Lady of the Ice Page 4

  “The next day I got a letter from her. It was awfully sad, blotted with tears, and all that. She implored me to write her, told me she couldn’t see me, spoke about her father’s cruelty and persecution — and ever so many other things not necessary to mention. Well, I wrote back, and she answered my letter, and so we got into the way of a correspondence which we kept up at a perfectly furious rate. It came hard on me, of course, for I’m not much at a pen; my letters were short, as you may suppose, but then they were full of point, and what matters quantity so long as you have quality, you know? Her letters, however, poor little darling, were long and eloquent, and full of a kind of mixture of love, hope, and despair. At first I thought that I should grow reconciled to my situation in the course of time, but, instead of that, it grew worse every day. I tried to forget all about her, but without success. The fact is, I chafed under the restraint that was on me, and perhaps it was that which was the worst of all. I dare say now if I’d only been in some other place — in Montreal, for instance — I wouldn’t have had such a tough time of it, and might gradually have forgotten about her; but the mischief of it was, I was here — in Quebec — close by her, you may say, and yet I was forbidden the house. I had been insulted and threatened. This, of course, only made matters worse, and the end of it was, I thought of nothing else. My very efforts to get rid of the bother only made it a dozen times worse. I flung myself into ladies’ society with my usual ardor, only worse; committed myself right and left, and seemed to be a model of a gay Lothario. Little did they suspect that under a smiling face I concealed a heart of ashes — yes, old boy — ashes! as I’m a living sinner. You see, all the time, I was maddened at that miserable old scoundrel who wouldn’t let me visit his daughter — me, Jack Randolph, an officer, and a gentleman, and, what is more, a Bobtail! Why, my very uniform should have been a guarantee for my honorable conduct. Then, again, in addition to this, I hankered after her, you know, most awfully. At last I couldn’t stand it any longer, so I wrote her a letter. It was only yesterday. And now, old chap, what do you think I wrote?”

  “I don’t know, I’m sure,” said I, mistily, “a declaration of love, perhaps — ”

  “A declaration of love? pooh!” said Jack, “as if I had ever written any thing else than that. Why, all my letters were nothing else. No, my boy — this letter was very different. In the first place, I told her that I was desperate — then I assured her that I couldn’t live this way any longer, and I concluded with a proposal as desperate as my situation. And what do you think my proposal was?”

  “Proposal? Why, marriage, of course; there is only one kind of proposal possible under such circumstances. But still that’s not much more than an engagement, dear boy, for an engagement means only the same thing, namely, marriage.”

  “Oh, but this was far stronger — it was different, I can tell you, from any mere proposal of marriage. What do you think it was? Guess.”

  “Can’t. Haven’t an idea.”

  “Well,” said Jack —

  Chapter 6

  “I IMPLORED HER TO RUN AWAY WITH ME, AND HAVE A PRIVATE MARRIAGE, LEAVING THE REST TO FATE. AND I SOLEMNLY ASSURED HER THAT, IF SHE REFUSED, I WOULD BLOW MY BRAINS OUT ON HER DOOR-STEPS. — THERE, NOW! WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THAT?”

  Saying the above words, Jack leaned back, and surveyed me with the stern complacency of despair. After staring at me for some time, and evidently taking some sort of grim comfort out of the speechless-ness to which he had reduced me by his unparalleled narrative, he continued his confessions:

  “Last night, I made that infernal blunder with the widow — confound her! — that is, I mean of course, bless her! It’s all the same, you know. Today you behold the miserable state to which I am reduced. Tomorrow I will get a reply from her. Of course, she will consent to fly. I know very well how it will be. She will hint at some feasible mode, and some convenient time. She will, of course, expect me to settle it all up, from her timid little hints; and I must settle it up, and not break my faith with her, And now, Macrorie, I ask you, not merely as an officer and a gentleman, but as a man, a fellow Christian, and a sympathizing friend, what under Heaven am I to do?”

  He stopped, leaned back in his chair, lighted once more his extinguished pipe, and I could see through the dense volumes of smoke which he blew forth, his eyes fixed earnestly upon me, gleaming like two stars from behind gloomy storm-clouds.

  I sat in silence, and thought long and painfully over the situation. I could come to no conclusion, but I had to say some thing, and I said it.

  “Put it off,” said I at last, in a general state of daze.

  “Put what off?”

  “What? Why, the widow — no, the — the elopement, of course. Yes,” I continued, firmly, “put off the elopement.”

  “Put off the elopement!” ejaculated Jack. “What! after proposing it so desperately — after threatening to blow my brains out in front of her door?”

  “That certainly is a consideration,” said I, thoughtfully; “but can’t you have — well, brain-fever — yes, that’s it, and can’t you get some friend to send word to her?”

  “That’s all very well; but, you see, I’d have to keep my room. If I went out, she’d hear of it. She’s got a wonderful way of hearing about my movements. She’ll find out about the widow before the week’s over. Oh, no! that’s not to be done.”

  “Well, then,” said I, desperately, “let her find it out. The blow would then fall a little more gently.”

  “You seem to me,” said Jack, rather huffily, “to propose that I should quietly proceed to break her heart. No! Hang it, man, if it comes to that I’ll do it openly, and make a clean breast of it, without shamming or keeping her in suspense.”

  “Well, then,” I responded, “why not break off with the widow?”

  “Break off with the widow!” cried Jack, with the wondering accent of a man who has heard some impossible proposal.

  “Certainly; why not?”

  “Will you be kind enough to inform me what thing short of death could ever deliver me out of her hands?” asked Jack, midly.

  “Elope, as you proposed.”

  “That’s the very thing I thought of; but the trouble is, in that case she would devote the rest of her life to vengeance. ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman wronged,’ you know. She’d move heaven and earth, and never end, till I was drummed out of the regiment. No, my boy. To do that would be to walk with open eyes to disgrace, and shame, and infamy, with a whole community, a whole regiment, and the Horse-Guards at the back of them, all banded together to crush me. Such a fate as this would hardly be the proper thing to give to a wife that a fellow loves.”

  “Can’t you manage to make the widow disgusted with you?”

  “No, I can’t,” said Jack, peevishly. “What do you mean?”

  “Why, make it appear as though you only wanted to marry her for her money.”

  “Oh, hang it, man! how could I do that? I can’t play a part, under any circumstances, and that particular part would be so infernally mean, that it would be impossible. I’m such an ass that, if she were even to hint at that, I’d resent it furiously.”

  “Can’t you make her afraid about your numerous gallantries?”

  “Afraid? why she glories in them. So many feathers in her cap, and all that, you know.”

  “Can’t you frighten her about your debts and general extravagance — hint that you’re a gambler, and so on?”

  “And then she’d inform me, very affectionately, that she intends to be my guardian angel, and save me from evil for all the rest of my life.”

  “Can’t you tell her all about your solemn engagement to Miss Phillips?”

  “My engagement to Miss Phillips? Why, man alive, she knows that as well as you do.”

  “Knows it! How did she find it out?”

  “How? Why I told her myself.”

  “The deu
ce you did!”

  Jack was silent.

  “Well, then,” said I, after some further thought, “why not tell her every thing?”

  “Tell her every thing?”

  “Yes — exactly what you’ve been telling me. Make a clean breast of it.”

  Jack looked at me for some time with a curious expression.

  “My dear boy,” said he, at length, “do you mean to say that you are really in earnest in making that proposition?”

  “Most solemnly in earnest,” said I.

  “Well,” said Jack, “it shows how mistaken I was in leaving any thing to your imagination. You do not seem to understand,” he continued, dolefully, “or you will not understand that, when a fellow has committed himself to a lady as I did, and squeezed her hand with such peculiar ardor, in his efforts to save himself and do what’s right, he often overdoes it. You don’t seem to suspect that I might have overdone it with the widow. Now, unfortunately, that is the very thing that I did. I did happen to overdo it most confoundedly. And so the melancholy fact remains that, if I were to repeat to her, verbatim, all that I’ve been telling you, she would find an extraordinary discrepancy between such statements and those abominably tender confessions in which I indulged on that other occasion, Nothing would ever convince her that I was not sincere at that time; and how can I go to her now and confess that I am a humbug and an idiot? I don’t see it. Come, now, old fellow, what do you think of that? Don’t you call it rather a tough situation? Do you think a man can see his way out of it? Own up, now. Don’t you think it’s about the worst scrape you ever heard of? Come, now, no humbug.”

  The fellow seemed actually to begin to feel a dismal kind of pride in the very hopelessness of his situation, and looked at me with a gloomy enjoyment of my discomfiture.

  For my part, I said nothing, and for the best of reasons: I had nothing to say. So I took refuge in shaking my head.

  “You see,” Jack persisted, “there’s no help for it. Nobody can do any thing. There’s only one thing, and that you haven’t suggested.”

  “What’s that?” I asked, feebly.

  Jack put the tip of his forefinger to his forehead, and snapped his thumb against his third.

  “Haven’t much brains to speak of,” said he, “but if I did happen to blow out what little I may have, it would be the easiest settlement of the difficulty. It would be cutting the knot, instead of attempting the impossible task of untying it. Nobody would blame me. Everybody would mourn for me, and, above all, four tender female hearts would feel a pang of sorrow for my untimely fate. By all four I should be not cursed, but canonized. Only one class would suffer, and those would be welcome to their agonies. I allude, of course, to my friends the Duns.”

  To this eccentric proposal, I made no reply whatever.

  “Well,” said Jack thoughtfully, “it isn’t a bad idea. Not a bad idea,” he repeated, rising from his chair and putting down his pipe, which had again gone out owing to his persistent loquacity. “I’ll think it over,” he continued, seriously. “You bear in mind my little directions about the head-stone, Macrorie, four feet by eighteen inches, old fellow, very plain, and, mark me, only the name and date. Not a word about the virtues of the deceased, etc. I can stand a great deal, but that I will not stand. And now, old chap, I must be off; you can’t do me any good, I see.”

  “At any rate, you’ll wait till tomorrow,” said I, carelessly.

  “Oh, there’s no hurry,” said he. “Of course, I must wait till then. I’ll let you know if any thing new turns up.”

  And saying this, he took his departure.

  Chapter 7

  CROSSING THE ST. LAWRENCE. — THE STORM AND THE BREAK-UP. — A WONDERFUL ADVENTURE. — A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE. — WHO IS SHE? — THE ICE-RIDGE. — FLY FOR YOUR LIFE!

  On the following day I found myself compelled to go on some routine duty cross the river to Point Levi. The weather was the most abominable of that abominable season. It was winter, and yet not Winter’s self. The old gentleman had lost all that bright and hilarious nature; all that sparkling and exciting stimulus which he owns and holds here so joyously in January, February, and even March. He was decrepit, yet spiteful; a hoary, old, tottering, palsied villain, hurling curses at all who ventured into his evil presence. One look outside showed me the full nature of all that was before me, and revealed the old tyrant in the full power of his malignancy. The air was raw and chill. There blew a fierce, blighting wind, which brought with it showers of stinging sleet. The wooden pavements were overspread with a thin layer of ice, so glassy that walking could only be attempted at extreme hazard; the houses were incrusted with the same cheerful coating; and, of all the beastly weather that I had ever seen, there had never been any equal to this. However, there was no escape from it; and so, wrapping myself up as well as I could, I took a stout stick with a sharp iron ferrule, and plunged forth into the storm.

  On reaching the river, the view was any thing but satisfactory. The wind here was tremendous, and the sleet blew down in long, horizontal lines, every separate particle giving its separate sting, while the accumulated stings amounted to perfect torment. I paused for a while to get a little shelter, and take breath before venturing across.

  There were other reasons for pausing. The season was well advanced, and the ice was not considered particularly safe. Many things conspired to give indications of a break-up. The ice on the surface was soft, honey-combed, and crumbling. Near the shore was a channel of open water. Farther out, where the current ran strongest, the ice was heaped up in hillocks and mounds, while in different directions appeared crevices of greater or less width. Looking over that broad surface as well as I could through the driving storm, where not long before I had seen crowds passing and repassing, not a soul was now visible.

  This might have been owing to the insecurity of the ice; but it might also have been owing to the severity of the weather. Black enough, at any rate, the scene appeared; and I looked forth upon it from my temporary shelter with the certainty that this river before me was a particularly hard road to travel.

  “Ye’ll no be gangin’ ower the day, sewerly?” said a voice near me.

  I turned and saw a brawny figure in a reefing-jacket and “sou’wester.” He might have been a sailor, or a scowman, or a hibernating raftsman.

  “Why?” said I.

  He said nothing, but shook his head with solemn emphasis.

  I looked for a few moments longer, and hesitated. Yet there was no remedy for it, bad as it looked. After being ordered forward, I did not like to turn back with an excuse about the weather. Besides, the ice thus far had lasted well. Only the day before, sleds had crossed. There was no reason why I should not cross now. Why should I in particular be doomed to a catastrophe more than any other man? And, finally, was not McGoggin there? Was he not always ready with his warmest welcome? On a stormy day, did he not always keep his water up to the boiling-point, and did not the very best whiskey in Quebec diffuse about his chamber its aromatic odor?

  I moved forward. The die was cast.

  The channel near the shore was from six to twelve feet in width, filled with floating fragments. Over this I scrambled in safety. As I advanced, I could see that in one day a great change had taken place. The surface-ice was soft and disintegrated, crushing readily under the feet. All around me extended wide pools of water. From beneath these arose occasional groaning sounds — dull, heavy crunches, which seemed to indicate a speedy break-up. The progress of the season, with its thaws and rains, had been gradually weakening the ice; along the shore its hold had in some places at least been relaxed; and the gale of wind that was now blowing was precisely of that description which most frequently sweeps away resistlessly the icy fetters of the river, and sets all the imprisoned waters free. At every step new signs of this approaching break-up became visible. From time to time I encountered gaps in the ice, of a foot or two in width, which did no
t of themselves amount to much, but which nevertheless served to show plainly the state of things.

  My progress was excessively difficult. The walking was laborious on account of the ice itself and the pools through which I had to wade. Then there were frequent gaps, which sometimes could only be traversed by a long detour. Above all, there was the furious sleet, which drove down the river, borne on by the tempest, with a fury and unrelaxing pertinacity that I never saw equalled. However, I managed to toil onward, and at length reached the centre of the river. Here I found a new and more serious obstacle. At this point the ice had divided; and in the channel thus formed there was a vast accumulation of ice-cakes, heaped up one above the other in a long ridge, which extended as far as the eye could reach. There were great gaps in it, however, and to cross it needed so much caution, and so much effort, that I paused for a while, and, setting my back to the wind, looked around to examine the situation.

  Wild enough that scene appeared. On one side was my destination, but dimly visible through the storm; on the other rose the dark cliff of Cape Diamond, frowning gloomily over the river, crowned with the citadel, where the flag of Old England was streaming straight out at the impulse of the blast, with a stiffness that made it seem as though it had been frozen in the air rigid in that situation. Up the river all was black and gloomy; and the storm which burst from that quarter obscured the view; down the river the prospect was as gloomy, but one thing was plainly visible — a wide, black surface, terminating the gray of the ice, and showing that there at least the break-up had begun, and the river had resumed its sway.

  A brief survey showed me all this, and for a moment created a strong desire to go back. Another moment, however, showed that to go forward was quite as wise and as safe. I did not care to traverse again what I had gone over, and the natural reluctance to turn back from the half-way house, joined to the hope of better things for the rest of the way, decided me to go forward.

  After some examination I found a place on which to cross the central channel. It was a point where the heaps of ice seemed at once more easy to the foot, and more secure. At extreme risk, and by violent efforts, I succeeded in crossing, and, on reaching the other side, I found the ice more promising. Then, hoping that the chief danger had been successfully encountered, I gathered up my energies, and stepped out briskly toward the opposite shore.