Home again.
Jack was full of Louie.
“Such fun! such life! Did you ever see any thing like her?”
“But the widow, Jack?”
“Hang the widow!”
“Miss Phillips?”
“Bother Miss Phillips!”
“And Number Three?”
Jack’s face grew sombre, and he was silent for a time. At length a sudden thought seized him.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed, “I got a letter today, which I haven’t opened. Excuse me a moment, old chap.”
So saying, he pulled a letter from his pocket, opened it, and read it.
He told me the contents.
It was from Miss Phillips, and she told her dearest Jack that her father was about moving to Quebec to live.
Chapter 11
“MACRORIE, MY BOY, HAVE YOU BEEN TO ANDERSON’S YET?” — “NO.” — “WELL, THEN, I WANT YOU TO ATTEND TO THAT BUSINESS OF THE STONE TOMORROW. DON’T FORGET THE SIZE — FOUR FEET BY EIGHTEEN INCHES; AND NOTHING BUT THE NAME AND DATE. THE TIME’S COME AT LAST. THERE’S NO PLACE FOR ME BUT THE COLD GRAVE, WHERE THE PENSIVE PASSER-BY MAY DROP A TEAR OVER THE MOURNFUL FATE OF JACK RANDOLPH. AMEN. R. I. P.”
Such was the remarkable manner in which Jack Randolph accosted me, as he entered my room on the following day at about midnight. His face was more rueful than ever, and, what was more striking, his clothes and hair seemed neglected. This convinced me more than any thing that he had received some new blow, and that it had struck home.
“You seem hard hit, old man,” said I. “Where is it? Who is it?”
Jack groaned.
“Has Miss Phillips come?”
“No.”
“Is it the widow?”
“No.”
“Number Three?”
Jack shook his head
“Not duns?”
“No.”
“Then I give up.”
“It’s Louie,” said Jack, with an expression of face that was as near an approximation to what is called sheepishness as any thing I ever saw.
“Louie?” I repeated.
“Yes — ”
“What of her? What has she been doing? How is it possible? Good Heavens! you haven’t — ” I stopped at the fearful suspicion that came to me.
“Yes, I have!” said Jack, sulkily. “I know what you mean. I’ve proposed to her.”
I started up from the sofa on which I was lounging — my pipe dropped to the ground — a tumbler followed. I struck my clinched fist on the table.
“Randolph!” said I, “this is too much. Confound it, man! are you mad, or are you a villain? What the devil do you mean by trifling with the affections of that little girl? By Heavens! Jack Randolph, if you carry on this game with her, there’s not a man in the regiment that won’t join to crush you.”
“Pitch in,” said Jack quietly, looking at me at the same time with some thing like approval. “That’s the right sort of thing. That’s just what I’ve been saying to myself. I’ve been swearing like a trooper at myself all the way here. If there’s any one on earth that every fellow ought to stand up for, it’s little Louie. And now you see the reason why I want you to attend to that little affair of the gravestone.”
At Jack’s quiet tone, my excitement subsided. I picked up my pipe again, and thought it over.
“The fact is, Jack,” said I, after about ten minutes of profound smoking, “I think you’ll have to carry out that little plan of yours. Sell out as soon as you can, and take Louie with you to a farm in Minnesota.”
“Easier said than done,” said Jack, sententiously.
“Done? why, man, it’s easy enough. You can drop the other three, and retire from the scene. That’ll save Louie from coming to grief.”
“Yes; but it won’t make her come to Minnesota.”
“Why not? She’s just the girl to go anywhere with a fellow.”
“But not with Jack Randolph.”
“What humbug are you up to now? I don’t understand you.”
“So I see,” said Jack, dryly. “You take it for granted that because I proposed, Louie accepted. Whereas, that didn’t happen to be the case. I proposed, but Louie disposed of me pretty effectually.”
“Mittened?” cried I.
“Mittened!” said Jack, solemnly. “Hence the gravestone.”
“But how, in the name of wonder, did that happen?”
“Easily enough. Louie happens to have brains. That’s the shortest way to account for her refusal of my very valuable devotions. But I’ll tell you all about it, and, after that, we’ll decide about the headstone.”
“You see, I went up there this evening, and the other girls were off somewhere, and so Louie and I were alone. The aunt was in the room, but she soon dozed off. Well, we had great larks, no end of fun — she chaffing and twitting me about no end of things, and especially the widow; so, do you know, I told her I had a great mind to tell her how it happened; and excited her curiosity by saying it all originated in a mistake. This, of course, made her wild to know all about it, and so I at last told her the whole thing — the mistake, you know, about the hand, and all that — and my horror. Well, hang me if I didn’t think she’d go into fits. I never saw her laugh so much before. As soon as she could speak, she began to remind me of the approaching advent of Miss Phillips, and asked me what I was going to do. She didn’t appear to be at all struck by the fact that lay at the bottom of my disclosures; that it was her own hand that had caused the mischief, but went on at a wild rate about my approaching ‘sentimental seesaw,’ as she called it, when my whole time would have to be divided between my two fiancées. She remarked that the old proverb called man a pendulum between a smile and a tear, but that I was the first true case of a human pendulum which she had ever seen.
“Now the little scamp was so perfectly fascinating while she was teasing me, that I felt myself overcome with a desperate fondness for her; so, seeing that the old aunt was sound asleep, I blurted out all my feelings. I swore that she was the only — ”
“Oh, omit all that. I know — but what bosh to say to a sensible girl!”
“Well, you know, Louie held her handkerchief to her face, while I was speaking, and I — ass, dolt, and idiot that I was — felt convinced that she was crying. Her frame shook with convulsive shivers, that I took for repressed sobs, I saw the little hand that held the little white handkerchief to her face — the same slender little hand that was the cause of my scrape with Mrs. Finnimore — and, still continuing the confession of my love, I thought I would soothe her grief. I couldn’t help it. I was fairly carried away. I reached forward my hand, and tried to take hers, all the time saying no end of spooney things.
“But the moment I touched her hand, she rolled her chair back and snatched it away —
“And then she threw back her head —
“And then there came such a peal of musical laughter, that I swear it’s ringing in my ears yet.
“What made it worse was, not merely what she considered the fun of my proposal, but the additional thought that suddenly flashed upon her, that I had just now so absurdly mistaken her emotion. For, confound it all! as I reached out my hand, I said a lot of rubbish, and, among other things, implored her to let me wipe her tears. This was altogether too much. Wipe her tears! And, Heavens and earth, she was shaking to pieces all the time with nothing but laughter. Wipe her tears! Oh, Macrorie! Did you ever hear of such an ass?
“Well, you know she couldn’t get over it for ever so long, but laughed no end, while I sat utterly amazed at the extent to which I had made an ass of myself. However, she got over it at last.”
“‘Well,’ said I, ‘I hope you feel better.’”
“‘Thanks, yes; but don’t get into a temper. Will you promise to answer me one question?’”
“‘Certainly;
most happy. If you think it worth while to do any thing else but laugh at me, I ought to feel flattered.’”
“‘Now, that’s what I call temper, and you must be above such a thing. After all, I’m only a simple little girl, and you — that is, it was so awfully absurd.’
“And here she seemed about to burst forth afresh. But she didn’t.
“‘What I was going to ask,’ she began, in a very grave way, ‘what I was going to ask is this, If it is a fair question, how many of these little entanglements do you happen to have just now?’
“‘Oh, Louie!’ I began, in mournful and reproachful tones.
“‘Oh don’t, don’t,’” she cried, covering her face, “‘don’t begin; I can’t stand it. If you only knew how absurd you look when you are sentimental. You are always so funny, you know; and, when you try to be solemn, it looks so awfully ridiculous! Now, don’t — I really cannot stand it. Please — ple-e-e-e-e-ease don’t, like a good Captain Randolph.’
“At this she clasped her hands and looked at me with such a grotesque expression of mock entreaty, that I knocked under, and burst out laughing.
“She at once settled herself comfortably in her easy-chair.
“‘Now that’s what I call,’ said she, placidly, ‘a nice, good, sensible, old-fashioned Captain Randolph, that everybody loves, and in whose affairs all his innumerable friends take a deep interest. And now let me ask my question again: How many?’
“‘How many what?’ said I.”
“‘Oh, you know very well.’
“‘How can I know, when you won’t say what you mean?’
“‘How many entanglements?’
“‘Entanglements?’
“‘Yes. Engagements, if you wish me to be so very explicit.’
“‘What nonsense! Why you know all about it, and the cause — ’
“‘Ah, now, that is not frank; it isn’t friendly or honest,’ said the little witch. ‘Come, now. Are there as many as — as — fifty?’
“‘Nonsense!’
“‘Twenty, then?’
‘“How absurd!’
“‘Ten?’
“‘Of course not.’
“‘Five?’
“‘No.’
“‘Four?’
“‘Why, haven’t I told you all?’
“‘Four,’ she persisted.
“‘No —’
“‘Three, then — ’
“‘It isn’t fair,’ said I, ‘ to press a fellow this way.’
“‘Three?’ she repeated.
“I was silent. I’m not very quick, and was trying, in a dazed way, to turn it off.
“‘Three!’ she cried. ‘Three! I knew it. Oh, tell me all about it. Oh, do tell me! Oh, do — please tell me all. Oh, do, ple-e-e-e-ease tell me.’
“And then she began, and she teased and she coaxed, and coaxed and teased, until at last — ”
Jack hesitated.
“Well,” said I.
“Well,” said he.
“You didn’t really tell her,” said I.
“Yes, but I did,” said he.
“You didn’t — you couldn’t.”
“I’ll be hanged if I didn’t!”
“Not about Number Three?”
“Yes, Number Three,” said Jack, looking at me with a fixed and slightly stony stare.
Words were useless, and I sought expression for my feelings in the more emphatic whistle, which now was largely protracted.
“And how did she take it?” I asked, at length, as soon as I found voice to speak.
“As usual. Teased me, no end. Alluded to my recent proposal. Asked me if I had intended her to be Number Four, and declared her belief that I had thirty rather than three. Finally, the aunt walked up, and wanted to know what we were laughing at. Whereupon Louie said that she was laughing at a ridiculous story of mine, about an Indian juggler who could keep three oranges in the air at the same time.
“‘Captain Randolph,’ said she, ‘you know all about Frederick the Great, of course?’
“‘Of course,’ I said, ‘and Alexander the Great also, and Julius Caesar, and Nebuchadnezzar, as the poet says.’
“‘Perhaps you remember,’ said Louie, in a grave tone, for her aunt was wide awake now, ‘that the peculiar excellence of the genius of that great monarch consisted in his successful efforts to encounter the coalition raised against him. Though subject to the attacks of the three united powers of France, Austria, and Russia, he was still able to repel them, and finally rescued himself from destruction. Three assailants could not overpower him, and surely others may take courage from his example.’
“And after that little speech I came away, and here I am.”
For some time we sat in silence. Jack did not seem to expect any remarks from me, but appeared to be rapt in his own thoughts. For my part, I had nothing whatever to say, and soon became equally rapt in my meditations.
And what were they about?
What? Why, the usual subject which had filled my mind for the past few days — my adventure on the river, and my mysterious companion. Mysterious though she was, she was evidently a lady, and, though I could not be sure about her face, I yet could feel sure that she was beautiful. So very romantic an adventure had an unusual charm, and this charm was heightened to a wonderful degree by the mystery of her sudden and utter disappearance.
And now, since Jack had been so very confidential with me, I determined to return that confidence, and impart my secret to him. Perhaps he could help me. At any rate, he was the only person to whom I could think of telling it.
So you see —
Chapter 12
MY ADVENTURES REHEARSED TO JACK RANDOLPH. — “MY DEAR FELLOW, YOU DON’T SAY SO!” — “’PON MY LIFE, YES.” — “BY JOVE! OLD CHAP, HOW CLOSE YOU’VE BEEN! YOU MUST HAVE NO END OF SECRETS. AND WHAT’S BECOME OF THE LADY? WHO IS SHE?”
Who is she? Ay. Who, indeed? Hadn’t I been torturing my brain for seventy-nine hours, sleeping as well as waking, with that one unanswered and apparently unanswerable question?
“Who is she?” repeated Jack.
“Well,” said I, “that’s the very thing that I wish to find out, and I want you to help me in it. I told you that she didn’t leave any message — ”
“But, didn’t you find out her name?”
“No.”
“By Jove! You’re a queer lot. Why, I’d have found out her name the first thing.”
“But I didn’t — and now I want your help to find out not only her name, but herself.”
At this Jack rose, loaded his pipe solemnly, and, with the air of one who is making preparations for a work of no common kind, lighted it, flung himself back in the easy-chair, and sent forth vast volumes of smoke, which might have been considered as admirably symbolical of the state of our minds.
“Well, Macrorie,” said he, at last, “I’ll tell you what I’d do. I’d go round to all the hotels, and examine the lists.”
“Pooh!”
“Well, then, take the directory and hunt up all the names.”
“Nonsense!”
“Why nonsense?”
“Because I don’t know her name. Didn’t I impress that upon your mind?”
“By Jove!” cried Jack Randolph, after which he again relapsed into silence.
“See here, Macrorie,” said he, at length.
“I have it.”
“What?”
“Go round next Sunday to all the churches.”
“What’s the use of that?”
“Go round to the churches,” repeated Jack, “scan every bonnet — and then, if you don’t see her, why then, why — go to the photographic saloons. You’ll be sure to find her picture there. By Jove! Why, Macrorie, the game’s all in your own hands. These photographic saloons are bette
r than a whole force of detective police. There’s your chance, old man. You’ll find her. Do that, and you’re all right. Oh, yes — you’ll find her, as sure as my name’s Jack Randolph.”
“No go, Jack,” said I. “You see I couldn’t recognize her even if I were to see her.”
“Couldn’t what?”
“Couldn’t recognize her.”
“You surely would know her if you saw her.”
“I don’t think I should.”
“Well, of all the confounded fixes that ever I met with, this is the greatest!”
“That’s the peculiarity of my present situation.”
Jack relapsed into smoky silence.
“The fact is,” said Jack, after a brief pause, “we’ve got to go to work systematically. Now, first of all, I want to know what she looks like.”
“Well, that’s the very thing I don’t know.”
“Nonsense! You must know some thing about it. Is she a blonde or a brunette? You can answer that, at least.”
“I’m not sure that I can.”
“What! don’t you know even the color of her complexion?”
“When I saw her, she was as white as a sheet. Even her lips were bloodless. You see, she was frightened out of her wits.”
“Well, then, her hair — her hair, man! Was that dark or light?”
“I didn’t see it.”
“Didn’t see it?”
“No. You see it was covered by her hood. Think of that driving sleet. She had to cover herself up as much as she could from the terrible pelting of the storm.”
“Well, then, I’ll ask only one question more,” said Jack, dryly. “I hope you’ll be able to answer it. A great deal depends upon it. In fact, upon a true answer to this question the whole thing rests. Gather up all your faculties now, old chap, and try to answer me correctly. No shirking now — no humbug, for I won’t stand it. On your life, Macrorie, and, by all your future hopes, answer me this — was your friend — a woman or a man?”
Lady of the Ice Page 8