calmer and more reflective spirit, the wily diplomatist moved noiselessly away, and left him alone.