“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.”