Lady of the Ice (3 page)

At
that astounding piece of intelligence, I sat dumb and stared fixedly at Jack for the space of half an hour. He regarded me with a mournful smile. At last my feelings found expression in a long, solemn, thoughtful, anxious, troubled, and perplexed whistle.

I could think of only one thing. It was a circumstance which Jack had confided to me as his bosom-friend. Although he had confided the same thing to at least a hundred other bosom-friends, and I knew it, yet, at the same time, the knowledge of this did not make the secret any the less a confidential one; and I had accordingly guarded it like my heart's blood, and all that sort of thing, you know. Nor would I even now, divulge that secret, were it not for the fact that the cause for secrecy is removed. The circumstance was this: About a year before, we had been stationed at Fredericton, in the Province of New Brunswick. Jack had met there a young lady from St. Andrews, named Miss Phillips, to whom he had devoted himself with his usual ardor. During a sentimental sleigh-ride he had confessed his love, and had engaged himself to her; and, since his arrival at Quebec, he had corresponded with her very faithfully. He considered himself as destined by Fate to become the husband of Miss Phillips at some time in the dim future, and, the only marriage before him that I could think of was this. Still I could not understand why it had come upon him so suddenly, or why, if it did come, he should so collapse under the pressure of his doom.

“Well,” said I, after I had rallied somewhat, “I didn't think it was to come off so soon. Some luck has turned up, I suppose.”

“Luck!” repeated Jack, with an indescribable accent.

“I assure you, though I've never had the pleasure of seeing Miss Phillips, yet, from your description, I admire her quite fervently, and congratulate you from the bottom of my heart.”

“Miss Phillips!” repeated Jack, with a groan.

“What's the matter, old chap?”

“It isn't — her!” faltered Jack.

“What!”

“She'll have to wear the willow.”

“You haven't broken with her — have you?” I asked.

“She'll have to forgive and forget, and all that sort of thing. If it was Miss Phillips, I wouldn't be so confoundedly cut up about it.”

“Why — what is it? who is it? and what do you mean?”

Jack looked at me. Then he looked down, and frowned. Then he looked at me again; and then he said, slowly, and with a powerful effort:

Had
a bombshell burst — but I forbear. That comparison is, I believe, somewhat hackneyed. The reader will therefore be good enough to appropriate the point of it, and understand that the shock of this intelligence was so overpowering that I was again rendered speechless.

“You see,” said Jack, after a long and painful silence, “it all originated out of an infernal mistake. Not that I ought to be sorry for it, though. Mrs. Finnimore, of course, is a deuced fine woman. I've been round there ever so long, and seen ever so much of her, and all that sort of thing, you know. Oh, yes,” he added, dismally; “I ought to be glad, and, of course, I'm a deuced lucky fellow, and all that; but — ”

He paused, and an expressive silence followed that “but.”

“Well, how about the mistake?” I asked.

“Why, I'll tell you. It was that confounded party at Doane's. You know what a favorite of mine little Louie Berton is — the best little thing that ever breathed, the prettiest, the — full of fun, too. Well, we're awfully thick, you know; and she chaffed me all the evening about my engagement with Miss Phillips. She had heard all about it, and is crazy to find out whether it's going on yet or not. We had great fun — she chaffing and questioning, and I trying to fight her off. Well, the dancing was going on, and I'd been separated from her for some time, and was trying to find her again, and I saw some one standing in a recess of one of the windows, with a dress that was exactly like Louie's. Her back was turned to me, and the curtains half concealed her. I felt sure that it was Louie. So I sauntered up, and stood for a moment or two behind her. She was looking out of the window; one hand was on the ledge, and the other was by her side, half behind her. I don't know what got into me, but I seized her hand, and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Well, you know, I expected that it would be snatched away at once. I felt immediately an awful horror at my indiscretion, and would have given the world not to have done it. I expected to see Louie's flashing eyes hurling indignant fire at me, and all that. But the hand didn't move from mine at all!”

Jack uttered this last sentence with the doleful accents of a deeply-injured man — such an accent as one would employ in telling of a shameful trick practised upon his innocence.

“It lay in mine,” he continued. “There it was; I had seized it; I had it; I held it; I had squeezed it; and — good Lord! — Macrorie, what was I to do? I'll tell you what I did — I squeezed it again, I thought that now it would go; but it wouldn't. Well, I tried it again. No go. Once more — and once again. On my soul, Macrorie, it still lay in mine. I cannot tell you what thoughts I had. It seemed like indelicacy. It was a bitter thing to associate indelicacy with one like little Louie; but — hang it! — there was the awful fact. Suddenly, the thought struck me that the hand was larger than Louie's. At that thought, a ghastly sensation came over me; and, just at that moment, the lady herself turned her face, blushing, arch, with a mischievous smile. To my consternation, and to my — well, yes — to my horror, I saw Mrs. Finnimore!”

“Good Lord!” I exclaimed.

“A stronger expression would fail to do justice to the occasion,” said Jack, helping himself to a glass of beer. “For my part, the thrill of unspeakable horror that was imparted by that shock is still strong within me. There, my boy, you have my story. I leave the rest to your imagination.”

“The rest? Why, do you mean to say that this is all?”

“All!” cried Jack, with a wild laugh. “All? My dear boy, it is only the faint beginning; but it implies all the rest.”

“What did she say?” I asked, meekly.

“Say — say? What! After — well, never mind. Hang it! Don't drive me into particulars. Don't you see? Why, there I was. I had made an assault, broken through the enemy's lines, thought I was carrying every thing before me, when suddenly I found myself confronted, not by an inferior force, but by an overwhelming superiority of numbers — horse, foot, and artillery, marines, and masked batteries — yes, and baggage-wagons — all assaulting me in front, in flank, and in the rear. Pooh!”

“Don't talk shop, Jack.”

“Shop? Will you be kind enough to suggest some ordinary figure of speech that will give an idea of my situation? Plain language is quite useless. At least, I find it so.”

“But, at any rate, what did she say?”

“Why,” answered Jack, in a more dismal voice than ever, “she said, ‘Ah, Jack!' — she called me Jack! — ‘Ah, Jack, I saw you looking for me. I knew you would come after me.'”

“Good Heavens!” I cried, “and what did you say?”

“Say? Heavens and earth, man! what could I say? Wasn't I a gentleman? Wasn't she a lady? Hadn't I forced her to commit herself? Didn't I have to assume the responsibility and pocket the consequences? Say! Oh, Macrorie! what is the use of imagination, if a man will not exercise it?”

“And so you're in for it?” said I, after a pause.

“To the depth of several miles,” said Jack, relighting his pipe, which in the energy of his narrative had gone out.

“And you don't think of trying to back out?”

“I don't see my way. Then, again, you must know that I've been trying to see if it wouldn't be the wisest thing for me to make the best of my situation.”

“Certainly it would, if you cannot possibly get out of it.”

“But, you see, for a fellow like me it may be best not to get out of it. You see, after all, I like her very well. She's an awfully fine woman — splendid action. I've been round there ever so much; we've always been deuced thick; and she's got a kind of way with her that a fellow like me can't resist. And then, it's time for me to begin to think of settling down. I'm getting awfully old. I'll be twenty-three next August. And then, you know, I'm so deuced hard up. I've got to the end of my rope, and you are aware that the sheriff is beginning to be familiar with my name. Yes, I think for the credit of the regiment I'd better take the widow. She's got thirty thousand pounds, at least.”

“And a very nice face and figure along with it,” said I, encouragingly.

“That's a fact, or else I could never have mistaken her for poor little Louie, and this wouldn't have happened. But, if it had only been little Louie — well, well; I suppose it must be, and perhaps it's the best thing.”

“If it had been Louie,” said I, with new efforts at encouragement, “it wouldn't have been any better for you.”

“No; that's a fact. You see, I was never so much bothered in my life. I don't mind an ordinary scrape; but I can't exactly see my way out of this.”

“You'll have to break the news to Miss Phillips.”

“And that's not the worst,” said Jack, with a sigh that was like a groan.

“Not the worst? What can be worse than that?”

“My dear boy, you have not begun to see even the outside of the peculiarly complicated nature of my present situation. There are other circumstances to which all these may be playfully represented as a joke.”

“Well, that is certainly a strong way of putting it.”

“Couldn't draw it mild — such a situation can only be painted in strong colors. I'll tell you in general terms what it is. I can't go into particulars. You know all about my engagement to Miss Phillips. I'm awfully fond of her — give my right hand to win hers, and all that sort of thing, you know. Well, this is going to be hard on her, of course, poor thing! especially as my last letters have been more tender than common. But, old chap, that's all nothing. There's another lady in the case!”

“What!” I cried, more astonished than ever.

Jack looked at me earnestly, and said, slowly and solemnly:

“
Another
lady?” I faltered.

“Another lady!” said Jack.

“Oh!” said I.

“Yes,” said he.

“An engagement, too!”

“An engagement? I should think so — and a double-barrelled one, too. An engagement — why, my dear fellow, an engagement's nothing at all compared with this. This is some thing infinitely worse than the affair with Louie, or Miss Phillips, or even the widow. It's a bad case — yes — an infernally bad case — and I don't see but that I'll have to throw up the widow after all.”

“It must be a bad case, if it's infinitely worse than an engagement, as you say is. Why, man, it must be nothing less than actual marriage. Is that what you're driving at? It must be. So you're a married man, are you?”

“No, not just that, not quite — as yet — but the very next thing to it.”

“Well, Jack, I'm sorry for you, and all that I can say is, that it is a pity that this isn't Utah. Being Canada, however, and a civilized country, I can't see for the life of me how you'll ever manage to pull through.”

Jack sighed dolefully.

“To tell the truth,” said he, “it's this last one that gives me my only trouble. I'd marry the widow, settle up some way with Miss Phillips, smother my shame, and pass the remainder of my life in peaceful obscurity, if it were not for her.”

“You mean by her, the lady whose name you don't mention.”

“Whose name I don't mention, nor intend to,” said Jack, gravely. “Her case is so peculiar that it cannot be classed with the others. I never breathed a word about it to anybody, though it's been going on for six or eight months.”

Jack spoke with such earnestness that I perceived the subject to be too grave a one in his estimation to be trifled with. A frown came over his face, and he once more eased his mind by sending forth heavy clouds of smoke, as though he would thus throw off the clouds of melancholy that had gathered deep and dark over his soul.

“I'll make a clean breast of it, old chap,” said he, at length, with a very heavy sigh. “It's a bad business from beginning to end.”

“You see,” said he, after a long pause, in which he seemed to be collecting his thoughts — “it began last year — the time I went to New York, you know. She went on at the same time. She had nobody with her but a deaf old party, and got into some row at the station about her luggage. I helped her out of it, and sat by her side all the way. At New York I kept up the acquaintance. I came back with them, that is to say, with her, and the deaf old party, you know, and by the time we reached Quebec again we understood one another.

“I couldn't help it — I'll be hanged if I could! You see, Macrorie, it wasn't an ordinary case. She was the loveliest little girl I ever saw, and I found myself awfully fond of her in no time. I soon saw that she was fond of me too. All my other affairs were a joke to this. I wanted to marry her in New York, but the thought of my debts frightened me out of that, and so I put it off. I half wish now I hadn't been so confoundedly prudent. Perhaps it is best, though. Still, I don't know. Better be the wife of a poor devil, than have one's heart broken by a mean devil. Heigho!”

HEIGHO are the letters which are usually employed to represent a sigh. I use them in accordance with the customs of the literary world.

“Well,” resumed Jack, “after my return I called on her, and repeated my call several times. She was all that could be desired, but her father was different. I found him rather chilly, and not at all inclined to receive me with that joyous hospitality which my various merits deserved. The young lady herself seemed sad. I found out, at last, that the old gentleman amused himself with badgering her about me; and finally she told me, with tears, that her father requested me to visit that house no more. Well, at that I was somewhat taken aback; but, nevertheless, I determined to wait till the old gentleman himself should speak. You know my peculiar coolness, old chap, that which you and the rest call my happy audacity; and you may believe that it was all needed under such circumstances as these. I went to the house twice after that. Each time my little girl was half laughing with joy, half crying with fear at seeing me; and each time she urged me to keep away. She said we could write to one another. But letter-writing wasn't in my line. So after trying in vain to obey her, I went once more in desperation to explain matters.

“Instead of seeing her, I found the old fellow himself. He was simply white, hot with rage — not at all noisy, or declamatory, or vulgar — but cool, cutting, and altogether terrific. He alluded to my gentlemanly conduct in forcing myself where I had been ordered off; and informed me that if I came again he would be under the unpleasant necessity of using a horsewhip. That, of course, made me savage. I pitched into him pretty well, and gave it to him hot and heavy, but, hang it! I'm no match for fellows of that sort; he kept so cool, you know, while I was furious — and the long and the short of it is, that I had to retire in disorder, vowing on him some mysterious vengeance or other, which I have never been able to carry out.

“The next day I got a letter from her. It was awfully sad, blotted with tears, and all that. She implored me to write her, told me she couldn't see me, spoke about her father's cruelty and persecution — and ever so many other things not necessary to mention. Well, I wrote back, and she answered my letter, and so we got into the way of a correspondence which we kept up at a perfectly furious rate. It came hard on me, of course, for I'm not much at a pen; my letters were short, as you may suppose, but then they were full of point, and what matters quantity so long as you have quality, you know? Her letters, however, poor little darling, were long and eloquent, and full of a kind of mixture of love, hope, and despair. At first I thought that I should grow reconciled to my situation in the course of time, but, instead of that, it grew worse every day. I tried to forget all about her, but without success. The fact is, I chafed under the restraint that was on me, and perhaps it was that which was the worst of all. I dare say now if I'd only been in some other place — in Montreal, for instance — I wouldn't have had such a tough time of it, and might gradually have forgotten about her; but the mischief of it was, I was here — in Quebec — close by her, you may say, and yet I was forbidden the house. I had been insulted and threatened. This, of course, only made matters worse, and the end of it was, I thought of nothing else. My very efforts to get rid of the bother only made it a dozen times worse. I flung myself into ladies' society with my usual ardor, only worse; committed myself right and left, and seemed to be a model of a gay Lothario. Little did they suspect that under a smiling face I concealed a heart of ashes — yes, old boy — ashes! as I'm a living sinner. You see, all the time, I was maddened at that miserable old scoundrel who wouldn't let me visit his daughter — me, Jack Randolph, an officer, and a gentleman, and, what is more, a Bobtail! Why, my very uniform should have been a guarantee for my honorable conduct. Then, again, in addition to this, I hankered after her, you know, most awfully. At last I couldn't stand it any longer, so I wrote her a letter. It was only yesterday. And now, old chap, what do you think I wrote?”

“I don't know, I'm sure,” said I, mistily, “a declaration of love, perhaps — ”

“A declaration of love? pooh!” said Jack, “as if I had ever written any thing else than that. Why, all my letters were nothing else. No, my boy — this letter was very different. In the first place, I told her that I was desperate — then I assured her that I couldn't live this way any longer, and I concluded with a proposal as desperate as my situation. And what do you think my proposal was?”

“Proposal? Why, marriage, of course; there is only one kind of proposal possible under such circumstances. But still that's not much more than an engagement, dear boy, for an engagement means only the same thing, namely, marriage.”

“Oh, but this was far stronger — it was different, I can tell you, from any mere proposal of marriage. What do you think it was? Guess.”

“Can't. Haven't an idea.”

“Well,” said Jack —