Now, that vague, fearful feeling stole into him, that, rail as all atheists will, there is a mysterious, inscrutable divineness in the world-a God-a Being positively present everywhere;-nay, He is now in this room; the air did part when I here sat down. I displaced the Spirit then-condensed it a little off from this spot. He looked apprehensively around him; he felt overjoyed at the sight of the humanness of Delly.
While he was thus plunged into this mysteriousness, a knock was heard at the door.
Delly hesitatingly rose-"Shall I let any one in, sir? — I think it is Mr. Millthorpe's knock."
"Go and see-go and see"-said Pierre, vacantly.
The moment the door was opened, Millthorpe-for it was he-catching a glimpse of Pierre's seated form, brushed past Delly, and loudly entered the room.
"Ha, ha! well, my boy, how conies on the Inferno? That is it you are writing; one is apt to look black while writing Infernoes; you always loved Dante. My lad! I have finished ten metaphysical treatises; argued five cases before the court; attended all our society's meetings; accompanied our great Professor, Monsieur Volvoon, the lecturer, through his circuit in the philosophical saloons, sharing all the honors of his illustrious triumph; and by the way, let me tell you, Volvoon secretly gives me even more credit than is my due; for 'pon my soul, I did not help write more than one half, at most, of his Lectures; edited-anonymously, though-a learned, scientific work on 'The Precise Cause of the Modifications in the Undulatory Motion in Waves,' a posthumous work of a poor fellow-fine lad he was, too-a friend of mine. Yes, here I have been doing all this, while you still are hammering away at that one poor plague Inferno! Oh, there's a secret in dispatching these things; patience! patience! you will yet learn the secret. Time! time! I can't teach it to you, my boy, but Time can: I wish I could, but I can't."
There was another knock at the door.
"Oh!" cried Millthorpe, suddenly turning round to it, "I forgot, my boy. I came to tell you that there is a porter, with some queer things, inquiring for you. I happened to meet him downstairs in the corridors, and I told him to follow me up-I would show
Thus far, the rattlings of Millthorpe, if producing any effect at all, had but stunned the averted Pierre. But now he started to his feet. A man with his hat on, stood in the door, holding an easel before him.
"Is this Mr. Glendinning's room, gentlemen?"
"Oh, come in, come in," cried Millthorpe, "all right."
"Oh, is that you, sir? well, well, then"; and the man set down the easel.
"Well, my boy," exclaimed Millthorpe to Pierre; "you are in the Inferno dream yet. Look; that's what people call an easel, my boy. An easel, an easel-not a weasel; you look at it as though you thought it a weasel. Come; wake up, wake up! You ordered it, I suppose, and here it is. Going to paint and illustrate the Inferno, as you go along, I suppose. Well, my friends tell me it is a great pity my own things ain't illustrated. But I can't afford it. There now is that Hymn to the Niger, which I threw into a pigeon-hole, a year or two ago- that would be fine for illustrations."
"Is it for Mr. Glendinning you inquire?" said Pierre now, in a slow, icy tone, to the porter.
"Mr. Glendinning, sir; all right, ain't it?"
"Perfectly," said Pierre mechanically, and casting another strange, rapt, bewildered glance at the easel. "But something seems strangely wanting here. Ay, now I see, I see it:- Villain! — the vines! Thou hast torn the green heart-strings! Thou hast but left the cold skeleton of the sweet arbor wherein she once nestled! Thou besotted, heartless hind and fiend, dost thou so much as dream in thy shriveled liver of the eternal mischief thou hast done? Restore thou the green vines! untrample them, thou accursed! — Oh my God, my God, trampled vines pounded and crushed in all fibers, how can they live over again, even though they be replanted! Curse thee, thou! — Nay, nay," he added moodily-"I was but wandering to myself." Then rapidly and mockingly-"Pardon, pardon! — porter; I most humbly crave thy most haughty pardon." Then imperiously-"Come, stir thyself, man; thou hast more below: bring all up."
As the astounded porter turned, he whispered to Millthorpe — "Is he safe? — shall I bring 'em?"
"Oh certainly," smiled Millthorpe: "I'll look out for him; he's never really dangerous when I'm present; there, go!"
Two trunks now followed, with "L.T." blurredly marked upon the ends.
"Is that all, my man?" said Pierre, as the trunks were being put down before him; "well, how much?" — that moment his eyes first caught the blurred letters.
"Prepaid, sir; but no objection to more."
Pierre stood mute and unmindful, still fixedly eying the blurred letters; his body contorted, and one side drooping, as though that moment half-way down-stricken with a paralysis, and yet unconscious of the stroke.
His two companions momentarily stood motionless in those respective attitudes, in which they had first caught sight of the remarkable change that had come over him. But, as if ashamed of having been thus affected, Millthorpe summoning a loud, merry voice, advanced toward Pierre, and, tapping his shoulder, cried, "Wake up, wake up, my boy! — He says he is prepaid, but no objection to more."
"Prepaid;-what's that? Go, go, and jabber to apes!"
"A curious young gentleman, is he not?" said Millthorpe lightly to the porter:-"Look you, my boy, I'll repeat:-He says he's prepaid, but no objection to more."
"Ah? — take that then," said Pierre, vacantly putting something into the porter's hand.
"And what shall I do with this, sir?" said the porter, staring.
"Drink a health; but not mine, that were mockery!"
"With a key, sir? This is a key you gave me."
"Ah! — well, you at least shall not have the thing that unlocks me. Give me the key, and take this."
"Ay, ay! — here's the chink! Thank 'ee, sir, thank 'ee. This'll drink. I ain't called a porter for nothing; Stout's the word; 2151 is my number; any jobs, call on me."
"Do you ever cart a coffin, my man?" said Pierre.
" 'Pon my soul!" cried Millthorpe, gayly laughing, "if you ain't writing an Inferno, then-but never mind. Porter! this gentleman is under medical treatment at present. You had better-ab'-you understand-'squatulate, porter! There, my boy, he is gone; I understand how to manage these fellows; there's a trick in it, my boy-an off-handed sort of what d'ye call it? — you understand-the trick! the trick! — the whole world's a trick. Know the trick of it, all's right; don't know, all's wrong. Ha! ha!"
"The porter is gone then?" said Pierre, calmly. "Well, Mr. Millthorpe, you will have the goodness to follow him."
"Rare joke! admirable! — Good morning, sir. Ha, ha!"
And with his unruffleable hilariousness, Millthorpe quitted the room.
But hardly had the door closed upon him, nor had he yet removed his hand from its outer knob, when suddenly it swung half open again, and thrusting his fair curly head within, Millthorpe cried: "By the way, my boy, I have a word for you. You know that greasy fellow who has been dunning you so of late. Well, be at rest there; he's paid. I was suddenly made flush yesterday:-regular flood-tide. You can return it any day, you know-no hurry; that's all.-But, by the way, — as you look as though you were going to have company here-just send for me in case you want to use me- any bedstead to put up, or heavy things to be lifted about. Don't you and the women do it, now, mind! That's all again. Adios, my boy. Take care of yourself!"