“Macrorie, my boy.”
“Well?”
“Do you see this letter?”
“Yes.”
“Whom do you think it’s from?”
“How do I know?”
“Well,” said Jack, “this letter is the sequel to that conversation you and I had, which ended in our row.”
“The sequel?”.
“Yes. You remember that I left threatening that ‘Number Three’ should be mine.”
“Oh, yes; but don’t bother about that now,” said I.
“Bother about it? Man alive, that’s the very thing that I have to do! The bother, as you call it, has just begun. This letter is from Number Three.”
“Number Three? Marion!”
“Yes, Marion, Miss O’Halloran, the one I swore should be mine. Ha, ha!” laughed Jack, wildly; “a precious mess I’ve made of it! Mine? By Jove! What’s the end of it? To her a broken heart — to me dishonor and infamy!”
“My dear boy,” said I, “doesn’t it strike you that your language partakes, to a slight extent, of the melodramatic? Don’t get stagy, dear boy.”
“Stagy? Good Lord, Macrorie! Wait till you see that letter.”
“That letter! Why, confound it, you haven’t seen it yourself yet.”
“Oh, I know, I know. No need for me to open it. Look here, Macrorie, will you promise not to throw me over after I tell you about this?”
“Throw you over?”
“Yes. You’ll stick by a fellow still — ”
“Stick by you? Of course, through thick and thin, my boy.”
Jack gave a sigh of relief.
“Well, old chap,” said he, “you see, after I left you, I was bent on nothing but Marion. The idea of her slipping out of my hands altogether was intolerable. I was as jealous of you as fury, and all that sort of thing. The widow and Miss Phillips were forgotten. Even little Louie was given up. So I wrote a long letter to Marion.”
Jack paused, and looked hard at me.
“Well,” said I.
“Well,” said he, “you know her last letter to me was full of reproaches about the widow and Miss Phillips. She even alluded to Louie, though how under heaven she had heard about her is more than I can imagine. Well, you know, I determined to write her a letter that would settle all these difficulties, and at the same time gain her for myself, for good and all. You see I had sworn to get her from you, and I could think of nothing but that oath. So I wrote — but, oh, Macrorie, Macrorie, why, in Heaven’s name, did you make that mistake about Mrs. O’Halloran, and force that infernal oath out of me? Why did that confounded old blockhead forget to introduce her to you? That’s the cause of all my woes. But I won’t bore you, old fellow; I’ll go on. So, you see, in my determination to get her, I stuck at nothing. First of all, instead of attempting to explain away her reproaches, I turned them all back upon her. I was an infatuated fool, Macrorie, when I wrote that letter, but I was not a villain. I wrote it with an earnest desire that it should be effective. Well, I told her that she should not blame me for my gallantries, but herself for forcing me to them. I reproached her for refusing to elope with me when I offered, and told her she cared far more for her father’s ease and comfort than she did for my happiness. I swore that I loved her better than any of them, or all of them put together, and I’ll be hanged if I didn’t, Macrorie, when I wrote it. Finally, I told her there was yet time to save me, and, if she had a particle of that love which she professed, I implored her now to fly with me. I besought her to name some time convenient to her, and suggested — oh, Macrorie, I suggested — swear at me — curse me — do some thing or other — Macrorie, I suggested last night — midnight — I did, by Heaven!”
And, saying this, Jack looked at me for some minutes in silence, with a wild expression that I had never before seen on his face.
“Last night, Macrorie!” he repeated — “midnight! Think of that. Why don’t you say some thing?”
“Say?” said I. “Why, hang it, man, what can I say? It’s a case beyond words. If you’ve made such an appointment, and broken it, you’ve — well, there’s nothing to say.”
“That’s true,” said Jack, in a sepulchral tone. “That’s true. I made the appointment, and, Macrorie — I was not there.”
“Well, of course, I gathered as much from the way you go on about it — but that’s what I should like to understand, if it isn’t a secret.”
“Oh, no, I’ll make no secret about any thing connected with this business. Well, then I put the letter in the post-office, and strolled off to call on Miss Phillips. Will you believe it, she was ‘not at home?’ At that, I swear I felt so savage that I forgot all about Marion and my proposal. It was a desperate cut. I don’t know any thing that has ever made me feel so savage. And I feel savage yet. If she had any thing against me, why couldn’t she have seen me, and had it out with me, fair and square? It cut deep. By Jove! Well, then, I could think of nothing else but paying her off. So I organized a sleighing-party, and took out the Bertons and some other girls. I had Louie, you know, and we drove to Montmorency. Fun, no end. Great spirits. Louie teasing all the way. We got back so late that I couldn’t call on the widow. That evening I was at Chelmsford’s — a ball, you know — I was the only one of ours that went. Yesterday, didn’t call on Miss Phillips, but took out Louie. On my way I got this letter from the office, and carelessly stuffed it into my pocket. It’s been there ever since. I forgot all about it. Last evening there were a few of us at Berton’s, and the time passed like lightning. My head was whirling with a cram of all sorts of things. There was my anger at Miss Phillips, there was a long story Louie had to tell about the widow, and then there was Louie herself, who drove every other thought away. And so, Macrorie, Marion and my letter to her, and the letter in my pocket, and the proposed elopement, never once entered into my head. I swear they had all passed out of my mind as completely as though it had all been some confounded dream.”
Jack stopped, and again relapsed into moody silence.
“I’ll tell you what it is, old fellow,” said he, after a pause. “It’s devilish hard to put up with.”
“What is?” I asked.
“This ‘not-at-home’ style of thing. But never mind — I’ll pay her up!”
Now here was a specimen of rattle-brainishness — of levity — and of childishness; so desperate, that I began to doubt whether this absurd Jack ought to be regarded as a responsible being. It seemed simply impossible for him to concentrate his impulsive mind on any thing. He flings himself one day furiously into an elopement scheme — the next day, at a slight, he forgets all about the elopement, and, in a towering rage against Miss Phillips, devotes himself desperately to Louie. And now when the elopement scheme has been brought before him, even in the midst of his remorse — remorse, too, which will not allow him to open her letter — the thought of Miss Phillips once more drives away all recollection of Marion, even while he has before him the unopened letter of that wronged and injured girl. Jack’s brain was certainly of a harum-scarum order, such as is not often found — he was a creature of whim and impulse — he was a rattle-brain, a scatter-brain — formed to win the love of all — both men and women — formed, too, to fall into endless difficulties — formed also with a native buoyancy of spirit which enabled him to float where others would sink. By those who knew him, he would always be judged lightly — by those who knew him not, he would not fail to be judged harshly. Louie knew him, and laughed at him — Marion knew him not, and so she had received a stroke of anguish. Jack was a boy — no, a child — or, better yet, a great big baby. What in the world could I say to him or do with him? I alone knew the fulness of the agony which he had inflicted, and yet I could not judge him as I would judge another man.
“I’ll pay her up!” reiterated Jack, shaking his head fiercely.
“But before paying her up, Jack,” said I, “wouldn�
�t it be well to read that letter?”
Jack gave a sigh.
“You read it, Macrorie,” said he; “I know all about it.”
“Well,” said I, “that is the most astonishing proposal that I ever heard even from you. To read a letter like that! — Why, such a letter should be sacred.”
Jack’s face flushed. He seized the letter, tore it open, and read. The flush on his face deepened. As he finished, he crushed it in his hand, and then relapsed into his sombre fit.
“It’s just as I said, Macrorie,” said he. “She promised to meet me at the time I mentioned. And she was there. And I was not. And now she’ll consider me a scoundrel.”
In a few moments Jack opened out the crushed note, and read it again.
“After all,” said he, “she isn’t so awfully affectionate.”
“Affectionate!”
“No — she seems afraid, and talks a great deal too much of her father, and of her anguish of soul — yes, that’s her expression — her anguish of soul in sacrificing him to me. By Jove! — sacrifice! Think of that! And she says she only comes because I reproach her with being the cause of grief — heavens and earth! and she says that she doesn’t expect any happiness, but only remorse. By Jove! See here, Macrorie — did you ever in your life imagine that a woman, who loved a fellow well enough to make a runaway match with him, could write him in such a way? Why, hang it! she might have known that, before our honeymoon was over, that confounded old Irish scoundrel of a father of hers would have been after us, insisting on doing the heavy father of the comedy, and giving us his blessing in the strongest of brogues.
“And, what’s more, he’d have been borrowing money of me, the beggar! Borrowing money! of me — me — without a penny myself and head over heels in debt. Confound his impudence!”
And Jack, who had begun this with remorse about Marion, ended with this burst of indignation at Marion’s father, consequent upon a purely imaginary but very vivid scene, in which the latter was supposed to be extorting money from him. And he looked at me with a face that craved sympathy for such unmerited wrongs, and showed still more plainly the baby that was in him.
I made no answer. His quotations from Marion’s letter showed me plainly how she had been moved, and what a struggle of soul this resolve had cost her. Now I could understand the full meaning of that sombre face which I had seen in O’Halloran’s parlor, and also could see why it was that she had absented herself on that last evening. Did this letter change my sentiments about her? How could it, after what I already knew? It only elevated her, for it showed that at such a time her soul was racked and torn by the claims of filial duty. Under her hallucination, and under the glamour which Jack had thrown over her, she had done a deep wrong — but I alone knew how fearful was her disenchantment, and how keen was the mental anguish that followed.
“She’ll never forgive me,” said Jack, after a long silence.
“Who?” said I, with some bitterness, which came forth in spite of my new-found conviction of Jack’s utter babyhood — “Who, Miss Phillips?”
“Oh, no,” said Jack — “Marion.”
“Forgive you!” I ejaculated.
“Of course not. It’s bosh to use the word in such a connection. She’ll hate and scorn me till her dying day.”
“No, Jack,” said I, somewhat solemnly, “I think from what little I know of her, that if she gets over this, she’ll feel neither hate nor scorn.”
“Yes, she will,” said Jack, pettishly.
“No,” said I.
“You don’t know her, my boy. She’s not the one to forget this.”
“No, she’ll never forget it — but her feelings about you will be different from hate and scorn. She will simply find that she has been under a glamour about you, and will think of you with nothing but perfect indifference — and a feeling of wonder at her own infatuation.”
Jack looked vexed.
“To a woman who don’t know you, Jack, my boy — you become idealized, and heroic; but to one who does, you are nothing of the kind. So very impressible a fellow as you are, cannot inspire a very deep passion. When a woman finds the fellow she admires falling in love right and left, she soon gets over her fancy. If it were some one other woman that had robbed her of your affection, she would be jealous; but when she knows that all others are equally charming, she will become utterly indifferent.”
“See here, old boy, don’t get to be so infernally oracular. What the mischief does a fellow like you know about that sort of thing? I consider your remarks as a personal insult, and, if I didn’t feel so confoundedly cut up, I’d resent it. But as it is, I only feel bored, and, on the whole, I should wish it to be with Marion as you say it’s going to be. If I could think it would be so, I’d be a deuced sight easier in my mind about her. If it weren’t for my own abominable conduct, I’d feel glad that this sort of thing had been stopped — only I don’t like to think of Marion being disappointed, you know — or hurt — and that sort of thing, you know. The fact is, I have no business to get married just now — no — not even to the angel Gabriel — and this would have been so precious hard on poor little Louie.”
“Louie — why,” said I, “you speak confidently about her.”
“Oh, never fear about her,” said Jack.“She’s able to take care of herself. She does nothing but laugh at me — no end.”
“Nothing new, then, in that quarter?” I asked, feeling desirous now of turning away from the subject of Marion, which was undergoing the same treatment from Jack which a fine and delicate watch would receive at the hands of a big baby. “No fresh proposals?”
“No,” said Jack, dolefully, “nothing but chaff.”
“And Miss Phillips?”
“Affairs in that quarter are in status quo” said Jack. “She’s chosen to not-at-home me, and how it’s going to turn out is more than I can tell. But I’ll be even with her yet. I’ll pay her off!”
“Perhaps you won’t find it so easy as you imagine.”
“Won’t I?” said Jack, mysteriously, “you’ll see.”
“Perhaps she’s organizing a plan to pay you off.”
“That’s more than she can do.”
“By-the-way — what about the widow?”
“Well,” said Jack, seriously, “whatever danger is impending over me, may be looked for chiefly in that quarter.”
“Have you seen her lately?”
“No — not since the evening I took the chaplain there.”
“You must have heard some thing.”
“Yes,” said Jack, moodily.
“What?”
“Well, I heard from Louie, who keeps well up in my affairs, you know. She had gathered some thing about the widow,”
“Such as what?”
“Well, you know — she wouldn’t tell.”
“Wouldn’t tell?”
“No — wouldn’t tell — chaffed me — no end, but wouldn’t go into particulars.”
“But could you find out whether it affected you or not?”
“Oh, of course, I took that for granted. That was the point of the whole joke, you know. Louie’s chaff consisted altogether of allusions to some mysterious plan of the widow’s, by which she would have full, ample, perfect, complete, and entire vengeance on me.”
“That’s bad.”
“It is.”
“A widow’s a dangerous thing.”
“Too true, my boy,” said Jack, with a sigh, “nobody knows that better than I do.”
“I wonder you don’t try to disarm her.”
“Disarm her?”
“Yes — why don’t you call on her?”
“Well, confound it, I did call only a day or two ago, you know. The last two or three days I’ve been engaged.”
“Yes, but such an engagement will only make the widow more furious.”
> “But, confound it, man, it’s been simply impossible to do any thing else than what I have been doing.”
“I’ll tell you what it is, Jack,” said I, solemnly, “the widow’s your chief danger. She’ll ruin you. There’s only one thing for you to do, and that is what I’ve already advised you to do, and Louie, too, for that matter. You must fly.”
“Oh, bosh! — how can I?”
“Leave of absence — sell out — any thing.”
Jack shook his head, and gave a heavy sigh.
Chapter 31
A FRIENDLY CALL. — PRELIMINARIES OF THE DUEL NEATLY ARRANGED. — A DAMP JOURNEY, AND DEPRESSED SPIRITS. — A SECLUDED SPOT. — DIFFICULTIES WHICH ATTEND A DUEL IN A CANADIAN SPRING. — A MASTERLY DECISION. — DEBATES ABOUT THE NICETIES OF THE CODE OF HONOR. — WHO SHALL HAVE THE FIRST SHOT, STRUGGLE FOR PRECEDENCE. — A VERY SINGULAR AND VERY OBSTINATE DISPUTE. — I SAVE O’HALLORAN FROM DEATH BY RHEUMATISM.
Before the close of the day a gentleman called on me from O’Halloran, whom I referred to Jack, and these two made arrangements for the duel. It was to take place in a certain locality, which I do not intend to mention, and which was no matter how many miles out of town.
“We left at an early hour, and the doctor accompanied us. Jack had sufficient foresight to fill the sleigh with all the refreshments that might be needed on such an occasion. We drove to O’Halloran’s house, where we found his sleigh waiting, with himself and a friend all ready to start. They led the way, and we followed.
It was a nasty time, the roads were terrible. They were neither one thing nor the other. There was nothing but a general mixture of ice heaps, slush, thawing snowdrifts, bare ground, and soft mud. Over this our progress was extremely slow. Added to this, the weather was abominable. It was warm, soft, slimy, and muggy. The atmosphere had changed into a universal drizzle, and was close and oppressive. At first O’Halloran’s face was often turned back to hail us with some jovial remark, to which we responded in a similar manner; but after a time silence settled on the party, and the closeness, and the damp, and the slow progress, reduced us one and all to a general state of sulkiness.
Lady of the Ice Page 20