To this mildness in Glenning, Ralle opposed the remark—‘That he would do as he pleased—that the woods were free, and that he should hunt towards the north or south, without asking leave of Yankee interlopers.’
This remark struck on the temper of Glenning, at an unlucky moment. The very consciousness of rectitude on his own part, made the insult fasten and rankle; and gave to it a barb, which, perhaps, in any other circumstances, would not have pained him. Glenning, I have said, was a gentleman. He was such, if there ever was one—a man of good morals, charitable in his disposition, and could not bear to inflict pain, even on a dumb beast. But there is, within the human heart—and philosophy may reason it over till doomsday, without explaining it—a something to quiet conscience, even in the best men, at times, and force them to acts, which in other circumstances they would shudder at. Dueling is one of them. Dueling, Glenning despised from his soul. I have heard him say so a thousand times, and sternly express his abhorrence of the man who could stain his hands with a fellow’s blood. He even rose once, and left an agreeable company, because he was told that such a gentleman present was a duelist. With such notions—and they were not mere talk with him—it is a thing I cannot explain, that he so far forgot himself as to hurl back the insult he had received, and in a manner calculated to lead to so sad a termination. He did so, however, and retort calling forth retort, they both lost their tempers—when, Ralle springing forward with a knife, Glenning knocked him down with the butt of his whip. He then turned and rode home.
Isabel met him at the door, and it needed but a glance to see that something was the matter. His brow was knit—his teeth set like a vise—and his lip curled with a stern haughtiness, which I had never supposed was in him before.
He tried to pass her. Isabel threw her arms about him, and burst into tears.
It awoke him—his happiness came back to his heart—the fiend fled from him—and he stood in the presence of that lovely, simple-hearted weeper, as helpless as a child. The effect of his passions unnerved him, like a fever; and he was forced to keep his chamber till evening. He then entered the parlor again.
To the fond inquisitiveness of Isabel, he now opposed, the heat of the weather, the weariness of his long ride, and some other little nothings; and by his wit, and pleasantry, succeeded in lulling her into a forgetfulness of the events of the day. O! that was a calm—a deep and awful calm. It was that which precedes the thunder—the moment between the flash and the bolt,—And the bolt came.
I had seen a messenger approach, and leave the gate at sun-set; and had suspicions, more than I dared acknowledge to myself. And yet, my friend was never more agreeable, than on that evening. It seemed as if some unheard of powers had been given him. Skilled in metaphysics—for they had amused him much at College—and, well acquainted with the principles, and history of the Fine Arts, he rambled from one to the other, with the most amusing madness—sometimes serious, sometimes turning a happy illustration into the most exquisite ridicule by some keen stroke of humor, and now running off again, in a manner at once new and electrifying. He was, on the whole, the most amusing man, for the time, I ever spent an evening with. Poor, poor Glenning!—but I will not anticipate.
When the evening closed, he followed me into my room; and, locking the door, sat down, and wept like a child.
‘Poor, poor Isabel!’ was all he could articulate. ‘She suspects nothing, poor thing—and it will break her heart. Death,’ cried he, starting up, ‘I fear it not. I have lived to die when my time comes. But she—she who loves me—whose life is wrapped up in mine—how can she’—and sinking down, he wept longer than before.
I ventured to lay my hand on his shoulder. He rose calm, awfully calm.