Lady of the Ice

by James De Mille

  All this time O’Halloran did not appear to have recognized Jack at all. On the drive out this might have been accounted for, but, in the Hôtel de France, O’Halloran had a full and perfect inspection of him. If he did recognize him, it certainly did not appear in his manner. He exchanged words with Jack in a tone of hilarious cordiality, which did not seem as though he considered Jack an enemy; and Jack, who never failed to respond when greeted in such a way, met him more than halfway. It was evident that O’Halloran had not the smallest idea that Jack was that identical British officer whom he had expelled from his house.

  Of all the party the doctor seemed to have suffered most; and, on the journey back, he kept up one prolonged growl at me. I was fated, he said, to bring him bad luck, and I would be the death of him. Once before he had ridden all night in the storm for me; and now here was another fool’s errand. He seemed inclined to consider it as a personal insult, and actually felt aggrieved because O’Halloran’s bullet had not shattered my arm, or penetrated my brain. Thus he alternated between shivering and swearing all the way back.

  “I tell you what it is, Macrorie,” he growled, “if you ever come to ask my help again on any occasion whatever, I’ll take it as a personal insult. I wouldn’t have come this time, but I thought it was to be an affair of honor. An affair of honor! Rot and nonsense! Dragging a fellow over the country all day to see a couple of pistols fired in the air! What sort of a thing do you call that? And here am I — in for it — yes — damn it, man! — I say again — in for it — to any extent — rheumatism, neuralgia, gout, inflammation, and fifty other things! If I thought you’d have any of them, I’d feel satisfied. But no — you’re all right, and can afford to sit there grinning at the sufferings of a better man than yourself.”

  From which it will appear that the doctor was savage, and I was not.

  On reaching Quebec, O’Halloran gave us all a comprehensive invitation to dinner.

  But the doctor could not accept it. He had taken cold, and would have to go home. Jack could not accept it. He had a very pressing engagement. Mr. McGinty could not accept it, for he had some important business. So O’Halloran pressed me. I alone was disengaged. I had no rheumatism, no pressing engagement, no important business. O’Halloran was urgent in his invitation. Our duel seemed only to have heightened and broadened his cordiality. I was dying to see Marion — or to find out how she was — so what did I do? Why, I leaped at the invitation, as a matter of course.

  So once more I was ushered into that comfortable and hospitable back-parlor. Since I had been there last, what events had occurred! O’Halloran left me for a time, and I was alone. I sat down, and thought of that night when I had wandered forth. I thought of all the wild fancies that had filled my brain, as I wandered about amid the storm, listening to the howl of the wind, and the deep, sullen moan of the river. I recalled that strange, weird superstition, which had drawn me back once more to the house — and the deep longing and craving which had filled my heart for one glimpse, however faint, of my Lady of the Ice. I thought of my return — of my earnest gaze around, of the deep toll of the midnight bell, and of the sudden revelation of that dim, shadowy figure of a veiled lady, that stood in faint outline by the house, which advanced to meet me as I hurried over to her.

  It was quite dark. There were no lamps lighted, but the coal-fire flickered and threw a ruddy glow about the apartment; at times leaping up into brightness, and again dying down into dimness and obscurity. O’Halloran had gone up-stairs, leaving me thus alone, and I sat in the deep arm-chair with my mind full of these all-absorbing fancies; and, in the midst of these fancies, even while I was thinking of that veiled figure which I had seen under the shadow of the house — even thus — I became aware of a light footfall, and a rustling dress beside me.

  I turned my head with a quick movement of surprise.

  There was the figure of a lady — graceful, slender, formed in a mould of perfect elegance and loveliness, the dark drapery of her dress descending till it died away among the shadows on the floor. I stared for a moment in surprise. Then the light of the fire, which had subsided for a moment, leaped up, and flashed out upon the exquisite features, and the dark, lustrous, solemn eyes of Marion.

  I sprang to my feet, with my heart beating so fast that it seemed impossible to breathe. The surprise was overwhelming. I had thought of her as raving in brain-fever, descending deep down into the abyss of delirium, and now — here she was — here — by my side! — my Lady of the Ice! — Marion!

  “I heard that you were here,” she said, in a low, tremulous voice, “and I could not help coming down to tell you how I — how I bless you for — for that night.”

  She stopped — and held out her hand in silence.

  I seized it in both of mine. For a few moments I could not speak. At last I burst forth:

  “Oh, my God! What bliss it is for me to see you! — I’ve been thinking about it ever since — I’ve been afraid that you were ill — that you would never get over it.”

  And still holding her hand in mine, I raised it with tremulous eagerness, and pressed it to my lips.

  She gently withdrew it, but without any appearance of anger.

  “No,” said she, “I was not ill. A wakeful night, a very feverish excitement — that was all.”

  “At this I took aim. Bang! went the shot. I afterward found that it passed through his hat.”

  “I listened long after you left,” said I, in a low voice; “and all was still.”

  “Yes,” she said, in the same low voice. “No one heard me. I reached my room without any one knowing it. But I had much to sustain me. For oh, sir, I felt deeply, deeply grateful to find myself back again, and to know that my folly had ended so. To be again in my dear home — with my dear papa — after the anguish that I had known!”

  She stopped. — It was a subject that she could not speak on without an emotion that was visible in every tone. Her voice was sad, and low, and solemn, and all its intonations thrilled to the very core of my being. And for me — I had nothing to say — I thrilled, my heart bounded at the sight of her face, and at the tones of her voice; while within me there was a great and unspeakable joy. If I had dared to say to her all that I felt at that moment! But how dare I? She had come, in the fulness of her warm gratitude to thank me for what I had done. She did not seem to think that, but for me, she would not have left her home at all. She only remembered that I had brought her back. It was thus that her generous nature revealed itself.

  Now, while she thus expressed such deep and fervent gratitude, and evinced such joy at being again in her home, and at finding such an ending to her folly, there came to me a great and unequalled exultation. For by this I understood that her folly was cured — that her infatuation was over — that the glamour had been dissipated — that her eyes had been opened — and the once-adored Jack was now an object of indifference.

  “Have you told any one about it?” I asked.

  “No,” said she, “not a soul.”

  “He is my most intimate friend,” said I, “but I have kept this secret from him. He knows nothing about it.”

  “Of course he does not,” said she, “how was it possible for you to tell him? This is our secret.”

  I cannot tell the soft, sweet, and soothing consolation which penetrated my inmost soul at these words. Though few, they had a world of meaning. I noticed with delight the cool indifference with which she spoke of him. Had she expressed contempt, I should not have been so well pleased. Perfect indifference was what I wanted, and what I found. Then, again, she acknowledged me as the only partner in her secret, thus associating me with herself in one memorable and impressive way. Nor yet did she ask any questions as to whom I meant. Her indifference to him was so great that it did not even excite curiosity as to how I had found out who he was. She was content to take my own statement without any questions or observations.

  And t
here, as the flickering light of the coal-fire sprang up and died out; as it threw from time to time the ruddy glow of its uprising flames upon her, she stood before me — a vision of perfect loveliness — like a goddess to the devotee, which appears for an instant amid the glow of some mysterious light, only to fade out of sight a moment after. The rare and perfect grace of her slender figure, with its dark drapery, fading into the gloom below — the fair outline of her face — her sad, earnest, and melancholy expression; the intense and solemn earnestness of her dark, lustrous eyes — all these conspired, to form a vision such as impressed itself upon my memory forever. This was the full realization of my eager fancy — this was what I had so longed to see. I had formed my own ideal of my Lady of the Ice — in private life — in the parlor — meeting me in the world of society. And here before me that ideal stood.

  “And holding her hand in mine, I raised it with tremulous eagerness, and pressed it to my lips.”

  Now, it gives a very singular sensation to a fellow to stand face to face with the woman whom he worships and adores, and to whom he dares not make known the feelings that swell within him; and still more singular is this sensation, when this woman, whom he adores, happens to be one whom he has carried in his arms for an indefinite time; and more singular yet is it, when she happens to be one whom he has saved once, and once again, from the most cruel fate; by whose side he has stood in what may have seemed the supreme moment of mortal life; whom he has sustained and cheered and strengthened in a dread conflict with Death himself; singular enough is the sensation that arises under such circumstances as these, my boy — singular, and overwhelming, and intolerable; a sensation which paralyzes the tongue and makes one mute, yet still brings on a resistless and invincible desire to speak and make all known; and should such a scene be too long continued, the probability is that the desire and the longing thus to speak will eventually burst through all restraint, and pour forth in a volume of fierce, passionate eloquence, that will rush onward, careless of consequences. Now, such was my situation, and such was my sensation, and such, no doubt, would have been the end of it all, had not the scene been brought to an end by the arrival of O’Halloran and his wife, preceded by a servant with lights, who soon put the room in a state of illumination.

  Nora, as I must still call her, was somewhat embarrassed at first meeting me — for she could not forget our last interview; but she gradually got over it, and, as the evening wore on, she became her old, lively, laughing, original self. O’Halloran, too, was in his best and most genial mood, and, as I caught at times the solemn glance of the dark eyes of Marion, I found not a cloud upon the sky that overhung our festivities. Marion, too, had more to say than usual. She was no longer so self-absorbed, and so abstracted, as she once was. She was not playful and lively like Nora; but she was, at least, not sad; she showed an interest in all that was going on, and no longer dwelt apart like a star.

  It was evident that Nora knew nothing at all about the duel. That was a secret between O’Halloran and me. It was also evident that she knew nothing about Marion’s adventure — that was a secret between Marion and me. There was another secret, also, which puzzled me, and of which O’Halloran must, of course, have known as little as I did, and this was that strange act of Nora’s in pretending to be the Lady of the Ice. Why had she done it? For what possible reason? Why had Marion allowed her to do it? All this was a mystery. I also wondered much whether she thought that I still believed in that pretence of hers. I thought she did, and attributed to this that embarrassment which she showed when she first greeted me. On this, as on the former occasion, her embarrassment had, no doubt, arisen from the fact that she was playing a part, and the consciousness that such a part was altogether out of her power to maintain. Yet, why had she done it?

  That evening I had a better opportunity to compare these two most beautiful women; for beautiful each most certainly was, though in a different way from the other. I had already felt on a former occasion the bewitching effect of Nora’s manner, and I had also felt to a peculiar and memorable extent that spell which had been cast upon me by Marion’s glance. Now I could understand the difference between them and my own feelings. For in witchery, in liveliness, in musical laughter, in never-failing merriment, Nora far surpassed all with whom I had ever met; and for all these reasons she had in her a rare power of fascination. But Marion was solemn, earnest, intense; and there was that on her face which sent my blood surging back to my heart, as I caught her glance. Nora was a woman to laugh and chat with; Nora was kind and gracious, and gentle too; Nora was amiable as well as witty; charming in manner, piquant in expression, inimitable at an anecdote, with never-failing resources, a first-rate lady-conversationist, if I may use so formidable a word — in fact, a thoroughly fascinating woman; but Marion! — Marion was one, not to laugh with, but to die for; Marion had a face that haunted you; a glance that made your heart leap, and your nerves tingle; a voice whose deep intonations vibrated through all your being with a certain mystic meaning, to follow you after you had left her, and come up again in your thoughts by day, and your dreams by night — Marion! why Nora could be surveyed calmly, and all her fascinating power analyzed; but Marion was a power in herself, who bewildered you and defied analysis.

  During that time when Nora had been confounded in my mind with the Lady of the Ice, she had indeed risen to the chief place in my thoughts, though my mind still failed to identify her thoroughly. I had thought that I loved her, but I had not. It was the Lady of the Ice whom I loved; and, when Marion had revealed herself, then all was plain. After that revelation Nora sank into nothingness, and Marion was all in all.

  Oh, that evening, in that pleasant parlor! Shall I ever forget it!

  Our talk was on all things. Of course, I made no allusion to my journey over the ice, and Nora soon saw that she was free from any such unpleasant and embarrassing remarks. Freed from this fear, she became herself again. Never was she more vivacious, more sparkling, or more charming. O’Halloran joined the conversation in a manner that showed the rarest resources of wit, of fun, and of genial humor. Marion, as I said before, did not hold aloof, but took a part which was subordinate, it is true, yet, to me, far more effective; indeed, incomparably more so than that of the others. Indeed, I remember now nothing else but Marion.

  So the evening passed, and at length the ladies retired. Nora bade me adieu with her usual cordiality, and her kindly and bewitching glance; while Marion’s eyes threw upon me their lustrous glow, in which there was revealed a certain deep and solemn earnestness, that only intensified, if such a thing were possible, the spell which she had thrown over my soul.

  And then it was “somethin’ warrum.” Under the effects of this, my host passed through several distinct and well-defined moods or phases.

  First of all, he was excessively friendly and affectionate. He alluded to our late adventure, and expressed himself delighted with the result.

  Then he became confidential, and explained how it was that he, an old man, happened to have a young wife.

  Fifteen years ago, he said, Nora had been left under his care by her father. She had lived in England all her life, where she had been educated. Shortly after he had become her guardian he had been compelled to fly to America, on account of his connection with the Young-Ireland party, of which he was a prominent member. He had been one of the most vigorous writers in one of the Dublin papers, which was most hostile to British rule, and was therefore a marked man. As he did not care about imprisonment or a voyage to Botany Bay, he had come to America, bringing with him his ward Nora, and his little daughter Marion, then a child of not more than three or four. By this act he had saved himself and his property, which was amply sufficient for his support. A few years passed away, and he found his feelings toward Nora somewhat different from those of a parent — and he also observed that Nora looked upon him with tenderer feelings than those of gratitude.

  “There’s a great difference intoirel
y,” said he, “between us now. I’ve lost my youth, but she’s kept hers. But thin, at that toime, me boy, Phaylhn O’Halloran was a moightily different man from the one you see before you. I was not much oyer forty — in me proime — feeling as young as any of thim, an’ it wasn’t an onnatural thing that I should win the love of ayven a young gyerrul, so it wasn’t. An’ so she became me woife — my Nora — me darlin’ — the loight of me loife. And she’s accompanied me iver since on all my wandherin’s and phelandherin’s, and has made the home of the poor ixoile a paradoise, so she has.”

  All this was very confidential, and such a confidence would probably never have been given, had it not been for the effects of “somethin’ warrum;” but it showed me several things in the plainest manner. The first was, that Nora must be over thirty, at any rate, and was therefore very much older than I had taken her to be. Again, her English accent and style could be accounted for; and finally the equally English accent and style of Marion could be understood and accounted for on the grounds of Nora’s influence. For a child always catches the accent of its mother rather than of its father, and Nora must, for nearly fifteen years, have been a sort of mother, more or less, to Marion.

  And now, why the mischief did Nora pretend to be my Lady of the Ice, and in the very presence of Marion try to maintain a part which she could not carry out? And why, if she were such a loving and faithful wife, did she deliberately deceive the confiding O’Halloran, and make him believe that she was the one whom I had saved? It was certainly not from any want of love for him. It must have been some scheme of hers which she had formed in connection with Marion. But what in the world could such a scheme have been, and why in the world had she formed it?