"SOMETHIN' WARRUM."
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 of how late it was.
Besides, I had hoped that something would fall from them that 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 has
produced such a tremendous effect on both of them. That could not be
concealed. They evidently knew something 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 was 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 something 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 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 and criticised it from various points of view, and gayly rallied
me about the lost "gyerrul."
From a consideration of me 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 shuparior baying, But I'm getting overwarrun an' toired
out, an' I'm longing for the toime when 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 pushoots. I've got me books, an' I
foind imploymint an' amusemint with thim."
And now he began to enlarge on the theme of 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
Hercalius and Chosroes; the Comneni; the Paleologi; the writings of
Snorro Sturlesson; the round towers of Ireland; the Phoenician origins
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
persued 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 investigarin' 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 light burst in upon me; "duels, I understand."
"But the chafe subject that I'm engeeged upon is a very different one,"
he resumed, talking another swallow of the oft-replenished draught.
"It's a thraitise of moine which I ixplict 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.
"Tis," 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 to-morrow 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