Lady of the Ice (24 page)

“But the fact of the business is, Macrorie, that woman is — oh — she is awfully clever, and she managed to lead me on, I don't know how. She pretended not to believe me — she hinted at my indifference, she spoke about my joy at getting away from her so as to go elsewhere, and said a thousand other things, all of which had the effect of making me more of an ass than ever, and so I rushed headlong to destruction.”

Here Jack paused, and looked at me despairingly.

“Well?” said I.

“Well?” said he.

“Go on,” said I. “Make an end of it. Out with it! What next?”

Jack gave a groan.

“Well — you see — somehow — I went on — and before I knew it there I was offering to marry her on the spot — and — heavens and earth! Macrorie — wasn't it a sort of judgment on me — don't you think? — I'd got used to that sort of thing, you know — offering to marry people off hand, you know, and all that — and so it came natural on this occasion; and I suppose that was how it happened, that before I knew what I was doing I had pumped out a violent and vehement entreaty for her to be mine, at once. — Yes, at once — any time — that evening — the next day — the day after — no matter when. I'll be hanged if I can say now whether at that moment I was really sincere or not. I'm such a perfect and finished ass, that I really believe I meant what I said, and at that time I really wanted her to marry me. If that confounded chaplain that goes humbugging about there all the time had happened to be in the room, I'd have asked him to tie the knot on the spot. Yes, I'll be hanged if I wouldn't! His not being there is the only reason, I believe, why the knot wasn't tied. In that case I'd now be Mr. Finnimore — no, by Jove — what rot! — I mean I'd now be her husband, and she'd be Mrs. Randolph — confound her!”

Jack again relapsed into silence. His confession was a difficult task for him, and it came hard. It was given piecemeal, like the confession of a murderer on the day before his execution, when his desire to confess struggles with his unwillingness to recall the particulars of an abhorrent deed, and when after giving one fact he delays and falters, and lapses into long silence before he is willing or able to give another.

“Well, after that,” he resumed, at last, “I was fairly in for it — no hope, no going back — no escapes — trapped, my boy — nabbed — gone in forever — head over heels, and all the rest of it. The widow was affected by my vehemence, as a matter of course — she stammered — she hesitated, and of course, being an ass, I was only made more vehement by all that sort of thing, you know. So I urged her, and pressed her, and then, before I knew what I was about, I found her coyly granting my insane request to name the day.”

“Oh, Jack! Jack! Jack!” I exclaimed.

“Go on,” said he. “Haven't you some thing more to say? Pitch in. Give it to me hot and heavy. You don't seem to be altogether equal to the occasion, Macrorie. Why don't you hit hard?”

“Can't do it,” said. I. “I'm knocked down myself. Wait, and I'll come to time. But don't be too hard on a fellow. Be reasonable. I want to take breath.”

“Name the day! name the day! name the day!” continued Jack, ringing the changes on the words, “name the day! By Jove! See here, Macrorie — can't you get a doctor's certificate for me and have me quietly put in the lunatic asylum before that day comes?”

“That's not a bad idea,” said I. “It might be managed. It's worth thinking about, at any rate.”

“Wild!” said Jack, “mad as a March hare, or a hatter, or any other thing of that sort — ungovernable — unmanageable, devoid of all sense and reason — what more do you want? If I am not a lunatic, who is? That's what I want to know.”

“There's a great deal of reason in that,” said I, gravely.

“No there isn't,” said Jack, pettishly. “It's all nonsense. I tell you I'm a madman, a lunatic, an idiot, any thing else. I don't quite need a strait-jacket as yet, but I tell you I do need the seclusion of a comfortable lunatic asylum. I only stipulate for an occasional drop of beer, and a whiff or two at odd times. Don't you think I can manage it?”

“It might be worth trying,” said I. “But trot on, old fellow.”

Jack, thus recalled to himself, gave another very heavy sigh.

“Where was I?” said he. “Oh, about naming the day. Well, I'll be hanged if she didn't do it. She did name the day. And what day do you think it was that she named? What day! Good Heavens, Macrorie! Only think of it. What do you happen to have to say, now, for instance, to the 20th of June? Hey? What do you say to next Tuesday? Tuesday, the 20th of June! Next Tuesday! Only think of it. Mad! I should rather think so.”

I had nothing to say, and so I said nothing.

At this stage of the proceedings Jack filled a pipe, and began smoking savagely, throwing out the puffs of smoke fast and furious. Both of us sat in silence, involved in deep and anxious thought — I for him, he for himself.

At last he spoke.

“That's all very well,” said he, putting down the pipe, “but I haven't yet told you the worst.”

“The worst?”

“Yes; there's some thing more to be told — some thing which has brought me to this. I'm not the fellow I was. It isn't the widow; it's some thing else. It's —

“It's
Louie!” said Jack again, after a pause. “That's the ‘hinc illae lachrymae' of it, as the Latin grammar has it.”

“Louie?” I repeated.

“Yes, Louie,” said Jack, sadly and solemnly.

I said nothing. I saw that some thing more was coming, which would afford the true key to Jack's despair. So I waited in silence till it should come.

“As for the widow herself,” said Jack, meditatively, “she isn't a bad lot, and, if it hadn't been for Louie, I should have taken all this as an indication of Providence that my life was to be lived out under her guidance; but then the mischief of it is, there happens to be a Louie, and that Louie happens to be the very Louie that I can't manage to live without. You see there's no nonsense about this, old boy. You may remind me of Miss Phillips and Number Three, but I swear to you solemnly they were both nothing compared with Louie. Louie is the only one that ever has fairly taken me out of myself, and fastened herself to all my thoughts, and hopes, and desires. Louie is the only one that has ever chained me to her in such a way that I never wished to leave her for anybody else. Louie! why, ever since I've known her, all the rest of the world and of womankind has been nothing, and, beside her, it all sank into insignificance. There you have it! That's the way I feel about Louie. These other scrapes of mine — what are they? Bosh and nonsense, the absurdities of a silly boy! But Louie! why, Macrorie, I swear to you that she has twined herself around me so that the thought of her has changed me from a calf of a boy into a man. Now I know it all. Now I understand why I followed her up so close. Now, now, and now, when I know it all, it is all too late! By Jove, I tell you what it is, I've talked like a fool about suicide, but I swear I've been so near it this last week that it's not a thing to laugh at.”

And Jack looked at me with such a wild face and such fierce eyes that I began to think of the long-talked-of head-stone of Anderson's as a possibility which was not so very remote, after all.

“I'll tell you all about it,” said he. “It's a relief. I feel a good deal better already after what I have said.

“You see,” said he, after a pause, in which his frown grew darker, and his eyes were fixed on vacancy,— “you see, that evening I stayed a little later than usual with the widow. At last I hurried off. The deed was done, and the thought of this made every nerve tingle within me. I hurried off to see Louie. What the mischief did I want of Louie? you may ask. My only answer is: I wanted her because I wanted her. No day was complete without her. I've been living on the sight of her face and the sound of her voice for the past two months and more, and never fairly knew it until this last week, when it has all become plain to me. So I hurried off to Louie, because I had to do so — because every day had to be completed by the sight of her.

“I reached the house somewhat later than usual. People were there. I must have looked different from usual. I know I was very silent, and I must have acted queer, you know. But they were all talking, and playing, and laughing, and none of them took any particular notice. And so at last I drifted off toward Louie, as usual. She was expecting me. I knew that. She always expects me. But this time I saw she was looking at me with a very queer expression. She saw some thing unusual in my face. Naturally enough. I felt as though I had committed a murder. And so I had. I had murdered my hope — my love — my darling — my only life and joy. I'm not humbugging, Macrorie — don't chaff, for Heaven's sake!”

I wasn't chaffing, and had no idea of such a thing. I was simply listening, with a very painful sympathy with Jack's evident emotion.

“We were apart from the others,” he continued, in a tremulous voice. “She looked at me, and I looked at her. I saw trouble in her face, and she saw trouble in mine. So we sat. We were silent for some time. No nonsense now. No laughter. No more teasing and coaxing. Poor little Louie! How distressed she looked! Where was her sweet smile now? Where was her laughing voice? Where was her bright, animated face — her sparkling eyes — her fun — her merriment — her chaff? Poor little Louie!”

And Jack's voice died away into a moan of grief.

But he rallied again, and went on:

“She asked me what was the matter. I told her — nothing. But she was sure that some thing had happened, and begged me to tell her. So I told her all. And her face, as I told her, turned as white as marble. She seemed to grow rigid where she sat. And, as I ended, she bent down her head — and she pressed her hand to her forehead — and then she gave me an awful look — a look which will haunt me to my dying day — and then — and then — then — she — she burst into tears — and, oh, Macrorie — oh, how she cried!”

And Jack, having stammered out this, gave way completely, and, burying his face in his hands, he sobbed aloud.

Then followed a long, long silence.

At last Jack roused himself.

“You see, Macrorie,” he continued, “I had been acting like the devil to her. All her chaff, and nonsense, and laughter, had been a mask. Oh, Louie! She had grown fond of me — poor miserable devil that I am — and this is the end of it all!

“She got away,” said Jack, after another long silence — “she got away somehow; and, after she had gone, I sat for a while, feeling like a man who has died and got into another world. Paralyzed, bewildered — take any word you like, and it will not express what I was. I got off somehow — I don't know how — and here I am. I haven't seen her since.

“I got away,” he continued, throwing back his head, and looking vacantly at the ceiling — “I got away, and came here, and the next day I got a letter about my uncle's death and my legacy. I had no sorrow for my poor dear old uncle, and no joy over my fortune. I had no thought for any thing but Louie. Seven thousand a year, or ten thousand, or a hundred thousand, whatever it might be, it amounts to nothing. What I have gained is nothing to what I have lost. I'd give it all for Louie. I'd give it all to undo what has been done. I'd give it all, by Heaven, for one more sight of her! But that sight of her I can never have. I dare not go near the house. I am afraid to hear about her. My legacy! I wish it were at the bottom of the Atlantic. What is it all to me, if I have to give up Louie forever? And that's what it is!”

There was no exaggeration in all this. That was evident. Jack's misery was real, and was manifest in his pale face and general change of manner. This accounted for it all. This was the blow that had struck him down. All his other troubles had been laughable compared with this. But from this he could not rally. Nor, for my part, did I know of any consolation that could be offered. Now, for the first time, I saw the true nature of his sentiments toward Louie, and learned from him the sentiments of that poor little thing toward him. It was the old story. They had been altogether too much with one another. They had been great friends, and all that sort of thing. Louie had teased and given good advice. Jack had sought consolation for all his troubles. And now — lo and behold! — in one moment each had made the awful discovery that their supposed friendship was some thing far more tender and far-reaching.

“I'll never see her again!” sighed Jack.

“Who?” said I. “The widow?”

“The widow!” exclaimed Jack, contemptuously, “no — poor little Louie!”

“But you'll see the widow?”

“Oh, yes,” said Jack, dryly. “I'll have to be there.”

“Why not kick it all up, and go home on leave of absence?”

Jack shook his head despairingly.

“No chance,” he muttered — “not a ghost of a one. My sentence is pronounced; I must go to execution. It's my own doing, too. I've given my own word.”

“Next Tuesday?”

“Next Tuesday.”

“Where?”

“St. Malachi's.”

“Oh, it will be at church, then?”

“Yes.”

“Who's the parson?”

“Oh, old Fletcher.”

“At what time?”

“Twelve; and see here, Macrorie, you'll stand by a fellow — of course — won't you? see me off — you know — adjust the noose, watch the drop fall — and see poor Jack Randolph launched into — matrimony!”

“Oh, of course.”

Silence followed, and soon I took my, departure, leaving Jack to his meditations and his despair.