This was the puzzling question that arose afresh, as O’Halloran detailed to me very confidentially the history of this romantic experience in his life.
But this was only one of his moods, and this mood passed away. The romantic and the confidential was succeeded by the literary and the scholastic, with a dash of the humorous.
A trivial remark of mine, in the course of some literary criticisms of his, turned his thoughts to the subject of puns. He at once plunged into the history of puns. He quoted Aristophanes, Plautus, Terence, Cicero. He brought forward illustrations from Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, Milton, Puritan writers, Congreve, Cowper, and others, until he concluded with Hood, who he declared had first unfolded to the human mind the possibility of the pun.
From this he passed off lightly and easily into other things, and finally glided into the subject of mediaeval Latin. This, he asserted, was born and nourished under peculiar circumstances, so different from classical Latin as to be almost a new language, yet fully equal to it in all the best characteristics of a language. He defied me to find any thing in classical poetry that would compare with the “Dies Irae,” the “Stabat Mater,” or the “Rhythm of Bernard de Morlaix.” As I was and am rather rusty in Latin, I did not accept the challenge. Then he asserted that mediaeval Latin was so comprehensive in its scope that it was equally good for the convivial and for the solemn, and could speak equally well the sentiments of fun, love, and religion. He proved this by quotations from the immortal Walter Mapes. He overwhelmed me, in fact, with quotations. I caved in. I was suppressed. I became extinct. Finally he offered to show me an original song of his own, which he asserted was “iminintly shooted to the prisint occasion.”
As I had no other way of showing my opinion of it, I begged the paper from him, and give here a true copy of it, verbatim et literatim, notes and all:
PHELIMII HALLORANII CARMEN.
Omnibus Hibernicis
Semper est ex more
Vino curas pellere
Aut montano rore;*
Is qui nescit bibere,
Aut est cito satur,
Ille, Pol! me judice
Parvus est potator.†
Omnibus Americis
Semper est in ore
Tuba, frondes habens ex
Nicotino-flore;
Densis fumi nubibus
Et vivunt et movent,
Hoc est summum gaudium
Sic Te Bacche! Fovent.‡
Omnis tune Hibemicus
Migret sine mora,
Veniat Americam
Vivat hac in ora,
Nostram Baccam capiat, §
Et montanum rorem,
Erit, Pol! Americus||
In saecula saeculorum..
Amen.
*Montano rore — cf., id. Hib., mountain-dew; item, id. Scot., Hib., et Amer., whiskey.
†Parvus potator — cf., id.; Amer., small potater.
‡ Te Bacche — cf., id. Amer., Tebaccy, i.e., tobacco.
§Baccam — in America vulgo dici solet, Backy
||Americus — cf., id. Amer., a merry cuss.
Chapter 33
FROM APRIL TO JUNE. — TEMPORA MUTANTUR, ET NOS MUTAMUR IN ILLIS. — STARTLING CHANGE IN MARION! — AND WHY? — JACK AND HIS WOES. — THE VENGEANCE OF MISS PHILLIPS. — LADIES WHO REFUSE TO ALLOW THEIR HEARTS TO BE BROKEN. — NOBLE ATTITUDE OF THE WIDOW. — CONSOLATIONS OF LOUIE.
Time passed on, and week succeeded to week, without any occurrence of a decisive nature. April died out, May passed, and June came. Then all the trees burst into leaf, and the fields arrayed themselves in green, and all Nature gave one grand leap from winter into summer.
During all this time I was a constant and a favored guest at O’Halloran’s. I really don’t think I ever went anywhere else. I cut off all visits to others — that is, in the evening — and went there only. O’Halloran always received me with the same cordiality, and the ladies always met me with the same smile.
So many evenings in that comfortable parlor, so many chats with the ladies, so many interviews with my host, could not fail to bring us nearer together. Such was, indeed, the case with O’Halloran and Nora; but with Marion it was different. There was, indeed, between us the consciousness of a common secret, and she could not fail to see in my manner some thing warmer than common — some thing more tender than friendship, for instance — some thing, in fact, which, without being at all spooney, was still expressive of very delicate regard. Yet there came over her some thing which excited my fears, and filled me with gloomy forebodings. She seemed to lose that cordiality which she evinced on that first evening when I talked with her alone. She never threw at me those deep glances which then had made my nerves tingle. She seemed constrained and reserved. Only in speaking to me, there was always in her voice an indefinable sweetness and gentleness, which made her tones ring in my memory afterward like soft music. That showed me that there was no coldness on her part; and so, too, when I did catch at times the glance of her dark eyes, there was some thing in them so timid, so soft, and so shy, that I could not think of her as wearying of me. Yet this Marion, timid, tender, and shy; this Marion, holding aloof under evident constraint, keeping apart, giving me no opportunity; this Marion, who had now exchanged the intensity and the solemnity of former days for some thing so very different — became a puzzle to me.
Why had she changed? Was it her returning regard for Jack? Impossible. His name had several times been mentioned without causing any emotion in her. His approaching marriage with Mrs. Finnimore had once been mentioned by Nora, who spoke of it as an interesting item of news. Marion heard it with indifference. Or was she trying to withdraw from any further intimacy with me? Was she suspicious of my intentions, and desirous of giving me no hope? Was she trying to repel me at the outset? It seemed so. And so a great fear gradually arose in my heart.
So went the time away, and toward the latter part of May and the beginning of June I used to take the ladies out driving, hoping that these new circumstances might elicit some show of cordiality in Marion. But this proved a complete failure; for, the closer we were thrown together, the greater seemed her shy reticence, her timid reserve, and. her soft and gentle yet persistent manner of keeping me at a distance.
And so, here was I. I had found my Lady of the Ice; yet no sooner had I found her than she withdrew herself to an inaccessible height, and seemed now as far out of my reach as on that eventful morning when I sought her at the hut at Montmorency, and found that she had fled.
Spending so much time as I did at O’Halloran’s, I did not see so much of Jack as before; yet he used to drop in from time to time in the morning, and pour forth the sorrows of his soul.
Marion’s name he never mentioned. Either he had forgotten all about her, which was not improbable; or the subject was too painful a one for him to touch upon, which also was not improbable; or, finally, her affair became overshadowed by other and weightier matters, which was in the highest degree natural.
His first great trouble arose from the action of Miss Phillips.
He had gone there a second time to call, and had again been told that she was not at home. He turned away vowing vengeance, but in the following morning found that vengeance was out of the question, for he received a parcel, containing all the letters which he had ever written to Miss Phillips, and all the presents that he had ever given her, with a polite note, requesting the return of her letters. This was a blow that he was not prepared for. It struck home. However, there was no help for it — so he returned her letters, and then came to me with all kinds of vague threats.
Such threats, however, could not be carried out; and as for Miss Phillips, she was quite beyond the reach of them. She accepted the situation wonderfully well. She did more — she triumphed over it. In a short time she had others at her feet, prominent among whom was Colonel Blount — a dashing officer, a Vict
oria Cross, and a noble fellow in every respect. Thus Miss Phillips revenged herself on Jack. She tossed him aside coolly and contemptuously, and replaced him with a man whom Jack himself felt to be his superior. And all this was gall and wormwood to Jack. And, what was more, he was devoured with jealousy.
The worst thing about it all, however, was the crushing blow which it gave to his self-love. I am inclined to think that he was very much taken down, on one occasion, when I informed him incidentally that Marion was in excellent spirits, and was said to be in better health than she had known for years. Miss Phillips’s policy, however, was a severer blow. For it had all along been his firm belief that his tangled love-affairs could not end without a broken heart, or melancholy madness, or life-long sorrow, or even death, to one or more of his victims. To save them from such a fate, he talked of suicide. All this was highly romantic, fearfully melodramatic, and even mysteriously tragic. But, unfortunately for Jack’s self-conceit, the event did not coincide with these highly-colored views. The ladies refused to break their hearts. Those organs, however susceptible and tender they may have been, beat bravely on. Number Three viewed him with indifference. Miss Phillips coolly and contemptuously cast him off, and at once found new consolation in the devotion of another. Broken hearts! Melancholy madness! Life-long sorrow! Not they, indeed. They didn’t think of him. They didn’t confide their wrongs to any avenger. No brother or other male relative sent Jack a challenge. He was simply dropped. He was forgotten. Now any one may see the chagrin which such humiliation must have caused to one of Jack’s temper.
And how did the widow treat Jack all this time? The widow! She was sublime; for she showed at once the fostering care of a mother, and the forgiveness of a saint. Forgiveness? That’s not the word. I am wrong. She showed nothing of the kind. On the contrary, she evinced no consciousness whatever that any offence had been committed. If Jack had deceived her as to Miss Phillips, she showed no knowledge of such deceit; if he had formed other entanglements of which he had never told her, she never let him know whether she had found out or not; if Jack went every evening to console himself with Louie, any discovery which the widow may have made of so very interesting yet transparent a fact was never alluded to by her. Such was the lofty ground which the widow took in reference to Jack and his affairs, and such was the manner with which she viewed him and them — a manner elevated, serene, calm, untroubled — a manner always the same. For she seemed above all care for such things. Too high-minded, you know. Too lofty in soul, my boy, and all that sort of thing. Like some tall cliff that rears its awful form, swells from the vale, and midway cleaves the storm, and all the rest of it. Such was the demeanor of the widow Finnimore.
She was so kind and cordial that Jack had not a word to say. After a few days of absence, during which he had not dared to call on her, he had ventured back, and was greeted with the gentlest of reproaches for his neglect, and was treated with an elaboration of kindness that was positively crushing. So he had to go, and to keep going. She would not suffer a single cloud to arise between them. An unvarying sweetness diffused itself evermore over her very pretty face, and through all the tones of her very musical voice. And so Jack was held fast, bound by invisible yet infrangible bonds, and his soul was kept in complete subjection by the superior ascendency of the widow.
So he went to see her every day. About six, generally dined there. Always left at eight, or just as dinner was over. Not much time for tenderness, of course. Jack didn’t feel particularly inclined for that sort of thing. The widow, on the other hand, did not lay any stress on that, nor did she allow herself to suspect that Jack was altogether too cold for a lover. Not she. Beaming, my boy. All smiles, you know. Always the same. Glad to see him when he came — a pleasant smile of adieu at parting. In fact, altogether a model fiancée, such as is not often met with in this vale of tears.
Now always, after leaving this good, kind, smiling, cordial, pretty, clever, fascinating, serene, accomplished, hospitable, and altogether unparalleled widow, Jack would calmly, quietly, and deliberately go over to the Bertons’, and stay there as long as he could, What for? Was he not merely heaping up sorrow for himself in continuing so ardently this Platonic attachment? For Louie there was no danger. According to Jack, she still kept up her teasing, quizzing, and laughing mood. Jack’s break-up with Miss Phillips was a joke. He had confided to her that he had also broken off with Number Three; and, though she could not find out the cause, this became another joke. Finally, his present attitude with regard to the widow was viewed by her as the best joke of all. She assured him that the widow was to be his fate, and that she had driven the others from the field, so as to have him exclusively to herself.
And thus Jack alternated and vibrated between the widow and Louie, and all his entanglements were now reduced to these two.
Such is a full, frank, fair, free, ample, lucid, and luminous explanation of the progress of affairs, which explanation was necessary in order to make the reader fully understand the full meaning of what follows.
Chapter 34
JACK’S TRIBULATIONS. — THEY RISE UP IN THE VERY FACE OF THE MOST ASTONISHING GOOD FORTUNES. — FOR, WHAT IS LIKE A LEGACY? — AND THIS COMES TO JACK! — SEVEN THOUSAND POUNDS STERLING PER ANNUM! — BUT WHAT’S THE USE OF IT ALL? — JACK COMES TO GRIEF! — WOE! SORROW! DESPAIR! ALL THE WIDOW! — INFATUATION. — A MAD PROPOSAL. — A MADMAN, A LUNATIC, AN IDIOT, A MARCH HARE, AND A HATTER, ALL ROLLED INTO ONE, AND THAT ONE THE LUCKY YET UNFORTUNATE JACK.
Jack had been falling off more and more. I was taken up with the O’Hallorans; he, with those two points between which he oscillated like a pendulum; and our intercourse diminished, until at length days would intervene without a meeting between us.
It was in the middle of June.
I had not seen Jack for more than a week.
Suddenly, I was reminded of him by a startling rumor that reached my ears after every soul in the garrison and in the city had heard it. It referred to Jack. It was nothing about the widow, nothing about Louie, nothing about Marion, nothing about Miss Phillips.
It did not refer to duns.
He had not been nabbed by the sheriff.
He had not put an end to himself.
In short, the news was, that an uncle of his had died, and left him a fortune of unknown proportions. Omne ignotum pro mirifico, of course; and so up went Jack’s fortune to twenty thousand a year. Jack had told me about that uncle, and I had reason to know that it was at least six or seven thousand; and, let me tell you, six or seven thousand pounds per annum isn’t to be laughed at.
So here was Jack — raised up in a moment — far above the dull level of debt, and duns, and despair; raised to an upper and, I trust, a better world, where swarms of duns can never arise, and bailiffs never come; raised, my boy, to a region of serene delight, where, like the gods of Epicurus, he might survey from his cloudless calm the darkness and the gloom of the lower world. A fortune, by Jove! Seven thousand pounds sterling a year! Hard cash! Why, the thing fairly took my breath away. I sat down to grapple with the stupendous thought. Aha! where would the duns be now? What would those miserable devils say now, that had been badgering him with lawyers’ letters? Wouldn’t they all haul off? Methought they would. Methought! why, meknew they would — mefancied how they would fawn, and cringe, and apologize, and explain, and lick the dust, and offer to polish his noble boots, and present themselves for the honor of being kicked by him. Nothing is more degrading to our common humanity than the attitude of a creditor toward a poor debtor — except the attitude of that same creditor, when he learns that his debtor has suddenly become rich.
Having finally succeeded in mastering this great idea, I hurried off to Jack to congratulate him.
I found him in his room. He was lying down, looking very blue, very dismal, and utterly used up. At first, I did not notice this, but burst forth in a torrent of congratulations, shaking his hand most violently. He raised himself sligh
tly from the sofa on which he was reclining, and his languid hand did not return my warm grasp, nor did his face exhibit the slightest interest in what I said. Seeing this, I stopped short suddenly.
“Hallo, old boy!” I cried. “What’s the matter? Any thing happened? Isn’t it true, then?”
“Oh, yes,” said Jack, dolefully, leaning forward, with his elbows on his knees, and looking at the floor.
“Well, you don’t seem very jubilant about it. Any thing the matter? Why, man, if you were dying, I should think you’d rise up at the idea of seven thousand a year.”
Jack said nothing.
At such a check as this to my enthusiastic sympathy, I sat in silence for a time, and looked at him. His elbows were on his knees, his face was pale, his hair in disorder, and his eyes were fixed on the wall opposite with a vacant and abstracted stare. There was a haggard look about his handsome face, and a careworn expression on his broad brow, which excited within me the deepest sympathy and sadness. Some thing had happened — some thing of no common kind. This was a some thing which was far, very far, more serious than those old troubles which had oppressed him. This was some thing far different from those old perplexities — the entanglements with three engagements. Amid all those he was nothing but a big, blundering baby; but now he seemed like a sorrow-stricken man. Where was the light of his eyes, the glory of his brow, the music of his voice? Where was that glow that once used to pervade his fresh, open, sunny face? Where! It was Jack — but not the Jack of old. It was Jack — but
“Alas! how changed from him
Lady of the Ice Page 23
