A LETTER!--STRANGE HESITATION.--GLOOMY FOREBODINGS.--JACK DOWN DEEP IN
THE DUMPS.--FRESH CONFESSIONS.--WHY HE MISSED THE TRYST.--REMORSE AND
REVENGE.--JACK'S VOWS OF VENGEANCE.--A VERY SINGULAR AND UNACCOUNTABLE
CHARACTER.--JACK'S GLOOMY MENACES.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed, "I'll be hanged if I haven't forgot all about
it. It's been in my pocket ever since yesterday morning."
Saying this, he held up the letter, and looked at it for some time
Without opening it, and with a strange mixture of embarrassment and
ruefulness in his expression.
"What's that?" said I, carelessly. "A letter? Who's it from, Jack?"
Jack did not give any immediate answer. He turned the letter over and
over, looking at it on the front and on the back.
"You seem hit hard, old man," said I, "about something. Is it a
secret?"
"Oh, no," said Jack, with a sigh.
"Well, what's the matter?"
"OH, only this," said he, with another sigh.
"What, that letter?"
"Yes."
"It don't look like a dun, old chap--so, why fret?"
"Oh, no," said Jack, with a groan.
"What's the reason you don't open it?"
Jack shook his head.
"I've a pretty good idea of what's in it," said he. "There are some
letters you can read without opening them, old boy, and this is one of
them. You know the general nature of the contents, and you don't feel
altogether inclined to go over all the small details."
"You don't mean to say that you're not going to open it?"
"Oh, I'll open it," said Jack, more dolefully than ever.
"Then, why don't you open it now?"
"Oh, there's no hurry--there's plenty of time."
"It must be something very unimportant. You say you've had it lying in
Your pocket ever Since the day before yesterday. So, what's the use of
getting so tragic all of a sudden?"
"Macrorie, old chap," said Jack, in a tone of hollow despair.
"Well?"
"Do you see that letter?" and he held it up in his hand.
"Yes."
"Well, in that I am to read a convincing proof that I am a scoundrel!"
"A what? Scoundrel? Pooh, nonsense! What's up now? Come, now, old boy,
no melodrama. Out with it. But, first of all, read the letter."
Jack laid the unopened letter on the table, filled his pipe, lighted
it, and then, throwing himself back in his chair, sat staring at the
ceiling, and sending forth great clouds of smoke that gathered in dense
folds and soon hung overhead in a dark canopy.
I watched him in silence for some time. I suspected what that letter
might be, but did not in any way let my suspicion appear.
"Jack," said I, at last, "I've seen you several times in trouble during
the last few days, but it is now my solemn conviction, made up from a
long observation of your character, your manner, your general style,
and your facial expression, that on this present occasion you are hit
harder than ever you've been since I had the pleasure of your
acquaintance."
"That's a fact," said Jack, earnestly and solemnly.
"It isn't a secret, you said?"
"No, not from you. I'll tell you presently. I need one pipe, at least,
to soothe my nerves."
He relapsed into silence, and, as I saw that he intended to tell me of
his own accord, I questioned him no further, but sat waiting patiently
till he found strength to begin the confession of his woes.
At length he reached forward, and once more raised the letter from the
table.
"Macrorie, my boy."
"Well?"
"Do you see this letter?"
"Yes."
"Whom do you think it's from?"
"How do I know?"
"Well," said Jack, "this letter is the sequel to that conversation you
and I had, which ended in our row."
"The sequel?"
"Yes. You remember that I left threatening that Number Three should be
mine."
"Oh, yes; but don't bother about that now," said I.
"Bother about it? Man alive, that's the very thing that I have to do!
The bother, as you call it, has just begun. This letter is from Number
Three."
"Number Three? Marion!"
"Yes, Marion, Miss O'Halloran, the one I swore should be mine. Ha, ha!"
laughed Jack, wildly; "a precious mess I've made of it! Mine? By Jove!
What's the end of it? To her a broken heart--to me dishonor and
infamy!"
"My dear boy," said I, "doesn't it strike you that your language
partakes, to a slight extent, of the melodramatic? Don't get stagy,
dear boy."
"Stagy? Good Lord, Macrorie! Wait till you see that letter."
"That letter! Why, confound it, you haven't seen it yourself yet."
"Oh, I know, I know. No need for me to open it. Look here, Macrorie,
will you promise not to throw me over after I tell you about this?"
"Throw you over?"
"Yes. You'll stick by a fellow still--"
"Stick by you? Of course, through thick and thin, my boy."
Jack gave a sigh of relief. "Well, old chap," said he, "you see, after
I left you, I was bent on nothing but Marion. The idea of her slipping
out of my hands altogether was intolerable. I was as jealous of you as
fury, and all that sort of thing. The widow and Miss Phillips were
forgotten. Even little Louie was given up. So I wrote a long letter to
Marion."
Jack paused, and looked hard at me.
"Well," said I.
"Well," said he, "you know her last letter to me was full of reproaches
about the widow and Miss Phillips. She even alluded to Louie, though
how under heaven she had heard about her is more than I can imagine.
Well, you know, I determined to write her a letter that would settle
all these difficulties, and at the same time gain her for myself, for
good and all. You see I had sworn to get her from you, and I could
think of nothing but that oath. So I wrote--but, oh, Macrorie,
Macrorie, why, in Heaven's name, did you make that mistake about Mrs.
O'Halloran, and force that infernal oath out of me? Why did that
confounded old blockhead forget to introduce her to you? That's the
cause of all my woes. But I won't bore you, old fellow; I'll go on. So,
you see, in my determination to get her, I stuck at nothing. First of
all, instead of attempting to explain away her reproaches, I turned
them all back upon her. I was an infatuated fool, Macrorie, when I
wrote that letter, but I was not a villain. I wrote it with an earnest
desire that it should be effective. Well, I told her that she should
not blame me for my gallantries, but herself for forcing me to them. I
reproached her for refusing to elope with me when I offered, and
told her she cared far more for her father's ease and comfort than she
did for my happiness. I swore that I loved her better than any of them,
or all of them put together, and I'll be hanged if I didn't, Macrorie,
when I wrote it. Finally, I told her there was yet time to save me,
and, if she had a particle of that love which she professed, I
implored her now to fly with me. I besought her to name some time
convenient to her, and suggested--oh, Macrorie, I suggested--swear at
me--curse me--do something or other--Macrorie, I suggested last night
-midnight--I did, by Heaven!"
And, saying this, Jack looked at me for some minutes in silence, with a
wild expression that I had never before seen on his face.
"Last night, Macrorie!" he repeated "midnight! Think of that, Why
don't you say something?"
"Say?" said I. "Why, hang it, man, what can I say? It's a case beyond
words. If you've made such an appointment, and broken it, you've--well,
there's nothing to say."
"That's true," said Jack, in a sepulchral tone. "That's true. I made
the appointment, and, Macrorie--I was not there."
"Well, of course, I gathered as much from the way you go on about it
--but that's what I should like to understand, if it isn't a secret."
"Oh, no. I'll make no secret about any thing connected with this
business. Well, then, I put the letter in the post-office, and strolled
off to call on Miss Phillips. Will you believe it, she was 'not at
home?' At that, I swear I felt so savage that I forgot all about Marion
and my proposal. It was a desperate cut. I don't know any thing that
has ever made me feel so savage. And I feel savage yet. If she had any
thing against me, why couldn't she have seen me, and had it out with
me, fair and square? It cut deep. By Jove! Well, then, I could think of
nothing else but paying her off. So I organized a sleighing-party, and
took out the Bertons and some other girls. I had Louie, you know, and
we drove to Montmorency. Fun, no end. Great spirits. Louie teasing all
the way. We got back so late that I couldn't call on the widow. That
evening I was at Chelmsford's--a ball, you know--I was the only one of
ours that went. Yesterday, didn't call on Miss Phillips, but took out
Louie. On my way I got this letter from the office, and carelessly
stuffed it into my pocket. It's been there ever since. I forgot
all about it. Last evening there were a few of us at Berton's, and the
time passed like lightning. My head was whirling with a cram of all
sorts of things. There was my anger at Miss Phillips, there was a long
story Louie had to tell about the widow, and then there was Louie
herself, who drove every other thought away. And so, Macrorie, Marion
and my letter to her, and the letter in my pocket, and the proposed
elopement, never once entered into my head. I swear they had all passed
out of my mind as completely as though it had all been some confounded
dream."
Jack stopped, and again relapsed into moody silence.
"I'll tell you what it is, old fellow," said he, after a pause. "It's
devilish hard to put up with."
"What is?" I asked.
"This 'not-at-home' style of thing. Never mind--I'll pay her up!"
Now here was a specimen of rattle-brainishness--of levity--and of
childishness; so desperate, that I began to doubt whether this absurd
Jack ought to be regarded as a responsible being. It seemed simply
impossible for him to concentrate his impulsive mind on any thing. He
flings himself one day furiously into an elopement scheme--the next
day, at a slight, he forgets all about the elopement, and, in a
towering rage against Miss Phillips, devotes himself desperately to
Louie. And now when the elopement scheme has been brought before him,
even in the midst of his remorse--remorse, too, which will not allow
him to open her letter--the thought of Miss Phillips once more drives
away all recollection of Marion, even while he has before him the
unopened letter of that wronged and injured girl. Jack's brain was
certainly of a harum-scarum order, such as is not often found--he was a
creature of whim and impulse--he was a rattle-brain, a scatter-brain
--formed to win the love of all--both men and women--formed, too, to
fall into endless difficulties--formed also with a native buoyancy of
spirit which enabled him to float where others would sink. By those
who knew him, he would always be judged lightly--by those who knew him
not, he would not fail to be judged harshly. Louie knew him, and
laughed at him--Marion knew him not, and so she had received a stroke
of anguish. Jack was a boy--no, a child--or, better yet, a great big
baby. What in the world could I say to him or do with him? I alone knew
the fullness of the agony which he had inflicted, and yet I could not
judge him as I would judge another man.
"I'll pay her up!" reiterated Jack, shaking his head fiercely.
"But before paying her up, Jack," said I, "wouldn't it be well to read
that letter?"
Jack gave a sigh.
"_You_ read it, Macrorie," said he; "I know all about it."
"Well," said I, "that is the most astonishing proposal that I ever
heard even from you. To read a letter like that!--Why, such a letter
should be sacred."
Jack's face flushed. He seized the letter, tore it open, and read. The
flush on his face deepened. As he finished, he crushed it in his hand,
and then relapsed into his sombre fit.
"It's just as I said, Macrorie," said he. "She promised to meet me at
the time I mentioned. And she was there. And I was not. And now she'll
consider me a scoundrel."
In a few moments Jack opened out the crushed note, and read it again.
"After all," said he, "she isn't so awfully affectionate."
"Affectionate!"
"No--she seems afraid, and talks a great deal too much of her father,
and of her anguish of soul--yes, that's her expression--her anguish of
soul in sacrificing him to me. By Jove!--sacrifice! Think of that! And
she says she only comes because I reproach her with being the cause of
grief--heavens and earth! and she says that she doesn't expect any
happiness, but only remorse. By Jove! See here, Macrorie--did you ever
in your life imagine that a woman, who loved a fellow well enough to
make a runaway match with him, could write him in such a way? Why, hang
it! she might have known that, before our honeymoon was over, that
confounded old Irish scoundrel of a father of hers would have been
after us, insisting on doing the heavy father of the comedy, and giving
us his blessing in the strongest of brogues. And, what's more, he'd
have been borrowing money of me, the beggar! Borrowing money! of _me_
--_me_--without a penny myself and head over heels in debt. Confound
his impudence!"
And Jack, who had begun this with remorse about Marion, ended with this
burst of indignation at Marion's father, consequent upon a purely
imaginary but very vivid scene, in which the latter was supposed to be
extorting money from him. And he looked at me with a face that craved
sympathy for such unmerited wrongs, and showed still more plainly the
baby that was in him.
I made no answer. His quotations from Marion's letter showed me plainly
how she had been moved, and what a struggle of soul this resolve had
cost her. Now I could understand the full meaning of that sombre face
which I had seen in O'Halloran's parlor, and also could see why it was
that she had absented herself on that last evening. Did this letter
change my sentiments about her? How could it, after what I already
knew? It only elevated her, for it showed that at such a time her soul
was racked and torn by the claims of filial duty. Under her
hallucination, and under the glamour which Jack had thrown over her,
she had done a deep wrong--but I alone knew how fearful was her
disenchantment, and how keen was the mental anguish that followed.
"She'll never forgive me," said Jack, after a long silence.
"Who?" said I, with some bitterness, which came forth in spite of my
new-found conviction of Jack's utter babyhood.--"Who, Miss Phillips?"
"Oh, no," said Jack--"Marion."
"Forgive you!" I ejaculated.
"Of course not. It's bosh to use the word in such a connection. She'll
hate and scorn me till her dying day."
"No, Jack," said I, somewhat solemnly, "I think from what little I know
of her, that if she gets over this, she'll feel neither hate nor
scorn."
"Yes, she will," said Jack, pettishly.
"No," said I.
"You don't know her, my boy. She's not the one to forget this."
"No, she'll never forget it--but her feelings about you will be
different from hate and scorn. She will simply find that she has been
under a glamour about you, and will think of you with nothing but
perfect indifference--and a feeling of wonder at her own infatuation."
Jack looked vexed.
"To a woman who don't know you, Jack, my boy--you become idealized, and
heroic; but to one who does, you are nothing of the kind. So very
impressible a fellow as you are, cannot inspire a very deep passion.
When a woman finds the fellow she admires falling in love right and
left, she soon gets over her fancy. If it were some one other woman
that had robbed her of your affection, she would be jealous; but when
she knows that all others are equally charming, she will become utterly
indifferent."
"See here, old boy, don't get to be so infernally oracular. What the
mischief does a fellow like you know about that sort of thing? I
consider your remarks as a personal insult, and, if I didn't feel so
confoundedly cut up, I'd resent it. But as it is, I only feel bored,
and, on the whole, I should wish it to be with Marion as you say it's
going to be. If I could think it would be so, I'd be a deuced sight
easier in my mind about her. If it weren't for my own abominable
conduct, I'd feel glad that this sort of thing had been stopped--only I
don't like to think of Marion being disappointed, you know--or hurt
--and that sort of thing, you know. The fact is, I have no business to
get married just now--no--not even to the angel Gabriel--and this would
have been so precious hard on poor little Louie."
"Louie--why," said I, "you speak confidently about her."
"Oh, never fear about her," said Jack. "She's able, to take care of
herself. She does nothing but laugh at me--no end."
"Nothing new, then, in that quarter?" I asked, feeling desirous now of
turning away from the subject of Marion, which was undergoing the same
treatment from Jack which a fine and delicate watch would receive at
the hands of a big baby. "No fresh, proposals?"
"No," said Jack, dolefully, "nothing but chaff."
"And Miss Phillips?"
"Affairs in that quarter are in _statu quo_," said Jack. "She's chosen
to not-at-home me, and how it's going to turn out is more than I can
tell. But I'll be even with her yet. I'll pay her off!"
"Perhaps you won't find it so easy as you imagine."
"Won't I?" said Jack, mysteriously; "you'll see."
"Perhaps she's organizing a plan to pay _you_ off."
"That's more than she can do."
"By-the-way--what about the widow?"
"Well," said Jack, seriously, "whatever danger is impending over me,
maybe looked for chiefly in that quarter."
"Have you seen her lately?"
"No--not since the evening I took the chaplain there."
"You must have heard something."
"Yes," said Jack, moodily.
"What?"
"Well, I heard from Louie, who keeps well up in my affairs, you know.
She had gathered something about the widow."
"Such as what?"
"Well, you know--she wouldn't tell."
"Wouldn't tell?"
"No--wouldn't tell--chaffed me--no end, but wouldn't go into
particulars."
"But could you find out whether it affected you or not?"
"Oh, of course, I took that for granted. That was the point of the
whole joke, you know. Louie's chaff consisted altogether of allusions
to some mysterious plan, of the widow's, by which she would have full,
ample, perfect, complete, and entire vengeance on me."
"That's bad."
"It is."
"A widow's a dangerous thing."
"Too true, my boy," said Jack, with a sigh; "nobody knows that better
than I do."
"I wonder you don't try to disarm her."
"Disarm her?"
"Yes--why don't you call on her?"
"Well, confound it, I did call only a day or two ago, you know. The
last two or three days I've been engaged."
"Yes, but such an engagement will only make the widow more furious."
"But, confound it, man, it's been simply impossible to do any thing
else than what I have been doing."
"I'll tell you what it is, Jack," said I, solemnly, "the widow's your
chief danger. She'll ruin you. There's only one thing for you to do,
and that is what I've already advised you to do, and Louie, too, for
that matter. You must fly."
"Oh, bosh!--how can I?"
"Leave of absence--sell out--any thing."
Jack shook his head, and gave a heavy sigh.