Lady of the Ice (20 page)

“She'll never forgive me,” said Jack, after a long silence.

“Who?” said I, with some bitterness, which came forth in spite of my new-found conviction of Jack's utter babyhood — “Who, Miss Phillips?”

“Oh, no,” said Jack — “Marion.”

“Forgive you!” I ejaculated.

“Of course not. It's bosh to use the word in such a connection. She'll hate and scorn me till her dying day.”

“No, Jack,” said I, somewhat solemnly, “I think from what little I know of her, that if she gets over this, she'll feel neither hate nor scorn.”

“Yes, she will,” said Jack, pettishly.

“No,” said I.

“You don't know her, my boy. She's not the one to forget this.”

“No, she'll never forget it — but her feelings about you will be different from hate and scorn. She will simply find that she has been under a glamour about you, and will think of you with nothing but perfect indifference — and a feeling of wonder at her own infatuation.”

Jack looked vexed.

“To a woman who don't know you, Jack, my boy — you become idealized, and heroic; but to one who does, you are nothing of the kind. So very impressible a fellow as you are, cannot inspire a very deep passion. When a woman finds the fellow she admires falling in love right and left, she soon gets over her fancy. If it were some one other woman that had robbed her of your affection, she would be jealous; but when she knows that all others are equally charming, she will become utterly indifferent.”

“See here, old boy, don't get to be so infernally oracular. What the mischief does a fellow like you know about that sort of thing? I consider your remarks as a personal insult, and, if I didn't feel so confoundedly cut up, I'd resent it. But as it is, I only feel bored, and, on the whole, I should wish it to be with Marion as you say it's going to be. If I could think it would be so, I'd be a deuced sight easier in my mind about her. If it weren't for my own abominable conduct, I'd feel glad that this sort of thing had been stopped — only I don't like to think of Marion being disappointed, you know — or hurt — and that sort of thing, you know. The fact is, I have no business to get married just now — no — not even to the angel Gabriel — and this would have been so precious hard on poor little Louie.”

“Louie — why,” said I, “you speak confidently about her.”

“Oh, never fear about her,” said Jack.“She's able to take care of herself. She does nothing but laugh at me — no end.”

“Nothing new, then, in that quarter?” I asked, feeling desirous now of turning away from the subject of Marion, which was undergoing the same treatment from Jack which a fine and delicate watch would receive at the hands of a big baby. “No fresh proposals?”

“No,” said Jack, dolefully, “nothing but chaff.”

“And Miss Phillips?”

“Affairs in that quarter are in status quo” said Jack. “She's chosen to not-at-home me, and how it's going to turn out is more than I can tell. But I'll be even with her yet. I'll pay her off!”

“Perhaps you won't find it so easy as you imagine.”

“Won't I?” said Jack, mysteriously, “you'll see.”

“Perhaps she's organizing a plan to pay you off.”

“That's more than she can do.”

“By-the-way — what about the widow?”

“Well,” said Jack, seriously, “whatever danger is impending over me, may be looked for chiefly in that quarter.”

“Have you seen her lately?”

“No — not since the evening I took the chaplain there.”

“You must have heard some thing.”

“Yes,” said Jack, moodily.

“What?”

“Well, I heard from Louie, who keeps well up in my affairs, you know. She had gathered some thing about the widow,”

“Such as what?”

“Well, you know — she wouldn't tell.”

“Wouldn't tell?”

“No — wouldn't tell — chaffed me — no end, but wouldn't go into particulars.”

“But could you find out whether it affected you or not?”

“Oh, of course, I took that for granted. That was the point of the whole joke, you know. Louie's chaff consisted altogether of allusions to some mysterious plan of the widow's, by which she would have full, ample, perfect, complete, and entire vengeance on me.”

“That's bad.”

“It is.”

“A widow's a dangerous thing.”

“Too true, my boy,” said Jack, with a sigh, “nobody knows that better than I do.”

“I wonder you don't try to disarm her.”

“Disarm her?”

“Yes — why don't you call on her?”

“Well, confound it, I did call only a day or two ago, you know. The last two or three days I've been engaged.”

“Yes, but such an engagement will only make the widow more furious.”

“But, confound it, man, it's been simply impossible to do any thing else than what I have been doing.”

“I'll tell you what it is, Jack,” said I, solemnly, “the widow's your chief danger. She'll ruin you. There's only one thing for you to do, and that is what I've already advised you to do, and Louie, too, for that matter. You must fly.”

“Oh, bosh! — how can I?”

“Leave of absence — sell out — any thing.”

Jack shook his head, and gave a heavy sigh.

Before
the close of the day a gentleman called on me from O'Halloran, whom I referred to Jack, and these two made arrangements for the duel. It was to take place in a certain locality, which I do not intend to mention, and which was no matter how many miles out of town.

“We left at an early hour, and the doctor accompanied us. Jack had sufficient foresight to fill the sleigh with all the refreshments that might be needed on such an occasion. We drove to O'Halloran's house, where we found his sleigh waiting, with himself and a friend all ready to start. They led the way, and we followed.

It was a nasty time, the roads were terrible. They were neither one thing nor the other. There was nothing but a general mixture of ice heaps, slush, thawing snowdrifts, bare ground, and soft mud. Over this our progress was extremely slow. Added to this, the weather was abominable. It was warm, soft, slimy, and muggy. The atmosphere had changed into a universal drizzle, and was close and oppressive. At first O'Halloran's face was often turned back to hail us with some jovial remark, to which we responded in a similar manner; but after a time silence settled on the party, and the closeness, and the damp, and the slow progress, reduced us one and all to a general state of sulkiness.

At length we came to a little settlement consisting of a half-dozen houses, one of which bore a sign on which we read the words Hôtel de France. We kept on without stopping, and O'Halloran soon turned to the right, into a narrow track which went into the woods. In about half an hour we reached our destination. The sleighs drew up, and their occupants prepared for business.

It was a small cleared space in the middle of the woods. The forest-trees arose all around, dim, gloomy, and dripping. The ground was dotted with decayed stumps, and covered with snow in a state of semi-liquefaction. Beneath all was wet; around all was wet; and above all was wet. The place with its surroundings was certainly the most dismal that I had ever seen, and the dank, dark, and dripping trees threw an additional gloom about it.

We had left Quebec before seven. It was after twelve when we reached this place.

“Well, me boy,” said O'Halloran to me, with a gentle smile, “it's an onsaisonable toime of year for a jool, but it can't be helped — an' it's a moighty uncomfortable pleece, so it is.”

“We might have had it out in the road in a quiet way,” said I, “without the trouble of coming here.”

“The road!” exclaimed O'Halloran. “Be the powers, I'd have been deloighted to have had it in me oun parrulor. But what can we do? Sure it's the barbarous legisleetion of this counthry, that throis to stoifle and raypriss the sintimints of honor, and the code of chivalry. Sure it's a bad pleece intoirely. But you ought to see it in the summer. It's the most sayquisthered localeetee that ye could wish to see.”

Saying this, O'Halloran turned to his friend and then to us.

“Gintlemin,” said he, “allow me to inthrojuice to ye me very particular friend, Mr. Murtagh McGinty.”

Mr. Murtagh McGinty rose and bowed, while we did the same, and disclosed the form of a tall, elderly, and rather dilapidated Irishman.

All this time we had remained in our sleighs. The surrounding scene had impressed us all very forcibly, and there was a general disinclination to get out. The expanse of snow, in its half-melted condition, was enough to deter any reasonable being. To get out was to plunge into an abyss of freezing slush.

A long discussion followed as to what ought to be done. Jack suggested trying the road; McGinty thought we might drive on farther. The doctor did not say any thing. At last O'Halloran solved the difficulty.

He proposed that we should all remain in the sleighs, and that we should make a circuit so as to bring the backs of the sleighs at the requisite distance from one another.

It was a brilliant suggestion; and no sooner was it made, than it was adopted by all. So the horses were started, and the sleighs were turned in the deep slush until their backs were presented to one another. To settle the exact distance was a matter of some difficulty, and it had to be decided by the seconds. Jack and McGinty soon got into an altercation, in which Jack appealed to the light of reason, and McGinty to a past that was full of experience. He overwhelmed Jack with so many precedents for his view of the case, that at last the latter was compelled to yield. Then we drove forward, and then backward; now we were too far away, again we were too near, and there didn't appear to be any prospect of a settlement.

At last O'Halloran suggested that we should back the sleighs toward one another till they touched, and then his sleigh would move forward twelve paces.

“But who's to pace them?” asked Jack.

“Why the horse, of course,” said O'Halloran. “Sure it's a regular pacer he is, and bred up to it, so he is.”

To this Jack had nothing to say.

So the horses backed and the sleighs touched one another.

“Wait a minute McGinty, me boy,” said O'Halloran — putting his hand on his friend's arm — “let's all take somethin' warrum. Me system is slowly conjaylin, an' such a steete of things is moighty onwholssome.”

This proposition was received with the same unanimity which had greeted O'Halloran's other propositions. Flasks were brought out; and some minutes were passed in a general, a convivial, and a very affectionate interchange of courtesies.

“Me boy,” said O'Halloran to me, affectionately, “ye haven't had so much ixpayrieence as I have, so I'll teek the liberty to give ye a small bit of instherruction. Whin ye foire, eem low! Moind that, now — ye'll be sure to hit.”

“Thank you,” said I.

He wrung my hand heartily; and then motioning to McGinty, his sleigh started off, and advanced a few paces from ours, a little farther than the usual distance on such an occasion. With this he seemed to be satisfied, and, as nobody made any objection, we prepared for the business of the day.

O'Halloran and I stood up in the sleighs, while the seconds kept their seats. Jack and the doctor sat in the front seat of our sleigh. McGinty sat beside O'Halloran as he stood up. I stood in the after-seat of our sleigh.

“Shall I give the word?” said Jack.

“No,” said McGinty. “I've had more exparience. I've been sicond at elivin jools — an' hope to assist at as minny more.”

“Shure we won't throuble ayther of ye,” said O'Halloran. “It's me that's fought more jools than you've been sicond at. Me friend Macrorie and I'll manage it to shoot oursilves — so we will.”

“Ye can't give the word yersilves,” said McGinty.

“An' what do we want of a word, thin?” said O'Halloran.

“To foire by,” said McGinty.

“There's a peculeeareetee,” said O'Halloran, loftily, “in the prisint occeesion that obveeates the nicissitee of such prosaydings, and inables us to dispinse with any worrd of command. Macrorie, me boy — frind of me sowl — I addhriss you as the Oirish addhrissed the English at Fontenoy: ‘Fire first!''”

And saying this, O'Halloran bowed and then stood erect, facing me with a grave countenance.

“Fire first?” said I. “Indeed, Mr. O'Halloran, I'll do nothing of the kind.”

“Indade and you shall,” said he, with a laugh. “I insist upon it!”

“Well, if it comes to that,” said I, “what's to prevent me from insisting that you shall fire the first shot?”

“Shure and ye wouldn't dayproive me of the plisure of giving you the prasaydince,” said he.

“Then, really,” said I, “you will force me to insist upon your having the precedence. You're an older man than I am, and ought to have the first place. So, Mr. O'Halloran — fire first!”

“Thank you,” said he, with a bow, “but really, me boy, you must excuse me if I insist upon it.”

“Oh, no,” said I. “If it were any other occasion, I would cheerfully give you the precedence, and so I give it to you here.”

“But, you see,” said O'Halloran, “you must considher me in the loight of an intertainer. Ye're my guest to a certain ixtint. I must give up all the honors to you. So foire awee, me boy, and eem low.”

“No,” said I, “I really couldn't think of it.”

This friendly altercation went on for some time, while the others sat listening in amazement.

McGinty was the first to interrupt.

“It's in defoince of all the joolin' code,” said he, starting up. “I must inter my protest.”

“So say I,” cried Jack. “I say let the usual word be given — or else if one must have the first shot, let them draw for it.”

O'Halloran looked upon them both with a smile of benevolent pity.

“McGinty,” said he.

“Well.”

“Ye know me?”

“Sure an' I do.”

“And how many jools I've fought?”

“Meself does.”

“Am I a choild at it? Will ye be koind enough to mintion any one that has any cleem to considher himself the shupayrior of Phaylim O'Halloran in the noiceties and the dilicacies of the jooling code? Will ye be so good, as to infarrum me what there is lift for me to lerrun?”

At this appeal Mr. Murtagh McGinty subsided into silence, and sat down again, shaking his head.

Jack still insisted that the word of command should be given; but O'Halloran silenced him effectually by asking him if he had ever fought a duel.

“No,” said Jack.

“Have ye ivir been second at one before?”

“No,” said Jack, again.

“So this is your first time out?”

“Yes,” said Jack, who looked deeply humiliated.

“Will, thin,” said O'Halloran, loftily, “allow me to infarrum you, sir, that this is the thirty-seventh toime that I've had the plisure of taking part in a jool, ayther as principal or sicond.”

Whereupon Jack was suppressed.

In all this the doctor took no part. He looked cold, wet, uncomfortable, and unhappy.

And now O'Halloran turned to me again.

“Me boy,” said he, “if ye'll not grant me this as a feevor, I'll cleem it as a roight.”

“A right?” said I.

“Yis,” said O'Halloran, solemnly, “a roight!”

“I don't know what you mean,” I said, in some perplexity.

“I'll expleen I'm undher a debt of obleegeetion to you that I nivir can repee. Ye've seeved the loife of me daughter, me choild, me Marion — that's one debt — then ye're seeved my loife, me own. But for you, I'd have been tarrun in payees by a howling mob, so I would. Me oun loife is yours. Jewty, and the cleems of gratichood, and the code of honor, all inspoire me with a desoire to meek some rayturrun for what ye've done for me.

“On the other hand,” he continued, “ye've made a misteek of an onplisint nature about Mrs. O'H. Ye didn't main any harrum; but the dade's done, and there it is. It necissitates a jool. We must feece one another to satisfy offindid honor. But at the seem toime, while this jool is thus necissiteeted be the code of honor, jewty and gratichood must be considhered. It's a moighty noice case,” he continued, meditatively, “and I don't think such a case ivir came within my ixpayrience; but that ixtinsive ixpayrience which I've had rinders me the best judge of what may be the most shootable course on the prisint occasion. But the ulteemeete tindincy of all me mideeteetions on the subjict is this — that I must allow you to fire the first shot.”

“Well,” said I, “if you insist on looking at it in that light, and if you persist in feeling obligation, that sense of obligation ought to make you yield to my wishes, and, if I don't want to fire first, you ought not to insist upon it.”

“No, me boy,” said O'Halloran; “that's all oidle casuisthree an' impty mitaphysics. There's no process of ratiosheeneetion that'll be iver eeble to overturrun the sintimints of jewty and dilicacy that spring spontaneous in the brist. So blaze away.”

“Excuse me, but I insist on your firing first.”

“Be the powers, thin! and I insist on your taking the lade.”

“Pardon me, but you must.”

“I'm inkeepeble of such a lack of common cevileetee,” said he. “I must still insist.”

“And so must I.”

This singular and very original altercation went on for some time. At last O'Halloran took the cushions off the seat, and deliberately sat down, facing me, with his legs dangling over the back of the sleigh. Seeing that our argument was to be continued for some time, and that he was thus making himself comfortable, I did the same. We thus sat facing one another.

The seconds here again interposed, but were again baffled by O'Halloran, who explained the whole situation to them in so forcible a manner that they did not know how to answer him. For my part, I was firm in my resolve, and was not going to fire unless we both fired together. True, I might have fired in the air; but I knew O'Halloran so well by this time that I was convinced, if I did such a thing, he would reproach me for it, and insist on my firing again. And in that case it would all have to be commenced afresh.

So there we sat, with our legs dangling over the backs of our respective sleighs, facing one another, pistol in hand, and occasionally renewing the discussion. He was obstinate, I was equally so, and the time began to pass away, and the situation gradually grew more and more tedious to our companions. Still they could not say any thing. It was a punctilio of honor which they could not argue down, and behind all the argument which might be used there arose the very impressive accumulation of O'Halloran's past experience in the field of honor. So all that they could do was to make the best of the situation.