CHAPTER XXXV.
One morning, as Glendenning was returning from a drill,
he met an officer with whom he had long been well acquainted.
He had come to Montreal from Quebec on some
business, and this was their first meeting.
“Hallo! Clinton!” said Glendenning, as he approached.
“How are you?”
The young man walked directly on, without turning to
the right or left, and as stiffly as if he had been going
through a drill. Glendenning thought it was a boyish jest,
and stopped, expecting to see him presently turn and burst
into a laugh, to exchange their accustomed salutations.
But he passed, and continued on his way with the same
rigid and rather quickened pace, till he disappeared round
a corner.
Glendenning rubbed his eyes, astonished and also bewildered.
Could he have been mistaken in the man? Impossible!
And yet the total unconsciousness of his presence
shown by the stranger, whoever he was, implied that
he had been. He laughed at the incident, and thought no
more about it, concluding that the friend he had supposed
himself addressing was probably, in reality, at Quebec.
The next day invitations for a grand fête were issued to
all the officers by an old military friend who had served in
India, and was now spending a few months at Montreal.
Glendenning himself was not among the guests invited.
He thought it very odd—but, of course, a mistake. He soon
lost all recollection of it in his absorbing studies.
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A day or two afterward he was met in the street by
Breckenbridge, who, as the reader has been already told,
had in former times been long one of his companions. He
felt that his example had been most pernicious to him.
Breckenbridge was warm-hearted, handsome, and witty, a
dare-devil, thoughtless, good-for-nothing fellow, whom one
could not be much with without liking till the discovery was
made that a naturally good heart had been so completely depraved
by debauchery and gambling, that every spark of
real honour was extinguished in it, and that he was likely
to retain even the exterior qualities of an amiable, amusing
companion, only as long as he found any interest in assuming
them. By slow but sure degress, he was degenerating
into buffoonery, and his libertinism had been latterly deepened
by ruinous extravagance. The more he indulged in sensual
enjoyments, the more unappeasable became his appetite,
and the less fastidious his taste, till at length his best
friends asked for him but the questionable praise of being
a bon enfant. He was not malignant, but he was violently
passionate, and the bold recklessness of his temper made
him one dangerous to offend. Glendenning had not been
able to effect his awkward task of withdrawing from this
intimacy without awakening the suspicion of the object of
his distrust, but, whether he did so or not, he was quite resolved
to be seen no more than was actually necessary with
a man whose habits he had already learned to abhor, and for
whose character he felt anything but esteem. He found it,
however, rather difficult to disentangle himself from an acquaintance
with no other cause than a conviction that it was
morally derogatory to him, as he desired to avoid a quarrel
with the associate thus abandoned. He was no hypocrite,
yet he did not exactly wish to say to one whose friendship
he had encouraged, you are unworthy of me as a companion,
either directly or indirectly, and Breckenbridge, who
had at last caught an idea of the truth, felt a malicious delight
in pressing himself importunately upon his reformed
friend whenever they accidentally met in public.
“How d'ye do, Glendenning? how are you?” said Breckenbridge,
holding out his hand.
Glendenning politely, rather gravely, returned the salutation.
“What the devil is the matter with you?” said Breckenbridge.
“With me? Nothing!”
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“You're so d—d grave and stiff, I don't know you.”
“Let me introduce you, then,” said White, laughing, as
he joined them: “This is my reformed friend Glendenning—
the virtuous and scientific companion whom we used
to know.”
White had, not maliciously, but unfortunately, struck on
the very chord. He himself had felt vexed at the stupid
gravity of his friend, but thought of noticing it by nothing
more than a jest.
“So!” said Breckenbridge, “you are a d—d fine chap for
a small party! What's come over you? I don't understand
it. We used to be `hale fellows well met.' Now, I
swear! you act as if you wanted to cut me.”
“Pooh! nonsense,” said White, who now perceived, by
the expression of Breckenbridge's face, that he was in earnest;
“let us go in here, and you shall have a game of billiards.”
“Certainly,” said Breckenbridge. Then turning to Glendenning:
“You won't come, I suppose?”
“Oh yes, I will,” said Glendenning, with his habitual
facility of character.
“Will? that's something like. Do you know there's a
report going round that you're going to resign and turn parson?”
“Will you play, White?” said Glendenning.
“No; I've a nasty rheumatism in my shoulder; I can't
hold a cue.”
“I'll play,” said Breckenbridge.
This was exactly what Glendenning did not want. He
was obliged to yield, however, though with reluctance; and
the worst of it was, his reluctance was clearly detected by
his antagonist.
Several other officers came in. Glendenning, who had
scarcely been in a billiard-room since his arrival, now embarrassed
and vexed, nodded to them slightly, and received
as slight a return.
“I'm glad to have a crack with you,” said Breckenbridge.
“You used to be a hand worthy of me; but now, I suspect,
you're practising other games.”
Glendenning went on playing, without making any reply
to that and various other exclamations on the part of Breckenbridge,
in which the words “sanctified face” and “too
good to be worth much” appeared directed ironically against
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him. A year before, he would have been in a row with
less provocation, but now he had other ideas, and had really
made progress, though but a slight one, in the manly
art of self-government.
While the game was thus going on, a gentleman whom
Glendenning had seen at Mr. Lennox's, in New-York, came
in, having recently arrived. The acquaintance was renewed
warmly on both sides.
“I have a letter for you,” said this person, “from your
friend Mrs. Lennox. I was going to your lodgings, when
some one who had accidentally seen you directed me here.”
He handed the letter, and, excusing himself, went out,
when Glendenning, with an apology, opened and commenced
reading.
He had not proceeded more than a few lines, when he
felt a sharp blow upon his shoulder from Breckenbridge's
cue, and a
“Now, then, old fellow! D—n your letters! Push ahead,
will you?”
“I tell you what, Mr. Breckenbridge,” said Glendenning,
haughtily, “I wish you to understand that I don't allow any
man to take such a liberty as that with me, and you less
than another.”
“What do you mean by that?” said Breckeabridge, with
a darkening brow.
“What I say, sir.”
“Indeed? me less than another? you mean that as an
insult.”
Glendenning's eye fell flashing on him, and he was about
to reply, “He might consider it so if he chose,” when he
checked himself.
“No, Mr. Breckenbridge, I do not wish to insult you.”
“Then please to explain why you allow me to take such
a liberty with you less than another.”
“I have no explanation to make.”
“Then you have an insult to retract, and you shall eat
your words at this table.”
“I am not in the habit of speaking without a cause,” said
Glendenning, quietly, “neither am I in the habit of retracting
without one.”
“Explain, then, explain. If you are grown so touchy as
not to allow any one the ordinary familiarity of a friend, I
have nothing to say. But why me less than another?”
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“Oh! if you drive me to an explanation,” said Glendenning,
his hot blood mounting higher and higher, “I will
give it you, certainly, but I did not desire to give it, at least
not in public.”
“Let us hear it, at all events,” said Breckenbridge, with
a laugh which infuriated his opponent.
“You less than another,” said Glendenning, calmly and
haughtily, “because, from your manners, character, and occupations,
I consider you less desirable as a friend, Mr.
Breckenbridge, and I avail myself of this occasion, moreover,
to say that our acquaintance must, hereafter, be upon
a less familiar footing.”
“Well, Captain Glendenning,” said Breckenbridge, quietly,
and without showing the expected indignation at this insult,
“I tell you what! I may not be what I ought to be—
few of us are—yet I trust I can be reproached only with
rashness which has injured myself. Your character and
actions do not admit of such a defence.”
“Sir!” said Glendenning.
“I suppose you heard my observation; if not, I'll repeat
it,” said Breckenbridge, without any symptom of anger or
loss of composure.
“Your remark is not worthy even of you,” said Glendenning;
“if I have insulted you, take the course of a gentleman;
I am ready to meet you as if you were one, but an
unmeaning calumny can be as little creditable to you as injurious
to me.”
“Meet you,” said Breckenbridge, “meet you! ha! ha!
ha!”
The laugh was echoed by several gentlemen and officers
among the by-standers.
“What do you mean by that?” said Glendenning, with
an air rather of astonishment than anger.
“Ah! ha!” said Breckenbridge. “Now, then, it's my
turn. Every dog has his day! I mean, sir, precisely what
I say.”
There was another laugh, and Glendenning saw, with an
emotion difficult to be described, that the feeling of the room
was against him.
“You shall retract your atrocious insinuation on the spot,”
cried he.
“Ah! bah!” repeated Breckenbridge, laughing; “I'm
not in the habit of speaking without a cause, neither am I
in the habit of retracting without one.”
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“I will give you cause, then,” said Glendenning.
“You can't do it!” replied Breckenbridge, firmly. “Captain
Glendenning, the high and the haughty, let me tell you
a secret: there isn't an officer in Montreal that would meet
you.”
“You're a fool!” cried Glendenning.
“Come, come away!” said a Captain Drake, taking
Breckenbridge by the arm.
In a moment the room was empty. Glendenning, astounded,
stood alone with White.
“Well, that's cool!” said White. “I don't quite understand
it.”
“Will you take a message?” cried Glendenning.
“Certainly,” replied White, rolling the balls against each
other on the table.
“Then let us be acting immediately.”
As they left the house, Glendenning came upon the officer
who had yesterday so singularly passed him in the street.
“Clinton!” cried he, bewildered; “it was you, then?”
The young man gently turned aside, and continued his
way without offering the least sign of recognition.
Glendenning uttered an exclamation of bewildered astonishment.
In the evening White took a message to Breckenbridge,
but did not return to give any account of its reception.
Fay, Theodore S. (Theodore Sedgwick), 1807-1898 [1843], A romance of New York volume 1 (Harper & Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf099v1].
