“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.”