Lady of the Ice

by James De Mille

  “Well, you know, I then went off to see Louie. But I didn’t get any satisfaction there. The other girls were present, and the aunt. There wasn’t any whist, and so I had to do the agreeable to the whole party. I waited until late, in the hope that some chance might turn up of a private chat with Louie, but none came. So at last I came home, feeling a general disgust with the world and the things of the world.”

  “Rather hard, that,” said I, as Jack relapsed into moody silence.

  “Hard?” said he; “that was yesterday, but it was nothing to what I met with today.”

  “Today? — why, what’s up worse than that?”

  “Every thing. But I’ll go on and make a clean breast of it. Only don’t laugh at me, Macrorie, or I’ll cut.”

  “Laugh? Do I ever laugh?”

  Jack took a few more puffs, and relieved his sorrow-laden breast by several preliminary and preparatory sighs, after which he proceeded:

  “Today,” he began, “I got up late. I felt heavy. I anticipated a general row. I dressed. I breakfasted, and, just as I was finishing, the row began. A letter was brought in from the post-office. It was from Number Three.”

  “Number Three?” I cried.

  “Number Three,” repeated Jack. “As if it wasn’t bad enough already, she must come forward to add herself to those who were already crushing me to the earth, and driving me mad. It seemed hard, by Jove! I tell you what it is, old chap, nobody’s so remorseless as a woman. Even my duns have been more merciful to me than these friends whom I love. It’s too bad, by Jove, it is!

  “Well. Number Three’s letter was simply tremendous. She had heard every thing. I’ve already told you that she keeps the run of me pretty well, though how she manages it I can’t imagine — and now it seems she heard, on the same day, of my engagement to the widow, and of the arrival of Miss Phillips, to whom I was also engaged. This news seemed to drive her wild with indignation. She mentioned these facts to me, and ordered me to deny them at once. She declared that it was impossible for any gentleman to act so dishonorably, and said that nothing but the character of her informant could lead her to ask me to deny such foul slanders.

  “That’s the way she put it. That’s the style of thing she flung at me when I was already on my back. That’s Number Three for you! And the worst of it is, I don’t know what to say in reply. I tell you what it is now, Macrorie, that was a pretty tough beginning for the day. I felt it, and I left my room with a dark presentiment in my mind, and the same general idea of a brooding thunder-storm, which I had experienced the evening before.

  “Then I went to see Miss Phillips, and this was my frame of mind. I found her calm, cold, and stiff as an iceberg. Not a single kind word. No consideration for a fellow at all. I implored her to tell me what was the matter. She didn’t rail at me; she didn’t reproach me; but proceeded in the same cruel, inconsiderate, iceberg fashion, to tell me what the matter was. And I tell you, old boy, the long and the short of it was, there was the very mischief to pay, and the last place in Quebec that I ought to have entered was that particular place. But then, how did I know? Besides, I wanted to see her.”

  “What was it?” I asked, seeing Jack hesitate.

  “What! Why, who do you think had been there? The widow herself! She had come to call on Miss Phillips, and came with a fixed design on me. In a few moments she managed to introduce my name. Trotting me out in that fashion doesn’t strike me as being altogether fair, but she did it. Mrs. Llewelopen, who is Miss Phillips’s aunt, took her up rather warmly, and informed her that I was engaged to Miss Phillips. The widow smiled, and said I was a sad man, for I had told her, when I engaged myself to her, that my affair with Miss Phillips was all broken off, and had repeated the same thing two evenings before. She also informed them that I visited her every day, and was most devoted. To all this Miss Phillips had to listen, and could not say one word. She had sense enough, however, to decline any altercation with the widow, and reserve her remarks for me. And now, old boy, you see what I caught on entering the presence of Miss Phillips. She did not weep; she did not sigh; she did not reproach; she did not cry — she simply questioned me, standing before me cold and icy, and flinging her bitter questions at me. The widow had said this and that. The widow had repeated such and such words of mine. The widow had also subjected her to bitter shame and mortification. And what had I to say? She was too much of a lady to denounce or to scold, and too high-hearted even to taunt me; too proud, too lofty, to deign to show that she felt the cut; she only questioned me; she only asked me to explain such and such things. Well, I tried to explain, and gave a full and frank account of every thing, and, as far as the widow was concerned, I was perfectly truthful. I declared again that it was all a mistake, and that I’d give any thing to get rid of her. This was all perfectly true, but it wasn’t by any means satisfactory to Miss Phillips. She’s awfully high-strung, you know. She couldn’t overlook the fact that I had given the widow to understand that it was all broken off with us. I had never said so, but I had let the widow think so, and that was enough.

  “Well, you know, I got huffy at last, and said she didn’t make allowances for a fellow, and all that. I told her that I was awfully careless, and was always getting into confounded scrapes, but that it would all turn out right in the end, and some day she’d understand it all. Finally, I felt so confoundedly mean, and so exactly like some infernal whipped cur, that I then and there asked her to take me, on the spot, as I was, and fulfil her vow to me. I swore that the widow was nothing to me, and wished she was in Jericho. At this she smiled slightly, and said that I didn’t know what I was saying, and, in fact, declined my self-sacrificing offer. So there I was — and I’ll be hanged, Macrorie, isn’t it odd? — there’s the third person that’s refused to marry me off-hand! I vow I did what I could. I offered to marry her at once, and she declined just as the others did. With that I turned the tables on her, reproached her for her coldness, told her that I had given her the highest possible mark of my regard, and bade her adieu. We shook hands. Hers was very languid, and she looked at me quite indifferently. I told her that she’d feel differently tomorrow, and she said perhaps she might. And so I left her.

  “Well, then, I had the widow to visit, but the letter and the affair with Miss Phillips had worn out my resources. In any ordinary case, the widow was too many guns for me, but, in a case like this, she was formidable beyond all description. So I hunted up the chaplain, and made him go with me. He’s a good fellow, and is acquainted with her a little, and I knew that she liked him. So we went off there together. Well, do you know, Macrorie, I believe that woman saw through the whole thing and knew why the chaplain had come as well as I did. She greeted me civilly, but rather shortly; and there was a half-smile on her mouth, confound it! She’s an awfully pretty woman, too! We were there for a couple of hours. She made us dine — that is to say, I expected to dine as a matter of course, and she invited the chaplain. So we stayed, and I think for two hours I did not exchange a dozen words with her. She directed her conversation almost exclusively to the chaplain. I began to feel jealous at last, and tried to get her attention, but it was no go. I’m rather dull, you know — good-natured, and all that, but not clever — while the chaplain is one of the cleverest men going; and the widow’s awfully clever, too. They got beyond me in no time. They were talking all sorts of stuff about Gregorian chants, ecclesiastic symbolism, mediaeval hymns, the lion of St. Mark, chasuble, alb, and all that sort of thing, you know, no end, and I sat like a log listening, just the same as though they spoke Chinese, while the widow took no more notice of me than if I’d been a Chinaman. And she kept up that till we left. And that was her way of paying me off. And the chaplain thought she was an awfully clever woman, and admired her — no end. And I felt as jealous as Othello.

  “Then I hurried off to Louie. But luck was against me. There was a lot of fellows there, and I didn’t get a chance. I only got a pleasant greeting and a b
right look, that was all. I was longing to get her into a corner, and have a little comfort, and a little good advice. But I couldn’t. Misfortunes never come singly. Today every thing has been blacker than midnight. Number Three, Miss Phillips, and the widow, are all turning against a fellow. I think it’s infernally hard. I feel Miss Phillips’s treatment worst. She had no business to come here at all when I thought she was safe in New Brunswick. I dare say I could have wriggled through, but she came and precipitated the catastrophe, as the saying is. Then, again, why didn’t she take me when I offered myself? And, for that matter, why didn’t Number Three take me that other time when I was ready, and asked her to fly with me? I’ll be hanged if I don’t think I’ve had an abominably hard time of it! And now I’m fairly cornered, and you must see plainly why I’m thinking of the river. If I take to it, they’ll all mourn, and even Louie’ll shed a tear over me, I know; whereas, if I don’t, they’ll all pitch into me, and Louie’ll only laugh. Look here, old boy, I’ll give up women forever.”

  “What! And Louie, too?”

  “Oh, that’s a different thing altogether,” said Jack; and he subsided into a deep fit of melancholy musing.

  Chapter 22

  I REVEAL MY SECRET. — TREMENDOUS EFFECTS OF THE REVELATION. — MUTUAL EXPLANATIONS, WHICH ARE BY NO MEANS SATISFACTORY. — JACK STANDS UP FOR WHAT HE CALLS HIS RIGHTS. — REMONSTRANCES AND REASONINGS, ENDING IN A GENERAL ROW. — JACK MAKES A DECLARATION OF WAR, AND TAKES HIS DEPARTURE IN A STATE OF UNPARALLELED HUFFINESS.

  I could hold out no longer. I had preserved my secret jealously for two entire days, and my greater secret had been seething in my brain, and all that, for a day. Jack had given me his entire confidence. Why shouldn’t I give him mine? I longed to tell him all. I had told him of my adventure, and why should I not tell of its happy termination? Jack, too, was fairly and thoroughly in the dumps, and it would be a positive boon to him if I could lead his thoughts away from his own sorrows to my very peculiar adventures.

  “Jack,” said I, at last, “I’ve some thing to tell you.”

  “Go ahead,” cried Jack, from the further end of his pipe.

  “It’s about the Lady of the Ice,” said I.

  “Is it?” said Jack, dolefully.

  “Yes; would you like to hear about it?”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” said Jack, in the same tone.

  Whereupon I began with the evening of the concert, and told him all about the old man, and my rush to the rescue. I gave a very animated description of the scene, but, finding that Jack did not evince any particular interest, I cut it all short.

  “Well,” said I, “I won’t bore you. I’ll merely state the leading facts. I got the old fellow out. He took my arm, and insisted on my going home with him. I went home, and found there the Lady of the Ice.”

  “Odd, too,” said Jack, languidly, puffing out a long stream of smoke; “don’t see how you recognized her — thought you didn’t remember, and all that. So you’ve found her at last, have you? Well, my dear fellow, ’low me to congratulate you. Deuced queer, too. By-the-way, what did you say her name was?”

  “I didn’t mention her name,” said I.

  “Ah, I see; a secret?”

  “Oh, no. I didn’t suppose you’d care about knowing.”

  “Bosh! ’Course I’d care. What was it, old boy? Tell a fellow. I’ll keep dark — you know me.”

  “Her name,” said I, “is Miss O’Halloran.”

  No sooner had I uttered that name, than an instantaneous and most astonishing change came over the whole face, the whole air, the whole manner, the whole expression, and the whole attitude, of Jack Randolph. He sprang up to his feet, as though he had been shot, and the pipe fell from his hands on the floor, where it lay smashed.

  “WHAT!!!” he cried, in a loud voice.

  “Look here,” said I — “what may be the meaning of all that? What’s the row now?”

  “What name did you say?” he repeated.

  “Miss O’Halloran,” said I.

  “O’Halloran?” said he — “are you sure?”

  “Of course, I’m sure. How can I be mistaken?”

  “And her father — what sort of a man is he?”

  “A fine old fellow,” said I, — “full of fun, well informed, convivial, age about sixty, well preserved, splendid face — ”

  “Is — is he an Irishman?” asked Jack, with deep emotion.

  “Yes.”

  “Does — does he live in — in Queen Street?” asked Jack, with a gasp.

  “The very street,” said I.

  “Number seven hundred and ninety-nine?”

  “The very number. But see here, old chap, how the mischief do you happen to know so exactly all about that house? It strikes me as being deuced odd.”

  “And you saved her?” said Jack, without taking any notice of my question.

  “Haven’t I just told you so? Oh, bother! What’s the use of all this fuss?”

  “Miss O’Halloran?” said Jack.

  “Miss O’Halloran,” I repeated. “But will you allow me to ask what in the name of common-sense is the matter with you? Is there a bee in your bonnet, man? What’s Miss O’Halloran to you, or you to Miss O’Halloran? Haven’t you got enough women on your conscience already? Do you mean to drag her in? Don’t try it, my boy — for I’m concerned there.”

  “Miss O’Halloran!” cried Jack. “Look here, Macrorie — you’d better take care.”

  “Take care?”

  “Yes. Don’t you go humbugging about there.”

  “I don’t know what you’re up to, dear boy. What’s your little joke?”

  “There’s no joke at all about it,” said Jack, harshly. “Do you know who Miss O’Halloran is?”

  “Well, I know that she’s the daughter of Mr. O’Halloran, and that he’s a fine old fellow. Any further information, however, I shall be delighted to receive. You talk as though you knew some thing about her. What is it? But don’t slander. Not a word against her. That I won’t stand.”

  “Slander! A word against her!” cried Jack. “Macrorie, you don’t know who she is, or what she is to me. Macrorie, this Miss O’Halloran is that lady that we have been calling ‘Number Three.’”

  It was now my turn to be confounded. I, too, started to my feet, and not only my pipe, but my tumbler also, fell crashing on the floor.

  “The devil she is!” I cried.

  “She is — I swear she is — as true as I’m alive.”

  At this moment I had more need of a good, long, low whistle than ever I had in my life before. But I didn’t whistle. Even a whistle was useless here to express the emotions that I felt at Jack’s revelation. I stood and stared at him in silence. But I didn’t see him. Other visions came before my mind’s eye, Horatio, which shut out Jack from my view. I was again in that delightful parlor; again Nora’s form was near — her laughing face, her speaking eyes, her expression — now genial and sympathetic, now confused and embarrassed. There was her round, rosy, smiling face, and near it the sombre face of Marion, with her dark, penetrating eyes. And this winning face, this laughter-loving Venus — this was the one about whom Jack raved as his Number Three. This was the one whom he asked to run off with him. She! She run off, and with him! The idea was simple insanity. She had written him a letter — had she? — and it was a scorcher, according to his own confession. She had found him out, and thrown him over. Was not I far more to her than a fellow like Jack — I who had saved her from a hideous death? There could be no question about that. Was not her bright, beaming smile of farewell still lingering in my memory? And Jack had the audacity to think of her yet!

  “Number Three,” said I — “well, that’s odd. At any rate, there’s one of your troubles cut off.”

  “Cut off?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you mean?”

 
“I mean this, that Number Three won’t bother you again.”

  Jack stood looking at me for some time in silence, with a dark frown on his brow.

  “Look here, Macrorie,” said he, “you force me to gather from your words what I am very unwilling to learn.”

  “What!” said I. “Is it that I admire Miss O’Halloran? Is that it? Come, now; speak plainly, Jack. Don’t stand in the sulks. What is it that you want to say? I confess that I’m as much amazed as you are at finding that my Lady of the Ice is the same as your ‘Number Three.’ But such is the case; and now what are you going to do about it?”

  “First of all,” said Jack, coldly, “I want to know what you are proposing to do about it.”

  “I?” said I. “Why, my intention is, if possible, to try to win from Miss O’Halloran a return of that feeling which I entertain toward her.”

  “So that’s your little game — is it?” said Jack, savagely.

  “Yes,” said I, quietly, “that’s exactly my little game. And may I ask what objection you have to it, or on what possible right you can ground any conceivable objection?”

  “Right?” said Jack — “every right that a man of honor should respect.”

  “Right?” cried I. “Right?”

  “Yes, right. You know very well that she’s mine.”

  “Yours! Yours!” I cried. “Yours! You call her ‘Number Three.’ That very name of itself is enough to shut your mouth forever. What! Do you come seriously to claim any rights over a girl, when by your own confession there are no less than two others to whom you have offered yourself? Do you mean to look me in the face, after what you yourself have told me, and say that you consider that you have any claims on Miss O’Halloran?”

  “Yes, I do!” cried Jack. “I do, by Jove! Look here, Macrorie. I’ve given you my confidence. I’ve told you all about my affair with her. You know that only a day or two ago I was expecting her to elope with me — ”