Lady of the Ice

by James De Mille

  Meanwhile, as I flung myself headlong into a lively conversation with Miss O’Halloran, the old gentleman listened for a time and made occasional remarks, but at length relapsed into himself, and after some minutes of thought he reached out his hand and drew from among the periodicals lying on the table —

  Chapter 16

  THE DAILY PAPER.

  “By the powers!” suddenly interrupted the deep voice of O’Halloran, breaking in upon our lively and delightful conversation.

  At which we all started as though we had been shot.

  “By the pipers!” continued O’Halloran, after some hesitation. “To think of anybody thryin’ to cross the river on the 3d! Why, that was the dee of the breek-up.”

  At these words I started in new astonishment, and for a moment didn’t know what in the world to make of it all. As for the ladies, they didn’t say a word. I didn’t notice them, in fact; I had turned and was looking at O’Halloran.

  “See here,” said he. “Did you ever hear the loikes of this? ‘Paul Verrier of Chaudière lift his home on the 3d of Eepril last, to convee a leedy to Quebec across the oice;’” and he read straight through the very advertisement which I had written and inserted in that very paper.

  What my emotions were at that moment it is difficult to describe. At first I felt surprise, then I experienced a sense of triumph at this striking proof of the success which my advertisement had met with, but finally I had occasion to feel emotions which were very different from either of these. I had turned as O’Halloran began to read those familiar words, and after he had finished I mechanically settled myself into my former position, partly because of the comfort of the thing, and partly to see how perfectly impartial hearers like these ladies would listen to this composition of mine. My chief feeling was precisely the same as animates the artist who stands incognito beside his picture, to listen to the remarks of spectators; or the author who hunts through papers to read the criticism on his first book. This, it is true, was neither a picture nor a book, nor was I either an artist or an author, yet, after all, this advertisement was a literary effort of mine, and, what is more, it was the first one that had appeared in print. Was it any wonder, then, that for these reasons I felt curious to see the effect of that advertisement?

  Now, as I turned, I was in expectation of some sign of feeling on the part of the ladies — call it surprise; call it sympathy; call it what you will — but I certainly was not prepared for that very peculiar and very marked effect which my humble effort at composition produced on them.

  For there they sat — Marion erect and rigid, with her eyes fixed on her sister, and her hand raised in an attitude of warning; and Miss O’Halloran, in the same fixed attitude, looked eagerly at Marion, her eyes wide open, her lips parted, and one of her hands also half raised in the involuntary expression of amazement, or the mechanical suggestion of secrecy. Miss O’Halloran’s emotion was not so strong as that of Marion, but then her nature was more placid, and the attitude of each was in full accordance with their respective characters.

  They sat there in that attitude, altogether unconscious of me and of my gaze, with deep emotion visible on their faces, and unmistakable, yet why that emotion should be caused by that advertisement I could not for the life of me imagine.

  “Well,” said O’Halloran, “what do ye think of that now? Isn’t that a spicimin of thrue Canajin grade? The man threw his loife away for a few pince.”

  As O’Halloran spoke, the ladies recovered their presence of mind. They started. Miss O’Halloran saw my eyes fixed on her, flushed up a little, and looked away. As for Marion, she too saw my look, but, instead of turning her eyes away, she fixed them on me for an instant with a strange and most intense gaze, which seemed to spring from her dark, solemn, lustrous eyes, and pierce me through and through. But it was only for an instant. Then her eyes fell, and there remained not a trace of their past excitement in either of them.

  I confess I was utterly confounded at this. These two ladies perceived in that advertisement of mine a certain meaning which showed that they must have some idea of the cause of the fate of the imaginary Verrier. And what was this that they knew; and how much did they know? Was it possible that they could know the lady herself? It seemed probable.

  The idea filled me with intense excitement, and made me determine here on the spot, and at once, to pursue my search after the unknown lady. But how? One way alone seemed possible, and that was by tellng, a simple, unvarnished tale of my own actual adventure.

  This decision I reached in little more than a minute, and, before either of the ladies had made a reply to O’Halloran’s last remark, I answered him in as easy a tone as I could assume.

  “Oh,” I said, “I can tell you all about that.”

  “You!” cried O’Halloran.

  “You!” cried Miss O’Halloran.

  “You!” cried Marion, and she and her sister fixed their eyes upon me with unmistakable excitement, and seemed to anticipate all that I might be going to say.

  This, of course, was all the more favorable to my design, and, seeing such immediate success, I went on headlong.

  “You see,” said I, “I put that notice in myself.”

  “You!” cried O’Halloran, Miss O’Halloran, Marion, this time in greater surprise than before.

  “Yes,” said I. “I did it because I was very anxious to trace some one, and this appeared to be the way that was at once the most certain, and at the same time the least likely to excite suspicion.”

  “Suspicion?”

  “Yes — for the one whom I wished to trace was a lady.”

  “A lady!” said O’Halloran. “Aha! you rogue, so that’s what ye’er up to, is it? An’ there isn’t a word of truth in this about Verrier?”

  “Yes, there is,” said I. “He was really drowned, but I don’t know his name, and Paul Verrier, and the disconsolate father, Pierre, are altogether imaginary names. But I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “Be dad, an’ I’d be glad if ye would, for this exorjium sthrikes me as the most schupindous bit of schamin that I’ve encounthered for a month of Sundays.”

  While I was saying this, the ladies did not utter a single syllable. But if they were silent, it was not from want of interest. Their eyes were fixed on mine as though they were bound to me by some powerful spell; their lips parted, and, in their intense eagerness to hear what it was that I had to say, they did not pretend to conceal their feelings. Miss O’Halloran was seated in an arm-chair. Her left arm leaned upon it, and her hand mechanically pressed her forehead as she devoured me with her gaze. Marion was seated on a common chair, and sat with one elbow on the table, her hands clasped tight, her body thrown slightly forward, and her eyes fixed on mine with an intensity of gaze that was really embarrassing.

  And now all this convinced me that they must know all about it, and emboldened me to go on. Now was the time, I felt, to press my search — now or never.

  So I went on —

  “Conticuere omnes, intentique ora tenebant Inde toro Sandy Macrorie sic orsus ab alto: Infandum, Regina, jubes renovare dolorem.”

  That’s about it. Rather a hackneyed quotation, of course, but a fellow like me isn’t supposed to know much about Latin, and it is uncommonly appropriate. And, I tell you what it is, since Aeneas entertained Dido on that memorable occasion, few fellows have had such an audience as that which gathered round me, as I sat in that hospitable parlor, and told about my adventure on the ice.

  Such an audience was enough to stimulate any man. I felt the stimulus. I’m not generally considered fluent or good at description, and I’m not much of a talker; but all that I ever lacked on ordinary occasions I made amends for on that evening. I began at the beginning, from the time I was ordered off. Then I led my spellbound audience over the crumbling ice, till the sleigh came. Then I indulged in a thrilling description of the runaway horse and the lost driver.
Then I portrayed the lady floating in a sleigh, and my rescue of her. Of course, for manifest reasons, which every gentleman will appreciate, I didn’t bring myself forward more prominently than I could help. Then followed that journey over the ice, the passage of the ice-ridge, the long, interminable march, the fainting lady, the broad channel near the shore, the white gleam of the ice-cone at Montmorency, my wild leap, and my mad dash up the bank to the Frenchman’s house.

  Up to this moment my audience sat, as I have before remarked, I think, simply spellbound. O’Halloran was on one side of me, with his chin on his breast, and his eyes glaring at me from beneath his bushy eyebrows. Marion sat rigid and motionless, with her hands clasped, and her eyes fixed on the floor. Miss O’Halloran never took her eyes off my face, but kept them on mine as though they were riveted there. At times she started nervously, and shifted her position, and fidgeted in her chair, but never did she remove her eyes. Once, when I came to the time when I led my companion over the ice-ridge, I saw a shudder pass through her. Once again, when I came to that moment when my companion fainted, Marion gave a kind of gasp, and I saw Miss O’Halloran reach out her hand, and clasp the clinched hands of her sister; but with these exceptions there was no variation in their attitude or manner.

  And now I tuned my harp to a lighter strain, which means that I proceeded to give an account of my journey after the doctor, his start, my slumbers, my own start, our meeting, the doctor’s wrath, my pursuasions, our journey, our troubles, our arrival at the house, our final crushing disappointment, the doctor’s brutal raillery, my own meekness, and our final return home. Then, without mentioning Jack Randolph, I explained the object of the advertisement —

  “Sic Sandy Macrorie, intentis omnibus, unus Fata renarrabat Divum, cursusque docebat, Conticuit tandem — ”

  [Hack Latin, of course, but then, you know, if one does quote Latin, that is the only sort that can be understood by the general reader.]

  The conclusion of my story produced a marked effect. O’Halloran roused himself, and sat erect with a smile on his face and a good-natured twinkle in his eyes. Miss O’Halloran lowered her eyes and held down her head, and once, when I reached that point in my story where the bird was flown, she absolutely laughed out. Marion’s solemn and beautiful face also underwent a change. A softer expression came over it; she raised her eyes and fixed them with burning intensity on mine, her hands relaxed the rigid clasp with which they had held one another, and she settled herself into an easier position in her chair.

  “Well, be jakers!” exclaimed old O’Halloran when I had concluded, “it bates the wurruld. What a lucky dog ye are! Advintures come tumblin’ upon ye dee afther dee. But will ye ivir foind the leedee?”

  I shook my head.

  “I’m afraid not,” said I, disconsolately. “I put out that advertisement with a faint hope that the lady’s sympathy with the unfortunate driver might lead her to make herself known.”

  At this point the ladies rose. It was getting late, and they bade adieu and retired. Marion went out rather abruptly, Miss O’Halloran rather slowly, and not without a final smile of bewitching sweetness. I was going too, but O’Halloran would not think of it. He declared that the evening was just begun. Now that the ladies were gone we would have the field to ourselves. He assured me that I had nothing in particular to do, and might easily wait and join him in “somethin’ warrum.”

  Chapter 17

  “somethin’ warrum.”

  I must say I was grievously disappointed at the departure of the ladies. It was late enough in all conscience for such a move, but the time had passed quickly, and I was not aware how late it was. Besides, I had hoped that some thing would fall from them which would throw light on the great mystery. But nothing of the kind occurred. They retired without saying any thing more than the commonplaces of social life. What made it worse was, the fact that my story had produced a tremendous effect on both of them. That could not be concealed. They evidently knew some thing about the lady whom I had rescued; and, if they chose, they could put me in the way of discovery. Then, in Heaven’s name, why didn’t they? Why did they go off in this style, without a word, leaving me a prey to suspense of the worst kind? It was cruel. It was unkind. It was ungenerous. It was unjust. It was unfair.

  One thing alone remained to comfort and encourage me, and that was the recollection of Miss O’Halloran’s bewitching smile. The sweetness of that smile lingered in my memory, and seemed to give me hope. I would see her again. I would ask her directly, and she would not have the heart to refuse. Marion’s graver face did not inspire that confident hope which was caused by the more genial and sympathetic manner of her sprightly elder sister.

  Such were my thoughts after the ladies had taken their departure. But these thoughts were soon interrupted and diverted to another channel. O’Halloran rang for a servant, and ordered up what he called “somethin’ warrum.” That some thing soon appeared in the shape of two decanters, a kettle of hot water, a sugar-bowl, tumblers, wine-glasses, spoons, and several other things, the list of which was closed by pipes and tobacco.

  O’Halloran was beyond a doubt an Irishman, and a patriotic one at that, but for “somethin’ warrum” he evidently preferred Scotch whiskey to that which is produced on the Emerald Sod. Beneath the benign influences of this draught he became more confidential, and I grew more serene. We sat. We quaffed the fragrant draught. We inhaled the cheerful nicotic fumes. We became friendly, communicative, sympathetic.

  O’Halloran, however, was more talkative than I, and consequently had more to say. If I’m not a good talker, I’m at least an excellent listener, and that was all that my new friend wanted. And so he went on talking, quite indifferent as to any answers of mine; and, as I always prefer the ease of listening to the drudgery of talking, we were both well satisfied and mutually delighted.

  First of all, O’Halloran was simply festive. He talked much about my adventure, criticised it from various points of view, and gayly rallied me about the lost “gyerrul.”

  From a consideration of my circumstances, he wandered gradually away to his own. He lamented his present position in Quebec, which place he found insufferably dull.

  “I’d lave it at wanst,” he said, “if I wern’t deteened here by the cleems of jewty. But I foind it dull beyond all exprission. Me only occupeetion is to walk about the sthraits and throy to preserve the attichood of a shuparior baying. But I’m getting overwarrun an’ toired out, an’ I’m longing for the toime whin I can bid ajoo to the counthry with its Injins an’ Canajians.”

  “I don’t see what you can find to amuse yourself with,” said I, sympathetically.

  “Oh,” said he, “I have veerious purshoots. I’ve got me books, an’ I foind imploymint an’ amusemint with thim.”

  And now he began to enlarge on the theme of his books, and he went on in this way till he became eloquent, enthusiastic, and glorious. He quaffed the limpid and transparent liquid, and its insinuating influences inspired him every moment to nobler flights of fancy, of rhetoric, and of eloquence. He began to grow learned. He discoursed about the Attic drama; the campaigns of Hannibal; the manners and customs of the Parthians; the doctrines of Zoroaster; the wars of Heraclius and Chosroes; the Ommiades, the Abbasides, and the Fatimites; the Comneni; the Paleologi; the writings of Snorro Sturlesson; the round towers of Ireland; the Phoenician origin of the Irish people proved by illustrations from Plautus, and a hundred other things of a similar character.

  “And what are you engaged upon now?” I asked, at length, as I found myself fairly lost amid the multiplicity of subjects which he brought forward.

  “Engeeged upon?” he exclaimed, “well — a little of iviry thing, but this dee I’ve been busy with a rayconsthruction of the scholastic thaories rilitiv’ to the jureetion of the diluge of Juceelion. Have ye ivir perused the thraitises of the Chubingen school about the Noachic diluge?”

  “No.”

 
; “Well, ye’ll find it moighty foine an’ insthructive raidin’. But in addition to this, I’ve been investigatin’ the subject of maydyayvil jools.”

  “Jools?” I repeated, in an imbecile way.

  “Yis, jools,” said O’Halloran, “the orjil, ye know, the weeger of battle.”

  “Oh, yes,” said I, as a light burst in upon me, “duels — I understand.”

  “But the chafe subject that I’m engeeged upon is a very different one,” he resumed, taking another swallow of the oft-replenished draught. “It’s a thraitise of moine by which I ixpict to upsit the thaories of the miserable Saxon schaymers that desthort the pleen facts of antiquetee to shoot their own narrow an’ disthortid comprayhinsions. An’ I till ye what — whin my thraitise is published, it’ll make a chumult among thim that’ll convulse the litherary wurruld.”

  “What is your treatise about?” I asked, dreamily, for I only half comprehended him, or rather, I didn’t comprehend him at all.

  “Oh,” said he, “its a foine subject intoirely. It’s a thraitise rilitiv’ to the Aydipodayan Ipopaya.”

  “What’s that?” I asked. “The what? — ”

  “The Aydipodayan Ipopaya,” said O’Halloran.

  “The Aydipodayan Ipopaya?” I repeated, in a misty, foggy, and utterly woe-be-gone manner.

  “Yis,” said he, “an’ I’d like to have your opinion about that same,” saying which, he once more filled his oft-replenished tumbler.