Lady of the Ice (11 page)

I
must say I was grievously disappointed at the departure of the ladies. It was late enough in all conscience for such a move, but the time had passed quickly, and I was not aware how late it was. Besides, I had hoped that some thing would fall from them which would throw light on the great mystery. But nothing of the kind occurred. They retired without saying any thing more than the commonplaces of social life. What made it worse was, the fact that my story had produced a tremendous effect on both of them. That could not be concealed. They evidently knew some thing about the lady whom I had rescued; and, if they chose, they could put me in the way of discovery. Then, in Heaven's name, why didn't they? Why did they go off in this style, without a word, leaving me a prey to suspense of the worst kind? It was cruel. It was unkind. It was ungenerous. It was unjust. It was unfair.

One thing alone remained to comfort and encourage me, and that was the recollection of Miss O'Halloran's bewitching smile. The sweetness of that smile lingered in my memory, and seemed to give me hope. I would see her again. I would ask her directly, and she would not have the heart to refuse. Marion's graver face did not inspire that confident hope which was caused by the more genial and sympathetic manner of her sprightly elder sister.

Such were my thoughts after the ladies had taken their departure. But these thoughts were soon interrupted and diverted to another channel. O'Halloran rang for a servant, and ordered up what he called “somethin' warrum.” That some thing soon appeared in the shape of two decanters, a kettle of hot water, a sugar-bowl, tumblers, wine-glasses, spoons, and several other things, the list of which was closed by pipes and tobacco.

O'Halloran was beyond a doubt an Irishman, and a patriotic one at that, but for “somethin' warrum” he evidently preferred Scotch whiskey to that which is produced on the Emerald Sod. Beneath the benign influences of this draught he became more confidential, and I grew more serene. We sat. We quaffed the fragrant draught. We inhaled the cheerful nicotic fumes. We became friendly, communicative, sympathetic.

O'Halloran, however, was more talkative than I, and consequently had more to say. If I'm not a good talker, I'm at least an excellent listener, and that was all that my new friend wanted. And so he went on talking, quite indifferent as to any answers of mine; and, as I always prefer the ease of listening to the drudgery of talking, we were both well satisfied and mutually delighted.

First of all, O'Halloran was simply festive. He talked much about my adventure, criticised it from various points of view, and gayly rallied me about the lost “gyerrul.”

From a consideration of my circumstances, he wandered gradually away to his own. He lamented his present position in Quebec, which place he found insufferably dull.

“I'd lave it at wanst,” he said, “if I wern't deteened here by the cleems of jewty. But I foind it dull beyond all exprission. Me only occupeetion is to walk about the sthraits and throy to preserve the attichood of a shuparior baying. But I'm getting overwarrun an' toired out, an' I'm longing for the toime whin I can bid ajoo to the counthry with its Injins an' Canajians.”

“I don't see what you can find to amuse yourself with,” said I, sympathetically.

“Oh,” said he, “I have veerious purshoots. I've got me books, an' I foind imploymint an' amusemint with thim.”

And now he began to enlarge on the theme of his books, and he went on in this way till he became eloquent, enthusiastic, and glorious. He quaffed the limpid and transparent liquid, and its insinuating influences inspired him every moment to nobler flights of fancy, of rhetoric, and of eloquence. He began to grow learned. He discoursed about the Attic drama; the campaigns of Hannibal; the manners and customs of the Parthians; the doctrines of Zoroaster; the wars of Heraclius and Chosroes; the Ommiades, the Abbasides, and the Fatimites; the Comneni; the Paleologi; the writings of Snorro Sturlesson; the round towers of Ireland; the Phoenician origin of the Irish people proved by illustrations from Plautus, and a hundred other things of a similar character.

“And what are you engaged upon now?” I asked, at length, as I found myself fairly lost amid the multiplicity of subjects which he brought forward.

“Engeeged upon?” he exclaimed, “well — a little of iviry thing, but this dee I've been busy with a rayconsthruction of the scholastic thaories rilitiv' to the jureetion of the diluge of Juceelion. Have ye ivir perused the thraitises of the Chubingen school about the Noachic diluge?”

“No.”

“Well, ye'll find it moighty foine an' insthructive raidin'. But in addition to this, I've been investigatin' the subject of maydyayvil jools.”

“Jools?” I repeated, in an imbecile way.

“Yis, jools,” said O'Halloran, “the orjil, ye know, the weeger of battle.”

“Oh, yes,” said I, as a light burst in upon me, “duels — I understand.”

“But the chafe subject that I'm engeeged upon is a very different one,” he resumed, taking another swallow of the oft-replenished draught. “It's a thraitise of moine by which I ixpict to upsit the thaories of the miserable Saxon schaymers that desthort the pleen facts of antiquetee to shoot their own narrow an' disthortid comprayhinsions. An' I till ye what — whin my thraitise is published, it'll make a chumult among thim that'll convulse the litherary wurruld.”

“What is your treatise about?” I asked, dreamily, for I only half comprehended him, or rather, I didn't comprehend him at all.

“Oh,” said he, “its a foine subject intoirely. It's a thraitise rilitiv' to the Aydipodayan Ipopaya.”

“What's that?” I asked. “The what? — ”

“The Aydipodayan Ipopaya,” said O'Halloran.

“The Aydipodayan Ipopaya?” I repeated, in a misty, foggy, and utterly woe-be-gone manner.

“Yis,” said he, “an' I'd like to have your opinion about that same,” saying which, he once more filled his oft-replenished tumbler.

It was too much. The conversation was getting beyond my depth. I had followed him in a vague and misty way thus far, but this Aydipodayan Ipopaya was an obstacle which I could not in any way surmount. I halted short, full in front of that insurmountable obstacle. So far from surmounting it, I couldn't even pretend to have the smallest idea what it was. I could not get over it, and therefore began to think of a general retreat.

I rose to my feet.

“Ye're not going yit?” he said.

“Yes, but I am,” said I.

“Why, sure it's airly enough,” said he.

“Yes,” said I, “it's early enough, but it's early the wrong way. It's now,” said I, taking out my watch, “just twenty minutes of four. I must be off — really.”

“Well,” said O'Halloran, “I'm sorry ye're going, but you know best what you must do.”

“And I'm sorrier,” said I, “for I've spent a most delightful evening.”

“Sure an' I'm glad to hear ye say that. And ye'll come again, won't ye?”

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

“Come tomorrow night thin,” said he.

“I shall be only too happy,” said I; and with these words I took my departure.

I went home, and went to bed at once. But I lay awake, a prey to many thoughts. Those thoughts did not refer to O'Halloran, or to his Aydipodayan Ipopaya, On the contrary, they referred altogether to the ladies, and to the manner in which they had heard my narrative.

What was the meaning of that?

And my speculations on this passed on even into my dreams, and thus carried me away into

“Well,
old chap,” cried Jack, as he burst into my room on the following morning, “what the mischief were you doing with yourself all last night? Come, out with it. No humbug. I was here at twelve, lighted up, and smoked till — yes — I'll be hanged if it wasn't half-past two. And you didn't come. What do you mean, my good fellow, by that sort of thing?”

“Oh,” said I, meekly, “I was passing the evening with a friend.”

“The evening! The night you mean.”

“Well, it was rather late,” said I. “The fact is, we got talking, and I was telling him about my adventure on the ice. We had been at the concert first, and then I went with him to his quarters. By-the-way, why weren't you there?”

In this dexterous way I parried Jack's question, for I did not feel inclined just yet to return his confidence. I am by nature, as the reader must by this time have seen, uncommonly reticent and reserved, and I wasn't going to pour out my story and my feelings to Jack, who would probably go and tell it everywhere before the close of the day.

“The concert!” cried Jack, contemptuously — “the concert! My dear boy, are you mad? What's a concert to me or I to a concert? A concert? My dear fellow, what kind of an idea have you formed of me, if you think that I am capable of taking part in any festive scene when my soul is crushed under such an accumulated burden of fuss and bother?”

“What, are you bothered still? Haven't you begun to see your way through the woods?”

“See my way?” cried Jack. “Why, it's getting worse and worse — ”

“Worse? I thought you had reached the worst when you were repulsed by Louie. What worse thing can happen than that? Weren't all your thoughts on death intent? Didn't you repeat your order for a gravestone?”

“True, old boy; very correct; but then I was just beginning to rally, you know, and all that, when down comes a new bother, and, if I weren't so uncommonly fruitful in resource, this day would have seen an end of Jack Randolph. I see you're rather inclined to chaff me about the gravestone, but I tell you what it is, Macrorie, if this sort of thing continues you'll be in for it. I've pulled through this day, but whether I can pull through tomorrow or not is a very hard thing to say.”

At this Jack struck a match, and solemnly lighted his pipe, which all this time he had been filling.

“'Pon my word, old chap,” said I, “you seem bothered again, and cornered, and all that. What's up? Any thing new? Out with it, and pour it into this sympathetic ear.”

Jack gave about a dozen solemn puffs. Then he removed his pipe with his left hand. Then with his right hand he stroked his brow. Then he said, slowly and impressively:

“She's here!”

“She!” I repeated. “What she? Which? When? How?”

“Miss Phillips!” said Jack.

“Miss Phillips!” I cried. “Miss Phillips! Why, haven't you been expecting her? Didn't she write, and tell you that she was coming, and all that?”

“Yes; but then you know I had half an idea that some thing or other would turn up to prevent her actual arrival. There's many a slip, you know, 'tween cup and lip. How did I know that she was really coming? It didn't seem at all probable that any thing so abominably embarrassing should be added to all my other embarrassments.”

“Probable? Why, my dear fellow, it seems to me the most probable thing in the world. It's always so. Misfortunes never come single. Don't you know that they always come in clusters? But come, tell me all about it. In the first place, you've seen her, of course?”

“Oh, of course. I heard of her arrival yesterday morn, and went off at once to call on her. Her reception of me was not very flattering. She was, in fact, most confoundedly cool. But you know my way. I felt awfully cut up, and insisted on knowing the reason of all this. Then it all came out.”

Jack paused.

“Well, what was it?”

“
Leedies, 'said O'Halloran, ‘allow me to inthrojuice to ye Captain Macrorie.'””

“Why, confound it, it seems that she had been here two days, and had been expecting me to come every moment. Now, I ask you, Macrorie, as a friend, wasn't that rather hard on a fellow when he's trying to do the very best he can, and is over head and ears in all kinds of difficulties? You know,” he continued, more earnestly, “the awful bothers I've had the last few days. Why, man alive, I had only just got her letter, and hadn't recovered from the shock of that. And now, while I was still in a state of bewilderment at such unexpected news, here she comes herself! And then she begins to pitch into me for not calling on her before.”

“It was rather hard, I must confess,” said I, with my never-failing sympathy, “and how did it all end?”

Jack heaved a heavy — a very heavy sigh.

“Well,” said he, “it ended all right — for the time. I declared that I had not expected her until the following week; and, when she referred to certain passages in her letter, I told her that I had misunderstood her altogether, which was the solemn fact, for I swear, Macrorie, I really didn't think, even if she did come, that she'd be here two or three days after her letter came. Two or three days — why, hang it all, she must have arrived here the very day I got her letter. The letter must have come through by land, and she came by the way of Portland. Confound those abominable mails, I say! What business have those wretched postmasters to send their letters through the woods and snow? Well, never mind. I made it up all right.”

“All right?”

“Oh, yes. I explained it all, you know. I cleared up every thing in the completest way. In fact, I made a full, ample, intelligible, and perfectly satisfactory explanation of the whole thing. I showed that it was all a mistake, you know — that I was humbugged by the mails, and all that sort of thing, you know. So she relented, and we made it all up, and I took her out driving, and we had a glorious time, though the roads were awful — perfect lakes, slush no end, universal thaw, and all that. But we did the drive, and I promised to go there again today.”

“And did you call on the widow?”

“Oh, yes; but before I went there I had to write a letter to Number Three.”

“Number Three! You must have had your hands full?”

“Hands full? I should think I had, my boy. You know what agony writing a letter is to me. It took me two hours to get through it. You see I had written her before, reproaching her for not running off with me, and she had answered me. I got her answer yesterday morning. She wrote back a repetition of her reason for not going, and pleaded her father, who she said would go mad if she did such a thing. Between you and me, Macrorie, that's all bosh. The man's as mad as a March hare now. But this wasn't all. What do you think? She actually undertook to haul me over the coals about the widow.”

“What! has she heard about it?”

“Oh, yes. Didn't I tell you before that she kept the run of me pretty closely? Well, she's evidently heard all about me and the widow, and accordingly, after a brief explanation about her father, she proceeded to walk into me about the widow. Now that was another shock. You see, the fact is, I pitched into her first for this very reason, and thought, if I began the attack, she'd have to take up a strictly defensive attitude. But she was too many guns for me. No go, my boy. Not with Number Three. She dodged my blow, and then sprang at me herself, and I found myself thrown on my defence. So you see I had to write to her at once.”

Jack sighed heavily, and quaffed some Bass.

“But how the mischief could you handle such a subject? Two hours! I should think so. For my part, I don't see how you managed it at all.”

“Oh, I got through,” said Jack. “I explained it all, you know. I cleared up every thing in the completest way. In fact, I made a full, perfect, intelligible, ample, and satisfactory explanation — ”

“Oh, that's all downright bosh now, old boy,” I interrupted. “How could you explain it? It can't be explained.”

“But I did though,” said Jack. “I don't remember how. I only know the letter struck me as just the thing, and I dropped it into the post-office when on my way to the widow's.”

“The widow's?”

“Yes, as soon as I finished the letter, I hurried off to the widow's.”

“By Jove!” I cried, aghast. “So that's the style of thing, is it? Look here, old man, will you allow me to ask you, in the mildest manner in the world, how long you consider yourself able to keep up this sort of thing?”

“Allow you? Certainly not. No questions, old chap. I don't question myself, and I'll be hanged if I'll let anybody else. I'm among the breakers. I'm whirling down-stream. I have a strong sense of the aptness of Louie's idea about the juggler and the oranges. But the worst of it is, I'm beginning to lose confidence in myself.”

And Jack leaned his head back, and sent out a long beam of smoke that flew straight up and hit the ceiling. After which he stared at me in unutterable solemnity.

“Well,” said I, “go on. What about the widow?”

“The widow — oh — when I got there I found another row.”

“Another?”

“Yes, another — the worst of all. But by this time I had grown used to it, and I was as serene as a mountain-lake.”

“But — the row — what was it about?”

“Oh, she had heard about my engagement to Miss Phillips, and her arrival; so she at once began to talk to me like a father. The way she questioned me — why the Grand Inquisitor is nothing to it. But she didn't make any thing by it. You see I took up the Fabian tactics and avoided a direct engagement.”

“How's that?”

“Why, I wouldn't answer her.”

“How could you avoid it?”

“Pooh! — easy enough — I sat and chaffed her, and laughed at her, and called her jealous, and twitted her, no end. Well, you know, at last she got laughing herself, and we made it all up, and all that sort of thing, you know; still, she's very pertinacious, and even after we made up she teased and teased, till she got an explanation out of me.”

“An explanation! What, another?”

“Oh, yes — easy enough — I explained it all, you know. I cleared up every thing perfectly. I made an ample, intelligible, full, frank, and thoroughly satisfactory explanation of the whole thing, and — ”

“What, again? Hang it, Jack, don't repeat yourself. This is the third time that you've repeated those words verbatim.”

“Is it? Did I? Odd, too. Fact is, I believe I made up that sentence for my letter to Number Three, and I suppose I've got it by heart. At any rate, it's all right. You see I had three explanations to make, and they all had to be full, frank, ample, satisfactory, and all the rest of those words, you know. But it's awfully hard work. It's wearing on the constitution. It destroys the nervous system. I tell you what it is, old chap — I'm serious — if this sort of thing is to go on, hang it, I'll die of exhaustion.”

“So that was the end of your troubles for that day?”

“Well — yes — but not the end of my day. I got away from the widow by eight o'clock, and then trotted over to Louie.”

“Louie?”

“Yes, Louie. Why, man — why not?”

“What, after the late mitten?”

“Mitten? of course. What do you suppose I care for that? Isn't Louie the best friend I have? Isn't she my only comfort? Doesn't she give magnificent advice to a fellow, and all that? Louie? Why, man alive, it's the only thing I have to look forward to! Of course. Well, you see, Louie was luckily disengaged. The other girls were at whist with their father and the aunt. So I had Louie to myself.”

“I hope you didn't do the sentimental again.”

“Sentimental? Good Lord! hadn't I been overwhelmed and choked with sentiment all day long? Sentiment? Of all the bosh — but never mind. Louie at least didn't bother me in that way. Yes, it's a fact, Macrorie, she's got an awful knack of giving comfort to a fellow.”

“Comfort?”

“Well, I can't exactly explain it.”

“I suppose she was very sad, and sympathetic, and all that. At any rate, she didn't know the real trouble that you'd been having?”

“Didn't she, though?”

“No, of course not; how could she?”

“Why, she began questioning me, you know.”

“Questioning you?”

“Yes — about — the three oranges, you know.”

“Well, and how did you manage to fight her off?”

“Fight her off?”