University of Virginia Library

13. BOOK XIII.
THEY DEPART THE MEADOWS.

I.

It was just dusk when Pierre approached the Ulver farm-house,
in a wagon belonging to the Black Swan Inn. He
met his sister shawled and bonneted in the porch.

“Now then, Isabel, is all ready? Where is Delly? I see
two most small and inconsiderable portmanteaux. Wee is the
chest that holds the goods of the disowned! The wagon waits,
Isabel. Now is all ready? and nothing left?”

“Nothing, Pierre; unless in going hence—but I'll not think
of that; all's fated.”

“Delly! where is she? Let us go in for her,” said Pierre,
catching the hand of Isabel, and turning rapidly. As he thus
half dragged her into the little lighted entry, and then dropping
her hand, placed his touch on the catch of the inner door, Isabel
stayed his arm, as if to keep him back, till she should forewarn
him against something concerning Delly; but suddenly
she started herself; and for one instant, eagerly pointing at his
right hand, seemed almost to half shrink from Pierre.

“'Tis nothing. I am not hurt; a slight burn—the merest
accidental scorch this morning. But what's this?” he added,
lifting his hand higher; “smoke! soot! this comes of going
in the dark; sunlight, and I had seen it. But I have not
touched thee, Isabel?”

Isabel lifted her hand and showed the marks.—“But it came
from thee, my brother; and I would catch the plague from
thee, so that it should make me share thee. Do thou clean thy
hand; let mine alone.”

“Delly! Delly!”—cried Pierre—“why may I not go to her,
to bring her forth?”

Placing her finger upon her lip, Isabel softly opened the
door, and showed the object of his inquiry avertedly seated,
muffled, on a chair.

“Do not speak to her, my brother,” whispered Isabel, “and
do not seek to behold her face, as yet. It will pass over now,
ere long, I trust. Come, shall we go now? Take Delly forth,
but do not speak to her. I have bidden all good-by; the old
people are in yonder room in the rear; I am glad that they
chose not to come out, to attend our going forth. Come now,
be very quick, Pierre; this is an hour I like not; be it swiftly
past.”

Soon all three alighted at the inn. Ordering lights, Pierre
led the way above-stairs, and ushered his two companions into
one of the two outermost rooms of the three adjoining chambers
prepared for all.

“See,” said he, to the mute and still self-averting figure of
Delly;—“see, this is thy room, Miss Ulver; Isabel has told
thee all; thou know'st our till now secret marriage; she will
stay with thee now, till I return from a little business down
the street. To-morrow, thou know'st, very early, we take the
stage. I may not see thee again till then, so, be steadfast, and
cheer up a very little, Miss Ulver, and good-night. All will
be well.”

II.

Next morning, by break of day, at four o'clock, the four
swift hours were personified in four impatient horses, which
shook their trappings beneath the windows of the inn. Three
figures emerged into the cool dim air and took their places in
the coach.

The old landlord had silently and despondently shaken
Pierre by the hand; the vainglorious driver was on his box,
threadingly adjusting the four reins among the fingers of his
buck-skin gloves; the usual thin company of admiring ostlers
and other early on-lookers were gathered about the porch;
when—on his companions' account—all eager to cut short any
vain delay, at such a painful crisis, Pierre impetuously shouted
for the coach to move. In a moment, the four meadow-fed
young horses leaped forward their own generous lengths, and
the four responsive wheels rolled their complete circles; while
making vast rearward flourishes with his whip, the elated
driver seemed as a bravado-hero signing his ostentations farewell
signature in the empty air. And so, in the dim of the
dawn—and to the defiant crackings of that long and sharp-resounding
whip, the three forever fled the sweet fields of Saddle
Meadows.

The short old landlord gazed after the coach awhile, and
then re-entering the inn, stroked his gray beard and muttered
to himself:—“I have kept this house, now, three-and-thirty
years, and have had plenty of bridal-parties come and go; in
their long train of wagons, break-downs, buggies, gigs—a gay
and giggling train—Ha!—there's a pun! popt out like a cork
—ay, and once in ox-carts, all garlanded; ay, and once, the
merry bride was bedded on a load of sweet-scented new-cut
clover. But such a bridal-party as this morning's—why, it's
as sad as funerals. And brave Master Pierre Glendinning is

the groom! Well, well, wonders is all the go. I thought I
had done with wondering when I passed fifty; but I keep
wondering still. Ah, somehow, now, I feel as though I had
just come from lowering some old friend beneath the sod, and
yet felt the grating cord-marks in my palms.—'Tis early, but
I'll drink. Let's see; cider,—a mug of cider;—'tis sharp, and
pricks like a game-cock's spur,—cider's the drink for grief.
Oh, Lord! that fat men should be so thin-skinned, and suffer
in pure sympathy on others' account. A thin-skinned, thin
man, he don't suffer so, because there ain't so much stuff in
him for his thin skin to cover. Well, well, well, well, well;
of all colics, save me from the melloncholics; green melons is
the greenest thing!”