“Upon my honour,” said Thornton, “I will never ask you for another farthing.”
“There is honour among thieves,” thought I, and so I took out the sum mentioned, and gave it to him. In good earnest, though I disliked the man, his threadbare garments and altered appearance moved me to compassion. While he was pocketing the money, which he did with the most unequivocal delight, a tall figure passed us rapidly. We both turned at the same instant, and recognised Glanville. He had not gone seven yards beyond us, before we observed his steps, which were very irregular, pause suddenly; a moment afterwards he fell against the iron rails of an area; we hastened towards him, he was apparently fainting. His countenance was perfectly livid, and marked with the traces of extreme exhaustion. I sent Thornton to the nearest public-house for some water; before he returned, Glanville had recovered.
“All—all—in vain,” he said, slowly and unconsciously, “death is the only Lethe.”
He started when he saw me. I made him lean on my arm, and we walked on slowly.
“I have already heard of your speech,” said I. Glanville smiled with the usual faint and sicklied expression, which made his smile painful even in its exceeding sweetness.
“You have also already seen its effects; the excitement was too much for me.”
“It must have been a proud moment when you sat down,” said I.
“It was one of the bitterest I ever felt—it was fraught with the memory of the dead. What are all honours to me now?—O God! O God! have mercy upon me!”
And Glanville stopped suddenly, and put his hand to his temples.
By this time Thornton had joined us. When Glanville’s eyes rested upon him, a deep hectic rose slowly and gradually over his cheeks. Thornton’s lip curled with a malicious expression. Glanville marked it, and his brow grew on the moment as black as night.