The Price of Blood: An Extravaganza of New York Life in 1807Pyle, Howard
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The Price of Blood: An Extravaganza of New York Life in 1807
Pyle, Howard
New York (N.Y.) -- Fiction
It was at two o'clock of an afternoon upon the last stage of their
journey that they stopped for a dinner at the tavern in Newark, N.J.,
almost, so to speak, in sight of their destination. It was excessively
cold; and a light snow had begun to fall from the gray and leaden
sky, giving promise of an early night. A cheerful fire of hickory
wood burned in the fire-place, diffusing a grateful warmth throughout
the apartment; and in the pleasure of its heat Miss Desmond yielded
herself to an extreme relaxation of spirits. She rallied Griscombe upon
the diffidence he had exhibited upon their first introduction. She
congratulated him with a mock seriousness upon his approaching release
from his duties as a squire of dames. Her father had given her to
believe that he would follow her immediately to New York, accordingly,
reminding Griscombe that the next day would be Christmas, she invited
him to come to M. de Troinville's to dine with them. Nor could
Griscombe listen to her innocent prattle without experiencing such an
overmastering pity for her unconsciousness of the tragic fate that had
overtaken her father and for her own hapless condition, that it was
well-nigh impossible for him to answer her sallies with raillery of a
like sort. However, he continued to act his part with such skill of
performance that his companion never once suspected with what effort
he composed the words he uttered.
[Illustration: "_IT WAS AT THIS JUNCTURE ... THAT AN APOLOGETIC KNOCK
FELL UPON THE DOOR_"]
It was at this juncture, fraught with such pathetic emotions to our
hero, that an apologetic knock fell upon the door; and the next
moment, as in answer to his own summons, a little old gentleman of
extraordinary appearance entered the room. A long white beard half
concealed his face, which was of a yellow-brown complexion, and
entirely covered with a multitude of minute wrinkles. His eyes,
piercing and black, sparkled like those of a serpent beneath his
overhanging eyebrows.
"My dear young gentleman and my dear young lady," he began in a thin,
high voice, "learning at the bar that you had a good fire in this room,
I ventured to intrude myself upon you with perhaps as strange a request
as you ever heard in all of your life."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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