Lady of the Ice Page 16

  “Yes, and hoping that she wouldn’t,” I interrupted.

  “I was not. I was angry when she refused, and I’ve felt hard about it ever since. But she’s mine all the same, and you know it.”

  “He sprang up to his feet as though he had been shot. ‘What!’ he cried, in a loud voice.”

  “Yours? And so is Miss Phillips yours,” I cried, “and so is Mrs. Finnimore; and I swear I believe that, if I were to be sweet on Louie, you’d consider yourself injured. Hang it, man! What are you up to? What do you mean? At this rate, you’ll claim every woman in Quebec. Where do you intend to draw the line? Would you be content if I were sweet on Miss Phillips? Wouldn’t you be jealous if I were to visit the widow? And what would you say if I were seized with a consuming passion for Louie? Come, Jack — don’t row; don’t be quite insane. Sit down again, and take another pipe, and let’s drop the subject.”

  “I won’t drop the subject,” growled Jack. “You needn’t try to argue yourself out of it. You know very well that I got her first.”

  “Why, man, at this rate, you might get every woman in America. You seem to think that this is Utah.”

  “Come, no humbug, Macrorie. You know very well what I am to that girl.”

  “You! you!” I cried. “Why, you have told me already that she has found you out. Hang it, man! if it comes to that, what are you in her eyes compared with me? You’ve been steadily humbugging her ever since you first knew her, and she’s found it out. But I come to her as the companion of the darkest hour of her life, as the one who saved her from death. You — good Lord! — do you pretend to put yourself in comparison with me? You, with your other affairs, and your conscious falsity to her, with me! Why, but for me, she would by this time be drifting down the river, and lying stark and dead on the beach of Anticosti. That is what I have done for her. And what have you done? I might have laughed over the joke of it before I knew her; but now, since I know her, and love her, when you force me to say what you have done, I declare to you that you have wronged her, and cheated her, and humbugged her, and she knows it, and you know it, and I know it. These things may be all very well for a lark; but, when you pretend to make a serious matter of them, they look ugly. Confound it! have you lost your senses?”

  “You’ll see whether I’ve lost my senses or not,” said Jack, fiercely.

  “You’ve got trouble enough on your shoulders, Jack,” said I. “Don’t get into anymore. You actually have the face to claim no less than three women. Yes, four. I must count Louie, also. If this question were about Louie, wouldn’t you be just as fierce?”

  Jack did not answer.

  “Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you say that I had violated your confidence? Wouldn’t you declare that it was a wrong to yourself, and a bitter injury? If I had saved Louie’s life, and then suddenly fallen in love with her, wouldn’t you have warned me off in the same way? You know you would. But will you listen to reason? You can’t have them all. You must choose one of them. Take Miss Phillips, and be true to your first vow. Take the widow, and be rich. Take Louie, and be happy. There you have it. There are three for you. As for Miss O’Halloran, she has passed away from you forever. I have snatched her from death, and she is mine forever.”

  “She shall never be yours!” cried Jack, furiously.

  “She shall be mine!” cried I, in wrathful tones.

  “Never! never!” cried Jack. “She’s mine, and she shall be mine.”

  “Damn it, man! are you crazy? How many wives do you propose to have?”

  “She shall be mine!” cried Jack. “She, and no other. I give up all others. They may all go and be hanged. She, and she alone, shall be mine.”

  Saying this, he strode toward the door, opened it, passed through, and banged it behind him. I heard his heavy footsteps as he went off, and I stood glaring after him, all my soul on fire with indignation.

  Chapter 23

  A FRIEND BECOMES AN ENEMY. — MEDITATIONS ON THE ANCIENT AND VENERABLE FABLE OF THE DOG IN THE MANGER. — THE CORRUPTION OF THE HUMAN HEART. — CONSIDERATION OF THE WHOLE SITUATION. — ATTEMPTS TO COUNTERMINE JACK, AND FINAL RESOLVE.

  So Jack left, and so I stood staring after him in furious indignation.

  “By Jove!” I exclaimed, addressing my own honorable self, “Are you going to stand that sort of thing, Macrorie? And at your time of life, my boy! You, twenty-two years of age, six feet high, and with your knowledge of the world! You’re not altogether an ass, are you? I think I can depend on you, my boy. You’ll stand up for your rights. She’s yours, old chap. Cling to her. Remember your ancestors. You’ll get her, and if Jack chooses to make a fool of himself, let him!”

  After this expression of opinion, I replaced my last pipe and tumbler, and resumed my seat. Over my head the clouds rolled; through my brain penetrated the gentle influence, bringing tranquillity and peace; bringing also wisdom, and the power of planning and of resolving.

  My reflections made me feel that Nora must be mine. She seemed dearer than all the world, and all that. Hadn’t I saved her life? I had. Then that life was mine. No one else had such a claim on her as I had. Jack’s absurd pretence at a claim was all confounded stuff and nonsense. I considered his attitude on this occasion a piece of the worst kind of selfishness, not to speak of its utter madness. The dog in the manger was nothing to this. I was not the man to let myself be pushed aside in this way. He would not have thought of her if I had not put in my claim. Before that she was no more to him than ‘Number Three,’ one of his tormentors from whom he longed to get free, one who annoyed him with letters. All this he had confessed to me. Yet the moment that I told him my story, and informed him of her identity with the Lady of the Ice, at once he changed about, and declared he would never give her up.

  All of which reminded me forcibly of the language of a venerable female friend, who used to hold up her hands and exclaim, “Oh, dear! Oh, my! Oh, the corruption of the human heart! Oh, dear! Oh, my!”

  On the other hand, I was not so blind but that I could see that Jack’s impudent and ridiculous claim to Miss O’Halloran had made her appear in a somewhat different light from that in which I had hitherto viewed her. Until that time I had no well-defined notions. My mind vibrated between her image and that of Marion. But now Miss O’Halloran suddenly became all in all to me. Jack’s claim on her made me fully conscious of my superior claim, and this I determined to enforce at all hazards. And thus the one end, aim, and purpose of my life, suddenly and almost instantaneously darted up within me, and referred to making Miss O’Halloran my own.

  But, if this was to be done, I saw that it must be done quickly. Jack’s blood was up. He had declared that he would win her, and had departed with this declaration. I knew him well enough to feel sure that his action would be prompt. He was capable of any act of folly or of desperation. If I could hope to contend successfully against him, it would be necessary for me to be as foolish and as desperate. I must go in for a headlong game. It was to be a regular steeple-chase. No dilly-dallying — no shuffling — no coquetting — no wooing — but bold, instant, and immediate action. And why not? Our intercourse on the ice had been less than a day, but those hours were protracted singly to the duration of years, and we had been forced into intimacy by the peril of our path and the horror of our way. We were beaten together by the tempest, rocked by the ice, we sank together in the wave, together we crossed the tottering ice-ridge — together we evaded the fall of avalanches. Again and again, on that one unparalleled journey, she had received her life from me. Was all this to count for nothing? This! Why, this was every thing. What could her recollections of Jack be when compared to her recollections of me? For one who came to her as I had come there need be no delay. Enough to tell her what my feelings were — to urge and implore her for immediate acceptance of my vows.

  This was my fixed resolve; but when, where, and how? I could not go to the house again for two days, and, during two
days, Jack would have the advantage. No doubt he would at once reply to that last letter of hers. No doubt he would fling away every thought but the one thought of her. No doubt he would write her a letter full of protestations of love, and implore her, for the last time, to fly with him. He had done so before. In his new mood he might do it again. The thought made my blood run cold. The more I dwelt upon it, the more confident I was that Jack would do this.

  And what could I do?

  One of two ways could be adopted:

  First, I might go there on the following day, and call on Miss O’Halloran. Her father would be away.

  And, secondly, I might write her a letter.

  But neither of these plans seemed satisfactory. In the first place, I did not feel altogether prepared to go and call on her for such a purpose. It came on a fellow too suddenly. In the second place, a letter did not seem to be the proper style of thing. The fact is, when a fellow seeks a lady, he ought to do it face to face, if possible.

  The more I thought of it, the more strongly I felt the absolute necessity of waiting for those two days which should intervene before I could go. Then I might go on a regular invitation. Then I might have an additional opportunity of finding out her sentiments toward me. In fact, I concluded to wait.

  And so I waited.

  The two days passed slowly. Jack, of course, kept aloof, and I saw nothing and heard nothing of him. Where he was, or what he was doing, I could not tell. I could only conjecture. And all my conjectures led to the fixed conviction that Jack in his desperation had written to her, and proposed flight.

  This conviction became intensified more and more every hour. I grew more and more impatient. My mood became one of constant and incessant fidgetiness, nervousness, and harrowing suspense.

  Chapter 24

  TREMENDOUS EXCITEMENT. — THE HOUR APPROACHES, AND WITH IT THE MAN. — THE LADY OF THE ICE. — A TUMULTUOUS MEETING. — OUTPOURING OF TENDER EMOTIONS. — AGITATION OF THE LADY. — A SUDDEN INTERRUPTION. — AN INJURED MAN, AN AWFUL, FEARFUL, DIREFUL, AND UTTERLY-CRUSHING REVELATION. — WHO IS THE LADY OF THE ICE?

  At last the appointed evening came, and I prepared to go to O’Halloran’s. By this time I was roused up to a pitch of excitement such as I had never before experienced. For two days and two nights I had been brooding and dreaming over this one subject, imagining all sorts of things, making all sorts of conjectures about Jack’s letter and Miss O’Halloran’s reception of it. Was it possible that she could share his madness and his desperation? That I could not tell. Women in love, and men in love also, will always act madly and desperately. But was she in love? Could that serene, laughing, merry, happy face belong to one who was capable of a sudden act of desperation — of one who would flit with Jack, and fling her father into sorrow at a moment’s warning? How could that be? So by turns my hopes and my fears rose in the ascendant, and the end of it all was that, by the time I reached O’Halloran’s door, Jack himself, in his most frantic mood, could not have been more perfectly given up to any headlong piece of rashness, folly, and desperation than I was.

  I knocked at the door.

  I was admitted, and shown into the room. O’Halloran, I was told, had just arrived, and was dressing. Would I be kind enough to wait?

  I sat down.

  In about two minutes I heard a light footstep.

  My heart beat fast.

  Some one was coming.

  Who?

  The light footstep and the rustling dress showed that it was a lady.

  But who?

  Was it the servant?

  Or Marion?

  Was it Nora?

  My heart actually stood still as these possibilities suggested themselves, and I sat glaring at the door.

  The figure entered.

  My heart gave a wild bound; the blood surged to my face, and boiled in my veins. It was Nora’s self! It was — it was — my Nora!

  I rose as she entered. She greeted me with her usual beaming and fascinating smile. I took her hand, and did not say a word for a few moments. The hour had come. I was struggling to speak. Here she was. This was the opportunity for which I had longed. But what should I say?

  “I’ve been longing to see you alone,” I cried, at last. “Have you forgotten that day on the ice? Have you forgotten the eternal hours of that day? Do you remember how you clung to me as we crossed the ice-ridge, while the waves were surging behind us, and the great ice-heaps came crashing down? Do you remember how I raised you up as you fell lifeless, and carried your senseless form, springing over the open channel, and dashing up the cliff? And I lost you, and now I’ve found you again!”

  I stopped, and looked at her earnestly to see how she received my words.

  And here let me confess that such a mode of address was not generous or chivalrous, nor was it at all in good taste. True chivalry would have scorned to remind another of an obligation conferred; but then, you see, this was a very peculiar case. In love, my boy, all the ordinary rules of life, and that sort of thing, you know, must give way to the exigencies of the hour. And this was a moment of dire exigency, in which much had to be said in the most energetic manner. Besides, I spoke what I thought, and that’s my chief excuse after all.

  I stopped and looked at her; but, as I looked, I did not feel reason to be satisfied with my success so far. She retreated a step, and tried to withdraw her hand. She looked at me with a face of perplexity and despair. Seeing this, I let go her hand. She clasped both hands together, and looked at me in silence.

  “What!” said I, tragically, yet sincerely — for a great, dark, bitter disappointment rose up within me — “what! Is all this nothing? Has it all been nothing to you? Alas! what else could I expect? I might have known it all. No. You never thought of me. You could not. I was less than the driver to you. If you had thought of me, you never would have run away and left me when I was wandering over the country thinking only of you, with all my heart yearning after you, and seeking only for some help to send you. And yet there was that in our journey which might at least have elicited from you some word of sympathy.”

  There again, my friend, I was ungenerous, unchivalrous, and all that. Bad enough is it to remind one of favors done; but, on the heels of that, to go deliberately to work and reproach one for want of gratitude, is ten times worse. By Jove! And for this, as for the other, my only excuse is the exigencies of the hour.

  Meanwhile she stood with an increasing perplexity and grief in every look and gesture. She cast at me a look of utter despair. She wrung her hands; and at last, as I ended, she exclaimed:

  “Oh, what shall I do? what shall I do? Oh, dear! Oh, what a dreadful, dreadful thing! Oh, dear!”

  Her evident distress touched me to the heart. Evidently, she was compromised with Jack, and was embarrassed by this.

  “Follow your own heart,” said I, mournfully. “But say — can you not give me some hope? Can you not give me one kind word?”

  “Oh, dear!” she cried, “It’s dreadful. I don’t know what to do. It’s all a mistake. Oh, I wish you could only know all! And me!! What in the world can I do!”

  “Oh, Miss O’Halloran!” said I; “I love you — I adore — you — and — oh, Miss O’Halloran! — I — ”

  “Miss O’Halloran!” she cried, starting back as I advanced once more, and tried to take her hand.

  “Nora, then,” said I. “Dearest, sweetest! You cannot be indifferent. Oh, Nora!” and I grasped her hand.

  But at that moment I was startled by a heavy footstep at the door. I dropped Nora’s hand, which she herself snatched away, and turned.

  It was O’Halloran!!!!!

  He stood for a moment looking at us and then he burst out into a roar of laughter.

  “Macrorie!” he cried — “Macrorie! May the divil saize me if I don’t beleeve that ye’re indulgin’ in gallanthries.”

  Now, at that m
oment, his laughter sounded harsh and ominous; but I had done no wrong, and so, in conscious innocence, I said:

  “Mr. O’Halloran, you are right in your conjecture; but I assure you that it was no mere gallantry; for, sir, I have a strong affection for Miss O’Halloran, and have just asked her for her hand.”

  “Miss O’Halloran!” cried he. “Miss O’Halloran! Sure, why didn’t ye ask hersilf, thin, like a man?”

  “Oh, dear!” cried Nora, taking O’Halloran’s arm, and turning her beautiful, pleading face up to his — “oh, dear! It’s all a dreadful, dreadful mistake. He doesn’t know who I am. He thinks that I am Miss O’Halloran.”

  “You!” I cried. “You! Why, are you not? Of course, you are. Who else are you?”

  “Oh, tell him, tell him!” cried Nora. “It’s so dreadful! Such a horrid, horrid mistake to make!”

  A bright light flashed all over O’Halloran’s face. He looked at me, and then at Nora; and then there came forth a peal of laughter which would have done honor to any of the gods at the Olympian table. This time the laughter was pure, and fresh, and joyous, and free.

  “Miss O’Halloran!” he cried — “ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Miss O’Halloran! ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Miss O’Halloran! Oh, be the powers, it’s me that’ll nivir get over that same! Miss O’Halloran! An’ givin’ wee to sintimint — ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! an’ askin’ for riciproceetee av’ tindir attachmint — ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! What in the woide wurruld ivir injuiced ye to think that me own little Nora was Miss O’Halloran?”

  “Miss O’Halloran? Why,” said I, “what else could I suppose? I recollect now, when you introduced me the other night, you didn’t mention her name; and, if she isn’t Miss O’Halloran, who is she? Let me know now, at least. But my sentiments remain the same,” I concluded, “whatever, name she has.”