A FRIEND'S APOLOGY FOR A FRIEND.--JACK DOWN AT THE BOTTOM OF DEEP ABYSS
OF WOE.--HIS DESPAIR.--THE HOUR AND THE MAN!--WHERE IS THE WOMAN!--A
SACRED SPOT.--OLD FLETCHER.--THE TOLL OF THE BELL.--MEDITATIONS ON EACH
SUCCESSIVE STROKE.--A WILD SEARCH.--THE PRETTY SERVANT-MAID, AND HER
PRETTY STORY.--THROWING GOLD ABOUT.
Jack's strange revelation excited my deepest sympathy, but I did not
see how it was possible for him to get rid of his difficulty. One way
was certainly possible. He could easily get leave of absence and go
home, for the sake of attending to his estates. Once in England, he
could sell out, and retire from the army altogether, or exchange into
another regiment. This was certainly possible physically; but to Jack
it was morally impossible.
Now, Jack has appeared in this story in very awkward circumstances,
engaging himself right and left to every young lady that he fancied,
with a fatal thoughtlessness, that cannot be too strongly reprehended.
Such very diffusive affection might argue a lack of principle. Yet,
after all, Jack was a man with a high sense of honor. The only
difficulty was this, that he was too susceptible. All susceptible men
can easily understand such a character. I'm an awfully susceptible man
myself, as I have already had the honor of announcing, and am,
moreover, a man of honor--consequently I feel strongly for Jack, and
always did feel strongly for him.
Given, then, a man of very great susceptibility, and a very high sense
of honor, and what would he do?
Why, in the first place, as a matter of course, his too susceptible
heart would involve him in many tendernesses; and, if he was as
reckless and thoughtless as Jack, he would be drawn into inconvenient
entanglements; and, perhaps, like Jack, before he knew what he was
about, he might find himself engaged to three different ladies, and in
love with a fourth.
In the second place, his high sense of honor would make him eager to do
his duty by them all. Of course, this would be impossible. Yet Jack had
done his best. He had offered immediate marriage to Miss Phillips, and
had proposed an elopement to Number Three. This shows that his impulses
led him to blind acts which tended in a vague way to do justice to the
particular lady who happened for the time being to be in his mind.
And so Jack had gone blundering on until at last he found himself at
the mercy of the widow. The others had given him up in scorn. She would
not give him up. He was bound fast. He felt the bond. In the midst of
this his susceptibility drove him on further, and, instead of trying to
get out of his difficulties, he had madly thrust himself further into
them.
And there he was--doomed--looking forward to the fateful Tuesday.
He felt the full terror of his doom, but did not think of trying to
evade it. He was bound. His word was given. He considered it
irrevocable. Flight? He thought no more of that than he thought of
committing a murder. He would actually have given all that he had, and
more too, for the sake of getting rid of the widow; but he would not be
what he considered a sneak, even for that.
There was, therefore, no help for it. He was doomed. Tuesday! June
20th! St. Malachi's! Old Fletcher! Launched into matrimony! Hence his
despair.
During the intervening days I did not see him. I did not visit him, and
he did not come near me. Much as I sympathized with him in his woes, I
knew that I could do nothing and say nothing. Besides, I had my own
troubles. Every time I went to O'Halloran's, Marion's shyness, and
reserve, and timidity, grew more marked. Every time that I came home, I
kept bothering myself as to the possible cause of all this, and
tormented myself as to the reason of such a change in her.
One day I called at the Bertons'. I didn't see Louie. I asked after
her, and they told me she was not well. I hoped it was nothing serious,
and felt relieved at learning that it was nothing but a "slight cold."
I understood that. Poor Louie! Poor Jack! Would that "slight cold" grow
worse, or would she get over it in time? She did not seem to be of a
morbid, moping nature. There was every reason to hope that such a one
as she was would surmount it. And yet it was hard to say. It is often
these very natures--buoyant, robust, healthy, straightforward--which
feel the most. They are not impressible. They are not touched by every
new emotion. And so it sometimes happens that, when they do feel, the
feeling lasts forever.
Tuesday, at last, came--the 20th--the fated day!
At about eleven o'clock I entered Jack's room, prepared to act my part
and stand by his side in that supreme moment of fate.
Jack was lying on the sofa, as I came in. He rose and pressed my hand
in silence. I said nothing, but took my seat in an easy-chair. Jack was
arrayed for the ceremony in all respects, except his coat, instead of
which garment he wore a dressing-gown. He was smoking vigorously. His
face was very pale, and, from time to time, a heavy sigh escaped him.
I was very forcibly struck by the strong resemblance which there was
between Jack, on the present occasion, and a condemned prisoner before
his execution. So strong was this, that, somehow, as I sat there in
silence, a vague idea came into my head that Jack was actually going to
be hanged; and, before I knew where my thoughts were leading me, I
began to think, in a misty way, of the propriety of calling in a
clergyman to administer ghostly consolation to the poor condemned in
his last moments. It was only with an effort that I was able to get rid
of this idea, and come back from this foolish, yet not unnatural fancy,
to the reality of the present situation. There was every reason,
indeed, for such a momentary misconception. The sadness, the silence,
the gloom, all suggested some prison cell; and Jack, prostrate,
stricken, miserable, mute, and despairing, could not fail to suggest
the doomed victim.
After a time Jack rose, and, going to the sideboard, offered me
something to drink. I declined. Whereupon he poured out a tumblerful of
raw brandy and hastily swallowed it. As he had done that very same
thing before, I began to think that he was going a little too far.
"See here, old boy," said I, "arn't you a little reckless? That sort of
thing isn't exactly the best kind of preparation for the event--is it?"
"What?--this?" said Jack, holding up the empty tumbler, with a gloomy
glance toward me; "oh, its nothing. I've been drenching myself with
brandy this last week. It's the only thing I can do. The worst of it
is, it don't have much effect now. I have to drink too much of it
before I can bring myself into a proper state of calm."
"Calm!" said I, "calm! I tell you what it is, old chap, you'll find
it'll be any thing but calm. You'll have delirium tremens before the
week's out, at this rate."
"Delirium tremens?" said Jack, with a faint, cynical laugh. "No go, my
boy--too late. Not time now. If it had only come yesterday, I might
have had a reprieve. But it didn't come. And so I have only a
tremendous headache. I've less than an hour, and can't get it up in
that time. Let me have my swing, old man. I'd do as much for you."
And, saying this, he drank off a half tumbler more.
"There," said he, going back to the sofa. "That's better. I feel more
able to go through with it. It takes a good lot now, though, to get a
fellow's courage up."
After this, Jack again relapsed into silence, which I ventured to
interrupt with a few questions as to the nature of the coming ceremony.
Jack's answers were short, reluctant, and dragged from him piecemeal.
It was a thing which he had to face in a very short time, and any other
subject was preferable as a theme for conversation.
"Will there be much of a crowd?"
"Oh, no."
"You didn't invite any."
"Me? invite any? Good Lord! I should think not!"
"Perhaps she has?"
"Oh, no; she said she wouldn't."
"Well, I dare say the town, by this time, has got wind of it, and the
church'll be full."
"No, I think not," said Jack, with a sigh.
"Oh, I don't know; it's not a common affair."
"Well, she told me she had kept it a secret--and you and Louie are the
only ones I've told it to--so, unless you have told about it, no one
knows."
"I haven't told a soul."
"Then I don't see how anybody can know, unless old Fletcher has
proclaimed it."
"Not he; he wouldn't take the trouble."
"I don't care," said Jack, morosely, "how many are there, or how few.
Crowd or no crowd, it makes small difference to me, by Jove!"
"Look here, old fellow," said I, suddenly, after some further
conversation, "if you're going, you'd better start. It's a quarter to
twelve now."
Jack gave a groan and rose from his sofa. He went into his
dressing-room and soon returned, in his festive array, with a face of
despair that was singularly at variance with his costume. Before
starting, in spite of my remonstrances, he swallowed another draught of
brandy. I began to doubt whether he would be able to stand up at the
ceremony.
St. Malachi's was not far away, and a few minutes' drive brought us
there.
The church was quite empty. A few stragglers, unknown to us, had taken
seats in the front pews. Old Fletcher was in the chancel. We walked up
and shook hands with him. He greeted Jack with an affectionate
earnestness of congratulation, which, I was sorry to see, was not
properly responded to.
After a few words, we all sat down in the choir.
It wanted about five minutes of the time.
The widow was expected every moment.
Old Fletcher now subsided into dignified silence. I fidgeted about, and
looked at my watch every half-minute. As for Jack, he buried his face
in his hands and sat motionless.
Thus four minutes passed.
No signs of the widow.
One minute still remained.
The time was very long.
I took out my watch a half-dozen times, to hasten its progress. I shook
it impatiently to make it go faster. The great empty church looked cold
and lonely. The little group of spectators only added to the loneliness
of the scene. An occasional cough resounded harshly amid the universal
stillness. The sibilant sounds of whispers struck sharply and
unpleasantly upon the ear.
At last the minute passed.
I began to think my watch was wrong; but no--for suddenly, from the
great bell above, in the church-tower, there tolled out the first
stroke of the hour. And between each stroke there seemed o long, long
interval, in which the mind had leisure to turn over and over all the
peculiarities of this situation.
ONE! I counted.
[No widow. What's up? Did any one ever hear of a bride missing the
hour, or delaying in this way?]
TWO!
[What a humbug of a woman! She has cultivated procrastination all her
life, and this is the result]
THREE!
[Not yet. Perhaps she wants to make a sensation. She anticipates a
crowded church, and will make an entrance in state.]
FOUR!
[But no; she did not invite anybody, and had no reason to suppose that
any one would be here.]
FIVE!
[No, it could not be vanity; but, if not, what can be the possible
cause?]
SIX!
[Can it be timidity, bashfulness, and all that sort of thing? Bosh! The
widow Finnimore is not a blushing, timid maiden.]
SEVEN!
[Perhaps her watch is out of the way. But, then, on one's marriage-day,
would not one see, first of all, that one's watch was right?]
EIGHT!
[Perhaps something is the matter with her bridal array. The dress might
not have arrived in time. She may be waiting for her feathers.]
NINE!
[Not yet! Perhaps she is expecting Jack to go to her house and
accompany her here. It is very natural Jack may have agreed to do so,
and then forgotten all about it]
TEN!
[Perhaps there has been some misunderstanding about the hour, and the
widow is not expecting to come till two.]
ELEVEN!
[Perhaps she is ill. Sudden attack of vertigo, acute rheumatism, and
brain-fever, consequent upon the excitement of the occasion. The widow
prostrated! Jack saved!]
TWELVE!!!
The last toll of the bell rolled out slowly and solemnly, and its deep
tones came along the lofty church, and died away in long reverberations
down the aisles and along the galleries. Twelve! The hour had come, and
with the hour the man; but where was the woman?
Thus far Jack had been holding his face in his hands; but, as the last
tones of the bell died away, he raised himself and looked around with
some wildness in his face.
"By Jove!" said he.
"What?"
"The widow!"
"She's not here," said I.
"By Jove! Only think of it. A widow, and too late! By Jove! I can't
grapple with the idea, you know."
After this we relapsed into silence, and waited.
The people in the pews whispered more vigorously, and every little
while looked anxiously around to see if the bridal party was
approaching. Old Fletcher closed his eyes, folded his arms, and
appeared either buried in thought or in sleep--probably a little of
both. Jack sat stolidly with his legs crossed, and his hands hugging
his knee, looking straight before him at the opposite side of the
chancel, and apparently reading most diligently the Ten Commandments,
the Creed, and the Lord's Prayer, which were on the wall there. I was
in a general state of mild but ever-increasing surprise, and endeavored
to find some conceivable reason for such very curious procrastination.
So the time passed, and none of us said any thing, and the little
company of spectators grew fidgety, and Jack still stared, and I still
wondered.
At last old Fletcher turned to Jack.
"You said twelve, I think, sir," said he, mildly and benevolently.
"Twelve--did I? Well--of course; why not? Twelve, of course."
"The lady is rather behind the time, I think--isn't she?" said the
reverend gentleman, with mild suggestiveness.
"Behind the time?" said Jack, fumbling at his watch; "why, so she is;
why, it's twenty minutes to one. By Jove!"
"Perhaps you mistook the hour," hinted the clergyman.
"Mistook it? Not a bit of it," cried Jack, who looked puzzled and
bewildered. "The hour? I'm as confident it was twelve as I'm confident
of my existence. Not a bit of doubt about that."
"Perhaps something's happened," said I; "hadn't I better drive round to
the house, Jack?"
"Yes; not a bad idea," said Jack. "I'll go too. I can't stand it any
longer. I've read the ten commandments through seventy-nine times, and
was trying to work up to a hundred, when, you interrupted me. Do you
know, old chap--I feel out of sorts; that brandy's got to my head--I'd
like a little fresh air. Besides, I can't stand this waiting any
longer. If it's got to be--why, the sooner the better. Have it out--and
be done with it, I say. A fellow don't want to stand all day on the
scaffold waiting for the confounded hangman--does he?"
Jack spoke wildly, cynically, and desperately. Old Fletcher listened to
these words with a face so full of astonishment and horror, that it has
haunted me ever since. And so we turned away, and we left that stricken
old man looking after us in amazement and horror too deep for words.
Jack's spirits had flushed up for a moment into a fitful light; but the
next moment they sank again into gloom. We walked slowly down the
aisle, and, as we passed down, the spectators, seeing us go out, rose
from their seats with the evident conviction that the affair was
postponed, and the determination to follow. Jack's carriage was at the
door, and we drove off.
"Macrorie, my boy," said Jack.
"What?"
"You didn't bring your flask, I suppose," said Jack, gloomily.
"No," said I; "and it's well I didn't, for I think you've done enough
of that sort of thing to-day."
"To-day? This is the day of all days when I ought. How else can I keep
up? I must stupefy myself, that's all. You don't know, old boy, how
near I am to doing something desperate."
"Come, Jack, don't knock under that way. Confound it, I thought you had
more spirit."
"Why the deuce does she drive me mad with her delay?" cried Jack, a
few minutes after. "Why doesn't she come and be done with it? Am I to
spend the whole day waiting for her? By Jove, I've a great mind to go
home, and, if she wants me, she may come for me."
"Do," said I, eagerly. "She's missed the appointment; why should you
care?"
"Pooh! a fellow can't act in that sort of way. No. Have it out. I've
acted badly enough, in a general way, but I won't go deliberately and
do a mean thing. I dare say this sort of thing will wear off in the
long run. We'll go to England next week. We'll start for New York
to-night, and never come back. I intend to try to get into the 178th
regiment. It's out in Bombay, I believe. Yes. I've made up my mind to
that. It's the only thing to be done. Yes--it's the best thing--far the
best for both of us."
"Both of you!"
"Both, yes; of course."
"What, you and the widow?"
"The widow? Confound the widow! Who's talking of her?"
"I thought you were talking of her. You said you were going to take her
to England."
"The widow? No," cried Jack, peevishly; "I meant Louie, of course. Who
else could I mean? Louie. I said it would be far better for me and
Louie if I went to Bombay."
And with these words he flung himself impatiently back in the carriage
and scowled at vacancy.
And this was Jack. This was my broad-browed, frank-faced,
golden-haired, bright, smiling, incoherent, inconsistent,
inconsequential, light-hearted, hilarious Jack--the Jack who was once
the joy of every company, rollicking, reckless, and without a care. To
this complexion had he come at last. Oh, what a moral ruin was here, my
countrymen! Where now were his jests and gibes--his wit, that was wont
to set the table in a roar? Alas! poor Yorick! _Amour_! _amour_! _quand
tu nous tiens_, who can tell what the mischief will become of us! Once
it was "not wisely but too many"--now it was "not wisely but too well"
--and this was the end of it. O Louie! O Jack! Is there no such thing
as true Platonic love on earth?
But there was not much time for Jack to scowl or for me to meditate.
The widow did not live very far away, and a quarter of an hour was
enough to bring us there.
It was a handsome house. I knew it well. Jack knew it better. But it
looked dark now, and rather gloomy. The shutters were closed, and there
was no sign of life whatever.
Jack stared at the house for a moment, and then jumped out. I followed.
We hurried up the steps, and Jack gave a fierce pull at the bell,
followed by a second and a third.
At the third pull the door opened and disclosed a maid-servant.
"Mrs. Finnimore?" said Jack, as he stepped into the hall--and then
stopped.
The servant seemed surprised.
"Mrs. Finnimore?" said she.
"Yes," said Jack. "Is she here?"
"Here?"
"Yes."
"Why, sir--she's gone--"
"Gone!" cried Jack. "Gone! Impossible! Why we drove straight here from
St. Malachi's, and didn't meet her. Which street did she go?"
"Which street, sir? St. Malachi's, sir?" repeated the servant, in
bewilderment.
"Yes--which way did she go?"
"Why, sir--she went to Montreal," said the servant--"to Montreal, you
know, sir," she repeated, in a mincing tone, bridling and blushing at
the same time.
"To--where? what?" cried Jack, thunderstruck--"Montreal! Montreal! What
the devil is the meaning of all that?" And Jack fairly gasped, and
looked at me in utter bewilderment. And I looked back at him with
emotions equal to his own. And we both stood, to use an expressive but
not by any means classical word--dumfounded.
[Had a thunder-bolt burst--and all that sort of thing, you know, my boy.]
Jack was quite unable to utter another word. So I came to his help.
"I think you said your mistress went to Montreal?" said I, mildly and
encouragingly, for the servant began to look frightened.
"Yes, sir."
"Will you be kind enough to tell me what she went there for? I wouldn't
ask you, but it's a matter of some importance."
"What for, sir?" said the servant--and a very pretty blush came over
her rather pretty face. "What for, sir? Why, sir--you know, sir--she
went off, sir--on her--her--wedding-tower, sir."
"Her WHAT!!!" cried Jack, wildly.
"Her wedding-tower, sir," repeated the servant, in a faint voice.
"Her wedding-tour!" cried Jack. "Her wedding-tour! Do you mean what you
say? Is this a joke? What do you mean?"
At this, which was spoken most vehemently by Jack, who was now in a
state of frightful excitement, the servant turned pale and started back
in fear--so I interposed.
"Don't be at all alarmed," I said, kindly. "We merely want to know, you
know, what you mean by saying it was a wedding-tour. What wedding? We
want to know, you know."
"Wedding, sir? Lor', sir! Yes, sir. This morning, sir. She was
married, you know, sir."
"MARRIED!" cried Jack, in a strange, wild voice.
"This morning!" I exclaimed.
"Lor', sir! Yes, sir," continued the maid, who was still a little
frightened at the presence of such excited visitors. "This morning,
sir. Early, sir. Six o'clock, sir. And they took the seven o'clock
train, sir--for Montreal, you know, sir--and they talked of New York,
sir."
"_They_ talked? _They_? _Who_? _Married_! Who married her? The widow!
Mrs. Finnimore! Married! Nonsense! And gone! What do you mean? Who was
it?"
The maid started back in fresh fear at Jack's terrible agitation.
Terrible? I should rather think so. Imagine a criminal with the noose
about his neck hearing a whisper going about that a pardon had arrived.
Agitation? I should say that there was occasion for it Still, I didn't
like to see that pretty servant-maid frightened out of her wits. So I
interposed once more.
"We merely want to know," said I, mildly, "who the gentleman was to
whom your mistress was married this morning, and with whom she went to
Montreal?"
"Who, sir? Why, sir--it was the chaplain, sir--of the Bobtails, sir
--the Rev. Mr. Trenaman."
"THE CHAPLAIN!!!" cried Jack, with a strange voice that was somewhere
between a shout and a sob. He turned to me. There was ecstasy on his
face. His eyes were all aglow, and yet I could see in them the moisture
of tears. He caught my hand in both of his.
"Oh, Macrorie!" he faltered, "see here, old boy--it's too much--Louie
--all right--at last--too much, you know."
And the long and the short of it is, he nearly wrung my hand off.
Then he turned to the servant-maid, and fumbling in his pockets drew
out a handful of sovereigns--
"See here!" he said, "you glorious little thing! you princess of
servant-maids! here's something for a new bonnet, you know, or any
thing else yon fancy."
And he forced the sovereigns into her hand.
Then he wrung my hand again.
Then he rushed wildly out.
He flung some more sovereigns at the astonished coachman.
Then he sprang into the carriage, and I followed.
"Where shall I drive to, sir?" said the coachman.
"To Colonel Berton's!" roared Jack.
"Nonsense, Jack!" said I; "it's too early."
"Early--the devil! No it isn't.--Drive on."
And away went the carriage.
I prevailed on Jack to drop me at the corner of one of the streets,
and, getting out, I went to my den, meditating on the astonishing
events of the day.
The conclusions which I then came to about Mrs. Finnimore, now Mrs.
Trenaman, were verified fully by discoveries made afterward.
She had been quick-sighted enough to see that Jack did not care for
her, and had given him up. The chaplain was far more to her taste. As
Jack came again to her, she could cot resist the desire to pay him up.
This was the reason why she led him on to an offer of matrimony, and
named the day and place. Miss Phillips had paid him up in one way; the
widow chose another method, which was more in accordance with her own
genius. All this time she had come to a full understanding with the
chaplain, and the day which she had named to Jack was the very one on
which her real marriage was to come off. I never could find out whether
the chaplain knew about it or not. I rather think he did not. If he had
known, he would have dropped a hint to Jack. He was such a confoundedly
good-hearted sort of a fellow, that he would have interposed to prevent
the success of the plan. As it was, it was carried out perfectly.
After all, she wasn't a bad little thing. She knew about Jack's
devotion to Louie, and thought that her little plot, while it gratified
her own feelings, would not in any way interfere with Jack's happiness.
And it didn't. For, ever since then, Jack has never ceased to declare
that the widow, as he still called her, was--a brick--a trump--a
glorious lot--and every other name that has ever been invented to
express whatever is noble, excellent, or admirable in human nature.
The next morning Jack came bursting into my room. One look at him was
enough. Jack was himself again. He poured forth a long, a vehement, and
a very incoherent account of his proceedings. I can only give the
general facts.
He had driven at once to Colonel Berton's. He had dashed into the house
and asked for Louie. After a while Louie came down. He didn't say a
word to her, but caught her in his arms. She didn't resist. Perhaps she
had seen in his face, at one glance, that he was free. It was a long
time before the absurd fellow could tell her what had happened. At
length he managed to got it all out. He must have acted like a madman,
but, as all lovers are more or less mad, his behavior may not have
seemed very unnatural to Louie. The poor little girl bad been moping
ever since her last interview with Jack; every day had made it worse
for her; and Jack assured me that, if he hadn't turned up at that
particular hour on that particular day, she would have taken to her
bed, and never risen from it again. But as it was Jack's inveterate
habit to doom to death all the ladies who had cherished a tender
passion in his behalf, the assertion may not be absolutely true. Louie
might possibly have rallied from the blow, and regained the joy and
buoyancy of her old life; yet, however that may be, it was certainly
best for her that things should have turned out just as they did.
But I must now leave Jack, and get on to--