For a few moments I looked at her in utter bewilderment. All the wild fancies which I had just been having now came back. I had wandered through the storm in search of her, and she had come. Here she was-- here, in my arms!
Around us the storm raged as once before; and again, as before, the fierce sleet dashed upon that white face; and again, as before, I shielded it from its fury.
As I looked upon her I could now recognize her fully and plainly; and at that recognition the last vestige of my wild, superstitious feeling died out utterly, for she whom I held in my arms was no phantom, nor was she Nora. I had been in some way intentionally deceived, but all the time my own instinct had been true; for, now, when the Lady of the lee again lay in my arms, I recognized her, and I saw that she was no other than _Marion_.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
MY LADY OF THE ICE.--SNOW AND SLEET.--REAWAKENING.--A DESPERATE SITUATION.--SAVED A SECOND TIME.--SNATCHED FROM A WORSE FATE.--BORNE IN MY ARMS ONCE MORE.--THE OPEN DOOR.
So there she lay before me--the Lady of the Ice, discovered, at last, and identified with Marion. And she lay there reclining on my arms as once before, and in the snow, with the pitiless blast beating upon her.
And the first question that arose was, "What can I do?"
Ay--that was the question. What could I do?
I leave to the reader to try and imagine the unparalleled embarrassment of such a situation. For there was I, in an agony of eagerness to save her--to do something--and yet it was simply impossible to think of any one place to which I could take her.
Could I take her into Colonel Berton's? That was my first impulse. The lights from his windows were flashing brightly out into the gloom close beside us. But how could I take her there? With what story? Or if I trumped up some story--which I easily could do--would she not betray herself by her own incoherencies as she recovered from her faint? No, not Colonel Berton's. Where, then? Could I take her anywhere? To an hotel? No. To any friends? Certainly not. To her own home?--But she had fled, and it was locked against her. Where--where could I take her?
For I had to do something. I could not let her lie here--she would perish. I had to take her somewhere, and yet save her from that ruin and shame to which her rashness and Jack's perfidy had exposed her. Too plain it all seemed now. Jack had urged her to fly--beyond a doubt--she had consented, and he had not come for her.
I raised her up in my arms, and carried her on. Once before I had thus carried her in my arms--thus, as I saved her from death; and now, as I thus bore her, I felt that I was trying to save her from a fate far worse--from scandal, from evil speaking--from a dishonored name--from a father's curse. And could I but save her from this--could I but bear her a second time from this darker fate back to light, and life, and safety; then I felt assured that my Lady of the Ice could not so soon forget this second service.
I raised her up and carried her thus I knew not where. There was not a soul in the streets. The lamps gave but a feeble light in the wild storm. The beating of the sleet and the howling of the tempest increased at every step. My lady was senseless in my arms. I did not know where I was going, nor where I could go; but breasted the storm, and shielded my burden from it as well as I could; and so toiled on, in utter bewilderment and desperation.
Now I beg leave to ask the reader if this situation of mine was not as embarrassing a one as any that he ever heard of. For I thus found forced upon me the safety, the honor, and the life of the very Lady of the Ice for whom I had already risked my life--whose life I had already saved; and about whom I had been raving ever since. But now that she had thus been thrown upon me, with her life, and her honor, it was an utterly impossible thing to see how I could extricate her from this frightful difficulty; though so fervent was my longing to do this, that, if my life could have done it, I would have laid it down for her on the spot.
At last, to my inexpressible relief, I heard from her a low moan. I put her down on the door-step of a house close by, and sat by her side supporting her. A lamp was burning not far away.
She drew a long breath, and then raised herself suddenly, and looked all around. Gradually the truth of her position returned to her. She drew herself away from me, and buried her face in her hands, and sat in silence for a long time. I waited in patience and anxiety for her to speak, and feared that the excitement and the anguish which she had undergone might have affected her mind.
Suddenly she started, and looked at me with staring eyes.
"Did _he_ send _you_?" she gasped, in a strange, hoarse, choking voice.
Her face, her tone, and the emphasis of her words, all showed the full nature of the dark suspicion that had flung itself over her mind.
"_He_! _Me_!" I cried, indignantly. "Never! never! Can you have the heart to suspect _me_? Have I deserved this?"
"It looks like it," said she, coldly.
"Oh, listen!" I cried; "listen! I will explain my coming. It was a mistake, an accident. I swear to you, ever since that day on the ice, I've been haunted by your face--"
She made an impatient gesture.
"Well, not your face, then. I did not know it was yours. I called it the Lady of the Ice."
"I do not care to hear," said she, coldly.
"Oh, listen!" I said. "I want to clear myself from your horrid suspicion. I was at your house this evening. After leaving, I wandered wildly about. I couldn't go home. It was half madness and superstition.
I went to the Esplanade, and there seemed voices in the storm. I wandered back again to your house, with a vague and half-crazy idea that the Lady of the Ice was calling me. As I came up to the house, I saw a shadowy figure on the other side. I thought it was the Lady of the Ice, and crossed over, not knowing what I was doing. The figure came and took my arm. I walked on, frozen into a sort of superstitious silence. I swear to you, it happened exactly in this way, and that for a time I really thought it was the Lady of the Ice who had come to meet me in the storm. I held back once or twice, but to no avail. I swear to you that I never had the remotest idea that it was you, till the moment when you fell, and I saw that you yourself were the Lady of the Ice. I did not recognize you before; but, when your face was pale, with suffering and fear upon it, then you became the same one whom I have never forgotten."
"_He_ did not send you, then?" said she again.
"He? No. I swear he didn't; but all is just as I have said. Besides, we have quarrelled, and I have neither seen nor heard of him for two days."
She said nothing in reply, but again buried her face in her hands, and sat crouching on the door-step. The storm howled about us with tremendous fury. All the houses in the street were dark, and the street itself showed no living forms but ours. A lamp, not far off, threw a feeble light upon us.
"Come," said I at last; "I have saved you once from death, and, I doubt not, I have been sent by Fate to save you once again. If you stay here any longer, you must perish. You must rouse yourself."
I spoke vehemently and quickly, and in the tone of one who would listen to no refusal. I was roused now, at last, from all irresolution by the very sight of her suffering. I saw that to remain here much longer would be little else than death for her.
"Oh, what shall I do?" she moaned.
"Tell me of some place where I can take you."
"There is no place. How could I dare to go to any of my friends?"
"Why should you not?"
"I cannot--I cannot."
"You can easily make up some story for the occasion. Tell me the name of some one, and I will take you."
"No," said she.
"Then," said I, "you must go home."
"Home! home!" she gasped.
"Yes," said I, firmly, "home. Home you must go, and nowhere else."
"I cannot."
"You must."
"I will not; I will die first."
"You shall not die!" I cried, passionately. "You shall not die while I am near you. I have saved your life before, and I will not let it end in this. No, you shall not die--I swear by all that's holy! I myself will carry you home."
"I cannot," she murmured, feebly.
"You must," said I. "This is not a question of death--it's a question of dishonor. Home is the only haven where you can find escape from that, and to that home I will take you."
"Oh, my God!" she wailed; "how can I meet my father?"