“I say he shall have my provocation, and that within an hour!” cried Glencore, wildly.
“You would give this man and his words a consequence that neither have ever possessed,” said Upton, in a mild and subdued tone. “Remember, Glencore, when I left with you this morning that paper of Stubber's it was with a distinct understanding that other and wiser thoughts than those of vengeance were to occupy your attention. I never scrupled to place it in your hands; I never hesitated about confiding to you what in a lawyer's phrase would be a proof against you. When an act of justice was to be done, I would not stain it by the faintest shadow of coercion. I left you free, I leave you still free, from everything but the dictates of your own honor.”
Glencore made no reply, but the conflict of his thoughts seemed to agitate him greatly.
“The man who has pursued a false path in life,” said Upton, calmly, “has need of much courage to retrace his steps; but courage is not the quality you fail in, Glencore, so that I appeal to you with confidence.”
“I have need of courage,” muttered Glencore; “you say truly. What was it the doctor said this morning,—aneurism?”
Upton moved his head with an inclination barely perceptible.
“What a Nemesis there is in nature,” said Glencore, with a sickly attempt to smile, “that passion should beget malady! I never knew, physically speaking, that I had a heart—till it was broken. So that,” resumed he, in a more agreeable tone, “death may ensue at any moment—on the least excitement?”
“He warned you gravely on that point,” said Upton, cautiously.
“How strange that I should have come through that trial of an hour ago! It was not that the struggle did not move me. I could have torn that fellow limb from limb, Upton, if I had but the strength! But see,” cried he, feebly, “what a poor wretch I am; I cannot close these fingers!” and he held out a worn and clammy hand as he spoke. “Do with me as you will,” said he, after a pause; “I ought to have followed your counsels long ago!”
Upton was too subtle an anatomist of human motives to venture by even the slightest word to disturb a train of thought which any interference could only damage. As the other still continued to meditate, and, by his manner and look, in a calmer and more reflective spirit, the wily diplomatist moved noiselessly away, and left him alone.