Once within my own room, I made myself comfortable in my own quiet way, viz.:
1. A roaring, red-hot fire.
2. Curtains close drawn.
3. Sofa pulled up beside said fire.
4. Table beside sofa.
5. Hot water.
6. Whiskey.
7. Tobacco.
8. Pipes.
9. Fragrant aromatic steam.
10. Sugar.
11. Tumblers.
12. Various other things not necessary to mention, all of which contributed to throw over my perturbed spirit a certain divine calm.
Under such circumstances, while every moment brought forward some new sense of rest and tranquility, my mind wandered back in a kind of lazy reverie over the events of the past two days.
Once more I wandered over the crumbling ice; once more I floundered through the deep pools of water; once more I halted in front of that perilous ice-ridge, with my back to the driving storm and my eyes searching anxiously for a way of progress. The frowning cliff, with its flag floating out stiff in the tempest, the dim shore opposite, the dark horizon, the low moan of the river as it struggled against its icy burden, all these came back again. Then, through all this, I rushed forward, scrambling over the ice-ridge, reaching the opposite plain to hurry forward to the shore. Then came the rushing sleigh, the recoiling horse, the swift retreat, the mad race along the brink of the icy edge, the terrible plunge into the deep, dark water. Then came the wild, half-human shriek of the drowning horse, and the sleigh with its despairing freight drifting down toward me. Through all this there broke forth amid the clouds of that reverie, the vision of that pale, agonized face, with its white lips and imploring eyes — the face of her whom I had saved.
So I had saved her, had I? Yes, there was no doubt of that. Never would I lose the memory of that unparalleled journey to Montmorency Falls, as I toiled on, dragging with me that frail, fainting, despairing companion. I had sustained her; I had cheered her; I had stimulated her; and, finally, at that supreme moment, when she fell down in sight of the goal, I had put forth the last vestige of my own strength in bearing her to a place of safety.
And so she had left me.
Left me — without a word — without a hint — without the remotest sign of any thing like recognition, not to speak of gratitude!
Pas un mot!
Should I ever see her again?
This question, which was very natural under the circumstances, caused me to make an effort to recall the features of my late companion. Strange to say, my effort was not particularly successful. A white, agonized face was all that I remembered, and afterward a white, senseless face, belonging to a prostrate figure, which I was trying to raise. This was all. What that face might look like in repose, I found it impossible to conjecture.
And now here was a ridiculous and mortifying fact. I found myself haunted by this white face and these despairing eyes, yet for the life of me I could not reduce that face to a natural expression so as to learn what it might look like in common life. Should I know her again if I met her? I could not say. Would she know me? I could not answer that. Should I ever be able to find her? How could I tell?
Baffled and utterly at a loss what to do toward getting the identity of the subject of my thoughts, I wandered off into various moods. First I became cynical, but, as I was altogether too comfortable to be morose, my cynicism was of a good-natured character. Then I made merry over my own mishaps and misadventures. Then I reflected, in a lofty, philosophic frame of mind, upon the faithlessness of woman, and, passing from this into metaphysics, I soon boozed off into a gentle, a peaceful, and a very consoling doze. When I awoke, it was morning, and I concluded to go to bed.
On the morrow, at no matter what o’clock, I had just finished breakfast, when I heard a well-known footstep, and Jack Randolph burst in upon me in his usual style.
“Well, old chap,” he cried, “where the mischief have you been for the last two days, and what have you been doing with yourself? I heard that you got back from Point Levi — though how the deuce you did it I can’t imagine — and that you’d gone off on horseback nobody knew where. I’ve been here fifty times since I saw you last. Tell you what, Macrorie, it wasn’t fair to me to give me the slip this way, when you knew my delicate position, and all that. I can’t spare you for a single day. I need your advice. Look here, old fellow, I’ve got a letter.”
And saying this, Jack drew a letter from his pocket, with a grave face, and opened it.
So taken up was Jack with his own affairs, that he did not think of inquiring into the reasons of my prolonged absence. For my part, I listened to him in a dreamy way, and, when he drew out the letter, it was only with a strong effort that I was able to conjecture what it might be. So much had passed since I had seen him that our last conversation had become very dim and indistinct in my memory.
“Oh,” said I, at last, as I began to recall the past, “the letter — hm — ah — the — the widow. Oh, yes, I understand.”
Jack looked at me in surprise.
“The widow?” said he. “Pooh, man! what are you talking about? Are you crazy? This is from her — from Miss — that is — from the other one, you know.”
“Oh, yes,” said I, confusedly. “True — I remember. Oh, yes — Miss Phillips.”
“Miss Phillips!” cried Jack. “Hang it, man, what’s the matter with you today? Haven’t I told you all about it? Didn’t I tell you what I wouldn’t breathe to another soul — that is, excepting two or three? — and now, when I come to you at the crisis of my fate, you forget all about it.”
“Nonsense!” said I. “The fact is, I went to bed very late, and am scarcely awake yet. Go on, old boy, I’m all right. Well, what does she say?”
“I’ll be hanged if you know what you’re talking about,” said Jack, pettishly.
“Nonsense! I’m all right now; go on.”
“You don’t know who this letter is from.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Who is it?” said Jack, watching me with jealous scrutiny.
“Why,” said I, “it’s that other one — the — hang it! I don’t know her name, so I’ll call her Number Three, or Number Four, whichever you like.”
“You’re a cool hand, any way,” said Jack, sulkily. “Is this the way you take a matter of life and death?”
“Life and death?” I repeated.
“Life and death!” said Jack. “Yes, life and death. Why, see here, Macrorie, I’ll be hanged if I don’t believe that you’ve forgotten every word I told you about my scrape. If that’s the case, all I can say is, that I’m not the man to force my confidences where they are so very unimportant.”
And Jack made a move toward the door. “Stop, Jack,” said I. “The fact is, I’ve been queer for a couple of days. I had a beastly time on the river. Talk about life and death! Why, man, it was the narrowest scratch with me you ever saw. I didn’t go to Point Levi at all.”
“The deuce you didn’t!”
“No; I pulled up at Montmorency.”
“The deuce you did! How’s that?”
“Oh, never mind; I’ll tell you some other time. At any rate, if I seem dazed or confused, don’t notice it. I’m coming round. I’ll only say this, that I’ve lost a little of my memory, and am glad I didn’t lose my life. But go on. I’m up to it now, Jack. You wrote to Number Three, proposing to elope, and were staking your existence on her answer. You wished me to order a head-stone for you at Anderson’s, four feet by eighteen inches, with nothing on it but the name and date, and not a word about the virtues, et cetera. There, you see, my memory is all right at last. And now, old boy, what does she say? When did you get it?”
“I got it this morning,” said Jack. “It was a long delay. She is always prompt. Some thing must have happened to delay her. I was getting quite wild, and would have put an end
to myself if it hadn’t been for Louie. And then, you know, the widow’s getting to be a bit of a bore. Look here — what do you think of my selling out, buying a farm in Minnesota, and taking little Louie there?”
“What!” I cried. “Look here, Jack, whatever you do, don’t, for Heaven’s sake, get poor little Louie entangled in your affairs.”
“Oh, don’t you fret,” said Jack, dolefully. “No fear about her. She’s all right, so far. — But, see here, there’s the letter.”
And saying this, he tossed over to me the letter from “Number Three,” and, filling a pipe, began smoking vigorously.
The letter was a singular one. It was highly romantic, and full of devotion. The writer, however, declined to accept of Jack’s proposition. She pleaded her father; she couldn’t leave him. She implored Jack to wait, and finally subscribed herself his till death. But the name which she signed was “Stella,” and nothing more; and this being evidently a pet name or a nom de plume, threw no light whatever upon her real personality.
“Well,” said Jack, after I had read it over about nine times, “what do you think of that?”
“It gives you some reprieve, at any rate,” said I.
“Reprieve?” said Jack. “I don’t think it’s the sort of letter that a girl should write to a man who told her that he was going to blow his brains out on her doorstep. It doesn’t seem to be altogether the right sort of thing under the circumstances.”
“Why, confound it, man, isn’t this the very letter that you wanted to get? You didn’t really want to run away with her? You said so yourself.”
“Oh, that’s all right; but a fellow likes to be appreciated.”
“So, after all, you wanted her to elope with you?”
“Well, not that, exactly. At the same time, I didn’t want a point-blank refusal.”
“You ought to be glad she showed so much sense. It’s all the better for you. It is an additional help to you in your difficulties.”
“I don’t see how it helps me,” said Jack, in a kind of growl. “I don’t see why she refused to run off with a fellow.”
Now such was the perversity of Jack that he actually felt ill-natured about this letter, although it was the very thing that he knew was best for him. He was certainly relieved from one of his many difficulties, but at the same time he was vexed and mortified at this rejection of his proposal. And he dwelt upon his disappointment until at length he brought himself to believe that “Number Three’s” letter was some thing like a personal slight, if not an insult.
He dropped in again toward evening.
“Macrorie,” said he, “there’s one place where I always find sympathy. What do you say, old fellow, to going this evening to —
Chapter 10
“BERTON’S? — BEST PLACE IN THE TOWN. — GIRLS ALWAYS GLAD TO SEE A FELLOW. — PLENTY OF CHAT, AND LOTS OF FUN. — NO END OF LARKS, YOU KNOW, AND ALL THAT SORT OF THING.”
In order to get rid of my vexation, mortification, humiliation, and general aggravation, I allowed Jack to persuade me to go that evening to Colonel Berton’s. Not that it needed much persuasion. On the contrary, it was a favorite resort of mine. Both of us were greatly addicted to dropping in upon that hospitable and fascinating household. The girls were among the most lively and genial good fellows that girls could ever be. Old Berton had retired from the army with enough fortune of his own to live in good style, and his girls had it all their own way. They were essentially of the military order. They had all been brought up, so to speak, in the army, and their world did not extend beyond it. There were three of them — Laura, the eldest, beautiful, intelligent, and accomplished, with a strong leaning toward Ritualism; Nina, innocent, childish, and kitten-like; and Louie, the universal favorite, absurd, whimsical, fantastic, a desperate tease, and as pretty and graceful as it is possible for any girl to be. An aunt did the maternal for them, kept house, chaperoned, duennaed, and generally overlooked them. The colonel himself was a fine specimen of the vieux militaire. He loved to talk of the life which he had left behind, and fight his battles over again, and all his thoughts were in the army. But the girls were, of course, the one attraction in his hospitable house. The best of it was, they were all so accustomed to homage, that even the most desperate attentions left them heart-whole, in maiden meditation, fancy free. No danger of overflown sentiment with them. No danger of blighted affections or broken hearts. No nonsense there, my boy. All fair, and pleasant, and open, and above-board, you know. Clear, honest eyes, that looked frankly into yours; fresh, youthful, faces; lithe, elastic figures; merry laughs; sweet smiles; soft, kindly voices, and all that sort of thing. In short, three as kind, gentle, honest, sound, pure, and healthy hearts as ever beat.
At “Berton’s.”
The very atmosphere of this delightful house was soothing, and the presence of these congenial spirits brought a balm to each of us, which healed our wounded hearts. In five minutes Jack was far away out of sight of all his troubles — and in five minutes more I had forgotten all about my late adventure, and the sorrows that had resulted from it.
After a time, Jack gravitated toward Louie, leaving me with Laura, talking mediaevalism. Louie was evidently taking Jack to task, and very energetically too. Fragments of their conversation reached my ears from time to time. She had heard some thing about Mrs. Finnimore, but what it was, and whether she believed it or not, could not be perceived from what she said. Jack fought her off skilfully, and, at last, she made an attack from another quarter.
“Oh, Captain Randolph,” said she, “what a delightful addition we’re going to have to our Quebec society!”
“Ah!” said Jack, “what is that?”
“How very innocent! Just as if you are not the one who is most concerned.”
“I?”
“Of course. You. Next to me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Come, now, Captain Randolph, how very ridiculous to pretend to be so ignorant!”
“Ignorant?” said Jack, “ignorant is not the word. I am in Egyptian darkness, I assure you.”
“Egyptian darkness — Egyptian nonsense! Will it help you any if I tell you her name?”
“Her name! Whose name? What ‘her?’”
Louie laughed long and merrily.
“Well,” said she, at length, “for pure, perfect, utter, childlike innocence, commend me to Captain Randolph! And now, sir,” she resumed, “will you answer me one question?”
“Certainly — or one hundred thousand,”
“Well, what do you think of Miss Phillips?”
“I think she is a very delightful person,” said Jack, fluently — “the most delightful I have ever met with, present company excepted.”
“That is to be understood, of course; but what do you think of her coming to live here?”
“Coming to live here!”
“Yes, coming to live here,” repeated Louie, playfully imitating the tone of evident consternation with which Jack spoke.
“What! Miss Phillips?”
“Yes, Miss Phillips.”
“Here?”
“Certainly.”
“Not here in Quebec?”
“Yes, here in Quebec — but I must say that you have missed your calling in life. Why do you not go to New York and make your fortune as an actor? You must take part in our private theatricals the next time we have any.”
“I assure you,” said Jack, “I never was so astonished in my life.”
“How well you counterfeit!” said Louie; “never mind. Allow me to congratulate you. We’ll overlook the little piece of acting, and regard rather the delightful fact. Joined once more — ne’er to part — hand to hand — heart to heart — memories sweet — ne’er to fade — all my own — fairest maid! And then your delicious remembrances of Sissiboo.”
“Sissiboo?” gasped Jack.
“S
issiboo,” repeated Louie, with admirable gravity. “Her birth-place, and hence a sacred spot. She used to be called ‘the maid of Sissiboo.’ But, in choosing a place to live in, let me warn you against Sissiboo. Take some other place. You’ve been all over New Brunswick and Nova Scotia. Take Petitcodiac, or Washe Aemoak, or Shubenacadie, or Memramcook, or Rechebucto, or Chiputnecticook, or the Kennebecasis Valley. At the same time, I have my preferences for Piserinco, or Quaco.”
At all this, Jack seemed for a time completely overwhelmed, and sat listening to Louie with a sort of imbecile smile. Her allusion to Miss Phillips evidently troubled him, and, as to her coming to Quebec, he did not know what to say. Louie twitted him for some time longer, but at length he got her away into a corner, where he began a conversation in a low but very earnest tone, which, however, was sufficiently audible to make his remarks understood by all in the room.
And what was he saying?
He was disclaiming all intentions with regard to Miss Phillips.
And Louie was listening quietly!
Perhaps believing him!!
The scamp!!!
And now I noticed that Jack’s unhappy tendency to — well, to conciliate ladies — was in full swing.
Didn’t I see him, then and there, slyly try to take poor little Louie’s hand, utterly forgetful of the disastrous result of a former attempt on what he believed to be that same hand? Didn’t I see Louie civilly draw it away, and move her chair farther off from his? Didn’t I see him flush up and begin to utter apologies? Didn’t I hear Louie begin to talk of operas, and things in general; and soon after, didn’t I see her rise and come over to Laura, and Nina, and me, as we were playing dummy? Methinks I did. Oh, Louie! Oh, Jack! Is she destined to be Number Four! or, good Heavens! Number Forty? Why, the man’s mad! He engages himself to every girl he sees!
Lady of the Ice Page 7