Since there was no universal law of opinion in such matters, Glen, on general worldly grounds, might not consider the real Mrs. Glendinning altogether so suitable a match for Pierre, as he possibly might have held numerous other young ladies in his eye: nevertheless, Glen would find her ready to return with sincerity all his cousinly regard and attention. In conclusion, Pierre said, that he and his party meditated an immediate departure, and would very probably arrive in town in eight-and forty hours after the mailing of the present letter. He therefore begged Glen to see the more indispensable domestic appliances of the house set in some little order against their arrival; to have the rooms aired and lighted; and also forewarn the confidential clerk of what he might soon expect. Then, without any tapering sequel of-"Yours, very truly and faithfully, my dear Cousin Glen," he finished the letter with the abrupt and isolated signature of-"pierre."
BOOK XVI. FIRST NIGHT OF THEIR ARRIVAL IN THE CITY
I
THE STAGE was belated.
The country road they traveled entered the city by a remarkably wide and winding street, a great thoroughfare for its less opulent inhabitants. There was no moon and few stars. It was that preluding hour of the night when the shops are just closing, and the aspect of almost every wayfarer, as he passes through the unequal light reflected from the windows, speaks of one hurrying not abroad, but homeward. Though the thoroughfare was winding, yet no sweep that it made greatly obstructed its long and imposing vista; so that when the coach gained the top of the long and very gradual slope running toward the obscure heart of the town, and the twinkling perspective of two long and parallel rows of lamps was revealed-lamps which seemed not so much intended to dispel the general gloom, as to show some dim path leading through it, into some gloom still deeper beyond, — when the coach gained this critical point, the whole vast triangular town, for a moment, seemed dimly and despondently to capitulate to the eye.
And now, ere descending the gradually-sloping declivity, and just on its summit as it were, the inmates of the coach, by numerous hard, painful joltings, and ponderous, dragging trundlings, are suddenly made sensible of some great change in the character of the road. The coach seems rolling over cannon-balls of all calibers. Grasping Pierre's arm, Isabel eagerly and forebodingly demands what is the cause of this most strange and unpleasant transition.
"The pavements, Isabel; this is the town."
Isabel was silent.
But, the first time for many weeks, Delly voluntarily spoke: "It feels not so soft as the green sward, Master Pierre." "No, Miss Ulver," said Pierre, very bitterly, "the buried hearts of some dead citizens have perhaps come to the surface."
"Sir?" said Delly.
"And are they so hard-hearted here?" asked Isabel.
"Ask yonder pavements, Isabel. Milk dropped from the milk-man's can in December, freezes not more quickly on those stones, than does snow-white innocence, if in poverty, it chance to fall in these streets."
'Then God help my hard fate, Master Pierre," sobbed Delly. "Why didst thou drag hither a poor outcast like me?"
"Forgive me, Miss Ulver," exclaimed Pierre, with sudden warmth, and yet most marked respect; "forgive me; never yet have I entered the city by night, but, somehow, it made me feel both bitter and sad. Come, be cheerful, we shall soon be comfortably housed, and have our comfort all to ourselves; the old clerk I spoke to you about, is now doubtless ruefully eying his hat on the peg. Come, cheer up, Isabel;-'tis a long ride, but here we are, at last. Come! 'Tis not very far now to our welcome."
"I hear a strange shuffling and clattering," said Delly, with a shudder.
"It does not seem so light as just now," said Isabel.
"Yes," returned Pierre, "it is the shop-shutters being put on; it is the locking, and bolting, and barring of windows and doors; the town's-people are going to their rest."
"Please God they may find it!" sighed Delly.
"They lock and bar out, then, when they rest, do they, Pierre?" said Isabel.
"Yes, and you were thinking that does not bode well for the welcome I spoke of."
"Thou read'st all my soul; yes, I was thinking of that. But whither lead these long, narrow, dismal side-glooms we pass every now and then? What are they? They seem terribly still. I see scarce any body in them;-there's another, now. See how haggardly look its criss-cross, far-separate lamps.-What are these side-glooms, dear Pierre; whither lead they?"
"They are the thin tributaries, sweet Isabel, to the great Orinoco thoroughfare we are in; and like true tributaries, they come from the far-hidden places; from under dark beetling secrecies of mortar and stone; through the long marsh-grasses of villainy and by many a transplanted bough-beam, where the wretched have hung."
"I know nothing of these things, Pierre. But I like not the town. Think'st thou, Pierre, the time will ever come when all the earth shall be paved?"
"Thank God, that never can be!"
"These silent side-glooms are horrible;-look! Methinks, not for the world would I turn into one."
That moment the nigh fore-wheel sharply grated under the body of the coach.
"Courage!" cried Pierre, "we are in it! — Not so very solitary either; here comes a traveler."
"Hark, what is that?" said Delly, "that keen iron-ringing sound? It passed us just now."
"The keen traveler," said Pierre, "he has steel plates to his boot-heels;-some tender-souled elder son, I suppose."
"Pierre," said Isabel, "this silence is unnatural, is fearful. The forests are never so still."
"Because brick and mortar have deeper secrets than wood or fell, sweet Isabel. But here we turn again; now if I guess right, two more turns will bring us to the door. Courage, all will be well; doubtless he has prepared a famous supper. Courage, Isabel. Come, shall it be tea or coffee? Some bread, or crisp toast? We'll have eggs, too; and some cold chicken, perhaps."-Then muttering to himself-"I hope not that, either; no cold collations! there's too much of that in these paving-stones here, set out for the famishing beggars to eat No. I won't have the cold chicken." Then aloud-"But here we turn again; yes, just as I thought. Ho, driver!" (thrusting his head out of the window) "to the right! to the right! it should be on the right! the first house with a light on the right!"
"No lights yet but the street's," answered the surly voice of the driver.
"Stupid! he has passed it-yes, yes-he has! Ho! ho! stop; turn back. Have you not passed lighted windows?"
"No lights but the street's," was the rough reply. "What's the number? the number? Don't keep me beating about here all night! The number, I say!"
"I do not know it," returned Pierre; "but I well know the house; you must have passed it, I repeat. You must turn back. Surely you have passed lighted windows?"
"Then them lights must burn black; there's no lighted windows in the street; I knows the city; old maids lives here, and they are all to bed; rest is warehouses."
"Will you stop the coach, or not?" cried Pierre, now incensed at his surliness in continuing to drive on.
"I obeys orders: the first house with a light; and 'cording to my reck'ning-though, to be sure, I don't know nothing of the city where I was born and bred all my life-no, I knows nothing at all about it-'cording to my reck'ning, the first light in this here street will be the watch-house of the ward-yes, there it is-all right! cheap lodgings ye've engaged-nothing to pay, and victuals in."