“There it is,” broke in Glencore; “you claim an advantage over me, because you are devoid of feeling; but this is a case, sir, where the sense of injury gives the instinct of reparation. Is it nothing to me, think you, that I am content to go down dishonored to my grave, but also to be the last of my name and station? Is it nothing that a whole line of honorable ancestry is extinguished at once? Is it nothing that I surrender him who formed my sole solace and companionship in life? You talk of your calm, unbiassed mind; but I tell you, till your brain be on fire like mine, and your heart swollen to very bursting, that you have no right to dictate to _me!_ Besides, it is done! The blow has fallen,” added he, with a deeper solemnity of voice. “The gulf that separates us is already created. She and I can meet no more. But why continue this contest? It was to aid me in directing that boy's fortunes I first sought your advice, not to attempt to dissuade me from what I will not be turned from.” “In what way can I serve you?” said Upton, calmly. “Will you consent to be his guardian?” “I will.” Glencore seized the other's hand, and pressed it to his heart, and for some seconds he could not speak. “This is all that I ask, Upton,” said he. “It is the greatest boon friendship could accord me. I need no more. Could you have remained here a day or two more, we could have settled upon some plan together as to his future life; as it is, we can arrange it by letter.” “He must leave this,” said Upton, thoughtfully. “Of course,--at once!” “How far is Harcourt to be informed in this matter; have you spoken to him already?” “No; nor mean to do so. I should have from _him_ nothing but reproaches for having betrayed the boy into false hopes of a station he was never to fill. You must tell Harcourt. I leave it to yourself to find the suitable moment.” “We shall need his assistance,” said Upton, whose quick faculties were already busily travelling many a mile of the future. “I 'll see him to-night, and try what can be done. In a few days you will have turned over in your mind what you yourself destine for him,--the fortune you mean to give--” “It is already done,” said Glencore, laying a sealed letter on the table. “All that I purpose in his behalf you will find there.” “All this detail is too much for you, Glencore,” said the other, seeing that a weary, depressed expression had come over him, while his voice grew weaker with every word. “I shall not leave this till late to-morrow, so that we can meet again. And now good night.” CHAPTER XVII. A TÊTE-À-TÊTE When Harcourt was aroused from his sound sleep by Upton, and requested in the very blandest tones of that eminent diplomatist to lend him every attention of his “very remarkable faculties,” he was not by any means certain that he was not engaged in a strange dream; nor was the suspicion at all dispelled by the revelations addressed to him.