MY OWN AFFAIRS.--A DRIVE AND HOW IT CAME OFF.--VARYING MOODS.--THE
EXCITED, THE GLOOMY, AND THE GENTLEMANLY.--STRAYING ABOUT
MONTMORENCY.--REVISITING A MEMORABLE SCENE.--EFFECT OF SAID SCENE.--A
MUTE APPEAL AND AN APPEAL IN WORDS.--RESULT OF THE APPEALS.--"WILL YOU
TURN AWAY?"--GRAND RESULT.--CLIMAX.--FINALE.--A GENERAL UNDERSTANDING
ALL ROUND, AND A UNIVERSAL EXPLANATION OF NUMEROUS PUZZLES.
All this was very well. Of course. To a generous nature like mine, the
happiness of a friend could not fail to extend itself. For I'm awfully
sympathetic, you know. I don't remember whether I've made that remark
before or not, but in either case the fact remains. Yet, sympathetic or
not, every fellow has his own affairs, you know, and, as a matter of
course, these engage his chief attention. Now all my affairs circled
around one centre, and that centre was--Marion!
I had seen her on the previous evening. I had made an engagement with
her and Nora to go out with me for a drive on the following day, and we
had arranged all about it. We were to drive to Montmorency Falls, a
place which is the chief attraction among the environs of Quebec. I had
not been there since that memorable day when I rode there with the
doctor to find my bird flown.
Accordingly on the next day, at the appointed hour, I drew up in front
of O'Halloran's and went in. The ladies were there, but Nora was
half-reclining on a couch, and seemed rather miserable. She complained
of a severe attack of neuralgia, and lamented that she could not go. Up
on this I expressed my deepest regrets, and I hoped that Miss
O'Halloran would come. But Marion demurred, and said she wouldn't leave
Nora. Whereupon Nora urged her to go, and finally, after evident
reluctance, Marion allowed herself to be persuaded.
It was with an inexpressible feeling of exultation that I drove off
with her. At last we were alone together, and would be so for hours.
The frigidity which had grown up within her during the last two months
might possibly be relaxed now under the influence of this closer
association. My heart beat fast. I talked rapidly about every thing. In
my excitement I also drove rapidly at first, but finally I had
sufficient sense to see that there was no need to shorten so precious
an interview by hurrying it through, and so I slackened our speed.
As for Marion, she seemed as calm as I was agitated. Her demeanor was a
singular one. She was not exactly frigid or repellent. She was rather
shy and reserved. It was rather the constraint of timidity than of
dislike. Dislike? No. Not a bit of it. Whatever her feelings might be,
she had no reason for dislike. Still she was cold--and her coldness
began gradually to affect me in spite of my exultation, and to change
my joy to a feeling of depression.
After a few miles this depression had increased sufficiently to sober
me down completely. I no longer rattled. I became grave. A feeling of
despondency came over me. My spirits sank. There seemed no sympathy
between us--no reciprocity of feeling. She had no cordiality of manner
--no word, or look, or gesture, to give encouragement.
After a time my mood changed so under the influence of Marion's
depressing manner, that I fell into long fits of very ungallant
silence--silence, too, which she never attempted to break. Amid these
fits of silence I tried to conjecture the cause of her very great
coolness, and finally came to the very decision which I had often
reached before. "Yes," I thought, "she has discovered how I love her,
and she does not care for me. She has gratitude, but she cannot feel
love. So she wishes to repel me. She didn't want to come with me, and
only came because Nora urged her. She did not like to refuse, for fear
of seeming unkind to me. At the same time, now that she is with me, she
is trying to act in such a way as will effectually quell any unpleasant
demonstrations of mine." Thoughts like these reduced me to such a state
of gloom that I found myself indulging in fits of silence that grew
longer and longer.
At last I roused myself. This sort of thing would never do. If nothing
else could influence me, I felt that I ought to obey the ordinary
instincts of a gentleman. I had invited her for a drive, and, because
she was constrained, that was no reason why I should be rude. So I
rallied my failing faculties, and endeavored now not to secure
enjoyment for myself, but rather to make the drive agreeable to my
companion.
This better mood lasted all the rest of the way, and the few miles of
feverish excitement, which were followed by the few miles of
sullenness, were finally succeeded by the ordinary cheerfulness of a
travelling companion. The change was very much for the better. My
feverish excitement had served to increase the constraint of Marion;
and now, since it had passed away, she seemed more inclined to be
agreeable. There were many things to attract and interest those who
travelled merely for the pleasure of the thing, without any ulterior
motives. The long French villages, the huge chapels, the frequent
crosses by the way-side, the smooth, level road, the cultivated fields,
the overshadowing trees, the rich luxuriance of the vegetation, the
radiant beauty of the scene all around, which was now clothed in the
richest verdure of June, the _habitants_ along the road--all these and
a thousand other things sufficed to excite attention and elicit
remarks. While I was impassioned, or eager, or vehement, Marion had
held aloof; but now, while I was merely commonplace and conventional,
she showed herself sufficiently companionable. And so our drive went
on, and at last we reached our destination.
If I were inclined to bore the reader, I might go into raptures over
this scene--where the river, winding on amid wooded banks, and over
rocky ledges, finally tumbles over a lofty precipice, and flings itself
in foam into the St. Lawrence; where the dark cliffs rise, where the
eddies twirl and twist, where the spray floats upward through the span
of its rainbow arch. But at that moment this scene, glorious though it
was, sank, into insignificance in my estimation in comparison with
Marion. I will take it for granted that the reader, like me, finds more
interest in Marion than in Montmorency, and therefore will not inflict
upon him any description of the scene. I refer him to Byron's lines
about Velino. They apply with equal force to Montmorency.
Well. To resume.
We wandered about Montmorency for an hour or more. We walked over the
broad, flat ledges. We descended deep slopes. We climbed lofty rocks. I
helped her over every impediment. I helped her down. I helped her up.
She had to take my hand a hundred times in the course of that scramble.
There was an informal and an unconventional character about such
proceedings as these which did much toward thawing the crust of
Marion's reserve. She evidently enjoyed the situation--she enjoyed the
falls--she enjoyed the rocky ledges--she enjoyed the scramble--she even
went so far on one occasion as to show something like enthusiasm. Nor
did I, in the delight of that time, which I experienced to the most
vivid degree, ever so far forget myself as to do the impassioned in any
shape or way. Whatever was to be the final result, I had determined
that this day should be a happy one, and, since Marion objected so
strongly to the intense style, she should see nothing but what was
simply friendly and companionable.
But it was a hard struggle. To see her beautiful, animated face--her
light, agile form--to feel her little hand--to hear the musical cadence
of her unequalled voice, and yet to repress all undue emotion. By Jove!
I tell you what it is, it isn't every fellow who could have held out as
long as I did.
At last we had exhausted the falls, and we went back to the little inn
where the horses were left. We had still over an hour, and I proposed a
walk to the river-bank. To this Marion assented.
We set out, and I led the way toward that very cottage where I had
taken her on that memorable occasion when I first met her. I had no
purpose in this, more than an irresistible desire to stand on that bank
by her side, and, in company with her, to look over that river, and
have the eyes of both of us simultaneously looking over the track of
our perilous journey. And still, even with such a purpose as this, I
resolved to discard all sentiment, and maintain only the friendly
attitude.
The cottage was not far away, and, in a short tune, we entered the gate of
the farm, and found ourselves approaching it.
As we went on, a sudden change came over Marion.
Up to the time of our entering the gate she had still maintained the
geniality of manner and the lightness of tone which had sprung up
during our wanderings about the falls. But here, as we came within
sight of the cottage, I saw her give a sudden start. Then she stopped
and looked all around. Then she gave a sudden look at me--a deep,
solemn, earnest look, in which her dark, lustrous eyes fastened
themselves on mine for a moment, as though, they would read my very
soul.
And at that look every particle of my commonplace tone, and every
particle of my resolution, vanished and passed away utterly.
The next instant her eyes fell. We had both stopped, and now stood
facing one another.
"Pardon me," said I, in deep agitation. "I thought it might interest
you. But, if you wish it, we may go back. Shall we go back, or shall we
go on?"
"As you please," said she, in a low voice.
We went on.
We did not stop at the cottage. We passed by it, walking in silence
onward toward the river-bank. We reached it at last, and stood there
side by side, looking out upon the river.
We were at the top of a bank which descended steeply for a great
distance. It was almost a cliff, only it was not rock, but sandy soil,
dotted here and there with patches of grass and clumps of trees. Far
below us was the river, whose broad bosom lay spread out for miles,
dotted with the white sails of passing vessels. The place
where we stood was a slight promontory, and commanded a larger and more
extended view than common. On the left and below us was the Ile
d'Orleans, while far away up the river Cape Diamond jutted forth,
crowned by its citadel, and, clustering around it, we saw the
glistening tin roofs and tapering spires of Quebec. But at that moment
it was neither the beauty nor the grandeur of this wonderful scene that
attracted my gaze, but rather the river itself. My eyes fastened
themselves on that broad expanse of deep and dark-blue water, and
wandering from the beach beneath, up the river, to the shore opposite
Quebec--many a mile away--in that moment all the events of our
memorable journey came back before me, distinctly and vividly. I stood
silent, Marion, too, was silent, as though she also had the same
thoughts as those which filled me. Thus we both stood in silence, and
for a long time our eyes rested upon the mighty river which now rolled
its vast flood beneath us, no longer ice-bound, but full and free, the
pathway for mighty navies, and the thoroughfare of nations.
Now I was able to grasp the full and complete reality of our fearful
adventure. We had wandered from the opposite shore far up near Point
Levi, toiling over treacherous ice, which, even as we walked, had moved
onward toward the sea, and had thus borne us down for miles till we
attained the shore at this place. Looking at the river, I could trace
the pathway which we had taken, and could fix the locality of every one
of those events which had marked that terrible journey--where the horse
ran--where the sleigh floated--where I had drawn it to the ice--where
the ice-ridge rose--where we had clambered over--where Marion fell
--till finally beside this shore I could see the place where that open
channel ran, near which she had fallen for the last time, when I had
raised her in my arms and borne her back to life. And there, too,
below us, was the steep bank up which I had borne her--how I knew not,
but in some way or other most certainly--till I found refuge for her in
the hospitable cottage. At this last I looked with the strongest
emotion. What strength must have been mine! what a frenzied, frantic
effort I must have put forth! what a madness of resolve must have
nerved my limbs to have carried her up such a place as that! In
comparison with this last supreme effort all the rest of that journey
seemed weak and commonplace.
Rousing myself at last from the profound abstraction into which I had
fallen, I turned and looked at my companion.
She was standing close beside me; her hands hung in front of her,
closed over one another; her head was slightly bent forward; her eyes
were opened wide, and fixed steadfastly upon the river at the line
which we might have traversed; and there was in her face such rapt
attention, such deep and all-absorbed meditation, that I saw her
interest in this scene was equal to mine. But there was more than
interest There was that in her face which showed that the incidents of
that journey were now passing before her mind; her face even now
assumed that old expression which it had borne when first I saw her--it
was white, horror-stricken, and full of fear--the face that had fixed
itself on my memory after that day of days--the face of my Lady of the
Ice.
She did not know that I was looking at her, and devouring her with my
gaze. Her eyes wandered over the water and toward the shore. I heard
her quick breathing, and saw a sudden shudder pass through her, and her
hands clutch one another more tightly in a nervous clasp, as she came
to that place where she had fallen last. She looked at that spot on the
dark water for a long tame, and in visible agitation. What had taken
place after she had fallen she well knew, for I had told it all on my
first visit to her house, but it was only from my account that she knew
it. Yet here were the visible illustrations of my story--the dark
river, the high, precipitous bank. In all these, as in all around, she
could see what I had done for her.
Suddenly, with a start, she raised her head, and, turning, looked full
upon me. It was a wild, eager, wistful, questioning look--her large,
lustrous eyes thrilled me through with their old power; I saw in her
face something that set my heart throbbing with feverish madness. It
was a mute appeal--a face turned toward me as though to find out by
that one eager, piercing, penetrating glance, something that she longed
to know. At the same time there was visible in her face the sign of
another feeling contending with this--that same constraint, and shy
apprehension, and timidity, which had so long marked her manner toward
me.
And now, in that moment, as her face thus revealed itself, and as this
glance thrilled through me, there flashed upon my mind in a moment the
meaning of it all. There was but an instant in which she thus looked at
me--the next instant a flush passed over her face, and her eyes fell,
but that very instant I snatched her hand in both of mine and held it.
She did not withdraw it She raised her eyes again, and again their
strange questioning thrilled through me.
"Marion," said I, and I drew her toward me. Her head fell forward. I
felt her hand tremble in mine.
"Marion," said I--lingering fondly on the name by which I now called
her for the first time--"if I ask you to be mine--will you turn away?"
She did not turn away.
She raised her face again for a moment, and again for a moment the
thrilling glance flashed from her deep, dark eyes, and a faint smile of
heavenly sweetness beamed across the glory of her solemn face.
There!
I let the curtain drop.
I'm not good at describing love-scenes, and all that sort of thing, you
know.
What's more, I don't want to be either good or great at that.
For, if a fellow feels like a fool, you know, when he's talking
spooney, how much more like a fool must he feel when he sits down and
deliberately writes spooney! You musn't expect that sort of thing from
me at any rate--not from Macrorie. I can feel as much as any fellow,
but that's no reason why I should write it all out.
Another point.
I'm very well aware that, in the story of my love, I've gone full and
fair against the practice of the novelist. For instance, now, no
novelist would take a hero and make him fall in love with a girl, no
matter how deucedly pretty she might be, who had been in love with
another fellow, and tried to run off with him. Of course not. Very
well. Now, you see, my dear fellow, all I've got to say is this, that
I'm not a novelist. I'm an historian, an autobiographer, or any thing
else you choose. I've no imagination whatever. I rely on facts. I can't
distort them. And, what's more, if I could do so, I wouldn't, no matter
what the taste or fashion of the day might be.
There's a lot of miserable, carping sneaks about, whose business it is
to find fault with every thing, and it just occurs to me that some of
this lot may take it into their heads--notwithstanding the fads, mind
you--may take it into their heads, I say, to make the objection that it
is unnatural, when a girl has already been so madly in love, for
another fellow to win her affections in so short a time. Such fellows
are beneath notice, of course; but, for the benefit of the world at
large, and humanity in general, I beg leave to suggest a few important
points which serve to account for the above-mentioned change of
affection, and all that sort of thing:
I. The mutability of humanity.
II. The crushing effects of outrage and neglect on the strongest lore.
III. My own overwhelming claims.
IV. The daily spectacle of my love and devotion.
V. My personal beauty.
VI. The uniform of the Bobtails.
The above, I think, will suffice.
The drive back was very different from the drive down. On the way I
heard from Marion's own lips a full explanation of many of those things
which had been puzzling me for the last two months. She explained all
about the crossing of the river, though not without some hesitation,
for it was connected with her infatuation about Jack. Still, she had
got over that utterly, and, as I knew all about it, and as she had
nothing but indifference toward him, I was able to get an explanation
from her without much difficulty.
It seems, then, that O'Halloran had forbidden Marion to see Jack, but
she was infatuated about him, and anxious to see him. She had met him
several times at the house of a friend at Point Levi, and a few days
before that eventful journey O'Halloran had gone to Montreal. At the
same time Jack had written her, telling her that he would be over
there. So she took advantage of her father's absence to go over on a
visit, hoping also to meet with Jack. But Jack was not there. She
stayed as long as she dared, and finally had to return so as to be home
before her father got back. This was the day of the storm. She had much
difficulty in finding a driver, but at length succeeded by means of a
heavy bribe. Then followed her momentous meeting with me. Her departure
from the cottage so abruptly was owing to her intense desire to get
home before her father should arrive. This she succeeded in doing. She
felt deeply grateful to me, but did not dare to take any steps to show
gratitude, for fear her father would hear of her journey to Point Levi.
Nora knew about it, and kept her secret from O'Halloran most
faithfully. Then came my arrival upon the scene. She recognized me at
once, and as soon as I told my story Nora recognized me, too, as
Marion's mysterious deliverer.
They held counsel together after leaving the room, and, seeing
O'Halloran's fancy for me, they thought I might often come again. They
saw, too, that I had noticed their agitation, but had not recognized
Marion. They judged that I would suspect them, and so Nora volunteered
to personate the lady so as to save Marion from that outburst of
indignation which was sure to fall on her if her father knew of her
disobedience. This, then, was the cause of Nora's assumption of a false
part. She had told some plausible story to O'Halloran which satisfied
him and saved Marion; but her peculiar frank and open nature made her
incapable of maintaining her part, and also led to my absurd proposal
to her, and its consequences.
Meanwhile Marion had her troubles. She had not seen Jack, but on her
return got his frantic letter, proposing an elopement, and threatening
to blow his brains out. She answered this as we have seen. After this,
she heard all about Jack's love-affairs, and wrote to him on the
subject. He answered by another proposal to elope, and reproached her
with being the cause of his ruin. This reproach stung her, and filled
her with remorse. It was not so much love as the desperation of
self-reproach which had led to her foolish consent. So at the appointed
time she was at the place; but instead of Jack--there was quite another
person.
Of course, I did not get all the above from her at that time. Some of
it she told; but the rest came out long afterward. Long afterward I
learned from her own dear lips how her feelings changed toward me,
especially on that night when I saved her and brought her home. Jack
became first an object of contempt, then of indifference. Then she
feared that I would despise her, and tried to hold aloof. Despise her!
----!!!!
All this, and a thousand other things, came out afterward, in the days
of our closer association, when all was explained, and Marion had no
more secrets to keep from me, and I had none from her.