Lady of the Ice

by James De Mille

  At last came the usual concluding piece — “God save the Queen.”

  Of course, as everybody knows, when the national anthem is sung, it is the fashion all over the British empire for the whole audience to rise, and any one who remains seated is guilty of a deliberate insult to the majesty of that empire. On this occasion, as a matter of course, everybody got up, but I was surprised to see that the old gentleman remained seated, with his hands clinched tightly about his cane.

  I was not the only one who had noticed this.

  The fact is, I had got into a part of the hall which was not altogether congenial to my taste. I had got my ticket at the door, and found that all the reserved seats were taken up. Consequently I had to take my chance among the general public. Now this general public happened to be an awfully loyal public, and the moment they found that a man was among them who deliberately kept his seat while the national anthem was being sung, they began to get into a furious state of excitement.

  Let me say also that there was very sufficient reason for this excitement. All Canada was agog about the Fenians. Blood had been shed. An invasion had taken place. There was no joke about it. The Fenians were not an imaginary danger, but a real one. All the newspapers were full of the subject. By the Fenians every Canadian understood an indefinite number of the disbanded veteran soldiers of the late American war, who, having their hand in, were not willing to go back to the monotony of a peaceful life, but preferred rather a career of excitement. Whether this suspicion were well founded or not doesn’t make the slightest difference. The effect on the Canadian mind was the same as if it were true. Now, since the Canadian mind was thus roused up to this pitch of universal excitement, there existed a very general watch for Fenian emissaries, and any of that brotherhood who showed himself too openly in certain quarters ran a very serious risk. It was not at all safe to defy popular opinion. And popular opinion ran strongly toward the sentiment of loyalty. And anybody who defied that sentiment of loyalty did it at his peril. A serious peril, too, mind you. A mob won’t stand nonsense. It won’t listen to reason. It has a weakness for summary vengeance and broken bones.

  Now, some such sort of a mob as this began to gather quickly and menacingly round my elderly friend, who had thus so rashly shocked their common sentiment. In a few moments a wild uproar began.

  “Put him out!”

  “Knock him down!”

  “Hustle him!”

  “He’s a Fenian!”

  “Down with him!”

  “Punch his head!”

  “Hold him up, and make him stand up!”

  “Stand up, you fool!”

  “Get up!”

  “Up with him! Let’s pass him out over our heads!”

  “A Fenian!”

  “We’ll show him he’s in bad company!”

  “He’s a spy!”

  “A Fenian spy!”

  “Up with him!” “Down with him!” “Pitch into him!” “Out with him!” “Toss him!” “Hustle him!” “Punch his head!” “Throttle him!” “Level him!” “Give it to him!” “Turn him inside out!” “Hold up his boots!” “Walk him off!”

  All these, and about fifty thousand more shouts of a similar character burst forth from the maddened mob around. All mobs are alike. Any one who has ever seen a mob in a row can understand the action of this particular one. They gathered thick and fast around him. They yelled. They howled. The music of the national anthem was drowned in that wild uproar. They pressed close to him, and the savage eyes that glared on him menaced him with some thing little less than death itself.

  And what did he do?

  He?

  Why he bore himself splendidly.

  As the row began, he rose slowly, holding his stick, which I now saw to be a knotted staff of formidable proportions, and at length reared his figure to its full height. It was a tall and majestic figure which he revealed — thin, yet sinewy, and towering over the heads of the roaring mob around him.

  He confronted them all with a dark frown on his brow, and blazing eyes.

  “Ye beggars!” he cried. “Come on — the whole pack of ye! A Fenian, ye say? That’s thrue for you. Ye’ve got one, an’ ye’ll find him a tough customer! Come on — the whole thousand of ye!”

  And saying this, he swung his big, formidable knotted stick about his head.

  Those nearest him started back, but the crowd behind rushed forward. The row increased. The people in the resetted seats in front looked around with anxious eyes, not knowing what was going on.

  The crowd yelled and hooted. It surged nearer. A moment more and the tall figure would go down.

  Now, I’m a loyal man. None more so. I’m an officer and a gentleman. I’m ready at any moment to lay down my life for the queen and the rest of the royal family. I’m ready to pitch into the Fenians on any proper occasion, and all that.

  But somehow this didn’t seem to me to be the proper occasion. It was not a Fenian that I saw. It was an elderly gentleman; so sensitive, that but a few minutes before he had been struggling with his tears; so lion-hearted, that now he drew himself up and faced a roaring, howling mob of enemies — calmly, unflinchingly — hurling desperate defiance at them. And was that the sort of thing that I could stand? What! to see one man attacked by hundreds — a man like that, too — an old man, alone, with nothing to sustain him but his own invincible pluck? Pooh! What’s the use of talking? I am an officer and a gentleman, and as such it would have been a foul disgrace to me if I had been capable of standing there quietly and looking at the old man at the mercies of the mob.

  But, as it happened, I did nothing of the kind.

  On the contrary, I sprang forward and stood by the side of the old man.

  “Now, look here — you fellows!” I roared — “this is all very fine, and very loyal, but, damn it! Don’t it strike you that it’s an infernally cowardly thing to pitch into an old man in this style? He may be a Fenian, and he may be Old Nick himself, but he’s never done you fellows any harm. What the devil do you mean by kicking up such a row as this? You touch him, if you dare, that’s all! You see my uniform, and you know what I am. I’m a Bobtail. This man is my friend. He’s going out with me, and I’d like to see the fellow that will stop us.”

  That’s the first speech I ever made in my life, and all that I can say is, that it was wonderfully successful. Demosthenes, and Cicero, and the Earl of Chatham, and Burke, and Mirabeau, all rolled into one, couldn’t have been more successful. The mob rolled back. They looked ashamed. It was a word of sense spoken in a forcible manner. And that I take it is the essence of true oratory.

  The mob rolled back. I gave my new friend my arm. He took it. The door was not far away. We started to go out. The people fell back, and made way for us. After all, they were a good-enough lot, and had only yielded to a kind of panic. All mobs, I suppose, are insane. The very fact of a mob involves a kind of temporary insanity. But these fellows had come to their senses, and so I had no difficulty in making my way through them along with my companion. We got out into the street without any difficulty. My new friend held my arm, and involuntarily made a turn to the right on leaving the door of the hall. Thus we walked along, and for some time we walked in silence.

  At length the silence was broken by my companion.

  “Well — well — well!” he ejaculated — “to think of me, walking with a British officer — arrum-in-arrum!”

  “Why not?” said I.

  “Why not?” said he, “why there’s iviry reason in loife. I’m a Fenian.”

  “Pooh!” said I, “what’s the use of bothering about politics? You’re a man, and a confoundedly plucky fellow too. Do you think that I could stand there and see those asses pitching into you? Don’t bother about politics.”

  “An’ I won’t,” said he. “But at any reet, I feeced them. An Oirishman niver sirrinders to an inimy. I feeced t
hem, I did — an’ I exprissed meself in shootable sintimints.”

  The rich Leinster accent of my companion showed his nationality more plainly than even his own explicit statement. But this did not at all lessen the interest that I took in him. His sensitiveness which had been so conspicuous, his courage which had shone so brightly, and his impressive features, all combined to create a feeling of mingled regard and respect for my new acquaintance.

  “By Jove!” I cried, “I never saw a pluckier fellow in my life. There you were, alone, with a mad mob howling at you.”

  “It’s meself,” said he, “that’ll nivir be intimideeted. Don’t I know what a mob is? An’ if I didn’t, wouldn’t I feece thim all the seeme? An’ afther all I don’t moind tellin’ you that it wasn’t disrispict. It was only a kind of absthraction, an’ I wasn’t conscious that it was the national anthim, so I wasn’t. I’d have stood up, if I’d knowed it. But whin those divils began reelin’ at me, I had to trait thim with scarrun and contimpt. An’ for me — I haven’t much toime to live, but what I have ye’ve seeved for me.”

  “Oh, nonsense, don’t talk about that,” said I, modestly.

  “Sorr,” said he, “I’m very well aware that I’m under deep obleegeetions, an’ I owe ye a debt of grateechood. Conse-quintly, I insist on bein’ greetful. I hold iviry British officer as me personal inimy, but, in you, sorr, I’m sinsible of a ginirous frind. Ye’ve seeved me loife, so ye have, an’ there’s no doubt about it. We’ll weeve politics. I won’t spake of the Finians. Phaylim O’Halloran isn’t the man that’ll mintion onsaisonable politics, or dwell upon uncongainal thames, so he isn’t.”

  “Well,” said I, “Mr. O’Halloran, since you’ve introduced yourself, I must give you my humble address. I’m Lieutenant Macrorie.”

  “Macrorie?” said he.

  “Macrorie,” said I, “of the Bobtails, and I assure you I’m very happy to make your acquaintance.”

  We walked along arm-in-arm in the most friendly manner, chatting about things in general. I found my companion to be very intelligent and very well informed. He had travelled much. He expressed himself fluently on every subject, and though his brogue was conspicuous, he was evidently a gentleman, and very well educated too. I gathered from his conversation that he had studied at Trinity College, Dublin, and that he had been leading a desultory sort of life in the United States for twenty years or so. He had been in Canada for some thing less than a year, and was anxious to get back to a more southern clime.

  Chatting thus, and arm-in-arm, we walked along. I had nothing to do, and so I went with my new-found friend, with a vague idea of seeing him safe home. Of course such an idea was preposterous, for he could have got home just as well without me, but I had taken a fancy to my new acquaintance, and found a strange charm in his conversation. He talked incessantly and on many subjects. He discoursed on theology, literature, science, the weather, the army, the navy, music, painting, sculpture, photography, engraving, geology, chemistry, and on a thousand other arts and sciences, in all of which he showed himself deeply versed, and far beyond my depth. He had a brogue, and I had none, but as for intellectual attainments I was only a child in comparison with him.

  At length we reached a house where he stopped.

  “I’m infeenetely obloiged to ye,” said he. “And now, won’t ye koindly condiscind to step in and parteek of me hospitalitee? It’ll give me shuprame deloight.”

  After such an invitation what could I say? I had nothing to do. Accordingly, I accepted it in a proper spirit, and, thanking him for his kind invitation, I went in along with him,

  O’Halloran led the way in. It was a comfortable house. The parlor which we entered was large, and a huge grate filled with blazing coals diffused a cheerful glow. Magazines and periodicals lay on the table. Pictures illustrative of classical scenes hung round the walls, done in the old-fashioned style of line engraving, and representing such subjects as Mutius Scaevola before Porsenna; Belisarius begging for an obolus; Aeneas carrying his father from Troy; Leonidas at Thermopylae; Coriolanus quitting Rome; Hamilcar making the boy Hannibal swear his oath of hate against Rome; and others of a similar character. O’Halloran made me sit in a “sleepy-hollow” easy-chair by the fire. Beside me were two huge book-shelves crammed with books. A glance at them showed me that they were largely of a classical order. Longinus, Aeschylus, Demosthenes, Dindorf, Plato, Stallbaum — such were the names that I saw in gilt letters on the backs of the volumes.

  About the room there was that air of mingled comfort and refinement that is always suggestive of the presence of ladies. A work-basket stood beside the table. And on a little Chinese table in a corner lay some crochet-work. I took in all these things at a glance and while my host was talking to me. After a time he excused himself and said that he would call the “leedies.” He retired, leaving me alone, and striving to picture to myself —

  Chapter 15

  THE O’HALLORAN LADIES. — THEIR APPEARANCE. — THEIR AGES. — THEIR DRESS. — THEIR DEMEANOR. — THEIR CULTURE, POLISH, EDUCATION, RANK, STYLE, ATTAINMENTS, AND ALL ABOUT THEM.

  “Leedies,” said O’Halloran, “allow me to inthrojuice to ye Captain Macrorie, an officer an’ a gintlemin, an’ when I steet that he seeved me life about a half an hour ago, ye’ll see what sintimints of grateechood are his jew.”

  With these words O’Halloran entered the room, followed by two ladies whom he thus introduced, giving my name to them, but in the abstraction of the moment not mentioning their names to me.

  The ladies greeted me with smiles, which at once threw a new charm over this very comfortable room, and seated themselves opposite on the other side of the fire, so that I had the best view of them possible.

  And now the very first glance that I obtained of these ladies showed me that I had hit upon a wonderful piece of good luck when I went to that concert and met my new friend O’Halloran. For in beauty of face, grace of figure, refinement of manner; in every thing that affects an impressible man — and what man is not impressible? — these ladies were so far beyond all others in Quebec, that no comparison could be made. The Berton girls were nowhere.

  The elder of the two might have been — no matter — not over twenty-three or four at any rate; while the younger was certainly not over eighteen or nineteen. There was a good deal of similarity in their styles; both were brunettes; both had abundance of dark, lustrous hair; both had those dark, hazel eyes which can send such a thrill to the soul of the impressible.

  For my part I thrilled, I glowed, I exulted, I rejoiced and triumphed in the adventure which had led to such a discovery as this. Were there any other women in Canada, in America, or in the world equal to them? I did not believe there were. And then their voices — low — sweet — musical — voices which spoke of the exquisite refinement of perfect breeding; those voices would have been enough to make a man do or dare any thing.

  Between them, however, there were some differences. The elder had an expression of good-natured content, and there was in her a vein of fun which was manifest, while the younger seemed to have a nature which was more intense and more earnest, and there was around her a certain indefinable reserve and hauteur.

  Which did I admire most?

  I declare it’s simply impossible to say. I was overwhelmed. I was crushed with equal admiration. My whole soul became instinct with the immortal sentiment — “How happy could I be with either;” while the cordiality of my reception, which made me at once a friend of this jewel of a family, caused my situation to assume so delicious an aspect that it was positively bewildering.

  O’Halloran hadn’t mentioned their names, but the names soon came out. They were evidently his daughters. The name of the eldest I found was Nora, and the name of the younger was Marion. The old gentleman was lively, and gave a highly-dramatic account of the affair at the concert, in which he represented my conduct in the most glowing light. The ladies listened to all this with undis
guised agitation, interrupting him frequently with anxious questions, and regarding my humble self as a sort of a hero. All this was in the highest degree encouraging to a susceptible mind; and I soon found myself sliding off into an easy, a frank, an eloquent, and a very delightful conversation. Of the two ladies, the elder Miss O’Halloran took the chief share in that lively yet intellectual intercourse. Marion only put in a word occasionally; and, though very amiable, still did not show so much cordiality as her sister. But Miss O’Halloran! what wit! what sparkle! what mirth! what fun! what repartee! what culture! what refinement! what an acquaintance with the world! what a knowledge of men and things! what a faultless accent! what indescribable grace of manner! what a generous and yet ladylike humor! what a merry, musical laugh! what quickness of apprehension! what acuteness of perception! what — words fail. Imagine every thing that is delightful in a first-rate conversationalist, and every thing that is fascinating in a lady, and even then you will fail to have a correct idea of Miss O’Halloran. To have such an idea it would be necessary to see her.

  Marion on the other hand was quiet, as I have said. Perhaps this arose from a reticence of disposition; or perhaps it was merely the result of her position as a younger sister. Her beautiful face, with its calm, self-poised expression, was turned toward us, and she listened to all that was said, and at times a smile like a sunbeam would flash over her lovely features; but it was only at times, when a direct appeal was made to her, that she would speak, and then her words were few, though quite to the point. I had not, therefore, a fair chance of comparing her with Miss O’Halloran.

  In their accent there was not the slightest sign of that rich Leinster brogue which was so apparent in their father. This, however, may have arisen from an English mother, or an English education. Suffice it to say that in no respect could they be distinguished from English ladies, except in a certain vivacity of manner, which in the latter is not common. O’Halloran was evidently a gentleman, and his house showed that he was at least in comfortable circumstances. What his business now might be I could not tell. What his past had been was equally uncertain. Was he an exiled Young Irelander? Had he been driven from his home, or had he left it voluntarily? Whatever he was, his surroundings and his belongings showed unmistakable signs of culture and refinement; and as to his daughters, why, hang it! a peer of the realm couldn’t have shown more glorious specimens of perfect womanhood than these which smiled on me in that pleasant parlor.