That life of pleasure, and that soul of whim!”
Or, as another poet has it —
“’Twas Jack — but living Jack no more!”
“Jack,” said I, after a long and solemn silence, in which I had tried in vain to conjecture what might possibly be the cause of this — “Jack, dear boy, you and I have had confidences together, a little out of the ordinary line. I came here to congratulate you about your fortune; but I find you utterly cut up about some thing. Will you let me ask you what it is? I don’t ask out of idle curiosity, but out of sympathy. At the same time, if it’s any thing of a private nature, I beg pardon for asking you to tell it.”
Jack looked up, and a faint flicker of a smile passed over his face.
“Oh, all right, old boy!” he said. “I’m hit hard — all up — and that sort of thing — hit hard — yes, damned hard — serves me right, too, you know, for being such an infernal fool.”
He frowned, and drew a long breath.
“Wait a minute, old chap,” said he, rising from the sofa, “I’ll get some thing to sustain nature, and then I’ll answer your question. I’m glad you’ve come. I don’t know but that it’ll do me good to tell it all to somebody. It’s hard to stay here in my den, fretting my heart out — damned hard! — but wait a minute, and I’ll explain.”
Saying this, he walked over to the sideboard.
“Will you take any thing?”
“Thanks, no,” said I; “a pipe is all I want.” And I proceeded to fill and light one.
Thereupon Jack poured out a tumbler of raw brandy, which he swallowed. Then he came back to the sofa. A flush came to his face, and his eyes looked brighter; but he had still the same haggard aspect.
“I’m in for it, Macrorie,” said he at last, gloomily.
“In for it?”
“Yes — an infernal scrape.”
“What?”
“The widow — damn her!” and he struck his clinched fist against the head of the sofa.
“In for it? The widow?” I repeated.
“What do you mean?”
Jack drew a long breath, and regarded me with a fixed stare.
“I mean,” said Jack, fixing his eyes upon me with an awful look, “I mean this — that I have to marry that woman.”
“Marry her?”
“Yes,” he exclaimed, dashing his fist upon the table savagely, “marry her! There you have it. I’m in for it. No escape. Escape — ha! ha! Nabbed, sir. All up! Married and done for — yes, eternally done for!”
He jerked these words out in a fierce, feverish way; and then, flinging himself back, he clasped his knees with his hands, and sat regarding me with stern eyes and frowning brow.
This mood of Jack’s was a singular one. He was evidently undergoing great distress of mind. Under such circumstances as these, no levity could be thought of. Had he not been so desperate, I might have ventured upon a jest about the widow driving the others from the field and coming forth victorious; but, as it was, there was no room for jest. So I simply sat in silence, and returned his gaze.
“Well?” said he at last, impatiently.
“Well?” said I.
“Haven’t you got any thing to say about that?”
“I don’t know what to say. Your manner of telling this takes me more by surprise than the thing itself. After all, you must have looked forward to this.”
“Looked forward? I’ll be hanged if I did, except in a very general way. Damn it, man! I thought she’d have a little pity on a fellow, and allow me some liberty. I didn’t look forward to being shut up at once.”
“At once? You speak as though the event were near.”
“Near? I should think it was. What do you say to next week? Is that near or not? Near? I should rather think so.”
“Next week? Good Lord! Jack, do you really mean it? Nonsense!”
“Next week — yes — and worse — on Tuesday — not the end, but the beginning, of the week — Tuesday, the 20th of June.”
“Tuesday, the 20th of June!” I repeated, in amazement.
“Yes, Tuesday, the 20th of June,” said Jack.
“Heavens, man! what have you been up to? How did it happen? Why did you do it? Couldn’t you have postponed it? It takes two to make an agreement. What do you mean by lamenting over it now? Why didn’t you get up excuses? Haven’t you to go home to see about your estates? Why, in Heaven’s name, did you let it be all arranged in this way, if you didn’t want it to be?”
Jack looked at me for a few moments very earnestly.
“Why didn’t I?” said he, at length, “simply because I happen to be an unmitigated, uncontrollable, incorrigible, illimitable, and inconceivable ass! That’s the reason why, if you must know.”
Jack’s very forcible way of putting this statement afforded me no chance whatever of denying it or combating it. His determination to be an ass was so vehement, that remonstrance was out of the question. I therefore accepted it as a probable truth.
For some time I remained silent, looking at Jack, and puffing solemnly at my pipe. In a situation of this kind, or in fact in any situation where one is expected to say some thing, but doesn’t happen to have any thing in particular to say, there’s nothing in the world like a pipe. For the human face, when it is graced by a pipe, and when the pipe is being puffed, assumes, somehow, a rare and wonderful expression of profound and solemn thought. Besides, the presence of the pipe in the mouth is a check to any overhasty remark. Vain and empty words are thus repressed, and thought, divine thought, reigns supreme. And so as I sat in silence before Jack, if I didn’t have any profound thoughts in my mind, I at least had the appearance of it, which after all served my purpose quite as well.
“I don’t mind telling you all about it, old chap,” said Jack, at last, who had by this time passed into a better frame of mind, and looked more like his old self. “You’ve known all about the row, all along, and you’ll have to be in at the death, so I’ll tell you now. You’ll have to help me through — you’ll be my best man, and all that sort of thing, you know — and this is the best time for making a clean breast of it, you know: so here goes.”
Upon this Jack drew a long breath, and then began:
“I’ve told you already,” he said, “how abominably kind she was. You know when I called on her after the row with Miss Phillips, how sweet she was, and all that, and how I settled down on the old terms. I hadn’t the heart to get up a row with her, and hadn’t even the idea of such a thing. When a lady is civil, and kind, and all that, what can a fellow do? So you see I went there as regular as clock-work; and dined, and then left. Sometimes I went at six, and stayed till eight; sometimes at five, and stayed till nine. But that was very seldom. Sometimes, you know, she’d get me talking, and somehow the time would fly, and it would be ever so late before I could get away. I’m always an ass, and so I felt tickled, no end, at her unfailing kindness to me, and took it all as so much incense, and all that — I was her deity, you know — snuffing up incense — receiving her devotion — feeling half sorry that I couldn’t quite reciprocate, and making an infernal fool of myself generally.
“Now you know I’m such a confounded ass that her very reticence about my other affairs, and her quiet way of taking them, rather piqued me; and several times I threw out hints about them, to see what she would say. At such times she would smile in a knowing way, but say nothing. At last there was one evening — it was a little over a week ago — I went there, and found her more cordial than ever, more amusing, more fascinating — kinder, you know, and all that. There was no end to her little attentions. Of course all that sort of thing had on me the effect which it always has, and I rapidly began to make an ass of myself. I began to hint about those other affairs — and at last I told her I didn’t believe she’d forgiven me.”
Here Jack made an awful pause, and looked at me in deep solem
nity.
I said nothing, but puffed away in my usual thoughtful manner.
“The moment that I said that,” continued Jack, “she turned and gave me the strangest look. ‘Forgiven you,’ said she, ‘after all that has passed, can you say that?’
‘“Well,’ I said, ‘you don’t seem altogether what you used to be —’
“‘I!’ she exclaimed. ‘I not what I used to be? — and you can look me in the face and say that.’
“And now, Macrorie, listen to what an ass can do.
“You see, her language, her tone, and her look, all piqued me. But at the same time I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t love her — confound her! — and I knew that I didn’t — but I wanted to assert myself, or some other damned thing or other — so what did I do but take her hand.”
I puffed on.
“She leaned back in her chair.
“‘Ah, Jack,’ she sighed, ‘I don’t believe you care any thing for poor me.’”
Jack paused for a while, and sat looking at the floor.
“Which was quite true,” he continued, at last. “Only under the circumstances, being thus challenged, you know, by a very pretty widow, and being an ass, and being conceited, and being dazzled by the surroundings, what did I do but begin to swear that I loved her better than ever?
“‘And me alone!’ she sighed.
“‘Yes, you alone!’ I cried, and then went on in the usual strain in which impassioned lovers go under such circumstances, but with this very material difference, that I didn’t happen to be an impassioned lover, or any other kind of a lover of hers at all, and I knew it all the time, and all the time felt a secret horror at what I was saying.
“But the fact of the business is, Macrorie, that woman is — oh — she is awfully clever, and she managed to lead me on, I don’t know how. She pretended not to believe me — she hinted at my indifference, she spoke about my joy at getting away from her so as to go elsewhere, and said a thousand other things, all of which had the effect of making me more of an ass than ever, and so I rushed headlong to destruction.”
Here Jack paused, and looked at me despairingly.
“Well?” said I.
“Well?” said he.
“Go on,” said I. “Make an end of it. Out with it! What next?”
Jack gave a groan.
“Well — you see — somehow — I went on — and before I knew it there I was offering to marry her on the spot — and — heavens and earth! Macrorie — wasn’t it a sort of judgment on me — don’t you think? — I’d got used to that sort of thing, you know — offering to marry people off hand, you know, and all that — and so it came natural on this occasion; and I suppose that was how it happened, that before I knew what I was doing I had pumped out a violent and vehement entreaty for her to be mine, at once. — Yes, at once — any time — that evening — the next day — the day after — no matter when. I’ll be hanged if I can say now whether at that moment I was really sincere or not. I’m such a perfect and finished ass, that I really believe I meant what I said, and at that time I really wanted her to marry me. If that confounded chaplain that goes humbugging about there all the time had happened to be in the room, I’d have asked him to tie the knot on the spot. Yes, I’ll be hanged if I wouldn’t! His not being there is the only reason, I believe, why the knot wasn’t tied. In that case I’d now be Mr. Finnimore — no, by Jove — what rot! — I mean I’d now be her husband, and she’d be Mrs. Randolph — confound her!”
Jack again relapsed into silence. His confession was a difficult task for him, and it came hard. It was given piecemeal, like the confession of a murderer on the day before his execution, when his desire to confess struggles with his unwillingness to recall the particulars of an abhorrent deed, and when after giving one fact he delays and falters, and lapses into long silence before he is willing or able to give another.
“Well, after that,” he resumed, at last, “I was fairly in for it — no hope, no going back — no escapes — trapped, my boy — nabbed — gone in forever — head over heels, and all the rest of it. The widow was affected by my vehemence, as a matter of course — she stammered — she hesitated, and of course, being an ass, I was only made more vehement by all that sort of thing, you know. So I urged her, and pressed her, and then, before I knew what I was about, I found her coyly granting my insane request to name the day.”
“Oh, Jack! Jack! Jack!” I exclaimed.
“Go on,” said he. “Haven’t you some thing more to say? Pitch in. Give it to me hot and heavy. You don’t seem to be altogether equal to the occasion, Macrorie. Why don’t you hit hard?”
“Can’t do it,” said. I. “I’m knocked down myself. Wait, and I’ll come to time. But don’t be too hard on a fellow. Be reasonable. I want to take breath.”
“Name the day! name the day! name the day!” continued Jack, ringing the changes on the words, “name the day! By Jove! See here, Macrorie — can’t you get a doctor’s certificate for me and have me quietly put in the lunatic asylum before that day comes?”
“That’s not a bad idea,” said I. “It might be managed. It’s worth thinking about, at any rate.”
“Wild!” said Jack, “mad as a March hare, or a hatter, or any other thing of that sort — ungovernable — unmanageable, devoid of all sense and reason — what more do you want? If I am not a lunatic, who is? That’s what I want to know.”
“There’s a great deal of reason in that,” said I, gravely.
“No there isn’t,” said Jack, pettishly. “It’s all nonsense. I tell you I’m a madman, a lunatic, an idiot, any thing else. I don’t quite need a strait-jacket as yet, but I tell you I do need the seclusion of a comfortable lunatic asylum. I only stipulate for an occasional drop of beer, and a whiff or two at odd times. Don’t you think I can manage it?”
“It might be worth trying,” said I. “But trot on, old fellow.”
Jack, thus recalled to himself, gave another very heavy sigh.
“Where was I?” said he. “Oh, about naming the day. Well, I’ll be hanged if she didn’t do it. She did name the day. And what day do you think it was that she named? What day! Good Heavens, Macrorie! Only think of it. What do you happen to have to say, now, for instance, to the 20th of June? Hey? What do you say to next Tuesday? Tuesday, the 20th of June! Next Tuesday! Only think of it. Mad! I should rather think so.”
I had nothing to say, and so I said nothing.
At this stage of the proceedings Jack filled a pipe, and began smoking savagely, throwing out the puffs of smoke fast and furious. Both of us sat in silence, involved in deep and anxious thought — I for him, he for himself.
At last he spoke.
“That’s all very well,” said he, putting down the pipe, “but I haven’t yet told you the worst.”
“The worst?”
“Yes; there’s some thing more to be told — some thing which has brought me to this. I’m not the fellow I was. It isn’t the widow; it’s some thing else. It’s —
Chapter 35
“LOUIE!” — PLATONIC FRIENDSHIP. — ITS RESULTS. — ADVICE MAY BE GIVEN TOO FREELY, AND CONSOLATION MAY BE SOUGHT FOR TOO EAGERLY. — TWO INFLAMMABLE HEARTS SHOULD NOT BE ALLOWED TO COME TOGETHER. — THE OLD, OLD STORY. — A BREAKDOWN, AND THE RESULTS ALL AROUND. — THE CONDEMNED CRIMINAL. — THE SLOW YET SURE APPROACH OF THE HOUR OF EXECUTION.
“It’s Louie!” said Jack again, after a pause. “That’s the ‘hinc illae lachrymae’ of it, as the Latin grammar has it.”
“Louie?” I repeated.
“Yes, Louie,” said Jack, sadly and solemnly.
I said nothing. I saw that some thing more was coming, which would afford the true key to Jack’s despair. So I waited in silence till it should come.
“As for the widow herself,” said Jack, meditatively, “she isn’t a bad lot, and, if it hadn’t been for Louie, I should hav
e taken all this as an indication of Providence that my life was to be lived out under her guidance; but then the mischief of it is, there happens to be a Louie, and that Louie happens to be the very Louie that I can’t manage to live without. You see there’s no nonsense about this, old boy. You may remind me of Miss Phillips and Number Three, but I swear to you solemnly they were both nothing compared with Louie. Louie is the only one that ever has fairly taken me out of myself, and fastened herself to all my thoughts, and hopes, and desires. Louie is the only one that has ever chained me to her in such a way that I never wished to leave her for anybody else. Louie! why, ever since I’ve known her, all the rest of the world and of womankind has been nothing, and, beside her, it all sank into insignificance. There you have it! That’s the way I feel about Louie. These other scrapes of mine — what are they? Bosh and nonsense, the absurdities of a silly boy! But Louie! why, Macrorie, I swear to you that she has twined herself around me so that the thought of her has changed me from a calf of a boy into a man. Now I know it all. Now I understand why I followed her up so close. Now, now, and now, when I know it all, it is all too late! By Jove, I tell you what it is, I’ve talked like a fool about suicide, but I swear I’ve been so near it this last week that it’s not a thing to laugh at.”
And Jack looked at me with such a wild face and such fierce eyes that I began to think of the long-talked-of head-stone of Anderson’s as a possibility which was not so very remote, after all.
“I’ll tell you all about it,” said he. “It’s a relief. I feel a good deal better already after what I have said.
“You see,” said he, after a pause, in which his frown grew darker, and his eyes were fixed on vacancy,— “you see, that evening I stayed a little later than usual with the widow. At last I hurried off. The deed was done, and the thought of this made every nerve tingle within me. I hurried off to see Louie. What the mischief did I want of Louie? you may ask. My only answer is: I wanted her because I wanted her. No day was complete without her. I’ve been living on the sight of her face and the sound of her voice for the past two months and more, and never fairly knew it until this last week, when it has all become plain to me. So I hurried off to Louie, because I had to do so — because every day had to be completed by the sight of her.
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