Lady of the Ice (19 page)

“By
Jove!” he exclaimed, “I'll be hanged if I haven't forgot all about it. It's been in my pocket ever since yesterday morning.”

Saying this, he held up the letter, and looked at it for some time without opening it, and with a strange mixture of embarrassment and ruefulness in his expression.

“What's that?” said I, carelessly. “A letter? Who's it from, Jack?”

Jack did not give any immediate answer. He turned the letter over and over, looking at it on the front and on the back.

“You seem hit hard, old man,” said I, “about some thing. Is it a secret?”

“Oh, no,” said Jack, with a sigh.

“Well, what's the matter?”

“Oh, only this,” said he, with another sigh.

“What, that letter?”

“Yes.”

“It don't look like a dun, old chap — so, why fret?”

“Oh, no,” said Jack, with a groan.

“What's the reason you don't open it?”

Jack shook his head.

“I've a pretty good idea of what's in it,” said he. “There are some letters you can read without opening them, old boy, and this is one of them. You know the general nature of the contents, and you don't feel altogether inclined to go over all the small details.”

“You don't mean to say that you're not going to open it?”

“Oh, I'll open it,” said Jack, more dolefully than ever.

“Then, why don't you open it now?”

“Oh, there's no hurry — there's plenty of time.”

“It must be some thing very unimportant. You say you've had it lying in your pocket ever since the day before yesterday. So, what's the use of getting so tragic all of a sudden?”

“Macrorie, old chap,” said Jack, in a tone of hollow despair.

“Well?”

“Do you see that letter?” and he held it up in his hand.

“Yes.”

“Well, in that I am to read a convincing proof that I am a scoundrel!”

“A what? Scoundrel? Pooh, nonsense! What's up now? Come, now, old boy, no melodrama. Out with it. But, first of all, read the letter.”

Jack laid the unopened letter on the table, filled his pipe, lighted it, and then, throwing himself back in his chair, sat staring at the ceiling, and sending forth great clouds of smoke that gathered in dense folds and soon hung overhead in a dark canopy.

I watched him in silence for some time. I suspected what that letter might be, but did not in any way let my suspicion appear.

“Jack,” said I, at last, “I've seen you several times in trouble during the last few days, but it is now my solemn conviction, made up from a long observation of your character, your manner, your general style, and your facial expression, that on this present occasion you are hit harder than ever you've been since I had the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

“That's a fact,” said Jack, earnestly and solemnly.

“It isn't a secret, you said?”

“No, not from you. I'll tell you presently. I need one pipe, at least, to soothe my nerves.”

He relapsed into silence, and, as I saw that he intended to tell me of his own accord, I questioned him no further, but sat waiting patiently till he found strength to begin the confession of his woes.

At length he reached forward, and once more raised the letter from the table.

“Macrorie, my boy.”

“Well?”

“Do you see this letter?”

“Yes.”

“Whom do you think it's from?”

“How do I know?”

“Well,” said Jack, “this letter is the sequel to that conversation you and I had, which ended in our row.”

“The sequel?”.

“Yes. You remember that I left threatening that ‘Number Three' should be mine.”

“Oh, yes; but don't bother about that now,” said I.

“Bother about it? Man alive, that's the very thing that I have to do! The bother, as you call it, has just begun. This letter is from Number Three.”

“Number Three? Marion!”

“Yes, Marion, Miss O'Halloran, the one I swore should be mine. Ha, ha!” laughed Jack, wildly; “a precious mess I've made of it! Mine? By Jove! What's the end of it? To her a broken heart — to me dishonor and infamy!”

“My dear boy,” said I, “doesn't it strike you that your language partakes, to a slight extent, of the melodramatic? Don't get stagy, dear boy.”

“Stagy? Good Lord, Macrorie! Wait till you see that letter.”

“That letter! Why, confound it, you haven't seen it yourself yet.”

“Oh, I know, I know. No need for me to open it. Look here, Macrorie, will you promise not to throw me over after I tell you about this?”

“Throw you over?”

“Yes. You'll stick by a fellow still — ”

“Stick by you? Of course, through thick and thin, my boy.”

Jack gave a sigh of relief.

“Well, old chap,” said he, “you see, after I left you, I was bent on nothing but Marion. The idea of her slipping out of my hands altogether was intolerable. I was as jealous of you as fury, and all that sort of thing. The widow and Miss Phillips were forgotten. Even little Louie was given up. So I wrote a long letter to Marion.”

Jack paused, and looked hard at me.

“Well,” said I.

“Well,” said he, “you know her last letter to me was full of reproaches about the widow and Miss Phillips. She even alluded to Louie, though how under heaven she had heard about her is more than I can imagine. Well, you know, I determined to write her a letter that would settle all these difficulties, and at the same time gain her for myself, for good and all. You see I had sworn to get her from you, and I could think of nothing but that oath. So I wrote — but, oh, Macrorie, Macrorie, why, in Heaven's name, did you make that mistake about Mrs. O'Halloran, and force that infernal oath out of me? Why did that confounded old blockhead forget to introduce her to you? That's the cause of all my woes. But I won't bore you, old fellow; I'll go on. So, you see, in my determination to get her, I stuck at nothing. First of all, instead of attempting to explain away her reproaches, I turned them all back upon her. I was an infatuated fool, Macrorie, when I wrote that letter, but I was not a villain. I wrote it with an earnest desire that it should be effective. Well, I told her that she should not blame me for my gallantries, but herself for forcing me to them. I reproached her for refusing to elope with me when I offered, and told her she cared far more for her father's ease and comfort than she did for my happiness. I swore that I loved her better than any of them, or all of them put together, and I'll be hanged if I didn't, Macrorie, when I wrote it. Finally, I told her there was yet time to save me, and, if she had a particle of that love which she professed, I implored her now to fly with me. I besought her to name some time convenient to her, and suggested — oh, Macrorie, I suggested — swear at me — curse me — do some thing or other — Macrorie, I suggested last night — midnight — I did, by Heaven!”

And, saying this, Jack looked at me for some minutes in silence, with a wild expression that I had never before seen on his face.

“Last night, Macrorie!” he repeated — “midnight! Think of that. Why don't you say some thing?”

“Say?” said I. “Why, hang it, man, what can I say? It's a case beyond words. If you've made such an appointment, and broken it, you've — well, there's nothing to say.”

“That's true,” said Jack, in a sepulchral tone. “That's true. I made the appointment, and, Macrorie — I was not there.”

“Well, of course, I gathered as much from the way you go on about it — but that's what I should like to understand, if it isn't a secret.”

“Oh, no, I'll make no secret about any thing connected with this business. Well, then I put the letter in the post-office, and strolled off to call on Miss Phillips. Will you believe it, she was ‘not at home?' At that, I swear I felt so savage that I forgot all about Marion and my proposal. It was a desperate cut. I don't know any thing that has ever made me feel so savage. And I feel savage yet. If she had any thing against me, why couldn't she have seen me, and had it out with me, fair and square? It cut deep. By Jove! Well, then, I could think of nothing else but paying her off. So I organized a sleighing-party, and took out the Bertons and some other girls. I had Louie, you know, and we drove to Montmorency. Fun, no end. Great spirits. Louie teasing all the way. We got back so late that I couldn't call on the widow. That evening I was at Chelmsford's — a ball, you know — I was the only one of ours that went. Yesterday, didn't call on Miss Phillips, but took out Louie. On my way I got this letter from the office, and carelessly stuffed it into my pocket. It's been there ever since. I forgot all about it. Last evening there were a few of us at Berton's, and the time passed like lightning. My head was whirling with a cram of all sorts of things. There was my anger at Miss Phillips, there was a long story Louie had to tell about the widow, and then there was Louie herself, who drove every other thought away. And so, Macrorie, Marion and my letter to her, and the letter in my pocket, and the proposed elopement, never once entered into my head. I swear they had all passed out of my mind as completely as though it had all been some confounded dream.”

Jack stopped, and again relapsed into moody silence.

“I'll tell you what it is, old fellow,” said he, after a pause. “It's devilish hard to put up with.”

“What is?” I asked.

“This ‘not-at-home' style of thing. But never mind — I'll pay her up!”

Now here was a specimen of rattle-brainishness — of levity — and of childishness; so desperate, that I began to doubt whether this absurd Jack ought to be regarded as a responsible being. It seemed simply impossible for him to concentrate his impulsive mind on any thing. He flings himself one day furiously into an elopement scheme — the next day, at a slight, he forgets all about the elopement, and, in a towering rage against Miss Phillips, devotes himself desperately to Louie. And now when the elopement scheme has been brought before him, even in the midst of his remorse — remorse, too, which will not allow him to open her letter — the thought of Miss Phillips once more drives away all recollection of Marion, even while he has before him the unopened letter of that wronged and injured girl. Jack's brain was certainly of a harum-scarum order, such as is not often found — he was a creature of whim and impulse — he was a rattle-brain, a scatter-brain — formed to win the love of all — both men and women — formed, too, to fall into endless difficulties — formed also with a native buoyancy of spirit which enabled him to float where others would sink. By those who knew him, he would always be judged lightly — by those who knew him not, he would not fail to be judged harshly. Louie knew him, and laughed at him — Marion knew him not, and so she had received a stroke of anguish. Jack was a boy — no, a child — or, better yet, a great big baby. What in the world could I say to him or do with him? I alone knew the fulness of the agony which he had inflicted, and yet I could not judge him as I would judge another man.

“I'll pay her up!” reiterated Jack, shaking his head fiercely.

“But before paying her up, Jack,” said I, “wouldn't it be well to read that letter?”

Jack gave a sigh.

“You read it, Macrorie,” said he; “I know all about it.”

“Well,” said I, “that is the most astonishing proposal that I ever heard even from you. To read a letter like that! — Why, such a letter should be sacred.”

Jack's face flushed. He seized the letter, tore it open, and read. The flush on his face deepened. As he finished, he crushed it in his hand, and then relapsed into his sombre fit.

“It's just as I said, Macrorie,” said he. “She promised to meet me at the time I mentioned. And she was there. And I was not. And now she'll consider me a scoundrel.”

In a few moments Jack opened out the crushed note, and read it again.

“After all,” said he, “she isn't so awfully affectionate.”

“Affectionate!”

“No — she seems afraid, and talks a great deal too much of her father, and of her anguish of soul — yes, that's her expression — her anguish of soul in sacrificing him to me. By Jove! — sacrifice! Think of that! And she says she only comes because I reproach her with being the cause of grief — heavens and earth! and she says that she doesn't expect any happiness, but only remorse. By Jove! See here, Macrorie — did you ever in your life imagine that a woman, who loved a fellow well enough to make a runaway match with him, could write him in such a way? Why, hang it! she might have known that, before our honeymoon was over, that confounded old Irish scoundrel of a father of hers would have been after us, insisting on doing the heavy father of the comedy, and giving us his blessing in the strongest of brogues.

“And, what's more, he'd have been borrowing money of me, the beggar! Borrowing money! of me — me — without a penny myself and head over heels in debt. Confound his impudence!”

And Jack, who had begun this with remorse about Marion, ended with this burst of indignation at Marion's father, consequent upon a purely imaginary but very vivid scene, in which the latter was supposed to be extorting money from him. And he looked at me with a face that craved sympathy for such unmerited wrongs, and showed still more plainly the baby that was in him.

I made no answer. His quotations from Marion's letter showed me plainly how she had been moved, and what a struggle of soul this resolve had cost her. Now I could understand the full meaning of that sombre face which I had seen in O'Halloran's parlor, and also could see why it was that she had absented herself on that last evening. Did this letter change my sentiments about her? How could it, after what I already knew? It only elevated her, for it showed that at such a time her soul was racked and torn by the claims of filial duty. Under her hallucination, and under the glamour which Jack had thrown over her, she had done a deep wrong — but I alone knew how fearful was her disenchantment, and how keen was the mental anguish that followed.