CHAPTER XXXVI.
Glendenning did not sleep that night, neither did he
resume his studies. His old passions were fully aroused,
and he resorted to his old habits of deadening them—a bottle
of Madeira and a box of cigars. Hour after hour he
paced the floor, “like a proud steed reined, champing his
iron bit.” The mystery in which he was involved was perfectly
inexplicable; so that, during long intervals of reflection,
shame and rage were almost lost in curiosity and
wonder. His past life had been rash and thoughtless;
that he knew and regretted. But that had been sufficiently
known before, and not visited with consequences like these.
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Yet now that new and more rational plans had opened upon
him for the first time, with boiling veins and a heart appalled,
he saw himself scornfully, and, it seemed, generally
insulted and despised. What act of his had produced this,
or by what means the unanimity of public action had been
brought about, he racked his imagination and memory in
vain to conceive. He reviewed his past life, as far as possible,
in every minute detail; his words—his very thoughts.
He saw with humiliation the course of a trivial, reckless,
till now worthless young man, employed in no respectable
purpose or occupation—governed by unworthy impulses
and passions—guilty of wild and unwarrantable actions.
But nothing that he could fix his eyes on accounted, in the
remotest degree, for the present state of affairs. He was
cut. His fellow-officers had openly refused to associate
with him, and a blackguard, whom he himself considered
beneath him as a companion, had, with the unconcealed approbation,
and to the unconcealed amusement of a roomful
of his brother soldiers, jeeringly and tauntingly declined
noticing his insult, and, apparently, receiving his message;
for White, who had taken it in the early part of the evening,
had not even returned to inform him of the result.
White himself seemed to have abandoned him.
What pestilential slander had attached itself to his name?
Was he charged with robbery or murder? What crime
had he committed more than is committed (alas! that it
should be so! but it is) by other young men, who, notwithstanding,
keep their places in society, are courted and caressed,
are presented by fathers and mothers to their modest
and innocent young daughters, and hailed by their companions
with pride and delight? None. He had done
nothing. Could the odium against him have any relation
with the affair of Frank Lennox? His reason rejected the
possibility. True, he had there insulted a lady; but surely
that had been amply expiated; and, since the lady herself
and her friends forgave him, it could hardly be conceived
that strangers should take up the matter at this late date,
and even if they had taken it up, it could never have produced
such startling effects.
Was it that he had “almost become a Christian?” He
knew that many gentlemen, worldly men and military officers,
distinguished statesmen, and the leading men of modern
Christian society, smiled at the visionary idea of
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adopting Christian precepts in active life; and that able and
conscientious conductors of that free press which cannot
fail greatly to modify public opinion, did not hesitate to
state in their columns that Christian precepts had been
found incompatible with the operations of practical life.
But was he to be made a pariah for examining into them?
Was the Bible, as in the time of Nero, become a mark of
scorn and dishonour? and the Christian—was he, then, an
outcast? No; it was absurd. All his attempts at explaining
the causes of his present galling position were lost in
wild and improbable conjectures.
The clock struck eleven, twelve, one, two, and no White—
three, four, and day broke, first overflowing the star-paved
shore of heaven with a stream of pale light, which deepened
into radiant floods and gorgeous, fiery shapes, so that he paused
in his disturbed walk of agony, to look into those abysses
of insupportable, ineffable glory, and as the sun lifted itself
calmly and slowly above the horizon, he forgot a moment
his own private griefs in thinking how much nature exceeds
imagination, and in remembering scenes of his visit to Rose
Hill, where he had often been thus abroad early on some
excursions of pleasure in the cool, oderous morning air.
But the clock struck five, and he started at the recollection
of Breckenbridge, Clinton, and White. At the recurrence
of their images, nature, morality, and the sense of
God, the new-born faith in the religion of Jesus, thoughts
of duty, the idea that this state on earth is one of trial and
probation, and all the associations of Rose Hill, and the
Lennoxes, and those delicious evenings, and those pure
and spiritual conversations, passed from his mind, to give
place to unbridled passion and visions of bloody revenge.
It was, he knew not how near morning, when his reflections
were interrupted by a knock at the door, and
Southard entered in morning-gown and slippers.
“I beg your pardon,” said Southard, “but I've come up
to see what's the matter with you. We've heard you
pacing all night backward and forward, and often speaking
aloud.”
“I hope I haven't disturbed you?”
“Only with the apprehension that you are either uneasy
or ill.”
“I'm both,” said Glendenning, “vexed and grieved, as
well as ill.”
“What is it? Can we do anything for you?”
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“No, no, my dear fellow, no. You cannot aid me—cannot,
at least yet, even share my troubles.”
“Then I must ask no more,” said Southard; “but, without
knowing them, I can advise you not to yield too much
to merely temporary cares and sorrows. They pass away.
Leave them to Him who sends them.”
“It's easier to advise those things than to do them, my
friend,” said Glendenning.
“Of course it is; but it is nevertheless possible to do them.”
“No, no; it is not possible.”
“Yes, it is. All is possible with the aid of God.”
“And if you had lost your wife last night,” said Glendenning,
“perhaps you would feel how insufficient mere
precepts, either of morality or religion, are to meet the
blighting cares of life.”
“I should suffer, doubtless,” replied Southard. “I should
shrink, and mourn, and weep; but he who believes and trusts
in the one true and everlasting God, and comprehends with
faith the perfect system of consolation offered by the Christian
religion, although he cannot avoid the storms and wrecks
of life, yet he has a star to guide him and a pilot to steer
him. Believe me, there is neither wisdom, philosophy, nor
religion in worrying one's self about things that can't be helped.
Do your best, and let things go. Satisfy your conscience
and sleep in peace. Read your Bible, and you will find support.
`Which of ye, by taking thought for himself, can add
one cubit unto his stature?' ”
Glendenning was at first disposed to think it intrusive
and rather ridiculous, a man's coming into his room to preach
religion at daybreak in morning-gown and slippers. But
the words of Southard, and the answering echoes which
thrilled in his own heart and his own reason, did once
more make him pause, and called up again a feeble sense
of his new-born hope and faith.
“Trust in God,” continued Southard. “Man neither
made himself, nor can take care of himself without his Creator.
He placed you in the world; He will receive you
going out of it; and if you will let him, he will guide, support,
and console you during your progress through it.”
Glendenning shook his head.
“Come to me, ye that are weary and heavy laden, and
I will give you rest.”
“I wish I had your unwavering faith,” said Glendenning,
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“and sometimes I have; but it is fluctuating and feeble.
The first storm whirls it away.”
“It will be given you if you truly and sincerely ask it;
that is all you want to be a happy man. Once convinced,
you walk the earth like a god, careless of its inconveniences,
its cold or its heat, its joy or its sorrow, its glory
or its shame, and only waiting your summons to go back to
a celestial abode, where moths do not corrupt and thieves
no more break in and steal. But come! I will have done
preaching, and leave you to better thoughts. You've been
awake all night, too. You must sleep, or you'll cut a poor
figure at the ball to-night.”
“Ball!” said Glendenning. “What ball?”
“Why, the ball—Colonel Nicholson's ball.”
“Does Colonel Nicholson give a ball? and to-night?”
said Glendenning, a flush of painful emotion overspreading
his face.
“You don't mean to say you're ignorant of it?” said
Southard, with some surprise. “Why all the town are
talking about it.”
“I was ignorant of it,” said Glendenning.
“But how is it that you—where is your invitation? All
the officers are to be there. Have you not received your
invitation?”
“Has any one come for me?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
A ray of light shot into Glendenning's mind.
“It is very extraordinary,” said Southard. “It is quite
certain there must be some mistake.”
But perceiving Glendenning, was not attending to him,
and appeared lost in thought, he bade him good-morning and
left him.
“So!” said Glendenning, “that's my man. He has done
it by some infernal slander; but let him beware. If I can
catch him — him, of all men! But stop, be cool; I have
only to wait. The Horse Guards? I defy them. A court
martial? I invite—I court one. My commission? I'll resign
it. Let me be cool and patient! I shall know all in
a day or two. No more questions! no more challenges yet!
Some one must be at the bottom of it, and who but he! If
I can trace it to him—I throw away all considerations of
self. I care not for rank, power, laws, nor consequences.
Does he think again to shelter himself behind paltry questions
of etiquette and articles of war?”
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He went out and bathed, came home and dressed as
usual, breakfasted, and still no White. His heart was oppressed
with passion and his mind bewildered in mystery;
but he kept himself composed with the words, “Wait, be
cool! The hour will come!”
Shunning the society or even the eye of every human
being, he spent the whole day alone in the environs of this
magnificently situated town, wandering, now along the shores
of the broad and noble stream, now climbing some of the
heights, from which he beguiled the intervals of keener reflection
by the dazzling and exquisite views which broke
upon him of the island, town, and river, and now penetrating
into the green, untrodden solitudes of a forest, soothing
himself with the sweet sights and sounds of that nature
which God has directly given as a significant reflection of
the human soul, as an eternal type and a deep lesson to
those who study and read aright; but to others, a book of
pretty pictures for the amusement of children.
He took some refreshment in the course of the day at a
tavern, and when the evening was sufficiently advanced to
permit his walking home unrecognised by such of his acquaintances
as might be abroad in the streets, he returned
to town.
No change had taken place in his mind. He had sought
neither in the advice of any wiser friend, nor in the perusal
of the Bible or any religious book, nor directly from his
Creator in humble prayer, light for his guidance or strength
for his support.
On his way home he found himself suddenly before the
elegant house of Colonel Nicholson. It was blazing with
lights, and within and around it were all the tokens of a
brilliant fête. Figures passing and repassing before the
windows, carriages dashing up, giving out their gay and
richly-dressed company, and hurrying away, the heads of
dancers, the sound of music, etc.
The stigma his commanding officer had cast upon him by
omitting to invite him seemed to burn like a brand of shame
on his forehead for all the world to see. The surrounding
darkness seemed scarcely black enough to hide it. He
stood a moment with folded arms and a pale countenance
to gaze and brood.
It was not only an intentional insult—meant as such, received
as such—but it was, in sober truth, an injury which
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the reputation of a young officer could scarcely survive. It
was an undisguised declaration of enmity on the part of
Colonel Nicholson; a public proclamation of his contempt
and of Glendenning's shame, of his opinion that Glendenning
was not a proper associate for gentlemen. And, moreover,
he knew that Nicholson's mean and cowardly soul,
however vindictive and merciless, would not have ventured
upon so bold and open a measure, unless protected from
the consequences, from the reproach of public opinion, and
the indignant resentment of his victim, by circumstances of
a very marked and extraordinary nature. Nicholson was a
man who launched the deadly blow only from a place of
safety.
With these fierce and burning thoughts, the young man
stood some time in the shadow, meditating on the best mode
of action, and “feeding fat” his thoughts of vengeance.
Once he approached a few steps, resolved to stalk into the
gay and crowded rooms, all dusty, sweat-stained, and ghastly
as he was, reckless of the screams of affrighted women
and the frowns of furious beaux, and to take by the throat
the malignant villain who had cast this black shell upon
him; but he withheld himself from what a moment's reflection
told him would be only an act of unmanly desperation,
perhaps most gladly hailed by his enemy, and most triumphantly
used as a means of completing his ruin. The
very intensity of his passion taught him prudence; his very
agitation made him calm and wary.
“Ah!” uttered he, as he turned away, sick and suffocated
with his unaccustomed effort to restrain violent emotion,
one of the highest and most necessary arts of a moral being,
and one possessed only by the truly great and good—“Ah!
if the dog would but fight! if I could but plant him, face to
face, before me!”
Poor Mrs. Lennox! where was her mild and gentle image,
her holy words? where the new ideas she had awakened,
the promise she had extorted, the angel voices she
had called up in his bosom, the light of heaven she had shed
over his path? Gone, lost! as hope, love, reason, truth,
common humanity, respect for God, and the moral sense,
and all that is pure and high, and spiritual and unworldly,
must ever be lost in the heart that gives itself to the brutal,
bloody, depraving duel, when, “groping at noonday,” the
infidel turns from heaven and voluntarily embraces earth
and hell!
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Fay, Theodore S. (Theodore Sedgwick), 1807-1898 [1843], A romance of New York volume 1 (Harper & Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf099v1].
