Autobiographical fiction; Domestic fiction; Male authors -- Fiction; Men -- Fiction; Psychological fiction
Nevertheless something must be done, and quickly. Turning to one of the
officers, he begged him to go and seek a hack, that the whole party
might be taken to some respectable lodging. But the man, as well as his
comrades, declined the errand on the score, that there was no stand on
their beat, and they could not, on any account, leave their beat. So
Pierre himself must go. He by no means liked to leave Isabel and Delly
again, on an expedition which might occupy some time. But there seemed
no resource, and time now imperiously pressed. Communicating his
intention therefore to Isabel, and again entreating the officer's
particular services as before, and promising not to leave him
unrequited; Pierre again sallied out. He looked up and down the street,
and listened; but no sound of any approaching vehicle was audible. He
ran on, and turning the first corner, bent his rapid steps toward the
greatest and most central avenue of the city, assured that there, if
anywhere, he would find what he wanted. It was some distance off; and he
was not without hope that an empty hack would meet him ere he arrived
there. But the few stray ones he encountered had all muffled fares. He
continued on, and at last gained the great avenue. Not habitually used
to such scenes, Pierre for a moment was surprised, that the instant he
turned out of the narrow, and dark, and death-like bye-street, he should
find himself suddenly precipitated into the not-yet-repressed noise and
contention, and all the garish night-life of a vast thoroughfare,
crowded and wedged by day, and even now, at this late hour, brilliant
with occasional illuminations, and echoing to very many swift wheels and
footfalls.
II.
"I say, my pretty one! Dear! Dear! young man! Oh, love, you are in a
vast hurry, aint you? Can't you stop a bit, now, my dear: do--there's a
sweet fellow."
Pierre turned; and in the flashing, sinister, evil cross-lights of a
druggist's window, his eye caught the person of a wonderfully
beautifully-featured girl; scarlet-cheeked, glaringly-arrayed, and of a
figure all natural grace but unnatural vivacity. Her whole form,
however, was horribly lit by the green and yellow rays from the
druggist's.
"My God!" shuddered Pierre, hurrying forward, "the town's first welcome
to youth!"
He was just crossing over to where a line of hacks were drawn up
against the opposite curb, when his eye was arrested by a short, gilded
name, rather reservedly and aristocratically denominating a large and
very handsome house, the second story of which was profusely lighted. He
looked up, and was very certain that in this house were the apartments
of Glen. Yielding to a sudden impulse, he mounted the single step toward
the door, and rang the bell, which was quickly responded to by a very
civil black.
As the door opened, he heard the distant interior sound of dancing-music
and merriment.
"Is Mr. Stanly in?"
"Mr. Stanly? Yes, but he's engaged."
"How?"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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