1. A roaring, red-hot fire.
2. Curtains close drawn.
3. Sofa pulled up beside said fire.
4. Table beside sofa.
5. Hot water.
6. Whiskey.
7. Tobacco.
8. Pipes.
9. Fragrant aromatic steam.
10. Sugar.
11. Tumblers.
12. Various other things not necessary to mention, all of which contributed to throw over my perturbed spirit a certain divine calm.
Under such circumstances, while every moment brought forward some new sense of rest and tranquillity, my mind wandered back in a kind of lazy reverie over the events of the past two days.
Once more I wandered over the crumbling ice; once more I floundered through the deep pools of water; once more I halted in front of that perilous ice-ridge, with my back to the driving storm and my eyes searching anxiously for a way of progress. The frowning cliff, with its flag floating out stiff in the tempest, the dim shore opposite, the dark horizon, the low moan of the river as it struggled against its icy burden, all these came back again. Then, through all this, I rushed forward, scrambling over the ice-ridge, reaching the opposite plain to hurry forward to the shore. Then came the rushing sleigh, the recoiling horse, the swift retreat, the mad race along the brink of the icy edge, the terrible plunge into the deep, dark water. Then came the wild, half-human shriek of the drowning horse, and the sleigh with its despairing freight drifting down toward me. Through all this there broke forth amid the clouds of that reverie, the vision of that pale, agonized face, with its white lips and imploring eyes--the face of her whom I had saved.
So I had saved her, had I? Yes, there was no doubt of that. Never would I lose the memory of that unparalleled journey to Montmorency Fall, as I toiled on, dragging with me that frail, fainting, despairing companion. I had sustained her; I had cheered her; I had stimulated her; and, finally, at that supreme moment, when, she fell down in sight of the goal, I had put forth the last vestige of my own strength in bearing her to a place of safety.
And so she had left me.
Left me--without a word--without a hint--without the remotest sign of any thing like recognition, not to speak of gratitude!
_Pas un mot_!
Should I ever see her again?
This question, which was very natural under the circumstances, caused me to make an effort to recall the features of my late companion.
Strange to say, my effort was not particularly successful. A white, agonized face was all that I remembered, and afterward a white, senseless face, belonging to a prostrate figure, which I was trying to raise. This was all. What that face might look like in repose, I found it impossible to conjecture.
And now here was a ridiculous and mortifying fact. I found myself haunted by this white face and these despairing eyes, yet for the life of me I could not reduce that face to a natural expression so as to learn what it might look like in common life. Should I know her again if I met her? I could not say. Would she know me? I could not answer that. Should I ever be able to find her? How could I tell?
Baffled and utterly at a loss what to do toward getting the identity of the subject of my thoughts, I wandered off into various moods. First I became cynical, but, as I was altogether too comfortable to be morose, my cynicism was of a good-natured character. Then I made merry over my own mishaps and misadventures. Then I reflected, in a lofty, philosophic frame of mind, upon the faithlessness of woman, and, passing from this into metaphysics, I soon boozed off into a gentle, a peaceful, and a very consoling doze. When I awoke, it was morning, and I concluded to go to bed.
On the morrow, at no matter what o'clock, I had just finished breakfast, when I heard a well-known footstep, and Jack Randolph burst in upon me in his usual style.
"Well, old chap," he cried, "where the mischief have you been for the last two days, and what have you been doing with yourself? I heard that you got back from Point Levi--though how the deuce you did it I can't imagine--and that you'd gone off on horseback nobody knew where. I've been here fifty times since I saw you last. Tell you what, Macrorie, it wasn't fair to me to give me the slip this way, when you knew my delicate position, and all that. I can't spare you for a single day. I need your advice. Look here, old fellow, I've got a letter."
And saying this, Jack drew a letter from his pocket, with a grave face, and opened it.
So taken up was Jack with his own affairs, that he did not think of inquiring into the reasons of my prolonged absence. For my part, I listened to him in a dreamy way, and, when he drew out the letter, it was only with a strong effort that I was able to conjecture what it might be. So much had passed since I had seen him, that our last conversation had become very dim and indistinct in my memory.
"Oh," said I, at last, as I began to recall the past, "the letter-- h'm--ah--the--the widow. Oh, yes, I understand."
Jack looked at me in surprise.
"The widow?" said he. "Pooh, man! what are you talking about? Are you crazy? This is from _her_--from Miss--that is--from the other one, you know."
"Oh, yes," said I, confusedly. "True--I remember. Oh, yes--Miss Phillips."
"Miss Phillips!" cried Jack. "Hang it, man, what's the matter with you to-day? Haven't I told you all about it? Didn't I tell you what I wouldn't breathe to another soul--that is, excepting two or three?--and now, when I come to you at the crisis of my fate, you forget all about it."
"Nonsense!" said I, "The fact is, I went to bed very late, and am scarcely awake yet. Go on, old boy, I'm all right. Well, what does she say?"
"I'll be hanged if you know what you're talking about," said Jack, pettishly.
"Nonsense! I'm all right now; go on."
"You don't know who this letter is from."
"Yes, I do."
"Who is it?" said Jack, watching me with jealous scrutiny.
"Why," said I, "it's that other one--the--hang it! I don't know her name, so I'll call her Number Three, or Number Four, whichever you like."
"You're a cool hand, any way," said Jack, sulkily. "Is this the way you take a matter of life and death?"
"Life and death?" I repeated.
"Life and death!" said Jack. "Yes, life and death. Why, see here, Macrorie, I'll be hanged if I don't believe that you've forgotten every word I told you about my scrape. If that's the case, all I can say is, that I'm not the man to force my confidences where they are so very unimportant." And Jack made a move toward the door.
"Stop, Jack," said I. "The fact is, I've been queer for a couple of days. I had a beastly time on the river. Talk about life and death!
Why, man, it was the narrowest scratch with me you ever saw. I didn't go to Point Levi at all."
"The deuce you didn't!"
"No; I pulled up at Montmorency."
"The deuce you did! How's that?"
"Oh, never mind; I'll tell you some other time. At any rate, if I seem dazed or confused, don't notice it. I'm coming round. I'll only say this, that I've lost a little of my memory, and am glad I didn't lose my life. But go on. I'm up to it now, Jack. You wrote to Number Three, proposing to elope, and were staking your existence on her answer. You wished me to order a head-stone for you at Anderson's, Four feet by eighteen inches, with nothing on it but the name and date, and not a word about the virtues, et cetera. There, you see, my memory is all right at last. And now, old boy, what does she say? When did you get it?"
"I got it this morning," said Jack. "It was a long delay. She is always prompt. Something must have happened to delay her. I was getting quite wild, and would have put an end to myself if it hadn't been for Louie.
And then, you know, the widow's getting to be a bit of a bore. Look here--what do you think of my selling out, buying a farm in Minnesota, and taking little Louie there?"
"What!" I cried. "Look here, Jack, whatever you do, don't, for Heaven's sake, get poor little Louie entangled in your affairs."
"Oh, don't you fret," said Jack, dolefully. "No fear about her. She's all right, so far.--But, see here, there's the letter."
And saying this, he tossed over to me the letter from "Number Three,"
and, filling a pipe, began smoking vigorously.
The letter was a singular one. It was highly romantic, and full of devotion. The writer, however, declined to accept of Jack's proposition. She pleaded her father; she couldn't leave him. She implored Jack to wait, and finally subscribed herself his till death.
But the name which she signed was "Stella," and nothing more; and this being evidently a pet name or a _nom de plume_, threw no light whatever upon her real personality.
"Well," said Jack, after I had read it over about nine times, "what do you think of that?"