FROM APRIL TO JUNE.--TEMPORA MUTANTUR, ET NOS MUTAMUR IN ILLIS.
--STARTLING CHANGE IN MARION!--AND WHY?--JACK AND HIS WOES.--THE
VENGEANCE OF MISS PHILLIPS.--LADIES WHO REFUSE TO ALLOW THEIR HEARTS TO
BE BROKEN.--NOBLE ATTITUDE OF THE WIDOW.--CONSOLATIONS OF LOUIE.
Time passed on, and week succeeded to week, without any occurrence of a
decisive nature. April died out, May passed, and June came. Then all
the trees burst into leaf, and the fields arrayed themselves in green,
and all Nature gave one grand leap from winter into summer.
During all this time I was a constant and a favored guest at
O'Halloran's. I really don't think I ever went anywhere else. I cut off
all visits to others--that is, in the evening--and went there only.
O'Halloran always received me with the same cordiality, and the ladies
always met me with the same smile.
So many evenings in that comfortable parlor, so many chats with the
ladies, so many interviews with my host, could not fail to bring us
nearer together. Such was, indeed, the case with O'Halloran and Nora;
but with Marion it was different. There was, indeed, between us the
consciousness of a common secret, and she could not fail to see in my
manner something warmer than common--something more tender than
friendship, for instance--something, in fact, which, without being at
all spooney, was still expressive of very delicate regard. Yet there
came over her something which excited my fears, and filled me with
gloomy forebodings. She seemed to lose that cordiality which she
evinced on that first evening when I talked with her alone. She never
threw at me those deep glances which then had made my nerves tingle.
She seemed constrained and reserved. Only in speaking to me, there was
always in her voice an indefinable sweetness and gentleness, which made
her tones ring in my memory afterward like soft music. That showed me
that there was no coldness on her part; and so, too, when I did catch
at times the glance of her dark eyes, there was something in them so
timid, so soft, and so shy, that I could not think of her as wearying
of me. Yet this Marion, timid, tender, and shy; this Marion, holding
aloof under evident constraint, keeping apart, giving me no
opportunity; this Marion, who had now exchanged the intensity and the
solemnity of former days for something so very different--became a
puzzle to me.
Why had she changed? Was it her returning regard for Jack? Impossible.
His name had several times been mentioned without causing any emotion
in her. His approaching marriage with Mrs. Finnimore had once been
mentioned by Nora, who spoke of it as an interesting item of news.
Marion heard it with indifference. Or was she trying to withdraw from
any further intimacy with me? Was she suspicious of my intentions, and
desirous of giving me no hope? Was she trying to repel me at the
outset? It seemed so. And so a great fear gradually arose in my heart.
So went the time away, and toward the latter part of May and the
beginning of June I used to take the ladies out driving, hoping that
these new circumstances might elicit some show of cordiality in Marion.
But this proved a complete failure; for, the closer we were thrown
together, the greater seemed her shy reticence, her timid reserve, and
her soft and gentle yet persistent manner of keeping me at a distance.
And so, here was I. I had found my Lady of the Ice; yet no sooner had I
found her than she withdrew herself to an inaccessible height, and
seemed now as far out of my reach as on that eventful morning when I
sought her at the hut at Montmorency, and found that she had fled.
Spending so much time as I did at O'Halloran's, I did not see so much
of Jack as before; yet he used to drop in from time to time in the
morning, and pour forth the sorrows of his soul.
Marion's name he never mentioned. Either he had forgotten all about
her, which was not improbable; or the subject was too painful a one for
him to touch upon, which also was not improbable; or, finally, her
affair became overshadowed by other and weightier matters, which was in
the highest degree natural.
His first great trouble arose from the action of Miss Phillips.
He had gone there a second time to call, and had again been told that
she was not at home. He turned away vowing vengeance, but in the
following morning found that vengeance was out of the question; for he
received a parcel, containing all the letters which he had ever written
to Miss Phillips, and all the presents that he had ever given her, with
a polite note, requesting the return of her letters. This was a blow
that he was not prepared for. It struck home. However, there was no
help for it--so he returned her letters, and then came to me with all
kinds of vague threats.
Such threats, however, could not be carried out; and as for Miss
Phillips, she was quite beyond the reach of them. She accepted the
situation wonderfully well. She did more--she triumphed over it. In a
short time she had others at her feet, prominent among whom was Colonel
Blount--a dashing officer, a Victoria Cross, and a noble fellow in
every respect. Thus Miss Phillips revenged herself on Jack. She tossed
him aside coolly and contemptuously, and replaced him with a man whom
Jack himself felt to be his superior. And all this was gall and
wormwood to Jack. And, what was more, he was devoured with jealousy.
The worst thing about it all, however, was the crushing blow which it
gave to his self-love. I am inclined to think that he was very much
taken down, on one occasion, when I informed him incidentally that
Marion was in excellent spirits, and was said to be in better health
than she had known for years. Miss Phillips's policy, however, was a
severer blow. For it had all along been his firm belief that his
tangled love-affairs could not end without a broken heart, or
melancholy madness, or life-long sorrow, or even death, to one or more
of his victims. To save them from such a fate, he talked of suicide.
All this was highly romantic, fearfully melodramatic, and even
mysteriously tragic. But, unfortunately for Jack's self-conceit, the
event did not coincide with these highly-colored views. The ladies
refused to break their hearts. Those organs, however susceptible and
tender they may have been, beat bravely on. Number Three viewed him
with indifference. Miss Phillips coolly and contemptuously cast him
off, and at once found new consolation in the devotion of another.
Broken hearts! Melancholy madness! Life-long sorrow! Not they, indeed.
They didn't think of him. They didn't confide their wrongs to any
avenger. No brother or other male relative sent Jack a challenge. He
was simply dropped. He was forgotten. Now any one may see the chagrin
which such humiliation must have caused to one of Jack's temper.
And how did the widow treat Jack all this time? The widow! She was
sublime; for she showed at once the fostering care of a mother, and
the forgiveness of a saint. Forgiveness? That's not the word. I am
wrong. She showed nothing of the kind. On the contrary, she evinced no
consciousness whatever that any offence had been committed. If Jack had
deceived her as to Miss Phillips, she showed no knowledge of such
deceit; if he had formed other entanglements of which he had never told
her, she never let him know whether she had found out or not; if Jack
went every evening to console himself with Louie, any discovery which
the widow may have made of so very interesting yet transparent a fact
was never alluded to by her. Such was the lofty ground which the widow
took in reference to Jack and his affairs, and such was the manner with
which she viewed him and them--a manner elevated, serene, calm,
untroubled--a manner always the same. For she seemed above all care for
such things. Too high-minded, you know. Too lofty in soul, my boy, and
all that sort of thing. Like some tall cliff that rears its awful form,
swells from the vale, and midway cleaves the storm, and all the rest of
it. Such was the demeanor of the widow Finnimore.
She was so kind and cordial that Jack had not a word to say. After a
few days of absence, during which he had not dared to call on her, he
had ventured back, and was greeted with the gentlest of reproaches for
his neglect, and was treated with an elaboration of kindness that was
positively crushing. So he had to go, and to keep going. She would not
suffer a single cloud to arise between them. An unvarying sweetness
diffused itself evermore over her very pretty face, and through all the
tones of her very musical voice. And so Jack was held fast, bound by
invisible yet infrangible bonds, and his soul was kept in complete
subjection by the superior ascendency of the widow.
So he went to see her every day. About six, generally dined there.
Always left at eight, or just as dinner was over. Not much time for
tenderness, of course. Jack didn't feel particularly inclined for that
sort of thing. The widow, on the other hand, did not lay any stress on
that, nor did she allow herself to suspect that Jack was altogether too
cold for a lover. Not she. Beaming, my boy. All smiles, you know.
Always the same. Glad to see him when he came--a pleasant smile of
adieu at parting. In fact, altogether a model _fiancée_, such as is not
often met with in this vale of tears.
Now always, after leaving this good, kind, smiling, cordial, pretty,
clever, fascinating, serene, accomplished, hospitable, and altogether
unparalleled widow, Jack would calmly, quietly, and deliberately go
over to the Bertons', and stay there as long as he could. What for? Was
he not merely heaping up sorrow for himself in continuing so ardently
this Platonic attachment? For Louie there was no danger. According to
Jack, she still kept up her teasing, quizzing, and laughing mood.
Jack's break-up with Miss Phillips was a joke, he had confided to her
that he had also broken off with Number Three; and, though she could
not find out the cause, this became another joke. Finally, his present
attitude with regard to the widow was viewed by her as the best joke of
all. She assured him that the widow was to be his fate, and that she
had driven the others from the field, so as to have him exclusively to
herself.
And thus Jack alternated and vibrated between the widow and Louie, and
all his entanglements were now reduced to these two.
Such is a full, frank, fair, free, ample, lucid, and luminous
explanation of the progress of affairs, which explanation was necessary
in order to make the reader fully understand the full meaning of what
follows.