“I reached the house somewhat later than usual. People were there. I must have looked different from usual. I know I was very silent, and I must have acted queer, you know. But they were all talking, and playing, and laughing, and none of them took any particular notice. And so at last I drifted off toward Louie, as usual. She was expecting me. I knew that. She always expects me. But this time I saw she was looking at me with a very queer expression. She saw some thing unusual in my face. Naturally enough. I felt as though I had committed a murder. And so I had. I had murdered my hope — my love — my darling — my only life and joy. I’m not humbugging, Macrorie — don’t chaff, for Heaven’s sake!”
I wasn’t chaffing, and had no idea of such a thing. I was simply listening, with a very painful sympathy with Jack’s evident emotion.
“We were apart from the others,” he continued, in a tremulous voice. “She looked at me, and I looked at her. I saw trouble in her face, and she saw trouble in mine. So we sat. We were silent for some time. No nonsense now. No laughter. No more teasing and coaxing. Poor little Louie! How distressed she looked! Where was her sweet smile now? Where was her laughing voice? Where was her bright, animated face — her sparkling eyes — her fun — her merriment — her chaff? Poor little Louie!”
And Jack’s voice died away into a moan of grief.
But he rallied again, and went on:
“She asked me what was the matter. I told her — nothing. But she was sure that some thing had happened, and begged me to tell her. So I told her all. And her face, as I told her, turned as white as marble. She seemed to grow rigid where she sat. And, as I ended, she bent down her head — and she pressed her hand to her forehead — and then she gave me an awful look — a look which will haunt me to my dying day — and then — and then — then — she — she burst into tears — and, oh, Macrorie — oh, how she cried!”
And Jack, having stammered out this, gave way completely, and, burying his face in his hands, he sobbed aloud.
Then followed a long, long silence.
At last Jack roused himself.
“You see, Macrorie,” he continued, “I had been acting like the devil to her. All her chaff, and nonsense, and laughter, had been a mask. Oh, Louie! She had grown fond of me — poor miserable devil that I am — and this is the end of it all!
“She got away,” said Jack, after another long silence — “she got away somehow; and, after she had gone, I sat for a while, feeling like a man who has died and got into another world. Paralyzed, bewildered — take any word you like, and it will not express what I was. I got off somehow — I don’t know how — and here I am. I haven’t seen her since.
“I got away,” he continued, throwing back his head, and looking vacantly at the ceiling — “I got away, and came here, and the next day I got a letter about my uncle’s death and my legacy. I had no sorrow for my poor dear old uncle, and no joy over my fortune. I had no thought for any thing but Louie. Seven thousand a year, or ten thousand, or a hundred thousand, whatever it might be, it amounts to nothing. What I have gained is nothing to what I have lost. I’d give it all for Louie. I’d give it all to undo what has been done. I’d give it all, by Heaven, for one more sight of her! But that sight of her I can never have. I dare not go near the house. I am afraid to hear about her. My legacy! I wish it were at the bottom of the Atlantic. What is it all to me, if I have to give up Louie forever? And that’s what it is!”
There was no exaggeration in all this. That was evident. Jack’s misery was real, and was manifest in his pale face and general change of manner. This accounted for it all. This was the blow that had struck him down. All his other troubles had been laughable compared with this. But from this he could not rally. Nor, for my part, did I know of any consolation that could be offered. Now, for the first time, I saw the true nature of his sentiments toward Louie, and learned from him the sentiments of that poor little thing toward him. It was the old story. They had been altogether too much with one another. They had been great friends, and all that sort of thing. Louie had teased and given good advice. Jack had sought consolation for all his troubles. And now — lo and behold! — in one moment each had made the awful discovery that their supposed friendship was some thing far more tender and far-reaching.
“I’ll never see her again!” sighed Jack.
“Who?” said I. “The widow?”
“The widow!” exclaimed Jack, contemptuously, “no — poor little Louie!”
“But you’ll see the widow?”
“Oh, yes,” said Jack, dryly. “I’ll have to be there.”
“Why not kick it all up, and go home on leave of absence?”
Jack shook his head despairingly.
“No chance,” he muttered — “not a ghost of a one. My sentence is pronounced; I must go to execution. It’s my own doing, too. I’ve given my own word.”
“Next Tuesday?”
“Next Tuesday.”
“Where?”
“St. Malachi’s.”
“Oh, it will be at church, then?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s the parson?”
“Oh, old Fletcher.”
“At what time?”
“Twelve; and see here, Macrorie, you’ll stand by a fellow — of course — won’t you? see me off — you know — adjust the noose, watch the drop fall — and see poor Jack Randolph launched into — matrimony!”
“Oh, of course.”
Silence followed, and soon I took my, departure, leaving Jack to his meditations and his despair.
Chapter 36
A FRIEND’S APOLOGY FOR A FRIEND. — JACK DOWN AT THE BOTTOM OF A DEEP ABYSS OF WOE. — HIS DESPAIR. — THE HOUR AND THE MAN! — WHERE IS THE WOMAN! — A SACRED SPOT. — OLD FLETCHER. — THE TOLL OF THE BELL. — MEDITATIONS ON EACH SUCCESSIVE STROKE. — A WILD SEARCH. — THE PRETTY SERVANT-MAID, AND HER PRETTY STORY. — THROWING GOLD ABOUT.
Jack’s strange revelation excited my deepest sympathy, but I did not see how it was possible for him to get rid of his difficulty. One way was certainly possible. He could easily get leave of absence and go home, for the sake of attending to his estates. Once in England, he could sell out, and retire from the army altogether, or exchange into another regiment. This was certainly possible physically, but to Jack it was morally impossible.
Now, Jack has appeared in this story in very awkward circumstances, engaging himself right and left to every young lady that he fancied, with a fatal thoughtlessness, that cannot be too strongly reprehended. Such very diffusive affection might argue a lack of principle. Yet, after all, Jack was a man with a high sense of honor. The only difficulty was this, that he was too susceptible. All susceptible men can easily understand such a character. I’m an awfully susceptible man myself, as I have already had the honor of announcing, and am, moreover, a man of honor — consequently I feel strongly for Jack, and always did feel strongly for him.
Given, then, a man of very great susceptibility, and a very high sense of honor, and what would he do?
Why, in the first place, as a matter of course, his too susceptible heart would involve him in many tendernesses; and, if he was as reckless and thoughtless as Jack, he would be drawn into inconvenient entanglements; and, perhaps, like Jack, before he knew what he was about, he might find himself engaged to three different ladies, and in love with a fourth.
In the second place, his high sense of honor would make him eager to do his duty by them all. Of course, this would be impossible. Yet Jack had done his best. He had offered immediate marriage to Miss Phillips, and had proposed an elopement to Number Three. This shows that his impulses led him to blind acts which tended in a vague way to do justice to the particular lady who happened for the time being to be in his mind.
And so Jack had gone blundering on until at last he found himself at the mercy of the widow. The others had given him up in scorn. She would not give him
up. He was bound fast. He felt the bond. In the midst of this his susceptibility drove him on further, and, instead of trying to get out of his difficulties, he had madly thrust himself further into them.
And there he was — doomed — looking forward to the fateful Tuesday.
He felt the full terror of his doom, but did not think of trying to evade it. He was bound. His word was given. He considered it irrevocable. Flight? He thought no more of that than he thought of committing a murder. He would actually have given all that he had, and more too, for the sake of getting rid of the widow; but he would not be what he considered a sneak, even for that.
There was, therefore, no help for it. He was doomed. Tuesday! June 20th! St. Malachi’s! Old Fletcher! Launched into matrimony! Hence his despair.
During the intervening days I did not see him. I did not visit him, and he did not come near me. Much as I sympathized with him in his woes, I knew that I could do nothing and say nothing. Besides, I had my own troubles. Every time I went to O’Halloran’s, Marion’s shyness, and reserve, and timidity, grew more marked. Every time that I came home, I kept bothering myself as to the possible cause of all this, and tormented myself as to the reason of such a change in her.
One day I called at the Bertons’. I didn’t see Louie. I asked after her, and they told me she was not well. I hoped it was nothing serious, and felt relieved at learning that it was nothing but a “slight cold.” I understood that. Poor Louie! Poor Jack! Would that “slight cold” grow worse, or would she get over it in time? She did not seem to be of a morbid, moping nature. There was every reason to hope that such a one as she was would surmount it. And yet it was hard to say. It is often these very natures — buoyant, robust, healthy, straightforward — which feel the most. They are not impressible. They are not touched by every new emotion. And so it sometimes happens that, when they do feel, the feeling lasts forever.
Tuesday, at last, came — the 20th — the fated day!
At about eleven o’clock I entered Jack’s room, prepared to act my part and stand by his side in that supreme moment of fate.
Jack was lying on the sofa as I came in. He rose and pressed my hand in silence. I said nothing, but took my seat in an easy-chair. Jack was arrayed for the ceremony in all respects, except his coat, instead of which garment he wore a dressing-gown. He was smoking vigorously. His face was very pale, and, from time to time, a heavy sigh escaped him.
I was very forcibly struck by the strong resemblance which there was between Jack, on the present occasion, and a condemned prisoner before his execution. So strong was this, that, somehow, as I sat there in silence, a vague idea came into my head that Jack was actually going to be hanged; and, before I knew where my thoughts were leading me, I began to think, in a misty way, of the propriety of calling in a clergyman to administer ghostly consolation to the poor condemned in his last moments. It was only with an effort that I was able to get rid of this idea, and come back from this foolish, yet not unnatural fancy, to the reality of the present situation. There was every reason, indeed, for such a momentary misconception. The sadness, the silence, the gloom, all suggested some prison cell; and Jack, prostrate, stricken, miserable, mute, and despairing, could not fail to suggest the doomed victim.
After a time Jack rose, and, going to the sideboard, offered me some thing to drink. I declined. Whereupon he poured out a tumblerful of raw brandy and hastily swallowed it. As he had done that very same thing before, I began to think that he was going a little too far.
“See here, old boy,” said I, “arn’t you a little reckless? That sort of thing isn’t exactly the .best kind of preparation for the event — is it?”
“What? — this?” said Jack, holding up the empty tumbler, with a gloomy glance toward me, “oh, its nothing. I’ve been drenching myself with brandy this last week. It’s the only thing I can do. The worst of it is, it don’t have much effect now. I have to drink too much of it before I can bring myself into a proper state of calm.”
“Calm!” said I, “calm! I tell you what it is, old chap, you’ll find it’ll be any thing but calm. You’ll have delirium tremens before the week’s out, at this rate.”
“Delirium tremens?” said Jack, with a faint, cynical laugh. “No go, my boy — too late. Not time now. If it had only come yesterday, I might have had a reprieve. But it didn’t come. And so I have only a tremendous headache. I’ve less than an hour, and can’t get it up in that time. Let me have my swing, old man. I’d do as much for you.”
And, saying this, he drank off a half tumbler more.
“There,” said he, going back to the sofa. “That’s better. I feel more able to go through with it. It takes a good lot now, though, to get a fellow’s courage up.”
After this, Jack again relapsed into silence, which I ventured to interrupt with a few questions as to the nature of the coming ceremony. Jack’s answers were short, reluctant, and dragged from him piecemeal. It was a thing which he had to face in a very short time, and any other subject was preferable as a theme for conversation.
“Will there be much of a crowd?”
“Oh, no.”
“You didn’t invite any.”
“Me? invite any? Good Lord! I should think not!”
“Perhaps she has?”
“Oh, no; she said she wouldn’t.”
“Well, I dare say the town, by this time, has got wind of it, and the church’l be full.”
“No, I think not,” said Jack, with a sigh.
“Oh, I don’t know; it’s not a common affair.”
“Well, she told me she had kept it a secret — and you and Louie are the only ones I’ve told it to — so, unless you have told about it, no one knows.”
“I haven’t told a soul.”
“Then I don’t see how anybody can know, unless old Fletcher has proclaimed it.”
“Not he; he wouldn’t take the trouble.”
“I don’t care,” said Jack, morosely, “how many are there, or how few. Crowd or no crowd, it makes small difference to me, by Jove!”
“Look here, old fellow,” said I, suddenly, after some further conversation, “if you’re going, you’d better start. It’s a quarter to twelve now.”
Jack gave a groan and rose from his sofa. He went into his dressing-room and soon returned, in his festive array, with a face of despair that was singularly at variance with his costume. Before starting, in spite of my remonstrances, he swallowed another draught of brandy. I began to doubt whether he would be able to stand up at the ceremony.
St. Malachi’s was not far away, and a few minutes’ drive brought us there.
The church was quite empty. A few stragglers, unknown to us, had taken seats in the front pews. Old Fletcher was in the chancel. We walked up and shook hands with him. He greeted Jack with an affectionate earnestness of congratulation, which, I was sorry to see, was not properly responded to.
After a few words, we all sat down in the choir.
It wanted about five minutes of the time.
The widow was expected every moment.
Old Fletcher now subsided into dignified silence. I fidgeted about, and looked at my watch every half-minute. As for Jack, he buried his face in his hands and sat motionless.
Thus four minutes passed.
No signs of the widow.
One minute still remained.
The time was very long.
I took out my watch a half-dozen times, to hasten its progress. I shook it impatiently to make it go faster. The great empty church looked cold and lonely. The little group of spectators only added to the loneliness of the scene. An occasional cough resounded harshly amid the universal stillness. The sibilant sounds of whispers struck sharply and unpleasantly upon the ear.
At last, the minute passed.
I began to think my watch was wrong; but no — for suddenly, from the great bell above, in the ch
urch-tower, there tolled out the first stroke of the hour. And between each stroke there seemed a long, long interval, in which the mind had leisure to turn over and over all the peculiarities of this situation.
One! I counted.
[No widow. What’s up? Did any one ever hear of a bride missing the hour, or delaying in this way?]
Two!
[What a humbug of a woman! She has cultivated procrastination all her life, and this is the result.]
Three!
[Not yet. Perhaps she wants to make a sensation. She anticipates a crowded church, and will make an entrance in state.]
Four!
[But no; she did not invite anybody, and had no reason to suppose that any one would be here.]
Five!
[No, it could not be vanity; but, if not, what can be the possible cause?]
Six!
[Can it be timidity, bashfulness, and all that sort of thing? Bosh! The widow Finnimore is not a blushing, timid maiden.]
Seven!
[Perhaps her watch is out of the way. But, then, on one’s marriage-day, would not one see, first of all, that one’s watch was right?]
Eight!
[Perhaps some thing is the matter with her bridal array. The dress might not have arrived in time. She may be waiting for her feathers.]
Nine!
[Not yet! Perhaps she is expecting Jack to go to her house and accompany her here. It is very natural Jack may have agreed to do so, and then forgotten all about it.]
Ten!
[Perhaps there has been some misunderstanding about the hour, and the widow is not expecting to come till two.]
Eleven!
[Perhaps she is ill. Sudden attack of vertigo, acute rheumatism, and brain-fever, consequent upon the excitement of the occasion. The widow prostrated! Jack saved!]
TWELVE!!!
The last toll of the bell rolled out slowly and solemnly, and its deep tones came along the lofty church, and died away in long reverberations down the aisles and along the galleries. Twelve! The hour had come, and with the hour the man; but where was the woman?
Lady of the Ice Page 25
