HOME AGAIN.--THE GROWLS OF A CONFIRMED GROWLER.--HOSPITALITY.--THE
WELL-KNOWN ROOM.--VISION OF A LADY.--ALONE WITH MARION.--INTERCHANGE OF
THOUGHT AND SENTIMENT.--TWO BEAUTIFUL WOMEN.--AN EVENING TO BE
REMEMBERED.--THE CONVIVIALITY OF O'HALLORAN.--THE HUMORS OF
O'HALLORAN, AND HIS BACCHIC JOY.
We all hurried away from the ground as rapidly as possible, and soon
reached the _Hôtel de France_. It was small, stuffy, and rather close,
but, to people in our half-frozen condition, the big Canadian stove was
a blessing beyond words. O'Halloran seemed like an _habitué_ of the
place, judging by the way he button-holed the landlord, and by the
success with which he obtained "somethin' warrum" for the company. But
the _Hôtel de France_ was not a place where one might linger; and so,
after waiting long enough to allow the heat of the Canadian stove to
penetrate us, aided by the blended power of "somethin' warrum"
--and long enough also to give oats to the horses, which, after all,
must have had the worst of it--poor devils!--we started and dragged on
to the town.
All this time O'Halloran did not appear to have recognized Jack at all.
On the drive out this might have been accounted for, but, in the _Hôtel
de France_, O'Halloran had a full and perfect inspection of him. If he
did recognize him, it certainly did not appear in his manner. He
exchanged words with Jack in a tone of hilarious cordiality, which did
not seem as though he considered Jack an enemy; and Jack, who never
failed to respond when greeted in such a way, met him more than
halfway. It was evident that O'Halloran had not the smallest idea that
Jack was that identical British officer whom he had expelled from his
house.
Of all the party the doctor seemed to have suffered most; and, on the
journey back, he kept up one prolonged growl at me. I was fated, he
said, to bring him bad luck, and I would be the death of him. Once
before he had ridden all night in the storm for me; and now here was
another fool's errand. He seemed inclined to consider it as a personal
insult, and actually felt aggrieved because O'Halloran's bullet had not
shattered my arm, or penetrated my brain. Thus he alternated between
shivering and swearing all the way back.
"I tell you what it is, Macrorie," he growled, "if you ever come to ask
my help again on any occasion whatever, I'll take it as a personal
insult. I wouldn't have come this time, but I thought it was to be an
affair of honor. An affair of honor! Rot and nonsense! Dragging a
fellow over the country all day to see a couple of pistols fired in the
air! What sort of a thing do you call that? And here am I--in for it
--yes--damn it, man!--I say again--in for it--to any extent--rheumatism,
neuralgia, gout, inflammation, and fifty other things! If I
thought you'd have any of them, I'd feel satisfied. But no--you're all
right, and can afford to sit there grinning at the sufferings of a
better man than yourself."
From which it will appear that the doctor was savage, and I was not.
On reaching Quebec, O'Halloran gave us all a comprehensive invitation
to dinner.
But the doctor could not accept it. He had taken cold, and would have
to go home. Jack could not accept it. He had a very pressing
engagement. Mr. McGinty could not accept it, for he had some important
business. So O'Halloran pressed me. I alone was disengaged. I had no
rheumatism, no pressing engagement, no important business. O'Halloran
was urgent in his invitation. Our duel seemed only to have heightened
and broadened his cordiality. I was dying to see Marion--or to find out
how she was--so what did I do? Why, I leaped at the invitation, as a
matter of course.
So once more I was ushered into that comfortable and hospitable
back-parlor. Since I had been there last, what events had occurred!
O'Halloran left me for a time, and I was alone. I sat down, and thought
of that night when I had wandered forth. I thought of all the wild
fancies that had filled my brain, as I wandered about amid the storm,
listening to the howl of the wind, and the deep, sullen moan of the
river. I recalled that strange, weird superstition, which had drawn me
back once more to the house--and the deep longing and craving which had
filled my heart for one glimpse, however faint, of my Lady of the Ice.
I thought of my return--of my earnest gaze around, of the deep toll of
the midnight bell, and of the sudden revelation of that dim, shadowy
figure of a veiled lady, that stood in faint outline by the house,
which advanced to meet me as I hurried over to her.
It was quite dark. There were no lamps lighted, but the coal-fire
flickered and threw a ruddy glow about the apartment; at times leaping
up into brightness, and again dying down into dimness and obscurity.
O'Halloran had gone up-stairs, leaving me thus alone, and I sat in the
deep arm-chair with my mind full of these all-absorbing fancies; and,
in the midst of these fancies, even while I was thinking of that veiled
figure which I had seen under the shadow of the house--even thus--I
became aware of a light footfall, and a rustling dress beside me.
I turned my head with a quick movement of surprise.
There was the figure of a lady--graceful, slender, formed in a mould of
perfect elegance and loveliness, the dark drapery of her dress
descending till it died away among the shadows on the floor. I stared
for a moment in surprise. Then the light of the fire, which had
subsided for a moment, leaped up, and flashed out upon the exquisite
features, and the dark, lustrous, solemn eyes of Marion.
I sprang to my feet, with my heart beating so fast that it seemed
impossible to breathe. The surprise was overwhelming. I had thought of
her as raving in brain-fever, descending deep down into the abyss of
delirium, and now--here she was--here--by my side!--my Lady of the
Ice!--Marion!
"I heard that you were here," she said, in a low, tremulous voice, "and
I could not help coming down to tell you how I--how I bless you for
--for that night."
She stopped--and held out her hand in silence.
I seized it in both of mine. For a few moments I could not speak. At
last I burst forth:
"Oh, my God! What bliss it is for me to see you!--I've been thinking
about it ever since--I've been afraid that you were ill--that you would
never get over it."
And still holding her hand in mine, I raised it with tremulous
eagerness, and pressed it to my lips.
She gently withdrew it, but without any appearance of anger.
"No," said she, "I was not ill. A wakeful night, a very feverish
excitement--that was all."
"I listened long after you left," said I, in a low voice; "and all was
still."
"Yes," she said, in the same low voice. "No one heard me. I reached my
room without any one knowing it. But I had much to sustain me. For oh,
sir, I felt deeply, deeply grateful to find myself back again, and to
know that my folly had ended so. To be again in my dear home--with my
dear papa--after the anguish that I had known!"
She stopped.--It was a subject that she could not speak of without an
emotion that was visible in every tone. Her voice was sad, and low, and
solemn, and all its intonations thrilled to the very core of my being.
And for me--I had nothing to say--I thrilled, my heart bounded at the
sight of her face, and at the tones of her voice; while within me there
was a great and unspeakable joy. If I had dared to say to her all that
I felt at that moment! But how dare I? She had come in the fulness of
her warm gratitude to thank me for what I had done. She did not seem to
think that, but for me, she would not have left her home at all. She
only remembered that I had brought her back. It was thus that her
generous nature revealed itself.
Now, while she thus expressed such deep and fervent gratitude, and
evinced such joy at being again in her home, and at finding such an
ending to her folly, there came to me a great and unequalled
exultation. For by this I understood that her folly was cured--that her
infatuation was over--that the glamour had been dissipated--that her
eyes had been opened--and the once--adored Jack was now an object of
indifference.
"Have you told any one about it?" I asked.
"No," said she, "not a soul."
"_He_ is my most intimate friend," said I, "but I have kept this secret
from him. He knows nothing about it."
"Of course he does not," said she, "how was it possible for you to tell
him? This is our secret."
I cannot tell the soft, sweet, and soothing consolation which
penetrated my inmost soul at these words. Though few, they had a world
of meaning. I noticed with delight the cool indifference with which she
spoke of _him_. Had she expressed contempt, I should not have been so well
pleased. Perfect indifference was what I wanted, and what I
found. Then, again, she acknowledged me as the only partner in her
secret, thus associating me with herself in one memorable and
impressive way. Nor yet did she ask any questions as to whom I meant.
Her indifference to him was so great that it did not even excite
curiosity as to how I had found out who he was. She was content to take
my own statement without any questions or observations.
And there, as the flickering light of the coal-fire sprang up and died
out; as it threw from time to time the ruddy glow of its uprising
flames upon her, she stood before me--a vision of perfect loveliness
--like a goddess to the devotee, which appears for an instant amid the
glow of some mysterious light, only to fade out of sight a moment
after. The rare and perfect grace of her slender figure, with its dark
drapery, fading into the gloom below--the fair outline of her face--her
sad, earnest, and melancholy expression; the intense and solemn
earnestness of her dark, lustrous eyes--all these conspired to form a
vision such as impressed itself upon my memory forever. This was the
full realization of my eager fancy--this was what I had so longed to
see. I had formed my own ideal of my Lady of the Ice--in private life
--in the parlor--meeting me in the world of society. And here before me
that ideal stood.
Now, it gives a very singular sensation to a fellow to stand face to
face with the woman whom he worships and adores, and to whom he dares
not make known the feelings that swell within him; and still more
singular is this sensation, when this woman, whom he adores, happens to
be one whom he has carried in his arms for an indefinite time; and more
singular yet is it, when she happens to be one whom he has saved once,
and once again, from the most cruel fate; by whose side he has stood
in, what may have seemed the supreme moment of mortal life; whom he has
sustained and cheered and strengthened in a dread conflict with Death
himself; singular enough is the sensation that arises under such
circumstances as these, my boy--singular, and overwhelming, and
intolerable; a sensation which paralyzes the tongue and makes one
mute, yet still brings on a resistless and invincible desire to speak
and make all known; and should such a scene be too long continued, the
probability is that the desire and the longing thus to speak will
eventually burst through all restraint, and pour forth in a volume of
fierce, passionate eloquence, that will rush onward, careless of
consequences. Now, such was my situation, and such was my sensation,
and such, no doubt, would have been the end of it all, had not the
scene been brought to an end by the arrival of O'Halloran and his wife,
preceded by a servant with lights, who soon put the room in a state of
illumination.
Nora, as I must still call her, was somewhat embarrassed at first
meeting me--for she could not forget our last interview; but she
gradually got over it, and, as the evening wore on, she became her old,
lively, laughing, original self. O'Halloran, too, was in his best and
moat genial mood, and, as I caught at times the solemn glance of the
dark eye's of Marion, I found not a cloud upon the sky that overhung
our festivities. Marion, too, had more to say than usual. She was no
longer so self-absorbed, and so abstracted, as she once was. She was
not playful and lively like Nora; but she was, at least, not sad; she
showed an interest in all that was going on, and no longer dwelt apart
like a star.
It was evident that Nora knew nothing at all about the duel. That was a
secret between O'Halloran and me. It was also evident that she knew
nothing about Marion's adventure--that was a secret between Marion and
me. There was another secret, also, which puzzled me, and of which
O'Halloran must, of course, have known as little as I did, and this was
that strange act of Nora's in pretending to be the Lady of the Ice.
Why had she done it? For what possible reason? Why had Marion allowed
her to do it? All this was a mystery. I also wondered much whether she
thought that I still believed in that pretence of hers. I thought she
did, and attributed to this that embarrassment which she showed when
she first greeted me. On this, as on the former occasion, her
embarrassment had, no doubt, arisen from the fact that she was playing
a part, and the consciousness that such a part was altogether out of
her power to maintain. Yet, why had she done it?
That evening I had a better opportunity to compare these two most
beautiful women; for beautiful each most certainly was, though in a
different way from the other. I had already felt on a former occasion
the bewitching effect of Nora's manner, and I had also felt to a
peculiar and memorable extent that spell which had been cast upon me by
Marion's glance. Now I could understand the difference between them and
my own feelings. For in witchery, in liveliness, in musical laughter,
in never-failing merriment, Nora far surpassed all with whom I had ever
met; and for all these reasons she had in her a rare power of
fascination. But Marion was solemn, earnest, intense; and there was
that on her face which sent my blood surging back to my heart, as I
caught her glance. Nora was a woman to laugh and chat with; Nora was
kind and gracious, and gentle too; Nora was amiable as well as witty;
charming in manner, piquant in expression, inimitable at an anecdote,
with never-failing resources, a first-rate lady-conversationist, if I
may use so formidable a word--in fact, a thoroughly fascinating woman;
but Marion!--Marion was one, not to laugh with, but to die for; Marion
had a face that haunted you; a glance that made your heart leap, and
your nerves tingle; a voice whose deep intonations vibrated through all
your being with a certain mystic meaning, to follow you after you had
left her, and come up again in your thoughts by day, and your dreams by
night--Marion! why Nora could be surveyed calmly, and all her
fascinating power analyzed; but Marion was a power in herself, who
bewildered you and defied analysis.
During that time when Nora had been confounded in my mind with the Lady
of the Ice, she had indeed risen to the chief place in my thoughts,
though my mind still failed to identify her thoroughly. I had thought
that I loved her, but I had not. It was the Lady of the Ice whom I
loved; and, when Marion had revealed herself, then all was plain. After
that revelation Nora sank into nothingness, and Marion was all in all.
Oh, that evening, in that pleasant parlor! Shall I ever forget it!
Our talk was on all things. Of course, I made no allusion to my journey
over the ice, and Nora soon saw that she was free from any such
unpleasant and embarrassing remarks. Freed from this fear, she became
herself again. Never was she more vivacious, more sparkling, or more
charming. O'Halloran joined the conversation in a manner that showed
the rarest resources of wit, of fun, and of genial humor. Marion, as I
said before, did not hold aloof, but took a part which was subordinate,
it is true, yet, to me, far more effective; indeed, incomparably more
so than that of the others. Indeed, I remember now nothing else but
Marion.
So the evening passed, and at length the ladies retired. Nora bade me
adieu--with her usual cordiality, and her kindly and bewitching glance;
while Marion's eyes threw upon me their lustrous glow, in which there
was revealed a certain deep and solemn earnestness, that only
intensified, if such a thing were possible, the spell which she had
thrown over my soul.
And then it was "somethin' warrum." Under the effects of this, my host
passed through several distinct and well-defined moods or phases.
First of all, he was excessively friendly and affectionate. He alluded
to our late adventure, and expressed himself delighted with the result.
Then he became confidential, and explained how it was that he, an old
man, happened to have a young wife.
Fifteen years ago, he said, Nora had been left under his care by her
father. She had lived in England all her life, where she had been
educated. Shortly after he had become her guardian he had been
compelled to fly to America, on account of his connection with the
Young-Ireland party, of which he was a prominent member. He had been
one of the most vigorous writers in one of the Dublin papers, which was
most hostile to British rule, and was therefore a marked man. As he did
not care about imprisonment or a voyage to Botany Bay, he had come to
America, bringing with him his ward Nora, and his little daughter
Marion, then a child of not more than three or four. By this act he had
saved himself and his property, which was amply sufficient for his
support. A few years passed away, and he found his feelings toward Nora
somewhat different from those of a parent--and he also observed that Nora
looked upon him with tenderer feelings than those of gratitude.
"There's a great difference intoirely," said he, "between us now. I've
lost my youth, but she's kept hers. But thin, at that toime, me boy,
Phaylim O'Halloran was a moightily different man from the one you see
before you. I was not much over forty--in me proime--feeling as young
as any of thim, an' it wasn't an onnatural thing that I should win the
love of ayven a young gyerrul, so it wasn't. An' so she became me
woife--my Nora--me darlin'--the loight of me loife. And she's
accompanied me iver since on all my wandherin's and phelandherin's, and
has made the home of the poor ixoile a paradoise, so she has."
All this was very confidential, and such a confidence would probably
never have been given, had it not been for the effects of "somethin'
warrum;" but it showed me several things in the plainest manner. The
first was, that Nora must be over thirty, at any rate, and was
therefore very much older than I had taken her to be. Again, her
English accent and style could be accounted for; and finally the
equally English accent and style of Marion could be understood and
accounted for on the grounds of Nora's influence. For a child always
catches the accent of its mother rather than of its father, and Nora
must, for nearly fifteen years, have been a sort of mother, more or
less, to Marion.
And now, why the mischief did Nora pretend to be my Lady of the Ice,
and in the very presence of Marion try to maintain a part which she
could not carry out? And why, if she were such a loving and faithful
wife, did she deliberately deceive the confiding O'Halloran, and make
him believe that she was the one whom I had saved? It was certainly not
from any want of love for him. It must have been some scheme of hers
which she had formed in connection with Marion. But what in the world
could such a scheme have been, and why in the world had she formed it?
This was the puzzling question that arose afresh, as O'Halloran
detailed to me very confidentially the history of this romantic
experience in his life.
But this was only one of his moods, and this mood passed away. The
romantic and the confidential was succeeded by the literary and the
scholastic, with a dash of the humorous.
A trivial remark of mine, in the course of some literary criticisms of
his, turned his thoughts to the subject of puns. He at once plunged
into the history of puns. He quoted Aristophanes, Plautus, Terence,
Cicero. He brought forward illustrations from Shakespeare, Ben Jonson,
Milton, Puritan, writers, Congreve, Cowper, and others, until he
concluded with Hood, who he declared had first unfolded to the human
mind the possibility of the pun.
From this he passed off lightly and easily into other things, and
finally glided into the subject of mediaeval Latin. This, he asserted,
was born and nourished under peculiar circumstances, so different from
classical Latin, as to be almost a new language, yet fully equal to it
in all the best characteristics of a language. He defied me to find any
thing in classical poetry that would compare with the "Dies Irae," the
"Stabat Mater," or the "Rhythm of Bernard de Morlaix." As I was and am
rather rusty in Latin, I did not accept the challenge. Then he asserted
that mediaeval Latin was so comprehensive in its scope that it was
equally good for the convivial and for the solemn, and could speak
equally well the sentiments of fun, love, and religion. He proved this
by quotations from the immortal Walter Mapes. He overwhelmed me, in
fact, with quotations. I caved in. I was suppressed. I became extinct.
Finally he offered to show me an original song of his own, which he
asserted was "iminintly shooted to the prisint occasion."
As I had no other way of showing my opinion of it, I begged the paper
from him, and give here a true copy of it, verbatim et literatim, notes
and all:
PHELIMII HALLORANII CARMEN.
Omnibus Hibernicis
Semper est ex more
Vino curas pellere
Aut montano rore;*
Is qui nescit bibere,
Aut est cito satur,
Ille, Pol! me judice
Parvus est potator.*
Omnibus Americis
Semper est in ore
Tuba, frondes habens ex
Nicotino flore;
Densis fumi nubibus
Et vivunt et movent,
Hoc est summum gaudium
Sic Te Bacche! foyent.*
Omnis tune Hibernicus
Migret sine mora,
Veniat Americam
Vivat hac in ora,
Nostram Baccam capiat,*
Et montanum rorem,
Erit Pol! Americus*
In saecula saeculorum.
Amen.
[Footnotes:
*_Montano rore_--cf., id. Hib., _mountain-dew_; item, id. Scot., Hib.,
et Amer., _whiskey_.
*_Parvus potator_--cf., id. Amer., _small potater_.
*_Te Bacce_--cf., id. Amer., _Tebaccy_, i.e., _Tobacco_.
*_Baccam_--in America vulgo dici solet, _Backy_.
*_Americus_--cf., id. Amer., _a merry cuss_.]