“You can easily make up some story for the occasion. Tell me the name of some one, and I will take you.”
“No,” said she.
“Then,” said I, “you must go home.”
“Home! home!” she gasped.
“Yes,” said I, firmly, “home. Home you must go, and nowhere else.”
“I cannot.”
“You must.”
“I will not; I will die first.”
“You shall not die!” I cried, passionately. “You shall not die while I am near you. I have saved your life before, and I will not let it end in this. No, you shall not die — I swear by all that’s holy! I myself will carry you home.”
“I cannot,” she murmured, feebly.
“You must,” said I. “This is not a question of death — it’s a question of dishonor. Home is the only haven where you can find escape from that, and to that home I will take you.”
“Oh, my God!” she wailed, “how can I meet my father?”
She buried her face in her hands again, and sobbed convulsively.
“Do not be afraid,” said I. “I will meet him, and explain all. Or say — answer me this,” I added, in fervid, vehement tones “— I can do more than this. I will tell him it was all my doing. I will accept his anger. I’ll tell him I was half mad, and repented. I’ll tell any thing — any thing you like. I’ll shield you so that all his fury shall fall on me, and he will have nothing for you but pity.”
“Stop,” said she, solemnly, rising to her feet, and looking at me with her white face — “stop! You must not talk so. I owe my life to you already. Do not overwhelm me. You have now deliberately offered to accept dishonor for my sake. It is too much. If my gratitude is worth having, I assure you I am grateful beyond words. But your offer is impossible. Never would I permit it.”
“Will you go home, then?” I asked, as she paused.
“Yes,” said she, slowly.
I offered my arm, and she took it, leaning heavily upon me. Our progress was slow, for the storm was fierce, and she was very weak.
“I think,” said she, “that in my haste I left the back door unlocked. If so, I may get in without being observed.”
“I pray Heaven it may be so,” said I, “for in that case all trouble will be avoided.”
We walked on a little farther. She leaned more and more heavily upon me, and walked more and more slowly. At last she stopped.
I knew what was the matter. She was utterly exhausted, and to go farther was impossible. I did not question her at all. I said nothing. I stooped, and raised her in my arms without a word, and walked vigorously onward. She murmured a few words of complaint, and struggled feebly; but I took no notice whatever of her words or her struggles. But her weakness was too great even for words. She rested on me like a dead weight, and I would have been sure that she had fainted again, had I not felt the convulsive shudders that from time to time passed through her frame, and heard her frequent heavy sighs and sobbings.
So I walked on through the roaring storm, beaten by the furious sleet, bearing my burden in my arms, as I had done once before. And it was the same burden, under the same circumstances — my Lady of the Ice, whom I thus again uplifted in my arms amid the storm, and snatched from a cruel fate, and carried. back to life and safety and home. And I knew that this salvation which she now received from me was far more precious than that other one; for that was a rescue from death, but this was a rescue from dishonor.
We reached the house at last. The gate which led into the yard was not fastened. I carried her in, and put her down by the back door. I tried it. It opened.
The sight of that open door gave her fresh life and strength. She put one foot on the threshold.
Then she turned.
“Oh, sir,” said; she in a low, thrilling voice, “I pray God that it may ever be in my power to do some thing for you — some day — in return — for all this. God bless you! you have saved me — ”
And with these words she entered the house. The door closed between us — she was gone.
I stood and listened for a long time. All was still.
“Thank Heaven!” I murmured, as I turned away. “The family have not been alarmed. She is safe.”
I went home, but did not sleep that night. My brain was in a whirl from the excitement of this new adventure. In that adventure every circumstance was one of the most impressive character; and at the same time every thing was contradictory and bewildering to such an extent that I did not know whether to congratulate myself or not, whether to rejoice or lament. I might rejoice at finding the Lady of the Ice; but my joy was modified by the thought that I found her meditating flight with another man. I had saved her; but then I was very well aware that, if I had not come, she might never have left her home, and might never have been in a position to need help. Jack had, no doubt, neglected to meet her. Over some things, however, I found myself exulting — first, that, after all, I had saved her, and, secondly, that she had found out Jack.
As for Jack, my feelings to him underwent a rapid and decisive change. My excitement and irritation died away. I saw that we had both been under a mistake. I might perhaps have blamed him for his treachery toward Marion in urging her to a rash and ruinous elopement; but any blame which I threw on him was largely modified by a certain satisfaction which I felt in knowing that his failure to meet her, fortunate as it was for her, and fortunate as it was also for himself, would change her former love for him into scorn and contempt. His influence over her was henceforth at an end, and the only obstacle that I saw in the way of my love was suddenly and effectually removed.
Chapter 29
PUZZLING QUESTIONS WHICH CANNOT BE ANSWERED AS YET. — A STEP TOWARD RECONCILIATION. — REUNION OF A BROKEN FRIENDSHIP. — PIECES ALL COLLECTED AND JOINED. — JOY OF JACK. — SOLEMN DEBATES OVER THE GREAT PUZZLE OF THE PERIOD. — FRIENDLY CONFERENCES AND CONFIDENCES. — AN IMPORTANT COMMUNICATION.
The night passed, and the morning came, and the impression of these recent events grew more and more vivid. The very circumstances under which I found my Lady of the Ice were not such as are generally chosen by the novelist for an encounter between the hero and heroine of his novel. Of that I am well aware; but then I’m not a novelist, and I’m not a hero, and the Lady of the Ice isn’t a heroine — so what have you got to say to that? The fact is, I’m talking about myself. I found Marion running away, or trying to run away, with my intimate friend. The elopement, however, did not come off. She was thrown into my way in an amazing manner, and I identified her with my Lady, after whom I longed and pined with a consuming passion. Did the discovery of the Lady of the Ice under such circumstances change my affections? Not at all. They only grew all the stronger. The Lady was the same as ever. I had not loved Nora, but the Lady of the Ice; and now that I found out who she was, I loved Marion. This happens to be the actual state of the case; and, whether it is artistic or not, does not enter into my mind for a single moment.
Having thus explained my feelings concerning Marion, it will easily be seen that any resentment which I might have felt against Jack for causing her grief, was more than counterbalanced by the prospect I now had that she would give him up forever. Besides, our quarrel was on the subject of Nora, and this had to be explained. Then, again, my duel was on the tapis, and I wanted Jack for a second. I therefore determined to hunt him up as soon as possible.
But in the course of the various meditations which had filled the hours of the night, one thing puzzled me extremely, and that was the pretension of Nora to be my Lady of the Ice. Why had she done so? Why did Marion let her? Why did O’Halloran announce his own wife to me as the lady whom I had saved? No doubt Nora and Marion had some reason. But what, and why? And what motive had O’Halloran for deceiving me? Clearly none. It was evident that he believed Nora to be the lady. It was also evident that on the first night of the reading of the advertisement, and
my story, he did not know that the companion of that adventure of mine was a member of his family. The ladies knew it, but he didn’t. It was, therefore, a secret of theirs, which they were keeping from him. But why? And what possible reason had Marion for denying it, and Nora for coming forward and owning up to a false character to O’Halloran?
All these were perplexing and utterly bewildering mysteries, of which I could make nothing.
At length I cut short the whole bother by going off to Jack’s.
He was just finishing his breakfast.
The moment he saw me, he started to his feet, and gave a spring toward me. Then he grasped my hand in both of his, while his face grew radiant with delight.
“Macrorie! old boy!” he cried. “What a perfect trump! I’ll be hanged if I wasn’t going straight over to you! Couldn’t stand this sort of thing any longer. — What’s the use of all this beastly row? I haven’t had a moment’s peace since it begun. Yes, Macrorie,” he continued, wringing my hand hard, “I’ll be hanged if I wouldn’t give up every one of the women — I was just thinking that I’d give them all for a sight of your old face again — except, perhaps, poor little Louie — ” he added. “But, come, sit down, load up, and fumigate.”
And he brought out all his pipes, and drew up all his chairs, and showed such unfeigned delight at seeing me, that all my old feelings of friendship came back, and resumed their places.
“Well, old fellow,” said I, “do you know in the first place — our row — you know — ”
“Oh, bother the row!”
“Well, it was all a mistake.”
“A mistake?”
“Yes. We mistook the women.”
“How’s that? I’m in the dark.”
“Why, there are two ladies at O’Halloran’s.”
“Two?”
“Yes, and they weren’t introduced, and, as they’re both young, I thought they were both his daughters.”
“Two women! and young? By Jove!” cried Jack — “and who’s the other?”
“His wife!”
“His wife? and young?” The idea seemed to overwhelm Jack.
“Yes,” said I, “his wife, and young, and beautiful as an angel.”
“Young, and beautiful as an angel!” repeated Jack. “Good Lord, Macrorie!”
“Well, you know, I thought his wife was Miss O’Halloran, and the other Miss Marion.”
“What’s that? his wife? You thought she was Miss O’Halloran?”
“Yes, and the one I saved on the ice, you know — ”
“Well, all I can say is, old fellow, I’m confoundedly sorry for your sake that she’s a married woman. That rather knocks your little game. At the same time it’s a very queer thing that I didn’t know any thing about it. Still, I wasn’t at the house much, and Mrs. O’Halloran might have been out of town. I didn’t know any thing about their family affairs, and never heard them mentioned. I thought there was only a daughter in the family. Never dreamed of there being a wife.”
“Well, there is a wife — a Mrs. O’Halloran — so young and beautiful that I took her for the old man’s daughter; and Jack, my boy, I’m in a scrape.”
“A scrape?”
“Yes — a duel. Will you be my second?”
“A duel!” cried Jack, and gave a long whistle.
“Fact,” said I, “and it all arose out of my mistaking a man’s wife for his daughter.”
“Mistaking her?” cried Jack, with a roar of laughter. “So you did. Oh, Macrorie! how awfully spooney you were about her, you know — ready to fight with your best friend about her, and all that, you know. And how did it go on? What happened? Come, now, don’t do the reticent. Out with it, man. Every bit of it. A duel! And about a man’s wife! Good Lord! Macrorie, you’ll have to leave the regiment. An affair like this will rouse the whole town. These infernal newspapers will give exaggerated accounts of every thing, you know. And then you’ll get it. By Jove, Macrorie, I begin to think your scrape is worse than mine.”
“By-the-way, Jack, how are you doing?”
“Confound it man, what do you take me for? Do you think I’m a stalk or a stone. No, by Jove, I’m a man, and I’m crazy to hear about your affair. What happened? What did you do? What did you say? Some thing must have taken place, you know. You must have been awfully sweet on her. By Jove! And did the old fellow see you at it? Did he notice any thing? A duel! Some thing must have happened. Oh, by Jove! don’t I know the old rascal! Not boisterous, not noisy, but keen, sir, as a razor, and every word a dagger. The most savage, cynical, cutting, insulting old scoundrel of an Irishman that I ever met with. By Heaven, Macrorie, I’d like to be principal in the duel instead of second. By Jove, how that old villain did walk into me that last time I called there!”
“Well, you see,” I began, “when I went to his house he introduced me, and didn’t introduce her.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I talked with her several times, but for various reasons, unnecessary to state, I never mentioned her name. I just chatted with her, you know, the way a fellow generally does.”
“Was the old fellow by?”
“Oh, yes, but you know yesterday I went there and found her alone.”
“Well?”
“Well — you know — you were so determined at the time of our row, that I resolved to be beforehand, so I at once made a rush for the prize, and — and — ”
“And, what?”
“Why — did the spooney — you know — told her my feelings — and all that sort of thing you know.”
I then went on and gave Jack a full account of that memorable scene, the embarrassment of Nora, and the arrival of O’Halloran, together with our evening afterward, and the challenge.
To all this Jack listened with intense eagerness, and occasional bursts of uncontrollable laughter.
I concluded my narrative with my departure from the house. Of my return, my wanderings with Marion, my sight of him at Berton’s, and all those other circumstances, I did not say a word. Those things were not the sort that I chose to reveal to anybody, much less to Jack. Suddenly, and in the midst of his laughter and nonsense, Jack’s face changed. He grew serious. He thrust his hand in his pocket with some thing like consternation, and then drew forth —
Chapter 30
A LETTER! — STRANGE HESITATION. — GLOOMY FOREBODINGS. — JACK DOWN DEEP IN THE DUMPS. — FRESH CONFESSIONS. — WHY HE MISSED THE TRYST. — REMORSE AND REVENGE. — JACK’S VOWS OF VENGEANCE. — A VERY SINGULAR AND UNACCOUNTABLE CHARACTER. — JACK’S GLOOMY MENACES.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed, “I’ll be hanged if I haven’t forgot all about it. It’s been in my pocket ever since yesterday morning.”
Saying this, he held up the letter, and looked at it for some time without opening it, and with a strange mixture of embarrassment and ruefulness in his expression.
“What’s that?” said I, carelessly. “A letter? Who’s it from, Jack?”
Jack did not give any immediate answer. He turned the letter over and over, looking at it on the front and on the back.
“You seem hit hard, old man,” said I, “about some thing. Is it a secret?”
“Oh, no,” said Jack, with a sigh.
“Well, what’s the matter?”
“Oh, only this,” said he, with another sigh.
“What, that letter?”
“Yes.”
“It don’t look like a dun, old chap — so, why fret?”
“Oh, no,” said Jack, with a groan.
“What’s the reason you don’t open it?”
Jack shook his head.
“I’ve a pretty good idea of what’s in it,” said he. “There are some letters you can read without opening them, old boy, and this is one of them. You know the general nature of the contents, and you don’t feel altogether inclined to go over all t
he small details.”
“You don’t mean to say that you’re not going to open it?”
“Oh, I’ll open it,” said Jack, more dolefully than ever.
“Then, why don’t you open it now?”
“Oh, there’s no hurry — there’s plenty of time.”
“It must be some thing very unimportant. You say you’ve had it lying in your pocket ever since the day before yesterday. So, what’s the use of getting so tragic all of a sudden?”
“Macrorie, old chap,” said Jack, in a tone of hollow despair.
“Well?”
“Do you see that letter?” and he held it up in his hand.
“Yes.”
“Well, in that I am to read a convincing proof that I am a scoundrel!”
“A what? Scoundrel? Pooh, nonsense! What’s up now? Come, now, old boy, no melodrama. Out with it. But, first of all, read the letter.”
Jack laid the unopened letter on the table, filled his pipe, lighted it, and then, throwing himself back in his chair, sat staring at the ceiling, and sending forth great clouds of smoke that gathered in dense folds and soon hung overhead in a dark canopy.
I watched him in silence for some time. I suspected what that letter might be, but did not in any way let my suspicion appear.
“Jack,” said I, at last, “I’ve seen you several times in trouble during the last few days, but it is now my solemn conviction, made up from a long observation of your character, your manner, your general style, and your facial expression, that on this present occasion you are hit harder than ever you’ve been since I had the pleasure of your acquaintance.”
“That’s a fact,” said Jack, earnestly and solemnly.
“It isn’t a secret, you said?”
“No, not from you. I’ll tell you presently. I need one pipe, at least, to soothe my nerves.”
He relapsed into silence, and, as I saw that he intended to tell me of his own accord, I questioned him no further, but sat waiting patiently till he found strength to begin the confession of his woes.
At length he reached forward, and once more raised the letter from the table.
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